“Yer Grace?” His carriage stood before him, and the footman held the door. “Where shall I direct the driver?”
“Home, first. The town house.” Rand swung himself into the cramped quarters of the carriage. “Then we’ll be going to visit Lady Katherine Renfrew’s country house outside of London.”
The footman looked confused. “But Yer Grace—Lady Katherine Renfrew?”
“Absolutely. Lady Katherine may be vulgar, but at least I know she will welcome a visit from the duke of Clairmont, and she won’t object when I abduct one of her guests.” Rand waved an imperious hand. “Drive on.”
“You are the most vulgar woman in the country.” Sylvan was furious, staring at the spectacle Lady Katherine Renfrew had made of herself with her frizzed hair, her clownish makeup, and a gown so low-cut her nipples flashed when she bent over—and Lady Katherine found many occasions at her own ball to bend over. She would have served the wine if she thought it would give her a better chance to display her wares.
“I may be the most vulgar woman in the country,” Lady Katherine answered with a flush of fury, “but at least I’m not mincing around like some choir nun who’s never had a man.”
Sylvan opened her mouth, then shut it and blushed.
After all, she had had a man, and she’d been so defective he’d sent her away the very next day.
“Well might you blush.” Without pause, Lady Katherine smiled over Sylvan’s shoulder and wiggled her fingers at one of her guests. “With your reputation, darling, you ought to be grateful to have men like Lord Hawthorne and Sir Sagan after you.”
“They’re not after me. They’re pleasant young men.”
Lady Katherine ignored Sylvan’s protestation. “Not to mention Lord Holyfeld.”
Sylvan shuddered. “He’s a slug.”
“He’s an earl.”
“Then you take him.”
“He doesn’t want me, darling. He wants you, and I’m afraid I have to insist that you be polite to him.” Lady Katherine trailed her long nails down her neckline. “After all, you are my guest.”
As Lady Katherine sauntered away, Sylvan drew the curtains over the alcove where she hid and muttered, “Not for long.” When Lady Katherine had invited her to this house party, Sylvan accepted without interest. She didn’t care where she went or what she did. For two months, she’d been intent on proving her reputation was just as awful as gossip had made it. She waltzed when she shouldn’t, laughed too loudly, offended the matrons, and flirted with the men. After all, why not? She’d proved to the one man who mattered she wasn’t a whore, and he treated her like one anyway.
But Rand wasn’t the one man who mattered, she reminded herself. Rand was nothing to her. She just didn’t like having men leer at her, nor did she like having her hostess urge her to encourage Lord Holyfeld. It had been a very unpleasant scene when Sylvan discovered he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.
She was taking her servants and leaving this place. She didn’t want to go back to her father’s house; one of the reasons she’d cleaved to Lady Katherine was because Lady Katherine fit the criteria for Sir Miles’s disapproval. If Sylvan returned in the middle of the night, his unspoken “I told you so” would echo through the chilly halls. Nevertheless, it seemed safer to face the highwaymen who populated the road to London than to stay in this place where the second-rate nobility danced and drank and crept into each other’s bedchambers.
With her resolution firmly in mind, she stepped into the ballroom. Scornfully, she swept the company with her gaze. They appeared to be no different than the best of the ton during the height of the London season—except when she looked closely. Then she saw the silly affectations of the men, their bright-colored coats and the too-high shirt collars. Then she saw the ladies’ ankles as they kicked them up during a stately dance. Then she saw Rand, standing at the entrance to the room and speaking to Lady Katherine.
Rand. That scurrilous bounder.
She whisked back into the alcove, pressed herself against the wall, and held her hand to her throat. What was he doing here? Had he decided to lower himself to visit Lady Katherine’s in hopes of finding a lady friend?
Thoughtfully, she considered ripping his heart out.
Did he have business with one of the gentlemen?
She wasn’t her father’s daughter for nothing. She could undermine him somehow.
Had he come to find her?
The blood in her veins surged with the force of a storm on the sea.
Stupid of her to think Rand would follow her here. He’d certainly been able to avoid finding her when she stayed at her father’s house. Stupid of her to hide from him, too. She tossed her head although no one could see her. If he had come here for her, he’d come for one reason and one reason only—to cajole her into the annulment he desired.
An annulment. She shut her eyes against the pain. An annulment. He wanted to pretend that night had never happened. He wanted to pretend he hadn’t taken her maidenhead or given her such piercing-sweet pleasure that she still dreamed of it. When he’d said that word on that day he sent her away, she’d been ready to kill him, to rip out his eyes and pluck out every hair on his head. She’d spit at him. Spit at him, and she wished she’d done worse.
No, she really didn’t want to see Rand again. Let their solicitors handle the legal details. Cautiously, she lifted the curtain to escape, and came face-to-face with Lady Katherine.
Lady Katherine purred like a lioness about to shred her prey. “There she is, Your Grace. I told you I could find her.”
“And you did.”
Rand stepped up and Lady Katherine moved a few feet away in one smooth, rapid transition—so rapid, in fact, that Sylvan wondered if Rand hadn’t pushed Lady Katherine out of the way.
Did discarded wives have to be courteous to their worthless husbands? Sylvan took note of Lady Katherine’s avid interest and supposed that they did. Better to be polite to Rand and escape this situation quickly than create gossip where she wanted none at all.
“What are you doing here?” Oh, that was polite.
“I’ve come for you.”
He smiled at her as if he thought she would jump into his arms.
If only he knew how desperately she had to fight her impulses—both her murderous impulses and her lustful impulses.
Lady Katherine peered around a big potted plant, watching them with ill-concealed interest, and Sylvan knew it was up to her to quash all rumors of enmity. “What’s the matter, Rand? Can’t you find another woman to spit on you?” That wouldn’t quash the rumors, but words kept leaping from her mouth like frogs from a lily pad.
He didn’t seem offended. “None that I’m interested in.”
He looked good. A little thinner, perhaps, with a watchful cast to his eyes, but she understood that. He’d been trying to catch his brother’s killer, so of course he’d be ever vigilant.
His voice sounded good, too, like the voice she always heard in her new dreams. The dreams that had replaced her nightmares and come on a regular basis to relieve her frustration. The dreams that ended with…well, she’d better not think about that now. Rand might read her expression and realize…His arm snaked out around her waist, and he drew her close.
“I had resolved to court you in a seemly manner, but when you look at me like that, all I can remember is the night and the bed and the massage that led to—”
A choking noise interrupted him, and for a moment Sylvan thought it was her own choking. But no, it was Lady Katherine, still hovering, still listening, and now shocked and thrilled with her unforeseen knowledge.
“Why don’t you take yourself off?” Rand asked, an edge in his tone.
Lady Katherine scuttled off, torn between exaltation at hearing some juicy gossip, and despair at being forced to leave.
“Now.” Rand circled Sylvan closer to the heat of his body. “We were discussing our mutual desire.”
“No, we weren’t.” She whirled out of his grasp and followed u
p with a swift jab to his stomach. While he clutched his midsection, she snapped, “We were discussing how repulsive you are to me.”
He looked up at her with surprise and with an admiration that rattled her. It took him a few moments to regain his breath, but not his wit. “If I’m repulsive to you, come away with me and prove it.”
“Oh, no.” He was a slimy worm, but his misplaced confidence made her chortle. “Very clever, Your Grace, but you’ll not trap me like that. I’m staying here.”
Stroking his chin, he stared at her. “Something is different. Your hair is longer. I like it like this, but I liked those little wispy bits that play peek-a-boo with the nape of your neck, too.”
She clapped her hand over her neck.
“It makes me want to kiss it.” He rearranged the wisps of hair that framed her face and she knocked his hand away. “I would have thought this place was repugnant to you.”
“Not at all. Lady Katherine Renfrew is my dearest friend, and I love all the people she invited to her home.”
He seemed to doubt her sincerity, especially when she grinned with maniacal brightness.
“I especially like the gentlemen.” His smile faded, and she could barely restrain a cheer.
“What gentlemen?”
“Lord Hawthorne and Sir Sagan are here.”
“Hawthorne and Sagan?” Rand was soothed. “They’re good men. Fought with them on the Continent. Haven’t seen them since we sent Nappy running with his tail between his legs.”
“They’ve been most attentive to me.”
“Shows they’re bright,” Rand conceded.
She tried again. “They’re courting me, so you don’t need to worry. You can get your annulment and I’ll be none the worse.”
“Ah.” Rand stirred uncomfortably, then gestured to the seat hidden deep in the alcove. “Perhaps we should talk.”
“Talk?” She batted her eyelashes in exaggerated regard. “About what, Your Grace?”
“About my reasons for suggesting an annulment.”
“I thought it was more in the line of a demand,” she said heatedly, then took a breath. “It’s not important.”
“Perhaps not to you, but to me.” Gently, he urged her to the seat, but she rejected him with her stance.
“You have your mother’s beauty,” he said.
“You’ve been there?”
“To your father’s house?” His gaze sharpened. “Of course.”
“You’ve been sneaking around behind my back?”
“I was looking for you. I wanted to explain why I really didn’t want an annulment. Where else would I go?”
“You saw them.” Her father, putrid with greed and manipulation, and her mother, ever wanting to conciliate. She had carefully concealed the scars of her upbringing, but if Rand had been their guest, then he knew too much about her.
She panicked. Rand had retracted his appeal for an annulment because he’d seen the impasse in her family, and he pitied her. Of all the things she wanted from him, pity was the last. “You really shouldn’t worry about me.” The sympathy in his gaze made her ill. “I have an earl who’s courting me.”
Rand’s chin jutted at a dangerous angle. “And who’s that?”
“Lord Holyfeld.”
Fury gleamed from Rand’s eyes, and he roared, “Holyfeld? I don’t think so, Your Grace. Why don’t you explain to your husband—”
“Beg pardon?” Lord Hawthorne stuck his head into the alcove and waved a dance card. “Miss Sylvan, I believe this is my dance.”
“Of course it is.” Sylvan evaded Rand and grabbed Hawthorne’s arm. “We’ll go now.”
Rising to his feet, Rand started after them, but a steely arm barred his path, and Sir Sagan stepped in front of him. “Are you bothering our Sylvan, Your Grace? Because your recent rise in status doesn’t matter. If Miss Sylvan doesn’t like you, and you persist in annoying her, we’ll be forced to twist your head off.”
Rand started to knock Sagan aside until he realized the arm that barred his path was Sagan’s only arm. The sleeve on his other side hung empty, its cuff neatly folded and pinned.
This man was picking a fight. For whatever reason, he felt strongly about Sylvan, and Rand stared at Sylvan’s form as she moved through the figures of the quadrille and wondered what was happening. Why wasn’t she throwing herself into his arms, forgiving him for his harsh words, and going with him to the nearest bed? Hadn’t she learned anything in the months they’d been apart?
He glared at Sagan as if he were at fault. Sagan stared right back, challenging him.
Sylvan should be here, defusing this ridiculous situation, rather than prancing around with Hawthorne. She was acting the same way she’d acted when he accused her of being a camp follower. “Hm.” He smoothed his chin. “She’s acting as if I’ve said something unforgivable.”
“Did you?” Sagan’s one fist bunched.
“Well, I didn’t mean it.”
Sagan grabbed Rand by the cravat, and Rand said, “She knows I didn’t mean it! She even knows why I said it.”
“Women are such odd creatures.” Sagan mocked him with his tone. “You insult them, and even if they know in their minds you were just being an unreasonable, bumptious, beastly, spoiled ass, they still need to believe with their hearts that they have your esteem.”
“Sylvan has my esteem!”
“It would appear she doesn’t believe it in her heart, old boy.” Shaking Rand a little, Sagan commanded, “Don’t interfere until she expresses her belief.”
He stepped back, leaving Rand reflective and agitated. Was Sylvan still hurt by their quarrel on the day she left? He had assumed that the longer she was gone from Clairmont Court, the more she would perceive the intelligence of his actions. Instead she seemed to think him the unreasonable, bumptious, beastly, spoiled ass which Sagan called him.
He examined Sagan again while adjusting his spoiled cravat. This was Sylvan’s companion, her champion as of old, and in the easy cant of a soldier, Rand said, “Hadn’t heard about your arm, Sagan. Waterloo?”
Sagan examined Rand in return, and when he was satisfied Rand contemplated no action, he answered. “Bit of a cannonball.” Shrugging, he made light of what surely was a harrowing experience.
“Tough luck.” Sagan wouldn’t have liked further commiseration, and Rand turned his gaze to the dance floor once more.
“Could have been worse.” Cautiously, Sagan removed his blockade from Rand’s path. When Rand didn’t move, he sought the object of Rand’s interest with his gaze.
“Hawthorne’s not much of a dancer anymore,” Rand observed.
“Can’t bend his leg,” Sagan said.
Rand began to discern a pattern. “Waterloo?”
“Lucky shot from a sniper.”
“Did you meet Sylvan at Waterloo?” It wasn’t a guess so much as a certainty.
“Miss Sylvan,” Sagan corrected gently. “And yes, we met her there. She found me on the battlefield, chased away some French looters who were just about to put an end to me, and got the doctor to me. Held me when they cut off my arm, too.” Sagan grinned. “Almost made it painless.”
Rand contained a shudder as he remembered Sylvan’s bravery during another amputation. It hadn’t been painless. It could never be painless, and Sagan hid a world of agony behind his jaunty smile. “Sylvan help Hawthorne, too?”
“Fever almost did him in. Might have, too, but Miss Sylvan kept bathing him with cool water. Stayed up all night with him, he says. Remembers her beautiful face hovering over his, telling him he couldn’t die. Says she’s an angel.”
“She was for me, too,” Rand said.
Sagan examined him from top to toe but clearly found no defect. Incredulously, he asked, “Wounded at Waterloo?”
“Couldn’t walk,” Rand allowed. “Sylvan got me on my feet.”
He again found Sagan’s hand tangled in the starched folds of his cravat. “Miss Sylvan,” Sagan insisted.
“Her Grace,” R
and retorted.
Confusion loosened Sagan’s grip. “Pardon?”
“Even before Sylvan got me on my feet, I married her.” Rand grinned at Sagan’s astonishment. “She’s my duchess, old man, so do you think you could let me go?”
“My apologies.” Sagan patted Rand’s rumpled cravat. “Can’t believe it. She never hinted…”
“She’s angry at me, and with reason,” Rand said. “But I’ve come to take her home, if she’ll have me.”
“We’ve been protecting her.” Sagan was getting over his amazement. “Didn’t seem to give a damn about her reputation. Took up with bad company. Well, you see.” Waving an encompassing hand, he glared reproachfully at Rand. “Where have you been?”
“Had a bit of a blow at Clairmont Court. Heard about it?”
“Your brother lost in a nasty accident, I believe. Dreadfully sorry.”
Rand nodded. “Thanks. Tough on my mother. Tough on all of us. Worse part is…” He hesitated. He hated to tell anyone his business, but he needed Sagan’s aid, and Sagan had a reputation for being closemouthed. “Keep a secret?”
“Of course.”
“Brother’s death wasn’t an accident. Had a madman loose on the estate.” The waltz was winding down, so Rand finished hastily. “After Sylvan, too, the bastard.”
“The bastard,” Sagan repeated in tones of wonderment. “Have you caught him?”
“Disappeared. No more problems. Want my wife home.”
“Better get her, then.” Sagan’s mouth had a grim cast to it. “Holyfeld’s giving her the easy eye, and he’s in need of funds which he thinks a marriage with her would provide.”
Sylvan was talking to Hawthorne, hanging on his sleeve, when Rand started toward her. “We’ll just have to make it clear she’s already claimed, then, won’t we?”
Sagan kept pace, muttering, “Hawthorne’ll need an explanation.”
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