by Dayna Quince
He found Lord Marcus on his way to the card room, walking with two unknown gentlemen. The card room was a masculine refuge and players had to remove their masks to play. Draven loosened his mask and let it hang on his back in his hood. He took one of the many chairs set in clusters around the occupied card tables and pulled a cigar from inside his jacket. Marcus and his acquaintances just happened to take the chairs across from him and Draven offered them each a cigar.
Matches were struck and there was silence from all of them as they puffed in appreciation.
“Where did you find these?” Lord Marcus asked with an appreciative sigh.
“A little shop just off the corner of Bond St. The owner always keeps a box for me,” Draven obliged, relieved that he wouldn’t have to force a conversation. “It’s a good excuse to get away from a cloying woman.” Draven winked.
The gentlemen laughed, but Lord Marcus’s face had a subtle change. He looked a bit wounded.
Draven thought of what he could say to draw his secrets out or, as was his usual fashion, he could just ask and not give a damn what the man thought.
“I’ve heard you’ve been trailing the skirts of one of the Darling twins. Which one?”
Marcus shrugged, but he still held that look. Like a puppy denied a bone. “Lady Anabelle caught my attention, but it came to naught.”
“They are both quite fetching this evening,” one of his friends said. Draven remembered him as Mr. James. The other gentleman was Sir Wallock. Lower gentry, but they had accumulated fortunes large enough to grant them entrance to the most elite society affairs.
“I’ve had the pleasure of meeting them both. I am acquainted with the Duke of Ablehill and his new duchess. The women are friends.”
Lord Marcus was watching him now. “You know Lady Anabelle?”
Draven nodded. “I do. We share the same acquaintances.”
“She is one of the finest women I know,” Lord Marcus blurted.
Ah, Draven thought. Lord Marcus’s wound was quite fresh. If there was no alliance, then Draven could pursue her as he wished—discreetly, of course. Draven raised his glass. “To the fine women we are privileged to know.”
The gentlemen raised their glasses and sipped.
Draven said no more as he enjoyed the last of his cigar. “Pleasant evening, gentlemen.”
Draven felt elated as he slipped out of the card room and donned his mask. The hunt was on. He still needed to find his way into her good graces, but now he wouldn’t have to worry that her heart was engaged with another man. He didn’t fully understand what his end goal was—all he knew was he just wanted to be near, perhaps even be the recipient of a smile or two. He couldn’t have her the way he truly wanted her, but he could have a smile or a laugh, a teasing glance, or a battle of the wits. Whatever he could get, he would accept.
He returned to the ballroom, which was steadily declining into a raucous of loose behavior. He scanned the heads for Anabelle’s fair locks and mermaid mask. He didn’t want her to see him, not when she was still angry with him, but he would keep an eye on her, especially now as the evening grew late, and the tenor of the masquerade was taking a lascivious turn. He found her on the dance floor dancing a reel with a goat man. She was laughing, sharing the radiance of her beauty with all who could see her. Draven watched in awe. She was incomparable tonight. The most beautiful woman in the entire world. As he scanned the room, he could tell he wasn’t the only gentleman admiring her beauty.
It would soon be midnight, and everyone would unmask. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be here for that event, but then again, his gut told him that he shouldn’t leave until she did and he was sure she was safe. He moved closer to the dance floor, eager to keep her in his sights.
“Excuse me.”
He tossed an apology over his shoulder.”
“Lord Draven,” a feminine voice pressed.
Draven turned. It was Lady Hazel, looking slightly perturbed.
“My apologies.” He paused. “You know who I am?”
“It wasn’t hard to guess.” Hazel stepped closer to him. “But what I would dearly like to know is why you concealed your identity when you know perfectly well that my sister despises you.”
“I’m trying to make amends.” he insisted.
“You are doing a very poor job,” Hazel returned.
Draven grimaced. He glanced over his shoulder, but the dance was still in progress. “Perhaps you could enlighten me?”
Hazel crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “Why would I do such a thing?”
Draven issued a glare of his own. “Because it is in your best interest to not anger me.”
Hazel scoffed. “You dare to threaten me?”
No, he didn’t. He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose and remembered the mask. He sighed. He looked down at Lady Hazel, who was so alike and yet so different from her sister. She was just as beautiful, but he felt none of the itchy arousal he felt whenever he was around Anabelle. Abruptly, he wondered if Anabelle had confided in her sister what had occurred between them.
“I commend you for being protective of your sister, I have sisters of my own, but she is a woman full grown and can fight her own battles.”
“She doesn’t want to fight a battle with you,” Hazel continued.
“Nor I with her. If you will excuse me.” He turned away before she could utter another word. The set had finished, and he wasn’t about to let Anabelle slip out of his sight.
Anabelle had to insist twice that she needed a bit of refreshment. The strange goat man went to fetch a lemonade, and as he did so, she moved to the far wall to escape him. She breathed a sigh of relief in the shadow of a pillar where it was less crowded. The ballroom had thinned and some of the dancing was now on the terrace in the cooler air. Anabelle wished to go there as well, but she dared not venture outside on the arm of a gentleman. The propriety of the event was slowly decaying as the evening wore on.
She was tempted to retreat and go home early. She was disappointed with the evening and her spoiled kiss with Lord Marcus. If only Draven hadn’t fooled her. Her chest burned with anger at the thought. She didn’t want to think of him, not now or ever again, but her mind refused to cooperate, and even worse, every moment with other gentlemen paled in comparison. The dancing, the mysteriousness, the gaiety of the masquerade. Before she had known it was he, she was overcome by the energy and the excitement of the risk. She thought she would finally know the passion and desire she was searching for in the arms of a man whom she could marry, but instead it was he. He who cared little for her marriage plans, he who laughed at the notion of love, and he who could make her feel like her skin was aflame.
How did he do it? Surely, he wasn’t the only man who could. The idea that such a cold man could bring forth such a response from her was ridiculous, yet she had firsthand experience that it was exactly that. Was she missing something? Perhaps it wasn’t Draven himself who possessed such power. Perhaps it was his experience as a rake and her lack of experience in passion altogether?
She looked around the room with new eyes. It was a question that needed to be answered before she moved on to the remaining gentlemen of her list. But who to ask? Lucy. Not that Lucy had any more experience than Anabelle did, but Lucy had a rake for a brother and would have no qualms about asking him a few questions. Anabelle set out to find Lucy.
“Absolutely not.”
Anabelle found Lucy on the terrace enjoying another ice and the cooler air. She had pulled her aside from a group of gentlemen and young ladies.
“But surely your brother must know?”
“I’d bet my best hat he does, but I won’t ask him. He’d lock me in my room until my wedding day.”
Anabelle’s hopes fell. “But I must know.”
“That is dangerous information to have,” Lucy scolded. “What happens once you know? Will your curiosity be appeased or will it only be made worse?”
Anabelle huffed. “It’s important in helpin
g me chose the many I will marry.”
“Well, ask Draven.” Lucy nodded towards the terrace doors.
Anabelle stiffened and turned to ice. The dragon was lurking by the door. “You know it’s him?”
“I saw him lurking beside my brother. Of course, it’s him. No one pulls off menacing and intriguing like Draven.”
To Anabelle’s horror, Lucy caught his attention and waved him over.
“What are you doing!” she hissed in Lucy’s ear.
“I can’t ask my brother such a question, but Draven will answer without a second thought. He loves starting trouble, and the answer you are seeking is bound to cause trouble.”
Anabelle thought she might faint as he approached. Her anger was still so raw, the humiliation too recent, and then there was her unstoppable reaction to him. If she wasn’t angry, she was overwhelmed by the urge to get closer, to taunt the beast. He approached slowly, almost apprehensive, but that couldn’t be possible. The man she knew him to be wasn’t given to such weaknesses.
He stepped before them and bowed slightly. “You summoned, Lady Lucy?”
“I have a very specific question to ask you, and I expect nothing but complete honesty.”
He tilted his head to the side. His eyes were hidden inside the mask and the effect was unsettling. “If I know the answer, I will give it.”
“But you mustn’t tell my brother,” Lucy demanded.
His shoulders slumped. “That puts me in a rather difficult bind.”
“This question is very sensitive. There is no one else I can safely ask.”
Anabelle kept her eyes down, but she could still feel when his gaze shifted to her.
“Out with it, minx,” he said to Lucy.
“Is a rake a better lover than a good man?”
Anabelle felt a blush break out over her skin. That wasn’t exactly what she had asked of Lucy. His silence was palpable. She would have laughed at the absurdity of Draven being shocked speechless if only she had the air in her lungs to do it.
“Get thee to a nunnery,” he said at last.
Lucy snorted. “Very funny, Shakespeare. Answer the question.”
Anabelle peeked at him and he was looking around frantically.
“Where in God’s name is your brother?”
“Draven,” Lucy pleaded, “this is very important.”
“You’ve lost your damn mind and in front of an innocent like Anabelle, no less.”
At this Anabelle’s head snapped up. “It’s me who wishes to know.”
His gaze slowly turned to her. The black emptiness of his eyes pinned her where she stood.
“You want to know if a rake is a better lover than a good man.”
“Well… not exactly. I want to know if rakes have different skills than men who are not rakes.” She blushed even harder.
“In bed?” he pressed.
“No—ugh, in areas outside of the bedroom. What is it that makes a rake different from a good man when it comes to courtship? Why is it some men have something that draws women to them and other men don’t?” she finished, surprised at the calmness with which she had finished her question.
He was dead silent. He looked back and forth between them, but ultimately, his attention settled on her. “What makes you think a good man can’t be a rake?”
Both women took a moment to process that. “By the very definition of the word,” Lucy answered.
Draven turned to her. “You don’t consider your brother a good man?”
Lucy stumbled for an answer. “Well, of course. He is my brother. I know him to be a good man, but I’m not sure others hold the same opinion.”
Draven shook his head. “And what of you?” He addressed Anabelle.
“I… I don’t know.”
“You don’t believe a good man can also be a rake,” he stated.
She shook her head. “How can that be? A rake is a man who cares for naught but his own enjoyment.”
Draven digested that. “Do you consider me a rake?”
Anabelle swallowed. There was no going back now. “Yes.”
Draven wanted to press her further, but not in front of Lucy. He thought he had made their encounters quite enjoyable for her. He refused to believe otherwise—hell, he knew otherwise.
“Let me see if I understand what you are asking. Rakes are dashing and exciting. We set women aflame with a single look. You want to know if a good man can do the same.”
Lucy nodded. Anabelle narrowed her eyes at him.
“My answer is this. Women are drawn to rakes because they want what they have to offer. Women are drawn to good men because they want what they have to offer. A good man can be a rake and a bad man can, as well. It all comes down to the woman and the man.” He looked at Anabelle as he said this.
Anabelle felt a shudder go down her spine.
“What in God’s name are you blundering on about?” Lucy folded her arms and looked at him quizzically.
Draven sighed and looked up at the sky. “Whether the intent is a temporary liaison or lasting love, something will be felt before anything is said or done. It cannot be fabricated. It cannot be coerced. I can’t say it any plainer than that.”
“I had no idea you could be so philosophical,” Lucy teased.
Anabelle remained quiet. She was shaken inside as she comprehended his words. They were a startling realization. Something will be felt before anything is said or done. What did that mean for her and what did it mean for him? Because as much as she wished otherwise, she felt something with him, something so strong it was impossible to ignore.
Chapter 8
Anabelle still hadn’t recovered from the masquerade. The rest of the evening had been uneventful, but she couldn’t stop thinking of what Draven said, which inevitably led to her thinking about him. He hadn’t stayed very long in their presence after issuing his advice—if it could be called that. But all night long, she could feel him, a presence in the room, even amongst hundreds.
She woke the following morning still unsettled and weary of the coming day. There were no specific plans except morning calls and what not.
It was already well past breakfast, so Anabelle rang for a tray and continued to stare at her canopy until it arrived. She dragged herself from the bed when the maid arrived and tried to muster some energy to dress. The maid entered followed by another with a large bouquet of flowers. Anabelle paused in her slide from her bed and stared.
“Who are those from?”
Her maid shrugged. “There’s plenty more where this came from, ma’am. The drawing room is overflowing!”
Anabelle’s eyes widened. “All for me?”
The maid snickered. “Lady Hazel has her fair share of blooms. You both must have made quite an impression with your costumes.”
Anabelle slipped into her wrapper and inspected the flowers. There was a card. She opened it, eyebrows nearly touching her hairline at the awful poem inside and then the signature. “Lord Meyers?” she said in disbelief. She couldn’t recall being introduced to a Lord Meyers.
Anabelle was lured away from the flowers by the scent of bacon. Her stomach growled. She abandoned her curiosity long enough to clear her plate of the eggs, bacon, and toast, then finished dressing before going downstairs. She slowed as a footman was carrying a bouquet into the drawing room. She entered warily and paused. The room looked more like a flower shop than a drawing room. Her mother was flitting from flower to flower like a delighted bee.
“They won’t stop coming,” Hazel said from the settee, obviously beleaguered.
Anabelle couldn’t see her past the side table overflowing with arrangements. “I am at a loss.” She wandered over to her sister and peeked at some of the cards. “Oh! What lovely sentiments from Mr. Gainsby. He is very fond of your eyes, Hazel,” Anabelle teased.
Hazel groaned. “I don’t even know if I danced with him last night. I’m not sure who any of the gentlemen were that I danced with.”
“Relax, Hazel,” their mo
ther chimed. “This is marvelous. You both will have your pick of the most eligible gentlemen this season if these flowers are any indication.”
“It’s Anabelle’s fault. She wore that risqué dress only to impress one man.”
Lady Wellsford turned and gave Anabelle a look. “Don’t think that didn’t pass my notice last night. That was not the costume I approved.”
“The gentlemen certainly approved of it,” Hazel grumbled.
“Half these flowers are for you,” Anabelle reminded her. She joined her mother in reading cards. She couldn’t remember seeing any of these gentlemen last night.
“We should prepare for a busy afternoon of calls.” Their mother trilled. Anabelle bit her lip nervously while Hazel groaned.
The door knocker pounded again and Hazel collapsed against the back of the settee. Anabelle smiled at her dramatics. Wilton came in with a box and presented it to Anabelle.
“What is this?” She took the box and went to sit beside Hazel, who sat up in curiosity. Anabelle opened the box and gasped. It was a crown of flowers, like they used to make as girls—white clover and sweet pea to be precise.
“Well, that is certainly out of the norm. Whatever could it mean?” Lady Wellsford looked over their shoulder.
Anabelle shrugged. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“Now this I actually like.” Hazel picked up the crown and set it on Anabelle’s head. “Very becoming on you.” She giggled.
Anabelle smiled and put the crown back in its box. “Tis a shame it won’t last very long. How on earth are we to keep the flowers alive longer than a day?”
“Let it dry and it will be a keepsake,” Lady Wellsford offered.
Anabelle carefully closed the box. She wasn’t sure what it would signify if she didn’t know whom it was from.
“What is the matter, Hazel? Don’t you want to be pursued by gentlemen?” Lady Wellsford put a hand on Hazels shoulder. Hazel looked fit to be tied.