Many of the dowagers kept a censorious distance, of course, along with watchful mamas and their muslin-clad chicks. Men hovered around her, especially when they saw that Justin offered no objection. With an air of supreme insouciance that was surprisingly difficult to maintain, Justin had danced with her only once, handed her over to a tulip in a parrot yellow waistcoat, and disappeared into the card room.
An hour later, eyeing Sarah’s even larger court, Justin knew his strategy had been correct. Abandoning the field for a time had allowed her admirers to move in. It had also drawn attention to the fact that he did not intend to take offense if others made a show over her. Most importantly, it signaled that while he was perfectly willing to keep Sarah in style, he was not about to change his rakish ways. All evening, Justin had openly flirted with several women, including a voluptuous countess with whom he had once enjoyed a brief liaison.
Most mistresses would be irritated by his conduct, and Justin and Sarah had agreed that she would publicly show her displeasure at the first opportunity. They had only a fortnight before Lady Hogarth’s masquerade; the seeds of discord had to be sown rapidly. That would not be difficult, Justin decided, frowning as Sarah’s bubbling laughter floated across the room to him. It was hardly necessary for her to flirt quite so blatantly or to enjoy herself so thoroughly in his absence.
With a casual air, Justin sauntered toward her, stopping to speak to Lady Amanda Tremaine, a duke’s daughter whose late husband had possessed neither title nor breeding but managed to squirrel away a fortune from his India investments. The exceedingly wealthy widow collected lovers like snuffboxes. She had shown more than a passing interest in Justin in recent months, but he had been preoccupied with finding the actress vital to his plan.
Once Lady Greywood was brought to justice, perhaps a dalliance with Amanda might be just the thing, Justin thought idly. A man could do worse than while away nights with the lovely creature now fluttering her lashes at him. Strangely, the thought of enjoying the lady’s charms in private held less appeal than one might imagine.
Nevertheless, for now she was an excellent prop for the next part of this scene. He offered his arm, and she readily took it.
Approaching the circle of Sarah’s admirers, Justin saw by the sparks in her eyes that Sarah had noticed his attention to Amanda and was ready to follow his lead. So did everyone else. Almost as magic, the crowd parted for them.
“Lady Amanda, may I present Lady Manwaring?” Justin said.
“What a charming creature — a veritable bird of paradise,” Lady Amanda trilled, allowing her gaze to rove condescendingly over Sarah. “I believe you are the envy of every gentleman in attendance, Justin.”
His “mistress” arched one elegant brow. “Perhaps the viscount does not realize his good fortune, Lady Amanda,” Sarah said sweetly, fluttering her fan, “else he would not squander it on cards and other vulgar follies.”
Her barb brought an offended gasp from Amanda and titters from those around them. Well done, Justin thought as Sarah’s chin rose in triumphant defiance. Her every gesture and expression conveyed her anger at being neglected for a pack of cards and another woman.
A man of his repute would never allow his mistress to criticize his conduct, however. Justin forced a scowl to his face.
“I need not remind you, madam, that anything of mine is also mine to squander,” he said pointedly, a dangerous edge to his voice.
Around them the crowd fell silent. Some of the men bore predatory looks — especially Lord Pembroke, who was probably already calculating how long it would take him to get Justin’s spurned mistress in his bed. That unsettling thought sparked Justin’s temper in earnest, even as he told himself there was no reason for anger. This evening was but a charade; Sarah was nothing to him. Yet the image of her cavorting between the sheets with Pembroke was sufficient to cause his free hand to ball into a fist at his side.
Lady Amanda took one look at Justin’s steely features and abruptly released his other arm. “Perhaps we will talk later, Justin,” she purred. “At the moment it appears you must endeavor to get back in Lady Manwaring’s good graces.”
“Such wisdom,” Sarah murmured, turning with a blinding smile to the nearest member of her court. The poor idiot’s confusion was quickly replaced with a worshipful expression as he realized his good fortune. It quickly vanished, however, when Sarah returned her attention to Justin and gifted him with a glittering look filled with anger — and passion.
Her skill surprised him. She conveyed multiple messages with the slightest narrowing of her eyes, the merest tension in her lips, which parted slightly. Not unfamiliar with such arts, Justin did not understand why, when he met her simmering gaze, his pulse began to accelerate.
She was acting, of course. The fire in her eyes was counterfeit. The beckoning currents there were but tools of her trade.
That knowledge did nothing to diminish their effect, however. As their gazes held, Justin realized in shock that something nameless between them had supplanted pretense. It set off a restless, answering fire within him. And he knew that whatever it was must not gain even the hope of rooting in the barren earth of his soul.
With one stride, he closed the distance between them and caught her wrist.
“Do not think to play games with me, madam,” he growled. “You will lose.”
Her eyes widened in surprise, but she did not look away. Instead, her lips curved upward in a half-smile that might have meant any number of things.
All the more confounding then, to discover to his chagrin that the heat stirring inside him grew even warmer.
Justin scowled. Whatever the source of her strange power, it would bend to his will. Had he not created her? She could gain no hold on him that he did not allow.
He tightened his grip on her arm, pulling her with him as his long strides put distance between them and the glittering firmament in which she had reigned all evening. Let Pembroke and others of his ilk salivate: this woman was his. His script said so.
The music and laughter in the room faded from Justin’s awareness. He knew only the urgent need to get her away from the crowded ballroom, the very public stage upon which their drama was playing out. He yanked her through the nearest door, and found himself outside.
Justin looked around. They were alone, twinkling lanterns and shrubbery their only audience. The strange force that had held him in its thrall began to dissipate, leaving behind a disconcerting dissonance, like the remnants of a too-heady potion that leaves its victim with a dry mouth and pounding head.
It was some time before Sarah’s stricken expression finally intruded on his senses. She was trying, with some effort, to catch her breath, he realized. Her eyes held confusion.
How long had he been holding her arm like a vise? Glaring red marks on her skin provided the answer.
Instantly, Justin took a step backward, freeing her.
“Forgive me,” he rasped.
She eyed him uncertainly.
“I did not intend to hurt you,” he added. That sounded hollow, even to his ears. What had he done to her?
“I have no quarrel with your performance, my lord,” she said in a low voice, rubbing her wrist. “Indeed, your improvisation was all to the good. I imagine that everyone now understands just how...tempestuous is our liaison. You have set the stage splendidly for the latter part of our drama.”
Good God. He had behaved like a ruffian, dragging her from the ballroom, mauling her arm — and now she was commending his performance. Justin shook his head. “I believe I may have forgotten myself.”
“Undoubtedly the fault was mine.” She appeared to consider the matter. “I have not played such a role before. Perhaps I was too, er, provoking.”
“Damnation, woman,” he growled, “you are supposed to be provoking.”
“Then you find no fault with my acting?” She pursed her lips thoughtfully, evidently much interested in his response.
Justin studied that inviting mouth, plumped into a question mar
k that ought to be answered with a kiss. “None at all,” he replied.
Her brow furrowed as she studied his face.
“In that case,” she said, gathering her skirts, “I believe you ought to escort me inside for the next waltz. Everyone will wish to know the outcome of our quarrel, and it will suit your purpose to have them think that we have made it up. Do you not agree?”
Justin extended his arm with all of the charity of a man on the way to the gallows. “Perfectly,” he muttered.
She took it and flashed him a smile.
The salmon-colored fabric rustled as she moved, and Justin could not stop himself from imagining it making the same sound when she removed it later tonight.
How, he wondered, would he endure the frustration of having Sarah as his mistress without claiming any of the rewards?
***
“You must invite me inside.”
His terse whisper brought Sarah to a halt midstride, her satin slipper hovering inches above the stone steps.
“Yes, of course,” she acknowledged with what she hoped was a confident smile. They must appear to be lovers not only to the servants but also any passersby who might recognize the viscount and his new mistress.
As the expressionless butler admitted them, Sarah wondered how any evening could be so endless. She had flirted with more gentlemen tonight than in her entire life, endured their transparent flattery, and stood forever in a scandalously cut gown trying to protect her modesty behind a fan that was woefully inadequate for that purpose.
Now the man who had brought this about was accompanying her into the privacy of her temporary home, where she longed only to remove her borrowed finery, stretch out on the plump featherbed, and forget she had spent all evening pretending to be his fancy piece.
Sarah stood motionless in the rather floridly decorated parlor — the hand-painted Chinese wallpaper was a startling shade of red — while the butler poured Lord Linton a brandy and discreetly pulled the door closed as he left the room. He would not return, Sarah knew, the viscount having given him a pointed look that communicated everything that needed to be said.
Her energy was depleted. She could pretend no longer. Nor could she seem to move. Rigid as a statue, Sarah simply could not summon the will to move.
Tossing off the brandy in one impatient gulp, Lord Linton immediately refilled the glass and sat in the enormous leather chair obviously intended for the comfort of the man who was paying the bills. He motioned to her.
“You need not act as though you are waiting for the executioner,” he growled. “Please sit somewhere. I have no intention of doing any harm to your person, much as you have sorely tempted me to this evening.”
Sarah blinked. “What have I done to earn your displeasure? Were you unhappy with my performance?”
Stormy grey eyes met hers. “Your performance was adequate. I have no complaint. A bit overbroad, perhaps.”
“Overbroad? I do not understand.”
He arched a brow. “Come, now. Pembroke will command all ears for a week with the story of how closely you allowed him to hold you during the waltz, how sweetly you pulled on his sleeve while assuring him our quarrel was insignificant, how willingly you allowed him to view the charming display provided by the front of your gown.”
“My gown?” Defiant, Sarah put her hands on her hips. “If it is not to your liking, you have only yourself to blame, for you had it made for me, along with every stitch of clothing I now possess.”
“I did not say it was not to my liking.”
Sarah stared at him, her head beginning to pound. “I do not understand. You wished me to attract attention as your mistress, and I have. What have I done to displease you?”
“Everything. Nothing.” He drained his glass a second time.
Bewildered, Sarah walked over to the brandy decanter and poured a small amount of liquid for herself. She took a sip, stifled the urge to spit it out, then perched stiffly on the divan near his chair.
Lord Linton did not say a word, but stared into his glass as if studying some strange substance he had never seen.
They sat for a time in strained silence.
When finally he met her gaze, there was a pained look in his eyes. “You have done nothing wrong,” he conceded. “But I have discovered that my part is rather challenging.”
“Rehearsals are not like a performance,” she said, carefully sipping the amber liquid. “There are always surprises.”
Tonight had certainly illustrated that point, Sarah thought. The smile he had bestowed on Lady Amanda had ripped through her like a knife. Being called a “charming creature” by that brazen woman had set her teeth on edge. But when he had the audacity to claim that Sarah was but one of his assets to be squandered as he wished, anger had seized her. Suddenly, she had wanted to show him that she was more than a possession, that she was a woman worthy of desiring. And so she had trained her gaze on him and thought of how she would feel if he truly desired her. And if she also desired him. That is what she let him see.
And in that moment, as their gazes held, the desire was real, she realized. Seemed real, she mentally corrected.
But he had grabbed her wrist, pulled her with him into the garden like a brutish, possessive lover. For a moment, she lost the thread of her performance. Was she his mistress, or the actress playing her?
“Yes,” he was saying, “a performance is vastly different.”
Silence again settled over the room. The viscount’s forbidding countenance did not encourage speech, and for some time Sarah sipped her brandy and perched awkwardly on the edge of the divan to avoid wrinkling her gown. It was a lovely taffeta, sumptuous and colorful, but she’d felt uncomfortable in it all night. Though she had tried to think of it as merely a costume, she was never quite able to forget the fact that it was so very revealing.
Lord Linton, on the other hand, was attired in all that was proper, the very portrait of the gentleman in a gold brocade waistcoat, silk breeches and a black tailcoat — an understated counterpoint to her florid salmon gown. He had not succumbed to the excessively elaborate style of cravat that was the preference of many of the gentlemen Sarah had seen at Lady Devon’s, but rather wore a simply tied silk neckcloth that made him look elegant indeed.
Alarmed at the direction of her thoughts, Sarah rose and poured herself more of the brandy — the first glass having made the task of enduring his brooding company slightly less tedious.
“How long are we obliged to sit here?” she ventured at last.
He looked startled, as if he had forgotten she was in the room. “What?”
“I simply wondered how long is it necessary to sit here,” she explained, blushing. “How long must you remain in the house so that people think...what you wish them to think?”
He studied her over the rim of his glass but did not reply.
“Lord Linton?” she prompted.
“I am contemplating the matter.”
Sarah sighed. “I do not see what is so difficult about my question.”
“On the contrary. It requires extensive contemplation to imagine how long I should wish to enjoy your charms, were we spending our time in the manner of others in our situation.”
Sarah flushed in embarrassment.
“I think,” he continued, holding his glass aloft and studying the droplets as they ran down the inside, “that at the moment there is simply no adequate way of answering the question.”
“Then what shall we do?” she asked glumly.
He opened a drawer in the table next to his chair and pulled out a deck of cards. “Piquet. Four hands and I will take my leave.”
“I am afraid I never learned to play.”
Lord Linton frowned, apparently not anticipating this deficiency in her education. He shuffled the deck absently, the cards moving deftly over his palm and through his fingers.
“I could teach you,” he said, though his tone held little enthusiasm.
“Truly, I have no wish to learn,” she rep
lied. “But you may teach me some of your card tricks.”
Amusement flared in his eyes. “Whatever should you do with such knowledge?”
“I do not know, but it is much more interesting than trying to build a quart or a quint.”
His gaze narrowed. “I thought you did not play piquet.”
“I do not, but I have watched many dull games. I should vastly enjoy learning tricks instead. Will you teach me?”
Before the words were scarcely out of her mouth, he fanned the cards and placed them face up on the table between them. Sarah saw in amazement that despite the extensive shuffling they had endured, the cards were arranged in suits and perfectly ordered, from ace down to two.
At least they seemed to be, until Sarah studied them more closely. “One card appears to be missing,” she said. “The two of clubs.”
Leaning forward, he regarded the display. “So it is.”
With a fluid motion, he reached over and plucked something from behind her ear. Sarah did not need to see the card to know that it was the club two.
“How did you manage that?” she asked, frowning. “I have been watching your hands all this time. Nothing was hidden in them as far as I could see.”
In answer, he gathered up the cards, divided them into three piles and effortlessly shuffled them, again with blinding speed. When he was done, he fanned them out.
The cards were still in perfect descending order, from ace to two, spades to clubs. The two of clubs was once again missing.
“It is a false deck,” she declared. “You have done something to the cards.”
Shaking his head, he smiled. “It is what I have not done.” Pure glee danced in his eyes, transformed the flat grey of boredom into lively sparks of amusement. He reached over and again plucked the club two from behind her ear.
Sarah stared at him in amazement. “You must teach me, my lord.”
“Very well.” Then he gave an exaggerated flourish of his hands that would put any circus performer to shame. “We will begin,” he announced, “with the Hindu shuffle.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Holding her head high like the respectable woman she was inside, all the while playing the part of a kept woman, required all of Sarah’s acting skills. Sometimes, like tonight, she retreated for a time to shore up her courage. Here in the ladies’ withdrawing room, she gained a moment of peace. But it was a fleeting calm, for staring into the cheval glass forced her to confront her own disturbing reflection.
A Passionate Performance Page 17