Never Entice an Earl (14 page)

So why did she stare into the night, wishing he would appear?

And then, quite suddenly, he did.

Like a vision, she stood at the window, just as he’d hoped she would—as if he’d conjured
her from a fantasy, her hair in loose waves to her shoulders, her throat and arms
bare, in a simple, cap-sleeved gown of white muslin. Only he had to keep reminding
himself he couldn’t think of her like that anymore.

He waited, as she pushed open the frame.

“How did you know I’d be here?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“I took a chance, and look, there you are.”

“Here I am.”

The night sounds of the city rose up about them. Wheels and horses on the nearby street,
and from somewhere, the lively strains of a violin.

“Just so you know, I didn’t tell them anything,” he said.

He heard her exhale…in relief?

“I suppose I should thank you, but forgive me if I don’t,” she said harshly.

Clearly, she wasn’t the least bit grateful, a response he hadn’t expected and that
caused him to bristle.

He’d come here intending to speak in a more conciliatory fashion, but instead found
himself responding in like manner. “Forgive
you
? I hadn’t intended to, but why?”

God, she provoked him, so much he almost forgot how sweet her kisses had been. Almost.

“You told me you were a saltpeter merchant,” she accused.

“I used to be one,” he countered. “I’m quite certain you’ve never been a lady’s maid.”

“That’s not the point,” she snapped. “You lied about your identity and led me to believe
you were someone you weren’t, so how dare you threaten me for doing the same?”

“I never threatened, I only made an observation—”

“An observation that you had the power to destroy me?”

“I never said I would actually wreak the destruction of which I was capable.”

“The intent was there,” she said into the silence.

“Don’t suppose to know what I intend. Then, or now.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, and huffed, “Why did you come here? What do you
want?”

He wanted things to be different between them, for them to stand eye to eye, rather
than her being perched up there like a goddamn unattainable golden-haired Rapunzel
and him on the ground, a worshipful pauper. The comparison only confirmed what he
knew: that she was one of them and that he, despite his new title and fine address,
would always be beneath them, figuratively ankle deep in dirt.

“Being that we are such dear friends,” he said in a dry tone. “I need a favor.”

“A favor?” She snorted unkindly. “And you think to have one from me?”

“Consider it more of a demand, if you wish.”

“I knew it,” she hissed, recoiling like an angry cat. “Blackmailer!”

He chuckled darkly, knowing he shouldn’t feel so amused. “Would you mind so terribly
including me on the invitation list for your debut ball?”

“My ball. Why?” She gripped either side of the window frame. Bathed by shadows, she
looked so beautiful, he felt it in his heart, an ache that hadn’t left him since seeing
her on the stage that night. It made him angry to feel any emotion at all, but all
he could think in the next moment was how the moonlight painted her hair an almost
magical hue.

“Because I’m asking so nicely.”

“You said it was a demand. What are you, Cormack? Gentleman or villain? I’d really
like to know.”

“May I get back to you regarding that? I haven’t quite decided myself.”

To his surprise, she softened at that bit of humor, her shoulders releasing their
rigidity. “I’m supposing this has something to do with the man for whom you were searching
at the Blue Swan. Do you believe he will be at my debut ball?”

“Perhaps.” It was easy to tell from the newspaper society page who ran with whom,
and the Bevington name was never far from Rackmorton’s and his circle. “You know how
it is with the
ton
. A title is only the first qualification. Admission requires formal introductions,
and I have no connections of which to speak. There are thousands here in London for
the season. I am concerned with only a few. To speak plainly, I need an ‘in,’ and
I don’t have forever to wait for the right people to invite me to the right party.”

“The right party. Again, you believe he will be there at mine.”

“It is only a hunch.”

“Cormack, what did he do to you? The other night you told me he hurt someone you loved.”

“We aren’t on confiding terms, Daphne. Not anymore.”

“That much is true.” She straightened again. “Still, I won’t have you murdering someone
at my ball. Mother would be scandalized.”

“As well she should be. Very well, then. In exchange for the invitation, and out of
respect for your dear mother, against whom I hold no particular grudge, I promise
that if I murder someone, I will do it somewhere else.”

“You’re generosity astounds, Lord Raikes,” she answered, heavy on the sarcasm. “But
I fail to see why you need me at all. You took right up with the gentlemen this afternoon,
without any difficulty at all.”

“Men rarely give a thought as to who is on an invitation list. They leave those details
to their discerning wives, mothers, and daughters. I don’t have time or the inclination
to charm all the ladies in town.”

Now that he was here in London, all he wanted to do was return to Bellefrost. He missed
the quiet of the country, and little Michael. The season ran all the way to August.
God help him if he had to stay here that long. For a time, the prospect of taking
part had intrigued, and even dazzled. But everything had changed the moment he saw
Daphne in Hyde Park. Her duplicity had only proven everything he despised about the
upper classes, and the artificiality that tainted them all.

She half-sat on the sill. “Speaking of mothers, mine doesn’t know you, and when she
sees your name on my list, she’ll have questions.”

“Make something up.”

“I’m not promising anything,” she answered cooly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Her dismissive tone riled him, and he responded in kind. “Don’t play coy, Miss Bevington.
I’ll expect an invitation, delivered the same day as the others.”

He provided his address.

“Now you’re just playing games,” she said, leaning out from the window, no doubt oblivious
to the alluring crush of her breasts against her bodice. “That address is just on
the other side of those mews, and I know for a fact it belongs to his Grace, the Duke
of Durden—”

“Who is spending the summer at his estate in Northumbria, and so I have taken the
lease.”

For a moment he thought she might actually topple off the sill.

“Oh, you!” she accused, in obvious exasperation. “Have you made it your sole purpose
in life to torment me?”

After seeing her in that carriage in Hyde Park this afternoon, the picture of cool
and utterly controlled female perfection, he could only chuckle at having discomposed
her so greatly. “I know it’s difficult for you to believe, but none of this has anything
to do with you.”

It was a lie, of course, one exacted to preserve his pride. Even now, despite everything,
he wanted to pull her down from her high perch, and into his arms and kiss her the
way he had before.

“I’m going to close the window now,” she said in a surly tone.

“Good night, then.”

“I don’t wish the same for you.” She pulled at the window.

“Daphne.” He grinned, knowing a smile would ruffle her. If he couldn’t kiss her, then
he would settle for the satisfaction of getting under her feathers.

She stopped. “What is it?”

“I might need you to introduce me to some people as well.”

At that, the window slammed shut.

I
n the end, his entrée into society hadn’t required Daphne Bevington’s assistance at
all.

His original plan had worked magnificently. He’d invested in a horse that cost more
than all of Bellefrost Manor on its finest day, taken that fine animal for a trot
round the park, dressed like the earl he now was, with all care to keep his nose high
in the air. Just like that, His Lordship had come a-calling.

Apparently the Marquess of Rackmorton had been so impressed by him, or perhaps only
his horse, that he’d received a couriered invitation to the dowager Marchioness of
Rackmorton’s Monday night musicale.

The marquess presently stood on the opposite side of a cavernous, candlelit study,
pouring him a brandy. Pressing Daphne for an invitation to her ball had been wholly
unnecessary. Now he wished he wouldn’t have. Indeed, he hoped he never saw her again.
She would only muddy his thoughts and distract him from his course.

The guests were still arriving and the performance would not begin for another half
hour. As soon as Cormack had crossed the threshold, he’d been swept away into his
host’s private domain, a breathtaking, cavernous room with walls covered floor to
ceiling with dramatic oils of landscapes, portraits of men long dead, and dogs.

“So truly, you’re completely fresh to London?” said the marquess, as he approached
a cabinet cluttered with bottles of port and brandy. “You don’t know anyone, and haven’t
ever passed a season in town?”

“I was not raised into this life.”

“Ah, a rarity among my circle, a man untried and inexperienced at these endless social
requirements the rest of us find so dreadfully rote. You’re rather like a virgin,
I’d say.” Rackmorton grinned, selecting a bottle. “Mind you, I adore virgins, but
the female sort—but not the sort who frequent my mother’s parties. I warn you now,
my friend, dally carefully with these or not at all, else you’ll find yourself wed.”

Cormack flinched inwardly at Rackmorton’s crass talk, but maintained a relaxed outward
façade. While the handkerchief the cat-eyed girl had given him outside Bynum’s office
had proved Rackmorton to be a member of the Invisibilis, he had no evidence the marquess,
in particular, was the member of the Invisibilis who had dishonored his sister. Neither
had he proven the man innocent. He had to start discounting suspects somewhere. Why
not start here? Besides, befriending one of the members would eventually lead him
to the others.

He turned to the window, through which guests could be seen mingling in an already
crowded drawing room. “I have heard that Catalani will sing tonight. I’ve never before
had the pleasure of hearing Madame.”

He’d made no mention of his time spent in Bengal, preferring to reveal as few details
about himself as possible. People who were friends shared about their lives—about
their family, their experiences, and travails. He already knew from their brief time
together that he would never choose this man to be his friend.

Rackmorton, looking every bit the self-assured aristocrat, with his aquiline features
and elegant carriage, crossed the carpet and handed him a glass. “Perhaps, then, this
evening will hold some charm for you, as it’s intended to do. As for me, I’m afraid
these events get rather stale. And God help you if everyone finds you intriguing—you’ll
be invited to everything, and you’ll never have a moment’s rest.”

“I, myself, prefer the quiet of the country. Fresh air. Green fields.” His gaze narrowed
on his host. “Or perhaps a good hunt, with friends.”

He waited, muscles tensed. Would Rackmorton bite?

Rackmorton half-sat on the edge of the desk and nodded. “But something brought you
to London.”

Curses. He did not.

“Mhm,” he murmured in response.

“We are of a similar age. Am I wrong to presume that your family is, of late, pressuring
you to marry, so as to provide the necessary heir?”

From the other side of the closed oaken door came the sounds of laughter. More guests
having arrived for the musicale.

“Actually, no,” Cormack responded. “That’s all been arranged already, as part of a
land agreement between families.”

“We English do prize our property. My cousin fell prey to a similar agreement.” Rackmorton
winced, and gave a lopsided smile.

“He is married to the homeliest bumpkin but”—he shrugged—“they do have three fine,
strong-boned sons.”

“There is that, at least,” Cormack answered.

“I don’t know what you’re in for, Raikes, but I have more refined tastes than that.”
His host’s gaze narrowed upon him, as if scrutinizing his worthiness in some way.
With a jerk of his head, he indicated a narrow corridor that enjoined the inner corner
of the study. “I’ve got just enough time to show you something. Come have a look.”

Cormack followed him, curious to observe his host pull a key from his pocket. The
corridor appeared to join the study with His Lordship’s sleeping chambers. Midway
between, Rackmorton stopped outside a narrow door. With the turn of a key, they entered.
His lordship quickly lit a lamp, and—oddly—secured the door behind them.

The duke lifted the lamp so that the light illuminated the walls. “What do you think?”
He let out a low chuckle. “Aren’t they splendid?”

Paintings, lithographs, and sketches covered the walls, each portraying beautiful
nude women in wanton poses, mostly alone, but some in the arms of male partners.

Cormack blinked, startled. “What an…extensive collection.”

Rackmorton reached to straighten a frame. “I’ve collected them since university. Some
are very expensive and considered art because of the artist who painted them, while
others are complete trash.”

Cormack loved the nude female form as much as the next man, but there was something
about this place that made his skin crawl. He wanted nothing more than for Lord Rackmorton
to again produce his little key and unlock the door, so they could return to the company
of others. Hoping to hurry that moment along, he continued along the line of pictures,
pausing to view each one, under the pretense of being interested, so that once he’d
seen them all, they could call it an evening and leave.

Yet in the farthest recesses of the room, a curtain had been drawn across the wall.

“What’s behind there?” Cormack asked, not because he wanted to see, but because instinct
told him he must.

Rackmorton shrugged. “Naughtier stuff. It’s not for everyone.”

“May I?” Cormack forced himself to say.

“Certainly.” Rackmorton winked. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He pushed past the curtain to find more paintings, but as he’d been warned, these
canvases featured women bound or shackled at the wrists and ankles, with sashes or
ropes across their mouths. Their faces expressed excitement and ecstasy, but in several,
he thought he also glimpsed fear.

Heat and blackness gathered behind his eyes and his hand tightened on the glass.

“Sometimes I almost prefer them to real women,” Rackmorton murmured. “They don’t ever
complain.” He caressed a fingertip over the hip of a reclining blonde.

A blonde, yes. It was then Cormack realized—and a glance backward confirmed it—that
all the women portrayed in Rackmorton’s illicit private collection were blonde.

“You’ve a preference for fair-haired ladies, that much is apparent.” Laura, of course,
had been a brunette.

“Always and only, I’m afraid,” Rackmorton said. “Anything else holds no attraction
for me.”

How was it that he could be so crushingly disappointed, and relieved, all at once?
Just imagining this man touching his sister sickened him, as did the idea that he
might have been Michael’s father.

The duke shrugged. “Strange, I know. I think it all goes back to my nursemaid, Cleotilde,
a very loving woman who—” He chuckled, a dirty sound, from deep in his throat. “Ah,
but that’s a story for another time. I don’t know you well enough, I’m afraid.”

Cormack felt certain they would never know one another well enough for that particular
level of sharing. Well, that was that. His hand itched to look at his watch. Wasn’t
it time to go?

“Say, Raikes,” said Rackmorton. “You aren’t offended by this, are you?”

Yet if Rackmorton was a member of the Invisibilis, he was still of use in that he
could lead Cormack to the others, and for that reason, he kept the revulsion from
his face and extended the conversation with the first blather that came to mind.

“Not at all,” he forced himself to say. “Bondage, when enjoyed by both partners, can
be very…exciting.” God, he sounded like an idiot. What else was he to say? “Er…I can
only assume your new bride, by necessity, must be blonde?”

He pitied the poor girl, whoever she might turn out to be, who would no doubt enter
her marriage an innocent, only to be shocked by her husband’s very noninnocent habits.

Rackmorton reached to straighten one of the frames. “Funny you should ask that. Here,
let me show you my newest acquisition, but you must vow on your gentleman’s honor
not to tell anyone what you’ve seen.” He grinned wickedly. A paper-wrapped frame leaned
against the wall. Setting the lamp on a small table—beside a leather-bound copy of
the Marquis de Sade’s
Justine
—he tore the paper away with great flair and anticipation, as if revealing a masterpiece.
“I had it commissioned last month, and have not yet had a chance to hang it.”

Cormack looked at the picture, painted in a florid slathering of oils.

He cleared his throat, and…cleared it again.

Yet from deep inside his chest, anger ruptured up, so hot and untempered he feared
it would spew out of his eyes in streams of fire, revealing his emotional weakness
toward the subject, one that he hadn’t realized until now that he had.

“Do you recognize her?” Rackmorton prodded in a sly tone.

It took every bit of his strength to speak without inflection. “She looks like the
young lady I met two days ago in the park.” He wouldn’t, couldn’t, say her name—not
here, in this place, while looking at that damned picture, in which she’d been contorted
and tied.

“Yes, the beauty with the parasol. Daphne Bevington.” From a small desk drawer, the
marquess produced a hammer and nail. In that moment, Cormack’s glance happened down.
Inside the same drawer lay a small leather notebook with Medusa imprinted on its cover—

The sound of hammering jerked him back to the present.

“What do you think?” Rackmorton’s eyes glowed in appreciation, as he affixed the canvas
to the wall. “Her sister, Clarissa, is also a beauty, but Daphne…Daphne’s got a certain
spark in her eye—an adventurous spirit—that I find very alluring. I wouldn’t spring
all this on her immediately, of course, but I think after a few months of marriage
she might take instruction well and, eventually of course, perhaps even come to enjoy
herself.”

Snap.
Glass shattered.

“Good God, man, are you all right?” Rackmorton exclaimed, staring at Cormack’s hand.

The crystal rummer lay in shards at his feet.

“Forgive me—” His open palm revealed a narrow gash. “I don’t know what happened.”

“No, forgive me.” His host offered a handkerchief, one that, yes, now no surprise,
bore the same embroidered monogram as the one the girl in the alley had given him.

“I’ve my own, thank you.” He pulled one from his pocket and held it to the wound.
“I wouldn’t want to stain yours.” He didn’t want to accept anything from this bastard.

“A defect in the crystal, no doubt. They are purchased by my mother from one of those
massive warehouse shops. Who can vouch for their quality? I shall have the remainder
inspected.”

A sudden rapping came upon the study door, and the muted burble of a female voice.

“Damn it, that’s her now,” he muttered, before shouting, sounding very much like a
peevish boy called in from play, “I will be there momentarily.”

For one fleeting moment, Cormack considered knocking Rackmorton out cold and taking
the notebook from the drawer, but numerous people had seen him enter the study in
the company of His Lordship, and would certainly observe his exit.

“Just leave the glass for now. The girl will clean it later.” Rackmorton returned
the hammer and closed the drawer. With the lamp, he returned to the door. “Ladies.
Until next time.”

Cormack followed him to the study and watched him return the key to the desk. Together
they returned to the drawing room, where in the time they’d been gone, a rather large
company had gathered. The dowager marchioness latched on to him, and the next quarter
hour passed in a blur of faces and introductions and invitations—

But everything stopped when he heard her voice behind him.

Like magic, with her arrival the room brightened and crackled with electricity. Faces
turned, and gazes sought her out—but he did not move. He simply closed his eyes, savoring
the sound as she greeted other guests and responded to compliments, conveying charm
with every syllable.

She moved nearer…

Her presence teased the back of his neck and down his spine, as tantalizing as a courtesan’s
feather, tempting him to turn.

Which of course, unable to resist her, he did.

As soon as she entered the room, she sensed he was there. Her heartbeat increased
in tempo, racing toward an exhilaration she knew she ought not to feel. Her ears pricked,
listening for his voice, and she searched a sea of faces, careful to keep her expression
blank.

He was nowhere. She’d been wrong. Disappointment crashed through her, and she wondered
how long they would have to stay before they could politely return home.

“—and this is my middle daughter, Daphne.”

Hearing her mother’s voice, she turned to find the gray-haired Sir Keyes, leaning
on his cane, and the elegant Lady Dundalk, in one of her signature velvet turbans,
standing beside her mother. Both in their seventies, they had been dear friends of
the family for as long as Daphne could remember.