Sweetest Little Sin (3 page)

Immediately, she wiped her face of expression. Mortifying to be caught mooning like that!

“Not at all.” She swiftly changed the subject. “Do you leave London as soon as Parliament closes, sir?”

“No, I have business that will keep me here until August.” He gazed into her eyes with disconcerting directness. “I wish for your company at this party more than I can fully express in a crowded ballroom. Do say you’ll come.”

She didn’t immediately reply. There was a warmth in his voice that disturbed her, almost repellent in its calculated charm. She glanced at his face, to see his mouth pulled into a hard line. The angry grimace lasted for a bare instant, but the sense that his charade of mannered persuasion did not come easily to him assailed her.

“Our engagements . . .” she said vaguely. “I am sorry. They really do not permit.”

After a slight inner struggle that again showed in a tautening of Radleigh’s features, he fashioned his lips into a smile. “Do you shoot, Lady Louisa?”

“No, not at all,” she said, refusing to give him any opening to cajole her further.

In fact, her father had blooded her on the hunting field when she was barely ten years old and taught her to shoot in her teens. After his death, there had been times when the loss of one laying hen to the wily fox had been devastating to her small household and pheasant for dinner a luxury. She’d honed her skill out of boredom as well as necessity. Thank goodness those days were past.

Radleigh seemed a little taken aback. “That is, indeed, a pity. Everyone comes to my house to shoot.” Then a slow smile spread over his features. “Perhaps I might have the honor of teaching you?”

She suppressed her own smile. “Oh,
would
you? I’ve yet to convince my brother to take me to Manton’s.”

A crease appeared between his brows. “I am pleased to hear your brother has such good sense. It would be most improper for you to go there.”

He spoke as if it were a brothel, not a shooting gallery. Louisa stifled a sigh. She ought to learn to mind her tongue.

Suddenly, she felt too hot in the crowded ballroom. The pins that held her complicated coiffure in place dug into her scalp; the lace at her bosom itched. Her stays constricted her torso and limited her movements to the point of discomfort. She felt confined, trapped in this garb, in this life, and the silent scream of tedium welled up in her throat.

She did her best to force it down and expended considerable tact to maneuver the conversation to neutral waters. This absurd panic happened to her occasionally, but it was more acute tonight. Perhaps because tonight, she waited for
him
.

Finally, the dance ended. Radleigh released her and she managed to regain her equilibrium.

Louisa curtseyed in response to Radleigh’s perfectly constructed bow. She slid a glance to the clock on the mantel.

An hour till midnight.

She had to get away.

Louisa excused herself from Radleigh on the pretext of a prior arrangement to take supper with friends and escaped.

With a quick look over her shoulder, she slipped out to the terrace overlooking the square. Now, at last, she could breathe.

The air was fresh with the scent of recent rain. Alone on the small balcony, she gazed out into the night.

Thick clouds slid apart like curtains in the stiffening breeze, revealing a glint of the heavens. The vastness of that space called to her, reached out to envelop her in its cool embrace.

She didn’t know what she wanted; she only knew that it was not to be found in a London ballroom. Restlessness pervaded her body, her soul, and it wasn’t only because Jardine would come to her tonight.

This wasn’t the ennui expressed by half of her acquaintances, fashionable idlers who delved ever deeper into depravity or extravagance to relieve the boredom of having too much money and too much time on their hands. It was a desire, a need, for something other, something different. Something
more
.

Lost in her thoughts, she jumped when a sound behind her pierced her reverie. Quickly, she turned, to see the heavy curtain at the window swing open.

A man stepped out of the ballroom.

“LADY Louisa.” The graveled voice was oddly familiar, but his face lay in shadow.

The figure moved toward her, and she would have been startled if she hadn’t seen him in that devil’s costume earlier.

Faulkner. So Kate hadn’t succeeded in ousting him from her ballroom, then.

“Good evening, Mr. Faulkner,” she said, as coolly as she could manage.

The wrought-iron rail was cold and hard at her lower back. Catching herself in retreat, she moved away from the balustrade. “I came out for a breath of air, but I should go—”

He grasped her elbow as she tried to slip past. “I think you’d prefer me to say what I have to say out here. Never fear. Your reputation is safe with me.”

She halted. It wasn’t her reputation that concerned her. His manner gave her a twist of unease, an unwilling thrill of anticipation.

But the mere fact he didn’t hesitate to manhandle her told her Faulkner considered himself free of social constraints—at least when it came to her. It was as if he wanted her to know that the unwritten rules that protected her from other men did not apply to him.

But this was her territory—her brother’s house—and she wasn’t willing to relinquish any small advantage. Summoning a haughty air, Louisa stared pointedly at Faulkner’s grip on her elbow. His hold slackened and she jerked her arm away.

He paused, glancing back at the ballroom. “You are quite the belle of the ball this evening.”

Dryly, she said, “You flatter me, sir.”

His gaze ran over her, not in a lascivious way, but coldly assessing. “Not at all, not at all. I notice one gentleman in particular has become particular in his attentions. Mr. Radleigh is smitten with your charms.”

Smitten with her aristocratic connections, more like. But it was true. No doubt gossips’ tongues already wagged about Radleigh’s obvious preference for her company. And Millicent would make it her business to fan the flames of speculation. Nothing like societal pressure to help bring a man up to scratch.

Or to make him turn tail and run.

Still, she wasn’t prepared to discuss her marital prospects with Faulkner. “Mr. Radleigh has been kind. What of it?”

“I believe he has invited you to spend some time at his estate. A singular honor.”

How did Faulkner know that? A cold trickle of unease slipped down her spine.

Slowly, Louisa said, “He has asked me. I have not said yes.”

“Oh, but you will say yes,” rumbled Faulkner. “You will say, Lady Louisa, enough to encourage his hopes.”

She blinked at Faulkner’s presumption. “And why on earth should I do any such thing?”

Faulkner didn’t answer straightaway. He leaned back on the wrought-iron rail that guarded the small terrace, bracing his hands on either side of him.

Intrigued, despite herself, Louisa waited, holding very still. Tension tinged with excitement hummed in her veins.

Was he about to draw her further into the dangerous, precarious world Jardine had inhabited for so long?

Why did the idea entice her?

“What do you know about Radleigh?” said Faulkner. With the moon behind him, his face lay in shadow, but she knew she’d read no expression there even if she could see his features. He was a singularly unemotional man.

Louisa searched her memory. “I don’t know much about him at all,” she said, surprised to find she spoke the truth, even after the many conversations she’d had with him.

She wrinkled her brow in thought. “Radleigh told me his people originally came from the north. He has settled in Derbyshire. He has a sister, Beth, and they both lived abroad until recently. I am to meet her at this party.”

Faulkner smiled, a gleam of teeth in the darkness, and she could have kicked herself for speaking as if her attendance was a fait accompli.

“Radleigh is a very wealthy man. Do you know how his fortune was derived?” said Faulkner.

Her eyes widened a little. “Of course not.” She paused. “Well, I suppose I assumed he’d inherited it. He told me his parents are dead.” Her brows drew together. “Are you saying he came by his fortune dishonestly?”

Faulkner shrugged. “If I could prove anything, Radleigh wouldn’t be at liberty today. But make no mistake, Lady Louisa. He’s dangerous.”

“And you wish me to encourage him? Won’t that put me in danger, too?”

“There is a lot riding on your success. More than your safety. More than you could possibly dream.”

She licked her lips. “And once I get close to him? What would I have to do?”

“Accept the mission and then I’ll tell you.” He glanced back to the ballroom. “Now is not the time and here is not the place to talk at length. We must meet again.”

Her breathing came a little faster. “And if I say no?”

Faulkner huffed a soft laugh. “Are you expecting me to threaten you with dire consequences? I won’t do that. I will always find another way. Besides, I expect that after due consideration you will agree.” He eyed her silently for a few moments. “But if it matters to you, there are issues of national security and many lives—the lives of agents like your brother—at stake.”

He pushed away from the railing and walked past her. “Think about it. If you want the assignment, send me word.”

Reaching into his coat, he extracted a card case and flipped it open. “Here is my direction.” He held the neat rectangle of cream stock between his gloved fingertips. Automatically, she took it.

He moved to the window and paused as he opened the door and swept the curtain aside. “Don’t delay too long. There is much to arrange.”

The brief blaze of the ballroom snuffed as the curtain swung back into place. Louisa blinked dazzled eyes and tried to calm her racing pulse. She ought to throw the card away. She dropped it into her reticule.

She counted slowly to fifty before slipping back into the ballroom.

LOUISA stared, dry-eyed, out the window of her bedchamber while all her hopes shattered around her like the breaking dawn.

He hadn’t come.

No word, not a letter nor a token, not even a halfpenny bunch of daisies sent with a grubby messenger boy. Nothing. On her birthday, the one day of the year she’d learned to depend on Jardine, he’d failed her.

When last they’d met, she’d screamed at him, told him he was a murderer, that she never wanted to see him again.

And he’d reminded her that nothing either of them could do or say would change one thing—they were destined to be together.

For years, she’d believed that, carried the hope of him like a small, flickering candle in the shelter of her hand. She’d stayed up all night—in masquerade costume, no less—waiting for him. Despite what had passed between them those months ago, she’d been certain he would come. She hadn’t given up, not even after the last stroke of midnight marked the end of her birthday.

Only the lightening sky of a new day finally convinced her. As dawn touched the square outside below, dancing off the windows of the houses opposite, her foolish hope fizzled and died.

It wasn’t even that he hadn’t come—perhaps he’d good reason to stay away. But the pathetic creature she’d made of herself, sitting up all night waiting for him, longing for some sign he remembered her existence, proved it beyond doubt.

She was nine-and-twenty and she needed to get on with her life.

She wanted a husband, not this dream figure of a man who stormed in and out of her mundane, peaceful world, leaving a trail of destruction and yearning behind him. She wanted a home and children of her own.

Yet, she’d hoped for all these things from Jardine. She’d set such store by his limited constancy. He’d never missed her birthday, not once in eight years.

But this time . . .
Why
hadn’t he come? Cold fear swept over her like a blizzard. Her hand flew to her throat. What if he . . .