Chasing Raven (11 page)

Chapter
Thirteen

"We have received an invitation to a 'musical evening' at the Faulkner's! Good God! That old trout, Ginny Faulkner, has not made eye contact with me in the street for thirty years."

She was in the hipbath when her mother burst into her bedroom, flourishing that small, gilt-edged card in one hand. Busily inspecting her prune-like fingertips, Raven did not look up.

"This is Hale's doing, of course!" Lady Charlotte continued. "I suppose the Faulkners have heard about his interest in you and suddenly I am no longer persona non grata."

"It might be Felix Faulkner's idea, mama. He did send me those flowers after the Winstanelys' ball."

"Highly unlikely." Her mother waved the invite like a flag of victory. "That callow youth would not dare push his suit with you beyond a few measly flowers and a stiff quadrille. Ginny Faulkner rules the roost in that family and even her husband is a pale shadow. No, indeed, this is not that boy's interest in you. This is a result of our new connection. She would not extend an invitation to us for any less reason. They don't want
us
; they want Hale. Now do not dilly-dally in that bath, Raven, you must get all that hair dry."

It was a last minute invitation sent for that very evening. When Raven finally read the card her mother dangled before her face, the small, sharp, slanting letters clearly revealed the peevish temper of the lady who wrote it out in a rush. Under duress.

Over the past few days, wherever they went, the Earl of Southerton popped up in her view, even if he only stayed for a few minutes and said nothing at all to her. At first these encounters had seemed accidental, but clearly it happened often enough that other folk took notice.

"Hale has either instructed the Faulkners to invite us," her mother exclaimed gleefully, "or else that foul harpy has done so in the hopes of luring him to her party. He is, of course, a prize catch at any private event, and nobody would have expected him to remain in London this time of year."

"Mama, in the space of two minutes you have described the sender of that invite as a foul harpy and an old trout. Are you sure you want to go? I'd happily miss it."

"Of course we want to go. One attends these things no matter what one thinks of the hostess. For two hours this evening she is our dearest friend and don't you forget it."

Another evening of false smiles then. Hale would surely not attend.

"A pity Alphonse cannot escort us this evening. He dines with the elderly widow in whose house he lodged when in London all those years ago. Although she is dull company and an invalid, Alphonse felt an obligation to go."

"Yes, he is very obliging," Raven replied dryly. "I pray he does not spread himself too thin with all his
obligations.
"

"What can you mean by that tone?"

"Mama, he is clearly very fond of female company. And not only yours."

Recently the three of them had strolled along Bond Street, where Raven witnessed the jaunty Frenchman receive smiles and sly signals from several pretty ladies, of all ages, shapes and sizes. Many of them apparently knew him by first name. Surely her mother had noticed, although she made no comment.

That same day, while they were at the goldsmiths, supposedly for the simple task of getting a clasp fixed on a necklace, Raven had casually asked her mother's companion about the young, pretty woman in the lilac dress at the theatre.

Taking a pinch from his dented snuff box, Reynaux explained airily, "She is an old friend."

To which she replied, "Just like my mama?"

"Mais oui."

"Except the lady at the theatre was not quite so
old
a friend," Raven had added dryly. "In fact, she looks to be a very young friend."

"Do not concern yourself, mademoiselle, with my affairs, unless you wish to cause pain to your lady mother. I will not trouble her long as it is and no harm will come to her. Tend, instead, to your own hunting of the magnificent and elusive stag of Southerton. You 'ave done so well to catch 'im on your 'ook. We can all take a lesson from you."

He was extremely satisfied with this snide remark, until Raven pointed out that one did not catch a stag with a hook.

Then he put his nose in the air and strode away. Taking her mother's elbow, he steered her off across the shop to look at another jewelry case.

Needless to say, they came away from Neate's that day with several new, unnecessary purchases, all put, Raven was sure, on her father's account. Gentle attempts to draw her mother away from the shop were loudly rebuffed and, with the French gentleman to support her cause, Lady Charlotte was invincible.

Raven could only hope that Monsieur Reynaux would soon move on to another lover. She did not want to be the one forced to open her mother's eyes again and make them see what they did not want to observe. Sadly, as the only daughter, that duty always fell to Raven. Then Lady Charlotte would hold her to blame for the hurt that followed, as if she had caused it all and not merely been the voice of reason.

* * * *

Hale arrived early at the party, which meant suffering a quarter of an hour's stilted conversation, in a too-warm drawing room, with Lady Faulkner, her son and her unhappy husband. It felt like an interminable amount of time before the other guests began to arrive and even that did not improve the situation terribly. Hale was just reconsidering his reason for being there at all, when he saw Raven and her mother finally walking into the room.

Now he could breathe.

Abandoning a conversation which had been foisted upon him by a very loud, retired Admiral and his small, toothy wife, Hale immediately made his way toward the new arrivals. Several people got in his way, trying to catch his eye, but he determinedly kept to his course.

The musicians sat out on the terrace beyond the open French doors and several rows of gilded chairs had been assembled there for the audience, but few folk took to the seats outside. Instead they milled about indoors— the object apparently being to see and be seen. The music was entirely incidental. For Hale, who enjoyed well played music
and
fresh air, it was an outrageous waste.

But he could hardly complain since he was there for one particular person only.

His fingertips tingled with the anticipation of touching her again. Something he had forbidden himself a week ago.

"Miss Deverell, Lady Charlotte. I hope you are having a pleasant evening."

"Your lordship. How delightful to see you again. So soon." Her mother was a-gleam with jewelry this evening. A twitch of her head was enough to almost render him blind. "I did not think you—"

"Do you enjoy music, Miss Deverell?" he asked hastily.

But Raven had no chance to answer for Lady Faulkner abruptly appeared at his side, slid herself into his view and created a wall around which he could not see the woman for whom he came. The woman for whom he went to all this trouble and put himself into situations of dire discomfort.

"You must meet my niece, your lordship," his hostess declared. "She has just arrived from Kent."

He pulled back, annoyed. Must these people thrust their spare, unwed females at him? Did they think he could not be left to his own devices in these matters and had to be led like a donkey to water? Ten years ago, the moment he was out of official mourning for his wife, he had become the focus of this uncomfortable attention. It had chased him out of London and made him avoid society as much as possible. In the years since, he'd forgotten the suffocating closeness of rooms like these, the cloying air of desperation.

Now, reacquainted with it, his temper sharpened. "Pardon me, madam, but I shall save you some time and effort. I am not in the market for a bride."

Lady Faulkner turned white and clutched the string of pearls at her bosom. "Well, I...I merely thought to—"

"Madam, we both know your intention." He glanced at her niece. "And the young lady, I'm sure, is very accomplished, very engaging and very well-mannered. I wish her the best of luck in her pursuit of a husband. I mean her no disrespect, but I have no desire for a wife. I will, of course, recommend her to anybody who is."

Raven, meanwhile, blocked by the shout lady's back, turned away, said something to her mother and walked in the other direction.

"Excuse me, Lady Faulkner." He moved away to follow Raven. In that moment he did not care how it might appear. He was a grown man, for pity's sake, and he would talk to whomever he chose.

She stopped by the doors to the terrace and spoke with a young lady Hale did not know. He hung back, waiting. Between muffled giggles of a worrisome nature, the two women exchanged a few whispered sentences.

Hale anxiously touched the knot of his neck cloth and cleared his throat.

"Your lordship." Raven turned to look at him. "May I introduce my friend, Miss Mary Ashford. Another single lady, very engaging and accomplished."

He winced and she laughed.

"But you need not be afraid. We are neither of us in the market for a spouse either, so you are in no danger. Mary is much too sensible to tolerate the inconvenience of a husband, and I haven't met a man yet who can handle me. Remember, sir, I told you I am in pursuit of happiness, not a husband, who will probably curtail that very thing I seek."

Her friend looked worried and shook her head, but Raven continued merrily, "Do not fret, Mary. His lordship and I are well acquainted. He has studied me from a distance these past few days and now knows all my odd ways, do you not, sir?"

"Indeed. I am steadily becoming familiar with them. Particularly that contrary attitude and sharp tongue." He was close enough now to feel the warmth from her arm as it brushed his sleeve. Tonight she wore rose-colored taffeta silk that contrasted beautifully with the darkness of her hair. He longed to run a finger along the ruffle at her shoulder. To take his time unlacing her.

Hale stared in alarm at the carpet by his feet. This was getting utterly out of hand. He truly was turning into a wolf.

Although he had told her he could wait a week for her answer to his invitation, he grew quite impatient. When he woke each day his first thought was of when or where he would glimpse sight of her again. How he might engineer an encounter without being too tactless and obvious. He could not enjoy his breakfast with that heaviness of doubt in his chest, fearing he might not see her that day.

He should never have given her so much power over him. But this chase began before he realized what he was doing, and once it was underway he could not turn back.

Now his temper had spilled over and caused him to speak his thoughts aloud to Lady Faulkner.
One does not speak one's thoughts aloud to one's hostess
, he could hear his Aunt Serena's admonishment.

Once again a figure drifted into view, getting in his way— a gentleman only vaguely familiar, but extremely determined to trap Hale in a conversation about politics.

When Miss Deverell moved on again, he made his excuses to the other man and followed her. Any guest who blocked his path after that was given the very minimum of polite acknowledgement and then stepped around.

In this way he circled the room, stalking his prey at a careful distance, but seeing her forever out of his reach. He began to suspect that she moved deliberately away from him. The sooner he got her out of London and away from all this interference the better.

* * * *

Did Hale still follow? Yes. She caught a glimpse of his reflection in a gilt-framed Rococo mirror. Any time he drew close he was apprehended by another guest. His eyes had grown very dark, as she knew they did when he was angry.

Earlier, when she heard him lecture Lady Faulkner about her intentions for her unmarried niece, it was all Raven could do not to burst into a high peal of laughter. The Earl of Southerton did not mince his words, and she could appreciate that.

His return to society had startled and confused many people, it seemed. Little did they know that one wink was the cause of it.

She had to admit it fluffed her vanity that he followed
her
around that room.

The gentle tones of an oboe had crept into her consciousness, somehow weaving a way through the clutter of conversation. It seemed to sing its notes directly to her and she followed the sound out onto the terrace where the musicians played solemnly, not seeming to mind that they were mostly ignored.

When she lowered herself to one of the chairs, Hale was behind her again. His hand hovered by her shoulder. Powerful even in a resting state, that hand could not be ignored. She knew the way it felt on her waist. The sensation had haunted her for several nights in a row.

"You once accused me of spoiling your sport," she murmured, still facing forward. "But now I think I have become your sport, sir."

"You are certainly as slippery as a fox this evening, Miss Deverell."

"Like you, I do not intend to be caught."

"But you enjoy being chased."

"And neither of us like to lose," she replied softly. "I can only wonder how this will all end."

He said nothing to that. How long before someone came between them again? She hardly dared breathe for it felt as if they had stolen away together and were, for that brief moment, invisible to all the other guests. Inside the room, through those glass-paneled doors, people wandered and gossiped, sipping their wine surrounded by so many candles, ignoring the music and the beauty of the those glittering stars in the evening sky. But she and her pursuer were on the outside, the only two who appreciated the music enough to be still and listen.

Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird, and she was on the edge of her seat

"The music is very lovely," she whispered.

"We have found something to agree upon then."

"A bridge across our great divide, your lordship?"

"It is a beginning perhaps."

His fingers twitched and Raven wondered, in a moment of terrible, wistful anticipation, whether he would touch her shoulder. She dreaded it and yet yearned for it suddenly.

Never before had a man caused her to breathe so erratically just by his proximity. His cologne once again surrounded her, filled her, but not in a cloying way. The ring on his little finger gleamed in the candlelight, bright as the north star.

Hale has blood on his hands,
Matty Bourne had told her
.

Whether this was true or not, he had certainly hunted her across London for the past few days. Was it because he saw something he liked, or simply because he wanted to reprimand her again the next time she did something wrong in his eyes. Or did he mean to dispose of her? That last thought amused her. Let him try.

Suddenly she imagined that supposedly blood-stained hand on the side of her neck, gently stroking her with his fingertips. They moved downward, over the base of her throat and slowly traced the curve of her breast.

Raven closed her eyes, wickedly relishing the progress of his masterful fingers as they slid under the lace trim of her bodice. And further. She thought she even felt some corset laces stretch and stitches break as his large hand firmly cupped her breast with wanton disregard for public decency.

He was demanding, arrogant, as she knew he could be.

Her skin pimpled, her nipple puckered, as if she truly felt the proprietary touch of his flesh to hers.

She was breathing so fast now that she felt dizzy. How fortunate that she was seated.

Meanwhile, the very proper gentleman who could have no idea of the naughty depths to which her imagination took her, moved only his little finger to brush a curl of her hair. Twice.

The end of that twisting lock was briefly lifted from her shoulder and then returned. It might have been the caress of a cool draft rather than his finger that caused the movement.

Small as it was, however, the touch made her tremble. She dropped her reticule, the thin silk ribbon slipping through her fingers again as it had done before in his carriage. Both she and Hale bent for it at the same moment, touching hands in the shadows.

A sudden loud crack interrupted the music, and the sound of glass shards hitting the stone terrace made them both look up in alarm. An ornamental vase holding a topiary had toppled, apparently, into the glass-paneled door and caused a momentary distraction. Inside the house somebody let out a belated scream and another complained of a cut from flying glass. Several faces clustered there to look out, as if the fault for the falling plant might be blamed on the Deverell who lurked outside.

She felt his hand slip from hers and when she looked up, her hunter was gone, vanished into the night.

But Raven could not leave her chair for several minutes. Her knees had utterly lost their strength and all her blood had rushed to the most sensitive parts of her body, making it most unwise that she attempt to get up and have civil conversation. It was not the broken glass that startled her, but the swift brush of his lips to her cheek as they bent together for her reticule.

Perhaps she
was
responsible for the door, she thought grimly. Her pulse vibrated hard enough to shake the terrace. Had his lips lingered longer there might have been a few more smashed glass panels.

Mary Ashford suddenly appeared in the chair beside her. "His lordship left rather precipitously and directly across the lawn in the dark, trampling Lady Faulkner's flower beds, much to her distress," she whispered. "What did you do to him?"

"Nothing," she managed tightly.

"And the topiary?"

"It was not our fault. Perhaps the wind blew it over."

"Wind? On a still, starlit night?"

"Well, I know not," she exclaimed. "It was nothing to do with us."

"Perhaps the two of you caused a chemical reaction of some sort, and a mysterious zephyr formed out of nowhere—"

"Yes, thank you, Miss Ashford, you are most amusing."

"You're considerably flushed, Miss Deverell."

"Because it's far too hot this evening, Miss Ashford."

"That would account for the goose-pimples on your arm."

"The music caused them. Of course, I am more sensitive to fine music than you."

Mary, clearly amused, was too good a friend to mention anything more about it. For the time being.