Reckless (17 page)

“I suppose not. If you wait a moment I could find Marchmont and have him escort you….”

She glanced back at the dancers, but Marchmont
was already in another set and she didn't dare hesitate. “I'll be fine. There are going to be any number of times when I won't have a gentleman to escort me places, and I refuse to allow that to keep me a prisoner. I'll see you back at the house,” she said firmly.

“At least humor me by heading toward the south entrance. That way if I can find Sir Percy in time we could meet up with you.”

One entrance was as good as another. “Of course,” she said, having absolutely no intention of doing so. The west entrance was closer, albeit past the maze and a tangle of lovers' walks. Her earlier elation had vanished, and in its place was a desperate need to cry again. Tears were a weakness she despised, but the catch in her throat seemed to have a mind of its own. The least she could do was find the safety of a carriage and give way to tears there.

She started toward the south entrance with her domino pulled tight about her, her long legs eating up the distance. The west entrance was just past a row of private dining rooms, and she knew a moment's nervousness when she veered to the right, into the dimly lit walkways. If worse came to worst, she could run faster than any of these mincing creatures in their jeweled heels. Not that Adrian had been wearing heels—he was tall enough as it was. Not that he'd be chasing after her.

The catch in her throat had now spread to a
burning in her eyes. She was too hot in the domino and mask, but she wasn't about to relinquish them until she was away from this suddenly awful place. No one would know, she reminded herself, pulling the cloak more tightly around her.

The intricate paths looked deserted. Most people preferred to do their courting by the canal that ran through the east side of the park, and the rest were either dancing or eating dinner. There would be no one around to bother her. She headed down one dimly lit path, trying to hold in the tears until she could finally find some privacy.

She'd forgotten the entrance to the maze was disguised. It was part of the game—people out for a casual walk would suddenly find themselves lost. Charlotte had heard about it, but she'd seldom ventured into the pleasure gardens, and she had no idea that she had walked where she shouldn't have until suddenly she was at a dead end, the thick branches blocking her.

Simple enough. She turned around and headed back the way she came. She had an excellent memory, and she'd only made a couple of turns. One more, and she'd be back out on the pathway.

One more, and she came to another dead end. She took a deep, steadying breath. She held still, trying to orient herself, when she heard the breathing.

Someone was there. It shouldn't unnerve her—she was in a public place. Of course people would
be around. Perhaps whoever it was could help her get out of the maze.

“Hello?” she said in a hopeful voice.

There was no answer. And yet she could still hear the breathing—whoever it was made no attempt at covering it up. There was a faint wheeze to the breathing, as if whoever was there had raced to catch up with her. Someone older, playing a game with her.

“Sir Percy?” she called out, wondering if this was his mistaken notion of flirtation. There was still no answer, and she realized with sudden discomfort that someone was watching her. Presumably the same someone who was breathing so heavily. The interior of the maze was shadowed and dark, with only the light outside on the path to illuminate it. The walls of the maze weren't as thick as boxwood, and someone could doubtless see through them. She tried to peer through them herself, but there were four sides to try to look through, and she could see no one.

She felt the skin prickle at the back of her neck. She had the sudden, eerie feeling that whoever, whatever, was watching her was malevolence personified.

“I'm not in the mood for games,” she said bravely. “Either show yourself or go away.”

Her watcher did neither. He did something far, far worse. He laughed, a low, rasping, ugly laugh that caused her heart to slam into a full-blown panic.

“Be damned to you, then,” she cried, trying to
sound fearless and failing. Whoever was in the maze with her was far from harmless. He was evil.

Wasn't there a trick about mazes, that if you kept a hand on one wall the entire time you'd soon find your way out? Whoever was watching her was somewhere near the center of the maze, and if she kept going that way, she'd run into him. The very last thing she wanted to do. She had two choices, either the right way or the wrong way. She could only pray that she chose the right way.

Putting her hand out, she started moving, quickly, her feet stumbling a little bit over the ground as she moved.

And then she heard him behind her, the noise growing louder as he moved with her. Which meant she was heading in the right direction, she thought, almost sobbing with relief. If she'd been heading toward him he simply would have waited for her, like a spider.

She sped up, ignoring scratches from the greenery, ignoring the lingering pain in her ankle from her recent fall.

Faster, faster, her own breath catching in her throat, the stays digging into her, the branches catching on her flying domino. She was going to be murdered, someone would toss her body in the Thames—no one would ever find her, if she didn't move faster—The entrance to the maze appeared before she realized where she was. She stumbled out onto the
pathway, her breath sobbing in her throat, straight into the arms of a well-dressed gentleman, almost knocking him over.

He put out strong, gloved hands to right her. The night had grown darker, and thank God she still wore her mask.

Because the man who held her arms was none other than Adrian, Viscount Rohan.

“D
ear lady,” Rohan said in that well-remembered voice, “may I be of assistance?”

She pulled herself away from him, stumbling a little on her weak ankle, as a wash of feelings tumbled over her. Relief. He couldn't have been the one chasing her through the maze. Someone else had been the threat, real or imagined.

Relief that he didn't recognize her. She had only a moment to think—should she try a French accent, or the cockney one Meggie had been coaching her on? She could manage a Yorkshire accent from living up north with her family, but it all seemed a bit too complicated. Chances were he wouldn't recognize her voice, but a bit of hoarseness would ensure it.

“Someone was in the maze, following me,” she said in a breathless, throaty voice.

He moved past her to the entrance of the maze, pausing to listen. The silence was deafening. He
turned and smiled at her, that charming smile that seldom reached into his fine eyes. For some reason it seemed to on this occasion, his hard blue eyes bright. Doubtless a trick of the lamplight.

“Whoever it was is gone now,” he said. “But you should scarcely be out alone. Where is your escort?”

“My friend has gone in search of him,” she said with all honesty. The problem with keeping her voice soft and husky is that it gave an unwanted intimacy to the conversation. “I decided rather than wait I would hire a hackney or a sedan chair to convey me home.”

“Then allow me to accompany you until you procure one. It would be terribly remiss of me to allow a beautiful lady to wander alone on these dark paths.”

She had only a moment to consider the wonder of being called a “beautiful lady” before she shook her head. “I thank you, sir, but I am more than capable of seeing to my own welfare.”

“To wit, you wandered into a maze alone and were nearly assaulted. A gentleman couldn't possibly abandon a lady under such circumstances.” His smile was so charming, so seemingly innocent, that she was both seduced and outraged. Outraged that his charm could be spread so easily to all and sundry, that he could fail to recognize her. Seduced because
all the man had to do was look at her and her bones melted.

Had she learned nothing from her sojourn in the country, in his bed? It didn't matter how delicious he could make her feel. She was nothing more than a vessel for his lust, interchangeable, and the glorious, transcendent response he was able to coax from her wasn't worth the shame of his contemptuous treatment and dismissal.

And yet…

“No,” she said firmly. “No, thank you, my lord. You're very kind, but I cannot be convinced that your company would be any safer than that of the man in the maze.”

He laughed then. “You have every right to be careful. I'm capable of very bad behavior indeed. But I do stop short of pressing my attentions on women I don't know. I'm offering you safe escort, nothing more.”

She was more than ready to keep arguing, when in the distance she heard Lina's voice, hectoring Sir Percy. “I saw her come this way…”

“Is that your companion?” he questioned politely.

“No!” If he recognized Lina it would only be a moment before he recognized her. She had to think fast. “Indeed, I would appreciate your assistance. Let's go.”

Was there a trace of triumph on his mouth? She couldn't waste time deciphering his reaction, she
simply put her gloved hand on his arm and proceeded to move.

His hand covered hers. “Wrong direction.”

Bloody hell, she thought, certain he was about to turn her in the direction of Lina's voice, but instead he simply pulled her onto one of the side paths, into the darkness, moments before Lina and Sir Percy arrived on the scene.

She was moving so quickly she didn't stop to consider that he was making no effort to slow her rapid pace. His long legs kept up with her, and within moments they were out of earshot as well as out of sight, and she breathed a sigh of relief as he led her farther along the darkened path, slowing her headlong pace.

“Was there someone you wished to avoid? I mean, aside from your assailant,” he said lazily.

“Of course not. Why would you say so?”

“Because you practically sprinted away from the maze when you heard people coming. Or is it simply that you don't wish to be seen with me?” There was that damnable undercurrent of amusement in his voice, the one she remembered. Did he find all women amusing?

“Why should I worry about being seen with you?”

“Because you clearly know who I am. You called me ‘my lord,' and that was no accident. And if you know who I am then you doubtless know my
reputation, which is far from stellar. Merely to be seen alone with me is enough to get you compromised.”

She considered denying it. He was leading her farther away from the light, and she knew a sudden nervous anticipation. Was he going to make an advance under cover of darkness? She already knew he would never force her. Was there a chance she could enjoy one last, anonymous kiss before he placed her into a coach?

If he tried, she would let him, she decided. Her ankle was throbbing—she'd twisted it in the maze, reaggravating the injury, and she tried not to favor it more than necessary, not to lean on his strong arm.

“Viscount Rohan is fairly notorious, even for those of us who don't travel in his circles.” She may as well be bold—pretended ignorance wasn't getting her anywhere. “We shared the same dance set earlier, and someone pointed you out to me.”

“Did we?” he said, and her irritation increased. Were all women invisible to him, or only she?

She looked around her. It was quite dark, though she could see the occasional light up ahead. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

“Where do you think?” he countered.

She wasn't going to be forced into voicing her secret fears that were just as much desires. “I would hope you were taking me to the hackney stand on the west entrance of the park. Anything else would be unacceptable.”

“And I would never think of doing anything unacceptable, fair lady,” he said with exaggerated courtesy.

She wanted to kick him. He was flirting with a stranger, his charm given to anyone who took his fancy. This was a good thing, she told herself as the lights grew brighter. It was a salutary lesson as to how interchangeable she was. She'd meant nothing to him, the jaded son of a bitch. And if she hadn't been entirely over him before, she was now, she assured herself. The swiving, self-centered peacock, vain, selfish, offal-munching…

“Is something distressing you, oh mysterious one?” he murmured.

“Why would you say so?”

“Because you suddenly dug your fingers into my arm as if you wanted to rip my skin,” he observed affably.

She pulled her hand away. “I beg your pardon,” she said in her muffled voice. “I was thinking of someone.”

“Were you indeed? Perhaps a former lover?”

“Why would you say that?”

“I've found most liaisons don't end well. At least one side is left feeling abandoned and hurting.”

He'd pegged her well. She straightened her shoulders, continuing her forward stride. “If that is the case, sir, then why indulge in them? Wouldn't it be easier not to bother in the first place?”

He laughed softly. “The bother, as you sadly put it, is so delightful while it lasts,” he murmured too close to her ear. “And I would never resist the call of delight.”

She jumped away from him, unnerved, only to realize they'd somehow managed to reach the west end of the park, despite his circuitous route. And she didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

There were hackneys lined up, as well as sedan chairs, a couple of open phaetons and a closed town coach. She breathed a sigh of relief. She was safer in the bright light—by sight she was totally unrecognizable. Granted, she was a tall woman, but she wore flat slippers when most women wore jeweled heels on their shoes, and she was trying to keep her head down. In the dark she was probably just as interchangeable as any of his other light o' loves, but she'd spent most of her time in the shadows with him. There might be other ways to tell him who she was, assuming he even remembered her existence.

She took her hand from his arm and gave him a small curtsy. “You've been very kind, Lord Rohan,” she said. “I will bid you good-night…”

“Allow me to hand you into the carriage,” he said politely, taking her arm and leading her toward one of them. In days to come she would berate herself for being so unobservant, but at the time she was so relieved to have made it through the evening with
out being recognized that she probably would have climbed into the royal coach without looking.

The door was opened, the steps came down, and he put his wide hands around her slim waist and lifted her into a closed carriage that was far too elegant to be a hired hackney, and then the coach dipped beneath his weight as he followed her in, closing the door behind them, shutting them into the darkness.

She opened her mouth to scream, but he simply stopped her with his mouth, kissing her, holding her still as the carriage moved forward with an almost imperceptible jerk.

She fought him, furious. She had thought he was above such shoddy tricks, absconding with unprotected females. She tried to use her knee, but he simply put one of his long, heavy ones over hers, trapping her in place. She tried her elbows, but his arm snaked around her, imprisoning her against him.

Oh, God, she wanted to kiss him back, she wailed inwardly, keeping her jaw clamped shut. She wanted to taste him, fall back against the squabs and let his mouth wander everywhere. His hand was cradling the back of her neck, slowly massaging it, and she could feel herself begin to melt anyway, soften against the steady pressure of his strong body.

He lifted his mouth for a brief moment, and in the darkness of the unlit carriage she could see the glitter of his eyes. “Open your mouth for me, Charlotte,” he
whispered. “I've been waiting hours to kiss you and I'm running out of patience.”

Her shock was enough that she did as he told her, and his kiss was full and deep, a possessive hunger she felt vibrating through her body. She stopped struggling, when she knew full well she should have fought even harder. She let him kiss her, closing her eyes and savoring the taste of him in her mouth, and he pulled her unresisting body onto his lap.

“You can do better than that, sweet Charlotte. By the time I left you, you were growing quite adept. Give me your tongue.”

“Give me yours,” she murmured, “and I'll bite you.”

She could feel the laugh rumble through his body as it pressed against hers. “No, you won't.” And he proved it, tilting her head back, cradling it with one of his hands, and kissing her so thoroughly she felt as if she were melting against him. She made a small, whimpering noise, and she knew what it was. The sound of surrender.

He'd removed her loo mask and tossed it to one side, and he was busy unfastening the ribbons that held the domino close about her. “How could you think I wouldn't know you?” he chided softly. “I know the way you move, the way you bite your lip when you're nervous, the sound of your laughter, your eyes. I know your hands and your skin, your scent, the way you try to pretend that something doesn't bother
you when you're very bothered indeed.” He slid one hand down between them, between her thighs, and she tried to squirm away from him. “Though I must admit I'd like to hear your laugh more often. Perhaps see you scowl less and smile more.”

“Leave me the hell alone,” she said breathlessly, hoping the curse added the peremptory note that her aching voice lacked.

He caught her chin, pulling it up to meet his face, and she looked into his devastating smile. “I can't do that, love. That's been my problem for the last three weeks. I can't stop thinking about you, and I'm afraid no one else has managed to distract me.”

So she wasn't alone in this, she thought miserably. That was something, at least. He lusted after her. She could feel his erection beneath her hips, and she moved, just enough, a subtle caress that made his arms tighten around her.

“Holy Christ,” he muttered in her ear. “Don't do that.”

“Why?”

“Because I'd like to wait until we get back to my house.”

Her heart leaped into her throat. “I'm not going to your house.”

“I'm afraid you are, love. You're in my carriage, and that's where we're heading. Don't worry—I'll send a note to Lady Whitmore, telling her you're
safe. No one else will have any idea you've gone off for a libidinous interlude.”

“I'm not going anywhere at all with you. Leave this carriage.”

“It's
my
carriage,” he said apologetically. “I made arrangements after I saw you dancing. You told me you didn't dance. Come to think of it, I remember an occasion when you trampled on my feet hard enough to cripple me for days. Do you save your wicked clumsiness for me alone?”

She could feel the color flood her face. Suddenly it was three years before and she was gawky, clumsy, so in awe of the man that her feet didn't move. New strength swept through her, and she yanked herself out of his arms. He let her go, and she ended up on the opposite side of the coach, glaring at him.

“I don't dance.”

“Don't be ridiculous. You danced with me, and with several other fortunate gentlemen. I was quite annoyed with them.”

He was lying. It was all part of his mockery, and she couldn't understand what pleasure he derived out of being so cruel. “Have you ever seen me dance in public, my lord? Normally I would assume you wouldn't have paid attention one way or the other, but I assure you tonight is the first time I've danced since that unfortunate time you were forced to partner with me at Lady Harrison's.” Her voice was flat,
emotionless. If he wanted to embarrass her, cause her pain, she wasn't going to let him see it.