The Lady is Trouble: League of Lords, Book 1

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The Lady is Trouble: League of Lords, Book 1 Page 16

by Tracy Sumner

“I see surprise beneath that tranquil facade,” Marianne drawled in a voice not unlike the one she used during sex. Obviously, gossip brought her as much pleasure. “Not invited, I assume, but no one would deny them. Both amusing toys, apt to turn this into the most discussed gala of the season.”

  Words choked his airway as he gripped the flute hard enough to shatter glass. No matter Piper’s reputation, deserved, or Finn’s exceptional good looks, astounding, they would never be anyone’s toy, not as long as Julian breathed.

  “Goodbye, Marianne,” he said before he said too much. With a bow, he left her to circle the outer rim of the ballroom, gaze tracking. He was taller than most, an advantage, and his target likely the next tallest in the room. Ah, there.

  Finn lingered on the main staircase, caught in a robust tide he couldn’t swim through but looking, with an unruffled mien, as if he’d like to try. Again, that weighty feeling zipped through Julian: pride, affection, apprehension. A boy from the streets, without a single drop of the blood the ton believed made one exceptional flowing through his veins, Finn looked ready to conquer the world.

  Placing his flute on a passing tray, Julian sidestepped, and Piper came into view. At Finn’s side, the top of her head barely striking his elbow, he feared the crowd would topple her. His eyes skimmed her length, and with the resulting burst of heat beneath his skin, he decided it best to wait until he could approach without hunger crossing his face for all to witness. Kissing the life from her in a crowded ballroom would strike the final blow to her reputation.

  Stunning in a gown he wondered how she’d acquired, his hands itched to touch. The rosewood silk gleamed in the candlelight, setting her apart like a jewel embedded in dirt. What a gorgeous woman she’d grown into, he concluded with dismay, which she seemed unaware of as she smiled with apparent indifference at the men surrounding her.

  Julian’s purpose weakened, his focus splintering.

  Grabbing a flute from a liveried footman, he took a fast gulp while studying her over the crystal rim. When she finally noticed him, a shiver streaked through his chest and down his legs. She lifted a brow, commanding him to her side. As if she expected him to rescue her from the mob encircling them.

  Only, he didn’t feel like being herded.

  Holding her gaze, he lifted his flute in mocking salute.

  Her lips thinned, then she nodded. Fine, he imagined her thinking, let’s play. In challenge, she took a proffered flute from a marquess with a horrid reputation and smiled as if the man ignited the night.

  Julian took a threatening step forward, then recalled his objective and, more notably, his connection—or factual lack of one—to the woman holding him entranced across the scant distance of a ballroom. Close family friend, everyone knew, the story prudently circulated after his arrival on the earl’s doorstep. Yet, he was not her guardian.

  Or her lover. Or her husband.

  Turning away, he forced himself to participate in the inane banter, the grasping indelicacies, while compelling impulses took a hammer to his fragile ramparts.

  Her legend had grown.

  Well past the girl who sent teary-eyed governesses fleeing back to London with outrageous stories to impart, the girl who’d failed to manage even one London season successfully. This newly proposed version had her not only finally accepting her unfortunate lineage but embracing it. Although pity was bestowed upon her because one could not alter one’s biology, and her mother’s was most regrettable.

  Having spent the past three years among the unsophisticated but inherently interesting natives of New York—an assumption she made no move to correct—Lady Elizabeth Piper Scott was considered entirely outside the pale but cream for the cat, and everyone wanted to take part in the latest valuation of the Earl of Montclaire’s wayward, half-American granddaughter. Listed in DeBrett’s along with the rest of them, but with a pencil-strike through her name, she could not be wholly cast aside. Most were thrilled, in a season scarce of excitement, to welcome her.

  Scandalous Scott had returned to the proper side of the ocean.

  She could only give the curious partial attention as she had a thousand auras to contend with. A vibrant swirl transformed by the incandescent crystal chandeliers and blazing wall sconces. She longed for her folio to record the brilliance, Julian’s assistance at categorizing the colors.

  If a crowd hadn’t surrounded Finn as he lounged against a marble column, a careless sprawl calling to the cats in the room like a putrid plate of tuna, she would have elbowed him in the ribs and request he assist her. But the titled flock provided no respite as they lined up before her, almost as they had when she posed as Madame DuPre, asking silly, no, absurd questions about her supposed travels while the world stained around them like paint streaking down one of Julian’s canvases.

  The rumors circled, the accounts propping them up mostly untrue, but they were, this mob of leering people, so riveted she felt lifted from her slippers. It’s no wonder Piper concluded with the culmination of her second flute of champagne, Julian wanted to leap from a speeding carriage rather than defend me from this.

  Now everyone was cross with her.

  Everyone who mattered that is.

  Finn, the height of elegance and ease on his worst day, was, in actuality, hiding his apprehension over Julian’s reaction under layers of buttered charm. Humphrey and Minnie were sullenly awaiting the explosion, either Julian’s or the Duke of Ashcroft’s, in the relative safety of the carriage.

  As for Julian…his glittering gaze periodically grazed her, then dusted off like a touch he hadn’t meant to place. Penetrating scrutiny, it was not. Was this her future? A fixture in his life, trivial and of little consequence. Foolish girl. She wanted to hold the key to his heart, his mind, his soul, when she was beginning to believe she was like his artwork.

  There to admire, refine, then hide away when the project was complete.

  The sumptuous Lady Coswell, who Piper swore Julian gave the cut earlier in the evening, stood close by his side, no doubt waiting to wrap herself around him if given a chance. Yet, Piper knew him well enough to see he was detached and impatient, his aura measured.

  Piper nodded her head in agreement with Lady Allen and Countess Clare, having no idea the topic discussed, as she watched Julian consult his timepiece for the third time in an hour.

  She wanted to look away, but she had rarely seen him dressed so elegantly. She tried to ignore the pinch in her belly, the pulse between her thighs. Even Henry Poole, Julian’s tailor, one of the best in London, couldn’t confine the sturdy physique shaping layers of wool, linen, and silk.

  Noting the direction of her gaze, Countess Clare murmured, “Such extreme height must be a gift of the Beauchamp men.”

  Piper hummed a meaningless reply as Finn and Julian shared not a lick of blood.

  “Exceptionally diffident, Viscount Beauchamp. Such reticence drives the ladies wild, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Perhaps his reluctance is with purpose,” she replied, this chat reminding her of running her hand over a blade and hoping it didn’t draw blood.

  The Countess sniffed and presented a pale shoulder in reply. If the woman had hoped to inquire about Piper’s relationship with Julian, hotly debated for years, she was going to be wretchedly disappointed, for Piper could barely explain it herself.

  Julian chose that moment to glance above the horde and lock eyes with her. The scent of orchids and sandalwood, every clink and gasp in the ballroom retreated until only her resounding heartbeat registered. Without thought, she lifted her hand to her stomach and pushed the tingle away. His gaze followed, then narrowed and skipped away. He took a long draw of his drink and swallowed hard.

  Reluctant indeed.

  Finished with this game, she turned to Finn, intent on raising a white flag and asking him to escort her to Julian. But her cousin, Alfred Weston, the tenth Earl of Montclaire, snuggled alongside her with a hand laid greedily at the small of her back. As if he hadn’t gotten everything inheriting the
title and estates—as if there was more to be gained. Conceivably, he thought to remedy the slight of her being left with nothing by extending the presently vacant position of Countess.

  Repelled, she took a lurching step back.

  Something about Alfred made her skin crawl. His features were pleasant, his form admirable enough, but his eyes held something quite disagreeable in their bronzed depths.

  “Lady Elizabeth,” he said, his voice so honied she’d wager he practiced introductions with his valet. “An unexpected surprise. I supposed you roughing it in the colonies.”

  She worked to twist her mouth in the correct direction. It was a struggle; she held little of Finn’s natural charm in reserve. “My lord.”

  “Alfred, my dear.” Again, the smile. “After all, we are family.” Although he’d not offered assistance of any kind after her grandfather’s death; even if she’d justly passed the age of needing a guardian, she would have appreciated being remembered. He leaned in close enough to send the scent of ambergris to her nose and a dance of unease along her skin.

  Issuing a hushed sound that meant nothing but filled the silence, she took another step back.

  Alfred tilted his head, his lips sliding into a lecherous smile. “It is too much to hope for the next dance? A vacancy, perchance, on your card?”

  She flipped her kidskin-covered hands back and forth, a show of having no dance card on her person. Managing auras and a waltz was more than she could account for.

  “It is too much, Montclaire, old boy.” Julian maneuvered himself between them in a graceful effort no one would argue was anything but entrance into a conversation among friends. He turned to Piper, hair shooting off his brow as if he’d tunneled his hand through the overlong strands then forgotten to set them to rights. His eyes by candlelight gleamed like polished silver, the lids lowering to hide any clue to what he was thinking. “The ankle, my lady, is it better?”

  She shook her head. Emphatic. Not better.

  Before she had a chance to build a story around the lie, when she was excellent at highspeed lying, Julian did it for her. “Stumbled over a cobblestone upon arriving at the ball. So, dancing with you”—he paused to adjust a cuff which did not need adjustment, giving time for the words to sink in—“is not going to happen.”

  Alfred’s cheeks flushed though his smile remained in place. “Still playing the mother hen, eh, Beauchamp?”

  Julian stepped nearer than inconsequential conversation warranted. So near his aura bled into Alfred’s. “An issue you should have researched more thoroughly after coming into the title, no? As it is, we no longer need your assistance.”

  Piper recalled the heated exchanges between the two as adolescents; Alfred’s insecurity and bitterness as the random pieces of life’s puzzle—attractiveness, intelligence, purpose—began to fall into place for Julian. He’d viewed Julian as a rival for her grandfather’s affection and imaginably for hers as well.

  Alfred’s hands balled into fists. “You know, Beauchamp, you have such the look of your father about you, it’s quite hard to tell the difference.”

  Piper heard Julian’s whispered oath, his posture settling into one of a man set on entering a brawl. Did Alfred not recall his ferocious temper? Julian was not a man you insulted and walked away from, crowded ballroom or not.

  Uncaring who might witness the indiscretion, Piper grabbed Julian’s wrist, circled warm skin and sharp bone. Closing her eyes, she focused on the rapid pulse popping beneath her thumb. Calm. Control. Julian tensed, then he sighed softly as his hand fell limp in hers.

  Her lids swept up as Julian turned, his dusky gaze nailing her to the floor. She knew he didn’t like that she had trespassed and used her gift to pacify.

  Alone amid a crowd as remembrance of his body pressed to hers, the surge of his breath in her ear, invaded her senses. “Remember why you came,” she found the courage to advise. “Don’t let him ruin it.”

  “Go, Freddie”—Julian shook his hand free of hers—“before I decide to follow a wayward impulse, as I’ve been known to on occasion, you should recall.” He blocked Alfred as the man went to scurry past. “If I hear something untold circulated this night, count on my being on your doorstep, any doorstep, to discuss the situation. Trust me, you don’t want that visit.”

  The Earl of Montclaire clenched his jaw. He had loathed the nickname as a child, as Julian loathed any reference to his father. They understood how to score a direct hit. Freddie’s meager bow as he left them expressed all he feared saying. Silly fop, Piper thought, watching him shove his way into the crowd, taking his rightful place among the vermin.

  Julian studied his hands as if he questioned what he might have done with them. “Don’t look so worried,” he said and flexed his fingers. “If I’d intended harm, his blood would be spattered on the marble beneath our feet. Mixing quite imaginatively with the chalk.”

  “Worried? About Freddie?” She laughed softly. She only worried about him.

  “Your temerity astounds,” he said, angling his head and catching her gaze. Light from a sconce near his shoulder highlighted the stunning planes of his face as he frowned. The tantalizing aroma of citrus and something very earthy, Julian’s scent alone, drifted to her, lighting a fire in her belly and sending a wild, hot sweep to her toes. She shifted from one slipper to another to encourage the feeling to seep out the soles of her feet.

  “I don’t suppose a chaperone is hiding underneath that lovely crimson skirt?”

  “Minnie is waiting in the carriage. With Humphrey. Guards are posted at each entrance and in the garden. If it makes you feel any better, they’re irritated, as well. Well, not the guards.” Piper pleated silk between her fingers until the fabric felt as warm as her skin. “Minnie said she’s never seen such brazenness, even in her mother’s workplace.”

  Julian reached wide and grabbed a glass from a passing footman, downing the contents in one gulp. “So you’ve less sense than a prostitute? Huh.” He turned the glass in his hands as if it held the answer to a problem. “Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier shines much too far—or I am much too near.”

  Piper shook her head. This conversation was senseless. Was he quoting Byron? “Are you soused?”

  A sputter she supposed was a laugh parted his lips. “I’m not sober.”

  “I’m not letting you go alone.”

  His hand stilled, crystal suspended between finger and thumb, an internal debate about pitching it against the wall. “I’m aware of the situation, Yank. The yin and yang of our relationship. Ashcroft’s money clip is wrapped in a handkerchief in my pocket lest it encourage further visions should I touch it. Honestly, I’m scared to touch it again.”

  “After the other night—” You need me with the visions, she wanted to clarify but felt this declaration might send his glass to its death.

  Another low laugh rolled forth as he shrugged in defeat.

  “I’ll be helpful.”

  He jabbed the glass at her like a weapon. “Care to wager on that?”

  “What are the terms?” she asked because she’d never backed away from a dare in her life. A crowded ballroom wasn’t going to be the start.

  He leaned against the marble column, a shoulder perch that set his long body into a slump both arresting and exact. His aura exploded, trails of red snaking through a burst of blue. Passion, ire. She yearned for the first and wished, for once, there would be no demand for the second. Powerlessly, her gaze traveled from his polished patent shoes to the emerald stickpin lanced through his snowy-white cravat.

  His expression was composed as his head lifted, a slow burn igniting beneath her skin as their gazes clashed. “I feel as if I’m being mentally stripped of my clothing, one agonizing piece at a time.” He tapped the rim of the glass to his lips, lashes lowering to lessen the impact of his statement. “It’s quite arousing, I’m sorry to admit.”

  Piper’s breath seized, nipples peaking as if Julian had sucked them between his teeth.

  Nodding
to an elderly baron who called his name as he passed, Julian flipped the glass from one hand to the other. “This wager. My terms, is it?”

  My, he was foxed.

  The urge to capture the drop of champagne clinging to his bottom lip was crushing. What would he do if she slid her hands into his hair and yanked him off his always steady balance? Had the roar of a ballroom not intruded, she might have accepted the challenge her famished body threw at her watchful mind.

  “If you keep looking at me like that, Yank, scrap the wager. We’re not going to make it out of this ballroom.”

  She crossed her arms and blew out a breath: all or nothing, Piper. “One night,” she whispered, glancing around to ensure no one heard her. Fortunately, to her left, Lord Ranier was arguing with a gentleman she believed the Marquess of Everleigh. Over a woman, no doubt. Possibly the frantic, quite beautiful one gesturing next to them. Naturally, the crowd had gravitated to the trio with a magnetic force.

  Julian pushed off the column, rising to his full height. “Excuse me?”

  “If I help you, and I’m going to…” She shrugged as her hands were occupied, twisting her gown into disarray. “If you accept my help, that is, I claim one night.” She tried for a smile, but Julian’s gaze was as hard as the marble he rested against, and she was not an able negotiator. Deceiver, yes, negotiator, no. “Consider it payment, if you’d like.” The request went well with her dress—those were always the terms in the establishment where Minnie had acquired it.

  Julian stepped closer, but not too, a dent forming between his brows. “Payment?”

  She nodded.

  “For my services?”

  “For one night.” She looked him dead in the eye, contradicting how hard her knees were shaking. “I want to know. And I want you to show me.”

  “You want to know,” he finally whispered in a tone of distinct bewilderment. His fist went to his temple, pressing against what had to be a headache. “And you want me to show you.”

  She thrust her hand out, a crass American tradition, and certainly not one a woman typically employed. “Agreed?”

 

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