From her narrow-waisted frame, to her pale complexion, there was nothing that roused even the hint of lust in the young woman. A hard smile played on his lips, which sent a dandy in yellow satin breeches who’d been passing too close, scurrying in the opposite direction. The taste of revenge, however, would serve as a potent aphrodisiac when the time came to ruin her. One of Lady Delenworth’s liveried servants stepped into his line of vision, holding out his silver tray of champagne flutes. Edmund flicked an icy stare over the young fool who’d dared interrupt him. The man stumbled back, nearly upending his burden, and then scrambled off.
Edmund returned his attention to the drab wallflower he’d eventually take to wife, but the pale blonde beauty on her right leaned forward, restricting his view. He’d taken care to learn everything and anything about Margaret’s niece; he knew she donned that silly shawl, as though to protect herself from leering eyes. He scoffed. As though one would leer at one such as her. The lady enjoyed reading. And she’d made the fatal mistake of taking two women as her close friends and confidantes. The sad creature had yet to realize that those ties to other people, be it friends, family, or lovers, invariably weakened one. She would learn, and then she’d never again make the same careless mistake.
The blonde beauty more suited to his tastes, leaned back and revealed the other dark-haired young lady—Viscount Waters’ daughter, Miss Phoebe Barrett. He passed a quick, methodical gaze on the woman whose familial connection would lead him to Miss Honoria Fairfax. A delicate jaw, high cheeks, and a pert nose, she may as well have been any other young English woman. He made to return his attention to the woman he’d trap, when Miss Barrett’s full lips turned down at the corner. Even with the space between them, he detected the hard, disapproving glint in her eyes. For one moment he believed she’d noted his scrutiny, which was, of course, preposterous. One such as she could never glean a hint of his treachery. He followed her stare.
Unaware of his scrutiny, she boldly glared at Lord Allswood. A mirthless chuckle rumbled up from Edmund’s chest as the two studied one another. Ah, so the lady had a lover, and by the furious set to her mouth—she was an angry lover. Then, he looked to the fop, Lord Allswood, and followed the other man’s gaze to the woman’s generous décolletage. A wave of unexpected lust slammed into Edmund. The otherwise ordinary lady possessed the lush, tempting form he’d long admired. An angry, lush, lover. Never before would he believe himself capable of envying that fool Allswood. He did in that moment.
As though she felt his gaze upon her, Miss Barrett snapped her head up and looked about. Edmund shifted behind the column, escaping her notice…and waited. He’d grown adept at waiting. For triumph and victory was made all the sweeter with the wait. In addition to the lesson on weakness he’d learned as a youth, he’d also come to know the importance of masterful timing, and so he remained fixed to the marble floor, behind the column, occasionally shifting so he might steal furtive glances at the lady he sought.
Edmund swallowed back a curse at the now empty row of chairs. He quickly scanned the ballroom for a glimpse of the lady and found her in moments. Others might have failed to note the rapidly fleeing Miss Honoria Fairfax as she made her way down the perimeter of the ballroom, but as one who’d perfected subterfuge, he recognized it in another. He immediately started moving after those nauseating white skirts. He gave thanks for that ivory cashmere shawl; the one identifier of the dark-haired woman who represented all on his quest for revenge.
With a purposeful step, he strode through the thick crush of bodies. Gentlemen paled as he cut a swath through the crowd. The married ones frowned, pulling their wives closer. The mamas glowered, pulling their innocent daughters even closer. A hard smile formed on his lips. Then, one of the benefits of being the most feared, unrelenting lord was that it spared him from inane company and made his orchestrated meeting with Miss Fairfax all the easier.
Edmund exited the ballroom and strode down the narrow, dimly lit corridor just as the lady turned down the end of the hall. He quickened his step and then a splash of ivory caught his notice. He drew to a slow stop, a humorless grin turning his lips upward at the corner.
Fate proved once again the undeniable truth—the devil loved a sinner. He swiped the modest fabric off the thin carpet and without breaking stride, stuffed it into the front pocket of his jacket and continued walking forward, after the unsuspecting young lady. Edmund turned at the end of the hall and silently cursed. He ducked back as the dark-haired debutante froze. “Hullo,” she called out.
Either the lady met her lover or courted her own ruin. He paused, counting his good fortune. He’d interrupt any possible assignation between the lady and the young swain she’d meet. There was also the surprising good piece in not requiring the viscount’s assistance in this, maintaining the debt he held over the man. Edmund waited several moments and then peered around the corner. But for the handful of shadows playing off the floors from the lit sconces at each end of the hall, the corridor remained empty. If he were meeting a lover, where would he arrange that assignation? Just another benefit of having taken countless lovers in countless ballrooms in countless trysting spots. Edmund started down the hall, bypassing doors already passed by the lady herself. He made his way to the row of floor-length windows, hardly conducive to concealment, but certainly beneficial when one welcomed the pleasure of a voyeur.
With excitement thrumming through his veins, he silently pressed the handle. He shoved the door open and wordlessly stepped out onto the stone terrace.
“Blast.”
He stilled.
A flurry of cursing rent the quiet of the night. Riiiiip. “Bloody hell.”
And for the first time since he’d set his scheme into motion involving the dull, hideously plain Miss Honoria Fairfax he felt the faint stirring of interest. And if he were a less cynical, less practiced rogue, he’d have been intrigued by the cursing, too loud for a tryst, young lady at the far end of the terrace.
“Is that you?”
He wandered down the stone patio, the tread of his boots noiseless, silent as the dead.
“Oh, do hurry, Honoria.” Edmund drew to a sudden, jarring stop, a black frown on his lips. Honoria? Then who was the white-skirted creature he’d been erroneously chasing after? He growled. Bloody hell, he’d followed the blasted wrong chit. Cursing his ill luck he spun on his heel and started back toward the double doors, when the lady called out.
“I’m afraid I’ve snagged my gown on Lord Delenworth’s spear.”
That gave Edmund pause and, despite himself, for the first time in more than a score of years, an honest grin pulled at his lips. He quickly flattened them into a familiar, hard line.
“I’m here,” Miss Phoebe Barrett quietly called, “and this is certainly not as pleasurable as I’d imagined.”
Edmund tamped down any amusement at the lady’s unwitting innuendo. He strode closer. The thick clouds, obscuring the moon, shifted and cast a pale glow of white light upon the terrace to the lone figure of Miss Phoebe Barrett bent over the balustrade with her derriere presented for his viewing pleasure, buttocks far more generous than he’d previously credited.
He stopped beside the lady angling her neck about to catch a glimpse of her friend. Their gazes collided. “Hullo,” he drawled on a silken whisper.
Her eyebrows shot to her hairline as her eyes formed round moons. “Uh-er, hello,” she finished weakly.
He closed the distance between them and layered his hands upon the stone ledge. “Do you require assistance?” Though, in actuality, the lady was a good deal more appealing with her backside presented to him like a generous offering.
“Assistance?” She squiggled and squirmed and an unexpected wave of lust hit him. Then she stilled and he cursed the fates for stealing his fleeting enjoyment of the evening. She sighed. “Yes. I believe I’ve dropped something over the edge.” She bit her lip and scanned the darkened grounds. “My shawl. I suspect the wind may have carried it off when I was looking at the grou
nds below.” She suspected wrong. “Because there really is no other accounting, for it’s gone missing.” Ah, unfortunate for the lady there was one accounting for it. “I would have noticed it gone before this moment,” she carried on.
He winced at her inane ramblings. God, he detested the infernal prattling of the innocent misses. Only… He eyed her with a renewed interest; this woman who could, nay would, lead him to her friend and, ultimately, that friend’s ruination. He’d be served by ingratiating himself to the lady. In so doing, it would lessen his dependence on the lady’s drunken, whore-mongering father.
“Hullo?” she called out, a question in her tone.
Drawing on the hint of remembrance of the charming, youthful man who’d once inspired smiles in a lady, he said in a teasing voice, “I gather you’re unable to free yourself.”
She nodded, the movement awkward at the upended angle of her body. “Indeed,” she said, with an almost eagerness that he’d followed the direction of her thoughts. “Only, I leaned too far, and how was I to know Lord Delenworth should have a cherub with a spear jutting out from the edge of the balustrade?” He rubbed his temples to dull a sudden megrim brought on by the lady’s prattling. “Alas, I’ve caught a lace ruffle of my gown upon the—”
“Will you not shut up?” he bit out. Her innocent ramblings came to an immediate cessation. He closed his eyes and prayed to a God he didn’t believe in for patience.
“Did you tell me to shut up?” Her indignant question slashed into his thoughts.
Despite the outrage in her tone, her question provided the opportunity to rectify his rash misstep. Edmund leaned over the edge and the lady flinched at his nearness. “Indeed not, my lady.” She hesitated, unblinking like an owl. “I’d asked if you needed help getting up.”
“Oh.” Then she smiled widely and in that moment, he was struck by the staggering truth that the lady was a good deal more interesting than the plain, unmemorable creature he’d eyed in the ballroom. She was rather…pleasant. Granted, rather pleasant had never roused any great desire inside him, but it made his intentions to spend time with Miss Honoria Fairfax’s friend, at least…palatable. “Oh, well, of course, that makes a good deal more sense than you being so rude as to tell me to shut up.” If she thought a mere shut up was rude, the lady’s head would spin if she knew even a hint of his debauched behaviors through the years. “Forgive me.” He’d forgive her anything if she ceased her infernal carrying on.
With a tug, he freed the lady’s gown from Delenworth’s spear. Or rather the man’s cherub’s spear.
“Splendid,” the lady exclaimed.
He didn’t care to think about old, portly Delenworth plowing this one over the side of this same balustrade. An unlikely pairing those two would be. He scowled. Why in blazes should he care whether Miss Phoebe Barrett was plowed by anyone? The lady fiddled with her hideously ruffled ivory skirts, drawing his gaze downward and providing him a welcome diversion from his confounded thoughts. He lingered a moment upon that generous bosom. Creamy white. Lush. Begging for a man’s attention.
“I…forgive me, I…thank you,” she said quietly.
He sketched a bow. “Might I have the honor of knowing the lady I’ve rescued from a vicious spearing, my lady?” Edmund’s shaft stirred with delightful images of giving the young lady a vicious spearing. What manner of bloody madness was this, lusting after this one?
“I’m not a lady.”
All the better. He arched a single eyebrow in invitation.
Her cheeks burned red. “I mean, I’m not a ‘my lady’. I’m a miss.” She dropped a curtsy. “Miss Phoebe Barrett.”
A detail he’d already gathered. “Ah,” he said noncommittally.
She cast a glance over her shoulder, out into the darkened London night. When she returned her gaze to his, an unexpected wariness gleamed in her blue eyes. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, stiffly polite. Did he imagine the previous chit chattering more than a magpie? “It wouldn’t do for us to be discovered together.”
“No, it wouldn’t.” He schooled his expression into that of concerned gentleman. “Forgive me.” He made to leave.
“Wait,” she called out.
They always did. Some inherent darkness she and every other young lady didn’t even know they carried invariably drove back logic and caution and replaced them with recklessness. He turned and looked questioningly back at her. “I don’t know your name,” she blurted.
He sketched a bow. “Edmund Deering, the 5th Marquess of Rutland.” Scandalized shock did not replace the too-trusting openness of her expression. Instead, she continued to evaluate him in that curious manner; an unlikely pairing of innocence and boldness.
Then her expression grew shuttered. Ah, so she’d heard of him. Of course she had. Even though he studiously avoided polite ton events if they didn’t serve some grander scheme, ladies old and young alike had heard of him—and knew to avoid him. For the unsophistication of one such as Miss Phoebe Barrett in her ivory skirts, there was also that unexpected guardedness that likely came in her connection to that fat, reprobate Waters. “I should leave.”
Wiser words were never spoken. “Yes,” he concurred.
The lady stepped right. He matched her movements. She stepped left. He followed suit, blocking her exit.
Alarm lined Miss Barrett’s face. A hand fluttered to her breast and he buried a black humor at that ineffectual, defensive gesture. “My lord?” She looked quizzically up at him.
Her instincts were sharp. “Surely, you do not intend to leave without rescuing your shawl?” As though that hand could protect her from his legendary prowess. His was an arrogance based on years of bringing lonely, eager ladies to great heights of pleasure.
His words proved the correct ones. She caught her plump, lower lip between even pearl white teeth and angled back around. Miss Barrett had made her first of many missteps around him—she’d demonstrated a weakness. The shawl, an item belonging to Miss Honoria Fairfax, meant nothing to this woman, and yet she’d risk her reputation, safety, and well-being in his, a stranger’s, presence…but for her friend’s shawl. This hopeless devotion demonstrated her weakness—she cared that much about Miss Fairfax and that would prove useful. He pressed, unrelenting. “I gather it is an important article to you,” he said in soft tones. It was also a fact he intended to put to valuable use. He held out his arm. “Allow me to lend my assistance.”
Except, she narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “I…it wouldn’t be proper,” she said at last.
He’d not given the lady enough credit. With her caution and hesitancy, she’d already demonstrated more reserve than he expected of an innocent. Edmund bowed his head. “Of course,” he agreed. “Forgive me.” He backed away once again. He turned to leave while counting silently to five. He made it no higher than three. “Wait!” she called out, bringing him to a halt. “Perhaps if you remain here while I search below then I might freely conduct my search. That way, if any interlopers,” trysting couples, “should happen by, then you might send them on their way.”
A slow grin formed on his lips that would have likely chilled Miss Barrett’s heart should she have seen it. He schooled his features and turned back around. “It would be my pleasure.”
She gave him a wide, unfettered smile. This was not the guarded, icy, seductive smile worn by the lovers he took to his bed, but rather an expression that spoke to her artlessness. Odd, she should retain even a shred of innocence with her bastard of a father. The viscount’s daughter sprinted for the end of the terrace with a speed anything but ladylike. She raced down the steps and disappeared into the gardens below.
Edmund strolled closer, damning the thick cloud coverage overhead that blotted the moon and obscured the lady from his vision. She moved noisily through the plants. Then the moon’s glow penetrated the passing clouds, illuminating her. “Do you see it, Miss Barrett?” he called down.
She paused and frowned up at him. “Hush,” she scolded as though she dealt with a n
aughty child and not the most black-hearted scoundrel in London. She held a finger to her lips. Her tone was far gentler, almost apologetic when she again spoke. “Mustn’t be discovered, you know.”
“No,” he called quietly down. Discovery with this one would prove disastrous. It would prevent him from the revenge he intended to exact upon Margaret, the Duchess of Monteith. “If you require my assistance, you need but ask.”
*
The stranger’s softly spoken promise carried down into Lord Delenworth’s gardens. Phoebe lingered, staring up at the dashing stranger far longer than was appropriate and then gave her head a clearing shake. She resumed her search for a splash of ivory fabric amidst the darkened landscape. Though in truth, her efforts, her attention, which should be reserved for the very important task at hand were instead reserved for the gentleman, a man whose name was even more talked about than her own.
Phoebe picked her way down a row of expertly pruned circular boxwoods. Then, a gentleman of his stunning beauty well knew the risk faced of being discovered, unchaperoned with a lady. He had the face and form that hinted at a masculine perfection that made a lady do foolish things…such as forgetting she was alone. With a gentleman. In a garden. Under the pale moonlight.
She cast one glance back up at the marquess with his broad, powerful back presented to her while he stood sentry, then…she wasn’t most ladies. She was one of the Scandalous Row of ladies from illicit families. A flash of white snagged her notice and hope stirred in her chest, drawing her steps in that direction. She paused beside a full rosebush of white blooms, tightly closed from the evening’s chill. Only, he’d displayed no outward reaction to her given name. No shock had flared to life in his eyes at her connection to the lecherous Lord Waters and his excessive drinking and wagering.
She sighed, shaking aside the poignant musings and scanned the grounds for the fabric given her by her devoted, loyal friend. Phoebe knew but pieces of the story behind the shawl but it was a cherished gift and all that remained of her friend’s departed father. And now it was gone because of Phoebe’s carelessness. She stopped and surveyed the grounds for a hint of white in the inky darkness. Gone, all because she’d rushed off in an attempt to avoid loathsome Lord Allswood and—
The Heart of a Scoundrel Page 3