Lady Beware (3 page)

S
he couldn't help but laugh. “Don't be ridiculous!”

“You care so little for him?”

Put like that, it seemed wrong to refuse, but the idea was preposterous. Then she realized why. “I care too much to place that burden on him—my life's ease for his.”

“If you pretended to adore me, he would never know.”

Dryly she said, “I am not so good an actor.”

“I'm so very appalling?” He was mocking her again.

“You're uncouth, a paltry bully, a foul liar, a greedy swine—”

Something in his face dried her words. All he said was, “I deny the paltry.”

“Can you deny mad?”

“I can act the part of a sane man if I try.”

“Then try
now
,” she snapped.

“I thought I was both sane and clear,” he said. “Marriage for the truth.”

“No. But my family would be generous in other ways.”

“Perhaps there are no other ways.”

He seemed relaxed now, even amiable, but he was looking at her like a predator who has dinner cornered.

Thea waved her fan again, trying to match his manner. “Liars are two a penny, sir, so we will simply find another. One who will accept a sane recompense.”

He laughed. “That's probably the only time a Debenham has ever sought a bargain. I'm prime quality and worth my price, my lady.”

“Nothing, sir, would be worth tying myself to you for life.”

Thea again stepped to go around him. This time he gripped her arm. His bare hand was callused, hot and strong on the skin between her long glove and short sleeve.

“I'll settle for less than marriage,” he said.

Thea turned to stare, her face now close to his.
“What?”

Was he proposing…? He would vindicate Dare for her body…? This was impossible!

But her imagination tested the ground. A few hours, perhaps less. What did she know about these things? Set against Dare's entire life.

“What?” she asked again, demanding clarification now but fearing her legs would give way.

“An engagement,” he said.

Thea gasped.
“What?”

He turned her to face him. “If I clear Lord Darius's name, you engage yourself to marry me. Publicly.” When she opened her mouth to object, he put a finger to her lips. “Don't panic. You won't have to go through with it, but the betrothal must hold for at least six weeks.”

Thea jerked free of his touch, wanting to grip her head, to rock it back into order. “You're mad!”

“And you are overwhelmed. Think about it. A six-week engagement is not so great a trial compared to the prize it will purchase.”

“And after six weeks?”

“You send me off with a flea in my ear.”

“You expect me to
jilt
you?”

True humor lit his face this time and his smile carved lines into his lean cheeks. “That's what horrifies you?”

“Yes! A gentleman who jilts a lady is ruined, but a lady who jilts a gentleman is not a true lady—unless she has an excellent and known reason. Are you willing to provide an excellent and known reason why I should not marry you?”

Laughter faded to wryness. “Almost inevitably. So? We are engaged?”

“Of course not. If you truly did see Dare fall, it is your duty to say so without reward.”

“But what if I'll have to lie?”

“Then your word is worth nothing.”

“Lies, my lady, can be worth fortunes.” But he stepped back, clearing her way. “It seems our discussion is at an end.”

Thea longed to take the escape he offered, but she found she couldn't do it. Truth or lie, she believed that this man held the key to Dare's future.

A betrothal wouldn't be so very appalling.

Except…

She still had no idea who he was.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“The man who can vindicate your brother.”

“I mean your name.”

“Horatio.”

“Your full name, sir.”

“Why quibble? I'm asking a small price for a large service and you are going to agree.”

She wanted to deny that, but couldn't.

“You could be a nobody.”

“I'm clearly somebody.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes. You wouldn't lower yourself to marry a tradesman.”

“More to the point, no one would believe that I
wanted
to marry a tradesman. If you become Dare's witness and then I promise to marry you, your complete unsuitability as husband for a duke's daughter would ruin everything.”

He looked at her in a new way. “I do admire a clearheaded woman. Don't fine tailoring and expensive trimmings tell the story?”

She looked him over, noting again the quality of his dark evening clothes and the emerald glinting in gold amid the snowy linen at his throat. “You could be a rich tradesman.”

“You'd never stoop so low?”

“I told you. It would look peculiar!” Clocks began to chime. “Heavens, how much time has passed? I must return to the ball. We will talk more of this tomorrow, sir.”

“Now or never. Refuse and I leave this house immediately. You will never see me again.”

She stared, appalled. “That's not fair.”

“Life rarely is.”

“Tell me who you are.”

“No.”

“Tell me this, at least. Are you a gentleman?”

“Yes.”

“Are you honorable?”

“Yes.”

Thea knew that asking these questions was admission that she was going to give in, just as he'd so arrogantly predicted. He'd hooked her like a fish and was reeling her into his net, and she was as helpless as a thrashing trout.

He was an honorable gentleman and a soldier, and handsome in a roughened way. Though his behavior here had been appalling, he clearly could do better if he wished. A betrothal might be believed. It might even be tolerable.

But why? Why was he doing this?

“What do you gain from this?” she asked.

“Six weeks of your delightful company,” he replied.

She simply looked at him.

He met her eyes but stayed silent.

She sought truth in his impassive features. Perhaps she also sought weakness, or last-minute mercy. She found neither. Instead, she recognized implacable will. He had faced her with a choice and would not relent. There was only one answer that would let her sleep at night.

“If you clear my brother's name,” she said, “I will betroth myself to you and it will last for six weeks.” When a flash of triumph lit his eyes, she added, “But that is all.”

“Except for the sealing kiss.”

Thea stepped back. “That wasn't part of the bargain.”

But when he grasped her gloved hand, she didn't struggle. Nor when he kissed it, first fingers, then knuckles, his dark eyes holding hers. She could hardly feel his lips through silk, but still she shivered.

When he took her shoulders it was as if he had entranced her, as a snake is supposed to be able to entrance its prey. Did such prey come to
want
to be captured, as she did?

She shocked herself, but their confrontation, their battle of wills, had stirred a passion inside her that demanded some culmination, some final crescendo. As he drew her close and lowered his lips to hers, she swayed. When he finally brushed his lips over hers, a sound escaped her throat.

“You're enjoying this, aren't you, my lady?”

“No.” But it came out as a breath.

His lips pressed against hers again. Nothing more, and briefly, but heat sparked.

“Lying will send you to hell,” he whispered. “Tell me to stop now and our bargain is sealed.”

She should, but it hadn't been enough.

He drew her hard against his powerful body. A sense of raw strength shocked her, but that only made the madness worse. She stared up at him, mouth agape, feeling she should beg for mercy, and then he joined his mouth to hers, his tongue plunging deep.

She jerked back, but she was captured now. She could no more escape than a creature caught in an eagle's talons, but nor did she want to. Sensations were ricocheting through her—
Danger! Danger!—Thrill! Thrill!
She thrust fingers into his hair, wishing she were gloveless, and pressed her aching body against him.

Could a kiss truly be endless? Her whole body ached now, pressed to him, burning desperately as she whirled in a passionate storm.

He was the one to break free, having to drag himself out of her demanding hands. He separated slowly and Thea feared she'd topple without his support. She felt as weak and wavery as if she'd been in bed with a fever, and staggered back to lean against the wall, heart thundering, sucking in desperate breaths, staring at him.

“Thus,” he said, and perhaps his breathing was unsteady, too, “we are most thoroughly betrothed.”

Thea had to swallow to find her voice. “So now, tell me who you are.” It came out softly, through her weakness, but also because of a kind of tenderness, even yearning. Being this man's promised wife would not be so bad. Being his wife, in fact, even….

“Your betrothed,” he said. But then, eyes watchful on hers, he added, “Viscount Darien.”

Titled?

Why didn't she know him, then?

Then it fell into place.

She pushed straight off the wall. “You claimed to be honorable!”

“I did not lie.”

“But you're a
Cave
!”

The Cave family—pronounced
cahvay
, like the Latin for “beware”—were notorious.

She shook her head, lost in panic. “I can't betroth myself to a Cave!”

“The bargain is sealed.” He turned and walked away.

“No, it isn't!” she yelled after him. When he gave no sign of hearing, she stepped forward as if to pursue, but what good would it do?

“No,” she repeated to the dim and now empty corridor, as if that might do some good. “No!”

She was betrothed to a Cave?

She'd just
kissed
a Cave?

She scrubbed at her tender lips. The Caves were villains and debauchers on every branch and twig of the family tree. Not long ago, one of them had raped and murdered a young lady in Mayfair. He'd died in Bedlam instead of on the gibbet because he'd been stark, staring mad.

Such a promise couldn't hold, she thought desperately.

There'd been no witnesses. No one knew about it but him and her.

That felt despicable, but not in comparison to his lies and trickery. She should have known. She'd sensed something foul about him from the first.

But what should she
do
?

Fear could send her running back to her room to hide under the bed. She could plead illness, anything, so as not to return to the ball.

Where he could now be.

Heaven's mercy, he might announce their betrothal in her absence. That would be preposterous for any other man, but he was a Cave!

Thea knew what she had to do. She sucked in breaths, struggling for control, poise, confidence—everything she'd taken for granted until minutes ago. Then she walked swiftly on, the same way he had gone, back to the ball.

H
oratio Cave, Viscount Darien, wanted to stop to think, to review, but some points in battle demanded unhesitating action. He'd won the prize he'd come here for. A greater prize than he'd imagined. He had only to grasp it.

He'd invaded the Duchess of Yeovil's ball to acquire a highborn female ally in his campaign to make his family name respectable again. His quarry had been the Duchess of Yeovil herself. The opportunity had fallen into his hands when he'd heard the story about her son, Lord Darius Debenham. Make the mother grateful and she would be wax in his hands.

Perfect wax. He'd spent the day savoring the thought of the Debenhams as his tools. The family of the man he loathed would become his obedient tools. And Dare Debenham would have to acknowledge this in public, with half the world watching.

Just as he'd ruined a boy's life, in public, with half the school watching.

Now it was even better. Instead of a mother forced to be gracious out of gratitude, he had a sister bound to pretend to love him. Sealed by a fiery kiss.

That kiss….

He realized he'd stopped, and within sight of the outer fringes of the ball. Music rippled out of the ballroom—a bouncing, merry tune for doubtless bouncing, merry dancers. Ahead, silk-clad people sparkling with jewels strolled and chattered, all supremely confident of their place in this, the heart of the inner circle.

Unaware of the enemy in their midst.

Not entirely unaware, alas. He'd been recognized earlier, when he'd been searching the ball for Lord Darius.

He'd hoped to avoid recognition by arriving late, but of course there were men here who'd known him in the army. Some of them might have been welcoming in other circumstances, but not here, where his name and title caused horror.

He silently damned his father and older brothers, his uncle and grandfather, and the whole line of Caves who'd lived up to the warning in their name, but then he blended with the ton at play, resuming his search for Debenham. He needed to get this done before Lady Theodosia recovered her wits. Once his part was played she'd find it harder to balk.

He entered the noisy, packed ballroom and stepped to one side so as not to block the door. His earlier search had failed, and he realized now that Debenham could be changed since the last time Darien had seen him, in the days before Waterloo. He'd been badly wounded since then and become an opium addict.

So now Darien looked for members of the Company of Rogues, that schoolboy clique from Harrow. Wherever the wreck of Lord Darius Debenham was, some Rogues would be hovering nearby. They prided themselves on taking care of each other.

He wished he'd thought of that before. Then, perhaps, he wouldn't have been caught unawares by the sight of some of them and sent running into the quiet parts of the house.

He'd recognized Viscount Amleigh first. He'd encountered the stocky, dark-haired man in Brussels because Amleigh had returned to the army and had been sharing a billet with Darien's friend Captain George Vandeimen. Unfortunately—Rogues sticking to Rogues—Debenham had been sharing the same rooms. That had meant Darien couldn't spend as much time with Van as he'd wished. Another sin to the Rogues' tally.

With Amleigh earlier had been an athletic, golden-haired man. It had taken only a moment to realize it had to be the Marquess of Arden, heir to the Dukedom of Belcraven, arrogant boy become man. He'd attended Harrow with his own retinue of servants.

The mythology claimed that the Company of Rogues had been created for mutual protection. Exactly why would Arden need that? No, it had been a gathering of an elite, too high and mighty to mix with lesser beings, and he'd hated their guts.

Along with Amleigh and Arden had been a man Darien recognized only by his distinctive hair, dark shot with red. Simon St. Bride, who'd recently become Viscount Austrey, heir to the Earl of Marlowe. Good fortune fell into the Rogues' hands.

Observing the group of confident, relaxed men, the past had rushed back on Darien like a tide. Harrow. The worst time of a tough life. Because of the Rogues. Because, especially, of Lord Darius Bloody Debenham.

And so he'd run. It had been a calm, steady walk, but inside he'd been running as he'd once run at school, and he'd hated that. He hadn't paid attention to where he was going as long as it was far away from people. When he'd discovered Debenham's sister alone and vulnerable, he'd seen the opportunity for perfect revenge.

She'd proved to be more than he'd expected—braver, more quick-witted, and infinitely more passionate—though that bloodred dress had been a warning. But he'd captured her. Now all he had to do was find Debenham to clinch his victory.

Where in hell was he? This was his betrothal ball.

Suddenly, he thought to wonder, what if he'd already left? What if he was too frail to last this long? He should have found that out.

Poor preparation.

Poor intelligence.

Dammit. What to do now? He could still tell his story, but he wanted that face-to-face confrontation. He wanted to make Debenham eat his rescue out of Dog Cave's hand.

Leave and come back tomorrow? He needed to do this before Debenham's sister had a chance to block him.

The dance ended, the crowd shifted—and Darien saw him.

He almost laughed aloud.

Where was the addicted cripple?

Dare Debenham strolled toward the ballroom doors, smilingly intent on the lovely brunette on his arm, and she adoringly intent on him. He walked without so much as a limp, and if he bore scars, they weren't visible. In fact, he looked fitter and stronger than before.

And completely happy.

He should have been christened Theophilus—beloved of God.

To hell with this. Darien turned to leave the room. Let's see how long Debenham smiled with shame hanging around his neck.

But he made himself stop. He'd resolved to restore the Cave reputation for good reasons. To retreat now would be another victory for the Rogues.

Very well, a roll of the dice. If Debenham looked through him, pretended a Cave didn't exist, or worse, reacted as if he were a leper at the feast, Darien would leave him to stew. If not, he'd play this out. He turned and stepped into the couple's path.

Debenham blinked, clearly far away, and then he smiled politely. “Canem.”

Only Darien's closest friends called him that—Canem Cave, a play on
cave canem
, “beware of the dog.” And that rocketed right back to schoolboy hurt and rage. Damnable. Especially when Dare Debenham had been the one to make that cruel joke.

“Cave Canem,”
he'd said, laughing, turning Horatio Cave into Dog Cave, leading to—

Enough. The dice had rolled and Darien must pay. He gave his enemy the good news. He even spoke to a couple of military men nearby, but he couldn't linger more than that.

Darien fled the celebration and went straight to hell.