MISTRESS TO THE MARQUIS (7 page)

She smiled. Both Alice and Razeby knew that when it came to winning
vingt-et-un,
there was a great deal more to it than luck.

‘I think you have played this more than a few times, Miss Sweetly.’ Hawick was by her shoulder.

‘Maybe,’ she conceded. Her eyes flickered to Razeby’s, resting there only for the briefest of moments. ‘But never before in public.’

‘We must have a game together some time,’ said Hawick.

She saw the tiny telltale narrowing of Razeby’s eyes, the slight flicker of tension in his jaw at Hawick’s words, and she smiled a mischievous smile.

‘Indeed, we must, Your Grace,’ she said, and wandered away from the table with Hawick.

Chapter Nine

T
he early morning was bright, the air in Hyde Park fresh and filled with spring and all the promise that came with it. Razeby could smell the scent of leather and of horse, mixed with the freshness of earth and dew-laden grass, and feel the warmth of the early morning sun on his face.

‘You seem in better temperament this morning, Razeby.’

Razeby smiled. ‘It is a fine morning and I am out riding with my friend.’

Linwood kept his gaze forward facing. ‘I heard that Alice was at Dryden’s last night.’

‘News travels fast.’

‘It
is
London, Razeby.’

Razeby gave a laugh.

‘Indeed, the news is that she was in your party and that she fleeced all of the table.’

‘She did,’ Razeby admitted.

‘With a skill that matched your own.’

Alice’s skill far exceeded his own. She had been a most ardent pupil. Razeby remembered how too many of those long dark winter nights had started between him and Alice, of him sharing his secrets, of her sharing hers....

‘Strange, that,’ commented Linwood.

‘Is it?’ said Razeby, all innocence.

‘Who would have known she was so skilled at
vingt-et-un?
’

‘Who indeed?’ Razeby answered, revealing nothing of it.

‘There is nothing of...awkwardness...between the two of you?’

‘Nothing.’ Awkwardness was not what lay between them. There was as much desire, tension and excitement as ever there had been. She had been flirting with him, flirting with the others. Light-hearted, teasing, mischievous. Just as she had done before. But there was a difference this time. There were other layers there that had not been present then and a subtle sense that she had removed herself from his reach—that he might look, but not touch. He could not get her out of his head.

‘It was an enjoyable evening.’ He told that part of the truth. Enjoyable, and exciting, in a way nothing had been since the last time he had glimpsed her in Hyde Park. He could still feel the thrill of it running through his blood. The thrill of her. Right up until Hawick and that naughty little jibe about playing cards with him. Razeby did not like the thought of that one little bit. That had not been enjoyable. That had been something else altogether.

‘I am glad that the separation seems to have been an amicable one.’

But what things seemed and what they were in truth were not always the same thing. Razeby gave no reply. He did not fully understand what was between him and Alice. But he knew that it was anything but amicable. It was raw and powerful and hungry. There were complexities to it that he did not understand, depths that were downright dangerous.

‘It makes no difference whether it is amicable or not.’ He needed to stay away from her and keep his mind focused on the marriage mart. But last night and this morning the marriage mart had never been further from his mind.

‘In that case, you will not have an interest in which of your events Miss Sweetly is booked to be present.’

‘I did not say that,’ said Razeby quietly and looked over at him.

Linwood glanced up, the look exchanged between them saying much their words could not. ‘She will be at White’s next week. For the awards.’

‘You are sure?’ Razeby felt his heart beat quicker at just the prospect of seeing her there.

‘My father is on the committee. Alice is the new darling of Covent Garden. The theatre has gone from barely making ends meet to being practically sold out every time she steps on stage. White’s know she will go down a storm with its members. They have offered Kemble, the theatre and Alice a substantial amount of money for her presence.’

Razeby gave a nod. ‘Thank you for the warning, my friend.’

* * *

Alice stood in the small anteroom that adjoined the main banqueting room in White’s Gentleman’s Club in St James’s Street.

A nervousness ran through her, making her palms clammy and her stomach turn a few cartwheels, and she knew it was not down to presenting a few awards to some stuffy, rich old gentlemen. She knew Razeby was in there. She knew, too, that he would be in receipt of one of the awards. Kemble had warned her. And the fact that Kemble had felt the need to do so was all the more reason that she could not refuse the invitation to be here tonight.

Had she and Razeby never been, she would have accepted this opportunity without hesitation. It promoted both herself and the theatre, and it paid well. So she accepted it just the same now. Not letting Razeby dictate her actions. She was getting on. Making a success of herself. Refusing to avoid him. And maybe there were a few other reasons, too.

It gave her another opportunity to show him how much she was over him. And maybe even to rub his nose in what he had given up just a little more. She smiled at that thought.

She was a successful actress. She earned her own money. And she really was over Razeby.

Alice took a deep breath and smiled.

* * *

The men were seated around the table in the banqueting room of White’s Gentlemen’s Club.

The dinner had been eaten. Their glasses were filled with port, cigarillos were being smoked, snuff boxes being opened and offered.

Mr Raggett, the proprietor of the club, had come in person to host the dinner and awards.

‘And now, gentlemen, we come to the purpose of this, our annual awards ceremony. The giving of awards for services we, within our little club, consider outstanding in the past year. Services to our gentlemen’s community, to the general well-being of the city of London, those in support of charities, and of the arts. And those a little less serious in nature...’ He smiled and everyone in the room smiled, too, at what was coming. ‘The member who has won the most entries in the betting book, and the least. The member who consumed the most bottles of port and still left standing, and he who holds the record for sleeping the longest in the drawing room.’ Everybody looked at old Lord Soames.

‘Speak up, young man,’ Soames said in a loud voice. ‘Can’t hear a word you are saying.’

A chuckle rippled round the table, all the more so given that Raggett was sixty if he was a day.

‘Every year we invite someone special to present the awards to each of our gentlemen and this present year is no exception. I guarantee you will not be disappointed. Gentlemen, please put your hands together and welcome straight from the stage of Covent Garden’s Theatre Royal...’

Razeby knew what was coming yet he felt the anticipation of just hearing her name spear through his blood.

‘...the delightful Miss Alice Sweetly,’ finished Raggett.

Every man at the table got to his feet and applauded as Alice swept into the room.

She was dressed in the same pale-green silk evening dress as he had seen her wear a hundred times. A dress that complimented her fair colouring. The bodice was low, but not indecently so, fastened in the centre with a line of pearl buttons that he was most adept at unfastening.

The light from the overhead chandelier cast golden tones in the dark blonde of her hair. She had not followed the fashion, trying to curl her hair and wear it up in a mass of flowing ringlets. She had told him so many times that her hair defied all attempts to hold a curl, no matter how tightly she tied the rags in it or how long she left them in place. She wore it in its usual simple style, caught back in a simple chignon. And tonight she would pluck those pins from it and uncoil it to hang loose and free down her back in long silky straight lengths. With deliberate control he turned his mind away from that image.

Raggett announced each award in turn, then read the name of the winner from the list, before passing the appropriate small silver cup to Alice. It was Alice who presented the cup to each winner, brushing a light kiss against each man’s cheek.

He felt his stomach curl with anticipation. He tried not to think of it. It was just an award. Alice had been his mistress, nothing more. The sex had been amazing. She had been amazing. But that was over, done with. Or so he told himself. And he was taking Miss Longley out in his curricle in the morning. Doing what had to be done. He should just propose, move things on faster.

‘The Marquis of Razeby.’ Raggett’s voice brought him back to himself.

He got to his feet, walked the length of the table to where she stood. And he couldn’t take his eyes from her. She was so self-contained, so radiant and golden, exuding that same strange paradoxical play of shyness and confidence that had enticed him right from the very start. And as he walked towards her, her eyes watched him with that same calm which did not quite cover the teasing playfulness he knew lurked beneath.

‘Congratulations, Lord Razeby,’ she said in that sweet, soft, sexy voice. It stroked against his ear, rippled down the length of his spine, straight down into his breeches.

‘Miss Sweetly,’ he said in a voice that was nothing more than polite, but the hint of a smile played about his lips as much as it played about hers.

She knew what she was doing to him. Her smile broadened as she passed the silver cup into his hands, the tips of her fingers so close to his that his own tingled as if she had stroked against them, when in truth they did not touch. He could smell her perfume, the familiar clean scent of her, making his heart beat faster and stoking the heat all the hotter in his blood. Triggering memories he could not stop: Alice in his arms, Alice naked beneath him on the bed.

She had kissed all of the others. Her eyes held his with that hint of mischief and he knew that she was going to kiss him. And, God help him, he wanted it so much, even standing there while half the members of White’s looked on.

She leaned closer, tilting her face up to his, her eyes holding his all the while. And he could feel the speed of his heart and the driving urge to move his mouth and take hers with all the force of what was crackling between them. She smiled as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Her breath was warm against his cheek, the brush of her lips soft and hinting at so much more. All of which he knew, all of which he longed for.

His fingers tightened around the cup. ‘Miss Sweetly,’ he said in a low husky voice.

He saw the way her smile deepened and he smiled, too. Sharing this moment. Like so many they had shared before. As if there were only the two of them in the room. As if nothing else mattered. As if there were only light in his life.

It was with a supreme effort of willpower that he managed to turn away and give his thanks to those assembled in the room before resuming his seat. But after it was done he kept his eyes on her for every last moment, until she walked from the room with that sexy little wiggle he knew too well.

Alice Sweetly, you minx! And he smiled again and felt a glow in his heart.

* * *

‘Razeby was at Almack’s again last night.’ Within Alice’s little parlour two days later, Sara announced the fact without so much as a glance in Alice’s direction.

Alice should have been glad of it because it meant that she really was fine over Razeby and all of them knew it. But the words did not engender gladness. Rather it felt like a hand had tightened around her heart.

‘Was he?’ She concentrated on pouring the tea. Part of her did not want to hear how Razeby was getting on in his search for a woman to marry and part longed to know every damn detail. She did not ask the question but Sara told her the answer any way.

‘He danced with Miss Penny, Miss Lewis, Lady Persephone Hollingsworth.’ She counted the names on her fingers as she rhymed them off. ‘Miss Jamison, and twice with...’ she paused for effect ‘...Admiral Faversham’s daughter, who is quite considered the catch of the Season.’

‘Was Fallingham there,’ Ellen asked, all sweetness, ‘making a list of Razeby’s partners for you?’ She sipped at her tea, a picture of innocence, but Alice was not fooled. It both gladdened and worried her.

‘Only because his crowd were all there. It’s not as if he’s bride hunting. He’ll not be looking to settle down for ages yet.’ Sara could not quite keep the defensive tone from her voice.

‘You hope,’ murmured Tilly beneath her breath.

‘What was that?’ Sara snapped. ‘I didn’t quite catch what you said.’

‘I didn’t say nothing, it was just a bit of wind. Tea don’t half make me burp.’ Tilly shot a smile at Alice.

Alice shook her head and barely suppressed the grin.

‘They’re saying that Miss Faversham has quite set her mind on him.’

‘She ain’t got a chance in hell,’ said Tilly.

‘She’s an heiress,’ retorted Sara.

‘She’d have to be,’ said Ellen. ‘She’s got a backside on her the size of a horse and a face to match.’

Tilly sniggered.

‘He’d have to be blind to go for her,’ Ellen said.

‘It’s about breeding and money,’ protested Sara.

‘Just like a horse,’ said Tilly with a giggle.

‘Enough, girls,’ Alice said with a chuckle.

But when her friends finally left and the maids came in to remove the used tea tray, the image of Razeby dancing with all of those women, one of whom would be his wife, lingered.

For all the teasing and the jest, she knew what Ellen and Tilly had been doing—trying to protect her. As if she needed protecting! As if she were hurting from the split with Razeby! She felt mortified just at the thought, and a determination to prove to them otherwise, that it was just as she said, Razeby had never meant anything serious to her.

A vision of him sneaked into her mind. Standing before her at White’s, with those smouldering brown eyes that sent spirals darting through her body. And it was as if she felt again the rasp of his cheek beneath her lips and smelled the scent of him in her nose. And felt that sense of heady power. And despite everything, she smiled at the memory. She could not help herself.

It was a very dangerous line she was walking. A knife edge, just like being on stage at the theatre. Avoiding avoidance. Temptation—for him and maybe even for her. Showing him what he could not have. But she could not turn back from it. Not when there was still clearly work to be done.