A Most Improper Rumor (7 page)

Chapter 8

W
hat once had been a fairy tale was now a nightmare.

She was about to enter a drawing room, so she needed to stiffen her spine and assume a mask of indifference.

If Christopher hadn’t asked her specifically, Angelina never would have agreed to attend this event, not even for such a lauded invitation, because if there was one lesson in life she’d learned, it was that the superficial affections of society mattered not at all. Neither did beauty or fortune, for both could be lost easily. Perhaps people still thought she was beautiful, but that she had never earned; what she had accomplished was the ability to walk into a room and not care about the stares and the whispers.

He was convinced that her withdrawal only fueled the scandal anew, and for him, she capitulated. Perhaps he was even right. If she were not such a novelty, maybe the gossipmongers would grow bored.

But because of her fear for him, she couldn’t approach him either, so for tonight she would have to endure the cold, heartless scrutiny alone.

Very well. It was a less-than-favorable way of discovering inner strength, but enlightening nonetheless. During her time in the country, especially after the trial, she’d wondered more than once if either William or Thomas had lived, would she have become a superficial wife, uninterested in more than the banal habits of her peers, the management of her household, and relegating the care of her children to nannies and governesses.

Though it was not an easy way to earn it, she thought as her name was announced to the guests and conversations stilled everywhere, perhaps it was a valuable lesson to understand what was important in life: self-respect much more than popularity, happiness more than possessions and wealth, and most of all, love more than mere contentment.

In some ways, she was a very lucky woman, though at the moment, the focus of all eyes, she didn’t feel much like one.

“Lady DeBrooke.” Her hostess, Mrs. Greggston, came forward and smiled ingratiatingly, but the smile didn’t reach her small dark eyes. There wasn’t welcome there, but malicious interest. “How nice to see you again. Your gown, I must say, is lovely.”

It was shot crimson silk for her first truly public appearance since the trial. Not a modest neckline, but not daring either, as she didn’t need to be more notorious than she was already. The color was a perfect foil for her dark hair because she’d gone over bolts and bolts of fabric, declined the garish, and finally found the right blend of slight silver thread elegantly woven through a red cloth so rich that it set off her coloring perfectly, or at least in her opinion. Long white gloves completed the ensemble, and she had her maid dress her hair in a shining coil low at her nape, held in place with glittering silver pins set with diamonds.

If she was going to make an appearance, it might as well be memorable.

There he was
. For a moment she let her gaze stray. Really, she supposed he wasn’t handsome in a classic sense, but somehow that made him more attractive. His clean features and the fair color of his thick hair drew the eye, his nose was a touch Roman, a gift from his Italian grandmother he’d told her once, his chin square, but the combination was striking. Christopher had no real expression on his face and he didn’t let their eyes meet; but she knew he’d been watching her too, and her skin warmed.

Perhaps it was worth it to be ogled for the evening by the morbidly curious just for the opportunity to see him.

Not to dance with him.

Not to smile and flirt and have him gallantly present her with a glass of champagne.

Not even to as much as brush past him in a seemingly innocent movement on her way to the buffet table.

None of that was possible, though he would argue it was. She just wouldn’t allow it.

But yet she’d come, unable to resist his request.

She turned to her hostess and smiled with what she hoped was perfect composure. “Thank you.”

If the woman thought she was going to fawn all over her for inviting her, she refused to do it. When the invitation had arrived in the post, she’d known at once it wasn’t given out of charity and a generosity of spirit, but more of an offer to her other guests, a titillating curiosity.

The Dark Angel is once again roaming about society, gracing London ballrooms with her deadly presence
 . . .

“Did you come without an escort?” A seemingly innocent query.

“I am a widow as I am sure you remember,” she answered with cool equanimity, “and therefore garner certain freedoms. Don’t you agree?”

“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Greggston agreed, fluttering her hands suddenly, actually looking uncomfortable at Angelina’s direct response. “Well, please do feel free to mingle. There will be a short musicale before dinner.”

“That sounds lovely.”

The way the woman hurried away would have been amusing, but it was difficult to find the slightest satisfaction in her hostess’s discomfort. It was pretense to act as if it didn’t bother her to be whispered about, but there was no changing what had happened in the past.

However, she did intend to never be a victim of the future at someone else’s whim.

This was always the awkward part, though actually all of it was usually awkward. Luckily, she didn’t get invited often, and even more rarely did she accept. She stood there, alone, and scanned the crowd with seeming nonchalance, hoping for a friendly face.

“Lady DeBrooke.”

Angelina had to admit she blinked at the warmth in the greeting, and she turned to see the Earl of Heathton’s wife, stunning this evening in deep blue velvet that exactly matched her eyes, smiling at her. There might have been just a hint of mischief in the twitch of her mouth.

Remembering the woman’s impromptu visit the other evening, she said politely, “Countess.”

“I was not aware you would be here. How delightful.” Alicia Wallace sounded sincere, a small dimple appearing at the corner of her mouth. She added in a lower tone, “I sometimes get quite bored at these affairs, don’t you? Shall we wander over for some champagne?”

When the other woman linked her arm through hers, it was impossible for Angelina not to feel a glimmer of amusement despite her vow to remain poised and aloof as she struggled through what she knew would be a grueling evening. “I think that would be wonderful.”

As far as she could tell, she had little choice, for Lady Heathton certainly had the upper hand as they made their way through the room. There was no doubt the earl’s wife was both popular and lauded by the
ton
as undisguised interest followed their progress toward the refreshment table.

It was a generous, gracious gesture; of that, there was no doubt.

They each accepted a fluted glass from a footman and Angelina murmured, “You are being very kind.”

“Nonsense.” Alicia took a dainty sip. “It is quite close in here, is it not? Shall we move toward the terrace doors? Perhaps there’s a breeze.”

There might be, but Christopher was standing near there, in conversation with several young ladies who were laughing and simpering—in her opinion—around him. As a male, maybe he did not understand how it cost her to be a pariah when once she had been feted and admired and even envied.

Angelina inclined her head in agreement, for if she refused, Lady Heathton might become suspicious as to why. “If you wish, of course.”

At that moment, Christopher excused himself if his small courteous bow was any indication, and she saw with a small flicker of both apprehension and joy, he was coming directly their way, a half smile on his all-too-sensuous mouth.

The mouth that had done some outrageously scandalous things to her body, tasted every inch of her, kissed her with ardent fervor as he gave her exquisite pleasure . . .

What the devil was he doing?

* * *

He hadn’t realized what he’d asked of her.

The intimate country-house party where they’d met had been hosted by a friend of hers and the company had been polite, if a little cool toward the infamous Lady DeBrooke. He was a worldly man, so he’d known this would be different—as this was London and present company a more brittle, sophisticated crowd—but he hadn’t quite imagined the poignant look on Angelina’s face when she was announced and stepped into the grand salon where Mrs. Greggston—damn the woman for pouncing like a cat on a mouse—was hosting her party.

He knew her, body and soul he could swear—he loved her, but it was crystal clear he hadn’t entirely
understood
what Angelina had endured.

Not that anyone else saw it, he would wager. She’d been serene, stunning in her fashionable red gown, and whatever she’d said to their hostess had negated the urge he felt to rush across the room to her defense, but he
knew
her. There had been a slight vulnerable set to her soft, tempting mouth, and she was a little pale this evening, her smooth skin alabaster in contrast to her glossy dark hair and the color of her gown.

All because he’d insisted she move about in society again to demonstrate that guilt was not what motivated her retreat from the beau monde.

It had seemed logical in theory, but now he wondered. She might have been twice married, but she was still very young, and, as far as he could tell, very alone in the world.

The women had whispered.

Every man in the room had been riveted by her beauty.

And he no longer had confidence in his ability to stay detached in public. Quite a dilemma.

“Lady Heathton.” He stopped and bowed politely before the earl’s pretty wife, but his eyes were focused on Angelina. His need to rescue her was overwhelming and he could not keep it at bay. “How nice to see you again. Is your husband here also this evening? I have a question for him about that Arab racer in his stable.” A reasonable excuse, he thought, should anyone wonder why he approached, but he was fairly sure anyone watching them, and that was probably everyone, understood he was very interested in the deliciously beautiful woman right in front of him.

And undeniably he was.

“He will be along later.” Lady Heathton withdrew her proffered hand from his light clasp and turned, her fan swinging at her wrist. “Have you met Lady DeBrooke? My lady, this is Baron Lowe. I am sure you have heard of him, for he is a rather famous architect.”

Angelina’s hand came up in graceful offering, but when he clasped it, her fingers trembled, belying her outward composure. “I certainly have heard of you, my lord. Did you not design the new museum that will house some of the antiquities being discovered in Egypt?”

He bent and his lips brushed the backs of her gloved fingers. When he straightened, he let go only with reluctance, looking into her eyes, those silver depths as always drawing him in, captivating his very soul. “I had the honor, yes.”

“It is quite beautiful.”

“So are you, Lady DeBrooke.”

Could everyone in the room see the way he was looking at her? He thought probably they could, but he didn’t care. Eventually society was going to have to hear of their involvement and he’d rather the world thought they’d just met than discover they’d been lovers in secret for several months now. He fully intended to make her his wife, but for her sake, with as little scandal as possible.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure, I assure you.”

When he turned to Lady Heathton, Christopher saw she was looking at him with a slight speculation in her indigo eyes and he determined that the earl had not confided in his wife about his relationship with Angelina, which meant her gesture of rescue had been done out of simple kindness. It made him admire her even more. “If you have a chance to speak with your husband when he arrives, please tell him I’d like a word if he has a moment.”

“I will.” Her smile was gracious.

“Excuse me.”

“Of course.”

The rest of the evening was torturous enough that once the port was served and consumed, he excused himself. His footsteps rang in the marble hall as he walked swiftly to the front entrance, asked for his carriage to be brought around, and climbed in impatiently almost before the vehicle stopped moving, opening the door himself and slamming it shut after giving his driver the address.

Angelina had left before him. He didn’t blame her as at dinner she’d been seated next to a lascivious old baronet who seemed disinclined to worry about her past and was instead intent upon what he could see of the luscious curve of her bosom, and an old martinet who pointedly ignored her. Unfortunately, the gracious Lady Heathton had been put at the other end of the table, and he’d been placed between a pretty but empty-headed debutante, whose name he could not even remember, and her mother. The latter shamelessly extolled her daughter’s virtues, and the only solace had been his wineglass, which he’d emptied in record speed throughout the entire meal.

He had eschewed dessert because he knew a more delectable treat lay ahead.

The town house was modest and not in Mayfair but in a decent neighborhood populated by the more-affluent bourgeoisie, some of the aristocracy whose families had lost their fortunes and favor by choosing the wrong side at Culloden Moor and never recovered, and some higher-ranking retired military officers who after years on the Peninsula could afford the proximity to the more-elite sections of London. Angelina’s town house was on a quiet street, the brick façade neat and well maintained, with a walled garden in back. He let himself in through the gate out onto the mews, walked past rows of blooming roses toward the house, the fragrance of the flowers heavy and sweet, and quietly extracted a key from his pocket to unlock the back door. By choice, she had no live-in servants except her maid, the housekeeper and cook instead coming in on a daily basis. Whether or not Nellie knew he visited her mistress he had no idea, but it would surprise him if she didn’t have at least a suspicion. Luckily, she’d been Angelina’s maid for years—ever since her first marriage. Still, he was careful to never stay the entire night unless they met somewhere out of London and passed themselves off as husband and wife.

This confounded secrecy was irritating.

The hallway was dark and shadowed, and he walked quietly to the back staircase used by the servants, his movements not quite stealthy, but careful in the gloom. Her bedroom was on the second floor and there was still a light under the door, though had it been dark it would not have deterred him. After this evening they needed to talk more than ever.