Dancing with a Rogue (18 page)

He suddenly leaned over and kissed her. But it wasn't like the other time. His lips pressed roughly against hers and she felt his teeth nibbling at them. There was a wildness about the kiss, an anger she hadn't anticipated.

She fought it for a moment. He was obviously a cad, ready to exploit a young girl for his own financial benefit.

And yet …

And yet fire started building in her belly and she felt herself respond to the sizzling hunger that he roused in her. One of his fingers traced the lines of her face as if he were memorizing each one of them, then his hand moved down. It snaked inside her cloak and caressed her left breast. She felt it tighten and swell in reaction to the merest brush of his skin.

She wondered only for a fraction of a second when he'd taken off his gloves.

His hand left her breast, and she knew a longing ache that was stunning. How could she want someone like this? Especially someone like him. She'd spent a lifetime avoiding men like him. Men who used women.

She started to move, but his mouth wouldn't release her. Instead his tongue made its way into her mouth and teased her until she was mad with longing.

She had thought the fireworks always between them would have been quenched by his behavior tonight. Perhaps even her own. Instead the air was explosive, filled with the hot expectancy of a pending lethal storm.

Breathlessly, she found herself waiting for his next overture, for the next seduction. She found herself opening her mouth to him as she heard a low moan rumbling through his body.

Then he let her go, almost as if he were pushing away something distasteful.

She felt humiliated beyond belief that she had just permitted what had happened, and even wanted more.

His face looked as startled as she knew hers must.

Then he rapped the carriage box with his cane.

And she slapped him as hard as she possibly could.

Gabriel felt the blow, and it was more powerful than he thought could come from such a feminine young woman.

For a moment he'd almost succumbed to her. God knew there had never been a woman who so attracted him before. He'd known she was as unwilling a participant as he in the damnable attraction that always flamed between them, though he didn't quite understand why she was seducing the much older Stanhope and his friends rather than what appeared to be a wealthy lord with a title.

He was more than a little perturbed by her choice.

His face stung as he heard the coachman, summoned by his rap, descend from the box.

He made his voice cool. “Have a good evening, mademoiselle.”

She sat as still as any stone creation, looking as surprised at her own actions as he had been.

Monique Fremont totally befuddled him. Unmanned him.

He wanted to despise her. She was obviously playing one lord against another. The reason could only be wealth.

Yet each time he found himself alone with her, he could barely control his body, which had always been so disciplined.

Always before he had paid for love, or it had been given freely but without emotional attachments. Never had he felt this gut-wrenching desire that nearly overwhelmed every other thought.

The door opened. The coachman stood aside for him to descend, then help his lady out.

Instead, he sat there.

She gave him an odd little smile and climbed over him. “Thank you for your courtesy tonight.” The words were poisoned with irony.

He took off his beaver hat. “Any time, mademoiselle. I enjoy small plots.”

Her lips tightened and she turned away.

He still felt the imprint of her hand against his face.

Gabriel stepped out of the coach, watched as the coachman escorted her to the door. It opened almost the very instant they reached the top of the steps.

She didn't look back at him. Her body was stiff, her head high, as if she were a queen. Arrogant and proud. Dismissive.

He knew he had been an oaf for not accompanying her to the door. But he feared that if he did, he might well not be able to stop what he barely stopped a moment ago.

He turned away and looked at the fog-misted road. He wanted to walk home, hell, he had to walk home. London was encased in fog now, and he needed the cool mysterious mist to cleanse him of a fire he did not want. He forced himself to turn away from the town house. He paid the carriage driver liberally and shook his head as the man asked where he wanted to go.

“Be careful, gov'nor,” the driver said as Gabriel headed toward his own lodgings.

The theater was packed. Outside, vendors were hawking their usual wares of tomatoes and other gross objects often used to demonstrate displeasure with a performance.

Gabriel sat in a box next to Pamela. Her father and the two other men that Gabriel now thought of as “The Group” accompanied them.

He'd known she was good. He'd stood in the back of the theater and watched her rehearse.

But that didn't prepare him for the illumination of her presence when she walked on the stage, nor the way she captivated every man and woman in the theater.

She was, in a word, breathtaking. The stage makeup made her face almost translucent. Her eyes sparkled and her quick witty repartee was delivered with a charming confidence that was irresistible.

Within two minutes of being on stage, she'd stolen the heart of every man and made every woman envious.

“She truly is remarkable,” Pamela whispered to him.

“Yes,” he said.

“She is the most sought after woman in London,” Henry Worth, the Earl of Daven said, “and she has consented to have supper with me tomorrow night after the performance.” He shot a triumphant look at Stanhope.

The last line of the play was uttered, and the theater erupted in applause. No rotten fruit tonight. The audience stood and waited until Monique Fremont and her leading man returned four times, each time bringing the other cast members to the front of the stage with them.

Someone handed her a bouquet of flowers. She took them and curtsied.

“Thank you,” she told the audience, with the slightest hint of a French accent. “Thank you for making me so welcome and giving me a new home.”

The audience erupted again.

“She is a very fine actress,” Stanhope said, making it plain he really didn't consider her graciousness anything but an act.

“I hope she visits us again,” Pamela said wistfully. Her comment surprised Gabriel. She had been very quiet. In fact the only words he recalled her saying other than the greeting upon his arrival at the Stanhope home was that about Monique Fremont being “a remarkable woman.”

“She will,” Stanhope said and looked down at his daughter distastefully. “But I will not have you bothering her.”

Pamela's face tightened, the fleeting pleasure gone. Her hands in her skirt clenched together.

Gabriel leaned over and whispered into her ear. “I think she liked you,” he said in a voice too low for her father's ear. He thought—hoped—it looked more like an endearment.

For a moment Pamela smiled slightly. Then she turned her eyes back to the stage.

So did he.

Monique Fremont's eyes seemed to be gazing in their direction. Gabriel saw a slight tightening of her lips before she once more flashed that brilliant smile and swept off the stage.

“I think I will go backstage and give her my personal congratulations for a magnificent performance,” Lord Daven said. He turned to Stanhope. “Would you join me?”

Gabriel looked about with an air of complete indifference. Daven had been invited to accompany them, and he despised the man every bit as much as he despised Stanhope. Greed oozed out of his every pore; so—every time the man looked at Monique—did pure lust.

But taking young Pamela home fit his plans, and he had no doubt now that Monique could take care of herself. He had done everything he could in warning her. She had decided to ignore his warnings.

Now he had to take care of Pamela, and in doing so he would have access to Stanhope's home.

Stanhope said “I must accompany my daughter and Manchester home. I would not like the ton to be talking about them.”

“Your consideration toward your daughter is touching,” Manchester said courteously. “Your coachman can vouch for the fact I will take her straight home.”

“I do not believe you would dishonor Pamela,” Stanhope said. “It is only appearances. Obviously no one cares about those in the colonies, but …”

Gabriel wanted to thrust his fist in the man's face.

The colonies were colonies no longer and yet the British seemed intent not to accept that reality. Stanhope was also very careless with the well-being of his daughter. He obviously was ready to sell her to anyone to profit his own pockets. That filled Gabriel with a ferocity even greater than he had anticipated.

He'd never considered whether Stanhope had a family, much less an innocent daughter.

The sudden need to protect her was a complication. And an opportunity, he admitted to himself.

He wanted to get into the house again. Perhaps tonight. But if not, he would visit a few gambling hells and try his luck. He needed funds. He would need a great deal shortly. He'd hoped to steal what he needed from Stanhope, but then there had always been the other option.

He had to win, though at different places. He did not want anyone to know he had the skill to win large amounts of money, or that he could best an aristocracy that spent so much time gambling away nearly everything they had inherited.

Gabriel tried to keep his contempt from showing. Instead, he summoned a foolish smile. “I would not dishonor a future bride,” he said again.

“Make up your mind, Thomas,” Lord Daven said. “I am leaving now. I have a slight bauble to give the lovely Miss Fremont in celebration of her great success.”

Gabriel looked at Pamela and saw none of the pleasure that had been there just seconds earlier. “I will be safe, Papa,” she said.

Stanhope looked at her for a long time. “I will tell Garvey to look after you.”

“Oh, yes, Papa. He will.”

Stanhope turned to Gabriel. “I trust you as a man of honor.”

Man of honor, indeed. Stanhope didn't know the meaning of the word. Well, Gabriel did. At least as far as Lady Pamela Kane was concerned.

Gabriel helped Pamela on with her cloak. Then he ushered her through the crowd to where he knew Stanhope's carriage would be waiting.

He didn't say anything to his young companion until they were inside, and the coach was winding its way down a London street. He watched her visibly relax.

“I am sorry you missed going backstage,” she said in a small voice.

“I would rather be with you,” he said.

She looked at him with wary blue eyes. “I would have liked to have seen her tonight,” she said shyly. “She is everything I would like to be. She is so … confident. I do not think she would allow anyone to …”

“To what?” Gabriel asked after a moment's silence.

Pamela seemed to back into herself, as if to make herself invisible. Her lips trembled slightly.

Damn Stanhope. How many lives had he destroyed?

“You promised to tell me about the ton,” he said gently.

“I … I only know the gossip from the country. He brought me here only because of you.” She swallowed hard. “I led you to believe I could help you. I cannot.”

Her voice trembled and her hands shook slightly.

“I still think it is a good bargain,” he said. “Yours and mine.”

“Why?”

“Because you are a very appealing young lady and I enjoy your company. I do not wish to be pursued by other women. It serves my purposes to allow everyone to believe I am your devoted slave.”

“You would be no woman's slave,” she said with more insight than he'd expected, but then she had surprised him several times. Still, it was disconcerting. How many times had his mask slipped?

He chose not to answer, and she fell into silence. He wondered whether she would ask him inside. It would be highly improper, particularly with no woman family member in attendance.

Gabriel wondered again why Pamela was being dangled in front of his eyes, like a newly killed goose at Christmastime.

Did Stanhope believe it would blind him to the particulars of a business arrangement or that his influence would keep Gabriel quiet if he'd sought information about that long-ago partnership which ended with a suicide?

“Tell me about your young man,” he finally said.

She glanced up toward the bench. The driver couldn't hear their voices over the sound of wheels against cobbled streets, but he sensed the fear in her. She said nothing.

He waited.

“My father would destroy him if he knew,” she finally said. “He already …” She stopped in midsentence again.

He could not pry further. She was obviously terrified of her father, and he knew she would not tell him of her father's threats. She was too afraid, though she showed signs of spirit long battered.

“If you ever need a friend,” he said, “I am available.”

“Why? I heard my father talk about you.”

“He believes I am a worthless fool.”

She was kind enough not to answer, but her silence was just as convincing.

“And what do you think?” he asked.

“I think you like Miss Fremont and you wish to make her jealous.”

“And you think that is why I am calling on you?”

“Why else? You suggested the bargain.”

“Yes.” He wanted to say she looked as if she needed someone. But that would be too far out of his role.

Instead, he sat back and looked out at the homes they passed. Lights flickered through the night.

London.

It had been such an adventure for a boy.

His father coming home, his big voice booming. His mother's delighted laughter …

He shook off the memories as the coach rolled to a stop.

He recalled the last time he was in a carriage alone with a woman, and how he had kissed her, thinking that one kiss might tell him Monique Fremont was nothing but the conniving courtesan she appeared to be. But it hadn't.