Lady Scandal (17 page)

Lowering to think that it might be so.

But possible.
She had to admit that.

Still, she had brought Diana to France.
That
had been a step out of the usual.
A bold step.
And she had made it
because she was so dreadfully bored with her life.
Of course, she
had come with her servants and her possessions and her title to
make everything easy for them.
Again.
But all that was gone.

Fear shivered in her at that stark reality
of the world that now lay before her.
She almost turned to go back
to the room.

However, Paxten shifted his arm from her
waist and took her hand, speaking in slow, lazy French.
"The
dancing's started.
The ale is good.
And I've heard that a play
begins in an hour or so.
What is your pleasure, Madam and
Mademoiselle Marsett?"

Diana bounced a little.
"Oh, dancing,
please.
And then the play.
And may I have some ale?"

Paxten grinned at the girl's rapid flow of
requests.
Of course she would want everything.
But Alexandria
pressed close to him and said nothing of her preferences.
She had
her chin up, and even in her peasant garb she looked too much like
the bored aristocrat.
However, he had felt the tremor in her
fingertips, and he knew that she did not know what to make of this
sort of entertainment.

He made a path for them through the press of
bodies nearest the musicians, who sat under the spreading limbs of
an ancient oak.
He used a smile, a pleasant word, a touch to
someone's shoulder to carve the way—the charm had always come easy
to him.
He had that from both his parents, he thought, for his
mother had always been the most irresistible of creatures.
And what
he remembered of his father was of a man with an easy, quick
smile.

Lanterns cast soft, yellow pools of light
around them.
The moon had risen to add its glow, and while the
evening held a chill, no one seemed to notice.
Two fiddlers, a man
with a hand drum, a flute player, and a dark-haired fellow with a
guitar kept the music flowing.
The dancers—mostly young
people—kicked up the dust around the tree as they danced.
Skirts
flew high.
Jackets and waistcoats came off.
He knew it must look
indecent to Alexandria—she stared at it with those expressive
eyebrows of hers lifted high.

It also looked marvelous fun.

"Come on," he said, tugging on Alexandria's
hand.

She shook her head.
"Dance with Diana.
I
shall stand here and watch."

Here meant next to three black-garbed, old
women, one who grinned even though she had no teeth.
He shrugged,
and then asked the women if they would look after Alexandria for
him.
They smiled, and one passed a rough, wood mug into his hand.
He took a swallow of the frothy ale and gave the mug to
Alexandria.

"As you like, my dear," he told her in
French.
With a grin, he grabbed Diana's hand and whirled her into
the dancing, and devil take it that it made his side ache.

Alexandria watched, but too quickly lost
track of them in the crowd.
She stood there, mug in hand, the three
old women smiling at her and urging her to sample the ale.
She had
nothing else to do, so she took a sip.

The froth left a bitter taste, but the ale
went down with a nutty flavor.
She took another sip.
The ladies
smiled, muttering French at her—something about her pretty daughter
and handsome husband.
She had not the words to correct their
impression—nor the desire to do so—so she smiled back at them and
drank more ale for an excuse not to speak.

As the music shifted to what sounded a jig,
her foot began to tap.
The old women grinned at her.
A jug passed
from hand to hand and was tipped to fill her mug.

She tried to protest.
"
Non.
S'il vous plaît,
non.
" But the women answered in rapid
French that left her baffled as they filled the mug to overflowing
anyway.

She had to drink more of it just to keep it
from spilling—it settled with a pleasant warmth.

She had half emptied the mug again when
Paxten materialized from the crowd.
She frowned at him, but found
it difficult to keep the expression in place.
She would much rather
smile.
Still, she had a responsibility here, and so asked with her
stuttering, basic French, "Where is Diana?"

He gestured at the dancers, and Alexandria
caught a glimpse of her niece, hair falling down her back in a
golden cascade of curls as a tall, earnest-faced young man whirled
her about by both hands.

She leaned closer to Paxten so she could
speak in English, for she doubted any but Paxten would hear her
given the noise.
"Who is he?
She has not been introduced!"

He took the mug from her, drained it and
handed it back to the grinning old woman with a wink.
Turned to
Alexandria, he held out his hand.
"Stop worrying.
Come and
dance."

She hesitated, shook her head, and put her
hand into his outstretched one.
"Are you certain you—"

"If you once mention my wound tonight, I
shall run howling into the woods, leaving everyone to think you
have driven me mad."

"I was going to ask if you are certain you
wish to.
Dance with me, that is."

He smiled, a slow smile that set his eyes
glittering and lifted her pulse.
"Oh, I wish it."

With one hand on her waist, he spun her into
the crowd.
She clung to him, afraid that if she let go she would be
lost amid the swirl of dancers.
As she thought that, he spun her
away from him.
Someone else caught her hand and turned her, and
suddenly Paxten had her hands again.
She only just managed to keep
upright as she bounced along to the music, twirling from one
partner to the next.

It was, in a sense, the same as any country
dance, with changes of partners and two-hands-round and turns and
steps.
But it all happened so fast, with no stately grace, nor even
a moment to pull in a breath.
And all of it bouncing.
All the
dances she knew paused for flirtation and to allow dancers to watch
other dancers.
But this—she grinned suddenly—this left her giddy
and her heart pounding.

As did Paxten every time he caught her, a
smile curving his lips and those deep brown eyes darker than
ever.

Oh, this was not a safe thing to do.

She lost track of time, of her niece, of
everything except for Paxten, who managed always to find her
again.

The music ended with a flourish, leaving
everyone red-faced and clapping and begging for more.
Leaving
Alexandria caught in Paxten's arms.
She stared up at him, delight
dancing in her blood.
He dipped his head to cover her mouth with
his, a quick movement that left her no time to protest.
Bone,
muscle, and the will to resist melted in her.
Just as with the
first time he had kissed her.

#

"I am going to kiss you, you know."

Alexandria looked up with alarm at the man
dancing with her in the middle of Lady Amberleigh's ornate
ballroom.
The dance had only just begun.
She had only just been
introduced to this gentleman, Mr.
Paxten Marsett.
Of course, he had
stared at her throughout dinner, an unnerving, dark-eyed stare that
had robbed her of appetite even as it left her intrigued.
She was
not a woman at whom gentleman stared.
Nor was she the sort of
married lady to be propositioned so casually.

Yet, was it a proposition?
He spoke with
absolute assurance, as if stating a fact such as that it had rained
today.
And his voice, low and deep as thick velvet, brushed across
her with just the faintest of accent in his words.
No, not so much
an accent.
More an inflection—French perhaps?
Did his nationality
account for why he would make such an provocative statement?
No
English gentleman would be so brazen.
At least no English gentleman
that she knew.

She stared at him, a little shocked.
And
fascinated.
She had never had much flattery before she wed.
In the
years since she had become Lady Sandal, she had become adept at the
light flirtation required by Society, but she had never been given
such shameless words.

The movement of the country dance separated
them and brought them together again.
That gave her time to pull
together a cool stare for him.

"You are very bold, sir."

He smiled, dark eyes lighting up in a way
that notched her pulse to a tempo far faster than the music.
"And
are you?
Shall you kiss me back?"

She had no idea what to say to that, and she
had to offer her hand for him to lead her down the two lines of
dancers—gentlemen on one side, ladies on another.
Her throat dried.
But she smiled and stepped through the figures.
He squeezed her
fingers before he let them go, and allowed his gloved fingers to
slide slowly away from hers, his stroking touch suggestive of other
ways he wanted to caress her.

Face hot, she glared at him.
"You are making
sport of me."

"Not at all.
I'm in love with you."

Her breath caught at that.
He sounded as if
he meant it.
Startled, she gave a small laugh.

The dance parted them
again, and again they met.
His eyes had darkened.
A lock of deep
brown hair had fallen forward across his forehead.
He wore his hair
long, like one of those radical
sans
culottes
who were making a revolution in
France.
In defiance of fashion, he also wore a plain, dark brown
coat and pale breeches.
No elaborate embroidery, not on his
waistcoat, nor on his coat.
No rings.
No flashes of jewels from his
buttons.
Just raw masculine power under the satin cloth.
And a lean
face with a strong nose and a sensual mouth.

That mouth pulled down now.
The dark eyes
stared at her, intense, unnerving, beguiling.
"Ah, but you wound
me—it is you who makes light of my feelings."

She snapped open her fan to cool her face.
They had reached the end of the set and had to stand out before
rejoining the lines of dancer to go through the movements and up
the lines again.

What did she answer to that?
Did she beg his
pardon?
But he was the one saying such outrageous things.
This was
impossible.
She could not dance with him.

As if he had seen her thoughts he said,
"Would you care to stroll in the garden instead of this?"

She almost said yes, but she caught the
gleam in his eyes and remembered his words.
He would kiss her.
Where better, after all, than a garden to attempt to make good on
such a scandalous promise?

"Thank you, but no.
I doubt my husband would
care overmuch if I were to venture out with out." And what a lie
that was!
Bertram would not even notice.

Mr.
Marsett lifted one shoulder in a gesture
she had seen on no other man—a careless shrug.
He had been
introduced to her as Mr.
Paxten Marsett, a very English Christian
name and a very French surname.
And he said, "And why should I care
what your husband likes—you are my only concern."

He took her hand.
She stared at him,
astonished.
A gentleman did not take a lady's hand—he waited for
her to offer her hand.
His thumb brushed across her palm, smoothing
the kid glove against her skin.
Her throat dried and she had to wet
her lips.

"I want to do that," he said, stepping
closer.

"Do what?" she asked, her mind suddenly
empty.

He smiled.
"I want to lick your lips."

Her face flamed and she tugged her hand
free.
"Mr.
Marsett, that is enough!"