SLIGHTLY WICKED

by Mary Balogh

  “Of course it is not.”

  Judith hurried from the ballroom and up the stairs to her grandmother’s room, taking a candle from a wall sconce in with her. She found the large jewelry box, returned the precious earrings to the velvet bag from which most of this evening’s finery had come, though there were still plenty of pieces left in it, and hunted through the section she herself had allotted for earrings. But she could not see the star-shaped ones. She rummaged around among the necklaces and bracelets with no success. She was about to choose another pair of earrings instead when she remembered that the star-shaped earrings were the ones she had taken from her grandmother’s hand after the evening at Grandmaison. They must still be in the reticule she had carried that evening. She closed the box and put it away as quickly as she could, hurried to her own room, and was relieved to find the earrings just where she had thought they would be. She hastened from the room and almost collided with a chambermaid who was passing by. They both squeaked in alarm and then Judith laughed, apologized for being in such a rush, and ran back downstairs.

  The sets were already forming, she could see through the ballroom doors, but as luck would have it she ran up against Horace as she hurried through them. She stopped abruptly, feeling both flushed and breathless.

  “Going somewhere, Cousin, in such a hurry?” he asked her, blocking her way when she would have stepped around him. “Or should I say coming from somewhere in such a hurry? Some assignation, perhaps?”

  “I have been to fetch some different earrings for Grandmama,” she said. “Excuse me, please, Horace. I have promised this set to Sir Dudley.”

  To her relief he stepped aside and gestured her in with an exaggeratedly courtly sweep of one arm. She hurried to complete her errand and turned with an apology to her partner.

  It was lovely to be dancing again so soon. Sir Dudley Roy-Hill engaged her in conversation as much as the figures of the dance allowed, and she met the openly admiring glances of several other gentlemen. At home she would have been somewhat disturbed, imagining that she must have done something forward to invite such leering attention. But leering was her father’s word. Tonight, with her newfound belief in her own beauty, she could see that the looks were merely admiring. She found herself smiling more and more.

  Yet all the time she was aware that the next set was to be danced with Lord Rannulf Bedwyn. He had had almost no choice, she knew. Lady Beamish’s words about any gentleman having to ask her early if he wished to dance with her had quite unwittingly forced him into being gallant. But she did not really care. On two occasions—both out at the lake—he had come to spend time with her when he might easily have avoided the encounters. Let him dance with her now, then. And she did not care what Aunt Effingham had to say about it in the morning, though doubtless there would be plenty. Soon enough she would be going back home where at least she would not be expected to behave like a servant.

  She could hardly wait for the next set to begin. If only it could last all night. Or forever.

  If only it could last all night or even forever, he thought. She danced the slow, stately steps of the old-fashioned minuet with elegance and grace. She did not look directly into his eyes except once or twice, very briefly, but there was a look on her face that spelled awareness and— surely—happiness.

  His attention was focused fully on her while all about them the varied colors of gowns and coats slowly swirled in time with the music and light from the candles overhead gleamed on hair and jewels and the perfumes of colognes and hundreds of flowers mingled in the warm air.

  How differently he saw her now from that time at the Rum and Puncheon. Then, though they had talked and laughed together and he had enjoyed her company, in all essentials she had been little more to him than an extraordinarily desirable body to be bedded. Now she was . ..

  Well, now she was Judith.

  “Are you enjoying the ball?” he asked when their joined hands brought them close to each other for a moment.

  “Exceedingly well,” she said, and he knew she meant it.

  So was he. Enjoying a ball, which he had rarely done before, enjoying the slow minuet, which he had never done before.

  There was something between them, he thought, like a strong current of energy, binding them and at the same time isolating them from everyone else in the room. Surely he could not be imagining it. Surely she must feel it too. It was not just sexual desire.

  “Do you waltz?” he asked her.

  “No.” She shook her head.

  I will teach you one day, he thought.

  She lifted her eyes to his and smiled as if she had heard the thought.

  He was, he knew, the envy of every man in the room. He wondered if she realized just what a stir she was causing this evening or just what sour looks she was drawing from her aunt.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “if you have not promised every remaining set, you will reserve one more for me. The last?”

  She looked at him again and for a few moments held his gaze.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  That was almost the sum total of their conversation all the time they danced. But there was that feeling of being bound, of sharing hearts and emotions, of words being unnecessary.

  Perhaps, he thought, by the end of the evening she would be tired of dancing and they would sit together somewhere where they were properly in view of the other guests but where they could have some private conversation. Perhaps he could ascertain if her feelings toward him and his offer had undergone any change during the past two weeks.

  Perhaps he would even ask her again tonight if she would marry him, though he rather believed he would prefer to ask her tomorrow, outdoors, where they could be entirely private together. He would ask her uncle for permission, take her down to that little lake, and then declare himself.

  There was something about her manner—he was sure he was not imagining it—that encouraged him to hope that she would have him after all.

  He amused himself with such thoughts and plans as he watched her dancing, that quiet glow of happiness—surely it was that—on her face.

  And then the music drew to its inevitable end.

  “Thank you,” he said, offering his arm to escort her back to her grandmother’s side.

  She turned her head to smile at him.

  “You dance very elegantly together,” his grandmother said as they approached.

  Lady Effingham was behind her mother’s chair, Rannulf saw.

  “Judith, dear,” she said, her voice cloyingly sweet, “I hope you have thanked Lord Rannulf properly for his kind condescension in leading you out. Mother seems very tired. I am sure you will not mind helping her to her room and remaining there with her.”

  But Mrs. Law swelled up rather like a hot-air balloon, glittering and jangling as she did so. “I most certainly am not tired, Louisa,” she said. “The very idea of my missing the rest of the ball and leaving my dear Sarah to sit here alone! Besides, Judith has promised the set after the waltz to Mr. Tanguay, and it would be ill-mannered of her to disappear now.”

  Lady Effingham raised her eyebrows but could hardly say anything more in the presence of Rannulf and his grandmother.

  The waltz was next and he had been effectively forced into dancing it with Miss Effingham. He found her amusing, at least, he thought as he bowed and turned away to find her. Not that she would be flattered by the nature of his amusement, he supposed. And he had the last set to look forward to. And tomorrow morning. Though he must not be overconfident about that. If Judith Law did not wish to marry him, she would not do so merely because of who he was or because of his money.

  She would have to love him before she would accept him, he suspected.

  Did she love him?

  Insecurity, doubt, and anxiety were entirely new emotions to a man who had cultivated ennui and cynicism for most of his adult years.

  Julianne was looking more flushed and brighter-eyed than she had all evening, Judith could see. But that look
could be accounted for entirely by the fact that she was dancing with Lord Rannulf again. It was a reaction Judith herself could sympathize with.

  More ominous was the fact that Horace was approaching Uncle George and drawing him a little apart from the group of older gentlemen with whom he had been conversing. Judith had refused an invitation to go with Mr. Warren, who did not waltz either, in search of a drink of lemonade, though she had smiled her thanks. She needed to stay in the ballroom. She watched, her heart pounding. Surely that nasty plot being hatched in Julianne’s dressing room this afternoon could not have been a serious one. Whoever would want a marriage with a husband acquired in that way?

  But Julianne desperately wanted to be Lady Rannulf Bedwyn, she knew.

  And Aunt Effingham was just as desperate to marry her daughter to him.

  Horace was probably reveling, too, in the prospect of getting some revenge for what Lord Rannulf had done to him outside the summerhouse at Grandmaison a week ago.

  Judith was only partly aware of the shocking, thrilling nature of the waltz, in which ladies and gentleman danced as couples, touching each other with both hands, twirling about the dance floor in each other’s arms. Under any other circumstances she might have been envious indeed of those who knew the steps and had handsome partners with whom to perform them.

  She was only partly aware too of the nodding plumes of her grandmother and Lady Beamish, who sat in front of her enjoying the show and occasionally commenting upon it.

  Branwell could waltz, she noticed in some surprise. He was waltzing with the elder Miss Warren, laughing with her, as if he did not have a care in the world.

  But even the minor distraction of watching her brother proved almost fatal to Judith’s vigilance. When she found Lord Rannulf and Julianne again with her eyes, they had stopped dancing, and he had his head bent to hear what she was saying. She was rubbing one wrist, talking fast, and looking somewhat distressed. She pointed in the direction of the door.

  Horace meanwhile was still talking with his father.

  Judith waited no longer. Perhaps it was all meaningless though it looked very like the beginnings of the plot she had overheard. Perhaps after she had left Julianne’s dressing room they had changed the place. But she would have to take a chance on that. She slipped out of the ballroom as hastily and surreptitiously as she could, raced down the stairs, saw with relief that there was no servant to see her and wonder at her destination, and slipped into the library, which was so much her uncle’s private domain that she had never been inside the room before.

  It was quite dark, but fortunately she could see enough to find her way to the windows and throw back the heavy curtains. It was a moonlit, starlit night, the clouds of the day having moved off some time during the evening. There was enough light in the room that she could see what she needed to see—two walls of bookcases crowded with books from floor to ceiling. She hurried toward one that was behind both the door and a heavy sofa.

  The next minute seemed endless. What if she had come to the wrong place? What if Julianne had dragged Lord Rannulf off somewhere else to be discovered kissing her or otherwise compromising her?

  And then the door opened again.

  “It must be in here.” It was Julianne’s voice, high-pitched and anxious. “Papa gave it to me for my come-out ball and he would be dreadfully cross with me if I were to lose it. But even if he were just to see that I am not wearing it he would be hurt and upset.”

  Judith could not imagine Uncle George being either cross or hurt or upset.

  “If you know you left it in here,” Lord Rannulf said, sounding perfectly calm, even amused, “then we will recover it and will be waltzing again within two minutes.”

  He strode into the room, without a candle, and Judith saw Julianne shut the door with a backward kick of one foot.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, “that door always swings shut.” She went hurrying after Lord Rannulf and then exclaimed with triumph. “Oh, here it is! I knew I must have left it here when I came down for a little rest earlier, but of course I was terribly afraid that I was wrong and really had lost it. Lord Rannulf, how can I ever thank you for sacrificing part of our dance and slipping down with me before Papa noticed?”

  “By putting it on your wrist,” he said, “so that I can take you back to the ballroom before you are missed.”

  “Oh, this clasp,” she said. “There is not enough light. Will you help me?”

  He bent over her while she held up her wrist, and she slipped her free arm about his neck and leaned into him.

  “I really am most terribly grateful,” she said.

  The door opened again as if on cue and Horace held up his candle, muttered an oath, and tried to block his father’s view of the room.

  “Perhaps it was not such a good idea after all to come down here to get away from the noise,” he said loudly and heartily. “Come, Father—”

  But Uncle George, as he was meant to do, had smelled the proverbial rat. He moved Horace aside with one arm and came striding into the room just as Julianne shrieked, jumped back, and struggled with the bosom of her gown, which had somehow slipped down and come very close to revealing all.

  It was time to begin the counter plan.

  “Ah, here it is,” Judith said, stepping forward with a large book spread open across both hands. “And here are Uncle George and Horace to help me adjudicate the winner. And that is Julianne, I am afraid, Lord Rannulf. It was a raven that Noah sent out first from the ark to see if the floodwaters had receded. Then he sent a dove. The dove was sent out three times, in fact, until it did not return and Noah knew that there must be dry land again. But still, it was the raven first.”

  The way all four of them turned and gaped at her would have done justice to any farce. She shut the book with a flourish.

  “It was a foolish thing to argue about,” she said, “and to bring the three of us downstairs in the middle of a ball to hunt for the answer. But Julianne was right, you see, Lord Rannulf.”

  “Well,” he said with an audible sigh, “I suppose I must concede defeat, then. It is as well, though. It would have been ungentlemanly to crow over a lady if I had been right. Though I am still of the opinion that in my Bible it is a dove.”

  “What the devil—” Horace began.

  “Julianne,” Judith said, cutting him off as she put down the book, “are you still struggling with the catch of that bracelet? Can you not do it, Lord Rannulf? Let me try.”

  “Hmph,” Uncle George said. “I came down for a moment’s peace and find that my library has been invaded. Does your mother know you are wearing her bracelet, Julianne? I daresay she does, though. A word of advice, Bedwyn. Never argue with a lady. She is always right.”

  If she could have painted thunder in visible form, Judith thought, it would surely bear a remarkable resemblance to Horace’s face. She locked glances with him for a moment and saw murder in his eyes.

  “I’ll bear it in mind, sir,” Lord Rannulf said. “That is definitely the last time I argue about ravens and doves.”

  Julianne, tight-lipped and white-faced, pulled her arm away from Judith, fumbled with the catch of the bracelet, failed to do it up, snatched it off, and slammed it back onto the table where she had found it.

  “Horace,” she said, “take me to Mama. I am feeling faint.”

  “I suppose I had better return to my duty,” Uncle George said with a sigh.

  A moment later all three of them had left, taking the candle with them and leaving the door ajar.

  “What book was that?” Lord Rannulf asked after a few moments of silence.

  “I have no idea,” Judith said. “It was too dark in the room for me to distinguish one title from another.”

  “Are you quite sure,” he asked, “that the first bird out of the ark was a raven? I’ll wager it was a dove.”

  “You will lose,” she said. “I am a clergyman’s daughter.”

  “I suppose,” he said, “it was a plot to have Sir George E
ffingham believe I had seriously compromised his daughter.”

  “Yes.”

  “Careless of me,” he said. “It almost worked. I thought the chit silly and tedious but essentially harmless.”

  “But Horace is not,” she said. “Neither is Aunt Louisa.”

  “Judith.” He was coming toward her. “You have saved me from a miserable life sentence. How am I ever to thank you?”

  “We are even,” she said. “You saved me last week in the summerhouse. I saved you this week.”

  “Yes.” His hands were on her shoulders, warm, solid, familiar. “Judith.”

  When had he started calling her by her given name? Had he done it before tonight? She fixed her gaze on his elaborately tied neckcloth, but only for a moment. His face got in the way, and then his mouth was on hers.

  It was a deep kiss even though his hands did not move from her shoulders and hers did no more than grip the lapels of his evening coat. He teased her lips apart with his own and she opened her mouth to his. His tongue came into her mouth, filling her, possessing her, and she sucked on it, drawing it deeper.

  She felt like someone who had been starved and then presented with a feast. She could not get enough of him. She would never be able to have enough of him. She could smell the familiar scent of his cologne.

  And then his mouth was gone from hers and he was gazing at her in the moonlit room.

  “We are going back upstairs,” he said, “before someone can make an issue of your absence. Thank you, Judith. The time between now and the last dance is going to seem tedious indeed.”

  She tried not to refine too much on his words. He was relieved at his near escape. He was grateful to her. He remembered their time together when he had thought she was Claire Campbell, actress and experienced courtesan. That was all.

  Chapter XVII

  Judith had very little time in which to gather her scattered thoughts and emotions. Perhaps very few people noticed her return to the ballroom on Lord Rannulf’s arm, but Aunt Effingham certainly did, and the look on her face did not bode well for her niece later. Julianne had somehow surrounded herself with gentlemen, the waltz having just finished, and was laughing and fluttering in their midst. Uncle George was back with his group of older gentlemen, engrossed in conversation with them. Of Horace there was no sign.