Regency 02 - Betrayal (11 page)

The color should have clashed horribly with
her hair, should have made her pale skin look sallow and
unappealing. But it didn’t. Her hair seemed to burn like a flame
and her skin glowed with health. She seemed to have put on some
much needed weight since he had seen her last although she was
still quite slim.

He had the sudden urge to place his lips in
the curve where her graceful neck met her shoulder. The thought
disgusted him. He had no business thinking of another man’s
betrothed in such a way. Even if she was Steyne’s.

How he hated that man! It was a cold,
emotionless hatred. Something frightening to behold and worse to
feel. He wondered why he felt so strongly after nearly two years.
It wasn’t as if he were still in love with Carlotta. He was
beginning to doubt that he ever was.

“Are you going to stand here in the shadows
all night?” Connor asked with a smile.

Adam shrugged and stepped away from the wall
upon which he had been leaning. “What else is there to do?” he
drawled. He reached down and grasped his quizzing glass in one hand
although he did not raise it to his eye. “I have no desire to play
cards and dancing holds the same amount of appeal. I am not hungry
although a bottle of port would not come amiss. Perhaps I shall
take my leave.”

Connor laughed. “I’m afraid I can’t let you
do that, sir. Verena has her heart set on dancing with you, God
only knows why, and I find I can deny her nothing tonight.”

Adam cast an unreadable look on his best
friend. “Do you ever regret your decision?” he asked abruptly.

Connor stiffened slightly. It was not
something anyone would have noticed, it was so imperceptible. But
Adam had known Connor Northwicke since Eton and he saw the
movement. He was treading on dangerous ground, he knew, but it was
something he had to ask.

“Do you ever regret getting married? I don’t
mean Verena in particular, Con, just marriage itself.”

The other man relaxed. “Not really. I was
ready, I suppose.” He turned away from Adam and let his eyes wander
over the crowded ballroom until they came to rest tenderly on his
laughing wife. “I won’t lie and say I wasn’t scared out of my mind,
but it felt right to marry her. She needed me far more than Lady
Mari or any other debutante might have.”

Lady Mari was actually Lady Marigold Danvers,
the only daughter of Connor’s godfather, the Earl of Charteris. He
had known her forever and it had seemed natural that they would one
day marry. But then Verena had come along and put paid to that
notion.

Adam had always wondered what had possessed
Connor to court the earl’s daughter in the first place. She was a
grasping, narcissistic harpy with a malicious streak that had come
out after she had learned of Connor’s marriage. Adam had been
relieved when she had been hounded out of Town last Season for her
part in trying to ruin Verena.

Connor glanced at Adam. “There have been very
trying times, as you know very well, but the good times have more
than made up for them. I recommend marriage to any man with the
courage to fight for what he loves.” He threw a meaningful look at
Adam and strode away, calling over his shoulder, “My wife expects a
dance with you, don’t forget.”

Adam had to smile. He just had to. Verena and
he annoyed each other immensely although he actually considered her
his friend. And he believed she felt the same about him. He was
still smiling as he walked away from his quiet corner and
approached her.

The peace of the evening failed to reach him
as usual. He leaned back in his chair and waited for something,
anything to happen to alleviate the constant discontent and
restlessness he felt. It was like waiting for death, he thought
emotionlessly. Waiting for that ultimate release from life’s
problems. He almost wished he had the courage—or perhaps
cowardice?—to put a bullet through his brain.

Almost. He wasn’t quite that far gone in
unhappiness to really want to do such a thing. He was merely fed up
with the hand life had dealt him. He wasn’t ready to fold, but he
had the distinct impression that he held a losing hand and that
every hand after would hold the same disappointment.

Adam sighed and tipped the decanter at his
elbow over his glass for the third time that night. He had been
avoiding the real issue ever since his meeting that afternoon with
his solicitor. He hadn’t wanted to think about that problem. He had
naïvely assumed said problem would just go away if he ignored it
long enough. But it was still there, haunting his past and trying
determinedly to become part of his present and future.

A sudden fit of anger consumed him and he
threw his glass at the opposite wall. It shattered into a million
tiny shards of crystal and brandy streaked down the paneling.

How dare she try to worm her way back into
his life! How dare she try to make him feel guilty for abandoning
her! It was far less than she had deserved for what she did to him.
Her demands only served to strengthen his feelings that women were
nothing more than manipulative sluts and whores who cared for
nothing but money and power.

He should have gone to Raven tonight, he
thought as his anger disappeared as quickly as it had come. He
leaned forward and dropped his forehead into his hand. He really
didn’t want to deal with any of this right now.

After seeing Bri again after nearly three
months of trying to forget her very existence, he was not ready to
deal with a past problem who seemed to think she should not be
forgotten.

With a muttered oath, Adam rose to his feet
and shouted for his horse to be saddled and brought round. He was
still in his evening clothes, having gone right to his study and
the brandy decanter after the Peterborough’s ball. He strode into
the hall and paused only long enough to draw on his greatcoat and
gloves. Then he disappeared into the night.

Raven had been expecting him. She had heard
that Bri was back in Town with her betrothed, Viscount Steyne, as
well as the many illustrious titles to whom she was related. The
viscount, of course, had been one of Raven’s more persistent
admirers. She had never really thought of him as dangerous so she
assumed that Bri was not being forced into anything distasteful to
her.

But Raven also knew that Steyne had a
mistress in keeping and she suspected that Bri was not the sort of
woman to meekly ignore such an arrangement as ladies were taught to
do. Even if she wasn’t in love with the viscount.

None of that was to the point. Raven knew
that Adam was in love with Bri even if he had yet to realize it
himself. She also knew he would come to her, Raven, to try to rid
himself of the strange feelings he had toward the countess.

She knew he would come that night. She had
heard about his attendance at the opening ball of the Season. She
had known that Bri would be there as well.

Raven felt no jealousy, no anger or betrayal.
She wanted Adam to be happy. She wanted him to find that certain
someone that he deserved more than anything in the world. She was
not that person and she knew it. The knowledge did not hurt. It was
actually a relief.

For nearly two years, Raven Emerson had been
the mistress of Adam Prestwich. For nearly two years, she had
enjoyed the time he spent with her. She had enjoyed his
conscientious way of teaching her the art of love. She had enjoyed
the mindless passion he could arouse in her and the tenderness he
showed her despite his tendency to harshness towards women.

But she had secretly despised herself for all
of it. She had started out as his mistress with the sole purpose of
providing for her ailing father and nine younger sisters. She had
not wanted to take a lover when she had first acquired a job on the
stage. But necessity had shown her that she was wrong and fate had
placed Adam in her path. And so she had agreed to become his
mistress.

But now, nearly two years later, at the age
of three-and-twenty, Raven was ready for at least a modicum of
respectability. She could never be totally respectable, she knew,
because of her profession, but she at least wanted to feel
respectable.

But she had this evening to get through
before any of that could be achieved. She knew her arrangement with
Adam was coming to an end soon.

She turned with a smile on her face when she
heard his step outside her bedroom door. He opened it and walked in
without bothering to knock. When he started to unwind his cravat
and shrug out of his coat without saying a word, she knew that the
last thing he wanted right now was to talk.

“Have I ever told you about my past?” Adam
asked her several hours later.

His tone was bored as if he found the subject
tedious in the extreme. Raven mutely shook her head where it rested
against his shoulder and waited for him to speak. She had wondered
after their third coupling if he would want to talk eventually.
There had been a sort of mechanical quality to his lovemaking as if
he was only there because he felt he had to.

“I don’t know if I’m quite ready to,” he
murmured candidly. “I try not to think about it, let alone talk
about it. Con doesn’t even know the extent of my sins.”

The extent of his sins?

“I’m a baronet. Were you aware? No? That
particular secret Con does know. He is about as good at ferreting
out information as I. Sir Adam Prestwich. Awarded for bravery on
the field of battle.” His tone took on a mocking quality. “Bravery
is such a strange quality. If one is wounded on the field, no
matter what one’s reason for being there, it is brave. Even when
the act of a coward is what draws a man there. The man’s own
cowardice. What a joke.”

He had been rubbing his hand up and down her
arm and along her shoulder. He suddenly ceased this soothing motion
and closed his eyes. He stayed like that for several minutes. Raven
began to wonder if perhaps he had fallen asleep when he spoke
again.

“I was not exactly discharged with the full
goodwill of my superiors,” he said in a voice full of self-mockery.
“They tend to frown upon an officer, no matter how glorious his
battle record, when he participates in a duel with one of his
subordinates. Not good
ton
, you know. At least I didn’t kill
the bastard,” he said almost to himself. “He deserved it, I think.
But I let him live. And now he plagues me again. Only this time I
cannot challenge him. I have no right.”

“Steyne,” Raven whispered then, the
realization dawning on her suddenly. He had fought a duel with
Viscount Steyne when on the peninsula. “Why?” She swiveled her head
to look up at him.

Adam looked down at Raven as if only then
realizing she was even there. His brow furrowed into a frown. “Why
what?” he asked tersely.

Raven swallowed hard. She had become rather
adept at reading his moods. He was dangerously close to anger, she
knew. So, instead of repeating her question, she smiled and
snuggled closer to him.

“It was nothing, Adam.” She knew he would
talk no more that night.

Almack’s. That holy of holies. The secret—and
not so secret—ambition of every debutante ever to grace the London
Season. The famous Wednesday night assemblies were presided over by
seven patronesses who ruled with a rod of iron. Any lady
unfortunate enough to have been involved in a scandal, whether
through ignorance, by accident, or quite purposely, was barred from
the premises with a hauteur worthy of a queen.

Gentlemen lived by a very different set of
rules, of course. A man could be involved in some of the most
scandalous situations imaginable and still be welcomed with a
smile. After all, everybody loved a rake.

Except Lady Rothsmere.

She stood off to one side of the roped off
area of the ballroom and decided that she quite hated the hallowed
walls of Almack’s Assembly Rooms and wished heartily that she were
anywhere else. It was disappointing to say the least. The room was
bare of decoration except for the glittering jewelry of the ladies
in attendance. The cakes and sandwiches were stale and old and the
lemonade and orgeat were weak. The gentlemen often grumbled about
the lack of stronger liquids but they were there nonetheless paying
court to whichever reigning belle was in Town.

Bri wasn’t even comforted by the fact that
she seemed to have been deemed one of these belles despite her
slightly advanced age and the fact that she was already engaged and
her betrothed rarely strayed from her side. She was constantly
surrounded by a swarm of gentlemen all vying for her hand in the
next dance. They paid her lavish compliments that actually fell
upon deaf ears had they but known it. She reacted as any
empty-headed debutante might; she simpered and flirted and prayed
for death. Or for the night to end, whichever seemed reasonable at
the time.

And that was how Adam saw her.

He didn’t know why he had allowed Verena to
convince him to come. He hated Almack’s. With a passion. There was
nothing worse than seeing the marriage mart at its best, or worst,
rather. The dance floor was even roped off much like a cattle pen
and the young girls making their debuts were paraded around like
prize cows for the avid gazes of the gentlemen. It was
sickening.

He stood at the edge of the ballroom and
watched the young woman he had spent the better part of two years
tracking the length and breadth of England. She stood in a circle
of men, Steyne hovering at her side with a proprietary air.

Adam leaned back and crossed his arms over
his chest, trying to look at her objectively. Was she happy? She
certainly appeared to be, he thought, as she playfully rapped one
of her gallants on the hand with her fan, a dazzling smile on her
lips that didn’t quite reach the green of her eyes.

She was certainly in looks, he thought for
the second time since he had seen her a few nights before. Her ball
gown of clingy emerald silk whispered around her lithe form,
flowing over her hips and thighs in soft waves. The neckline was
nearly as low as the scarlet dress she had worn before, showing the
top halves of two perfect white breasts. A collar of sparkling
emeralds and diamonds blazed at her throat with matching earbobs
and a diamond tiara in her thick red curls. Her feet were shod in
daring gold sandals that laced up her shapely calves.