by Rebecca King
Reckless Desire
Saved by Desire Series
Book Six
by
REBECCA KING
RECKLESS DESIRE
By
Rebecca King
© Rebecca King 2017
SMASHWORDS EDITION
TABLE OF CONTENTS
SAVED BY DESIRE SERIES
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE ARRANGEMENT
TO HONOUR A WAGER SERIES
OTHER BOOKS BY REBECCA KING
SAVED BY DESIRE SERIES
ONE PENNY SURPRISE (BOOK ONE)
TO CATCH A THIEF (BOOK TWO)
MISTAKEN IDENTITY (BOOK THREE)
A SCANDAL MOST DARING (BOOK FOUR)
HIDING ROSE (BOOK FIVE)
RECKLESS DESIRE (BOOK SIX)
THE ARRANGEMENT (BOOK SEVEN)
HOPE’S SECRET (BOOK EIGHT)
RUNAWAY GROOM (BOOK NINE)
MAY THE BEST ROGUE WIN (BOOK TEN)
CHAPTER ONE
Marguerite closed the door gently and studied the room before her with little enthusiasm. She didn’t want to be in what appeared to be the Carmichael’s study but had even less desire to be in the main music room with the rest of the guests. She was bored, tired, fed up, and desperately wanted to go home but there was little choice in the matter, she had to wait until her father was ready to leave.
“I hate it,” she whispered as she leaned back against the door and allowed the peace to ease her disquiet. “I hate it here, and I hate those guests.”
She did. Those she had met were arrogant, snide, and had little interest in anything but themselves and whatever connections they could forge whilst in attendance, much like the hosts really. She had little interest in them either, and vice versa. She hated the house as well. It was far too big for just three people to inhabit. It was old, draughty, and stuffed full of expensive ornaments and furniture that left little doubt as to the owner’s wealth but said little about their characters other than they liked to show off. As far as Marguerite was concerned the décor was pretentious and completely barren of the vibrancy of life’s knick-knacks.
“Gold and marble, I ask you. It’s too cold,” she whispered with a shiver. “It says a lot about the hosts, though.”
She wandered over to the fireplace, but the meagre warmth emanating from the glowing embers did little to ease the chill that had settled over her shoulders throughout the evening. Her goose bumps had nothing to do with the fact that the music room was barely heated. They were the result of the unwanted attention she had received from the guest everyone at tonight’s recital was gossiping about, Count Vladimir Valentin.
“A Russian Count. Well, Russia can have him back,” she grumbled.
She didn’t care if he was Russian, Egyptian, or Scottish. He might be the most sought after guest ever to inhabit London in recent times. As far as she was concerned, he was a social pariah. He was rude, arrogant, and had spent most of the evening staring so intently at her that he had drawn the attention of the gossips. As a result of the man’s bad manners, the gossips had taken to whispering behind their hands while studying her, undoubtedly trying to work out what it was about her that drew the Count’s attention. She had little doubt it would be all over London by tomorrow and shuddered to think what that might mean to her reputation.
“I can only hope they don’t assume there is a connection between us,” she whispered with another shudder.
When silence fell around her again, she realised what she was doing and was glad that nobody was around to hear her muttering to herself.
“Oh no,” she whispered when the sound of distant clapping filtered into the room. She looked at the door to the hallway in horror. The random notes being played on the harpsichord signalled that the second half of the hideous cacophony the hostess called a musical extravaganza was about to begin.
“I am not going back in there to listen to that,” she decided, her thoughts turning at once to her father. “I will tell him I have a headache. Yes, that’s it. Even he cannot object to that.”
She had no idea what had possessed him to accept the invitation in the first place. The Carmichaels were not of their social class. They were ton, whereas the Smisbys, Marguerite and her father, Eustace, were middle-class. Eustace was the proud owner of a clock making business, albeit one which had earned a reputation for being one of the best clock makers in the country, but he was still a middle-class businessman. It was highly unusual for him to even receive an invitation to any of the Carmichael’s social functions, but he had. To her dismay, he had insisted that they both attend.
Marguerite sighed when she thought back to the fateful evening three nights ago when he had told her where they were going.
“I didn’t realise you knew the Carmichaels,” she said when he had informed her of his plans.
“I am acquainted with them,” her father replied carefully.
Marguerite squinted at him. She didn’t believe him but, given the stubborn expression on his face, she knew he wasn’t going to take her into his confidence.
“Oh?” A pregnant silence descended while she waited for him to explain.
“We are going and that is final,” Eustace declared eventually.
“I don’t have anything to wear,” she protested. “Why don’t you go alone? The invitation was sent to you.”
She pointed to his name on the embossed card that lay on the table between them.
“The invitation is for me and a guest. Because you are my daughter you are coming too, and that is the end of it, Marguerite.” He glared at her, almost daring her to defy him.
Marguerite opened her mouth to speak only to watch her father throw a pouch of coins onto the table between them.
“Go and buy yourself an outfit befitting the Carmichaels. I don’t want them to think we are poor.”
They weren’t. She knew they weren’t. Her father had only recently been moaning that there wasn’t enough time in the day and that more clocks were going out of the shop than he could make. As a result, he was earning a veritable fortune. There was only the two of them living in the house, and they lived a relatively mediocre life that certainly couldn’t be called frivolous. They had enough money to live a far more affluent lifestyle, they just didn’t want to.
Marguerite studied the coins in her hand warily.
“But we don’t have a carriage,” she protested weakly.
Indeed they didn’t. Given they lived in London, Eustace had always insisted that it was an unnecessary expense. They could hire a carriage whenever they wanted one, which they did. But to travel to the Carmichael’s in a hired carriage was surely going against the appearance her father wanted to make, wasn’t it?
“Does it matter?” her father snapped impatiently.
“There is something you are not telling me,” she murmured.
This time, when their gazes met she saw the shadows and secrets in her father’s eyes and knew there was something more, much more. He almost seemed afraid to tell her what was bothering him.
“This Count everyone is talking about, Valentine, or Valentin, something like that; the man who is in the papers all the damned time and is the guest of
the season-” he began.
“What of him?” Although she rarely socialised and certainly wasn’t worthy of moving amongst the ton, she read the society pages in the broadsheets.
“He has asked the Carmichaels to send you, me, us, an invitation.”
“Why?” She scowled at him. “Does he want a clock?”
“No, he wants to meet you,” her father announced bluntly. He looked less than pleased at the notion and merely studied her over the top of his glasses while he waited for her response.
“Me? B-but why me? I-I mean, I don’t know the man,” she blabbered. “I mean, how does he know who I am? I don’t move amongst the ton. I have never met him before in my life, or the Carmichaels for that matter.”
Eustace sighed and pushed away from the table. “Well, he knows you, or of you, and wants to make your acquaintance.”
“But-”
“We are going, Marguerite, and that is the end of it,” Eustace interrupted, and with that, he left the room.
Well, I have attended, and he is awful. Marguerite sighed, and then winced when a particularly loud screeching noise shattered the silence.
She felt the heavy weight of guilt settle over her and studied the door with renewed determination. If she hid in the room any longer her father would come and look for her and then he would be angry. Before she could move to the door, though, it suddenly opened.
“Oh, there you are my dear.”
Marguerite closed her eyes in dismay. When she opened them again she watched the Count wander casually into the room and close the door behind him. She was suddenly hit with the strong sense of being trapped and didn’t like it one bit.
“I was just leaving,” she murmured politely, desperately hoping he would do the decent thing and move away from the door, or at least open it for her so she could leave. Unsurprisingly, he did neither. Instead, he stood with his back to the door, purposely blocking her exit, and studied her lasciviously.
Suddenly, the muted din of the rest of the evening’s guests didn’t seem all that reassuring. They sounded too far away, especially if she needed to call on them for help.
“Er, I need to leave,” she murmured, trying hard not to let him see how unnerved she was.
“I need to speak with you before you go,” the Count murmured.
He made no attempt to move out of her way. His demeanour was almost mocking, challenging her to move toward him. Marguerite shivered and took a step back instead. She had no intention of allowing the man anywhere near her. When it became evident that he wasn’t going to move despite being asked, she carefully retreated to safety behind a high backed chair.
There was something about the smirk on his face that was annoying. It made her want to smack him because she suspected that he was aware his presence in the room made her uncomfortable, and he was enjoying her discomfiture.
Suddenly, he bowed theatrically, his pale blue eyes openly mocking as they met hers.
“Please forgive me,” he drawled in heavily accented Russian. “I forgot to introduce myself. I am Count Vladimir Valentin.”
Marguerite stared at him and wondered if she had missed something. “I know. We were introduced by the hostess earlier.”
Well, Papa wanted me to meet him, and now that I have-twice-I really don’t like him. Can I go now?
“Miss-”
She wondered if the man was dense or just playing for time so they were in the room together far longer than was polite. She eyed the door behind him again and longed to be able to push him out of the way and use it, but she daren’t venture near him.
“Miss Marguerite Smisby. Yes, I know. I have been watching you, dear,” the Count declared, a little too knowingly for her peace of mind.
It was on the tip of her tongue to say, ‘yes, I know’, but she didn’t. Instead, she kept her face devoid of expression and in doing so hoped to discourage him. It didn’t work. Either the Count was too dim to realise her coldness was a set down, or he was blithely ignoring it and didn’t care one bit about what she wanted, her reputation, his honour, or the devastation the countless gossips would wreak upon them should they be caught alone together in a darkened room.
“Oh?” Marguerite’s gaze turned frosty. She tensed and waited. The atmosphere within the room became heavy. She watched the man study the distance between them, and silently willed him to stay where he was.
He didn’t.
When he began to move toward her in a random circuit of the room, Marguerite carefully placed yet more distance between them. Eventually, his lack of progress made him stop. He stared at the distance still between them with a frown on his brow. He then scowled his displeasure at her. Marguerite refused to be cowed by him and tipped her chin up defiantly.
“I will bid you good evening,” she murmured coldly.
You will leave you ill-manner guttersnipe because I know you won’t, she thought snidely.
The only benefit of the last few, rather odd, moments was that she was now closer to the door than he was. Now that the opportunity had blessedly presented itself she wasted no time taking advantage of it. But, before she took more than a handful of steps, a wild flurry of black material made her gasp. She watched in horror as the Count suddenly planted himself firmly in front of the door again. Her mouth opened but she didn’t know what to say. What could she say? What could she do now? If she screamed they would have every guest in attendance upon them in a matter of minutes. While she would then get the rescue she needed her reputation would lie in ruins. However, if she didn’t do something she was likely to be stuck in the room with the oaf all evening.
“I have wanted to speak with you,” the Count murmured, seemingly oblivious to her distress. “But the hosts won’t leave me alone.”
“I don’t think we have anything to discuss. I have already told you that I wish to leave,” she replied firmly, or as firmly as she could manage. She mentally winced because the nervous quiver in her voice was audible even to herself. Still, she forced herself to meet his gaze and tipped her chin up.
“I know your father,” the Count murmured as though this meant something.
Marguerite wondered if he had intended to make that sound like a threat. Strangely, when their eyes met she read the calculation hidden in those dark orbs. It warned her that he couldn’t be trusted. Whatever he wanted, it wasn’t anything nice; of that, there could be little doubt. Confused, she wondered if she was mistaken. This was the man everyone liked and wanted to include on their guest lists. Yet to her he was creepy, and someone she wanted, and needed, to avoid at all costs.
“He mentioned it,” she replied evasively.
He lies, she mused thoughtfully. She knew her father would have mentioned it.
“Good.” The Count nodded slowly, a secretive smile curving his thin lips.
Marguerite frowned a little. “Your acquaintance with my father is relatively new, though.”
“I have an acquaintance with a lot of people,” the Count assured her. “It is wise to have acquaintances with connections, don’t you think?”
There was something in his voice, some hidden meaning she couldn’t quite understand.
“I suppose so,” she replied.
The silence stretched between them.
“Well, I need to go back to the music room. I am sure my father will be looking for me by now.”
“He has gone,” the Count declared flatly.
“Oh?” Marguerite went cold. There was a callous tone to the Count’s voice that warned her something was dreadfully wrong.
“Yes.”
“Did you see him? Where is he now?” Her voice betrayed every ounce of the worry she felt.
“He said to tell you that he didn’t feel well and was going home.”
“Oh, dear,” she whispered. She was horrified that she had been abandoned at the recital, especially when she hadn’t wanted to attend in the first place.
I cannot believe Papa would do this to me, she thought angrily.
“
I shall escort you home instead, my dear,” the Count declared somewhat pompously.
“That won’t be necessary, thank you.”
“No, I insist,” the Count interrupted.
Unnerved at being pushed so, she frowned at him. “Thank you for your generosity but I am sure it won’t be necessary.”
She made her voice a little firmer, hoping he would take the hint. To her dismay, he merely issued her with a hard look.
“I won’t accept ‘no’ for an answer.” The tone of his voice could only be described as deadly.
The small hairs stood up on the back of her neck.
“Where is he?” She tried not to sound desperate, but she did.
“Gone,” the Count snapped.
“Home?” she asked, silently pleading with him to confirm it.
She had no idea why she asked that. If her father had left he would go home yet there was something about the Count’s behaviour that was disturbing. Could she trust him? Was he telling her the truth? She wanted to go home right now, just so she could see for herself that her father was alright. A part of her struggled to comprehend that he would be callous enough to abandon her at such a social function like this. But, if the Count was right and her father had left that was exactly what he had done.
Abandoned you? He has probably left because you disappeared into the study without telling him.
She mentally groaned when she realised what she had done. Of course her father would go home to check on her. He would want to know that she was alright once he realised she wasn’t there anymore. He would be awfully angry with her as well, for not telling him she was going, well, anywhere.
“Oh, dear. I need to go and make sure he is alright,” she replied. Now that her father wasn’t at the recital, Marguerite could see no reason why she should stay either.