In Bed With the Devil (17 page)

She tried not to think what other wondrous things those very clever hands might do—to the buttons on a lady's bodice or the lacings on her corset. She felt the heat rush to her face with those inappropriate musings.

Seeing him in the daylight was quite literally allowing her to see him in a very different light, which she feared—for the sake of her heart—might not be a good thing, because she found herself longing for something she couldn't have.

 

The Great Exhibition was fascinating, but it paled when compared with Catherine and Frannie staring in awe at the massive Koh-i-Noor diamond. It was locked inside a cage, lit from below with gaslight. Luke was as intrigued by the enclosure as he was by the diamond itself.
But still it couldn't hold his attention for long.

His head had begun hurting as soon as he'd dropped the boy on his shoulders. It had spiked at the stuffed elephant exhibit. He suspected because the boy's enthusiasm had him fairly bobbing up and down, hitting Luke's head.

But he fought back the pain because he wasn't going to give up these moments of watching Catherine and Frannie together. Talking, smiling. He wondered if they'd become friends once he married Frannie, if perhaps they'd go on outings together.

He found an interesting contrast between the three women. The Duchess of Avendale's gaze kept darting around as though she feared being attacked any moment. He thought perhaps she wasn't comfortable in crowds, although her reactions were more along the lines of someone doing something she wasn't supposed to and fearing discovery. Catherine seemed oblivious to the fact that she was being watched. Jim had been there for a while, until Luke arrived with Frannie. Then they'd taken over, striving to determine who was following Catherine. It was possible the man couldn't afford admittance. Frannie was observant, her gaze wandering, measuring people, looking for an easy target. Not that she'd take advantage. They'd stopped fleecing when the old gent had taken them in off the street. But habits born in childhood were difficult to break.

His attention kept drifting back to Catherine and her delightful smile. He'd probably never have another day with her such as this one. Their
relationship would once again become confined to the shadows.

It was where people such as he and Frannie belonged, while Catherine Mabry walked in the light.

L
uke sat at the desk in his study, the taste of whiskey still bitter on his tongue, his gaze focused on the invitation resting in front of him.

It had been more than a week since his visit to the Great Exhibition, a week during which Catherine had seemed to distance herself from him. They rarely spoke in the coach anymore. Their meetings didn't reflect awkwardness or unfriendliness, but he did sense a strain in their relationship. He suspected it had more to do with the kiss in the library then their tour of the Crystal Palace. She'd been pleasant enough there, probably because she'd felt safe with the crowds and the lack of shadows.

He knew no lessons would take place this evening. Frannie had seemed quite relieved at the prospect of a night without learning the intricacies of his aristocratic life. By now, shouldn't she be more at ease with the notion of becoming his wife? He'd always envisioned his life with her, living in this house, sharing the
small and mundane details of his day. He saw them with children. He saw himself, at long last, being happy.

He was so damned tired of being alone, of snatching moments with his friends around a gaming table, of knowing they were no more comfortable in his world than he was.

None of them were like Catherine, comfortable with dinners, balls, and morning calls. They didn't carry themselves with the cool confidence that she did. They didn't challenge him at every turn. They'd stopped considering him their equal when he'd stepped onto the pedestal of the nobility. It was subtle, the discomfort they each exhibited around him.

Jack, always reminding him that he wasn't the rightful heir.

Jim, always doing Luke's bidding, regardless of the hour, as though it were Luke's right to expect a man to live his life inconveniently to please him.

Bill, never failing to come when called, taking care of business, then leaving. Never lingering for a sip of whiskey, never sharing the burdens he must surely carry as a purveyor of life and death.

And Frannie, terrified of becoming his wife, not because of the intimacies they'd share, but because of the daily struggles they'd face, because of the damned balls they might be required to attend.

Catherine's invitation sat there, mocking him, mocking his life, daring him to show his face—

Damn her!

He poured more whiskey into the glass, brought it to his lips, inhaled the sweet aroma of courage…and slowly set the glass back down. He picked up the invitation and ran his finger over the lettering. Had she experienced discomfort when writing it? Did she want him there
that
badly?

He thought of the night they'd played cards.

Obviously, my lord, you don't know what I'm thinking.

But he knew what she was thinking when she'd written his name across her fine invitation: that he wouldn't show.

Perhaps he would call her bluff.

Perhaps tonight, he would make her regret that she'd ever made a midnight visit to his library.

 

Catherine had known Claybourne wouldn't come, but still as the clock ticked toward midnight, she was disappointed. It was so terribly difficult to attend this ball and not reveal how much she loathed her host. He seemed so pleasant. No one could see the monster that lived within his skin.

Even Winnie gave nothing away, keeping a stiff upper lip, and pretending that all was right with the world. Sometimes Catherine was as angry with Winnie as she was with Avendale.

But she smiled and laughed and flirted with all the gentlemen who danced with her, not revealing to any of them that he was not the one she longed to waltz with. Just once, she wanted to be held within the circle of Claybourne's arms and hold his gaze while her feet whispered over the
dance floor. Just once, she wished he would look at her the way he looked at Frannie. The depth of adoration that he showered on Frannie was something that every woman should have at least once in her life.

He might be a scoundrel, with many faults, but he had a heart far more giving than some of the men she'd spoken with tonight.

She glanced at her dance card. The next three dances weren't taken. She was relieved, having grown weary of pretending to enjoy herself. She was too worried about Winnie, too worried that Avendale might find fault with the evening, but all seemed to be going along splendidly. Even her hand was better. Her father's physician had removed the stitches. The scar wasn't too unsightly. Since she always wore gloves in public, few people would ever see it.

But she welcomed a small reprieve from being hostess. She was walking toward the doors that would lead onto the terrace when Winnie stopped her.

“Where are you going?”

“For a bit of cool air. Would you care to join me?”

“No, I don't think so. I'm basking in Avendale's praise. He's ever so pleased with how things are going this evening.”

“I'm glad, Winnie.”

“I should tell him that most of it is your doing.”

“No, don't. You helped with the planning. Allow him to think it's all you.”
If it makes him easier to live with
, she added to herself. She squeezed her
friend's hand. “Go enjoy yourself. I won't be long.”

She walked onto the terrace. With the lanterns in the garden, she could see a few couples strolling along the numerous paths. She'd never had a gentleman take her on a turn about the garden. Not entirely true, she realized. Claybourne had walked through a garden with her the night they agreed to their bargain.

She wandered over to the side of the terrace where the glow from the lights didn't reach. She wanted solitude, she wanted—

“Will you honor me with this dance?”

Her heart very nearly stopped at the sound of Claybourne's voice. She spun around to see him lurking in the shadows like some miscreant.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I was invited.”

“No, yes, I mean, I know you received an invitation, but you've not made your entrance.”

“Why should I go through that bother when you're the only one I care to dance with? I assumed sooner or later you'd step outside, so I've been waiting.”

And Luke had almost given up on her coming out. He'd been peering discreetly through a window, watching her. She was so beautiful this evening, her gown revealing the gentle swells of her breasts. The music drifted onto the night, and for the first time in his life, he
wanted
to dance with a woman.

He was aware of her watching him, studying him. He'd dressed as though he intended to attend, but once he'd arrived he'd no longer seen
the point in going through the annoyance of actually being in the company of those he didn't favor. All he truly wanted was a dance with Catherine. And now he would have it.

“You've been waiting in the shadows”—she peered around the corner—“looking in the windows, like some sort of voyeur?”

“It's not as bad as all that. I was simply waiting for you to appear, and my patience has been rewarded.” Taking her hand, he drew her nearer. “Dance with me.”

“My God, you're a coward.”

She might as well have slapped him. He released her hand. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“Walk in through the front door. Dance with me on the dance floor. Attend this ball like a gentleman.”

“I have attended a damned ball like a gentleman!” he hissed. “I know what they think of me. I saw the way they all looked away…except you. They think I'll steal their souls and their children.”

“Because they don't know you. You've not given them a chance to come to know you. I daresay all they know of you is that you take their money at Dodger's gaming hell. Of course, gossip, speculation, and unease circles you. Your past guaranteed that it would be so. As long as you cower, as long as you hide and run—”

“I am not a coward,” he ground out.

She raised her chin. “Then prove it. Or do you need Frannie by your side first? Is that what you're waiting for? To have a wife strong enough to stand beside you so you are strong enough to step out of
the shadows? Do you think it will make it easier? Will you honestly lead her into the lion's den without first making certain that it's safe?”

“You know nothing at all about this, about what I will or will not do.”

She wrapped her hand—the hand that had possibly saved his life—around his, offering comfort, support. It was almost his undoing. He didn't want her sympathy, he didn't want her understanding. He didn't even know any longer why he was there.

“It's like drinking whiskey,” she said quietly. “The first sip is bitter, the second not so much. And eventually, you come to anticipate the flavor.”

“You can drink whiskey in the privacy of your own home. Let me dance with you here in the privacy of the garden.”

She studied him for a moment while the music drifted into silence, and another refrain finally began to waft out into the garden.

“Very well. If that's how you wish it to be,” she said softly.

And he saw in her eyes, heard in her voice, the disappointment that he would choose the easier road.

“Even if I were to make an appearance, I'd not be able to dance with you.”

“Why ever not?”

“Your reputation would be ruined.”

“Perhaps in the beginning, but once they come to know you better, I daresay I'd be viewed with a great deal of awe, as a visionary.”

“You have an inordinate amount of confidence in my ability to win them over.”

“I do.” She touched her gloved hand to his cheek. “You've won me over.”

She held his gaze for only a heartbeat longer, before it wavered, as though she'd revealed too much.

“Damn you,” he growled.

Then he spun on his heel and strode away. How dare she challenge him? How dare she—

How dare she make him regret that he was not a better man.

 

As she returned to the ballroom, Catherine realized that she'd pushed too hard, and in the pushing, she'd shoved him away.

She should have taken the dance in the garden—joyfully, gratefully, but she was weary of everything involving him being done in the shadows as though their relationship was shameful. Even their encounter at the Crystal Palace was not without its deceptions. They'd pretended they were nothing more than passing acquaintances.

Worse, she felt silly for continuing to invite him to affairs that he had no intention of attending. Even now, knowing that he'd not make an appearance, she still kept hoping—

“Lucian Langdon, the Earl of Claybourne!”

The announcement echoed through the room like a death knell. With her heart pounding furiously, Catherine jerked her gaze to the stairs.

And there he was, standing so incredibly proudly with defiance etched in his stance.

“Oh, dear God, what's he doing here?” Winnie asked, suddenly at Catherine's side, clutching her arm. “I didn't send him an invitation.”

“I did.”

“What? Why? Whatever were you thinking?”

“That he intrigues me.”

She watched as he descended the stairs with an air of arrogance that she now realized was nothing more than a ruse. Growing up, he'd been taught how to deceive, how to trick—but he didn't just apply it to gain what he wanted. He wrapped it around himself like a finely tailored cloak in order to protect the core of his being.

He'd come here to prove to her that he wasn't a coward.

His face was an unreadable mask, just as it had been the first night that she'd ever set eyes on him. He prowled now as he had prowled then. He dared anyone to refute his right to be there—and she knew now that he dared
them
, because he doubted his own place so much.

He wanted—needed—them to accept his position among them because he was unable to accept it himself.

As she watched him, she was struck with the realization that somehow, in spite of all the odds, she'd come to care deeply for this man. That she didn't want him hurt. That she didn't want him to lose that last bit of soul that he clung to.

“Since I invited him, I'll welcome him,” Catherine said, and before Winnie could object, Catherine began walking toward their new guest.

The music had halted with the announcement and had yet to resume. As Claybourne made his way into the room, people stepped back as though a leper walked amongst them. She knew Claybourne had to be aware of the reactions, the low
ered gazes, the fear, the dismay. And yet, he didn't retreat. He strode forward with the elegance of a king, so much more worthy of respect than those who surrounded him.

When she was near enough, he stopped. If she'd not come to know him so well, she'd have not realized what this moment was costing him. Nearly every ounce of his pride. He was not a man to bow down, and yet for her, he almost had.

She curtsied. “My Lord Claybourne, we're so pleased you could join us tonight.”

He bowed slightly. “Lady Catherine, I'm very honored to have been invited.”

“My dance card is presently blank, but it is not the custom for a lady to ask a gentleman to dance.”

“A coward might not ask for fear of being rebuffed.”

“But then you are not a coward, my lord.”

She watched his throat work as he swallowed. “Will you honor me with a dance?”

“The honor, sir, is all mine.”

She extended her hand toward him, and as he took it, she signaled the orchestra. The strains of a waltz began to fill the room.

“I do hope we won't be dancing alone,” he muttered.

“I don't care one way or the other. I only care that I'm dancing with you.”

He took her in his arms then, and it was as she'd always imagined it would be. She was aware of his strength as he held her, the warmth in his eyes as he gazed upon her.

Very slowly, cautiously, others began to join them on the dance floor. Catherine suspected they were vying for nearness so they might overhear what the scandalous Devil Earl and Lady Catherine Mabry were discussing.