Vanity (14 page)

“My enemy.”

Such a flat, bald declaration left no room for further questioning, but she tried. “And you won’t tell me how he has injured you.”

“It’s not necessary for you to know that.”

Octavia was silent, continuing to gaze across the ice at the man who called himself the Earl of Wyndham. The hairs on the nape of her neck prickled, and a shudder rippled down her spine, but it was not the cold.

Excitement or apprehension, she didn’t know. But, then, the two were for the moment inextricable.

“C
ome, let us go and seal our contract.”

Lord Rupert’s calm voice sounded like a pair of cymbals crashing into the tight circle of her own thoughts.

“I promised you dinner,” he said, smiling now, no mocking twist to his mouth, and a gleam in his eye that turned her knees to water.

“Where?” The question came out muffled, and she cleared her throat. “Where should we have dinner?”

“Well, now, that rather depends on you, Miss Morgan.” The gleam in his eye intensified. “I’m sure we could dine well enough in the Piazza, if you’d care to. And I’ll drive you back to Shoreditch afterward.

“Then, again,” he continued in a musing tone, “your gown is hardly in the first style of elegance, and the Piazza is popular with society. There’s nothing more uncomfortable than feeling underdressed in such circumstances. You could always keep your cloak on, though … but that might make eating dinner rather awkward, don’t you think?”

“It might,” Octavia murmured equably, waiting with interest for this tortuous reasoning to reach its conclusion. It seemed Lord Rupert had his own plans for the evening, and
this apparent desire to solicit her opinion was little more than a game.

“Of course, we do have a great deal to discuss,” he went on. “Details and suchlike. It might be easier to do that in a more secluded place than a crowded eating house on the Piazza.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Octavia assented demurely. “What do you suggest, my lord?”

He stroked his chin, frowning reflectively as if seriously considering a variety of options. “Well, I would suggest the Royal Oak,” he said finally. “We would be perfectly private there, and I can vouch for the dinner.”

“But it might be difficult for me to return home afterward,” Octavia pointed out consideringly. “It would be very late to drive from Putney to Shoreditch, and then, of course, you would have to drive back again.”

“There is that,” he said, nodding. “Yes, certainly, one must take that into account.”

“Of course, Papa will probably sleep through until morning, and Mistress Forster will take care of him if he wakes … so I could always he overnight at the Royal Oak,” Octavia mused with the same due consideration. “That might be a solution, don’t you think?”

“It might,” he agreed. “Should you wish to do that, ma’am?”

“If such a solution would perhaps advance my education in some way, it might be said that we could kill two birds with one stone,” Octavia murmured, her eyes lowered as she idly traced a pattern on the ice with the toe of her skate.

“Oh, I could guarantee it,” Lord Rupert declared. “It would be a most efficient use of time.”

“And efficiency is vital when planning such a grand enterprise, sir.”

“Just so.”

Octavia raised her eyes and met his gaze. Laughter danced across the cool gray surface of his eyes, but beneath that surface the color deepened as if she were looking into the depths of a bottomless well.

“Then I believe, sir, that the Royal Oak will be the best solution.”

He bowed with a flourish. “A happy decision, my dear ma’am.”

“And one I came to all by myself, of course,” Octavia murmured, following as he skated to the edge of the ice.

He glanced over his shoulder, observing airily, “Rest assured, ma’am, that I shall always strive for consensus when it comes to making important decisions.”

“My mind is quite at rest, sir.” She sat at the edge of the ice to unstrap her skates, aware that her flushed cheeks belied the statement. The pointed banter had aroused and excited her in a way she’d never felt before. She could think only of the promised lesson, of recapturing the joy of her dream, only this time with her mind as essential to the pleasure as her body.

When he reached down to take her hand and pull her to her feet, the simple strength in his gloved fingers turned her knees to water, and for an instant she swayed toward him as if her legs wouldn’t bear her weight.

He slipped an arm around her waist, holding her against him for a second, and his scent filled her nostrils, making her giddy. With a muttered exclamation she pushed herself free and walked over to the phaeton, mortified by this absurd weakness, by the extraordinary excitation of her nerves. Anyone would think she was some feeble swooning maiden in need of burned feathers and hartshorn.

She climbed up into the phaeton before Lord Rupert could offer assistance and sat primly on the seat, drawing her cloak tightly around her before clasping her hands in her lap and gazing with apparent fixed interest at the scene on the lake.

Rupert said nothing but cast her a sideways glance, his eyes hooded so she couldn’t read their expression. But she had the feeling that he both knew what had happened and was amused by it. It didn’t help her sense of embarrassment, which grew as these strange, tormenting desires showed no sign of abating, until she was beginning to wonder if she would fall upon him as soon as they were alone, tearing his
clothes from his body with hungry cries of primitive passion.

Absurd! She huddled into her cloak, drawing as far to the edge of the seat as she could. It would be less mortifying, of course, if her companion was subject to the same urgencies, but somehow she doubted it. They rose, she was convinced, from her own inexperience, and Lord Rupert Warwick was too cool and collected, too experienced in these realms, to be ruled by tidal waves of unbidden and unruly emotion.

“If you inch any farther sideways, you’ll fall out,” Lord Rupert observed. “Am I taking up too much room?”

“No … no, of course not,” Octavia disclaimed hastily. “I didn’t want to get in the way of your arm … make it difficult for you to control your horses … or … or something.” She stumbled to a halt, her face on fire.

“How very considerate of you,” he murmured. “But I assure you there’s not the slightest danger of that.” Transferring the reins solely to his right hand, he slipped his left around her waist and yanked her along the bench until she was sitting so close to him his shoulder brushed her cheek. “That’s a little more friendly, I believe.”

“But hardly decorous,” she said, trying to hold herself rigidly upright despite the encircling arm.

Rupert chuckled. “Perhaps not, but decorum is not on the day’s agenda.”

Octavia pursed her lips and kept silent until she’d recovered some measure of equanimity; then she changed the subject, hoping that a new topic would focus her attention on something other than erotic fantasy. “Have you thought where we should set up house for this charade?”

“I’ve taken a lease on a comfortable furnished house on Dover Street.”

The change of topic worked like a charm. Octavia was so startled, all thoughts of the indecorous hours lying ahead vanished. She jerked herself sideways, away from his encircling arm, and nearly toppled off the bench. “Already? But … but how could you know I would agree?”

Rupert withdrew his arm and devoted both hands to his horses. “I was optimistic.”

“You take too much upon yourself, sir,” she declared icily.

“Do I?” He glanced at her with open amusement. “Come off your high horse, Octavia. I’ve always said we were two of a kind. I could guess how you would react as easily as I could guess my own response to such a proposal.”

“Of all the
arrogant, impertinent …” She
fell into
a
fulminating silence.

“Words fail you?” he inquired, raising an incredulous eyebrow. “I never thought to see the day.”

“This is madness!” Octavia exploded. “I detest you! What am I doing here?”

“Oh, I think you know the answer to that perfectly well,” he responded, whipping up his horses as they turned off Westminster Bridge and entered the quieter realms south of the river. “You’re as eager for a certain course of lessons as I am to teach them, sweeting. And you’re as eager for your own vengeance as I am for mine. So let’s be done with pretense … at least between ourselves.”

“For a supposed aristocrat you show a most remarkable lack of finesse,” Octavia retorted.

“I’m a believer in plain speaking,” he said. “A plain, blunt man, my dear. If my bluntness offends you, then I can only beg pardon, but I fear I can’t change the habits of a lifetime.”

“What kind of a lifetime?”

“Maybe I’ll tell you one day.”

“You know my story, why am I not to know yours?”

“Because I choose not to tell you.”

“We’re to live under the same roof, perpetrate this fraud, and you expect me to follow your lead without knowing anything about you … about what brought you to this?” she said with indignant frustration. “I don’t even know your real name. Lord Nick … Lord Rupert Warwick? They’re just fabrications, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

The simple agreement rendered her speechless. She sat
beside him, unable to think of anything to say that would puncture her companion’s infuriating self-possession. His air of world-weary cynicism sat easily on his broad brow, and he exuded an indefinable aura of mastery that she knew she couldn’t withstand. He’d swept her up into his life, made her a part of his schemes, but where she saw herself as a self-determining, decision-making individual, in his eyes she was merely an adjunct, a useful tool to be bent to the correct shape.

The winter afternoon was drawing in, lights appearing in the cottages they passed. Her companion showed no inclination to break the silence, although her mute anger buzzed around the phaeton like a nest of invisible hornets. Octavia thought about telling him that for once he’d misjudged the situation. That she didn’t want to participate in his schemes on these terms. That he should turn the phaeton and take her back to town.

She thought about saying these things, but she didn’t say them.

The lights of the Royal Oak shone brightly in the gathering dusk, and again Ben and the gangly lad emerged to greet them as Rupert drew up beneath the creaking sign.

“Eh, we wasn’t expectin’ ye this early, Nick,” Ben said as the highwayman jumped to the ground. “I see ye’ve brought miss again.”

“So I have, Ben,” Rupert agreed cheerfully, turning to lift Octavia out of the phaeton. “We have some important matters to discuss, and this seemed the quietest place for it.”

“Oh, aye,” Ben said with a snort of laughter. “We knows all about such ’portant matters in the Royal Oak.”

Octavia stood still in the yellow lamplight from the open door. Folding her arms, she glared at the innkeeper, who was grinning from ear to ear. “I doubt you know anything at all, Ben. What I’m doing here is no concern of yours, and I’ll thank you to keep your observations to yourself.” Then she spun on her heel and entered the inn. If she couldn’t do battle with the highwayman, she could at least show the people in this den of thieves that she was more than one of their precious Lord Nick’s toys.

“Eh, that’s a sharp tongue an’ no mistake,” Ben said, still grinning, apparently quite unperturbed by Octavia’s rebuke. Rupert shrugged acceptingly and followed Octavia into the inn.

Bessie came out of the kitchen, her face flushed from the fire where she’d been turning a haunch of venison on a spit. She ignored Octavia and greeted Nick with a nod. “Ye’d best go to the fire in the taproom, Nick, until yer parlor’s warmed up. Tab’s only jest lit yer fire. We wasn’t expectin’ ye until after dark.”

“No matter,” Nick said easily. “I’ll have a tankard of ale, and Miss Morgan will take a glass of madeira.” He swept Octavia into the busy taproom under Bessie’s baleful stare.

Octavia wondered how many of the occupants of the taproom had been there on her last visit, and her eyes darted involuntarily to the long deal table in the middle of the room, two spots of color burning on her cheeks.

Voices were raised in greeting and Rupert answered them cheerfully, escorting Octavia to a seat on a settle beside the fire. If he was aware of her embarrassment, he gave no sign, except that he treated her with a deferential formality quite at odds with his usual manner.

“Allow me to take your cloak, ma’am.” He unclasped it without waiting for her to do it for herself and slipped it from her shoulders. “Pray take a seat and warm yourself. Tab will bring you a glass of madeira directly.”

An interested silence had fallen. Octavia felt herself the focus of every gaze. She turned her face to the fire and pretended to be warming her hands. After a minute the conversation picked up again, and her skin ceased to prickle with the sense of a hundred eyes upon her.

Rupert handed her a glass of madeira, then stood beside her, his back to the fire, his body offering a partial shield from the rest of the room. This unlooked-for consideration went some way toward soothing her ruffled temper. She relaxed, leaning against the hard oak back of the settle, sipping her wine, stretching her feet to the fire.