by Carrie Lomax
“What is that supposed to mean?” Antonia demanded.
“Old ladies aren’t known for their cutthroat betting. Dowagers tend to be a cautious lot.”
Antonia rolled her big brown eyes as though she thought him the simplest of children. “They may not have much to wager, yet I suspect the pot is richer than you might think.”
“What makes you think that?” he demanded. “Don’t you ever get tired of challenging every single sentence I utter?”
She laughed. “Which question do you want me to answer first?”
“Both.” Damn this confounding woman.
“Rich old ladies have no further responsibilities. They can spend their money however they wish. You? Men like you, with properties to maintain and servants to pay and wives to court and children to beget?”
Malcolm’s entire body tightened at the thought of begetting children on Antonia.
“That costs money,” she declared. “A lot of it. And from what I have observed over the past several months, heirs with coin to spend don’t often use it well. You buy fast horses and sleek carriages and the services of beautiful women. Older ladies have steady incomes, a lifetime of wisdom and a keen sense of risk. They bet high when they wish to and delight in fleecing those who challenge them.”
It occurred to Malcolm that she was not innocent. Even if Miss Lowry was a virgin—not that it mattered to him whether or not she was—she possessed insight into how the world worked that debutantes usually did not. However she had gained it, he enjoyed the way it kept their back-and-forth on an even keel. He might gain the upper hand for a while, but he could count upon Antonia to knock him off balance in short order. This stood in stark contrast to Lady Margaret, who agreed too quickly in her eagerness to please. That gave him great discomfort. Malcolm would much rather spar.
“Are you saying this about all older women or my grandmother in particular?” he demanded. Now that blood had begun circulating about as normal, instead of rushing to make a nuisance in his trousers, Malcolm set about his second order of business. He removed their outerwear from the table and set the damp wool in a heap on the floor. Her mantle and his great coat twined together in a lump. Even that sad pile brought to mind uncomfortable flickering images of their bodies entwined. He exhaled and moved the two chairs into place on opposite sides of the table.
“I am saying this about your grandmother.” Antonia smoothly seated herself across from him. If her bruised bottom bothered her, she didn’t show it.
“Why?” he asked pointedly. Malcolm patted his pockets and withdrew a rectangle of card stock.
“Because last night, I had an opportunity to observe her at play while you and Margaret were flitting about the dance floor like a pair of ill-matched marionettes,” Antonia responded tartly. She picked up the deck of cards he had placed face-down on the table and began to shuffle them. Thhhftp.
“We are rather ill-matched, aren’t we?” He cut the deck with a snap. “Dancing with Lady Margaret is like dancing with a…” Child. “Doll.”
“No. It doesn’t look right, the two of you together. Maggie hardly comes up to your shoulder. It is impossible to imagine you kissing her.”
“Or her kissing me.” Cards skimmed across the scuffed pinewood. The game would come easily to her, unlike the dancing. It required no trust. The thought deflated him. Malcolm had given Antonia little reason to place her faith in him, but he needed more from her than the vaguely hostile back-and-forth. He wanted the vulnerability he had seen in her autumn-leaf eyes when they’d been dancing. He could sketch her features from memory, blindfolded. The precise slant of her nose and the curves of her full lips were that crisply burned into his imagination.
Worse, they were replacing the cobwebby memories of his mother.
“Margaret wouldn’t,” Antonia insisted in a bored tone. She flipped over the first card. Malcolm caught the stubbornness in her chin and read uncertainty in her posture. She wouldn’t meet his gaze until he failed to play promptly. Then she pinned him with a cool glare and arched one eyebrow. “Are you going to play?”
“What makes you so certain?” he asked casually as he flipped up an eight of diamonds. “Perhaps Margaret is more serious about me than you believe.”
“Just like a man to believe every woman has a weakness for him.” Antonia snapped a card down onto the table. “Must you be so predictable?”
Malcolm chuckled. He’d gotten under her skin, and the sight of mildly envious Antonia set a spark to the powder keg of his attraction to her. Her toe tapped the air beneath her skirt hem as it often did when she was anxious. “Would it bother you?”
“Would what bother me?” Antonia parried, scooping up a trick with a triumphant gloat.
“If I kissed your friend.”
“Not in the least,” she said coolly. “But only if you mean it. I strong-armed you into this play-acted courtship. However, if it should blossom into feelings, I encourage you both to take advantage of the opportunity. Break her heart, though, and I’ll break your kneecaps.”
Malcolm tried not to laugh at the thought of pretty Antonia engaging in sufficient violence to harm him bodily. Then, he recalled that she had unrepentantly dumped a dead woman’s body into the Thames in an attempt to fake her own death. Best not to put anything past her. It also reminded him that his time with Antonia was short. Before his good sense could short-circuit the words, he asked, “Would it bother you if I kissed you?” Malcolm asked, placing a king of spades squarely on the pile.
“Bother me?” Antonia sat back in her chair. The muscles in her throat worked. “You wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I have dreamt of it ever since the night on the wharf.” This time, he scooped up the trick and played the next card. Two bright spots warmed the apples of Antonia’s cheeks. For once, the woman had no comeback. A momentary thrill jolted through him at seizing the upper hand, though he knew he would lose it in the next breath. “No need for fear. I won’t kiss you, Antonia.”
“Why not?” she demanded huskily.
“Because I intend to let you kiss me first.”
Her lips parted. A puff of outrage was interrupted by the bell tower outside. Malcolm shoved back his chair and scooped up the deck of cards. “We shall try this again tomorrow. If you are available to meet as early as eight, I’ll be here.”
“Doing what?” Antonia asked, so earnestly that he almost told her.
“If you want to know, you’ll have to arrive early and find out.” He bent to collect her mantle from the floor and held it out. Antonia paced to him and turned on her heel as she backed into it. He rasped her name.
“Yes?”
“If you let me lead on the dance floor, I promise to follow your wishes in every other regard.”
She never turned to face him. No defiant glare, no mocking sarcasm. Only the quick tap of her shoes over the wood floor as Antonia Lowry departed in a cloud of silk-lined wool and the faint scent of French-milled soap. It left him tight with frustration and no outlet.
Save one.
* * *
Antonia mounted the stairs the next morning unsure what she might find. Dinner conversation had not been easy yesterday. She had confided in Margaret after the fact, but when Lady Evendaw had inquired politely that afternoon about her lessons, Antonia had smiled and offered bland descriptions of an older gentleman (technically true) and a trio of other students (a bold-faced lie).
“Tis’ an excellent opportunity for you,” remarked her hostess. “As well as a mark of Lady Jersey and Princess Esterhazy’s regard for Havencrest’s reputation.” For once, Lady Evendaw bestowed a warm glance at Margaret. Antonia wondered what the woman would say if she confessed to spending the entire hour unaccompanied in the presence of Lord Havencrest—and worse, that it hadn’t been the first time.
It was a tempting thought, but one that would have her out on her ass in no time if she so much as whispered the truth aloud. Thus, her giddy act of rebellion as she regaled Margaret with the morning’s
surprise.
Remembering the way he had touched her had led Antonia to spend the hour post-dinner when she was supposed to be resting before the evening’s entertainment with her hand between her legs. Antonia was accustomed to taking care of such matters herself. She had indulged in physical relations with men before. Her mother’s decision to enter into the street trade for a few years had gotten the family through the worst hard times. It had also given Antonia a solid education in men’s physical needs. Her mother claimed the experience could be satisfying for women as well. When Antonia had tried it, the results had mostly left her wanting more. At least she knew to insist upon a condom.
But here in the privacy of her own room, with its soft pillows and warm counterpane, Antonia lingered over fantasies of Malcolm’s touch. His body moved like a bullfighter’s. Lithe and strong, with his broad back and narrow waist and muscular thighs. Antonia closed her eyes to better imagine what might happen if she took him up on his casual invitation.
I intend to let you kiss me first.
The memory of his words spoken in a matter-of-fact tone with a husky burr was enough to turn Antonia into a puddle even now, a day later.
“Is anyone here?” she called out, finding the room empty. As her eyes adjusted from the gloom of the stairway to the stark winter light streaming in through the windows, she spied Havencrest’s form hunched over a small table near the window.
Oh, bother, she’d been right. He was pleasuring himself and catching him in the act was far less interesting and much more embarrassing than it had been in her dreams. Havencrest froze. Her words echoed through the empty room and faded into nothing.
“Antonia?” he asked. The man shoved back his chair and rose with jerky movements, startled. His trousers were not unfastened, thank heavens. The quick movements of his elbow had not been the jerks of a man stroking his cock. Antonia felt a perplexing mixture of disappointment and curiosity. If he had been pleasuring himself, she’d have been horrified.
“You said to come at eight.”
“I didn’t believe you’d actually do it.” Havencrest scooped together a pack of papers as though to conceal their content. A wooden case of pencils and pastels lay open before him. Antonia cat-pawed toward him on tiptoe. Her hands worked the fastenings of her outerwear until they loosened and fell away from her body. As a woman with little respect for anyone’s personal property, she had no reservations about trying to see what the man had been up to.
Drawings. On the little table sat a wooden figure.
“What’s this?” she asked, picking it up. The jointed sections intrigued her. She tested the little joints and found them infinitely flexible.
“A manikin. It is used for drawing figures.”
“Is that what you were doing?” Antonia asked. “Drawing pictures of people?” She spread the doll’s legs wide, bent the knees and tucked its ankles around its neck. With a one-sided grin, she placed it back where she had found it. The little figurine held its obscene position. Havencrest’s mouth flattened.
Did this make Malcolm uncomfortable? How disappointing.
Since he had promised not to kiss her unless she did so first, Antonia figured she had plenty of room to test the boundaries of his resolve. He said nothing as he set about putting away his art supplies. But the instant she had the opportunity, she slipped the stack of paper out from beneath his elbow and whirled away, flipping through the contents as she walked.
In the middle of the room, she halted. Antonia had been so absorbed in Malcolm’s sketches that she hadn’t noticed him following her until he loomed over her and snatched the stack of papers out of her hands. She turned on her heel.
“Why are you drawing me?” she demanded.
“I’m not.” He kept his back to her while he carefully tapped the pages back into alignment. He placed the stack into a leather case and tied it shut. The folio and the wooden case of supplies tucked away beneath the table.
“Who is she?” A strange tightness constricted her chest, composed of equal parts agony and despair.
“My mother.”
Oh. The Dowager Duchess of Summervale had remarked upon Antonia’s resemblance to her daughter. At the time, she had brushed it off as the sad meanderings of an old woman’s fading memory. But if the sketches were close enough, perhaps there was more to it.
“I thought today that we should start with a cotillion. It is fairly straightforward, and a well-executed dance would go a long way toward restoring your reputation amongst the Almack’s patronesses.”
Antonia hoped her relief wasn’t visible to the duke. He left the drawings on the table and turned to face her. “Like this.”
Havencrest seized her hand. Antonia permitted it, though she wanted to yank her hand free and demand he show her the pictures he’d been making. If she did, he’d deny ever having touched a pencil, so she let him lead her to the center of the room instead. Antonia knew stubbornness when she saw it. Malcolm’s nearly matched her own.
“Ideally, there would be four couples. Ideally, we begin with a circle. As that is a pointless effort in the face of no partners, we shall move on to the basic steps. We cross our arms over our backs, like so, and make two half circles.”
Antonia chose to be pliant as they grasped hands at the small of one another’s backs.
“Good. Now look me in the eye. We shall do a full turn, and then, we would switch partners.”
“Switch partners?” Antonia asked as dread dampened her interest in his personal artwork.
“Yes, you do this with each male half of the four partners who are dancing.” He frowned. “Does that make sense?”
“Show me again.” Antonia bounced on the balls of her feet as Malcolm grasped her hand again. Her chin dropped to watch her toes as they poked out from beneath the hem of her amber silk gown. A whisper of skin urged her gaze upward.
“We look at one another and pretend to be enjoying this process,” he instructed. “Like this.”
Antonia followed. When he released her, she switched sides and grasped his other hand to resume the twirl.
“Well done,” he complimented. “Although you’re trying to lead again.”
“I’m not,” Antonia insisted. “You have a long stride, Malcolm. It’s not easy to keep up with you.”
Contrite, he shortened his step to match hers. “Better?”
“Yes. Thank you. This is far superior to the waltz, in my view,” Antonia said as familiar warmth slid through her midsection.
“Why so?” Havencrest asked. In her mind, he was still the high-handed duke who had blackmailed her into staying when she had planned on running. But alone here in this under-heated space she had glimpsed the solitary man who kept his hurt to himself. That man, Malcolm, intrigued her far too much. Or, perhaps Antonia was tired of running. She had a sumptuous bed in which to lay her head each evening, the makings of a friend in Margaret, and whatever this was between her and Havencrest. It frightened her how her heart seized on the tiniest bud of a future. Best to yank it out by the roots before it could grow and blossom into hope.
“The cotillion is a dance where a lady is permitted to see where she is going,” Antonia remarked. She skipped backward and wheeled away as if to take up with an invisible dance partner. She dropped a curtsey the way she’d practiced when she was staying with the American Kilpatrick ladies.
“Duly noted. It also offers far less opportunity for conversation. Ideal when one is disinclined toward one’s partner. A waltz is altogether more romantic.”
“No wonder we were such terrible partners, then. The very last thing we are is romantic.” Malcolm’s eyes had glinted with amusement, but now they shaded. It made Antonia feel small and shrewish. They switched again, and then again. For a quarter-hour or so Havencrest walked her through the steps. “Now, let’s put them together.”
Antonia successfully completed a dance.
“One last piece of advice. You are expected to smile when dancing.”
“You’re telli
ng me to smile more?”
Havencrest’s handsome face pulled into a mild grimace. “I am providing you information. If you don’t wish to use it, that is your decision. It will go a long way toward convincing observers at a dance that you are exactly what you appear to be if you can pretend to enjoy yourself while dancing.”
“And what is that?” Antonia asked, prodding. She liked it when Malcolm doled out begrudging compliments.
“A demure and pleasant visitor from a foreign land attempting to learn our local customs.”
“Not a thief, you mean,” she confirmed.
“Precisely. For the entire time we have been learning the cotillion, I have wondered whether you were about to lurch across the space and bite me. However much you dislike me, Miss Lowry, it will be easier to publicly convince others if you practice with me in private.”
“I don’t dislike you,” she said softly. The problem was that Antonia liked him far more than she ought to. Especially here, when they were alone without the world pressing in on them from all sides. Malcolm regarded her with sharp interest but said nothing in response. Antonia’s heart tried to clamber into her throat. Had she revealed too much? Or had she managed to tie his tongue with her customary bluntness?
Outside, the clock tower bell rang the hour. Nine o’clock. They stopped as one, facing one another, a little out of breath.
“Let’s take a break and try a game of whist,” Antonia offered. If he touched her again, she’d have to act on one of her outrageous fantasies from yesterday. Or at least kiss him. Damned if she’d go first.
“Why whist?”
“I hardly know how to play, but it’s clear your grandmother enjoys it the game. It’s a way to ingratiate myself with her. But I have to know the basics before I can cheat effectively.’
Malcolm regarded her with skepticism. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “Agreed. We have another opportunity this evening to observe my grandmother. I have it on good authority she is attending the same ball as your hosts.”
They rearranged objects on the small table. Antonia wordlessly passed over the wood case of drawing supplies.