Seducing the Spy (14 page)

A trio of ladies approached her indirectly, as if they could not decide whether to intercept her or to cut her.

Alicia knew who they were, although she'd never met them personally. These three studded the gossip sheets the way the heads of state studded the news. They were all married and had been for some time, evidently long enough to bear their husbands heirs and to seek their pleasure elsewhere. They had status and wealth aplenty and reigned comfortably in this world of intrigue and illicit drama.

Yet, for all their style and self-assurance, they seemed to hunger for something. Alicia had an abrupt vision of the girls they had been, girls like her sisters and herself—willing to do their duty, aware of the realities of Society marriage, yet still hoping for that elusive dream known as a "love match."

Holding out that hope that somehow, by some chance, the men who courted them and signed the marriage contracts and received the dowries and the influence of the family connections—that those men did it all for love.

And what were the odds of that?

Sadness overwhelmed Alicia for a moment. She would rather be the unfettered outcast than to be trapped in that glittering, restless world of unfulfilled dreams.

At the last moment, the ladies seemed to come to some sort of unspoken agreement and veered toward Alicia like a small flock of colorful birds moving as one.

Alicia braced herself. This would prove interesting—although possibly difficult.

The foremost lady, the one at the vee of the flock, came to a stop before Alicia.

"You are with Wyndham."

Despite the purposeful lack of courtesy, for she was being addressed like a servant, Alicia dipped a carefully nonobeisant curtsy. "I am indeed, Lady Davenport."

The woman's eyes flickered with irritation, for now she need not introduce herself with loaded consequence.

Lady Davenport was the third wife of Lord Henry Davenport, who was more wealthy than landed, the second son of a second son. Lady Davenport had borne her much older husband the only heir and so secured her position with him no matter her subsequent behavior.

The other two, Mrs. Cassidy and Mrs. Abbot, were in much the same position, although their husbands were not so highly connected. Lady Davenport was rumored to have been a favorite of the Prince Regent's at some point—then again, most ladies cultivated that rumor, didn't they?

The three were the ruling tigresses of this particular jungle, so Alicia adopted an inquiring expression and prepared herself for the worst. She had one simple advantage here—she cared absolutely nothing for the good opinion of these glacially elegant, brittle brilliants.

Her mouth widened into an insouciant grin.

Lady Davenport narrowed her eyes, obviously not pleased with Alicia's lack of toadying. "How charitable of Wyndham, to raise you from your sad position."

"Charitable?" Alicia smiled at the idea. "On the contrary. I made him pay through the nose."

Lady Davenport soured further. "And he did so willingly?"

"Nay, I would say eagerly or…" Alicia smiled as if in fond recollection. "Perhaps a better word would be 'urgently.' "

All of which was quite delightfully true, if not precisely as Lady Davenport might think.

Alicia tilted her head. "And my sad position? Do you mean the position of freely choosing the man with whom I wish to share my bed and my time? Do you mean the position of being in charge of my own finances, or of not caring a whit if I am accepted or shunned by angry women who despise their own husbands and who long for a single day of my lack of restrictions?"

Lady Davenport choked on her surprise and Cassidy and Abbot both blinked in confusion and—if Alicia was not sorely mistaken—flaring envy.

Yet Alicia could not allow the truth to pass unspoken. "Yes, I am free but I am alone, independent but unsecured. Even if I do grow fond of Wyndham, he will eventually leave. So despise me or pity me, I care not." She shrugged, abruptly tired of the exchange. "We are all of us none too free."

She turned to walk away, only to find her way blocked by a broad expanse of manly waistcoat. She looked up. "Oh, hello, Wyndham," she said wearily. "Remind me to bell your neck. Did you hear all of that, or need I recount anything you missed?"

Wyndham looked down at her, then raised his gaze to the ladies still standing behind her. Alicia was surprised to see a flash of dark anger cross his features.

He was angry on her behalf? Pleasure rippled through her at the thought. Yet, as tempting as it would be to believe that he cared so for her feelings, there was no denying that Wyndham was a territorial sort. He'd likely get as upset about a dirty handprint on his gleaming carriage.

"Lady Davenport, Mrs. Cassidy, Mrs. Abbot." Wyndham's scant bow was just short of insulting. "I trust you have enjoyed your evening?"

Lady Davenport opened her mouth to reply, a strangely avid expression upon her features, but Wyndham rode over her.

"If you will excuse us—so kind of you to welcome Lady Alicia to the party. I trust you were not too shy to approach her? She is not at all self-conscious of her proper rank, is she?"

Lady Davenport twitched with fury, but the other two ladies looked frankly alarmed. Lady Alicia, daughter of the Earl of Sutherland, was once indeed too high to speak to without introduction… in actual Society.

Obviously confused, the three ladies curtsied quickly—although Lady Davenport seemed about to strangle on the courtesy—and murmured their departing courtesies.

When they were gone, Alicia looked up at Stanton. "You made them curtsy to me!" She shook her head. "I'll only pay for that later, you realize. You should have let me handle them."

"By allowing their dissatisfaction to infect you with melancholy? I heard what you said, and I saw your expression when you turned away. I have never seen you sad before."

She blinked up at him. "I am occasionally sad, Wyndham, as is everyone. Furthermore, why on earth would you care?"

And just like that, he withdrew from her completely. His dark eyes returned to their previous sharp unconcern and his posture stiffened. "Of course. You are quite correct. It won't happen again."

Stanton stepped back once more, turning Lady Alicia loose on the men of the group. The couches had been removed and there was now dancing. He positioned himself with his back against a column and watched.

Like the others, Alicia was dancing—but she danced like none other. The music was a country reel, played with full lack of restraint. The guests were all shedding their social reserve with glee, but none more than Alicia. Her shoes were off and she kicked out in stocking feet, with her hair coming down further with every spin.

She was mesmerizing. Stanton couldn't take his eyes off her free-spirited grin as she dragged more gentlemen into the dance, towing them by the hand with the blissful assurance of a child, then turning them loose to dance as a seductress might dance if she were alone.

There were more graceful dancers, and there were more beautiful women in the room, but Stanton couldn't see them. To him, Lady Alicia shone like a bright parakeet in a roomful of hens.

However, Stanton could still see the gentlemen and he wasn't the only one gazing at Lady Alicia with longing, lust, and ill intent.

Not that his intentions were ill—and longing certainly didn't enter into it—but he was more than willing to admit to the lust. He was a man after all.

And Lady Alicia was very much a woman, her pagan wild-child behavior aside.

"Wherever did you find her, Wyndham?"

If the voice at his shoulder had belonged to anyone else, Stanton would have cut the speaker off at the knees. He was in no mood either to defend his territory or to excuse his choices.

However, since it was the Prince Regent who stood beside him, a bit of social politeness was required—but only a bit.

"In the gutter, your highness," he replied shortly. "I found her in the gutter."

George gave a short laugh of surprise. "I had no idea you frequented the gutter, Wyndham." He turned back to watch Alicia dance. "Still, while you're down there, find me one of those, will you?"

Alicia's hairstyle gave up the fight and now her sunset locks flared brightly about her with every turn of her pretty ankles. She was entirely delicious, all flashing green eyes and bouncing bosom and lively sensuality. Stanton's mouth went quite dry.

"There was only one, your highness," he murmured slowly.

He was dimly aware that George had turned to gaze closely at him. "Hmm." The prince moved in front of him, blocking Stanton's view of the dancers. "Snap out of it, Wyndham."

Stanton blinked, shock chilling his spine. What was he doing? He had no business losing himself in a woman, especially not
this
woman!

She was not the simple free spirit she pretended to be, he was becoming sure of that. For all her gaiety and verve, he detected sadness beneath the perpetual moving of her full, lovely lips.

She might truly mourn the loss of her family and the loss of her place in the world.

She was rather brave, now that he thought about it. To come to this house party on his arm, with all the worst shadows of her past thrown into the bright light of public attention once more—he wasn't sure he'd want to face such exposure.

And the way she'd handled those harpies this evening? His punishment had been almost unnecessary, after the way she'd cut them off at the knees with the simple truth.

The simple truth.

God, if only he could be sure.

He was forced to rely upon observation alone. She showed no telltale signs of lying, but not everyone did. Some few had fully mastered the control of their facial muscles and the tendency of the gaze to either wander sheepishly or to fix earnestly upon the recipient of the lie.

Her hands gave nothing away, for they were constantly in motion, no matter the topic. She gestured quickly and gracefully, as natural as the motion of a bird's wings.

If she was lying, she was very, very good at it, which was far more disturbing than if she'd been clumsy. Such professional ability spoke of either training or natural deviousness of an alarming depth.

Or she was simply telling the truth—every moment of every day. Which was impossible, of course.

He rubbed a hand over his face. She was driving him mad with not knowing. Sometimes he wanted to grab her and shake the truth from her—or else kiss it from her.

He shut his eyes tightly. He was losing his grip. She was nothing but a very ordinary woman. Not actually beautiful. Not terribly well behaved. Rather more intelligent than some, perhaps. And wiser, if she had truly meant the things she'd told Lady Davenport tonight.

And braver.

You're doing it again.

He shook himself slightly, trying to dislodge this strange sensation that was forming. She was a mouthy, bloody-minded female with a blackened reputation and vengeful heart. He could not possible admire such a woman.

Yet he could not forget the bleak sadness in her eyes as she'd turned his way tonight—nor could he deny that it had sliced right through him to see her thus. Her bright smile had been doused, her light dimmed, her lovely eyes lost.

Still, she'd held her head high and won the day. If he could not admire her, he could at least stop denying that there was more to her than he'd first believed.

Except that he had no idea what to believe.

He found himself unable to take his eyes off her. He watched her constantly, perhaps afraid that the one moment he wasn't watching would be the moment when she showed the truth—or lies—within her.

Or perhaps it was because she was so very pleasing to look upon. He watched her dance.

She certainly appeared to be enjoying herself. Perhaps she truly was, or perhaps she was only projecting the illusion of enjoyment so as to appear as charming and adorable as possible.

Or perhaps she was truly enjoying projecting the illusion—

Stanton closed his eyes again in self-induced exhaustion. He felt very much like plowing his fist into his own head if it would only stop the circling and second-guessing going on within.

How did others do it? How did they survive the lifetime of never truly knowing what another's intentions might be? The spinning doubt that one woman could cause was nearly enough to send Wyndham to Bedlam—how much worse would it be to exist blind and oblivious to the rest of the world?

She was mad—entirely, completely, and utterly mad. He very much feared he was going to go mad from sheer proximity to her insanity.

Because he liked her. More than once over the last few days, he'd found himself smiling when thinking of some outlandish thing she'd said or done.

Hence the contagion. He pressed his fingertips to his temples, forcing away the invasive influence of Lady Alicia Lawrence and her rebellion.

Rebellion? 'Twas more of a revolution! She was determined to flout every convention and grind every social standard beneath the toe of her tiny slipper.

He realized he was smiling again.

Mad. Stark, staring mad…

The ballroom was draped with lengths of rich fabrics, arranged to provide several nooks of semi-privacy, most filled with cushions and the odd fainting couch.

Weary and breathless, Alicia fled to one of these to repair her fallen hair, hoping to catch her breath. It had been a very long time since she had been around so many people. The constant noise and the feeling of being watched and judged had scraped her nerves a bit raw.

Not that she wasn't having the time of her life, of course. It was precisely what she had wanted—to be in the center of things, to feel the excitement of the crowd, to dance and be danced with.

At the moment, however, her feet ached and her head pounded. She'd had more wine in the last hours than she'd had in five years altogether. She pressed her fingertips to her temples as she relaxed slowly onto a luridly violet fainting couch. Just a moment of quiet, even if the noise had not truly abated and the little enclosure was no cooler than the overheated ballroom itself.

Or perhaps it is Wyndham who is overheating you?