I love to hate you

by Keysian, Elizabeth

  “Greek athletes wore nothing in the palaestra. I’m doing my best to be both authentic and not too shocking. This is meant to be an orgy, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t think we’re supposed to take the theme so literally.” Oliver repressed a shudder. There were very few men and women, he suspected, whose proportions would look acceptable without the addition of their usual corsets, padding, and extremely strong buttons.

  Harry sniffed. “You’re a fine one to talk, with your bare shoulders and your Zeus-like posing.”

  “I do not pose.” Oliver folded his arms across his chest. He was anxious enough already without his brother goading him like a horsefly. “Now go away, please. You’re distracting me.”

  “From what?”

  “Oh, nothing. I’m entertaining myself attempting to recognise folk beneath their disguises. It’s not as easy as you’d think in the gloom.”

  “Seen our little Athene yet?”

  What the blazes? Could Harry read his mind? “I couldn’t say. I told you it was difficult.”

  “Why not dance with a few fair maidens and enjoy yourself? You’re not living up to your reputation as a rake by lurking in the shadows, staring down your nose at everyone.”

  “That was years ago. Anyway, no one knows it’s me under here.”

  Harry let out a snort, then buried himself in the crowd. Oliver cast about again for signs of Athene. He hoped the brooches had pleased her—he’d spent most of the morning trawling around Ipswich to find something suitable, and fair exhausted his horse with the ride.

  He’d been hugely gratified when he found them, and congratulated himself they were perfect and couldn’t fail to please her. And might make up, perhaps in part, for his churlishness the night before. He had, admittedly, toyed with the idea of sending them anonymously to excite her interest, but she might assume the brooches were from the same reprobate who’d stolen a kiss. The last thing he wanted was for her to pursue that line of enquiry.

  Gazing about him again, he saw no sign of Athene’s familiar figure in the throng. Well, there was nothing for it. He’d have to dive in and capture some willing Bacchante to dance with and hope he’d eventually find the one to whom he needed to talk.

  “Oh!”

  “Your pardon.” He steadied himself as a lithe young woman in the arms of his brother was thrust against him. Damn Harry. Was he jostling him deliberately?

  “How graceless these young people are,” a velvet voice purred at his elbow. He turned to the woman, resisting the urge to bow—Roman senators didn’t bow. Or did they?

  He nodded. “Indeed. One of them was my reprehensible brother. He may have thrown the young lady into my path deliberately.”

  “Either that, or he’s not the best dancer. He looks as if he needs taking in hand.”

  “Believe me, we’ve tried.” Oliver chuckled and took a sip from his wineglass. “Nothing works. And yet the young are supposed to find it easy to learn.”

  “Not when they’re stubbornly opposed to it. Now tell me, sir, have you an antipathy to dancing?”

  “Not at all. I’m accustoming myself to the peculiar circumstances, the strange music, and the completely unbridled form of dancing taking place here.”

  “Then empty your glass, refill it, and drain it again. You’ll find the circumstances matter far less.”

  His mouth twitched. The woman, scantily clad but cleverly draped, was far from subtle. He wasn’t used to being approached thus. Normally it was him who did the approaching—a far preferable way to do business. Any female who made an effort with him was doubtless a treasure hunter. Then he reminded himself she probably had no idea of his real identity. As he had no idea of hers.

  Then he spotted she was wearing a familiar silver brooch. Athene’s guardian—who else could it be? The back of his neck prickled. Here was a woman whose influence over Athene was vital, whose power over her was too great—he must ensure her support at all costs.

  He was about to introduce himself formally when several things happened at once.

  Harry, still cavorting cheerfully with his dancing partner, cannoned into him again with the shouted instruction, “Get away from the wall and join in, you ridiculous creature,” accidentally knocking Oliver’s glass from his hand, and sending a cascade of red wine over Miss Dunstable. Shocked, Harry let go his Bacchante, who tottered, off-balance, directly into Oliver’s arms.

  The guardian let out a gasp of outrage, Harry flew into a fit of laughter, the Bacchante glared up at Oliver, and beyond the hectic racing of his heart when he realised who he held, he heard someone order the musicians to cease.

  Above the muttered confusion, the same voice spoke again, soft, but commanding.

  “Nobody is to move a muscle. Nor utter a single word.”

  Chapter 5

  Athene froze in the arms of her captor. She had her back to the room, so had no idea why the music had stopped and they’d all been commanded to stand still. She scanned the man’s face for any sign he was alarmed, but although his full lips were pressed firmly together, there was no indication of fear.

  “I am now going to walk among you with my lantern, and inspect your costumes. Any found lacking will be given a forfeit. You can, if you find me too hard a taskmaster, transfer your forfeit to another who is willing to take it.”

  Athene’s shoulders relaxed. The Duke of Burlington, their host, was playing games again. Assuredly, this house party was for his entertainment, not for theirs. If she wanted to achieve her goal of securing a potential husband, she’d have to play along.

  She peered through the gloom at the gentleman who’d caught her when she lost her balance but could see no fault in his costume. Burlington would be impressed, surely, by how authentically superior this Roman noble appeared, with his upright stance, deep chest and perfect masculine proportions. The only thing that didn’t look Roman was his hair, which flopped over the top of his half-face mask in an unruly tumble. An ancient senator would surely have locks more constrained, not a mane of hair like that of Alexander the Great.

  She knew her own costume, though rapidly fashioned, must also pass muster. She and the unknown gentleman would be forfeit free.

  A flurry of laughter sounded behind her. If only she were permitted to move, she could turn her head to see what was happening. The chuckles and giggles moved about the room, presumably accompanying His Grace’s progress. Thankfully everyone sounded like they were enjoying the forfeits meted out by tonight’s Lord of Misrule.

  A slight movement of her companion’s hand arrested her attention. His grip had gentled now she was steady on her feet again, but energy pulsed through his fingers, sending a heady warmth up her arm. Then he shifted his grasp again, and she realised his hand was shaking.

  Glancing up, she was surprised to find him staring down at her with the intensity of an eagle eyeing its prey. A muscle worked in his square jaw.

  A swell of horror washed over her, and she resisted the urge to wrench her arm from his grasp. Rushbourne. She’d know those fierce grey eyes anywhere.

  And it seemed from the way he was looking at her, he knew her, too.

  Just as the dreadful knowledge of her captor’s identity was sinking in, another person joined them.

  “Aha, I see we have a noble eques—a fine costume, sir. And your two female companions sport brooches of the most superior workmanship. Capital! And here we have a young Adonis, golden-haired and fighting fit. But one of your number has drunk deep of Dionysian nectar and spilt it all over her gown. I fear I must demand a forfeit of you, madam.”

  Athene stiffened. Poor Kat! Hopefully, she would take this in good spirit.

  The fingers on her arm tightened once more, and Rushbourne said clearly, “Your Grace, mea culpa. It is my libation upon the lady’s gown and is there by no fault of her own. I pray you grant her a reprieve and transfer the forfeit to myself.”

  The duke’s mouth widened beneath his comedic mask. “Very gentlemanly of you. I accept your sacrifice.�
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  Was Rushbourne trying to impress everyone by being gallant towards Kat? Athene pursed her lips. If only she could rip his hand away and throw some wine over him, the loathsome fellow.

  “Your forfeit, Viscount—for I’d know you anywhere, my friend—is to kiss the young lady you have made your prisoner.”

  She went rigid. What? No, he’d never do it. He’d love embarrassing her by refusing. Or would he go through with it, and humiliate her by making a meal of the deed? Either way, it was a disaster.

  She felt her face flush and hoped her mask hid the worst of it. There were a couple of gasps from neighbouring guests, but mostly all she could hear were chuckles. Was she to be made a spectacle of in front of everyone? Would no one come to her rescue?

  She snagged Rushbourne’s gaze, widening her eyes in silent appeal.

  He responded with an almost imperceptible nod. “Your pardon, Your Grace, the forfeit would affect the young lady too, who has done nothing wrong. Her costume is not at fault, nor is the lady herself. I pray you, think of another forfeit.”

  She unfroze a little. Good. This must be the first time in their acquaintance he’d ever done anything altruistic. But there was still a hill of atonement to be made for the way he’d ruined her childhood.

  “My word is final.” The duke’s tone was no longer playful. “If you fail to comply, all four of you will be asked to leave the house party.”

  Rushbourne released her and took a step forward. “Burley, don’t be a cad.”

  Athene met Kat’s eye, and her guardian shook her head, making frantic gestures. They couldn’t risk being sent home before either of them had melted a masculine heart—when would they have another opportunity like this to rub shoulders with the Haut Ton?

  The young man Athene had been dancing with was watching the proceedings with his head cocked, smiling triumphantly. He was enjoying the debacle. But who else besides herself might revel in seeing Rushbourne have his nose put out of joint? Unless the golden-haired youth…was it possible this blithe, lively young fellow might be little Harry Paviland?

  Kat was still looking anxious, so Athene tilted her chin and said, “I won’t let my companions suffer on my account. If it pleases Your Grace, I will allow myself to be kissed.”

  But if Rushbourne showed any sign of enjoying himself, the hill of atonement would become a mountain. She grimaced at him. “Let’s get this over with.”

  She offered her cheek, but a firm hand seized her chin. “You don’t get off so lightly, Miss Heartless.”

  His breath feathered her cheek as he let out a brief sigh and applied his lips to hers. One hand found its way to her waist, the heat of it searing her through the flimsy linen. Though their bodies only met there, and in the kiss, she trembled, her traitorous flesh overcome by his virile presence, his aura of masculinity. For a moment she was lost, lacking in will and under his spell. Then he pulled back and the tide of feeling ebbed away, leaving her shocked and distrait.

  Gradually she became aware the duke had moved away, apparently satisfied, and was busy torturing another group of masqueraders. Shortly after, the musicians struck up again, and gaiety returned to the room.

  “Thank you so much, Athene.” Kat gave her a brief hug, then seized the golden-haired hero and made off with him.

  “Your chaperone is singularly poor at the role.”

  Obnoxious man. “Are you still here, Rushbourne? Surely there must be someone else upon whom you can impose yourself. I’m in no need of a chaperone anyway—I’m not a green girl.”

  “You never were—I always thought you old beyond your years, except when in a temper, of course. You were far too easy to goad. But I think I’ll stay here and guard you all the same—this room is full of undesirables.”

  “None more so than yourself. Now, go away, please.”

  He made no move, and she felt once again the magnetic heat emanating from his too-close body. A pity she hadn’t thought to bring a fan. Or a gladius to stick into her self-appointed protector.

  “It is not every day one has a chance to talk to an old acquaintance. I would have thought you’d be eager to discuss our past frolics, or catch up on recent events. Don’t you want to know what I’ve been up to? Or Harry? Even though you profess to detest me, I always rather thought you liked my little brother.”

  She had far rather stand at the side of the room alone. Looking available, so some of the unattached gentlemen would ask her to dance. Assuming Rushbourne’s bold manner of kissing her hadn’t put them off.

  Still, there was always tomorrow. It would be much easier to avoid him with a clear head and when she was feeling more herself.

  “Was that Harry I was dancing with a moment ago?” At Rushbourne’s nod, she added, “Do you think he knew me?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him not only to have recognised you but to have thrown you against me quite deliberately.”

  She was interested despite herself. “Why would he do that?”

  “To make mischief. Something is needling the boy, but I don’t know what. You see, our papa—”

  “Never mind—tell me about Harry. What has he been up to?”

  Rushbourne pressed a hand over his heart. “I’m wounded you don’t care to hear about me.” His mouth twitched, and dimples appeared in his cheeks. Engaging—but looks were deceptive.

  “Perhaps I should let Harry tell me himself.”

  She made to move away but he seized her hand and pulled her close. “I’m not letting you go now. Dance with me, and I’ll tell you about Harry.”

  Manipulative as ever, using his superior strength against her as he always had. She should stamp on his foot and cause a scene, but would that stop a man as thick-skinned as Rushbourne? He’d spend the rest of the evening pursuing her, or lurking disapprovingly and keeping the other gentlemen away.

  She decided to placate him with a single dance. After all, to stand up with him would show her off to advantage, and it was better to appear to be sought after than not. She couldn’t deny he cut the finest figure in the room—but that didn’t necessarily mean he was a good dancer.

  He was a good dancer, as it turned out, curse him. A superlative one, in fact. She had to concede he never missed a beat, or crashed into anybody else, or resembled a marionette whose strings had been cut. He moved with the animal grace of a stalking cat—steady and determined.

  Encircled in his arms, she felt once again the pull of his body, muscular and hard. Who could have guessed the boy would turn into such an attractive man? She couldn’t help being impressed by the breadth of his shoulders, exposed by the sleeveless tunic beneath his toga. Strong shoulders, yet smooth-skinned and bronzed by the candlelight. But she mustn’t allow herself to be drawn in by the heat and allure of his body—she could be a casual observer, a taker-of-notes, but never an admirer.

  “Harry is a ne’er-do-well,” he was saying, “the despair of both Papa and myself. He must find himself a profession, as there are no estates for him to inherit or titles to help him make his way in the world.”

  Definitely not worthy of admiration. Rushbourne was doubtless making this poor report of Harry to stop her rekindling their childhood friendship.

  “He has toyed with the idea of a military career, flirted with the possibility of becoming a lawyer, and recently professed himself passionate about the church.”

  She flew to the young man’s defence. “Perhaps he’s too young to make his choice yet. At seventeen, there’s much to enjoy before he settles his future.”

  “Such as gambling, womanising and investing his allowance in schemes to rival the South Sea Bubble in stupidity? No, I think he needs to be settled as quickly as possible.”

  “Oh.” This didn’t sound like the Harry she knew. Rushbourne was misrepresenting his brother cruelly—the man was abominable.

  To her enormous relief, the music ceased, and while Rushbourne was still making his bow, she made her escape, pushing through the crowd to the far end of the room. She secreted h
erself in a shadowy corner behind one of the burning cressets and wondered if she could enlist Kat to distract the viscount if he came near her again.

  Almost immediately, a male voice whispered in her ear, “Still detestable, isn’t he?”

  “Harry! Did you know it was me all along?” Her heart lifted at the sight of his wayward golden locks.

  “Of course I did, Athene. You can only hide so much beneath a mask and outlandish clothing.”

  “But I was only twelve when we last met.”

  He chuckled and briefly stroked her hair. “Some things don’t change. My dear friend, it was grim when your aunt died, and you had to move away. Rushbourne tormented me mercilessly after you’d gone. Because he no longer had you to torture, I suppose.”

  “He denies being a bully.”

  “He won’t have seen himself as such—they never do. He probably thought he was just high-spirited and we were sap-veined. Do you remember when he tied you to a tree and pelted you with horse chestnuts?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Or when he picked you up and dangled you over the horse trough?”

  “I don’t recall that either.” Hair-pulling, name-calling, teasing, belittling—she could remember all of these…but she had no particular memory of violence. All the same, Rushbourne had made her feel less than worthy, and that feeling of inferiority had undermined her confidence for many a year. And taught her to trust no one of the male gender.

  Except perhaps Harry.

  “You’ve no doubt blanked it out. Or forgotten—I suppose it was a long time ago. You must know, every day I wished I were bigger than him, and could tie him to a tree and throw something much harder than chestnuts, or toss him down the well—”

  She smiled. “I sometimes wondered if I might tip him into the midden. Or the manure heap on the Home Farm.”

  Harry snorted with laughter, then went suddenly still. “You know, Athene, it’s not too late.” He collected two glasses from a passing footman, sniffed at one and handed the other to her. “Beaujolais, I believe. It ought to be good.”