A Waltz in the Park (9 page)

He retreated.  He didn’t get far before his back came up against a shelf full of
peau do soie
.  She stopped before him, her heart racing.

“I know the perfect antidote to that.  Do you?”

“No.”  It came out strangled.  By that gorgeous neckcloth, perhaps.

“We’ll tell each other how we feel, what we are thinking.  We retain control.  We act like adults.  I can do that, for the sake of a friend.  Can you?”

He didn’t answer.  “You forgot one,” he said instead.

“
Will we do it again
?  That one?”

“That’s the one.”  His gaze had fixed on her mouth.

Well, then he was going to go cross-eyed.  She leaned in, touched her fingers to his hard-edged jaw, closed her own eyes—and kissed him.

Softly at first.  Then just a bit harder.  Silently, she asked for more, because she was willing enough, but unsure how to take it.

He showed her.  His lips danced sweetly, but then his tongue captured hers.  They consumed each other for a long while as the world slipped sideways, then faded away.  Nothing existed beyond that kiss.  There was only raging heat and mutual desire and a great, yawning emptiness below.

She struggled to pull back, to resurface before she asked—begged—him to fill it.

Though her chest heaved as if she’d run a mile, she stepped back and lifted her chin.  “There.  No question now, is there?  We did it again.  It’s done.  Now we know and there’s no need to wonder or to do it again.”

He looked like she felt—like the howling wind was still blowing inside, screaming for satisfaction.

“Is there?” she demanded.

He cleared his throat.  “No.  No need.  Now we know.”

“And we can continue, acting as adults, helping each other?”

He paused, considering.  Or gathering his shaken senses, as she did.  Mrs. Siddons be damned.  Addy was giving the performance of a lifetime.

“For now.”

She sighed.  “Good.  Now let’s settle the logistics.  We’ll need to be able to reach each other . . .”  She sat, hid her shaking fingers and presented a picture of calm rationality.  Really, if there was any justice in the world, someone would be here to witness this and give her a silent, standing ovation.

Chapter Seven

James Vickers, heir to the Viscount Vickers, libertine, high-stakes gambler, all-around cad and particular pain in his father’s posterior, had done some stupid and dangerous things in his time.  This must top them all.

Why? Not because of an irate husband, cheating black leg or brute of a moneylender.  Oh, no.  Because of a slip of a lovely, inviting, dangerous girl.

He should end this ridiculous arrangement.  But the lure of information to use against his father tempted him strongly—and that was as nothing compared to the appeal of the girl herself.

Which left him suspended in the midst of this conundrum.

At first they kept to their usual routines.  But he began to check in with her nightly during her social events.  He’d wait for a private moment, sidle up and ask her to dance.  Each time she would come up with a more outrageous reason to turn him down.  Each time he would suffer that sharp pang, they would share a laugh, he would occasionally advise her on the gentlemen attending, and then move on.

But he did arrange for a communication system.  Hestia had a small network of street children who kept ears to the ground for her, and ran the occasional errand in exchange for food, a bed, shelter and someone who cared.  Vickers commandeered the lot of them and arranged a schedule in which one of them should be conveniently near Addy Stockton’s house at all times. 

And in fact, she was the first one to call a meeting.

It was mid-morning and he was just leaving his rooms when young Francis Headly dashed up to him on the street.

“Yer gentry mort wants words wit’ ye,” she announced.

“Good morning, Flightly.”  He grinned.  “I thought Hestia was working with you on your speech.”

Her tone and demeanor changed in a flash.  “Indeed, she is, sir.  Unfortunately the streets make a poor venue in which to exercise such skills.”

He chuckled.  “Very nice.  I shall give you a good report.”  Taking out a card, he scribbled on it.

One hour.  Hyde Park.  Chesterfield Gate.  Follow the boy with a red hoop.

He handed her the card and a coin.  “Send Jed to me right away, will you?  And deliver this back to the lady.”

“Aye, aye!”  With an impudent salute, she was off, and he went back inside to make plans.

A little over an hour later, he perched upon a low branch in a small clearing in the midst of a good-sized cluster of trees in Hyde Park.  Just minutes later, rustling heralded her arrival.  Stick in hand and hoop over his shoulder, Jed held a branch high so that Addy might pass through, then he dropped it and disappeared from where they’d come.

Vickers stood.  She looked beautiful in sprigged muslin and a light blue spencer.  Her eyes widened when she spotted him and an impish grin lifted that alluring mouth.  “Worry for our reputations, indeed!  You’ve brought me to an assignation in the Park!”

“I hear they are all the rage.  Wasn’t there gossip just yesterday about Brodham sneaking off with an American chit?”  He sobered.  “Did anyone see you?”

“No, no.  There were some children and nannies at the gate, but I saw no one once we took the footpath heading north.  Is the reservoir near?”

“Just beyond.”

“It is lovely.”  She glanced around at the mix of sun and shade and at the bees flirting with clover and a few straggling wildflowers at the edges.  “What is this place?”

“Actually, it’s a trysting spot well-known amongst a select group of high-flyers.  Safe enough in the daytime, but don’t come near at night unless you are prepared for a shock.”

She shook her head.  “I won’t.  But I am glad you could make arrangements so quickly.”

“Sit down?”  He waved to his former seat.

“I will, although I’m imagining some of the creative uses this branch has been put to.”

He laughed, feeling uncommonly light.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in such a good mood.  “Before you deliver your news, a bit of advice.  I noticed you danced twice with Nowell last night.  Don’t pin your hopes there, he’s not ready for a leg shackle.”  He froze.  “Damn!  If I’d had a head on my shoulders, I should have brought a musician along.  You could scarcely deny me a dance here, Miss Stockton.”

“Of course I could,” she said irritably.  “And you might as well call me Addy, as you’ve kissed me twice and we are now trysting in the Park.”

Lascivious images rose up in his head.  His fingers twitched.

“And another thing, why does your advice always address the men I shouldn’t bother with?  Can’t you think of a single gentleman who might actually consider me as a marriage prospect?”

Hell, no
, his gut responded instantly.  Not a man in the
ton
or out of it deserved her.

Including him.

“I’ll try,” he muttered.  His good mood began to wane.

“Thank you.  Now, I must tell you what Rosamond divulged.  She got quite tipsy at a soiree last evening and quite talkative in the carriage home.  We rode past Compton Street and she pointed out a house—one that she says secretly belongs to your father!”

Every last vestige of good humor vanished.  “I know it.”

“That’s where she acted as his hostess and coordinated their social maneuvering.  Rosamond wouldn’t give particulars, but she hinted that he and his cronies get up to some highly questionable activities there.”

“Didn’t you hear me?  I said I know the house.”  His knee began to jig up and down until he set the branch to bouncing.  He stood.  “I know all the vile tricks they get up to there.”  He’d seen the orgies of violence and sex, heard the plotting against both their enemies and their peers.  He rounded to face her.  “You must make sure that Rosamond
never
reveals that she was there.  If anyone finds out, all her newfound acceptance with the
ton
will be ruined forever.”

Eyes wide, she nodded.  “You . . . knew?”  She thought a moment.  “But of course, I suppose you would.”  She frowned.  “I hope your mother remains ignorant of it.”

“She does,” he answered harshly.  “Or I should say, she does now.  She might once have known, but if she did, she recalls it no longer.”

She was standing too, now, he noted.  She reached out to clutch the tree.  He could see it in her eyes, the same curiosity that he’d witnessed so many times before.  She wanted to ask.  They all did.  Everyone was eaten with curiosity.  What had the Viscount done, to make his son hate him so?  What was his sin? 

Only one person had never asked.  Hestia.  He knew why.  She’d lived some version of his hell herself, and didn’t need details.

But Miss Stockton—Addy—wouldn’t know.  She was a child conceived in love and raised with care.  Even her imagination couldn’t conjure such a monster as his father.

He tried to summon his anger, his disdain, the blunt, rude words he used to push away everyone who gave in to vulgar, idle curiosity.  They wouldn’t come.  He couldn’t hurl his usual retorts at her.

He waited.

She licked her lips.  He flinched before she ever made a sound, waiting for the arrow to arrive.

“I’m sorry.”

He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes.  They opened now so that he could stare at her.

Dangerous.

Not because she was the beautiful, curved, perfect representation of an angel mixed with an imp.  But because she returned the favor that had meant so much to her.  She looked past his facade and saw the hurt, the vulnerability.

And she didn’t ask.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

He abruptly stepped near.  He grabbed her shoulders and kissed her hard.  Fierce.  Possessive.  Grateful.  He tried to convey it all.

“So am I,” he told her.

He spun on his heel and walked away.

Chapter Eight

Addy wanted to dance with Vickers.  Damn him for asking so consistently—he’d turned the idea into forbidden fruit.  Surely that was why she endlessly fantasized about it, about his hand on her waist, her skirts twisting about his legs and the two of them breathing the same air.

Her problem was no longer that she didn’t know what she wanted, but that she increasingly wanted what she couldn’t have.  A dance, a touch, a kiss, a story. 
The
story—of everything that had left him so prickly and alluring and maddening and irresistible.

She wanted Vickers.

The futility of it soured her mood.  She told Rosamond that she was wrapped up in a project and needed a reprieve from the social whirl.  Surprisingly, her cousin didn’t object.  It seemed she was undergoing her own difficulties.

She wandered in, one afternoon, to peer over Addy’s shoulder.

“So many?  You have been busy.”

“Yes.”  Addy regarded her work with satisfaction.  “I included all of Muriel’s favorites and a few new ones.”

Rosamond nodded, but didn’t move.  For quite a while.

Addy turned. “Did you need something?”

“Oh?  Yes.  I wanted to speak with you.”

“Will you sit down?”  Addy turned her chair away from her desk and smiled at her distracted cousin.  “What is it?”

Rosamond fiddled with her sash.  “There’s been talk.  People have noticed that you’ve struck up an acquaintance with James Vickers.”

Addy stilled.  “What is it that’s been said?”

“Only that he watches you.  He speaks to you at every function.”

Addy shrugged, hiding her vast relief.  “We never speak long.  We haven’t even shared a dance.”

“Yes, I suspect that’s what keeps the gossips merely curious and not bloodthirsty.  It’s just . . . I remembered that argument we had over him at the beginning of the Season.  I wanted to warn you to be careful.”  Her face fell.  “I don’t wish for you to make the same mistakes I have.”

Addy spoke gently.  “What’s wrong, Rosamond?”

Tears welled in her cousin’s eyes.  “I’ve been a fool.  I never thought I’d be welcomed back into Society so warmly, nor that I’d enjoy it so.”

“Or that you’d meet someone like Sir Harold?” Addy nudged.

Rosamond gave a tearful laugh.  “Who would have thought it?  I know he’s no Adonis, but he’s quite funny and so
nice
to me!  I’m not used to it.”

“I imagine it would be easy to get used to.”

“Yes, if I’d not acted such an idiot.  Don’t you see?  After Mitford died I may have acted a little
fast
, but it wasn’t until I mixed myself up with Viscount Vickers that I made a serious mistake.  I’m afraid, Addy!  Afraid to enjoy this new life when a word from him could snatch it away.”  She pounded the arm of her chair in frustration.  “And for what?  So he could hear the gossip from Princess Charlotte’s household?  And what could a contact amongst the Queen’s ladies do for a man like him?  It all seems so pointless—yet it could ruin me!”

Addy was aghast.  “Pointless, but dangerous, Rosamond!  You know how touchy the Regent is about such matters.  You must never tell anyone that you took part in such scheming!”

“No, of course not.  I’m sorry to frighten you.”  Rosamond sighed.  “I’m just so frustrated.”

“Of course you are.”

Her cousin stood.  “I think I’ll take a walk to clear my head.”  She gripped Addy’s shoulder.  “Just be careful, dear.  It’s so easy to make a mistake.”

“I will.  Thank you, Rosamond.”

She began to pace once she was alone.  She must tell Vickers.  Rosamond’s misery had her hesitating, though.  Yet this could be important for him to know—and he had promised to keep Rosamond’s name clear.

Resolute, she went to the front parlor, but didn’t see anyone within sight of the house.  A sudden thought sent her to the back.  Yes.  There, perched on the top of the garden fence, sat the girl, Francis, petting a disreputable-looking cat.  She hopped down when she spied Addy and ran up to hand her a note.

The Swan.  Confectioners on Jermyn Street.

“Ask for Madame’s special,” Francis advised.  “It’s delicious.”

“I will.”  Addy grinned at the girl.  “And I’ll bring you one, too, shall I?”

The chit swept her a creditable curtsy.  “Thank you, ever so much.”

She smiled as she returned inside to fetch her bonnet and call for the carriage.

***

The Swan was a charming shop, its glass case filled with delightful-looking temptations and its few small tables empty at this hour.  Once more Addy was escorted to a private room, this one with a good-sized desk at the center.  Vickers sat there, waiting, along with a teacart laden with colorful creations.

Addy rolled her eyes.  “After this, I’m going to be shocked every time I enter a small room and do not find you there.”

He grinned.  “How many small rooms do you normally frequent?”

“I don’t know . . . cloak rooms, dressing rooms, antechambers.”

“And you’ll be expecting me in all those places?”

“Regrettably.”

“I like the idea.”  He gestured for her take a seat.  “In any case, I did say I knew all the good spots.”

“So you did.”  She sat, unsure in a way she’d never yet felt with him.

“Hestia sent this.”  He slid another packet across the desk.

She took it, but didn’t open it.  The idea of living alone had begun to lose its appeal.

“Would you care for a pastry?”

She summoned a smile.  “Francis says I must try Madame’s special.”

“The girl has good taste.”  He served her, selecting a beautiful, cream filled baked masterpiece shaped like a swan.

She toyed with it.  “Would you mind . . . would you tell Hestia that I’d like to meet with her?”

He paled.  “Of course.  If I’ve offended you—”

“No!”  She stopped him.  “It’s just that she has a unique perspective.”  She pulled out the package she’d brought.  “Also, would you deliver this?  It’s just a book of children’s stories.  I put it together for Muriel and made a copy, as I thought there might sometimes be children at Half Moon House.”

“Indeed there are.”  He took it up.  “How wonderful.”

“The illustrations are simple.  It’s not my strength.”

“They’re perfect.”  He laughed.  “No surprise there.”

“I’m to visit Muriel tomorrow, so you might wish to let your lookouts free for a day.  I’ll leave early, spend midday in Crawley and return tomorrow night.”

“I hope you find your sister well.”

“Thank you.”  She shifted in her seat.  Curse him for his elegant good looks and constant masculine pull.  Tension hung between them, as always, stealing her focus and her breath, but she felt a certain responsibility to resist it.  He’d walked away, setting unspoken boundaries.  She would respect them.

“I’ve news.”  She paused.  “Though perhaps it will again turn out to be something you already know.”

“What is it?”

She explained Rosamond’s predicament and her outburst about the Princess and the Queen’s ladies.  It didn’t sound so urgent now.  Frowning, she chased bits of pastry swan about her plate.

“Miss Sto—”  He stopped.  “Addy.”

Struck by some resounding note in his voice, she looked up.

His expression remained grim, but his gaze lit with purpose and resolution.  “This might be it—what I need.”

“Truly?” 

“Yes.  Think.  It should be easy enough to find which of the Queen’s women joined the court during the time of Lady Mitford’s association with my father.  If he was so eager to help someone gain the position, then you can be sure he wanted something in return.  If I find her, I can question her.”

Grim promise radiated from him.

Addy straightened.  “I’m so glad I could really help.”

Suddenly he reached across the desk and took her hand.  “Thank you.  For today—but also for everything else.”

Excitement rippled through her.  The hairs on her neck stood straight, then sent the signal everywhere else.  She shivered.  The desk lamp cast a glowing light on his dark hair, making it shine.  His eyes narrowed, the better to see into her vulnerable soul.

“From the first you’ve run me ragged.  I’d forgotten what it felt like.”  He stood, keeping his grip on her hand and coming around to her seat.  Gently, he tugged her to her feet.  “You made me laugh and shake my head—but you also made me feel better.”

With heat and words and touch he crafted a slippery slope, easy to fall into and undoubtedly enjoyable to experience.  Still, she fought valiantly to stay upright.  “About what?”

“About everything.  The world.”  A shadow moved behind his eyes.  “Even about myself.”

She should fight.  Resist.  Do the smart thing and head home.

But then he fought dirty.

He touched her brow and smiled.  “Not perfect, but wonderful.”  Slowly, he leaned in to kiss her.

Her feet slid right out from under her.  She went whooshing into something that felt frighteningly like love.

She kissed him back, setting loose all of her hopes and fears and longings.  She arched against him and reveled in his moan of pleasure.

His hand slid downward, paused in the small of her back, then dipped down to press her bottom against him.  She burrowed into the circle he made, muscle and linen and superfine.  “Yes,” she said as he pulled away and nuzzled the nape of her neck.

“God,” he said into her shoulder.  “God damn it.”

She stilled.

His chest heaved.  He stepped back.

“You are pulling me in too many directions,” she panted, desperate to have him back.

“We have to stop.”

“Do we?” she whispered.

“We do,” he groaned. “There’s no damned future in it.”

Rage blossomed, fueled by hordes of disappointed desires.  She spun on her heel and headed for the door. 

“Wait!”

“For what?  More temptation?  More heartbreak?”  She stumbled over the words.

“It’s my fault, I know.”

“Then
do
something.”

“I can’t!  My course is set.  I can’t let up.  He must always know I’m there, opposing his every move.”

“For how long?” she despaired.

“Forever.” he said flatly.  “I’m sorry.”

Tears started, which merely made her angrier.  She fled before she turned into a furious, sobbing mess.

He caught her at the shop’s doorway.

His hand lay soft on her shoulder before it tracked down to lift hers to his mouth.  His eyes were as bleak as she’d ever seen them.  “Come back.”

“It’s no use,” she protested.

“I’m going to explain.”  His mouth barely moved, saying the words.  “I’ve never told a soul, but you deserve to know.”

It wasn’t enough.  She wanted to throw it back at him, but she was afraid he would shatter, so brittle did he look.  Silently, she followed him back.

He sat her at the desk and turned away.  When he spoke, his words were directed at a supply cabinet in the corner.

“My father was a harsh and demanding taskmaster.  He expected much of me, growing up.  I was to be a good scholar and better sportsman, to study art and horsemanship and the business of running the estates.  I would handle it all in exemplary fashion, as my ancestors had.  I was a gentleman, a man of honor.  My duty was to my family name.”

He looked over his shoulder.  “I worked hard to meet his expectations, his exacting example.  I believed in my destiny, was proud to be his son and heir.”

“What happened?”

“I turned eighteen.  Mother was feeling poorly that week.  She’d been in a carriage accident and was slow to recover.  Father teased her that she was ready to be put to pasture.”  He shifted.  “He didn’t show the same dark humor to the coachman, however.  He sacked the man for shoddy driving, although the poor old soul swore up and down that he’d checked the suspension, that there’d been an unexplainable problem with the brace and spring.  Mother was tired and sore and all the servants were in a mood, but she managed to arrange a small birthday dinner.  Father insisted we go out afterwards, though.  Together.”  He sighed.  “He took me to the house on Compton.”

She stifled her urge to go to him.

“They were there, his friends and . . . others.  A party.  But it was sickening, not a celebration.  No honor, only greed and fear and violence.  I was sent off with a woman.”  He shook his head as if to block the memory.  “I’d never seen such rote, mechanical movement, such dead eyes.  She expected abuse, had resigned herself to it, readied herself for it.”  He swallowed.  “I left.  Found a billiards room and a bottle of brandy.  Everything I knew about my father was a lie.  I sat in the corner and drank while a group of men played.  Eventually I realized what they were discussing.

“‘Foxglove does it quick, one said.  “Rat poison if you want it slow, a little every day.’