Forbidden Love (19 page)

“Weston! Didn’t expect to see you here, old man. Lady Alicia has been telling everyone some tale about your being laid up for months. Ain’t true, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Courtesy dictated that he reply to the Honorable Mr. George Seavors, whom he had known over the past fifteen years. Ordinarily, Justin had no objection to Seavors, who was not a bad sort for all his giving himself the airs of a Macaroni, but tonight he was not in good humor. The idea of Ivor—Ivor!—making Megan the object of his gallantries annoyed him to the point where he could think of little else.

“Yes, um, well… ” Seavors was at a loss to understand how he could possibly have offended Justin. The man was looking like a thundercloud, and in Seavors’ experience that meant trouble. Weston was famous for being a deadly shot, and had more than once killed his man in a duel. And his temper was such that prudent fellows steered clear of him when he was looking the way he looked tonight. Seavors cast a hasty glance into
the ballroom, hoping to be rescued, and had the happy notion of something he could say that could not possibly be open to misinterpretation.

“Allow me to compliment you on your ward, Weston! A real stunner!”

“Ahh.” Seavors had Justin’s full attention. “Thank you, Seavors. Have you seen her tonight?”

Seavors beamed. “Who hasn’t? She’s the belle of the ball. Say, Weston, do you suppose you could introduce me? I’ve been trying to ask her to dance all night, but there’s no getting near her.”

“I will be delighted, Seavors—later. But in the meantime, I would be in your debt if you could point me in her direction.”

“Nothing easier, old man,” Seavors replied, turning to peer into the ballroom, grinning at the same time. “See that knot of fellows over there? Last time I saw her—just a few minutes ago—she was in the center of it, trying to decide which of her admirers to honor with a posy of violets. Both Ivor and Peter Marsh requested it, you see.”

“I do indeed.” Justin bowed ironically and left Seavors to his own devices. Seavors, staring after him, wondered briefly what ailed Weston, then with a shrug dismissed the matter from his mind, and took himself off to the card room.

By the time Justin had made his way through the crowded ballroom to the place Seavors had indicated, he was just in time to see Megan sweep off to the dance floor on the arm of Lord Ivor as the musicians
struck up a country dance. Justin halted, gritting his teeth and watching as Megan laughed and chatted with Ivor in the friendliest manner imaginable. He scowled as Ivor took her hand in his and led her through the steps of the dance. If anyone spoke to him—and several did—he didn’t hear them.

Megan, looking lovelier than he had ever seen her, was dressed in a satin ballgown the color of wisteria, with a full flounced skirt that must have been yards in circumference. The bodice tightly molded her slender shape, emphasizing the proud young tilt of her breasts and the slimness of her waist. Above the dropped-shoulder styling of the neckline her bosom peeked shyly forth. Her hair, piled in masses of ebony curls on top of her head, was ornamented at the side by an amethyst clasp securing a cluster of violets. Justin had no trouble in recognizing the clasp, and the matching necklet which adorned Megan’s white throat, as being part of the Brant family jewels. He could only suspect that Charles had fetched them from the locked cabinet where they were kept for Megan to wear tonight.

As Justin watched, a movement of the dance brought Megan around to face him. She was totally unconscious of his presence as she exchanged gay repartee with her partner, whose scarlet balldress nearly rivaled Megan’s own for magnificence. Justin curled a lip at Ivor’s foppishness, wondering why he had never noticed it before. Then Ivor laughed aloud at something Megan said, and raised her slim white fingers to his lips. Justin, seeing this, felt such a surge
of rage that it was all he could do not to stalk out onto the middle of the dance floor and drag Megan away by force. Only the thought of the scandal that must ensue, and the damage it would inevitably do to Megan’s name, stayed him. Smoldering, his eyes never leaving Megan and Ivor, Justin leaned against a pillar and waited for the dance to end.

Megan was enjoying herself as much as could be expected under the circumstances. Her heart was bruised and battered from Justin’s callous use of her, but she was determined that no one should guess it. She laughed and danced and flirted as if she were having the time of her life. She thought she had succeeded in convincing Lady Alicia that she had totally banished Justin from her mind, if indeed she had ever thought of him at all. She was not about to wear her heart on her sleeve, or to allow one man’s base betrayal to ruin her life.

Timothy Crichton—Lord Ivor—was one of the many gentlemen who had flocked to her side as soon as she had appeared on the London scene. Megan liked him, and Lady Alicia seemed to approve of him as an escort for both of them. The Castlereagh’s ball was the fourth social event to which he had squired them, and Megan was growing quite comfortable in his presence. He treated her with a great deal of respect, as if she was, in truth, a grown-up lady (which she seldom felt herself to be). His courtesy after Justin’s continual scathing references to her youth and inexperience was very pleasant.

She was laughing at something he said when he happened to glance over her shoulder. His eyes narrowed. After a moment, he looked back down at her, his expression quizzical.

“What have I done to earn such black looks from Weston, Miss Kinkead? Do you suppose someone has been carrying tales of me to him—tales which must of necessity be quite untrue, I might add?”

Megan turned to look in the direction Lord Ivor had indicated. Sure enough, Justin was there, leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed over his chest, a scowl darkening his face. Before the dance claimed her attention again, she saw that he appeared to be as strong and healthy as he had been. The splint was gone.

Justin’s evening coat was black, his waistcoat severe charcoal gray brocade. His shirt and cravat were snowy white. Megan felt her heart trip a little as she registered his sheer physical splendor. Then she encountered those tawny gold eyes and took herself firmly in hand, tilting her chin defiantly, daring him to interfere. He had no right to look at her in that way, to glare at Lord Ivor—whose conduct had been a thousand times more circumspect than his own—so fiercely. He had no rights at all where she was concerned. She refused to allow him even those of a guardian. He had forfeited all right to dictate her behavior, as she meant to demonstrate. She turned away from him without so much as nodding, refusing to acknowledge the sardonic little smile with which he favored her.

“Perhaps Justin has a stomach-ache,” Megan said. Lord Ivor laughed, and began to talk of other things. During the remainder of the dance, Megan laughed and chatted for all she was worth, while striving to appear unconscious of Justin’s steadfast regard.

Megan and Lord Ivor were close to Justin when the music stopped. Megan had planned it that way. She knew Justin was listening.

“I am positively dying of thirst,” she said plaintively, fluttering her lashes. “Do you suppose we could find the punch bowl?”

Lord Ivor grinned knowingly. He was tall, about Justin’s height, but very thin, with a shock of light brown hair and a narrow, intelligent face. Megan, despite her three weeks in London, had not yet got quite used to seeing a man rigged out in red velvet. But she had discovered that he was really quite sensible. From the twinkle in his hazel eyes, Megan guessed that he knew her object was to avoid Justin at all costs.

“Running scared, Miss Kinkead?” he suggested, offering his arm so that she could lay her fingers on it in the approved manner. “Are you sure it’s you he’s frowning at? I would rather have supposed it was me. Weston, being of the same stamp himself, could conceivably hold the opinion that I am not exactly a proper companion for his very charming ward.”

Megan remembered to smile prettily at the compliment, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Several young ladies of her acquaintance had taken great pains to warn her of Lord Ivor’s reputation as a rake; had let
fall several tidbits about Justin’s similar notoriety that she had hoped were exaggerated. Now here was Ivor confirming all that she had been told about both of them. As far as Lord Ivor was concerned, it made not a farthing’s worth of difference, but it sickened her to think that Justin made a habit of seducing women. Well, he had seduced her, hadn’t he—and for that she was going to make him pay.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she murmured sweetly. “Please take me out on the balcony. I’m feeling a trifle faint.”

Ivor looked at her, wondering what her game was. She returned his look with a limpid look of her own, an innocent flutter of her lashes. After a moment he shrugged and obediently led her toward the long french windows which opened out onto the balcony.

“Far be it from me to turn down what the gods offer, Miss Kinkead,” he said as they approached the heavy drapes that shielded the french doors. “But are you absolutely certain you want to do this? Weston’s not a pleasant fellow when he’s angry.”

“I’m sure he’s not,” Megan said, then added with a breathless laugh, “We don’t get along. Haven’t for years. He’s terribly tyrannical, and I’m getting tired of having everything I do vetted by him. He doesn’t seem to realize that I’ve grown up.”

“He must be blind,” Lord Ivor said. They went out to the balcony.

Megan paid no heed to Lord Ivor’s remark, but walked over to where a wrought-iron railing protected
the unwary from ending up in the garden below. The iron felt cold against her palms as she gripped it. The night was pitch black, very cold. Megan breathed deeply, finding the cold air invigorating. Behind her, she could hear the muted sound of the musicians striking up again, and she wondered briefly how long the young man she had promised this dance to would look for her before giving up.

Lord Ivor came up behind her and put his hands lightly on her bare shoulders. Megan stiffened at his touch.

“Shall I do the expected thing and kiss you?” he murmured. “Anyone who saw us come out like this will be certain that’s what’s happening, and I really hate to take credit for something I haven’t done.”

The halting quality of this last statement and the tightening of his hands on her shoulders told Megan he was serious.

She looked over her shoulder, frowning slightly. “I would really prefer that you did not,” she said. His hands tightened for a moment, then fell to his sides.

“So I’m to be used but not rewarded, is that it?” he murmured wryly. “Very well, Miss Kinkead, I bow to your wishes.”

“Thank you.” Megan turned toward him, smiling warmly, touched at the gallantry. In comparison to some she knew, he was a true gentleman.

They were like that when Justin found them. He had come through the french doors silently, pulling them shut after him. He was furious. Ivor had no
right to bring Megan out here; and Megan, damn her, had no business falling victim to his practiced blandishments.

“If you touch her, Ivor, I’ll throw you over the railing.” Justin spoke through his teeth. Lord Ivor and Megan turned to face him.

“That sounds remarkably like a threat, Weston,” Ivor drawled.

Justin smiled unpleasantly. “It is,” he said, and as the two men bristled at each other Megan moved between them. Justin ignored her, his eyes issuing an angry challenge for Lord Ivor. Megan felt her face blanch. She had not meant to cause trouble between the men, only to use Lord Ivor as the handiest weapon available in her private war with Justin.

“Thank you for your kindness, my lord,” she said to Ivor. “But I believe it would be best if you returned to the ballroom.”

She accompanied this statement with a small, placating smile as she silently begged him to do as she wished.

Ivor hesitated. “I will be more than glad to stay if you should feel yourself in need of company, Miss Kinkead.” There was no mistaking the meaning of that.

Justin stiffened, with rigid menace. “I assure you, Ivor, that my ward is perfectly safe in my company,” Justin grated.

Ivor looked questioningly at Megan. “Please go,” she said, recognizing the danger signals. “And thank
you,” she added, as Ivor gave a stiff little bow and left the balcony. With a haughty look at Justin, Megan gathered up her skirts in her hands and prepared to do the same. He stopped her by gripping her wrist.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

“Back to the ballroom,” Megan answered, trying vainly to pull her arm free. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s cold out here.”

“Oh, I noticed,” Justin’s voice was unpleasant. “Too cold to stand out here and talk to me, but not too cold for you to welcome that cretin’s kisses.”

Megan winced. She was beginning to feel cold—and not just because of the weather.

“Lord Ivor,” she said with emphasis, “was a perfect gentleman.”

“Oh, yes?” Justin sneered. “It didn’t look like it from where I was standing. I absolutely forbid you to have anything further to do with that man. Good God, if you were stupid enough to let him lure you out onto a balcony at a ball, I shudder to think what he might be able to talk you into if he were to get you alone.”

“Do you speak from your own experience of me, my lord?” Megan asked. Justin’s face grew pale. “As it happens, Lord Ivor did not lure me onto the balcony; I asked him to bring me. It was hot, and I was feeling faint.”

“That’s a damned lie!”

Megan smiled mockingly. “What is a lie? That I was feeling faint, or that I asked Lord Ivor to bring me out on the balcony?”

“You did it to punish me, didn’t you?” he demanded hoarsely.

Megan smiled again, a slow, taunting smile that wasn’t reflected in her eyes. He was beginning to get the idea. If there was any possible way she could make him suffer as he had made her suffer, she would do it.

“Did I?”

“You little bitch.” He said it deliberately. Megan winced at the word before she could regain control of herself. “You brought Ivor out here to punish me. My God, do you have any idea of what you invited? He eats little girls like you for breakfast!”