All Through the Night

by Connie Brockway

  She bewitched and teased, nearly manic in her determination to fill the emptiness. The gentlemen flocked to her, their expressions avid and speculative, eager to see what this newest incarnation of Anne Wilder might allow. She’d tried so hard not to remember. It had been futile. It was futile. He possessed her—

  “Mrs. Wilder.” Lady Dibbs’s tone suggested she’d repeated Anne’s name more than once.

  “Yes?”

  “Surely you could entertain us with some interesting information about Colonel Seward?”

  Damned if she wouldn’t give the woman a subject to coil that venomous tongue around, Anne thought. She’d already lost everything important. Nothing Lady Dibbs took from her mattered anymore.

  “I don’t know any stories about Colonel Seward, Lady Dibbs. I do know some interesting ones about you, however.”

  Lady Dibbs stared at Anne in disbelief. Her mouth dropped open and snapped shut and then opened again. “Really, Mrs. Wilder, I don’t think—”

  “All too obvious,” Anne said. “But let me clarify. The donations, the thousand pounds you pledged to the Soldiers Relief Fund on two separate occasions? I never have received a single penny of them.”

  The women around them fell abruptly silent. Lady Dibbs drew herself up. “Transferring sums that large takes time,” she said coldly, warning in her voice.

  “Certainly no longer than the time it took to acquire that necklace,” Anne replied calmly, her gaze touching lightly on the pearl and diamond pendant. “I believe you were telling some of the ladies it is new, isn’t it?”

  “Are you insinuating that I reneged on a pledge, Mrs. Wilder? I advise you to think carefully before you answer.” If Lady Dibbs thought to set Anne’s knees to trembling, she’d far misjudged her woman.

  Anne’s smile burned to ashes all signs of the humility and submissiveness Lady Dibbs and her sort demanded as entry fee to their exalted realms. Lady Dibbs stepped back. Anne stepped forward.

  “Insinuate, Lady Dibbs?” she said clearly. “The facts speak for themselves. You pledged two thousand pounds; you gave nothing. Except a very public demonstration of your munificence.”

  Lady Pons-Burton snickered. Lady Dibbs quelled her laughter with a vicious look.

  But Anne wasn’t done. “The only reason I brought it up at all is that being such a champion for veracity, so adamant that people’s lives and histories be opened to your scrutiny, I felt sure you’d jump at the chance to make your own known.”

  “I think you’re done now, Mrs. Wilder,” Lady Dibbs said tightly.

  “Do you really believe so, ma’am?” She looked around at the ladies who stared at their erstwhile leader with undisguised embarrassment. “And here I thought you were.”

  “Oh, brava, Anne.” Sophia had caught up to her by the time she’d reached the door into the ballroom. Her tone brought the heat to Anne’s cheeks as none of Lady Dibbs’s barbs had done.

  “If you want to be blacklisted, fine,” Sophia continued. “But since you’ve spent the past two months lecturing me on the importance of society’s approval, I must own I’m puzzled. Or did you not think how your actions would reflect on me?”

  Anne’s patience with Sophia was at an end. Whatever course the girl was set on, she’d started long before Anne’s arrival. “You’ve been testing society’s tolerance all season, Sophia,” she said. “You should be glad I’ve given you an excuse to tell your father why you’ll not be accepted into the better salons and homes.”

  Instead of taking offense, Sophia laughed. “I daresay you’re right. Besides, I don’t need Lady Dibbs’s approval any more.”

  “What do you mean?” Anne asked.

  “Just what I said, Anne. I merely took a page from your own book. You had the right of it when you came out: Ignore the ladies and concentrate on the gentlemen.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “Come, Anne. You did. The gentlemen still talk of you. And it’s apparent that Lady Dibbs harbors no fondness for you. I suspect her enmity might have developed its roots a few years back. Don’t look so stricken, Anne. I’d be proud of it, if I were you.”

  “Where did you hear this twaddle?”

  Sophia gave a gentle snort of derision. “Lean your ear in any corner and you hear it. Admit it, Anne. You don’t give a fig for these women. And Matthew didn’t either. You were completely wrapped up in each other.”

  “Sophia,” Anne said, “you don’t understand. You’ve never understood. My marriage was—”

  “—made in heaven,” Sophia said in a suddenly hard voice, her smile still painted on her face.

  Anne shook her head, her heart going out to the confused, bitter girl. “No. It wasn’t.”

  But Sophia wasn’t listening. She fell back a step. “The whole bloody world knows what a wonderful, perfect marriage you had. Well, I’m not looking for perfection. I’m looking for position. And power. And pleasure.” She lifted her hand and hailed a rakish-looking gentleman on the far side of the room. “And not necessarily in that order.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jack watched.

  Purposefully, utterly, serenely, Anne drove him mad. It wasn’t only the dress, though the Lord knew it made no pretence at decency, Jack thought sardonically.

  Apparently she’d suddenly considered her debt to widowhood fulfilled because the gown she wore celebrated a man’s every carnal dream. The top of her breasts swelled above the embrace of luscious mandarin-red silk. The shimmering material flowed past her waist and swept like a current down over the curve of her hips.

  She danced like a bacchanalian bride. A challenging light made her eyes brilliant. A ribbon at the nape of her neck made frivolous work of containing her cloud of dark hair. A loose tendril caught in her dance companion’s coat and played intimately among the folds of his cravat, the sight filling Jack with jealousy.

  And he’d no right to be jealous. He’d yielded that right when he’d plundered a thief’s mouth with his tongue and had been made a beggar by the lust she inspired.

  He had expected to feel regret at having to relinquish his tendre for Anne but not this bottomless ache, this feeling that a hole was being torn in his heart. She was beautiful and cruelly abused and defiant, and she burned his eyes. She spun amid the crowded dance floor like an exotic nighthawk.

  He frowned. Where had that thought come from? Why give Anne Wilder the predator’s role when she was so achingly vulnerable? Hadn’t he proven that? Hadn’t he exposed that in her?

  She deserved to be—how had Julia Knapp put it?—adored. His adoration began in his loins. The thief had demonstrated that. He lusted after her—Anne? the thief? both?—like the basest animal.

  He didn’t know himself anymore. Love was a fiction fashioned to drive him crazy with the wanting of it. But now, having realized it was a fantasy, the widow should have ceased to fascinate him. Instead, she attracted him even more.

  The dance ended and she curtseyed to her partner and prepared to quit the floor. As he watched, Lord Vedder approached her. He held out his arms, she walked into them, and the music began again.

  Lord Vedder’s hand moved too intimately on her waist. He bent his head too near to hers, as if he might lick the salty moisture from her temples. Jack’s body tensed. He made himself watch. She radiated vibrancy and self-assurance, drawing gentlemen like moths to a flame, creating a wall of suitors between them.

  This is how she’d been that first season, when she’d reigned over all the ton, he thought. This is who she’d been before Matthew took her, tamed her, and left her crushed under the weight of his death. What a fool the man must have been.

  “Good evening, Colonel.”

  Jack looked around to find Strand standing beside him. His father’s latest informant. He’d been honest when he’d told Jamison he expected no loyalty from Strand. But he would have liked it. “Lord Strand,” he acknowledged.

  “You’re not dancing?” Strand asked.

  “No.”

  “You r
eally ought to. I know you’re not officially a gentleman, but what with all your so-exacting manners, I’d never have thought you’d knowingly disappoint a lady.”

  “What lady is that?” Jack asked incuriously.

  Strand’s smile was slow, ripe with genuine amusement. He laughed. “Oh, dear. This is so rich! I swear, I am diverted beyond my imaginings.”

  “If I’ve been able to relieve your ennui, Strand, I’m honored to have been of service. Perhaps you’d best find another remedy, though. I have other matters to attend.”

  “Ah, yes.” Strand nodded, setting his finger alongside of his nose. “The investigation. How goes it, Colonel? Have you discovered which woman is your thief?”

  “No.”

  “Are you getting closer?” Strand asked.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Dear me,” Strand mocked, his expression sharp with interest. “So reticent. Don’t tell me it really is a member of the ton?”

  “I’m not telling you anything,” Jack said mildly. “I would like to know, if you’d be so kind, what led you to believe I thought the thief a woman?”

  “How did you …” Strand shrugged. “I deduced her gender from observing where you focused your attention and who you questioned.”

  “I see.”

  Strand looked very at ease. Perhaps he assumed Jack knew he reported everything to Jamison. But then, Strand also knew Jack disliked having information he’d gathered reported to others.

  “I shall have to be more careful,” Jack said blandly.

  Strand sobered. “Puzzling. I thought we …” Whatever he had been about to say, he thought better of it. “Of course not. I’d see this thing to a quick resolution if I were you. Jamison came round to see me the other day.”

  “For any particular reason?”

  “He wanted to know what you were doing.” Strand paused and when Jack did not respond he laughed again. “Damme, Seward, if you aren’t the most uninquisitive inquisitor I’ve ever met. Probably why you ferret out so many secrets. You make people so bloody uncomfortable standing there so stiff and sententious that they panic and start babbling, filling the disapproving silence with all sorts of indiscretions.”

  “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to give the impression I was uninterested.”

  Strand’s gaze sharpened. “Let me be blunt. Jamison wants the thief dead and her lodgings and belongings burned to a cinder pile. For whatever reasons, he doesn’t trust you to do the job.”

  No one was going to kill the thief.

  “Then,” Jack said, “Jamison will have made arrangements with others. They’ll already be looking for her.”

  “He’s never been one for sitting on his hands,” Strand agreed.

  “Interesting,” Jack allowed, his mind working over his father’s obsession to have the thief murdered. He had to catch the thief before Jamison. She’d committed three thefts in five nights. The last time she’d been spotted by a footman and nearly cornered in the stable yard. With each theft she grew bolder and sloppier—nearly indifferent. It was only a matter of time before she made a fatal mistake. He needed to spread his net wider, faster, and farther. He scowled.

  “Pray don’t waste your frowns on me, Colonel,” Strand said. “There are women present who simply pine for the opportunity to swoon when you scowl.”

  “Hm? Excuse me, Strand, I wasn’t attending.”

  “Part of the enigmatic appeal, no doubt.”

  “Say again?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I should leave,” Jack said. He glanced toward Anne, still in Vedder’s embrace. Strand followed the direction of his gaze. “Your servant, sir.”

  “Not my servant, Colonel,” Strand said. “And not, apparently, the lovely widow’s either.”

  Jack, in the process of turning, halted. “What do you mean?”

  Strand tilted his head in Anne’s direction. “The rather fiercely elegant little widow doesn’t look satisfied. I’ll allow she looks a bit disheveled, but that doesn’t necessarily imply satisfaction.” He sighed noisily. “She simply must be satisfied. She’s Prinny’s guest, after all.”

  “You’re speaking in riddles, Strand. I’m not in the mood.”

  Strand’s voice became tinged with resentment. “You ignore her and it hurts her. I’d rather she wasn’t hurt.”

  “Since when are you an expert on Anne Wilder?” Jack tried—God knows he tried—to keep his tone remote, casual. He knew he failed.

  “Since when are you so obtuse? Nothing could be more obvious. She follows your every move. Only look at her reflection in the window here. Her face is turned this way even now.”

  Unwillingly Jack studied the images moving across the black surface of glass. Anne appeared, riding through billowing rapids of lace and flounce like a crimson flower carried on a current of white tulle froth. And yes, she gazed in his direction—until Lord Vedder drew her closer.

  She did not struggle, but her arms braced against his, a telling movement. Vedder did not back away. Jack swung around. Her expression was strained.

  “Yes,” Strand said, his words mimicking Jack’s own thoughts, “she needs a spot of rescuing. Did you know Vedder pursued her quite assiduously when she made her bow? Made a pest of himself. And he wasn’t looking for an honorable attachment, as I’m sure you realize. Appears he’s renewing his suit. Has the look of a weasel in musk, doesn’t he?”

  “Help her, Strand.”

  “Not I,” he said, looking at Sophia North and drawing Jack’s momentary attention.

  Hectic color stained the girl’s cheeks. Her father stood behind her. As Sophia began moving away, her father caught her arm and jerked her back to his side. Though she struggled, he kept her by his side. Even from here one could see how his fingers dug into her arm’s flesh.

  “It seems I have my own little pigeon needs rescuing.” A fine undercurrent of pain belied Strand’s light tone.

  “Needless to say, my pigeon arrived in the wolf’s maw quite through her own devices. The threat to her is not nearly so severe as the one to me should I actually take it into my head to do something. And without doubt you can take for granted that her needs are but a dim approximation of your lady’s, as is her grace, her spirit, her wit …” Strand fell silent, then his mouth twisted ruefully.

  “But she does need rescuing,” he said, “and I’ve never indulged such an impulse before. Damned if you’re not right, Seward. It’s time I did something about this infernal ennui.” He bowed low. “And I strongly suggest you do something for that other lady. Would that I could.” With a small smile, he sketched a bow and left.

  Jack made no effort to resist her need. He went to Anne’s aid with as much resignation as gratification. He’d no choice here. It seemed in the past few weeks he’d become a creature living solely on impulse and vagary, incapable of navigating beyond the treacherous waters of his own desires. He stopped on the periphery of the line of dancers, directly before her.

  The dance ended. Anne backed away from Vedder and curtseyed. Vedder followed her withdrawal, whispering something that caused the color to climb her throat. She turned. Vedder grasped her hand. She tried to pull—

  “Good evening, Mrs. Wilder,” Jack said. He stood before her, unaware that he’d even moved.

  “Colonel,” she answered coolly.

  “You’re hopelessly de trop, Seward,” Lord Vedder said, securing Anne’s elbow.

  Jack ignored him. “Am I, Mrs. Wilder?”

  She hesitated.

  “It occurs to me, Mrs. Wilder, that in the course of our short acquaintance, we have never danced,” Jack said. “I will never forgive myself if I don’t remedy that oversight.”

  It was as if she drew in on herself. A social smile clicked into place on her face. Her eyes grew distant and dull.

  “Please, Mrs. Wilder?”

  “I really—”

  “Listen, Seward, lest you forget, you’re not here to dance,” Vedder broke in. “I’ve had just about enough—”


  Jack’s harsh gaze cut off Vedder’s words with an undeniable and terrifyingly gentle promise of violence. “Forgive me for being so ambiguous, Lord Vedder. I was asking Mrs. Wilder if she would care to dance, not you.”

  Rage stained the viscount’s ears purple. “You go too far, you insufferable—”

  “I should like to dance, Colonel,” Anne interceded hastily. Jack blessed Vedder, for without the excuse of keeping the two men from coming to blows, he doubted whether Anne would have accepted his invitation.

  “Mrs. Wilder—” Vedder sputtered.

  “Thank you for the dance, Lord Vedder.” Anne lifted her gown’s short train. Jack inclined his head toward Vedder, took her hand, and led her out onto the floor.

  The maestro proclaimed a waltz. She stepped close to him. He rested his hand just above her waist, on the fine-boned ribs. Warmth permeated his palm. He took her other hand high in his.

  She averted her face, unwilling to meet his gaze, and after the first few strains of music, she made no attempt to keep her artificial smile on her lips. Indeed, they trembled and lost all hint of pleasure, mirroring her distress far too clearly. They had been soft beneath his kiss, soft and tender and, for the space of a heartbeat, yielding.

  He wanted her. He wanted her as much, no, more than he had wanted the thief. Which was impossible.

  Pain washed through him, pricking him with the knowledge of his inconstancy. He pulled her nearer. Her gaze flickered to and from his face and she recoiled from his embrace.

  He would not let her. He would never hold her again, never have her in his arms, never touch her, and he would not—not for manners’ sake, not for her sake, not for his own peace—let her rob him of even one short moment.

  Lithe and supple as a willow, she moved in his arms and beneath his hand. Her body was unlike those of other gentlewomen; no softness padded her slender form. Indeed, her fragile appearance belied her tensile strength. He could feel smooth muscle beneath his palm, the strength in the fingers grasping his hand so tightly in her futile attempt to hold him distant.

  It intoxicated him. It bewildered him. It set him on fire.