Addicted (17 page)

Nothing was further from the truth. Inside she was a mass of knots and jangled nerves. She told herself that she could do this, she could act composed and as though her heart had not been trampled through. She had done that, during her years as an un
noticed debutante. Certainly she could summon the skill once again.

Looking down at the borrowed emerald silk gown she wore, Anais allowed her fingers to fidget with the lace ruffle on the flounce of the bell-shaped skirt. Taking what she hoped was a calming breath, she pretended interest in the occupants of the room.

Lord Weatherby was drunk. But that was nothing out of the ordinary. He was playing a hand of whist with Lord Wallingford and Dr. Middleton, as well as Mr. Pratt, the minister from St. Ann’s parish.

A roar of laughter erupted from Weatherby’s lips and he patted Wallingford’s shoulder before taking a large gulp of port. “A good man, you are, my boy,” he commended Wallingford drunkenly. “Never dreamed you were holding back that ace.”

“I am a man of secrets,” Wallingford said with a sly smile. Wallingford’s dark gaze found hers over Dr. Middleton’s shoulder and he winked at her.

Anais liked Wallingford despite knowing he was a rake—and a heartless one—or so she had heard from the numerous ladies he had loved and left. The four of them, Lindsay, Garrett, she and Wallingford, had all grown up in the district, playing together, attending the same social activities and assemblies. But her friendship with Wallingford had not withstood the years that hers with Lindsay had. By the time she turned fourteen, Wallingford had distanced himself from her, never allowing himself to be the sort of friend to her that Lindsay and Garrett were. He was always a bit aloof, but he had never acted the rake with her. She had seen him act the part when he’d been prowling
about the ballrooms, but he had been nothing more than the man she had known since childhood when he was in her company.

“You are looking very lovely, Lady Anais,” Wallingford said as his twilight-blue gaze assessed her. “The firelight becomes you.”

She blushed at the comment and saw that Weatherby’s eyes suddenly traveled over Wallingford’s broad shoulder and landed on her, sending her own gaze fleeing to the group of women who sat at another table playing lottery tickets. There was something in Lindsay’s father’s scrutiny that disturbed her. It was penetrating, knowing. It was a look that told her he might well know of the secret she was trying desperately to keep.

Before, she had only seen drunken debauchery shining in those eyes. But tonight she saw something much more frightening in them—
clarity.

“Come and join us, my dear,” Lady Weatherby called gently. “Mrs. Pratt is beating us soundly. Mrs. Middleton and I shall quite be under the hatches if you do not come and save us.”

“Thank you, no,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips. “I’m afraid the fire has too great a hold of me.”

“Shall I ring for another blanket? Your shoulders are trembling.”

In unison, every guest’s attention was directed her way and she felt her face flush crimson. The bodice of the gown was comprised of an off-the-shoulder lace collar that exposed her throat and much of her full décolletage. Anais was certain that the tight bodice hid very little of her flesh that was glowing hot, and most likely red, beneath their inquisitive stares.

How she wished Lady Weatherby was not quite so observant.

“Lindsay, darling,” Lady Weatherby called. “Bring a blanket for Anais, won’t you? That window is so terribly drafty. I’m certain she’ll take a chill.”

Horrified, Anais turned to find that Lindsay had just entered the room and was now pulling a thick cashmere shawl from the back of a winged chair. Her spine stiffened as he started to make his way toward her. It was the first time she had really seen him since the night at the Torrington masquerade. He had been walking toward her that night, too, but looking much different than he now was.

His face was impassive. She saw that his green eyes, which had always reminded her of rich Irish moss, held a watchfulness about them. They were also glistening with a strange flicker she had never seen before. His hair, which had always been given to curl, was in desperate need of a cut, for it hung to his shoulders in onyx-colored curling locks that made her fingers itch to run through the thick, silken mass. She remembered how it felt to have the silky strands slide through her fingers. She didn’t understand why, but there was something about Lindsay’s wild, unfashionable hair that had her looking at him more intently than she should.

Finally, her gaze slipped to his lips and she shivered, unable to conceal it when she saw that she had not imagined his chin covered with black whiskers. Anais could not stop her body from remembering the feel of his face, covered with a thick beard, against her thighs and belly. How erotic it had been to feel the abrasive brush of his whiskers paired with the silky feel of his tongue. She had thought it all a fevered erotic dream last
night. Looking at him now, knowing it was real made her tremble visibly.

She could not allow him to know that she remembered every heated moment in his arms nor learn what truly lay in her heart. She must keep to the performance she had written and act the part she had scripted for herself.

What she needed to do was act as if she did not remember that she had been with him in his bed. Pretend not to care about him or their friendship. She could do it. She had become rather skilled at pretending. So skilled, in fact, that she was able to pretend that she had not given Lindsay her virginity in a stable, or that the past ten months of heartache had never really existed.

She had washed all the hurt away in an emotionless void that felt cold and lonely and empty. She was blank inside. A hollowed-out shell of herself. But preservation would do that to a person. It left a person cold.

“A shawl.” He came to a stop before her. Instead of handing it to her, he dropped to his knees and wrapped the paisley cashmere around her shoulders. His gaze met hers, and he unabashedly stared at her despite the fact his parents’ guests were there to lay witness to it.

But then, as far as the guests were concerned, they were the very best of friends. No one outside of Lindsay and Garrett knew that she had given her innocence to Lindsay. No one knew that they were no longer friends because she’d caught him in an indecent act with someone she thought was her friend.

What the guests saw was a man and woman—childhood friends—sharing a moment of privacy after a long absence from each other.

“Better?” he asked, rubbing his large palms up and down her shoulders. Gathering the shawl in her fingers, she brought it tighter around her arms so that it covered her bosom.

“Yes, thank you.”

“They tell me you’ve been ill,” he said quietly.

She let her gaze flit away when she saw there was more than curiosity shining in his eyes. “I am on the mend now.”

“You’re as pale as a ghost. You do not look yourself. I’ve been told your heart is failing.”

“I’m well on the way to being recovered.”

“Was it a broken heart?” he asked in what could only be described as a whisper. Anais could not help but look at him. She saw pain in his expression and she wanted to spare him the thought that his actions had anything to do with her ailment. For he had nothing to do with it. It was the result of her own folly.

“I contracted an illness while I was in Paris. It affected my heart.”

His eyes scoured hers and she shrunk back, bringing the shawl tighter around her, pretending that she could hide everything from him. “This is a very lovely wrap,” she murmured as her fingers wound around the braided fringe.

“It’s Persian. I purchased it for Mother at the covered market in Constantinople.”

Looking down at the pale green-and-rose pattern, Anais steadfastly avoided his eyes and the questions she knew were burning in his brain. “It’s lovely.”

“Not as lovely as you.”

She was not that lovely, else he would not have turned so eagerly to Rebecca.

“How did you like Constantinople? I believe you’ve always had a desire to see it.”

He stood abruptly and peered down at her. “The city was everything I expected it to be. It is vibrant and rich, full of culture and exotic tales. I did not, however, enjoy the circumstances that brought me there.”

She refused to look up. He was baiting her. She was not to engage him in a war of words. The past was the past, nothing about it could be changed. Neutral ground was what she needed to find with Lindsay.

“You must have taken great interest in the culture, for you look very much like one of those Eastern despots I’ve seen in my books. Sort of like the count in Dumas’s book.” Anais attempted a jovial tone as she indicated his attire, but her voice sounded jaded and she winced when she saw his eyes narrow.

“A despot?” he inquired. “Or am I the Count of Monte Cristo? I believe the count found himself betrayed by his lover and his friend, is that not right?”

Her gaze slid away from his face and landed on his shoulders. His long, black, velvet coat was opened all the way down the front, revealing his silk waistcoat that was the color of a rich claret. Gold embroidery edged the cuffs of the evening jacket and the unusual collar was folded down in the style reminiscent of the Mandarins. It was a strange style of jacket, but she admitted that the cut suited his long body and broad shoulders. The color especially was starkly vivid against his dark hair and tanned skin. There was certainly an Eastern wildness about him. His untamed hair and sun-kissed skin, not to mention the beard—something no self-respecting gentleman would grow,
let alone wear before women—all smacked of untamed Eastern decadence. But if any Englishman could carry off looking like a seductive sultan, it was Lindsay.

The tenseness about his eyes seemed to lessen and he grinned, a slow, sensual smile that began to churn her insides. “Does the beard offend you? Mother was aghast when she first saw me. I was reminded of how very unfashionable and ungentlemanly it is to wear facial hair in the presence of a lady. But then, I’ve never been that good at playing the gentleman, have I?”

Swallowing hard, Anais steadfastly refused to tilt her head to look at him. Instead, she studied the hearth that was decked with evergreen swags and bunches of holly and laurel. She watched the orange flames in the hearth leap and dance, crackling in shooting sparks as the Yule log burned bright and hot. She feigned interest in the hearth so that she would not have to answer that leading question. She would not allow him to draw her into a conversation that was best left unspoken.

She sat as such, wondering when, or if, he would tire of her silence and move on to other more talkative guests. In the end, he stepped to the right and took the cushion next to her on the settee.

“Why did you run from me?”

The question was uttered softly, but in the darkest of tones, in a manner that spoke of barely tethered anger. The sound slithered along her nerves, fueling her own anger.

“I searched everywhere for you. Do you know that?”

Yes. She had known. He’d come nearly every day to the house, and finally, when she’d convinced her maid to tell him she had left for London, he had followed her there.

“Why did you run, Anais?”

“You know perfectly well the answer to that question. And I would beg you not to talk about such things here,” she said, smiling at Lady Weatherby, who was watching them intently.

“Where shall we have this conversation?” he asked, pressing closer to her. He was so close that his breath whispered along her ear. “For we will have it, Anais.”

“There is nothing to talk about. Nothing more to say. I witnessed the act. I saw the truth. No explanation is necessary.”

“Look at me.”

Oh, how she wished Garrett was here. He could extricate her from this very uncomfortable confrontation. He was excessively good at saving her. He could save her now, from Lindsay’s sensual gaze and the memories of those beautiful lips kissing her body.

Lindsay’s hand slid on the brocade cushion. His fingers found hers and he entwined them with her trembling ones, shielding his inappropriate touch in the folds of her skirt. “Please, look at me.”

She fought against the need she heard in his voice, but felt herself slowly weakening as his fingers pressed urgently against hers. She was saved, however, by Worthing, the Weatherbys’ ancient butler.

“If you please, ma’am,” he said, addressing Lady Weatherby. “Mrs. Jennings and her shopgirls are in the front hall, desirous to see Lady Darnby and her daughters.”

“Lovely,” Lady Weatherby said. “Put them in the crimson salon, Worthing. We shall be with them directly. Why doesn’t everyone wander into the ballroom?” she announced, rising from her chair. “There is a hot buffet set up and we shall have
some dancing later. Ann,” Lady Weatherby said, motioning for her to take her hand. “Come along with me. We will see you settled first and allow Anais a few more minutes with my son. I’m certain they are both desirous to catch up on these past months of absence.”

“That would be lovely, Lady Weatherby,” Ann said before casting an apologetic glance in Anais’s direction.

“Well, come along then,” Lady Weatherby commanded as she clasped Ann’s hand with hers. With Ann in tow, she left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

“I shall have to kiss her for that.”

Anais turned on her cushion, only to see Lindsay grinning rakishly down at her. “I believe I will leave. I really cannot afford to miss the opportunity to have Mrs. Jennings fit me with a new wardrobe. I certainly cannot keep borrowing Mrs. Middleton’s gowns, now, can I?”

“Indeed not.” She saw his eyes skim down the column of her throat to the white swells of her décolletage that could not be contained behind the bodice. “Obviously Mrs. Middleton lacks the bosom the gods have graciously bestowed upon you.”

“It was the only gown that was suitable to be seen in,” she said on a gasp as he suddenly pressed forward. The scent of him washed over her and it brought memories of last night racing back. She had smelled the same scent of him as he lay atop her—spice and man. Her body began to shake, reawakening to the sensations he had woken inside her, and she pressed back from him until she could feel the rolled arm of the settee between her shoulder blades.