The Rake's Mistress (2 page)

‘I assure you that I do not require dealing with, Lord Lucas,’ she said. ‘If you would be so good as to close the carriage door, I will make my way home at once. I have already been delayed far too long.’

In response, Lucas held the door open a little wider. ‘If
you
would be so good as to come inside, Miss Raleigh,’ he said, with unimpeachable politeness,
‘then we might continue this conversation in the warmth.’

‘No, thank you,’ Rebecca said.

Lucas’s lips almost twitched into a smile. Rebecca felt herself warm to him slightly. She did not seem able to resist. The man evidently had a sense of humour, deep though it might be buried.

‘It was not an invitation,’ Lucas said gently.

Rebecca smiled. ‘It was not an acceptance,’ she said.

Lucas’s eyes narrowed on her face. ‘Step down, Miss Raleigh,’ he repeated, his tone harder this time.

‘No, thank you,’ Rebecca said again. ‘A lady would need to be quite mad to agree to enter the home of gentlemen she had only just met.’

Lucas’s lips set in a thin line. He said a few words to the coachman and then swung himself up into the coach and slammed the door behind him. Immediately the space in the carriage seemed to shrink and become nerve-rackingly small. Rebecca had not found Stephen Kestrel daunting even when he was half-naked. Lucas was another matter. He was just plain intimidating, fully dressed or not. Rebecca tried to calm the erratic tripping of her heartbeat.

The coach set off with a small jerk, the horses’ hooves striking loud on the cobbles. Rebecca felt panic rise in her throat and once again tried to
quieten her nervousness. She could not pretend that the situation looked promising. The servants of the Archangel Club were accustomed—and well paid—to take orders from gentlemen without any argument. For all she knew, Lucas Kestrel could be a member of the Club himself. So if she were to call out, or demand that the carriage be turned around, the coachman would very likely ignore her. She could be dead in the Thames before anyone lifted a hand to help her.

Despite her attempts to keep such thoughts from showing on her face, something of how she was feeling must have penetrated the mask, for Lucas Kestrel put a hand out to her and said silkily,

‘Have no fear, ma’am. Since you would not join me I thought it easier to join you. I have merely instructed the coachman to drive around for a while to prevent the horses from becoming chilled. This will all be over quickly if you choose to oblige me.’

His tone was even, but Rebecca could not miss the threat implicit beneath the words. She raised her chin, an angry spark in her blue eyes, her own voice cutting.

‘And in what way may I assist your lordship?’

Lucas’s gaze slid over her lazily, from the thick chestnut hair beneath her plain round bonnet to her feet encased in nankin half-boots. He considered her with insulting thoroughness and Rebecca felt
her temper catch beneath the scrutiny. She was not accustomed to tolerating the impertinent inspection of a rake.

‘I can think of many ways you might assist me,’ he murmured, ‘but for the moment I am concerned only for my brother. For the moment.’

The angry colour had come into Rebecca’s face at his words and now she subjected him to a scrutiny of her own. It proved a mistake, for once she had started looking, she found it difficult to tear her gaze away.

Lord Lucas Kestrel had a striking face, thin and sunburnt, with high cheekbones, dark auburn hair that was almost brown and very dark hazel eyes beneath strongly marked brows. He was not conventionally handsome, but the sum of all the elements was so unusual that it had a potent impact. Rebecca found that she wanted to go on looking at him and not just because he was shockingly attractive. She made her living as an engraver, and as such she had an eye for a striking image. Lucas Kestrel had a face an engraver could lose herself in, all hard lines and angles. As for his body, he had a compact elegance that would translate well into a sculpture or picture. That powerful body would be quite magnificent without its clothes… Rebecca felt herself blush all over, as though someone had locked her in a hothouse. This sort of instant reaction to a man never happened to her
normally. An artist of any discipline, be they painter, sculptor or engraver, was accustomed to viewing the human body as an art form. They were accustomed to being completely detached. Alas, detached was not the word to describe her response to Lucas Kestrel.

He was watching her with one of those dark brows raised quizzically and a smile lingering on his lips, as though he knew what she was thinking. It turned Rebecca hot with annoyance, rather than awareness, to have been caught staring.

‘So you should be concerned for your brother,’ she snapped, to cover her embarrassment. ‘A youth who gets drunk at his club and indulges in foolish pranks with other young men running riot in the streets—’

‘And ends up in the arms of a Cyprian from the Archangel Club, having sexual congress in a carriage,’ Lucas finished softly for her. ‘Yes, Miss Raleigh—if that is indeed your name—I do so agree with you. Stephen’s exploits are a matter for alarm. Boys will be boys, but I wish Stephen had chosen another place to indulge himself than in the dangerous hands of the Angels. They will ruin him.’

Rebecca felt a violent flash of outrage that almost got the better of her. She calmed herself with a deep breath and when she was able to speak she was pleased that her voice was almost steady.

‘I fear that you are labouring under a series of misapprehensions, my lord,’ she said. ‘I first made your brother’s acquaintance when he climbed into the carriage in Bond Street only a half-hour ago. On learning of his plight at the hands of his friends, who had abandoned him in a bordello, I agreed to convey him home. That is the sum total of our acquaintance.’ She looked at him defiantly. ‘On the basis of that short meeting, however, I can assure you that his company is far preferable to yours!’

Lucas laughed. ‘I imagine so,’ he agreed. ‘I expect that Stephen was most charming to you, whereas I, having knocked about the world a good deal more than he has, am not as gullible as a youth in his salad days.’ Once again, his gaze assessed her, studying the curve of her breast beneath the thick, unfashionable worsted of her dress and returning to linger with disturbing concentration on her mouth.

‘How much did you take him for, Miss Raleigh?’ he asked softly. ‘One hundred guineas? More? What is your price?’

Rebecca shrugged, feeling inordinately angry. ‘Your judgement is not as sound as you pretend, my lord,’ she forced out. It was an effort to speak politely, but years of dealing with her uncle’s customers had schooled her temper. ‘A gentleman
who cannot tell the difference between a Cyprian and an artisan has little discernment indeed.’

Lucas looked incredulous. He lay back on the seat, crossing his long legs at the ankle. Rebecca moved her skirts aside to avoid touching him. He watched her manoeuvre with amusement.

‘My dear Miss Raleigh,’ he said, ‘surely the facts speak for themselves?’ He gestured about them. ‘This is a carriage owned by the Archangel Club for the exclusive use of their customers. I find you inside it, with my brother. He is half-naked, smelling of drink and perfume, and covered in painted kisses. You are—’

‘I am what?’ Rebecca retorted. ‘Fully dressed? Your imagination runs away with you, Lord Lucas. Matters fell out precisely as I told you, as you will find when you interrogate your brother. In fact, I suggest that you go and do so now. I find your company grates on me!’

Lucas was laughing. ‘What a charming manner you have, Miss Raleigh. Do you practise it on your clients—in whatever trade it is that you profess to perform?’

Rebecca bit her lip. Hard. She found that she wanted to do him some sort of injury, preferably a painful and nasty one.

‘My customers deserve civility, my lord,’ she said. ‘You forfeited that right by your own discourtesy.’

Lucas gave her an ironic half-bow. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Raleigh. Would you care to explain the manner in which I have insulted you?’

Rebecca glared at him. ‘Surely that is quite obvious, my lord? You are a gentleman who has a positive talent for offending a lady. I deeply regret the act of kindness that led me to offer my help to your brother. If I had known that it would require me to spend any amount of time with you, then I would have thought not once but twice!’

She saw the gleam of Lucas’s teeth as he smiled. ‘A neat insult of your own, Miss Raleigh. You defend yourself with spirit. Alas, you are doing it too brown.’ His tone changed, became cynical. ‘No one associated with the Angels ever acts out of kindness. Why not come clean and tell me the truth? You may be sure that Stephen will not hold out for long when I speak to him.’

Rebecca closed her eyes, counted to ten and opened them again. Her voice was measured.

‘I assure you, my lord, that my meeting with your brother fell out exactly as I have related it. As for myself, I would say that that is none of your business. I am not a Cyprian, I am not out to fleece your brother or drag him down into the moral depravity you evidently fear. In fact, I am not in the employ of the Archangel Club at all…’ She hesitated for a fraction of a second, for that was not entirely correct, and Lucas pounced.

‘Why the hesitation, Miss Raleigh? You had almost convinced me there…’

Rebecca shrugged angrily. ‘Very well. The reason that I am in this carriage is that I have undertaken a piece of engraving work for the Archangel Club. I have a commission from them—’ She broke off as she saw Lucas’s expression of sardonic amusement.

‘A commission,’ he murmured. ‘I suppose one might call it that.’

‘I do not see why I have to protest my virtue to you, my lord!’ Rebecca said hotly. ‘It is none of your business.’

‘Indeed, you have no need to protest at all, Miss Raleigh,’ Lucas agreed smoothly. ‘Not when there are easier ways to prove your innocence.’

Before she could guess his intentions, he took her hand in his and with studied deliberation stripped off her glove. His gesture was so sudden and so sensually provocative that Rebecca gasped. She tried to withdraw her hand, but Lucas held it firmly between both of his, running his fingers over her skin with the lightest of strokes. His touch was cool and she felt the effect of it jolt right through her body. The colour flooded her face; her nerves prickled. She was unable to repress a shiver.

‘You will see that they are not the hands of a lady,’ she said, ‘but an artisan.’

Her voice came out a little huskily and she hoped that Lucas had not noticed. He was insufferably arrogant as it was, without giving him the advantage.

He looked up and met her gaze, and Rebecca realised that it was a vain hope. Lord Lucas Kestrel was quite experienced enough with women to know when he had an effect upon them. She could see it in his eyes.

His thumb was stroking her palm gently now, sending flickers of feeling along her skin. ‘I agree that they are the hands of someone who works for a living,’ he agreed softly. ‘That does not make you any less of a lady, Miss Raleigh.’

‘I do not wish to discuss semantics with you, my lord,’ Rebecca said. ‘In fact, I do not wish to discuss anything at all. However, I will accept an apology.’

Lucas gave her a very straight look. There was the very faintest hint of a smile in the depths of his eyes and Rebecca’s insides trembled. She was aware of an insidious feeling of attraction growing between them and fought against it wholeheartedly. Lord Lucas Kestrel was clearly a dangerous man.

‘You have it, Miss Raleigh,’ he said softly. ‘My most humble apologies.’

Rebecca drew her hand from his grasp and cleared her throat.

‘I think that it is time for you to go now, my lord.’ She rapped on the roof of the carriage. ‘Stop, please! Lord Lucas will be leaving us here.’

She half-expected the Archangel’s coachman to ignore her command, but the carriage slowed obediently to a halt. Lord Lucas was not so biddable. He sat watching her, a challenge in his gaze as though he were defying her to throw him out bodily.

‘What, are you to abandon me here?’

‘I am certain that you will be able to navigate the streets of London better than your brother,’ Rebecca said sweetly, ‘and since I have no desire to remove your clothes you will not be in need of begging a cloak from a kindly traveller.’

Lucas grinned. ‘You put ideas into my head, Miss Raleigh.’

Rebecca blushed. The ideas were in her head as well, erotic and disturbing, no matter that she tried to ignore them.

‘Disabuse yourself of them, my lord. I will bid you good night.’

Lucas held her gaze for a long moment. There was something lazy but watchful about his scrutiny. ‘I am not entirely sure that I wish to go, Miss Raleigh,’ he murmured.

Rebecca slipped her free hand into her reticule. Her fingers closed around the cold, reassuring shape of her engraving scribe. She whipped it out
and levelled it at his throat. ‘Allow me to encourage your departure, my lord.’

‘The devil!’ Lucas’s eyes lit with unholy amusement. He kept his gaze on the wickedly sharp diamond point. ‘What is that?’

‘A diamond-pin scribe for cutting glass. I use it for the very profession you derided a short while ago.’ Rebecca touched the point of the pin with one gloved finger. ‘Diamonds are the hardest substance known to man, my lord.’

Lucas rubbed his chin ruefully. ‘Then it seems that you have something in common with them, Miss Raleigh.’

‘I do not think that you should be in any doubt of my profession now, nor of my sincerity in wishing you gone,’ Rebecca said.

‘No, indeed.’ Lucas’s gaze came up to her face and he smiled again, a real smile, wholly disarming, seriously dangerous. Rebecca felt her pulse skip. He inclined his head in a gesture of acknowledgement. ‘Very well, Miss Raleigh, I shall leave you, but I shall see that your property is returned to you, all the same.’

‘Please do not trouble yourself,’ Rebecca said.

‘It is no trouble. Cloaks are expensive commodities, particularly for a lady obliged to earn her own living. I shall return it in person.’

Rebecca felt her temper flicker again. ‘Pray save yourself a tiresome task, my lord, and send a servant
with it. That would surely be more appropriate.’