by Annie Stuart
The woman—no, girl—who opened the door looked about twelve, far too young to be one of Lady Carstairs’s reformed doves. At least, he hoped so. She looked him over for a moment, with a far too assessing look in her eyes, then remembered the lessons she’d been taught, ushering him inside and offering to take his hat and cloak.
“Her ladyship will be down in a minute,” she said, still looking at him as if he might be the devil incarnate. She really was too young to have been selling herself, he thought absently, and gave her a reassuring smile. He wasn’t an ogre and he had no interest in terrifying children. Lady Carstairs was a different matter.
“Lord Rohan.” Her voice came from the stairs and he looked up to see a complete stranger coming toward him, graceful, elegant. He stared at the woman for a moment, trying to recognize her. And then he realized that she wasn’t a well-known mistress or Cyprian; she was Melisande Carstairs, her tawny hair arranged in an artful tousle of curls, her skin dusted with powder, her eyelashes darkened with charcoal. He knew all the tricks, having watched his mistresses over the years, and for a moment he was angry. The dress was far from the dowdy, outmoded creation he’d been expecting. It was de rigueur, the lines of the skirt the very latest in fashion, the bodice exposing her neck and shoulders and the tops of her luscious breasts. She wore a lovely emerald necklace and earbobs, and she looked so exquisite he wanted to take her hand, drag her into the nearest room and pull that distracting bodice down to her waist. He wanted his mouth on her, everywhere, and he glowered at her. She was already enough of a distraction—he didn’t need this new, glossy version of the slightly frumpy Lady Carstairs to drive him mad.
“Lord Rohan?” she said again, a note of inquiry in her voice.
“I see you’ve been taking lessons from your whores,” he said, a harsh note in his voice, and then he was ashamed of himself. He was being ridiculous.
She smiled at him, her gorgeous mouth curving in a wicked grin. “Indeed, I have. I think they’ve done an excellent job, don’t you? Unless you think it’s too much? I have to admit I’m no judge of such things, but Mrs. Cadbury assures me that I simply look like a fashionable lady, not a demirep. But if you think I should change…”
“Mrs. Cadbury? Is she staying here, as well?”
“Of course. Though why it should be any concern of yours escapes me.”
“The most notorious madam in all of London is now your acquaintance?”
“No, my lord Rohan. She’s my dear friend.”
For a moment he thought she was being sarcastic, and then he realized she was simply being truthful. “Charity” Carstairs, destroying her reputation one fallen woman at a time.
He decided dropping the subject was the better part of valor. Besides, what could he say? It was none of his business—he had no interest in Melisande Carstairs except to determine the truth of her allegations and how involved his brother might be.
That, and enjoying the random indecent fantasies about her ripe body, which was even more delightfully distracting in the pale green dress. He was a fool to worry about anything more. She could send her reputation to hell in whatever manner she wished to—it was scarcely any of his business.
“The dress is perfect, and your face paint is only recognizable to a connoisseur.” He was leaving her to draw her own conclusions. “Shall we go? Or have you changed your mind?”
“Of course I haven’t changed my mind,” she said caustically. “We have a mission.”
“God help me…” he muttered. And held out his arm.
He never before thought his coach was too small. Granted, it was the landau, meant for city driving, not the large, heavy traveling coach he used for greater distances. She sat opposite him in the confined space, and the faint scent she had used drifted to his nostrils, reaching into his bones. It was elusive, evocative, erotic. Had the Fates combined forces to kill him?
It was a cool spring evening, and even after nine o’clock there was still enough light remaining that he could see her a little too well. The shawl she’d brought was very pretty but not extremely warm, and he imagined she’d have gooseflesh by the end of the night.
She looked calm, self-possessed, as she always did, but he knew that wasn’t the case. He sat back in the shadows so she couldn’t see his face, his eyes as they lingered over the tops of her breasts. He could see the beating of her heart through her translucent skin, and despite her determined calm she was nervous. He wondered why.
“I suggest we give the appearance of old friends,” she said suddenly. “Otherwise my arrival would seem a bit odd.”
“No one will believe it. They will think we are lovers,” he said lazily.
She blushed, the color very pretty on her pale skin. “No one who knows me would make any such mistake.”
“Ah, but no one knows you. You’ve eschewed society in favor of your oppressively good works.”
“Wouldn’t that make it clear that I’m not the sort for a dalliance?”
“True enough. A dalliance, as you call it, would be easy enough to avoid. A full-out, heart-stopping, body-pulsing physical affaire is more difficult to resist. And they know me. They will assume you’re infatuated with me and that you’ve tumbled off your pedestal and into my bed, at least for a time.”
He could practically feel her horrified intake of breath. “I trust you will do your best to disabuse them of the notion.”
He laughed, enjoying himself once more. “I’ll do what I can, but I suspect my protests would be for naught. If you promise not to hang on me and gaze at me with adoration we may be able to convince people that we’ve simply made an arrangement to assuage our physical needs. Even saints must have physical needs, I suspect.”
“I’m not a saint.” Her voice was low in the darkened carriage, and he remembered the stories about Wilfred Hunnicut and her brief fall from grace.
“No, you’re not,” he said softly, watching the rapid rise and fall of her beautiful breasts, the tight line of her mouth, the dark pools of her eyes in the shadowed carriage. He could feel it, he thought with surprise. It wasn’t his imagination. He could feel the deep strand of longing that was wrapping around both of them. “Charity” Carstairs wanted him, probably about as much as she disliked him. Which was a considerable amount. She most likely hated herself for being attracted to him, probably even refused to consider the possibility. It was part of the reason she was skittish tonight.
He smiled in the darkness. He was going to enjoy himself after all. “I suggest we not worry about what people imagine concerning our relationship. They’ll think what they want. We need to discover who among them are involved in the current incarnation of the Heavenly Host, if the absurd worries you’ve brought to me have any validity, and if so, where and when they’re meeting next.”
“Don’t we need to discover if your brother is truly part of them? Or do you believe me on that one?”
“If the organization is as you’ve described then I have no doubt that my brother is involved. He’s…he’s troubled. The Afghan war was very difficult for him, and he was grievously wounded. It’s taking a long time for him to pull himself together, and I’m certain anything nihilistic would appeal to him. Apart from that, he’s been quite secretive recently, and I’ve had reason to worry.” He was telling her more than he wished to, and he wondered why. She had a calm demeanor that was oddly soothing. Soothing, when he wasn’t consumed by lust.
Which he could ignore, he reminded himself. He’d come to London to assuage that lust, and so far he’d had very little success. It was only natural he would look at Melisande Carstairs and her magnificent breasts and think wicked thoughts.
Though to be truthful, he’d had those same thoughts when she’d been decently covered and looking like a nun.
“I’ll tackle Lord Elsmere. You approach his wife,” he said.
She frowned. “And when did we decide you were in charge of this investigation?”
“When you asked for my help. This is my world, Lady Car
stairs, the world you’ve walked away from. I know it, and its inhabitants, quite well, and you’d be a fool not to listen to me. And you’re many things but not, I think, a fool.”
She glowered at him, then her expression smoothed out. She didn’t want to let him know how much he annoyed her, a mistake on her part, he thought. The more she withstood the more determined he was to ruffle her.
“No, I’m not a fool,” she said. And she wasn’t. Except, he hoped, where he was concerned. He was finding her more and more tempting, and he wasn’t in the mood to fight it too strenuously.
The coach had drawn to a stop, and one of his footmen had already jumped down, and the sound of the steps being dropped was like a death knell, he thought with lazy amusement. He was being fanciful, but he couldn’t rid himself of the notion that this was the point of no return.
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here, Dante’s welcome to hell read. Do what thou wilt, read the entrance to Rabelais’s fictional Abbey of Theleme.
The door opened, and he looked up at the Elsmere town house, then back at the woman with him. And he wondered which greeting was more accurate.
10
“Benedick, old man!” Harry Merton would have to be the first person they ran into, Benedick thought with resignation. Melisande had her back turned as she was handing her shawl to the maidservant when Harry came in the vestibule, a broad grin on his slightly foolish face. “Just the fellow I was wanting to see, don’t you know. I’ve found just the right piece of crumpet for you—a girl with the most amazing flexibility. You wouldn’t believe what she could do with her…”
“Good evening, Harry,” Benedick said hastily, though he wasn’t quite sure why.
Harry blinked. A gentleman never showed his liquor, and it was only the slight owlishness of his eyes that gave any hint that Harry had already been drinking steadily. “Good evening,” he managed to reply. “Any luck with Charity? Now there’s a field I might like to plow, assuming I could pry those legs apart…”
Melisande turned, her vivid blue eyes sparkling with something dangerous, and Harry blinked again, clearly embarrassed. “Beg your pardon, old man,” he mumbled. “I didn’t realize there was a lady present. Been an ass. Excuse me.” He sketched an unsteady bow. “Your servant, ma’am.”
Melisande Carstairs surveyed his old friend for a long moment, and he half expected her to attack. Instead she managed a seraphic smile and held out one gloved hand, which Harry bowed over, kissing the back of it a little clumsily.
“May I make my old friend Harry Merton known to you?” Benedick asked formally. “As he said, he’s an ass, but a good-hearted one. Harry, I believe you might know Lady Carstairs.”
“Of course,” Harry said automatically, starting to rise when Benedick’s words sank in, and he stumbled, a horrified expression on his face. “I mean, I know of…that is…” He finally managed to pull himself together, but it was a Herculean effort. “I knew your husband, Lady Carstairs. Sir Thomas was a good man.”
“Not really,” she said, and her frankness did little to calm Harry’s amour propre.
Benedick decided to deliver the coup de grâce. He pulled Melisande’s arm through his, drawing her close to his side in a proprietary gesture. “You’ll excuse us, won’t you, Harry? Melisande is famished and I promised I would feed her.” He could feel her sudden start, and he simply pulled her closer, smiling down at her with only a touch of malice. She really was the most delicious creature. “Shall we go join the others, my sweet?”
Oh, she didn’t like that, he thought with satisfaction. And there was nothing she could do about it. She couldn’t pull away; she could only let him draw her up the wide marble stairs, feel his body heat leaching into hers, his hand on hers as he led her across the crowded floor of Lady Elsmere’s formal salon. It was a Pyrrhic victory—the feel of her against his body was playing havoc with his own hard-won sense of self-control. He was as unsettled as he was hoping to make her, and he wanted to curse, but he simply smiled down at her, noting the confused, slightly nervous expression in her eyes.
“Don’t look so anxious.” His voice was barely audible. “I’m not going to throw you down on the floor and molest you.”
“I didn’t think you were,” she said, managing to sound both dignified and vulnerable at the same time. “You would never be so clumsy as to have to use force.”
He smiled at her. “You’re learning, my love.”
“Please don’t call me that.”
“I’m afraid I must. I have a reputation to uphold, and if people suspect I have another reason for bringing you here we’ll be scuttled before we even leave land.”
“I get seasick.”
“I’m a very experienced sailor. Put yourself in my hands and I promise you a smooth sail.” He let his fingers stroke the back of her hand, so gently that she probably didn’t notice it, any more than she understood his double entendres. But he’d underestimated her.
“Save it for when people can hear us.”
“I’m getting in practice,” he said, his upper arm pressing against the side of her breast. It was most disturbing—the longer he was in her company the more aroused he became. Right now even the thought of Violet Highstreet couldn’t distract him. For some reason the thought of Charity Carstairs kept distracting him.
He should have done something to assuage the state of arousal that burned inside his body, but the uncomfortable truth was that right now he wasn’t interested in any of the demimondaines available to him. There were no new and nubile widows and wives among the ton eager for a bit of sport, at least, none that tempted him. His determined debauch had been a sad failure so far, and it was all Melisande Carstairs’s fault. Every time he thought to lose himself in some Cyprian’s ripe flesh the thought of her determined blue eyes distracted him, and he ended up feeling vaguely empty and unsatisfied.
He glanced down at her. A dark, wicked thought had come to mind, and try as he might to dismiss it, it remained stubborn. Lord and Lady Elsmere were at one end of the large room, greeting their guests, and as he waited for the butler to announce them he leaned down and whispered in Melisande’s ear, “I’m afraid I might have to seduce you, my precious,” he whispered, feeling her sudden start.
But a moment later they were announced and all eyes were upon them as the cream of the ton looked up and wondered what in the world Charity Carstairs, the saint of King Street, was doing with one of the wicked Rohans.
Lady Elsmere was an ancient, heavily painted dowager with a taste for young men, and she greeted them with her usual assessing gaze. “Good God, Rohan. What are you doing robbing a nunnery?”
He put his face close to Melisande’s, pressing his forehead against hers in a manner that looked romantic to an outsider but had the felicitous effect of keeping her stormy gaze downcast. “Hardly a nunnery, Lady Elsmere,” he whispered in a low, sensual voice.
Again that start of reaction through Melisande’s body. Really, she was too easy. If he wanted he could waltz her into a different room and have her skirts over her head with no effort at all. Which was a totally lovely idea, his heartbeat informed him. He planted a light kiss on Melisande’s nose and drew back, assured she was flustered enough not to let anyone see her usually direct gaze.
“We’re delighted you could join us tonight, my dear,” Lady Elsmere was saying. “I see Rohan has managed to persuade you to reenter society. You must be careful of him—he could persuade a saint to bed down with Satan. Or has that, perhaps, already happened?”
“I haven’t…” she began, but Benedick gave her arm a slight, hard pinch, and she let out a little squeak. She glared at him swiftly from beneath her eyelids and then smiled at Lady Elsmere. “That is, I haven’t decided as to just how social I wish to be, but tonight Lord Rohan wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“No, I imagine he wouldn’t,” Lady Elsmere said with a bray of laughter. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Lady Carstairs. He’s a very dangerous man.”
“Don
’t be ridiculous, Lady Elsmere,” Rohan said coolly, “I’m a woolly lamb.”
Again that noisy laugh. “Come sit by me later, my dear, and I’ll tell you all about him. In the meantime, why don’t you two dance? That will at least keep his hands decently occupied.”
He pulled her away, keeping a tight grip on her. “Did you have to pinch me so hard?” she demanded in an angry whisper.
“You looked as if you were about to start in on a lecture about the rights of women or something equally tedious. You’re supposed to be here as my lover.”
“As your friend,” she corrected.
“And why would my ‘friend’ join a party of notorious hellions for the evening? Curiosity?”
“Perhaps. Maybe I wanted to make converts to my cause.”
“Then you chose the wrong group.”
Music was coming from one of the adjoining rooms, and he began to steer her in that direction “You’ll dance with me,” he said. “Lady Elsmere’s orders.”
“What a charming request. No, I won’t!”
He sighed. “If every step is going to be a battle we won’t discover what the Heavenly Host is planning until next Christmas,” he said in an undertone. “May I have the honor of this dance?”
He could see her hesitate, and she would have liked to say no. But he didn’t make the mistake of underestimating her intelligence—she knew perfectly well that if she didn’t make an effort they’d get nowhere.
“It’s a waltz,” she said in a wary voice.
“Exactly,” he said. And before she could say no he pulled her into his arms and whirled her into the next room and onto the dance floor.
She stumbled at first, as if she weren’t used to dancing, and he slowed his pace, letting her grow accustomed to the sound of the music, the feel of his hands on her, the closeness of their bodies. She was as stiff as a board, awkward, and he tried to quiet his impatience. He danced well, particularly for such a tall man, and he usually tried to avoid clumsy partners.