Fortune's Lady (14 page)

“Soon.”

“Good. I want to start earning my fee as quickly as possible. Let me out now, please.”

“I'll come again tomorrow.”

“Fine. Please let me out.”

Still she wouldn't look at him. He waited a moment longer, understanding only partly what had her so upset, then threw open the door and jumped to the pavement. He took her hand to help her down; she pulled away immediately and walked alone to her door. He thought she'd wait for him, let him open it for her, but before he could reach her she had disappeared inside.

C
ASS LEANED FORWARD
and patted her horse between the ears, wishing Riordan would talk to her. She glanced at him, astride the fine bay stallion beside her, and wondered what he was thinking. It was impossible to tell from his blank, closed profile. Actually, neither of them had had much to say this morning, or last night either, which was unusual. They had walked, ridden, dined, gambled and danced every day and nearly every evening for almost a week—but most of all they'd talked. Cass hadn't even known there were so many subjects two people could discuss. She had opinions now—not deep ones, but respectable and reasonably well-founded—on issues such as whether a Member of Parliament ought to vote as his conscience advised or his constituents demanded, and whether people had a moral responsibility to overthrow a despot. And the astonishing thing was that her new opinions weren't just mirror images of Riordan's, but her very own. She wasn't even sure what his real beliefs were because his way of discussing them was to take the opposite of whatever view she took, argue until she either won or gave up, then take the other side and begin all over again. He never made her feel stupid, even when she stumbled into ridiculous
faux pas
that revealed how truly ignorant she was. He'd even paid her a compliment of sorts when he'd wondered once how she could be so bright, yet have had such a disgracefully poor education. She'd basked in the glow of that dubious praise for days. She still had difficulty with Rousseau and the other books he lent her to read, but had learned that if he summarized them for her she could grasp the fundamentals easily and accurately. She felt proud and exhilarated; for the first time learning was an enjoyable rather than a painful experience.

When they weren't discussing books and pamphlets and newspaper articles, they were abroad in high and low society, pretending to be lovers. They went to dances and routs, intimate supper parties, respectable and disreputable gaming houses, the theater, the opera; within days it was widely known that the Honorable Philip Riordan's new companion was the daughter of Patrick Merlin, that traitor they'd hanged at Newgate scarcely two weeks ago, and the chit wasn't even in mourning. But what could you expect of a damned Frenchwoman? Or as good as a Frenchwoman since she'd lived her whole life there and probably sympathized with the frogs just as much as her turncoat father. No one asked what the illustrious M.P. saw in her, they knew his reputation and they'd heard what she looked like. The only mystery was why he didn't move her out of her aunt's shabby digs in Holborn and set her up properly someplace in Mayfair.

Cass's appreciation of Riordan's acting ability deepened as she began to understand the real depth of the chasm between what he was and what he seemed to be. They developed a complex system of relating to each other in public as the days passed, until by week's end their teamwork was flawless. He drank alcohol in minute sips, and then only when he was being watched; Cass, who had always held her wine well, learned to drink most of her own glass of wine or claret quickly and then exchange it for his while no one was looking. She became adept at staying upright when he lurched drunkenly against her or stumbled while holding onto her. She grew used to his belligerence when he lost at cards, and acquired the ability to laugh heartily at his and his friends' ribald jokes.

The only thing she couldn't get used to was the intimate way he touched her in public—or more accurately, the way such intimacies had no meaning for him except to further the charade. When they were out, it seemed his hands were always on her, pressing, stroking, holding, and for the life of her Cass couldn't help but respond. Once at a pantomime in Vauxhall, he'd caressed her neck and shoulders for what seemed like hours, standing behind her in a crowd of his boisterous cronies. At last, blind to everything in front of her, knees trembling, she'd pulled his hand away and kissed the knuckles casually, just as though her bones weren't melting, her stomach knotted with warm, forbidden sensations. When they were alone later and he treated her with the same friendly politeness as always, she'd felt used, almost dirty—and oddly bleak.

She liked him too much. She knew it, but couldn't think what to do about it. He was the nicest friend she'd ever had. It didn't matter that their friendship was a purely contrived affair or that it had a finite end—he was warm and funny and exciting, and when they were together she was happy. She knew no good could come of it, but she lacked the sophistication or the cynicism it would have taken to hold herself away from him.

“What time is it?” she asked now, more to break the silence than to know the answer; it couldn't be very many minutes later than the last time she'd asked.

Riordan drew out his watch and flipped open the silver top. “Half-past eleven. He'll be along soon.” He glanced across at her, taking in her new rose linen riding habit with what she could swear was disapproval before returning his stony gaze to the path.

“Do I look all right?” she asked anxiously, fidgeting at the pin that held her perky new riding hat securely to her upswept hair. Her palms were perspiring inside her leather gloves. She didn't understand his silence, his coolness, just now when she was finally about to meet Wade. She was as skittish as a colt, knowing that everything they'd worked for, that Mr. Quinn had paid for, was riding on her personal credibility for the next thirty minutes or so. But at the moment when she needed his support most, the free flow of words between them seemed to have dwindled to a trickle, and now came in infrequent drops.

He looked at her again, this time with a cold, assessing expression that came bewilderingly close to an insult. “Like a ripe plum, Cass, ready for plucking.”

The words and his sneering tone were like a slap in the face. She turned her head away and bit her lip in dismay. What was wrong? What had she done?

“If you feel out of control even for a second, stop your own horse, is that clear? We'll find another way to get his attention. I hate to see women galloping sidesaddle, anyway. Did you hear me, Cass?”

“I heard you perfectly,” she returned tightly. “I'm an excellent horsewoman, Mr. Riordan. I'm hardly likely to lose control of this gentle hack, I assure you.”

“Fine. Then you can concentrate on smiling and batting your eyelashes. Just don't say anything so stupid that you give the game away.”

She stared. What was the matter with him? The contrast between this angry, unpleasant man and the generous, laughing friend he'd been was incomprehensible. It had started last night, she realized, when they'd begun to plan for Wade in earnest. She looked straight ahead, hands clenched on the reins, and willed herself to relax, not to cry, to think only of what she had to do. She jumped when a man's voice behind them called good morning, but it was only one of Riordan's friends and he rode on without stopping.

The day was overcast, the air oppressively warm. Hyde Park was emptier than usual for a Sunday morning because of the threat of rain. Colin Wade rode here every Sunday, and Cass alternately feared and hoped he would cancel his ride today. Nervously, she adjusted the maroon ascot at her throat and pushed back the sleeves of her jacket to reveal the snow-white lace cuffs underneath. She'd purchased the new riding habit, ready-made, with Quinn's money. Was that what was bothering Riordan? The idea made her angry. What business was it of his how she spent her money? Besides, what else was she supposed to do? Everybody expected her to seduce Mr. Wade. How was she to accomplish that unless she made herself attractive to him? She breathed a troubled sigh, then went rigid when she heard Riordan say softly, “There he is.”

Up ahead, riding toward them, was a young man on a white mare. As he drew closer Cass saw, under cover of her lashes, that he was indeed, as Riordan had said, blond and beautiful. His waistcoat today was powder-blue instead of pink, his coat a striking damson. His pale yellow hair was combed straight back from a high forehead. Eyes set deep in a bony, perfectly modeled face wore a look of intense boredom. When he saw them, his brows rose slightly, accenting the haughtiness of his expression. He nodded distantly to Riordan and started to ride past when his cinnamon-colored eyes flicked across, then came to rest on Cass. He reined his horse to a stop.

“Wade,” said Riordan.

“Riordan,” said Wade.

Both men were watching Cass, whose wide eyes were fixed on the yellow-haired man as if he were a long-lost pot of gold. Wade waited expectantly; after a pointed delay, Riordan performed a graceless, grudging introduction.

“Miss Merlin,” he intoned silkily, bowing from the waist, his eyes sweeping her from boot tip to hat top.

“How do you do?” Cass took off her right glove and put her hand out to him across a distance of six feet. Without dropping his gaze, he kneed his horse closer until the two animals were touching and his glossy riding boot nudged at her skirts. He took her bare hand, held it, smoothed the top with his thumb as if to make a place for his lips, and kissed it. Cass drew an audible breath, squeezing his fingers lightly, lingeringly, before letting go. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue and threw her head back a little. Wade's thin, arrogant nostrils flared.

Riordan, who had been holding his breath, grabbed Cass's bridle and pulled her horse away from Wade's with an impatient tug. “We're in a hurry, Wade. Good morning to you.”

“A hurry?” the yellow-haired man repeated, in a voice like honey flowing over velvet. “I thought the great House was in recess. A well-deserved one, I'm sure, after all the wise, far-seeing laws the honorable gentlemen passed this term. Statesmanship must be ever so exhausting.” His smirk turned to a smile when Cass smothered a giggle against her palm.

“No, it's talking to maggoty, tarted-up coxcombs that's exhausting,” Riordan snapped in an angry, too-loud voice. This time he spurred his horse to a walk, dragging Cass's mount with him. The mellifluous sound of Wade's laughter followed them until she twisted around in her saddle and sent him a heart-stopping smile. He raised his hand in a gesture of mingled promise and farewell; she returned it silently with her eyes, before Riordan's muttered oath made her turn to face forward again.

They rounded a turn in the path and stopped. Neither spoke for a moment. Now that it was over, Cass felt herself beginning to tremble in reaction. “It worked, didn't it? I think he liked me, don't you?” She took off her other glove and massaged the soft leather with nervous fingers. “Don't you think it went well?”

“I think if it had gone any better, the son of a bitch would've humped you right there in the bridal path.” His lips thinned spitefully at the choking sound she made and the sudden rush of purple to her cheeks. “There's hardly any need for the second phase of the assault now, you were so successful at the first. I confess, Cass, I didn't sufficiently appreciate your talents in the art of seduction. I see I underestimated the vast diversity of your experience.”

She swallowed with difficulty. “So it would seem,” she said with icy, hard-won control. Bastard! she thought. Her chest ached and the sting of unshed tears was excruciating. He still had her bridle; she twitched it out of his hand and turned her horse around.

“Wait! You're going after him?”

“I always finish what I start, Mr. Riordan. Get out of my way.”

“Remember what I said—end it immediately if you feel the horse running away or there's the least—”

“I said move!” The hard slap of the reins made her horse jump, shoving Riordan's mount aside as they jerked away. She heard him call something after her but shut her ears, concentrating instead on urging the well-bred hack to simulate a wild, out-of-control gallop. She could see Wade now, trotting away from her some thirty yards ahead.

“Faster, horse!” she called softly, swatting his hindquarters with the reins. “Faster!” But it was no use; she couldn't prod him out of his sedate canter. In desperation she took her foot from the stirrup and dropped the reins, hugging the horse's neck and seizing a handful of mane. If she couldn't make him look out of control, at least she could make herself look imperiled.

Wade heard them and turned around. As they flew by, Cass let out a terrorized scream. She was clutching the horse in earnest now as his choppy, frightened gait threatened to unseat her. A backward glance told her Wade was riding hard after, and she prayed she wouldn't fall off before he could save her. Now he was beside her; she saw his hand snake out and jerk the sagging reins. Her horse pulled up sharply, so sharply she lost her seat, rolled over his head, and landed in a loose heap on the side of the path.

She sat up shakily, trying not to wince from the shooting pain in her ankle. Wade was beside her in seconds, touching her, asking if she was all right. She became aware that her skirts were up to her knees, dusty petticoats askew, her stockinged calves fully visible to his interested gaze. She wanted to jerk her gown down, but forced herself instead to lie back against his snowy shirtfront with half-closed eyes and moan a little.

“Oh, Mr. Wade, you saved me! I shall be forever grateful to you.” Riordan was right, she thought swiftly; I
am
good at this.

“Thank God you're all right. Do you think you can stand?”

“If you'll help me.”