Regency 02 - Betrayal

by Jaimey Grant

  “Steyne,” Raven whispered then, the realization dawning on her suddenly. He had fought a duel with Viscount Steyne when on the peninsula. “Why?” She swiveled her head to look up at him.

  Adam looked down at Raven as if only then realizing she was even there. His brow furrowed into a frown. “Why what?” he asked tersely.

  Raven swallowed hard. She had become rather adept at reading his moods. He was dangerously close to anger, she knew. So, instead of repeating her question, she smiled and snuggled closer to him.

  “It was nothing, Adam.” She knew he would talk no more that night.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Almack’s. That holy of holies. The secret—and not so secret—ambition of every debutante ever to grace the London Season. The famous Wednesday night assemblies were presided over by seven patronesses who ruled with a rod of iron. Any lady unfortunate enough to have been involved in a scandal, whether through ignorance, by accident, or quite purposely, was barred from the premises with a hauteur worthy of a queen.

  Gentlemen lived by a very different set of rules, of course. A man could be involved in some of the most scandalous situations imaginable and still be welcomed with a smile. After all, everybody loved a rake.

  Except Lady Rothsmere.

  She stood off to one side of the roped off area of the ballroom and decided that she quite hated the hallowed walls of Almack’s Assembly Rooms and wished heartily that she were anywhere else. It was disappointing to say the least. The room was bare of decoration except for the glittering jewelry of the ladies in attendance. The cakes and sandwiches were stale and old and the lemonade and orgeat were weak. The gentlemen often grumbled about the lack of stronger liquids but they were there nonetheless paying court to whichever reigning belle was in Town.

  Bri wasn’t even comforted by the fact that she seemed to have been deemed one of these belles despite her slightly advanced age and the fact that she was already engaged and her betrothed rarely strayed from her side. She was constantly surrounded by a swarm of gentlemen all vying for her hand in the next dance. They paid her lavish compliments that actually fell upon deaf ears had they but known it. She reacted as any empty-headed debutante might; she simpered and flirted and prayed for death. Or for the night to end, whichever seemed reasonable at the time.

  And that was how Adam saw her.

  He didn’t know why he had allowed Verena to convince him to come. He hated Almack’s. With a passion. There was nothing worse than seeing the marriage mart at its best, or worst, rather. The dance floor was even roped off much like a cattle pen and the young girls making their debuts were paraded around like prize cows for the avid gazes of the gentlemen. It was sickening.

  He stood at the edge of the ballroom and watched the young woman he had spent the better part of two years tracking the length and breadth of England. She stood in a circle of men, Steyne hovering at her side with a proprietary air.

  Adam leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, trying to look at her objectively. Was she happy? She certainly appeared to be, he thought, as she playfully rapped one of her gallants on the hand with her fan, a dazzling smile on her lips that didn’t quite reach the green of her eyes.

  She was certainly in looks, he thought for the second time since he had seen her a few nights before. Her ball gown of clingy emerald silk whispered around her lithe form, flowing over her hips and thighs in soft waves. The neckline was nearly as low as the scarlet dress she had worn before, showing the top halves of two perfect white breasts. A collar of sparkling emeralds and diamonds blazed at her throat with matching earbobs and a diamond tiara in her thick red curls. Her feet were shod in daring gold sandals that laced up her shapely calves.

  Adam found himself thinking how much better the entire ensemble would look in a pile on his bedroom floor and had to wonder where the devil such a thought had come from. It was hardly appropriate in the middle of Almack’s.

  The countess looked over at him then and Adam saw a flash of the spirited beauty he had met for the first time over a year ago when she was working as Verena’s maid. Then the sparkle disappeared and she seemed to dull before his very eyes.

  He was intrigued. He could not imagine a power on earth capable of controlling the minx that was Lady Rothsmere. He highly doubted it was Viscount Steyne. That cad was too wrapped up in seducing every other man’s woman to worry about controlling his own.

  Before he quite knew what he was doing, Adam found himself crossing the room until he stood before the one woman who haunted his dreams and every waking moment. He ignored the glowering Steyne and dimly noted that her other gallants seemed to fade into the background.

  Bowing, he gave her a dazzling smile and inquired sweetly, “Lady Rothsmere, I hope I find you well?”

  “Indeed, I am, Mr. Prestwich. And you?” the countess replied in measured tones.

  “I am well,” Adam replied, already heartily sick of such an inane topic as the state of their health. What was next? The weather?

  Bri regarded Adam Prestwich warily, wondering what he would say next. She could feel the hate emanating from the man next to her and she had to wonder at that as well.

  “Would you do me the honor of partnering me for the next waltz?”

  She heard the command in Adam’s voice and found herself agreeing to dance before Steyne had a chance to cause problems. The countess wondered at the wisdom of allowing the magnetic Mr. Prestwich the chance to converse alone with her, but she had to admit to a certain amount of curiosity.

  Placing her gloved hand in his, she allowed him to lead her onto the floor. He put one hand at her waist and drew her close. She felt a tingle go up her spine and found it difficult to maintain her debutante act.

  Adam looked down at he girl in his arms and realized how incredibly stupid it was to choose such an intimate dance. He had to stifle the urge to draw her closer until she was pressed full-length against him. He wondered if she felt anything at all. Her amazing eyes were carefully blank.

  “You look very beautiful tonight, my lady,” he whispered close to her ear. He watched in satisfaction as she started in surprise. Her look was quickly veiled.

  “La, sir, you do flatter a girl so,” she tittered awfully.

  Adam would have cringed had he not been so amused by her purposely shrill voice.

  “Nonsense,” he replied gallantly. “I only speak the truth.”

  “Poppycock,” Bri said under her breath, unaware that Adam heard. “You do turn a girl’s head,” she said louder. Was that a note of sarcasm she heard in her own voice?

  Adam grinned. “At least you have retained some of that biting wit of which I am so fond,” he said lightly.

  She gave him a blank look that reminded him of a particularly stupid mongrel dog Connor had once had as a child. It was annoying to say the least.

  “What kind of dimwitted female are you?” he said from between clenched teeth and smiling lips.

  “Excuse me?” Her lovely eyes filed with tears and her lower lip trembled.

  “Oh, good God, Bri! Stop this bloody act. You can’t possibly expect me to believe that you are this damned insipid.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked on a tremulous whisper.

  “The devil!” Adam’s mask slipped, revealing the cynical and bitter man he really was. “Why did you let them break you, you fool woman?” He executed an elaborate turn in the dance, glaring down at her. When they came out of the turn, she found herself pulled even closer to him. “Why did you let them turn you into an empty-headed chit with nothing to recommend her but a title and fortune?”

  “If it wasn’t for you, you interfering bastard, I wouldn’t even be in this situation,” she snapped.

  “You’re right,” he retorted coldly, “you’d be dead.”

  Unable to deny that very pertinent fact, Bri remained silent, staring at Adam’s immaculately tied cravat. Her conscience told her she should be grateful to this very handsome and very enigmatic man. But her anger at havin
g to choose between a madhouse and marriage to Steyne made her foolishly believe that she could have found a way out of that predicament without the help of Mr. Prestwich.

  “I’d have contrived,” she said half to herself.

  “Do you think?” Adam asked, one dark brow cocked in wonder.

  Bri was silent for a moment. She knew deep down that she had finally reached the point when she was unable to help herself. When she had sat in that cell all those months ago awaiting her execution, even then she had known that she would never make it out alive.

  Of course, she had reckoned without Adam Prestwich. He had swept in like some sort of modern-day Lochinvar and carried her off to safety. It was the stuff romances were made of.

  It sickened her. She did not want to feel beholden to this man. He had listened to her story with that insufferably cynical air about him and then turned her over to her fate anyway.

  And then he had forgotten about her. The Countess of Rothsmere didn’t yet realize that it was this that galled her the most.

  With much concentration, Bri replaced her social mask. “Mr. Prestwich, I am feeling faint. Please escort me back to my fiancé.” She used the word like a weapon although her eyes and face were carefully blank.

  “I’ll do better than that,” Adam replied in clipped accents. “I think you need to get out of this crowd.” With that he twirled her out onto the balcony that ran along the back of the building. He was so angry he could barely think straight. He paid no heed to the staring couples who lingered outside to escape the suffocating heat of the ballroom.

  Bri barely had time to take a deep breath as Adam swung her around and trapped both hands behind her back. She was pressed intimately against him from chest to thigh. So close, in fact, that she could feel his heartbeat against her breast. Even in the moonlight, she could see the dangerous glitter in his pale eyes and she knew instinctively that she had pushed him too far by mentioning her fiancé.

  His head seemed to lower with excruciating slowness and she wondered breathlessly why she didn’t simply turn her head away or scream for help. She seemed to be hypnotized by that glittering gaze.

  Adam kissed her fiercely; it was almost like a brand. His eyes were open, as were hers, and he watched her closely noting every tiny change in her demeanor. Her breathing quickened, her eyes took on a sparkle and she moaned suddenly low in her throat. He ran his tongue along the seam of her lips and she obeyed his unspoken request almost without thought.

  His tongue plunged into her mouth and the fire that seemed to consume her was shocking. She felt his grip on her hands loosen and she reacted more from fear than anger.

  Tearing her lips away, she raised her hand and boxed him squarely on the ear.

  “What the devil!”

  “Do not dare to manhandle me again, Mr. Prestwich,” she warned in a breathless, albeit, fierce whisper. “Do so again, sir, and my fiancé will call you out,” she added a trifle smugly.

  “Not bloody likely,” Adam muttered, his eyes narrowed as he rubbed at his smarting ear. “But at least you sound more like yourself,” he added in an undertone, as if his words weren’t actually meant for her ears.

  Bri softened visibly. “Oh, Adam,” she murmured, too distressed to realize she used his given name, “don’t you see? I can’t—”

  “Lady Rothsmere!” called a voice imperiously from the doorway.

  Adam stepped away from Bri, realizing he was standing unforgivably close to another man’s affianced bride in full view of anyone who cared to look in their direction.

  He wondered what she had been about to say.

  He wondered what imp of Satan had compelled him to kiss her.

  He wondered, with rising pique, if his embrace had at all affected her.

  Then she threw him a strangely forlorn and regretful look before her countenance became the bland mask she employed for her family’s benefit. He was amazed at the transformation.

  “Would you be so kind as to escort me back, sir?” she asked with a smile of false brightness.

  He dutifully offered his arm and they joined an older woman of frightening girth and fierce expression who proved to be Lady Rothsmere’s duenna. Adam watched them move away and wished suddenly that Almack’s served something, anything, stronger than orgeat and lemonade. He needed a brandy. He needed a whole decanter. And perhaps a willing woman beneath him.

  He smiled. He would go see Raven, he decided, and spend the night with her. That should exorcise the green-eyed vixen, he was sure. He ignored the voice that insisted it hadn’t so far so why would it start now?

  He turned toward the door—and found his way firmly blocked by Lord Steyne and two of that man’s cronies.

  “What business have you with my betrothed, Prestwich?” the viscount asked belligerently.

  “The lady and I are old friends,” Adam replied softly, somehow managing to convey exactly what sort of friends they were without actually saying anything. He couldn’t help needling the coxcomb. He had more reason than just Bri to goad the man. He also felt a malicious desire to punish Bri as well.

  He got an elbow in his ribs for his trouble and turned his head to see Connor giving him a reproachful look. Adam looked away and crossed his arms over his chest, giving Steyne such a steady look of contempt that the viscount began to squirm.

  “What is this all about, gentlemen?” inquired the strident tones of Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, one of the highest sticklers in the haute ton as well as a patroness of Almack’s. “If you are going to behave no better than schoolboys, I’ll ask you to have the decency to leave. I expected better from you, Lord Connor.”

  Connor bowed with a devastating smile and assured her that it was all a simple misunderstanding. As usual, his charm didn’t fail and the lady moved off after sending a reproving glare towards Adam Prestwich. He just grinned devilishly and offered a somewhat mocking bow. Then he returned his attention to Steyne. The viscount was still watching him with thinly veiled hate.

  “So, Steyne,” Adam began conversationally—only Connor knew what a tight rein Adam had on his temper, “are you going to call me out? Or do you only take part in duels where you have been called out?”

  Steyne didn’t dare call him out and Adam knew it. After the viscount’s ignominious defeat in that duel over two years ago, the man knew better. So he sputtered in anger for a few moments but finally departed. Adam watched him join Bri who was viewing the whole scene with the oddest look on her face. She asked Steyne something and he shook his head. Adam was sure she looked…disappointed.

  “If you insist on goading men into duels in the middle of Almack’s,” Connor said, effectively swinging Adam’s attention back to him, “you’ll never be allowed in these hallowed walls again.”

  Prestwich snorted and threw his friend a very un-disappointed look. “I bloody well wouldn’t care, Con. A lot of posturing popinjays and dull debutantes were never my idea of a good time. I am surprised I am allowed in here at all, actually.”

  Connor smiled good-naturedly. “I wonder, am I a posturing popinjay or a dull deb?” He looked up at his taller friend and fluttered his eyelashes.

  “Egad!” Adam exclaimed in mock horror. “Do that again and I’ll call you out.”

  Connor laughed and clapped Prestwich on the back. “I think we should leave.”

  “Will Verena mind?” Adam asked a trifle skeptically. In his experience, the ladies wanted to stay until all hours, dancing and flirting.

  “Of course she won’t. She’s very unfashionable in that she is more mother to our children than the nurse. And she has now been away from them for all of two hours.”

  Adam knew this but his own experience with the opposite sex led him to believe that such feelings were fleeting if they existed at all. He trusted Connor’s wife more than most, liked her even, but old habits are hard to break.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bri sat at her dressing table that night and thought about that kiss. It had shocked her to the core of her being. I
t wasn’t as if she hadn’t been kissed before. She had. Those other kisses were better left forgotten. But Adam’s kiss was…a glimpse of heaven.

  She allowed her thoughts to stray into forbidden territory. What would it be like to, well, to be with him? She shook her head. Probably just like being with any other man—extremely unpleasant.

  She remembered once telling Doll, Lady Connor Northwicke, that sexual relations between a man and woman could be quite pleasurable. It wasn’t that she lied but she truly believed that they had to be despite what nearly every matron had ever said. Raven didn’t appear to despise what Adam did to her, after all. She even liked the man despite it.

  Bri shoved the thought of Adam and Raven away. It made her bilious just to think about it.

  Her own belief had come out in her tone of voice as personal experience, Bri knew, even if she hadn’t said so in so many words. She had seen the look on Verena’s face before that lady had turned away.

  Am I a fallen woman? Bri wondered then. The look on Verena’s face had said that, although she never mentioned the fact. And Bri knew the belief had comforted her friend somewhat so she couldn’t be regretful of the assumption.

  Bri turned suddenly as the door to her chamber creaked open. “Brewster, is that you?”

  A short laugh greeted her inquiry. A short, male laugh. “No, it is I. Your beloved.” Steyne spat the last word as if it were something distasteful to him.

  Bri stood and clutched her robe closer to her breasts. “Get out,” she said evenly, trying to mask her fear. Was she to be raped even now, when under the protection of her family?

  Steyne sauntered closer, his hands shoved in his pockets. “What is there between you and Prestwich, my dear? Anything I should know about?”