Claimed by the Rogue (3 page)

Accepting the beverage, Lord Tremont swiped a crimson-slashed sleeve across his perspiring brow. “The only thing that will revive me is release from this bloody costume.” Between the starched lace riding high at his throat, heavy doublet coat and skintight hose, he was the very picture of misery as well as a less than convincing Lord Robert Dudley. Phoebe felt sincerely sorry for him.

“You could well do so, but I believe there is already one Lady Godiva in attendance,” she quipped, hoping to tease him into a better humor.

He spared her a brief smile and then twisted inside his ruff to look about the room. “Your mother is adamant on holding off on serving supper until after the announcement is made. I cannot fathom where that fiancé of yours has got to.”

Aristide had partnered her in the opening reel and promptly repaired to the card room. She more than suspected he was as yet there, savoring his beloved brandy and cheroots, oblivious to the passage of time.

Heart in her throat, she patted the top of his arm. “Do not fret, Papa. I shall find him directly.”

She turned away before he might see how close to crying she was. How different this was from her other betrothal ball held in this very room six years before. How young and in love she and Robert had been, how eager he to maneuver her out onto the balcony so that he might entreat her to elope. If only she might relive that night, she’d gladly follow him to Gretna Green, Calcutta or the Earth’s end. But, alas, one couldn’t go back…

Eyes welling, she headed for the balcony to collect herself before seeking out Aristide. Dodging well-wishers, she gained the suite of French doors. Stepping out, she closed them behind her with very real relief.

The garden lay below, lit by torches and strings of Chinese lanterns much as it had been six years ago, the breeze sweetened by early blooming roses and the honeysuckle intertwining the trelliswork. She crossed to the rail, reaching it as the first angry tear splashed her cheek.
 

Oh, Robert, if only…

The costuming, the music and collective chatter, the ceaseless press of people wishing her happy when she felt anything but, was suddenly all too much. Feeling as though she might suffocate, she pulled at her mask, the surprisingly sturdy ribbons resisting snapping.
 

“Bloody, bloody,
bloody
hell.”

She tore the accursed thing off, hauled back and pitched it over the ironwork, the force straining her gown’s seams. Breathing hard, she gripped the ironwork and looked over. The fit of temper, better worthy of Belinda, had reaped the intended and instantly regretted result. Beyond reach in the thorns, her mask was as good as gone.

“Whoa! Whoever he is, he’s not worth it.”

Phoebe let out a gasp and spun about, her backside bumping the balustrade.
 

A tall man costumed as a pirate pushed away from the plasterwork column against which he must have been leaning. “You would fare far better with a lover who makes you laugh than one who makes you curse—and cry,” he added, stepping into the cone of colored light.

Beyond mortified, Phoebe dashed a quick hand across her damp eyes, hoping he might at least miss that much of her shame. “Sir, you should have made your presence known.”

One dark brow arched upward. “I believe I am doing just that.”
 

A gentleman would apologize for the intrusion and excuse himself to go inside. He, however, showed no sign of budging. Arms folded over his broad chest and legs akimbo, he stood his ground, raking her with his gaze. Stunned by his boldness, Phoebe studied his lantern-lit face. Who did he imagine himself to be? More importantly, who
was
he? His broad-brimmed hat with its extravagant plume and form-fitting doublet coat were not the standard fare found in costuming shops. He must have taken the invitation’s call for authenticity seriously indeed, for his leather breeches and riding boots wore a cannily real-looking coating of dust.

As foolish as she felt, still she forced her shoulders back and her chin high. “I do not care for being spied upon.”

Beneath the hat, his brow beetled. “Spied upon?” He let out a guffaw. “I’ve been standing in plain view all along.”

Phoebe hated to admit it, but he had fact on his side. Given the way she’d barreled out, it was a mercy she hadn’t plowed into him.

Still, she refused to be cowed. “You are forward, sir.” She lifted her chin another notch. “And rude.”

And handsome as sin, or so he seemed from what she’d so far surveyed. The throat of his silk shirt lay indecently open, the undone buttons revealing a muscular neck banded by a fine silver chain similar to hers. Even in the low light, she marked the darkness of his skin. Gentleman though he undoubtedly was, he must spend a great deal of time out-of-doors.

“You wound me, lady.” He fell back, pantomiming pulling an invisible dagger from his pectoral. In contrast, the wicked-looking curved sword tucked into the crimson sash at his waist looked frighteningly real. “You’d be better served to save your ire for another—the one who made you weep.”

Robert. Robert made me weep.
And yet she could hardly fault a dead man for being dead any more than she could a living man for failing to live up to him whom she so dearly loved.

A square of snowy linen appeared in one bare, broad-backed hand. “Please,” he said, passing it to her, his eyes no longer mocking but softened by what seemed to be concern.

Phoebe hesitated and then accepted the handkerchief, acknowledging the courtesy with a small, silent nod. He was barehanded, highly irregular considering the formality of the affair. Their fingertips brushed and gloved though she was, still she felt a tiny tremor trill through her.
 

“All brides cry,” she snapped, blotting at her eyes with the hankie, the cotton so soft and finely woven as to be Egyptian. “It’s…
tradition
.” The latter was a lame excuse but she couldn’t think of what else to say. Indeed, with his eyes fastened upon her, she could scarcely think at all.

His smile froze. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had the pleasure of being leg-shackled.”

So he was a bachelor. That tidbit of intelligence lifted her spirits far more than it ought. “In that case, you’re hardly in a position to be offering romantic advice.”
 

“I suppose you are correct on that count.” Framed by black felt, his bold gaze perused her, the thorough inventory beginning and ending with her eyes.
 

Handing back the hankie, Phoebe eyed the sword at his side and a hopeful thought struck her. “Perhaps you might employ your weapon to retrieve my mask from those bushes below. I…dropped it,” she added, the bald lie brought on by his steady stare.

His crack of laughter flared heat into her face. “The devil you did. You tossed it over the rail out of pique.” Phoebe opened her mouth to protest, but his chuckle cut her off. “By the by, you’ve an impressive arm for a woman. Beyond my sister, I’ve never seen the like on any female.” One corner of his mouth, his full, sensuous mouth, curved upwards. Phoebe’s heart hitched. She hadn’t seen a smile like that in…a very long time.
 

More put out with herself than him, sharply she asked, “Will you help me or not?”

“Since you implore so charmingly, how can I refuse?” He turned to the rail, braced both hands atop and peered below.
 

Coming up beside him, Phoebe tried not to notice how ungodly good he smelled. Not like Aristide, who had a heavy hand with bottled scent, or the other gentlemen of her acquaintance, but rather like leather and sandalwood and the musk of male sweat. And his breath bore the faintest aroma of what must be licorice. “It’s just there,” she said, pointing to the thorny bower upon which it perched, her shoulder inadvertently brushing his side.

He nodded. “Aye, I see it.” One hand on his sword hilt, he took a step back. “Stand away,” he ordered, gaze no longer on her but on his quarry.
 

For the first time in years, Phoebe obeyed without question. As soon as she’d moved, he unsheathed his weapon and stabbed it into the bushes below, neatly hooking her mask on the tip.
 

He pivoted, presenting the mask with a bow. “Milady.”

Phoebe hesitated and then plucked the mask from the sharp blade point. Amazingly, the fabric had escaped so much as a tear. “You have my gratitude, sir,” she said, meaning it. Her life seemed to be filled with a surfeit of men of words but standing before her was, at long last, a man of action.

Straightening, he sheathed his sword. “If there are other articles of clothing with which I can assist, please do not hesitate to ask.” A roguish smile accompanied the wicked offer.

That smile seemed to suck the breath from Phoebe’s lungs. “You are most adept with your sword, sir, but I believe that shall suffice.” Dear Lord, had she really said that?
 

A flash of even, white teeth greeted her gaffe. “For now, perhaps, but should you desire another…demonstration, I shall be happy to oblige.”

Horrified, she hastened to add, “Your costume is quite impressive. Are you meant to be a pirate or a privateer?”

His gaze anchored to hers. “Is there a difference?”

If there was, her suddenly swimming thoughts were no longer capable of deciphering it. Instead she directed her gaze to the blade hanging from his hip. “Pirate or privateer, you look frightfully authentic. Have you experience at sea?”
 

He hesitated as if weighing his words. “Some.” He tilted his head and studied her, his gaze traveling over her yet again, taking in every detail of the hideous costume and, she suspected, mentally mapping the body beneath. “My schoolroom days were long ago. I cannot think who you are meant to be.”

A pearl of perspiration slid between her breasts though the night air was cool. “Mary Stuart, the Scots queen.”

She held back from saying more, wishing she might stop imagining how lovely it would feel to have his rough-looking hands free her from her stays, wondering how, after six years of feeling so very frozen and fallow, a few flirting exchanges could warm her into a wanton.

He frowned. “Poor student though I was, still I recall that lady as being a redhead. And yet your hair is as fair as the moon above.”
 

He reached out and lifted a stray strand from her shoulder. Tucking it behind her ear, his fingers brushed the line of her jaw. It was a glancing caress, a whisper of a touch, and yet Phoebe caught her breath, liquid warmth sliding the length of her spine.

Throat dry, she answered, “I had a wig, but it too met with a…mishap.”

“Did you hurl it into the bushes as well?”

“No. My…my dog ate it.” She sounded more of a dimwit by the moment, and yet she’d begun enjoying herself far too much to care.
 

He chuckled. “I would have thought a dripping beef bone would be more to Pippin’s fancy.”

Phoebe’s breath stalled. “How do you know my dog’s name?” Whoever he was, he must be more than a passing acquaintance.

“I have known the beast since he was a whelp.” His gaze scoured her face. “Can you not look past this mask and see me for who I am?”

She searched her muddled memory. In most cases, the men’s costumes provided only the thinnest veneer of disguise. Earlier she’d easily recognized the portly Bacchus as Cubby Whitebridge and the tall Cupid as Lord Percy. Might he be one of her brother Reggie’s friends? Despite his flirting and bad manners, he hardly seemed a fit for that libertine lot.

Shaking her head, she admitted, “I am afraid I am at a loss. I must accept defeat if only until midnight.”

His mask made it hard to tell for certain, but she thought he frowned.

“What happens at midnight?”

She hesitated. Thinking of her soon-to-be-announced betrothal, she was alarmingly loath to end this lovely interlude by owning it. “The call will be given to unmask and the guests will go in to supper.”

“And if I decline to part with mine?”

“You must. It is the rule.”

He reached for her hand. Feeling as though she’d slipped into a trance, Phoebe surrendered it. “I despise rules.”
 

Gaze locked on hers, he carried her hand to his mouth. His lips brushed along the line of her gloved knuckles, the light contact stirring an all but forgotten fluttering. Phoebe sucked in an uneven breath. “You, that is we should not—”

He turned her hand palm up and pressed a deeper kiss to the pulse point inside her wrist.
 

Feeling the graze of teeth, she snatched her hand away. Dallying out-of-doors with a stranger, allowing him to fondle her, what had overtaken her? “As soon as my fiancé can be found, my father will announce our betrothal.”
 

Scowling, he demanded, “And does your fiancé often desert you at such monumental moments?”

The remark struck uncomfortably close to the truth. Stiffening, she answered, “He is in the card room along with my brother and a great many other gentlemen.”

He leaned in as though to share a confidence. “Were you my bride, Lakshmi herself could not lure me from your side.”

“Lakshmi?”

“The Hindu goddess charged with doling out wealth and good fortune.” Smiling, he hesitated. “Lady Luck, if you prefer.”