To Ruin a Rake (13 page)

“Watch yourself, Harriett,” murmured Cat. “Lord Russell is just ahead.”

Harriett looked in the direction of her sister’s nod and saw she was correct. There was no mistaking that nuisance of a man; even with a mask his flaming hair gave him away at once. She cringed for a moment, but then remembered her own disguise. He would never suspect it was her in this dress. She looked back and saw that Papa had stopped to converse with a friend. Urging her sister on, she picked up the pace. Moments later they were past Russell and through the front doors.

She reached over and surreptitiously pinched Cat, who had begun giggling. It didn’t stop her. Then Harriett, too, began to giggle. So the laughing pair entered at their ease, blending in with another group of merry party-goers.

If she’d thought the entrance display impressive, it was nothing compared to what lay within. Exotic potted trees, palms, and flowering shrubs lined the foyer, interspersed with caged songbirds. Music drifted into the space, spicy music from faraway lands. Everywhere she looked there was color. Bright silks were draped over tables and spanned the space between the columns supporting the galleries. The entire place had been made to look and feel like an eastern palace.

She entered the ballroom unannounced and snagged a glass from a passing tray. No one was being announced tonight. The excitement of anonymity was part of the event.

“Come,” said Cat, taking her by her free hand and dragging her through the crowd.

Not five minutes had passed, however, before they were stopped. A man in a jeweled mask bowed low before Harriett and asked her to dance. She turned and looked at Cat in surprise. Grinning, her sister shooed her off with a subtle nod.

Taking the stranger’s arm, she allowed him to lead her to the ballroom floor. An hour later, she was still dancing. One after another, gentlemen—including Russell, who had thankfully not recognized her—had come forward to beg her to partner them.

It left her positively giddy. And a bit footsore. The new slippers were pinching. Before another would-be-swain could step forth and whirl her away, she begged leave and made for the tables and chairs.

She’d had more fun tonight than in all the years since her debut. It amazed her that something as simple and small as a mask could be so liberating! She stopped at the buffet, tempted by the bright array of pineapples, oranges, bananas, and other tropical fruits that hadn’t been seen in her home for well over a year. They couldn’t afford them anymore. Filling a plate, she chuckled as she remembered Cat’s declaration regarding beef and oranges.

“You dance most gracefully, my lady.”

The familiar voice stopped her cold. Her heart began to pound.
Not here, please not here...
Gathering her courage, she turned.

The masked man, whom she knew to be Manchester, sketched an elegant bow. “I would be honored if you would grant me your next dance. After you’ve rested, of course. I know full well you’ve been on your feet for the past hour.”

Which meant he’d been watching her. Confusion filled her. There was no hint of animosity in his tone or in the way he looked at her. In fact, his amber eyes were warm and full of admiration. It was almost as if...
the mask!
A thrill raced through her as she realized he had no idea who she was. “I would be delighted,” she said, pitching her voice low.

He tensed, his eyes widening, and she held her breath. After a moment, however, he shook his head and laughed softly. “My apologies. For a moment, I thought I knew you.”

“Unlikely, my lord,” she husked, eyeing him like any bold miss. “I’m sure I would remember a man like you.”

“You would indeed,” he said, his tone causing her belly to tighten.

It was dangerous to flirt with him, but safe in the knowledge she was unrecognizable, Harriett couldn’t help herself. Exhilarated by her own daring, she ventured a step further. “You certainly think well of yourself, sir.”

There was no sarcasm in the laughter that followed her dry comment, no derision. Only apparent delight in her candor. “Confidence is an aphrodisiac,” he said, coming close enough for her to breathe in his scent. “And you, my lady, possess it. Not to mention a few other attractive assets.”

Her cheeks heated as his dark gaze flicked down to her décolletage. To be admired for her appearance was not something to which she was accustomed. Safe behind her mask, she took a cooling sip from her punch. A bit of the froth clung to her lip and she licked it away without thinking. When she looked up, she saw her enemy’s gaze was now fastened on her mouth.

A giggle lodged in her throat. Good lord, the man was practically salivating! If he knew who it was he ogled, he would likely suffer a fit of apoplexy. The thought spurred her to new heights of recklessness. With wicked intent, she drew a deep breath and watched as his gaze again dropped. The poor fool appeared unable to decide whether to look at her mouth or her bosom. The giggle again tried to escape, and it was only with the greatest self-control that she held it in. Even so, her lips quivered on the verge of a laugh.

“You’re enjoying this,” said her nemesis.

“Yes.” Freed to do so, she favored him with an impudent grin. “Quite.” And with that, she turned and began walking toward the seating area. Her legs shook the tiniest bit, but all in all, she’d handled that very well indeed. Before she could reach the tables, her escort moved ahead to hold out a chair for her. She tried to concentrate on maintaining her sultry demeanor.

Her stomach knotted as he sat opposite and stared at her. If he should recognize her...but he wouldn’t, would he? Never in a thousand years would he expect
her
to wear a gown this daring or to behave in such a forward manner. The Harriett Dunhaven he knew was a completely different person. She was perfectly safe as long as she said nothing to give herself away.

“Might I ask your name, my lady?”

Her throat constricted, and she forced a low chuckle past the obstruction. “That would defeat the whole purpose of wearing a mask, now wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose I can wait until midnight,” he said with a shrug.

Damn.
She’d forgotten about that. Perhaps Cat might not mind if they left a tiny bit early…

Leaning in, he lowered his voice. “You are correct in that part of the fun of this is the mystery. We could be anyone, couldn’t we? For all you know, I might be a footman.”

“And for all you know, I might be a lowly kitchen maid.” She raised a brow.

A slow smile parted his lips. “Never, my lady. I can see well enough through your mask to know you are a diamond of the first water.”

Oh, can you indeed?
Considering he’d mistaken her for a servant once before, it amused her to no end to hear him spout such drivel. She fluttered her lashes and came close enough to see the pale gold flecks in his whiskey eyes. “Tell me, dear footman, are all of your fellow servants so ambitious in their compliments? If so, I wonder that every lady of quality does not run away with a manservant. I fear I shall be in grave danger of a scandal should my own head footman prove as gifted as you in manners and speech.”

He stilled, and she thought that perhaps she might have gone too far. Then he said softly, “Why take a chance on him, when you can have me? I would certainly be more discreet. And a hell of a lot more fun.”

An outraged retort tingled on the tip of her tongue.
Easy. It is only meaningless banter.
He, too, must be feeling emboldened by the intoxicant of anonymity. Though tempted to call his bluff and see what resulted, she decided it was time to bring the conversation back to safer ground. “I believe I should like a demonstration before risking my good name on a mere footman’s promise,” she teased with a meaningful glance toward the dance floor.

Standing at once, he offered his arm.

Harriet placed her hand—her
naked
hand—on his sleeve and was struck by the glaring absence of William’s ring. She fought a sudden urge to yank her hand back and flee. There was no reason to feel guilty. William was gone, and it wasn’t as if she planned to actually allow this rogue to take any liberties with her person.

As they danced, Harriett again became acutely aware of Manchester’s physicality. His form was lean and fit, his movements graceful and sure. William had been taller, which had meant he’d always had to look down in order to meet her eyes. Not so much with Roland.

Roland
. The name echoed in her mind, seeping into the dark corners, smoothing around the curves of her other thoughts. She’d never before thought of him in terms of his Christian name. He’d always been “Manchester’s other son” or “William’s brother” or “that drunken blackguard.” To call him “Roland” seemed too intimate, though she supposed if she had married William she would have been entitled to do so.

But you didn’t marry William
whispered her conscience. That fact was brought home as she looked into Roland’s eyes and saw desire. Real desire, not that sarcastic leer he’d put on back at the Hospital for the purposes of intimidating her. Those other men tonight had looked at her with want, too. For a moment, she just basked in the knowledge that she was desirable.

It was enormously satisfying. She felt powerful. Now at last she understood what so many women seemed to learn quite early in their lives. The male before her was helpless, a veritable bull with a ring in its nose, and
she
was the one holding the lead.

She could tweak that lead and make him dance a merry jig for her pleasure, but it would be a dangerous game to play. Desire could work for or against a woman, and it tended toward the latter when mutual. Arabella had learned that lesson and come to rue it.

Glancing to the side, she saw Cat dancing with an enraptured gentleman. Her precocious sister had already mastered the technique of leading the bull. She’d likely be married before the end of this Season—
God willing
.

Her gaze returned to Manchester. She would enjoy this moment, savor it, and then disappear. He would wonder about her for the rest of his life, but he would never know. It was a memory she would treasure, the memory of having held Mad Manchester in her thrall, if only for a little while.

Tomorrow, she would return to being dull, dutiful Harriett. But she would never again fear him.

Roland was determined to discover the identity of his dance partner. There was something so familiar about her, and yet she looked like no woman he ever remembered meeting. The thought sent a shiver of apprehension down the back of his neck.
Had
they met before? Did he simply not remember? Had he been in his cups?

She looked at him with amusement, clearly enjoying her feminine sway over him. One corner of her mouth lifted ever so slightly, and his loins tightened with alarming swiftness. He had not been lying when he’d told her confidence was seductive.

There was a strange, mutable quality to her eyes. One moment they appeared sea-green, the next more bluish, and yet the next a more brownish tint. The shining coffee curls that spilled down over her shoulder to caress her bosom—her
glorious
bosom—lay against skin like creamy velvet.

A slow smile tilted the corners of her lips. She had a lovely, generous mouth that begged to be kissed. “You are going to make me blush, my lord footman.”

“I’m glad to know it,” he replied without shame. “It would be a sore disappointment indeed, were I to have no effect on you, my lady kitchen maid.” Her low laugh sent a bolt of want lancing down into his vitals. “Who are you?” he asked, keeping his tone light and playful.

She denied him the answer with a raised brow and another sly smile as the dance separated them.

When she returned, he tried again. “Shall I guess?”

“I cannot stop you.”

From the top of her head to the soles of her feet, she was perfection. Her form was exquisite, her attitude intriguing. Rarely had he met an unwed woman so at ease, so sure of herself. Confidence indeed. She couldn’t be more than twenty. “Well, you’re not Lady Abingdon,” he teased, looking down at her décolletage with frank appreciation.

Another laugh burst from between the mystery woman’s lush lips.

Lady Abingdon was one of Society’s most notorious personages. If a gentleman found himself badly owing, he might pay her a visit or two and be relieved of his debt—for a price, of course. Roland had done so once in his youth. Too ashamed to ask William or his father for help so soon after having left, he’d instead chosen to pay court to Lady Abingdon.

Even at more than twice his age, the lady had exhibited an appetite for bed sport that could only be called voracious. That was when he’d learned women had desires, too. He’d called on her three times and she’d been generous with him to a fault. It was not something he was proud of.

“You’re not either of the Ladies Lennox,” he said, again lading his tone with mischief.

She shook her head, causing her shining chocolate curls to bounce.

“Could it be that you are Lady...” He thought about it for a moment. Dark hair, greenish eyes, the height was right. “Lady Scranton?”

Her smile widened, and for a moment he thought he’d gotten it right, but once more she shook her head. “Wrong again, my lord footman.”

Frustration threatened to unseat his pleasure. “Pray tell me, my lady. I must know your name.” He froze as she moved closer to reach up and boldly caress his jaw with a slender hand.

“I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait along with everyone else,” she whispered. With a laugh that was pure wickedness, she pulled away. “Look for me when midnight arrives.”

“Shall I look here or in the kitchens?” he asked, managing to sound nonchalant.

Those beautiful lips quirked. “I shouldn’t waste my time searching below, if I were you.” Turning, she sauntered away, her walk a provocation all by itself.