An Extraordinary Lord

by Anna Harrington

  He fixed her with a grave look. “Very carefully.”

  When she opened her mouth to challenge him, he took her arm and led her around the perimeter of the room.

  “Baron, barrister, King’s Counsel—none of it matters, don’t you understand?” He leaned down to speak privately into her ear, as if they were just another flirtatious couple among the crowd, trying to decide whether to dance or sit out. “When people are dying in the streets, what does any of that nonsense matter if innocents can’t be saved?”

  She didn’t look at him, even though he felt her tense on his arm. In her heart, he knew she agreed with him.

  “That’s why you’re working with Clayton Elliott and me to learn about the riots,” he explained, “and why we’re here tonight—to stop innocent victims from being hurt. That’s all that matters. The rest of it is merely costume.”

  She nodded tightly but kept her gaze straight ahead as she asked, “Is that what I am tonight—a convict in a costume?”

  “No.” What she was tonight…simply breathtaking.

  But he didn’t dare let himself go there. She was emblematic of everything he’d spent his life fighting against, and he couldn’t forget that. No matter that Clayton doubted her guilt, no matter how selfless she’d been with the people in the Court of Miracles. No matter how alluring she was.

  So he lifted her hand to his lips to place a kiss to her fingers and answered instead, “You’re my secret weapon.”

  She laughed at the unexpected comment, just as he’d hoped, and the tension between them faded. Apparently, distraction worked just as well in ballrooms as in sword fights.

  “Are you ready for tonight?” he pressed.

  “I was a lot readier before I knew you were a baron.” She sent him a chastising glare that would have done a governess proud. “You should have told me before.”

  “And have you refuse to come? Never.”

  The little hellcat had the audacity to look offended.

  “It was hard enough preparing you for tonight.” He stopped them at the edge of the dance floor. Only a few yards away at the head of the room stood Prinny and what seemed like half the crowned heads of Europe. She didn’t belong here, he knew that. But his gut certainly felt as if she did. “I couldn’t risk having you flee at the last moment.”

  “I wouldn’t have done that, not after you’d gone to so much trouble.”

  Guilt pricked at him. When she said things like that, he wished he could trust her more than he did. “Madame prepared you well, then?”

  “She taught me not to spill my drink, not to flirt with the footmen, and how to curtsy to anyone who looks important and call them ‘my lord’ and ‘my lady.’ Is that what you mean?” She slid him a mischievous look. “My lord.”

  “Perfect,” he grumbled and stopped her before she could drop into a low curtsy that would have done the queen proud. “She’s prepared you to be a housemaid.”

  With another laugh, this time at his expense, her red lips curled into a teasing smile that tingled down through him to his crotch.

  “What Madame couldn’t teach me, she made up for in contingency plans,” she explained. “All kinds of strategies to keep me from drawing attention to myself. Is it working?”

  “No. Everyone is staring at you.”

  She glanced around at the crowd and caught half a dozen people watching her. “Because I’ve done something wrong already?”

  He frowned, not at all happy about it. “Because you’re beautiful.”

  He couldn’t help looking into her green eyes as he said that. But damnation if the little minx didn’t stare boldly back, her eyes gleaming as heat flared once more between them. Desiring her was becoming as routine as breathing.

  “And because none of them have any idea who you are,” he added. “Which makes you not only stunning but also mysterious.”

  “Apologies,” she said in a throaty rasp that only cinched tighter the knot she’d already put into his gut. “Next time, I’ll blacken an eye and knock out some teeth, shall I?”

  Next time. There wouldn’t be a next time. Tonight was singular, and he wasn’t prepared for the disappointment that panged sharply in his chest at that realization. “Just try to fit in, all right?”

  She cast her gaze to the end of the room at the royals and heads of state. “Does this mean you won’t introduce me to the regent? I’ve always thought Prinny so debonair. Maybe he’ll dance—”

  “Let him get his own girl.” He covered a surprising prick of jealousy by adding cheekily, “After all, he has an empire full of them.”

  “Now, now, Mrs. Fitzherbert! What a thing to say about—”

  “The pleasure of dancing with you tonight belongs to me.” He took the glass from her hand, tossed back the remainder of the champagne, and handed it off to a passing attendant. “Princes be damned.”

  Her mouth fell open, for once stunned silent. He opportunistically seized the moment to pull her onto the dance floor and into a waltz.

  When she finally found her voice, she warned, “I think that was treasonous.”

  “Well, you know us barristers.” He quirked a grin. “Always a seditious lot.”

  He twirled her in a circle and kept turning her against all rhyme and reason until she fell laughing against his chest. Then he took her into proper position and promenaded her across the floor.

  Good God, she was lovely, dancing as fluidly as she wielded a sword. Yet every sweeping step was graceful and utterly feminine, made even more so because he’d witnessed firsthand the other side of her. That fierce woman warrior who even now lurked beneath the soft satin of her gown.

  He’d never met another woman like her and knew he never would again. She was as singular as this night.

  Damn it that his attraction for her wasn’t merely physical, that it was so much more than mere beauty and mystery. It was her sharp mind that had him eagerly anticipating every bantering conversation with her, along with a bravery he’d rarely witnessed outside the men he’d served with in the wars. He’d seen her interact with the people at the Court of Miracles and knew how she took care of them, and her loyalty to Fernsby went beyond whatever favor he’d done for her; she was caring for an old man who would have otherwise died on the street.

  But he’d also read the court report of her trial with his own eyes, knew she’d pled guilty. According to the evidence, Veronica was a criminal, no matter how much he wished she wasn’t.

  Yet none of that kept him from wanting her.

  Sensing the unease in him, she asked quietly, “Why do I have the feeling sometimes that you’re not happy with me, like now?”

  “I wanted you to blend into the crowd tonight,” he dodged. “And you certainly do not blend.”

  Unable to help himself, he dropped a heated glance down her front, as far as he could while still leading her through the waltz. God only knew what wolfish expression darkened his face, but it was fierce enough that she shivered in his arms.

  “That’s not what I meant,” she corrected in a husky voice, evidence that she was just as affected by the dance as he. “You tease me and spar with me, in every way, yet you don’t seem to like me very much.”

  Not like her? Sweet Lucifer, he nearly laughed! She had no idea… He lowered his mouth as close to her ear as the waltz allowed. “A woman who insists on having her way with me in dark alleys? A man would have to be dead not to like that.”

  She eased away from him, and her green eyes darkened. No amusement was visible anywhere in her at the teasing flirtation that was meant to distract her.

  “Even now, after spending so much time together,” she said quietly enough that he could barely hear her over the orchestra, “you still believe that I couldn’t possibly be anyone except a criminal, that I deserve to be scorned.”

  He said nothing to defend himself.

  “
It must be so easy in your world,” she mused somberly, “where everything is black or white, guilty or innocent, with no blurring of the ground in between. But believe me that the world is filled with shades of gray.” She looked away. “Whether we like it or not.”

  The waltz ended, the orchestra finishing with a flourish of notes. The dancers all circled to a stop with bows and curtsies.

  When Veronica began to move off the dance floor, he stopped her with a touch to her arm. She stiffened but didn’t turn to look at him.

  And thank God she didn’t when he lowered his mouth over her shoulder and admitted, “I did feel that way about you, when I first learned who you were and what you’d done.” He didn’t release her even as the other couples around them moved off the floor, even when he saw her bosom rise and fall with wary breaths at his confession. “You were nothing to me then but a criminal who deserved to be used, who didn’t warrant my concern. And certainly not my respect.”

  “And now?” she asked breathlessly.

  “I don’t know what to think.” He confessed in a low voice, “Except that I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  Fifteen

  Veronica glanced over her shoulder at Merritt, and his haunted expression stole her breath away. She could read the truth in every emotion that stirred on his face and in the intensity with which he stared at her…desire, the hesitancy to trust, and warring confusion.

  “If I told you I was innocent,” she whispered breathlessly, hesitating at each word over the enormity of what she was asking, “if I could convince you of it…” Would it make a difference to you? Would you look at me just once as something other than a creature to be scorned?

  But if she convinced him, she’d be offering up Filipe to the flames in her place. More—she’d have to reveal everything from her past. Everything. And then she’d no longer be a woman to be scorned but one to be despised.

  “Never mind.” She blinked rapidly as she walked away before he could see any glistening in her eyes.

  But the frustrating devil wouldn’t let her escape her misery and strode after her to once more take her arm and be the perfect model of a society gentleman escorting his partner from the dance floor.

  “Perhaps,” he admitted reluctantly, “you could try.”

  Her heart somersaulted. Oh, the foolish thing! Agreeing on perhaps was nothing more than an empty illusion, as ephemeral and unrealistic as the goldfish in their drawing room stream. Their two worlds clashed and always would. No fairy-tale evening could change that.

  Yet knowing how much it cost him to soften even that little bit toward her, she nodded and lied, “Perhaps I will.”

  Wordlessly, he took her hand and lifted it to his lips to place a kiss to the backs of her fingers—

  He froze.

  Veronica followed his gaze across the room. “What is it?”

  “The woman in the dark-blue dress with the white ostrich feather in her hair.” He lowered her hand. “Lady Malmesbury.”

  Reality crashed into her dream like an ax blow. She pulled in a deep breath. The fairy tale was over.

  Knowing what she had to do, she slipped her hand from his and walked on without him. She moved casually through the crowd toward the countess without a single glance back.

  Lady Malmesbury excused herself from her conversation with an older woman in a bright orange turban and walked out of the ballroom. The countess headed toward the main reception rooms—rather, toward the series of anterooms and closets that served as retiring rooms—and Veronica followed. Gladly so.

  After that conversation with Merritt, she needed a moment to herself to catch back the breath he’d stolen and ease the nervous flutters stirring low in her belly. Not butterflies, nothing as delicate as that. These were roiling rapids that threatened to sweep her off her feet and carry her away. Never had she been as torn about anyone as she was about him.

  But there was no help for it. There was no way to shore with him.

  Veronica stepped into the retiring room shortly after the countess, then paused to glance around the room. Dressing tables adorned with tortoiseshell brushes, powders, and rouge pots lined one wall, and a red velvet settee sat against the other. A large screen separated off the end of the room from where the soft rustle of fabric tattled on where the countess had gone. Two women inside the room who were chattering up a storm over the most recent on-dit fell silent as they raked their gazes over Veronica, then excused themselves from the room, leaving her alone with the countess. Perfect.

  A few moments later, Lady Malmesbury emerged from behind the screen. The distracted frown on her face from adjusting her skirts turned into a faint but pleasant smile when she saw Veronica, who suddenly busied herself with adjusting her stocking.

  “Surely, the combination of long skirts, tight corsets, and having to use the jordan is an invention of the devil,” Veronica tossed out in an attempt to establish friendly banter.

  “Most likely just a man’s,” the countess corrected, falling into easy conversation as she sat at one of the dressing tables to check her hair.

  “Fascinating party, isn’t it?” Veronica fussed with the hem of her gown. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” That was the God’s truth.

  “This is your first time to Carlton House.”

  Not a question, and her heart missed a beat. Of course a countess would recognize that Veronica didn’t belong here. “Yes, it is.”

  “Well, now that you’ve arrived in England, you should know the parties here are unlike anything you’re used to on the Continent.”

  Her tense shoulders eased down. Lady Malmesbury hadn’t recognized her for a fraud. She’d thought Veronica was part of the foreign contingent. Warm pleasure spread through her that someone as high ranking as a countess thought she belonged here.

  She played along and thickened the Portuguese accent she normally worked to quash. “How so?”

  “No sense of restraint, for one.” She frowned at her reflection and reached for the tiny ceramic rouge pot. “I’ve always found that tendency ironic in the prince regent, given the usual reserved nature of the English.”

  Veronica smiled, having thought just that herself. “I understand it is unusual to have such a grand party at this time of the year.”

  “It is. Most balls are held when Parliament is in session and the aristocracy are all in town. It’s shooting season now, so most everyone is away at their country houses until after the new year.”

  “But you are not. You are in London.”

  “Only as of yesterday afternoon. I was in Brighton until then.”

  So…it wasn’t Lady Malmesbury who was in the carriage outside the Ship’s Bell. “And your husband?” She grimaced at a nonexistent tear in her hem. “Why is he not in the country?”

  “Oh, but he is.” The countess dabbed the red pigment lightly onto her lips. “Malmesbury would never give up an opportunity to hunt, not even to meet the prince of Lithuania. He left London as soon as Parliament ended and refuses to return until January.”

  Just as Merritt had said. But if neither Lord nor Lady Malmesbury were in London, who was in the carriage?

  “That cannot be,” Veronica muttered. “I am certain I saw a carriage bearing the earl’s crest two or three days ago.” An ironic smile tugged at her lips. “The baron who was with me said it was yours.”

  Lady Malmesbury stiffened, her fingertip pausing as she smeared the rouge over her bottom lip. Then she smiled tightly. “I’m not the only woman in London who has a carriage marked with the earl’s crest.” She wiped off her hands on a towel and shoved the rouge pot away as she muttered caustically, “Malmesbury’s like a hound that pisses around his kennel to mark his territory. He loves to put his mark on all he possesses.”

  Veronica noted the feminine hostility with which she’d said that, the underlying wounded pride…

  A mistres
s.

  The countess rose from the bench and pulled on her long white gloves with as much dignity as she could muster. Without another word or glance at Veronica, she left the retiring room, as if afraid she might see amusement on Veronica’s face at her predicament. Or pity.

  Veronica pulled in a deep breath to calm herself. A mistress! Or a mistress’s carriage at least. She’d gotten the information from the countess in the most improper, terrible way, but the prick of guilt that brought was overshadowed by the realization that they had their next link in their investigation.

  She hurried toward the door. When Merritt heard about this—

  A woman’s reflection in the mirror startled her. She halted.

  For a moment, she didn’t recognize herself in the elegant styling of her hair and the length of neck and nape it revealed, the drape of her satin gown as it fell from her tight bodice to her slippers, the long white gloves that stretched to her elbows. Her life had given way from satin to steel since her mother died, and she’d forgotten what it was like to dress so elegantly, to move through the world of the aristocracy. The woman in the mirror wasn’t who she truly was anymore, yet every inch of her longed to be her again. The one who enjoyed grand parties beneath shimmering chandeliers, who strolled in the morning sunlight down wide avenues, who rode in fine carriages through the park.

  The woman Merritt thought was beautiful and mysterious.

  She’d stepped into a dream, right down to the delicate pearl teardrops at her ears. Veronica smiled at her reflection as she reached up to touch one. Claudia said they’d complete her outfit, and she’d been right. As if they’d been chosen specifically with this gown in mind—

  A harsh sound of self-recrimination fell from her lips as the truth struck her. Oh, she felt like a complete nodcock! They looked as if they’d been chosen for this dress because they had been. By Merritt.

  “You devil,” she whispered as she caressed the earbob. “You wonderful, surprising, and utterly frustrating man.”

  Perhaps, that was what he’d said. That perhaps she could convince him, that perhaps he was receptive to being convinced. The pearls might very well have been his first concession toward seeing her as something other than criminal, as a woman as fine as the other ladies in attendance tonight.