Regency Wolfe: A de Wolfe Pack Connected World collection of Victorian and Regency Tales

by Mary Lancaster

  However, the room was empty. She was about to carry on her circuit of the ballroom towards the card room—where she suspected the earl would be seen with his military friends—when an abandoned black mask caught her attention. On impulse, she slipped into the room and was immediately struck by the difference in noise. It really did give the impression of privacy and quiet.

  Feeling guilty, Elise lowered herself onto the sofa and sighed with relief. One of the hardest things about being a companion was that one was never alone. Even at night, when she fell into bed, she could be summoned at any time because Miss Renleigh couldn’t sleep or didn’t feel well or just wanted to shout at someone. She could allow herself these two minutes…

  However, only seconds later, she jumped up again, reaching for the abandoned mask on the table. By its size, it was a man’s mask, although, made of plain black silk, it could have been worn by either sex.

  Limping to the mirror, Elise held the mask over her eyes and laughed out loud at her reflection. Since her face was small, the mask concealed nearly all of her face, which made her look even more mysterious than most. Only her eyes glittered between the slits. She amused herself by languidly tilting her head, then raising one arched eyebrow above the mask. Below it, she curved her lips into a provoking smile that looked both dangerous and seductive. At least she imagined it did. Fresh laughter at herself bubbled up but remained trapped in her throat because a shadow in the doorway darkened the room.

  In the glass, her eyes met those of Francis Wolfe, Earl of Warenton.

  Chapter Three

  Paralyzed, with her hands holding the mask at either side of her face, she couldn’t look away. Everything inside her leapt with shock and excitement and something else she couldn’t name. Her heart beat so fast it made her tremble.

  He’ll walk away. He has no reason to stay. Part of her wanted desperately to give him one, but that was impossible. She didn’t want him to know who she was, from shame at her position or, perhaps, just because of her connection to the woman the world said he was going to marry. And she honestly didn’t know if it would be better or worse for him to recognize her from the incident yesterday. Why would he even remember her?

  The silence went on too long, but still he didn’t vanish.

  At last he said, “May I tie the strings for you?”

  She dared not speak in case he recognized her voice. So she shook her head. But even that was silly, for if she did not mean to wear the mask, the natural thing would be to lower it. And reveal her face. Which she didn’t want to do for any number of confused reasons.

  But it was too late. He strolled into the room, looming larger in the mirror. Without touching, he stood so close behind her that she could actually feel the warmth emanating from his body.

  Her fingers jumped when his took the strings of the mask from them. She could do nothing but drop her hands and wait, breathless, while he tied the mask at the back of her head.

  “A large mask for a small lady,” he observed.

  She drew in her breath. In her best imitation of the Renleighs’ accents, she said, “It isn’t mine.”

  A fleeting smile crossed his face. He stepped back and she didn’t know if she was more relieved or disappointed. But he didn’t walk towards the door. He went to the decanter on the table.

  “A glass of wine?” He lifted the decanter and sniffed it. “Sherry wine,” he corrected himself. “Or perhaps you’d prefer champagne?”

  Champagne would be the best choice, she knew, for then he would have to leave to fetch it and she could slip away. Only, her tongue and her feet both seemed to be frozen. By the time she turned fully to face him, he had already poured two glasses of sherry and was holding one out to her.

  She licked her dry lips. Disconcertingly, his eyes dropped to follow the movement.

  She shook her head. “I cannot. It would not be…appropriate.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “But you are not a servant.”

  “No,” she allowed. Not strictly speaking. “But I have duties I have already avoided too long by hiding in here.”

  His lips tugged into a rueful smile. “I, too.”

  Intrigued, she took a step closer without meaning to. “You? Are you part of the British embassy?”

  “Lord, no. I only came to Vienna to meet my sister and avoid going home.”

  Recklessly, she closed her fingers around the crystal glass and took it from him. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “My brother died. I suppose I didn’t want to step into his shoes and take on his responsibilities.”

  “But those are hardly the duties you are avoiding in this room.”

  He lifted his glass in a silent toast to her and drank. “You’d be surprised.”

  What did he mean by that? As the Renleighs all suspected, did he mean to propose to Sylvia tonight? At least informally. He probably knew it was expected of him. Could that be the duty he spoke of? Was it really possible he did not care for the idea of marrying Sylvia?

  She liked that notion altogether too much. But it made no difference. Men like Warenton had to marry well, for position, for wealth and heirs. He didn’t have to like it, but he would do it.

  As she sank thoughtfully onto the sofa, Lord Warenton finished his sherry and, though he wrinkled his nose, he poured himself another.

  “I hear you are going to marry Miss Sylvia Renleigh,” she said boldly.

  He lifted the glass to his lips. “I hear that, too.”

  “Isn’t it true?”

  He regarded her thoughtfully. “What would you do with your life, Mademoiselle? If you could choose?”

  Mademoiselle. So much for pretending to be English.

  She smiled. “I’d run away on a pirate ship,” she said lightly.

  He wrinkled his nose. “Worse tyranny than any you’ve known here.”

  “But I would be the captain. The tyranny would be mine.”

  “That would be better,” he allowed. “May I come with you as your first lieutenant?”

  “If you bring the treasure map.”

  “Of course.” He patted an imaginary pocket in his coat. “I have it with me.”

  “You’re silly,” she observed.

  “No, I’m drunk,” he confessed. “What’s your excuse?”

  “Boredom.”

  He nodded, thoughtfully, as though he perfectly understood. A smile began to form and hover on his lips, catching Elise’s breath. He had a very persuasive, beguiling smile.

  In the ballroom, the hired orchestra had struck up the next waltz. Deliberately, Warenton set down his glass and held out his hand to her. “Dance with me.”

  Heat thrilled through her. Temptation, hope. And understanding—he was drunk and she was his protest against doing the expected.

  “I can’t,” she said flatly. “I would lose my position.”

  He blinked. “How the devil do you expect to run a pirate ship if you don’t give up your current position?”

  In spite of herself, laughter bubbled up.

  Hearing it, he smiled back and actually took her hand, which jumped in his and then lay still. Although she knew she should withdraw it, she couldn’t resist leaving it there just one moment longer.

  “Come,” he said. “You’re masked. I can easily explain I gave you no chance to refuse with civility.”

  She rose to her feet. “I am quite happy to refuse without civility.”

  “But you won’t,” he said confidently.

  It was true, part of her wanted very badly to dance with him. But the sane, sensible part which she needed to survive said candidly, “You must be more foxed than you look or you would know I don’t fit whatever purpose you have. I’m wearing a mended gown and someone else’s mask and—”

  He tugged her to her feet. “Do you never stop talking?”

  Her hand was in the crook of his arm and they were out of the door before she remembered to close her mouth. God knew how many people saw them emerge together from the antechamber. Almost worse, su
rely he would perceive her lameness, despite her best efforts not to favor her injured ankle.

  “Who is being uncivil now?” she demanded.

  “We thumb our noses at convention.” He swung her into his arms and onto the dance floor. “This, my sweet, is your pirate ship.”

  She couldn’t help her breath of laughter—despite the impropriety of his address. “Do you think they hold balls on such vessels?”

  “I’m convinced pirates dance,” he said firmly, waltzing her backwards and turning her.

  She followed blindly, more aware of his closeness and the strength of his arm than of the dance steps. She frowned suddenly. “Yes, but were you so convinced that I could dance? You could have embarrassed us both horribly.”

  He shrugged. “I gambled on your being a quick learner, if you weren’t already accomplished in the waltz. Which you are. How did you learn?”

  “By observation.” She hesitated and then confessed. “And by practicing in my bedchamber with a bolster, to a musical box my father gave me.”

  His lips twitched. His eyes crinkled at the corners most disarmingly when he was amused.

  She said breathlessly. “This is not very like dancing with a bolster.”

  “I hope I compare favorably.”

  In truth, waltzing with him compared favorably with just about everything.

  “The bolster was less bossy,” she observed.

  “It’s called leading,” he said with mock severity. “It’s expected of me.”

  “Very well, but I am still captain.”

  “In everything else,” he allowed. A smile flickered and vanished. “Mostly.”

  “I can see you will be a rebellious dog.”

  “On the contrary, I am loyal to a fault.”

  “Hmm.”

  She couldn’t say more for he spun her around several other couples, one after another, until she felt dizzy. His arm tightened. “How is your ankle?”

  In truth, she’d barely noticed it since he’d swept her onto the dance floor. But his words still deprived her of breath all over again. “You did recognize me!”

  “Of course I did.”

  She frowned behind her large mask. “How?”

  “I heard you laugh as I passed the antechamber door. It sounded like you so I looked in. Your height was the same and I recognized your beguiling scent at once.”

  “I don’t wear perfume,” she said dryly.

  He smiled into her eyes. “You don’t need to.”

  She couldn’t breathe. She had to drag her eyes free of his before she could even think. “Then you knew me despite my English accent.” She realized she’d lost it anyway at some point between the antechamber and this moment.

  He laughed. “Because of it.”

  “Wretch,” she said with what dignity she could muster.

  “You’re not remotely afraid of me,” he observed. “Why hide?”

  For the first time, she missed a step, which he disguised by immediately turning her.

  “Sir, we are not equals,” she said desperately. “Yesterday was not the first time we had met. I should not be dancing with you.”

  “There is only one reason that could possibly be true.”

  She stared at him, the misery of real life beginning to rein in her ridiculous euphoria. “What is that?”

  “That you do not want to.”

  “I don’t,” she whispered.

  He bent his head nearer hers. “Liar.”

  “The music is coming to an end,” she said with mingled despair and relief. “Let me go.”

  “Do you wish it?”

  “There is no alternative.”

  “Give me five more minutes,” he urged.

  “I can’t,” she said in sudden anguish. “Not here…” Not in public where the world would laugh at her foolishness and the Renleighs would accuse her of God knew what. She was no real threat to Sylvia’s marriage and yet…

  And yet, as the waltz came to its final close, she was tugged swiftly across the floor. Other people seemed to fly past her vision. The door to the servants’ staircase swung open and then closed out the ballroom behind her.

  And suddenly both his arms were around her, holding her against his hard person.

  By the dim candlelight on the servants’ stairs, she gazed up into his shadowed face, still harsh and handsome. He was all, everything and more, that she’d ever wanted or ever could want. Life just wasn’t fair.

  “I am Miss Renleigh’s companion,” she blurted.

  “I know.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You…know?”

  “I remember now. Forgive me for not seeing you before.”

  “For you, I am not worthy of sight!” she exclaimed. “Don’t be cruel, don’t play with me! I can’t—”

  The rest of her words were cut off as he tore aside her mask. His mouth seized hers in the kind of kiss she’d never imagined. Deep, invasive, wonderful… Her bruised lips opened wide for him, surrendering utterly until his mouth gentled and he coaxed her with tender lips and tongue, to kiss him back.

  Her heart thundered. Her stomach was in turmoil as everything in her seemed to plunge and flame. Her fingers clung to the short, soft hair at the back of his head. Her other hand, trapped between their bodies, clutched the braid of his coat. And when his hold loosened to let her breathe, she flung that arm around his neck, too, and with a sound very much like a sob, she took back his mouth.

  His kisses grew slower, yet hotter and heavier, his eyes clouded in a way that excited her beyond reason. His hand even trembled slightly as he cupped her cheek and very gradually, very gently, detached his mouth from hers.

  “Tomorrow,” he said huskily. “Tomorrow, I will come to you. Whatever happens, whatever you want, you will never lose from this.”

  She barely understood him, so lost was she in beautiful, overwhelming sensation. She could only stare up at him until he kissed her again and then again. A servant with a tray of bottles clattered down the stairs above them and brushed past them. He backed her against the wall, hiding her with his body. She’d no idea who the servant was, although the sight of her locked in the earl’s arms didn’t slow his footsteps in the slightest. As he swung open the door to the ballroom, a blast of music and noise shocked Elise back to reality.

  She dragged her mouth free. “What are we doing?” she asked desolately. “This is wrong!”

  “No,” he said. “No. Trust me.” But he did release her. He bent and picked up the fallen black mask. In the dim light, suddenly he looked like a stranger. He was a stranger. “May I keep this?”

  She swallowed. “It was never mine.”

  He pocketed it. “Can you get back to the ballroom from the top of these stairs?”

  She nodded.

  “Then do so. I’m sure I’m drunk enough to have believably lost my way. Until tomorrow, Elise de Sancerre.” Unexpectedly, he swooped again, leaving a quick, hard kiss upon her lips, and then he vanished through the door into the ballroom.

  Elise stared after him for several seconds. So he had discovered her name, too. Then she remembered that she had told him her name when he tended to her ankle. Without meaning to, she touched her lips as she turned and slowly climbed the stairs, past the kitchen along the passage to the public hallway. Here, she found the ladies’ cloakroom fortunately empty and was able to re-pin her ruffled and unruly black hair back into its severe style. For a moment, she stared at her reddened lips and felt wicked. She waited for the hectic flush in her cheeks to fade. The Renleighs would know. Her eyes were sparkling with happiness.

  And even that was foolish. So, for some reason, the English Wolfe liked her. By his own admission he was foxed and just as likely to have forgotten her by morning. Or even by now. What had he said? Whatever happens, whatever you want, you will never lose from this. From what? From her scandalous behavior?

  Was he…was he about to offer her a carte blanche? A position as his mistress to replace the one as companion she would undoubtedly lose i
f and when the Renleighs got wind of her dancing with him. If she hadn’t already lost it by her long absence.

  She should go back. She turned away from the mirror, her heart still beating with excitement.

  Whatever you want, you will never lose from this. She leaned her forehead against the door and closed her eyes with growing anguish. When he danced with her, when he kissed her, she would have gone anywhere with him in any capacity he wanted her, with or without the sanctity of marriage. But his words, his words, surely turned this spontaneous moment into some kind of transaction. Buying her as he would buy his bride, only without the honor.

  It wasn’t just pride that revolted against this. It was feeling. He’d only known her a little over a day—what did she expect? The fact that she’d sat in obscurity, secretly watching and listening to him, unnoticed until he’d become her obsession, did not change the fact that she was a stranger to him in every way. Surely, that mattered.

  She descended the curving stairs to the ballroom, her eyes darting to discover Miss Renleigh. And the earl. The former was easily found, seated in close conversation with Lady Castlereagh, General Lisle and another lady whose name she’d forgotten. Elise sat quietly against the wall behind them and waited to be noticed.

  The next dance struck up and Elise finally saw the earl leading Sylvia onto the floor. Although the girl looked as regal and impassive as ever, Elise could have sworn she was smug. She couldn’t begin to describe her own feelings. But there was definitely misery in there. She’d just exchanged the old, bored, drudging misery for one far more turbulent and painful.

  Miss Renleigh snapped her fingers. Elise got up at once and went to her.

  “Where in the world have you been?” the old lady demanded.