If He's Wild

by Hannah Howell

  “Terrified,” she replied. “Is it always like this?”

  “Most of the time. Lady Bartleby’s affairs are always well attended.”

  “And you think Lord Redgrave will be one of the crowd?”

  Iago nodded. “She is his cousin, one of the few family members left to him. We must keep a sharp watch for him, however. He will come, but he will not stay long. Too many of the young women here are hunting a husband.”

  “I am surprised that you would venture forth if it is that dangerous.”

  “Ah, but I am only a lowly baron. Redgrave is a marquis.”

  Alethea shook her head. “You make it all sound like some sordid marketplace.”

  “In many ways, it is. Oh, good, I see Aldus and Gifford.”

  “Friends of yours?” Iago started to lead her toward the far corner of the ballroom, but she was unable to see the men he spoke of around the crowd they weaved through.

  “No, friends of the marquis. He will be sure to join them when he arrives.”

  “Misery loves company?”

  “Something like that. Oh damn.”

  Before Alethea could ask what had caused her uncle to grow so tense, a lovely, fulsome redhead appeared at his side. If she judged her uncle’s expression correctly, he was not pleased to see this woman, and that piqued Alethea’s interest. Looking more closely at the woman’s classically beautiful face, Alethea saw the hint of lines about the eyes and mouth and suspected the woman was older than Iago. The look the woman gave her was a hard and assessing one. A moment later something about the woman’s demeanor told Alethea that she had not measured up well in the woman’s eyes, that she had just been judged as inconsequential.

  “Where have you been, Iago, darling?” the woman asked. “I have not seen you for a fortnight.”

  “I have been very busy, Margarite,” Iago replied in a cool, distant tone.

  “You work too hard, my dear. And who is your little companion?”

  “This is my niece, Lady Alethea Channing,” Iago said, his reluctance to make the introduction a little too clear in his tone. “Alethea, this is Mrs. Margarite Dellingforth.”

  Alethea curtsied slightly. The curtsy Mrs. Dellingforth gave her in return was so faint she doubted the woman even bent her knees at all. She was glad Iago had glanced away at that precise moment so that he did not see the insult to his kinswoman. The tension roused by this increasingly awkward confrontation began to wear upon Alethea’s already taut nerves. Any other time she knew she would have been fascinated by the subtle, and not so subtle, nuances of the conversation between her uncle and Mrs. Dellingforth, but now she just wanted the cold-eyed woman to leave. She leaned against Iago and began to fan her face.

  “Uncle, I am feeling uncomfortably warm,” she said in what she hoped was an appropriately weak, sickly tone of voice.

  “Would you like to sit down, m’dear?” he asked.

  “You should not have brought her here if she is ill,” said Mrs. Dellingforth.

  “Oh, I am not ill,” said Alethea. “Simply a little overwhelmed.”

  “If you will excuse us, Margarite, I must tend to my niece,” said Iago even as he began to lead Alethea toward some chairs set against the wall.

  “Not a very subtle retreat, Uncle,” murmured Alethea, quickening her step to keep pace with his long stride.

  “I do not particularly care.”

  “The romance has died, has it?”

  “Thoroughly, but she refuses to leave it decently buried.”

  “She is quite beautiful.” Alethea sat down in the chair he led her to and smoothed down her skirts.

  “I know—that is how I became ensnared to begin with.” He collected two glasses of wine from the tray a footman paused to offer them, and handed Alethea one. “It was an extremely short affair. To be blunt, my lust was quickly satisfied, and, once it eased, I found something almost repellent about the woman.”

  Seeing how troubled thoughts had darkened his hazel green eyes, Alethea lightly patted his hand. “If it is any consolation, I, too, felt uneasy around her. I think there is a coldness inside her.”

  “Exactly what I felt.” He frowned and sipped his drink. “I felt some of the same things I do when I am near someone who will soon die, yet I know that is not true of her.”

  “What sort of feelings?”

  He grimaced. “It is hard to explain, but it is as if some piece of them is missing, has clearly left or been taken.”

  “The soul?”

  “A bit fanciful, but, perhaps, as good an explanation as any other. Once my blind lust faded, I could not abide to even touch her, for I could sense that chilling emptiness. I muttered some pathetic excuse and fled her side. She appears unable to believe that I want no more to do with her. I think she is accustomed to being adored.”

  “How nice for her.” Alethea sipped her drink as she watched Mrs. Dellingforth talk to a beautiful fair-haired woman. “Who is that with her now?”

  “Her sister, Madame Claudette des Rouches.”

  “They are French?”

  “Émigrés. Claudette’s husband was killed for being on the wrong side in yet another struggle for power, and Margarite married an Englishman shortly after arriving.”

  “For shame, you rogue. A married lady? Tsk, tsk.”

  “A widow, you brat. Her husband died six months after the wedding.”

  “How convenient. Ah, well, at least Margarite did not stink of roses. If she had, I might have been forced to deal with her again.”

  Iago scratched his cheek as he frowned in thought. “No, Margarite does not use a rose scent. Claudette does.”

  Alethea stared at the two women and briefly wished she had a little of her cousin Modred’s gift. There was something about the pair that unsettled her. Iago’s frown told her he felt it, too. It would make solving this trouble she had been plunged into so much easier if she could just pluck the truth from the minds of the enemy. She suspected she would quickly be anxious to be rid of such a gift, however. If she and Iago both got unsettling feelings from the two women, she hated to think what poor Modred would suffer with his acute sensitivity. Although she would prefer to avoid both women, she knew she would have to at least approach the sister who favored roses at some point. There was a chance she could gain some insight, perhaps even have a vision. Since a man’s life was at stake, she could not allow fear over what unsavory truths she might uncover to hold her back.

  “I believe we should investigate them a little,” she said.

  “Because they are French and Claudette smells of roses?”

  “As good a reason as any. It is also one way to help solve this problem without revealing ourselves too much.”

  Iago nodded. “Very true. Simple investigation. I even know a few people who can help me do it.” His eyes widened slightly. “Considering some of the lovers those two women have had, I am surprised they have not already been investigated. Now that I think on it, they seem overly fond of men who would know things useful to the enemy.”

  “And no one has seen them as a threat because they are beautiful women.”

  “It galls me to say so, but you may be right about that. Of course, this is still all mere speculation. Nevertheless, they should be investigated and kept a watch on simply because they are French and have known, intimately, a number of important men.”

  Alethea suddenly tensed, but, for a moment, she was not sure why she was so abruptly and fiercely alert. Sipping her champagne, she forced herself to be calm and concentrate on exactly what she was feeling. To her astonishment, she realized she was feeling him. He was irritated, yet there was a small flicker of pleasure. She suspected that hint of pleasure came from seeing his cousin.

  “Allie!”

  She blinked slowly, fixing her gaze on her uncle. “Sorry. You were saying?”

  “I was just wondering if you had a vision,” he replied in a soft voice. “You were miles away.”

  “Ah, no. No vision. Just a feeling.”
<
br />   “A feeling?”

  “Yes. He is here.”

  Chapter 2

  Hartley Greville, seventh Marquis of Redgrave, greeted his plump cousin Lady Beatrice Bartleby with all the charm he could muster. She was a good-hearted woman, if a bit silly. In many ways she was more like some sweet, affectionate aunt than a cousin, being fifteen years his senior. When he was still a boy, she had, on several occasions, been his only source of comfort. Gratitude for those times was what brought him to her door, made him almost willingly enter into the foray of a ton event. She also only made the occasional halfhearted attempt to find a wife for him, something else he was very grateful for.

  He exchanged greetings with her gruffly jovial husband, who knew far more about Hartley’s life than Beatrice did. William’s bluff country-squire appearance hid a brilliant mind that efficiently sorted through much of the intelligence men like Hartley gathered for the government. Hartley’s smile widened briefly when William gave him a surreptitious wink. They both knew he would stay only a short time, escaping the marriage-minded mothers and their daughters as soon as courtesy allowed.

  “Oh, Hartley, we have had several entertaining surprises tonight,” said Beatrice. “One of those surprise guests was asking for you.”

  Although he tensed slightly, since there were many people he would rather not see, Hartley pleasantly asked, “And who would that be, Cousin?”

  “Another one who rarely attends these functions. A bit of a recluse, but then his whole family is like that. A shame, for he is a lovely young man. He brought his niece with him.”

  “Him?”

  Beatrice nodded. “Iago Vaughn, Baron Uppington. I did not know you were acquainted with the man.”

  “I am not, not truly. A nodding acquaintance at best. Did he say why he sought me out?” Since William gave him no warning sign, Hartley relaxed a little.

  “No, he simply asked if you would be attending. Perhaps he wishes you to meet his niece. She is a lovely young woman. She is a widow, poor thing. As she cannot be above twenty, she must have lost her husband not long after their marriage. So sad.”

  Hartley nodded, thinking Bea was the only person in all of England who would think it acceptable that someone introduce him to a young widow. He only knew Baron Uppington in passing and from rumor, but he could not believe the man would dangle one of his female relations in front of him. Only a few people knew that his satyr’s reputation was more rumor than fact, and if one discounted the times that seduction had been mostly a tool used to gain information for king and country, that was even more true. Baron Uppington was not one of those privileged few.

  He could not make himself believe matchmaking was Baron Uppington’s plan, either. Curiosity stirred within him, and he could not quell it, despite knowing the dangers it could lead him into. Then again, he mused as he excused himself from his cousins and started to make his way toward his friends Aldus and Gifford, for he was aware of all the traps matchmakers could set for a man. He had been dancing free of them for years. He could easily do so again.

  Only feet away from his friends, Hartley caught the flash of motion out of the corner of his eye and saw Baron Uppington stand up from the chair he had been sitting on near the wall. Hartley next looked at his lordship’s companion and abruptly halted. The sharp tug of awareness that tore through him startled Hartley. The woman standing up and looking at him so intently was not the sort he usually felt any interest in.

  It took only a swift, expert glance for him to completely tally and judge her attributes. She was small, dainty, and dark. Thick black hair that held a gloss of blue beneath the candlelight was done up in a severe style, with only a few curls dangling to soften the look, but it was a style that suited her small, faintly heart-shaped face. The ivory tone of her skin next to her thick dark hair reminded him strongly of a cameo, for her features were a soft perfection, as if carved with an expert hand. Gentle dark arcs formed her brows, and even from where he stood he could see the thick length of her lashes. Her neck was long, a soft, pale throat that begged to be nuzzled by a man. She tilted her chin up as she became aware of his intent study, revealing a touch of strength in her delicate jaw. A hint of color touched the perfect line of her cheekbones, and she looked down her small, straight nose in a way that almost made him smile. The only thing that did not quite match the sweet innocence of her face was her mouth. It was slightly wide, with sinfully beckoning full lips.

  Her figure was slim, almost too much so, but the swell of enticingly pale skin above the modest neckline of her gown told him that she had softness enough to please any man. He was suddenly swamped by the need to place his hands on her hips to see if they were as womanly, and inwardly shook the thought from his mind. Hartley told himself that he had no need to see if this little widow wore clothing to hide her shape, but a little voice in his mind sneered liar.

  Then he met her steady, curious gaze, and his heart actually skipped a beat. Her eyes were of a size to appear almost too big for her face and were an intriguing silvery blue. The color was clear to see, for she met his gaze with a directness to equal his own. What made him a little uneasy was that a shiver of recognition went through him, yet he was sure he had never met the woman. Nor had he ever seen eyes like hers. Hartley was certain he would remember if he had, but the sense of recognition was not easy to shake.

  “My lord, if we might beg a moment of your time?” Lord Uppington asked.

  “Of course,” Hartley replied, moving closer to the pair.

  “Allow me to introduce my niece, Alethea Channing Lady Coulthurst. Alethea, this is Hartley Greville, Marquis of Redgrave.”

  “Charmed,” Hartley murmured.

  Alethea almost smiled as he bowed and lightly kissed the back of her hand. No polite, faint pouting of his lips for this man. She could feel the warmth of his sensuous mouth even through her gloves. A little shiver tickled its way up her arm, and the word dangerous whispered through her mind. He made something stir to life inside of her, something she did not recognize but which tasted like more. That was not what she had come to London for.

  His was the kind of handsomeness that drove women to do something utterly reckless, but that did not surprise Alethea. She had seen enough glimpses of him over the years to suspect it. It was also a good thing that she was well accustomed to tall men, for the lean Redgrave towered over her meager height by a foot or more and even topped Iago’s impressive six feet by a few inches.

  She let her gaze drift over the man, finding herself a little too enamored of each perfect feature she found. His hair was a warm, mahogany brown, candlelight hinting at a touch of red in its thick depths and adding life to it. Alethea was glad he was one of the ones who had cast aside the use of powder. The fingers of her free hand flexed as she fought the urge to bury them deep into the thick hair. His face was a masterpiece of Nature’s art, each feature carved with a master’s hand. All clean lines from the high cheekbones to the strong jaw. Even his nose was perfect. Bold, straight, and just narrow enough to keep it from appearing too big and jutting. The rich color of his hair was matched in his brows, arched ever so slightly to follow the line of his dark amber eyes, and his lashes, thick and long enough to be the envy of women but not so lush as to look incongruous on his aristocratic face. His mouth tempted her in a way she had never been tempted before, the hint of fullness to his lips promising a woman a soft, sinful warmth.

  He was, she decided, almost too much manly perfection for any woman to deal with rationally. Despite her gift, she prided herself on being a rational woman, on being able to look beneath surface charm and beauty. What troubled her was that she knew, somewhere in her heart and mind, that she would crave what lay beneath the surface of this man.

  Realizing that he still held her hand in his, she gently tugged free of his grasp, vaguely irritated to notice that his expensively gloved hand was quite perfect, too. Long, elegant fingers made her wonder if he had any artistic inclinations. When Alethea found herself pondering ho
w skillful that manly hand would be in stroking a woman’s skin, she wrestled her thoughts back to the problem at that had brought her here.

  “A pleasure to meet you, m’lord,” she murmured, clasping her hands in front of her skirts in what she prayed was a pose of serenity and hoping that she was successfully hiding the strange but strong urge to touch him.

  “Your niece?” Hartley asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

  “My eldest brother’s child,” explained Iago, but then he grimaced. “I also have a nephew a year older than I am.” Iago suddenly turned to frown at Alethea. “Why did you not go to Gethin with this trouble?”

  “He is not in London,” Alethea replied.

  “Just where is he?”

  “America. The last word I had from him was that he was planning to travel to the southern parts of that country because he had heard that the slaves there had some interesting beliefs and practices. I await word of what those may be.”

  “You had something you needed to discuss with me?” asked Hartley, interrupting what he suspected was a budding argument. “There is some trouble you think I might help you with?”

  “Ah, yes and no,” replied Iago, turning his attention back to Hartley. “Actually, it is Alethea who must explain to you why we have sought you out.” Iago scratched his cheek. “I fear it is a difficult thing to explain.”

  “Good, bad, easy, or difficult, the plain truth is usually the best.”

  “Not always,” Iago muttered, and then he cursed when he saw Claudette headed toward Hartley. “Ah, madame,” he said as he moved to put himself between her and Hartley, “have you come to collect me for our dance? Such a heartless swine I am to have forced you to such an inconvenience.” He kept on talking as he took her by the arm and led her away.

  Alethea stood beside Hartley and watched her uncle sweep a frowning Claudette onto the dance floor with a grace and ruthlessness she had to admire. “That was very efficiently done, was it not?” she asked after a few moments of tense silence and then smiled at Lord Redgrave when he turned from frowning after Iago and Claudette to meet her gaze.