Rogue's Honor (16 page)

Conscious of the Duke and Duchess just
beyond, he focused on the audience below, willing his body to
behave before anyone could notice its betrayal of his feelings.

"Look at those two ladies, wearing identical
gowns," he said, pointing to divert everyone's attention, including
his own. "They appear to have just noticed each other."

Pearl looked at the two women he indicated,
then laughed. "Ladies?"

"I admit I used the term rather loosely."
Indeed, it was obvious even from this distance that both were women
of easy virtue, on the prowl for protectors. To his relief, he knew
neither of them —not that Pearl would ask, of course.

As they watched, the two advanced on each
other, their mouths moving with what were doubtless insults as
vulgar as the tight-fitting red dresses they wore. There was a time
when Luke would have been attracted to women like those. He
wondered whether he ever would be again, now that—

"Oh! It's as good as a play," Pearl
exclaimed, as the women began snatching at each other. One yanked a
scarlet feather from the other's hair, only to have the shoulder
strap of her dress torn away.

At that point, two men appeared from opposite
directions, to pull the women apart before they could inflict more
damage on each other. A smattering of applause from the surrounding
boxes showed that they were not the only ones to witness the
spectacle.

"Never a dull moment at the theatre, eh?"
asked the Duke with a chuckle. "I tend to think the audience is
more amusing than the play, myself. I've often said so. Don't you
agree, Mr. di Santo?"

Luke swallowed. The Duke of Oakshire was an
almost legendary figure, overshadowed only by the Royal Dukes and
the Regent himself on the political as well as the social scene.
That the man should be making small talk with him seemed somehow
unbelievable.

"I've never before had opportunity to observe
the audience from such a vantage point," he confessed. "I
understand now why the boxes are so coveted."

The Duke chuckled again, though his eyes were
disturbingly perceptive. Luke realized how easy it would be to
underestimate this man—no doubt a mistake others had made in the
political arena, and lived to regret. Did Lady Pearl realize what a
dangerous man her father could be? He rather doubted it. For the
moment, though, he appeared to be in the Duke's good graces, so he
tried to relax.

When the curtain rose a few minutes later,
Luke tried to concentrate on the performance but Pearl's proximity
made it difficult. His every sense was keenly attuned to each tiny
movement of her hand, each change in the angle of her head. Her
scent, delicate and feminine, made its way to his nostrils with
erotic effect. Sliding a glance her way, he fixed on a single curl
of her honey hair kissing her throat. How he envied that curl!

His surreptitious gaze wandered to her face,
only to find her watching him as slyly as he was watching her. They
exchanged a slow, tiny smile that had him instantly hard with
desire again. In vain, he tried to remember other women he had
known intimately, to overshadow this subtle flirtation with the
memory of more overt physical pleasures.

It did no good. In Pearl's presence, such
memories had no power whatsoever. The realization was profoundly
disturbing.

Distracted by his thoughts, he was caught off
guard when Pearl leaned toward him, her curls brushing his shoulder
as she whispered, "That is Mary Sedgehill, playing Desdemona. She
is held to be almost as good as Keane. What do you think of
her?"

Luke swallowed, striving yet again to rein in
his unruly body and focus on the stage. Did Lady Pearl have any
idea of what she was doing to him? Almost certainly not.

"She seems very good," he whispered back,
barely knowing what he said. Unable to resist the temptation, he
allowed his hand to brush hers, where it lay on the arm of the
chair.

Her eyes widened slightly, and though he
could not tell in the dimness, he imagined that her color rose.
They both turned back to the stage, but he suspected —hoped? —that
she was now as aware of him as he was of her.

* * *

What was it about this man, Pearl wondered,
that affected her so profoundly? A simple brush of his hand on
hers, and she felt her insides turn to warm liquid, her every nerve
focused on that point of contact. She stole a quick glance at his
hand where it lay just grazing her own. Large, much larger than
hers, and undeniably masculine, even sheathed by buff-colored
kidskin.

Unbidden came the thought of that hand— both
of his hands, ungloved —touching her body as they kissed. She
imagined those hands touching her in other places, even more
improper places . . . Her face heated, reflecting the sudden warmth
of desire she felt below.

Preoccupied as she was, the intermission
seemed to come in no time at all. It was as well she knew Othello
by heart, for she hadn't heard more than a dozen lines of the first
act. The Duke and Duchess would be receiving a continuous stream of
visitors during the intermission, as they always did. She
stood.

"Father, I'll take this opportunity to show
more of the upper gallery to Mr. di Santo, if you don't mind." She
usually contrived to escape the parade of obsequious toadeaters,
having no patience with that sort of hypocrisy, and her father well
knew it.

"As you wish, my dear," he responded with a
wave of his hand, though Obelia's brows arched with disapproval.
"We'll look for your return in fifteen minutes."

Luke was already standing at her side, so she
took his arm and escaped from the box with him, her senses
thrumming with the close contact after her inappropriate thoughts
during the performance. "What would you like to see?" she asked
him, realizing belatedly that her words could have more than one
meaning.

He smiled down into her eyes, his own dark
ones kindling in a way that set her very blood afire. "Everything,"
he replied huskily. "What would you like to show me?"

With an effort, she pulled her gaze away, her
breathing suddenly shallow. "The, ah, view from the topmost balcony
is said to be quite impressive." Her voice sounded high and
unnatural to her own ears.

"Lead on, then." She didn't dare look, but
suspected from his tone that he was grinning at her. Tilting up her
chin, she ordered herself not to blush.

"We only have a few minutes, and we may be
interrupted at any moment, but I wished to have a private word with
you." She spoke softly but quickly, before she could change her
mind, using the words she had rehearsed earlier today. "Do you
still intend to leave London —my part of London —shortly?"

"I must," he murmured, his head close to
hers. "I don't belong here."

She fought the distraction of his nearness.
"I have a favor to ask of you, but it would entail delaying your
departure. You know that my stepmother intends me to marry before
my twenty-first birthday, at the end of June. I'd like your help in
thwarting her plans."

"How?" As they talked, they moved slowly in
the direction of the balcony, avoiding the more thickly crowded
areas of the mezzanine.

Pearl swallowed, then plunged ahead. "If it
were assumed that I had . . . formed an attachment, it would
deflect other suitors, and force my stepmother to expend her
energies elsewhere."

He halted to face her, his expression
inscrutable. "Are you asking me to court you openly?"

"No, not really."
Not unless you want
to
. "Just to pretend that you are doing so, as I will pretend
to welcome your advances. Once my birthday is past, I could seem to
change my mind. You would be free to go back to whatever life you
prefer. And I'll be able to live my life as I wish."

She rather hoped that by then she would have
convinced him that he could do more good from within Society than
from without. And perhaps she could convince him of other things,
as well . . .

"I see." He walked on in silence for a few
moments. Whether he was relieved or disappointed at her caveat, she
could not tell. Then, "Will your parents not send me to the
right-about? It is clear already that the Duchess, at least, does
not approve of me dancing attendance on you."

Now she smiled, relieved beyond measure that
he had not rejected her idea out of hand. If he had, she'd have had
to summon her courage to propose a second, far more scandalous
scheme to achieve her ends. "Father will permit it if I ask him. He
rarely denies me anything that I truly want, and the Duchess will
not gainsay him."

They had reached the fourth balcony now and
paused, as though admiring the view. Luke appeared to be deep in
thought. Finally, he stirred and looked at her again, searching her
face with serious eyes. Pearl returned his gaze earnestly, her
heart in her throat, hoping she had not gone too far and alienated
him beyond recall.

Suddenly his expression softened, and he
smiled. "I begin to see why the Duke can deny you nothing. If you
really think it will help, I'll pose as your most earnest suitor
for as long as you consider it expedient."

Pearl was startled by the elation that surged
triumphantly through her at his words. It was only to be a sham,
she reminded herself sternly. "Thank you . . . Luke. I'll do
everything in my power to make certain you do not regret this."

She took his arm again and they headed back
toward the Duke's box in silence. What Luke was thinking, she had
no idea —nor was she entirely sure she wanted to know. It was
enough that he would stay.

* * *

Luke untied his cravat and tossed it over the
back of a chair in the sumptuous guest room of Marcus's Town house,
careful not to awaken Flute, asleep in the dressing room. He needed
solitude to think.

He was a fool.

Never, never should he have given into
temptation and agreed to Lady Pearl's scheme. She was an idealist,
a dreamer, and he should have told her so. Instead, he'd stared
into her beautiful violet-blue eyes and said exactly what she
wanted him to say. Even now, the memory of her beseeching gaze
stirred him powerfully.

And he was supposed to
pretend
to be
courting her for two entire months? To look but not to touch? It
would be sheer torture. But that wasn't even the worst of it.

Only a few things worth selling remained in
his lodgings in Seven Dials— assuming that by now the place hadn't
been stripped bare. To maintain his charade as a man about Town for
another two months, more money —much more— would be necessary.

Marcus was kindly providing him with a place
to stay and regular meals, but he could scarcely keep wearing the
same two sets of evening clothes indefinitely —nor the single pair
of daytime breeches he owned. Marcus hadn't commented on it yet,
but he must think it as odd as Luke's preference for dining at home
rather than at one of the clubs.

Then there was the matter of flowers and
other trinkets for Pearl, to keep up appearances. He'd love to give
her something that would bring a smile to those luscious lips. But
he knew only one way to obtain the necessary money.

He'd have to turn to theft again.

Why the thought should bother him, he wasn't
sure—it never had before. The
ton
had far more than they
could ever use or need, and it had always seemed only fair that he,
and others like him, benefit from their plenty. Stealing from them
was a form of justice —to himself, his late mother, and to the
downtrodden denizens of the London slums. But would Pearl see it
that way?

No, almost certainly not. And therein lay the
rub.

Luke removed his coat and waistcoat, then his
shirt, and shrugged. He'd simply have to make certain she never
found out, that was all. What other choice did he have, situated as
he was? None. His conscience still niggled at him, but he refused
to acknowledge it. He'd do what needed to be done, just as he
always did, and leave any moralizing for another day.

Climbing under the sheets, he closed his eyes
to dream of Pearl and the future they would pretend awaited them. A
future that could never be.

* * *

Two days later, Luke was the subject of
considerable speculation. The news that Lady Pearl finally had a
favorite had made its way through the active gossip chain of
Society, and all of fashionable London was abuzz with the news.

Marcus was the first to congratulate him.
"You're a sly dog, you are, Luke," he exclaimed when they met at
his house for luncheon. "All that talk of going back to your aunt,
but I knew that the proper inducement could keep you here in Town.
Do you think Oakshire will actually give his consent?"

"I sincerely doubt it," Luke confessed
truthfully. "But so long as he doesn't forbid me to my face to see
his daughter, I intend to continue doing so."

"And the Duchess? Has she had nothing to say
on the matter? No offense, Luke," Marcus added quickly. "You're the
best of good fellows, but—"

"But basically a nobody," Luke concluded for
him. "No offense taken, as you're quite right. The Duchess has
asked a few pointed questions —it's clear she considers me a
fortune hunter —but her main interest seems to be whether or not
I'll come up to scratch."

"Women do love to plan weddings," Lord Marcus
agreed with a grin. "So will you?"

Luke shrugged. "I've known the lady for less
than a week. And, as you so diplomatically pointed out, my chances
of gaining her father's consent are small in any event."

A betrothal was out of the question, of
course. Such a step would require the drawing up of settlements and
an inevitable inquiry into Luke's background and finanaces —dubious
in the one case and nonexistent in the other. He reminded himself
of that fact frequently, whenever his hopes and desires threatened
to overset his reason.