Enchanted by Your Kisses (11 page)

No one came forward.

He moved into the room. Waiting. Took a seat at a table with a well-polished sheen to its surface. Another indication of the establishment's ability to cater to the wealthy. A glance around the room confirmed his supposition. The men inside were well dressed, their appearance neat. Nathan met the eye of every one of them, yet no one nodded, no one stood up, no one spared him a second glance.

His frustration mounted. Damn. What nonsense was this? Had the man decided not to show?

But Ariel
D'Archer
had shown. She stared through Phoebe's carriage window to her left, her eyes still burning with the image of Nathan descending from the ducal carriage, anger, humiliation and unexpected hurt making it difficult to breathe.

Fiend. Miscreant. Cad.

Tears clouded her vision as she leaned against the black carriage squabs. "Drive on," she ordered the coachman. She'd seen all she needed to see.

Nathan
Trevain
, her "friend," was none other than Helios, master spy from the colonies.

And on the heels of that thought came the realization that her father would have her hide.

Used. Again. By another man.

She wiped her eyes, forcing the tears away. She would not cry when it was her own stupidity that had landed her in such a situation. But she hadn't been ignorant, she reassured herself. Her internal warnings had gone off enough times to know something was odd about Mr.
Trevain's
sudden offer of help. But what made it so awful, what made it nearly unbearable to take, was that she'd started to like him. Truly, truly like him. That he wasn't the man he wanted her to think he was made Ariel's hands clench in the dark gray cloak she wore. A sickness crept into her throat. The urge to vomit on Phoebe's carriage floor was nearly overwhelming.

Buck up, my girl. At least you've found out now.

Found out what?
she asked herself.
That a man you've actually liked has turned out to be just like Archie, only worse?

She closed her eyes and exhaled a breath. Gracious, what a fool she was. Twice. Twice she'd trusted a man only to have that trust whipped away like a dirty blanket.

Her nails dug into the fabric of her cloak. The motion of the carriage made her upper body sway as they rounded a corner. '
Twas
bad enough to have to find out Nathan
Trevain
was also Helios, a spy, but to know that he'd intended to use her was further humiliation. For as surely as she knew her name, she knew that it was no coincidence he had sought out the First Lord's daughter. She took a deep breath, composing herself.

Very well, he intended to use her.

For what? she wondered. Her father would know, she realized. Or perhaps not. Obviously he had no idea who Nathan
Trevain
really was. If so, she was sure he'd be apprehended. . .or imprisoned. Very well, so what should she do about it? Confront Nathan with what she'd learned? Should she unmask him? The idea filled her with a fair amount of anticipation. How she'd like to accuse him, then slap his face. No. She would stab him in the heart. No, she would shoot him.

Outside, a coach rumbled by. She watched it pass blindly. But to unmask him might put her own life in jeopardy. No. She should report his presence to the Admiralty. That seemed to be the most expedient thing to do. But what if they required proof? She had only her word that Nathan was Helios. Would they believe her? She nibbled her lip, picturing Lord Howell patting her head and telling her to go home with her silly ideas.

He would do it, she was sure. As would the other admirals. No. She must have proof. Perhaps she could catch Helios in the act of pilfering whatever documents he sought.

Yes, she liked that idea. She'd been used. And she would be damned if she let Nathan get away with it. No, indeed. This time she would make a man pay the price for his betrayal. Nathan
Trevain
would pay. That she vowed.

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot in sea and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.
                             
SHAKESPEARE

The prospect of facing Nathan after what she'd discovered left Ariel feeling rather like a cat with a hair ball stuck in its throat. It didn't help that she'd spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning. Time and again she replayed her meetings with the cad. Staged. All of them. Her coming to
London
he no doubt considered a boon. But with each memory of their conversations, each recollection of how cynically he'd intended to use her, she grew more and more angry.

And an angry
D'Archer
was a frightening thing. Between her gypsy blood and her father's love of battle, she'd inherited a terrific propensity for war.

And she declared war on Nathan
Trevain
.

So when she received a note from him asking to see her, she declined. If he wanted to play cat and mouse, she would play cat and mouse.

In fact, it was two days before she agreed to see him, and then only because they would meet in public.

"Will you go?" Phoebe asked.

"Yes," Ariel said, reading his note again. "There will be several guests at his uncle's, too. ‘Twill be the perfect place to break the news to him that I no longer wish to see him."

"I still do not understand why you do not simply send him a note."

No, Phoebe couldn't understand, and Ariel wouldn't tell her. It was bad enough to bear this humiliation alone. She didn't think she could cope with Phoebe's pity over the situation, too.

So it was that later that evening she chose a gold satin that exactly matched the color of her eyes. The hoops were subtle rather than large, a dark-brown, wide bow above the waist that accentuated her figure. The neckline was modest. Her hair was swept away from her face. She hated wigs, and the thought of wearing one through tonight's battle was more than she could stand, so she elected to go against fashion. She had to look her best. To be brave. To remember that she had much to gain by proving Nathan
Trevain
a spy. Revenge. Satisfaction. Perhaps even redemption with society.

Be brave
she repeated to herself as she went down to meet him before they departed for the duke's. Her palms were sweaty. And her hands shook. And she wasn't at all sure she could face the man without going at him with her nails. She curled her fingers into her palms just to safeguard herself against the urge.

"Mr.
Trevain
, good evening," she said, her tone even although her jaw felt all but locked shut.

He stood by the window in the drawing room, his scar in shadows cast by the candles. She could do this, she told herself, heart pounding, but gracious, this evening he looked every inch the spy. Or was that her own cynical assessment? She narrowed her eyes as she studied him. He wore dark clothes. The better to skulk around the city at night, she surmised. His breeches were black, a severe fashion faux pas, not that he appeared to care. Perhaps he had an appointment tonight to break into somebody's home. Perhaps her and her father's home.

"Lady
D'Archer
," he said, his expression one of concern and. . .pique? Yes, he was piqued. Well, good. She would pique him until he turned blue in the face.

"I confess myself relieved that you agreed to see me tonight."

She would wager he was.

"Yes, I do beg your pardon for being less than social. However, I was rather ill, or didn't Phoebe explain that to you?"

"Oh, she explained it," he murmured, but his eyes told her he plainly didn't believe it.

She felt her eyes narrow. "Well, that is all behind us, for we are here now, and I am set to go to your uncle's with you."

He stared, his eyes probing her eyes intently. What he saw she had no idea. Truth be told, she feared he could read every angry thought she had about him on her face.

"You look lovely," he offered.

"Do I?" she found herself snapping. Lovely enough to seduce?

His eyes traveled down the length of her, and was it her imagination, or did they warm? "That color suits you well."

Yes, no doubt he enjoyed the modest neckline. And no doubt he hoped the stays would release easily in the event he wished to kiss her in that most tender of spots.

She colored, clenched her hands. Never. Never would she allow him such a liberty.

"Yes, well, thank you." She gave him what she hoped was a smile, though she knew it was tight at best. "Shall we be on our way?"

She thought she saw his eyes narrow, realized she needed to be more careful. It wouldn't do to anger him now, not when she most needed to get close to him.

Still, it was hard. She attempted conversation a few times on their way to his uncle's, but her answers came out short, terse, even to her ears. She wasn't sure if Nathan noticed. Honestly, the evening had already begun to blur.

A line of carriages had already formed outside the duke's home, suggesting that this would be much more than just a small dinner party. She wore gloves tonight; her hands were sweaty beneath the white material. She tried to calm her shaking limbs, wondered if she'd bitten off more than she could chew with her plan, then glanced over at Nathan
Trevain
.

Helios.

She straightened. No. She could do this. Taking a deep breath, she allowed him to help her down a few minutes later, reluctantly placing her hand upon his forearm as he led her up the steps to the duke's home.

The sudden brightness of candles nearly blinded her as she stepped through the open door. They were everywhere, lighting the place as brightly as the sun. A gray and white marble floor, so polished that it reflected the image of those candles, echoed the sound of their footsteps. Cherry wood furniture, rare for its red wood, decorated the hall.

Couples were gathered in an elegant tan and white room to her right. Gilt frames surrounding mirrors and portraits conveyed an instant sense of elegance and extreme wealth. Her attention, however, was pulled away from the room's decor by the instant drop in the level of conversation. She eyed the fashionably dressed ensemble before her proudly.

It was worse than any ball she'd been to thus far. Much worse. Ariel knew it in an instant. Obviously the duke meant to humiliate her. His dislike for her was evident in that he didn't even come forward to greet her. She studied him. He wore a long wig, curls rolling down the sides of it. His face was powdered, yet it could not conceal the striking resemblance to Nathan. But for the large girth and aged, wrinkled face, the man was the spitting image of Nathan
Trevain
.

She pulled her gaze away. Ladies eyed her up and down rudely. The men, too, stared at her. Ariel forced herself to take a deep breath.

"Uncle, may I present Lady Ariel
D'Archer
."