St. Raven (42 page)

If they could dance, perhaps they could they meet. Perhaps drive in the park, stroll through a garden? All the ordinary things men and women did…

But then she remembered that such pleasures would be pointless torment. This wickedly entrancing man was a rake. Like her father, he was addicted to the wild places. Even after professing his love for her, he’d been drawn to Violet Vane’s establishment.

He could change
, hope whispered.

Men never change
, insisted sense.

But he was here. It had to mean something. And he felt something for her. She saw it, shielded for safety, in his eyes. She felt it in his touch.

Love could change people, and perhaps with Crofton gone the risk of scandal was small. Perhaps marriage was possible.

Tris was here. It
had
to mean something.

Her dazed eye caught Lavinia tapping her furled fan against her lips. She recognized a signal. Lavinia had something she needed to talk about, in the ladies’ withdrawing room, now.

Oh, Lord. It was something about St. Raven. After all, Matt Harbison was here. She saw from Lavinia’s expression that it was something bad. She longed to turn away and ignore the summons, but she’d rather know.

With a word, she escaped and followed her friend. As soon as she entered the room, Lavinia dragged her to a sofa. Cressida looked around, but there was no one there except the maids. She’d be careful what she said, knowing how servants’ gossip could fly.

“How delightful to have the duke turn up,” Lavinia said brightly, perhaps also with the maids in mind. “And he is just as handsome up close as from a distance!”

“Yes. What do you have to tell me, Lavinia?”

Her friend’s bright manner dropped. “I’m sorry… It’s just that I remember you saying you had warm feelings for him…”

Cressida knew she was blushing. “Do you fear my heart will break over a dance?”

“No, but… The thing is, Cressida, Matt says he’s only here because of a wager.”

“A
wager
? Gentlemen wager over anything.”

“Yes, but…”

“Please, just say it!”

Lavinia bit her lip, then dropped her voice to a whisper. “Sir Roger Tiverton came here with the duke, and Matt knows him quite well, so he has the whole story. St. Raven was holding a wild party at his house in Hertfordshire. They were pretending it was an Almack’s Assembly, if you can imagine anything so silly. And then someone wagered that the duke couldn’t go from dancing with a whore there to dancing with you here before midnight. And that,” she ended miserably, “is the only reason he’s here. I thought you should know…”

It hurt to breathe, though Cressida couldn’t imagine why. She’d never held any illusions about what he was. He’d never promised to reform. She’d never expected that he would, not really.

But another orgy, and a wager. A wager about
her
. When she had thought that at least he cared for her reputation.

She pinned on a bright smile and rose. “Most people here won’t know, so his attendance and his dancing with me will be a small feather in my cap. In India I’ll be able to drop my dance with the Duke of St. Raven into conversation to great benefit.”

Lavinia stood. “I’m so relieved. I didn’t want you hurt.”

Cressida even managed a laugh. “Of course I’m not hurt. When I talked of loving St. Raven, it was a light-hearted kind of love. A game. Like our starry-eyed adoration of the actor, Kean.”

Lavinia relaxed, smiling with her. “And only see how silly everyone is being over him tonight. Even my mother is as flustered as a schoolgirl! People are storing up the way he says ‘good evening’ to report back to their less fortunate friends, and Deb Westforth was so overwhelmed by one flattering comment that she’s lying down in an anteroom with a vinegar cloth on her head.”

“Poor man,” Cressida said, meaning it.

Lavinia linked arms. “He probably loves it. Come on. If I stick by you, perhaps he’ll ask me to dance and toss me a flattering comment or two. That will be something to tell my grandchildren.”

Cressida would rather flee home, but that would throw the fat on the fire. As soon as she returned to the ballroom she saw him, as if he were the only real person amid a room of waxworks. He came toward her, and she couldn’t ‘escape. She told herself that she was bound by Lavinia’s wish to meet him, but she wasn’t sure her feet would move. And anyway, from a look in his eye she suspected that he would pursue.

What did he
want
?

He’d presumably won his wager, and though he’d put her reputation at risk, they seemed to have avoided disaster. Or was the wager that he achieve something more. A kiss? More than that?

He was so handsome, though, in his dark evening clothes and perfect linen. She’d never seen him dressed that way before. He was so dear to her, too, because her foolish mind seemed trapped in those few days when his butterfly attention was all on her, when he’d created that illusion of closeness, of more than closeness, that had carried her into deepest folly.

She smiled at him, chatted for a moment, then virtually commanded him to ask Lavinia to dance. She saw his brow twitch, but good manners allowed him no escape.

She was then approached by her mother offering Sir Roger Tiverton as a partner. Good manners left her equally without escape, but he behaved correctly and even apologized for his behavior in Hatfield.

“Want you to know, Miss Mandeville, that no one pays any notice to Lord Crofton’s ravings. Especially not now. The man was clearly mad.”

“Then I must feel sorry for him. A shame, perhaps, that he is not receiving appropriate care.”

“Indeed.” He led her toward the forming lines. “Now, Miss Mandeville, do say you will drive out with me tomorrow.”

What start was this? Was the wager more widespread? Damn them all. She gave him a cool smile. “I’m sorry, Sir Roger, I will be far too busy. We set off for Plymouth the day after next.”

“Plymouth, hey? I have an interest in things nautical, Miss Mandeville. Might take a little jaunt down there myself!”

Cressida gritted her teeth and prayed that something prevent that, but it was the least of her troubles. She watched where Tris took Lavinia and made sure to join the other line, but her heart still beat deeply in dread of what would happen next.

Dread, or dreadful desire. Despite all logic a part of her swooned to be weak, to be played with again, to be wicked.

Tris watched Cressida in the dance, but was careful now not to give too much away. A little attention would set the right tone. Any glimpse of his raging passion would not.

He longed to stay, to capture her companionship over supper, to linger till the dying chord of the last dance, his attention all on her. It would get him nowhere of significance, however, and open up too much chance of disaster.

She was safe from scandal now. Tiverton had agreed that there was absolutely no chance that this Miss Mandeville led a secret life, attending orgies in outrageous costumes. He’d agreed that Crofton must have made up the whole story out of spite over being rejected. Tris had encountered Pugh and led him to the same declaration.

Tiverton was set on his courtship, of course, which was a nuisance, but of little concern. The stage was set, and the way to play this now was in complete formality. Tomorrow he would write to Sir Arthur, requesting permission to court his daughter, and therefore permission to travel with them to the West Country.

From the world’s point of view, it would be a hasty wooing, but not outrageous, and by the time it was formally announced at Mount St. Raven, no one would be shocked.

With all set, he might as well leave. Dancing with other women gave no pleasure.

Cressida watched Tris leave, wryly amused. Wager complete and off he went. Useful, really, to have it clear how little she meant to him. And that—his straight back and broad shoulders disappearing through an archway— was the last she would ever see of him.

She didn’t deny her broken heart, but she knew it would mend. And if it didn’t, it was a preferable pain to living day by day like Lady Pugh, grateful for the crumbs of his occasional attention and pretending to the world that she did not know about his whoring amusements.

In her room with dawn breaking, she let her maid prepare her for bed. Weariness weakened her, and her memory scrolled out the last time she’d taken off the Nile green dress.

Struggling with the fastenings and corset.

Tris’s hands on her back.

That first kiss. “
You really should go
…”

He’d always been so
honest
about himself that she really couldn’t blame him. He’d never forced her into anything. That night of passion had been her doing, not his. She remembered how careful he’d been to ensure that she understood that it meant nothing for the future.

How unfair to blame him for not being the sort of conventional Matlockian gentleman she could marry. How ridiculous to presume that he’d be happier with a different way of life. She didn’t want his life, so why should he want hers?

She dismissed the maid and went to bed, determined to think only of what needed to be done on the morrow to ensure a smooth journey to Plymouth.

Her mind would not behave, however, and despite exhaustion she could not escape into sleep. In the end she stirred a dose of Dr. Willy’s Elixir of Morpheus into a glass of water and drank it all. She lay back down again, fought for mental control again, then knew nothing more until her maid woke her in the morning.

Opiates always left Cressida feeling drained. She considered spending the rest of the day in bed, but people would call, and there was much to be done.

She breakfasted in her room going over lists, but then received a summons to her father’s study. Oh, dear, what now? He was anxious to get on his way back to India, and wanted to be in Plymouth in plenty of time to supervise the arrangement for his cargo. Surely he wouldn’t try to put off their departure.

He looked up from his desk with a frown. “Sit down, Cressy. You’re a shadow of yourself. You didn’t used to look so ragged after a night’s dancing!”

“There’s been so much to do, Father.”

He nodded. “And you’ve been a marvel. If you’d been a man, you’d have been a fair hand at business.” He picked up a letter. “See here. After last night it’s not so big a surprise, but here I have the Duke of St. Raven asking for leave to court you.”

Cressida stared, stunned. “By
letter?
she asked. It seemed the most ridiculous thing of all.

“Nothing wrong with that. Good old-fashioned way of doing things. Well? What do you want me to say? With us on our way tomorrow, he suggests he travel with us. He makes no secret of the fact that he’ll want a grand dowry, but he claims to have formed a high regard for your character and good sense. Which shows he has more good sense than I expected. Well?”

Cressida wanted to drag her hands through her carefully arranged hair.

“I confess I’ll miss you,” her father went on, “but I’ll not hold you back from your course. You can hardly be indifferent to a man like that, and you’ll be a duchess, no less.”

“Oh, Father, that’s the last thing I want to be!” Tris wanted to marry her? It struck at the foundations of her strength, but she tried to cling to sense.

Her father huffed out a breath. “Lookee here, Cressy, don’t play me for a fool. You went haring off to Hatfield, and there was the duke. There’s more to that story than’s in the open. I made inquiries about him. He’s a bold rascal, but he treats people decently, pays his debts, even to his tradesmen—and that’s a rarity among his sort. He’s even spoken with sense a time or two in Parliament.”

Cressida looked down at her tangled hands. “He’s a rake, Father. He came to our ball from a wild party. On a wager, and dragged my name into it.”

He grimaced. “I heard. Heard some other stories last night I’d not heard before.”

Cressida knew she was red. ‘Some people have nothing better to do than gossip, and for some reason Lord Crofton held a grudge.“

“Now there’s a man I wish I’d never met. But what of St. Raven? What shall I reply? Or do you want to?”

“No!” She steadied herself. Could this possibly be an extension of that wager?

No, even he wouldn’t bind himself for life on a bet. He probably did want to marry her in his reckless way, but it wouldn’t work for her.

“Say no, Father. As politely as possible, say no.” She looked at him. “Could we leave today? As soon as possible. Most arrangements are made.”

He pulled a face. “Like that, is it? I’ll not say you’re wrong, my dear. The world would call you a fool to throw away the chance to be a duchess, but you’re not the sort to put great store in rank and coronet. And as you say, he’s a rake. I’ve known plenty, and they rarely change. It’s in their blood, the way it’s in my blood to go adventuring. Some wives are happy enough with a wandering husband, but I doubt you would be. Especially if you cared.”

She didn’t say anything to that. There was no need. “So can we leave today, Father? And can you perhaps delay your reply?”

“There’s nothing to stop him racing after us.”

“I know, but perhaps he’ll realize there’s no point.”

Tris read Sir Arthur’s formal regrets with icy disbelief.

“Not a happy reply, I gather.”

He looked up at Cary. “Did he perhaps not ask her?”

Cary raised his brows and looked down.

Tris was amazed to find how physically painful this was. Jaw, throat, chest, all ached. “She must have misunderstood…”

“Possible,” Cary obligingly agreed.

Tris stood, carefully folding the letter and putting it aside. “I won’t believe it until I hear it from her own lips. I know the problems, but surely there’s enough between us… I can arrange things. I’ll protect her…”

Cary had risen, too. “By all means, let’s go and see if she’ll receive you.”

“She’ll receive me.”

Tris didn’t realize how grim his tone had been until Cary said, “Oh, dear. I’ve mislaid the battering ram and siege engines…”

That broke a laugh. “Dammit, I know Cressida. She’d never refuse to at least see me. This has to all be a misunderstanding. Tiverton, damn him, babbled all over about the wager last night. Perhaps she’s miffed about that. Come on.”