Lady Rogue

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Make me,” his confederate said in the same tone, apparently having forgotten Alex’s threats and warnings of the past thirty minutes.

  “Harold, Elizabeth, allow me to introduce my cousin, Christian Riley,” Alex offered. Kit stepped forward to shake the baron’s hand and kiss the baroness’s with her usual boldness. “Kit, Lord and Lady Fontaine.”

  “So pleased you could come, Lord Everton, Mr. Riley.” Elizabeth smiled, and gestured them to join the rest of the guests in the main ballroom.

  “Oh, this is wonderful,” Kit breathed, gazing about the crowded room. She reached up to her collar, then glanced at him. “Is my cravat tied correctly?” she whispered.

  “It’s perfect,” he returned, stifling the urge to wrap his arm around the chit’s neck and drag her back home before she did something foolish. Or dangerous. Instead, he reached out and flicked a speck of dust from her lapel.

  It had occurred to him earlier that, whatever her motivation for wanting to attend the rout, she was correct—over the last few days he had begun to behave like a stodgy, overprotective old boor. Despite that, and somewhat to his consternation considering he had no idea why she was truly in London, he was at the same time discovering that he seemed to be completely incapable of resisting any request, demand, or wish the waif might make.

  “All right,” he sighed, “go amuse yourself. But do be careful. Not everyone would be pleased to learn of your…uniqueness.” Nor would everyone look kindly on him if the farce was discovered.

  She leaned up toward him, and for a moment he thought she was going to kiss him, right in the middle of the Fontaine rout. And he was disappointed when instead she pulled a cigar out of the inner pocket of his coat and tucked it into her own.

  “What happened to ‘don’t talk, don’t walk, just stand in the corner, behind the draperies, and observe’?” she asked.

  “I belatedly realized that as a rakehell, it is my duty to defy polite society by whatever means necessary,” he answered, his eyes still on her half-smiling lips, wanting to taste them again. “Tonight, dear one, this means you.”

  “Merveilleux!” she chortled gleefully, then touched his sleeve. “That means ‘marvelous.’ I’ll see you later.”

  He watched as she strolled off in the direction of the punch bowl. The fact that she knew no one in the room, and almost nothing about the blue-blooded society she found herself in, presumably had no effect on her. Apparently Kit Brantley was afraid of nothing. And though that, too, brought into question her reasons for seeking him out, he couldn’t help the smile that touched his lips. She was afraid of nothing, that was, other than whether her cravat was de trop.

  Francis and Reg intercepted her at the refreshment table, and Alex relaxed a little. They would keep her clear of anything completely unsavory, if for no other reason than to avoid facing the ire of her cousin.

  “So, my devil, you haven’t frightened young Christian away yet?” The sultry voice of Lady Sinclair sounded behind him.

  “Barbara.” He turned and reached down to take her hand. Her gown was a deep, blushing violet that didn’t even bother to pretend to be demure. The daring scooped neck, with its border of filmy black lace, captured and lifted her full breasts, absolutely demanding that a gentleman’s eyes be drawn to them. “No,” he replied, obliging. “Kit insists that I cannot possibly be as vile as everyone says.”

  She gave a low chuckle. “Little does he know. Dance this waltz with me, Alex, before I expire from boredom.”

  He nodded. “Of course, my lady.”

  They stepped out onto the floor as a waltz began. Barbara smiled silkily up at him. “You haven’t yet told me how ravishing I look this evening.”

  “You look ravishing,” he replied obediently, returning her smile.

  “Thank you,” she purred. “I had the dress made with you in mind.”

  It seemed they’d had this same conversation before, but the conclusion was invariably satisfying, so he was willing to play along. “Then I trust you are wearing nothing underneath?”

  She gave a sultry chuckle. “You are a devil, Alex.”

  They would have to go to Lady Sinclair’s town house for the night, for the way Kit tended to barge into his bedchamber, the chit might receive more of an education than her father had intended. Of course, if he left the girl to her own devices at Cale House for the entire night, there was no telling what mischief she might get into. He might return home and find that she’d turned the place into a faro palace to keep herself in waistcoats and cravats.

  “What are you smiling at?” Barbara asked.

  He blinked and looked down at her. “Beg pardon?”

  “You were looking terribly amused about something.”

  “Oh. Apologies,” he muttered.

  “You should apologize. I was in the middle of telling you that Edith Denton’s pet fox got out of its pen and was hunted down and killed by Viscount Harriston’s hounds the other day. The poor woman was devastated.”

  Alex’s lips quirked. “I’m certain Foxy was devastated, as well.”

  Barbara cuffed him on the shoulder. “Naughty man,” she chided. “Harriston did offer her the tail. I believe she’s going to have it put on a hat.”

  He smiled, glancing over at the refreshment table to see who Kit might be amusing herself with at the moment. She wasn’t there, and he looked toward the orchestra in the corner. The chit wasn’t there, either, and he frowned. The gaming room wouldn’t open until after dinner had been served, so she couldn’t be up there.

  “Damnation,” he muttered.

  “What is it?” Barbara asked, a slight scowl creasing her porcelain features.

  “My cousin. I seem to have misplaced him, and he’s a devilish lot of trouble. Did you see where he might have van—”

  Abruptly he saw her. There she was, not twenty feet away, waltzing, waltzing, with Mercia Cralling. The chit spied him looking at her, and gave a wicked grin and a nod.

  “That damned…” he muttered under his breath. The waif was a graceful dancer, he noted grudgingly. Better than half the gentlemen in the room.

  “Mr. Riley has made a conquest, I think,” Barbara purred.

  “Apparently,” he grumbled, his attention still on the girl.

  “A shame Caroline begged off attending tonight,” Lady Sinclair commented. “I’ve been telling her all about your cousin. She won’t admit it, but I think she’s quite curious to meet him.”

  “You don’t know anything about my cousin, so how could you be gossiping about him?” Alex returned, more sharply than he intended. Damn the chit, she was making him demented.

  “I know enough,” Barbara supplied, her tone faintly surprised. “He is your cousin, his father sent him for you to look after while he is traveling, he’s a bit rough about the edges, plays a fair game of faro, and you’re quite fond of him. Besides the fact that he’s exceptionally well favored.”

  So he hadn’t been the only one to notice that about young Mr. Riley. “He’s too young for you,” he said.

  “That’s unkind.” Her dark eyes cooled. “Apologize.”

  “Don’t play games, Barbara.” The waltz ended, and he turned to look for Kit again.

  She sniffed. “Unless you apologize, the only game you play tonight will be solitaire.”

  He smiled humorlessly. “I believe that’s your game for the evening. I shall simply find another player.”

  “Boor,” she snapped. “Why can’t you apologize?”

  “Because I don’t have to,” he replied, and turned and strolled away. It was true. He didn’t need to extend himself, because she had more need of his wealth than he had of her company. Especially tonight. When he turned around to find her, Kit was back laughing with Reg and Francis and toting a spare glass of punch, presumably for Miss Cralling.

  “I shall have to reexamine my family tree,” a dry male voice came from behind him. “I don’t recall being related to a Riley of any sort.”

  A glass of port appeared
over his shoulder, and Alex accepted it without turning around. “Don’t you remember Aunt Marabelle marrying that Irish circus performer? That”—he gestured in Kit’s direction—“is the unfortunate result.”

  A tall, well-built man, a few years older than Alex, stepped up beside him. The dark hair was beginning to recede a little, and the light blue eyes were full of interest and curiosity as he gazed at Kit. “We don’t have an Aunt Marabelle.”

  On Alex’s other side a slim hand tucked around his arm. “I do like the circus,” an amused female voice said. “Is this one an acrobat?”

  “A bear baiter,” Alex answered, smiling down at the petite, auburn-haired woman. “If I can get him over here, I’ll introduce you.”

  If Alex had been alone, he was certain the chit would never have left the circle gathering around her. Seeing, though, that he had company, it only took a few gestures and a commanding glare to convince her to come away from the crowd and join him. “I’m having a splendid time, cousin,” she said in her low lilt, her eyes dancing.

  “No doubt,” Alex replied dryly. “Kit, you remember our cousin Gerald Downing and his wife, Ivy, don’t you?”

  Kit actually blinked. “Why, yes. Father’s spoken—”

  “Mother’s spoken,” Alex corrected smoothly.

  It didn’t faze her. “No, Father’s spoken of Mother’s family to me, many times.” Kit leaned over and put a hand on Gerald’s sleeve to look at him from beneath her lowered brow. “Mother has died, you know.”

  “Oh, dear, poor Marabelle,” Gerald exclaimed, glancing at his wife. “Did we send flowers, my love?”

  “Oh, no,” Ivy replied, shaking her head. “Marabelle was allergic, Gerald.”

  “She was dead, sweetest. I don’t think she would have minded.”

  Kit was looking from one to the other of them, her expression wavering between amusement, caution, and complete bewilderment. “Am I being bammed?” she asked after a moment.

  “Rather.” Gerald reached out and shook her hand again. “Pleased to meet you, whoever you might be.” He looked over at Alex. “So who is he?”

  Alex glanced about to make certain no one else was near. “She,” he corrected softly.

  “She?” Ivy repeated at a whisper, turning to look at Kit all over again.

  Kit was glaring at him, and he was certain if she’d had a pistol, she would have shot him. “I can’t believe you told them!”

  “Gerald is my cousin. It’s not as though they didn’t know something was about.”

  “You never told me you had cousins.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “You bloody well should have said something, anyway.”

  “Are you certain he’s a she?” Gerald put in mildly. “He curses rather well for a female.”

  “Thank you,” Kit returned, her angry green eyes still on Alex.

  “She’s the daughter of a family friend,” Alex said slowly, holding the girl’s gaze. “I’m keeping her safe for a few days. No one else must know.”

  “Well, I’m to dance with Lydia Calloway now,” Kit said after a moment, her expression easing somewhat. “Unless there’s someone else to whom you wish to divulge my secrets?”

  “May I claim a waltz with you later in the evening?” Ivy queried. “I should like to become better acquainted.”

  Kit gave her a short nod. “If you wish.”

  “Good God,” Gerald muttered when she was gone. “And you’ve no designs on her?”

  “Other than wanting to strangle her every few moments, none at all,” Everton lied, clenching his jaw as Augustus Devlin appeared from the doorway and draped his arm over Kit’s shoulder to greet her. She chuckled at something he said. He was drunk, again, and for the first time Alex found himself less than sympathetic. “I’m to keep her safe and pure. On my honor.”

  “How does she clean up?” Gerald continued, looking after her.

  Alex shrugged. “I have no idea. I’ve never seen her as a female.”

  “Well, that’s a blessing, anyway,” Ivy murmured, turning away to greet another acquaintance and leaving Everton to wonder what, exactly, she might be implying.

  It was past two-thirty in the morning when the coach came around to pick them up and deliver them back to Cale House. Kit sat back in the deep, cushioned seat and rolled Alex’s stolen cigar between her fingers before she lifted it to sniff the deep, rich scent. “I liked Ivy,” she stated.

  “Yes, I’m rather fond of her myself,” he returned, settling himself opposite her. “And no, she’s not one of my mistresses.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask.” Kit yawned. “I am dead on my feet.” She sighed, stretching her legs out beside his seat in the coach and flexing her toes inside her boots. “I don’t know how those chits can stand to be in those awful pointy-toed shoes for so long. I’d rather go barefooted.”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t have danced so much, then,” Alex suggested, his gaze on her feet beside his thigh. As the carriage passed under the gas lamps lining the street, his face was briefly illuminated and then disappeared into blackness again.

  “I don’t see how you possibly could have noticed how many dances I participated in, when you were so busy partnering with every female in sight,” she countered. Barbara Sinclair had obviously spent most of the evening being annoyed at him before she had stalked off, but with every other woman, he had been charming and gracious. Every other woman except for her. He had badgered her incessantly, reminding her to watch herself and not be so friendly with everyone, as though she hadn’t done this sort of thing since she was six. And she had two more leads now, nearly as promising as Reg Hanshaw and Everton. Both Sir Thadius Naring and Lord Lindley had recently received government appointments involving Bonaparte and France. She just didn’t know what, exactly, those appointments were—yet.

  “I didn’t dance with Celeste Montgomery. I believe you stole her from me,” he commented from the darkness.

  She wished she could see his expression, for his dry voice was exceedingly difficult to decipher. “Celeste prefers younger men,” she answered.

  “Gads, Kit,” he returned, and this time she could hear the amusement in his tone. “You fooled all of them. It was quite spectacular.”

  “Thank you, milord,” she drawled, sniffing the cigar again.

  “Do you intend to smoke that?” he asked after a moment.

  She shook her head. “I just like the smell.”

  He chuckled at her answer, and an unexpected slow, shivering curl trailed down her spine at the low, masculine sound. Alex shifted a little in the dark, his thigh brushing her foot, and she found herself listening to the sound of his breathing. Her fingers shaking a little, she sat forward and held the cigar out to him. She felt his hesitation before he reached out and took it from her. Their fingers brushed, and the curl tightened deliciously.

  “You don’t want it?” he murmured, lifting the cigar himself and breathing in its scent.

  His low, soft voice seemed to resonate along her breastbone, her heartbeat speeding in response. “No, but may I borrow it again sometime?”

  He tucked the smoke back into his pocket and chuckled again. “Of course.”

  “So why aren’t you with Barbara Sinclair right now?” she asked, then wished she hadn’t spoken.

  Unexpectedly Alex wrapped both hands about her left ankle and shifted it across his thigh. His long-fingered hands began kneading her tired calf muscles through her boots and breeches. “She says I’m a boor. I imagine it will be more than a day before she forgives me.”

  “Are you going to marry her?” She should be protesting against his intimate touch, but if she did, he might stop. And she did not want him to stop.

  In the dark she felt more than saw him shake his head. “No.”

  He tugged her leg toward him, and she slid down a little in the seat. Kit shut her eyes, concentrating on the feel of his hands moving slowly along her leg, and the little shivers running from her scalp all the way down her spin
e. She tilted her head back, feeling the accelerated beat of her heart. “Does she know that?” she breathed, having a difficult time keeping her voice steady.

  “I believe she knows my views on marriage.” His hands kept up their rhythmic, circular kneading.

  “Are you certain?” she pursued, to keep his thoughts elsewhere. She wanted to feel his fingers on her bare skin, his lips on hers again, and not in some kiss he could dismiss with a laugh. Her breasts tightened, scratching against the material that bound them so tightly. “You don’t prefer boys after all, do you?”

  He chuckled. “No.” His fingers stilled. “But I did try it once,” he finally murmured, so quietly she nearly didn’t catch the words.

  Kit took a ragged breath and pulled herself upright again. The fingers slowly released her leg, and she placed both feet firmly on the floor of the coach. “Boys?” she asked, grateful it was dark so he wouldn’t see the hot flush that colored her cheeks.

  “Marriage.” In the fleeting lamplight, his face was turned to the window.

  “You? What happened?” Christine felt the coach turn onto Park Lane, but she sat quietly, waiting for him to continue.

  “She died,” he continued after another pause. “We’d only been married a few months when she caught a fever. She was quite…delicate, even before that, and she died just a few days later.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Mary. Mary Devlin Cale.”

  “Devlin?” Kit repeated slowly.

  He nodded. “Augustus’s younger sister.”

  “That’s what he meant then, when he said loaning me ten quid was all in the family.” She’d sensed that night that there was something between the two men, but had never imagined it would be Alex’s dead wife. “How long ago?”

  “It’s been nearly three years now.”

  “I can see why you didn’t want me in your home, Alex,” Kit offered. “It must be awful, to have me there to remind—”

  Alex snorted. “Good Lord, Kit, I’m not some depraved hermit. I didn’t want you in the house because you’re a nuisance, and because you charmed every other female in sight and irked me so much this evening that I snapped at Barbara, and now I have to sleep alone tonight. Again.” He stood as the footman pulled open the door. “I didn’t expect, however, that I’d like your company. I’m going to the horse auctions tomorrow. If you want to come, be ready by nine.”