He looked confused for a moment, that stony face cracking slightly. "I do not recall what they say."
"Well, I can assure you I would have come up with much better excuses." She smiled. "None of which would have been dainty."
"Thus the reason I did not ask."
"But it is rather gratifying to cause such a stir. I didn't even need to show my ankles, fall into a fountain, or slap anybody's face this time. Apparently dancing with you is just as likely to cause a public scandal."
"Is that your aim then?"
"Why not? Life can be so very dull otherwise. I thought perhaps you felt the same, which would explain why we're here."
His eyes narrowed as they peered down at her from a lofty height. "We are dancing, Miss Deverell, because while we are in motion no one can overhear our conversation, nor can they interrupt us. At least for another few minutes. And I would like you to know that I certainly do not court scandal. I put myself out considerably to be here and give you a piece of my mind."
"Are you sure you can spare any? Don't trouble yourself on my account."
His scowl deepened. "I am not a man who suffers fools gladly, neither do I put myself out for any minor circumstance. Very few indiscretions do I consider worthy of my time to intervene."
"Crikey! Aren't I special?"
"Yes. I'm sure you're very... singular."
Looking him up and down with an appraisal as scathing as she could manage in her current state of amusement, she said, "Unlike most folk, I am not afraid of you. I don't need anybody's approval or their good opinion. I could just walk away and leave you standing here like a fool."
She felt his gaze wandering over her lips, then down her throat, beyond the thin string of emeralds and pearls her father had bought her, to the lace that trimmed her décolletage. "I keenly await your attempt," he said.
His expression was unchanged, but his hand tightened around hers. At her waist his fingers spread, drawing her body a half inch closer. Her pulse skipped.
"But I'm sure you want your winnings, Miss Deverell," he added, "and you don't want your young friend banned from racing his horses, just because you broke the rules for him today."
"Do you threaten me, sir?"
"I prefer to call it fair warning."
He wasn't handsome, she decided, but there was something about his features that kept her looking at his face, as if she could not look away. Dare not. Some men had to be watched, because one never knew what they might do next.
Matthew had called him predictable. That was a mistake.
"But it's not only about the rules of the Racers' Club, Miss Deverell. Horse racing is not a sport for women. You could be hurt. Badly. You could even be killed. Apparently Matthew Bourne doesn't care about that."
"However, since it's my body and my life, I ought to be allowed to do as I please with it. If I ever wanted to ride in a race, it is my decision. Don't you think?"
"No," he replied flatly. "What an utterly ridiculous idea."
She stared. "That I should choose what I do with my own body?"
"Not if it may bring you harm." He looked down, and sounded out of breath when he added, "I would take issue with anyone causing you to be—" Then he raised his eyelids again. "That is to say, causing any lady to sustain an injury."
"But women ride to hunt."
"If they ride in any hunt on my estate, they mount side-saddle, keep well behind the men, stay with a cautious chaperone, and they do not ride out all day."
"Sounds to be the most riveting, joyous fun." She retrieved her hand from his to pat her mouth while she yawned.
Having snatched her gloved fingers back and gripped them even more tightly, he looked away from her for a moment, nostrils flaring. "These are precautions to keep the women safe."
"You could just bore them to death and have done with it. They'll be extremely safe once they're in a grave."
He looked at her again, his eyes black with anger. "I suppose that is the only time you'll behave yourself, Miss Deverell."
"They'll have to dig me a very deep hole."
His cheeks sucked inward slightly as he looked down at her. "Women should know their place and their limitations. When they do not, they become a liability."
She gave a little snort of amusement. "It seems we will never agree on this subject. We have only known each other for a matter of minutes and yet already we have found something to argue about. My body and what I do with it." Then she smiled, for he was truly looking quite distressed. She thought a little sweat had broken on his brow. "Thus the first hurdle toward friendship is crossed, your lordship."
He squinted. "Friendship?" he echoed the word as if it was something outrageous she'd suggested. "I very much doubt you and I could ever be friends, Miss Deverell."
For a moment she was speechless, which didn't happen often.
"You are too young to heed the wisdom of your elders," he added, terse.
"And you are too narrow-minded to be fair and reasonable."
"Indeed. I suspect we would be at odds on a great many subjects, Miss Deverell."
"Then it's a very good thing that you don't own me, your lordship, and I don't have to listen to you, unlike all your sycophantic followers."
His lip curled up very cautiously and a thin line appeared briefly between his brows. "Would you listen to me if I did own you?"
With a smile she replied teasingly, "Only when you agreed with me on every count, but then I suppose I would own you. Hmm. How much would you cost to keep?"
He shook his head. "As I thought. You are an impossible, pampered chit of a girl."
"What do you want from me then?" she demanded with a pert shrug of her shoulders, tired of trying to make him smile back at her.
"I want an apology, madam."
"For?"
He seemed to consider his answer carefully and then his gaze swept back upward to her eyes. "For spoiling my sport today. And before."
"Before?"
He sniffed. "I'm sure you remember."
But she couldn't think what he meant. Raven looked boldly into that dark gaze and felt a tremor of excitement very much like the one she got from winning that race earlier. She had to laugh again, just to release some of the tension that built inside. "Oh dear! I have discovered that the Almighty Hale is not so perfect, after all. He does have a fault. At least one." And then she raised a gloved finger from where it rested on his shoulder, and used it to poke the end of his nose. "You, sir, are a poor loser."
It was a teasing gesture she would have used on Matty Bourne, or any other dancing partner in danger of becoming too serious. But Hale was not just anybody. Breathless, she waited to see what would happen. She was quite certain that every soul watching them had withdrawn a step or two, anticipating the blast of his wrath.
No matter how she tried she could not fathom his expression. Inscrutable was the only way to describe it.
Finally his lips parted. "Yes, I've been told that it's because I haven't had much practice," he said, "at this thing called losing."
"Oh...yes, naturally. Being a different experience for you it must be quite terrifying. But you should never be afraid to try something new. You have been too long in your comfortable, tidy world where nobody challenges you. Losing, once in a while, might even make you human. But then you would be like the rest of us, and that would never do."
"Certainly not. Somebody has to set an example for the rabble."
Still his face remained unreadable, but wait...was there was a twinkle of warmth in his regard, the hint of humor? If only she could coax it further out of hiding and be sure.
The ever smoldering fire of her curiosity flickered into flame.
Head tipped to one side, she studied his features again, examining those sharp lines and that strong, stubborn jaw. What terrible secrets did he have that kept him away from London society and made his appearance in public so rare? He was neither deformed, nor sickly, but she would have expected a few warts, a third eye, and a hu
mp at the very least.
He smelled rather nice. Sandalwood and something else. Very masculine. How odd it was that he did not wear evening clothes. A man obsessed with rules ought to be very particular about his garments for every occasion, but he was not. His rather worn, comfortable-looking coat and muddy riding boots had an unexpected air of the mutineer about them.
"May I inquire what bedevilry you currently contemplate, Miss Deverell?" he asked warily. "You look rather pleased with yourself."
"I was thinking, sir, that I'm surprised you're such a bad sport. It's not very gentlemanly. If I was your nanny, I would send you promptly up to bed with no supper."
"If you were my nanny," another half inch of air between them vanished, "we would all be in a vast deal of trouble." While she was still pondering this, he added suddenly, "Matthew Bourne is no good for you."
She arched an eyebrow. "Once again, sir, that is my decision to make."
His hand almost crushed the bones in her fingers. "Give him up, or I will have him black-balled from every club in town."
Astonished at the sudden fierceness in his tone, she scoffed, "For what, pray tell?"
"For putting a woman in danger. For breaking a rule and hiring a female to race on one of his horses. A woman to distract my jockey."
His fingers moved up and down against her spine again, creating a spidery heat under her gown and slyly drawing her body even closer. It was several years since the waltz had been considered indecent, but tonight she suspected that a few of the spectators might reverse their opinion on that score. Naturally, they would blame her.
"I didn't distract your jockey," she replied, feeling oddly giddy, as if, once he removed his hands from her she might lose her balance. "He didn't seem to have his mind on the race."
"And you did? Even while winking at me?"
"Yes. But I can do two things at once, sir." The dance was finally ending, and they came to a halt at the edge of the ballroom floor. "Indeed, I can manage even more than two. I believe it's a female advantage." She smiled.
It bothered her suddenly, with a quicksilver intensity, that she probably never would know him well enough to have him smile at her in return. After tonight, if he resumed his old habits and withdrew from London society once more, they may never meet again.
I very much doubt you and I could ever be friends.
That was rather mean and uncalled for, she thought. It felt much worse than the usual cut to which she was accustomed.
Slowly his hands released her. "Well, I might not have received the apology I sought from you, Miss Deverell. But I did get a confession, did I not?"
Raven swallowed hard. He had caught her out. Alarm pricked her skin like the sharp needles of a cold, unpredicted rain shower.
He added softly and steadily, "Now I must decide how to act on that confession."
"I was the one who broke the rule," she exclaimed, "not him."
"Do you try to tell me that he had no knowledge of it? That he didn't put you up to it? He didn't think it would be a great lark to have you ride in that race?"
"No. It was entirely my idea. I wanted to beat the Almighty Hale. But you do not believe women are capable of thinking for themselves, do you, sir?"
"I know that when they do, madam— especially when they are young, imprudent and spoiled — no good ever comes of it." He paused. "Finally the false smile has left your lips. Even if that usually works to your favor with the men you encounter, I would prefer to see a genuine smile. If you know what that is."
"How dare you!"
"You are a practiced and accomplished flirt, madam. Congratulations. It is a disguise you wear with as much flourish as you donned those breeches today."
She breathed hard, fury bubbling up and overflowing the restrictions of her corset.
"Give him up, Miss Deverell. This is my fair warning to you. Throw him over, and then I'll take mercy on Matthew Bourne. That's if you care about him at all. I'm told you have an icy little heart that can never be touched."
Too irate to spend another moment in his arrogant company, she turned quickly to walk away. But then she stopped and looked back. She would not let him get the last word, no indeed.
"Tell me, your lordship, what bothered you most today? That you lost, or that you lost to a woman?"
His jaw clenched, and a puzzled look came into his eyes.
Head high, she walked away, the crowd parting for her as if she had the plague.
Raven's grand exit was marred, however, by her own inquisitive nature, when she simply must look back over her shoulder again, to see if he was still standing where she left him. And whether he watched her.
He was.
And he did.
Chapter Six
She quickened her steps and abruptly came upon her mother in the vestibule. Lady Charlotte clasped her daughter's arm.
"Come quickly. We are leaving at once."
"Why? What is it, mama?"
"He deserved a crushed bone in his foot," her mother muttered, tugging on Raven's puffed sleeve until they were at the front door of the Winstanleys' house, where a footman was instantly dispatched to find their carriage. "I only wish I could have run over more of him with that phaeton."
Glancing back toward the ballroom, Raven spied her mother's former lover, hobbling along with a heavily bandaged foot and a walking cane. In a state of inebriation, he shouted curses at Lady Charlotte, apparently planning to use that cane for another purpose once he caught up with her. At that moment, however, he could not get through the crowd of guests and was reduced to futile yelling, while thumping his cane at the wall plaster and the pillars.
Her mother held her head high, noble and haughty. "Let him land upon his nose and flatten it to match his foot."
Raven readjusted the Spanish lace shawl that had fallen from her mother's shoulders. "Should we not say our goodbyes to the Winstanleys?"
"There is no time. I must leave immediately, for I am taken ill and suddenly very weak. I barely have the strength to stand," said the flushed, robust woman with great vigor. "I'm sure the Winstanleys will understand." Then, abruptly cooling her temper, she fixed a hard gaze on her daughter. "Was that Hale I saw you dancing with? The Earl of Southerton?"
"I don't know, mama," she replied sullenly. "He didn't introduce himself. Not properly."
"Well, gracious! That is a very odd thing indeed. What can it mean, that he should choose to dance with you?" Lady Charlotte's eyes sparkled with cunning thoughts. "But this may be very good for us."
"I can't imagine why."
"Don't be tiresome. You're not a stupid girl, Raven, and you've never naively misunderstood a man's motives. Unless deliberately. A man like that is extremely eligible. Wealthy, titled, powerful and a widower. You could not—"
"A widower?" Suddenly all thumbs, she lost her grip on the end of that lace shawl and it fell from her grasp, drooping down her mother's back like a broken wing.
Lady Charlotte did not expand upon her description of Hale, for the footman who had been sent to order their carriage brought around, now returned, his task unfulfilled.
"Your ladyship, I'm afraid the carriage is gone."
"Gone?" she exclaimed. "What can be the meaning of this?"
"He means it was returned from whence it came." Another man stood in the doorway behind the footman, his round, red face shining greasily in the candlelight as he coughed and then smirked broadly. Stiffly flinging out one arm, he passed her mother a folded note, made a half-hearted pretense at tipping his hat and then disappeared again, pulling up his coat collar against the rain.
Raven snatched the note from her mother's hand.
"One landau carriage and two roan mares on loan to Lady Charlotte Rothsey (Deverell). Account due in full on the twenty-first day of May in the year eighteen forty-seven. Immediate repossession..." She was unable to read the rest for her mother took the paper back again and ripped it into several pieces before scattering them dramatically at her feet.
; "This is outrageous! That I should be treated thus. If my father were still alive they would not dare."
Mortified, Raven desperately tried to quiet her mother, but it was a fruitless exercise. When Lady Charlotte felt hard-done-by— which was often— she did not like to leave anybody unaware of it.
"And out of spite they do this, while I am here, at the Winstanleys' ball. Oh, they could not wait to deal with the matter tomorrow. No, indeed, they must humiliate me in this public way."
"Mama, you are humiliating yourself," she whispered, once again rearranging the lace shawl around her mother's shoulders.
"How am I supposed to get back to the hotel suite? A Hansom cab? Me? A lady, in a Hansom cab? Or perhaps he expects me to take an omnibus!"
She had forgotten, it seemed, that she was not the only one inconvenienced. "We can always walk, mama. And fortunately we both have our health and two good legs."
"Walk? It's five miles at least, and the streets aren't fit for two women to walk alone."
"Mama, it's possibly a mile at most to Mivart's from here. And with our reputation for putting men in their place, I think we'll be quite safe together in the savage environs of Mayfair."
"I absolutely cannot—"
"If you will allow me, madam. I will gladly escort you and your daughter home in my carriage."
Both women turned swiftly to find the Earl of Southerton directly behind them.
"I was just leaving myself," he added steadily. "And it is raining. Walking is quite out of the question."
* * * *
He watched Raven Deverell across his carriage and cautiously considered, once again, the dangerous extravagance of everything about her— from the rich darkness of her hair, to the blossoming shape of her lips, the thickness of her eyelashes, the fullness of her figure. Too much of everything, he mused. What was it that man at the ball had called her? A handful. No, she was more than a handful. She was an over-spilling, cartload of trouble, teetering along without a sober driver and about to lose its balance.
He had given her fair warning about that young cad, Bourne, and that should be it. There was no need for him to follow her out of the ballroom and continue the conversation.
Chasing Raven Page 4