by Gaelen Foley
The insufferable dandy was the only one who ever had any success in placating the spoiled beauty; equally arrogant, they would have made a splendid pair. Alas, Mr. Loring did not have the requisite rank and title, so even if Daphne secretly fancied him, she turned her nose up at him, strictly on principle.
It was no wonder, then, that Daphne’s chasing after Rackford was driving Acer half mad.
That night at Almack’s, having been granted his voucher at last, Daphne wheedled Rackford into dancing with her. He relented, since propriety only permitted him two dances per night with Jacinda. The first he had greedily gobbled up early in the evening; the other, he was saving for last. It was quarter-past eleven when the orchestra struck up the mazy waltz. Daphne was, admittedly, a lithe and graceful dancer.
She gazed up at him with a rapt expression—probably artificial. He was attempting to make idle conversation when suddenly, as they turned about the ballroom, he glimpsed Jacinda talking once more with Lord Drummond. Dark anger surged through him, unbidden, upon seeing her with the old Tory hangman yet again. The vehemence of his emotional response took him off guard. Daphne squealed slightly.
“Lord Rackford, you are squeezing me like a very python!”
He instantly loosened his grip, not realizing he had tightened it. “Sorry.”
She dimpled at him. “You may hold me closer if you like, but gracious, not in the middle of Almack’s, with the whole world looking on.”
His lips curved drily, but the smile did not reach his eyes. His stare swept back to Jacinda. Knowing how lost she was without her motherly best friend, he had behaved like a perfect gentleman ever since Lizzie had gone—no mean feat for him. He had taken pains to be unselfish, ignoring his own increasingly desperate need for her in his refusal to pressure her. But, by God, there she was, flirting with her old wigsby again, determined as ever, it appeared, to become another Eva Campion.
“Lord Rackford?”
He dragged his narrow stare away from Jacinda and looked down at Daphne.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
Gazing at the reigning beauty of the Season in his arms, his for the taking, he suddenly wondered if he had made all of this much too easy on his golden, errant, curly-headed darling.
Jacinda had shown a glimmer of jealousy before. Perhaps a bit more of it might jar her out of her complacency. It damned well better, he thought grimly, because until this moment he had not realized how close he was to the end of what he could take.
“Mmm,” Daphne purred as he slid his hand a bit more tightly around her slim waist, his hand resting in the small of her back.
He smiled at her, then laughed aloud at some inane thing she said as they went waltzing past the place where Jacinda stood with her old wigsby. The sound of his laughter caught Jacinda’s attention, he noted from the corner of his eye, but he kept his gaze fixed on Daphne.
“When are you going to call on me, Lord Rackford? I am desolate over how you have neglected me,” she said with a pout.
“Why, I have tried, Miss Taylor, but I could never fight my way through the throng of suitors outside your door.”
“No, you’ve never tried. I’m sure of that.” She paused delicately. “You are always lurking about Knight House instead. You are fishing in dangerous waters there, you know.”
“Hm?”
“Surely you’ve heard about the previous duchess of Hawkscliffe and how infamously wanton she was.”
“I have heard something to that effect, yes.”
“If it wasn’t for my mama and her friends, that horrid woman might still be here, tainting good Society with her indecency,” she said with a haughty sniff. “It’s bad enough we have to tolerate her daughter among us.” She eyed him in challenge, but he did not rise to the bait.
He knew women well enough to realize that defending Jacinda would only sharpen Daphne’s malice. Alas, the girl was not content with his diplomatic silence.
“Everyone says her daughter will turn out to be just like her, you know. Only a fool would seek a wife like that.”
“Oftentimes, ma chérie, ‘everyone’ is wrong.”
“Poor Lord Rackford, surely you have not been taken in by her charms! Beauty, you know, can often hide a wicked heart.”
“Very true,” he agreed sardonically, though Daphne failed to realize he might possibly be referring to her. He stole a furtive glance across the ballroom and smugly noted that he had his lady’s full attention.
What he did not realize until the music ended was that he also had gained Acer Loring’s attention.
The leading dandy had arrived a short while ago from his club—drunk, brooding, and in defiance of his own punctilious standards, rather disheveled. As the closing bars of the elegant waltz filled the ballroom, Acer shoved his way drunkenly through the dancers, marching toward Rackford and Daphne. The black look on his imperious face plainly said that he’d had enough of watching Daphne throw herself at the barbaric interloper.
When Rackford saw the man stalking toward him, scowling in contempt and glassy-eyed with drink, he experienced a rush of the same internal, knee-jerk hatred as though it were his father coming toward him; for, God knew, Truro had approached him in a similar fashion just a few nights ago and so many times before in the long-buried past. Confused by the momentary overlap of past and present, Rackford didn’t react at first when Acer pushed him.
“Why don’t you stay away from her?”
“Acer!” Daphne cried, a glow of pleasure rushing into her cheeks at the prospect of two men fighting over her.
Rackford was dimly aware of gasps and murmurs as the people around them cleared back a few feet.
“Did you hear me?” Acer pursued. “I don’t give a damn about your title. You’re an ignorant barbarian, and you will stay away from her.” When Acer pushed him again, Rackford’s pent-up wrath exploded.
He punched Acer in the mouth with a blow that sent the dandy crashing backward into the duke of Wellington, who happened to be standing nearby.
Daphne shrieked and whirled to him, aghast. “You punched Acer!”
“He’s lucky I don’t kill him after the way he’s insulted me all Season.”
“Go on!” Acer wrenched out, steadying himself, a small trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. His drunk, wretched gaze swung to Daphne. “I’d rather die than watch you marry someone else, especially this blackguard.”
“Fine with me,” Rackford growled, too enraged to care that the victor of Waterloo and half a dozen other men were shouting at him to stop.
He charged at Acer, flattening him with a mighty dive. All around them, men let out gasps and ladies shrieked as they scuffled in the elite ballroom. On top of the snide bastard who had taken every opportunity to make a fool of him, Rackford drew back to hit him again when soft hands grabbed his forearm.
“Billy, don’t!”
Instinctively reacting to shove away the light hold, he turned and, through the haze of violence, saw Jacinda staring at him in angry command. His raging pulse roared too loudly in his ears for him to absorb her words, but the sight of her blazing brown eyes arrested him, and the firm tones of her voice steadied him, held him back from leaping off the inward precipice of his destructive streak.
“Rackford. Stop it. Listen to me. He’s not worth it. He’s just jealous—”
“Jealous?” he yelled at her, angrily sweeping to his feet and yanking his arm free of her grasp. He loomed over her, his frustration spilling over. He was unable to stop the words that tumbled from his lips. “Aye, he’s jealous, but I’m not allowed to be, am I? I am so bloody tired of this game!”
“What game?” she asked faintly, paling.
“The game of keeping Rackford on his knees!” he said angrily. “You flaunt yourself in front of me, knowing I adore you—but I will not wait forever, by God, I won’t!” he warned her in a dire tone, even though, deep down, he knew he probably would.
Her posture stiffened. “Lord Rackford, you forget yourself.”
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Her crisp tone alerted him anew to his surroundings. His chest heaving, he cast a baleful look around him and felt his heart begin to sink.
No, this wasn’t Cornwall, and it certainly wasn’t the rookery.
As Daphne rushed over to the dazed and bleeding Acer, Rackford’s gaze swept the glittering ballroom and all the appalled, haughty people staring at him as though he were a rabid dog.
Slowly, quietly, he let out a bitter laugh of disgust. He felt exposed. “Well, there goes my voucher, eh? Sorry, my lady.” He forced himself to meet Jacinda’s bewildered gaze. “You did your best, God knows, but some beasts can never quite leave the jungle behind. This is all I am and all I’ll ever be. Forgive me.” He swept her a bow full of insolent bravado, then walked out, his chin high, his face taut with anger.
Hellfire in his eyes, he scowled at the people in his path toward the door; they quickly removed themselves.
And so it ends, he thought, shamed to the core. He had courted her, pleasured her, loved her with all the pieces of his long-shattered heart, and in one moment’s impulse, it all had come to naught. He had lost his temper just like his father.
Tonight, he thought even before he reached the coolness of the night outdoors. Waiting restlessly on the pavement for his carriage, he lit a cheroot, his hands shaking slightly with the aftermath of rage and the chant of his failings whispering in his head.
Bad, stupid, worthless, weak.
How could he lose control of himself that way? Almack’s, for God’s sake.
She was never going to want him now. Hell, she was never going to forgive him for the scene he had just caused. She had told him that first night that, whatever happened, she would never give the ton the satisfaction they wanted, of seeing her fall into scandal. He was on his own.
He thrust her out of his mind, holding his anger close and tight. Tonight, by God, he would either kill O’Dell or die trying. It scarcely mattered which.
He exhaled a stream of smoke and took the reins when his groom brought up the curricle.
Jacinda was left staring after him in the middle of the ballroom with an expression of dazed dismay. She wasn’t sure how many people had heard the anguished tongue-lashing he had just given her; she wasn’t sure, either, who all had heard her call him “Billy,” betraying the forbidden level of familiarity between them. That in itself was enough to cause a scandal, but at the moment, she could only stand there in shock at his appalling words. Flaunting myself in front of him? This “game” of keeping Rackford on his knees?
Was this how he had interpreted her hesitation?
Feeling rather bewildered, she looked across the ballroom at where a very pale, shaken Daphne sat with Acer Loring. Acer was talking earnestly to her while Daphne gazed at him in wonder. Tentatively, the redhead lifted her hand and dabbed at the corner of Acer’s bloodied lip with her handkerchief.
The sight of them together filled Jacinda with the strangest rush of grief. Oh, what am I doing? she thought in despair. Rackford had just stormed out and she knew that the moment of truth was upon her…. And the truth was, simply, that Rackford needed her.
Truly needed her. No one had ever needed her before.
She suddenly felt a hand on her arm, then a caustic voice reached her, breaking into her thoughts. “Trouble in paradise?”
Startled, she turned to find Lord Drummond holding her back.
“Might have expected something like this from your young hothead,” he remarked, snorting over his glass of port.
She bristled. “Mr. Loring insulted Lord Rackford to his face.”
“Still a hothead, that Radical. I don’t trust him and neither should you.”
She knitted her brows angrily, for once and for all casting off her unworthy plan to snare the old wigsby. In her mind’s eye, she saw Lady Campion racing her phaeton through Hyde Park with her mustachioed dragoon by her side, but the figment vanished, driving off gaily into the mists of oblivion. That was not the life she wanted. That was not the person she was.
Her feelings for Rackford would no longer be denied—even if it meant accepting his authority as her husband and trusting herself to be his true, devoted wife. The truth was, she needed him, too. Indeed, perhaps his love had already saved her from the fate of becoming a perfect copy of her mother; Georgiana had never surrendered herself to any man. It had been her glory, and her downfall.
“Really,” Lord Drummond was grumbling, “I marvel that your brother, Hawkscliffe, high stickler that he is, would let a suitor near you who refuses to give a proper account of where he’s been these past fifteen years. I’m telling you, that lad is trouble—”
“My dear Lord Drummond,” she interrupted grandly, drawing herself up to her full height, “I will thank you to watch what you say about my future husband.” With that, she yanked her arm free of his hold and pivoted toward the exit again, her skirts swirling around her.
“I say, what’s this? Such impertinence! Husband? Wrong headed in the extreme! Lady Jacinda! Where are you going?”
Ignoring his indignant sputtering, she pressed on, her bridges burning behind her. Joy and dread pounded in her temples as she hastened through the milling assemblage of Almack’s elite subscribers; she felt giddy and indescribably free. She prayed she would find Rackford still standing outside waiting for his curricle to be brought round, for she had to tell him how she felt.
She scarcely dared wonder how he would react. Obviously, he had lost patience with her, but she was sure she would win her way back into his good graces when she told him that she loved him and that she was ready at last to commit herself to him. She only hoped he would forgive her for thinking too much of her own fears and too little of his need for her tender care.
As she strode toward the door on legs that shook beneath her, all her awareness focused on catching up to him, she was suddenly accosted by his old friends, Reg Bentinck and Justin Church.
“Lady Jacinda!”
“Mr. Bentinck, Mr. Church,” she greeted them in a fluttery voice, trying to hide her impatience as they blocked her path. “H-how are you this evening?”
“Never mind that. We have to talk to you!”
“I’m in a bit of a hurry—”
“This will only take a moment.” Reg ducked his head nearer to hers. “We heard what Rackford said to you about ‘the jungle.’ So that’s where he’s been all this time! The jungles of India. Right? Was he with the army? I knew it!”
“Oh, Mr. Bentinck—”
“Tell us! Come, we are his friends. If Rack won’t confide in us, then you must. It was India, wasn’t it?” Justin implored her. “We’re not going to tell anyone.”
“Gentlemen, I cannot say.”
“Would you reconsider if we told you something about our mutual friend in return?” Reg murmured.
Arrested by his sly tone, she gazed into his eyes. “Like what?”
The two exchanged a grim look; then Justin spoke, lowering his voice. “We were there the night he ran away from home.”
“What?” she whispered, turning to him in shock.
“You tell us where he’s been all these years, and we’ll tell you what we saw that…horrible night at Torcarrow,” Reg murmured.
She gazed at him, riveted, her heart thumping. “You were there? Truly?”
They nodded.
No wonder Rackford always seemed to be keeping his two childhood friends away from her, making sure she never chatted with Reg and Justin without him present.
She burned to hear what they had seen that night, but she shook her head slowly. “I can’t. I am sworn to secrecy. Besides, I think I’d rather wait for Rackford to tell me in his own time.”
They protested, but she held her ground. Though severely tempted, she knew that in order to learn their story, she would have to reveal his criminal past in exchange, and that was out of the question. No matter how loyal Reg and Justin were, she dared not breathe a word to them about Billy Blade. She would do nothing to compromise his hard-wo
n trust.
“Please excuse me, gentlemen. I must go.” Hurrying past them, she rushed outside into the cool moonlit night, but her heart sank to discover that Rackford had already gone.
Going back inside, she sought out Robert and pled a headache, procuring his permission to go home. The minute she reached Knight House, she asked if any message had come for her, in the hopes that Rackford had regretted his outburst and had sent his apologies, but Mr. Walsh answered that none had.
Rather dejected and unsure of what to do next, she went up to her rooms, where her maid, Ann, helped her out of her elaborate ball gown. Jacinda slipped into her silk dressing gown and dismissed the woman with a nod. She sat down for a moment at her vanity and stared hard into the mirror for a second, plagued by the question of what Reg and Justin had seen that night at Torcarrow and why the devil Rackford had never shared it with her. She thought he had told her everything. Too restless to sit still, she rose again and prowled over to her bedroom window. Pushing the curtain aside, she gazed out at the city for a moment, then determination filled her face. This could not wait till morning. She had to see him, had to be with him.
Tonight.
She let the curtain fall and went to change her clothes.
Remembering all he had taught her that night in the rookery, she removed the rest of her jewelry and dressed in her most ordinary-looking frock, a simple round gown of sprigged cotton. She put a bit of money in her pocket to pay the hackney; then went to the bottom drawer of her dresser and took out a velvet-lined, teakwood box. She opened it and withdrew the elegant lady’s pistol that her brother Damien had sent her from Spain.
She held it up for a moment, admiring it in the moonlight. The gun was more a work of art than a weapon, made from gleaming Toledo silver. The butt, engraved with her initials, was inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
Knowing her enthusiasm for target practice, Damien had sent it as a gift for her debut, which he had been unable to attend, away at the war. The note he’d sent had humorously explained that since he could not be in London personally to protect her from the swarms of suitors she was sure to attract, she was now well armed to keep her admirers at bay. It had a rifled barrel three inches longer than Alec’s dueling pistols, which gave it greater accuracy at longer ranges. A little panel in the butt opened over a compartment that could store up to six powder cartridges.