by Reid, Stacy
The door opened, and she whirled around. She discerned the features of Nigel.
The shock had her stiffening.
“Pippa, my darling, I—”
“You followed me?”
He faltered at her sharp question. “I had to, my sweet, when I saw you tore up my note, I had to.”
“You will refer to me as Miss Cavanaugh, sir, nor will you come closer,” she snapped furiously when he made to advance further into the barely lit room.
He paused, and they stared at each other in tense silence. She so very badly wanted to demand he leave or slip through the windows herself to escape this confrontation. Pippa feared what his actions tonight meant, the ruination of all the dreams and hope which had been bubbling in her heart these several weeks. But she was not a coward, and she would not start acting like one now. The truth must be had, even if the pain of it broke her heart. “Why did you not seek an introduction or ask me for a dance? You pretended not to know me, as if we had no attachment."
She wasn’t sure if he flinched or if it was a trick of the light.
“Pippa—”
“Miss Cavanaugh,” she said, hating how husky with pain her voice sounded.
“I…I am to be married,” he finally said.
She stared uncomprehendingly for several moments before accepting he meant to someone else. That could indeed be his only meaning, but she had to ask, “To someone else?”
He raked his fingers through his light brown hair, creating a mess of what had been perfectly styled. “Yes. To Elinor Darwhimple.”
The shock that tore through Pippa rendered her to a marble. “It has been announced?”
“Not as yet. But we have an understanding, and the negotiations between our families are completed. The announcement will be sent to the newspapers tomorrow.”
She stared at him in muted hurt and disappointment, a desperate feeling of unreality creeping through her. Finally, her lips parted, and she said, “You said you wanted to marry me…you even told my mother…” she swayed, the ruined dreams settling on her shoulders like a boulder. “You said you loved me and wanted to marry me.”
He hurried forward to take her gloved hand in his. “And when I declared myself and asked for a kiss, you said you did not love me as yet,” he reminded her with sickening earnestness as if that would excuse his offensive conduct. “You did not return my sentiments in the way I had hoped, my darling. Surely you see that I was confused by your lack of ardor and encouragement.”
No…she hadn't loved him as yet, not in the way the poets described it, in the manner her mother still yearned for her father. But Pippa had liked and enjoyed all Nigel’s amiable qualities, had believed in his declared affections, and had believed love…the most passionate sort would inevitably follow. She was suddenly grateful that their skin made no contact and she hadn’t kissed him when he’d asked. He did not deserve such a privilege.
He had been so friendly and obliging, always seeking her company. Standing up to dance with her at the balls held at the town’s assembly hall. The citizens of Crandleforth had smelled a union on the air and had even started offering congratulations long before it had occurred to Pippa an attachment was forming. Nigel had no intention of declaring for her. He had merely been amusing himself with a flirtation. Perhaps even a seduction. The blackguard.
The sweet, amiable way they had bantered, the laughter, the dancing, and the curricle rides had meant nothing to him. “Every word from you was a lie,” she whispered. “I was honest with you, but you were only deceptive." And she had not seen through it! In the same manner, she had never seen that her father no longer loved her and mamma, and his heart had been wholly engaged elsewhere. How could she still be so naïve?
"Please do not doubt my sincerity or affections for you. I promise nothing will change, and I will still provide for you with a townhouse and a carriage with an allowance. I do not want to lose you, and you shan’t lose me my sweet,” he continued earnestly. “I vow it!”
Pippa felt faint. “You’ll provide me with…a carriage and an allowance…." Her voice ended, and she stared at him, distress beating through her veins. She might have spent the last few years in the country, but she had enough experience of how cruel the world could be to know he referred to offering her carte blanche. A mistress. “You think to establish me as your soiled dove?”
“Pippa, my darling—”
She pulled her hands from his. “You are a vile, disgusting pig! And I do feel as if I’ve insulted all the swine in the world by comparing a man such as yourself to them.”
This close she could see the flattening of his lips and the darkening of his brown eyes. A flush, evident in the meager moonlight, reddened his jawline. “Pippa—”
Her disgust threatened to choke her. “You will leave my presence immediately, or I will scream. I am certain your soon to be fiancée and mother will not appreciate you being discovered in a compromising situation with the likes of me.”
A tic appeared in his jaw, and then he turned about and left the room. She hurried toward the door and closed it with a snick. A few minutes alone was required with no interruption. Her composure had to be gathered, the tears trembling on her lids suppressed before she braved the outside, and before she faced her mamma. How would she take the news?
Moving away from the door toward the window, Pippa faltered in the center of the library. A choked sob escaped her lips. How foolishly hopeful she had been. She stood there, hating the fact tears coursed down her cheeks. She pressed trembling fingers to her lips, drawing forth on the anger, preferring it to the stabbing pain in her heart. “The insufferable pig! That snake…blackguard…baboon!”
A low voice drawled from the darkened corner to her left, “Come now, I am sure you can do better than that.”
Pippa screamed.
Chapter 2
Her heart in her throat, and a hand covering her mouth, Pippa whirled toward the darkened corner. She flushed in embarrassment and gripped the folds of her gown. Someone had heard her crude and unladylike utterances. And worst, he’d witnessed her shameful and private exchange with Lord Nigel, a scandal even worst than before loomed. She and mamma would never recover.
“A bloody idiotic bacon-brained ass, a blackguard of the highest order, a dishonorable bounder. A pig’s arse, a maggot, a scalawag, a pompous lobcock,” the voice continued, shocking her silly. “Be free with your curses, I will not tell a soul.”
A horrified sound slipped from her and mortification crawled through her at his very vulgar tongue. This man was unpardonable. She briefly glanced back at the door she had just closed, wondering if she attempted to flee if she would make it before the man behind the voice reacted.
“Have I rendered you silent?” he asked with rough amusement.
Pippa honestly had no words.
“How odd, a woman of your…fire seemed to be made of sterner stuff.”
Now the tone was mockingly bemused.
Peering in his darkened corner, she lifted her chin. “Who are you, sir?” And how dare he witness such a private moment and not reveal himself. Not the mark of a gentleman at all.
“Ah…are we affecting introductions then?”
She choked, but managed to say, after a brief struggle, “No.” Suddenly she did not care to know the identity of the man in the shadows. She inched back toward the door.
The clink of glasses sounded, arresting her movements. Pippa could not say why she stood there or what she waited for. She jerked when the gas lamp switched on, bathing the library in a soft, intimate glow. The man was revealed, and her breath audibly hitched to her great mortification.
He was unquestionably handsome with his sensual mouth, prominent cheekbones, and thick raven-black hair. He was a stranger to her, and apparently a wealthy man of fashion—garbed in black trousers and jacket, with a golden waistcoat, and expertly tied cravat. His raven hair was impeccably styled, curling softly at his nape.
Had she ever seen a gentleman so exquisite
ly dressed, commanding, and terribly attractive? His lips curved at her unabashed and very impolite regard. The stranger studied her a moment longer, then slowly stood up, straightening to an impressive height of well over six feet. The stranger was tall with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, lean hips, and long legs. He was put together too fine, he really was.
She was painfully aware of him taking several slow, measured steps closer. The sharp lines of his jaw were clean-shaven, revealing every arrogant line of his handsome features. His eyes, which were deep-set, and a striking silver held an expression of faint surprise as he stared at her.
“Hello,” he said mildly.
Her heart tripped, and wings of indecision took flight in her stomach. Caution urged her to flee with haste. Pippa had never known such awareness of another gentleman, not even the cad who had just broken her hopes. To escape now, she might encounter a wagging tongue who would speculate on her tear stained face and evidently wounded eyes. But regardless, if she possessed any wisp of rationality, she would depart immediately.
He held out one of his hand, and she lowered her eyes. He held a glass filled with amber liquid. She snapped her gaze back to his.
“I might scream,” she said huskily.
“I am persuaded I may rely on your good sense not to do so. I believe you might need fortification,” he said softly, and she blinked at the compassion and lack of judgment in his tone.
She stared, feeling stupefied.
He arched a brow and lifted one of the glass. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
“It is unladylike to drink,” she replied, unsure of his intention, and far more alarmed as to why she was not running. No satisfactory answer presented itself, and her feet remained rooted as if they had a will of their own.
He smiled—a wicked, dangerous smile that made her nerves leap.
“It is also unladylike to curse, and I thought you did rather well for an evident fledging. I was impressed.”
Her eyes widened at his gall, and she hated to admit there was a strange but very becoming warmth unfurling somewhere low in her stomach.
He was smiling at her, and, try as she would, she was incapable of resisting the impulse to return that small bit of shared intimacy. How complicated could a smile be? For it hinted at shared amusement and could be an invitation to friendship, a liking, or even more. She was addled. There was no question about it.
He moved a bit closer, and she retreated. He held up the glasses in his hand as if to indicate surrender. "I swear on my honor you have nothing to fear from me, Miss—?"
Pippa snorted as if she would own to her identity. She was not that addled. “No names.” A sense of preservation urged her to be anonymous, and she followed it blindly.
“No names,” he murmured. “I would urge you to take a steadying drink, compose yourself and then face the sharks. They are ruthless when they smell blood…your eyes are wide and wounded, the pain in them urges me to find that bounder and plant a facer on him. It is evident you are bleeding.” He paused significantly. Provoking amusement lit in his eyes—very fine eyes that glowed with intelligence and wickedness. Then he said, “And quite ugly with those tear blotches and red nose.”
Pippa gasped, her hand flying to her cheeks, feeling the wet trails and the puffiness under her eyes. Then she scowled. She'd never been a pretty crier, but, “You sir are no gentleman!”
He scowled. “Not a gentleman! You dismay me. Was it the ugly comment? Pray tell me what it may be!”
Pippa laughed, the sound so surprised her she gasped.
Now his lips tipped in a charming smile. “Ah…mission partially accomplished. Laughter is its own balm and your smile…I daresay smile is even more beautiful,” he said quietly.
Who was he? Perversely, she did not want to ask after denying the need for introductions. “I thank you for your kindness, sir, but I must leave.” The temptation to stay here with this stranger beat at her, but she couldn’t be so reckless and foolish. Quickly before she could change her mind, she hurried over, took the glass from his hand, tipped it to her lips and consumed it in a long swallow.
Pippa wheezed as the fiery flavors exploded on her tongue and slid down her throat. Then she coughed and spluttered. Her mortification was complete, and she could now die. “What is this poison?” she cried in comical dismay, stumbling back, and clutching her chest in mock horror, relying on humor as a shield.
A full-blown smile curved his lips, and she forgot to breathe. "You are far too handsome, Sir.” Shocked by her own lapse from propriety, she could only stare.
His eyes widened before they were hooded. Then he tipped his glass to his lips and swallowed his drink in a smooth slide. “It’s whisky. A most potent balm for the wounded soul.”
A story lies behind those dark throbbing words, and she considered him carefully. Who was he truly? “And your soul is wounded?”
The slightest stiffening of his shoulders. “Not anymore.”
Suddenly she wished it was proper just to have a conversation of mutually injured hearts. "I'm glad for it. In my experience, they never close you know. There's always a little opening, and the slightest thing can rip it open painfully."
He studied her appraisingly. “Tell me your name,” he said unexpectedly his tone imbued with such authority she almost obeyed.
She frowned over this for moment or two, before saying decidedly, “No.”
He smiled appreciatively. “I like your bluntness.”
Pippa slowly backed up at the wickedness which suddenly glinted in his eyes. She sensed it in the slow, intimate gaze from the tip of her coifed head, over the icy blue gown she wore, the white half gloves, and the silver dancing slippers. She felt his stare…as if he touched her, as impossible as it seemed. Every womanly instinct for self-preservation surged to life, and her heart tripled in its rhythm. Yet he did not make a move toward her, simply waited.
“I should…no…I must leave…now.”
An oddly anticipatory silence blanketed the library. An awareness bloomed that he was a man, she was a woman, and wicked deeds happened behind a closed door. The knowledge settled between them, heavy and thick.
An indecipherable emotion passed over his face. “I would hate to mortify your sensibilities any further. Go,” he murmured. “Now.”
And Pippa turned and fled as it the devil had come knocking and she had considered answering.
* * *
The shape of that lush, very rounded, and delightful backside disappearing through the doors would be forever interred in his thoughts. The unknown lady’s curves were lovely, her eyes the finest he'd ever seen, even when dark with such pain. He indeed had no notion if she was pretty, not with her red nose, cheeks, and swollen eyes. He chuckled mirthlessly. How close he had come to making an idiotic mistake. Christopher Edmund Worth, the Duke of Carlyle closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. He'd thought about kissing the gorgeous dark-haired stranger with her light gray eyes and pouting lips. She must have seen the loss of control in his eyes or felt his weakness as he had argued with himself against taking her into his arms and kissing her senseless. Otherwise, she might not have fled.
A man was as good as his reputation. As good as the legacy of his family's status, and he had a very old and exacting lineage to live up to, for his family’s sake. No public scandal and scrutiny had ever surrounded the Worth family. Well, none that he could recall, not even something as simple, yet so dangerous, as a kiss between two strangers.
A kiss with a stranger at a ball could lead to a compromising situation, an affair, trouble, and scandal. And for the last several years he had ensured not a blemish cast itself on his family’s legacy because of his actions. The one instance he had not been careful enough his father had almost died. Christopher had never wantonly dishonored or abused the privilege of his rank. But he had fancied himself in love at the age of twenty with an older gypsy girl, Theodosia whom he met on his travels abroad.
She had been his lover for several weeks, and h
e had enjoyed her witty company and her sensual, adventurous spirit. With her, he had been able to explore the wicked leanings in his heart to be free with his sexual desires. Yearnings which had once confused his young mind had flowered under her passionate tutelage. She had fallen with child, and he had wanted to marry her, to give their child his name and respectability. Theodosia had laughingly refused to marry him, saying she would be free.
Christopher still remembered the shock of his father clutching at his chest and collapsing to the ground. And all he had done was inform his family he would not deny his child upon birth, and he would acknowledge and care for his child. His mother had screamed that it was his wicked, unprincipled ways which caused his father’s collapse.
Christ. The very memory of it knotted his stomach. His father had lived and had gone on to his rewards several years’ later by retiring to bed and not waking the following morning. His only complaint had been a stomach ailment for a few weeks, and his death had been an unexpected shock. Still, the old duke had had a smile on his lips, and to Christopher’s mind, his father had died happy. Not a thing many could wish for. Theodosia had died in childbirth, along with his stillborn daughter. His family had never said it, but how relieved they’d been with that outcome was evident.
He refilled his glass with brandy, taking a healthy swallow.
Since then, as the head of the family, he had been more careful, respecting his family’s desire to uphold their pristine reputation. The few lovers he’d had over the years were all discreet, and society had no knowledge of their identity. To the world, he was proper and just, like the many illustrious men of his line, and he had worked to keep it that way.
