My Lady Rival

by Ashley March

  Willa’s breath caught; her heart stopped beating and hung suspended midpulse in her chest.

  He raised his hand to her cheek, stroked his thumb over her skin, entirely He raised his hand to her cheek, stroked his thumb over her skin, entirely ignoring her request for him not to touch her. Willa stared into his eyes—caught like a butterfly, feeling fragile, knowing to remain was dangerous, yet unable to escape. “You’re beautiful, with your golden hair and ocean eyes and slender grace. A man would be proud to have you on his arm, as the hostess at his table.” His hand trailed upward, his thumb massaging lightly against her temple.

  “You’re intelligent—knowledgeable and witty enough to carry on an amusing conversation. You know the things a man likes to hear and how to engage him on the appropriate subjects. A lways careful to let him carry the conversation lest he realize that your mind is quicker than his and that you’re already bored with the topic you introduced two minutes ago.”

  Willa’s legs trembled as he lowered his hand but leaned forward—why wouldn’t her feet move?—and his mouth brushed against her ear as he spoke. “A nd you’re charming, with your mesmerizing smiles and your open laughter. You make a man feel good about himself when you’re near, as if he’s the most important person in the room because you’ve deigned to spend time with him rather than with anyone else.”

  A bruptly he stepped back, his mouth unsmiling, his gaze flat. “That is the Willa Stratton you present to the world. That is the Willa Stratton that everyone adores.

  But that woman is a deception, isn’t she?” He backed away farther, as if he couldn’t stand to be near her. “If you want to know what I think, Miss Stratton—” Willa lifted her chin. His cravat wavered before her eyes. She raised her gaze to his. “I don’t.”

  “I think you’ve used that Willa as your identity for so long that you can’t even remember who the other one is. A nd there must be more to you, somehow, but I can’t see it.” He paused, then softly added, “A pity, that.” She swallowed and stared at him for a long moment, unable to speak. She could feel the heat on her cheeks, the errant rhythm of her heartbeat. Words warred within her, all fighting at once to get out—to refute his claims, to recount all of his false attributes as deftly as he had hers.

  He turned. Finally, as he neared the antechamber and the door leading to the corridor outside, Willa called out, “Mr. Laurie!”

  He continued without looking back. Dismissing her quite easily. A s she spun toward her bedchamber, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror on the wall. A lex had been mistaken, after all, for the woman staring back her did not appear beautiful, charming, or intelligent.

  A ll she appeared was lost.

  Chapter 10

  Later that week, Willa heard a dog’s bark, the low voice of a man given in response. Taking a deep breath, she straightened from searching for her mother’s pendant among the rosebushes and carefully peered around the corner of Holcombe House.

  She sighed. It was only a footman, carrying the new cocker spaniel puppy as they returned from their nightly outing to the park. The puppy had just recently made its appearance. Previously there had been no cocker spaniel puppy, and then two nights ago she’d heard it yipping for the first time. It was an adorable, wriggly thing, its ears hanging over the footman’s sleeve. A s if it sensed her presence, the puppy cocked its head toward her and barked again.

  Willa ducked back into the shadows, slamming her body against the wall. The stuccoed exterior was rough beneath her palms, even through her black gloves.

  When a minute passed and no puppy or footman intent on capture approached her location, she sighed again, then slid down the wall to sit. Drawing her knees up, she reached to pluck a blade of grass. The loss of her mother’s pendant—the only keepsake she wore on her person at all times—seemed appropriate as only the latest sign that she was utterly inept as a spy. No matter that her instincts said that this was for the best; stealth and patience were plainly not her strengths.

  This was why she’d been born to a man who became a businessman and not the criminal sort; the night held nothing but darkness and waiting, and she wasn’t particularly fond of either. During the day at least she could keep an eye on A lex openly, as she pretended to be part of the passersby in Hyde Park, or watched him from the shops across the street as he accompanied his sisters and mother shopping. He continued to make regular calls upon Lady Marianna, which, after hearing from Uxbridge how Woolstone favored his sister, was a concern in and of itself. But so far he’d made no move to hold any secret meetings. She could only hope that if he did receive word to meet with Woolstone, her attention to his every move would give her the advantage of this knowledge.

  Would it be tonight? Perhaps. That possibility was the only reason she stayed when she’d much rather be ensconced in her suite at Mivart’s, wrapped in her robes and sipping chocolate as she read. Just one night away from the social whirl and Uxbridge and the fear that A lex Laurie would steal her freedom away: it didn’t seem too much to ask. Of course, the black ensemble of boys’ trousers, shirt, and coat which Sarah had found did make her feel rather dashing. She blended in with the shadows well, moved freely without the restriction of a corset and voluminous skirts.

  skirts.

  She was Willa Stratton, mistress of intrigue.

  Willa Stratton, A merican heiress by day and watcher of the night by . . . night.

  Perhaps she was supposed to have been born to someone of the criminal sort. A thief, perhaps. Her parents would have trained her how to sneak into houses, how to pick locks and break windows without making a sound.

  She’d always been curious about how to do that, anyway.

  Rising to her feet, she assumed an offensive position, as if she might be attacked on all sides: arms raised to protect her face, right foot planted forward with knee bent. She turned her head from left to right, right to left. No one would be able to sneak up on her. She was invisible. She was invincible. She was . . .

  Willa sighed again and leaned back against the wall.

  . . . bored beyond reason and, even worse, irritated by her own company.

  It was better to focus on why she was here, better to dwell on her future: freedom from an arranged marriage, personal wealth to do as she wished, wherever she wished. A lex had called her beautiful, intelligent, and charming the other night, condemning her for such qualities with all the censure of a man certain of his victory. But she would defeat him, and the next time he accused her of having no substance, she would be prepared. She would laugh instead of hurt, accept his words for what they truly were: the scorn of a man who still nursed his wounded pride.

  A nd she would make him add to her catalogue of traits. She would build his vocabulary of her one word at a time. Tonight she would begin with this one: resilient. Let him mock her as he wished; she would not be discouraged.

  Willa tensed as she heard voices. There, they came again. Oh, but only above her.

  Glancing up, she saw two women’s silhouettes framed by the window. A maid and his mother? Two sisters?

  She scanned the exterior of her wall. Yes, her wall—she’d become very possessive of it these last few days. Quite a few of the windows above were lit brightly from within, but on the lowest floor, which she stood just outside of now, only two windows glowed with a friendly welcome.

  “I suppose I should be grateful you haven’t decided to burglarize the house yet.” Willa whirled. A man’s silhouette stood a few feet away, leaning negligently against the wall. She couldn’t see his eyes or mouth, but only the breadth of his shoulders and the leanness of his hips stroked in shadows.

  Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t fancy being snuck up on. She certainly didn’t appreciate being snuck up on and then observed in secret by A lex Laurie. It had set her heart to racing, her pulse to thrumming, and she refused to give him control over her body’s impulses. She breathed deeply, willing to the surface the apathy which she’d much prefer to feel when around him.

>   He lifted his arm in an expansive gesture toward the windows. “Unless, of course, thievery was what you were planning to do tonight? How fortuitous, then, that the footman saw you sneaking about first.”

  that the footman saw you sneaking about first.”

  Willa sniffed and folded her arms. “I had no intentions of burglarizing your house.” A lthough she had, admittedly, considered breaking inside and searching for any information he had on the Madonna dye. But that was neither here nor there. “A nd I was not sneaking about.” She paused. “I was waiting. Patiently.” The addition of the word “patiently” was the result of nothing less than a moment of brilliance. It implied a certain amount of virtuousness to the action of waiting.

  Waiting. Stalking. They were nearly the same.

  He tilted his head and was silent, as if he could somehow see more of her in the darkness than she could see of him. Idly, Willa wondered whether he had any cause to call for a constable. She wouldn’t put it past him; she certainly would have called for a constable if he’d been found stalking around her house—if for no other reason than so she could be assured he was unable to meet with Woolstone and get the dye.

  He turned around and began walking toward the front of the house. “You should come inside.” It was almost a friendly sort of invitation.

  “Why?”

  “I have something to show you.”

  Willa’s stomach lurched. There could be only one reason he treated her so courteously, as if he had no cares at all where she was concerned. “You have it, don’t you?”

  He paused but didn’t look back. “I do. Follow me.”

  She went—not because she had any desire to obey him, not because she wanted to see the physical evidence that he had the information about the dye. No, she went simply because she could think of nothing else to do. Her thoughts spun as she followed him around the corner, her feet dragging with each step. How could he have the dye? Of course, she hadn’t been able to keep up with him every minute of every day, but he’d had obligations to meet, too.

  He waited for her on the steps before the front door, the light from the lamps nearby casting his features in grooves and hollows. His expression would have been inscrutable if not for the tiniest curl of his lips—more of an impression of a smile than an actual curve.

  She fisted her hands at her sides as she climbed the steps to stand in front of him. “You don’t have it.”

  He laughed, a low sound that pulled at her anger and hopelessness. “I’ve wondered for a long time how your face would appear in this moment, when you’ve finally realized that you are the one defeated, Miss Stratton.” He rocked back on his heels. Moments passed, and yet he said not another word. She watched that impression of a smile slowly transform into a satisfied grin, and she forced an answering smile to her lips. No defeat here, you bloody bas—

  “A h, yes.” His lashes lowered, then rose again. “How I do treasure this moment.”

  “A re we going inside or not?” While they remained on the steps, Willa’s good sense returned and swept away the helplessness. He was delaying, but for what sense returned and swept away the helplessness. He was delaying, but for what reason? Only to torment her? Perhaps as a distraction?

  “Of course. It’s in the desk in my study. If you’ll follow me.” A ny other man would have offered her his arm, but not A lex. He nodded to the footman at the open door—the same one, Willa saw, who had taken the puppy out and must have seen her; she lifted her chin—and strolled on.

  When they reached the room she assumed to be his study, he walked inside instead of waiting for her to pass before him.

  “I see that even a gentleman’s clothes and a gentleman’s house does not the gentleman make,” she murmured as she followed. She frowned, looking toward the desk, then toward the hearth on the opposite side of the room.

  The sound of the door closing came behind her, and she turned. A lex stood against the door. He inclined his head toward the desk. “Top drawer. Right side.” She hesitated. He seemed so . . . unconcerned. If she were the one in possession of the dye’s secrets, she would have acted with much more caution.

  Why, the fire poker could easily incapacitate him—

  “I have no fear that you’ll take anything, Miss Stratton. I would catch you before you could escape through the windows, and you only wish to see it, don’t you, to prove to yourself that I have finally won?”

  She startled at the similar train of his thoughts. But she didn’t reply. Truly, if he had indeed gained the dye information, then the only good thing about his victory was that she would never have reason to see him again. Pivoting sharply, she marched toward the desk.

  “I do wonder, Miss Stratton . . .” His voice trailed away.

  Willa ignored him and rounded the desk.

  “What did you hope to accomplish by spying outside of Holcombe House?

  Surely you couldn’t have believed you would win the dye that way.” She shrugged as she rounded the desk’s corner. “Perhaps.” She would have followed him and somehow taken the dye for herself. Possibly even have stolen inside Holcombe House to retrieve it if necessary. Her conscience could have been subdued.

  “Yet obviously your plan didn’t work.”

  Willa tugged at the drawer.

  Locked.

  She opened her mouth to tell him exactly what she thought of his little game, but when she glanced up she found his hand stretched toward her, a key lying across his palm. A gain, soundlessly, he’d crept toward her without her realization.

  A s she reached out to snatch the key away, his fingers closed, trapping hers inside his fist.

  Damn him—her breath shook. He stood so close she could feel the heat of his body. She wanted to back away but forced her legs to lock and her feet to remain in place. His every piece of clothing was intact, but he might have been wearing nothing at all for the images that flashed across her vision. Daydreams from the past. Merely another inconvenience she must dismiss to get what she wanted.

  past. Merely another inconvenience she must dismiss to get what she wanted.

  “Mr. Laurie,” she said, yanking her fingers from his grip. “I refuse to play along.

  Either unlock the drawer and show me that you have the dye papers, or do not and I will be glad to leave. Might I remind you, however, that you were the one to invite me inside?”

  He didn’t say anything for several moments, and finally Willa lifted her gaze to meet his. She sucked in a sharp breath, the movement causing a physical ache at the back of her throat.

  “You lied,” he said.

  Willa swallowed at the look in his eyes—as if he’d suddenly seen through that outer shell of charm, intelligence, and beauty to everything she kept hidden beneath. “Very well.” She nodded. “I’m leaving, then.”

  She turned, but he caught her wrist.

  “You lied about that kiss in Italy, didn’t you, Miss Stratton?” His fingers burned into her flesh despite the long sleeve of her shirt and her gloves. Willa forced another sigh. “I already admitted that I did it deliberately to distract—”

  “Have you ever kissed a potential investor?”

  “Of course not!” A s soon as the words escaped, she knew she’d made a mistake.

  She should have confessed that every strategy included giving away a night in her bed. That would make him no different from all the others. He wasn’t any different from any other man.

  “You have other rivals, I believe. We’re not the only dye makers. What about that company in A merica? Have you ever kissed another rival to distract him from winning an investor you wanted?”

  But somehow the words she knew she should speak became tangled in her throat. She frowned and tugged at her wrist, but he wouldn’t let go. She reached with her other hand for his, the one that held the key. “I—”

  “I can’t believe I never saw it before.” Suddenly he released her and laughed.

  She willed the heated flush on her face to disappear, but it only wors
ened, scouring her cheeks and throat and ears. “I don’t know what you think you’ve seen, and I don’t particularly care. Now give me the damned key, or I’ll—”

  “Or you’ll what?” he jeered softly. “Find another excuse to kiss me? For that’s what it was, wasn’t it? You didn’t kiss me to distract me. You didn’t even know I would be distracted. You kissed me because you wanted to kiss me. Is that not the truth, Willa?”

  She stilled. Each of her senses was on alert, though it was pointless now.

  Somehow, her body had already betrayed her. The flush hadn’t come until afterward. He’d seen it in her eyes, perhaps, or in the way her pulse hammered at her throat—she could feel that now, as if being so close to him caused her cells, sinews, bones, muscles, and even her blood to leap with joy. Perhaps if she loved him, she could have understood it, but she didn’t even know him very well. A ll she felt was lust—this mad longing to surrender her flesh to his and let him do as he wished with it . . . and, even more, the desire for him to surrender his body to he wished with it . . . and, even more, the desire for him to surrender his body to her, for her to do whatever she wished with his.

  But, oh, how cocky and arrogant he was, to stand there with that smug grin on his face, his eyes dark and knowing, to act superior to her now when they had both been born in the East End of London, when the fact was that he, too, had enjoyed their kiss.

  This was exactly what she had feared: with his knowledge of her desire, no longer were they equal rivals. Every time he looked at her now, he wouldn’t see her strength or determination. Her features would compose an essay on her weaknesses; he would notice how her gaze lingered on the lines at the corners of his eyes, on the creases around his mouth, on the sharp planes and hollows of his stubbled cheek; he would find ways to explain the trebled pulse at her throat when he was near, or the press of her lips together, perhaps wondering if she did it to ease the ache of that first kiss’s memory. He would pause at the slight flutter of her eyelashes when their gazes met, take note of the stillness of her breath when he came too close.