But there were less friendly faces, too: Hecuba Montaigne White, once the toast of London and known as “Hundreds Hecuba” for her myriad liaisons, newly in the throes of a “miraculous religious conversion” and looking for others to follow her example; Countess Juliette Kettle, her onetime schoolmate; George Ravenscroft, whom she’d once sent packing for being fresh; and Lord Bylespot, who had given her a far deeper understanding of “fresh” and to whom she’d given an even greater understanding of “no.”
Those were the people she’d always been wary of alienating, those who with a word could annihilate a woman’s social status and condemn her to life on the other side of the line separating Society from the rest of the civilized world. They roosted like carrion eaters about the edges of the ballroom, waiting for some social misstep or careless word to fall from unsuspecting lips that they might swoop in and pick the transgressor’s bones clean.
Well, tonight they would have a feast. If all went according to plan, by midnight she would be well on her way to being a Fallen Woman. The news should reach Comte St. Lyon within a week and while she had understood and accepted the consequences of this evening on her own behalf, she could not help imagining her sisters’ anguish and shock when they heard of this night’s events.
Yet, what other choice was there?
Once more she glanced toward Juliette Kettle, her gaze roving the crowd, scavenging for some misdemeanor to snack on. Bon appétit, Juliette, she thought and, taking a deep breath, stepped through the door into the ballroom, her head high, a coquettish smile on her lips.
Within minutes she was surrounded by admirers, both men she knew and others tugging at the sleeves of their companions to beg for an introduction. She enjoined the game as the expert she knew herself to be, smiling prettily, casting sidelong glances like lures amongst the stream of men and reeling them in with a toss of her head, a winsome trill of laughter, a playful tap of her folded fan. Within a very short time the ivory ribs of that same fan were scribbled over with the names of men to whom she had promised a dance.
She flirted with an abandon she had never before employed, ignoring female friends, knowing that tomorrow they would thank their stars she had passed them by. Already little whispers, like an ill wind amongst dead leaves, rustled beneath the current of conversation and music.
As the rustle of gossip grew, so did her tension. When would he come? Where was he? And finally, would anyone believe she found him attractive?
Oh, she had no doubt that if a face alone could tempt a woman to her downfall, Dand’s would more than suffice. But she was no ordinary woman; she was the construction known as Charlotte Nash. That creature was known not only for her fast conversation and daring escapades, but also for her unerring sense of style and her discrimination in regard to the men with whom she danced or allowed to take her in to dine. No one would credit she was attracted to a man in an ill-fitting or dodgy waistcoat or, heaven forbid it, one sporting a beard.
“I believe this is my dance, Miss Nash?” A young lieutenant who had been introduced to her at an art exhibition last week appeared at her side.
She glanced down at her fan. Ah, yes. Albright, Matthew. “So, it is!”
Gaily, she took his arm and let him lead her into the line of dancers. He handled her gingerly, reverently, his gloved hand barely touching hers. “You are charming. Splendid!”
“Thank you,” she answered automatically. “You are too kind.”
Charming. His admiration, so candid and clean, produced an unanticipated frisson of distress. After this evening, would ever another man find her simply “charming”? Or would the appellations hitherto attached to her name be ones no man would tolerate being associated with his daughter or sister, let alone his wife?
“No. I am not kind. I speak the truth. I have never known anyone like you. You are so exciting, so fascinating, so—”
“Provoking,” a male voice purred from behind her. “You little baggage.”
She spun around. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood before her in exquisitely tailored evening dress: dark blue coat, snowy white waistcoat, and an equally snowy white cravat arranged in the most wonderful folds and pinned by a single topaz. Brilliant amber-colored eyes glittered from a sun-dark visage. Glossy brown hair lay in carefully clipped precision about his neck. A hard, square jaw scraped as smooth as marble exposed a pale crescent-shaped scar on one lean cheek. His wide, well-shaped mouth wore a mocking smile.
Dand? Dand! And looking amazingly like a gentleman. Almost like an aristocrat, except for the sun-darkened skin and that wicked scar.
Relief washed through her.
“You promised me this dance,” he said to her.
“I say, sir, you are mistaken.” Albright, unhappy at this turn of affairs, stepped forward and pointed at the fan in Charlotte’s hand. “You need only look to see that my name is writ upon her fan. Not yours.”
“Is it?” Dand asked, his gaze moving reluctantly from Charlotte to the young lieutenant. With a smile at Albright that just missed being friendly, he casually wrested the fan from Charlotte’s clasp and just as casually crumpled it into a ball. He dropped the mangled mess to the floor.
“Alas, Miss Nash has lost her fan. But I am certain she will now recall that I, and not you, have claim of this dance. And the next.” His gaze returned to Charlotte. “And the next. And the one after that. You do remember, don’t you, Lottie?”
The pet name fell on her ears like a caress, warm and intimate. Her heart pattered in her chest. One side of his mouth climbed in a rakish smile that stated he knew the effect he’d had on her heartbeat. It was an act, she reminded herself. This is what he did. This is who he was. This is how he survived. By acting a role. As did she.
She had never given him proper credit for being such a good actor. She must remember to commend him.
“She wouldn’t dance so many times with one partner!” declared Albright, ruddy faced. “You are insulting a lady, sir. And as a gentleman, I demand satisfaction.”
Dand raised his brow at Albright, his expression lazily interested. A tomcat, Charlotte thought breathlessly, playing with a mouse.
“Before you do something your father will regret—assuming, that is, that your father holds you in affection—why don’t we ask the lady if she feels insulted?” He cocked a dark brow at her. “Well, Miss Nash?”
There would be no going back from her answer. She hesitated, on the cusp of irrevocably altering her state in society.
“Lottie?” Dand’s voice was gentle, as though he understood exactly what she sacrificed here. It gave her strength. She smiled apologetically at Albright.
“I fear I had forgotten that this gentlemen has claim of this dance. And those following it.”
The lieutenant stared at her, a dark stain mounting his downy cheeks, insulted and aggrieved. He had set her on a pedestal and now she had plummeted from it, and he was angry at her for betraying his image of her. She understood.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I see,” he said stiffly. He bowed toward Dand. “I wish you joy of her.”
His choice of words caused the blood to drain from Charlotte’s face. Albright turned, but Dand’s hand shot out, nabbing his arm and spinning him back around.
“I don’t think I heard you properly, son,” Dand said, his voice light but his eyes narrowed dangerously. “For your sake, I hope not.”
The young officer scowled, self-preservation warring with pride. Impulsively, Charlotte laid her hand on Dand’s arm. This was ridiculous. How could he harm this young man for accepting as truth what they had purposely led him to believe? She didn’t want the boy hurt. She had enough to trouble her conscience. “Sir…”
He ignored her. “I repeat, what did you say?”
Self-preservation won. The boy’s eyes fell away. “I wish you joy of the evening,” he muttered and swung around again, stomping away through the crush of dancers. Charlotte watched him go, imagining the interested questions that would
greet him and his condemning replies.
“I’m sorry.”
She looked back. Dand was regarding her gravely.
“Not on my account, I hope,” she said lightly. “We have achieved what we set out to achieve. My reputation is in shreds.”
“Not yet.” With unexpected gentleness, he secured her hand and with a wry, challenging tilt of his head, pulled her into his arms and began to dance.
He was unexpectedly adept, a natural grace to his movements as he guided her down the long line of dancers that made up the country set. He didn’t speak, though when the steps of the lively dance brought them together, he watched her face with an intentness that any spectator could not fail to note. Like a real lover, hungry and yearning…
Of course, he was just doing what his role demanded, but one could almost imagine that honest emotion begat that torrid gaze…She gave herself a little mental shake. She didn’t know what was wrong with her, entertaining such maggoty notions. It must be all the people, the kaleidoscope of colors, the over-loud music, the scent of heavy perfume rising thick as the mist on the Thames from heated shoulders and flushed throats and glistening bosoms. ’Twas small wonder she felt light-headed.
“You look all at sixes and sevens, my dear,” Dand said as he led her down the line.
“With some reason,” she answered, finding the reason a second later. “You ruined my fan. A very nice fan, too.”
“I’ll buy you another,” he answered, catching hold of her hands and swinging her lightly to the outside of the figure. “Besides, you must allow it provided a nice spectacle for our audience. Very manly of me, laying territorial claims and all that.”
“By breaking a perfectly good fan?” she asked doubtfully, as he set his hand lightly on her waist.
He laughed, bringing several heads swinging about. “Indeed, yes. The boy appreciated at once that if I risked breaking your fan I must be very sure of your affection. But I don’t expect you to understand. Women always miss the subtlety of such byplay.”
His nonsense returned her humor to her. “You are right,” she answered. “Far too subtle. I would have better understood your territorial claim had you thrown me over your shoulder and carried me from the room.”
He didn’t answer. Possessively, he pulled her closer than was proper, reminding her forcibly of how large he was, how strong. His hooded lids slipped over his eyes and his mouth curved in a slow enigmatic smile that made her feel flushed and unnerved. Drat him for being so adept at this role. For making her feel jeune fille and skittish and uncertain when she was not any of these things.
The dance ended, but he held on to her hand, drawing startled, offended looks from those nearby. And when the orchestra began another tune, he did not wait or ask permission, but pulled her back into his arms. This time the orchestra played a cotillion, an intricate French import that society still considered a little fast. Within minutes she realized that he was more than an adept dancer, he was superb.
“Where did you learn to dance?” she asked. “I cannot imagine there were many opportunities at the abbey.”
“Not at all. Brother Fidelis is marvelously light on his feet.”
Charlotte laughed at the image of the rotund monk she’d met at St. Bride’s executing a minuet. Dand’s gaze fell hungrily on her mouth. Very nice touch. He looked exactly like a lover would. “No, tell me truly.”
“One picks up things here and there,” he replied, wresting his gaze from her mouth. In a few seconds his expression became shuttered, his thoughts clearly traveling elsewhere as the steps necessitated they take other partners for a short while.
“What is wrong?” she asked, when the dance returned them to their original set.
“Nothing,” he said. “It is just—”
He abruptly stopped dancing, clasping her firmly around the wrist and pulling her out of the line. Wordlessly, he headed for the pair of French doors standing open at the end of the ballroom. Other dancers hastened out of their way, their heads swinging to follow their departure.
Dand led her through the open doors onto the bright, moonlit flagstones beyond. Two older gentlemen stood in intermittent conversation at the far end of the small walled garden, their voices drifting toward them in the clear night air. They were discussing the latest embargos.
“What are you doing?” she asked in a low voice as he stopped, his hand still warm and heavy against the small of her back.
“You suggested it yourself.” He sounded a bit tested, as though he was trying to convince himself of something.
“Pray, illuminate me,” she said. “What are you talking about?”
“Why spend the night dancing as I attempt to scowl down every one of your poor swains when we could far more easily and effectively secure the desired result?”
“I don’t understand.” She tilted her head back, searching his shadowed face for some explanation. For a few intense seconds, he stared down at her, but then he suddenly dropped back a step. His hand fell away.
“God.” He raked his hair back, ruining his carefully groomed locks and turning himself once more into the disheveled, slightly disreputable blackguard she knew so well. “I can’t believe anyone could think you could succeed in this. This is madness.”
His irritation struck a spark. “It may be madness, but madness is, I believe, our only option,” she retorted. “Now did you drag me out here to bolster my confidence or do you have something more to say?”
He regarded her with a tightening jaw. “No.”
“Then what are we doing out here? It is not dark, you know. People can see us quite clearly. And several are looking.”
“That is precisely why we are out here,” he said grimly. “That and this.”
And without warning he caught her up in his arms, crushing her ruthlessly to him, his mouth descending on hers in a bruising kiss.
No one had ever kissed her like this before. He owned not a whit of the finesse or refined skills with which most of her more sophisticated suitors kissed her. He was a brute. No cajoling caress, no sweet entreating, no wanting supplication. Instead, he mounted a sensual assault, catching her off guard with the devastating confidence with which he took her mouth.
He pulled her closer, ignoring all proprieties; hip to hip, thigh to thigh, belly to belly, his mouth intent, hot, and open over hers. His hand slipped up the back of her neck, spearing through the careful arrangement of curls and ribbons, laying havoc to all her careful artifice, spilling the short curls from their ribbons and pulling her head back, making her mouth more accessible to him. God help her, she did not resist.
She hadn’t been prepared for this. Nothing in her education as the ton’s most darling and daring coquette had prepared her for this. Her arms reacted without volition, lashing about his neck as her mouth opened ecstatically beneath his, her heart leaping in her chest as he strained against her, over her, deepening the demanding kiss.
She sighed against his open mouth and his warm, damp tongue immediately swept deep inside her own. Thoughts tore loose from her mind, shredded on the talons of sharpening desire. Her eyelids drifted shut and her hands clutched with increasing weakness on the broad shoulders bent over her.
The world swirled, desire fast thickening into need. Her legs buckled then, and he caught her, pulling her up, sliding her body along his hard, tensile form, his mouth torn from hers. Thoughts clamored to be heard above the sensual seas she drowned in. Faintly, she heard the heated spurts of her own breathing, felt the galloping rhythm of her heartbeat. He made a sound, masculine and low in his throat, bending his head close again, his eyes luminous and heated in the twilight, ready to begin the sensual assault anew.
She wasn’t. She couldn’t. It was too much and she was not ready. She pushed against him, her arms stiff. He released her at once.
Uncertainly, she looked up into his face. His expression was shuttered, but his chest rose and fell deeply beneath her flat palm and she read in the thick beat of his heart a different reac
tion. One not quite so detached.
“You’re supposed to be carried away by passion, not look as though you were attempting to avert a rape, my dear,” he murmured in a low, caustic voice. He looked tellingly at the hand pushing ineffectively against him.
A wave of heat surged up her throat and she snatched her hand back.
“Better,” he whispered, bending his head and licking a path down the long line of her neck. Fine tremors raked her body. “Don’t worry. I won’t kiss you again. A few more moments acquiescent in my arms and I think we can close the curtain on our performance.”
Performance. His mouth stopped at the base of her throat, his tongue lapping gently against the pulse beating frantically at the hollow there. The tremors turned into quakes.
“Easy, Lottie,” he whispered in his dark, passion-rimmed voice. “It isn’t so much after all.”
But it was, she knew. It was.
“My dear, you have done it!” Ginny exclaimed as Charlotte entered the bedroom. At Ginny’s request, the maid had brought word the moment Charlotte returned. The courtesan pushed herself up on the pile of pillows behind her, her face animated for the first time since her accident. “You are ruined! ’Tis marvelous. And so quickly and efficiently brought about. Truly marvelous!”
“How did you know?” Charlotte asked.
“Lord Skelton was here an hour earlier.” Ginny chuckled. “He must have left the Argyll Rooms on a dead run to carry the news to me. Such devotion! ’Struth, I may owe him a kiss!”
“What did he say?”
“He wanted to be the first to inform me of the most wicked, most delicious on dit to have passed through society in a decade. That on dit being that my young angel of mercy has been compromised!”
She leaned forward, her beautiful slanted eyes gleaming. “Did Ross really ravish you right there in the garden?”
“ ‘Ravish’ is decidedly overstating the situation,” Charlotte replied, trying desperately for an urbane tone as she willed her legs not to give way beneath her. She sank down on the foot of Ginny’s bed.
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