by Once a Rogue
Lance looked around the hall, remembering that particular horror. “Hmmm. I don’t see the savage here. Hopefully she won’t come tonight. She should be at court and with the Queen in mourning for Leicester she won’t be able to leave.”
Regarding her brother thoughtfully, she fluttered her fan. Men could be so incredibly blind and stubborn. “How do you know she’s not here, Lance? I doubt you’d know her if you saw her. How many years has it been?”
He scowled deeply, calculating. “Three or four. Or five. But I’d know that savage anywhere.”
“I hope that’s true Lance.” She sighed. “For your sake.”
“Meaning?”
“Lady Catherine Mallory just might take you by surprise.” Stranger things had happened, she mused to herself. A person simply never knew what lay in store.
“Ha!” He laughed at that idea, so sure of himself and his infallibility.
“You’d better go to the Earl before Bess gets her claws in,” she muttered, sighting Bess Percy’s bosomy figure prowling nearby, seeking out her prey.
Lance kissed her hand and left her at the punch bowl, striding over to greet the Earl. She daren’t look. Her brother was about to meet the man with whom she’d just spent one gloriously wicked summer in the country.
If that was John Carver over there and not a very, very clever imposter instead.
Oh Lord! Why was he there?
He must have found some sly way to enter the banquet uninvited.
Suddenly he looked over his wide shoulder and their eyes met through their masks. His gaze was heated, rigorous, knowing, as if he felt that volatile fluttering inside her. He smiled very slightly, raised his mask with one hand and winked very imprudently, leaving her in no doubt.
It was no imposter. John Carver observed her across that crowded hall with a provocative, covetous admiration, so compelling she could not tear her own gaze away. Even if fire broke out she wouldn’t have run. His steadfast, pervasive scrutiny rocked her spine. She tasted him in her throat. She heard him groan as his damp lips played over her nipples and they actually peaked under her gown, taut and hard.
And now, rather than wait to be introduced to her brother, he came toward her through the crowd, pushing people aside ruthlessly until he reached her, bowed his head and offered his hand.
His clothes were very fine, his hair was brushed. He might almost have been another man, if not for those eyes, so blue and deeply searching, the breadth of his shoulders and the rough skin of his hands. As if he feared she might escape, he gripped her fingers and led her into the dance, a sweeping lavolta. She couldn’t have told anyone whether he danced well, or even if she did. They moved through the motions together, but her mind focused on the touch of his hands, the energy thrumming through his fingers. At one point, with his hands on her waist, he lifted her high enough to cause a few gasps from the watching crowd, but since she was already flying, exuberant and giddy, it didn’t matter to her. He might have thrown her in the air completely. As long as he was there to catch her, she wouldn’t protest. Each graze of his fingertips quickened her pulse. His eyes never left her lips, riveted there, predatory.
Dimly, along the border of the dance, she saw the blur of faces watching them, lips whispering, fans drifting. John’s forefinger stroked her palm and she looked up into his masked face. He must stop devouring her with his eyes, touching her like this in a banquet hall full of people, it was positively indecent. Surely everyone saw it. Was he mad? He smiled again, licentious and with a certain peremptory insolence.
No, he was not mad, just a rogue of the worst order. She supposed he was there to cause her trouble because of what she’d done to him. Now he wanted his vengeance.
The dancers spun, the men lifting their partners again amid many squealing, excited, but ultimately demure cries, and when John lifted her likewise, it was again too high and for too long. He put his head back to look up at her, his fingers spread wide around her slender waist, staking his claim. The other women were all down, their feet on the ground again, but Lucy was still suspended, sliding down his body, permitted, by his strong, merciless grip, to go no faster.
“Put me down,” she choked out, her own small hands nervously fluttering against his flexing shoulders.
When he neither obeyed nor answered, she repeated her demand, agitated and pettish.
“I told you before,” he said quietly, “I’m not accustomed to uppity wenches making all the decisions.”
“Put me down, or so help me God…”
“What’ll you do? Scream at me again? Throw your shoe at me again? Tell me you can’t love me, drive me wild with that damnably irresistible, flagrantly wanton, deliciously insatiable little body and then leave me again?”
At last her toes met tile. The moment she felt that reassurance she flew into action, stamping him hard on the foot until he released her. Somehow she made it through the crowd and found her way to the punch bowl.
Her stomach made odd twists and flips. The supper she’d eaten earlier threatened to make a sudden reappearance. She glanced back at the dancers but couldn’t see the audacious, salty-mouthed rogue. Turning away, she grabbed a cup of punch from the servant and drank it down swiftly.
“Lucy, my dear. Lucy Collyer! I’m so glad you came. Your brother wasn’t sure you’d come. I told him he absolutely must persuade you.” The Countess of Swafford glided toward her with a smile that gleamed as brightly as the priceless ruby gemstones, cut in the shape of pomegranate seeds, dangling from her ears. “He feared you were not well, but I am thankful you decided to join us.”
Lucy curtseyed, her gaze lowered demurely. “I would not miss it, my lady. How could I resist a masked banquet with dancing?”
“And that is exactly what I told your brother.” The Countess signaled to the servant for a cup of punch. “Sadly the Queen does not attend. She’s in mourning for her beloved Robin, Earl of Leicester.” The two women stood together a while, watching the dancers, and then the Countess said, “You recently enjoyed a stay in the county of Norfolk, Lucy?”
“Yes.” No doubt the entire city of London was abuzz with rumors about Lord Winton’s runaway bride.
“I was born and raised in Norfolk, you know. I have family there still. A mother and my young brother.”
“I did not know, my lady.” She hesitated. “Norfolk is a beautiful county.”
“You liked it there? I’m very glad. Do you plan to return?”
“Oh…oh no. I don’t suppose I’ll go there again.” She passed her cup back to the servant for more punch. “I am thirsty this evening,” she muttered. “It’s very hot in here.” She was, in fact, extremely dizzy and, as the last word left her mouth, she stumbled against the table, gripping the tapestry cloth. It was possible, she thought drearily, that she’d contracted the sweat, a deadly disease capable, once symptoms set in, of vanquishing previously healthy folk in a matter of days. There were no reports of the sweat in the area, yet she supposed it had to start somewhere. Why not with her?
“My dear Lucy! You’re very white indeed. Perhaps you should take some air on the terrace. I see you’re overheated and it’s not good for the blood. Our lawns lead down to the river. On a starry night there is a pretty view with willows and shrubs. Pity there are no stars or moon tonight, but we have rush torches lit around the house.” The chattering Countess was already steering her out onto the terrace and Lucy couldn’t get a word in edgeways. “You sit there, see the little stone bench? I’ll tell your brother where you are. Now sit there, my dear, and be still. Don’t move! Not a finger.”
Not daring to do otherwise, she sat on the stone bench and stared at the ink black moonless sky. She barely felt the cold. Her stomach still churned, a strange heat lurking there as it had done for some time, since she’d left Norfolk.
Hearing steps on the terrace, she thought it was Lance come to find her, but when she looked over her shoulder she saw John, torchlight stroking the side of his face, casting his strong figure in precio
us metal.
Even when she closed her eyes and opened them again, he was still there.
“John Carver,” she gasped out, trembling. “Why are you here? What can you mean by this? Have you any idea how much danger you court by coming here?” Her thoughts refused to link themselves in any sensible order. Instead, high ideals of what she ought to say and do mingled like tangled ribbons around a maypole. Ruthless, giddy passions, juxtaposed with plain, trivial matters that tried to work their way through and save her in the name of practical good sense.
He passed her seat, striding to the stone balustrade where trails of ivy rattled crisply. There, he peered down on the black lawn for a moment. “It’s a long way down, longer than I thought. But it’s the only way.” He held out his hand. “Let’s jump together.”
“Ridiculous!” She clenched her fan so tightly, she heard one of the struts snap. “I can’t go anywhere with you.”
He dropped his hand and leaned back against the balustrade, arms folded high. “It’s cold out here.”
“I’m not cold. I’m too hot. That’s why I came out here. The cold air doesn’t bother me.”
“You look pale.”
“Good. Please go back inside.” She opened her broken fan, but her fumbling fingers dropped it and in the blink of an eye he sprang forward, crouched down and rescued it from the flagstone.
Still on one knee, he ripped off his mask and looked into her eyes. “Marry me.”
Voice high and fraught, she exclaimed, “I’m already married.” Those were the words she should have said weeks ago, months ago, and saved them both this heartache.
“That doesn’t count,” he replied airily. “I’ll dispose of the blackguard and you’ll come home with me.”
To him it was simple: he wanted and therefore, being John Sydney Carver, he thought he should have. For Lucy, who’d never even known what she truly wanted until she met him, there were too many complications, insurmountable hills to climb. He could not come here, into her world, and try to change it. Her world was cynical and cold. Courtesy was according to custom and love stood aside for duty, ambition and financial gain. It was a world where one fell in and out of favor in the space of a few days, where one’s friends were abundant in fine weather, scarce in bad. In this world she survived by hardening her heart and presenting an urbane, facile appearance, her inner desires suppressed.
He was out of place in that ugly world and yet he was there, too forthright and plain-spoken, too enchanting, too ruggedly handsome in the rippling, blustery flame of the rush torches. So the best she could do was say, rather weakly, “If my father and Lord Winton discover you here with me…John, you could be killed. At the very least you’ll be sued, ruined.”
She tried to retrieve her fan, but he kept it. Their fingers touched. “You don’t think I can defend myself, Lucy?”
She groaned at his typical male chest-thumping. “I don’t want it to be necessary. I never meant to cause you any harm. That’s the last thing I want.”
He bowed his head, thinking for a while. “And what’s the first thing you want?” he asked quietly.
It welled up in her, burst out over her lips. “If I said it was you, John, what good would it do? In a perfect world, I’d want you.” She bit back her tears, angry at them. “But this world is far from perfect. Just like you and me.”
Chapter 22
John got off his knee and sat with her on the bench. He would have put his arm around her, but she slid away to the end of that small, cold, hard bench.
“How is your mother?” she asked politely, as if this was any other, civilized discussion between two acquaintances.
“She’s well, but suffering the aches and pains of winter.” He paused. “Alice has been a vast help to her this season.”
Her lips parted, but it took a moment for any sound to come out. “Oh?”
“Yes. She just married Martin Frye, by the way. In case you’re interested. Don’t suppose you are, though.”
Her shoulders relaxed and she flipped open her fan, fluttering it under her chin, ignoring the broken strut. “I’m very happy for her. She’s a very…pleasant young woman.”
When he snorted with laughter, she tossed a haughty glare over her fan. “How is Vince?”
“Missing you. Stupid beast got too attached.” Then he added flippantly, “He always does fixate on any old stray glove or bone he digs up.”
She ignored the comment. “And my little Pip?” Flutter, flutter, flappity, flutter went the lame feathers of her fan, wielded as if the sun was beating down on her face and it wasn’t a biting cold night at the very end of October.
“Pip?” He feigned confusion.
“My piglet!”
“Oh him?” He sighed, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his stocky thighs. “He’s bacon.”
The fan snapped shut, eyes filled with plump, glossy tears. “John!”
Abruptly he laughed. “Not really, you little fool. Your pampered pet is fat and happy. Certainly no more a piglet.”
Her alarm shattered, transforming to piquant anger before he could blink an eye. “How could you! I don’t know whether to believe you.”
He slid closer, heart hammering away in his chest. “Best come back to Souls Dryft and make certain then.”
“Get away from me,” she cried, “heartless murderer of innocent pigs!”
Defending himself from her insults yet again, he asked her where she thought bacon and pork came from before it landed on her plate, to which she replied that she didn’t ever have to think of it, until she went to live with him. Now she swore never to let another bite pass her lips.
He tried to recapture her hand, but she moved it constantly, opening and closing her fan, fidgeting with her hair, deliberately denying him the chance.
Of course he knew she’d be difficult, contrary. She always was, from the very beginning. He reached into that fine new doublet. “I bought you something.”
“I….I don’t want…”
He unrolled a small remnant of taffeta and there, in his cupped palm, lay her pearl earrings. “I promised myself I’d put them on you, the next time I saw you.”
Rather than look at the earrings or at him, she stared up at the vast expanse of moonless sky. The sight of her in that mask, her profile lit by the flickering, dodging flames of the rush torches, reminded him of their first encounter and other thoughts, heated and sensual, quickly followed. “But I’ll have you naked first,” he whispered huskily. “And then I’ll make love to you while you’re wearing them, like I did before.” Oh, that made her look at him. “When I took your maidenhead.” Her green eyes widened under that mask, her lips parted for a damp breath, a ghostly cloud around her mouth.
“Don’t say things like that. You mustn’t. Someone might hear.”
He rolled the earrings up again, tucking them back inside his doublet, smiling at the image in his mind. His blood quickened, a familiar sensation already aching in his lower regions, heavy and demanding. “Tonight, leave your window open for me.”
“You’re mad…utterly insane!”
“Possibly,” he agreed, grinning. She was too beautiful in the amber torchlight, and he might just take her there on the terrace if she continued looking at him with her eyes flaring, lips pursed and proud little chin raised in defiance.
She pretended to be so brave, but inside, under that mask, she was a frightened girl who needed him. As much as he needed her.
“I love you so much, I might die from it,” he said. “Then won’t you feel guilty?”
He saw the flutter of a nervous pulse in her slender throat. It was too much to resist, but when he slid after her along the bench, she stood hastily, hurrying toward the doors.
After her like an arrow, he trapped her against the ivy-clad wall. “Don’t run away from me,” he breathed, holding her there, his lips on hers, his words whispered into her mouth. “For once, Lucy, don’t run away. Haven’t you run enough? Face up to it. Face what you’ve done.”
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His urgent kiss smothered her indignant cry of protest and very soon she melted against the wall. Her hands, once raised to push him away, now gripped his doublet, pulling him closer. He leaned into her body, wishing they had no barrier of clothing, hating her farthingale for keeping him at any distance. He wanted her back home again in simple, soft clothes, not full of decoration that scratched and discouraged touching.
“Let me love you,” he breathed into her ear, while she trembled. “Let me love you as you deserve to be loved. Isn’t that what you chose me for on that first night? You knew, even then, that I was the right man for you.”
She made a small, halting sound and he felt the final moment of shaking uncertainty, before she gave in. Bolder now, she kissed him and he knew at last the solace he’d longed for. There were no more secrets. He would make up for all those years of unhappiness she’d spent without him, and she could stop running away from her life.
Music from the banquet slowly intruded on his thoughts. Remembering where they were, he stepped back, watching her smooth out her gown. Patience, he chided himself. If he stayed longer he might lose that precious commodity. The touch of her lips had resulted in the usual, almost-instantaneous effect on the single-minded barbarian in his breeches, and if he didn’t get inside quickly, it would soon be past the point of no return. And he was trying to be chivalrous, as he’d promised his sister and his mother.
Without another word, he slid back through the doors into the banquet.
Well, she knew now where he stood and what he wanted. He’d nailed his colors to the mast. The next move was hers.
* * * *
She waited several minutes, recovering from that shattering kiss. What a fool she’d been, yet again, to imagine she might forget him eventually, at least enough to go on with her life without him in it. She’d actually expected, somehow, to function while he was elsewhere in the world, away from her, out of her hands.
But it was hopeless. She was a soul in bondage to him and there was no reasoning with this love.
John’s mother had said to her once, “We shall never be younger than we are today.” The truth of it surrounded her, lifted her up out of the abyss. Every moment counted, every breath, every word. She would never waste another and wouldn’t let him either.