Fortune's Lady (11 page)

“You don't like it, do you? This is torture, right, Cass?” he muttered thickly, before his impatient mouth found hers again and delved into its warmth and wetness without waiting for an answer. He could feel his control slipping away, just as it had last night. He hadn't been going to touch her like this, but his hand was sliding slowly up and down between her breasts, the fingers splayed. When she didn't resist, his excitement flared hotter. He would stop in a minute, as soon as she …as soon as they…

“Philip!”

He froze.

Cass squeezed her eyes shut and jerked her head away, clutching both hands to her chest.

There was something he wanted to tell her, but at that moment the words eluded him. Shielding her with his body from Quinn's furious glare, he turned to face his old tutor. “Don't say anything, Oliver. The blame is entirely mine. Miss Merlin was just…there.” In a voice loud enough only for her to hear, he added, “And more than I could resist.” He did her the kindness of not looking at her as he lowered himself from the carriage to the ground.

Quinn's bony, clever face was bright red with anger. “Then apologize to her, damn you, and let her go,” he grated through clenched jaws.

“Indeed I will. Miss—”

“It's not necessary,” said Cass in a shaky murmur that stopped him cold. “Mr. Riordan and I were—settling a wager.” Her chin went a little higher, her voice a little lower. “I lost.” She looked directly at him, unblinking. Riordan could only guess at what the effort cost her. Her face was grim and defeated, and he felt no sense of exultation at her admission.

Quinn's eyes shifted between them as a glimmer of alarm began to supplant his anger. He reached around Riordan and closed the carriage door with a slam. “Take her home, Tripp!” he called to the patient coachman. The vehicle jerked forward, and the thread holding Cass and Riordan's gazes finally snapped.

Unmoving, Riordan watched the coach disappear around the corner, heard the clatter of hooves and wheels die away. The taste of her was still on his tongue, the imprint of her delicate throat on his palm. She'd said she wasn't afraid of him, and he was glad. But by God, she terrified him.

“V
ERY WELL, GRANDMOTHER
, I'll play if you absolutely insist.” Lady Claudia Harvellyn laughed in mock defeat and sat down gracefully at the pianoforte. She threw Riordan an amused glance and began to play, her long-fingered hands sliding over the keys with perfect confidence.

Riordan relaxed against a satin-covered loveseat in the Harvellyns' best drawing room and sighed contentedly. There was nothing he enjoyed more than sitting quietly for an hour or so, listening to soothing music expertly played and feasting his eyes on the lovely Claudia. In the past months these occasional family evenings had been a godsend, a blessed respite from the pointless round of frivolity he had to endure every day. Here he could be himself, he thought comfortably, taking a sip of tea from a cup so delicate he could almost see through it. Ah, this was what he needed. Peace, quiet. Civility.  Association with people who loved music, who read books and talked about ideas. What an ironic joke that, just as he was beginning to understand himself, he was forced to waste precious time impersonating a wastrel to satisfy the debt he owed Quinn. But he'd given his promise, so there was no way out. The thought of going back on his word never occurred to him.

He set his cup down on a rococo side table and sat back, eyes half-closed, and contemplated Claudia Harvellyn's chestnut hair and flawless complexion, her ripe, womanly figure. At twenty-four, she was skating dangerously close to the thin ice of spinsterhood, but the awful prospect didn't seem to alarm her overmuch. She liked to say she was waiting for the right man, and Riordan liked to think he was that man. But no promises had been exchanged; in fact the subject of marriage hadn't even been raised between them. They had met at a house party in Norfolk nearly a year ago, on one of the rare weekends when Riordan had been sober, and he'd been attracted to her immediately. She was beautiful, of course, but what had drawn him even more was the aura of quiet self-confidence she projected. Here was a woman who knew and was satisfied with who she was. It was a quality he hadn't found in many people, and it had had a curiously soothing effect on him. In combination with her keen intelligence and a dry, subtle sense of humor, it had made her irresistible; he'd decided then and there that she was the woman for him.

So far the progress of his pursuit had been somewhat halting, he reflected wryly, lacing his fingers together and watching her over clasped hands. The dissolute life he'd lived for a dozen years had ended abruptly on a night ten months ago, and since then his debauchery had been only a well-acted charade. Claudia was one of a bare handful of people who knew of the reformed status of his character, yet she had shown no inclination so far to deepen their friendly, virtually platonic relationship. Riordan was frustrated by her detachment because he saw in her the perfect woman—beautiful, brilliant, accomplished, poised. The ideal wife for an ambitious young statesman. Once his obligation to Quinn was paid, he'd decided, he would court her publicly, and then he had no doubt that she would capitulate. She was strong-willed, but so was he. He intended to wear her down, pursue her without mercy until she simply gave up and married him.

His gaze wandered lazily around the handsome, well-appointed room, where Claudia's quiet good taste was so much in evidence. Her grandmother, Lady Alice, dozed peacefully in her chair. Her back was still arrow-straight, however, and she would happily have eaten worms before doing anything as vulgar as snoring. One only had to examine the elderly lady's aristocratic features and papery, blue-veined skin to see what her granddaughter would look like in fifty years, Riordan thought idly. A proud, cultured face, elegant and slightly haughty. Claudia's father, seated nearby on the sofa, had the same regal bearing, though in him it was softer, almost other-worldly, probably due to the delicacy of his health. Lord Winston had had a bad heart since boyhood; yet he'd outlived his younger, immeasurably healthier wife by a good ten years so far. Riordan theorized that he'd kept himself alive by developing a life of the mind, diverting all the energy others might expend physically into the fierce cultivation of the intellect. Claudia wasn't so doggedly cerebral, thank God, but she had unquestionably inherited her father's rational turn of mind.

For no reason, he rubbed his still-sore jaw and thought of Cassandra Merlin. What a contrast the two women made! He tried to imagine Claudia angry enough to strike him—or anyone—and found it impossible. Laughable. Claudia was a lady to the marrow of her bones, and he very much wanted to cast his lot with her. He'd known enough women like Cass Merlin to last a lifetime, beginning with the ones in his own family. Flighty, empty-headed females whose sole end was the pursuit of pleasure. He wanted nothing more to do with them, and looked forward to the day when his forced “relationship” with Miss Merlin was at an end.

And yet he hadn't been able to get her out of his mind all afternoon. Even while Oliver had lectured him on the evils of giving way to his fleshly impulses, he'd thought of her, of her face just before the carriage door slammed. She was precisely the kind of woman he wanted to avoid, and yet she had some quality—apart from the obvious—that drew him, a sort of fragile, battered dignity he didn't want to see injured. Wanted, in fact, to protect. Which was absurd; from all he'd heard, there was precious little left to protect. And anyway, she seemed perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She was young, that was all, and at his and Quinn's urging she was about to begin playing a very serious game. It was natural for him to feel a little responsible for her.

He thought of the way she'd looked in his library that afternoon, sitting bolt upright and fighting for control while Oliver's thoughtlessly callous words echoed in the room. He realized now that he'd wanted to go to her, to console her. What would she have done if he had? Flinched, or at least stared reproachfully back at him out of those extraordinary gray eyes. But what might have happened if Quinn hadn't interrupted them in the carriage at the moment he had? He imagined himself pulling the coach door closed, insuring their privacy. She would let him touch her, he knew it, but he would ask her first before taking each pleasure.
May I touch you here, Cass? Ah, sweet, let me kiss you there.…
He'd pull the pins from her hair and feel its slippery coolness, watch it fall down around her shoulders and create that stunning contrast of black hair and white, white skin. Then he'd brush her swollen lips with his fingertips, and she would sigh his name as she had last night. She would say yes to everything he wanted, and when he kissed her, she'd—

“I said Grandmother's going to bed, Philip. Did you want to tell her good night?”

Riordan shot to his feet with guilty haste and cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. A pleasure as always, Lady Alice.” He took the dry, shriveled hand and kissed it. Inwardly he was wondering how long he'd been sitting there, unaware that the music had stopped and people were talking to him.

“I'm a bit tired; I believe I'll go up myself,” Lord Winston decided, reaching for the cane he kept by his side. “Come again soon, Philip. I always like talking to you. Next time, remind me to give you that monograph on penal reform, will you?”

“I will. Good night, sir.” They shook hands, and Lord Winston followed his mother slowly out of the drawing room. In the hall, the butler would meet him and help him upstairs to his room. Riordan reflected, not for the first time, that it was fortunate the elder Harvellyns got out into the world so infrequently; otherwise they would be sure to become acquainted with the precise nature of his reputation and feel compelled to restrict Claudia's contact with him. As it was, they only knew him as a young, wealthy, and well-connected M.P. who had thus far shown no bothersome inclination to break with the Whigs, and thus he was a welcome visitor in their home.

“That reminds me. I have a book for you, too, Philip. It's here in my sewing basket, I think. I've been meaning to return it for ages.”

“Give it to me later. I want to talk to you, Claudia.”

She looked up, and her face became serious. “You look tired. I noticed it earlier. You seemed so distracted.”

“No, I'm fine.”

She walked to where he was standing and reached a hand up to touch his cheek. The unusual endearment surprised him. Never one to pass up an opportunity, he seized her hand and kissed it, then held it while he spoke. “I wanted to tell you before you heard it from some damned gossip. I'm going to be—linked, as they say, with a woman. A woman with a rather unsavory reputation. I'm sorry.”

“Oh, poor Philip, not again. What a bother for you.” She smiled sympathetically.

Her total absence of jealousy provoked him. “Yes, well, this time our supposed liaison will probably have to be a bit more blatant.” He realized with a touch of shame that he was trying to raise at least a hint of jealousy from her.

“I suppose she's very beautiful.”

He smiled. “Ugly as a hedgehog.”

“That's what you said about the French opera singer Mr. Quinn thought was a spy.”

“But she
was
ugly.”

“Philip, I saw her.”

“Oh.” He kissed her hand again. “You really don't care, do you? There isn't a particle of jealousy in your hard shell of a heart.”

Claudia narrowed her eyes in thought. “No,” she agreed after a moment, “I don't suppose there is. Well, it wouldn't make much sense, would it? I don't suppose you could help yourself if you were attracted to another woman. And it would be foolish of me to worry about it before it's even happened.”

“Your logic is as unassailable as always, my darling. And you are just as exasperating.”

“Silly.” She removed her hand. “It's late. Let me give you your book, and then you'll have to go.”

He sighed in defeat. She went to her sewing basket and rummaged through it until she found a small volume bound in red leather. He recognized it, and smiled. His English copy of the
Social Contract.
“What did you think?” he asked, superfluously; Claudia always told, asked or not, what she thought of books.

“Stimulating, but more on an emotional than an intellectual level.”

“Coming from you, that's the kiss of death.”

“The first sentence sets the tone,” she went on, ignoring him. “ ‘Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.' I deplore that kind of sensationalism. And I can't agree with his premise that man in his natural state is gentle and even timid. I'm much more inclined to believe, with Hobbes, that men are by nature selfish and amoral. Which renders the concept of a social contract absurd. The revolution in France is certainly proof that the mob can't be trusted to govern itself.”

She continued to speak while Riordan listened carefully, nodding when he agreed, frowning when he didn't. After a while he lost track of the words, though, and began to concentrate on the way her lips moved. She had a nice mouth. She'd let him kiss her on a few occasions, but he knew he couldn't push his luck. She never told him to stop; she just froze, and then it was like embracing a snowball.

“To believe that,” she was saying, “one would have to agree with Rousseau that man consults his reason before listening to his inclinations, and what could be further from the truth? One can't—Philip, you're not even listening. I knew you were tired. Now you must go home. Shall I tell Robert to bring the carriage round?” She'd taken his arm and was leading him down the hall to the front door.

“Sorry, I was thinking of something else. No, it's too late, don't bother Robert. I'll walk.”

They argued for a minute before she gave in. “Shall I see you on Thursday? It's the Chiltons' card party.”