by Lenora Bell
“Excuse us, Haddock.” Edgar gave the odious fellow a curt nod.
Haddock slithered away.
“Why did that man say that Lady India’s speech was hogwash?” Adele asked, pointing at Ravenwood, who was arguing with India in a corner.
“He’s the man I was telling you about the other day, when you met Miss Martin and we had the French bread.”
“Well I don’t like him,” said Adele.
“Shall we go and rescue her?” asked Edgar.
As they approached, Edgar caught fragments of their conversation.
“Balderdash and bilge,” said Ravenwood. He towered over India, even though she was tall for a woman. “I always knew you were cracked in the head, Indy.”
“And I always knew you were a twenty-four-carat fool with shite for brains, Ravenwood.”
“Ahem,” said Edgar, breaking into the conversation.
Ravenwood and India turned simultaneously.
“May I borrow Lady India for a moment?” Edgar asked.
“Be my guest,” drawled Ravenwood. “And don’t bring her back.”
“That man,” India sputtered as Edgar steered her away from Ravenwood before someone got hurt. “That man.” She grasped the hilt of the dagger by her side. “I hate him with a red-hot passion.”
“Sure you do,” said Edgar.
“What?” asked India.
“Oh nothing. Nothing at all.”
India gave him a warning look. “Where’s Miss Perkins?”
“Probably hiding upstairs from all the gentlemen ogling her. Did you have to exhibit her half clothed like that? Didn’t you have an artist’s model hired?”
“Half clothed? That was nothing! If I’d been true to history, she would have been completely bare-chested.”
Adele and Michel snickered.
Edgar choked on his third canapé. “Good God, woman. I’m not sure I should allow you near my governess.”
“And I’m not sure you should have been staring at her like that.”
“Me and half of London’s lords.”
Lady Blanche and her ancient companion in the towering feathered headdress were approaching from across the room.
Hellfire and damnation. Edgar swallowed his food hastily.
“Why did you invite Lady Blanche?” he asked India.
“Her great-aunt Hermione sent me a request for an invitation.”
“Dash it,” Edgar muttered under his breath. “I knew I shouldn’t have taken her riding.”
“Is that the lady who fainted when she saw Trix?” asked Michel.
“That’s the one. And she’s headed this way. I’ve got to go. Distract them. Tell them I had to go to the stables for a moment.” Edgar knew that gleam in a woman’s eye, the one that said she’d sited her target. Great-Aunt Hermione had that gleam in her eye.
Why did Great-Aunt Hermione have him in her sights?
He backed out the door and into the adjoining salon. He heard India and then Lady Blanche’s tinkling tones.
He needed somewhere to hide.
Their voices grew louder. He reached for the velvet curtain, and ducked behind it, into the waiting darkness, retreating until he ran into something warm and solid.
Something warm, solid and . . . wriggling?
His goddess masquerading as a governess.
Chapter 18
“Is that you, Your Grace?” Mari groped in the dim light and encountered a solid forearm.
“I’m not here,” he whispered.
“Well as long as you’re not here, make yourself useful. I removed my crown easily enough, but the dratted neck collar is caught—”
“Shhh.”
“Are you hiding from someone?”
“I’m not hiding.”
“Then help me. It’s hopelessly tangled in my—”
He clapped a large hand over her mouth and pressed her against the wall of the small enclosure with the full weight of his body.
“Oof,” she said against his fingers. It was a wonder he hadn’t toppled the entire stage box onto its side.
“I swear he came this way,” said an imperious female voice. “But I don’t see him anywhere.”
Another soft female voice said something Mari didn’t catch.
“Humph,” said the other woman. “Who wants a viscount when there is a duke for the catching? He hasn’t shown any interest in a lady in years. You’re going to be the next Duchess of Banksford, or my name isn’t Hermione Geraldine Harriett Penelope Somerset.”
Mari stilled. Who was speaking? And why was she so sure Edgar would be marrying?
Edgar. The man who was currently squashed against her, one large hand over her mouth, the other circling her waist, his arm protecting her from a ridge in the wooden wall behind them.
So considerate. So . . . aroused?
There was another ridge in front of her. Pressing into her belly.
She’d decided to be scandalous, hadn’t she? She wriggled closer, relaxing against his solid bulk.
“Great-Aunt, I told you,” the soft female voice wailed, “the ride meant nothing. Laxton is the man I love. He’ll offer for me, I know he will. He only wants a little more coaxing. He has a very cautious nature.”
“Lady Blanche,” Mari whispered, only it came out sounding like lmmblumph because of the hand over her mouth.
The tips of her breasts tingled where they pressed against his waistcoat buttons. His hand was still cupped over her mouth, bending her neck back. She extended her tongue and tasted his fingers.
Warmth and salt. A memory of ink. A hint of steel from the foundry.
She forgot all about the ladies beyond the curtain.
This was exactly what she’d been picturing when she thought about being scandalous, about taking risks.
Gather ye dukes while ye may.
The thought made her giggle against his fingers. She felt reckless and wild.
And fully awake, for the first time in her life.
“Didn’t Lady India say he had an errand in the stables?” said Lady Blanche. “Hadn’t we better go and see if he’s still there?”
“I saw him come this way, I tell you.”
“Perhaps you were mistaken. It could have been Ravenwood, you know. They are of much the same size and coloring.”
“Oh very well. We’ll go to the stables.”
“And if Banksford’s not there, may we leave?”
“My dear, I simply don’t understand you. Don’t you want to be a duchess? When I was your age, I would have committed anything short of murder for the opportunity to . . .”
Their voices trailed away.
“They’re gone,” he whispered in her ear. She noticed that he didn’t pull away, didn’t stop holding her.
He didn’t want Lady Blanche.
She threaded her arms around his neck and buried her fingers in his hair.
He held perfectly still for the space of several heartbeats.
And then his hand left her mouth, and his lips replaced it.
His kiss wasn’t gentle this time, and she didn’t want it to be. She squirmed against his arousal, needing to be closer. There. The arm circling her waist clamped tighter, imprisoning her against him in the small, dark space where only the two of them existed.
Edgar kissed her, their tongues tangling. Rough hands stroking her cheek, her shoulder, covering her breast.
She melted into his hands, abandoning control.
Edgar. A name like the edge of a knife, like a scar across her heart.
She leaned back against the wooden walls, something pressed into the tender flesh of her back. Sharp little shards of necklace reminding her of the penitent’s shirt, the lash of guilt.
She’d been having thoughts wider than the confines of her life.
Wicked, ungrateful girl. Too proud. Too willful.
Claim his lips to banish the harsh voices, to become new and reborn.
The inside of the stage like a bird’s nest, and she the fledgling.
The feelings that beat their new wings in her heart were small, and could be easily crushed, like eggshells.
So powerful. The play of muscles beneath his shirt. His body so different from hers, towering and hard as granite.
A delicious burst of danger, calling her name.
Breathing harsh against her neck as he stilled for a moment. “Mari,” he said. “My goddess. What are we doing?”
“I summoned you here, Edgar,” she said, shakily.
“We can’t stay here.”
“I know. But my hair is caught in this collar.” And her heart had been captured as well.
She turned away from him, lifting as much of her hair off the back of her neck as possible. “Here.”
Tugging gently, he tried to extricate the necklace. It stung her scalp until her eyes watered but she couldn’t cry out.
“Blast,” he whispered.
“What’s the matter?”
“What is this thing made of, needles?”
“It’s made of thin gold shards and rubies and if you break off a piece, Lady India will kill you.”
“I’m well aware of that. But now one of the buttons on my coat sleeve is caught as well.”
“What if I—”
“Don’t twist like that!”
Now they were even more entangled.
“What if you shed your coat?” she asked.
Shed his coat. What a brilliant idea.
And while he was at it, why didn’t he just strip off her gown as well?
His shirt and trousers.
Her chemise.
Set this stage box a-rocking. Really give the guests a show they’d never forget.
She kept wriggling her luscious arse against his cock.
In the velvety darkness.
With her elbows braced against the wall.
She drove him raving, barking mad.
They’d have to lock him up if she didn’t stop wriggling.
He couldn’t see her face in the dark. But he knew her eyes were the same color as the velvet curtains.
He knew she made small moaning sounds when he kissed her.
A wave of longing swamped his senses. He’d been a fool to think he could starve it away by throwing himself into his work and staying away from the house.
It didn’t matter if she was halfway across London, standing on a stage, or in his arms.
He wanted to lay his heart at her hem.
Offer his fealty.
There was a knocking sound upon the stage wall.
They both froze.
“Edgar? Are you in there?”
Chapter 19
Mari’s heart stopped beating.
They’d been caught. There would be a scandal. She would lose her post.
Oh my God, what had she been thinking?
She wasn’t a scandalous goddess-queen, she was a governess, who needed her salary and her post.
India stuck her head inside the curtain. “Lady Blanche is gone,” she began and then stopped. “Ah . . . should I come back later?”
“Very funny. Help us,” said Edgar. “This blasted necklace is tangled in everything.”
India laughed, stepping through the curtain. “My, my, this tableau certainly took an unexpected turn.”
Mari began to breathe again. Perhaps there didn’t have to be a scandal. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Wait a moment, I’ll fetch down one of the lamps,” said India.
She disappeared.
“Well that was a close call,” said Mari with an attempt at a lighthearted laugh.
“Mari, I want you to know that—”
Whatever he’d been about to say was lost, as India slipped back inside, holding a gas lamp. She handed it to Edgar, who held it aloft with his free hand, while India worked on extricating Mari’s hair from the necklace.
“There, you’re free,” she said to Mari, holding up the necklace. “It’s probably best if you leave first,” she said to Edgar. “We’ll follow after a safe amount of time.”
Edgar nodded, handed India the lamp and slipped through the curtain.
India held up the lamp. “Now then, do you want to tell me what was happening in here?”
Mari blushed. “I don’t know what you mean. He was hiding from Lady Blanche and I was tangled and . . .”
India knew.
“Do you love him?” India asked softly.
“What? I don’t love him,” Mari said vehemently. Well she didn’t, did she? She wouldn’t be that foolish.
“I was only a little carried away,” Mari said, wrapping herself in the pashmina. “I got caught up in my role as Pharaoh and I may have . . . he may have . . .”
“You kissed.”
“Yes,” Mari admitted. “But it didn’t mean anything. It was a momentary lapse of reason.”
And there are sparks still burning inside me.
“My brother is no heartless seducer. If he kissed you, it means something,” said India.
“It means we were both carried away by the moment. It can never happen again.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Mari-rhymes-with-starry.” India’s violet eyes sparkled in the gloom. “I have a feeling something’s about to begin . . .”
If you are brave enough to chase it.
“Nothing’s beginning,” said Mari shortly. “Bad beginning, worse end.”
“Ah . . . back to the proverbs. Button yourself up. Repin that hair.”
“I will, thank you very much. I’m not meant for gold crowns. I told you it was a bad idea to have me portray your Pharaoh.”
“It worked perfectly, from my perspective,” said India, with a wide grin.
She held the curtain open for Mari. “Shall we? Your adoring public awaits, my queen.”
When Mari and India entered the Gold Salon, most of the guests were already gone.
India placed the gold collar necklace on a plaster bust of a woman’s head sitting on black velvet.
Edgar was talking to the twins, smiling at them in a way that made Mari’s heart beat faster.
She was about to make her way toward them when a gentleman with gray whiskers and an avaricious smile appeared at her elbow. “Miss Perkins, is it? Or should I say Hatshepsut?” He clasped her hand and bowed over it. “The Earl of Haddock, your devoted subject.”
“My lord.” Mari nodded. “I’m not a Pharaoh. Merely a governess. And my charges are just there, so I must go to them.”
Haddock followed the direction of her gaze. “Banksford has all the luck,” he said smoothly. “I wish I had children in the nursery still so that I might steal you away from him. Would you care for some punch?”
A footman proffered a tray.
“No, thank you,” she said. “I must go to the children.”
He cocked his head. “You remind me of someone, Miss Perkins. A woman I used to know.”
Mari didn’t like the insinuating spark in his eyes. “And no gentleman has ever said that to a lady before.”
He smiled. “I see you’ve a redheaded temperament. I like that. She had one as well, did Ann.”
“Ann?” Mari turned her full attention to him for the first time.
“She was a soprano with the Royal Opera. Had the exact same auburn hair and blue eyes. I’ve no idea what happened to her. She left the opera. You could be her daughter you look so much alike.”
“What was her surname?” asked Mari.
“I’m not sure I recall.”
“It wasn’t Murray, was it?”
“That’s it! The famously beautiful Ann Murray. How did you know?”
Ann Murray. The name written in her Book of Common Prayer. The date that matched the year of her birth.
Could this man actually have known her mother? “Tell me more about her,” Mari said.
“I’d be happy to, my dear, but I must leave now. Perhaps you would care to meet me at a tea shop tomorrow for a more extended . . . conversation.”
Tomorrow wasn’t one of her off days, an
d meeting strange earls for tea didn’t sound very respectable, but she couldn’t pass up an opportunity to learn more if the Ann Murray he spoke of could have some connection to her.
She made a quick decision. “I’ll meet you at two o’clock at the British Museum, Lord Haddock. I’ve been wanting to see their collection of Roman and Greek marbles.”
His smile was oily as a plate of kippers. He bowed over her hand. “I will count the seconds until tomorrow.”
“If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I must go to the children.”
Before she could leave, Robertson appeared at the door to make an announcement. “Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Banksford,” he intoned.
The small number of remaining guests hushed.
“Well,” said Haddock. “This is a surprise.”
Mari watched Edgar’s face as his mother was announced. It was like a window being hastily shuttered against a storm.
Everything shut down. Closed up.
His face. His fists.
Mari wanted to run to him, take his hand, tell him to breathe.
The dowager duchess looked exactly how Mari had pictured her. A grandiose personage, tall of stature, and upright of carriage, swathed in black and topped with white ruffles and feathers.
The lacy turban she wore was so high that it made her the tallest living thing in the room, and underneath it, her silver-streaked hair was dressed in a perfectly round row of ringlets placed at precise intervals along her forehead.
She swirled into the room like a wintry wind, coating everyone’s faces with frost.
“The Ice Queen cometh,” Haddock chortled. “This ought to be entertaining.”
Chapter 20
Edgar clenched his fists as the dowager made her way across the room, guests parting before her like the Red Sea.
Theirs was an infamous estrangement, replete with all of the scandalous ingredients the ton craved. Dark family secrets. Betrayal.
Violence and revenge.
She stopped directly in front of him. “Banksford,” she said.
“Mother.” He bowed.
Mari caught his eye and gave him a nearly imperceptible nod. She stood with the children, one on either side of her. Her steady gaze told him that he could atone for the mistakes of his past. That he could be something better.