Dancing with a Rogue (13 page)

She smiled back. “I am warned.”

“There's someone else in the theater,” he said.

She turned her head quickly and saw a man standing in the shadows toward the back of the theater. For a moment she thought it was Stanhope, then she noted he was taller, leaner.

She turned back to Richard and recited her next line.

She had not forgotten the contempt on the marquess's face last night when he saw her with Stanhope, nor the sickness in her belly when she saw the child.

For a moment she wanted to flee. Instead, she looked at Richard as he said something.

“Bloody hell,” Lynch shouted. When she looked at Richard, she saw puzzlement in his eyes as well.

“Sorry,” she said. “Give me the cue again.”

He did, and she responded as she always had before, the words coming out. The anger she felt fueled her. She saw from Richard's face that she had seldom acted better as she exchanged repartee.

She concentrated on every line. The dress rehearsal would be in three days, then the play would open three days later. Dear God, it had to be good. She had to be the darling of London, wanted by everyone, not a flop colored by rotten food.

Even Lynch was silent as they came to the end.

The house was filled with lights.

She turned toward the curtains. She would make it clear to the stagehands that no one was to be allowed near her dressing room.

Dani was in the wings. Her gaze was fixed on the back of the theater. “The marquess. He is here.”

“
Oui
,” Monique said. “I saw him. I do not want to see any more of him.”

“But did you not say you needed an escort?”

Monique narrowed her eyes. Dani looked innocent, but there was a gleam in her eyes.

If Monique didn't know better, she would believe Dani was turning her hand toward matchmaking. But Dani distrusted men every bit as much as she did.

“He would make a good protector,” Dani said.

“He had a child with him,” Monique said. “He must be married.”

Dani shrugged. “Perhaps the child is not his.”

“What man escorts a child not his own?”

“You do not need to stay with him, but I … I think he would make you safe.” Dani's eyes pleaded with her.

“He may not wish to go. He has not made any attempt to see me, and he did not look approachable last night.”

“Perhaps he did not like seeing you with that man.”

Jealous? Unlikely.
He had not called on her again, nor tried to see her again. It was an unusual feeling for her, wanting someone who did not want her.

Wanting someone.
That was unique in itself. She had vowed long enough never to be dependent on a man. Yet she didn't seem able to slow the quickening beat of her heart, nor cool the blood that turned warm when she saw him.

A gambler, Stanhope had said. So he knew of him, even if he had not made Manchester's acquaintance. But a marquess would be welcomed in nearly everyone's home. As for the gaming, she'd learned since arriving here that every young lord gambled.

“Shall I bring him?” Dani asked.

“Lynch has probably ejected him from the theater,” she said.

“Not if he has funds,” Dani said with a disdain that amused Monique.

“I suppose he bribed some of the guards outside.”

“
Oui
.”

Monique considered Dani's proposal. Maybe Manchester would be the perfect foil. A marquess would no doubt excite Stanhope's obvious competitiveness. And she'd already discovered that despite the fop appearance, he could handle problems.

And you really want to see him again.
She hated that little voice inside her.

She hated the way she felt.

But maybe if she saw more of him, she would realize he was nothing more than another useless aristocrat who felt it his right to gamble away his heritage and perhaps destroy the people who depended on him.

“
Oui
,” she said.

Dani gave her a triumphant smile and slipped out the door.

Monique brushed her hair and placed a bonnet on it to keep from piling it up with pins. At the last moment she pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to bring more color into her face.

Her eyes, she noticed, were not their usual gray calm but more like that of the thunderheads prior to a storm.

“Drat the man.”

She stood when the knock came and she took the few steps to the door. When she opened it, he stood there, his hat in one hand while he whirled a cane with the other.

No flowers. No candy. No extravagant gift.

He was even taller than she remembered. His green eyes danced with curiosity.

His hair was properly dressed, and she didn't like it. She liked it more when it looked tousled and wild.

For a moment they just stared at each other, the attraction vibrating in the air, the electricity a palpable thing.

Then he broke it with a bow that was more mocking than respectful. “Mademoiselle. I did not know if you would be here after a late night”

“I might say the same, my lord. I thought you might be gambling tonight.”

“I expect to do that,” he replied. “But I felt it my duty to warn you about your companion last night.”

“Warn?”

“He has not the best of reputations.”

“Neither do you, my lord.”

“But I have never been accused of murder.”

“And Lord Stanhope has?”

“Privately.”

“I am sure you have been called things that are not true.” Drat but his eyes were green. They were not dancing any longer, but instead intense, almost willing her to bend to his will.

She would bend to no man's will.

“
Merci
,” she said, then eyed him speculatively. “Perhaps you can be of some assistance to me.”

He looked surprised. “If I may.”

“I have been invited to the Lord Stanhope's home. A social … occasion, I believe. But I would like an escort.”

His mouth crooked on one side. A strange smile. Oddly pleasant. “I too have been invited. It would be my honor to accompany you.”

Relief flooded her. And anticipation. And something else not quite as benevolent. She shrugged away the latter.

The relief was real. She had not wanted to be alone in Stanhope's town house. The anticipation was there because she would have an opportunity to study the house.

And another kind of opportunity.

And the something else. She sensed this man could be dangerous. Not to her physically. But certainly in other ways.

She ignored the warning. “You are very kind, my lord.”

“It will do my reputation no harm to have you on my arm,” he said. “I do not know about your own.”

“An American bumpkin, you mean.”

“You read the newspapers.”

“I hear gossip.”

“They can think what they like. They sneered at Americans in 1776 and again a few years ago. They discovered a strength they hadn't understood.”

“And do you have a strength they wouldn't understand?”

His expression was enigmatic. He didn't reply. Or perhaps he had.

“How long do you plan to stay in London?” she asked after a moment.

He didn't answer immediately. She realized their voices had lowered and become husky. She was not only warm now. She felt as if her skin was sizzling. Where
was
Dani?

He leaned closer and she smelled the clean scent of soap, not the heavy perfume so many men affected. His eyes were as startling green as emeralds, and his mouth …

His mouth touched hers with a firmness combined with gentleness, more of an exploration than a conquest. She found herself responding, rising on her tiptoes. He moved closer and their bodies stretched against each other and she felt her own begin to ache in sensuous and unfamiliar ways.

His kiss deepened, and then she heard a purr come from deep in her throat and felt, rather than saw, him smile. She looked up, and he was smiling with those eyes she once thought so aloof.

His arms went around her and drew her even closer to him. She felt the heat of his aroused body, the steady drumbeat of his heart, and the whispered promise of his breath.

It's a lie.

She pulled away and looked up at him. Her lips felt swollen, and she knew her cheeks must be rose colored with heat and emotion.

“You take liberties, my lord.”

“Aye,” he said. “It seemed the thing to do. The invitation was there.”

The words were like a dash of freezing water.

“You saw what you wanted to see, not what was there,” she said in as cool a voice as she could imagine.

“I think not.”

“You are arrogant.”

“Are not most lords?”

The heat of passion was being replaced by the heat of anger. His answers were cool and dispassionate, almost as if that electricity had struck only her. And yet when she glanced down at his hands, she saw they trembled slightly as one leaned on an ornate cane.

She moved away to the mirror. Her worst fears were realized as she saw the flush of her face, the hair that had escaped the bonnet and fell down the side of her face. Even worse, the way her breasts thrust against the bodice of her dress, the nipples very obvious through the cloth.

She wanted to tell him he would not be needed tomorrow after all. She wanted to tell him to go to hell.

Revenge on Stanhope. That should supercede any other emotion, even this arrogant man.

She'd always been able to twist them around her fingers. She was very good at manipulation.

She suspected this man could not be manipulated.

“I must go,” she said. “You will still accompany me tomorrow?”

He bowed again. “Most certainly, mademoiselle.”

She nodded.

His eyes were an enigma as he reached the door. He looked back once at her.

“Be careful of Stanhope,” he said. “I came to tell you that.”

But as he disappeared outside, she wondered exactly who she had to be the most careful of.

Chapter Eight

Stanhope oversaw every preparation critically. Every food item, every flower arrangement was inspected. Any bloom with the slightest imperfection was removed, each platter not perfectly arranged was sent back to the kitchen, the slightest speck of dust incited rage.

Pamela attracted the most displeasure. At his summons she had arrived yesterday and had crept around the house like a mouse, her brown eyes red and swollen. His daughter had never been a beauty, but—dressed and her hair well arranged—she was acceptable.

He had ignored her for years. He had thought she might be of some use to him, but she had always feared him, and he'd never respected timidity. Nor did he like women. They served their purpose in satisfying his physical needs, and he enjoyed the attention that having a beautiful woman on his arm gave him.

Mostly, they were a bloody nuisance, of little intelligence and loyalty. His mother had run away with a lover when he was six years of age, and he'd had little use for his father's mistresses in the following years. One had seduced him, taught him the physical pleasures, then tried to steal from him. He'd not informed his father, but had broken her arm and threatened worse.

He had seen fear then, and it had given him a sense of power that was stronger than any emotion he'd ever known before. He'd learned how to enhance fear, how exquisite it was to see fear change into terror. It gave him surges of pleasure that satisfied a deep hunger inside him, a hunger that had never been quenched in any other way.

Except once. He tried not to think of that any longer. There had been one woman long ago …

He had thought himself in love. For once in his life, he'd felt loved for himself.

She was unsuitable. He'd known that, but he thought he could keep her safe somewhere.

And then his father had discovered she was with child. And his father had killed her.

He'd never allowed anyone to touch his heart again, not even a daughter born of a union his father had arranged. He'd hated Francis the moment he'd met her. She was loud where Mary had been quiet, had atrocious taste in her wealth where Mary had exquisite taste with very little. She brayed where Mary had a clarion merry laughter.

But that was a quarter of a century ago. He'd locked away the pain as he had locked away every other emotion except a need for power.

He looked at his daughter and wondered why his daughter's fear didn't please him as it had in the past. He told himself it was because he needed her to be attractive.

He looked for her, but she was not in the living quarters. Probably dribbling more tears in her bedchamber with her maid, who was as meek as she. God, he hated meek women. They offered no challenge.

He shouted for the butler and instructed him to tell one of the maids to fetch her. He would be damned if he would go up to her. While he waited, he poured a drink, then took one last look at the large sitting room, where a string quartet would play. The front of the room had been cleared and rearranged. The quartet was said to be the finest in London, and he'd gone through all the music with them. He wondered whether Monique Fremont had a voice worth hearing. Many actresses did. Perhaps he would ask her.

The image of her face came back into his mind. A flicker of some recognition, some odd familiarity ran through him. He tested it, searched his mind for a clue. Another theater, perhaps, but no, he would remember that. Strange that he hadn't felt it before, or recognized it. He had an extraordinary memory for faces, a talent that served him well. But as much as he searched his memory, he couldn't place that face in another time, or place.

A timid knock came at his door. “Come in,” he shouted loudly enough to be heard several rooms away.

Pamela entered, wearing a plain afternoon gown. Its bright yellow did nothing for her brown hair and light brown eyes. She looked sallow and unappealing.

“Did your aunt choose that?” he asked.