Never Lie to a Lady (3 page)

She gave a short, sharp laugh. “Dear God, I must be mad,” she murmured. “I was half-considering it—and I do not even know who you are!”

His eyes still simmering with desire, he stepped back, and sketched her a surprisingly formal bow. “I am called Nash,” he said quietly. “Gamester and professional sybarite, at your service, ma’am.”

Professional sybarite?

The appalling recklessness of what she had just done was swiftly sinking in. Xanthia still couldn’t catch her breath. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. And suddenly, she did perhaps the most idiotic, most humiliating thing a woman could have done. She turned and ran.

She dashed along the terrace, her mind in a panic. But there was nothing. No footfalls. No shouts. The light spilling from the ballroom was but a few yards away. Just short of the door, she somehow found the presence of mind to stop to tidy her hair and right her clothing. Still no sound. He was not following, thank God.

What had she been thinking
? Her breath still rough, Xanthia set her hand flat against the outer window frame and struggled to turn her legs from jelly into something substantial enough to gracefully walk on. Well. She had wanted to do something slightly scandalous. And she certainly had. She had allowed a strange man to kiss her senseless—and had very nearly allowed him a vast deal more than that. And now, absent the warm strength of his body, she felt colder than ever and uncharacteristically shaken.

Furious with herself, Xanthia stiffened her spine and plunged into the crowded ballroom, an artificial smile plastered upon her face. Dear God, what a fool she was. It was one thing to drink a little too much champagne and wallow in mawkish fantasies, and quite another to behave brazenly with a common stranger—or, in Mr. Nash’s case, a most
uncommon
one. But however intriguing he was, there was nothing metaphysical between them. He had not looked into her eyes and seen her soul, for pity’s sake. How had she conjured up such a notion? Celibacy must be affecting her brain.

Well, there was nothing left to do but pray to God that Nash was a gentleman. Oh, Xanthia was not afraid of gossip for her own sake, but there was her brother Kieran to think about. He might yet turn his life around. And there was her much-loved niece, Martinique. Lord and Lady Sharpe, cousins whom she adored, and their daughter Louisa, whose come-out ball this was. Xanthia’s behavior could reflect badly on all of them.

Somehow, she managed to nod to the few people she knew as she passed through the crowd. She wondered if she looked like some just-tumbled wanton, but no one she passed raised so much as an eyebrow. The panic was fading now, but the memory of his touch was not. Dear heaven, she really must find her brother and ask him to see her home, before she did something unutterably foolish—like search out Mr. Nash, and toss him her garter.

With a hand which still shook, Xanthia stopped a passing footman to ask Kieran’s whereabouts. The footman bowed, resplendent in his deep blue livery. “Lord Rothewell is in the cardroom, ma’am.”

Xanthia smiled politely. “Kindly tell him I should like to go now.”

She really did not want to disturb her brother’s gaming, but it was either that, or remain here and risk running into Mr. Nash again. Suddenly, amidst all the confusion, it struck her.
Mr. Nash still did not know her name.
She had bolted before giving it to him, and he had not followed her. It was as if he had lost interest.

Perhaps he had. Perhaps she was not as skilled at kissing as she had hoped? The thought was a little lowering. But indeed, it was all for the best. Mr. Nash did not know her name, and she barely knew his. They would almost certainly never lay eyes on one another again, for she did not go about in society—indeed, she scarce had the time—and Mr. Nash had possessed the unqualified arrogance of a man who knew his place in the
haut monde
. And unless Xanthia missed her guess, it was very high up indeed. A sense of mild relief swept over her, restoring her composure.

In the entrance hall, Lady Sharpe was saying good-bye to her sister-in-law. Mrs. Ambrose kissed Xanthia effusively on both cheeks. “Xanthia, my dear, you really must get out more,” she said. “You are looking perfectly colorless.”

“How charitable of you to concern yourself,” said Xanthia politely. “By the way, have you seen Kieran?”

Mrs. Ambrose flashed an acerbic smile. “I left him in the cardroom,” she answered. “He is in one of his moods.”

Lady Sharpe laughed aloud as soon as her sister-in-law had gone. “What a cat she is, Zee,” she whispered as she set her lips to Xanthia’s cheek. “And how flattered I am that my reclusive relations have actually deigned to attend my little ball.”

“Oh, Pamela, we could not possibly miss Louisa’s come-out.” Xanthia leaned in to embrace her. But at that very moment, Lady Sharpe went a little limp and slumped almost imperceptibly against her.

Startled, Xanthia slid an arm awkwardly beneath her cousin’s elbow. “Pamela?” she said sharply. Then, to the footman, “A chair, if you please! And her maid. Fetch her at once.”

A chair was brought in an instant, and Lady Sharpe collapsed into it most gratefully. “The crush and the excitement,” she explained as Xanthia snapped open her fan and knelt. “Oh, thank you! That breeze is most restorative. Yes, I’ve worn myself a little thin, I daresay. Oh, but
please
do not tell Sharpe.”

Just then, Xanthia’s brother appeared. “Pamela?” he said sharply. “You look most unwell.”

Lady Sharpe turned pink. “It is just the heat,” she said. “And perhaps my
age
, Kieran. Now pray
do not
ask me any more questions, or I vow I shall answer them and utterly mortify you.”

Kieran had the good grace to blush and go at once in search of their carriage. As soon as Lady Sharpe’s maid arrived, Xanthia stood. “I do not like your color, Pamela,” she said, reluctant to leave her. “But there! I sound like Mrs. Ambrose, do I not?”

Lady Sharpe looked up sheepishly. “Not without reason,” she muttered. “I am sorry to have given you such a turn.”

“But you have.” Xanthia reached down to squeeze her hand. “Which is why you shall see me again tomorrow. Shall we say tea, my dear, at three-ish?”

B
y dawn, the unseasonable warmth had given way to a rainstorm, which met the day in slicing gray sheets and continued, unrelenting, into what felt like the following week. Attired in a dressing gown of creamy tussah silk, Nash stood at his bedchamber window in a grim mood, staring across Park Lane and sipping pensively at his morning coffee. But it was not, in point of fact, anywhere near morning.

After leaving Lord and Lady Sharpe with a dozen burning questions still unanswered, Nash had passed the hours after midnight tossing the ivory at White’s—not one of his more common vices—and then gone on to his mistress’s maisonette in Henrietta Street, coming away vaguely unsatisfied from both. Oh, he’d taken a monkey off Sir Henry Dunnan at hazard, without even paying attention. And Lisette had looked resplendent in a filmy French negligee—a vision hampered only by his recollection of how much it had cost him, and how it had become her habit of late to pout and sulk when he did not dance attendance on her.

Well, she had been pouting and sulking last night. He could hardly blame her; he’d not been at his best. Their interlude had ended in tears, blood, and three shattered wineglasses. He looked down at his empty hand and flexed it experimentally. No, the wound did not gape. He had escaped the surgeon’s needle this time. Perhaps it was time to give Lisette her
congé
. His mind was elsewhere now, though he was little pleased to admit it, even to himself.

Absent the fog of lust and champagne, Nash knew he had done an excessively foolish thing last night—and an unnecessary thing, too. How long would it have taken him to discover the name, and more importantly, the circumstances, of the woman in red? Thirty minutes, perhaps, had he troubled himself to do so. But he had not, and now he was deeply angry—with himself, and perhaps with her.

Nonetheless, he had been unable to escape the memory of what they had done together on the terrace last night. And what price, if any, was he going to pay for those few moments of exquisite temptation? What was it about her that had affected him so? He was rarely so willing to let his guard down. But in his embrace, she had been the embodiment of fiery feminine passion, a woman undeniably hungry for all the pleasures his body had offered.

Out of his arms, however, she had panicked like some green schoolgirl—and in the light of day, it was that contrast which so greatly troubled him.

Well, he’d be damned if he would sit back and wait for trouble; he decided as he watched the raindrops race one another down the windowpanes. If there was mischief afoot, he meant to go out and find it, before it found him. The element of surprise was a vastly underestimated advantage.

Just then, his valet breezed efficiently into the room. “Good morning, my lord,” said Gibbons, going straight to the dressing room. “I’ve set your shirt to soak in cold water. I think the bloodstain will come out. Shall I lay out your morning coat? Or will you ride?”

“I shall ride if the rain lets up,” said Nash. “I have some urgent business this morning.”

“And a grim business, too, it sounds.” Gibbons was altogether too forward. “Dare I hope that you mean to turn Miss Lyle off?”

Nash smiled faintly. “One does grow weary of artistic temperament,” he murmured. “Have you any notion, Gibbons, what that woman has cost me?”

“A king’s ransom, Mr. Swann says.”

“Ah, Mr. Swann!” Nash paused to swirl the last of his coffee about in his cup, wondering if one could read one’s fortune in coffee dregs. He really did not care for the English habit of tea. “Tell me, Gibbons, do all my servants gossip about me? Or is it just you and Swann?”

“All of us,” Gibbons grunted. He was up his rolling ladder now, and poking about on the top shelf of the dressing room. “Alas, we lead small lives, my lord. We must look to you for our excitement.”

“Sometimes, Gibbons, I think that I should like a small life,” Nash mused. “Or perhaps just a moderately sized life. My stepbrother’s life, perhaps? Enough money to live well without being burdened by it, and a career of service to the nation. What would that be like, do you imagine?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir.” With one last grunt, Gibbons heaved down a large bandbox. “But if you mean to exchange lives, kindly give a fortnight’s notice.”

“What? You do not fancy being in service to a prominent member of the Commons?”

“You could not afford me, sir,” said Gibbons.

He was quite correct, too. Nash possessed life’s every luxury. Indeed, his every whim was anticipated by someone, somewhere, from his boot-boy to his French chef, all the way up to Swann, his man of affairs, and all of them had to be paid a living wage.

Then there was his banker, his butler, his bootmaker, his vintner. His haberdasher and green grocer. Mentally, he added his stepmother and his two sisters to the list. Then all of the servants at all of his estates. His stepbrother Tony. His two great-aunts in Cumbria. The colliers in that Cornish coal mine he’d taken off old Talbot at
vingt-et-un
. It was almost medieval in its simplicity. To every name, he owed a duty, for such was the dominion of the Marquess of Nash. It was a damnable yoke they’d hung round his neck, by God. And he wondered if it was soon to grow heavier.

“I think it must be the carriage today, my lord.” Gibbons was at his elbow now, staring at the befogged vista which would perhaps reappear as Hyde Park someday. “I should hate you to take pneumonia.”

“Very well,” said Nash unhappily. He meant to have a name to go with the miserable unslaked lust his body was suffering, and trotting about London in a crested carriage was far from anonymous. But the carriage it would be, he supposed. It was just another of the many privileges which came to him by way of his title.

It was almost laughable, really. He was certainly not to the manner born. He was just a second son of a second son, and had possessed no prospects at all save for a grueling military career, a cold grave, and, most probably, a Turkish knife in his back.

Still, it was what he had been born and bred to do, his mother had always insisted. And strangely, it was what he had wanted. As a child, he had lived an adventurous life flitting about Europe—at least, he had thought it adventurous. He had not realized they were simply running from one political tinderbox to the next, until the whole of the Continent was consumed in Napoleon’s flame and fury.

It was not until his brother Petar, long promised to Czar Alexander I, had been on the verge of leaving for the Russian army and earning his younger sibling’s undying envy, that the astonishing news had come all the way to St. Petersburg from faraway Hampshire. Their English relations could not have picked a more opportune time to die, God rest them.

But alas, the Grim Reaper had not finished with what was left. The ensuing years had been hard ones. And when all the bloody battles were done, and all the funeral dirges sung, he was Nash—the very thing he had never expected to be nor ever wished to be.

The door hinge squealed, jerking him into the present. He turned to see his stepbrother peering into the room. “Ah, there you are, Stefan,” he said. “Have you another cup? I vow, I am soaked through to my drawers.”

“What a charming picture you paint, Tony.” Nash motioned for Gibbons, but he was already bringing another cup. “It does look a nasty day out. What brings you?”

The Honorable Anthony Hayden-Worth smiled warmly and took the best chair, which was also the one nearest the coffee service. “May a chap not call upon his brother merely to see how he goes on?” asked Tony, filling the empty cup.

Nash pushed away from the window and joined him by the hearth. “Yes, of course,” he said. “But if you need anything, Tony—?”

An inscrutable look passed over his stepbrother’s face. “I’m quite all right,” he said. “But thank you just the same.”

“Jenny is well?” said Nash.

Tony lifted one shoulder. “She went back down to Brierwood last week,” he remarked. “She seems to have developed quite a fondness for the place. Perhaps she misses Mamma and the girls. I hope you do not mind?”

“Do not be ridiculous, Tony,” he replied. “Brierwood is Jenny’s home, too. I wish her to be happy there.”

“Oh, Jenny is happy enough, so long as her bills are paid.” Tony smiled faintly. “She will pop over to France, I daresay, whilst she’s in Hampshire, and run up a few more.”

“Her father really has cut her off this time?”

Tony shook his head. “Not really,” he answered. “She is a pampered princess, our Jenny. Papa threatens, but once in a while, a fat bank draft will still turn up.”

“Perhaps it would be better if he did cut her off,” Nash suggested.

“Why?” asked Tony pointedly. “So you would be left to pay her bills? And I would be further indebted you? Thank you, no.”

Nash sat down and poured himself another cup of coffee, struggling to hold his temper in check. “I have never interfered in your marriage, Tony,” he finally said. “And I do not mean to do so now.”

Tony smiled, and the sour mood was broken. “Actually, old man, I only came round to see what went with you last night,” he said. “I thought you’d be at White’s.”

It was an olive branch, and Nash took it. “I finally caught up with Lord Hastley,” he said, slowly stirring his coffee. “He has agreed to part with that broodmare after all—for the right price, of course.”

Tony’s face broke into a grin. “Congratulations, Stefan!” said his stepbrother. “How the devil did you manage it?”

Nash smiled wryly. “An act of sheer desperation, I do assure you,” he said. “I ran him to ground at Sharpe’s ball last night.”

“Good God, you attended a come-out? That
was
desperate.”

“It was, rather,” Nash agreed.

Tony scowled across the table. “Mind what you do in such places, Stefan,” he warned, “or one of those sly, matchmaking mammas will have you in a fix from which your money cannot extract you.”

His words sent a chill down Nash’s spine though he did not show it. “Wealth can extract a man from nearly everything,” he said, hoping he spoke the truth. “And then there is always my vile reputation to fall back on, is there not? In any case, I found Hastley in Sharpe’s cardroom. The poor devil’s in so deep, he
has
taken to bride-shopping. And he’s glad enough now to take my money.”

“Yes, aren’t we all,” said Tony on a laugh.

Nash laid his spoon down carefully. “You are entitled to an allowance from the estate, Tony,” he said, measuring his words. “Father arranged it. I could not undo it, even if I wished to—and I do not.”

Tony smiled again and changed the subject, turning it instead to his favorite, politics, and the growing strain between Wellington and Lord Eldon. Nash did not much concern himself with English politics, but he knew Tony lived for it, so he murmured polite responses and nodded at all the right places.

“I tell you, Stefan, this damned Catholic question is going to be the death of somebody,” Tony finally finished. “At best, it is slow political suicide for the prime minister.”

“And trouble in the family is never a good thing,” said Nash wryly.

Tony just laughed again. “By the way, old fellow, that reminds me,” he said. “Mamma is to celebrate her fiftieth birthday next month.”

“Yes,” said Nash. “I had not forgotten.”

“I believe I shall have a celebration,” said Tony. “Something more than her usual birthday dinner party. Perhaps a ball, and a few guests up to Brierwood for the week, if you do not mind?”

“Of course I do not,” said Nash. “Jenny will be pleased to have something to do, won’t she? I’m told females enjoy such things.”

“I am not sure a house party for Mamma’s friends is Jenny’s idea of excitement,” said Tony. “Still, will you come, Stefan? It
is
your home—and Mamma would be so pleased.”

There was an almost imperceptible tightening of Nash’s mouth. “We shall see,” he finally said. “What are your plans for the day, Tony? Shall I see you at White’s this evening?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said his stepbrother. “We’re to meet after dinner to whinge over the Test and Corporation Acts, but we are just beating a dead horse if you ask me. And then there’ll be a by-election strategy meeting.”

“Why do you not dine here, then?”

“Certainly, if you will forgive me for rushing away afterwards,” said Tony. “These bloody meetings will likely drag into the night as it is.”

“But your seat in the Commons is quite safe. You have been reelected. What more must you do?”

Tony pushed back his chair and rose. “It is the nature of English politics, Stefan,” he said. “Elections do not simply cost pots of money, they take effort. One hand washing the other, and all that rot. And rotten boroughs do not come cheap. You are fortunate to be in the Lords, old fellow, where one need not concern oneself with the opinions—or the palms—of the common man.”

Nash smiled and languidly took up his coffee. “Indeed, I never give him a thought, Tony,” he said, staring over the brim of his cup. “I am too preoccupied with exercising my upper-class prerogatives—and, of course, my upper-class vices.”

His stepbrother scowled down at him. “It is just that sort of talk, Stefan, which blackens your reputation,” he chided. “I beg you to have a care—and to think of Mamma, at the very least.”

“I cannot think anyone imagines my stepmother responsible for my character, Tony,” said Nash. “I am fond of Edwina, as she is fond of me. But she did not raise me, more’s the pity.”

Whatever argument his brother might have countered with was forestalled by Gibbons, who crossed from the dressing room to the window. “It is a miracle, my lord,” he announced, staring down at the street below. “The rain has stopped. I think you may safely go out now.”

But Nash was not simply going out. He was going on the offensive. “Excellent, Gibbons,” he answered. “Send word to bring round my gig, and fetch my charcoal morning coat.”

In Wapping, the skies did not clear until midafternoon. Xanthia stood at her office window, staring across the Upper Pool toward St. Savior’s Docks and trying to keep her mind on her work. London’s weather had done little to still the traffic on the Thames, for this sort of hustle and bustle was driven by hardier men than that.