“You were gone for some time,” he noted casually, running his finger slowly along the spine of the book to keep her attention there, rather than on what he was saying. “I was beginning to think you’d run across Reg or Francis and gone to the races.”
“Oh, no. Ivy and I only chatted for longer than I realized.”
“Becoming a regular gossip, aren’t you?”
“I am not,” she protested, clearly indignant.
He pursed his lips. It appeared that if he wished to know who the gentleman out on the street was, he was going to have to ask her directly. And he didn’t wish to do that. If the aggravating chit had been a less proficient liar, she might have left him with some clue, but as it was, all he could do was withdraw and attack from a different direction. Slowly he lifted the stack of papers from the book and shuffled through them. “I received these today,” he said, handing them to her. “Care to explain?”
Kit looked down at them. And blanched.
“I see,” he commented, taking them back, curiosity blazing through him. These, at least, he would have an answer about. He separated the top sheet and examined it. “‘True verdant slippers, three shillings.’” He glanced up to find her gaze on his hands. “What sort of color is ‘true verdant,’ anyway?”
“Green.” For once, the expression on her face was easy to interpret. Embarrassed and guilty about something, she curled smaller into the chair and made a face. “Emerald, actually,” she muttered.
He studied her face for another moment, then fished out another paper. “‘Mrs. Beam’s Beautifications, one day muslin, two pounds six; stockings, one pair, two shillings; hair clips, two shillings.’”
“Alex,” she finally implored, “I—”
He grabbed her outstretched hand. “How do they look on you?” he asked softly, running his thumb across her fingers.
Slowly she met his gaze, trying to decipher his mood. “You’re not angry?”
“Of course not. How do they look?”
She sighed. “Silly, actually,” she admitted. “The shoes are too small, and the gown is too large, and—”
“I should like to see them on you, anyway,” he returned. “To satisfy my considerable curiosity.”
She tilted her head at him, and gently tugged her fingers free. “It’s truly awful-looking,” she insisted.
“Let me be the judge of that.”
Kit shrugged. “All right,” she acquiesced, and he thought she was not entirely displeased. “But I’m damned well not wearing it down here.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Shall I join you in your bedchamber, then?” he suggested slyly.
Surprisingly, she sobered, rather than giving him the set-down he expected, but from her cautious expression he knew what must be running through her mind. The last time they had begun this sort of teasing he had practically rendered her naked, and then had broken off the seduction because he didn’t trust her, or himself, if anything further should happen. And even with the boundaries he had made for himself, the desire to touch her, to kiss her and to hold her, was nearly overpowering.
“I have a better idea,” she said after a moment, her manner hesitant, as though she was less than comfortable making the suggestion.
“You have my attention,” he returned, sitting back and crossing his legs at the ankles.
Kit looked at him, then shook her head and stood. “Never mind.”
He sat forward again, but forced himself to remain seated. “Indulge me, chit,” he requested mildly, trying to avoid letting her know how very curious she made him.
She blew out her breath and stalked over to the window. “It’s nothing, really. I just…well, the Thornhill ball.”
“I’m aware of it,” he commented when she stopped.
“Yes, well, I was thinking…That is, Ivy suggested…”
“Do spit it out, girl,” he encouraged, a smile making his lips twitch. Kit at a loss was a rather unusual sight.
She turned around and took a deep breath. “I would like to attend.”
He nodded. “You’re welcome to, of course. Your last night in London and all.”
“In a gown.”
For a moment he was speechless. She continued to glare at him, her face reddening, while he stared back at her. Even after he regained control of his vocal cords, it took him two tries to get the words out. “You what?” he finally blurted, both brows soaring toward his hairline.
“No one will know it’s me,” she continued quickly, stepping up to him. “Everyone will be wearing masks.”
“Are you completely mad?” he asked, standing and looking down at her.
“No. I just want to wear a gown,” she said in a defiant voice that deflated and faltered at the end.
She truly wanted to, he realized. And she hadn’t attempted to lie to him about it, or go behind his back, or make up some clever excuse why he must put her in skirts. Slowly he blew out his breath. “You know what a risk you’d be taking,” he stated, holding her gaze.
Kit nodded. “I do.”
Of course she did. She weighed every word and every action with a juggler’s skill. Which made it even more out of character for her to decide upon such a rash exploit in the first place. “And this was Ivy’s idea?”
“Don’t be angry at her.” Kit put one hand out to touch his sleeve. “Please, Everton? I can’t do it without you.”
He looked away, but could still feel her eyes on him. “It’s damned dangerous, and I don’t like it,” he grumbled, glancing at her again and knowing full well that he couldn’t refuse her. “And I’m only agreeing so I can keep an eye on you and prevent a worse disaster from befalling.”
“Merci, Alex,” she said softly, looking up at him from beneath her long lashes, and giving him that shy smile that made his breath quicken and his heart beat faster. “May I ask one more favor?”
With a snort, Alex threw his hands up and dropped back into the chair. “Please do,” he chuckled. “I surrender.”
Kit licked her lips and sat again as well. She reached out and touched the book at his elbow. “Will you read one for me?”
“Ah.” As it was, he felt poorly balanced between gentlemanly and libertine behavior. Byron could easily tip the balance.
Fleeting loneliness and sadness touched her eyes. “I know. It’s not wise.” She sighed, and rose again. “Never mind.”
There was more to this than a simple poem. And this time, what she wanted from him wasn’t nearly as easy to decipher. He gave an exaggerated sigh and lifted the book. “Do you have a preference?” he asked, flipping through a few pages.
She settled back into the chair and grinned. “I’m certain you can find an appropriate stanza,” she said, propping her elbow on the cushioned arm and leaning her chin on her hand.
Alex cleared his throat. “All right, here’s a stanza for you, my dear.” He lowered his eyes to the page, reluctant though he was to look away from her face. In a quiet voice he read,
“‘…He had no breath, no being, but in hers, She was his voice; he did not speak to her, But trembled on her words; she was his sight, For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers, Which colored all his objects—he had ceased To live within himself; she was his life, The ocean to the river of his thoughts…’”
For a long moment there was nothing but silence, and then the dulcet sound of her sigh. “Oh, my,” she whispered, clearly as loath to break the spell as he was. He raised his eyes to look at her. Her own eyes were closed, a slight smile on her sweet, sensuous lips. “What is it called?” she murmured.
“‘The Dream,’” he answered, and stood. “For you,” he said, placing the book in her hands. Unable to resist, he gently touched his lips to hers. Before she could do more than open her eyes again, he turned and left the room.
In the morning Alex dropped Kit off at the Downings’ and headed to Parliament. Upstairs in Ivy’s bedchamber, Kit found herself going through a measuring session nearly identical to the one she had suffered through at th
e hands of Everton’s tailor. Mrs. Adams, Ivy’s dressmaker, was much more genial and full of compliments about her hair and her figure than Mr. Lewis had been, but then Kit would have handed Mr. Lewis his teeth if he had dared to tell her that she was perfectly proportioned.
When, in complete bewilderment, Kit gave over to Ivy the responsibility for all decisions regarding color, fabric, and style, the two ladies spent another hour eyeing her, having her turn this way and that, and holding what seemed like hundreds of fabric samples up to her neck, shoulders, and face. Finally they decided on a burgundy silk with black beading, a lace netting over the skirt, and frothing at the sleeves, which were apparently going to be off her shoulders.
“Are you certain?” she asked. “I don’t wish to look like some sort of whore—um, light-skirt,” she amended, as Mrs. Adams glanced in her direction, startled.
“Trust me in this, my dear.” Ivy smiled, and launched into a list of petticoats, stockings, and shoes that Mrs. Adams was to bring with her on the morrow, when Kit would have her first fitting.
When the dressmaker finally bundled up her things and departed, Kit sighed and dropped into the nearest chair. “This is exhausting,” she declared, and reached for a handful of the finger sandwiches a servant had delivered upstairs.
“Christine,” Ivy murmured, gesturing with her chin at the sandwiches, “if you’re to be a lady…”
“Oh, drat,” Kit grumbled, and set all but one of the sandwiches back onto the platter. “Alex says I eat like a regiment, but he seems to like it.”
A slight smile touched her companion’s face. “Alexander is a rather unconventional man,” Ivy agreed. “But in polite company, you must always consume as little as possible without seeming to dislike the fare.”
“I don’t think I can possibly learn everything,” Kit returned, nibbling at the tiny morsel and grateful she had eaten that third biscuit at breakfast. “His lordship is anticipating complete disaster.”
For a moment Ivy was silent, her cup of tea poised halfway to her lips. “You told Alex?” she finally said, looking at Kit.
“I didn’t want to have to lie to him about it.” She shrugged, making it as small a thing as she could. Lies upon lies upon lies, and when Alex had sat smiling at her yesterday, she had suddenly wished to tell him a truth. And so she had. The most innocent one she could think of.
“And he agreed to this?”
“Very reluctantly.” Kit grimaced and started to lick her finger, stopping self-consciously when Ivy gave a small frown. “Do you think he’s right, Ivy? Do you think it will be a disaster?”
Ivy actually gave her the compliment of thinking about her words before she answered. “No. I don’t think so.” She smiled. “I will do my best to see that it is not. And I welcome any opportunity to prove Alexander Cale wrong—he is right far too much of the time. Or he thinks he is.” She narrowed her eyes. “Now. With the short amount of time we have, I believe we should concentrate only on what you will need to learn for the Thornhill ball. Walking, dancing, polite conversation…”
Kit blanched, wishing she had thought things through. Alex was right, after all. “I can’t go,” she groaned, crestfallen.
“Whyever not?”
“I can’t dance.”
“What?” Ivy chuckled incredulously. “Of course you can. I’ve seen you. I’ve waltzed with you. You dance beautifully.”
Kit covered her eyes with her hands, the enormity of what she was contemplating finally crashing down on her. “Only when I lead,” she mumbled.
It seemed she was able to stun her hostess rather easily, for again silence dragged on for several moments. Finally she raised her head, only to find that Ivy was doubled over, her shoulders trembling. It took another few miserable breaths before Kit realized that she was shaking with laughter.
“Well, I don’t think it’s at all funny,” she said indignantly, folding her arms over her chest and sitting back.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Kit,” Ivy chortled. “But you’re right. You can’t very well step out onto the floor and expect to lead when you’re dressed as a female.”
“But that’s the way I learned.”
Still chuckling, Ivy rose and stepped over to tug her to her feet. “Come downstairs. We shall see what we can do.”
Gerald wasn’t home from his meetings, so Fender, the butler, found himself recruited to play the pianoforte. Kit scowled, for they were letting more people in on her secret than she was comfortable with. But there were only three days left, and in this instance there seemed to be little choice.
“Remember,” Ivy instructed as the music began, “it’s what you were doing before, only backwards.” She chuckled. “And put your hand on my shoulder, for goodness’ sake. I am the man now.”
Kit was unable to stifle a laugh of her own. “This is very confusing.” Fender mumbled something unintelligible, and Kit grinned at him.
Doing everything backwards was more difficult than she had realized, and she stepped on her poor partner’s toes at least as many times as her own were kicked. Ivy, apparently, was having her own difficulties. “Don’t give up, Kit,” she encouraged with a brave smile. “Once more. I believe we’re both catching on.”
At the sound of male laughter, they both stopped short. Gerald Downing, and to Kit’s surprised embarrassment, the Earl of Everton, stood in the doorway watching their efforts. Alex’s eyes were full of amusement as he pushed away from the frame.
“I’m gratified to see that there is at least one thing you have difficulty with,” he chuckled, walking up to stand before her. “Perhaps you need a more practiced partner.” He held out his hand to her. “Allow me, chit.”
Dancing with Ivy was more comfortable, for they were both equally out of their element. As she accepted Everton’s hand and he slid his other easily around her waist, she was again aware of feeling strangely vulnerable. Again he was the master, and she the awkward student. She took a quick breath and glanced away from his handsome face. “Well, I don’t want everyone gawking at me,” she grumbled.
“Of course,” Ivy agreed, and motioned Gerald to join her in the middle of the floor. “Fender? If you please.”
With a sigh, the butler struck up the waltz again. Alex started to move, but Kit shook her head, her eyes on the other couple. “Let me study them for a moment,” she protested.
He freed his hand from her waist long enough to touch her chin and lift her head so she had to look up at him. “You don’t need to study anything,” he murmured. “All you need to do is relax and follow my lead. If you trust me.”
With that, he swept her into the dance. She’d seen him waltz before, and had wondered what it would be like to be in his arms. Kit tried to remember the steps, in reverse, and succeeded in keeping even with him for two complete circles. And then he smiled at her, and she lost count, kicked him in the shin, and stumbled against his chest. “Oh, drat,” she muttered, stopping.
Alex shook his head and pulled her up against him again. “Relax,” he whispered. “Don’t try to unremember anything. Just look at me. Just dance with me.”
They began again, and she promptly stepped on his toe. “I’m sorry,” Kit said miserably, slowing again.
He wouldn’t let her stop. “You’re a damned stubborn chit,” he informed her, practically dragging her until she got her feet under herself again, “and you’re so worried about not making a misstep that that is all you can do.”
“That is not tr—” She tripped again, and again he pulled her closer against his chest until she untangled her legs and regained her balance. “Alex, let go,” she demanded. “You were right. This is hope—”
He lowered his head and interrupted her protest with a kiss. “Do shut up,” he suggested. “I want to dance with you.”
She licked her lower lip with the tip of her tongue, and glanced quickly over at Gerald and Ivy. The Downings were circling over by the window, eyes on one another and not paying any attention to their guests at all. She looked back up a
t Alex. His eyes were twinkling, and he touched his lips to hers again.
“I thought you were anticipating complete disaster,” she commented, not minding that he seemed to be holding her closer than was strictly allowed.
“I am,” he agreed, shifting his hand so that her fingers were twined with his, rather than being clasped by them.
“So why are you assisting?” Kiss me again, she entreated him silently, her senses soaring with Fender’s well-played waltz. It was becoming fairly obvious that Alex was attempting to seduce her, and with all her heart she wished she knew whether it was out of curiosity and convenience, or because he felt remotely what she was beginning to feel toward him.
“I should have elaborated,” he murmured as they circled the room. “I meant a complete disaster for me.” With a glance of his own at his cousins, he kissed her again, more roughly and more deeply than before.
“Alex!” Ivy chastised.
With a completely unrepentant grin, not even bothering to look over at his relations, Alex sighed and put the correct amount of distance between them. It was only then Kit realized that she had been waltzing with him for several minutes, swaying easily in his skillful, confident grip. “You distracted me,” she accused without heat.
“Turnabout is fair play, my dear,” he answered. “I declare you completely proficient at the waltz.”
“As long as I waltz only with someone who kisses me when I crush his toes,” she pointed out, and wondered fleetingly and wickedly what kicking him in the knee would gain her.
Surprisingly, a good portion of the humor left his eyes. “You’d best waltz only with me, then.”
He was jealous. In her decision to dress as a female, she hadn’t anticipated that. It felt quite wonderful, though, and she couldn’t help smiling at him. The Earl of Everton was jealous, over her, a boy-thing in breeches, and without any suitors, real or imagined, to challenge him. “Then perhaps you’d best purchase stout boots.”
Alex eyed her for a moment, and she was uncertain whether she’d said the wrong thing. Finally he chuckled. “I’m beginning to think I should simply wear a full suit of armor,” he returned. “’Twould be safer, around you.”
Lady Rogue Page 22
