Lord Ruin (12 page)

“I adore dancing,” Anne said to cover the nervousness caused by Cynssyr holding her so close. He moved with wicked grace, all polish and perfection.

“With four girls, I imagine the Sinclair family attended its share of dances.”

“Oh, yes, indeed.”

“Did you waltz often?”

“Never, I’m afraid. Papa always said I oughtn’t dance.”

“Why not?”

“Well, what would have been the point?”

Pulling her closer, he stared as though he wanted to see inside her, a look that made her insides shiver. “To the devil with your papa,” he said, and effortlessly whirled her in a tight turn.

A fortnight in London, and Anne knew exactly why so many women had loved Cynssyr. A similar fate awaited any incautious woman. Already she wanted badly to believe he cared for her more than a little.

“Anne,” he murmured, a low sound that felt like water to a parched throat. The sound caught at her, ensnared her. She lifted her gaze, met his eyes and was trapped there, too, willingly drowning in the peridot depths. A smile curved his mouth and her breath stopped, simply stopped. He was so lovely when he smiled.

Seeing the shadow of exhaustion in her eyes, he cursed himself for his selfishness. “You are fatigued.” He touched a finger to her cheek, tracing a line from temple to just beneath her eye. At the contact a jolt of awareness sped through him, of her strength of character, her scent, her wholly unanticipated charm, and of his body’s response to her, sharp and hungry, which he had damn well better learn to curtail.

“A little,” she admitted.

“Are you hungry?”

“No, not yet. Soon I imagine.”

“You need to rest. Shall we go to the card room?”

“All right.”

Tables set up in the Octagon room were already crowded with guests. Footmen in the Cynssyr livery of green and gold circulated with bottles of wine, champagne and glasses. There were discreet and not-so-discreet looks when Ruan strolled in with Anne on his arm. The men eyed Anne speculatively, pausing at bosom level before moving on or returning their attention to cards or dice. The few women present patted their hair, adjusted their gowns or arranged their positions to better advantage.

He didn’t dare hold Anne as closely as he wanted. For one thing, he had no intention of making a spectacle of himself with her. Anne deserved a dignified introduction to his circle. For another, he feared if he did he’d soon drag her off to some secluded spot and make love to her again. God knows she needed some respite from him as much as he needed to exercise restraint.

“Thank you, Cynssyr,” she said, after he saw her to a chair at one of the tables.

“What do you think, my dear?” God, how he wanted to touch her, to have his hands around her waist helping her ride him to oblivion. “Faro? Whist? Hazard? Backgammon?” He leaned down and put his mouth next to her ear. “I wish you were sitting on my lap right now.” She tilted her head in a quizzical motion. “Wearing nothing but those diamonds.” The tip of her ear turned red, and the color spread slowly downward. She looked around, trying to gauge whether anyone had overheard. “I wish I were inside you right now,” he whispered. A vision of the two of them doing exactly that nearly sent him cross-eyed.

“Hush!” she said in a low voice.

He straightened, caressing her shoulder while he nodded at a lanky man whose pale hair fell in ringlets to his ears. “Whatever you choose, Mr. Durling will have a game with me.”

“Backgammon, if it pleases you, sir.” When he sat, she refused to look at him for quite a bit.

As predicted, Julian Durling eagerly assented to a game. Sky-blue eyes lingered at Anne’s throat then swept downward to take in the rest of her. He fancied himself a gamester and a lover both, and Ruan did not object to the suggestion of a small wager on the outcome.

Durling drew up a chair next to Anne. While playing, he kept up a running account of his failed attempt to learn the guitar, which skill he had intended to use in wooing a woman who’d caught his eye. The man managed to get his fill of Anne’s figure and so did not play well. Anne appeared fascinated by his insipid story. If she wasn’t, she was an actress the likes of which had never been seen outside Drury Lane. Several times Ruan caught Durling staring at her waist and lower down where the act of sitting had tightened her gown over her hips and legs. After one such lingering perusal, he caught Ruan’s eye and gave an appreciative nod.

“Y’know, Cyn,” Durling said in an unaffected manner that proved Anne had gotten to him, too, “she’s not at all what I expected.”

“Really?” Fierce desire to toss the man out on his ear made Ruan’s voice dangerously flat. Durling had a reputation for chasing other men’s wives, and he was getting that look. Ruan knew that look all too well. A gleam of appreciation. Anticipation of conquest, as it were.

“You never cared for substance before.” He seemed to get himself under control for the drawl reappeared. “Tell me again, Duchess, that you think I might learn the guitar.”

“I am convinced you could learn to play wonderfully.”

“Dashed if I’ve never met a woman to make me think better of myself than you.” He brushed at his cuff with a perfectly manicured index finger. “Remarkable. I am a renowned ne’er-do-well, as Cyn will tell you. Do you know I once took up painting, too? Gave it up after a week. I’ve no talent for art.”

“I don’t believe it, Mr. Durling. No one who dresses with such a splendid sense of color could be a failure at art.”

“You don’t say?” His eyes flashed with a distinctly lecherous light. With a flourish, he produced a set of dice. “Cynssyr?” When he looked at Ruan, his expression was far too innocent. “Another game?” He closed a loose fist around the dice and vigorously shook them. “You’ll give a kiss for luck, won’t you Duchess? What do you say, Cyn?”

Her eyes danced with humor and earned a look, more admiring yet. “Against my own husband? I think not, sir.”

Ruan nodded. Durling lost on the first toss. The stakes quickly streaked upward from a few pounds to a few hundred pounds, with the other man losing more often than not. Forty minutes later, he wrote out his note for nine hundred thirty pounds.

“I needed that kiss, Duchess,” Durling said, grinning as he handed over his voucher. “Brilliant play as always, Cynssyr. Your grace. Think I’ll go see if Miss Sinclair will dance with me.” Rising, he took Anne’s hand. “Once again Cynssyr comes away with the best. I am heartbroken.” He placed a hand over his heart. “Inconsolable to be the loser again.”

Anne laughed. “Hardly that, Mr. Durling.”

He bowed and clicked his heels, still holding Anne’s hand. His eyes flicked up, settling on something past Anne’s shoulder. “Well, well. Your brother-in-law approaches. Such a serious look on his face. I fear your husband is to be called away. Matters of state, perhaps.” He put a finger to his chin, aping deep thought. “No, that cannot be. The subject is something else entirely, for Bracebridge is with him.” He waved a hand, still holding her fingers in his other. “I depart, dear Duchess. I am not in the mood for the fright I get whenever I see that brutal face.”

“You disappoint me, sir,” Anne said, pulling her hand free. “I do not find Devon brutal in any respect.” She missed the suggestive rise of his brow in response.

“Ah, Duchess,” he said archly, “but then you are his particular friend, are you not?”

“Indeed I am, sir.”

He bowed once more, contrite. “Forgive me if I offend. Good evening.” Durling vanished just before Ben and Devon reached them.

“Aldreth. Devon.” Anne extended a hand to each, taking in their expressions and feeling sharp curiosity mixed in with a goodly portion of disappointment. “It’s true, I see. You’ve come to take Cynssyr away.”

“If we may,” said Devon, lingering over her hand.

“Stay away from Durling, Anne,” Ruan said, hearing too late that he sounded accusing of her.

Anne’s expression smoothed out. “Yes, sir.” She bent a knee and was gone.

The three men walked to Ruan’s study. “Well?” Ruan asked when he’d lit a lamp and closed the door.

“You might at least pretend to care about her feelings.” Devon planted himself, legs apart, arms crossed over his chest.

“You might pretend to care less.”

“Gentlemen. Gentlemen.” Ben walked between them. “Let’s not quarrel. Though frankly, Ruan, you could have been more chary of Anne than you were.”

“I don’t like the way Durling looks at her.”

“Well,” said Ben affably. “Deal with him.”

“I will,” he said.

Devon cleared his throat. “As I was saying—”

“You weren’t saying anything at all,” Ruan said. He spoke sharply because he knew Devon loved Anne, and he didn’t like it.

“Please!” Ben said. “Stop baiting one another.”

“There may be a gentleman involved,” said Devon. “I’m hearing only whispers. But I have the names of men who’ve recently been in—and out of—dun territory.”

“Who?” Ben asked.

“You might not like the list.”

Ben laughed. “I’ll wager I can guess three-quarters of the names.”

“Get on with it.”

Devon ticked off the names. “We can start with our friend Julian Durling.”

“No doubt he still spends his allowance before the quarter’s ended.” Ruan glared in the direction of the door. “And is in debt to his ears.”

“So does most every gentleman in London,” said Ben.

“Hell,” Ruan said. “He owes me nearly a thousand pounds.”

“There’s also Kinross and Jamison. Wilberfoss, too, but he solved his difficulties some time back. Been in the clear ever since. But, were either of you aware that John Martin is in town?”

“Indeed?” Ruan imagined the man as he’d last seen him. A whipcord-thin man whose generous mouth, ready smile and warm eyes disappeared entirely whenever he drank, which was often. Not particularly successful with women, though not at all a bad-looking fellow. His indolence was a flaw of character that had ended Martin’s otherwise promising military career. A pity. But for that flaw, he would have been an excellent solider.

“Tempting as the notion is,” Ruan said, “if Martin has only just arrived in town, we can’t consider him.”

“What if he hasn’t?”

“We’ll find that out soon enough. At any rate, Wilberfoss has always paid his debts so I doubt it’s him. Besides, his mother had money, too, and she left him everything. Durling’s a convincing suspect. Perhaps too convincing,” he reluctantly conceded. “Kinross surprises me though. I’ve heard he has certain tastes. Think he could be our man?”

Devon stroked a finger down the length of his crooked nose. “There’s one more name.”

“Who?” said Ruan and Ben together.

“The marquess of Thrale.”

“Impossible. I won’t believe it,” said Ben. “Thrale’s bloody rich.”

Devon shook his head. “His father was bloody rich. And jolly good at spending his money, too. It’s been what? Six months since the present marquess came to his estates? There are whispers the title’s bankrupt.”

Ruan felt a shiver of dread. A gentleman responsible for the brutal assaults? Inconceivable. And yet. ... It explained so much. How easily the women were lured away. With the exception of John Martin, any of the men Devon had named possessed sufficient knowledge and familiarity with society to concoct the tricks played on the victims. Without doubt, the man responsible knew the Ton and the men and women who moved in it.