Claudia glanced at the box. "Yes. Well! There you have it, then!" She smiled brightly—too brightly—and fairly vaulted out of her chair. "I'm sorry, but I can't stay." She walked out of the parlor. Without her bonnet.
Doreen picked it up and followed her to the front door. Miss Claudia yanked it open and barely glanced at Doreen over her shoulder. "I shall call again within a few days—"
"Aye. Want your bonnet?" she asked, smiling again when Claudia flushed and snatched it from her hand. She pivoted on her heel and marched down the little stoop toward the waiting carriage, springing inside before the driver could get down to help her. Doreen smiled and waved, chuckling delightedly when the young woman refused to meet her gaze as the carriage pulled away from the curb.
Was it so bloody obvious? Claudia yanked her hand from her glove and pressed it to her cheek, feeling the heat of mortification seep through her skin as the carriage bounced along the pitted street. Apparently so, if Doreen Conner noticed it. This was unbelievable! Not a month ago, she had been very happy with her work, undaunted by society's skepticism and her father's increasing talk of marriage. She had been perfectly content, had wished only to visit Eugenie and rest for a time before she tackled the school project. And she had felt perfectly safe to do so because Eugenie said he never came to France—she had written that explicitly in one of her letters, said that Kettering "did not care for Frogs!"
Well, The Rake apparently did not have such a great aversion to the French, because there he had appeared next to Eugenie's fountain, as big and bold as ever. His sudden and unexpected appearance had unnerved her so badly that she could scarcely think what to do. So she had done the thing she had been taught in ballrooms across London.
She cut him.
Directly, indirectly, every way she could think of, until he had finally left Chateau la Claire.
Naturally, she had thought she had escaped. But oh no—the battle had only begun. It was a battle, all right. He had started it aboard the Maiden's Heart, proving himself a paragon of obnoxious male behavior—in spite of the fire he had lit in her belly. Thank God she had come to her senses and ended that for the ridiculous moment that it was! And if he had any doubts about just how absurd she found it, they should have been dispelled altogether when the very next day she took his coach and left him standing in the rain at Newhaven . . . cursing quite loudly, as she recalled.
But no! Oh no, no, no. First, he had sent that massive bouquet of flowers, one so large and ostentatious that even her father—who usually noticed only those things that had to do with the king or his own fastidious appearance—had commented on them, taking the opportunity to remind her that at five and twenty, her opportunities for a good match were fading. As that had sufficiently humiliated her, she had sent Earl Libertine's bouquet to the inmates at Chelsea Hospital.
With any other man, that slight would have ended it. But not Kettering. Even at Ann's gathering, when she seized the opportunity to tell him openly and plainly what she had done, he had remained irritatingly unperturbed. So she had, therefore, proceeded to ignore him— not that he could possibly have noticed, what with Ladies Wentworth and Dillbey and the horrid Miss Early practically drooling all over him.
That night, naturally, had been followed by his sudden and divine appearance at Sunday service, where his inexplicable attendance was eclipsed only by the arrival of the jeweler's box later that afternoon, containing a bracelet from which a dozen or more French centimes dangled. There was no accompanying note.
The bracelet was sent to Kettering House on St. James Square early the next morning—with a note.
Kettering, you do me a grave insult by continuing to insist on the reimbursement of a rather inexpensive bottle of wine and a wheel of cheese, particularly when said wine was sour and the cheese more aptly described as offal. Please desist from sending any other tokens of your appreciation, sir.
C. Whitney
By mid-afternoon, Claudia had received two bottles of very expensive French wine and a wheel of Swiss cheese stamped with the royal order of William IV. Deciding Kettering's largesse would be much more appreciated among Doreen's charges than in her father's house, Claudia had brought it to the Upper Moreland Street house, but God in heaven, she could not escape him even there!
Well, her next note would surely end it. Even a ruthless charmer like Kettering would stop this game if she was unwilling to participate in it, and she would make that abundantly clear. He would stop, and Doreen would not laugh so gleefully, and she could concentrate on her school.
Feeling hardly assured, Claudia turned her attention to the window and realized they were on Regent Street. Ann had told her about a new modiste, and Claudia was suddenly of a mind to pay the shop a call. She rapped on the ceiling, instructed Harvey where to pull over, and alighted from the carriage in front of the shop. Clasping her hands behind her back, she stopped in front of the large bowed windows, closely perusing the latest fabrics newly arrived from Holland. As she studied a blue silk, a shadow filled the corner of the window. Suddenly aware of someone directly behind her, Claudia started and whirled about, almost colliding with his brick wall of a chest.
Julian grinned, leaned over her shoulder to peer in the window, and casually remarked, "The royal blue would look very well on you. It is really the only color that could do full justice to the beauty of your eyes, I think."
Clapping a gloved hand over her thundering heart, Claudia gaped at him. "Are you following me?" she demanded.
He laughed a rich, deep laugh as he reached for her hand, carelessly peeling it away from her heart. "My love, if I were following you, I would choose a more enticing time and place, believe me." The corner of his mouth curved upward; his gaze dropped to her lips. "But never doubt that the moment you beckon, I will follow." And then he turned her hand over, found the little circle above the buttons where the material didn't meet, and kissed her wrist. Arrogantly, openly, and very leisurely, he kissed her wrist right there in the middle of Regent Street, in front of God, England, and a curious street sweeper who happened by.
A stream of fire spread up her arm and Claudia's heart was suddenly in her throat. "Y-you may rest assured, I shall never beckon a rake!" she shot back, yanking her hand from his.
Still wearing that lazy grin, Julian stepped back, dipped his hat with a bow, and said, "Don't be so certain of that. Good day, madam."
And he was gone.
With a moan, Claudia sagged against the shop front. Why wouldn't he just leave her be? She didn't want his attentions! She wanted nothing to do with him, and Lord knew that Rake wanted nothing more from her than a tumble in the hay! That was, after all, the only thing Julian Dane ever wanted from women!
She was really almost seventy-five percent certain of it.
This game of chase had become serious.
A bespectacled Julian stepped up into a coach emblazoned with the Kettering coat of arms and settled against the lush velvet squabs. Dressed in a coat of midnight blue and dove gray waistcoat and trousers, he felt a bit like a dandy in the middle of the afternoon—but then again, he rarely attended high teas, of all things. The invitation to this fundraising event was Ann's, really, but one he brazenly had determined extended to him. But now he was wondering why, exactly, he was doing this.
That was easy, wasn't it? For the moment, the alluring Claudia Whitney gave him something to think about other than Sophie's moping. Unfortunately for that little nitwit, Julian had learned from Aunt Violet that in his absence, Stanwood had paid not one but three calls, the last one more than an hour in duration. That discovery had prompted another row with Sophie that, ended with her refusing to come down to supper or speak to him at all.
All right, there was that, but there was also the plain truth that he was quite intrigued by this game.
How could he not be? Claudia was such an enigma! She returned his gifts with acerbic little notes that kept him chuckling for days afterward. When he had encountered her leaving Ann's one afternoon, she pretended not to see him, practically vaulting into Redbourne's coach like a circus acrobat even though he stood almost directly in front of her and wished her a good day. And she had flushed a lovely shade of pink when he had kissed her wrist on Regent Street before snapping at him. All in all, the woman was simply refusing to succumb to his charm.
And that was unheard of in this town.
Julian shifted uncomfortably against the squabs. Those were the reasons he was all dressed up like a Christmas goose in broad daylight_.__ . ._ but there was something else, too. Something that kept him awake at night, devoured him during the day, made him mad with the absolute burning need to just see her. God help him, but the image of her that had lived in his mind's eye these last two years was suddenly vibrant and alive and seared into his heart with a kiss aboard the Maiden's Heart.
Thankfully, it was only a short drive to Redbourne House. The footman who greeted him seemed to think his name alone was sufficient grounds for entry and showed Julian to the grand salon, where two dozen guests were already gathered. Julian recognized only a handful, including his sister Ann, who smiled and nodded at him from across the room, Lords Dillbey and Cheevers, and naturally, the object of his great desire, whom his gaze found almost the moment he crossed the threshold.
She was at the other end of the exceedingly large salon speaking to old Lord Montfort. Arrested by the sight of her, Julian stepped to one side of the south doors, his gaze riveted on her. She wore a gown of royal blue trimmed in silver and worn off her shoulders in the current style. Her hair was artfully twisted, held in place by a silver ribbon. Small sapphires sparkled at her lobes, and a simple sapphire pendant rested just above the swell of her bosom.
He rather thought he could stand there all day and look at her, drink her in, and when she suddenly smiled at Montfort, Julian was amazed at how easily she seemed to illuminate everything around her. Phillip had said that once, in the Fairchild ballroom—she illuminates everything around her.
A sharp pain stabbed at his side.
Claudia glanced away from Montfort, her gaze scanning the crowd, passing over him . . . and then back again. Her smile faded slightly. She said something to Lord Montfort, nodded to a woman standing nearby, and started forward. Bracing himself, Julian clasped his hands behind his back, fastened the smile on his face, and tried not to enjoy so very much as he was the sight of her marching toward him.
She sailed right up and bobbed a curtsy so infinitesimal that a gnat would have taken umbrage. He, however, smiled and bowed low. He was, after all, a gentleman.
"And exactly how did you get in here?" she asked matter-of-factly.
With a quick, conniving glance about, he slyly beckoned her closer. She leaned forward—so close that he could smell the faint scent of her lavender perfume. "My feet," he murmured. "They come in quite handy at times such as this."
Claudia jerked backward; her brows snapped into a dark vee. "Oh, now that was highly amusing, sir. Unfortunately, an event such as this requires more than wit. It requires an invitation."
"I have one."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes. Ann's. I gathered it extended to me."
Claudia folded her arms across her middle, drumming slender fingers against one arm. "How very interesting. I could have sworn the invitation was addressed only to Lord and Lady Boxworth. I believe your so-called invitation is forfeit. I'm afraid you must pay for the privilege of entry now."
"Now that is extortion," he cheerfully informed her. A playful smirk lifted the corners of her mouth.
"And?"
Julian laughed. "All right, you have me. How much is this privilege?"
"One thousand pounds," she said, and pertly tilted her head back, waiting for him to balk.
Julian shrugged. "Very well."
Her eyes rounded with surprise. "You'll pay?"
"Yes, I will."
Claudia's stunned gaze burned a path from the top of his head to the tips of his patent leather shoes. "Honestly, I don't understand you," she whispered loudly. "What could you possibly hope to accomplish with such a sum?"
"I merely wanted to see you, Claudia, and I am happy to contribute to your cause. I am not an ogre."
"I never said you were an ogre," she responded, and flashed a demonic little smile. "I said you were a rake."
Julian chuckled, let his gaze roam her lush form, admiring the way the delectable, plump flesh of her bosom rose enticingly with every breath she took. "You took my advice, I see."
Claudia opened her mouth, then shut it. Then opened it again. "What advice?"
"The royal blue. You are stunningly beautiful, do you know that?"
Color instantly flagged her cheeks. She glanced nervously at her gown, awkwardly smoothing the lap of it, then looked furtively at those around them. Plastering a smile to her face, she muttered, "Now you are being ridiculous!"
"I am deadly serious."
Claudia nervously fingered the sapphire pendant as she looked around the room, smiling and nodding at others. "Do you think, perhaps, you have a fever?" she softly inquired of him. "Perhaps a brain injury of some sort? Have you perchance fallen from a tree recently and landed on your head?"
"I am quite well, thank you."
She shifted her gaze to him again. "Well then, you must simply be out of your bloody mind."
He laughed. "I take it you are not convinced of my sincerity?"
"Sincerity?" She rolled her eyes. "You would come uninvited to a benefit tea, undoubtedly for the purpose of trifling with some young innocent who has captured your fancy for the moment, and would expect me to believe you have an ounce of sincerity in you? I suppose you expect me to believe you are a philanthropist, too!" With a shake of her head, she stepped away, but paused and glanced over her shoulder at him. "But the spectacles are a nice touch." With a superior smirk, the Demon's Spawn marched away.