Again the Magic (27 page)

The words hardly did anything to improve McKenna’s mood. However, Gideon could always be counted on to speak to him honestly — and McKenna appreciated that far more than countless well-meant lies. Receiving the observation with a nod, he frowned at the tops of his shiny black shoes.

“I wouldn’t say that your situation is completely hopeless,” Gideon continued. “You’ve got some advantages that would inspire many women, even Lady Aline, to overlook the fact that you’re an oversized mongrel. The ladies seem to find you attractive enough, and the devil knows you don’t lack for money. And you’re damned persuasive when you want to be. Don’t tell me that you can’t manage to convince a thirty-one-year-old spinster from Hampshire to marry you. Especially if she’s already demonstrated her willingness to, er… favor you, as she apparently has.”

McKenna threw him a sharp glance. “Who said anything about marriage?”

The question seemed to catch Gideon off-guard. “You just said you want her to come to New
York with you.”

“Not as my wife.”

“As a mistress?” Gideon asked incredulously. “You can’t really believe that she would lower herself to accept such an arrangement.”

“I’ll make her accept it — by any means necessary.”

“What about her relationship with Lord Sandridge?”

“I’ll put an end to that.”

Gideon stared at him, seeming confounded. “My God. Have I misunderstood, McKenna, or do you really intend to ruin Lady Aline’s hopes of marriage, blacken her name on two continents, break all ties to her family and friends, and destroy all hope of her ever participating in decent society? And probably foist a bastard child on her in the bargain?”

The thought caused McKenna to smile coldly. “A Marsden giving birth to the bastard of a bastard… yes, that would suit me quite well.”

Gideon’s eyes narrowed. “Holy hell — I never would have thought you capable of such malice.”

“You don’t know me, then.”

“Apparently not,” Gideon murmured with a wondering shake of his head. Though it was clear that he would have liked to continue, a particularly bumpy stretch of road caused him to subside back in his seat and clutch his head with a groan.

McKenna returned his gaze to the window, while the remnant of a cool smile remained on his lips.

Marcus’s pleasure at Shaw and McKenna’s departure lasted for precisely one day… until he discovered that Livia had left for London on the following morning. It had been no mean feat to accomplish the necessary packing and make the travel arrangements, all in secret. Aline had been certain that one of the servants might let something slip before Livia was actually off. Thanks to Mrs. Faircloth, however, lips were buttoned everywhere from the scullery to the stables, as no one dared to incur the housekeeper’s wrath by betraying Livia’s plans.

When Livia’s carriage finally rolled away, the sun had just begun to shed its first feeble rays on the drive leading from Stony Cross. Heaving a sigh of relief, Aline stood in the entrance hall, wearing a soft blue morning gown and worn felt slippers. She smiled at Mrs. Faircloth, whose obvious ambivalence about Livia’s actions had not prevented her from doing whatever was necessary to help her.

“Mrs. Faircloth,” Aline said, slipping her hand into the housekeeper’s. Their fingers clung briefly. “How many years have you stood by and watched Marsdens doing things you haven’t approved of?”

The housekeeper smiled at the rhetorical question, and they stood together in silent affection, watching the carriage disappear at the end of the drive.

A voice startled the two of them, and Aline turned to meet her brother’s suspicious gaze. Marcus was dressed in his hunting clothes, his eyes cold and black amid the hard angles of his face. “Would you care to tell me what is going on?” he asked brusquely.

“Certainly, dear.” Aline glanced at Mrs. Faircloth. “Thank you, Mrs. Faircloth — I am certain that you have things to do now.”

“Yes, my lady,” came the immediate and distinctly grateful reply, as the housekeeper had no wish to be present during one of Marcus’s rare but volcanic rages. She sped away, her black skirts fluttering behind her.

“Who was in that carriage?” Marcus demanded.

“Shall we go to the parlor?” Aline suggested. “I’ll ring for some tea, and—”

“Don’t tell me that it was Livia.”

“All right, I won’t.” She paused before adding sheepishly. “But it was. And before you work yourself into a lather about it—”

“By all that’s holy, my sister has
not
raced off to London to pursue that damned libertine!” Marcus said in murderous fury.

“Livia will be perfectly fine,” Aline said hastily. “She’s going to stay at Marsden Terrace, and she has a chaperone, and—”

“I’m going to fetch her at once.” Squaring the muscled bulk of his shoulders, Marcus started for the door.

“No!” Well intentioned he might be, but her brother’s high-handedness had just reached its limits. “You will not, Marcus.” Although she did not raise her voice, her tone stopped him in his tracks. “If you dare try to follow her, I will shoot your horse out from under you.”

Marcus swiveled around to stare at her incredulously. “Good God, Aline, I don’t have to tell you what she’s risking—”

“I know perfectly well what Livia is risking. And so does she.” Sailing past him, Aline went to the parlor that adjoined the entrance hall, while he followed at her heels.

Marcus closed the door with a perfectly executed swipe of his foot. “Give me one good reason why I should stand by and do nothing!”

“Because Livia will resent you forever if you interfere.”

Their gazes locked for a long time. Gradually the fury seemed to drain from Marcus, and he went to sit heavily in the nearest chair. Aline could not help but feel a flicker of sympathy for him, knowing that for a man like her brother, this enforced helplessness was the worst sort of torture. “Why does it have to be him?” he grumbled. “Why couldn’t she pick some decent young man from a solid English family?”

“Mr. Shaw is not so terrible,” Aline said, unable to repress a smile.

He gave her a dark look. “You refuse to see anything past that blond hair and all that empty charm, and that damned American insolence that women seem to find so alluring.”

“You forgot to mention all that nice American money,” Aline teased.

Marcus lifted his gaze heavenward, clearly wondering what he had done to deserve such infernal aggravation. “He’s going to use her, and then break her heart,” he said flatly. Only someone who knew him well could hear the edge of fearful worry in his voice.

“Oh, Marcus,” Aline said gently, “Livia and I are both stronger than you seem to believe. And everyone must risk heartbreak, at one time or another.” Coming to stand by his chair, she smoothed a hand over his crisp black hair. “Even you.”

He shrugged irritably and ducked away from her hand. “I don’t take unnecessary risks.”

“Not even for love?”

“Especially not for that.”

Smiling fondly, Aline shook her head. “Poor Marcus… how I look forward to the day when you fall under some woman’s spell.”

Marcus stood from the chair. “You’ll have to wait a long time for that,” he said, and left the parlor with his usual impatient stride.

The Rutledge Hotel was currently approaching a remarkable metamorphosis, at the conclusion of which it would undoubtedly be the most elegant and modern hotel in Europe. In the past five years, the owner, Harry Rutledge — a gentleman of somewhat mysterious origins — had quietly and ruthlessly acquired every lot on the street between the Capitol Theater and the Embankment, in the heart of the London theater district. It was said that in his ambitions to create the ultimate hotel, Rutledge had visited America to observe the latest in hotel design and service, which was developing much faster there than anywhere else. Currently the Rutledge consisted of a row of private homes, but these structures would soon be razed in preparation for a monumental building the likes of which London had never seen.

Although Lord Westcliff had offered McKenna and Gideon the use of Marsden Terrace, they had opted for the more convenient location of the Rutledge. Not unexpectedly, Harry Rutledge had identified himself as a close friend of Westcliff’s, leading Gideon to observe sourly that the earl certainly had a healthy proliferation of acquaintances.

Taking up residence in an elegantly appointed suite filled with brass-bound mahogany furniture, Gideon soon discovered that the hotel’s reputation for quality was well deserved. After a night of sound sleep and a breakfast of crepes and out-of-season plovers’ eggs, Gideon had decided to amend his opinion of London. He had to admit that a city with so many coffeehouses, gardens, and theaters couldn’t be all bad. Moreover, it was the birthplace of the sandwich and the modern umbrella, surely two of man’s greatest inventions.

A day of meetings and a long supper at a local tavern should have left Gideon exhausted, but he found it difficult to fall asleep that night. There was no mystery as to why he was so restless — his usual talent for self-deception was failing him. He very much feared that he was falling in love with Livia Marsden. He wanted her, adored her, craved her, every waking moment. However, whenever Gideon tried to think of what to do about Livia, he was helpless to arrive at a solution. He was not the marrying kind, and even if he were, he cared for her too much to expose her to the pack of sharks that was his family. Most of all, he was far too closely wed to the bottle to consider taking a bride — and that was something he doubted that he could change, even if he wanted to.

It began to storm outside, thunder growling and clapping while rain fell in intermittent bursts. Gideon opened a window an inch or two to admit the smell of summer rain into the room. Resting fitfully between freshly ironed linen sheets, he tried — and failed — to stop thinking about Livia. Sometime in the middle of the night, however, he was rescued by a rap on his bedroom door and his valet’s quiet murmur.

“Mr. Shaw? Pardon, Mr. Shaw… someone is waiting for you in the entrance hall. I requested that she return at a more suitable hour, but she will not go.”

Gideon struggled to a sitting position and yawned, scratching his chest. “She?”

“Lady Olivia, sir.”

“Livia?” Gideon was stupefied. “She can’t be here. She’s in Stony Cross.”

“She is indeed here, Mr. Shaw.”

“Jesus.” Gideon leaped from the bed as if electrified, searching hastily for a robe to cover his nakedness. “Is something wrong?” he demanded. “How does she look?”

“Wet, sir.”

It was still raining, Gideon realized in growing concern, wondering why in the hell Livia would have come here in the midst of a storm. “What time is it?”

The valet, who showed signs of having tugged on his rumpled clothes in a great hurry, gave a beleaguered sigh. “Two o’clock in the morning.”

Too worried to bother with finding his slippers or combing his hair, Gideon strode from his bedroom, following the valet to the entrance hall.

And there was Livia, standing in a little puddle of water. She smiled at him, though her hazel-green eyes were wary beneath the brim of a sodden hat. Right at that moment, staring at her across the entrance hall, Gideon Shaw, cynic, hedonist, drunkard, libertine, fell hopelessly in love. He had never been so completely in the thrall of another human being. So enchanted, and foolishly hopeful. A thousand endearments crowded his mind, and he realized ruefully that he was every bit the mooncalf that he had accused McKenna of being the previous day.

“Livia,” he said softly, approaching her. His gaze raked over her flushed, rain-spattered face, while he thought that she looked like a bedraggled angel. “Is everything all right?”

“Perfectly all right.” Her gaze chased down the front of his silk robe to his bare feet, and she reddened at the realization that he was naked beneath.

Unable to keep from touching her, Gideon reached out and took her coat, letting a shower of droplets cascade to the floor. He handed it to the valet, who went to hang the garment on a nearby rack. The sopping wet hat followed, and then Livia stood shivering before him, the hem of her skirts drenched and muddy.

“Why have you come to town?” Gideon asked gently.

Livia gave an impudent shrug, her teeth chattering from the damp. “I had some sh-shopping to do. I’m staying at Marsden Terrace. And since our r-respective lodgings are s-so close, I thought that I would pay a call.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“The shops don’t open till nine,” she said reasonably. “That gives us some time to ch-chat.”

He gave her an ironic look. “Yes, about seven hours. Shall we chat in the parlor?”

“No — in your room.” She hugged herself in an effort to stay her shivering.

Gideon searched Livia’s eyes, looking for uncertainty, finding only a need for connection, for closeness, that paralleled his own. She held his gaze as she continued to tremble. She was cold, he thought. He could warm her.

Suddenly Gideon found himself acting before he gave himself a chance to think sensibly. He gestured to the valet and murmured a few directions to him, about sending away the footman and carriage outside, and that Lady Olivia would need to be conveyed back to her residence at a discreet hour in the morning.

Taking Livia’s hand, Gideon slid his arm behind her back and guided her to his room. “My bed isn’t made. I wasn’t expecting company at this hour.”

“I should hope not,” she remarked primly, as if she weren’t about to launch herself into a clandestine affair with him.

After closing the bedroom door behind them, Gideon lit a small fire in the hearth. Livia stood before him docilely, bathed in a flickering yellow-orange glow as he began to undress her. She was silent and passive, raising her arms when necessary, stepping out of her gown as it dropped in a wet heap. One by one Gideon draped her damp garments over the back of a chair, carefully removing layers of muslin and cotton and silk from her body. When she was finally naked, the firelight gilding her slender body and her long, light brown hair, Gideon did not pause to look at her. Instead he removed his own robe and covered her with it, swaddling her in silk that had been heated by his own skin. Livia gasped a little as he picked her up and carried her to bed, laying her amid the rumpled bedclothes. He straightened the covers around her and joined her beneath them, gathering her in his arms. Holding her spoon-fashion, he laid his cheek against a swath of her hair.