by Candace Camp
“Is that so?” He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “I don’t believe I mentioned your last name.” His eyes gleamed in the dim light.
Clearly, she had only increased his conviction that she was Eleanor. Rylla gazed at him in frustration. Even if she told him her real name now, she had the feeling he wouldn’t believe her. But she had to convince him not to reveal anything. Eleanor’s reputation was at stake, as well as her own.
“Please. I beg of you. Don’t speak of me or try to find me again. Don’t tell anyone I am Eleanor. If word of what I have done got out, it would ruin me. I know I have given you no reason to believe my reputation deserves guarding, but—”
“You think I would damage your reputation?” He was on his feet and coming after her, his jaw set grimly. “I would never—”
“Kiss me? Manhandle me in a dark closet?”
His brows snapped together. “You were the one who pulled me into the closet! And I did not manhandle you.”
“You scarcely behaved like a gentleman.”
“You scarcely behaved like a lady.”
“I know I did not!” Rylla snapped back. “That is precisely why I did not tell you my name.”
“It’s not as if I’m going to bruit your name about town.”
“Of course not—until you are drinking one night with your gentlemen friends and bragging about your conquests.”
“What conquest? I assure you, I do not feel as if I have won anything here.”
“An entertaining story, then. I know how gentlemen would view my actions last night. Or this evening. Boldness is not a trait valued in a lady. Nor is curiosity or a sense of adventure.”
“So now I am lumped in with every other ‘gentleman’ in the world. How do you know what I would or would not do? What have I done that would lead you to believe I am a censorious prig?”
“You are saying you approve of a woman who ventures out in gentleman’s dress? Who kisses strangers in closets?”
“I suppose I must, since I approve of you,” he shot back. He relaxed, his ready humor lighting again in his eyes. “As long, of course, as the stranger you are kissing is me.”
Rylla could not hold back a little laugh. “Gregory . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t know what to make of you.” She reached out and took his hand between both of hers. “Will you give me your word? Promise you will not say I am Eleanor McIntyre. You can tell everyone the whole sorry story if only you don’t say it was Eleanor McIntyre who acted so.”
“I will not.” He gazed steadily into her eyes. “I give you my word as a gentleman. As a Rose of Loch Baille. I will not speak of you to anyone. I have never been introduced to Eleanor McIntyre. And I most certainly did not spend the Stewarts’ Christmas ball in a deep dark closet with her.” He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss upon her palm. “I want only to see you again.” He kissed the inside of her wrist. “Let me call on you.”
“No! You must not. Please stop trying to see me.”
“I cannot.” He stepped closer. “You bewitch me. Beguile me.” He raised a hand, curving it against the side of her face. “Please. Don’t run from me.”
Rylla trembled beneath his touch. She knew that running was precisely what she should do, but her feet stubbornly refused to move. He lowered his head toward her. And instead of pulling away, she closed her eyes. Surely it would not matter if she let herself have one more taste of him.
Then his mouth was on hers, so warm, so sweet, so seductive, she almost could not bear it. If it was wicked to feel the way she did, she must be steeped in sin indeed. All she wanted was to be in his arms, to have his mouth on hers, to feel this urgent heat inside. A tiny moan escaped her, and she felt his response.
With great effort of will, Rylla pulled away. “I must go.” She stepped back, opening the door to peer out into the hallway.
“No, stay with me.” His hands were on her waist, but their hold was light.
She gazed up into his face, taking in the hunger stamped upon it, his eyes hazy with desire, his mouth soft and dark from their kisses, and she wanted nothing more than to stay here and lose herself in his embrace.
“I cannot. They will be looking for me. Please, don’t walk out with me. It would mean the death of my reputation if anyone saw us.”
“I won’t.” He leaned down, resting his forehead on hers, his breath coming out in a little laugh. “Indeed, I think it will be some time before I am fit to be seen in polite company.”
Rylla tore herself away and opened the door. She looked back at him. “Remember your promise.”
“I will not speak of you.”
She closed the door and hurried away. Unable to face the other guests, Rylla turned and retreated to the cloakroom. Perhaps she could just sit there for a few minutes and recover her equanimity. As she started along the hall, she spotted Eleanor coming out of the cloakroom, frowning. Her friend glanced up and saw her.
“Rylla! Where have you been? I’ve searched all over for you.”
“I am sorry. I—um—”
Eleanor reached out, taking her hand. “Are you all right? You look flushed.”
“Yes!” Rylla seized upon the excuse Eleanor had offered. “I mean, no, I am not all right. I’m not feeling well. That is why I came here. I thought if I rested a bit—”
“I think you may have a fever.” Eleanor took her arm. “We should leave.”
“You’re right. I should return home. But you must stay. I’ll send the carriage back for you and my parents.”
“Nonsense. I’ll go with you. We’ll just get our cloaks, and I will tell your parents we’re leaving.”
Eleanor was her usual efficient self, and in only a few minutes, she and Rylla were bundled up against the cold and climbing into their waiting carriage. Rylla turned to her friend. “I am so sorry to take you away from the ball.”
“Nonsense. I don’t care about the party. I’ve already managed to offend Sir Andrew Rose. No doubt if I stayed, I would simply irritate someone else.”
“You talked with Sir Andrew? What did he say?”
“A lot of frippery and foolishness. What else does he ever say? He thinks that charm will get him anywhere and that moral convictions are nonsense. Do you know that he as much as told me I was sanctimonious?”
“Well, I suppose you must seem so to someone like him.”
Eleanor was silent for a moment. She smoothed her gloves over her hands, keeping her eyes on them. “Is Sir Andrew really—I mean, do you think he is a wicked person?”
“Wicked?” Rylla glanced at her, startled. “I wouldn’t think so. I have never heard of him doing anything evil. He is like many young gentlemen and spends much of his time on frivolous things. Daniel once said his ‘dibs weren’t in tune.’ ”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure. I think perhaps his finances are not in order. Not that Daniel is anyone to talk,” she added darkly.
“I’ve heard Andrew is looking for a wealthy wife.” Eleanor was still engrossed in the fit of her gloves.
“I don’t think he is looking very hard. I haven’t seen him dangling after anyone in particular. Eleanor . . . do you like Sir Andrew?”
“Good heavens, no.” Eleanor raised her head at last, her tone indignant. “He is not at all the sort of man I admire. I couldn’t even think of— And, anyway, as I said, he finds me a great trial.”
“I have seen him at more parties recently,” Rylla mused.
“No doubt because it is a festive season. He is clearly a man who enjoys . . . enjoying himself.” She glanced over at Rylla, and they both laughed. “I do find Sir Andrew handsome, I admit. But looks do not matter. It’s a man’s character that’s important. And I fear he is lacking in that. He lost his home, he told me, playing cards.”
“Perhaps he has changed. People do not always act in an upright manner. It doesn’t make them bad, really. I mean, sometimes it’s necessary to do something that’s wrong or might appear a bit scan
dalous, but surely that doesn’t mean one’s a bad person.”
“Rylla, what are you talking about?” Eleanor looked at her narrowly. “Is this something to do with Daniel?”
“No. I mean, not entirely.” Rylla sighed. “No doubt you heard that great row he and Papa had the other night.”
“It was hard to miss,” Eleanor admitted. “But surely Daniel is not in any sort of trouble.”
“No. No, of course not. I am sure he and Papa will get over their disagreement. Daniel will be here for Christmas.” Rylla pasted on a smile. “He has to be.”
♦ ♦ ♦
“Where the devil did you run off to?” Sir Andrew said in an aggrieved tone when Gregory approached him.
“I was, um, around.” Gregory could hardly tell him that he had spent a good portion of his evening in a closet under the stairs kissing Eleanor McIntyre. And waiting for his fevered blood to calm down.
“You said you wanted to be introduced to Miss McIntyre. Then you took off. She disappeared as well. When I finally found her, you never appeared. I felt a proper nodcock, I can tell you. And I was trapped talking to Miss McIntyre for God only knows how long.”
“Yes, well . . . I was, um, otherwise occupied.”
“Otherwise occupied! Doing what?”
“Walking about. Talking to people.” Andrew would think him totally mad if he said he had spent the time since he left the stairway closet searching for Eleanor all over again. How the devil had Andrew managed to stand about chatting with her without Gregory seeing them? “I, ah, couldn’t find you, and I thought I might come across her.”
Andrew sent him a peculiar look. “Too late now. She already left. Headache or some such thing.”
Such as a desire to avoid him. Gregory clenched his teeth.
“I say, cuz, are you all right? You’ve been acting strangely.”
Gregory shrugged. He couldn’t explain his actions to his cousin. He couldn’t even explain them to himself. It was not like him to pursue any woman with such zeal. Nor had he ever been so consumed by lust that he’d thought of pulling a woman down on the floor of a closet and taking her right there—with scores of other people around, no less.
He had always enjoyed the company of women, flirting with ladies and taking his pleasure with women who were not. But he could never remember being so . . . eager. When she had fled the ballroom, he had taken off after her like a hound who had spotted the fox. Every nerve in his body had been alert, his blood pumping through his veins, his only thought to chase down his quarry.
And he hardly knew the woman.
Eleanor McIntyre clearly did not want him to find her. A gentleman would not continue to pursue her against her wishes. But Gregory had no intention of stopping. He could not.
“I’m fine,” he told Sir Andrew. “Just regretting that I was not here to meet the lady.”
“You really are taken with Miss McIntyre, aren’t you?” Andrew stared at him in some astonishment.
“Yes, I am.”
His cousin let out a martyred sigh. “She told me she was going to some lecture tomorrow evening. About the culture and customs of the Highlands. She said she thought I might want to attend. I ask you. As if I hadn’t spent my life trying to get away from the dashed culture and customs of the Highlands!”
“Now, Andrew, laddie, dinna say you dinna want some Lowlander telling you all about yourself.” Gregory grinned. “I think this lecture would be the perfect place to introduce me to Miss McIntyre.”
“Perfect place to nap, you mean. Very well. I will take you to the bloody thing and introduce you. But I’m warning you: you better not take to your heels again.”
Gregory had another restless night, followed by a seemingly unending day, but his spirits were high the next evening when he set forth with Andrew for the lecture. Sir Andrew sent a frown in his direction as they strolled along. Gregory realized he had been whistling under his breath. He swallowed a smile and discontinued his whistling, contenting himself with imagining the look on Eleanor’s face when he walked in with Andrew.
Only a few people had gathered for the lecture, and Gregory could see instantly that none of them was the woman he sought. Andrew started purposefully toward a small blond woman who stood near the front. Gregory trailed after him, glancing around in the hopes Eleanor would appear.
The blond woman turned, and her eyes widened. “Sir Andrew. I am surprised to see you.”
“Always a student of history,” Andrew replied airily. “Pray allow me to introduce my cousin, Mr. Gregory Rose. He has been most anxious to meet you. Gregory . . . Miss Eleanor McIntyre.”
For a long moment, Gregory simply stood, staring at the woman. Color flared along his cheekbones and his eyes flashed in a way that made Miss McIntyre’s brows rise. She had done it to him again!
“Miss McIntyre. Pleasure to meet you,” he said tightly. “Pardon me.” He swung on his heel and stalked off, leaving Eleanor and Andrew goggling after him.
♦ ♦ ♦
Gregory strode blindly down the street. He knew he had been abrupt and rude, not normal behavior for him. No doubt his cousin, as well as the perfectly blameless Miss McIntyre, would never forgive him. But he could not bring himself to care. All he could think about was that she—whoever she was, blast it—had once more slipped out of his grasp.
She had deceived him. Lied to him. Well, to be fair about it, she had not actually told him she was Eleanor McIntyre. Indeed, she had said she was not Eleanor McIntyre. But still, his belief that she was Miss McIntyre was based upon the tissue of lies she had told him. The daughter of a clergyman—hah! He should have known that was a falsehood. A woman who visited gambling clubs dressed up as a male, who looked as she did, acted as she did, who, dammit all, kissed as she did, was no minister’s daughter.
It was frustrating. Infuriating. Unbearable.
Why had she lied to him? Why did she want so much for him not to know who she was? He had helped her. He had not scolded or been censorious. He had not told anyone what had gone on between them. Yet she refused to give him even so much as her name.
The answer, of course, was obvious, and it was enough to drop him right where he stood. She simply did not want to see him again. She had no feelings for him.
It began to snow, but Gregory was oblivious to it. He continued to tramp along, mired in his thoughts. His best course of action would be to forget her. He should find some party or other to attend this evening—one where he did not spend his time searching for her. The idea had little appeal. But the thought of going back to his rooms and sitting in front of the fire drinking brandy was even grimmer.
Eventually his aimless wandering brought him to Faraday’s. Irritated, he swung around to leave, but he reconsidered. Perhaps a convivial night at a club was the best way to get one’s mind off a woman. Unlike at a party, there would be little chance of running into her at Faraday’s. She would not visit a club in disguise now that she knew the risks involved. Cardsharps, footpads, drunken youths looking for a fight. What might have happened if anyone discovered she was actually a woman was enough to chill his blood.
A quick look around Faraday’s told him “Rolly” was not there. Just what he wanted. But the place seemed flat, and before long he moved on. Despite the falling snow, he tromped from one gambling den to another. The woman he had known as first Rolly, then Eleanor, was in none of them. Perversely, instead of bringing him relief, that fact only put him more on edge. He should, he thought, go home. At that moment, he glanced up and saw a young man walk into the club. The collar of his greatcoat was turned up, his hat pulled low on his forehead, so that only a narrow slice of his face showed.
Gregory shot forward and clamped his hand around the young man’s narrow wrist. “You are coming with me.”
Not waiting for an answer, he strode out the door, pulling the youngster after him.
Chapter Seven
“Let go of me!” Rylla tugged uselessly against the manacle hold of Gregory’s hand
. “Stop! You have no right.”
He paid no attention. She tried to plant her feet, but they skidded along on the cobblestones, made slick by snow. Realizing that her efforts were useless, Rylla finally went along with him, keeping what she hoped was a disdainful silence. By the time he had hauled her up the hill at his rapid pace, she didn’t have enough air to rail at him, anyway.
Gregory clearly didn’t have that problem, for as soon as he whisked her into his parlor, he rounded on her, thundering, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Have you gone mad?”
Rylla lifted her chin, too out of breath to speak.
“Do you not remember you were attacked the last time you went masquerading? Robbed? Knocked down? Are you trying to get injured?”
“No! Of course not! Stop shouting at me.”
“I’m not shouting!” Gregory lowered his voice to a fierce, determinedly controlled level. “Even if I was, who could blame me? Do you realize what could have happened to you tonight if someone had seen through your disguise? What a man might have done?” He grabbed her shoulders, his fingers digging into her.
“You mean, the same thing you did?” She knotted her fists on her hips, glaring back at him.
A wild light flared in his eyes. Rylla had the uneasy feeling she had pushed him too far. With a low growl, he pulled her to him and his mouth came down on hers, hard and demanding.
Everything inside Rylla melted. Irritation, anger, distrust all slipped away in a rush of heat. She did not pull back from the ferocity of his mouth, but instead pressed up into it. Her hands stole beneath his unbuttoned coat and slid around his waist. She felt the involuntary jerk of surprise in his body at her touch. He moved into her, his knee edging between her legs until his thigh was flush against her.
His kiss went on forever, and she softened with each passing second, the ache between her legs swelling and throbbing. He slid his hands down her body, pressing her even more firmly against his leg.
A shudder ran through him. He tore his mouth from hers, burying his face against her neck as his arms clenched around her.