Barbara Pierce (18 page)

Fayne thought she looked delectable as he drew closer.

From her stunned expression, it was obvious Kilby had not expected him to boldly approach her in public. He smiled indulgently as her cheeks turned a deep pink. “Y-your Grace,” she stuttered. “What a coincidence! Lady Lyssa was just telling me the details of your remarkable morning.”

Ah, so that explained why she was so undone by his presence. He had caught her gossiping. He was heartened to see that the anger and disappointment he had seen in her violet gaze at their last encounter was absent.

“Not particularly. I actually found the entire business tedious,” he confessed nonchalantly.

Although he had ruthlessly convinced Lord Tulley not to mention Kilby’s name in polite society, there was little he or anyone else could do about the gossips.

Fayne bowed formally to each of the ladies. “Forgive me for intruding. Lady Kilby, I pray you will honor me with a dance?”

Kilby was bursting with questions as Fayne escorted her toward the dancing. “I am surprised to see you, Your Grace,” she said, addressing him formally for appearance’s sake.

His green eyes flickered enigmatically over her face, before coolly replying, “Then you have underestimated me.”

There was no doubt in Kilby’s mind. While Kilby had been caught up in Lady Quennell’s quest to find her a husband, Fayne had been pursuing his own selfish interests. Neither spoke as they circled the perimeter made up of onlookers. Fayne made no attempt to join the other dancers. Kilby assumed he had used the excuse as a ruse to separate her from Lyssa. A few minutes later, he confirmed her suspicions when he dragged her away from the dancing and toward the open doors to the gardens.

“Where are we going?” she demanded, thinking of the trouble she had gotten herself into the last time she had slipped away from a ballroom.

“Someplace I can stand without putting my elbow in a glass of punch,” he said, making her giggle.

The Wasbroughs’ ballroom was packed beyond its capacity, and the air thick with heavy-scented perfumes, the acrid odor of tallow candles, and smoke. The rectangular room was smaller and narrower than the ones she had mingled in on her previous stops this evening.

Fayne took a deep breath as he and Kilby stepped outdoors. “A place to sit for a while and stare at the stars.”

Kilby raised her eyes dubiously at the night sky. There were too many clouds for stargazing, but she said nothing. A fragile truce had settled between them. As long as neither one of them mentioned Lord Tulley or what happened in the back parlor, they might have a cordial conversation.

He guided her away from the small clusters of ladies and gentlemen who had also tired of the crowded ballroom. They strolled to the right and off the stone terrace until they reached a wrought-iron bench. Kilby sat down and looked expectantly at Fayne.

“I think we should discuss what happened three nights ago.”

Kilby’s shoulders slumped at his declaration. “Honestly, I cannot see what good it will do to hash over that awful night.”

An unnerving stillness assailed Fayne. “Awful?” he murmured, after a tense, lengthy pause. The muscles in his jaw worked as he swallowed. “No, that is not the word I would have selected to describe that particular night.”

“Oh.” She brightened, straightening her posture. “How would you describe the night when I am attacked by an ardent gentleman, and you arrive, fight him off, issue a ridiculous challenge, and then take me to task over my stupidity for being alone with the gentleman . . . Only to take his place—”

Fayne held up a silencing hand. His nostrils flared in indignation. “You cannot accuse me of attacking you, Kilby. The major difference between Tulley and me is that you
desired
my hands on you.”

“Details, details,” she said, blithely dismissing his arrogant observation. “Now where was I? Oh yes, and then you proceeded to dispatch my undergarments with your wickedly sharp knife, ensconce us on the sofa, and take my innocence with the consideration you might give the whores you visit in the brothels.”

He winced. “Christ, you’ve a low opinion of my character. I’ll have you know, I do not visit broth—”

Kilby was not listening. Speaking over his grand confession, she demanded, “If ‘awful’ does not describe the night, pray, what word does?”

“ ‘Inevitable’!” he snapped back. Fayne leaped to his feet. Glowering at her, he was a tower of intimidation and simmering passion. “Lady Kilby Ermina Fitchwolf, will you consent to be my wife?”

“What?” Kilby splayed her right hand across her breast as if she could not catch her breath. Even in the shadows, her stark white face gleamed like a beacon. “What did you say?”

Fayne had never proposed to a woman. Well, proposed marriage, anyway. Kilby’s less than joyous reaction was a brutal blow to his pride. He had anticipated several responses his offer might evoke. Fear was not one of them. “You heard me,” he coldly replied. “What say you?”

She shifted on the bench. Fayne tensed, wondering if she was planning to flee from him. Kilby searched his austere expression. “Why?” She helplessly gestured. “Is it because of what we did on—”

He reached down and grabbed her by the arms. Pulling her onto her feet, he could not resist giving her a shake. The blank shock in her violet gaze was shredding his gut. “If I married every silly chit I tumbled onto her back, I would be a polygamist many times over.”

Kilby’s face tightened. She brushed aside his hands.
“Fine,” she said, crossing her arms, her eyes glittering like amethysts. “Then why me? Why offer marriage to me? I am certain if I approached the legion of lovers in your past, they would all attest that you have never felt the slightest inclination to bind yourself to a single lady.”

He opened his mouth to argue, and then clamped it shut. Fayne was damned by the truth. Before his father’s death, he had been utterly content to remain unfettered. The drivel about the Solitea curse had prompted his father into marriage early in life to secure his heir.

Fayne had not anticipated following the same path as his father. When his father was alive, there had been no rush to hunt for a bride. Why would he have desired such a demanding creature? His life had been carefree; there were riches to indulge every whim, and a never-ending string of beautiful ladies panting in his bed.

“Why?” she mused aloud, circling him. “Why marry your father’s mistress?”

Ah, the crux of her pique. He looked indulgently at her. “We both know you were not my father’s mistress.” She was too kindhearted not to forgive him for making a natural assumption.

She shook her head in disappointment. “You lied to me.” She raised her arms and gesticulated at the heavens. “You placated me with sweet flattery and lies while you carried forth your seduction.”

“Nothing so devious or dramatic,” he said, refusing to be painted as the vile scoundrel who seduced her. Fayne took her by the shoulders and pushed her back down on the bench. “My father had a well-earned reputation for bedding any miss who caught his eye.”

“As does the son,” she said, lifting her right brow knowingly.

His palm itched to turn her over and paddle her for her insolent remark, but now was not the occasion for play.
“What should matter to you is that I do not care whether or not you were my father’s mistress. I want you.”

Kilby was not appeased. “That is your misfortune. You cannot always have what you want.” She tossed her head back haughtily.

There was a challenge in her gleaming gaze, which Fayne eagerly embraced. “Too late. I already have. And I will again,” he said intensely.

The candid nature of their conversation had Kilby glancing warily at the terrace to make certain no one was paying attention to them. “If you are referring to what transpired on the sofa three nights ago, you are sadly mistaken.”

Fayne wanted to growl in frustration. Kilby was punishing him. She was not upset about his hasty lovemaking. The breaching of her maidenhead had caused her only some minor discomfort. What she found unforgivable was that he had not believed her. A lady’s pride, he broodingly mused. How was he to know when he first met her that she had not merely been playing flirtatious games with him? It was not as if he went about despoiling virgins each season.

He knelt in front of her. “Heed me well, my little wolf. I will have you again—soon and often. So our first union was a trifle clumsy—”

Kilby gave an unladylike snort of disdain.

Fayne pinned her with a resolute green stare. “Largely, I am to blame. We will improve with practice, I assure you.”

He was tempted to drag her out into the gardens this instant and show her how pleasurable lovemaking could be. Regrettably, he had to concentrate on more practical matters.

“Your answer, Lady Kilby,” Fayne curtly said. “And it better be yes. Will you marry me?”

“I can’t believe the lady rejected your offer of marriage.”

Fayne glowered at Cadd for reminding him of his humiliating defeat. Two days had passed since Kilby had
thanked him politely, and then refused his marriage proposal. He had not lost his temper or created an incident the gossips would have relished. Instead, he had mockingly bowed in false gallantry, and departed.

Everod affectionately punched Fayne on the arm. “What I can’t believe is that Carlisle actually made an honorable proposal to a lady.”

He accepted his friend’s teasing graciously. Ramscar, Cadd, and Everod had cajoled him into joining them this evening at the theater. None of them believed Fayne was truly despondent over Kilby’s rejection. Years earlier, he had drunkenly boasted to all of them that he would not bind himself to a wife until he was forty. There was no point wasting his best years being leg-shackled. Fayne was only twenty-five. According to his original plan, he had fifteen years to indulge every decadent whim and vice. A man would have to be mad or in love to toss away his freedom.

Was he in love with the stubborn Lady Kilby Fitchwolf?

Madness was a kinder fate.

Ramscar stepped in between Everod and Fayne, placing a companionable hand on each friend’s shoulder. “The fact remains, our dear friend behaved gallantly toward the lady and was rebuffed. Honestly, Solitea, you have astounding luck. Perhaps we should have taken you directly to Moirai’s Lust.”

“Later, if the hunting is poor,” Cadd promised, as they strolled through the lobby of the theater.

The hunt for which the marquess was eager had nothing to do with finding a good theater box.
Les sauvages nobles
were seeking friendly companions for the evening. Fayne privately acknowledged they were an impressive group. Heads turned and the crowd parted, deferring to the four breathtakingly handsome males. They reeked of arrogance, wealth, and mischief. Very few ladies resisted the combination for long.

Except for Kilby.

From the corner of his eye, a flash of violet caught his notice. Glancing left, he met the curious stares of three very attractive ladies. The tall one in the middle clutched an open fan the exact hue of Kilby’s eyes. The ladies preened and whispered to each other at his candid perusal. Fayne smiled, and the trio collapsed into one another in a fit of giggles.

“One or all,” Everod whispered in Fayne’s ear. “You could fuck each one in turn and they would weep with gratitude.”

Perhaps it was time to find a willing lady who did not make him feel like a clumsy arse whenever he was around her. He owed no fidelity to Lady Kilby Fitchwolf. They had had a very brief affair, nothing more. There were at least a dozen ladies of whom he could make a similar claim. What had clouded the issue was her apparent innocence. Well, he had tried to make amends, had he not? The lady had firmly rejected his offer.

“The night is full of possibilities,” Fayne agreed.

“Lyssa, I am not good company tonight,” Kilby complained, sitting down next to her friend in their rented box.

She was not even certain how her friend had talked her into attending the theater, especially since she had resisted Priddy’s invitation to watch the fireworks display at Vauxhall, followed by a very late supper at Lady Carsell’s town house. Kilby had lied by excusing herself from the festivities due to a disagreeable stomach. She did not have the heart to spend the evening flirting with the potential suitors Priddy would have insisted that she meet. If she had accepted, there was the strong possibility that she might have come across Fayne. She was not ready to face him yet.

“Rubbish. There is nothing wrong with you. It is the weather that is making you melancholy,” Lyssa assured
her. She leaned forward and waved to a friend five boxes to their left.

Kilby sighed. Unlike her friend, she knew the real cause of her low spirits. “I hope the rain will hold off until after the fireworks. The viscountess was looking forward to them.”

Lyssa sat back and smiled. “Do not fret about Lady Quennell. It would take more than a little rain to distress her.” Her expression brightened at something she noticed beyond Kilby’s shoulder.

Kilby turned around and saw Lord Darknell at the threshold. She looked askance at Lyssa. Her friend’s scarlet features revealed she had set up this accidental meeting to give Kilby and Darknell a chance to settle their differences.

The viscount bowed formally. “Perhaps you have a spare seat for an old friend.”

Everod and Cadd took the lead in their casual pursuit of muslin. Fayne was content to follow. Ramscar divided his attention between the activity being carried out on the stage, and a careful perusal of the theater boxes. Instead of remaining in their rented boxes, the foursome spent the next several hours socializing from theater box to theater box. Throughout it all, Everod and Cadd bickered over which sort of female made the best mistress.

“I disagree, Everod,” Cadd said to no one’s surprise, as they departed a private box. “A courtesan makes a more amenable mistress than a married lady. A lady tutored in the trade has too many benefits to simply dismiss.” He began ticking off the advantages with his fingers. “They are highly skilled lovers, their sole purpose in life is to pleasure their lover, and when the affair has ended, a respectable
congé
sends them searching for a new protector. There are no regrets.”