A Scandalous Lady (22 page)

“I would think you of all people would have more sense than to work for a man like him.”

“Life doesn't always give a person such choices,” she countered in her own defense.

That was true, Troyce silently agreed. Look at him? He hadn't chosen to be the heir of Westborough. The responsibility had been imposed on him the day of his birth, and all because he'd had the misfortune of being the firstborn son of a nobleman.

“So how did you become . . .
associated
with him?”

She shrugged, and Troyce wondered what she would do if he suddenly tore the mobcap off her head, buried his hands in her hair, and kissed her senseless.

Knock him on his arse with a pillow?

“It's a long story, one I'm sure would not interest you.”

The longer the better, he thought. “Humor me.”

“Well, do you remember when I told you about the blo—the man that caught me stealing from the pastry shop?”

It took every ounce of concentration Troyce could must to focus on her story and not on the hands brushing his rib cage as she buttoned his vest. “I remember.”

“It was Jack. He told me that talent like mine shouldn't be wasted, and he put me to work. I'd been selling matches on the street corners at the time to make extra coin, but go hungry a few nights and see how desperate you get.”

He'd been hungry for months, and he was past desperate.

“It was simple,” she went on, unaware of his salacious thoughts. “Lift a few watches. Weed a few wallets. My fingers were small and deft. I have a dim memory of a piano, and think I once played. In any case, I was a very good pickpocket. I had my own block by the time I was eleven, a full neighborhood at twelve, and by the time I was thirteen I was teaching the tyros how to bilk. We gave the money over to Jack, and he saw that I had food in my mouth, clothes on my back, and a roof over my head.”

She sounded so proud, and in a sense, he supposed she had a right to be. She'd done what she had to and survived. “What he did is against the law, Faith. You could have turned him in.”

“And where would that have left the band? Jack wasn't the kindest man in the world, but he took care of us; and at the time, he was all I had.”

The last thing Troyce wanted to do was make Faith defend her actions, yet it seemed he'd done it anyway. “What of your father, Faith? If he'd known—”

“He wouldn't have cared,” she interrupted in a tone of hard-edged steel.

Though Troyce had been witness to Faith's temper a time or two, the bitterness she carried toward her family surprised even him. “Why do you think he sent you away, Faith?”

She didn't answer for a long time, and just when Troyce thought she'd ignore the question all together, she answered, “I wish I knew.”

And there was something so deeply painful in those four little words that it wrenched his heart.

She shook her head as if to clear her mind of a past she didn't want to remember. “He might still come after me, you know. There's still that chance.”

“Your father?”

“Jack.”

Troyce's lips flattened, and as he stared into the mirror at the lovely young creature beside him, he wished he hadn't stopped with breaking Swift's nose. “Let him try.”

He'd not let
anyone
take what belonged to him.

Chapter 15

T
he ballroom looked like Faith's every image of a fairyland. The chandelier glittered like stars in a midnight sky. The wooden floor gleamed with a high sheen of wax. A four-piece orchestra composed of piano, violin, cello, and harp provided lovely music by composers Faith had never of but admired nonetheless. Ladies, wearing gowns of every color of the rainbow shimmered and shined, were escorted into the room by gentlemen in evening dress decorated with everything from red-and-yellow epaulets on their shoulders to frilly cravats up to their chins. Servants in black livery moved discreetly among the guests bearing silver trays of canapés that Millie and the kitchen staff had spent three days preparing.

Lady Brayton had outdone herself, for a more perfect vision Faith had never seen.

Except she could have done without the roses.

They were everywhere. Roses in every shade and state of bloom—among the candles and delicate lamps, in vases, in wreaths, in bowls . . . petals had even been strewn across the tablecloths. They were inside: in the entrance hall, the staircase, the balconies. They were outside: in the courtyard, on the terrace, even in the necessary located beyond the gardens.

Oh, yes, the gardens. No expense had been spared there either. Climbing roses, creeping roses, tea roses, and long-stems. Roses, roses, roses, everywhere.

Faith desperately would have loved to watch the gala from one of the balconies in the ballroom like a few of the other servants did, as it was quite unlikely that she'd ever get the chance to see such a glorious display again. But even there, one could not escape the powerful scent, for like heat it seemed to rise.

Within a half hour, Faith's eyes were nearly swollen shut and watery, as if she'd been crying for a month, and her nose hurt from sneezing so much. She was absolutely, completely, and utterly miserable. And she couldn't help but wonder if somehow, Lady Brayton had chosen this particular form of torture to keep her from wringing even a moment's enjoyment from a night she had worked so hard to help make perfect for the baron.

So she kept to her rooms for the greater part of the night, since the tower room had been converted to a guest chamber, and listened to the sweet, soulful music echo down the stone halls. Never had she felt so alone.

Or so lonely.

No doubt, her prince of dreams was down there among the brightly colored socialites, lathering them with genteel flattery, humoring them with his wit. Faith rolled over on her mattress and pounded the pillow beneath her head while the strains of a waltz formed a halo about her ears. No doubt he was dancing with them, as well. Holding one of those twittering gems in his arms, swirling them about the floor, flashing his charming dimple.

She buried her face in her pillow and screamed. She could not take this! She had to know, even if it blew her to kingdom come. She had to see for herself if he looked as dashing on the ballroom floor as she'd so often imagined he would be. She had to know what he was doing—and aye, who he was doing it with.

Slipping a large square of linen into her apron pocket, Faith slid her mobcap over her hair and marched out of her room. She paused half a dozen times in the hallway to sneeze before she finally reached a section of the house where, not only was she awarded a surprisingly clear view of the ballroom, but there wasn't a single, solitary, bloody rose in sight.

Beneath the west branch of the staircase.

Slowly, cautiously, she crept toward a slatted partition separating her from the open doors of the ballroom. She searched the crowd, seeking one dark head among many, one blinding smile among dozens. She spotted the duchess, standing near a patterned vase, surveying her creation with a small, pleased smile. Wait—wasn't she wearing . . . she was! She was wearing the bloomin' red dress she'd accused Faith of stealing!

Why that—

“Faith?”

She spun around so fast she nearly fell over. “Baron?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Nothing, Milord.” He stood in a small wedge of moonlight that shone brightly from one of the many windows set high in the castle walls. The space was small, barely four feet square, and it seemed to have shrunk to half that size. It wasn't exactly a place that could be found unless someone was looking. “What are
you
doing here?”

“Well, I was on my way outside, hoping for a breath of fresh air when I heard the strangest noise coming down the hall.
Achoo. Achoo.
” He smiled.

Faith felt her stomach sink to her toes and the blood rush into her face. Why . . . oh why, oh why, oh why . . . did this man always catch her at her very worst? Suddenly reminded of how she must look, with her swollen eyes and cherry red nose, she made a mad dash past him, knowing if he saw her thus, on tonight of all nights, she would simply curl up and die of mortification.

“Wait, Faith—don't leave. You have every right to admire your handiwork.”

His hand burned on her arm. “You don't understand, Baron.”

He tipped her chin and she slammed her eyes shut. “Have you been weeping?”

“No, milord.”

“Your eyes are puffy—oh. Oh, no.” The chuckle started low in his chest. “Oh, Faith, open your eyes.”

She shook her head adamantly. “Come now, open your eyes.”

She lifted her lashes a margin. Her gaze lit on his chin first, which carried the merest shadow of whiskers in spite of being shaved only hours before. Then on his mouth, with that crooked smile that warmed her down to her toes. Then to his eyes, hooded and secretive, a spray of creases at the corners.

“Is it the flowers?”

“Please, don't laugh at me, milord.”

“I'm not laughing. All right, I am, but not at you. The scent is cloying enough for me, I can only imagine how miserable it must be making you. Is that why you're hiding here under the stairwell?”

“I'm not hiding, it's the only place I could find that didn't reek.”

“Well, then by all means, Faith, take advantage of the clean air.” Gently he turned her around so that she faced the slats she'd been peering through. The heat of him remained at her back, and the scent of him—of fresh winds and cut grasses and his own male essence—settled around her like a protective embrace. She watched the dancing, and tried to ignore him.

But he wouldn't let her forget his presence. As if she could.

“They're dancing a quadrille,” he said beside her ear.

“It's beautiful, isn't it?”

She felt him shrug. “I suppose it is. I don't think I've ever considered dancing beautiful, though.”

“That's because you're a man.”

“I consider you beautiful.”

She didn't know what to say to that. Beautiful was hardly a term she'd ever apply to herself, but she couldn't deny that when he said it, she could almost believe it. “I used to dream of being a princess.”

“Not a queen?”

“You're mocking me.” Why had she made such a confession, anyway? He probably thought her a silly twit. Not that she cared what he thought . . . oh, who was she trying to fool? She did care what he thought. She cared too much.

“I'm not mocking you. I'm honestly curious why you would dream of being a princess and not a queen.”

“Because queens are usually married by the time they reach the throne. Then they've got the entire country to worry about. They've no time to be courted. But a princess . . . she can spend her days helping people and her nights with her prince.”

“And how do you know so much about what a princess does with her days and nights?”

“Because when I was little, my mother used to read this story about a girl. She was very lonely. She used to work from dawn to dusk trying to help people so they would be her friends, until one day, she was so tired she couldn't help people anymore and she fell asleep. Then a handsome prince found her and awakened her with a kiss.

“He made her his princess, and she had servants to help her with her duties so she wasn't so tired, friends around her so she wasn't so lonely, and a prince who loved her and held her each night so she would never have to be afraid of being alone.”

The lump in Troyce's throat nearly choked him. He stood stock-still beside Faith, watching her watch the ball through the slats, her gaze wistful and almost . . . lost. It broke his heart and humbled his soul. Here was a woman who dreamed of all he'd taken for granted, coveted all he'd shunned, and longed for all that he'd disdained. He could have told her the unvarnished truth, shattered her illusions. That with all this glitter and gold came responsibilities that could crush a person's soul. That no matter how many servants a person had, the day still ended with a body so tired and sore that no amount of rest would refresh it. And that love never entered the picture when a man took a wife.

Instead, he preserved what innocence had miraculously remained intact despite the rough life she'd led in the London underworld. She gave so much, asking so little in return.

Spotting a vase of orange blossoms in the corner beyond the underwell, Troyce plucked several delicate flowers from the container, and with deft fingers, wove them together. Once he had them circled, he returned to Faith's side and tugged the mobcap off her head.

“What—what are you doing, milord?”

Her hair spilled free to her shoulders, tumbling curls of saffron and amber. “Every girl should feel like a princess at least once in her life.” He tossed the mobcap over his shoulder and set the makeshift tiara upon her head. Then, with a deep and courtly bow, he extended his hand and asked, “May I have this dance, Your Highness?”

Faith stared at him in speechless awe. “You want to dance with me?”

“Aye, very much.”

“But . . . I don't know how to dance.”

“Then perhaps you will allow me to teach you?” She'd taught him so much these last weeks. Of devotion, of determination, and a strange sort of honor where thieves stole but didn't lie and girls dreamed but didn't hope.

With great hesitation, she set her work-worn hand upon his palm and allowed him to turn her so they faced each other. A sympathetic smile touched his lips as he took in her pitifully swollen eyes and reddened nose.

He slowly drew her to him, close enough to feel the heat of her body and nothing else. With one hand holding hers, the other placed at the center curve of her waist, he slid left, back, right, forward, a simple form of dance that resembled a waltz, but left out the intricate steps not permitted within such close confines. Faith caught on once she stopped looking at her feet and let him guide her moves. As he stared into her eyes, and she stared into his, the rest of the world faded to nothing but song and motion, until Troyce could almost believe that the fairy tales Faith had heard as a girl really happened.

“This is scandalous, you know,” she said, but she didn't seem to care any more than he did.

“Indeed. But I fear I can't resist. I've always held a fantasy to dance with a beautiful maiden beneath the moonlight.”

“And instead you're stuck with me under the staircase.”

“Aye, and it exceeds my expectations.”

She came to a stop, and so did he. For a moment, all he could do was look into her eyes. Then her lips. His face lowered, tilted. Their breaths mingled, moist, seductive. “I want to kiss you, Faith.”

“You do?” she asked breathlessly.

“Very much.” He cupped her jaw, threaded his fingers through her silky hair, and tilted her face to receive him.

The first brush of his lips across her sent bolts of fire shooting through his veins. He brushed her lips again, then settled his mouth upon hers.
Ah, God
. . .

His arm came around her waist and he drew her close, relishing her soft curves against his hard planes. Her hand crept up to his chest, her palms sliding up the front of his coat, blazing a path of heat that would have consumed him if he'd allowed it. Instead, Troyce held himself tightly in check, fearing that any sudden moves, any outward show of the desire she created within him would scare her off. Slowly, leisurely, he glided his tongue across the seam of her lips and nearly moaned when they parted. She tasted of sugar, of spice. Of innocence and of mystery. He wanted to devour her. He wanted to push against the wall. He wanted to bury himself in her hot, sweet folds, again and again, until both were spent with exhaustion.

Instead, he forced himself to draw back, to kiss her cheek, her jaw, her neck.

“Oh, Baron . . .”

“Say my name,” he whispered hoarsely against her skin. “I want to hear you say my name.”

“Troyce . . .”

“Faith?”

They snapped apart like a broken twig, both glancing around in guilty surprise.

“Faith, where are you? Lucy, have you seen, Faith?”

“Bloody hell, who is that?” Troyce cursed.

With her fingers clutching his lapels, Faith whispered back, “It's Millie.” She started passed him. “I must go.”

Troyce gripped her arm, stopping her. “Don't. Stay with me.”

“I can't. She'll come looking for me.”

“If we're quiet she won't find us.”

“She needs me, Baron. I must go.” She smiled sadly, then drew her fingertips along his jaw. “Thank you for the dance. I'll remember this night for as long as I live.”

And then she slipped from his grasp and hurried down the servants' hall, her orange-blossom tiara bobbing upon her head.

Troyce watched her until she disappeared around a corner.

Then he turned and plowed his fist into the wall.

 

“You look like you could use this.”

Troyce accepted the tumbler Miles handed him and without inquiring as to the contents, downed it in one swallow.

“Ah, this requires a double, I see.”

And Troyce found another tumbler pressed into his hand. Though his first drink of this one was deep, he forced himself to conserve the rest, knowing from experience that getting drunk would served no useful purpose.