The Bride Wore Scarlet (34 page)

To her shame, yes. She did. She looked away and swallowed hard. She had to trust that her judgment was good, and that Geoff was right. And that her nonna had been . . . well,
wrong
. But she was sure of her love. Of her choice. And this was her life to live now; her opportunity to seize hard with both hands, for Geoff was a man well worth hanging on to.

They rode on in silence for the longest time, until the next station was reached and the surge of passengers and porters began anew. Geoff crooked his head to look at her from time to time, but saying nothing, merely smiling. Then the doors slammed shut again, one after the other, and the steaming and whistling resumed.

He set his lips to her temple. “I'm afraid it is a long while to the next station,” he said.

“Oh,” said Anaïs quietly. “That's . . . promising.”

“Aye?” He lifted his head, his expression bemused. “Why?”

“Because I have just been wondering,” said Anaïs quietly, “what it would be like to make love on a moving train . . .”

T
hat afternoon, the gray clouds over London miraculously cleared to reveal a remarkably azure sky, and a sun so bright the ladies who came out to peruse the shops of St. James were required to pop up their parasols lest their noses freckle.

Rance Welham, Lord Lazonby, was just going down the front steps of the St. James Society—having spared his nose not a thought—when a black phaeton with ruby-red wheels came tooling briskly round the corner into St. James Place, splashed through what was left of the morning's last puddle, then drew up but a few feet away.

The fine-boned, perfectly matched blacks stamped and shook their heads with impatience, but the driver held them easily. “Good afternoon, Rance,” Lady Anisha called down. “What a pleasant surprise.”

He watched in mild stupefaction as the lady descended, tossing her reins to Belkadi's footman, who had come dashing down the stairs to bow and scrape before her.

“Well, well, Nish!” said Lazonby, leaning on his brass-knobbed stick. “Fending for yourself now, eh?”

“It's a hard life.” Lady Anisha smiled, stripping off her driving gloves as she came down the pavement. “Do you like it?”

“It's . . . dashing,” said Lazonby, struggling to keep his jaw from hanging. “I'm just not sure it's you.”

“Well, perhaps it should be?” the lady murmured cryptically.

Lazonby's critical eye swept over the conveyance, finding much to admire. It was high, but not perilously so. It was perfectly slung, with front wheels reaching to Lady Anisha's shoulder and paint that glistened like onyx set with rubies. It was a carriage no young man of fashion would willingly have given up—and one very few ladies would have driven.

“In any case,” Lady Anisha continued, “I'm merely holding on to it, shall we say, for my brother Lucan.”

“Ah,” said the earl knowingly. “Pup's under the hatches again, eh?”

Lady Anisha's smile tightened. “Quite so,” she said. “Baccarat this time. But he's learnt the hard way if he wishes my help, there's a price paid. And this time the price is his phaeton. I confess, I've come to quite like it. I'm not at all sure he'll be getting it back.”

Lazonby turned his attention from the phaeton to the beautiful woman. “Have you come to visit Mr. Sutherland again?” he asked, curious. “Because he's still off in the wilds of Essex.”

“Well, he could hardly go all the way to Colchester and not visit his sister, could he?” said Anisha. “But I've actually come to fetch Safiyah. I'm going to make her drive in the park with me.”

Lazonby drew back a pace. “Well, good luck with that.”

“I know.” Anisha screwed up her face. “She'll likely refuse. What about you? Dare you trust your life to my hands?”

“I can think of few I would trust so readily,” said Lazonby truthfully. “But no, I was just headed across the way to the Quartermaine Club.”

“Rance!” she said chidingly. “You are not gaming again.”

He grinned down at her. “Not at Ned's, that much is certain,” he said. “He won't let anyone from the St. James Society sit at his tables.”

“Heavens, I wonder why!” she murmured. “Look, at least ask me up to the bookroom for a moment. I have something I ought to tell you, and I don't want to stand in the street.”

With a sudden and grave reluctance, Lazonby inclined his head, and offered his arm.

Two minutes later, they were seated on the long leather sofas in the club's private library, looking at each other a little uncomfortably across the tea table. Lazonby very much hoped Lady Anisha had forgotten the last time she had come upon him in this room.

He had been in a terrible state then, roiling with thwarted rage and something else he would as soon not think about. He had been caught by Nish's brother in what had apparently appeared to be a most compromising position—caught with that little shite Jack Coldwater. Worse, Nish had been with Ruthveyn. He only hoped she had not quite seen . . . well, whatever it was that had been going on.

Her brother most certainly had seen—and had given him a fierce dressing-down for it. Not because Ruthveyn was a judgmental sort of man; he wasn't. No, the scold had been on account of Nish. Nish, who was quite likely the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on.

He watched her now, her dark eyes flashing, her small, perfect breasts so snugly encased in her black silk carriage dress, her neck long and elegant as a swan's, and he wished a little forlornly that he had not passed her on so swiftly to Bessett.

Not that Nish was anyone's to pass on. She was not. Not any longer. He somehow sensed it most acutely today.

As if to break the awkward moment, Lady Anisha reached up to pull the long pin from her jaunty hat, then set them down beside her. “There,” she said on a sigh. “It was poking me. Now, Rance—you were very bad to abandon me in Whitehall the other day. Whatever were you thinking?”

He jerked to his feet. “I did not abandon you,” he said testily. “I left you my carriage, my coachman, and my footmen—with instructions to convey you safely back to Upper Grosvenor Street. I thought it best I walk home, for I was in a temper and not fit company for a lady.”

“You left me,” she said, following him to the window. “Honestly, Rance, I can't think what's got into you these past few months. You are behaving most strangely.”

Lazonby stared down at the entrance to the Quartermaine Club, watching as Pinkie Ringgold, one of the club's bullyboys, came out to open the door of a waiting carriage.

He forced himself to turn around and face her. “I'm sorry,” he rasped. “What was it, Nish, you wished to say to me?”

She flicked a quick, appraising glance down his length. “Two things,” she said. “Firstly, what do you know of Royden Napier's background?”

Lazonby lifted both shoulders. “Not a damned thing, save he's old Hanging Nick Napier's get.”

“Lud, Rance, your language!” Anisha rolled her eyes. “In any case, Lady Madeleine told me something interesting over dinner last night.”

Lazonby grinned. “Getting awfully cozy with your new mamma-in-law, aren't you?”

Her dark eyes glittered angrily. “Just hush, and listen,” she muttered. “A few months ago, when Napier rushed to his uncle's deathbed—”

“Aye, to Birmingham, someone said,” Lazonby interjected. “Probably some jack-leg silversmith. What of it?”

“Well, it wasn't Birmingham.” Lady Anisha had dropped her voice. “Belkadi misunderstood. It was
Burlingame
—as in Burlingame Court.”

For a moment, Lazonby could only stare at her in bewilderment. “To Lord Hepplewood's?”

“Well, Hepplewood is dead, is he not? Or so Lady Madeleine says.” Lady Anisha tossed her hand dismissively. “I confess, I know nothing of these people. But I think it odd that Napier is nephew to a peer so well connected.”

“Connected, then, on Lady Hepplewood's side,” Lazonby murmured.

“Lady Madeleine says not,” Lady Anisha countered. “I was wondering if perhaps Napier was illegitimate.”

“No, but old Nick might have been.” Then Lazonby shrugged again. “But I don't give two shillings for Napier's name. I just want him to get off his arse and do his job.”

Lady Anisha looked up at him from beneath two fans of long, inky-black lashes. “Which brings me to my second point,” she said, her husky voice suddenly flowing over him.

Lazonby's mouth went just a little dry. “What?”

“I've convinced Royden Napier to let me look at the files in the Peveril case,” she said.

“You what?” He looked at her incredulously.

“He's going to let me see the files,” she repeated. “I can't take them from his office, of course. But they are a matter of public record—well, sort of—so he's going to let me see them. His father's notes. The witness statements. That sort of thing. So . . . what do you want to know?”

Rance could not take his eyes off her. “I . . . good Lord . . .
everything
,” he managed. “Everything you can learn. But how . . . ?”

Nish cut her gaze away. “Vinegar and honey, Rance,” she murmured. “You know the old saying. I think you'd best let me deal with Napier from here out—especially since you can't keep a civil tongue in your head.”

Lazonby closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “Thank you, Nish,” he whispered. “I don't know what you did, but . . .
thank you
.”

When he opened his eyes, Lady Anisha was still staring at him, her dark, exquisitely beautiful face a mask of inscrutability, her wide, black-brown eyes deep, unfathomable pools. It was like that sometimes when he looked at her—his breath simply caught. It wasn't love. It wasn't even lust.

“You are welcome,” she said quietly.

And somehow—in that one surreal moment by the open window, with carriages rattling past and doves cooing from the eaves above—it seemed the simplest, most natural thing on earth to draw Nish into his arms and kiss her.

She came against him on a breathless gasp, and their lips met. He kissed her gently at first, slanting his mouth over hers as he drew in her scent; a dark, exotic mélange of sandalwood and champaca and the sort of pure, unadulterated femininity that could have stirred a dead man's blood.

Nish kissed him back, rising onto her tiptoes, for her head barely reached his upper chest. He deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue into her mouth, and felt his stomach bottom out and his cock begin to harden. In response, she gave a soft moan that sent a shiver of lust down his spine.

He could want her
, he realized.

He could take her to bed this moment and lose himself in her small, sensual body. He could give her extraordinary pleasure, even joy, perhaps. And she could quiet this bone-deep dissatisfaction that seemed forever to churn inside him—at least for a while.

But he could not let himself love her.

He could fuck her. He could use her—oh, splendidly! But she was better than that. Better than he was—by a long, long shot. Lady Anisha Stafford was like a small, exotic jewel—trained by her Rajput womenfolk, if rumor could be believed, in a thousand exquisite ways to please a man—and she deserved someone capable of worshipping that perfection. And that was not he. He'd seen too much. Tasted too much. His palate was deadened with life's excess.

A little ruthlessly, Lazonby tore his mouth from hers and set her away. His breathing was rough, his body ready and begging for her.

“I'm sorry,” he rasped, letting his hands fall. “Good Lord, Nish. Forgive me.”

She let her gaze drop, and stepped away as if embarrassed. Neither of them saw the shadow that had just passed nearly through the door, and back out again.

Instinctively, he reached out for her. “Wait.”

“No,” she said, and stepped back another pace. “I'm not waiting. This thing between us . . . it won't ever be, will it, Rance?”

He shook his head. “No,” he agreed. “I could make love to you, Nish. I could. I . . . I want to. But Ruthveyn would kill me. And Bessett—
good God
, what am I thinking?”

At last she lifted her eyes to his, her face flaming. “A better question might be what am
I
thinking?”

“You should marry him, Nish,” said Lazonby. “He's a good man. He'll give you an old, honorable, untarnished name—something I could never do. And he'll be an extraordinary father to your boys. You should marry him.”

Her gaze faltered. “Yes. I should.”

“And will you?” he rasped. “Will you do it? I hope you will.”

Again, an uncertain flick of her eyes. “Perhaps,” she finally said. “If he asks me—and he has not—then yes, for the boys' sake, perhaps I shall.”

Lazonby heaved a sigh of relief, and felt his blood flow back where it belonged. “Good,” he said quietly. “You will never regret it.”

She pinned him with her stare. “And you will never regret it, either,” she said, “will you?”

He thinned his lips and looked away. “You do not love me, Nish,” he said quietly.

A long, expectant moment hung over them. Then, “No, I do not,” she finally said, her voice surprisingly strong. “I occasionally desire you, Rance. You are . . . well, the sort of man who brings out the worst in a woman, I suppose. Or perhaps it's the best. But no, I do not love you.”

He looked at her in some surprise, uncertain what to say.

“Is there anything else, then?” she asked evenly. “Before I go back to Whitehall? I don't know how many trips I can make before Napier's patience gives out.”

There was something. Something important. Lazonby felt his face flame with heat. It seemed a dashed bad time to ask Nish for a favor. But he'd long been a desperate man.

“Yes,” he finally said. “There is one particular thing.” He went to the small desk near the door and extracted a piece of the club's stationery. Impatiently, he scratched a name on it, and handed to her.