Scoundrel (4 page)

“You aren’t going to let him chase you off.” “Of course not. The message I came here to deliver is in the safety of your aunt’s hands, I am undoubtedly the subject of every gossip in that ballroom, and I managed to reveal my most humiliating secret to a man I thought I cared for.” Lily shrugged her shoulders. “I would say I have accomplished everything that I possibly could in one evening. What reason do I have to stay?”

Two hours later, the curtains in Lily’s bedroom fell back into place as she turned away from her window. She’d stared at the fog-shrouded silhouettes of
West End
town houses for over an hour, trying to think of anything or anyone other than Remmington. It wasn’t working.

At least her father hadn’t argued over her abrupt request to leave the ball. The earl of Crofford disliked parties almost as much as Lily did, and he’d decided to spend the remainder of the evening at his club. If the earl fell into a philosophical debate with one of his friends at White’s, it would be hours yet before he returned home.

Lily’s slippered feet padded across the soft Aubusson carpet, and she sat down before a vanity table that was tucked away in one corner of her room. The servants often remarked on the oddness of the room’s decor, for the vanity was the one small concession to femininity in the starkly furnished bedroom. A green and blue plaid covered the massive, old-fashioned bed, while dark chests with heavy brass handles were lined up against one wall, as orderly as a row of soldiers. A few contained the personal articles of clothing normally found in a woman’s room, but most were stuffed with writing papers, inks, and any number of ancient documents and odd mementos. Books and papers covered every available surface and a flat, rectangular stone tablet balanced precariously atop two of the chests, its weathered granite face covered with hieroglyphics. The chiseled miniature pictures were strange in their foreignness, yet beautiful in their simplicity.

Altogether, it looked a very masculine room, one that a man would feel comfortable in. Lily’s delicate, feminine beauty looked completely out of place. But the room was hers, and the furnishings reflected much more of her personality than her appearance ever would.

She arranged the folds of her blue silk robe around the stool and stared into the oval mirror that hung above the table. She hated her hair. It so perfectly complemented the practiced expressions she’d worn earlier that night. The curls had swirled and bounced ridiculously when she bestowed empty smiles on Lord Allen and Lord Poundstone. Her fingers tugged at the braid and curls until her hair spread across her shoulders in a rich auburn cape. She pulled a brush through the long tresses, and tears came to her eyes.

Remmington thought her a fool. Everyone thought her a fool. She was greatly tempted to show everyone how wrong they were, to do something so outrageously intelligent that no one would treat her like a witless doll ever again. Detailing her theories about hieroglyphics at the next Antiquities Society meeting would do nicely. Admitting her role in the war effort would remove any lingering doubts.

That was impossible, of course. Staring at the witless fool she’d created, Lily knew she would be stuck with her until the war ended.

A muffled sound from somewhere within the great house caught her brush in midstroke. The hairs at the nape of her neck stood on end. Ever since she’d arrived home that evening she’d had a strange sense that something was wrong, a sense of something sinister in the quiet night. She caught sight of her frightened expression in the mirror and shook her head. Doubtless the noise was caused by a servant who’d bumped into a wall or door on the way to the water closet. It was far too early for her father to return home.

The brush began its long strokes again, her expression wary now as she listened for any other unusual noises. But it wasn’t a noise that sent a shiver of dread down her spine. It was the mirror’s reflection of her bedroom’s door handle as the brass lever moved ever so slowly. Her heart leapt to her throat as the door opened noiselessly from its frame in agonizingly slow degrees.

Her father was home early. He always checked on her when he returned from his club. She should just call out and let him know she was awake. Instead she sat frozen to her seat, trembling like a leaf. The flames of the candles that flanked her vanity flickered in the draft, as if to warn her of the intruder. Her eyes remained locked on the reflection of the door, watching it open just a crack, then wider, wider still, the dark hall shrouding whoever stood there. The clock over the mantel that she hadn’t noticed just moments earlier began to tick so loudly that the sound filled the room, drowning out even the loud beats of her heart as it pounded against her chest.

The mirror reflected a man as he stepped into the doorway and Lily sighed in relief. His green-and-gold-trimmed livery announced his place among the Earl of Crofford’s servants, but the sight of his face trapped the sigh in her throat. It was not a face at all, but a strange Oriental mask, the painted features twisted into a hideous caricature of a smile. A low, menacing laugh came from the depths of the mask as he stalked toward her. Lily opened her mouth and screamed in terror.

It was nearly two in the morning when Remmington left his club in the company of his friend Harry, Viscount Gordon. While they waited near White’s cloakroom for their coats and hats, Harry asked for a ride home.

“If it wouldn’t be an inconvenience,” he amended, his boyish face lit by a winning smile. “Afraid my mother and sisters absconded with the family carriage to attend
Ashland
‘s do.”

“No inconvenience at all,” Remmington assured him. That wasn’t quite true, but he wasn’t entirely certain that Harry could afford the blunt for a hired carriage. Harry’s father left behind a mountain of debt when he died last winter. Like many in his situation, Harry’s only hope lay in the time-honored tradition of marriage to an heiress. Surprisingly, Harry seemed in no hurry to repair the family fortunes.

“Heard an interesting bit of gossip tonight.” Harry draped his greatcoat over his shoulders. “Rumor has it that you singled out Lady Lillian Walters for a waltz.”

Remmington frowned. Lily Walters was the last thing he wanted to be reminded of at the moment. She’d haunted his thoughts all night. Before he could answer the unspoken question, two more patrons approached the cloakroom. Both were friends of Harry’s, anxious to relate stories of their success at the gaming tables that night. Nodding a brief greeting to the two young gentlemen, he told Harry, “I’ll wait for you outside.”

Remmington made his way to the club’s entrance and gave a silent signal to the doorman that ordered his carriage to be brought around. A liveried servant hurried down one of the side streets where carriages that belonged to the club’s patrons were lined up to await their owners. It would take a good quarter hour for his driver to maneuver through the clogged side streets. Remmington propped his foot on a nearby bench and withdrew a cheroot. In the puff of smoke that followed, he pictured a woman with hair that reminded him of a magnificent autumn day and eyes the color of warmed sherry.

Tiger Lily.

He liked the sound of the name. Like the flower, she was earthy and sensual, lovely and sweet-smelling, and just as easily crushed. Her beauty had attracted his attention more than once over the past few years. He had a weakness for beautiful women, and none could surpass Lily Walters. She radiated innocence and lush sensuality, a combination almost impossible to resist. He’d made it a point to avoid her, all too aware that he had no place for a woman like Lily in his life.

Until tonight.

Tonight he had purposely sought her out for the most selfish of reasons, his actions justified by the sure knowledge that she would never guess his motivations. It wasn’t her intellect that drew men to her like bees to honey. In fact, many considered her slow-witted. He wondered where they’d come up with that notion. The wit he’d encountered tonight was razor sharp. She had guessed one of the reasons he sought her out within moments of their encounter, then commenced to make a mockery of his conceited plan. He’d humiliated her. He recalled again his brief glimpse into her eyes at the end of their dance. It would be a long time before he could forget that look of wounded betrayal. Later, on the terrace, he found out just how deeply he’d hurt her.

There were other ways to break off his courtship with Margaret Granger, other women he could have danced with to make Margaret realize his interest in her would not last much longer. In a moment of weakness he’d chosen Lily Walters, unable to resist her beautiful smile any longer. Dancing with Lily had turned out to be more effective than he could have imagined. He hadn’t known about Margaret and Osgoode, or that Margaret would accuse Lily of being his mistress. He’d done what he could to ensure that Margaret would not repeat slanderous gossip, yet he couldn’t help but imagine the expression on Lily’s face when she overheard Margaret’s accusation.

Guilt was a new emotion to his jaded senses. He didn’t like the feeling at all. It wasn’t like him to involve innocents in his plots. Indeed, he’d almost forgotten that innocents still existed in this world. He should have walked away from Lily Walters the moment they met, the very instant she’d looked up at him. She’d stared at him as though he were a mighty conqueror, or some long-lost lover returning from the war.

It was a heady feeling to be the object of that beauty’s attention, to realize that she was attracted to him. In the past he’d watched her bestow charming smiles on countless men, yet he’d never seen her look at one with such open desire. How he’d wanted to kiss her then, to see if she would taste as sweet as she looked. He’d had to settle for a chaste kiss on the back of her hand.

He stared down at the glowing tip of his cheroot and watched the smoke curl lazily upward. The remembered scents of roses and sandalwood drifted across his senses, and the memory of temptation. He recalled what Lily felt like when he took her into his arms for the waltz, how his hand unconsciously measured her small waist, then tested the curve of her hip as far as he dared. The heat of her had penetrated him everywhere. The offhanded compliment she gave him about not staring at her figure still made him smile. Lily Walters had a figure that no man could help but stare at. She filled a gown as few others could, and the lush swell of her breasts made his mouth go dry. He’d looked long and often at that tempting display. She just hadn’t caught him at it. He wondered again if she could possibly be as innocent as she seemed.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Harry apologized, as he walked over from the club’s doorway. Remmington’s carriage pulled around the corner at the same time. “Jamison is set on my sister, Prue, and he never wastes an opportunity to point out his potential qualities as a husband. Can’t seem to comprehend the fact that I must get her older sister, Claire, off my hands before I can make settlements on the younger ones.”