Too Wicked to Marry (20 page)

What pleasure he was going to get from punishing her for her deception—but that would have to wait for later.

"You're smiling like a cat with all the cream," she said.

"And feeling like it," he answered, holding out his hand. "Come." When she came to him he brushed his lips across one bare shoulder and then the other, and left a lingering kiss at the base of her neck. "Such lovely, soft skin," he murmured, letting his hands roam where his lips had touched. She arched back against him, and he heard her breath catch. "Cream indeed," he murmured against her skin.

A shiver of pure desire shot through Harriet, memories of the night before and thoughts of the night to come running riot through her thoughts. She wanted to turn around, tear off the man's shirt, and pull him down with her onto the floor! Did he think she was made of stone? That she could be touched by him and not react? She managed to get the impulse under control and said, "My lord, you are attempting to excite my base emotions."

His hands skimmed over her, not quite touching anywhere but leaving a trail of heat, nonetheless. "Is it working?"

"Yes."

"Wrinkle that gown and you'll be the one who irons it," Mrs. Swift contributed.

Harriet blushed while Martin gave the woman a poisonous look. "Are you referring to me, madam?"

Mrs. Swift's fists rested on her narrow hips, and she looked them both over disapprovingly. "You mess up my handiwork and you pay for it."

Martin knew the termagant who'd left a knife at Harriet's disposal the night before was referring more than to the dress. He was not used to being thwarted by anyone, and certainly not a servant, so he chose to ignore her.

"Let us go down to dinner, my dear," he said, taking Harriet's arm and leading her from the dressing room. "I don't like that woman," he whispered as he and Harriet entered the white and gold bedroom. The bed beneath a draped canopy was huge, the carpet so thick they moved in utter silence. He would be far happier to stay there than go down to dinner, but not with Mrs. Swift still in the area. "She's part bulldog and part viper."

"She's a dear," Harriet whispered, and received a skeptically canted eyebrow in answer. She laughed. "Really."

Martin refrained from further comment as they made their way down to the main floor of Strake House. Harriet's attention left him to focus on the others in the reception hall when they reached the bottom of the sweeping grand staircase. It was a subtle thing, but he noticed the moment she stopped being herself and assumed the persona of his lady friend. He shouldn't have minded, since "Cora" put her arm through his and moved closer as they came to a halt before their host. But he missed Harriet—who was proving to be not unlike Abigail, only far more interesting.

Harriet did not know why Martin stiffened suddenly and his mood shifted to barely concealed annoyance. She could not afford to ask him what was wrong or show concern in any way. So instead she smiled at Sir Anthony, and giggled with delight when he bent to kiss her hand. She was not wearing evening gloves, and found the touch of anyone's lips but Martin's unpleasant, though she certainly gave no sign of this.

She also didn't balk when Sir Anthony put a finger under her chin and looked her over with knowledgeable eyes. She boldly stared into his. They were a pale, watery blue, cold and shrewd. He was of medium height, lean and fit-looking, with thinning fair hair and a thick-lipped mouth. The silver brocade vest and the velvet collar of his evening coat were not in the best of taste. He did not compare favorably at all to Martin's understated elegance.

"She's lovely, my lord," Sir Anthony said to Martin. "An absolute stunner."

The words galled, and she half expected him to ask how much Martin wanted for her. "How kind of you, Sir Anthony," she murmured.

"Several new guests have arrived today," their host continued to Martin. "Come and meet them," he urged, steering Martin toward • the center of the reception room.

Under the guise of flirting, Harriet took the opportunity to study the people they passed. She received smiles and nods from several men, and a hot-eyed assessment from a potbellied fellow that left her wanting to run upstairs and take a hot, soapy bath. She accepted a glass of champagne off a servant's tray and took a long drink, instead. While she did not see the courier, she did establish that she was not opposed to striking up acquaintances with gentlemen other than the one she was there with.

The room was hot from the blazing crystal chandeliers and the press of bodies in the crowded room. Conversation was too loud.

The mingled scents of heavy perfumes hung in the air and the champagne did not settle well in her empty stomach. Harriet longed to ask Martin to take her away from this awful place.

Then Martin turned his head and smiled reassuringly at her. It was only the briefest glance; she wasn't sure he knew he did it, and she had no idea how he'd sensed her mood, but her heart melted when he looked at her. Her soul lifted out of the morass of tangled fears and recriminations that had been tearing her up for days, and took flight. She felt as if she were rushing toward heaven, and it was in his arms…

She caught on to the joy and pushed it firmly down. There was no permanent solace to be found in Martin Kestrel's arms, and it was her own damned fault. Her spirits sank once more, but her nerves were now steady as steel, and her mind on her mission.

"Here we are," Sir Anthony announced as they reached a couple standing near the wide entrance to the dining room. "Lady El—"

"Lady Ellen?"

"Lord Martin?"

Harriet looked from Martin to the young woman who'd spoken his name. That they knew each other was obvious. That each was surprised to see the other there was equally obvious. Lady Ellen, a vivid woman with auburn hair, dressed in emerald-green and emerald jewelry, was pale, round-eyed, and speechless, though her mouth hung open.

Martin recovered his aplomb immediately, and kissed the lady's hand. "I see you left the Hazlemoor party early as well, my dear," he said. "Wise choice on both our parts, don't you think?"

Lady Ellen responded warmly to Martin's charm. "Yes," she said. "Yes, indeed. It is
so
good to see you again, Martin. No need for formality here at Anthony's, is there?"

"No formality necessary at all," Sir Anthony chimed in. "So you two know each other?"

"Mutual friends introduced us recently," Martin explained.

"Dreadfully dull people," Lady Ellen added. "I fled their games of charades and theatricals as soon as decently possible. A day after you, Martin. If I'd known you knew Anthony we could have come here together."

Harriet wasn't sure how this Lady Ellen person managed it, but the next thing she knew, Lady Ellen was the one clinging to Martin's arm while Sir Anthony beamed on the pair, and she was relegated to the back of this happy little group. Conversation went on without her.

Fine
, Harriet thought after a moment of impotent fury.
All right, then. I'll just have a look around, why don't I
? Not that she would be missed, it seemed.

She did not get far before the butler announced that dinner was served. The next thing Harriet knew, she was being escorted into the dining room on the arm of a man who was not Martin. Cora Bell ended up having dinner seated between two men she didn't know, while she caught glimpses of Martin down the long length of the table chatting merrily away with his vivacious little friend Lady Ellen.

I'm going to kill him
, Harriet thought, her fish fork gripped in a way it was not meant to be used.
That's it; I'm simply going to kill him
.

"Where did you get off to?"

"Where did J get off to? I'm not the one who—"

"You could have had the decency, the propriety to go into dinner with me, my dear."

"Really? I don't recall your coming to look for me, my lord."

"That is hardly my place. You are here with me."

"I thought you were with Lady Ellen. Your good friend Lady Ellen." She sniffed.

"I hardly know the woman."

"Would that be in the social or biblical sense that you know that red-haired hussy?"

"What business is it of yours how I know her?"

Harriet clamped her mouth shut on what she'd been about to say next. She did not believe she was having such a fit of jealousy, knew she had no right to, but she
was
jealous, and it felt rather good to snarl at the man for leaving her in the lurch.

Except that he hadn't. She took a deep breath and tried hard to clear her head. He'd left her alone to do her job. She should be grateful. Instead she was furious, and a phlegmatic, dour Scotswoman she was not. She did not lose her temper or her self-possession often, but when she did… well, she wasn't going to anymore.

And why was he forgetting that he'd left her alone to do her job? The man was acting like an ignored lover.

And so was she.

She whirled away from the large, glaring man confronting her on the terrace. She pressed her lips together and began counting slowly. Martin stood behind her, so close that the heat of his body warmed her skin. Behind them, across the wide terrace with its huge pots of night-blooming flowers and topiary bushes, were the French doors of the crowded ballroom, thrown open to the mild summer night. Light, laughter, and the strains of a waltz came from inside.

A few moments before, she had been circulating through the ballroom, chatting, flirting, avoiding groping hands, and looking for her contact. Then Martin had come striding up, large and menacing, his gray eyes as dark as a thunderhead, and dragged her out there to demand explanations from her. She'd come gladly, prepared to demand explanations of her own.

Totally foolish behavior for two intelligent, civilized, sophisticated adults who were not really in love.

Harriet forced herself to focus on the view before her, which was magnificent. Below the terrace, a reflecting pool threw back moonlight and lantern light. Wide paths lined with marble statues and topiary beasts stretched out along its sides. A fountain rose out of the far end of the pool, and beyond that paths led off to mazes and knot gardens and distant grottoes surrounded by the shadows of tall trees. The night was filled with the scents of herbs and roses. Couples strolled along the paths and lounged on the benches set in the gardens. Laughter and faint light shone through the trees from a distant corner of the grounds.

"This place is so beautiful," she said with a sigh. Martin stepped closer and put his arms around her waist. "But the people aren't very nice." She couldn't help but close her eyes and savor the sensation of being enfolded by his large, forceful presence.

"A very unsavory lot indeed," he agreed. His muscles were no longer hard and tense with anger when he pulled her against him, but she was no less aware of the strength and power of the man. When he chuckled, she felt it all the way through her. He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "My dear, why do you think I turned down Sir Anthony's invitation to begin with?"

"Well, I didn't think they were your sort. You've always been so much more—"

"Discriminating in my lovers? Discreet in my affairs?"