by Cara Elliott
Her face flamed to a deeper shade of scarlet.
Suddenly sorry for upsetting her, Lucas stopped smiling. “But speaking of force, do you really think that Sheffield’s family is seriously seeking to take custody of your son? I understand that they said some nasty things during the inquest, but—”
“It was more than mere words, Lord Hadley. Someone tried to bribe the chemist from whom I purchase my supplies to say that I had bought some highly toxic poisons right before my husband’s death. Thank God, he was a man of integrity and informed my solicitor, so the trick could not be tried at another shop.”
Ciara took a moment to steady her breathing. “And before you ask why, I will tell you that the answer is simple—money. Arthur Battersham has gambled himself into debt, and his mother, my late husband’s sister, knows that if I am declared an unfit mother, the current legal guardianship can be changed. Whoever is appointed to take charge of my son will control the purse strings of his considerable fortune.” Another pause. “So be assured that I am not imagining the threat.”
“It would not seem so,” replied Lucas as he watched her wet her lips…
Forget about her lips, he warned himself. Forget about the tiny tremor of her mouth when she spoke about her son. Forget about the shade of fear that darkened her eyes when Society was mentioned.
And most of all, forget about the inexplicable desire that came over him when she was near—the desire not only to kiss her witless, but to pick up a sword and slay her dragons.
“Have you other questions, sir?”
“Not at the moment.” Reminding himself that he was a rakehell libertine, not a high-minded hero, he shoved aside such strange thoughts. “Shall we move on to the business at hand?”
She nodded curtly.
“For this to work, we are going to have to be a convincing couple. That means we shall have to begin appearing in Society.”
“When?” she whispered.
“As soon as possible.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket. “I’ve made a list of the influential hostesses and the parties where I think we should make an appearance. I suggest we make our debut at the Countess of Saybrook’s soirée. She’s one of the leading arbiters of style in London, and word will spread like wildfire. After a week or so of us being seen together, the betrothal announcement can be sent to the newspapers.”
Ciara grimaced. “I can’t imagine how anyone will really believe we have a tendre for each other.”
Lucas smiled. “In my experience, when it comes to telling a bouncer, one should always stick as close to the truth as possible. We shall say that we met through my uncle, whose scholarly interests are well known. I was smitten by your charms…”
She made a strange sound in her throat. “Or we could announce that I bewitched you by slipping a potent love potion in your drink, a powerful drug that addled your judgment.”
“My judgment has never been considered very steady to begin with,” he replied. “No one will blame you for its demise.”
“Ah, well, one less crime I am guilty of.” For an instant her eyes flared with an odd light, somewhere between anger and longing. And then her mask of composure was back in place, her gaze unflinching as it met his. It could not be easy facing the smug censure and prurient gossip, yet she had retained a dignity and grace that did her proud.
Lucas was aware of how sublimely stupid his antics must appear to her. Another indolent aristocrat, wasting away his days with drinking, gambling, and womanizing.
He smoothed a wrinkle from his sleeve. To hell with what Lady Sheffield thought of him. He didn’t give a damn for Society’s opinion, so why should hers matter? There was, he reminded himself, nothing personal about this arrangement. It was simply an exchange of services.
“Lady Sheffield, it’s obvious you think I am a wastrel and a fool. But much as it might shock you, my brain has grasped the fact that you are not at all pleased with the proposed arrangement,” he said. “I understand that you are sacrificing your scruples. Well, so am I. The ballrooms of Mayfair bore me to perdition, yet I’m willing to dance in circles—not for any personal pleasure but for the sake of my uncle.”
Ciara looked down at her hands.
“So unless you have changed your mind about protecting your son—”
“Never!” she exclaimed.
“Then it seems we are fated to be in each other’s company quite frequently over the next several months. And to be frank, I’d rather not be subjected to your constant scorn and sarcasm. Why don’t we try to make the best of it? Who knows, you might even enjoy the experience.”
“And pigs might fly,” muttered Ciara.
“My understanding of biology may not be as advanced as yours, but that seems anatomically improbable. The legs are too stubby, and the ratio of weight to length is a decided drawback. Not to speak of a curly tail, which offers little directional stability.”
Her lips twitched.
“I thought that perhaps Lady Ariel was exaggerating…” Lucas paused. “But thank God, you do have a sense of humor.”
“I am going to need more than a sense of humor to survive the Season,” she murmured.
“Right. You are going to need me.” Lucas moved to the hearth and leaned an elbow on the mantel. “So, do we have a deal?”
Her answer was almost lost in a sigh. “Yes.”
He smiled.
“But…”
“But what?”
Ciara looked away for a moment, unwilling to allow the sensual spread of his lips to distract her. “Now that we have agreed in principle to the arrangement, let’s get down to details, Lord Hadley,” she said through clenched teeth. “As I said, I am willing to go through with this charade, but only if you agree to certain conditions.”
“Which are?” he asked.
“No overt whoring, no drunken debaucheries, no outrageous stunts for the duration of the Season.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Ah. So I must be boring?”
Ciara averted her eyes. Damn the man for being so devastatingly handsome when he made that face. “No doubt it will seem so to you.”
The earl took a lazy turn in front of the hearth and then leaned back against the marble mantel. “What shall I do with my time, then, if I am not allowed to cavort and carouse?” he asked. “Try to improve my mind?”
“Why not?” she replied impulsively. “If I must subject myself to frivolous balls and parties, you, in turn, should have to expose yourself to my world. Not that it is likely a rakehell rogue will ever comprehend the first thing about logic and discipline.”
“Is that a challenge, madam?” he said softly.
“Yes,” snapped Ciara, her patience dangerously frayed. “Put it in the blasted betting book at White’s.” She paused to think. “The Wicked Witch wagers Lord H that he cannot complete a basic course in… chemistry.” She paused for breath. “No, that’s too unfair—make it ornithology, a far simpler subject for a layman to grasp.”
Lucas didn’t respond for a moment. “Done,” he said softly. “I accept your wager, but we shall, for the sake of propriety, not record it at any club. It will be a more private accounting.”
Ciara felt a flare of heat prickle along her arms. Oh, Lord, had she just made a dreadful mistake? If there was one thing a man couldn’t tolerate, it was a jab at his pride. But she couldn’t very well back out now. She, too, had her own unyielding pride.
“The thing is,” he continued, “a wager needs a prize. And a penalty. Tell me, Lady Sheffield, what are you willing to forfeit if you lose?”
“I have no intention of losing,” she replied.
“Am I misinformed, or is a scientist expected not to have preconceived ideas about the outcome of an experiment?”
She thinned her lips. “Very well, Lord Hadley. Name the stakes.”
“If I win, you must grant me one wish.”
“Too vague,” she objected. “I’d be a fool to agree.”
“What’s the worry? I thought you didn’
t intend to lose.”
Damn the rogue. For a man who claimed to have no interest in intellectual pursuits, he was awfully clever with his tongue…
Ciara felt herself flush as she recalled Lady Annabelle’s risqué comments about Hadley’s sinful mouth and the taste of its naughty pleasures. Looking up, she saw he was smiling. The crescent curve of his lips showed a peek of pearly white teeth.
“So, you wish for me to be specific? Very well.” He paused. “If I win, you must submit to a kiss.”
“I suppose that I can agree to that—” she began.
“Wait. I haven’t finished.” Smoothing a crease on his trousers, he added, “To be bestowed on a place of my choosing.”
“Th-that’s… outrageous,” she whispered.
“Is it?” His gaze drifted ever so slowly over her body, as if peeling the layers of silk and cotton from her flesh. “There are, you know, so many exquisitely sensitive parts of the female body—it’s devilishly difficult to decide on just one.”
She gave an involuntary gasp.
“I could suckle one rosy red nipple,” he said in a smoky murmur. “Then again, I could feather my lips over the dimpled little button of your belly.” His voice dropped a notch. “Or I could delve even lower.”
Sure that her face was on fire, Ciara looked away, hoping to hide her reaction. His words were titillating, but she didn’t wish to admit it. “The decision is yours, sir. It makes no difference to me.”
His husky laugh teased against her flesh. “Ah, but it should. You, too, have much to learn.”
Seeking to deflect his attention, she demanded, “What do I win?”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing you can give me,” replied Ciara, ruing the tightness that took hold of her throat.
“Don’t be so sure,” said Lucas.
A tiny trickle of sweat tickled along the crevasse between her breasts.
“Think hard—is there really nothing you want from me?”
She didn’t trust herself to speak.
“No need to reply right now.” With a lazy flick of his finger, he straightened the folds of his cravat. “I am willing to let you defer your choice of spoils for victory until a later time.”
“That’s taking a chance, sir.”
“As you know, I am not afraid of taking chances.” He stepped closer, and she was acutely aware of his heat, his scent—sandalwood, tobacco, and a mysterious musk that was dark and dangerously male.
Quelling the odd little quiver of her insides, Ciara managed to regain her composure. “Some would call that arrogance, Lord Hadley.”
“I prefer to think of it as confidence. I have a good deal of experience in beating the odds.”
“I am glad to hear it. We are going to need a good deal of luck to get through the next few weeks.”
“There is an old English adage, Lady Sheffield. Luck is the residue of desire.”
Chapter Seven
Santa cielo, I go away for a fortnight, and look what happens! All hell breaks loose.” Alessandra della Giamatti cut a small slice from the pear on her plate. “And here I thought I was doing you a favor, taking the little devils with me.”
Ciara tore her gaze away from the two children, who were chasing butterflies in the garden. “I swear, I did not go looking for trouble. Trouble came looking for me.”
“At least Trouble is handsome as sin,” quipped her friend.
“That is entirely beside the point,” she exclaimed, dismayed that her voice sounded so brittle. “I have absolutely no interest in the rogue, other than to make use of his connections in Society.”
Alessandra arched her elegant brows. “A more intimate connection might make the interlude more enjoyable, no?”
“No!”
Her friend nibbled at the fruit. “Have you something against the man that I don’t know about? It’s hard to find fault with his physical appearance.”
“He’s far too…” Ciara faltered.
“Too what?” asked Alessandra.
“Too different.” Too dangerous.
“You know, there is a scientific theorem…” began her friend.
“Please—not you, too!” muttered Ciara. “I had hoped that you, of all people, would understand.”
The marchesa was the most worldly of all her friends. A poised, polished Renaissance beauty—her ethereal face had inspired several ardent admirers to compare her to Botticelli’s painting Mars and Venus—Alessandra had arrived in England a year ago, seeking reconciliation with her mother’s estranged family. Their acknowledgment, however lukewarm, had elevated her into the highest circles of London Society. She attended the balls and soirées on occasion, but for the most part she had settled into a quiet life, dividing her time between scholarly studies and her daughter.
Ciara slanted a sidelong look at Isabella and Peregrine at play. A fortuitous meeting at a Royal Scientific Society chemistry lecture had revealed that they both were mothers to energetic eight-year-olds. But the bond between them had quickly grown deeper than shared advice on skinned knees and sore throats. Along with her intellect, Alessandra possessed an incisive eye for judging character and a sardonic sense of humor.
A sigh escaped from her lips.
“I do understand, bella, more than you know,” replied Alessandra with a graceful wave of her hand. Glimmers of gold and green sparkled as her ornate emerald ring caught the sunlight. “I was merely trying to tease the lines of worry from your face.”
Her smile was equally brilliant, but Ciara knew there was also a dark side to her friend. Alessandra was very private about her personal past and spoke very little about her life in Italy. As for the reasons why she had chosen to leave the country, aside from a dark hint or two, they remained shrouded in mystery. Sins and secrets. Yet another bond between them.
“Would that I could laugh them off.” Ciara forced a self-mocking grimace. “But to be honest, I’m beginning to think I have made a grave mistake. Tomorrow—tomorrow!—I must swathe myself in silk and appear in Society as if I hadn’t a care in the world.” She had not yet mentioned the wager to her friend. “I… I am not sure I can carry it off.”
“Of course you can. And you won’t be alone. I am so sorry I cannot be there for you, but Hadley will offer moral support and an arm to lean on.”
“Ha,” muttered Ciara. “More likely he’ll be off in some dark corner, trying to put his hand up some lady’s skirts.”
“I grant you, his reputation doesn’t inspire much confidence. And yet, I have heard…” Alessandra hesitated and then shrugged. “But you must judge for yourself.”
She wasn’t sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved that her friend did not finish her words. Unwilling to appear in any way curious about the earl, she didn’t pursue the subject. Now, if only the rogue and his wicked wager would stop plaguing her thoughts.
Risk and reward. Such challenges excited a gambler’s nature. However, for her they held no allure. Ciara knew herself too well—she was, by temperament, steady and serious. Disciplined and decisive.
So why was she feeling so uncertain about… everything?
“A penny for your thoughts?” murmured Alessandra.
“You would be making a bad bargain,” she replied with a rueful grimace.
Alessandra sat in silence, slowly curling a lock of her raven hair around her finger.
“Besides, I’m not quite sure I could express them in any coherent order,” she added.
“Sometimes it helps to simply talk, cara.”
Ciara refrained from pointing out that was rather like the pot calling the kettle black. Instead she asked, “If you had been at our meeting, what would you have advised me to do?”
The hesitation was barely perceptible. “To follow your heart,” said Alessandra.
“Good Lord!” The answer took her completely by surprise. “You are the most pragmatic, practical person I know! Never in a thousand years would I have guessed that you are a secret romantic!”
The reflections from the mullioned glass formed flickering patterns of sun and shadow across her friend’s face. “Romance has nothing to do with it. What I meant was, sometimes one has to rely on instinct rather than intellect. This is true even in science, si?”
“I—I suppose I see your point.” But instead of casting any light on her quandaries, Alessandra’s words of wisdom only muddled her mood. “Kate said much the same thing to me as we were leaving our weekly meeting.”
“I am not surprised. I suspect that the three of us share more than an interest in science.” Alessandra did not elaborate but returned to her earlier comment. “Mind you, I am only suggesting—”
A cry from the garden cut short the exchange.
Both mothers shot up out of their chairs as Peregrine dropped to the ground with a thump. Ciara was first through the French doors, with Alessandra a scant half step behind.
“Girls!” Peregrine blinked back tears as she smoothed the tangle of curls from his forehead. A lump the size of a goose egg was already forming smack between his eyes. “Why can’t they ever learn to throw a ball straight?”
“It slipped.” Alessandra’s daughter, Isabella, leaned in for a closer look. “Ewwww, it’s turning a really horrid shade of purple, Perry. Why didn’t you duck?”
“Because you were supposed to be aiming at the wicket. Which was near my feet, not my head, nitwit.”
Isabella’s lips quivered. “Cricket is a stupid game.”
“So is playing with your silly dolls. But I don’t cosh you over the head with them.”
Sniff. The little girl’s eyes started to water. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Of course you didn’t,” soothed her mother.
“No harm done,” said Ciara, hugging her son close. “A cold compress and some jam tarts will soon make everything right.”
“I think I should take Isabella home.” Alessandra made a wry face over the top of her daughter’s head. “Before bruised feelings turn truly ugly.”
The children were usually perfect playmates, but the journey home from Bath had been a long one, due to the rains, and even the best of friends could grow tired of each other’s company.