by Brenda Hiatt
"His loss, my gain," her partner said with a roguish smile. "Never thought I'd seek out a lady in spectacles— intimidating, don't you know —but I'm willing to risk having my self-importance deflated for a dance with you, Miss Riverstone."
Rowena had to laugh at his outrageous flattery. "Intimidating? I find that hard to believe, Mr. Thatcher." Harry Thatcher was a longtime acquaintance of Noel's, she recalled. Did she dare question him about his friend?
The country dance began, and Rowena was again impressed at how well Mr. Thatcher compensated for his missing left arm. One scarcely even noticed it, as he seemed not to.
"How well do you know Mr. Paxton?" she asked with all the nonchalance she could muster, when the movements of the dance brought them back together for a time.
"Noel?" He glanced across the room, where the gentleman in question was one of another set of dancers. "Haven't seen too much of him since his return to London, but we had some good times in Vienna. Bang-up sort. He can carouse —and fight —with the best of 'em, and match me bottle for bottle at the table."
This was a picture of Noel she would never have suspected. She had assumed his duties in Vienna had entailed delivering messages and attending meetings, interesting in its way, but involving little risk or adventure. Before she could request more details, however, the dance separated them again.
"I've noticed Noel watching you," Mr. Thatcher commented when they were able to speak again. "You could do worse, Miss Riverstone, if you'll excuse my impudence in saying so. Of course, you could also do better." He winked suggestively.
Again she had to laugh, despite the jumble of emotions that assailed her at his endorsement of Noel. "You do not seem the sort to be hanging out for a wife." But then, neither did Noel.
"Gad, no!" he exclaimed, and his horror seemed only partially feigned. "Just innocent flirtation, don't you know. Not looking for a straitjacket, not that this stage of my life."
Rowena suspected that a good woman might do wonders for Mr. Thatcher, but he was not the one she was interested in at the moment. "Pray do not panic, sir. You have raised no expectations. But what makes you think Mr. Paxton feels any differently?"
She had to wait for his answer, as they were temporarily separated again, which gave her time to regret her bold question. What if he repeated it to Noel? She would die of embarrassment.
When he took her hand again, he appeared more thoughtful, less the devil-may-care rake that he usually projected. "Don't tell Noel I said so, but he has the look of a man ready to settle down. 'Course, I could be wrong. I'd never want to be the instrument of leg-shackling a friend."
At least it appeared he was unlikely to share their conversation with Noel, she thought with relief. "I suspect you may be mistaken, Mr. Thatcher. Mr. Paxton seems quite single-minded in his pursuit of the Saint of Seven Dials. I'm sure no other thoughts have room in his head at the moment."
"Yes, Noel's become rather a stick-in-the-mud of late," Mr. Thatcher agreed. "Seems he's forgotten how to have fun. I'll have to see what I can do about that. I owe him a favor, after all— maybe even my life."
The dance ended then, and he bowed and left her before she could ask him to explain that remarkable comment. Frowning, she turned —to find herself face to face with Noel himself.
"Dare I hope you have a waltz yet open?" he asked, his voice raising all of the tiny hairs on Rowena's body as the orchestra played the opening strains of just that dance.
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Clearing her throat, she tried again. "As it happens, I have." Her voice sounded high and breathy, totally unlike her.
"Good." Smiling down into her eyes, holding her gaze with the question in his own, he took her hand and led her into the dance.
For several long moments, Rowena could not bring herself to speak, so distracted was she by the sensation of his hand against her back and the memories —and desire —that sensation aroused. The silence between them lengthened to awkwardness, and finally she forced herself to say what she knew must be said.
"I . . . I must apologize for my behavior last night. It was forward, and unladylike, and completely improper."
She waited for the disgust he must feel to show in his expression at the reminder, but instead his grip on her hand tightened and his eyes seemed to grow warmer. She felt her breath quickening, despite their surroundings.
"I cannot deny that however improper it might have been, I found your behavior more than enjoyable," he said softly, ensuring that no one around them could possibly overhear. "I am more concerned about the motives for it than the behavior itself."
Impossible to tell him what she now knew was the truth —that she had simply wanted him. That she wanted him even now. It would only confirm her as a wanton, not to mention opening her to humiliation, should he feel differently. At the same time, she did not want to anger him as she had last night.
Instead, she tried to skirt a line between the noble reasoning she had used to convince herself last night, and today's realization. "I seem not to have been thinking entirely clearly last night." That was true enough! "I thought I could both follow my inclinations and justify my indiscretion by attempting to dissuade you from a course you already knew me to oppose."
"I see." Though his grip did not loosen, there was an indefinable withdrawal in his eyes. "Tell me, what were you speaking about with Richards, earlier?"
Completely unprepared for the question, Rowena missed her step and came down hard on his foot. "Oh! I beg your pardon."
Deftly, he guided her back into the motion of the waltz. "I'm not so easily distracted, you know. Will you answer my question?"
"I did not tread on your foot intentionally," she protested, as much to give herself time as because it was true.
Noel would surely be angry if she told him she had warned Richards against him. He would see it as a betrayal —which, she admitted, it was— but one she felt justified in, given the good the Saint was doing for the poor of London.
He did not argue her defense but merely waited, watching her with that intensity that both excited and disturbed her. With an effort, she pulled her glance away to look over his shoulder.
"I, ah, attempted to verify a theory about Mr. Richards," she finally said evasively.
"That he is the Saint of Seven Dials." It was not a question.
Her gaze snapped back to him, to find him regarding her with that analytical expression he sometimes wore. "I knew you suspected him," she admitted, though clearly he was already aware of that.
"And now Richards knows it too?" There was no expression in his voice, but still he accused her.
Unfortunately, she could not deny it, much as she wanted to. She simply could not lie to this man. It appeared she would not make a good politician after all. "Yes," she whispered, not meeting his eye.
"You seem to have chosen your loyalties, though I fear you may find them misplaced. You are meddling in things you do not understand, Rowena."
Her pride stung, she lifted her chin. "How do you know what I understand? I have read—" she almost added "and written," but caught herself in time—"extensively about the Saint. I daresay I understand him as well as you do."
"I rather doubt that." Surely, that was not amusement she heard in his voice? "In any event—"
"It appears you have as low an opinion of a woman's intelligence as Mr. Richards does," she snapped, angry herself now. "I do seem to have faltered in my judgement —of you."
He smiled, but it was a mirthless smile. "Anyone can make an error in judgement when lacking relevant information. I have certainly done so myself, on more than one occasion."
What was he saying? That there was more to himself than met the eye, or was he referring to Mr. Richards —or to her? Not that it mattered. "One must make decisions based on the information available, mustn't one?" she challenged him.
"But one must also be careful not to ignore the facts, seeing only what one wishes to see."
The dance ended, and
he released her at once, though still he held her eyes with his own, daring her to look away. Clearly, he thought she was granting Mr. Richards additional virtues because of her prior admiration of the man— but that was absurd. Both he and Mr. Richards himself had strongly implied that Richards was the Saint. It was not some foolish fantasy she had invented.
"I pride myself on my objectivity," she told him. "I always consider all options before making a move, as you have seen at the chessboard."
"Always?" He raised a skeptical brow.
Last night she had not followed that maxim —quite the opposite, in fact. She knew he was reminding her of that, and she felt her color rising against her will. "Almost always," she amended, refusing to look away this time.
The first real smile she had seen on him today briefly lightened his features. "I've said before that I admire your honesty. Perhaps we can continue this discussion over supper, if you still have that dance free?"
Before she could answer, a soft throat-clearing sounded at her elbow. "Miss Riverstone?" It was young Lord Roland, to whom she had promised the next dance.
She smiled at the newcomer, then turned back to Noel. "Supper, then," she said, though she suspected she might be making yet another error in judgement by agreeing. He bowed, and she took Lord Roland's arm so that he could lead her to the quadrille just forming.
Noel watched Rowena take her place in the set, then turned away with a frown. He'd expected that she would warn Richards given an opportunity, but he wondered very much what she had actually said —and how he had responded. Would he interpret her warning as pertaining only to the Saint, or would he guess that Noel suspected him of something far more sinister?
If the former, Rowena's assumption no doubt amused him mightily. If the latter, he might become desperate. Either way, Rowena herself might now be in danger. But how could Noel possibly convince her of that without telling her the truth, not only about Richards, but about the Saint?
He reminded himself that he still had no clear proof that Richards was the man he sought, though he hoped to within days. For the first time since suspecting him, Noel hoped he was wrong —but his instincts said otherwise. Until he knew for certain, he had to somehow protect Rowena, with or without her consent.
With that goal in mind, he kept a discreet watch on her for the next two hours, even as he danced with other ladies. Twice Richards approached her, but both times she smilingly rebuffed him to dance with her next promised partner. It was difficult from a distance to read the nuances of her expression, but Noel felt almost certain that she wished to avoid Richards.
Perhaps his words had not been entirely without effect, then. He could only hope so, for her sake.
And his own.
CHAPTER 17
Rowena was more than ready for this interminable evening to end. She felt as though her emotions had been put through a wash wringer, twisted and distorted until she no longer knew how she felt or what she believed. All she had felt sure of had been called into question, and she didn't much care for the sensation.
"I thank you for the honor, Miss Riverstone," said Mr. Orrin with a bow as their cotillion ended.
She smiled in response, her nerves stretched to a screaming point in painful anticipation. The supper dance was next, but she did not see Noel. Would he appear to claim her as promised? Did she want him to? What could she possibly say to him after their last exchange?
"Miss Riverstone," came a voice from behind her—a voice she was almost beginning to dread this evening, contrary as that seemed. "You mentioned earlier that you don't waltz. Might that mean we can finally talk during this dance?"
Summoning a bright smile, she turned to face Mr. Richards, nearly ready to agree. Perhaps it would allow her to figure out one of the conundrums besetting her. "I take it you do not waltz either, sir?" she asked, stalling for time until she could decide what to do.
"Dancing is a foolish pastime, in my opinion, intended to make the mating ritual easier for those who lack the address to go about it in a more direct and rational way."
His dark eyes held hers as he spoke and a shiver went up her back at his apparent meaning. Not a particularly pleasant shiver, unfortunately.
"Of course," she said in automatic agreement, but then realized that she was again parroting his opinion rather than proclaiming her own. "But I believe there is more to dancing than that. I find it a metaphor for the strictures of Society —some foolish, certainly, but some quite sensible."
"Do you indeed?" he asked in apparent surprise, but then smiled suggestively again. "But surely you don't believe those strictures apply—"
"My apologies, Miss Riverstone," Noel interrupted him, appearing without warning from behind a pillar. "Our dance, I believe?"
Rowena turned with a relief she feared she did not completely conceal. "Mr. Paxton! I assumed you were otherwise engaged."
"Never." Though his smile was as suggestive as Mr. Richards' had been, it warmed Rowena rather than chilling her. "Shall we?"
"The lady does not waltz," said Mr. Richards, an edge to his voice. "She prefers to sit this dance out, Paxton —with me."
Noel turned to the man, his brows raised. "The lady waltzes beautifully, with the right partner. You do not give her enough credit—still."
Mr. Richards' complexion darkened at this oblique reference to last night's chess match. "And you seem to have a habit of putting your nose where it doesn't belong," he snapped. "The lady and I were conversing."
"I find that I can learn quite a lot by putting my nose where others would prefer I did not," Noel responded with an enigmatic half-smile. "In any event, Miss Riverstone promised this dance to me earlier, did you not?" He turned to her for verification.
Embarrassed in the extreme, Rowena nodded. "He is right, Mr. Richards, I did. I . . . I am improving slightly at the waltz, with practice, though I am by no means proficient."
"Practice improves all skills," Noel said, his eyes giving his words an added meaning that embarrassed her further. "Shall we?" he said again.
This time, she put her hand in his. "My apologies, Mr. Richards. I did promise."
"Then you surely realize now that one should not make promises lightly, or without proper forethought," Mr. Richards said with a darkling glance at Noel. Then, he seemed to recover himself. "No matter. We will continue our conversation later."
As Noel led her to the dance already in progress, Rowena decided that "later" would not be tonight. She would retire immediately after supper, as she had before. She'd had enough emotional turmoil for one evening.
"Now then," said Noel, placing his hand at her back to guide her into the movements of the dance. "Am I mistaken, or were you just as glad of an excuse to break off that talk with Richards?"
She looked up at him in surprise, trying vainly to ignore the sensations —and emotions —that rippled through her at his touch. "How could you— That is, he has seemed unusually determined to speak with me alone this evening, since our earlier conversation."
"And that makes you uncomfortable."
She nodded. Now, why had she admitted that to a man who was certainly Mr. Richards' enemy? "I don't really know him that well, after all," she temporized.
"Precisely the point I tried to make earlier," he said. "I know you think his motives are entirely noble, but I have reason to believe otherwise. I wish you would trust me, Rowena." The warmth in his eyes nearly made her melt, right there on the dance floor.
Valiantly, she tried to rally her reason. "How can I, when we are so ideologically opposed?" she made herself say. "Would you have me sacrifice my principles on the altar of that trust?"
To her surprise, he smiled. "I think we are not so opposed as you believe, Rowena. As I said, you have based some of your opinions on insufficient information."
"And will you supply the information I lack?" It was both a challenge and a plea, but he shook his head with apparent regret.
"I can't —not yet. That is why I want you to trust me, until
I am able to do just that."
He seemed to be speaking in riddles, and it frustrated her that she could not decipher them. Normally, she was quite good at riddles. She made one more attempt. "Are you trying to tell me that Mr. Richards is not the Saint of Seven Dials?"
"Please, Rowena, do not press me for information I cannot safely give you just now. If all goes as I hope, my mission will be accomplished within days. Then, I will tell you everything."
Within days? He expected to have the Saint arrested within days? Or did he mean something else entirely? Though she asked no more questions, Rowena by no means intended to give up trying to figure out what was going on. To do so would be to betray who she was and all she believed in.
She thought back over the recent exchange between Noel and Mr. Richards. The older man seemed to be subtly threatening Noel, a threat that Noel had turned back upon him. They had all but openly acknowledged themselves as opponents —and not, she thought, simply for her affections.
Clearly, she would have to choose her loyalties, and choose soon, if she was to have any hope of affecting their contest.
The dance ended, and Noel led her in to supper. As before, he attempted to find a table where they might be private, but unfortunately they were joined almost at once by Lord and Lady Marcus.
"I see that your spectacles have in no way diminished your popularity," Lady Marcus remarked, seating herself next to Rowena.
Noel glanced at Rowena in surprise, drawing a confused look from her in return.
"Why do you look at me like that?" she asked him.
He smiled sheepishly. "I, ah, hadn't noticed that you were wearing your spectacles tonight," he confessed.
"Knowing how observant you generally are, sir, I believe I will take that as a compliment," she said.
The other couple chuckled, and Noel joined in, still feeling foolish. It was true, however. Her eyeglasses were so much a part of her that he hadn't noticed. Certainly, they did not diminish her attractiveness. He wanted her more than ever.
