His Wicked Heart (45 page)

The next room was better lit, but it was full
of people playing cards. Without masks. Philippa recognized a
handful of faces before Sevrin dragged her out onto the balcony.
For once, she was glad to be wearing an indistinct, colorless gown
reserved for young unwedded misses like herself. She could be one
of any of London’s young ladies. Although—and this made her heart
hammer even faster—her pale yellow dress could lead anyone to
assume she was an unmarried miss. Even that seemingly innocuous bit
of information about her identity made her feel anxious.

Once outside, she plastered herself against
the cool stone of the house’s exterior. She breathed deeply, hoping
her pulse would slow. “Good Lord. I’d no idea of the…depravity of
Lockwood’s parties.”

He stood a few feet away. “And you
shouldn’t.”

She gestured toward the house in a thoroughly
unladylike fashion. “But my mother is here!”

Sevrin’s gaze flicked toward the door they’d
just exited. “She is?”

Philippa adjusted the mask, which had drooped
over her mouth in her excited exclamation. “I had no idea this was
Lockwood House. I followed her.”

His brow creased. “Is there an
emergency?”

“I wanted to… that is… No, there’s no
emergency.”
Except the danger to her reputation
.

She looked up at him. A sconce on the terrace
cast flickering light over the angular planes of his face. Long,
dark lashes fringed deep brown eyes. The line of his nose was
imperfect, a tad crooked, but it somehow looked right on him. A
slightly dimpled chin supported sensuous lips she too-clearly
recalled kissing her.

He took her arm, and his touch was oddly
comforting, considering he was a scoundrel. “Then let’s get you
back to your carriage.”

Despite his seemingly genuine assistance, she
cautioned herself to be wary. She’d spent a lifetime avoiding
scandal, and just because she was standing in the dead center of
one didn’t mean she ought to throw all discretion aside. “You’re
being very gallant. I’d heard you possessed no such
consideration.”

He tipped his head toward the light, which
brought his good looks into greater focus. “I would tell you not to
believe the salacious rumors you’ve been told about me, but, alas,
they’re entirely true. Come, let’s get you home.”

She peered up at him through the mask. “I
can’t go back through there.”

“Of course not. We’ll skirt the house.” He
took her hand again. A pleasant, reassuring warmth stole through
her glove and imbued her with a sense of security. He led her along
the terrace and down a short flight of steps into the garden.

After a moment he asked, “If there was no
emergency, why did you follow your mother?”

“She left Lady Kilmartin’s with a gentleman.
They appeared,” she searched for the right word, “intimate.” She
looked at the ground where her slippers squashed the damp earth. “I
wanted to bring her home before she caused a scandal.”

“You think her leaving a ball with someone
other than her husband will cause a scandal?”

Philippa paused and looked at him. “I’ve been
raised—by
her
—to think so. You disagree?”

He rolled a shoulder. “It’s not as if married
women don’t have affairs.”

Was he defending her mother or merely stating
the obvious? “But how can she behave in such a manner while
requiring me to comport myself above reproach?”

His lips twisted into a faint smile. “Because
life is full of double standards, especially for unmarried
women.”

“You’re right, of course.” She continued
walking with him through the dark garden. Illumination from the
torches on the distant terrace was feeble, but the path was easy
enough to follow with a bit of help from a nearly full moon.
“Mother’s timing, however, is quite poor. I’m supposed to be
finding a husband. Her scandalous behavior could drive potential
suitors away.”

“Perhaps you needn’t worry. I’d heard your
father had gone abroad to find you a husband. Surely none of them
will be aware of your mother’s activities.”

She cast him a quick glance, but he was
eyeing the path. “It appears I am not the only one listening to
rumors.”

He laughed softly. “Touché.”

“The rumors are not, however, completely
false. While my father is abroad conducting business, he did
threaten to bring a bridegroom home if I didn’t select one soon. He
was disappointed when I didn’t marry the Earl of Saxton last
fall.”

Sevrin slowed his pace. “And why didn’t you?
Marry him, I mean. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

She bristled. He might as well have asked her
outright if she was settling herself comfortably on the shelf. In
this, her fifth season, she’d heard more than one matron musing
about her marital prospects. Though she was still young enough,
handsome enough, wealthy enough, her failure to accept a marriage
proposal—and there had been several—was beginning to erode her
standing as one of Society’s most sought-after misses. Which was
why she’d hoped her courtship with Saxton last fall would have led
somewhere. He’d been the first gentleman who’d sought to court her
without falling at her feet with flowery platitudes or overwrought
declarations of devotion. The first gentleman to whom she might’ve
said yes.

Now, recalling her aborted suit with Saxton,
she quashed a niggling sense of disappointment. “He never actually
asked me.”
The Times
had misprinted news of their
engagement, and to protect her reputation—at Saxton’s
insistence—she and Saxton had put it out that she’d refused his
proposal.

“I know.”

She stopped abruptly. Only she and Saxton had
known the truth. Or so she’d thought. “How?”

His mouth curved up in a reassuring smile as
his thumb stroked her knuckles. “Saxton and I are friends. Don’t
worry he told anyone else—he didn’t. And the secret is quite safe
with me.”

She had to believe he was sincere. If not, he
surely would have spread the gossip ages ago. “Thank you.”

He tugged lightly on her hand, and they moved
along the path. “Were you disappointed?”

“That we didn’t suit? Yes, but I had the
sense his heart was engaged elsewhere. Why aren’t
you
married?” She cringed. In her haste to direct the conversation at
him, she’d come dangerously close to the root of his notoriety.

“I’d make a terrible husband.”

And then, because as long as he knew one of
her secrets she ought to be privy to one of his, she went ahead and
asked, “Is that why you didn’t marry that girl?”

If he was offended by her question, he didn’t
show it. “Would you believe me if I told you she didn’t want to
marry me?”

Philippa thought for a moment. For a sinful
rogue, he was charmingly honest and solicitous. “I don’t see a
reason not to.”

He barked out a laugh. “You’d be the
first.”

She smiled, enjoying their conversation far
more than she ought. He was, after all, an utter reprobate. “The
first who believed you, or the first you told?”

Sevrin stopped at a five-foot tall stone wall
that edged the yard. He let go of her hand and gave her a
half-smile. “You’re cheekier than I might’ve imagined.”

She couldn’t argue with his assessment.
Tonight she’d strayed far outside her normal boundaries. If anyone
saw her now, she’d be quite thoroughly and incontrovertibly ruined.
And while the thought made her a trifle queasy, the sensation was
surprisingly overridden by the excitement of Sevrin’s company.

She suffered a moment of alarm—why was this
exciting? Because it was forbidden? Because it was
Sevrin
?
This escapade shouldn’t be exciting at all, but with no one here to
witness her inappropriate reaction, perhaps she could finally relax
her guard. Why not? Her mother certainly had.

The mask drooped again, and she pulled it
off, dislodging a lock of hair. The curl grazed her shoulder and
sent a tickle along her arm. She brushed at the sensation and then
offered him back the mask. “I don’t think I need this anymore.”

“Keep it,” he said. “You never know. An alley
runs between Lockwood House and the building next door. We’ll take
it through to the street. I’m going to lift you up to sit on the
wall then I’ll climb over and help you down the other side. Are you
ready?”

She nodded. Although she expected his touch,
she still jumped when his hands came around her waist. “I’m a bit
ticklish.”

“Lovely,” he murmured. The sound, dark and
rich, permeated every inch of her. She willed her body to remain
unaffected the next time he touched her. Warm hands spanned her
waist then lifted her. She held her arms up to grab the top of the
wall and bit back a gasp as Sevrin’s hands scooped her bottom and
raised her higher. She pulled herself atop the stone and watched as
Sevrin vaulted the wall with ease.

He reached up and clasped the tops of her
hips. She burned where he touched her. When she was on the ground,
his hands were gone far too quickly.

“This way.” He led her into the dark alley
stretching between Lockwood House and the building next door.

They were halfway to the street when two men
stepped from the shadows.

The shorter of the two spread his lips in a
malevolent grin. “Here’s our lad.”

Sevrin shoved her behind him and then her
scandalous, yet shockingly pleasant evening went completely to the
devil.

Darcy Burke wrote her first book at age 11, a
happily ever after about a swan addicted to magic and the female
swan who loved him, with exceedingly poor illustrations. An RWA
Golden Heart® Finalist, Darcy loves all things British (except
tomatoes for breakfast, or any other time of day, actually) and
happy ever afters.

A native Oregonian, Darcy lives on the edge
of wine country with her devoted husband, their two great kids, and
three cats. In her “spare” time Darcy is a serial volunteer
enrolled in a 12-step program where one learns to say “no,” but she
keeps having to start over. She’s also a fair-weather runner, and
her happy places are Disneyland and Labor Day weekend at the Gorge.
Visit Darcy online at
www.darcy-burke.com
,
follow her on Twitter at
Twitter.com/darcyburke
,
or like her Facebook page,
Facebook.com/darcyburkefans
.