A Most Improper Rumor (24 page)

She couldn’t help but ask, “We sail for Spain in two days. Are you sure?”

“Yes.” His hand at the small of her back opened, his palm pressing her closer.

“You want your son born here.”

“I wanted my child born here like every Baron Lowe before me, but traditions are meant to be altered to the times. We will eventually return to England. Have I mentioned your hair smells delightful?”

That was the least original change in subject possible. “Many times. Have
I
mentioned that you are somewhat infuriating? What did Lord Heathton persuade you to do?”

“Issue a challenge essentially.”

A flicker of dread went through her. “What sort of challenge?”

At that moment their conversation was cut short because even with the music and dozens of conversations, shouts from outside were audible. The orchestra stopped playing and the whispers died gradually. A moment later, a young dandy dashed into the ballroom, cravat askew, and announced to the startled crowd, “Someone’s blasted carriage is ablaze! The horses are bolting. It is a melee out there.”

“An effective challenge apparently. Damn you, Heathton,” Angelina heard her husband murmur with resignation. “I was fond of that carriage.”

* * *

Confusion was always an effective catalyst for an anonymous strike. Ben had asked himself what he would do if he wanted to get to Lowe when he was in a public place, and the answer was a diversion.

This one was well done.

From his vantage point near the high garden wall, he witnessed a careening carriage fly past in full blaze, the horses snorting, no driver in sight. Fire was an excellent choice, and the spooked teams were certainly causing the expected furor.

The perpetrator was very clever indeed.

But not clever enough.

Quietly he moved in the shadows, opening the usually locked gate—he’d taken care of that earlier—and slipped around the corner of the mansion, staying to the edge of the path, vigilant but also in a hurry. Now that it had happened, time was the most important factor.

At least he knew Lowe understood the danger and would act accordingly. Ben was fairly sure if anything happened to the man, Alicia would have his head, and rightly so, he supposed. This was taking a chance, but then again very few things in life were without risk.

The terrace was shrouded, lit only from the chandeliers inside as there was no moon this night due to the banks of low-lying clouds. The ballroom was in chaos, mostly women left as the men rushed out to check on their equipages . . .

Lady Lowe was easy to see thanks to her striking raven hair. Lowe was at her side, his vigilant gaze scanning the crowd.

Ben probably owed him a new carriage, dammit. He pressed his back against the wall and waited. An approach from the front would be possible with all the milling guests, though someone could easily go unnoticed if he were dressed in the latest style, but were he the one to try to pull off this daring crime, he would approach from the back.

A movement caught his eye, the cloaked figure merely a shadow.

This is it
 . . .

He slipped the pistol from his pocket but didn’t get a chance to fire.

There was a flash, the retort sharp and short, and Ben heard the thud of the ball impact the French doors, glass shattering everywhere. Screams arose, which was not at all helpful, not when trying to discern which way the elusive gunman had gone.

Very well, his opponent had seen him.

He dropped and ran low, using the balustrade as cover, his eyes, accustomed to the darkness, trained on where he’d seen the figure.
What a useless display,
he thought with satisfaction.
You will need to reload, my friend
.

He went down the steps at a run, caught a hint of movement to his right, and feinted that way before dodging behind a small bush.

No movement. No sound except the chaos in the house behind him.

Finally Ben rose cautiously and moved toward the path, his eye caught by a hint of movement.

As a youth he’d trained with his father, who was an excellent marksman, his hobbies usually involving weapons of all kinds. Almost always he found his mark.

When he fired this time it was no exception, a small curse ringing out, muffled by the night, but definitely audible.

* * *

“Well, for what it might be worth, I shot him. Though, I regret to say, he seems to have gotten away.” Heathton looked truly regretful, not even dressed in evening clothes but much more casually than usual and certainly nothing suited to a formal event.

“Pity about the escape,” Angelina heard her husband murmur. “But I must say a bullet for a bullet gives me some measure of satisfaction. Well done. I might even forgive my carriage.”

Men.

They stood outside the ballroom, a melee of guests around but most no longer paying any particular attention to them in their quest to escape. No doubt tomorrow this would be a sensation when the burning carriage and the shots fired were the focus of the beau monde, but for now, the mass of fashionable society resembled rats fleeing a sinking ship.

Heathton looked contemplative. “I admit that was fairly drastic, but our enemy is a trifle unpredictable. I will see you home. I already sent Sharpe for the carriage. He’s most disappointed. If anyone wanted to put a ball into our elusive enemy, he’s the one. I had him guarding the other side of the mansion.”

“Ah, yes, the well incident. I can’t say as I blame him.”

“No.”

They were both so infuriatingly calm, both striking in the moonlight as if either one or both of them could not have been killed this evening.

Spain seemed more and more like a decision that left her with very few regrets.

Despite the warm evening, Angelina shivered under her wrap. “Lord Heathton, I withdraw my request.”

Both men turned toward her. The earl, as always, showed very little reaction, except maybe a flicker of surprise in his hazel eyes. “Do you?”

The queue was impossibly long, people milling everywhere.

“Alicia needs you. I was thinking of my dilemma when I approached you, but that was wrong. Your wife deserves to have you by her side the rest of her life.”

As usual, the Earl of Heathton was unfazed. He just said with a quiet laugh, “Some things in life cannot be undone. Besides, I have every intention of winning this battle.”

Epilogue

A
licia woke to the fragrance of coffee and sausages. Sleepily, she realized what day it was and rolled over to see the still-drawn draperies and a small table by the side of the bed. Her husband sat at it in a relaxed masculine sprawl, slippers on his feet, his rich dark blue dressing gown loosely tied at his taut waist.

“Good morning.” He took a sip of coffee.

“What are you doing?” She struggled to sit up, blinking and pushing her long hair back out of her face.

“Watching you sleep.” He smiled. “If per chance you were wondering, you might have snored.”

“I did not.” The indignant tone was buffered by a laugh. She
had
slept quite soundly. “Did I?”

“In an entirely charming, ladylike way.”

“You are teasing me.”

“Perhaps.” His hazel eyes were vivid in the muted morning light. “I wanted to be here when you woke to be able to tell you they sailed safely this morning.”

That was gladsome news. Angelina had been through more than enough. “I am grateful that is done.”

He reached over, pulled the envelope off the tray, and placed it on the bed. “This arrived last evening. Somehow it was left on my desk without any sign of who delivered it.”

She was almost afraid to touch it. When Ben had returned home the evening before last, she had smelled the smoke on his clothes, and the next morning the wager and the destruction of Lord Lowe’s carriage had been a sensation; yet he had said very little except that he’d gotten the barest glimpse of the culprit.

Cautiously she extracted the piece of vellum from the envelope.

My Lord Heathton:

How gracious of you to take such an interest in my little hobby. I admit the wager was a stroke of brilliance. I could not resist it, but I also am not quite so arrogant to think I could avoid whatever trap you might have set, so I think we shall call this match one without a winner, shall we?

I did not kill Lord Lowe, nor did you kill me. To save you time, and as a gesture of goodwill, I will tell you I have severed my business connection with a certain solicitor.

I am looking forward very much to next season.

The Disciplinarian

She lifted her head. “Why do you think he sent this?”

“The other evening I believe I wounded him. This seems to be a reprieve for both of us.”

That made her go very still. “What?”

“He had destroyed Lord Lowe’s carriage and sent a ball through the window, to allow him a clean shot at the baron. I don’t think I had much of a choice but to return fire.” Her husband’s shoulders lifted a fraction. “Now then, tell me what else you think.”

“That I would not want to be the woman the
ton
favors this coming spring. A reprieve, yes, but not the end of it by any means.”

Ben gazed back. “I think that might be a very accurate assessment.”

“What shall we do?”

“We?
I
might make a few more inquiries, but I fear you are going to be quite busy nurturing my child in your delightful body, so we are going to retire to Heathton Hall. I must admit I didn’t realize I would find the changes so fascinating.” His gaze drifted downward to the more-rounded contour of her belly. “I can see the babe grow. It’s . . . miraculous.”

She agreed with him on both counts. She also thought it was a miracle happening right inside her, and she never imagined Ben would be so involved in the pregnancy. Softly, she said, “You are going to be as wonderful a father as you are husband.”

His gaze returned to her face, an uncharacteristic vulnerability in his eyes. “I am not a wonderful husband, Alicia. I have never told you how much I love you.”

At last
. She thought she might forget to breathe, especially with the searing intensity of the way he looked at her. “And how much is that?” she managed to ask, though her voice was uneven.

He rose and stood by the side of the bed for a moment before he leaned down and braced an arm on either side of her. His lips brushed hers once, twice, and then his mouth moved to her ear, the whisper barely audible. “More than I could ever imagine loving anyone.”

A ripple of warmth went through her. So typical of Ben, indirect and subtle, because who knew what he had imagined. Still, it was a declaration of his feelings and after all, she loved him for who he was, and that guarded part of him was intrinsic to the man.

Her fingertips brushed his cheek. “Do you know what I did not expect?”

“Hmm?” He nibbled on her earlobe and the sensation was . . .
delicious
.

“How amorous a woman who is breeding becomes.” Her arms slipped around his neck. “Do you suppose you could indulge me, my lord?”

He reached for the ribbon on her bodice. “I vow to be the most indulgent husband in the world.”

T
he first impression was of jeweled colors: sapphire, brilliant ruby, golden topaz . . .

Lady Elena Morrow’s eyes fluttered open and she suppressed a small moan. Her head ached, her mouth was dry, and she came to the startling conclusion she had absolutely no idea where she was.

Stone walls rose all around her and the faint colored illumination came from several stained-glass windows set in arched niches high above where she lay on what appeared to be a bed, though she was on top of the coverlet, not under it, and she shivered slightly, as she was clad only in her lacy chemise.

In a surge of panic she sat up, which proved to be a mistake, as the room spun and nausea caused her eyes to close again as she struggled to remember just how she might have gotten into this strange room. Bracing herself on the softness of the mattress with one hand, she pushed the fall of loose hair away from her face and took a deep breath.

Think . . .

Her last memory was of the theater. The performance, the music, the glittering crowd . . . she’d worn a new gown of aquamarine silk. . . . Slowly she opened her eyes again to survey her unfamiliar surroundings.

It was at that moment she realized she wasn’t alone.

How she hadn’t noticed before was bewildering, but she was hardly clearheaded, and as she glanced over she wondered for a moment if she was hallucinating.

The man sprawled carelessly on the bed next to her was half-nude, wearing a pair of doeskin breeches and nothing else. It was so shocking she blinked, her gaze traveling over the muscled contours of his bare shoulders and the flat plane of his stomach, finally shifting back up to his face. He had glossy dark hair, disheveled against the white linen of the pillow, and in profile his features were clean and masculine: straight nose, high cheekbones, downy ebony brows, a mouth that was parted just slightly in sleep, his tall body relaxed and taking up a good deal of the bed.

The one they shared.

The situation registered and she scrambled to her knees in scandalized horror, more confused than ever.

A strange place, and, worse, an unfamiliar man. What in the name of heaven could be going on?

Or
was
he unfamiliar?

Doing her best to stay calm, Elena tried to think, incredulously recognizing the infamously handsome features of Randolph Raine, Lord Andrews. It wasn’t as if they actually knew each other—he hadn’t even asked to be introduced to her this season, and if he had done so her mother would have probably fainted dead away—but it was impossible to be part of the beau monde and not know of him.

He was the reigning rake of the
ton
, his reputation more wicked than sin itself, his name a byword for seduction and forbidden pleasure.

What is he doing half-naked in the same bed with me?

The infamous viscount stirred then, as if her horrified gaze touched his psyche in some way even through his sleep, and he took in a long sighing breath before moving one arm above his head in a careless arch. Even in repose he looked dangerous, with an almost beautiful cast to his features and all that tousled raven hair. . . .

Yes, that was his nickname, wasn’t it? Not that her mother or aunts would even mention him in front of her, but still tidbits had sifted through to her awareness.
The Raven
. She’d seen it in the society papers. A titillating and amusing nickname, but at the moment all she could think about was his notoriety.

There was no doubt in her mind he was about to open his eyes. She hadn’t the slightest notion of what might have prompted her current fantastical circumstances, but Elena was suddenly reminded that she wore only a thin, semitransparent shift, and upon the first swift perusal of the room, there was nothing to use to cover herself. The bed linens might have been an option had he not been on top of them, but given his height and solidly muscled body she doubted she could shift him even one inch.

What is this place?
she had to wonder with frantic assessment, as her eyes scanned the room and she found not even a stray blanket or other furniture besides the ornate bed; a screen in the corner that hopefully concealed the necessary; and a small table that held a carafe, two glasses, and a lamp.

With a true sense of urgency she wondered what had happened to her clothes, because the viscount was waking up and . . .

Sure enough his eyes opened, the thick fringe of his lashes lifting. He stared at the stained-glass window for a moment and then with a sweeping glance surveyed the entire room, arrested when he saw her kneeling there next to him. He muttered, “What the devil?”

She’d had exactly the same reaction and a part of her was relieved he seemed as startled as she was, but another part was more puzzled than ever.

In a swift, athletic motion he levered up on one elbow and shook the hair out of his eyes, his tone husky. “What is this? Who are you?”

Considering she was the one clad only in a slip of flimsy silk, the warmth of embarrassment flushing her skin, she responded tartly, “I have not the slightest idea as to what
this
is. How did I get here?”

“How did
you
get here? As I’ve never seen you before and
here
is a mystery to me, how would I know?” He sat up fully and ran his long fingers through his thick hair. His eyes were dark, his skin a light bronzed tone that reflected the dappled multicolored light from the unusual window high above them. Then his eyes narrowed. “Just a moment. I retract that. I do know who you are . . . Whitbridge’s daughter?”

The evident consternation in his direct stare confused her even more. It was genuine—she would swear to it—and, besides, why did she remember nothing of arriving at this place? And, as bizarre as it was, apparently neither did he.

Elena nodded, her lips trembling. Whatever was happening there was no doubt her father was undoubtedly frantic. How long had she been here? “Yes, Lord Whitbridge is my father.”

Her companion swore. It was under his breath but telling in intonation, and she caught the sentiment if not the exact words. After looking around the room again he finally said evenly, “I don’t remember anything. I can count on one hand the times in my life I’ve been so foxed an entire evening got away from me and those were a decade ago—not to mention I doubt I’d ever forget bedding
you
. I wasn’t drunk, so how in Hades did I get here?”

* * *

The young woman in beguiling dishabille, who at the moment had turned a very becoming shade of pink, looked at him as if he were the devil incarnate, complete with cloven hooves and a forked tongue.

Perhaps he was, come to think of it.

Irrefutably, Ran would never have said anything so blunt in front of a young, unmarried—even if very beautiful—woman under normal circumstances, but virginal misses were not his area of expertise. Were he concerned with fine manners and social graciousness at the moment, he would apologize for being so indelicate, but, the truth was, they
were
in bed together in a room he didn’t recognize and he had no idea how either one of them had gotten into this predicament.

Finesse be damned at this point in time.

The earl’s golden-haired daughter looked at him with enormous blue eyes, the pale upper curves of her full breasts gleaming above the lace of her demure chemise, the soft rose of her lips provocative. He’d seen her only in passing before, but up close, her beauty was as dazzling as all the rumors held it. “You . . . you didn’t,” she stammered, her blush deepening. “We didn’t . . . we couldn’t have—”

Fucked?
Luckily, he didn’t say that out loud. Courtesy was not his first priority right now but at least he didn’t vocalize the crudity.

“Exactly my point,” he grimly interrupted, partly because he was still unnaturally groggy and had an appalling headache, and partly to spare her, since it was obvious to him she didn’t know exactly what she was referring to in the first place. “But you have to admit certain conclusions could be drawn over our location and state of mutual undress.”

What he would like to have said was that while he might be known for his largesse in the bedroom, at least it could be said of him that he remembered his paramours—but he made it a point to never discuss his private affairs with anyone.

Still, that raised the question: Why was he here, in bed with the delectable daughter of an earl, who happened to be a young woman he’d never even met?

As far as he knew, there were no rumors about Whitbridge’s finances being suspect.However, Ran was a very rich man and his initial reaction to this unusually compromising situation was suspicion. There was a reason he stayed away from the eligible young ladies angling for wealthy, titled husbands. At not quite thirty, he wasn’t interested in the restrictions of marriage yet. But if he had to do his duty and acquire a wife in order to sire an heir, at least he wanted it to be his choice.

“If this is a ploy you will wish you hadn’t tried it,” he said through his teeth with less civility than he might otherwise have used, due to his aching head. “I can’t be coerced.”

In answer she just looked at him in evident confusion. She appeared to think he might have suddenly lost his mind, which, in light of his current circumstances, he wasn’t sure he hadn’t. “What?”

“I won’t marry you.”

In any other situation her horrified expression might be amusing, but he wasn’t in a particularly jocular mood. She stammered, “You surely do not think that I . . . I . . . that this . . . Are you insinuating . . . ?”

He lifted a brow.

This time it was anger that tinted her cheeks as she gathered her composure. Scathingly, she informed him, “My lord, your legendary charm seems to be in abeyance. I hope it does not offend your sense of self-worth, but rest assured, you are certainly
not
what I am looking for in a husband.”

If she was acting she was quite good at it.

He took a moment, unclenched his jaw as he registered her sincerity, and reminded himself she was lovely enough it was unlikely she would need to resort to such drastic lengths to capture a rich husband. “It’s been done before,” he said with less steel in his tone. “A man manipulated into a compromising position and honor-bound to marry the young lady.”

“My understanding is that
honor
is a rather loose term to you.”

She was wrong. He played the game only with ladies who were as willing and as detached as he was, but Ran was well aware of his reputation. “You don’t know me,” he said curtly.

“I am starting to wish that was still the case,” she shot back, her cheeks flushed.

If she were innocent he deserved the set-down, and it sounded like she meant it.

The infidelities of his class left him somewhat jaded. He’d been first seduced by one of his aunt’s friends, a countess whose much older husband was not that attentive, and after that enlightening experience he’d seen enough of the value most of his privileged acquaintances put on their wedding vows to have a jaundiced view of the institution of marriage itself. It was his conclusion that while some species of animals and birds mated for life, human beings were not sophisticated enough for that sort of loyalty. It was usually a mercenary arrangement and if he was honest with himself, he’d always thought there should be much more to it.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood abruptly, wondering where in hell the rest of his clothes might be, not to mention his boots. In his experience, and he had to admit he had quite a bit, the usual scene of any seduction had clothing strewn on the floor or any other convenient surface as the participants disrobed in the heat of passion. Not interested in defending his morals, he asked, “Now that we’ve established neither one of us want to be here, why
are
we? What do you remember?”

“Attending the theater.” She lifted a trembling hand to smooth back her shining hair, the long pale strands gilded by the colored light, her expression disconcerted, but to her credit she wasn’t in hysterics like most spoiled young ladies might be. “I was waiting for my father’s carriage. It is unclear to me what happened after that.”

His
last recollection before waking? Ran wasn’t sure. He contemplated it for a moment, rubbing his jaw. “I was leaving my club. I’d met friends there for dinner and a whiskey or two, but as I said, I was hardly inebriated enough for this. My last impression was of stepping out onto the street.”

The floor was cool stone like the walls and from the circular shape of the room it appeared to be in a tower. When he strode purposefully to the door he already knew what he would find.

As he suspected the door was barred on the outside. He tried it and then set his shoulder to it, but it was solid and didn’t move even a fraction. When he turned back around his delectable companion had gathered the blanket from the bed and covered her partial nudity, her eyes pools of inquiry.

Had their circumstances been different, he might have experienced a twinge of regret, but as it stood, it was just as well.

“Locked,” he said unnecessarily.

“Why?”

“My very question.” He saw the glasses on the table and was grateful—at the moment, for later he might wish for something stronger—that the pitcher was full of water. First he poured a glass for his companion, guessing if she’d been given the same vile drug that he’d obviously been dosed with, she might also be thirsty. She accepted with a chilly thank-you, and when he’d taken a long, cool drink for himself, he asked neutrally, “Can you think of any reason someone would wish to kidnap you?”

“My father is wealthy.”

As was he, so it was a possibility. But in Ran’s case his funds were not available without his presence to sign the proper documents, so that was an oversight on the part of their abductor. However, now that his throbbing headache was easing a little, the whole thing seemed like perhaps there was more behind it than money. To start with, why take their clothes?

“I suppose it could be we are going to be ransomed,” he conceded slowly, wondering what drug they’d been given, because he’d drained his glass of water and was still thirsty and his headache pronounced enough that he was glad the room was shadowed.