by Laura Parker
He took her hand and briefly brought it to his lips. As he did so he noted that her expression remained one of wonder with no trace of fright or concern. No, this was not the reaction of a girl reencountering her assailant.
“I am desolate,” he murmured as he stole a lingering glance at her bosom. The memory of a soft kiss stirred in his memory. He did not, as a rule, enjoy kissing. Odd that he should recall hers, both in taste and texture. “Alas, you do not remember me.”
The smile Lord Darlington offered Sabrina might have caused a lesser maiden to flee for her life. But she had been too afraid that she might not recognize or, in turn, be recognized by anyone on her first venture into Bath society to take exception to his approach. “Oh, but I do know you, my lord.”
“Do you?” His tone was one of polite inquiry though steel framed it. Perhaps he had not yet won through.
“You are Lady Lovelace’s friend, the Viscount Darlington.” Sabrina finished her declaration a shade more subdued than she had begun it for a slight frost now laced the nobleman’s gray gaze.
“Rather say I am the countess’s supplicant puppy and you’ve a better description of my plight,” he answered. His practiced voice gave lie to every outrageous syllable. “I am honored that you remember me.”
His effort to charm her momentarily disconcerted Sabrina. She had not forgotten for one instance his constant snubbing of her in Lady Charlotte’s salon. Yet she was grateful for this pretense to an acquaintance now. What fortuitous luck that he had deigned to recognize her in public. It would give her an instant profile in town that no amount of mere wealth could. Yet she suspected that he would quickly rescind his patronage if she did not make an impression upon him.
She lifted a gaze bright with mischief and met his calm expression. “Who could forget you, my lord? Once made your impression is indelible. ’Tis, of course, on account of your countenance.”
The simple gallantry Jack was about to speak in reply died on his lips. He had lived too bold and intemperate a life to be easily swayed by unexpected events. Yet, for the space of two heartbeats her frankness took him aback. A merchant’s chit had mentioned a disfigurement that not even his noble acquaintances dared allude to in his presence.
He reached up as though he would touch the scar, yet he merely sketched the sickle shape in the air before his cheek. “You find it—disturbing?”
“To the contrary.” Sabrina’s smile found its full glory. “I should not imagine, once a person has a moment to become accustomed to it, that your scar would disturb her any more than it does you.”
“I see.” Jack wondered at her purpose. She spoke neither artlessly nor from gaucherie. She was deliberately provoking him. It was a tribute to her success thus far that he remained in her company, for his purpose was accomplished. He no longer doubted that she had glimpsed his unmasked face. That fact, like his scar, would not have gone unremarked upon by this bold miss.
His gaze flicked discerningly over her, remarking with the eye of a libertine the flush beneath her flawless skin and the rapid pulse at the base of her throat. She was attracted to him, a fact that neither impressed nor emboldened him. However tempting a morsel Miss Lyndsey might be, innocents were not his style. Now that he thought of it, he suspected that she had shot him, not for the forty guineas he had taken, but for the simple liberty of the kiss he had stolen.
The scar on his right cheek twinged as it sometimes did when he was roused by unpleasant memories. Had a gentleman fired on him he would have sought retribution with the lethal tip of his rapier. At that, a wicked idea formed wholly and complete in his thoughts.
Would it not then be perfect revenge to repay an insult from a female with thrusts of a more personal nature?
He dismissed instantly any inkling of misgiving on the subject. He did not believe in pity, did not subscribe to it nor expect it in any part of his life.
Jack glanced down with new interest untainted by sympathy at his possible quarry. Her eyes were wide upon him, too wide for modesty’s sake. Though she looked the picture of innocence in her cotton gown and demurely covered and powdered hair, he knew her as the ebony-tressed temptress of the highway. Seduction of her would be a simple matter. Even now she was trembling ever so slightly with the delicious temptation of desires she might not even yet recognize as carnal interest.
Virginal excitement. He had never experienced it. Perhaps it would be more entertaining to make her fall in love with him. His triumph would be complete when he abandoned her to her disgrace, smug in the knowledge that she would never know why.
“Allow me to escort you to the Pump Room, Miss Lyndsey, that you may partake of the waters.”
“I—oh, must I?” Sabrina wrinkled her nose. “I should prefer to be away as quickly as possible. The place smells of rotten eggs.”
“That is the spring water,” he answered and calmly reached out for her hand. As he tucked it into the crook of his arm, he added with a mocking lilt, “I assure you, you shall find the taste equally disagreeable.”
“Then I must hope to find the company in The Bath much the opposite,” Sabrina answered pertly though she did not have the nerve to glance up at him this time.
He was much too close and she was vaguely aware of an antagonism in him she had not felt moments before. Where her fingers lay trapped in the crook of his brown velvet sleeve his warmth penetrated with disquieting affect. It marked a reminder that the day was cool and, more disturbing, that the man was not. It recalled vividly to her mind the powerful arms of the highwayman who had swept her first from her coach seat and later into his embrace.
She glanced sideways at the viscount, noting that his profile was quite attractive. Was he as skilled a lover as Jack Law? His reputation certainly made it seem a possibility. Lady Charlotte’s friends recounted Jack Laughton to be a thorough profligate as well as the most accomplished gambler in London.
The feel of a man’s hard heavy body pressing into hers had quite astonished Sabrina, as had the wet silk and sinewy force of his licentious tongue. She had been mortified and enraged by the highwayman’s liberties, yet also, if she were to be perfectly honest, thrilled by it all.
Faint surprise sped through her. She had never before thought of any man in such an intimate fashion! Now she was making comparisons between two of them! Perhaps Cousin Robert was right. She had no shame.
That thought drew a smile from her.
“You must be the possessor of charming thoughts. Would you care to share them?”
The sound of Lord Darlington’s voice startled her. How could she have forgotten her purpose in coming here so quickly? She would be called back to Mrs. Noyes’ soon enough where she could brood at leisure over her highwayman. Now she must say something that would plant the seed of her interest in gaming with Lord Darlington. Of course! She would recount how she lost her money at the hands of a highwayman.
“I was remembering my journey to Bath, my lord.” Sabrina put a small sigh in her voice. “ ’Twas an onerous one plagued by bad roads and the specter of a highwayman.”
“A highwayman, Miss Sabrina?” He drew her to a halt by the simple act of pausing himself. “Do tell me. Were you robbed?”
“Why, yes. I was.”
“How very trying for you.” Something less than sympathy colored his voice. “Of course, you have reported your loss to the authorities?”
“No.” The arch of surprise in his brows annoyed her. “There was no need. He took little of value to me.”
“Indeed? And yet you tremble to speak of it.” He placed his hand over hers as he leaned slightly toward her. It seemed by the gesture that he grew in height and size, blocking from her view all but the fringes of the Pump Room. There was no place to look but up into his light eyes—strangely misty like the day. “You must have been truly frightened by the scoundrel.”
Sabrina stared at him, for a moment confused by the difference between his solicitous words and the expression on his face. T
here was no genuine concern or kindness in his polished voice or warmth of true interest in his gaze. His gray eyes were as serene as a still pond, and just as unfathomable.
“I was not, at first. Though he demanded that I hand over the sum I had intended to use to amuse myself at the card tables of Bath.” She weighed her words against any alteration of his countenance and found only disappointment. He might have been a marble bust for all the feeling he exhibited. As a gambler she had hoped that he would commiserate over the loss of another, even by a thief. “But then the villain announced himself to be the infamous brigand Blackjack Law.”
“ ’Twas rash of the fellow,” Jack remarked with a touch of a smile. Clearly she was a novice at intrigue. Her attempt to solicit his sympathy was too broadly played. But then she was about to learn about manipulation of feelings from a master—himself. “Do tell me more.”
Satisfied to have retained his interest, Sabrina continued. “He was a braggart, to be sure. I’ve heard he fancies himself highborn. ’Tis preposterous. ’Twas manifest he is not of noble blood.”
“Truly? And how did you come by this judgement, Miss Lyndsey?”
Sabrina did not miss his subtle reference to her own untitled state and knew she had made a blunder. She sounded supercilious when she had meant to sound worldly. “Do you not hold the opinion, my lord, that only an untutored rogue and coward would threaten helpless females?”
His lips arched in a thin smile. “Helpless? Certainly, as you are here to tell the tale, you were more than equal to the matter?”
“I will allow to a most providential bit of good fortune though I’ve told no one else but my hostess of it.” She lowered her voice in the hope that by confiding in him he would feel bound to offer her aid. “I was able to steal the rascal’s pistol. And though you will not own it, I quite believe I shot him!”
“A most unfortunate circumstance for the poor brute,” he murmured.
“He more than deserved it,” she declared hotly, annoyed that he did not praise her intrepid nature.
Jack’s smile curled at the edges, caught fire by unholy amusement. “Such a violent young lady. You quite astonish me. Or perhaps there was just cause for your ire.”
He bent close to her ear, almost brushing her lace cap with his lips as he squeezed her fingertips. Whispering low in a tone that had encouraged more experienced women to abandon good sense and divulge to him their most damaging secrets, he asked, “What nefarious deed did this outlaw accomplish that you should in recompense seek his life?”
As intimate as a lover’s caress, the warmth of his breath played across Sabrina’s left cheek. What “nefarious deed,” she wondered, would best suit her desire to gain his sympathy? “Well, he …”
“Yes?”
“He insulted me,” she finished weakly.
“I see.” He moved back from her, as though to show that he knew he had pressed her too hard. “You may not wish to refine too much upon it, Miss Lyndsey. ’Tis well-known that highwaymen take gross advantage of the young females who are at their mercy.”
“The highwayman took no more liberties with us, my lord, than to relieve me and my companion of our purses.”
“Most curious. And just the two females at his mercy?” Jack allowed his suspicion a moment to fester in her thoughts. “I’ve heard of this Jack Law. He is notorious for his romantic conquests of his victims.”
He lowered his gaze deliberately to her neckline and was rewarded by the deep flush of emotion he spied there. Really, this was no challenge at all. The chit was too easily moved. “Women are seldom eager to admit that he has stolen from them something infinitely more valuable than gold.”
In mounting frustration Sabrina realized that he had formed the opinion that she had been ravished and worse, to judge by the censure in his words, he found that to her discredit. She could not leave him with that impression. Perhaps, for all his repute as a rake, he was also a prude.
“Jack Law was a gentleman,” she replied calmly. “I think it cannot be but that he is a true gallant forced by extreme circumstances of which we may never know to earn his keep on the byways.”
It was also the first guileless statement she had made, Jack thought. How very satisfying that it was said in his defense, though she did not know it. So she believed in the romantic fantasy of knights-errant. Poor child. She would be his by the end of the week.
He patted her hand, which lay just inches below the wound that she had inflicted upon him. “Then may he draw so lovely and persuasive an advocate as you, Miss Lyndsey, should he come to trial. Else you may be certain, Jack Law shall swing by his gallant neck.”
“Did someone mention Jack Law?”
Sabrina looked round at this new voice to find that a young, ruddy-complexioned gentleman had approached them.
“You did,” Jack responded. “Miss Lyndsey’s coach was met by a brigand on the road from London.” He glanced down at Sabrina. “Allow me to present to you Miss Lyndsey. Miss Lyndsey, this is Lord Healy, Viscount of Greybriar, in Ireland.”
Even before the introduction was done Jack looked off with a quick flickering of a smile that caught the attentions of both his companions. “By your leave. I see the day is not yet a loss to me.”
Without even a salute of her hand, he lifted Sabrina’s hand free of his arm and walked quickly away.
“Wretched manners,” Sabrina remarked before she could stop herself.
“You must forgive Lord Darlington’s abrupt nature, Miss Lyndsey.” Healy smiled at her, his interest in her fueled by Darlington’s own. “I believe it to be my most fortunate gain that we’ve been abandoned by our mutual friend.”
“Lord Darlington is no friend,” Sabrina countered in pique. “We but share a slight acquaintance made in London through a mutual friend.”
“A lady, I’ll wager.”
“Yes,” she answered more sharply than was wise.
Darlington had dropped his interest in her as quickly as he had sought it. Though she knew it to be the very worst action a lady of pride could choose after sustaining a gentleman’s snub, she turned her head to search out the direction of the viscount’s defection and encountered the second surprise of the morning.
“Why, that is the Countess Lovelace!”
Chapter Eight
“Countess Lovelace.”
Lotte Lovelace turned from her contemplation of the ornamental shrubbery growing in pots just inside the archway of the Pump Room, her brows arched in censorious inquiry against the person who had dared make free with her name in public. Her expression warmed the instant she beheld the gentleman crossing the room toward her.
“Darlington,” she murmured in delight and shooed away the maid who had accompanied her.
Turning her full attention on the viscount, she recognized in him at once the signs of a night’s dissipation. The heavy fall of lace from his jabot and at his cuffs had wilted in the dampish air of the autumn morning. His scar was a little more pronounced, etching a pale crescent through the golden stubble of his night-grown beard. His mouth, usually held in check by a habitual sneer, was softened by weariness. Or could it be genuine pleasure that showed to full advantage its sensual contours?
Lotte’s heart stumbled at the thought.
Lud! She had forgotten that quickly the impact Jack Laughton had on her feminine pulse. Yet, she was no fool, for all Ran thought of her. She knew it was no mark of distinction for a lady to have had the privilege of allowing the West Indian viscount to comport himself with lewd intent between her thighs. If rumor were at all reliable, he was equitably disposed to all offers.
No, she would never mistake his interest in her for genuine affection. He would know her infatuation for what it was, take her if she so recklessly allowed it, and then treat her as he did his other conquests, with faint contempt for their own weakness. For there was one thing she had perceived of him from the first. Darlington loved nothing and no one, least of all himself.
Still, it was such delicious fun to flirt outrageously with him and see that fire of desire burn into those strangely light eyes, even if it were insincere. It had been weeks, nay, more, since Ran had looked at her as a woman; adorable, desirable, eager to yield only to him. The throb of her pulse might be only nature but it was a comfort in her life, a life that had recently gone inexplicably, horribly wrong.
As he reached her, Lotte held out both hands to him along with a smile flushed by her most recent thoughts. “Lord Darlington! Whatever can this mean, to find you in The Bath?”
“Whatever you choose to have it signify, Countess.” He took her hands in his possessive grasp. “So long as the words you use to describe the event are delighted, charmed, and pleasured to be again in your presence.”
Lotte laughed. It was an arch remark that did not overstate its purpose with flowery embellishments. Contrary to the smug opinion of most gentlemen of the Beau Monde, truly accomplished rakes such as Darlington were rare commodities even in London.
Jack lingered a fraction longer than was proper on the backs of each of her slim hands so that Lotte’s cheeks blossomed with roses by the time he was done. He lowered his lids as he straightened up to shield the intensity of the sentiment he suspected his gaze revealed. “Ah, Countess, the day improves by the minute.”
“La, my lord, you are as free with your compliments as the spring with its rain. They fall indiscriminately upon all, do they not?”
“Countess Lovelace? Please forgive my temerity.”
The viscount and countess turned displeased faces to the interrupter of their tête-à-tête but Lotte’s expression did a rapid reversal into a smile. “Dear little Sabrina Lyndsey! It is you!”
Lotte reached out to pull her close so they could exchange kisses in the French fashion, on both cheeks. “Sweet child, whatever are you doing in Bath?” A sudden hectic flush entered her cheeks as she lifted her head and gazed eagerly about the room. “Don’t tell me! Lord Randolph has brought you with him as a special favor to me.”