Her cousin made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort as he tossed his handsome head and fixed her with his compelling gaze; the gaze she’d once thought indicated his unconditional affirmation for her and her best interests. Now it was hard, though she knew it wasn’t anger at her, but at the situation that had suddenly ensnared them so recently. ‘That’s not very likely within a month, is it, my dear?’
She shook her head, sadly, and her shoulders slumped. ‘No,’ she replied, defeated. ‘It isn’t.’
***
The last of the applause drifted away and for a few seconds the shrill cries of the orange sellers held sway. Rising from his ironic bow for the benefit of his companion, Lord Peregrine held back the red velvet curtain that had afforded them privacy so that Xenia could pass through and join the throng of theatregoers descending the sweeping staircase.
He saw that she had fallen into conversation with a club-footed general whose more than interested eye swept appraisingly over Xenia’s abundant assets, and once again Perry felt again the familiar heating of his loins that only Xenia could inspire with a mere incendiary glance. The contours of her sack-back gown, adorned with a row of bows the length of her stomacher, recalled the more lascivious of those thoughts he’d entertained for the past decade: what it would be like to undress her, layer by layer by layer. He could only imagine how many layers there might be, but the prize would be worth the exquisite torture of restraint. He’d not revealed quite how much her proposition tonight had taken him by surprise, and the fact he’d agreed fuelled him with an odd combination of conflicting sensations—raging lust tempered by the knowledge that he’d just sunk to depths of moral depravity that might make even his uncle squirm in his grave: seduce an innocent on the eve of her nuptials. Except that Xenia maintained the young woman’s ingenuousness was a ploy. Still, Miss Rosington retained her standing in society as a paragon of virtue. What right had he to assume otherwise, just because it was convenient?
He was diverted by a squeal to his left. Xenia was moving ahead, caught up by the crowd, her head bent to absorb the admiration of her club-footed general. Peregrine meanwhile found himself unable to continue, due to the fact the young woman in front of him had snagged her skirts on what appeared to be a nail or splinter protruding from one of the supporting beams. No one could move until she’d freed herself, and as Peregrine was directly behind her it was incumbent upon him to act the gentlemen and so enable the rest of the pulsing crowd to forge ahead.
‘Please be careful, sir, it’ll tear and it’s the first time I’ve worn it,’ the young woman warned as he took a handful of stiff silk in one hand. ‘It’s my finest.’ She twisted her head round to address him. As her lips parted, revealing a set of near perfect small white teeth, and her worried blue eyes bored into his, Peregrine felt a jolt of something unidentifiable plummet like a stone to the pit of his stomach. No, further than that, for without a doubt his groin was reacting with something akin to roiling hunger. And, surprisingly, with an intensity that exceeded the dull throb of ten years of wanting Xenia like a frustrated schoolboy.
Close to, Miss Rosington was exquisite, her pale white and rose-blushed skin far more lustrous than when seen from a distance through opera glasses. Her powdered coiffure, dressed to fashionable heights, accentuated high, rounded cheekbones; and with growing excitement he followed the sweep of her graceful neck to a bosom that was rising and falling with surely greater rapidity than fear of what peril her gown might face. He liked to think that was so, as her candid look met his and the connection between them seemed like the sharp tug of some inner cord, forcing him forward, his hand brushing hers, nestled beneath a froth of silken furbelows, as they both reached for the undamaged silk petticoat, now released.
‘No harm done,’ he murmured as she drew herself up, her companion, the black-eyed viscount to whom she was affianced, returning to claim her, drawing her away with the barest of thanks.
All over in a matter of seconds, and at what cost? For while silk skirts and dignity had escaped with minimal damage, Peregrine was the first to concede, as he watched her graceful back with pounding heart and aching groin, that a great deal of harm had indeed been done.
***
‘Any damage?’ Raphael enquired over his shoulder as he drew Celeste level with him. Ridiculously, she felt as if she’d run half a mile for she was finding it difficult to breathe, constricted as she was by her stays. Not that they were tightly laced as she had the right shape naturally for the fashions of the day. But Raphael’s creased brow sent fear coursing through her as she was reminded of the night three weeks ago when he’d sent her after Harry Carstairs. She stopped and ran clammy hands over her wide skirts. Skirts supported by so many petticoats and layers, tied around her middle; dressing seemed sometimes to take forever. As did undressing, she thought with sinking heart, another image of that fateful night intruding: a room strewn with petticoats, Harry fumbling with the ties, before Miss Charlotte Paige’s shrill cry had sent them fleeing in fright. Harry had snatched Celeste’s hand, dragging her with him as they passed his horrified betrothed on his way to the front door; then down the passage and through the front door.
Celeste wondered if the young woman still had those discarded petticoats or whether she’d burned them. At the time she’d wanted to say something. To apologise. Explain. She’d thought it might come to that; a full accounting of her actions, but when Miss Paige failed to name her, Raphael had applauded Celeste for a mission accomplished in part.
His satisfaction was short-lived. Weeks later, no word had come from Harry, and Raphael’s growing agitation and bursts of anger were increasingly directed at his cousin and future wife, Celeste.
‘I asked you if you were unscathed, darling,’ Raphael repeated, an edge of impatience to his voice as Celeste recovered her wits and returned to the here and now.
Unscathed? ‘My skirts, you mean?’ she asked, hooking her hand into the crook of Raphael’s elbow and patting a curl into place as she affected the unruffled demeanour of the lady of fashion.
‘I think that is all I could be referring to, my dear Celeste, for you did not take a tumble, though you certainly look as dazed as if you’d hit your head.’ He flicked her an impatient smile. ‘You didn’t, did you?’
She felt as if she had. The brief glance she’d exchanged with that unknown gentlemen had affected her like no other encounter. His dark penetrating gaze had been more than just unsettling. He’d felt the connection, too. She was sure he had.
Celeste glanced at her skirts and shook her head.
‘Good, then I daresay it’s time to call it a night. I shall see first you and then Lady Drummond home.’ He was brisk and businesslike, as usual, ascertaining her movements for the morrow. ‘At noon you’ll have the fittings for your wedding finery and I shall see you at nine in the evening at Vauxhall with the rest of our party.’ He withdrew a snowy linen handkerchief from his coat pocket to flick across the seat of his carriage, before offering his hand to Lady Drummond and then Celeste to help them into the carriage. Such fastidiousness might appear as solicitous care to some, but Celeste found it irritating beyond extreme, sometimes. Now being one of those occasions. Raphael said he cared deeply about her—and she believed him—but not so deeply that he’d put her feelings above his own, much less on the same level.
She glanced at Lady Drummond, whose wizened face was etched with lines of weariness and whose shoulders sagged, and took a chance. The old woman was all but deaf, she knew.
‘Raphael, I want you to release me from this marriage,’ she whispered, pretending interest in her ivory fan. ‘I am trapped. I cannot cry off. Uncle will never allow it, and the whole world believes you are mad for me. I once thought it, but I cannot marry you, knowing what I know now. Please, release me from this marriage so that I might find a husband who will love me as I would wish to be loved.’
The tautness around Raphael’s lips indicated far more than his tone, that he was mightily displeased. ‘I
don’t believe this is a conversation for our short journey home in present company, my dear. Perhaps tomorrow evening we might discuss in greater detail the joys we can look forward to during our long and fruitful union.’
Celeste slid her eyes away from his thunderous expression. ‘Of course, you’re right as always, Raphael,’ she said softly.
And wondered how many times she was condemned to say those exact words in the decades that stretched ahead of her.
Chapter Two
Peregrine rubbed thoughtfully at his left knee with the sea sponge, careful not to slosh water over the side of the bathtub. Two candle sconces above the mantelpiece cast long shadows across the chamber, which was silent but for the crackle of the fire and the ebb and flow of the bathtub’s contents as Peregrine reached up to place his scoring markers on the cribbage board.
‘Ha! Trump that!’ he muttered softly, as his giant, broad-shouldered Negro manservant, Nelson, bent to study his own cards.
Nelson frowned. ‘I accept your challenge, master.’ The corner of his mouth quirked at the oblique reference to the ambiguous relationship between the two men.
Nelson could not in fact be free under the current legislation, yet it was on account of this slave’s heroic actions that Peregrine was still alive today.
Cursing as he conceded a loss at Nelson’s next play, Perry relaxed back into the soapy water, stiffening when Nelson, remarked, glancing up from his cards, ‘I gather there’s trouble a-brewing with Miss Paige, m’lord.’ Nelson’s English was as impeccable as his master’s.
Perry considered the question. In no other servant would he have countenanced such impertinence, but Nelson was not the usual servant.
Until the dramatic incident five years before, when footpads had set upon Perry one night, Nelson had been a silent, obedient footman acquired some years previously to form a matching pair.
However, since Nelson had hurled himself into the fray and succeeded in disarming to the blackguards, and doing a great deal of damage besides, before assisting a seriously wounded Perry back to his home, an unusual bond between the men had been forged. Nelson had been promoted to valet and there had been a great many mutually enjoyable conversations since then between master and servant over the cribbage board in the bathtub.
‘Trouble, yes. And more than just a-brewing,’ Perry admitted, glad of the opportunity to unburden himself. With the game concluded, Nelson held up a strip of linen to wrap about his master and Perry elaborated. ‘It’s not just my sister. There’s another young lady.’
‘There is usually another young lady.’ Nelson nodded sagely, the candlelight highlighting his noble features. Nelson had been groomed for the chieftainship before he’d been snatched from his coastal village by slavers.
Clad in his banyan and seated in his dressing room, Peregrine picked up a nail file from his grooming box and toyed with its smooth mother-of-pearl handle. He wondered if Miss Rosington’s pale skin would feel as smooth beneath his hands. The mere thought of his immoral wager made his breath quicken with desire but his conscience gave him pause. The woman had the face of an angel, but what of her morals? Xenia would have it seem they were as corrupted as his own.
‘I’ve just returned from visiting my sister, who has got it into her head that a certain young lady is the source of all her troubles.’
Charlotte’s hysteria had been disconcerting when Peregrine had ventured to suggest she might have been mistaken in identifying Miss Rosington as Harry Carstairs’ accomplice. ‘Ask her if she knows anything of this, then!’ she’d screamed, hurling a gold locket at his head. ‘I tore it from Harry’s neck as he ran past me.’ Peregrine was aware now of the locket’s oval contours against the lining of his pocket as he watched Nelson consider the matter. To be sure, the cryptic, half-torn message the locket contained was perplexing, but it was not enough to convict Miss Rosington of the charges Xenia had laid at her door.
‘Miss Paige has no husband.’ Nelson looked up from folding his master’s clothes and his mouth stretched wide in a slow grin. ‘If she blames another woman for the fact, I pity that woman. Perhaps you will have to protect her from Miss Paige’s ire, m’lord,’ he added suggestively. Charlotte was, after all, famous for her hot and cold moods.
Peregrine grunted. ‘I’m ashamed to say I’m involved in a scheme to discredit this other young woman, yet the truth is, even if she is guilty, I’ve lost the appetite.’
‘Lost the appetite?’ Nelson’s face contorted into an expression indicating great disgust. ‘So she is not a woman you’d care either to besmirch or champion?’
‘God, no!’ Peregrine shook his head emphatically. ‘She is angelic. There’s the rub. I should be flayed for entering into such devilry.’
‘You are an honourable man, m’lord. If you have doubts, I suggest you relinquish your involvement and leave this possibly innocent young woman be,’ Nelson said with another sage nod, pausing on the threshold, having brushed and put away Peregrine’s coat.
It was as if Nelson was dismissing him, Peregrine thought with a mixture of irritation and amusement as Nelson offered him a bow before stepping gracefully backwards.
‘I shall do nothing of the sort.’ He floundered for a plausible excuse, aware that his motives for furthering his acquaintance with Miss Rosington were cloudy at best. ‘Indeed, she may, as you suggest, need my protection,’ he added, feebly.
‘Then if this young lady is worthy of your protection, my lord, I wish you great joy of her.’
An ambiguous remark, Peregrine reflected as he climbed into his carriage a short while later, and took the short journey across London to Vauxhall Gardens where he was to meet Lady Busselton.
Joy of her? Well, he was fully anticipating more pleasure than pain at the end of all this, but he’d rather he was protected by the usual indifference that ensured he never lost his heart or his head. The truth was Miss Rosington, up close, had unleashed a veritable storm of emotions that denied rational explanation. A visage of such purity surely could not belong to a woman who’d betray her cousin and the man she was to marry. Hers was not the guise of a hardened strumpet capable of destroying his sister’s happiness.
Now he was in danger of becoming mawkish. He turned his head away from the gathering group of beggar children chasing his carriage, frowning deeply at the extraordinary conundrum beginning to consume him. A moral dilemma? That would be a first.
Yet if there was more to her behaviour than met the eye, Miss Rosington did need to be revealed. And if Perry went through with Xenia’s wager and Miss Rosington did indeed throw herself at Perry, as Charlotte claimed she’d done to Harry Carstairs, then Miss Rosington deserved everything she got.
Suddenly filled with charity, Peregrine tossed a handful of coins out of the carriage window, the corners of his mouth lifting as he looked back to see the children throw themselves upon the spoils like starved animals, their shouts and wails fading as the carriage rounded a bend by the river.
Yes, if the spoils were worth it, he didn’t mind getting a little dirty along the way. For ten long years he’d wanted Xenia.
Yet as he drew in a breath laden with anticipation, it was not Xenia’s heaving bosom that speared him with excitement.
Ah, Xenia, he sighed, closing his eyes to savour the thought of what shared delights would soon be his for the taking, irritated that instead of Xenia’s creamy, sculpted perfection, it was Miss Rosington’s bright-eyed visage that nagged at him.
***
Xenia was with a group of friends. He heard her trilling laugh before he saw her, causing him to stop as he rounded the Serpentine Walk to admire her confident carriage and the way she threw back her head to respond to a joke made by her companion, the notorious libertine, Sir Samuel Wray.
Sir Samuel had been much in Xenia’s company lately. The man fancied himself a poet and was in the habit of composing sonnets proclaiming the virtues of whoever happened to be his latest ladylove. Peregrine could hear him reciting something that suggest
ed Xenia now filled that role. Well, Sir Samuel was to be disappointed. Xenia, for reasons that went further than merely exhorting Perry to prove his brotherly love by unmasking Miss Rosington, had turned her focus upon Peregrine.
And Xenia, he reminded himself, was his sole reason for consorting with Miss Rosington. The ship captain’s beautiful daughter was the only woman he’d ever truly desired, and now that she’d offered him the key to her favours, he was not about to be diverted by a fresh-faced ingénue who either was complicit in his sister’s shame or, if not, was an innocent who’d not yet cut her teeth on sophisticated society and so could hold no interest for Peregrine.
As Peregrine approached, he noted that the only disguise Xenia wore tonight was a masque. Amidst her hair, powdered and ringletted as was the fashion, nestled a replica galleon, a tribute to her papa; or more specifically, her papa’s generosity. Though Xenia’s lavish wardrobe was, to all intents and purposes, funded by two wealthy late husbands, Peregrine suspected money was going to be a problem if his beautiful friend continued her spendthrift ways. Fortunately, if rumours were to be believed—and the increase in her father’s fleet suggested they were—Captain Alfred Higgin’s trade appeared to be going from strength to strength. As long as the captain was alive there’d always be someone to indulge Xenia’s rapacious appetites.
Perry stopped and smiled as Xenia pushed away from her coterie of admirers, having locked gazes with him. She’d had too much to drink and as she draped herself upon Peregrine she hiccupped, kissing his ear untidily.
‘Darling Perry, I thought you’d never come and rescue me,’ she crooned. ‘I’ve been bored to distraction, surrounded by oafs.’
‘Very poetic oafs. I heard Sir Samuel’s ode to your matchless beauty and divine purity. Have you set your sights on making him your next husband?’
‘Silly man. You and he both.’ She hiccupped again and took his hand, resting it against her heaving bosom. ‘See what you do to me. Perhaps you’ll be my next husband.’
Wicked Wager Page 2