The Wagered Widow (14 page)

“Oh, no! A good deal more,” said Rebecca, well acquainted with her brother's affable but careless attentions.

His lordship disclaimed, a rather troubled light in his honest brown eyes. Rebecca saw that look and apprehension touched her. She fancied she was being very clever as she manipulated the conversation around to Snowden's reason for having gone into the north. Her tact was wasted. Fortescue acquired a hunted expression and embarked upon an explanation that became so muddled and involved that he was still in the midst of it when the footman swung open the crested door and the ladies were handed tenderly from the carriage. The usual vociferous crowd was watching the guests arrive, but as she made her way up the carpeted steps to the front doors of the mansion, Rebecca scarcely heard their admiring comments. Snowden had said he was going to Newcastle in an attempt to extricate his friend from some sort of sticky dilemma. According to Fortescue, the journey had been necessitated by a business transaction having to do with a boat and a scaly scrub of a dealer in Irish hunters. Since Newcastle was on the east coast, and an Irish transaction would more logically have been conducted in the west at Liverpool or Blackpool, Rebecca could make no sense of it all.

Once inside the mansion, however, she forgot the matter. The large foyer was a press of great skirts, perfumed ladies, and their glittering beaux. Wigs towered, feather plumes swayed, silks and satins and taffetas shushed across the marble floors, and fans fluttered busily. The strains of music drifted from the rear ballroom, and the air was not, as yet, oppressively warm. Rebecca was greeted with enthusiasm by old and new friends. Mr. Dunsmuir, a balding but vivacious gentleman with a turn for wit and poetry, composed an ode for her which he titled, “Fairest Fisher of the River,” creating much merriment; two eager young beaux instantly solicited her hand for a minuet and a quadrille; rotund Lord George Francks wished to tell her the tale of a fish
he
had almost caught; and Miss Letitia Boudreaux embraced her and exclaimed that she was the talk of the Town. “I declare,” she murmured, “you shall achieve a brilliant match before the Season ends!” Rebecca thanked her, but her own eyes sought ever for the handsome head of one distinguished gentleman, and found it not.

She was returning from having been led down to supper by Lord Fortescue when a page brought word that she was wanted in the gold ante-room. Her question eliciting the further information that her presence was desired in connection with the arrival in Town of a Miss Patience Ashton caused her politely to decline his lordship's offer to accompany her. Heaven forbid that Forty should become involved in a conversation that might very well apprise him (and thus Snowden) of her intentions to journey into Bedfordshire the very next day! Her kindly cavalier went wandering off and, with a sigh of relief, Rebecca hurried into the hall. The page led her to a side corridor and indicated the third door on the left.

Rebecca opened the white-and-gilt door with caution. The room was luxurious, quiet, and deserted. She walked in and crossed to a small adjoining chamber. Finding it also empty, she decided this must be the wrong apartment, although the décor was decidedly golden. She turned back to the outer room and halted abruptly.

An elegant gentleman appeared as if from thin air to bow before her. A gentleman with a cynical mouth and a physique that did full justice to a superb blue velvet jacket embroidered with silver thread. His small clothes were blue satin; a sapphire glowed in the lace at his throat, and another and larger sapphire was worn on one finger of his right hand. An impressive gentleman, but instead of curtseying, Rebecca tensed and drew back.

De Villars said with his twisted grin, “I bring you word from Miss Ashton. Perhaps I should instead have sought out your brother.”

Her powdered head tossed upward. She said triumphantly, “Snowden is not here, so you cannot.”

“How very obliging in him.…” He wandered closer, his eyes alight with deviltry.

Lifting one small but determined hand, she cautioned, “Stay back!”

“Wrong, lovely one. You should say ‘Stay back, dastardly villain!' because, I assure you, that is in the best tradition of—”

Large her hoops might be, and tiny her shapely form, but Rebecca was nothing if not fast on her feet, and in a trice the gilt-and-cream-brocade sofa was between them.

De Villars laughed softly, with a flash of white teeth that she perversely found exceedingly attractive. “Egad, but you're a lovely article, Little Parrish,” he declared, standing before the sofa, hands on hips. “Come now—such a fine sportsman as you are! A kiss in exchange for my message, yes?”

“No! And—do you lay
one hand
on me…” she said between her teeth.

“I would not,” he vowed piously, but spoiled the effect by adding with a twinkle, “Two hands, or nothing!”

“Oh! You are without shame! Tell me the message, sir! Stay! Another step and I shall scream for help!”

“Do not, oh, pray do not! I swear I'll not step,” he said earnestly and, with a lithe bound and one hand briefly placed atop the sofa, stood beside her.

Rebecca uttered a squeal and darted away, barely eluding his grasp. “Lecher!” she gasped, breathless, but anxious to obtain the message he brought. “Horrid libertine! You
lured
me here!”

“But of course.” He said with an apologetic gesture, “There was no other lady half as lovely, you see, else I'd merely have sent the message to you.” He swung one long leg over the sofa and perched on top of the back, his grey eyes glinting with laughter. “Come, sweeting, you want your message and I ask only a small forfeit, surely.”

“Sooner,” she panted, “would I be dead!”

“You would?” He eyed her curiously. “I wonder why. I think I am not an inept lover. At least I've not as yet been told my kisses are repulsive. Now, Ward, on the other hand, is pitifully lacking in experience, and—”

“Oh, base! And he your
friend!
”

“There—you see? You
do
prefer experience. Now, as for myself—” Even as he spoke, he sprang with a fluid leap that came with astounding swiftness.

With a gasp of fright, Rebecca tried, too late, to escape. She was seized in a grip of steel and crushed close against him, her little scream muffled against his cravat. His head bowed over her. In his eyes was a new light of tenderness that reduced her knees to the consistency of custard. “Jupiter,” he breathed, “but you're an exquisite little creature.”

“I,” she whispered without much resolution, “shall … scream…”

“In that event”—his lips caressed her temple—“I must be deafened.…” He was planting little kisses down to her chin, up her other cheek, and upon her half-closed eyelids. “Ah, sweeting,” he breathed, “how delicious you smell.”

A floating sensation had taken possession of Rebecca's mind. She had a heady impression of drifting among clouds, and at the same time experienced another emotion as shocking as it was unfamiliar: the yearning to return those kisses; the need to feel his lips not upon her cheek, or her brow, or her eyelids, but claiming her mouth.…

Distantly, someone laughed, and the simple sound restored sanity. With a shocked gasp she tore free and uttered an incensed, “How
dare
you! Oh, how dare you take such advantage of a helpless lady!”

De Villars said ruefully, “But consider, Little Parrish. I did not kiss you on the lips, as I had every right. And—”

“Every—
right?
Oh! When my brother hears of this, he will—” But she bit back the words, knowing she dared not tell Snowden.

“I had thought you had bought and paid for your message. However,” he shrugged, “do you mean to terrify me with blackmail…”

Much he was terrified, she thought, yearning to scratch him. It was poor Snow who— Her fears for her brother ceased abruptly. Despite his light and teasing manner, The Lecher had shifted his position and now stood between her and the door! Her heart began to hammer wildly. She turned her back on him, her head bowed, but her eyes searching for something to use as a weapon. “You have no right,” she murmured coyly, “to—to force me, sir.”

“And will never do so, loveliest. Come now—” He was moving up close behind her. “Admit,” he said huskily, “that you enjoyed—”

With a pantherish leap, Rebecca snatched up the only article that offered, a large cut-glass bowl of roses. She whirled about. De Villars was in the act of reaching out for her. Without an instant's hesitation, she dashed the contents of the vase into his face.

He gave a yell and reeled back.

“How right you are,” Rebecca snarled. “I have enjoyed
this
moment immensely, at the least!”

He dragged a sleeve across his eyes and gasped, blinking at her through the streams of water that ran down his face to soak his blue-and-silver brocaded waistcoat. A rose had become entangled in the sagging wreck of his powdered hair, and a spray of fern hung incongruously over his right eye.

“Lud, but you're a sight!” giggled Rebecca. “Here—let me help you.” She sprang closer before he could recover himself, and balanced the upended bowl on his head. “I crown you King of the May-have-been!”

He muttered an oath and lunged for her. With a squeak of fright, she ran for the door. De Villars' attempt to pursue her was foiled as the bowl fell and landed with a thud on his toe. He yelped, grabbed his foot, and hopped, groaning, to the sofa.

Laughing in triumph, Rebecca watched him from the open door.

“Next time … enchanting … vixen!” he warned, nursing his battered toe. “Next time—I shall even the score!”

Rebecca glanced around. The corridor was empty. Distantly, music lilted in the final strains of a gavotte, and happy laughter and talk could be heard. “I foiled your despicable wickedness,” she said proudly. “Own it!”

Sagging and bedraggled, he glared ferociously at her. But gradually, a reluctant grin dawned. “Aye,” he admitted. “You did that.”

Her own anger faded. “If I come back and help restore your appearance, will you swear to behave like a proper gentleman?”

For a moment, he gazed at her, then, a whimsical smile in his eyes, he stood and limped towards her, shaking his head. But as she tossed her own and started away, he called, “Peter cannot be here, for his cousin is to arrive at Ward Marching this night. His carriage will call for you and Mrs. Boothe tomorrow morning at ten o'clock.”

Rebecca turned back; but even as she started to him, a man and a girl came hand in hand around the corner. De Villars swung shut the door, and Rebecca hurried away.

The balance of her evening was triumphant in a different sense, for no sooner did she reappear in the ballroom than she was surrounded. Eager gentlemen vied for her dance card and quarrelled over the right to put down their names. It was wrenching to have to leave at one o'clock while the festivities were in full swing, but she and Albinia had to be up early. In the carriage, her aunt, echoing Miss Boudreaux's sentiments, told her that even was she unable to snare Sir Peter, there was no doubting now but that she could achieve a highly respectable marriage. Rebecca said sleepily that she hoped that was so—and thought it did not matter, for she
would
snare Sir Peter!

Lying in bed an hour later, drowsily content, her cheeks reddened suddenly even in the darkness, as her thoughts turned to that horrid ante-room. How strong the wretched man was! His arms had all but crushed the breath from her. She forced away the recollection of how contrastingly gentle had been his kisses, but then frowned at the canopy. He
was
strong, so strong he might easily, as he had said, have claimed her lips. Grudgingly, she acknowledged that The Lascivious Libertine had played fair and, irked by that admission, banished him from her mind. In only a few hours they would be en route to Bedfordshire and Sir Peter. Dear Sir Peter, with his haunted, wistful eyes, courtly manners, and gentle charm.

Lady … Peter … Ward.…

Rebecca yawned, smiling.

And fell asleep in the midst of an uneasy awareness that this happiness was to be hers only because The Wretched Rake had so manoeuvred it.

CHAPTER
6

“Oh, but how lovely!” Rebecca looked eagerly from the armful of long-stemmed pink roses Millie held, to the plain card she offered. Taking it, Rebecca unfolded it and read, “One for every kiss, my adored Little Fishwife.” There was no signature—nor any need for one. Her cheeks flaming, she tore the card to shreds and tossed the remnants onto the hall table. “Throw them away,” she said loftily. “We certainly cannot carry them with us.”

“Throw them away? But—Mrs. Rebecca, they're so pretty. Falk will like to have 'em, if you don't mind. She loves flowers.”

They
were
pretty. A soft, blushing pink. Her own complexion matching the blooms, Rebecca relented and, trying not to notice that her aunt watched apprehensively, agreed that Millie should present the roses to Mrs. Falk. She took up her reticule and gave a twitch to her shawl. “Are we ready at last, Aunt Alby? Wher
ever
is that child?”

“Anthony is outside, admiring Ward's carriage.” Adjusting her bonnet with the aid of the Chippendale wall mirror, Mrs. Boothe asked with trepidation, “Why did you tear up the card and tell Millie to throw away those lovely roses?”

Rebecca was spared the necessity of a reply, for the front door burst open and Anthony erupted into the hall. Jubilant, he imparted the information that Sir Peter's coachman was called Todd. “And the right wheeler is a young 'un and full of spirit, so it would be very nice if we might leave afore he kicks over the traces! Can we not go now, Mama? Can we not?”

Rebecca smiled, her heart warmed by his radiance. “Of course we can, dearest. Come, Aunt.” She rang the bell, and Millie and Mrs. Falk bustled along from the kitchen stairs, the former now swathed in a woollen cloak and a black bonnet with a severely curtailed poke; and the latter worrying over them all and muttering subdued remarks anent what she was supposed to tell Mr. Snowden did he come home all of a sudden.