And it certainly wasn’t because, when he spoke to her, he actually believed she was listening, or that when she replied, it was with that rarest of all things, honesty.
That he couldn’t believe. Not after so many years of having been lied to, by so many women, starting, first and foremost, with his own wife.
No. It was her looks, pure and simple. Yes, he’d never before found himself attracted to anyone so small or so blond or so ... well, virginal. But there was something about her that had made him want her more than he had ever wanted any woman he had ever known.
Most likely it was her mouth. Certainly, most days, he could not get that mouth out of his thoughts. On the other hand, the fact that she seemed to have a tendency to run about his house in the middle of the night in diaphanous, lace-trimmed wrappers and practically transparent nightdresses did not hurt, either. How he’d ever managed to keep himself from throwing her across his desk and violating her ten different ways then and there, he still hadn’t the slightest clue. He must, in spite of everything, still be in possession of some shred of self-control.
But it hadn’t been easy. It had taken everything he had to set her down again, after she’d landed so miraculously in his arms. When that mouth—that mouth that, from the very first time he’d laid eyes upon it, had never been very far from his thoughts—had ended up so very close to his own, he’d very nearly satisfied the wish that had, over the course of just a few weeks, become almost an obsession, and kissed her.
And she had wanted him to. He was certain of it. She’d been holding a book—a big, solid edition of something by Scott—and she hadn’t even tightened her fingers on it. She’d been fully prepared to let him kiss her.
And yet he hadn’t. At the last possible second, he’d drawn back, and let her go.
Why?
Because he was mad. That was all. Simply, utterly, irrevocably mad.
“And you needn’t worry, my lord,” the baroness was saying. “It’s true we have run into some financial problems of late—well, the baron would invest in those African diamond mines a few years back, and we all know what happened with that—but any amount you would settle on your daughter would, of course, remain hers. We are quite forward-thinking. Why, even the baron is beginning to come around to the idea that women are quite capable of handling their own finances ... well, with the help of an accountant, of course.”
Burke turned his head and said, “Baroness Childress.”
She smiled up at him confidently. “My lord?”
“If your son—Headley, did you say his name was? Headley, then. If Headley sets so much as a foot near my daughter, Baroness Childress, I will personally rip out his liver. Do you understand me?”
The baroness paled beneath her face powder. “Lord Wingate ....” she stammered, but he didn’t stay to hear more. He moved around the edge of the dance floor, elbowing his way through the crowd.
Because, of course, he had noticed that Miss Mayhew was no longer sitting alone. A fair-haired young man had joined her. And not, he saw, to his disappointment, the Earl of Palmer, whose face he would sincerely have enjoyed rubbing into the parquet floor beneath their feet. No, it was the other one, Craven, the one who’d distressed her so.
Burke didn’t know the fellow, of course—had never even heard of him, which wasn’t unusual, since Burke didn’t know many people anyway, and made a habit of paying no heed whatsoever to gossip, having been the object of a considerable amount of the stuff himself—and knew he would not have as much fun frightening him away as he might have Bishop. Still, he fully anticipated having an enjoyable time intimidating the fellow, who seemed, if the amount of color that had waned from her face was any indication, to be making his daughter’s chaperone very nervous, indeed.
“Oh, yes,” Miss Mayhew was saying, in that curiously throaty voice of hers that seemed much too low for someone of her size, and had caused, on more than one occasion, the hair on Burke’s arms to stand up. The voice did not reflect any of the unease its owner appeared, judging from her lack of color, to be feeling. “Lady Babbie survived. They found her, I understand, hiding in a closet the day the fire was finally put out.”
Craven noticed him first. He said, with too much enthusiasm, “Why, hullo, there. What a surprise. Look, Katie. Your friend has joined us. Again.”
“Katie” turned in her chair with surprising quickness. “Oh,” she said. Suddenly, as Burke stood there watching, all of the color that had drained from her face returned in a rush, flooding her cheeks hotly. Burke watched in amazement, rendered quite speechless by the sight. He had never seen anything like it.
Kate climbed hastily to her feet, and stood twisting the silken cord to her reticule around and around one finger.
“Oh,” she said again. “I ... I ...”
Burke ignored her—inasmuch as he was capable of ignoring Katherine Mayhew—and, thrusting his right hand past her and toward a laconically smiling Craven, said in a hearty voice, “As this seems to be becoming a habit, I suppose I ought to introduce myself. Burke Traherne, Marquis of Wingate.”
Craven stuck out his own hand, grasping Burke’s in a grip nowhere near as strong as his own.
“Daniel Craven,” he said with a pleasant smile. “Esquire.” Then, drawing his hand back again, and with a wink in Kate’s direction that infuriated Burke even more than the fingers the blighter had been resting against the back of her chair, he said, “Moving up in the world, Katie? Why settle for an earl when you can get yourself a marquis, eh?”
All of the color that had blossomed in Miss Mayhew’s cheeks disappeared. She appeared, for a moment, to sway a little upon her feet, as if his rudeness had physically rocked her. But before Burke could draw back an arm and send it crashing into the blighter’s face, she was saying, faintly, “Lord Wingate is my employer, Daniel. I’m chaperone to his daughter, Lady Isabel.”
Craven, looking from Kate’s ashen face to Burke’s curled fist, said, “Oh, I say. No offense meant, my lord. Katie and I are old friends. I was only teasing her a bit.”
“I don’t believe Miss Mayhew appreciates your teasing, Mr. Craven,” Burke said woodenly. “And I know I don’t. I think it might behoove you to find someone else to tease, in the future.”
Craven was not a small man. He stood fully as tall as Burke, and only a dozen or so pounds lighter. In a fight between the two of them, it would be hard going saying who’d emerge victorious. Except, of course, that Burke had never lost a fight in his life, and the mere suggestion of him doing so was ludicrous. He rather hoped Craven would take that first swing, even though a fistfight in Lady Tetmiller’s ballroom was hardly the best way to secure an appropriate husband for Isabel. Still, it might go a long way toward relieving some of this tension that seemed to have been building up in him over the past few weeks ....
But Craven didn’t lift so much as a finger. Instead, he said, looking quite apologetic, “Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t know. Please excuse me if I seemed rude, won’t you?” And then, with rather fortuitous timing, he apparently spied someone in the crowd whom he knew. “Oh,” he said. “There’s Barnes. Do forgive me if I rush off—”
And then he did so, to Burke’s disappointment.
But Kate did not look at all disappointed. She looked positively relieved to see him go. So much so that Burke could not help demanding, rather sharply, “Miss Mayhew, who is that man to you?”
The relief in her eyes wiped clean away, and was replaced by anxiety again a fraction of a second later.
“I told you,” she said. “He was a business—”
“Associate of your father’s,” Burke finished for her. “Yes, yes, so you said.” Realizing that was all the information he was going to get on the subject, he said, “Well, if he bothers you again, Miss Mayhew, kindly let me know.”
Kate’s eyes were very wide as she echoed, “Let you know? But what can you do about it?”
He merely smiled at her naivete. “Leave it to me,” he said.
But she
was not so naive as he supposed. “You can’t kill him, my lord,” she said, with some asperity.
He eyed her. “Can I not? And why not? I hope you’re not going to say you’re in love with him, Miss Mayhew, and could not bear to see his blood shed, when it is perfectly obvious the man frightens you witless.”
“He doesn’t,” she said, her chin sliding out stubbornly. “And that isn’t why you can’t kill him.”
“Oh?” He couldn’t help noticing how much even a look of intractability became her. Really, considering the number of young girls in roses and lace that were flitting about the place—not to mention their elder sisters and mammas, in rubies and velvet—it did not seem at all likely that the prettiest woman in the room would be a former governess, a mere chaperone, in a simple grey silk dress, wearing no lace or jewelry whatsoever.
And yet it was undeniably true. Well, there might exist men who’d try to deny it, but frankly, Burke cared for no one’s opinion but his own. And in his opinion, Kate Mayhew was the prettiest woman he had ever seen.
Which was why, that night he’d first met her, that night she’d first accosted him with her umbrella, he ought to have run, run far, far away.
“Why can’t I kill him, then?” he asked.
“Because it would only cause a scandal,” she said, with some impatience. “And then your daughter will have no choice but to marry Geoffrey Saunders, as he’d be the only man willing to have her.”
Burke considered this while beside him Kate seemed suddenly extremely interested in the contents of her reticule, which she began to rifle through with some energy. It was, Burke realized, their first meeting since the incident in the library almost a week ago, and he supposed she was somewhat unnerved by his presence. Which was only natural, considering that she was very young, and very inexperienced. It was up to him, he supposed, to try to instill some normalcy into the situation, to let her know as far as he was concerned, nothing had changed between them.
Well, nothing much.
“I presume,” Burke said, observing Miss Mayhew pull a small gold watch from her bag, and scrutinize its face rather more closely than necessary, considering the brightness of the light from the chandelier over their heads, “that Isabel is all right. She is not tiring herself out by dancing too much?”
“Oh, no.” Miss Mayhew dropped the watch back into the depths of the bag, and, still without meeting his gaze, replied, “She is quite well. The surgeon declared her perfectly cured this afternoon. I’m afraid she’s back to worshiping Mr. Saunders up close, rather than from afar.”
“I see,” Burke said.
He wished she would look him in the eye. He couldn’t stand this accursed awkwardness. If only he hadn’t given up on Last of the Mohicans that night. If only he’d stayed in his room. He’d have never encountered Miss Mayhew in her nightclothes, and he’d never have known, as he did now, that the corset she was currently wearing was a needless frivolity. Her natural waist was slender enough on its own. And that those breasts, hidden now beneath all that silk, were, though small, as close to perfect as any he’d ever had the privilege of seeing. And he’d not only gotten a fairly good look at them—really, what kind of chaperone went about in virtually transparent nightwear?—but he’d felt them through the fabric of his dressing gown. Her nipples, hard as little pebbles, had seemed to burn holes through the black satin lapels of his robe. How they might feel against the palm of his hand was a question Burke had been asking himself ever since.
Kate, who had found a loose thread on one of her gloves, was now apparently using it as an excuse to avoid his gaze. Was she angry with him? Or merely embarrassed? Was it possible he had been flattering himself when he’d fancied she’d wanted him to kiss her?
But she’d never been kissed before. He was as certain of that as he was of her virginity. What Burke wasn’t certain about was how, precisely, one proceeded to seduce a virgin. He didn’t want to frighten her. There was no use, of course, thinking back to how he’d managed it with Elisabeth, since, of course, he had found out on his wedding night that Elisabeth hadn’t been as virginal as one might have expected, considering the fact that she’d worn white, after all, to the ceremony.
Burke said, coming to a sudden decision, “Miss Mayhew, all I’m saying is that if that man—or any other—bothers you, I will be more than happy to see that he puts a stop to it.”
She stared up at him in the manner of one who is quite convinced a companion is mentally deficient.
“Lord Wingate,” she said. “I told you. Mr. Craven is nothing to me, merely an old family—”
Burke ground his teeth. He couldn’t help it. “That may be true,” he said. As he stooped to speak into her ear, since the room was so noisy, he could barely hear himself think, Burke couldn’t help but notice that Miss Mayhew’s ear was quite a charming ope, very small and quite clean, like the rest of her. “But I believe his intentions toward you are a little more than friendly ....”
Before she could open that delightful mouth to reply, someone had begun tugging on his sleeve.
“Lord Wingate?” a familiar voice asked.
He shook his head, not willing to let his conversation with Miss Mayhew be interrupted, however intent the rest of the world might be at doing so. But the woman at his elbow persisted.
“My lord?” More tugging. Then the soft, inviting, “Burke?” that he’d heard her utter so many times, generally from the middle of a tangle of sheets and pillows.
He felt his blood go cold in his veins. What was she doing here? Surely she hadn’t been invited. She did not belong at a debutante ball. On the other hand, some hostesses were so desperate for their parties to be perceived as a success, they invited just about anyone who might be remotely construed as society.
Even actresses.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new little friend, Burke?” Sara asked, her voice dipping to a kittenish purr, as she snaked a hand through the crook of his arm.
Burke looked down at her. Sara was, as always, exceedingly well made up, and exquisitely dressed. One could hardly believe, to look at her, that underneath that generous bosom—much of which was on display just then—there beat a heart that, she kept insisting, in letter after letter to him, was permanently broken by what she insisted was his cruel desertion.
Burke did not, in fact, believe it. And in answer to her question, he gave a curt, “No,” and removed her hand from his arm.
Sara blinked her kohl-rimmed eyes, looking wounded as a fawn. It was a look she’d perfected by practicing it for hours on end in front of a mirror. Burke knew, because there’d been a time when he’d delighted in watching her do it.
“Lord Wingate,” she said, her voice now sounding childishly hurt. “Is that any way to treat an old friend?”
Before Burke could reply, Miss Mayhew said, “No, of course it isn’t, Mrs. Woodhart. But you see, I’m not Lord Wingate’s new little friend. I’m Miss Mayhew, his daughter’s chaperone.”
Although the hurt left Mrs. Woodhart’s beautiful face, it was replaced by a new emotion. Burke recognized it as suspicion. “Oh,” she said knowingly. “The chaperone.”
“I saw a poster of you as Lady Macbeth a few months ago, Mrs. Woodhart,” Kate went on to say. “Which is how I recognized you.”
“Indeed,” Sara said. Both of her eyebrows were raised, stretched to their limits. This was not a good sign, Burke knew. It meant she was going to say something impertinent. To spare Miss Mayhew, and avoid any embarrassment to himself, he quickly reached out, and seized the actress’s plump upper arm.
“Mrs. Woodhart,” he said, with some desperation. “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”
“Certainly, Burke,” she said.
But Burke did not manage to steer her away quickly enough, because as they stepped out onto the dance floor, Sara said, in an insinuating tone, “Well, I can see now what’s been occupying all of your time these past few weeks, Burke.”
Kate heard, of course. Every
one heard. That was what Sara wanted. She considered herself the injured party, no matter how many times Burke pointed out that she was the one whom he’d caught with another. He had always prided himself on the fact that all of his past relationships—with the exception of his marriage—had at least ended amicably. His breakup with Sara Woodhart, however, was destined to be an acrimonious one.
Just how acrimonious, however, he hadn’t anticipated. Not until the crack of her outstretched hand striking his face, seconds after he’d informed her, as they waltzed, that there was no longer any place for her in his life, and that if she ever spoke to him again at a function he was attending in the company of his daughter, he would personally see to it that, whatever particular production she happened to be in at the time, all its financial backing would be dropped.
Most of the guests, and most likely the hostess, saw the slap, or at least heard it, and everyone saw Sara storm from the ballroom, the skirt of her gown swaying angrily from side to side as she walked.
Including, of course, Kate Mayhew.
Chapter Seventeen
“Geoffrey,” Isabel said dreamily, from the corner of the carriage she was slumped in, “says he has something to ask me, Miss Mayhew.”
Kate, seated in her own corner of the carriage, said nothing. Her mind was too full to attend to Isabel’s prattling.
“Did you hear me, Miss Mayhew?” Isabel leaned forward a little. “I said that Geoffrey says he has something to ask me.”
“Mr. Saunders,” Kate corrected her automatically. “Addressing young men by their Christian names is vulgar, unless they are related to you.”
“Fine, then. Mr. Saunders says he has something to ask me, Miss Mayhew.”
“Well,” Kate said. Her mind was full, it was true. One might even say she was troubled ... perhaps even deeply troubled. But it wouldn’t do, she knew, to let her charge know that. And so she asked, “Why didn’t Mr. Saunders ask his question tonight then, if it was so important? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t the opportunity. How many dances did the two of you have?”
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