Lady Rogue

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Who in the world is she?” Mr. Henning queried with a baffled expression. “Not Peningfield’s niece, do you think?”

  Desdemona Peningfield couldn’t hold a candle to Christine Brantley. “She’s still in India with her brother,” Alex said absently, watching as the vast majority of males in the room began to drift in her direction. He narrowed his eyes, fighting the urge to stride across the room, grab her, and remove her from their presence so he could have her for himself. A slow burn began to wind its way along every nerve in his body. Tonight was going to be absolute torture. And she was going to pay for it later, the tormenting chit.

  “Damnation,” Francis grunted, lowering his mask again. “They’ll have every dance, the buzzards.” He squared his shoulders and pushed into the crowd, his peacock feathers cutting a swath in the direction of Lady Masquerade.

  For a long moment Alex simply watched her, watched the easy elegance with which she moved and talked and gestured. Francis finally reached her, and from the quick bob of the peacock feathers, Alex could tell he’d succeeded in securing a place on her dance card. The earl was trying to decide whether he was willing to give her the satisfaction of watching him clamoring for a dance with all the other fools when she looked up over Francis’s shoulder, and her eyes behind the glitter of her black mask met his.

  Electrified as he generally felt in her presence, it was…magnetic. He was halfway across the room before he had gathered his wits together enough to stop, and by then he had decided as long as he had come this far, he might as well ask for a waltz. As he reached the fringes of the crowd around her, though, the orchestra began a country dance, and that bastard Hague, taking unfair advantage of his temporary acquisition of her arm, led her out onto the floor. A slight, teasing smile curved Christine’s painted ruby lips as her gaze held Alex’s for another moment, then she turned to view her dance partner. She and the other participating females curtsied, and the dance began.

  With another scowl Alex shook himself, and changed direction to head over to the laden refreshment table. The chit might be enjoying herself, but she was killing him. And he needed to warn her that Furth was present. A moment later it occurred to him that he should have been concerned with warning his mentor that one of their smugglers was present. Just as swiftly he quashed that thought. Not tonight. Tonight was Christine’s.

  Reg was fetching an armful of glasses of punch, his expression a comical mixture of hope and despair. “Alex.” He nodded, glancing back in the direction of the Brantleys.

  “How goes the battle?”

  “I believe I’m being tolerated. He liked me at one time, I’m certain.”

  “You weren’t trying to become a member of his household then.”

  The baron managed a chuckle. “True enough. Is Kit about? If he could manage a smile at Caroline, he might improve my odds of being accepted.”

  Alex barely refrained from giving in to his urge to glance at Christine. “Kit wasn’t feeling quite the thing, and decided to stay in for the evening.”

  Reg nodded his chin in the direction of the dance floor. “So who is Lady Masquerade?”

  With a slight, bracing breath, Alex turned to look at her again. “Don’t have a clue. I was about to ask you the same question.”

  Kit gracefully turned about the room in time to the music, while sweat shone off of Hague’s receded pate as he attempted to keep up with her. Served the buffoon right for stepping in where he wasn’t needed, or wanted. She had better have saved him a waltz.

  “By the by,” Reg commented, his tone wary enough to snap Alex’s attention back to him, “Augustus cornered Barbara for twenty minutes earlier, asking about your impending marriage.”

  Blast it, he’d nearly forgotten about that. “What did he want?”

  “No idea. If you two were speaking, you could ask him yourself.”

  “Ah,” the earl returned, annoyed, “but then I wouldn’t need you.” He sighed. “Do me a favor, will you?”

  “I owe you enough of them. Speak and be obeyed.”

  “Keep Furth away from me tonight.” As he intended on remaining as close as possible to Christine for the remainder of the evening, the request should also serve to keep the duke away from his niece.

  “Aye, my lord, I’ll do my best. And I don’t blame you. He’s not pleased that you won’t give him a name.” The baron frowned. “And neither am I, come to think of it. I know you’re the devious mastermind, but you occasionally used to tell me what was going on.”

  “I know, and I will. But not tonight.”

  “We don’t have much ti—”

  “Go deliver your punch, boy,” he ordered, only half joking.

  “Not very subtle, but all right.” Reg grinned, then strolled back toward the Brantleys.

  Impatiently Alex turned to the dance floor again. He’d never heard a deuced country dance last so long as this one. As Christine turned she glanced at him again, and he felt as though sparks must be coming off his skin. The dance ended, and he headed toward her to claim the next round. Francis, though, was already standing before her, and with a regal nod and a smile she placed a hand on his shoulder as the orchestra struck up a waltz.

  With a growl Alex spun on his heel and acquired a glass of punch from a rather startled footman. He downed it at one go, wishing heartily that it had been a brandy. Trying to ignore her, though he seemed to conjure her every step in his mind even with his back to her, he strolled about the fringes of the room, greeting various acquaintances and making an attempt to keep most of the room between Furth and himself. It had been bad enough before. Three hours ago he had thought he would go mad if he couldn’t have her before she left. Now he was ready to murder Francis Henning for placing a gloved hand on her clothed waist. He tried not to watch her through four more dances, failing miserably to ignore her every move, her every gesture.

  Finally he tracked down a glass of port and was making short work of it when a hand touched his shoulder. “My lord,” a light, feminine voice said from close behind him, “I believe you are about to miss our waltz.”

  Without a word he returned the half-empty glass to a footman’s tray, and turned around. Emerald eyes, lit with excitement and passion, caught his from behind the beaded half mask.

  “Am I?” he replied. “How very uncouth of me.” He held out his hand, and Christine slipped burgundy-gloved fingers into his and allowed him to lead her onto the floor as the orchestra struck up the waltz.

  Her hand was shaking a little, and he reflected with some satisfaction that she must be suffering through the same reaction as he. Gerald’s lessons in the waltz had paid off. She moved like liquid night in his arms. Perfectly together, perfectly in sync, it was as though they had waltzed in one another’s embrace a thousand times before. Her skin smelled faintly of lavender, and he was pleased, if unsurprised. He hadn’t expected her to select a heavy French perfume like the kind Barbara favored.

  “Did you see Gerald and Ivy come in after me?” she murmured. “After I dressed, I think Gerald became a little less enthusiastic about the whole thing.”

  “I hadn’t noticed them,” he answered truthfully, though he could understand Gerald’s sentiments. He hated these other men gawking at her. “You are astounding.”

  Her cheeks took on a soft flush deeper than her delicate rouge. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Tonight I feel…beautiful.”

  Alex smiled down at her. “Only beautiful?” he teased, dazzled by the enchantress in his arms. “By God, I felt safer when you were in breeches.”

  “Safer?” she repeated, tilting her head to one side to contemplate him. “Are you still afraid of me, then, Sir Wolf’s Head?”

  “I am trembling, my Lady Masquerade,” he murmured. And she was, as well. Her ruby lips gave him back a shy, sensuous smile, and it was with great effort that he kept from bending his head down and kissing her. He was holding her far closer than proper custom dictated, her burgundy skirt swirling about his black Hessian boots. He seemed a
ware of everything about her: her quickened breathing, her half-parted, smiling lips, how tightly she held his hand, the warmth of her other hand on his shoulder. Trembling he might be, but it was not with fear.

  The waltz ended, and he brought her to a standstill. Reluctant to release her now that he had her, Alex kept hold of one hand and transferred it to his arm. “Who is next on your dance card, my lady?” he queried with forced lightness. Tonight was for her, after all, whatever he might wish.

  Christine shook her head. “No one, my lord.” She glanced about the room. “I do wonder,” she continued, “if you would accompany me out to the balcony for a moment. I feel in need of a breath of fresh air.”

  All at once he did, as well. “Of course.” He nodded, and with a swift look about the room, led her through the masked crowd to the doorway. Surprisingly enough for this late in the evening, the ivy-shrouded balcony was empty, and she freed her hand from his arm to lean over the railing and look out at the garden.

  “I feel like a fairy princess,” she said with a sigh.

  “You are far more than that,” he murmured in response, stepping up beside her.

  She turned to face him, and lifted her gloved hands to pull the mask from his face. She dropped it to the stone floor and ran her silken fingers lightly along the skin of his cheeks. Scarcely breathing, Alex leaned forward and tilted her chin up. Very slowly he lowered his mouth to hers. Her arms slid about his neck as she leaned into him, inviting him to kiss her more deeply. He complied, and her mouth opened to his teasing request.

  When he finally lifted his head to draw a ragged breath, she pursued him, rising on her toes in her delicate slippers to kiss him again. “Don’t stop, Alex,” she whispered.

  With a smile, he turned her toward the moonlit garden and carefully lifted her mask onto her hair. The small of his back against the railing, he slowly slid his hands down the sides of her face and down her neck, to pause along her bare, creamy white shoulders. The shoulders her damned prized lawn shirts had kept hidden from him for over a fortnight. On impulse he bent down and kissed them, then returned his mouth to hers.

  “Everton—”

  Christine jumped, pulling away, and Alex’s eyes flew open to view the Duke of Furth coming to a stop in the shadows of the doorway. Before she could turn, he clamped his hands down hard on her shoulders, keeping her locked against him. “Your Grace.” He nodded, the color draining from his face. He had hoped with every fiber of his being that it would not come to this, and at nearly the same moment realized that it had been heading in exactly this direction from the moment he had met Christine Brantley. And to his further dismay, he had already decided on which side he had landed.

  “Sorry for the interrup—”

  “No need to apologize, Your Grace,” he cut in, lowering his eyes to find Christine’s gaze locked on his. Her face was white, her expression alarmingly distressed. “Lady Masquerade and I were merely…becoming acquainted.” Willing her not to bolt, he slowly slid his hands up her shoulders and carefully lowered the mask back over her eyes.

  “Fine time and place for it,” the duke grumbled, obviously out of countenance that one of his men could actually be enjoying himself when there was a spy to be caught. Thankfully, he knew to be subtle about the source of his irritation. Alex had no wish to see Christine leap from the balcony to make her escape.

  “Anytime is a fine time for this,” Alex murmured at her, and lowered his mouth to her ear. “I’ll get him away. No need to worry.”

  She searched his face for a moment, clearly trying to decide whether or not she could trust him. Then, with a quick breath and an almost imperceptible nod, she slid along him until she gripped the railing with both hands, her stony face resolutely turned toward the garden and away from her uncle.

  With a quick glance back at her, Alex bent and retrieved his own mask, then strolled over to take Furth around the arm and lead him back toward the bright, noisy ballroom. “Your Grace, have I ever complimented you on what an attractive young woman your Caroline has become?” he said amiably.

  Furth ignored the bait, instead looking behind them toward the balcony. “Who is she?” he asked.

  “No one you need be concerned about,” Alex returned firmly, knowing full well he would be paying for whatever he said tomorrow, after she was gone. If he could let her leave.

  The duke lifted an eyebrow, but continued toward Caroline and the duchess. “Defensive, aren’t we?” he noted.

  Alex forced a smile. “With your timing, you should be grateful I’m only being defensive.” That part, at least, was true, for he was having a difficult time keeping his hands from shaking and his mind even remotely on the conversation.

  “Hm. Odd thing for a betrothed gentleman to be saying in regard to another woman.”

  “That is another story entirely,” Alex said swiftly, “and an entirely false one, which I will remedy in a few days.”

  “You’ve a great many things to accomplish in the next few days, then,” Furth pointed out, making certain Alex knew exactly what he was implying.

  “And I shall,” he said, relinquishing his hold on Martin Brantley’s arm. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  As quickly as he could manage without looking like he was hurrying, he turned back to stroll about the fringe of the crowd toward the balcony. He’d nearly reached the door when Barbara Sinclair, her eyes glinting through her gold sun-goddess mask, materialized before him.

  “You have gone too far,” she hissed, her fists clenched. “Flaunting her in front of everyone. I won’t let it continue. I won’t have them laughing at my expense.”

  “You’re the one who went too far, Barbara,” he returned calmly, keeping his voice low. “I’ll discuss this with you later. Now smile and stand aside, or our betrothal will end before it’s begun.” He sketched her a jaunty bow, and watched the skin of her lips stretch into a false, unattractive smile. Apparently seeing an acquaintance she urgently needed to speak to, she waved at someone across the room and hurried away.

  With a quick breath, he stepped through the double doors and back out to the cool balcony. It was deserted. “Damnation,” he muttered, smacking his fist on the stone railing, not really surprised. He’d doubted she would stay at the ball with Furth in attendance. “Damn, damn, damn.”

  Chapter 15

  “You could have stayed, you know, Ivy,” Kit said, sitting at Mrs. Downing’s dressing table and scouring makeup from her face. “You didn’t have to follow me back here.” She was in little mood for conversation or explanation, anyway; all she could think of was Alex kissing her, and Furth nearly finding her out. She was taking far too many chances.

  “I know,” Ivy returned, perching on the edge of the dressing table. “What did he say to you to upset you so?”

  Kit eyed her pink-skinned reflection and set the cloth aside when it appeared that she had finally removed the last of the faux color from her cheeks and lips. “It wasn’t Alex,” she corrected, unable to explain further. She began on her hair, pulling at the clips and pins with which Ivy’s maid had expertly put it up.

  “Someone else did something to upset you, and Alex didn’t kill him?” Ivy pressed, raising an eyebrow. “Now, that is a surprise.”

  At that Kit grinned. “A duel would have been exciting, wouldn’t it?” She broke into laughter as she considered the possibility. “Can you imagine? The Earl of Everton and the Marquis of Hague, dueling over a female who until yesterday was a boy?”

  Her companion eyed her. “I believe you had Francis Henning’s attention, as well.”

  “Oh, Ivy,” Kit returned, laughing harder, “Francis proposed to me. He said I was Aphrodite come to visit the mortals.” She stood and offered an elaborate curtsy. “Everyone said I was spectacular.”

  “You were,” Ivy agreed. “You are.”

  Suddenly feeling self-conscious in the face of the lavish compliments she’d been given all evening, Kit sobered a little and looked over at Ivy. “Do you think so?”r />
  “Oh, Kit, you can’t have been displeased with your transformation.”

  “No,” she replied slowly, smiling again. “I wasn’t.” When her eyes had first met Alex’s across the ballroom, she had felt as if she were floating a foot above the floor. He had said she was astounding, and had kissed her, and hadn’t turned away. “I felt…beautiful.” She sighed. “I’ve had women tell me I was handsome, but who the deuce could take that seriously? Tonight was the first time I believed any of it.” She stretched out her arms and wrapped them around herself. “And I liked it, Ivy. I truly did. I liked the way they looked at me.” Kit closed her eyes for a moment, remembering. “I liked the way Alex looked at me.”

  Ivy regarded her for a long moment, her gaze assessing. Finally a slow smile touched her lips. “Do tell.”

  Kit finished fastening the buttons of her waistcoat and reached for her coat. “I can’t wait to hear Francis’s version of events, tomorrow.”

  Ivy’s expression abruptly faltered, and Kit’s own smile faded. She was leaving London tomorrow. She would never know what Francis thought of Lady Masquerade, or what the ton had thought of the mysterious stranger at their masked ball.

  “What would you like me to do with the gown?” Ivy inquired, gesturing at the garment draped across the bed.

  “Whatever you like,” Kit replied, stepping over and regretfully fingering the soft silk skirt. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever owned. “I’ll never wear it again.” She reached down and picked up the black, glittering mask. “I would like to keep this, though. Just to remember.”

  “You don’t have to leave London, you know.” Ivy’s expression was earnest, her hands warm as they clutched Kit’s.