The Wicked Wedding of Miss Ellie Vyne

by Jayne Fresina

  She had very nice lips. They were the sort of lips that kept a man looking at them, wondering how they tasted.

  “There are at least half-a-dozen women here tonight far more suitable than me,” those naughty lips assured him firmly.

  “Oh?”

  “Lady Southwold. Was that not she just now?”

  “Yes, it was she, and no, I’m not going to marry her.”

  “Why not?”

  “You said yourself that she’s a faithless hussy. Making overtures to your lover. Is that not what you told me?”

  Her lashes lifted, and he basked in the warmth of her gaze again. “Yes.”

  “Then she’s not right for me.” He let his hand slide a half inch lower down her spine. If she noticed, she kept it to herself. He spread his fingers over the butter-soft muslin, already feeling a sense of possessiveness. In all the years of their acquaintance, he didn’t recall her eyes being that color. Where had she kept those eyes all these years? Had she stashed them away deliberately?

  Eventually she tore their beauty away and surveyed the room over his shoulder. “That woman, over there by the punch bowl. Miss Clarke, I believe is her name. Have you met her?”

  “No.” He hadn’t even looked, too busy trying to think, searching his memory. What were those lips and eyes trying to tell him that she was not saying?

  “I hear she’s a very good sort and would never give you any trouble.”

  He finally followed her gaze. “Too tall and thin. And nervous.”

  “Nervous? If you’ve never met her, how can you possibly—?”

  “She plucks her eyebrows almost out of existence, and her clavicle is so evident I can only assume that if she eats at all, food never has a chance to cling to her bones.”

  She sighed. “And there is the very pretty Miss Wilson, talking to her mama. There, by the plinth with the large Grecian urn.”

  “Grecian urn? Is that what it is? I thought it was some sort of coffeepot.”

  “Pay attention, Hartley! The young lady beside it…”

  “Plinth,” he muttered. “Isn’t that a splendid word? Plinth.”

  “James Hartley, we are talking about Miss Jane Wilson.”

  He swept her around in a tight turn. “Her feet are too big. And she lisps.”

  “Well then, what about Lady Clegg-Foster’s daughter? I can’t recall her name, but she’s a dainty thing and sings like a lark, so I’m told.”

  He’d make Ellie Vyne’s lips sing too, he thought, given half a chance. “The young lady’s name is Rosalind. She chews her fingers.”

  “You mean her fingernails.”

  “No. She chews her fingers. I’ve seen the scars. God only knows what she’d do to a husband once she runs out of digits.” He grinned.

  She was still determined not to give him a full smile, it seemed. “Lady Aynsbury’s niece in the yellow dress?”

  “Doesn’t like dogs or horses.”

  “Miss Walters, with the feathers in her hair?”

  “Eats with her mouth open.”

  “Miss Gordon. Now what can you possibly find amiss with that sweet little thing?”

  “She’s too little. And too sweet.”

  She gasped irritably. “And you’re too fussy!”

  “I’m not surprised you’ve had so many broken engagements, Vyne, if you choose your men with the same carelessness as you expect me to find a wife.”

  Of course he knew she had questionable taste. A bolt of anger struck him viciously, even in the midst of their lively conversation. He couldn’t imagine what drew her to that rogue Bonneville, but then the man’s appeal was, in general, lost on him. He’d seen the fellow only from a distance and noted a prettily attired coxcomb with too many frills on his shirt, a small nose, and inadequate chin. The count had garnered quite a following in Bath last year, and in London, with admirers from both sexes. Since Beau Brummell fled to Calais, escaping his debts, the brainless sheep needed someone new to follow. But the Vyne woman, who possessed more than a sixpenny’s worth of wit, had always struck James as the sort to be unimpressed by a satin-clad milksop.

  That gown showed far too much bosom.

  It kept interrupting his damned thoughts. Those sweet handfuls, heaving gently with every inhale, lured his imagination through a dangerous realm. He supposed it was deliberate, so she could then feign affront and reprimand him for looking. Women were devious that way. Men were mere pawns in their machinations, Grieves would remind him.

  “There are fifteen,” she said suddenly.

  Dazed, he moved his eyes back to her face. “Hmmm?”

  “There are fifteen miniature silk-ribbon rosebuds sewn around my décolletage, Hartley. I see you are interested in their number, as you’ve studied them pointedly for the past few minutes. You really are intent on creating a scandal tonight.”

  Of course, they caused a goodly amount of consternation just by dancing together—the Duke of Ardleigh’s former mistress, an outspoken woman with a reputation for insulting royalty and countless broken engagements, and the man who was rumored to keep a different bedmate every night of the week. They were, in the eyes of the world, two notorious characters with little hope of redemption.

  They were also two people who didn’t have to pretend for each other. She knew all his worst traits, and he knew all hers. Their badinage had become routine over the years. Like toast soldiers for his boiled egg.

  “There should be sixteen rosebuds,” she added pensively, “but one tumbled off in my sister’s carriage on the way here. My fault, because I’d been toying with a loose thread for want of anything else to do with my fingers.”

  Hmmm. Something to bear in mind. Keep her fingers occupied.

  “It was too dark to see where it landed when it fell off, and I had no needle to sew it back on with in any case. I’m sure you noticed the hanging thread, Hartley.”

  He had not actually noticed a missing rosebud, but now she mentioned it, he had to look and count them again. His gaze lingered over her full curves. And the enticing way they rose and fell.

  “I don’t know how other ladies manage to keep their gowns so well preserved,” she muttered. “By the end of the evening, I am often fortunate to have all my hooks still in place, and there is always, without a doubt, more than one stain.”

  James gravely shook his head. “Someone, Vyne, ought to watch over you.”

  “I daresay. But who could possibly handle the task?”

  He surreptitiously moved her closer, taking even firmer possession of her waist. “Me.”

  “You, Hartley?” He felt the laughter trembling through her body. “It would be quite a shock to see you devoting your energies and time to something worthwhile for a change, I suppose.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It appears you have an excess of free hours in your day and evening, which, although to be expected for a gentleman of your class, only leads to trouble. After a certain number of years passing in the same fashion, it must become altogether wearisome for a person with most of their senses and four solid limbs in their possession. I’ve always paused with admiration and wondered how you manage to do it—nothing all day, that is.”

  She was unaware, naturally, of his strive to change. Tempting as it was to set her straight, he chose not to. The new, improved James Hartley was still a work in progress. He was not ready yet for this sharp-tongued hussy to step in and judge. He leaned closer and took a deep breath of her soft perfume. Lilac and…was that almonds?

  “Stop doing that,” she muttered.

  He was making her nervous. Good. “Worried the count might object if he sees us together? Perhaps he’ll come out of hiding and challenge me to a duel. If he cares about you at all, of course. You’re probably just another conquest to him.”

  “As any woman is to you.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear. And don’t believe everything the villainous, so-called count tells you. I suppose he’s seduced you with flattery to pamper your vanity, and now
you imagine you know him well.”

  “Oh, but I do! He and I have a very close connection. We are almost inseparable.”

  His mood darkened again. It took him a moment before he could speak. He’d unhappily been witness to many of her relationships with men. They were always casual, short-lived. What made this one so different? “Then where is he tonight?” he managed finally.

  “I cannot tell you that. I will never betray him.”

  Deep violet eyes perused his face. There was a twinkle—good or bad, he could not ascertain. Was she laughing at him again or simply smug about her love affair? A lash of jealousy tore into him like a cat-o’-nine-tails.

  He twirled her faster around the hall. “Then I’ll keep you for ransom, Vyne,” he growled, watching a stray dark curl untwist beside her cheek. “If the count continues to hide from me, I’ll take compensation for those diamonds from you.” Keep her dizzy; keep her moving along in my arms, and then she can’t escape. She can’t leave until I’ve remembered whatever it is she’s trying to hide from me.

  “I thought you said they were priceless. What could I give you to compensate?”

  “I’m sure you and I can come to some…arrangement.” They were moving too fast, dancing too closely. He didn’t care.

  Laughing softly, she looked up at him again, and the small pearls in her ears gleamed like tiny moons amid all that rich mahogany hair. “When will you find the time? Surely your week is fully booked with similar arrangements.”

  Naturally she believed all the lies, every bad thing ever uttered about him. She’d do that superior thing in a minute with her lips.

  He stared at her earring and then at her mouth again. For a moment, it felt as if they’d stopped dancing and the room moved around them, spinning by at a breathless pace. As if he was drunk.

  Brighton.

  But how could it be…?

  He stared. Her lips still moved as she mocked him with her usual flair, but he couldn’t hear a word, because his heart was beating too loudly in his ears.

  Perhaps it wasn’t her. He clutched at this faint hope, but then she raised her lashes again, and the secretive gleam in her eyes was all too familiar. Touching his soul, stirring his blood.

  Found you!

  Wretched woman! How dare she do this to him? That it should be her—his nemesis—of all people.

  With massive effort he made his voice calm, steady. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I told you I mean to reform my old ways.”

  Her eyes sparkled with more merriment. She was enjoying their scandalous dance, obviously, although she would never admit it.

  “You are amused, Vyne, by the idea of my reformation?”

  “Should a reformed rake manhandle a woman in this fashion and dance obscenely close?”

  “With one woman, he might. The one woman for whom he is willing to give up all the others.”

  She looked away at the passing dancers. “Well, I suppose pleasing so many ladies at once must become tiring at your age, Hartley. But I have faith in you”—she patted his shoulder—“not to let them down.”

  It seemed hopeless. She never listened. Therefore he’d simply have to show her. “I’ve decided to concentrate all my efforts on just one, Vyne.” Her eyebrow curved upward, and her lips parted, but before she could speak again, he added, “You’ll do.”

  Her mouth snapped shut, but the peace was brief, and when she opened it again, prickles shot out to wound him. “Do you think me any less tiring? You’d best stick with your arrangements, and I’ll stick with the count.”

  Another hot spark quickened to life somewhere deep inside James Hartley, this one a very wanton flame of rebellion long since repressed. Now it was freed and running wild. She’d poked a hole in his carefully erected barriers, somehow, with one of those naughty fingers that, according to his grandmother, needed more ladylike occupations to keep them busy. Fingers that she’d just readily confessed brought her trouble when idle.

  Aware they were the focus of almost every eye in the room, he leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “Tell me where the count is tonight, or I’ll lure him out with any means at my disposal.” She pulled back. He held her tighter. She’d have to cause a scene by struggling harder, if she wanted escape.

  But her gloves were too large, and it made her hand slippery, difficult to keep.

  “For once take me at my word, Hartley,” she exclaimed, breathless. “You’ll never find the count, and you’ll never flush him out by using me—pretending to flirt with me.”

  “Well, if you haven’t done away with the Frenchie, I can guarantee he won’t have gone far.”

  “What makes you say that?” Her eyes darkened as he leaned over her.

  “Because I wouldn’t leave you unguarded, madam.”

  Light danced and spun along the delicate shape of her cheek, reflected by the small pearls hanging from her ears. Overcome with the need to taste her, he lowered his lips until they almost touched the tip of her nose. “And I wouldn’t stand by and watch another man do this.”

  In full view of the other guests, he made up his mind to kiss the enemy, another man’s mistress, directly on her quarrelsome lips.

  This too, like a spanking, was long overdue.

  He could almost taste her lips already. In that moment he completely forgot where he was and the presence of other people. But she, apparently, did not. Pulling her trembling hand from his, she swept away into the crowd, leaving him holding her empty glove. He shouldn’t have let her know his intentions, he realized, slightly dazed. One should never give a woman like her any warning.

  Chapter 6

  She stumbled through a cluster of open-mouthed, wide-eyed guests—some pretending very badly that they’d seen nothing untoward—and along a candlelit corridor, until she found a book-lined library. There she took sanctuary and, forgetting about the custard on her gown, dropped to a couch beside the low-burning fire. At once she felt the cold, wet creeping through her clothing and even her drawers. Cursing under her breath, she looked around the room for something to clean up the mess she’d made. There were several cushions, but she was certain the Clegg-Fosters would not take any kindlier to having those stained with trifle than they would to finding their leather couch soiled.

  Alas, now she’d better just sit here and not move, because she’d only get herself deeper into trouble. Hopefully her sisters must come looking for her, and she could send one of them for her coat. In the meantime, she waited for her pulse to settle and lamented that lost glove. Charlotte would not be pleased. Those gloves belonged to her, and she’d lent them under strict guidelines only. Like the gown.

  An icy-cold draft grasped her by the ankles. A coal dropped in the hearth, and Ellie’s pulse skipped a beat. Keeping her head very still, she swung her gaze sideways to a particularly dark corner. She could have sworn there was a movement. A billowing curtain perhaps? Her fingers curled around the fan in her lap. Someone was there, breathing, watching. She’d been followed again.

  Ellie couldn’t move. Her limbs were frozen, heart stalled.

  Something creaked behind her. She closed her eyes tightly and held her breath. Perhaps this spy, whoever he was, knew the double life she’d been leading. Now they’d caught her. The truth would come out. When she was exposed, those who had lost money to the “count” would come braying for blood. She had sunk herself forever and harmed the family she sought to help. This is what happens when one leads two lives, she thought in anguish. Sooner or later, those two worlds collided. If she’d only given up the masquerade sooner, quit while she was ahead. But instead, there was always another game, another irresistible mark. It had become a sickness in her, she realized. And as the count, she could get away with a great deal, far more than she ever could as plain—

  “Mariella…Miss Vyne…there you are!”

  Her eyes flew open, and she exhaled in a rush. It was Walter Winthorne—Captain Winthorne as he was now, she remembered hastily. He came into the dimly lit room, st
ubbing his feet on furniture but apparently intent on spoiling her solitary reverie without the slightest encouragement.

  In the dark corner across the room, all was still. Had she imagined that other presence? Perhaps the curtain had moved in a draft. Yes, that was all. A draft. How stupid she was!

  “I am glad to see you looking so well, Miss Vyne,” Captain Winthorne blustered as he moved around the couch and into her sight. She supposed he expected her to be pining away on a chaise lounge somewhere, consumptive and incapable of controlling her sobs because he threw her over nine years ago for another woman. Clara Shackleford, of all people. A creature with the density, wit, and conversation of a suet pudding. A very rich suet pudding.

  “Captain Winthorne—always a pleasure.”

  He glanced at the couch beside her, but she did not invite him to sit. Instead, she opened her fan and used it violently, exclaiming at the heat of the party.

  “You misplaced your glove.”

  She looked down as if she’d only just noticed.

  “I saw you dancing with Hartley.” With one hand, he stroked his coat buttons. They winked in the firelight as they strained to control his flourishing girth.

  Dancing? Is that all he saw? What could she be thinking to let James Hartley flirt with her? And what could he be thinking to try and kiss her on a crowded dance floor?

  Alas, there was Brighton. She couldn’t forget it—an impulsive kiss taken from a man who didn’t recognize her. The scent of gardenias, a hot summer evening under a velvet, starry sky, and James in the guise of a highwayman. A stolen encounter that had troubled her all these months. She knew kissing him had been a terrible mistake. How could she have done it? What did she hope to gain from it?

  Sadly, she knew the answer to that. She’d hoped, in some silly part of her being, that it would be vengeance. That he’d suddenly open his eyes and notice her without instantly seeing whatever was most at fault about her in that moment. Then he’d be sorry he ever ignored her, ever slighted her.

  Why, Miss Vyne, you are beautiful! How wrong I was. Can you ever forgive me?

  Ha!