For the Earl's Pleasure

For The Gudge

H
e was a magnificent animal. Dark and deadly in both looks and wit. Most would describe Valerian Danforth, Lord Rainewood, in terms of a lean strong predator—a panther or a wolf. Personally, Abigail Smart found him to be the worst kind of bloated ass.

“Stupid donkey,” she muttered as, all sinewy grace and confidence, he matched her step for step around the nearly empty balcony surrounding the crowded ballroom below.

“Ill-tempered shrew,” came the lazy reply.

She watched the dancers move sinuously across the parquet floor, oblivious to the drama that swirled above them—society ever unaware of the tension that gripped her around Rainewood.

He made sure of that.

For even though he was deliberately walking beside her, provoking her, anyone observing them from below would think he was merely passing her by—a gnat to his social Goliath.

“Lousy, holier-than-thou, miserable, good-for-nothing, donkey.”

“I withdraw my previous statement,” he said in a voice smoother than the best whiskey—and twice as dangerous when overly consumed. “So cruel a comparison for the shrew.”

As if bored by the entire conversation, he flicked a pocket watch to check the time. Only the twitch to his fingers as he flipped the piece open said otherwise. With another smooth flick of his wrist the watch closed and disappeared into his expensive jacket.

A long look beneath longer lashes challenged her to a response as they continued on their somewhat aimless circuit. His loping grace vied with the lofty tilt to his head. As if he too couldn’t decide whether he was the apex hunter or the sitting king. Then again, to her he was a little bit of both.

Abigail looked away to glare at the ballroom’s occupants and at the patterned floor shifting beneath their feet as they danced. The alternating dark and light inlay perfectly reflected her moods where he was concerned.

“Don’t you have something else with which to occupy your time?” she finally bit out. “I think I counted at least five young ladies flailing about in your path, their eyes as big as the large china saucers our hostess favors.”

A splinter. He was like a large, long sliver of mahogany she could never quite rid herself of. A splinter which had become such a part of her being that it was rooted beneath her skin, permanently overgrown, and now she couldn’t bear to remove it.

Otherwise, she would have stayed below, amongst the herd, safe in the knowledge that he wouldn’t deign to spar with her in the crowd.

“I’m flattered you noticed,” he said. Damn intoxicating whiskey. “Are the ghosts and ghouls, spirits and beasties, not holding your attention anymore? It must have been a crutch to focus on something other than your world of make-believe.”

Abigail’s fingers curled into her palms and she resolutely kept her eyes on the crowd below. Had she stayed near the area where the unmarried women waited patiently for a dance partner, she too could have been out there on the floor, losing herself in the ritual, feeling the flowing air and the touch of a warm gloved hand against hers…instead of the coiled heat and anger buried beneath her breast, seeking outlet as it always did when she separated from the pack and “bumped” into the most virile and biting man in attendance.

He never failed to find her alone, even for the briefest of moments. And she never failed to separate from the pack at least once an evening, despite her knowledge of what would come.

“Be still, my baited breath, as I await your answer. I might come to think you care, Smart.”

Fingers brushed her bare elbow. A touch that could be completely accidental coming from someone else. Dark, sultry eyes met hers—sure in their intent. Fire licked beneath her skin. A signal of danger wormed its way through her and activated a sudden need for flight.

“You will be waiting a long time, Lord Rainewood.”

“Will I?” The hair on her arm stood on end as his fingers trailed lightly along the underside and then lifted.

Flight. Most definitely.

“Donkey, donkey, donkey,” she muttered as she stepped to the side, out of the path of danger. She skillfully negotiated a route between couples and groups gathered at the top of the stairs leading back down to the floor. She bypassed the stairs, trying to shake him free of her shadow, and turned as if heading to the retiring room.

He fell behind as they merged into a highly trafficked area and became part of the milieu once more. Ladies chattered and flirted, gentlemen postured and boasted. A sharp turn down the stairs was all it would take to be free. It was the smart move. There was something in the air tonight. A change. And rarely did those favor her.

Her elbow tingled.

Abigail threaded back through the throng and bypassed the stairs again, making another casual turn to head to the other side of the balcony ring to continue her seemingly aimless circuit.

“Donkey,” she repeated for the tenth time, irritated with him and angry at herself for not taking the steps. For feeling the pull to continue.

“Talking to yourself again, Smart?” Rainewood drawled lazily as he pulled alongside her once more as they entered a path of columns that would interrupt the view from below enough that anyone observing would not be able to tell they were talking as they walked.

His long strides easily overtook her shorter, overly energetic ones, allowing him to be relaxed and in control while she always appeared to be in perpetual retreat. A peerless prince of ice and grace to her frenetic and plebeian bearing. She repeated her assessment of his character like a litany of prayer in her head.

“A better option than the alternative, considering the company,” she said aloud.

A cool smile lifted his mouth in direct contrast to his suddenly hot, chocolate eyes—the only window to the real Valerian, who presented himself as even-tempered and remote, but was anything but. “Madness, talking to oneself. Should I send for the wardens? Put an end to your metaphysical games once and for all?”

Her limbs froze and she partially tripped on her suddenly leaden legs. The cool smile turned mocking and revealed even, white teeth that only enhanced the rich color of his eyes, his dark hair, even his flawless skin, which held a much healthier hue than the paste most of the men sported. She had long since assumed that his pact with the devil must have included abnormal dental and physical health.

“For yourself, perhaps. For continuing this farce.” And she had allowed it—was encouraging it even now. She cursed herself internally. “Leave me be, Rainewood.”

“I think not. It has been obvious for years that you require a keeper. I’m simply making sure that the rest of humanity is safe from you.”

She stepped sideways, closer to him, changing her path so that he would have to move or hit the next column.

Instead, he pushed against her, pressing into her side. She stumbled at the contact.

“Pardon me, Miss…Smith, was it?” he said to her in a falsely felicitous manner as two older women heading in their direction peered their way. Upon his statement, the two women looked away and began conversing again, deciding there was no gossip to be had.

It was maddening really that for all of the time they spent arguing at events that no one seemed to
notice
. By Jove, they had just spent the last ten minutes walking near each other in partial view of observers. Granted, he made it look like they were apart. But was she that invisible?

As far as the ton was concerned it would be surprising that Rainewood would even manage two correct letters of her name. He was elevated too far above her socially for anyone to think it odd that he completely ignored her, and he enjoyed the private game he played with her far too much.

He gave a sly smile under his lofty false concern as the women passed from view.

Her heart thumped in her chest from the shock of his bump and in renewed anger with herself. Frankly, one of these days she would probably start screaming at him in the middle of a gathering. The wardens would surely be called then.

She narrowed her eyes as she took in his patrician features arrayed in distant coldness and his eyes in heated derision. Someone needed to cut him down to the level on which the rest of society resided.

And she needed to stop playing his game. Needed to resist the pull that had existed between them for half of her life.

She turned and walked away from him.

“You are turning into a veritable stodge, Smart.” A note of irritation crept into his usual smooth drawl as he easily caught up with her. “Trying to limit my amusement.”

“Your amusement could use limiting, Rainewood,” she said. “Now scurry off to the rock from whence you crawled.”

“You first, Smart.” Smooth fingers traveled down her arm causing every hair to stand on end again. She forced herself to continue walking straight and not to lean in or jerk away. Either reaction would show too much.

A deep chuckle met her right ear as he leaned in instead. She had obviously not succeeded in keeping her face straight.

“Leave me be, Rainewood.” She shrugged him off. No one in the ballroom below, or the scattered guests around the balcony, would have seen the touch. He was much too clever to allow that. And if for some reason he failed to be discreet, the damage would be turned upon her. There was a very good reason Rainewood ruled a large part of the ton.

She stopped at the small refreshment table set out for the guests seeking a break above stairs, and gathered her wits enough to pour a perfect cup of punch—controlling her shaking fingers just enough to do so. Through the years she had learned to hide her anxiety behind graceful gestures. Gestures that she had practiced over and again until they were natural.

“I don’t think I will, Smart.” He popped a cracker in his mouth and leaned forward against the table, negligently putting himself back in her sight. “Since you didn’t answer my question—shouldn’t you be off scaring the locals with tales of ghosts howling in the night, spirits beseeching them for favors, calling out dire warnings, inhabiting their domains?”

Brittle past hurt crackled along the edge of her skin and she rubbed her arm.

He continued, apparently quite content to ridicule her without response. “And how in the world did you manage to secure an invitation to this event?”

She fought a grimace as her eyes swept the crowd below. Her mother, with her eagle eyes and never-ending social-climbing enthusiasm, was tracking her from the sidelines of the ballroom. Her mother’s brow furrowed as she saw Rainewood standing so close. She waved a hand, obviously wanting Abigail to return to the action below. Worried that her only child would do the unforgivable.

Worried about what Rainewood would do to their social standing if he took it upon himself. Or vainly wishing that perhaps he would take a blow to the head and realize he was desperately in love with Abigail—and that all of these years of coldness were merely a poor cover to hide his deep and abiding desire.

She snorted derisively at the thought. Her mother never had been able to figure out what happened all those years ago—even though she had tried quite hard to get it out of Abigail once Rainewood had become heir. All of a sudden an earl, the heir to a dukedom? Her mother wasn’t stupid and she played the social game harder than she had any right to.

“A deal with the devil, Smart?”

Abigail kept her eyes away from her mother and their newly procured companion and tutor—the woman hired to open doors for them among the members of the ton. Doors that would otherwise be closed if highfliers like Rainewood had his choice. “I don’t remember making a deal with you, Rainewood. No, this invitation was nothing out of the ordinary. You’d be surprised at how boring people find the current members of society. Hungry for fresh blood and new perspective.”

She gave him a tight, all-encompassing glance, taking in his fashionable attire; the enviable style he carried off without looking as if he tried. “So boring to just be fashionable these days. Much more interesting to have genuine content to one’s character. So rare in present company.”

She raised her cup to her lips and kept her eyes wide with innocence, as a pair of gentlemen stopped next to them to secure refreshment.

Rainewood’s eyes tightened and he popped in another cracker, responding to the men as they obsequiously acknowledged him, then waiting for them to move away. She thought about moving away first, but there was something about Rainewood that never failed to draw her in, even as it repelled. A leftover sentiment from childhood. That intangible something that caused her to stay that extra few seconds to watch the bee sting even when she knew she should swat it and run far away.

She blamed childish flights of romantic fancy for the stupidity inherent in the poor battle tactic. Rainewood had far more maneuvers in his arsenal than she could ever achieve. And socially he was capable of completely destroying her. She was continually surprised when he didn’t—instead, he preferred to dangle her on the edge of destruction, like a cat playing with a half-starved mouse.

The two men finally left, carrying their liquid prizes.

Rainewood leaned in, the crisp smell that clung to him—the whisper of forbidden nights and unending challenge—wafted over her. “That’s the thing with you, Smart. Always trying to play above your status.”

She finished her sip and tried to keep her fingers relaxed around her cup as she lowered it. A sharp slap to remember the past and never confuse it with the present. Unending challenge was all she would ever receive from Rainewood now. That and the coldness and biting sarcasm that she had never felt she had earned.

“I learned the hazards of playing above my status at a young age. The actions and knowledge gained me little truth or regard. But joining that status will secure me
justice
.” The tenuous grip of the forbidden broke its hold and she embraced the loud, crackling sounds of the ballroom. She walked backward, not breaking the hold between their eyes as she communicated her desire. “I hope when that happens that you choke on it. Have a pleasant evening,
Raine
.”