To Pleasure a Prince (15 page)

Her pulse stammered into an erratic rhythm. He’d shaved off his beard, bought new clothes, and somehow, miraculously, attained entrance to Almack’s.

Was it for her? Because of what she’d told him? Or for some other reason she could not fathom? She was almost afraid to believe he’d done it for her—he’d disappointed her too bitterly before.

And yet…he’d shaved off his beard, just as she’d once asked him to do. That had to mean something.

Especially considering that the thick scar bisecting his right cheek was every bit as severe as he’d claimed. Oddly enough, it was perfectly straight, not the jagged scar she would have expected from a fall from a horse. It was long, too, stretching from the upper curve of his cheek right down to the edge of his chin. That he would have willingly exposed the scar he’d said was too unsightly for a lady made her heart race.

That wasn’t the only thing making her heart race. If not for the scar, he’d be blindingly handsome, especially when dressed in such fine clothes. His snow-white cravat had clearly been tied by an expert, and his coat of ebony silk fit him so exquisitely that only Beau Brummell’s tailor could have matched it.

And Lord, those knee breeches! She dragged in a breath. She’d guessed that he had fine legs, but it had been hard to be sure from his ill-fitting trousers. Now she knew she’d been right, for the well-wrought muscles in his thighs and calves were displayed to good effect in the requisite white breeches and stockings.

All of a sudden, she remembered how glorious it had felt to rub her secret place against those firm, amazing thighs…

Chastising herself for such outrageous thoughts, she jerked her gaze up, only to find Marcus staring right at her. While she gawked at him as shamelessly as the rest of the idiots around her.

Heat flooded her face. But before she could do more than smile at him, the music began, and she had to dance.

If you could call it that. It was difficult to pay attention to the steps when she burned with a hundred unanswered questions. How had he managed to get in? Why had he come?
Was it for her?

Her gaze wandered to him more often than she liked. Now he was speaking to his sister and Simon. When her dance with Lord Peter was done, she saw him take Louisa to the floor while Regina herself was led there by some dull fellow with whom she’d forgotten she’d agreed to dance.

Two more tedious dances with tedious fellows followed while he partnered Cicely, of all people, then a widow notorious for her many lovers. Earlier, Regina had thought the woman interesting. Now she thought her far too pretty.

When the widow flirted and smiled and seemed to be enjoying his company, Regina chafed at the sight of it. The entrance of the Iversleys moments later completed her misery. So much for Marcus trusting her to chaperone. He’d only used that as a ruse to get her here, so she could witness his grand appearance.

So that was the way of it, was it? Marcus thought to come here and prove her wrong by looking devilishly handsome and lordly while he danced attendance on every doe-eyed female who batted her eyelashes in his direction?

Fine. Let him have his fun. She would not give him the satisfaction of showing that she cared. Because she didn’t. No, indeed. Not one jot.

She was so busy not caring that by the time the waltz came, she had no chance to compose herself before he appeared before her, over six feet of finely groomed, exquisitely dressed male. To her chagrin, she began to quiver with anticipation. Drat the man.

Her agitation increased when he gave her a courtly bow, and said, “If you are not otherwise engaged, may I have the honor of this dance?”

A courteously worded request—would wonders never cease? She could only manage a nod.

As they found a spot on the floor, her pulse beat a thunderous rhythm. She’d never danced with him, despite having allowed him the most outrageous liberties.

A delicious shiver swept down her spine as he faced her and took her gloved hand in his. With his other hand, he clasped her waist, keeping the several inches between them that propriety demanded. It was only when she dared to look into his face that she saw him gazing at her with anything but propriety.

Whatever starch was left in her spine drained away, and all her questions burst out of her mouth at once. “What…how did you…When did you…”

“Don’t tell me I’ve rendered La Belle Dame speechless at last.” A faint smile touched the lips that looked far more sensuous without a mustache shading them. “I hadn’t thought that possible.”

As heat leaped into her cheeks, she tipped up her chin. “I thought you’d turned yourself into a gentleman, but if you’re already resorting to insults—”

“Teasing, not insults.” His smile broadened. “You said you wanted me to behave like a gentleman; you didn’t say I had to be boring.”

As if he could ever be boring.

The music began, and he swept her into the waltz with the grace that comes of plenty of practice. Yet another astonishment. She could understand his being able to manage the country dances, but the waltz was recently come to England. Not even everyone at Almack’s had mastered it.

“How on earth did you learn to dance the waltz out at Castlemaine?” she asked, as he turned her expertly around the floor.

“Who do you think partnered Louisa in all her dancing lessons?” He frowned at the crowd around them. “Though I confess I’ve never had so little space to dance it in.”

Only then did she notice how the crowd had closed in, every couple straining to get closer, to hear what was going on between La Belle Dame and the Dragon Viscount now that he’d shown up looking like a lord.

“Everyone’s curious about you, it seems,” she said, “and they’re not alone. I’m dying to know what you’re doing here.”

A dark smile touched his lips. “You didn’t think an incompetent fellow like me could get in, did you?”

She winced to have her words thrown back in her face. “I thought you wouldn’t make the attempt. Don’t tell me you actually stooped to solicit a voucher from ‘that lot of vultures,’ as you termed them.”

“No. Another man solicited it on my behalf, a man who himself would never be allowed to darken these hallowed halls. Fortunately, my title and name were enough to gain me a ‘Stranger’s Ticket.’ They let me in as Louisa’s guest.”

Which meant he’d had to present himself to the Lady Patronesses for approval. Her blood quickened. That could not have been easy for him. So what was she to make of that? “That explains how you came to be here. But not why.”

“You know perfectly well why. You issued a challenge I could not ignore.”

“What challenge?” she said, pretending ignorance.

“To prove that I’m not an idiot who can’t carry himself in society.” He jerked his head to indicate a nearby couple sneaking none-too-subtle peeks at them. “Not that it matters. It’s just as I told you—I could be clothed in pure gold from head to toe, and they would still regard me with contempt.”

“Look again,” she said softly. “That is not contempt on their faces.”

He swept his gaze beyond her. She followed it, wondering if he could see what she did. Yes, there was an ample amount of curiosity on most of their faces, but that was all. Only the people who’d already met him—and been insulted by him—eyed him askance, and even with them it was more wariness than contempt.

His gaze swung back to her, and his mouth tightened into a grim line. “They’re all staring at my face. At my scar.”

She hesitated. If she simply dismissed his scar as unimportant, he would not believe her. Better to be honest. “Of course they are. It’s splendidly awful.”

He arched one brow. “Not quite how I would have described it.”

“That’s because you’re used to it. But the rest of us…” She let her gaze linger on his scar. “We can’t help looking at it. It’s like a brand distinguishing a Thoroughbred from a lot of nags. It sets you apart.”

His grip on her hand tightened. “A brand? Interesting choice of words.”

She examined it, noting how it puckered. “Not really. It resembles a severe burn I once saw. I heard that you got your scar in a riding accident, but it doesn’t look right for that.”

Judging from his suddenly rigid posture, she’d hit upon the truth. “How would you know what a scar from a riding accident looks like?”

“I volunteer at the Chelsea Hospital from time to time. I’ve seen enough healed wounds to know the difference between a burn and the sort of gash one would get from a fall.”

“You?
Volunteer at a hospital?” he said, his tone skeptical.

“Careful now,” she warned. “You’re veering dangerously close to ungentlemanly territory. And after you’ve done so well, too.”

He bristled at her deliberate attempt to provoke him, and she waited for the inevitably rude response.

It never came. He gathered in his breath as if setting himself to an onerous task. “Then perhaps we should change the subject.”

A surprised smile broke over her face. “Yes, perhaps we should.”

Not that she wanted to. He hadn’t confirmed how he’d received his scar. She was convinced it was a burn, but how did one get burned so badly there and nowhere else?

“So does this mean that you plan to let Louisa and Simon court, after all?” she asked.

“As long as you let me court
you.
I think I’ve proved I can be gentleman enough to suit your finicky tastes.”

She arched one eyebrow. “Not yet, you haven’t. Dressing well and dancing one waltz without insulting me scarcely proves anything.”

“Then I’ll have to do better, won’t I?” His hand caressed her waist, causing her silly heart to flutter. “And perhaps later, you can reward me for my efforts.”

“Virtue is its own reward,” she said primly.

He laughed, the low rumble curling a knot of longing in her belly. “We aren’t talking about virtue, dearling. We’re talking about nonsensical requirements that you ladies impose on us men to make us fit for your company. And if I follow them, I expect something in return.” He bent close. “If you know what I mean.”

Her pulse burst into a gallop. “I know you’re being impertinent.”

He grinned. “As I recall, you enjoy some impertinence from time to time.” His eyes smoldered down at her. “In its proper place, of course.”

Swallowing hard, she dropped her eyes to his immaculate cravat. She should not encourage his presumption. But five nights of reliving every caress of his presumptuous hands and mouth and tongue had whetted her appetite for more. More kisses. More fondling.

More outrageous advances.

Now he was holding her much too close. She could smell the bay rum and soap on him. The sheer size of the man enthralled her, made her feel protected, safe…desired. Dangerously desired. “You shouldn’t hold me so close.”

“Probably not,” he murmured.

“People will talk.”

“Let them.”

Thank heavens the waltz ended before he had reduced her to a spineless ninny in his arms. But his words lingered as he led her from the floor, his gloved hand lying warm and possessive over hers.
Perhaps later, you can reward me for my efforts.
Sweet heaven, the very idea sent her senses reeling.

Which was probably why she didn’t notice Lady Hungate’s approach until the pesky woman was upon them.

The marchioness eyed Marcus through her lorgnette. “I don’t know what the Lady Patronesses were thinking to allow you into Almack’s, sir.”

Regina tensed.

“I could say the same for you, madam,” Marcus drawled. But just as Lady Hungate’s brow lowered in a scowl, he added, “We are both too clever for the likes of Almack’s. Thank God they were too blinded by our other charms to realize it.”

Regina held her breath, watching the odd display of emotions over Lady Hungate’s face—first disbelief, then wariness. But since Lady Hungate prided herself on her cleverness, her face settled at last into a cool smile. “So you no longer wish to see me horsewhipped, Lord Draker?”

Regina held her breath.

He lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “Haven’t you heard the rumors about me, Lady Hungate? I always like to see pretty ladies whipped. But only in my dungeon, and only for our mutual enjoyment.”

Oh, Lord. Mutual enjoyment from such a thing—was the man daft? To Regina’s astonishment, the marchioness snapped open her fan, fluttering it furiously as she turned to Regina with an arch look. “Take care, my dear. I’m not sure you’re ready for the sophisticated tastes of his lordship.”

Casting Marcus a smile that could only be called coy, she sashayed off like some fifteen-year-old chit fresh from the schoolroom.

Regina let out her breath in a whoosh. “I can’t believe you just said that to her. And that she didn’t cut you dead right there.”

“I can’t believe it either,” he admitted ruefully. “But you did once tell me to use the rumors to my advantage. And I couldn’t deny I’d ever mentioned horsewhipping.”

“You were lucky she reacted so well to your…ridiculous insinuations.”

Marcus gave a short laugh. “Luck had nothing to do with it. Lady Hungate and my mother were good friends once upon a time; both had a taste for the bawdy and the outrageous. In her younger days, Lady Hungate was rumored to have a lover with…shall we say…‘ridiculous’ tastes.”

“But surely a woman would not…could not…”

“Enjoy such a thing? Some women do, though I can’t imagine why.”

“But Lady Hungate?”

“Why do you think she brought horsewhipping to my mind the first time?” He winked at her. Marcus actually winked! “I did have a life before my exile at Castlemaine, you know. And my mother was an inveterate gossip.”

“So was mine, but…but—”

“You think she would have told her innocent daughter about such things? Hardly. But that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

She gazed at him with new awareness. He was not as cut off from society as she had assumed. He could handle himself when he chose. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

“About what?”

“You
were
behaving badly to break Simon and Louisa apart. Courting me was only a tactic to provoke one of them into breaking off their courtship.”

He searched her face. “Let’s just say I didn’t see the need to exert myself.”