Dancing with a Rogue (14 page)

“No,” she said with the slightest hint of defiance. “I did.”

Despite his earlier thought about meek women, her momentary boldness annoyed him.

“There is no excuse for abominable taste. You look like a dead fish. I have guests coming tonight, one a very eligible marquess, and I want you to look as if you have at least one breath of life left inside you.” He glared at her, and she flinched.

Still, she dared open her mouth. “I do not want a marquess.”

“Do you think I care what you want?”

“No, but I hoped …” Her voice died away.

He did not like the feeling he was getting. “You have not let that young buck …” Twenty-five-year-old images flooded back. Not her, too. The devil take it, he wouldn't have it. He would not allow history to repeat itself.

“No!”

Her denial was too sharp.

“If he has ruined you, I will see him dead and banish you to some place you will not want to go.”

“No one has touched me,” she said.

“I would have a doctor confirm that,” he said.

She went white. “You would not …”

“I will,” he said again, his voice rising. He could barely contain his fury. What in bloody hell had his sister been thinking?

“I will do anything you want,” she said, her voice rising.

“Then get dressed and you'd bloody better have that worthless twit of a maid do something with your hair or she will be on the street tonight. And you will be charming for the Marquess of Manchester tonight.”

Her shoulders bowed slightly, the short bout of rebellion gone.

“Pamela?”

She curtsied. “Yes, Father.”

“I suggest you begin now. It will take some time to make you presentable.”

She started to back out.

“Pamela!”

She froze but didn't look back.

“I expect you to bewitch the marquess. If you do not, we will be talking to that doctor, and I will make queries in the village. There are always those who see everything.”

She bolted from the room.

His gaze followed her footfalls. He would instruct his butler to start making additional queries immediately. Something had given his daughter new boldness. He would know what it was.

Dressed in tight doeskin trousers, peacock-blue waistcoat, and an elaborate cravat that felt as if it were stretching his neck about two inches, Gabriel arrived at Monique's town house and knocked at the door.

In seconds it was thrust wide open by the redheaded maid named Dani, who wore a welcoming smile on her lips.

He couldn't help but smile in return. “Is your mistress ready?”

“
Oui
, monsieur,” she said. “And she is beautiful. I made sure of that.”

“I think she is always beautiful.”

“
Mais oui
,” she agreed. “She really does not need me. She …”

“She is grateful for your loyalty,” said a musical voice behind Dani. “And you are right, monsieur, Dani is responsible.”

He stepped inside and for the briefest moment he felt his breath had been stolen away.

Her hair had been piled in curls with one long dark curl falling down around her left cheek and framing it. Her dress was midnight blue and made her gray eyes appear luminious.

She was, simply, the most seductive and intriguing woman he'd ever met. He reminded himself that she had been with Stanhope, staring up at him with the attention a woman gives a man when she intends seduction.

The reminder of his disappointment—even dismay—was like a festering wound, and he resented that. He didn't want to care about anyone now, especially a woman who was obviously looking for an advantageous situation, even someone like Stanhope.

He still tasted her lips, felt the softness of her body against his. Her response to his kiss had been instinctive, surprised, then ever so receptive. His gut tightened whenever he allowed himself to think of those few passionate moments.

It would be pure hell accompanying this woman tonight when she incited painful reactions in his body and clouded his senses. He would need every one of them tonight. He had received Stanhope's seal earlier today, though not the forgery, and he wanted to return it to the desk. Hopefully, the earl would not have missed it yet.

His gloved hands brushed her skin as he helped her with her cloak. From the burning of his skin, he might as well have had no cloth between them at all. He wondered if she felt the same blazing feeling as he did, and knew immediately from the way she flinched away from him that she did.

He saw in her eyes that she did not want this heated attraction any more than he did.

Because he wasn't wealthy enough?

Well, he wasn't. He was spending every penny he had to honor his father's request.

He had a title, and the position of captain waiting for him when he returned. Nothing more. This was obviously a woman that went after larger game.

He swore to himself and then wondered whether the words were audible because she looked up at him and her eyes darkened.

“We should go,” he said.

But they stood there, unmoving, as if inertia had wrapped around them, and neither could break loose.

“We should go,” he said.

“Yes.” Not
oui
. Of course, she spoke perfect English, but usually she had a charming French accent. Now it was gone. He knew how difficult it was to maintain a role when emotions ran high. And, the devil take it, emotion roiled and boiled around them like a hurricane at sea.

Part of him wondered. It was only one word, and yet it was a telling word. That she chose that one instinctively rather than the one she should have grown up with.

Another piece of a puzzle.

It didn't matter, he told himself. Nothing mattered except exposing Stanhope for what he was. He forced himself to take a step back, then she released a long breath. Her throat moved slightly, and it was like the flutter of a fragile bird.

She was no fragile bird, he reminded himself. She was a calculating woman who'd made it clear that she had designs on an older, monied lord.

When he'd moved, her gaze dropped as if he had broken some invisible binding.

He took a deep breath and stood back for her to lead the way to the rented carriage. She stood, waiting for him to open the door and offer his assistance. Christ, he would be there in that intimate interior with her. He remembered that first time. He'd almost ravished her then.

His body started reacting again and he felt his already tight britches grow even snugger. His blood warmed and thickened as he opened the door and gave her his hand. She stepped lightly into the carriage despite the skirts.

He moved to the seat opposite her, knowing that it would not be wise to take the cushioned seat next to her. Her light scent filled the carriage, and he thought how pleasant it was.

“
Merci
, my lord,” she said.

“My pleasure,” he said and not as easily as he had hoped.

“I did take your warning yesterday,” she said.

“Then why are you attending tonight?”

“Why are you?” she challenged.

“He has a shipping company,” Gabriel said. “I have business I wish to do.”

“With a man you do not trust?”

“If I was a woman, I would not trust him,” he said. “I am not. I can watch over myself.”

“And you do not think a woman can take care of herself?” She took her fan in hand and tapped her dress with it. “I have been taking care of myself since I was seven. I am supremely good at it.”

He shrugged. “Then so be it.”

The carriage clattered through the streets. The air outside was cold, but the temperature in the carriage was charged. Hell, it was damn heated.

“You speak English very well,” he probed.

She looked at him sharply.

“You have a British background?” he persisted.

“
Non
. An actress learns accents.”

“I said nothing about accents.”

“You are being rude.”

“Am I?”

“You are judging me. Neither you or anyone else has that right.”

“No,” he agreed. There
had
been accusation in his questions. She was right. He certainly had no right to pass judgment on anyone.

But her eyes told him he was not being relieved of guilt with that one word.

“What kind of business do you have with Lord Stanhope?” She obviously hoped to turn the conversation toward him.

“I have an estate and no income,” he said lightly. “I am told Stanhope is looking for investors and promises a huge return.”

“Even if he killed his wife?” she said, slightly mocking his charges.

He stiffened. He had never told her that Stanhope had been accused of killing his wife, only that he had been accused of murder.

“Yes,” he said. “And what would you know of it?”

She lifted one shoulder. It was not quite a shrug. “I do hear things, monsieur.”

They were back to
monsieur
again.

The atmosphere in the carriage grew tense again. “And you, my lord, do you have a family?”

He was startled, then suddenly realized that she must be referring to young Elizabeth. “No,” he said. “I do not. No wife. No children. I have never felt the need for attachments.”

“Then last night …”

“That was the daughter of my housekeeper. She expressed a desire to see the gardens. She was well chaperoned by her mother and brother.”

“Oh,” she said, and he saw that little flutter in her throat again as her gaze searched his face as if searching for the truth. Or a truth. “I would not think a lord would care that much about his employees.”

“I have learned that loyal servants are important.”

She didn't say anything for a second, then she sighed. “Who are you?”

“I told you. The Marquess of Manchester, newly arrived from America.”

“That I believe.”

“And what do you not believe?”

“That you are a fool?”

He bowed slightly. “I thank you for that.”

“Then why are you pretending to be one?”

He arched an eyebrow, regretful now that he'd left the maddening quizzing glass in his rooms. It was far more effective in showing disdain for a comment. “Now you give me too much credit. I am but myself. The papers call me an American bumpkin and I suppose that some believe it to be so.”

Her expression expressed disbelief.

“I am, in truth, a gambler,” he added, “and often not a very good one.”

“Then why …?”

“Are you not one yourself? You must understand the compulsion to wager on the turn of a card.”

“It depends on the stakes,” she replied.

“Exactly. The higher the stakes, the stronger the compulsion.”

“And what do you consider high enough stakes, my lord?”

“Oh, an easy life, I suppose,” he said, yawning.

“You have not had an easy life?”

Bloody hell, but she was quick. He was glad he wore gloves and had every time she had seen him. His calluses would quickly give him away. “Easy enough,” he said. “But fortunes are built on gambles.”

“And fortunes are lost.”

“Yes.” Even he was aware that his voice had a tinge of bitterness that shouldn't have been there.

The carriage came to a stop. A second later the coachman opened the door.

Gabriel stepped down and once more offered his hand to Monique. For a moment she hesitated as though she too feared another touch. Then she reached for his hand and stepped down, immediately turning toward the steps, where other fashionably dressed men and women were mounting and going through a door held open by a servant in livery.

Every eye, though, turned toward them, and it was as if a scene had been locked in time. A tableau of perfectly still performers.

Then movement started again. Eyes turned away.

She gave him an odd little smile, as if they shared some intriguing secret and took his arm and gracefully ascended the stairs.

The marquess was more and more an enigma.

He displayed himself as one thing. But his actions—at least with her—seemed to belie that role.

She doubted if others would notice. They would not care enough to do so.

She didn't care either, she told herself. But since she herself was playing a role, she recognized the slightly off-balanced errors of someone else. He too was an actor, at least at the moment, but she did not know why.

She didn't want to know, as long as he didn't get in her way. Perhaps he used the facade as a defense. Or maybe he was trying to expand his wealth and thought playing a fool might give him more insight.

It didn't matter as long as he stayed out of her affairs.

Once she escaped the interior of the coach, she felt herself relax. She was always at her best when actually playing the role rather than anticipating it. She knew exactly what she had to do tonight.

The first step would be to rid herself of her escort.

Stanhope was standing just inside the door, a pretty young lady beside him. His smile—cool and calculating, she thought—faded for a moment when he saw her, and her companion. Almost as quickly as it faded, it returned.

“My dear,” he said. “It was so good of you to join us.” He turned to Manchester. “And the Marquess of Manchester. I saw you the other evening at Vauxhall Gardens. Miss Fremont told me you had been of assistance to her.”

The man next to her preened. There was no other word for it. And he preened exceptionally well. Monique was impressed, especially since she sensed he had probably never done so before.

“I am indeed honored to be invited,” he said. “Mademoiselle Fremont was kind enough to consent to come with me. The most beautiful woman in London accompanying me to the home of such a famous and successful man is truly dashing. I am just agog with London.” He saw the flicker of distaste in Stanhope's expression at his misuse of words.

The girl beside him, though, did not change her expression. A tight smile did little to enhance a fragile prettiness.