Chasing Raven (3 page)

Chapter
Four

"Who is she?" he demanded, his voice low. He didn't need to point her out. His gaze had been fixed upon the woman in green silk for the past fifteen minutes and he was certain the men beside him would know who caught his eye.

They did.

"Raven Deverell. Not a creature to be courted by the faint of heart."

"Deverell?"

"The daughter of True Deverell— who, of course, needs no introduction."

Hale took a deep breath, the first one he'd been aware of since he first set eyes on her again. There was no doubt in his mind that this was the woman rider who winked at him earlier that day.

He observed her smiling flirtatiously at several men around the room while she danced. Her first partner was too busy trying to keep up with the steps to notice how her attention wandered away from him. The second and third partners made more attempt to keep the flighty woman's eyes upon them, but she seemed increasingly annoyed with each man as the dances wore on, her smile becoming strained. He saw her lips move, although of course he could not hear her conversation. When she laughed, it was an exaggerated gesture in which she tipped her head back, as if what they had just told her was the most humorous remark she'd ever heard. But Hale sensed she was not laughing
with
her partners at all. Her eyes were too clever, too wily, too restlessly searching for other amusements.

"Miss Deverell is in London for the season with her mother — Lady Charlotte Rothsey," another man whispered. "You must have heard all about her parents' divorce years ago, and the family scandals before and since. Really, I'm shocked the Winstanleys still invite Lady Charlotte. She's burned most of her bridges in society. Torched them with relish, it might be said."

As a member of Deverell's, the most exclusive gentleman's gaming club in London, Hale had met True Deverell on several occasions. He knew there existed a litter of children, some born to Deverell's former wife, Lady Charlotte, and some to his mistresses. Abruptly now he recalled the black-haired girl who once appeared at his side and then, having tried to instruct him on how to play his cards, cunningly spirited away his fob watch.

Had he been more interested in the social season, he might have seen her again before now, but his usual avoidance of London this time of year meant that he'd missed her growing up. Until today.

Raven Deverell who had, for so long, remained nothing more than a naughty child running away from him and trailing a green ribbon through his memory, was suddenly there before him again. As a woman. Very much grown up.

When had that happened? Had so much time passed?

Each time she looked up at the chandelier, light caught flame in the small emeralds hanging from her ears and a long tail of midnight hair trickled down her back.

His whispering informant continued, "The elder brother was mixed up in some woman's death a few years ago, down in the west country. He was never tried for any crime, but there are folk who believe he got away with murder. The other brothers aren't much better. None are shining examples of morality. Not that anyone is these days."

Hale shot him a quick glare.

"Present company excepted, of course," came the swift amendment.

He looked across at the dancing filly again. Her shoulders— gently sloping above short, puffed sleeves— curved into slender but strong, beautifully shaped arms in long white gloves. Her skin was not fashionably pale. There was a warmer, darker shade, revealing a bloodline that wandered from the usual, carefully cultivated path of English pedigree. Her hair was a rich, thick tumble of black curl, arranged in casual haste. Or perhaps not arranged at all, but left to fall however it wished. Hence the "tail", which seemed to have a will of its own.

Hale felt his hands twitching with a strange restiveness and so he found them hasty occupation, checking the knot in his cravat and then smoothing fingertips over his hair, which was still slightly damp at the ends.

Her eyes were doe-like, the color dark but uncertain from that distance. Soot black lashes were half-lowered, like cunning, miniature fans in some ladylike attempt to hide the direction of her gaze.

But she'd seen him. Hale knew it. He felt that moment of recognition. He tasted it.

There was nothing ladylike about the way she'd used those eyelashes earlier when his gaze caught hers between a muddied silk handkerchief and the brim of a tweed cap.

Nor was there anything gentlemanly about the way he watched her now.

His pulse quickened to a most unsettling, unusual pace.

Her lips were full and lush, a tender pink, reminding him of blushing peony petals at their peak. His favorite flower.

"They say she's been running about with Matthew Bourne. His parents are at the end of their tether, because the boy refuses to give her up. There was talk of sending him away with a tutor for a tour abroad, but after what happened to his brother in Paris...well...his parents won't let him so far out of their sight."

Hale stared grimly across the ballroom, watching her.

"She's been engaged before, but nothing came of it," his informant continued. "There have been various affairs, so I hear, but nobody ever won her icy little heart."

"Oh and that American steamship chap, Cornelius Vanderbilt, claimed she bit him."

"
Bit
him?"

"Of course, Americans tend to exaggerate."

Listening to all this, Hale was partially horrified, a little amused, and reluctantly intrigued.

"I'm sure her father would provide a good dowry just to get her well married." Yet another man had joined the conversation. "Deverell can certainly afford it. But who wants to align themselves with that family of reprobates? Besides, keeping a woman like that as a wife...? She's a handful. Untamable in all likelihood. Not the way to a quiet life, by any means. A mistress, however..." he chuckled, "that would be a more agreeable prospect, eh? One can hardly blame young Bourne."

Matthew Bourne
. Hale winced at the name. He didn't think he'd ever felt such strong adversity to a person in his life as he did to that boy. And it multiplied by the moment.

Naturally Bourne had no thought of marrying her— his parents would never sanction the match— but he would take advantage of so much wild, unguarded beauty. As would every man in that room, given half a chance. They were like moths to the proverbial flame.

She was clearly a vivacious, too-sociable creature of questionable repute and doubtful virtue.

He was surprised his aunts had never mentioned her during one of his dutiful visits to their parlor for tea and cake. Usually they had plenty of social news to impart, especially when it involved broken engagements and scandalous liaisons. But then he only listened to a quarter of their conversation. Perhaps less.

Now he realized what he might have been missing.

Raven. A perfect name for a dark satin filly, spirited and watchful, scampering around the paddock with no intention of being caught and saddled. Flicking her tail in the sunshine and showing off.

"I appreciate the warning, gentlemen," he said finally. "But I only asked her name. I didn't suggest I was looking to have her as a wife. Or as anything else."

"No, Hale. Your
words
didn't."

* * * *

After dancing for half an hour and fending off the dogged attentions of Guy Hammond and Felix Faulkner— two handsome rakes who recently lost sizeable wagers to her and now sought to claim something in return for their trouble— Raven was eager for respite. About to slip backward out of the ballroom and find her mother, she was stopped abruptly by a deep voice.

"You realize, of course, that you broke the rules. But I understand that's something of a Deverell specialty."

Tiny, impish footprints darted up her spine, and made her draw a quick breath, as if her corset had just tightened another inch. Her skin prickled, sensing the ghost of his touch upon it. But unlike most ghosts, this one did not come from the past; it came from the future. And it was certainly not a cold or timid caress.

"Rules?" She didn't turn immediately, but kept her back to him.

"Yes, Miss Deverell. Standards by which all members of the Racers' Club are bound to comply."
"I'm not a member of this...
Racers' Club
, whatever that might be," she replied in her mother's most dismissive tone of hauteur. "I have no inkling of what you mean to accuse me."

"Riding a horse, madam, in a race that was strictly for men only."

Raven laughed lightly. "I hate to disappoint, but you are quite mistaken, sir."

And then he must have stooped to whisper, for she felt his breath on the back of her neck. It almost stopped her heart. "I know it was you, Miss Deverell. You winked at me as you rode that horse this afternoon. You wanted my attention. Again." His breath moved closer, disturbed a curl beside her cheek. "Now you have it."

Spinning around, just as he straightened up to his full height, she found herself facing a grey felt waistcoat that no man of fashion would wear in the evening. In fact, she saw by his suit of clothes that he'd come directly from Bourne Lodge, not bothering to change. She looked upward. And kept looking up until, somewhere in the rarified air above her, she located a hard, chiseled jaw clenched in an emotion deeper and darker than anger. Apparently he thought to intimidate her.

"But
I,
sir," she gave him an arch smile, "know nothing about your silly club. I'm sure I wouldn't be allowed in it."

"No. You certainly would not." Finely sculpted lips parted, so slightly it was a miracle any words escaped. "But you were aided in this deception by your friend,
who hosted the race today and who is a member of our
silly
club. For now. Until I have him tossed out."

His demanding gaze bore down upon her and she felt undone by it, as if he'd found a single hook on the back of her gown that somehow, once released by a solitary brush of his regard, let the silk fall to her ankles. Raven kept her head high, despite the quickening of her breath and the erratic skip of her pulse. "My friend? I have many. Which can you mean?"

"Young Bourne. I could have your lover cast out for life after that little ruse today. With one word from me he'd never get his horses in another race."

Just like that he had assumed they were lovers, of course. "Why tell
me
all this? I don't even know who you are."

His cold smirk told her that he knew this was a lie.

She swallowed and moved to pass. "Neither do I care. Excuse me, sir, I must—"

Suddenly he had her around the waist and before she could object, they were waltzing. He hadn't even asked.

Chapter
Five

She felt the stinging, envious rebuke of every woman there, while the men watched in varying degrees of amazement. Queen Victoria herself might have entered the ball at that moment and possibly been mistaken for a small, plain woman of no particular importance. If she was noticed at all.

Because the very proper, well-respected gentleman, Sebastian Hale, Earl of Southerton, was dancing with the notoriously naughty Raven Deverell. An odd couple, indeed.

"You're not even dressed for a ball, sir. What could you be thinking? I'm surprised they didn't turn you away at the door." But of course they did not, because he was Hale. He could get away with wooden clogs, a worsted shepherd's smock and hayseeds in his hair if he wanted.

"They let
you
in, did they not?" he replied coolly. "Apparently standards are not what they were."

Ah, good. She always enjoyed an argument with a capable opponent. The company at this ball was in danger of putting her to sleep until he showed his grim face. Raven felt considerably lighter on her feet suddenly, reawakened. Perhaps it was simply because he was someone new.

"Why are we dancing?" she demanded. "I didn't hear you ask me."

"If I asked, you would have made some dainty protest about resting your feet or feeling faint and requiring a chair."

"Oh, is that what women usually say to escape your horrid clutches?"

He looked confused for a moment, that stony face cracking slightly. "I do not recall what they say."

"Well, I can assure you I would have come up with much better excuses." She smiled. "None of which would have been dainty."

"Thus the reason I did not ask."

"But it is rather gratifying to cause such a stir. I didn't even need to show my ankles, fall into a fountain, or slap anybody's face this time. Apparently dancing with you is just as likely to cause a public scandal."

"Is that your aim then?"

"Why not? Life can be so very dull otherwise. I thought perhaps you felt the same, which would explain why we're here."

His eyes narrowed as they peered down at her from a lofty height. "We are dancing, Miss Deverell, because while we are in motion no one can overhear our conversation, nor can they interrupt us. At least for another few minutes. And I would like you to know that I certainly do not court scandal. I put myself out considerably to be here and give you a piece of my mind."

"Are you sure you can spare any? Don't trouble yourself on my account."

His scowl deepened. "I am not a man who suffers fools gladly, neither do I put myself out for any minor circumstance. Very few indiscretions do I consider worthy of my time to intervene."

"Crikey! Aren't I special?"

"Yes. I'm sure you're very... singular."

Looking him up and down with an appraisal as scathing as she could manage in her current state of amusement, she said, "Unlike most folk, I am not afraid of you. I don't need anybody's approval or their good opinion. I could just walk away and leave you standing here like a fool."

She felt his gaze wandering over her lips, then down her throat, beyond the thin string of emeralds and pearls her father had bought her, to the lace that trimmed her décolletage. "I keenly await your attempt," he said.

His expression was unchanged, but his hand tightened around hers. At her waist his fingers spread, drawing her body a half inch closer. Her pulse skipped.

"But I'm sure you want your winnings, Miss Deverell," he added, "and you don't want your young friend banned from racing his horses, just because you broke the rules for him today."

"Do you threaten me, sir?"

"I prefer to call it fair warning."

He wasn't handsome, she decided, but there was something about his features that kept her looking at his face, as if she could not look away. Dare not. Some men had to be watched, because one never knew what they might do next.

Matthew had called him predictable. That was a mistake.

"But it's not only about the rules of the Racers' Club, Miss Deverell. Horse racing is not a sport for women. You could be hurt. Badly. You could even be killed. Apparently Matthew Bourne doesn't care about that."

"However, since it's my body and my life, I ought to be allowed to do as I please with it.
If
I ever wanted to ride in a race, it is my decision. Don't you think?"

"No," he replied flatly. "What an utterly ridiculous idea."

She stared. "That I should choose what I do with my own body?"

"Not if it may bring you harm." He looked down, and sounded out of breath when he added, "I would take issue with anyone causing you to be—" Then he raised his eyelids again. "That is to say, causing
any
lady to sustain an injury."

"But women ride to hunt."

"If they ride in any hunt on my estate, they mount side-saddle, keep well behind the men, stay with a cautious chaperone, and they do not ride out all day."

"Sounds to be the most riveting, joyous fun." She retrieved her hand from his to pat her mouth while she yawned.

Having snatched her gloved fingers back and gripped them even more tightly, he looked away from her for a moment, nostrils flaring. "These are precautions to keep the women safe."

"You could just bore them to death and have done with it. They'll be extremely safe once they're in a grave."

He looked at her again, his eyes black with anger. "I suppose that is the only time you'll behave yourself, Miss Deverell."

"They'll have to dig me a very deep hole."

His cheeks sucked inward slightly as he looked down at her. "Women should know their place and their limitations. When they do not, they become a liability."

She gave a little snort of amusement. "It seems we will never agree on this subject. We have only known each other for a matter of minutes and yet already we have found something to argue about. My body and what I do with it." Then she smiled, for he was truly looking quite distressed. She thought a little sweat had broken on his brow. "Thus the first hurdle toward friendship is crossed, your lordship."

He squinted. "
Friendship
?" he echoed the word as if it was something outrageous she'd suggested. "I very much doubt you and I could ever be friends, Miss Deverell."

For a moment she was speechless, which didn't happen often.

"You are too young to heed the wisdom of your elders," he added, terse.

"And you are too narrow-minded to be fair and reasonable."

"Indeed. I suspect we would be at odds on a great many subjects, Miss Deverell."

"Then it's a very good thing that you don't
own
me, your lordship, and I don't have to listen to you, unlike all your sycophantic followers."

His lip curled up very cautiously and a thin line appeared briefly between his brows. "Would you listen to me if I did own you?"

With a smile she replied teasingly, "Only when you agreed with me on every count, but then I suppose I would own
you.
Hmm. How much would you cost to keep?"

He shook his head. "As I thought. You are an impossible, pampered chit of a girl."

"What do you want from me then?" she demanded with a pert shrug of her shoulders, tired of trying to make him smile back at her.

"I want an apology, madam."

"For?"

He seemed to consider his answer carefully and then his gaze swept back upward to her eyes. "For spoiling my sport today. And before."

"Before?"

He sniffed. "I'm sure you remember."

But she couldn't think what he meant. Raven looked boldly into that dark gaze and felt a tremor of excitement very much like the one she got from winning that race earlier. She had to laugh again, just to release some of the tension that built inside. "Oh dear! I have discovered that the Almighty Hale is not so perfect, after all. He does have a fault. At least one." And then she raised a gloved finger from where it rested on his shoulder, and used it to poke the end of his nose. "You, sir, are a poor loser."

It was a teasing gesture she would have used on Matty Bourne, or any other dancing partner in danger of becoming too serious. But Hale was not just anybody. Breathless, she waited to see what would happen. She was quite certain that every soul watching them had withdrawn a step or two, anticipating the blast of his wrath.

No matter how she tried she could not fathom his expression. Inscrutable was the only way to describe it.

Finally his lips parted. "Yes, I've been told that it's because I haven't had much practice," he said, "at this thing called losing."

"Oh...yes, naturally. Being a different experience for you it must be quite terrifying. But you should never be afraid to try something new. You have been too long in your comfortable, tidy world where nobody challenges you. Losing, once in a while, might even make you human. But then you would be like the rest of us, and that would never do."

"Certainly not. Somebody has to set an example for the rabble."

Still his face remained unreadable, but wait...was there was a twinkle of warmth in his regard, the hint of humor? If only she could coax it further out of hiding and be sure.

The ever smoldering fire of her curiosity flickered into flame.

Head tipped to one side, she studied his features again, examining those sharp lines and that strong, stubborn jaw. What terrible secrets did he have that kept him away from London society and made his appearance in public so rare? He was neither deformed, nor sickly, but she would have expected a few warts, a third eye, and a hump at the very least.

He smelled rather nice. Sandalwood and something else. Very masculine. How odd it was that he did not wear evening clothes. A man obsessed with rules ought to be very particular about his garments for every occasion, but he was not. His rather worn, comfortable-looking coat and muddy riding boots had an unexpected air of the mutineer about them.

"May I inquire what bedevilry you currently contemplate, Miss Deverell?" he asked warily. "You look rather pleased with yourself."

"I was thinking, sir, that I'm surprised you're such a bad sport. It's not very gentlemanly. If I was your nanny, I would send you promptly up to bed with no supper."

"If you were my nanny," another half inch of air between them vanished, "we would all be in a vast deal of trouble." While she was still pondering this, he added suddenly, "Matthew Bourne is no good for you."

She arched an eyebrow. "Once again, sir, that is my decision to make."

His hand almost crushed the bones in her fingers. "Give him up, or I will have him black-balled from every club in town."

Astonished at the sudden fierceness in his tone, she scoffed, "For what, pray tell?"

"For putting a woman in danger. For breaking a rule and hiring a female to race on one of his horses. A woman to distract my jockey."

His fingers moved up and down against her spine again, creating a spidery heat under her gown and slyly drawing her body even closer. It was several years since the waltz had been considered indecent, but tonight she suspected that a few of the spectators might reverse their opinion on that score. Naturally, they would blame her.

"I didn't distract your jockey," she replied, feeling oddly giddy, as if, once he removed his hands from her she might lose her balance. "He didn't seem to have his mind on the race."

"And you did? Even while winking at me?"

"Yes. But
I
can do two things at once, sir." The dance was finally ending, and they came to a halt at the edge of the ballroom floor. "Indeed, I can manage even more than two. I believe it's a female advantage." She smiled.

It bothered her suddenly, with a quicksilver intensity, that she probably never would know him well enough to have him smile at her in return. After tonight, if he resumed his old habits and withdrew from London society once more, they may never meet again.

I very much doubt you and I could ever be friends.

That was rather mean and uncalled for, she thought. It felt much worse than the usual cut to which she was accustomed.

Slowly his hands released her. "Well, I might not have received the apology I sought from you, Miss Deverell. But I did get a confession, did I not?"

Raven swallowed hard. He had caught her out. Alarm pricked her skin like the sharp needles of a cold, unpredicted rain shower.

He added softly and steadily, "Now I must decide how to act on that confession."

"I was the one who broke the rule," she exclaimed, "not him."

"Do you try to tell me that he had no knowledge of it? That he didn't put you up to it? He didn't think it would be a great lark to have you ride in that race?"

"No. It was entirely my idea.
I
wanted to beat the Almighty Hale. But you do not believe women are capable of thinking for themselves, do you, sir?"

"I know that when they do, madam— especially when they are young, imprudent and spoiled — no good ever comes of it." He paused. "Finally the false smile has left your lips. Even if that usually works to your favor with the men you encounter, I would prefer to see a genuine smile. If you know what that is."