Tempted By the Night (18 page)

“You don’t mean to—”

“Yes, I suppose I must.”

She couldn’t believe it. He was going to help her? Of course that had been the reason she’d summoned him, but she hadn’t thought he’d actually roll up his sleeves and do something.

For the first time since they’d gone their separate ways, Quince looked anew at her husband and found
him studying her as well. She swallowed back the spark of passion that seemed to come to life in that glance.

“You’ll do a splendid job,” Quince encouraged, giving him a little nudge toward the curb and away from her before things got any more confusing. “As long as you keep ahead of that foul beast…and stay out of range of the earl’s cross-bow.”

“And here I’ve always enjoyed hunting,” he muttered as he went to cross the street. “Never thought I’d find myself in the role of the fox.”

“Just make it to the park,” Quince offered. “That’ll give me enough time to get her out.”

“Get her out, then get my ring,” Milton ordered.

“Yes, yes,” Quince said, shaking off her own pelisse and eyeing the earl’s house for the best spot to slip inside.

Get his ring, indeed!
she thought as she made her way down the block to the mews that ran behind the houses. So much for her foolish thoughts that he still had any feelings for her.

She only hoped that after a night with a devil like Rockhurst, Hermione’s innocent
tendré
for the man had lost its luster as well.

“So what is your name, Shadow? Tell me, and I will open that door,” he waved at the locked entrance behind them, “and drive you home myself.”

“I can’t tell you that,” she protested.
I won’t tell you.
Tell you and watch you be utterly disappointed that the woman you seduced is nothing more than that odd little Hermione Marlowe.

“Perhaps I can persuade you another way,” he said, dipping his head down and covering her lips with his.

Well beneath them, Hermione heard Rowan’s deep, booming
woof.
And then it grew louder. When it had become nearly a continuous howl, there was an urgent knock at the door that pulled them both apart.

“My lord, Rowan is—”

“Yes, Stogdon, I can hear him—”

“Do you want us to let him out?”

Rockhurst cocked his head and listened to the barking that was approaching madness. He heaved a sigh and put a kiss on her brow. “I must go see to this,” he whispered. Then he rose from the bed. “I’ll be right down, Stogdon.”

A relieved sigh echoed from the butler.

“I am going to lock you in for the time being,” Rockhurst told her, almost apologetically. “But it is for the best.”

“The best for whom?” she asked. “Let me go, Rockhurst—”

“Why? I thought you were enjoying yourself.”

I am,
she wanted to tell him.

“I’ll be back, and we’ll see how you feel then,” he said, going out the door. A key turned in the lock, and then he was gone, his determined step moving down the hall.

Oh, bother. If only she had one more wish. She’d wish the sun would never rise again, and this night…would never end.

But the sun would come up, and she knew she needed to be well away before this magic wore off.

There had to be another way out.

She got up from the bed and tried to still her racing heart. No easier, she discovered, than trying to stand on her shaky legs.

“Jiminy! What has he done to me?” she whispered, her fingers trying to tuck her tangled hair back into some semblance of order.

Oh heavens! What had he done to her? Everything, she had to imagine, drawing a long, slow breath, and then hastily getting dressed.

He’d certainly ruined her, she thought as she pulled on her stockings, then her boots. Ruined her for any other man as well. For she couldn’t help but think there wasn’t another man alive as skilled in pleasure as Rockhurst.

Rowan’s barking grew louder, and she heard the front door open. Hermione raced to the window and spied Rowan take off after a man in a white shirt and black breeches. Tall and elegant, the stranger moved like a great buck long used to eluding predators.

And a few seconds later, the earl was dashing after the pair, shouting at Rowan to come to heel.

And the moment Rockhurst rounded the corner, the bedroom door rattled. She turned toward it. He was back? But it couldn’t be, for she’d seen him—

“Hermione?” came a whispered voice.

“Quince?” She rushed across the room and knelt before the keyhole. “What are you doing here?”

The lock rattled, then, to her surprise, the door opened.

Quince bustled in and sighed in relief as her eyes lit
on Hermione. “The better question is, what are you doing here?” Then once she’d had a moment to take in Hermione’s state of
déshabillé
, her eyes widened in alarm.

“Oh, Quince, I had no intention of drawing the earl’s attentions when I went to the Thurlow ball,” she rushed to explain.

“Seems as if you’ve failed in that. Rather miserably, I’d say.” Quince caught her by the hand and dragged her from the room. “Come along. We haven’t much time.”

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” Hermione told her as they dashed down the back stairs.

“Harrumph.
”

Well, she hadn’t. Hermione stole one last glance back up the stairs. Certainly not all this. “It happened so fast. He found me in the garden, and then he caught me and carried me off. I couldn’t get away.”

Not that you truly wanted to…

“You’re lucky I came along when I did,” Quince scolded. They paused at the bottom of the steps, then dashed out a servants’ door that turned out to lead into the mews. “I only hope this incident has cured you of your
tendré
for the man.”

“It has,” Hermione told her. For that was the truth.

For now she feared she was completely in love with him.

Rockhurst arrived at Lady Belling’s garden party later that day, a man determined.

He’d been tricked and deceived, and he was in a foul humor. For now he’d have to take desperate measures to find his Shadow.

“I assure you, nephew,” Lady Routledge said from his side, “every respectable and eligible young lady will be here this afternoon.” She looked like an old cat with a bowl full of cream before her.

Yes, it had come to this. Aunt Routledge. He’d enlisted her aid in sorting through the mountain of invitations that usually sat unnoticed in his salver. Why she’d actually grinned from ear to ear when he asked her, nay, begged her to determine which ones were appropriate for finding a young lady—specifying he only
wanted the events that occurred during daylight hours.

His aunt, delirious with joy at the prospect of matching her sister’s only child, hadn’t even protested his unusual strictures.

If Rockhurst was of a mind to marry, she’d hire the carriage to drive him and his bride-to-be to Gretna Green.

Even if he insisted on bringing his wretched hound along.

Though Rowan, turncoat that he was, feeling no responsibility in the deception that had let his Shadow slip from his fingers, was even now contentedly lying down on the edge of the grass gnawing at a large soup bone he’d found near the gate.

Of course, Rockhurst hadn’t told his aunt the real reasons for his search, for being related through his mother’s side, she knew nothing of his other life. Of the other world he inhabited.

He glanced over at her, with a bemused smile on his lips as she nattered on about the glowing attributes and noteworthy accomplishments of one debutante after another and wondered what she’d say if he asked if any of the young ladies in attendance had a propensity toward invisibility?

Or bringing soup bones to garden parties. For he had no doubt where that bone had come from.

Smart minx. Charming his hound, as she had him last night.

“Heaven forbid. There’s no avoiding her now,” his aunt muttered. “Completely beyond the pale, but there’s nothing left to do but smile.”

Rockhurst glanced up and found Lady Walbrook bearing down on him. Smile? How about run for his life.

“She’s casting another of her theatricals,” Aunt Routledge complained.

“Weren’t you once
—”

“Do not remind me,” she complained.

He did any way. “Othello?”

Lady Routledge groaned, then swatted him with her fan. “Mark my words, your day will come.”

“It already has,” he admitted.

His aunt swiveled around. “You?!”

“Yes. You are looking at Lady Walbrook’s next Prospero.”

Then Aunt Routledge did something he’d never seen happen before. She laughed. “You?”

He nodded.

“Oh, poor Rockhurst.” His aunt continued to chuckle as Lady Walbrook drew nearer. “However did that happen?”

“She cornered me last night at Thurlow’s and would not let me pass until I promised to take the role.”

His aunt was one of the most formidable ladies in Society, but nothing compared to the fear struck in the hearts of one and all when Lady Walbrook was casting about for players for one of her reenactments of Shakespeare.

“I have no intention of doing it,” he informed his aunt. Which only made the old girl laugh harder.

“Rockhurst, you haven’t been out enough in Society. Once you agreed to Lady Walbrook’s request, nothing
short of an early death will save you from the role.” She glanced over at him, as if envisioning him in a costume, and began to chuckle anew.

“Don’t laugh too hard, my dear aunt,” he said. “Or I shall inform the countess you would like to redeem your poor performance as Othello by undertaking a new role. Say Hamlet?”

Lady Routledge’s humor disappeared immediately. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Care to wager on it?”

Lady Walbrook drew closer, and Rockhurst realized she was towing along one of her daughters. The one who was friends with Miss Wilmont and his cousin Mary. The chit Hustings had been going on about.

“What the devil is her daughter’s name?” he asked in an aside to his aunt.

Lady Routledge barely spared a glance. “Lady Hermione.”

“Are you certain?”

“Of course. She’s wearing that wretched shade of orange. She’s worn it all Season. I haven’t the vaguest notion why, for it is a horrible color, but one can never tell with those Marlowes. Mad—all of them.”

Rockhurst smiled. “Are you warning me away from poor Lady Hermione then?”

“I don’t have to. The girl is all but engaged to Lord Hustings.”

“Ah! How fortuitous,” Lady Walbrook said, as she arrived in a flurry of ribbons and feathers. “Lord Rockhurst—or should I say, my dear Lord Prospero!”

“Yes, well, Lady Walbrook, about this theatrical, I fear I
—”

“You haven’t the experience necessary!” she finished for him.

“Exactly!”

“Of course you don’t,” the lady agreed. “That is why you’ll have to come to the afternoon practices I’ve arranged for the next three Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Light refreshments will be served, of course.” She patted his arm. “Never fear, my lord. By your debut, you shall be as famous as Kemble.”

“I believe you’ve made an excellent choice,” Lady Routledge added.

Rockhurst shot her a withering look, but apparently not even the threat of a new role could suppress his aunt.

“And do meet your Caliban,” Lady Walbrook said, sweeping her hand back to reveal her daughter, who’d been, up until now, hiding behind her mother. “My dearest daughter, Lady Hermione.”

“Caliban?” Rockhurst said, slanting a glance at Lady Hermione and feeling a bit of pity for the poor chit—for it was apparent she was ill at ease in society.

“Um, yes,” she muttered, then began coughing. She appeared so mortified, she couldn’t even look him in the eye.

Then an unlikely rescue arrived.

“Lady Hermione!” a man called out. “There you are!”

Rockhurst glanced up to find Lord Hustings joining their party. The man took the girl’s hand. “I’ve been quite beset of late by your ill health.”

She only smiled at the man, and then mumbled some shy platitudes.

Lord Hustings bowed to the two matrons. “Lady Walbrook, may I borrow your daughter for a stroll about the grounds? I believe the fresh air will put some color back in her cheeks.”

“How kind you are,” Lady Walbrook said, not sounding the least happy to have the man taking her daughter away. “Yes, of course you may, but please bring her back as soon as possible, because Minny and Lord Rockhurst were just getting acquainted for their roles in my new production of
The Tempest.
”

“Roles? You’re casting again? I would be so honored to play even the smallest role, if only to see Lady Hermione as Cordelia.”

“Cordelia is from
King Lear,
” Lady Hermione corrected.

“Oh, yes. How right you are!” Lord Hustings exclaimed. “But a bright star you shall be, whatever mantle you don.”

“I fear there aren’t any roles left,” Lady Walbrook told the baron. “Perhaps next year, Lord Hustings. Lord Rockhurst is going to be our shining lead.” The lady beamed at him and at the same time nudged Lady Hermione forward.

Rockhurst saw all too clearly what was happening. His aunt had been right. Lady Walbrook was trying to match him to her colorless daughter. Horror filled his chest.

Mary’s warning from the other night at Almack’s rang in his head.

You have no idea what you’ve done…

With Lady Walbrook now bearing down on him like a Spanish armada, he had a very clear idea what she’d been nattering on about.

And a means of escape.

“Perhaps here is your true Prospero, Lady Walbrook,” he suggested hastily, gesturing to Lord Hustings, offering the man up, a willing sacrifice if ever there was one.

The younger fellow brightened and blushed. “I would be honored beyond my expectations, my dearest countess. While I haven’t an artistic nature, I am sure I would be able to stand in the shoes of Prospero.”

Lady Walbrook’s lips pursed into a tight line. “Lord Hustings, that would never do. But if you are determined, perhaps you might be our Ferdinand—the light of Miranda’s heart. I had thought to cast my son, Griffin, but he’s been most unreliable of late.”

Hustings beamed at Lady Hermione, who appeared to have turned the same shade as her gown.

“Yes, you would make an excellent Ferdinand,” Lady Walbrook said, tapping her fan against her lips.

The baron bowed and stammered some more nonsense about “living out his dream of tripping about the boards,” before Lady Hermione all but towed him away.

And if Rockhurst had been looking, he would have seen her take a last furtive glance over her shoulder at him. With green eyes that held nothing but longing for the man who didn’t recognize her.

Instead, he bowed to his aunt and the countess and made his excuses, then waded into the crowd looking for a saucy minx in sensible shoes.

“Lavinia, dear, whatever did happen to you last night?” Miss Patience Dewmont asked when she found her friend at Lady Belling’s garden party. “Perpetua heard Lady Routledge telling Lady Boxley that she thought you might have been…well,” she lowered her voice to a loud whisper, “drinking too much wine beforehand.”

Miss Lavinia cringed, for she hardly wanted to discuss the events of last night, let alone recall the horror of finding herself in the arms of Mr. Harvey Heriot.

A third son, no less!

“Do you think your gown beyond repair?” Patience persisted. Obviously, the drinking portion of the gossip was of no consequence to the dim-witted twin. “You left so suddenly afterward, and then when we got home, neither of us could remember if it was the green satin or the blue crepe, and all I could do was pray it wasn’t the green satin since we had a hand in helping you shop for the right shade of—”

“Please! Miss Dewmont! I beg of you, please do not speak another word of last night!” Lavinia said, her voice rising from its characteristically smooth and polished tones. As quickly as she lost her temper, Lavinia did her best to calm her ruffled composure. It wouldn’t do to have yet another scene. Her mother had been of the opinion that she shouldn’t even attend a party so soon after her debacle at the Thurlow ball. But Lavinia, holding a fair share of her father’s mercantile genius, had averred
that she wasn’t going to hide from Society, instead rising like a lady who stood head and shoulders above petty gossip. Though that didn’t mean she wouldn’t need loyal allies to regain her lofty position. She took a deep breath, and said in the most confidential of tones, “It was the worst evening of my life. So very lowering.”

Having never been any higher on the social rungs than the shadows of Lavinia’s skirts would allow, the twins nodded with understanding, and their eyes lit with pleasure at being admitted to Lavinia’s confidence.

“But what happened?” Perpetua asked. “How could you have stumbled? Why, you are the most graceful creature in all the
ton.
Everyone says so.”

“I never stumbled,” Lavinia told them. She tucked her nose in the air and gave them the bit of gossip the two sisters would be best suited to spread from one side of Mayfair to another. “I was pushed.”

“Pushed?” they both gasped.

“Yes, indeed.” Lavinia leaned closer. “I cannot prove it, but I felt a hand on my back, and then I fell most violently.”

“Who could ever hold such an ill-will toward you, Lavinia?” Patience asked. “Why, it is a wonder you are even up and about today.”

But Lavinia wasn’t one to wallow in self-pity for long. “I quite felt like Lady Hermione,” she said with a little laugh. “Now I know what it is like to spend an evening tripping about in her unfashionable slippers.”

The Dewmont sisters laughed, as Lavinia knew they would.

Then Lavinia did the one thing that changed her for
tunes—at least raised them up from the ashes of the previous night’s disgrace. She smirked at the Dewmont sisters. “Jiminy! I don’t know how that happened,” she exclaimed, doing a perfect imitation of Hermione and giving them all a good laugh.

Then when she glanced up, she found to her surprise the Earl of Rockhurst looking at her.

No, gaping at her, as if he had suddenly and violently fallen in love with her.

She smiled back, and then raised her fan to hide her face ever so slightly. She was, she would remind one and all, no flirt.

But then again, she was no fool.

“Try again,” Quince urged her.

Hermione tugged and pulled at the ring, but it remained fast on her hand.

They were standing in a secluded spot of Lord Belling’s prized rose garden, a spot usually reserved for a different sort of tryst.

“It should just fall off,” Quince told her, “but you must truly want this wish to end.”

“I do,” Hermione told her. “I do want this to end.”

For she had spent a good part of the afternoon watching Rockhurst follow Miss Burke about like an infatuated puppy.

Deplorable man,
she cursed under her breath as she tugged anew at the ring, which held stubbornly fast to her hand.

Worse yet, the entire party was agog at the sight of the Earl of Rockhurst dangling after a lady.

A respectable one, at that.

“Respectable!” she muttered.
Tug, tug.
“A regular angel.”
Yank, pull
. “Oh, jiminy, Quince. I fear it won’t come off. What am I to do?”

Quince heaved a sigh. “I don’t know what is wrong. It’s always worked before. As long as you are sure you want your wish to end.”

“I do,” she said vehemently. She’d even gone so far as to bring a soup bone with her and left it near the garden gate just in case Rockhurst arrived with Rowan in tow. Luckily for her, the contented hound had spent the better part of the afternoon lounging on the grass with his prize.

“I cannot continue to rescue you,” Quince complained. “Concentrate, Hermione. Think of what you have to gain if this wish is ended.”

And how much shall I lose,
she almost said. Hadn’t last night proved that quite eloquently? And to her chagrin, her body trembled in agreement.