He refused to make those same errors in judgement—hence his level-headed approach toward finding a wife. His title for her money: wasn’t that the strategy? When had the plan altered to include seducing a hoyden in a Priest Hole?
Damn Violet Kent for muddying the waters.
“Have you recovered, brother?”
Wick’s voice returned Richard to the present. His brother approached, every inch the dapper country gentleman in a checked brown jacket and matching silk cravat.
“Recovered from what?” Richard said.
“Your loss at Hide and Seek, of course.” His sibling bestowed a beatific smile upon him. “Don’t take it too hard, old boy. When it comes to games, our dear Vi is a ripping competitor.”
“Don’t refer to her in that manner.”
Wick’s brows shot up. “Beg pardon?”
“You ought to show more respect to Miss Kent. She is a young lady, not one of your wild scapegraces,” Richard said curtly.
“Miss Kent is my chum, so I’ll call her what I please.”
“Since when can a woman and a gentleman be chums?” Richard scoffed.
He didn’t believe for an instant that his brother’s motives were pure. How could they be when a female as tempting as Miss Kent was involved? This meant that he had yet another problem to contend with. Not only had he kissed the troublesome baggage, he might also be treading on his brother’s territory.
The notion made his molars grind together. He told himself this was only because Wick’s future was at stake; his sibling needed to court Miss Turbett, not dally with Violet Kent.
“You really do have antiquated notions, you know,” Wick said.
Miss Kent would have agreed. A traditionalist, she’d scornfully called him.
Then she shouldn’t have let me kiss her, he thought savagely.
In a tight voice, he said, “Do you have any intentions toward her?”
“Toward who… Violet? Of course not. She’s like a sister to me.”
His brother’s incredulity sounded sincere and told him what he needed to know. One barrier out of the way. Then he watched as more gentlemen joined Miss Kent’s group, and his relief vanished. Only a dozen bloody more to go.
Wick’s hazel eyes narrowed. “Why are you so interested in her anyway?”
He told himself it was a matter of honor. Of doing what was right.
“What’s going on? Surely you can’t mean…” Wick gawked at him. “Violet… and you?”
His brother’s tone implied that the likelihood of such a pairing was akin to pigs taking flight.
“Why would that be so surprising?” Richard said brusquely.
“Because Violet’s my friend—and, trust me, you’re not the sort of man she’d want to wed. She doesn’t even like you.” Wick dragged a hand through his hair, furthering its fashionable disarray. “And I know for a fact that she enjoys her freedom and has no interest in marriage.”
The words planted like a dagger in Richard’s chest, piercing the hope that had been insidiously burgeoning there. He knew his brother was right: his rational mind had been saying those exact things all along. Lust had blinded him, given him foolish notions. One illicit embrace didn’t mean that Miss Kent would want to marry him.
Hell, just because she’d seemed innocent didn’t mean that she was; had he forgotten Miss Lucinda’s beguiling façade, Lady Audrey’s calculating ways?
It was telling that, at present, Miss Kent took no notice of him, was too busy bantering with all her other gentlemen to even spare him a glance. Well, his sense of honor might demand that he offer for her, but he wouldn’t play the dupe again. He’d go into the business with realistic expectations and keep his proposal cursory. Most importantly, he’d leave with his pride intact.
Just another duty to perform. The thought struck a stark note.
Music swelled, signaling that the show was about to begin.
Wick studied him. “I’m sitting with her and the fellows. Care to join?”
He glanced over to see that Miss Kent was now surrounded by her family. Another public scene was the last thing he needed. He’d find an opportunity to talk to her in private later on; God knew that interview was going to be brief.
“I’ll find my own seat. Enjoy the show,” he said flatly.
~~~
It required all of Violet’s willpower not to look at Carlisle. She was acutely aware of him standing at the back of the theatre. His mere presence quickened her pulse, flooding her with remembered sensations, the most extraordinary she’d ever known. The raw silk texture of his hair between her fingers, the flexing of his virile body against hers, the devouring fire of his kiss…
“Is everything all right, Violet?”
Her gaze swung to Emma, sitting on her right. “Yes. Perfectly. Er, why do you ask?”
“Because your cheeks are flushed. And you’re all out of breath,” her overly observant sister said. “I think I know why.”
Vi swallowed. “You… you do?”
“It doesn’t take an investigator to figure out the cause of your excitement.” A grin tucked into Em’s cheeks. “You’ll soon be seeing your idol, after all.”
Her idol… Oh, right.
“Yes. Madame Monique. Can’t wait,” she mumbled.
“It won’t be long, dear.” Smiling, Emma turned to catch something that Polly was saying.
Unable to help herself, Vi cast a discreet glance in Carlisle’s direction. He was now seated in the back row of the theatre; with his brawny form, he stuck out like a stallion in a pen of geldings. Just as she was about to look away, his gaze collided with hers.
Her stomach plummeted. His eyes were shuttered, his features set in foreboding lines. There was no trace of the passionate lover who’d awakened all her dormant needs. Who had, in one fell swoop, made her understand what desire was.
She turned away, mortification pulsing through her.
Don’t be a ninny. Don’t let him see how he affects you.
Why, oh why, had she acted so wantonly? He’d called her a flirt, said she wasn’t good enough—and in the Priest Hole she’d gone and proved the dratted man right. Yet, to be fair, she wasn’t entirely to blame, was she? After all, he was Viscount Killjoy, a stuffed shirt: he had no business kissing her like that! Why, he’d issued a sneak attack, she thought with growing indignation. Lured her into complacency with his starchy exterior, only to ambush her with his sensual and irresistible lovemaking…
Wait a minute. Carlisle—sensual? Irresistible? Did the kiss rot your brain?
She couldn’t deny that during the encounter he’d absorbed her senses completely. In fact, the effect of his kiss had been like that of playing a sport: her mind had been focused, centered on naught but him and the moment. She’d felt utterly alive in her own skin…
Her mind roiled with confusion. Why had he kissed her when he didn’t even like her? And why did she have to discover what passion was in the arms of a man who despised her? Another thought seized her. By Golly, did that make her a trollop?
“Ready for the show to begin?”
Her attention jerked to Wick, who’d taken the seat she’d saved for him. She mustered up a smile. “I can’t wait to see Madame Monique. She’s tip-top.”
“Indeed.” Something flitted through his gaze, something she couldn’t read. “By the by, I was chatting with my brother just now.”
Wings of panic beat in her chest. Carlisle hadn’t told Wick about the Priest Hole, had he?
“Anything, um, interesting come up?” she croaked.
“Not really. It’s always the same old tune with him. Miss Turbett this, Miss Turbett that.”
“Oh.” She told herself she was relieved.
“He did, however, call into question my friendship with you.”
Outrage surged. “He did what?”
Wick’s expression was solemn. “It seems he cannot fathom how a girl like you could be friends with me.”
A girl like you. The words branded on V
i’s brain, releasing sizzling reminders of the other things Carlisle had said about her. You’re no good… You can’t spell propriety let alone put it into practice…
A terrible suspicion arose. Had Carlisle kissed her to make a point? To prove that she was naught but an improper hoyden—and not good enough to be friends with his brother? Anger and humiliation quivered through her.
“I told him to mind his own business, of course,” Wick said.
At least she had Wick’s loyalty. She managed a smile. “Thank you.”
“What are friends for?” he said with a wink.
As the music soared to new heights, the crowd tittering with excitement, she shoved her tumultuous emotions into a box and slapped on the lid. What did she care what Lord High And Mighty thought of her? So what if he judged her and found her lacking? It wouldn’t be the first time someone did so and likely not the last.
Pull yourself up by your slipper laces. She squared her shoulders. If Carlisle dared to approach her again, she would tell him in no uncertain terms what she thought of him and his blasted tactics. She might even plant him a facer for good measure.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice announced from behind the curtain. “May I present... Mr. Cedric Burns and Miss Josephine Ashe!”
Determined to put Carlisle out of her mind, Vi sat forward in her seat. The red curtains parted, revealing a flaxen-haired duo juggling brightly colored balls back and forth. Handsome and wiry, Cedric Burns’ smile was a flash of white in his tanned face. Flames of red and orange sequins glittered on his black waistcoat. His partner, the petite Miss Ashe, wore a matching vest over a tailored blouse and black skirts. The two circled each other on the stage, balls arcing between them.
From off stage, an assistant began tossing more balls at Burns, and without missing a beat, he incorporated them into the colorful flow until Vi counted a dozen balls being kept afloat between the jugglers. Excitement buoyed her spirits, and when the set ended, she applauded enthusiastically with the rest of the audience.
The pair took their bows. Turning to his partner, Burns said in a loud stage whisper, “What shall we do next, my dear?”
“I don’t know.” Ashe tapped a finger against her pointed chin, her light eyes inviting the audience to join in the repartee. “Does anyone have a suggestion?”
“Play with fire!” Parnell’s voice came from behind Violet.
“Fire, fire,” the crowd began to chant.
“Heavens, this is a raucous bunch, isn’t it?” Emma muttered.
Violet didn’t respond; she was too busy stomping her feet with everyone else. The next minute, an assistant appeared on stage, with a flaming taper in one hand and a bucket of unlit torches in the other. He lit them one by one, tossing them alternately to Burns and Ashe, the audience cheering as the performers each maintained fiery, ever growing circles in the air. Then, with skill so seamless it appeared to be magic, the pair began exchanging the flaming torches, their independent circles melding into one blazing loop.
When the act was over, Vi hooted and clapped wildly.
Burns bowed and made a flourish with his arm. “My partner, Miss Josephine Ashe!”
Ashe came forward, about to curtsy—when a white Arabian seemed to come out of nowhere, soaring into the ring in front of the stage, obscuring the jugglers. Vi gasped along with the rest of the crowd at the fantastical sight: the snow-white horse flew around the circle, a raven-haired lady standing on its back.
Madame Monique!
Clad in a white dancer’s costume with a fitted bodice and short draped skirt, the acrobat embodied elegance. She lifted a leg, bending the pink-stockinged limb behind her with graceful ease as the horse galloped on. The audience went wild, leaping to their feet, Vi along with them. Breathlessly, she watched her idol perform one trick after another in the saddle. Madame Monique twirled on her toes, rode backward, even did a flip in the air. During the finale, Violet’s hands clutched in front of her as Monique and her mount sailed through a fiery ring.
Deafening cheers erupted.
“She’s incredible, isn’t she?” Vi shouted happily to Wick.
“Indeed.” There was an odd note in his voice, his gaze fixed on the regally bowing acrobat.
After the final round of applause, the curtain closed, and guests departed en masse for afternoon refreshments back at the house. Standing behind Wick, who was waiting politely for the aisle to clear, Vi couldn’t resist looking for Carlisle; he was nowhere to be seen.
Good riddance, she told herself. Now stop acting like a feather wit.
Aloud, she said, “Madame Monique was smashing, wasn’t she?”
Wick turned. “She certainly knows how to give a good performance.”
“I do hope we’ll get an opportunity to meet her. I have so many questions I want to ask. Perhaps Gabby could arrange it…” Vi trailed off, staring at her friend. “Wick? Are you all right?”
The color had suddenly drained from his face. His pupils were dilated, his breaths rapid and shallow. He was looking past her to the entrance of the amphitheatre…
Craning her neck, Vi glimpsed a black-haired gentleman standing there. Of medium height and elegantly trim, he exuded an aura of cold ruthlessness that she could sense even from a distance. The pair of hulking brutes flanking his sides added to his menacing presence.
“Who is that?” she whispered.
Wick raked his hair with a visibly shaking hand. “Who do you mean?”
“That man over there with the guards. The one who’s staring at you?”
“I haven’t the faintest,” he said unconvincingly. “Look, I just remembered that I, er, promised to meet up with someone. See you later?”
“Wick, what is going—”
Before she could finish, he pushed his way into the aisle, eliciting disgruntled exclamations from other guests. He waded his way toward the rear of the theatre—in the opposite direction from the ominous stranger—and exited through a back door.
Stupefied, Vi turned to her sister. “Em, do you know that man by the entryway?”
Her sister followed her gaze. “I don’t recognize him. But judging from his charming entourage, I’d guess he’s one of Billings’ infamous associates. Why do you ask?”
“Wick seemed taken aback when he saw the man looking at him,” Vi said.
Em’s sable brows lifted. “Wouldn’t you feel the same way?”
Both of them glanced at the stranger. Vi’s nape prickled. The cutthroat was looking at the door through which Wick had exited, his gaze as hard and unblinking as a snake’s.
Chapter Eight
“How absolutely sporting of you to arrange this, Gabby,” Vi said.
It was an hour before supper, and she and Polly were following their hostess down the hallway toward Madame Monique’s suite, where they would have a private audience with the diva. The skirts of the girls’ evening gowns swished over the thick carpeting.
Gabby chuckled. “You’re welcome. This meeting will be brief, but you’ll have more time to converse at supper. I’ve put you and your family at my table with Madame Monique.”
“Smashing,” Vi breathed.
“There’s only one hitch to my seating plans.” Gabby huffed out a breath. “Father insisted that I place Viscount Carlisle next to me.”
At the mention of Carlisle, Violet experienced—on top of everything—a swift tug of guilt. She’d engaged in an illicit (albeit entirely unplanned) embrace with Gabby’s potential suitor. It went against her code of honor, her very nature, to betray a friend. True, the other girl hadn’t seemed at all interested in Carlisle… but what if her feelings had changed?
As Violet searched for some casual way to bring up the topic, Polly said, “How are things going with Carlisle?”
“Terribly. I dread each and every encounter,” Gabby said with feeling. “He never smiles, we have naught in common, and I’ve had better luck carrying on a conversation with a house plant. The truth is he makes me horribly nervous. And you know wh
at I do when I’m nervous: I chatter. And chatter. Over supper last night, I carried on a conversation with myself for two whole hours.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as all that,” Polly said soothingly.
Vi wasn’t so sure. Because Gabby could out chatter a magpie. It was part of her charm.
“Trust me, it was.” Gabby came to an abrupt halt, her blue eyes beseeching. “If you see me talking too much tonight, give me a kick under the table, will you?”
“I can’t kick you,” Polly protested.
“I’ll do it.” Vi figured she owed Gabby the favor. Clearing her throat, she said, “Are you certain you’re not interested in him, Gabby?”
“Yes. Absolutely. Not only does he lack conversational skills, he’s so…”—Gabby shuddered—“large.”
Vi flashed back to the feel of Carlisle’s hard, aroused body pinning her to the wall. Heat fluttered at her core, the tips of her breasts tingling. She couldn’t deny that she found his brawny physique powerfully stimulating. His thick, muscular thigh had felt so good wedged between her legs, and the way he’d touched her, his big hands roaming with such exquisite care…
No, get your mind out of the gutter! Remember he used you—merely to prove a point.
She swallowed. “You have a problem with his, er, size?”
Gabby’s red curls bobbed emphatically as she led them around a corner. “I prefer a gentleman who is less overwhelming in every respect. More refined, if you know what I mean. Not short, but a nice manageable height that doesn’t give one a crick in the neck when one is speaking to him.” Her eyes grew dreamy. “Someone who likes to spend hours having cozy chats in front of the fire, who likes to shop, who likes cats more than dogs—”
“Why does he have to prefer cats over dogs?” Vi wanted to know.
“Because I do. And my ideal husband and I would agree in all things.”
Polly looked doubtful. “I’m not sure marriage works that way.”
Vi had to agree with her sister. The couples in their family tended to be as passionate in their conflicts as they were in their love for one another.
The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4) Page 7