Nothing but Trouble

by Allegra Gray

  Charity squirmed. Lord Edwards was beginning to sweat on her. Maybe this evening had been a mistake after all.

  The next turn brought them around the other couple, and she observed wryly that her mystery man’s restraint in dancing might be attributed to the fact his partner was at least twice his age—though dressed just as scantily as the birds of paradise Miss Hart had commented upon earlier.

  This time she quirked a brow, smugly satisfied that her veils hid her smile.

  Mercifully, the waltz ended.

  “I really must see to my hair,” Charity begged off, before her partner could suggest they visit the refreshment table, the terrace, or anywhere else.

  She hurried toward the retiring room, but when a backward glance confirmed Lord Edwards had turned his attention to a more receptive subject, she veered off, aiming for the card room instead. She’d had enough of dancing—an activity she could partake in at any one of dozens of events during the Season.

  The Wicked Baron, absentee host that he was, was said to offer indulgences and amusements far more unusual. Charity had a mind to explore. Not necessarily to partake—she wasn’t that bold. But after the effort she’d gone to just to get here, she at least wanted to see what all the rumors were about. Aside from the few companions she’d arrived with, no one here knew who she was. No one to judge her. No one to question. No one to be disappointed if she didn’t live up to their expectations.

  She swallowed thickly, knowing she deserved the mess she’d made of her life. She was all too aware that her own foolish actions had resulted in her capture last year. It had been her ambition to spy on men she knew to be dangerous, just so others would see as much value in her as they did in Beatrice Pullington, who’d deciphered a message meant for one of Napoleon’s spies and earned the trust of the British government.

  Only Charity hadn’t been successful like Bea. She couldn’t even live up to her own expectations, let alone those of others. And ever since, it was getting harder and harder to stay afloat in the whirlpool she’d set in motion.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow, Charity promised herself as she adjusted the veil that protected her identity, she would get her life back under control.

  Tonight, there were too many opportunities to pass up.

  “You thought this would be a likely place to meet my future wife?” Graeme scoffed.

  Ewan MacPherson, his longtime friend and his reason for attending this absurd masquerade, held by an even more absurdly-nicknamed English noble—the Wicked Baron, indeed—caught Graeme’s expression and gave a disgusted snort. “Don’t look so pained, man. If a wife is all you’re after, get yourself to Almack’s and have done with it. I just thought you might actually want to have some fun whilst doing the looking.”

  “Huh. A valid point,” Graeme conceded. Fun was a commodity he’d had precious little of in recent years. The two men had forsaken the ballroom for the card room, but after a few hands of five card loo, men at the various tables began standing up and drifting toward the adjacent room.

  Standing at its edge now, Graeme could see why. The room was darkened, save for a single lamp positioned to illuminate a screen. In the corner, a turbaned man sat cross-legged, playing softly on a reed flute. Behind the screen stood a woman, her silhouette clearly outlined as she danced to the foreign tune, touching herself in ways no lady would dream of.

  The remainder of the parlor was littered with sofas, benches, and chaises, upon which an assortment of Grecian goddesses, faerie queens, and woodland nymphs perched, some attending to a nearby gentleman, others gazing beckoningly toward the doorway.

  Graeme rolled his eyes and whispered, “Somehow, I doubt any of them are likely to make a good wife and mother.”

  “You never know,” Ewan shot back. “You know what they say about certain widows…”

  Graeme just shook his head. He was here now. There would be other, more appropriate engagements at which he might meet a wife. In the meantime, the masquerade was an ideal venue for honing his skills at flirtation. It had been an age since he’d courted anyone seriously, and, earl or not, he’d need some finely honed skills to tempt a woman once she realized how far from civilization he lived.

  He squared his shoulders. “Very well. Upon which of these mythical creatures shall I lavish my attentions?” He kept his voice low—not that the crowd captivated by the screen woman was paying him any attention.

  His friend laughed. “You look prepared to do battle. Just pick a pretty lass and I daresay you needn’t do more than sit down and the rest will take care of itself. Not that brunette over there, though—I’ve my eye on her already. Hell, Graeme, I know you’ve done this before.”

  Graeme just grunted in response. Off course he had. Quite a lot of it, actually. But that was before his father had died. Before he’d inherited an earldom and all the responsibility that came with it. Other lairds had cleared their lands of crofters, making way for sheep to graze and tolling the death knell for the old clan way of life. Graeme had worked long and hard to prevent his own people from having to leave. Not to mention the responsibilities of caring for his young ward, Nathan. He wouldn’t trade any of it, but the days of his youthful exploits seemed terribly distant. Ewan, as the second son of a wealthy Lord of Parliament, the Scottish equivalent of the English title of baron, had far fewer responsibilities.

  “Ease off,” his friend advised him. “One night of fun can’t hurt ‘ere you consign yourself to matrimonial bliss.”

  Ewan’s tone made clear the two men shared at least one opinion: matrimony rarely had anything to do with bliss. Graeme’s own parents had been a rare exception, though that had made his father’s death doubly hard on his mother.

  Ach. His friend was right. He had grown too serious. He forced himself to smile, the expression growing warmer as his gaze fell on the shapely Indian princess who’d just floated into the room. She’d caught his eye before, while dancing. Her every step, every movement oozed sensuality.

  The gauzy fabric of her costume clung to her curves, caressing them like a lover. Her bodice was cut low, the shapely tops of her breasts thrust up for a provocative display, while veils hid most of her face from view. Only her eyes, long-lashed and rimmed with kohl, could be seen. Eyes that beckoned a man to discover more. The combination of sexual appeal with mystery held an allure he couldn’t deny.

  For the first time, Graeme gave real credence to his friend’s advice. After all, what harm could come from one night of flirtation?

  “Go on.” He nudged Ewan toward the brunette. “Stand too long next to me in a place like this and people will start to talk.”

  His friend disappeared with a chuckle, and Graeme turned his attention to the Indian princess. She stood a few feet in front of him, paused behind a sofa toward the far back of the room where the shadow woman plied her trade. The sultry princess shifted, her stance uncertain.

  Don’t leave, he silently implored her.

  The shadow woman behind the screen turned in profile, tipped her head back and slowly, deliberately, ran her hands over her breasts and pinched her nipples. Men in the audience groaned and shifted in their seats, but Graeme hardly noticed. The mysterious princess held his focus. Her eyes widened at the provocative display. She cast a glance toward the door, but her feet stayed planted.

  He angled himself to see her better. There was something about the way her costume offered tantalizing glimpses of skin, yet obscured most of her face. Except her eyes. The room was too dim to make out their color, but he was drawn to them nonetheless—especially the way they’d widened when she realized what was going on behind the screen. Shock? Yes. But there was something else. Something evidenced by her decision to stay. To continue watching. She looked…captivated.

  A surge of lust flooded him. Who was this woman? An actress? A courtesan? Please, he prayed as he moved so that he stood just behind her, please don’t let her be a married woman. Disguised or not, he didn’t fancy lusting after another man’s wife—even for a night. Whoeve
r she was, he found her combination of hesitation and interest far more alluring than the unfettered invitations being issued by the other females present.

  He bent his head to her ear. “Are you enjoying the shadow play?” he whispered.

  She flicked her gaze to him and he saw the flare of recognition before she turned back to the screen. She remembered him from the dance floor. Graeme found this oddly gratifying.

  She hesitated, her chest rising and falling with a deliberate breath, before she responded. The slight movement drew his attention to the swell of her breasts. She was slender, but with curves sufficient to hold a man’s interest. They were certainly holding his interest.

  “It is quite… quite… intriguing,” she finally responded, her voice so low he had to lean even closer. Not that he minded.

  Graeme smiled in the darkness, amused at her obvious struggle to find a proper response to a situation that was anything but proper. It was the response an innocent might give, though that had to be an act. No lamb walked knowingly into a lion’s den.

  Another moment passed, and still the Indian princess did not move away. Hmm. Proper, yet not proper enough to hightail it to the safety of her home. Unable to ignore her allure, he decided to test her further.

  “The performer seems quite enthusiastic. Do you also enjoy such things?”

  “I’ve never—“ she cut herself off on a strangled note.

  Interesting. He tried a different tack. “Do you dream of being touched the way she is touching herself?” he whispered.

  She sucked in a breath, but did not tear her eyes from the screen.

  Encouraged, he touched her shoulder lightly, stroked her upper arm. Her skin was warm satin. She shivered and leaned back into him ever so slightly. Arousal lit his senses, making him aware of every nuance of her movement. He was nearly hard already, and he’d barely touched her arm. He didn’t even know her name. But he knew his reaction was to her. No shadow woman could affect him like this. He hadn’t even been interested in the other “delights” to be found at the masquerade.

  He stroked her other arm, then brought both his hands to cup her rib cage, sliding them down to her waist, her hips. A sigh escaped her, and he pulled her back until her body aligned with his, her bottom nestled against his growing erection.

  They were doing far less than some of the room’s occupants—indeed, far less than the shadow woman was now doing to herself, but he hadn’t felt such an intense pull of attraction in years.

  He bent his head to her neck, kissing the sensitive spot beneath her ear, his mind swimming with the heady scent of her—sweet and feminine, a contrast to her sultry costume. He touched his tongue to her skin as his hand skimmed her torso, rising to cup her breast. She whimpered, a sound of need that sent him from semi-aroused to rock hard.

  By God, he had to find out who she was before he went mad with desire. But how was he going to stop touching her long enough to suggest they retreat to the card room for polite introductions?

  At the front of the room a man stood, pulling his partner by the hand. Her breasts already spilled from her costume and he turned to fondle one as he backed up, tugging her along, presumably headed for more a private location.

  The couple stumbled in their haste, and the man bumped against the screen in front. It tipped precariously and fell, knocking the lamp to the ground as well.

  The room plunged into darkness, save for tiny flames that sparked up from the floor.

  The erotic mood shattered as women shrieked and men rushed forward to stomp out the licking flames. Someone lit another lamp, and the shadow woman, revealed in naked flesh, scrambled to cover herself and ran from the room.

  Graeme released the Indian princess, joining the men at the front. Mere stomping would not put out the flames if they caught on the puddle of spilled lamp oil. He pulled off the heavy folds of his domino and elbowed his way through the crowd, then dropped the pile of fabric over the small fire to smother it. He gave the pile a few stomps himself for good measure.

  The shrieks subsided as the crowd realized the danger had passed. Men and women alike, engaged moments before in sensual play, now made hasty adjustments to their clothing.

  Graeme lifted his head and looked back to the doorway, but his princess was gone.

  Charity returned to the ballroom, her heart’s racing already beginning to slow. What had she just done? Or almost done? Had it not been for the fiery interruption, she’d have willingly given herself over to the seduction of an enigmatic stranger.

  She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, then forced them open again. It didn’t matter. The moment was over. Nothing had happened. He didn’t even know her name, nor she his. She listlessly selected a spot on the wall against which to stand.

  She was tired, so tired. The wine she’d drunk earlier—which she was now almost certain had been laced with opium—seeped through her system, fogging her mind and weighing down her limbs. The initial euphoria, the euphoria that had driven her to the arms of the man in the burgundy domino, was gone. It had been the result of the wine…hadn’t it?

  She gazed across the ballroom, unwilling to admit to herself she was looking for him. Unfortunately, he was nowhere to be seen, and even the most outrageous behavior of the other guests could barely hold her interest. That was fine. Tonight she would get what she wanted most. She’d be able to sleep. Just not yet. By the ton's standard's, tonight's entertainment had just begun. It would be hours before her companions would wish to return home. That was the trouble with sneaking out. She had no carriage of her own.

  She selected another glass of wine from a nearby table and sipped, more slowly this time.

  A man dressed as a knight approached, looking hopefully between her and the dance floor. She shook her head. "I find my energy flagging," she admitted.

  "A stroll outdoors to revive you, perhaps?"

  Charity glanced around. Lord Edwards, Lord Blythe, and Miss Hart had long since abandoned her, melting into the crowd of pleasure-seekers. Who knew when they would reappear? A breath of fresh air did sound appealing. They needn’t go further than the terrace. She nodded. "That sounds lovely, thank you."

  She breathed deeply as they stepped outside, the cool night air a welcome respite from the oppressively stuffy ballroom. Murmurs and giggles floated toward them from the darker corners of the terrace and garden. Nothing unusual there. Her own first kiss had occurred in a garden at a ball.

  The knight escorting her exerted a pull on her elbow, guiding her into the dark.

  Charity slowed, a vague unease seeping through her opium-aided calm. “This is nice, here on the terrace.”

  “It will be even nicer if we go further into the garden,” he insisted. “Come, there is something I want to show you.”

  There is something I want to show you? Charity rolled her eyes. Every girl over the age of fifteen knew to beware those words. Since her companion appeared well past his teens, he ought to have improved on such techniques by now.

  She planted her feet. “Surely you can give me a hint before luring me into the dark?”

  He gave her an oily grin. “A hint, is it? I’d be obliged.”

  Too late she smelled the liquor on his breath, for his grasp on her elbow tightened as he yanked her close, landing a sloppy kiss on the veil covering her mouth.

  “Bit of an exhibitionist, are you? Like to be in sight of the house?” He chuckled, the sound making her cringe. “The baron always invites the best sort of women to his parties.”

  Charity blinked at the backhanded compliment.

  “These bloody veils are in the way,” the knight muttered, pawing at the gauzy layers.

  She stepped quickly back. He was hardly the first man she’d seen become clumsy with liquor or ardor. If her own mind hadn’t been so foggy, she’d have registered his impairment much sooner.

  A cool sensation tickled the back of her neck as though a breeze had snuck beneath the veils that shrouded her. But the evening was still. Looking up, she once
more locked gazes with the wicked stranger who’d whispered to her, touched her, in the shadow parlor. His burgundy domino was gone, but there was no disguising the strong jaw or the heat of recognition in his gaze. She’d seen him, caught that first hint of interest, while dancing. Then…the parlor. Her skin heated at the memory.

  He’d touched her, and she’d responded—oh, how she’d responded. It had been mindless—a moment’s indulgence brought on by the sensual shadow play and the daze of the opium wine.

  Now, he stood in the shadows, his expression once more appraising. Why? Could he not see her discomfort?

  The drunken knight had paused to adjust his lopsided armor, oblivious to the silent interaction of the other two on the terrace.

  A dark thought made Charity shiver. Perhaps her shadow-room stranger had no intention of stepping in to aid her. Perhaps he was merely waiting his turn. After all, she was attending a party known for its guests’ loose behavior—and she’d already given him reason to think she would not turn a man away.

  She had just enough presence of mind to know she didn’t have full control of her faculties. And to know that some mistakes could not be undone. It didn’t matter how attractive she found him. She dared not let him touch her again.

  Finally, her tired brain was roused to action as she realized the danger she was in. She was reasonably certain she could deflect one man. But two? She'd better think fast.

  There she was again. His Indian princess, this time with an ardent knight in tow. Though, from her reaction to the knight’s kiss, she did not share the gentleman’s enthusiasm.

  Graeme stopped. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off the mysterious woman from the moment he’d first seen her. Those brief, erotic moments in the dark had left him entranced, aching for more—though seeing her in trouble now quashed some of that urge.

  Whoever she was, she made a highly unlikely candidate for the position of his future wife. But he couldn’t walk away. Not when she might need his help.