Jack looked from Penelope to Lilith, who gave a slight nod. Jack excused himself from Price and moved through the crowd toward the refreshment table. Belatedly realizing that she was staring, Lilith turned her back to earnestly contemplate a potted plant. It seemed an eternity before Pen came up beside her again. Her friend’s color was high, and her pretty hazel eyes held an excited light.
“Lord Dansbury,” she said under her breath, joining Lilith’s study of the plant, “thinks you might enjoy the Thomas Lawrence portrait of Lord Mistner which hangs over the mantel in the drawing room.” Pen stifled a giggle. “And that you might like it best of all at half past midnight.”
Lilith looked over at the nearest clock. It was nearly that now. A shivering thrill went through her at the thought of speaking with him. She should not, she knew. She should forget him, ignore him, and make the best of what would hopefully be a marriage where the couple had as little to do with one another as possible. Arranged marriages happened all the time among her peers. Her own parents’ marriage had been arranged. Lilith grimaced, then glanced at Pen. “Thank you,” she whispered.
At precisely twenty-eight minutes after midnight, she approached a harried-looking Lady Mistner. “My lady,” she smiled, hoping no one could sense the rush of excitement running through her, “I heard that your husband was painted by Thomas Lawrence. I am a particular admirer of Mr. Lawrence, and I wondered if I might see the portrait?”
Lady Mistner glanced about her teeming ballroom and motioned to a servant to bring in a fresh platter of confections. “My dear…Miss Benton, I should be delighted to have you over to show you our newest treasure,” she smiled, commanding another footman to bring in more wine.
Lilith stifled a scowl. This was supposed to be simple. “Oh, I don’t mean to inconvenience you,” she protested. “I can go look at it on my own, of course.”
Her hostess sighed, obviously feeling put out. “I wouldn’t hear of it. This way, my dear.”
“Thank you, my lady, but really…”
Lady Mistner hurried off down the hallway, and with a muffled curse, Lilith quickly followed behind her.
“I assure you, my lady,” she continued in a loud voice as they reached the door, “I don’t wish to take you from the rest of your guests.”
The lady looked at her like she was some sort of oddity, then crinkled her eyes in another forced smile. “Nonsense, dear.” She pushed open the door. “If I do say so myself, this is among Mr. Lawrence’s finest works.”
Lilith looked frantically about the room, ready to exclaim her surprise at finding the Marquis of Dansbury there before them. He was nowhere to be seen. She frowned; then, as she noticed Lady Mistner turning in her direction, she quickly looked at the portrait hung above the fireplace. “Oh, my,” she gushed, clutching her hands together in admiration—and to disguise their trembling. “It’s magnificent.” She leaned over to look behind the couch, but Jack wasn’t there, either. “Quite stunning. The way he’s used the light…I do believe you’re right. This may be his finest piece.”
Lady Mistner’s smile warmed at the flattery. “I told Malcolm it was well worth the time spent sitting for it.”
“Oh, yes,” Lilith agreed. “He has captured the true essence of Lord Mistner, I do believe.”
“Lady Mistner?” Penelope leaned into the doorway, her swift glance at Lilith. “My apologies, but did you wish the musicians to have a break now?”
The lady blanched. “No! Not before the second waltz!” She turned to Lilith, who put out a hand.
“Please, do go. I’ll be along in a moment.”
“Oh, thank you, dear.” With a bustle of skirts, Lady Mistner hurried out the door. Pen winked at Lilith and pulled the door shut as she followed their hostess.
“My goodness,” Lilith breathed, fanning at her face and dropping onto the couch.
“‘The true essence’?” a deep voice said from the direction of the window, and Lilith bolted to her feet. Jack stepped in through the half-open window and pushed it shut as he hopped down to the floor. “The true essence of Mistner has a great deal more belly and jowl, I believe.”
“You were outside?” she asked, incredulous.
“On the second blasted floor, I might point out.” He grinned, strolling toward her. “Thank God it wasn’t raining.” The sensual hold of his dark eyes was as palpable as the memory of his arms around her in the night. “What the devil was she doing with you?”
“I asked her permission to see the portrait. I didn’t expect her to accompany me.” Indignation colored her cheeks, and at the sight, Jack’s grin broadened.
“I didn’t mean you should ask to come in here,” he murmured. “Proper chit. If you hadn’t bellowed outside the door, things might have become awkward.”
“I don’t bellow.” Good Lord, she was pleased to see him, and to talk to him again. It felt like forever, instead of a mere day, since they’d been together.
“You did a fine imitation, then.” He closed the distance between them, and she shivered as he ran his palm slowly along her cheek. She wanted him, she craved him, but when he leaned his face down toward hers, she turned away.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
For a moment he was still, his hand encircling her waist. Then he released her and stepped back. “You came in here,” he said, his tone almost accusing.
“I…feel responsible for the trouble you’re in,” she responded, not daring to look at him.
“I’m responsible for my own damned troubles,” he growled. “Always have been. And I…worry…that my stupidity is what’s gotten Wenford engaged to you.”
“It’s not your doing. My father would have sold me to have a dukedom,” she said bitterly. “Remember?” Slowly she turned to face him, to find that he was looking at her with mingled frustration and concern in his intelligent eyes.
“We are a shambles, you and I,” he whispered. She wondered if he could see in her eyes how much she loved him. “Lil, answer me a question.”
“I’ll try. But please hurry. If we’re seen—”
“I won’t let that happen.” He smiled softly. “I promised I wouldn’t hurt you ever again.” She blushed again at the memory the words conjured, and he gently touched her cheek again. “If, hypothetically speaking, you could avoid marrying Dolph, would you?”
He would leave, she sensed, if she told him that she intended to marry Dolph. But this was the true Jack Faraday standing before her, the one who had held her last night, the one who allowed uncertainty and vulnerability to show on his lean, handsome countenance. “There is no way to avoid it,” she began.
“Lil—”
“But, if there was a way, then no, I would not marry him.”
He relaxed a little. “If he could be proven to be a murderer, and thus an unsuitable match for Miss Benton, would you wish for that to happen?”
“Jack, if you can clear your name, for heaven’s sake, do it. I won’t have you hung if you have proof that Dolph actually killed—”
The marquis shook his head. “Don’t interrupt me, Lil; I’m attempting to be gallant and proper. I have several suspicions and hunches, but no proof. I can likely weather this, even if I have to spend a year or two in Scotland or Italy before it blows over. For once, worry over yourself. What do you want, Lil?”
“‘For once,’” she repeated, her laugh brittle. “I’m all I ever think about. Will I be happy with what my family needs? Do I—”
“Lilith,” he said, his tone and expression so suddenly angry that it startled her, “I daresay the only selfish thing you’ve done in the past six years was to share my bed last night. It’s not a crime to want to be happy, for God’s sake!” He glared at her. “Now answer my damned question. Do you want me to proceed against bloody Dolph Remdale?”
She shut her eyes, trying to shut him out. It would be easier to stop her heart from beating. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I want you to proceed.”
Slowly she opened her eyes again. His gaze
held another emotion entirely now. “One more question,” he murmured, sliding his hand about her waist and pulling her close against him. “If I were, say, Galahad, would you consider me as a suitor?”
She couldn’t believe he would even ask the question. But looking into his eyes, neither could she convince herself that this seasoned, cynical rakehell was only teasing.
“If I were not engaged to the Duke of Wenford, and you were Galahad, yes, I would allow you to court me,” she answered, trying to be flippant and knowing her heartache must sound in her voice. If only it were so. For a few moments early this morning, she had been able to imagine a happiness that would last through the rest of her life. A happiness that had nothing to do with who or what she should be, and everything to do with whom and what she wanted. “But you’re not.”
“Pretend.”
This time when he leaned down toward her, she rose up on her toes to meet his mouth with her own. For an insane moment she wished she had the courage to lock the drawing room door and let him continue. Though it was her mouth he touched, every part of her seemed alive and aware of him. She slipped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
“Jack,” she murmured, “I love you.”
He froze, a hundred emotions touching his eyes. “Beg pardon?” he whispered.
There was no taking it back now, and she didn’t think he was entirely displeased to hear it. “I—”
“Mrs. Farlane,” Penelope’s voice said, gratingly loud and right outside the door, “I’m certain I saw Lil out with Mary, on the balcony.”
The blood drained from Lilith’s face. If Aunt Eugenia caught them together, everything would be ruined. Especially her.
“Good God,” Jack muttered, and pulled away. He strode for the window and yanked it open. At the last moment he looked over his shoulder at her and grinned, his eyes dancing. “I’ll be hanging about, if you need me. And Lil, don’t get too attached to your betrothed. He’s about to be finished with you, one way or another.”
The door opened as he vanished, and Lilith whirled toward the painting. Just as quickly she made a show of starting and turning to see who had entered the room. “Aunt Eugenia.” She smiled, indicating the portrait. “Have you seen this? It’s magnificent, don’t you think?”
Her aunt scowled. “What I think is that the future Duchess of Wenford should not be skulking about in drawing rooms, when Lady Fenbroke is organizing a card party for a few select guests.”
“Oh, splendid,” Lilith forced out, and gestured her aunt to precede her from the room. As she left, she glanced back at the half-open window and the darkness beyond. Confident as he’d seemed to be, Jack could likely use some assistance. And who better to render it than Wenford’s own betrothed? She gave a small, private smile. Who, indeed?
Chapter 16
William shifted on the deep, soft couch and nervously fiddled with his cravat, which Weems seemed to have tied rather too tightly this evening. Beginning an intentional row with Antonia was idiocy. Damn Jack Faraday anyway, for suggesting such nonsense. The blackguard knew full well that no one would be able to resist such a challenge. Lord knew he couldn’t stop thinking about it, even though he’d already resolved that Dansbury was completely at sea and that Antonia was hiding nothing. Glass clinked over his shoulder, loud in the unusual silence of Antonia’s drawing room. He jumped at the sound, and with a last tug, stopped pulling at his neckcloth.
Antonia St. Gerard glided into view, a brandy snifter in each hand. She curled up beside him and handed over one of the glasses, sipping at her own and watching him over the rim. William had been hoping she would have something for them to chat about, something to keep his mind off Dansbury’s damned wager, but she’d been quiet all evening.
He cast about for a topic they might discuss, but the only conversation that came to mind involved him telling her how beautiful she was. That was how their chats usually began, and they always seemed to end in her bed chamber. Not that he had any objections to that. Damn Jack and his meddling, playing his deuced games. William sighed irritably. Perhaps simply to satisfy his own curiosity, he might have a go at starting a small argument, and then he could apologize and they could go upstairs. Jack would have to buy that necklace, and William would laugh at him.
“William,” Antonia purred, running her hand slowly up his thigh and reminding him forcibly that there were better things he could be doing than trying to think up a topic for argument. “I might have held a card party tonight, mon amour. I had not thought we would spend the evening in my drawing room. Do tell me why you wanted me to yourself.”
He took a breath and slowly let it out. “I don’t want you to hold any more card parties, Antonia,” he rushed. That should take care of it.
For a long moment she looked at him. “Do you have something else in mind?” she asked softly.
“I…I don’t like it, all those men looking at you, and—well, you know,” he stumbled.
She shifted to lean against his arm. “Thinking they own me?” she suggested, curling the tip of her finger around his ear.
“Yes. So no more card parties.” Jack had told him that Antonia had been holding them since she’d come to London, and that he’d never known anyone with a love of gambling and games of chance so deeply imbedded in their bones. Of course she would protest.
Antonia sighed. “As you wish, my love. But I must have some way of paying my bills.”
“Ah…don’t worry about that,” he returned, disappointed. He searched for something about which she would be more likely to contend, though if he had any sense he would simply give up and lie to Jack tomorrow. “And I don’t think it’s seemly for you to own a high-perch phaeton,” he decided. “Deuced improper, you know, for a lone female to go gadding about London in a phaeton.”
She pursed her lips, her gray eyes watching him, and took another sip of brandy. “Oh, William, I have been meaning to give it up. All of this terrible cold weather—who wants to go about anywhere in an open carriage, n’est-ce pas?”
William cleared his throat. “Quite right.” This was becoming damned difficult. He gestured at her snifter. She loved a brandy in the evening. “And women drink Madeira or ratafia. Not brandy.”
She looked down at the glass, then set it aside. “I am a teetotaler,” she breathed, and removed her finger from his ear, only to replace it with her tongue.
He swallowed. “And I won’t have you speaking that damned French anymore, either,” he said desperately, shifting away from her.
Antonia leaned along his shoulder and lifted a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “I am an Englishwoman,” she murmured. “Now are you pleased?”
“I’d be more pleased if you’d quit playing lip service to everything I say to you,” he grumbled, exasperated. “I’m serious, you know.”
“I am whatever you wish me to be,” Antonia continued, slipping her hand down his chest, and then lower.
Frantically William struggled to his feet. “Dammit, Antonia,” he growled, backpedaling as she uncurled from the couch and followed him, a cat’s canary-eating smile on her face. “Stop treating me like a fool.”
“William,” she chastised, stopping, “please do not be cross. I have agreed to everything you said.”
“But why?” he demanded.
“Why did you ask them of me, my love?”
He scowled. “Oh, damned old Jack said I wouldn’t be able to pull you into an argument. Said you’d painted a pretty face for me, or some such nonsense, and I said he was mad. Only you’ve agreed to every deuced thing I’ve said all night.” He flung his arm out. “For God’s sake, Antonia, I asked you not to speak French, and you didn’t even blink.”
Her expression became dark, almost feral, for a brief moment, but the look was gone so quickly that it might have been a trick of the lamplight. She smiled like dawn’s first light. “Oh, William, I thought you were only worried that we wouldn’t suit, and I was trying to reassure you.” She glided closer, wrapping her hands into his l
apels and pulling him toward the door. “I knew you would never seriously forbid me to speak French, mon amour.”
William smiled. “Thank goodness,” he breathed, relieved. Jack had it all wrong. For someone who claimed to know women, sometimes Dansbury hadn’t a clue.
“Now, come with me where we can apologize to one another,” she murmured, turning to lead him out the door and up the stairs.
Once her back was turned, Antonia’s expression slid into the venomous scowl she’d nearly let her naive lover see. Jack Faraday had turned on her, it seemed, and was undoubtedly trying to impress his little Ice Queen by warning her brother away from evil Antonia. Well, the Marquis of Dansbury didn’t need William Benton’s five thousand a year—she did. And he wouldn’t stop her. She knew things—things that could get a certain arrogant marquis into a great deal of difficulty. Antonia smiled. Five thousand a year.
Peese frowned and watched his employer pace impatiently across the breakfast room floor. “Perhaps if you could be more specific, my lord,” he suggested.
Jack paused to glare at him, then continued on his way. He’d lain awake nearly all night, trying to think of a way to save his neck and stretch Dolph’s, and wishing Lilith would come calling on him again. Even though she had said she loved him—those words still rolled about thunderously in his heart, smashing apart little dark parts of him with every beat—he had far from won her.
“I don’t know how damned more specific I can be, Peese. What do you know of Dolph Remdale’s household?”
The breakfast room door rattled and opened, and Jack turned angrily to order the intruding servant out. When Martin stuck his head in the door, the marquis snapped his mouth shut and gestured the valet inside.
“About bloody time you joined the party,” Jack growled.
Peese glanced at Martin and shrugged. “My lord,” the butler began patiently, obviously trying to appease his tempestuous employer, “households is like the masters of them. You don’t have anything to do with His new Grace, and we don’t have anything to do with his servants. So if you could tell me exactly what you’re wanting to know, per—”
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