by Anna Bradley
Georgiana said nothing. Privately she agreed with the duke that Lady Wylde was best avoided, and she suspected Cecilia and Lord Darlington did as well. They didn’t spend much time in company, and likely had no intention of attending Lady Wylde’s masque ball, but they would if Lady Clifford asked them to.
“Yes, I think we can manage something. How fortunate it’s a masque ball. It’s much better if Miss Harley isn’t recognized.”
Georgiana smothered a snort. It wasn’t likely the ton would recognize her, either with or without a masque. Still, she’d just as soon preserve her anonymity, and she couldn’t deny a masque ball provided a rare chance to nose about with little risk of being exposed.
She detested balls, but she did like to nose about. It was some consolation, at least.
“Very well, then.” The duchess rose to her feet. “You’ll keep me apprised of Miss Harley’s progress?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Lady Clifford rose as well, a reassuring smile on her lips.
But the duchess hesitated, her brow pinched with worry. “You do understand it’s of the utmost importance this matter remains between us, Lady Clifford? I have your promise you won’t breathe a single word of it to Lord Haslemere, or indeed to anyone?”
Lady Clifford exchanged another speaking glance with Georgiana. “I promise you, Your Grace, that this conversation will not leave this room.”
“Very well.” The duchess gave a hesitant nod, then turned to Georgiana. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Harley.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Georgiana curtsied, then dropped onto the settee again as Lady Clifford showed the duchess out. Her head was spinning with conjectures, but so far, she was certain of only one thing.
The duchess had lied to them.
Or, at the very least, hadn’t told the entire truth. There was a great deal more to this than just a missing friend. Whether that mattered or not remained to be seen, but one thing was certain. If the Duchess of Kenilworth had been anyone else, Lady Clifford would have demanded the entire truth from her before she took this business on.
As it was, however, she was the Duchess of Kenilworth, and whatever it was she was up to, it was worth it to them to do just as she bid them. Even if that meant attending a dreadful masque ball at dreadful Lady Wylde’s, of all cursed things.
Georgiana cradled her chin in her hand with a glum sigh. There was, alas, no help for it, even if the very thought of such an entertainment made her shudder, and even though she was the least suited to such a task than any of Lady Clifford’s other students.
“What a strange encounter,” Lady Clifford murmured when she came back into the room. She wandered over to her desk, picked up the paper she’d laid there, and stared at it for a moment. “It’s not much to start with, I’m afraid.”
“No. Lady Tilbury is unobjectionable enough, but how in the world am I meant to manage Lady Wylde?”
“I daresay you won’t have to speak to her much. You might also want to see what you can find out about the Duchess of Kenilworth while you’re at the ball, my love. Balls are wonderful for gathering gossip, and I think we both can agree there are a few gaps in the duchess’s story.”
“Yes.” Georgiana slumped on the settee. “That’s easily done, my lady, but Lady Wylde! How does one even approach such a woman?”
Lady Clifford chuckled. “Why, just as you would a rabid dog, my love. Carefully.”
Chapter Four
Benedict sprawled on the silk settee in Lady Wylde’s dressing room, one leg balanced on his knee and his arm flung over the back, watching as she dabbed powder on her décolletage.
Her eyes found his in the looking glass, and she cast him a flirtatious glance, eyelashes batting over her sleepy dark eyes. “Such an intense gaze, my lord. Do you see something that pleases you?”
She shifted, turning toward him, and the lace sleeve of her dressing gown slipped obligingly off her shoulder, exposing her smooth, creamy skin. Benedict’s gaze roved over her, lingering on the luscious curves of her breasts. “Quite fetching indeed, my lady.”
She was fetching. No doubt she’d invited him to her boudoir hoping he’d fall upon her like a ravaging animal, but despite all that lovely skin she was flaunting, he couldn’t conjure even a twitch of interest from his nether regions.
“If I’m so fetching, then come here, my lord, and lay claim to me.” Lady Wylde’s red lips curved as she beckoned to him with one delicate finger, the other trailing from the hollow of her throat down to the bare skin between her breasts.
Benedict stifled a sigh. It was a damnable time for his cock to be so stubborn, but it did tend to be right about these sorts of things. “There’s no time, I’m afraid. Your guests have arrived and await your presence in the ballroom.”
But Lady Wylde wasn’t one to easily relinquish her prey. “My guests?” She threw her head back in a throaty laugh. “Let them wait.”
Benedict arched an eyebrow as she rose from her chair. She sauntered toward the settee, pushed his leg aside, and sank down onto his lap.
No. Still nary a twitch.
Lady Wylde wasn’t the first woman who’d attempted to ensnare him with her seductive wiles. Benedict had been chased many times, and it had never dampened his arousal before. Quite the opposite. He was an indolent creature, and he’d always been rather grateful to his paramours for saving him the effort of a pursuit.
She wriggled her round bottom against him, her warm breath caressing his cheek. His hand landed her thigh, more from habit than anything else. He gave it a hopeful squeeze—he was a man, after all—and eyed the pale, full globes of her breasts spilling from her bodice.
Nothing. His cock was staging a rebellion.
He couldn’t make sense of it. He hadn’t come to London for a dalliance with Lady Wylde, but he’d been eager enough to bed her last season. At the moment, however, he couldn’t recall why she’d caught his attention in the first place.
Troubling, really. He hadn’t bedded a woman in months. Now here he was with an obliging lady perched on his lap, and she was just the sort of lush, dark beauty he favored. If his cock refused to stand for a siren like Lady Wylde, he might as well give up on being a wicked rake and return to Surrey now—take up angling, or bird watching, or whatever it was gentlemen did when they declined into their dotage.
“May I offer you more wine, my lord?”
Benedict turned his attention to his wine glass, which had remained untouched since he’d arrived. “Later, perhaps.”
“You’re somber this evening. Is there nothing I can do to cheer you?” Lady Wylde’s red lips curved in an inviting smile, and one slim hand landed on his knee. “There must be something that will restore you to your customary good humor.”
Her hand inched up Benedict’s thigh. Given how determined she was to lift his, er…spirits, she’d take a refusal on his part as a grievous insult, indeed, but he couldn’t make himself give a damn.
“No, thank you, my lady.” Benedict caught her wrist and removed her hand from his thigh. “I believe I’ll make an appearance in the ballroom, and leave you to complete your toilette. Perhaps you’ll favor me with your first dance tonight?”
Lady Wylde wasn’t accustomed to being rejected. Her cheeks reddened with anger, and her full, pouting lips pressed into a tight line. “No, I’m afraid not. I’ve promised my first dance to Lord Harrington.”
She tossed her head, but she didn’t relinquish her place on his lap. Instead she clung to him like a burr, as if she were expecting him to leap to his feet in a fit of jealous rage at the mention of Lord Harrington.
Benedict remained where he was. The idea of such a scene exhausted him, and before he knew what he was doing, he raised his fingers to his mouth to hide a yawn.
“Am I boring you, Lord Haslemere?” Lady Wylde had been toying with his hair, but now she sank her claws into
the back of his neck.
“Ouch! Er, I mean, no, of course not.” He winced as he traced a finger over the long, deep scratch she’d carved into his flesh. “You’re uniformly charming—”
But it was too late to soothe her ruffled feelings. She leapt free of his lap and flounced back to her dressing table. Her face was mottled with fury, and the eyes that met his in the glass glittered with temper.
Well, that was it, then. Benedict got to his feet with far less regret than he should have felt at being doomed to God knew how many more weeks of celibacy. He turned toward the door, reasoning that the least he could do was save her the trouble of tossing him out of her dressing room, but before he could escape, she stopped him.
“Will your sister, the Duchess of Kenilworth, be attending my ball this evening, my lord?”
Benedict turned back to her with a shrug. “I’ve no idea. If you recall, I’ve just arrived in London. I haven’t yet spoken to my sister, but as I’m sure you’re aware, the duchess doesn’t attend many entertainments during the season.”
Particularly not any entertainment hosted by Lady Wylde. The ton might receive her ladyship without batting an eye, but the Duke of Kenilworth was a high stickler, and he was particularly protective of his wife. Benedict doubted he’d consider Lady Wylde a proper companion for Jane.
Lady Wylde went back to her toilette with a shrug, but there was a spiteful glimmer in her eyes. “Oh, I understand completely, my lord. I don’t blame the duchess at all for wishing to avoid company just now, but her favorite is meant to attend tonight, and I thought perhaps she longed to see him.”
“Her favorite?” Benedict’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t care for Lady Wylde’s tone, or her insinuation. “I don’t have the pleasure of understanding you, madam.”
“Oh, I’m certain it’s just idle gossip. You know how the ton is, my lord. There’s likely not a grain of truth to it.” Lady Wylde’s crimson lips curled in a smirk. “Still, perhaps it’s not so surprising the duke won’t let her out of his sight.”
Benedict took up the coat he’d draped over the back of the settee and offered Lady Wylde a polite bow. Whatever the latest rumor was, he’d be damned if he’d give her the satisfaction of telling it to him. “I’m certain the duke isn’t so foolish as to credit whatever damnable lie is on the tip of London’s wagging tongues this time. I wish you a pleasant evening, my lady.”
But Lady Wylde had no intention of letting him go without spilling her secret. “Oh, but how silly of me! Of course, you wouldn’t have heard of it, rusticating in Surrey as you’ve been. I beg you’ll forgive me for repeating something so ugly, my lord, but the gossip has it the duchess and Lord Draven are engaged in a scandalous affair.”
Benedict paused halfway to the door. Jane, having an affair with Draven?
How imaginative. He’d give the gossips that much. Utter bollocks still, of course. Jane had married the Duke of Kenilworth less than six years ago, and the union was a happy one. Even if she was disappointed in her marriage, why should she choose the Earl of Draven as her paramour? The man was practically a hermit—
“You look skeptical, my lord. It might interest you to know Her Grace was spotted leaving Lord Draven’s townhouse one night this week, alone. But I’m sure it’s all perfectly innocent.”
Lady Wylde’s voice rang with malice, and Benedict let out a weary sigh. Perhaps he should have remained in Surrey. It was as dull as a bloody tomb there, but at least he was spared this sort of foolishness.
“Now, if you’ll forgive me, Lord Haslemere, I must dress. Do enjoy the ball tonight, won’t you? It’s rumored Lord Draven will come out of hiding to attend. Perhaps you should ask him yourself if the rumors about his affair with your sister are true.”
Benedict left Lady Wylde’s bedchamber without bothering to give her the satisfaction of an answer. Her mocking laugh followed him through her private sitting room, persisting even after he’d escaped into the hallway, but he hardly registered it as he made his way down the stairs to the first floor.
The doors between the large and small drawing rooms and the music room had been thrown open to serve as a ballroom. He came to an abrupt halt as he neared, knocked back a step by the deafening din of music and footsteps pounding across the dance floor.
Good Lord, what a crush. The acrid scent of sweat and the heat were so stifling he might have been standing at the very gates of hell. Half of London’s upper ten thousand were stuffed inside cheek to jowl, and ready to burst from the seams, much like Lady Wylde’s breasts from her corset. Even if Draven was here, it would be a devil of a business to find him in this crowd.
Benedict stifled another sigh as he took in the familiar sight of London’s fashionable set, their jewels flashing and faces flushed with heat and champagne. Didn’t anyone new ever come to London? These were all the same people who’d been here last season, except for—
Benedict paused, his gaze catching and holding on a tall lady in a bronze-colored gown and masque. She was some distance away from him, tucked into a far corner of the ballroom, removed from the rest of the crush.
Wasn’t that…that is, she looked just like—
No, it couldn’t be. It was ridiculous, impossible. This was the last place in the world he’d ever expect to find her.
No, he’d mistaken another lady for her. Yes, he must have done. There was no way Georgiana Harley, with her scolding tongue and prim gowns, her manners so stiff and proper she put him in mind of a marionette whose strings had been pulled too tight, could be here, at Lady Wylde’s masque ball.
He peered over the sea of bobbing heads with far more interest than he cared to explain to himself, trying to catch another glimpse of the tall, graceful lady in the dark silk gown.
Ah, just there.
Hell and damnation. There was no mistake. He knew it as soon as his eyes lighted on her once again. She didn’t look anything like he’d ever seen her before, but for good or ill, he couldn’t forget her face. Georgiana Harley lingered like a bad taste in his mouth, or a stinging slap to his cheek.
It was her. There was no confusing her with any other lady in London.
The drab hat and stiff brown cloak were nowhere to be found. Her gown wasn’t nearly revealing enough to catch the lascivious gazes of the rakes who frequented this sort of entertainment, but now he’d spotted her, Benedict found it difficult to take his eyes off her.
Her gown and masque were a deep, rich brown. They were both plain, severe even, her only adornment a bronze and black striped ribbon tied around her waist. There wasn’t a single feather or frill to be seen, but the ensemble suited her somehow. Her thick, chestnut hair was gathered into a simple knot at the back of her neck, and a length of the same striped ribbon that made up her sash was wound throughout the thick locks.
He gaped at her, struck dumb, feeling as if he were staring at a ghost. A ghost of a different Georgiana Harley, from another place and time—a ghost of a lady who, despite her obvious efforts to avoid notice and blend into the scenery, outshone the gaudier birds that fluttered around her, with her sleek, rich feathers.
Benedict didn’t make any move to enter the ballroom, but lingered in the doorway, watching her. What the devil was she doing here? Had she come here alone? No, surely not. He turned his gaze toward her companions, expecting to find Lady Clifford, but instead it was Darlington who was standing beside Miss Harley, and on his other side, her hand on his arm, was Lady Darlington.
That was even stranger still. They were meant to be on their way to Darlington Castle in Kent by now. Even when he was in London, Darlington rarely went into company. If he did venture out, it certainly wasn’t to attend this sort of chaotic entertainment.
Benedict pulled his masque from his coat pocket, slipped it over his face, and began to push his way through the crush. As Darlington’s closest friend, it was his duty to discover if something was amiss. If that meant
crossing swords with Miss Harley again, well, it was bad luck, but it wasn’t his fault. He had an obligation to Darlington, that was all. If he did feel a hint of anticipation about dueling with her again, it was only because he was bored, and it was good fun, ruffling her feathers.
He circled around the long way, keeping to the outer edges of the crowd to avoid any acquaintances who might recognize him. He had no patience for meaningless chatter at the moment.
He kept his gaze fixed on Georgiana Harley as he neared her corner of the ballroom. As he got closer, he noticed her jaw was tight, and her shoulders rigid. She hadn’t come here for her own pleasure, then. She didn’t want to be here, yet there she was, in all her ballroom finery, doing her best to go unnoticed.
She seemed distracted as well. Her gaze was moving over the crowd as if she were searching for someone. Who, though? The ballroom was crowded with ton, along with a generous sprinkling of scoundrels, rakes, courtesans, and other dubious members of the demimonde who made up Lady Wylde’s circle. Miss Harley didn’t know a soul here beyond Darlington and his wife.
No matter. He’d have an answer soon enough, even if he had to tease it out of her—
“Lord Darlington!”
Every head turned, the chatter grew louder, and then the crowd parted and Lady Wylde herself appeared, clad in a daring gown of scarlet silk. Lady Tilbury was with her, and Lord Harrington, the fool, was dangling on her arm like a shiny bauble.
The last person Benedict wished to confront at this moment was Lady Wylde, so he ducked behind a boisterous knot of people standing near Miss Harley and did his best not to call attention to himself.
“Lady Darlington!” Lady Wylde, who was well aware the Marquess and Marchioness of Darlington didn’t attend many London entertainments, couldn’t quite hide her satisfaction that they’d made her masque ball an exception. “Why, how wonderful to see you both here. I confess I didn’t expect it.”