by Charlie Lane
Allison tugged her hand from his grasp. “You don’t have to go, but I will.”
Not fair. He ached to follow the earl to Drury Lane and who knew what adventures. “I understand you want to go. I do, too. But it’s just not possible.”
“But it is! My family thinks I’m at Lady Beckingham’s weekly meeting for London Ladies. They’ll have no idea where I actually am.”
“And if someone sees you in Drury Lane?”
“I’m wearing my cloak. I’ll pull it close.” Her fingers fiddled with the edge of the cloak, then she pinned him with a stare. “What do you mean you want to go, too?”
He meant he’d had a rough day, and Lord Hellwater promised some fun. That he’d not yet tried his hand at the stage and thought he might be good at it. That this was just the sort of thing he did when his mother wasn’t watching. That he’d had just enough ale to make this seem like a grand idea indeed.
But another reason occurred to him, making Lord Hellwater’s afternoon theatricals even more appealing. If he escorted Miss Shropshire, he could show her he wasn’t really like his mother’s version of him at all, and possibly, if luck traveled with him, he could change her mind about his proposal.
The smile Allison had been hiding burst forth.
Carson couldn’t look away. “Good God, woman, you’ll blind someone. Why are you smiling at me like that, anyway?” She’d only once before gifted him so. When they’d first met. No, before they’d met, before she’d known who he was.
Allison shook her head softly, slowly. “It’s quite clear, despite my expectations, you’re not going to stop me from going. It’s also quite clear I have no idea who exactly you are, my lord.”
Hm. Funny. Most of the time, he didn’t know who he was either.
Chapter 5
Allison stood in one corner of a ballroom that no longer resembled a ballroom. A curtained stage graced one end of the long room, and people in bright clothing bustled everywhere yelling over conversations, singing, and the clangs of a sword fight. The room swirled around her in disorienting chaos.
And at its center—more baffling than the rest of it—Lord Trevor swaggered, flashing a fake sword. Had the world turned topsy-turvy? Was she dreaming? Lord Trevor would never—he’d just rolled across the floor! He grinned wildly, looking for all the world like a charming rogue. The day continued to heap surprises on her head.
Allison shook her head and turned away from the sight. She couldn’t think while looking at Lord Trevor. Why had he come to Lord Hellwater’s matinee performance? He didn’t have to. Maybe he hadn’t come after all, and the man rolling across the floor, sword clenched between his teeth, was a figment of her imagination. She took another peek in his direction.
He jumped in the air, arms swinging wildly. “Ah-ha!” His yell rang across the ballroom, and Lord Hellwater clapped his hands in delight at the theatrics.
He was no personal delusion then, the bouncing, rolling Lord Trevor. There he stood, brandishing a wooden sword about as if he had been born to the theater. Or a pirate ship. Or both. Surely, somewhere in the world, existed a drama-mad pirate who tread the boards as passionately as he made others walk the plank. If not, Lord Trevor should have been he.
No, no, no! All wrong. Lord Trevor was a proper, careful gentleman, not a pirate. Just last week, she’d seen him propping up a wall at Almack’s, skirting the periphery of the crowd, too superior to cavort with the masses. He’d only abandoned his post when his mother hauled him across the room to dance with the lady of her choice. Allison had not been one of those ladies. She’d watched him for a while, thinking to catch a glimpse of his rare, charming smile. But it had never surfaced. He’d remained boring, proper, condescending even.
Perhaps Lord Trevor’s innate gentlemanliness, the qualities he showed in spades in ballrooms across London, had made him follow Allison into sure scandal this afternoon. But his gentlemanly instinct to protect a lady could not be his only motive. If so, he wouldn’t be gallivanting about a makeshift stage, sword in one hand, dog-eared script in another.
She shook her head and her skirts, brushing out the wrinkles of the voluminous amethyst-colored gown she’d been given upon arrival. Pondering Lord Trevor’s motivations wasted a perfectly good adventure. Much better to practice her own lines and meet the other performers. She looked about her. Everywhere, people bustled, energized and busy. She sidled up to a couple practicing lines with one another, both dressed in purple with crowns on their heads. The man spoke quietly, and the woman bellowed.
“Good afternoon,” Allison ventured during a pause in the woman’s speech. “I’m Miss Shropshire.”
The woman studied Allison, then looked over Allison’s shoulder. “And who might you be?”
“I told you, I’m Miss—”
“I’m Lord Trevor.”
Allison peeked over her shoulder to see that very man striding toward them, his face lit with merriment. Blast! He most likely planned to ensure she had as little fun as possible. Why else had he followed her here? He’d let her be when she stewed in a corner alone, but as soon as she dared to mingle with the masses, he pounced. Anger welled up in her. He would not ruin her fun!
But that smile, spread across his face … would anyone with a smile like his really squish her fun? He no longer looked the bored, proper lord from Almack’s, the dutiful son from the Moral luncheons.
He’d transformed into someone entirely new and entirely mysterious.
Who was Carson Allworthy, Lord Trevor?
The woman wearing the crown whistled and leaned close to Allison, actually managing a whisper. “Lord Brawny, more like.”
What? Lord Trevor? Brawny? Hardly. But as he stopped beside her and extended a handshake to the man and woman, Allison realized he wasn’t small. Not even close. She’d always known he was tall, but good Lord high in Heaven, his shoulders! Broad, muscled, perfect really. Did he usually stoop? Or stand far away? Perhaps he always stood next to gentleman twice his size? These were the only explanations for why she’d never noticed his size before.
Perhaps he’d always been fully, properly dressed before. Now, his jacket lay discarded somewhere, as did his cravat. His waistcoat flapped open, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to reveal trim, powerful forearms covered with hair. He’d put aside his formal clothing, but so much more had fallen away with the clothes. The model of moral manhood was a ruse, and the messy, primal man with hairy forearms the real Lord Trevor. He stood naked before her. Not really naked, of course. Heat rushed to her cheeks at the delectable image hinted at by his missing cravat and rolled sleeves. She blinked it away. An actually naked Lord Trevor was heart-poundingly intriguing. But a figuratively naked Lord Trevor, stripped of everything she’d been so sure defined him—propriety, politeness, boredom? That was dangerous.
And, frankly, embarrassing. How had she not seen this before, seen him before?
He must be a good actor.
Her stomach rolled uncomfortably. It always did when she lied to herself—and she lied to herself now. He’d not hidden himself; she’d not bothered to look, not after learning about his mother. She’d been purposefully blind when it came to Lord Trevor.
A terrible shame.
No. She would not heap so much shame upon herself. Surely, she could not have been so wrong about him before! He would show his true colors soon.
She gulped and tore her attention away from those forearms as the woman who had dubbed him Lord Brawny spoke.
“I’m Mary Sillas. This, here, is Jack.”
Lord Trevor swept into an elegant court bow, one leg extended forward. Had his nose almost hit his knee? My, what flexibility. He popped back up; a cocky grin stretched ear to ear. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. This is my companion, Miss Allison Shropshire.”
Allison bobbed a curtsey. “Hello, Mary Sillas. Jack.”
Mary nudged her silent companion. “Hear her voice? Quality, she is. Even if she ain’t a lady.” She nodded toward Lord Trevor then winked. “Is
this your lass?”
Lord Trevor blinked, then his face fell. He covered it with a playful smile that seemed forced. “Alas, she won’t have me.”
“Is she daft?” Mary asked.
Allison bristled. “I am not!”
Lord Trevor changed the subject. “May I ask if you often participate in these impromptu productions?”
“You may, and I do. I ain’t good enough to get a position at one of the Theatre-Royals, but Lord Hellwater, bless ’im, don’t care about that. He wants the right look, and I got it.”
“And who are you playing?” Allison asked.
“The mourning mother of the slain princess.”
“A queen. Fitting. Lord Hellwater chose the right actress to play the part.”
Allison searched his face for any sign of mockery but found none. His voice had been all sincerity, too. Where was the man who’d sneered down his nose at an entire assembly?
“You have a noble brow,” Lord Trevor continued. “Are you a professional actress?”
Mary Sillas blushed and preened. “Me husband’s a butcher. I help in the shop except on Sundays when I tell ’im I’m going to visit me mam.”
She lied to her husband weekly! Allison braced herself for the moral lecture Lord Trevor would soon foist upon Mary Sillas.
But Lord Trevor winked. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Sillas. I’ll not tell a soul.”
Mary elbowed her still-silent companion. “This one’s a charmer, he is.”
The man grunted then turned and left them alone with Mary Sillas.
Mary watched him go. “He’s right. Need to be memorizin’ me lines. Not much time left.” She turned, tossed a wink over her shoulder, and ambled after Jack.
Frozen with indecision, Allison watched them leave. Follow them and learn her lines? Or stay with Lord Trevor? She’d barely said a word before he’d interrupted her tête-à-tête with, frankly, the most interesting people she’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. Except for Lord Trevor. And therein lies the temptation. She wanted to get to know Mary Sillas and Jack without the distraction of muscled forearms, but … that smile curved Lord Trevor’s chiseled lips upward, offering her a mystery in need of a solution, an adventure just for her.
“Why did you come?” she queried, chaining her gaze to his.
“I had to. I couldn’t let you roll off into the deepening night in the company of an unknown earl with ‘hell’ in his name.”
She glanced across the room where Lord Hellwater laughed. She grunted. A very proper sort of explanation. She didn’t buy it. “Night? It’s barely noon. Do you think this is a gothic novel, Lord Trevor? The earl is harmless if a bit eccentric. He’s not going to ravish me and lock me in a dungeon.”
Lord Trevor leaned in close, his voice a warm whisper. “As far as you know. And definitely not with me here.”
His nearness felt like stars skittering across her skin. “Do you think yourself the hero of a gothic novel? You’re much too dark. They’re all golden-haired. You’re much too big, too.” Was she really flirting with the proper Lord Trevor?
It appeared so, and he appeared to like it.
He crossed his arms over his chest, and the fine lawn of his shirt stretched taut across planes of muscle almost visible beneath the fabric. He slanted her a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”
“I mean …” Mercy, what an extraordinarily nice chest. What had she been thinking? “I mean, where on earth did you get those muscles?” Standing so close to him she sensed every muscle in his hard body, coiled, active, warm, alive. She shifted away from him. “Your mother’s guide says nothing about the virtues of a well-muscled man, so it strikes me as odd you—the epitome of manly virtue, according to that most esteemed lady—would enjoy any sort of activity likely to—”
“My mother doesn’t know everything I do. And not everything I do is done with the intent of pleasing my mother. Sometimes I please myself.”
“That explains the novel reading. And the muscles. And your missing cravat.” And his exposed throat, his corded forearms. My, there really were too many people in the ballroom. It felt like a furnace.
“Reading? Exercise? Hm. Yes. But … there are other ways to pleasure yourself.”
She peeked up at him, not sure what he meant, but excited by the promises hidden in his smiling eyes. That cheeky look of his—it had never fit in with what she knew of him from the Moral Guide. Who was he?
She decided to be daring. This was an adventure after all. She tapped him on the forearm, indicating the muscle under the crisp hair there. “Fencing or boxing?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Fencing.”
“Oh.”
“And, yes, boxing.”
“Ah.”
“And swimming. When I’m in the country.”
Allison frowned. The pieces just didn’t make sense together. “But your mother says ‘sweating is not a gentlemanly pursuit, and all young girls should beware the muscled brute.’”
He winced. “She does? But you said she writes nothing about muscled men.”
“I said she writes nothing of their virtues. Of their faults, she’s quite loquacious. Does she know? About you?” She feigned a punch. “And the boxing?” She feigned a thrust. “And the fencing? And the swimming?”
“No.”
“But how do you hide all,” she waved to his person, “that?”
He shrugged and leaned against the wall behind her. “People see what they want to see, and when they look at me, they see a priggish milksop. You did.”
She winced this time. Was he right? Had she bothered to look at him, really look at him as a person and not a figure cut straight from the pages of his mother’s book, would she have seen a different man standing before her? “I …” Bollocks. “I owe you an apology.” She shook her head, unable anymore to ignore the obvious. He was not the man she’d thought him to be. He was bigger, bolder, better in every way. “I’m sorry I judged you so quickly.” Shame flooded her.
His fingertip pressed like a fire poker under her chin, guiding her face up to his.
“All is forgiven.” He smiled.
She melted.
Then forged a new backbone out of the molten one at her feet. “Thank you. But I’m afraid I must revisit a topic you seem set on avoiding—why you came here with me. It’s because I see now you are not who I thought you were that I must insist you try answering my question again. You claim you wish to protect.” She shook her head. “I don’t think you’re lying. Nor do I think it the entire story.”
His hand dropped from her face, and he shrugged. “Once you agreed to Lord Hellwater’s invitation, I could hardly walk away.”
She shook her head. “While you seemed displeased with my acquiescence, you did not at all appear worried for your own moral virtue.” She leaned closer, tapped him on the shoulder. His hard, muscled shoulder. She pulled her hand back as if bit by flames. “I believe you wanted to do the proper thing. But I also think,” she leaned one shoulder against the wall beside him, confident she’d guessed right, “you wanted to come.”
He opened his mouth, presumably to object, but then those lovely lips of his twisted up, and she just couldn’t help it—she smiled back.
“I needed a distraction,” Lord Trevor finally answered. “From having my proposal rejected this morning.”
This morning she’d been proposed to by a priggish milksop, the son of her greatest enemy. Or had she? She’d really been proposed to by this man, he of the illicit reading material, muscles, and adventures? A shiver raced up her spine. Would she have refused him had she known? “So, you chased after the woman who’d rejected you?”
He turned away from her, hiding the thoughts skittering across his face, tearing it into a million expressions at once. “Do you want the truth?”
She nodded.
“I came along with Lord Hellwater because I hoped to change your mind about who I am. You called me boring. I hoped to make you think I’m les
s like the man in my mother’s book.”
He’d certainly accomplished that goal. This morning, she’d been confident she understood herself, her feelings, her desires, her justified response to his obviously ridiculous marriage scheme. This morning, she’d known Lord Trevor, what he valued, how he acted, and she’d known, without a doubt, she did not care for him.
A few short hours could change everything though.
Allison felt adrift in the bustling room, unmoored without her long-held truths about Lord Trevor, about herself. What to do? What to say?
Then Lord Trevor’s hand slipped into hers, and the spinning world paused. He wove their fingers together. She’d never be able to view him as a cold model of a man ever again. Not this warm, vibrant man, looking at her like she was the only woman in the world.
Chapter 6
Allison followed Lord Trevor to a quiet corner. He found two chairs and set them next to one another. She sat, not knowing what else to do. When he sat next to her and began reading the play, she turned to him, finally finding words to articulate her scattered thoughts.
“You were so nice to Mary Sillas and her friend.”
He leaned back in the chair, his dark eyes hot. “Yes. What of it?”
“You weren’t condescending at all. And you didn’t lecture Mrs. Sillas for lying to her husband.”
“Why should I care if she lies to her husband?” He seemed genuinely perplexed. Then a shadow crossed his face. “Condescending?” His lips thinned. His hands fisted. “One of those C words my mother likes to lump on top of my head.”
Allison shook her head slowly. “You’re nothing like the man in her book, are you?”
He replied slowly, thoughtfully. “I try to be a gentleman, the type of man to make my mother proud. But the man in the book is most certainly not me. Or, not all of me.”
“What is true about you in the book?”
He shrugged. “I’ve not read it all the way through. Any number of things could be true or false, and I’d never know. Lady Ann says the book portrays me as a paragon of propriety.”