Seducing an Angel (14 page)

“Keep him,” a few ladies said, amid laughter.

“It would be a pity, Ethel,” the dowager Lady Sinden said, raising a lorgnette to her eyes and regarding Stephen through it, “to doom our poor Lord Merton to wandering the streets and haunting the park for the next hour while he waits for his
favorite
ladies to leave your drawing room. It would be best to keep him here and thus keep him happy. Is it your curricle you have been driving half over London, Merton? Or a more sensible carriage?”

“My curricle, ma’am,” he said.

“Then you cannot take
me
riding in the park afterward,” she said, “even though I am sure I must be your
very
favorite among the present company. I stopped riding in curricles when I turned seventy a number of years ago. I can get up into them, but I cannot get down out of them without two stout footmen having to lift me bodily down.”

“They must be weaklings of footmen even if they
are
stout, ma’am,” Stephen said, still grinning at her. “I could lift you down with one arm. You can weigh no more than a feather.”

“Impudent puppy,” she said with a bark of laughter that set her three chins to swaying.

“But alas, ma’am,” he said, “I cannot prove it to you today. I have come because I have already persuaded another lady to drive in the park with me, and she is here.”

“And who is the fortunate lady?” Lady Carling asked as she drew him down to sit beside her on a sofa. “Did I promise such a thing last evening and have simply forgotten? But how could any lady
possibly
forget such a thing?”

She leaned forward to the tea tray in order to pour his tea.

“Alas, ma’am,” he said, “Sir Graham was at your side and I dared not even ask. He might have throttled me. Lady Paget has agreed to drive with me.”

There was a small silence in the room.

“Stephen has a sporting curricle,” his sister Kate said, “a quite terrifying-looking beast. But he is a notable whip, Lady Paget. You will be quite safe with him.”

“It had not occurred to me,” Lady Paget said in her low, velvet voice, “that I might not be.”

Her eyes met Stephen’s as he raised his cup to his lips, and for a moment he felt a return of this morning’s anger. She was beautiful and she was desirable and she had him tangled in her web, like a spider with a fly. An ugly image. But an apt one.

“And it is a beautiful day for a drive,” Meg said. “I thought it would rain this morning, but now, look, there is not a cloud in the sky. I do hope this weather bodes well for the summer.”

“It is more likely, Lady Sheringford,” Mrs. Craven said, shaking her head and looking mournful, “that we will suffer for this fine spell all through July and August.”

The conversation fell into comfortably familiar channels until Stephen had finished his tea and got to his feet.

“Thank you for admitting me to your party, ma’am,” he said to Lady Carling. “But if you will excuse Lady Paget and me, we will take our leave now. My horses will be getting frisky.”

He bowed to all the ladies and smiled at each of his sisters—and held out an arm to Lady Paget, who had also risen to her feet. She slipped one hand beneath his elbow as she thanked Lady Carling for her hospitality, and they left the room together.

There would be no great rush of conversation after the door closed behind them, Stephen realized—his sisters were there. But there would be a great deal of it over various dinner tables this evening and in other drawing rooms tomorrow.

And yet, if he was not completely mistaken, a few invitations would soon begin to trickle into Lady Paget’s house. A few hostesses would realize the advantages of having her at their entertainments before the novelty of her notoriety had begun to wear off. And by that time invitations might be sent to her as a matter of course.

“It is a smart curricle,” she said as they stepped out of doors and the groom who had been walking his team back and forth in the street brought the vehicle up to the steps. “I wish you would take me directly home, though, Lord Merton.”

“We will go through the park, as planned,” he said. “It will be crowded at this hour.”

“My point exactly,” she said.

He took her hand in his, but she did not need any other assistance
to ascend to the high seat. He went around the vehicle and climbed up beside her before taking the ribbons from the groom’s hand.

“Are you so eager, then,” she said, “to flaunt your new mistress before all your male friends, Lord Merton?”

He turned his head to look at her.

“You choose to insult me, Lady Paget,” he said. “You will find me more circumspect, I hope. In private you are my
lover
. It is a relationship that concerns no one but you and me. In public you are Lady Paget, an acquaintance, perhaps even my friend, whom I choose to escort about town from time to time. And that description applies when you are with me and when you are not. Even when I am alone with my
male friends
.”

“You are angry,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I am angry. Or, rather, I
was
angry. I daresay you did not mean to insult me. Are you ready to go?”

He smiled at her.

“I believe,” she said, “we would both look remarkably foolish if we were to sit here from now until darkness falls, Lord Merton. I am ready.”

He gave his horses the signal to start.

Just two days ago, Cassandra thought as the curricle turned in to Hyde Park, she had walked here quite anonymously with Alice, and she had gone almost unnoticed beneath her heavy widow’s veil. It had been a rare treat. She had
always
been noticed, even as a gawky, freckled child with hair that reminded people of carrots. She had been noticed as a growing girl, when her developing body had made her willowy and her freckles had begun to fade and people had stopped comparing her hair to carrots. And she had been noticed as a woman. She knew that her height and her figure and her hair drew men’s eyes and held them wherever she went.

Her beauty—if that was what her appearance added up to—had not always been an asset. Indeed, it rarely had been. Sometimes —most times, in fact—it was something to hide behind. Her smile—that half-scornful, half-arrogant expression that lifted the corners of her lips and went together with a raised chin and languidly observant eyes—was no new thing. It kept other people from encroaching too closely upon the person who lurked within.

This morning the Earl of Merton had called it a mask.

Last evening her beauty had been an asset. It had got her a wealthy protector when she quite desperately needed one. Though she wished now she had chosen someone else, someone who would be content with visiting her stealthily at night for one purpose only and paying her regularly for services rendered.

“Why did you come to fetch me from Lady Carling’s,” she asked him, “when doing so forced you into making a very public announcement that you were going to drive me in the park?”

“I believe,” he said, “that every member of the beau monde would know by this evening whether I had come to Lady Carling’s or waited for you to return home first.”

“And yet,” she said, “you are angry with me. You were angry this morning, and you are angry again this afternoon. You do not really like me, do you?”

It was a very foolish question to ask. Did she want this liaison to end almost before it had begun? Was it necessary that he like her? Or that he pretend to? Was it not enough that he desired her? That he would pay to satisfy that desire?

“Lady Paget,” he asked her, “do
you
like
me
?”

Everyone else did. He was, she suspected, society’s darling. And it was not just his extraordinarily handsome, angelic looks. It was also his charm, his ease of manner, his sunny demeanor, his … Oh, that extra something that no words could adequately describe. Charisma? Vitality? Kindness? Genuineness? His beauty and popularity did not appear to have made him conceited.

He had taken his beauty and used it to make people his friends, to make them smile and feel good about themselves. She had taken her beauty and snared for herself first a husband and now a lover. He was a giver and she was a taker.

Was
he?

Was
she
?

“I do not even know you,” she said, “except in the biblical sense. How can I know if I like you or not?”

He turned his head to gaze very directly into her face—and she realized how very close they were, crammed together on the seat of his sporting curricle. She could smell his cologne.

“Exactly,” he said. “I have no idea either if I will like you or not, Cassandra. But it seems strange to me that last evening you set out deliberately to seduce me while today you seem intent upon getting rid of me. Is that what you want?”

She wished his eyes were not so blue or his gaze so intense. There was no escaping blue eyes. Blue eyes made her uncomfortable. They drew her in deep and in so doing stripped her of everything she most wanted to keep in place—
not
her clothes, but … Well, they were fanciful thoughts, and she had never had them before. She had never noticed before now that she disliked blue eyes. Probably she did not. It was just
his
blue eyes.

He had called her Cassandra.

“What I want,” she said, smiling at him and lowering her voice, “is
you
, Stephen. In my house, in my bedchamber, in my bed. All this is quite unnecessary.”

She swept her arm about to indicate the park and the afternoon crush of carriages and horses and pedestrians they were fast approaching.

“I have always thought,” he said, “that a relationship between a man and a woman—even that between a man and his lover—ought to be about more than just what happens between them in bed. Otherwise it is not a relationship at all.”

She laughed at him, and something tugged at her heart and was instantly quelled.

“If you believe sex is not enough,” she said, “then you have not yet spent enough time in
my
bed, Stephen. You will learn to change your thinking. Will you come tonight?”

She was not sure she had ever said the word
sex
aloud before now. It was extraordinarily difficult to say.

“Do you wish me to come?” he asked her.

“But of course,” she said. “How else am I to earn my living?”

He turned his head to look at her again and she read in his eyes not the desire of a man who looked forward to bedding his mistress again tonight but something that looked almost like pain. Or perhaps it was merely reproach.

He did not truly believe, surely, that they could ever be
lovers
. He could not be
that
naive or unrealistic.

It was too late for further private conversation. It was partly a relief—she was wishing more than ever that she had chosen another man last evening, someone less innocent, less
decent
, someone more earthy, someone who would accept the connection between them simply for what it was —sex for money, regular sex for a regular salary. Someone who had not accused her of wearing a mask.

Even
thinking
the word
sex
was difficult.

Partly it was no relief at all to be among the crowd, to be on display as she had been last evening but even more so if that were possible. She was perched on a seat above most of the crowd. It was virtually impossible for anyone
not
to see her.

She wondered if it was deliberate on Lord Merton’s part, and guessed that it was. He surely had other carriages that he might have used. And yet he had not brought her to flaunt before his male acquaintances. He had been angry when she had suggested it.

He smiled cheerfully at everyone, touching his hat to the ladies, calling greetings, stopping to exchange a few words whenever someone showed a willingness to talk to
him
. Cassandra guessed it was
far fewer people than usual. But whenever someone did stop him, he introduced her, and she inclined her head and sometimes spoke.

As with most of the guests in Lady Carling’s drawing room, some people were willing to speak with her, Cassandra found, even if only to ask her how she did. But of course, she had had Lady Carling to sponsor her there, and she had the Earl of Merton here. There had been the Earl and Countess of Sheringford last evening.

Perhaps there were always a few kind people. Perhaps her cynicism had become too extreme. Perhaps she need not be the total outcast she had expected to be. Or perhaps now she was a curiosity to whom some people could not resist drawing close. Once the novelty had worn off, so would her welcome.

It was hard
not
to be cynical.

It did not matter. In many ways she had always been an outcast.

Predictably, it was mostly gentlemen who stopped to speak with Lord Merton and therefore to be introduced to her. And Cassandra looked at them all and wondered if she might have chosen more wisely last evening. But how could one choose wisely when one knew absolutely nothing about the man concerned except perhaps his name and the fact that he was probably wealthy? Though how could one know even that when so many gentlemen lived beyond their means and were up to their eyebrows and beyond with debt?

She had thought she had chosen a husband wisely. She had been eighteen then. She was twenty-eight now. Perhaps the only wisdom she had gained in the intervening years was to know that when one chose a man to give security and stability to one’s life, one ought to choose a protector rather than a husband.

Freedom was worth more than anything else of value life had to offer. Yet for a woman it was so very elusive.

Baron Montford came to exchange pleasantries with Cassandra and to chat with his brother-in-law for a few minutes. He had three other gentlemen with him, including Mr. Huxtable, who still looked somewhat satanic to Cassandra. He looked very directly at her with
his dark eyes while the other gentlemen talked and laughed. At some time in his life his nose had been broken and not set quite straight, she could see. She was very glad she had not chosen
him
last night. She had the feeling that his eyes could see through her skull to the hair at the back of her head.