4
Simon had just concluded that his mystery admirer had changed her mind about their rendezvous when the night exploded with an unearthly noise. A shriek. Was it a wild animal on the attack? A witch? A warrior? And then -- almost simultaneously, a gun fired in his direction.
Had he wondered what danger an anonymous message could pose?
He could start with the fact that the assignation he’d anticipated turned out to be a pistol shot. It took little guesswork from that point to deduce he would have been killed or mortally wounded had the woman’s scream not warned him of his peril.
Not just any woman, by God. Not an ordinary scream. The resonance of her ferocious bellow could have sent a tidal wave across the Thames. He recognized Ravenna’s voice instantly. He had no idea how she had become involved in his plight, or even that his life had been at risk until now.
Good God. Had she been shot? His heart stopped. Or, not entirely implausible, had she fired the pistol?
He lowered his useless opera glasses, and took action. Once in movement, he pieced together in his mind what had likely occurred.
A moment after he had noticed Ravenna in the garden he’d glimpsed a lady and gentleman inelegantly fornicating outside the temple. He heard a scream. A shot. The lovers vanished.
From the sound of it, the ball had struck the statue of Achilles around which Simon had paced a trench.
From the corner of his eye he observed the man he presumed to be his assailant drop from the tree to the ground.
A slight figure in blue satin obstructed the miscreant’s path. Simon hoped to hell Ravenna wasn’t attempting to stop him. Meekness was not one of her family traits. He did not dally to gather rosebuds before another incident unfolded. To his profound relief his next glimpse of her indicated she was very much alive if riveted to the spot.
He shouted, “Ravenna!” in alarm, and raced across the grass, unconcerned for his own safety or the opinions of the guests who spilled down the terrace steps into the garden, understandably attracted by the ungodly commotion.
She went still, waited, and willed herself not to panic. She had to move. But in which direction? Instinct urged her to run straight to Rhys. That was no simple feat.
How could she turn her back on the man who blocked her path? An impulsive move might cause him to panic. She looked up from the pistol in his hand to his face. His woolen cap obscured his features.
He gave an undecipherable oath. Startled, she brushed against a thorn-laden shrub. She ignored the sting on her cheek. Her ears rang from the horrendous racket she had made. Did she imagine someone else’s shout of warning and rushed footsteps from the depths of the garden where Simon had been standing?
The fountain splashed, uninterrupted by the drama in the parterre. The stranger in front of her lifted his pistol. She steeled herself. As far as she knew, she was the only guest who had seen him. If he shot her, would anyone witness the crime?
Then he wheeled and was gone -- to where she was too relieved to notice. Nor did she have time to dodge the gentleman who charged her in a blur, shouting a frantically incoherent order in her face.
“Rochecliffe, what on earth?” she said an instant before he flattened her to the opposite tree like a human shield, forcing every wisp of breath from her body. In fact, she was too benumbed by the undignified attack on her person to utter another sound.
She did, nonetheless, possess the wits to realize he meant to protect her. Submission was the wisest option.
Grinding her teeth, she absorbed the brunt of over six feet of solid bone, sinew, and noble bearing. Simon had not shrunk since their last contact. She was virtually bolted to the trunk by his muscular strength.
“Your grace,” she grunted when speech became possible. “My goodness, you are forceful.”
“Lady Ravenna,” he replied with a grim composure that was reassuring in its familiarity. “It’s delightful to run into you after all this time, although I apologize for the circumstances.”
She snorted lightly. “Hang the polite sentiments. Someone just attempted to murder you.”
“So I gathered. He didn’t hurt you?”
“He didn’t touch me. He might still be in the vicinity, however.”
“All the more reason why you mustn’t move. Do not even turn your head. I am covering you as best I can with my body.”
“You are plastered to me in a most unseemly fashion.”
“Well, that can’t be helped.” The pressure of his weight eased slightly. “I doubt he has lingered behind to apologize. Needless to say, I cannot leave you alone while I chase after him. From what I could tell, he escaped over the northeast wall. It is the fastest route to the street and from there to any den in London.” Which she knew from mapping her own possible flight in the event her plan failed.
And obviously it had.
She stared up into his drawn face, into his grey-brown eyes, and remembered she’d promised to stay away from him tonight. Voices clamored from all points of the compass. She could not see over his shoulders to identify anyone, but she and Simon wouldn’t be alone for long.
“We’ll cause a stir if we’re caught like this,” she said softly.
“We would cause an uproar if we were found dead,” he said in the deep steady voice that aroused sweet memories of their past. “You were not hurt?”
“Nothing to speak of,” she said, not steady at all. “A torn muscle or two. A broken spine. You flung yourself upon me with considerable impact.”
“Sorry. Necessity, I’m afraid.”
“I realize – ”
“Would you mind being quiet for a moment?” he said with the ducal hauteur that defined him. “I didn’t expect a reunion with you tonight. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Then we should separate. Being squashed together will only complicate matters for you.”
“Perhaps. We can’t be certain the gunman won’t return or that he doesn’t have accomplices in the garden. There is chaos around us. I need a moment to think. My head is still ringing from your valiant cry.”
“Valiant?”
His dark eyes studied her intently. “I’m well aware you took a risk to save me. I gather this isn’t what you had planned for the night, either.”
“What have you done to merit a murder attempt?” she asked him. “You aren’t using me to make another lady jealous, are you? I might have agreed to help, if you’d shared your intentions with me.” And if Jane hadn’t put questions about his libidinous nature in her mind.
“For pity’s sake, Ravenna. Do not make matters worse with such ridiculous assumptions. We are surrounded. There are dozens of guests wondering why you screamed and why I have skewered you to a walnut tree.”
“It is a good question.”
“They have already seen and judged us. You are not going to admit why you were walking unchaperoned to the temple, in the dark. I believe I know the answer.”
She struggled to follow his reasoning. Had Simon become a spy? A duelist? A scoundrel unaccustomed to being caught in the act? She couldn’t be expected to think clearly as long as such a flagrantly attractive man, her friend, insisted they remain in this eyebrow-raising pose.
What would Jane do in her place?
“My reputation will be destroyed,” she murmured, as if she hadn’t been prepared to sacrifice everything to break her engagement.
“That is of small consequence compared to the fact that you confronted a failed murderer.”
“It’s hard to argue that.”
She could not undo what she'd done. In the confusing pastiche of ladies and gentlemen who approached the clearing, she recognized the incredulous face of her unfaithful fiancé. He paled unfavorably in the shadow of Simon’s presence. Meek-spirited, shifty-eyed. Simon could step on him if he felt the urge.
Obviously David hadn’t expected to find her embracing another man. His palpable shock soothed her damaged pride. He looked so aghast, in fact, that she considered throwing her arms around Simon�
�s neck in an abandon of revenge.
Because -- well, why not? Simon was a tempting refuge in a storm.
Because propriety no longer mattered. Little mattered, actually, except for her family’s understanding and forgiveness. And Simon. She had a hunch this wasn’t to be their last encounter.
“Ravenna,” David said, jostled off to the side by a discreet jab from Simon’s elbow. “I hope this is not what it appears to be.”
Simon raised his shoulder, shielding her from further view. He ignored David like the nonentity he was. “You’ve had a fright,” Simon told her quietly. “Most ladies would have fainted after your experience. But this is crucial -- we won’t have a chance to talk for a while -- did you get a close look at the fiend?”
She blinked, her indignation reawakened. “Yes. He’s standing right behind you. I lost view of the woman he was ravishing, however.”
Simon sighed in disgust. “I have the feeling we’re talking about different fiends. Mine was the one who jumped out of the tree. Yours was the one in the temple? The annoyance breathing down my neck?”
She nodded reluctantly. “I wanted to expose him. I rather hoped you’d act as my witness.”
He gave her a droll smile. “That detail didn’t quite work to plan, did it? Mind you, I’m in no position to judge. I might have lost my life if you were a woman who did what she was supposed to do.”
“Your life is about to become even more complicated,” she said feelingly. “Rhys is almost here and he looks furious. We are both dead, Simon. I have killed us, socially speaking. Well, you will rise above this. I won’t.”
Starlight sculpted his scowling face. “Ravenna, please stop. I am trying to decide what to do.”
“About me?”
“About us,” he said gravely. “You are right. This is a ruinous situation. You have been seen alone with me.”
“You do have something of a name. A wicked one at that.”
“Do I?” he said, his interest clearly not engaged.
“’The Duke of a Thousand Desires.’”
He responded with a blank stare. She wasn’t sure he’d heard her or whether he’d learned to ignore the unofficial title.
He stepped back as someone called her name. From what Ravenna could see in the commotion David had retreated at the same time. Perhaps he was attempting to disappear altogether. She understood why. Simon was a formidable man. She had yet to recover from his charge through the darkness as her defender. It would be unwise to antagonize him.
Thank goodness he was her ally.
She took uncertain comfort in his authority. He had never given her reason to doubt his intentions. Unlike David, who hadn’t cared whether he shamed her and yet had the gall to be embarrassed by their Welsh ancestry. David considered his English mother’s ancestry to take precedence over his father’s Celtic heritage.
Simon’s voice deepened with urgency. “We have to make a pact. From now on I shall take care of everything that happens. We shall agree to the terms later.”
A pact? With Simon? It sounded like an omen of the most exciting sort. And infinitely dangerous.
He leaned into her again. Her heart missed a beat.
“Under normal circumstances,” he said, his mouth hovering above hers, “a pact like this would be sealed with a kiss.”
“But?” Good heavens, was she encouraging him? She was pleasantly bewildered by the possibility. Her pulse beat in triple-time as she waited. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the pressure of his fingers against the small of her back. Dark temptation stilled her thoughts. “What were you saying, Simon?” she whispered. “I can’t agree to unknown conditions. And I can’t see how a kiss can help anything.”
“It would help explain our peculiar position.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“Right now we appear to be a pair of star-crossed lovers.”
“Lovers?”
He shook his head in caution and withdrew his hand from her waist. Ravenna wondered whether their gathering audience had noticed this subtle interplay. He managed to look mildly annoyed, as if he resented being caught. It was an act, she realized. “Do you have a plan?” she inquired hopefully.
He nodded. Then he uttered the two words no woman with a whit of sense would ever obey: “Trust me.”
His hard chin brushed her cheek as he started to turn. From out of the air another hand, her brother’s hand, descended on Simon’s shoulder and forced him around.
Simon surrendered without objection, murmuring, “Not a word,” and released her.
Not a word. Not an explanation. Not a kiss. Just a pair of star-crossed friends, one of whom had dodged a bullet, the other who had murder in her heart for the man she had promised to marry in three weeks.
Guests and members of her family surrounded Simon like a swarm of wasps. For the second time in minutes he had become a target. And Rhys appeared to be leading the attack. Rarely had she seen such fury in her brother’s eyes. He didn’t understand what had happened. Neither did she.
She opened her mouth to suggest restraint from all parties, sneaked a glance at the duke’s intimidating profile, and thought the better of it.
She couldn’t hear his terse exchange with Rhys, or if he’d had a chance to mount a defense at all. But it seemed to her that Simon had taken charge, and if she knew what was good for her, she would have to wait, along with everyone else, to find out how intended to handle the situation.
5
In Simon’s admittedly biased view there was only one honorable answer to his dilemma. It wasn’t the appropriate time for a tell-all. None of the parties involved in the outcome looked in any mood to listen to his explanation, which he had no intention of delivering in a public forum.
A rough voice growled in his face. “What are you doing with my sister?”
“Control, Boscastle,” he said below his breath.
“Control, my arse.”
It was disconcerting, to say the least, to have moments ago come to the rescue of a desirable woman only to confront her hostile male counterpart. Rhys and Ravenna might not be identical. They looked alike enough, however, that even a casual observer would recognize their relationship. Thankfully, though, Ravenna did not boast her brother’s square jaw and broad physique.
There was no softness in Rhys’ face whatsoever. No suggestion of his friendship with Simon and bond of boyhood camaraderie. “Well, answer me,” Rhys said in a clipped voice. “What have you done, Rochecliffe?”
“Your sister is fine,” he said carefully. “Shall we discuss this inside the house?”
Silence greeted his suggestion. A well-dressed blond gentleman had sliced through the crowd. His natural insouciance identified him at once as the party’s host and once-renowned scoundrel.
When Grayson Boscastle, the fifth Marquess of Sedgecroft, stepped onstage, he was guaranteed the complete attention of his audience.
“Good evening, Rochecliffe,” he said with his usual geniality. “Ravenna.”
“What do you make of this, my lord?” another gentleman asked the marquess from the edge of the crowd.
Grayson looked down his aquiline nose. “I don’t make anything of it at all. Nothing is ever as it appears. Do let us return to the ball. I detect a shower in the air. Rain is ruinous to fine clothes.”
Simon glanced up involuntarily. Was there a cloud in the sky? There was if the marquess decreed so. In fact, if Simon listened closely he could hear rain plopping on the leaves. Few men were bold enough to gainsay the gregarious marquess, no matter what evidence said to the contrary.
Grayson’s sang-froid was so reassuring that Simon could have forgotten someone had just taken a shot at him. Of course only he and Ravenna knew otherwise.
Just as he knew the evening’s true entertainment had not even begun. Enrapt spectators observed their every twitch. Had it been otherwise he might have asked her again for that kiss. Never had a woman’s mouth invited him more. And never had opportunity presente
d itself at such an inopportune moment. He needed to refine the plan that was forming in his mind. One that included a lot of kissing.
Jane, the Marchionness of Sedgecroft, had arrived on the scene with a small contingent of servants. It was obvious she had been called in to reinforce her husband. She cast Simon and Ravenna a mistrustful look and then concentrated her efforts on coaxing the lingering curious to return to the ballroom.
“Grayson has outdone himself with this affair,” she chattered, dragging two guests away by the arm. “The Tapestry Room is open for public viewing. We have recently acquired some priceless Flemish pieces. Seats are being filled at this moment for a splendid play with the original Drury Lane cast. And, keep it a secret, dear ones, but I’ve planned a breakfast surprise to end all surprises. It will occur at approximately -- well, whenever breakfast is.”
Grayson elevated his brow. “Do we have to wait until breakfast for this wondrous event?”
“Darling,” she said with a blithe smile. “It’s such a marvelous surprise I don’t dare speak of it lest I spoil the suspense. I shall only say it will be a dream come true.”
“For me?” he asked softly. “Rowan and little Belinda have been known to sleep past breakfast.”
Husband and wife shared a potent look that even Simon in his flummoxed state could not misinterpret. He knew that Rowan and Belinda were the couple’s beloved children. He also knew who and what his dream-come-true would be. He had dreamt of Ravenna. Often and in graphic, aching detail. He’d often envisioned them together and, well, not like this. Indeed, he’d held her delectable body only once before tonight.
At last, with no evident controversy to enjoy, the gathering dispersed. Jane sent off her guests with more promises of entertainment to fulfill than Scheherazade. Yet she looked entirely unruffled as she squeezed between Rhys and Simon to attach herself to Ravenna. “I will escort her back to the house and do my part. Gentleman, I leave you to settle this imbroglio with as much good sense as you can manage.”
The Duke of a Thousand Desires Page 3