The Dark One (5 page)

As if she felt his scrutiny, Lady Rosalind glanced toward him. Their gazes locked, although the veil blotted any reaction he might discern in her lovely eyes. She quickly turned back to the conversation, dismissing him. She'd obviously learned her lesson about playing false with dangerous men. A pity, he thought. He'd enjoy another lesson with her.

When she broke from the group and walked across the room to study the paintings that fairly littered one wall, Armond couldn't help but notice her figure. She wasn't tall, but neither was she short. Her waist was small, her hips slightly flared beneath her gown.

Although she was dressed modestly, the curve of her breasts pronounced delectably beneath her bodice only made a man sit and wistfully contemplate removing all that taffeta in order to get down to her bare bones. Armond had gotten more than a glimpse of her bountiful charms already. He'd gotten a handful and a mouthful. He wanted more.

He stood and placed his teacup aside, but rather than quit the room as he intended to do, he found himself moving toward her. She drew him. Whether he wanted to be drawn or not.

“I see that you have recovered from the Greenleys' ball,” he said once he stood beside her. “And obviously none the worse for your daring escapade or you would not be here this afternoon.”

Her head snapped in his direction. “Please do not speak to me,” she said, then turned her attention back to the paintings.

Normally, Armond had no trouble avoiding women. It was simple, really. A man just had to walk away. He stepped closer to her, pretending to find the garish painting she studied of interest.

“Two nights ago you asked me to compromise you. Would have possibly allowed me to fully ruin your reputation. Today you ask me to act as if we've never met. Women. Fickle to a fault.”

“Approaching you was obviously a mistake on my part,” she said through tight lips. “If you have any manners at all, do as I ask and leave me alone.”

He scratched his chin and considered. “I'm sorry. I have no manners. I thought you knew that.”

She stepped away from him and paused before another painting. “I beg to disagree. You do have manners, although you'd rather allow society to think otherwise.”

So, she'd given the matter at least a moment of her thought. Obviously only a moment. “I don't give a damn what society thinks,” he said. “Do you honestly believe that I don't know what you were about at the Greenleys' ball? You approached me on a dare. You dangled yourself like bait in order to win favor among your friends. You were lucky that I didn't take the game farther than you intended.”

“Lucky?” As if she realized she'd spoken too loudly, she took another step away from him. “Luck had nothing to do with it. Regardless of your dark reputation, I knew I was not in any serious danger. No man is ignorant enough to think he can seduce an innocent and not face repercussions from society. Not even you.”

“And I am a coward.”

Her head snapped in his direction again. “What did you say?”

Armond leaned closer. “You think I'm a coward,” he repeated. “You believe I didn't take full advantage of the
situation due to some fear of reprisal. You're right. But the reprisal I fear is not what you think. I'm very tempted to ask for another chance, just to prove you wrong.”

Pink crept up her neck. “There will be no second chances,” she said. “I made a mistake. One that I don't intend to repeat.”

When she walked away, Armond didn't follow. He still had a measure of sense, although it seemed to desert him in Rosalind's company. From the corner of his eye he watched her. She spoke softly to the earl's wife, received directions, and left the room. She'd retreated to the safety of the water closet, he imagined.

Armond needed to leave as well. He had business to conclude, and the sooner the better. He wanted out of the house, away from Lady Rosalind and the spell she'd cast over him. He knew all too well about spells and curses and to take them seriously.

He nearly ran over Rosalind in the hallway. They tried to sidestep each other, each making a move to the same side, then back to the other side. It was rather comical.

“Shall we dance again?” he teased.

She did not smile. “Please let me pass.”

His playful mood vanished. “You are not nearly as friendly as you were the last time we met,” Armond said. “Do you make it a habit to go around propositioning men you don't know? If you do, I feel that I must warn you that the next time might not bode as well for you.”

“I've told you, there won't be a next time, Lord Wulf,” she responded, her tone still cold. “Our last meeting was a misstep on my part, one greatly aided, I suspect, by a bad reaction to champagne. I have since been advised to refrain from spirits, and also, to refrain from being seen in your company. Neither, it is now clear to me, is beneficial to a lady's health.”

The lighting in the hallway was dim, but Armond had unusually good eyesight in the dark. Now that they were face-to-face, rather than trying to appear as if they were not conversing as they had done in the parlor, he thought he saw something beneath her veil that disturbed him. When he reached for the thin obstruction, she flinched. Despite her response, he lifted the veil. What he saw made his blood run cold.

“What happened to your face?”

She batted his hand away and quickly lowered the veil. “That is none of your business, Lord Wulf. Again, I ask you to allow me to pass.”

When she tried to step around him, Armond blocked her path. “I didn't do that to you, did I?” He knew he'd been impassioned, but he prayed he would never have raised a rough hand to her.

Her eyes, barely visible through the veil, softened. “No,” she assured him. “I'm terribly clumsy. I tripped once I got home from the Greenleys' ball. I fell and hit my cheek on a chair. It's nothing really.”

Armond lifted her veil again. He gently touched the small, round bruise. “I've never seen a woman move more gracefully than you do when you walk across a room. You look like a princess, holding court.”

Her lashes lowered. “Do you often insult women, Lord Wulf, and then spout poetry to them in the next breath?”

“No,” he answered honestly. “Never. And you may call me Armond. Formality with one another seems a bit odd considering what we've done together.”

She glanced up. Something sparked in her eyes. He wasn't certain if it was anger . . . or desire. “I've asked you more than once to forget about that.”

“I've tried,” he admitted. “A hundred times.”

Her hand crept to her collar. “Then you must try harder. You don't understand. I didn't fully realize the danger—”

“I see,” Armond interrupted, and he did, and he felt like a fool to believe that for one moment she might cast the rumors aside and judge him fairly. “But you've no doubt since been filled in about just what sort of man you were playing with at the Greenleys' ball.”

He was surprised when she cocked her head to one side and regarded him intently through her veil. “Are you a murderer, Lord Wulf?”

Armond was used to whispers behind his back. Rarely was anyone brave enough to confront him face-to-face. “What do you think?” It bothered him to honestly want her answer. It bothered him to suddenly care what someone thought of him.

“I think if you were a murderer, perhaps we would not be having this conversation.”

He smiled at her witty answer.

She surprised him again by saying, “You should do that more often. You don't look at all scary when you smile.”

Armond sobered. She might not believe the rumors about him being a murderer, but she didn't know the whole truth. She didn't know about the curse on his head. She didn't know that it was ludicrous for him to be even carrying on a conversation with her. She was forbidden to him. Just as he was forbidden to her.

“Promise me that from this day forward, you'll watch who you climb into coaches with, Lady Rosalind.”

Rosalind's face suddenly flamed beneath her veil. She realized she had been flirting with him, although she didn't have much practice in that area. She was flirting, and she was remembering.

Remembering the feel of his hands on her skin, of his
mouth moving against hers. He was dangerous, but Lord Wulf didn't understand that Rosalind had been referring to the danger from Franklin earlier. When she'd spotted Lord Wulf at the Greenleys' ball, she'd been too enthralled by his handsome face to pay much attention to the whispers. She'd heard only enough to realize that he was perfect for ruining her reputation. But Franklin had warned her to stay away from the man, and if he caught them together . . .

“Lord Wulf.” She tried to regain her composure and put a quick end to the conversation. “I do owe you my gratitude. It was good that one of us had some sense. I mean, that you didn't take the game farther than you did. I suppose I am lucky that you are, are . . .”

“A coward?”

A shiver raced up her spine. How did he know she'd said that about him? He couldn't have possibly heard her. “I was going to say ‘an honorable man.' But then, that isn't entirely true, either.”

“You asked,” he reminded. “I merely obliged.”

He had not obliged, but she wouldn't bring the matter up again. Rosalind needed to return to the tea. She couldn't look at Armond's mouth without remembering his kisses. She couldn't look at his hands without remembering the way they felt on her bare skin. And she thought she must have imagined how handsome he was, but she was wrong. He was sinfully good-looking.

“When you look at me that way, I have regrets about our first meeting.”

She quickly lowered her gaze. “I am also ashamed of my behavior. We must both try to forget what happened.”

“I meant, I have regrets that more didn't happen than did.”

Rosalind glanced back up at him. He had the wrong
impression about her. What man wouldn't? She wasn't even certain what to think herself. She'd never reacted so brazenly to a man before. She had thought the affair would be a cold, impersonal matter, but now she knew differently.

“You are no gentleman, Lord Wulf.”

He lifted her hand, bringing it to his lips. “That is something you already knew,” he said, then turned her palm facing up to him and kissed her wrist. Her pulses leaped. She snatched her hand away as if she'd been scorched.

“Is there a problem, Rosalind?”

Rosalind tensed. She glanced past Armond. Exactly what she'd been worried might happen, had. Franklin stood staring at her, his expression calm enough, though she saw the tattletale vein that throbbed in his forehead.

“No, Franklin,” she answered. “I was just returning to the tea.”

Armond turned and looked at her stepbrother. He recognized the man from the clubs, though they'd never spoken to each other. “You must forgive me for keeping Lady Rosalind from the party. We accidentally ran into one another here in the hallway. Since I danced with her at the Greenleys', and she soon became ill, I wanted to inquire about her health.”

“Her health is fine,” Chapman said coldly. His gaze moved to Rosalind, and Armond saw a flare of anger ignite within his dark eyes. “At the moment, anyway.”

An intuitive man, Armond immediately sensed a disturbing undercurrent between Rosalind and her stepbrother.

“Return to the social, Rosalind,” Chapman ordered. “I'll join you there shortly.”

Rosalind's gaze traveled from one man to the other. “I thought you might escort me back, Franklin.”

“Go along as I've asked you to do,” Chapman said, his tone clipped.

Armond watched Rosalind move past them and down the hall. His gaze lowered to the slight sway of her hips. It was an unconscious act, but he realized what he was doing and quickly glanced back up at Chapman.

“She's lovely, isn't she?” he asked.

“Very,” Armond agreed.

The man steadied him with a dark look. “Stay away from her.”

Although Armond could hardly fault the man for being protective of his stepsister, something about Chapman immediately rubbed him the wrong way. He was used to insults, rather less accustomed to threats. It was easy to avoid confrontation. A man simply had to walk away. Armond steadied the man with his own cold stare.

“Lady Rosalind has nothing to fear from me . . . and I hope she has nothing to fear from you.” He didn't know why he'd added the last. Again, instinct.

Chapman's face flushed. “I don't know what you're implying, but my sister is my business.”

“Stepsister, isn't she?” Armond continued to goad.

Chapman switched tactics and smiled, although his expression never reached his dark eyes. “Yes. And while it may be true that we share no blood bonds, I can assure you that I feel deeply for Rosalind. I wish to see her make a good match this season. You know that any attention you pay her will cause gossip and jeopardize her reputation. I doubt that you have any honor, but would ask that you take her future well-being into consideration and avoid attending any social functions this season.”

The man's audacity surprised even Armond. The fact that the eldest Wulf brother rarely attended social functions anyway was beside the point. In the past, the choice had been his to make.

“Of course you're right,” Armond said, then smiled in return, the same emotionless expression Chapman had given to him. “I have no honor.”

Armond turned and continued down the hallway, where he hoped he'd come upon the earl's study. He felt Chapman's gaze cutting into his back. He had one other thing to say to the man and turned back.

“In the future, keep your hands off of your ‘dear sister' or you will deal with me. And I promise, that is not something you would wish upon your worst enemy.”

Franklin Chapman didn't respond, but then, Armond didn't expect him to. As much as he prided himself upon accepting his lot in life, remaining in the shadows where society was concerned, he wasn't the type of man to stand by and see a woman abused. Perhaps Rosalind had in fact caused herself the injury, but Armond suspected that was not the case.