His Wicked Wish (5 page)

Nearby, ginger-haired Lord Netherfield turned a folded paper over and over in his hand, brushing it almost lovingly. Behind him sat Mr. Stanford, the boyish heir to a baronet, cradling an enormous bouquet in his lap. A short distance away, the scholarly Marquess of Herrington had his nose in a book, though he slid wary glances at his fellow competitors from time to time.

Only one arrival remained standing in the gloom at the back of the theater. He was leaning against a pillar in a casual pose of attention. With the gaslights shining in her eyes, Maddy couldn't identify him. But she had the impression of a tall, well-built man.

Was
he
Viscount Rowley?

Lady Milford's godson was the only candidate who was a stranger to Maddy, for she knew all the others present. But she couldn't be certain it was him because there were two gentlemen on her list who were not among the throng.

It was just past eight o'clock and she wouldn't wait for latecomers.

Using the cane, she tottered to the front of the stage and cleared her throat with a rusty, rattling noise. She was forced to do so a second time, even louder, before the men deigned to look up at her. “Ye've all come to see Miss Swann, then,” she said.

Murmurs of assent rippled from the group.

“Where is she?” Mr. Gerald Jenkins called out in a hearty tone that matched his stout form. “We've laid wagers as to which of us will win the prize, so run along and fetch her. We want to see Beauty, not the Beast.”

A few men chuckled at the crude quip, while others were polite enough to refrain. Mr. Jenkins slipped down a few slots on Maddy's list.

“I fear me mistress is indisposed,” she uttered in a quivery voice. “She cannot be with ye this night.”

A buzz of protests erupted from the gentlemen. Several of them shook fists in the air. The Marquess of Herrington clapped his book shut, while Lord Netherfield cried out, “This is most inconvenient. I turned down a dinner invitation to be here!”

Maddy projected her voice over the hubbub. “Never fear, milords, never fear! Miss Swann has instructed me to gather the offers from the lot of ye. Now, if ye'll be so kind as to wait, I'll make me way down there. Mind, the stairs ain't easy fer an old biddy like meself.”

With that, Maddy limped toward one side of the stage. She stooped over the cane and grimaced as the padding beneath her black gown pinched her ribs. Concentrating on her performance, she kept her back hunched and took a series of short, shuffling steps. Little did these aristocrats realize, the act was a test to see if any of them had the heart to lend assistance to an ancient servant.

When the gentlemen began rising from their seats, she had high hopes of witnessing a skirmish over which one of them was to be her knight in shining armor. Then she realized they were merely jockeying for position in a queue to present their bids.

Blast the lot of them. Were they so ignorant of common courtesy toward their elders? So blind to the humanity of servants?

It would seem they all deserved a black mark by their names.

To hide her displeasure, she glared down at the floorboards, pretending to watch for obstacles. Now and then, the garnet slippers kicked up the hem of her gown. So much for expecting the shoes might bring her good luck.

Lady Milford's bribe had gone to waste. Her much-vaunted godson had failed to make an appearance. Unless …

Maddy slid a glance toward the rear of the fan-shaped theater. The mysterious figure was gone now from the shadows. If that had been Viscount Rowley, he'd scuttled out like a bashful coward without even delivering his bid.

Charming, handsome gentleman with a quick mind and a noble heart—
hah! It seemed far more likely that Lord Rowley was nothing at all as Lady Milford had described. Rather, he must be a drooling, cross-eyed, sniveling, chinless buffoon.

Her cane tap-tapping, Maddy reached the short flight of stairs and pretended to teeter on her descent to the first step. She was half tempted to fake a tumble to see if any of the gentlemen would even notice her lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. While aiming a glower in their direction, she detected a faint sound from behind her.

Half a second later, a hand gripped her elbow.

Startled, she jerked up her head and found herself staring into the most arresting pair of male eyes she'd ever seen. They were forest green with flecks of gold beneath strong dark eyebrows, and set in boldly chiseled features. The stranger had shoulder-length black hair tied back neatly in a queue like the men in portraits of half a century ago. Although his garb was well tailored, it was plain and utilitarian: a charcoal-gray coat, black trousers, and white cravat.

He must have come up the matching stairs on the other side of the stage, Maddy realized. How had she not heard his approach until the last instant? More to the point, who was he?

Viscount Rowley.

No, it couldn't be him. Lady Milford's godson was a half-witted dolt … wasn't he?

Wasn't he?

This man's face looked attractively bronzed from the sun … as if he'd just undergone a long sea voyage from the Far East. He was the only participant whom she'd never met. That led her to one inescapable conclusion.

Dear God. It
was
him.

Viscount Rowley bent his head nearer. “Trust me, madam. I shan't allow you to fall.”

His deep charismatic voice sent a shiver over her skin. And those eyes … they were too keen, too intelligent, too observant. They caused a quivery twist in the pit of her stomach, a sensation Maddy attributed to the fear of discovery. She hadn't intended for any of the gentlemen to have quite so close a look at her face. If he were to detect that her wrinkles were sculpted from putty …

Quickly, she tucked her chin into her bosom and said in a rusty voice, “Thank ye, sir. 'Tis most kind of ye to aid a poor old soul.”

“It's my pleasure.”

As he assisted her down the stairs, his closeness made her so skittish that she wanted to abandon the pretense and scramble nimbly to the bottom. The steps were narrow and their hips bumped at the slightest movement. Maddy was acutely aware of his superior height, the heat of his body, and the firmness of his fingers around her upper arm. To make matters worse, she caught a whiff of sandalwood along with something mysterious, something that could only be called the deep dark allure of masculinity.

So intent was her focus on him that Maddy failed to notice they'd reached the base of the stairs. She took another step, expecting her foot to descend. Instead, her sole struck the floor hard and she stumbled in actuality this time, nearly dropping her cane.

Lord Rowley grabbed her close to him. “Steady there,” he said. “It could be tragic for a woman of your advanced years to suffer a fall.”

Was he teasing her? Had he guessed—

She didn't dare risk a peek up at his face to read his expression. And his arm! It lay firmly around her waist now. Heaven help her if he detected the padding of her disguise.

Maddy contrived a cackle of laughter. “There be no need to fuss, milord. I ain't in me grave yet.”

Using the cane, she waddled away as swiftly as the masquerade would allow. Only then did she breathe a sigh of relief.
Handsome and charming … a good heart.
Well, he
had
been the only one to help her. She would give him good marks for that. But the time had come to focus her attention on the other participants.

They had formed a line down the center aisle of the theater. It was just as well, for she could take up a stance with her back to the stage lights so the men would be less likely to notice her heavy makeup. Had Lord Rowley seen through her masquerade?

The question nagged at her like a sore tooth. But surely that fear was only a trick of her overactive imagination …

Out of the corner of her eye, she observed his tall figure as he headed down the outer aisle toward the back of the theater. He must be taking the long way around in order to go to the end of the line.

Or not.

Gertie had seated herself in the shadows of the last row to observe the proceedings. Much to Maddy's dismay, Lord Rowley sat down beside the maid and proceeded to engage her in conversation. What could he possibly have to say to her?

Despite the fine acoustics, Maddy couldn't detect a word of their discourse. But at least Gertie's stiffly upright posture proved she wasn't charmed in the least.

“You there,” Mr. Gerald Jenkins snapped in an aggrieved tone. “Will you require us to stand here all night?”

Maddy snapped to attention, realizing the loudmouth had pushed his way into the first position. “Beg pardon, milord. Have ye a bid, then? If ye'd be so kind as to put it on the bench o'er there.”

With an arrogant flick of his wrist, the stout man tossed down a folded paper sealed with red wax. “You make certain Miss Swann gets mine first.”

For that, she'd fling it into the rubbish bin and strike Mr. Jenkins off the list, Maddy decided. She'd never be able to tolerate the company of such an arrogant fool. “'Tain't me place to give me mistress any such order,” she said. “Next, please!”

The Marquess of Herrington stepped forward. Brown-haired with unremarkable features, he seemed a mild-mannered man and unlikely to cause any drama. Her research had revealed him to be a scholar on a wide range of topics, which boded well for stimulating conversations.

He opened his book to show her the inscribed flyleaf. “I should like to present this treatise on astronomy to Miss Swann, for she shines brighter than any star in the heavens.”

Maddy swallowed a bubble of mirth. She had only ever encountered such melodramatic nonsense in poorly written scripts. But she couldn't laugh, not when he looked so serious.

“I say!” chimed a fellow halfway down the line. “
I
was never told we were allowed to give trinkets. It isn't very sporting to the rest of us.”

Rumbles of agreement came from the others. A number of men began to crowd forward, their faces angry and aggressive.

Faced with mutiny in the ranks, Maddie acknowledged their point. “'Tis right kind of ye, milord,” she told Lord Herrington. “But Miss Swann said there's to be only the written bids. No gifts allowed.”

As Herrington sighed and stepped away to add his folded paper to the pile, Mr. Stanford stood next in line, his shoulders drooping in boyish dejection as he stared unhappily at his huge bouquet of flowers. “The devil you say! I tucked my proposal inside all these blasted ribbons. It was to be a game for Miss Swann to unravel them.”

While he fussed with untying the pink streamers, Maddy felt sorry for the young man who had put such time and effort into pleasing her. That ought to elevate Mr. Stanford as a solid prospect—except for the fact that she couldn't honestly say he awakened her lusts. Rather, she felt the urge to mother him, to give him a sympathetic pat on the head and send him back to the nursery.

As the others came forward to tender their bids, a titter of laughter drifted from the rear of the theater. Maddy craned her neck to peer around the line of gentlemen. She blinked, unable to believe her eyes.

Gertie was
giggling
. The maid had half turned in her seat to face Lord Rowley, and they appeared to be enjoying quite the lively chat.

Maddy compressed her lips. Like a debutante at her first dance, the middle-aged woman was flirting with Lord Rowley. How on earth had the viscount managed to charm her in the space of a few minutes? And more curious, what could be the topic of their conversation? The two surely could have nothing in common …

“When can we expect Miss Swann to announce her decision?”

The snooty, aristocratic voice yanked Maddy's attention back to the auction. Lord Dunham stood in front of her, one pale eyebrow arched in disdain as if he were annoyed by the need to address a servant.

Maddy leaned heavily on the cane, playing the crone and peering up at him through slitted eyes. “Dunno, milord,” she rasped. “Could take a day or a week for her to weigh the offers. 'Twill be a lucky man, indeed, who wins her favor.”

“Tell your mistress that Lord Dunham trusts that she will make a prudent decision.” He dropped a sealed paper onto the pile, then turned on his heel and strolled up the aisle.

Maddy controlled a shiver. His tone had held an unmistakable threat. How angry her cousin would be if he knew he'd already been cut from her list of prospects. In truth, he'd never really been on it. She had only invited him to the auction so as not to stir his suspicions.

Much to her surprise, he stopped at the last row of seats to address Lord Rowley. The viscount rose and the two men exchanged a few words while the last stragglers deposited their bids and filed out of the theater. Then Lord Dunham departed as well, with Gertie also heading into the lobby, presumably to see the men out.

The only one left was Lord Rowley. He alone had not submitted his offer.

Maddy found herself intensely curious. Were he and Lord Dunham cronies? That would be a black mark against Lord Rowley. Then again, the viscount had been halfway around the world for the past ten years, so they could hardly be very close.

She tensed as Lord Rowley started toward her. He advanced down the center aisle with a self-assured stride, giving her a moment to assess him. Lady Milford certainly hadn't overstated his attractiveness. He had strong masculine features, a firm jaw, and faint indentations on either side of his mouth that made her wonder if he had dimples when he smiled. The overlong black hair and green eyes were an unusual and alluring combination.

Her knees softening to jelly, Maddy tightened her gloved fingers around the knob of the cane. She hunched her back and worked her heavily wrinkled face into a sour glare. It was a difficult pose to maintain once he stopped in front of her. His superior height forced her to twist her neck in order to peer up at him.