Suzanne Robinson (21 page)

“Damn it, Mattie. They almost saw you without that bloody hat, and then you’d be ruined.”

“You can yell at me later,” she said and she hurried into the house.

He chased after her, caught her in the hall, and they searched the ball together. The crush of people made their task difficult. The only advantage was that no one seemed to notice that Mattie kept her
hat on. With so many odd outfits being displayed, a mere hat provoked no curiosity. Cheyne and Mattie threaded in and out of the hundreds of people around the ballroom floor. They even pried into the retiring rooms. Finally they ended up in the garden. Cheyne led the way to shelter behind a statue of Apollo.

Slapping his walking stick against his leg, he said, “I counted seven Queen Elizabeths, half a dozen Sir Walter Raleighs, five Henry VIIIs, and three William Shakespeares.”

“I saw two Mary, Queen of Scots, two King Arthurs, two Guineveres, and six Sir Lancelots, including Lancelot Gordon.”

Cheyne gave a sigh of exasperation. “Lance would never blackmail anyone. And don’t try to distract me. You lied to me. You said you’d stay at the ball.” His gaze swept over her, noting the tight fit of her waistcoat and the novel sight of a woman’s legs in trousers. He dragged his eyes up to her face and asked, “What possessed you to dress as a man?”

“I never said I’d stay at the ball. You ordered me to stay at the ball. I said you were probably right, and I should stay at the ball, but I never said I would.”

“Sophistry—” Cheyne began.

“We don’t have time to argue. Let’s round up everyone in Elizabethan or medieval costumes and search them.”

“No. He’s already gotten rid of the money. We’d warn the blackmailer and destroy any chance of trapping him. We’ll have to wait and try again.”

“But he’s here, I know it.”

“No, you don’t. He could be somewhere else entirely. Mutton or Balfour could be chasing him right now. So we’ll do nothing. That is, I’ll return to the ball and you’ll go home before you begin to attract attention in that absurd disguise.”

“It’s not absurd. It’s convenient. I don’t know why women wear dresses at all when trousers are so comfortable. When I was younger in Texas, I used to wear trousers when I rode. Much safer in the brush.”

Damn her. Now he had an image in his head of Mattie dressed in cowboy’s jeans and a man’s shirt. In an instant the jeans vanished, leaving a picture of her in nothing but the shirt. A jolt of arousal caught him off guard.

He hadn’t meant to snap, but he was suffering. “I suppose you carried a rifle, too.”

“No.” She sneered at him. “It was a Colt revolver. Papa gave it to me.”

Hell. Now the image contained Mattie in nothing but a shirt brandishing a revolver. He was sure he made some kind of strangled noise because Mattie’s eyes widened, but he was past caring.

His hands closed over the lapels of her evening coat. Pulling her closer, he bent, avoiding the black silk hat, and whispered in her ear, “You really should be more careful in your language, my little savage.”

His lips brushed her cheek and found her mouth. Wrapping his arms around her, he dove between her lips to lose himself. Soft, urgent pressure from her lips drove him harder, compelled his response and sent
him to the edge of a precipice. His hands slipped under her evening coat, tore aside the waistcoat and found her hips. He felt her arms encircle him. He hardly noticed his own clothing loosen because his hands had dropped to her buttocks. It was an involuntary impulse that made him squeeze. At the pressure Mattie gasped and drew back to look at him in surprise. Breathing hard, Cheyne looked at her for a moment before pushing her against the base of the statue. His hips worked against hers while their mouths joined.

From a great distance he heard waltz music, but what jolted him out of his frenzy was the feel of her small hand on his bare skin. Mattie had opened his shirt and was rubbing her palms over his ribs. Sucking in his breath, Cheyne managed to thrust himself back from her. She pulled at him, but he held her at arm’s length.

“No!”

Her hat had disappeared, and her hair was in wild tangles around her face. “No?” She sounded distant, distraught, as if the word were foreign.

Desperate, Cheyne shoved her away and stumbled to a bench opposite the statue.

“What do you mean, no?” she asked harshly.

“It’s impossible, you little fool.”

Didn’t she know yet what he was? He couldn’t ruin her. He wouldn’t. And bastards like him didn’t deserve a woman like her. He pressed his hands against the cold stone of the bench and fought to speak, to say anything that would keep her
from closing the distance between them. If she touched him …

“Why did you stop? Is it—”

“Shut up!” Cheyne closed his eyes and fought to control his body. When he opened them, she was beside him and reaching out to touch him. He sprang from the bench, putting it between them. “Keep away from me, damn you. God deliver me from all ignorant colonials.”

He started down a path that would take him around the house to the street but stopped and turned to see her gawking at him, her lips slightly apart and swollen from his treatment of them.

“Fix your hair, damn you. Put that cursed hat on and go home. I’ll send Mutton to escort you.”

“I don’t need him.”

He felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. “My dear Miss Bright. I think you’ve just proved you need half a dozen escorts, and possibly a chastity belt for added insurance.”

Turning his back on her, Cheyne walked rapidly around the house and into the street. Ravening, almost uncontrollable, his body fought him with each step. His hand shook, and he wanted to howl. He had to get off the streets. Luckily he wouldn’t see Balfour until tomorrow at Scotland Yard. Had the detective’s search been more fruitful than Cheyne’s, he’d have sent word.

He reached the corner, his body still in torment, and didn’t see Mutton until the valet appeared at his side. He ordered him to escort Mattie home. Then
Cheyne began to walk. Removing his overcoat and evening jacket, he loosened his tie and allowed the cold night air to bathe his skin. He didn’t feel the cold until he reached his own house, but by the time he was in his room, he was shivering. Dropping his coats on the floor, he sat on the bed and rested his head in his hands.

“You’re mad,” he announced to the bedroom. “Lusting after a little barbarian in trousers. Master yourself, old man, or she’ll turn you into a blithering imbecile.”

Cheyne jumped up and began to pace. He would control himself. It was one thing to dally with women who understood the rules of Society. It was another to satisfy one’s ephemeral desires with an impetuous and innocent young lady, no matter how dashing or brave. He, the fruit of a jaded liaison and corrupt circle, had no business trampling upon Mattie’s ideals. And that’s what he’d do if he seduced her. Despite her misguided attempts to participate in the marriage market, Mattie Bright had ideals of marriage and love that wouldn’t be squelched by her parents’ ambitions.

Mattie believed in true love and sacred marriage vows. That belief shone in her soft black eyes. Should she learn just how vile his origins were, she would turn from him in disgust. He’d seen her disgust at the behavior of so many of his friends and acquaintances. Her nose twitched upon hearing gossip about infidelity, and her perfect fingers drummed on
tables and chair arms at hints of the dark pleasures in which gentlemen indulged.

No. He might want to satiate his lust for the maddening and incomparable Mattie Bright. But doing so was unthinkable. Cheyne picked up his discarded clothing, tossed it over his shoulder and pushed open the door to his room. He might abandon Society’s more absurd conventions, but that didn’t mean he was lost to all honor. He might have been born a bastard; he wasn’t going to act like one to Mattie.

 
15
 

The Panhard-Levassor furrowed through the morning mist in the Kent countryside. Mattie was on her way to the railroad station to collect Narcissa Potter, and she was miserable. She’d been miserable for over a month, ever since that night she and Cheyne had tried to catch the blackmailer and ended up kissing at the Trillford ball.

The motorcar clattered over a rut filled with mud, but for once she failed to curse the lack of good roads for horseless vehicles. Hauling on the wheel, she skirted another watery hole and blinked back tears. Once she had thought nothing could hurt like being used by Samuel Pinchot. After Cheyne’s rejection, a scalping by Comanches seemed like a cotillion.

He’d shown her the red-gold world of passion, given her the gift of the wonders of physical love, and then ripped it from her, tore himself from her as if he couldn’t bear the fact that she had inspired his
offering. He was ashamed to want her. It had been so clear in his manner, in his words.

Mattie prided herself on looking at the world without useless fuzzy-mindedness and rosy clouds to obscure her vision. Until desire grabbed her and twisted her in knots. Certainly she knew that men looked at the world differently. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find that Cheyne Tennant could want a woman without loving her. What had caught her unprepared was that he wanted her. He evidently had conceived a weakness for her, and just as obvious was his disgust at not being able to overcome it.

She didn’t understand why he found her irresistible. No one else had. And when he touched her he swept her into a cyclone. It was as if he breathed desire into her with each kiss. Each time his hands had touched her skin, she grew more and more agitated. Then his hips had pressed against hers and suddenly she felt the same animal compulsion she’d witnessed in the past on the ranch.

At that moment comprehension burst upon her. This was desire—limitless, obsessive, undeniable. And if she didn’t pursue it, she might never find it again. Even now she could call up its power by envisioning Cheyne, his sapphire eyes glittering like the sunlit sky after a rain at sunset.

She’d taken a chance; she’d allowed herself to respond to him, and he’d betrayed her trust. Long hours of tears, remorse, and speculation had yielded the answer to Cheyne’s vicious conduct. He found
her unworthy of him and his superlative lineage. Like so many men, he blamed her for inspiring desire in him, as if she were responsible for his feelings.

Tears obscured the road again, and Mattie stopped the motorcar while she wiped her eyes with a gloved hand. To be shoved away as if she disgusted him had been mortifying. She had wanted to die, and even now she burned with shame.

Sniffing, Mattie stopped the Panhard, found her handkerchief and wiped her nose and eyes. Broad green lawns stretched into the distance on either side of the private drive. She glanced back at the trees that screened her view of Cheremere, Cheyne’s castle. The man owned a blamed castle, for God’s sake. Bought it from some fool who’d rather live on the Continent.

“Dang, dang, dang.”

No matter her aversion to him, she’d been forced to come here, and now she was a guest of the last man in England she ever wanted to see again. Because, whatever her personal feelings, she couldn’t refuse to go along with Superintendent Balfour’s continued attempts to trap the blackmailer. They wanted to draw all the suspects together in one place, with her there to tempt the criminal into making more demands. With fewer people around in the country, their chances of isolating the real blackmailer were far better. She would have preferred to play the hostess at the country house Mama had rented for the fall, but Cheyne invited Mama
without consulting her, and Mama had been only too pleased to accept. If Mattie had refused to cooperate, she’d have had to explain why, and that she couldn’t do.

Thus Mattie and her mother had come to Cheyne’s country house along with everyone who had been present the night her letters had vanished. Avery, Dr. Capgrave, the honorable Lancelot Gordon, Narcissa, and the Stellafords. Rose Marie Seton would arrive this afternoon. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, especially Mama. She was ecstatic at the chance to lure Stainfield into a proposal and at the same time keep Tennant in reserve.

A wave of guilt burst over her. She hadn’t yet told Mama of her plans, but as soon as they caught the blackmailer, Mattie was going home. Stainfield could find himself another rich bride. She wasn’t going to stay a moment longer than necessary in the same country with Cheyne Tennant, much less the same house.

She had another reason for leaving as well, one just as painful. Agonizing reflection had revealed something to Mattie: in her quest to marry well, she’d been trying to make up for all the things Papa had missed. While he was alive he’d always worked to provide for others and hardly ever thought about his own enjoyment. Then he’d died before he could really experience the beautiful life he’d earned. Without realizing it, Mattie had been trying to recompense Papa for what he’d missed by working so
hard and then dying so soon. But she could never make up for the past. It was wrong to try to live according to what Papa might have wished. When she’d understood this at last, she finally admitted to herself that her father’s dying request had been misguided. He wouldn’t have wanted her to be unhappy. Marrying Avery Richmond would make her unhappy, and staying in England with Cheyne Tennant around would make her miserable. So she wasn’t going to stay.