The Perfect Rake (20 page)

She glanced around. No wall or window, the curtains concealed a door. He prowled toward her, so close she could feel his breath on her skin. She found herself backing away, into the room behind. It was a small room, dim and private. The red velvet folds fell back into place; he closed the door behind him and she heard a key click. The sounds of the ball receded. All Prudence could hear was the sound of her own heart thudding.

Mere minutes after she’d sworn it would never happen again, she was alone with Lord Carradice.

Breathless, flustered, and suddenly unsure of herself, she glanced up at his face. His eyes were warm and unfathomable and seemed to wrap her in their velvety depths. No laughing devils in them now, to warn her away. He bent, and suddenly Prudence knew he was going to kiss her.

She held up her hands to ward him off and somehow, they simply came to rest against his chest. His hands caught her around the waist and drew her to him until they were hip to hip, chest to chest, and almost mouth to mouth.

Oh, where was the pasteboard reticule when she needed it? Why had she brought the silk one?

“Lord Carradice,” she began.

“Gideon,” he corrected, and captured her mouth before she could utter another word. The tip of his tongue traced her lips, teasing, exploring, probing. Soft and tender at first, he grew more demanding.

She felt herself softening, melting under the sweet onslaught of his mouth. She’d always understood kissing was a simple matter of lips meeting…and yet there was nothing simple at all about these kisses.

She’d thought she knew what it was like to be kissed by him. She was wrong.

A long, delicious shudder passed through her body. She gasped and he possessed her mouth fully, lavishing himself on her, in her, ravishing her senses with delight. Prudence grew dizzy with pleasure.

She could taste him inside her, the unique, intoxicating flavor of Gideon. And desire. She could taste it in the growing urgency of his kisses, in the fevered need of his embrace, in the searching, caressing mouth. A hunger deep within him. For her. For Prudence Merridew.

Deep, lavish hunger.

His need consumed her. It called to something deep within her and the last shreds of her resistance melted. She clung to his shoulders and kissed him back. He was addictive.

Her hands slid over his clothing, warmed by the rock-solid muscles of his chest. His heart pounded under her fingers. Her knees weakened and she leaned into him for support. His stomach was tight and hard, his long, hard thighs cradled her softness.

She slid her hands up his body and wound them around his neck. Her fingers slipped into his hair.

His hand slipped into her bodice.

She froze. And remembered who she was. And what she owed.

“No,” she whispered.

He drew back slightly and seemed to read something in her face, because his mouth twisted, ruefully. His breath came in ragged gasps. His eyes burned, dark embers of heat. His desire was as powerful and potent as ever.

He laid the back of his fingers against her cheek, and slowly, slowly trailed them down to her jawline. It was the lightest of sensations, the most exquisite of caresses.

Prudence tried very hard not to melt at the simple tenderness of the gesture. She did her best not to drown in the heat of his eyes, so dark and intense and full of need. She told herself she should be warned by the small, possessive smile that played about his lips as he watched her shiver under his hand.

But she couldn’t make herself move away.

His touch engendered feelings in her; unnameable, yearning feelings. Feelings she shouldn’t, mustn’t, didn’t want to have.

Not for him.

She licked her lips and tried to muster her resolve. It was pitifully small. But her conscience burned. She stepped around him and made herself walk to the door on legs that still trembled. As she turned the key in the lock, she recalled how he’d said he loved a challenge.

“It’s not fair,” she whispered.

“What’s not fair?” His voice was soft.

“Tempting me like this. Toying with me, with my feelings.”

He opened his mouth to respond—some flippant, rakish comment, she was sure, and she couldn’t bear it if he did, she was so swamped with emotion herself. So she cut him off and said in a rush, “I’ve told you and told you I’m not free, and you take no notice of me. I know you think I’m a liar and—”

“I don’t! You have no idea what I think—but I’ll tell you this, Miss Imp, I don’t think of you as a liar!”

She gaped. How could he not, after all the lies she had told?

He flicked her chin lightly, and her mouth closed. “I don’t count that nonsense you told your uncle. You had good reason, I gather. But you’re a rarity in the London ton, an honest woman. I shan’t forget that morning in the duke’s house, when your uncle came in. You could have snagged me, claimed I’d compromised you, and though I’m no bargain, you could nevertheless have gained a fortune and a title.” He smiled a little raggedly. His chest was still heaving. She tried not to watch.

“You promised me it wasn’t a trap and you kept your word. I couldn’t name another woman who would do that, Miss Imp, couldn’t name another woman whose promise I would trust.”

She heaved a great sigh; frustration mixed with relief. “Then
please
do not play these seductive games with me. I know it’s just a bad habit you’ve got into, but truly, I cannot bear it! I am not of your world. I don’t know how to play such games, and I don’t know how to—” She broke off abruptly. She’d been about to admit she didn’t know how to resist him. That would be fatal.

He paused a moment, then said, “What makes you think it is a game?”

“It can be nothing else,” she said simply. “You say you believe in my promises. And I am promised to Phillip Otterbury.” She looked at him, expecting he would acknowledge her words.

He said nothing. A slight frown knotted his brows.

She drew out the thin gold chain she always wore. On it was strung a golden ring of outmoded design, a large red stone glittering at its center. “Phillip’s great-grandmother’s betrothal ring. It is given to the first bride of the family each generation. It represents the sacred promise I made him, a promise I will not break, no matter how you may fluster me with your seductive wiles and caressing ways.” She flushed and added, “I am bound to Phillip in other, more private ways, but this is the visible symbol. I have worn it for four and a half years. I have
never
taken it off. Can you understand that, Lord Carradice?” She gazed up at him, earnestly. “Can you respect it?’

“I can but try,” he said slowly. He gave her a crooked smile in which regret was mixed with wry self-knowledge. “Though I confess, my bad habits may get the better of me.”

Prudence sighed, tremulously. He couldn’t help himself. Even the man’s apologies were seductive. She clutched Phillip’s ring like a talisman.

“Friends, then?” she said with valiant resolve.

He heaved a gloomy sigh. “Very well, friends it shall be, though it will ruin my reputation if it gets out.”

She smiled shakily at him and he slipped her arm through his.

“Our betrothal
faux
still stands, of course,” he added, “though outside the family, it shall be as secret as the grave.” He drew her through the red velvet curtains, out into the alcove.

The grave. His words jolted Prudence’s memory. She opened her mouth to inform him of her latest folly—his imaginary mourning—but was interrupted.

“Lord Carradice, you wicked, wicked man—I thought I recognized those divine shoulders—where have you been hiding?” A light, brittle laugh and a knowing look accompanied the words. A dark-haired lady with a bodice half the size of Prudence’s laid a hand on Lord Carradice’s other arm.

He bowed instantly, all light-hearted charm again. “Mrs. Crowther, you look very dashing tonight. Red is certainly your color.”

So much for his compliments, Prudence thought, feeling cross that they’d been interrupted. Sage was her color, red this Mrs. Crowther’s. Too practiced by half.

Lord Carradice introduced Prudence and though she was polite enough, Mrs. Crowther obviously thought her of little account. Soon they were surrounded by Mrs. Crowther’s friends. Lord Carradice’s friends, too, it appeared.

All the women were beautiful, or if not precisely beautiful, extremely attractive. And sophisticated. And the men looked Prudence over with bored, speculative eyes, glancing from her to Lord Carradice and back. Their suave, knowing looks made her palm itch to slap them.

“Now, my dear Carradice,” exclaimed Mrs. Crowther, “you must come and settle a question my friends and I have been debating!”

“Oh yes, do,” gushed a lady whose name Prudence couldn’t recall. “You are such an exquisite judge of what suits a lady best.”

Prudence tried not to pull a face.

“You must decide which is more frightful: Lady Bentick’s ridiculous turban with so many plumes she looks like a funeral hearse—”

“—or the dowager duchess’s
cornette
with the green velvet peaks, frothing with lace and sprouting daisies at the top, for all the world like a lace-encrusted mountaintop!”

“We have wagered on it, you see.”

“Yes, please do go, Lord Carradice,” Prudence said immediately. “I see my sister signaling me. I must go to her.” It was almost true. Besides, she needed to meet the other gentlemen who were dancing attendance on Charity.

She stood on the edge of Charity’s circle and watched Lord Carradice and Mrs. Crowther from across the room. There was much laughter and drinking, and to her intense annoyance, a lot of touching of Lord Carradice’s arms and hands by the ladies. And once, by Mrs. Crowther, a most familiar pat on his jaw! It was apparent to her that Lord Carradice and several of these ladies had been—were still?—on extremely familiar terms.

Prudence didn’t like Mrs. Crowther or her friends, she decided, but she was grateful to her for reminding her of a truth she’d been in danger of forgetting: Lord Carradice was a practiced charmer, a frivolous tease. Women flocked to his side, touched him in a familiar manner, laughed with him intimately, flirted with him.

And he flirted back. Because that’s what he was, she told herself sternly. She wasn’t condemning him for it, it was simply the way he was. He was a rake. And as such, not to be taken seriously.

And never to be trusted.

Gideon watched Prudence tend to her sister, smiling to himself at her little mother-hen stance. He’d released her half reluctantly. He didn’t want her to leave, but he also didn’t quite like Prudence talking to Mrs. Crowther and her flighty friends.

Theresa Crowther had a nasty tongue on her and an eye for gossip and her friends were loose and silly. He didn’t feel comfortable seeing them and Prudence together. He allowed himself to be led across the room and smiled absently through the remainder of the conversation, wondering what he’d ever seen in Theresa Crowther, and whether he’d ever really enjoyed this shallow, vapid company.

“My sincere condolences, Carradice,” a voice behind him said.

Gideon turned, startled. “Condolences? For what?”

A pained look crossed Sir Oswald’s face. “For
whom,
I think you meant, Carradice. It’s perfectly shockin’ the way you younger fellers mangle the language.” He eyed Gideon’s severe evening dress with approbation, “At least you’ve had the decency not to wear colors tonight, though I am a believer in respecting the wishes of the dead.”

Gideon stared at him blankly. The wishes of the dead? What dead? Could the old chap be talking about Brummell, who’d introduced the fashion of black evening clothes, and who’d recently disappeared from society? “As a matter of fact, I never wear colors in the evening,” he said. “But he isn’t dead, Sir Oswald. He’s living on the Continent somewhere, fleeing debts.”

Sir Oswald frowned. “Fleein’ debts? There’s no reason to go into mournin’ for people fleein’ debts, Carradice. Or is that what they do in Wales? Dashed peculiar!”

All at sea, Gideon decided to ignore the bizarre Welsh references. “I’m talking about Beau Brummell,” he said.

“Brummell? What’s he got to do with it? Why the devil are we talkin’ about Brummell?”

“Didn’t you say he was dead?”

“No! Is he? Can’t say I’m surprised. Living among foreigners is a risky business, I know; did it myself for years. Well, well, old Brummell, eh? What took him off? The drink, I’ll be bound.” Sir Oswald pursed his lips disapprovingly at the glass of champagne Gideon held in his hand.

Gideon, feeling as if he was having a conversation in Bedlam, said carefully, “I didn’t say he was dead. As far as I know, he is still alive and living on the Continent.”

Sir Oswald’s bushy white brows bristled with indignation. “Well, dash it all, man, I
knew
that! The whole of the ton knows it. Known it for ages! What the devil are you regaling me with news so old it has mold on it, eh?”

Gideon drained his glass and looked around for a servant. He needed something a little stronger than champagne to cope with this conversation. But not brandy. “My apologies, Sir Oswald. Shall we start again? Who is dead?”

“Your great-aunt, of course!”

“My great-aunt?”

“Yes, sorry to hear about it. My condolences, Carradice. I didn’t know her myself, but I’m sure it’s a great loss. When was the funeral?”

Gideon opened his mouth to explain that as far as he knew Great-aunt Estelle was currently abroad, scandalizing most of her relatives by traveling unchaperoned with an Italian count.

A small, breathless female squeezed suddenly in between Gideon and Great-uncle Oswald: Miss Prudence Merridew, looking flushed and beautiful and conspicuously guilty. Of course. The moment conversations made no sense, Miss ImPrudence would be at the bottom of it. He should be used to it by now.

He smiled down at her, tucked her hand under his arm, and signaled a passing waiter to bring her a drink.

Sir Oswald beamed benevolently at the gesture. “Ah, Prudence, m’dear, I’m just askin’ Carradice here about the funeral. In Wales, I suppose it was, Carradice? Never been to a Welsh funeral.”