Wicked Angel (16 page)

It was tied so perfectly that it naturally led her to glance surreptitiously at his formal attire. He wore black tails in which his square shoulders filled every inch, and a white satin waistcoat that fit his lean waist with no room to spare, just as he appeared in her daydreams. She dared to look up, to where a brown curl had fallen across his bronzed forehead. He smiled languidly, just oozing dukelike charm. "Well, well, Miss Hill. You seem to be faring much better than I thought."

Lauren snapped awake at that. "Countess Bergen," she corrected stiffly.

To her great irritation, he feigned surprise. "
Countess?
My apologies, madam. I could have sworn you first introduced yourself as simply Miss Hill."

"Then perhaps we both misunderstood, for I could have sworn
you
first introduced yourself as a gentleman," she shot back. He flashed an irrepressible grin before pulling her close to avoid colliding with another couple. When they were safely past, he did not release her, but kept her close.
Too
close—his cologne tickled her nose.

"Forgive me, but I am rather mystified. You failed to mention your lofty connections when first we met,"

he remarked with a cheerful smile.

Yes, but he had not exactly told her who
he
was! Oh, he was the
epitome
of pomposity! "Could it be, sir, that you have duped a whole
range
of acquaintances into thinking you are a gentleman? And by the by, you certainly failed to mention
your
connections!"

His deep, rich laugh sent a peculiar shiver down her spine. "
Touché
, madam. At the time, it did not seem appropriate. I did not think it wise to startle you with my identity after your brush with near disaster, nor did I think Mrs. Peterman would be terribly amused. But as to your name, is it Lauren Hill—or is that yet another false identity?" he asked, twirling her about again.

"As I said, it is
Countess
Bergen," she countered angrily.

His bold green eyes danced with merriment. "Ah, yes. Of course it is." The look in his eye made her uncomfortably warm, and she tried to put some distance between them. But he stubbornly tightened his hold on her. "Perhaps I should ask it another way. Imagine my surprise to see you first as an impoverished miss chasing a hog, and now, a celebrated countess from Bavaria. Surely you can understand how one might wonder?"

Her anger soared with indignation, and it was only intensified by his devilish smile. Did he think that he was the only one worthy of a title? Well,
that
was hardly surprising! All the aristocrats
she
had ever known thought themselves absolutely infallible! All right, that consisted of her uncle and Magnus Bergen, but nonetheless, they also possessed the tendency toward intolerable arrogance. But theirs
paled
in comparison to
this
. "I am surprised, my lord duke, that you are obviously unaware it is terribly impolite to ask such probing questions of a lady."

"And a countess, you forgot that," he agreed amicably.

"You seem to delight in interrogating me!" she blustered angrily. "Do you think I am not a little miffed that you did not reveal yourself to
me?
"

"It is hardly the same thing. Now I should very much like to know why you concealed your identity from me."

Oh, so now she had
concealed
it. Her brows snapped together as she pressed her lips tightly together.

"Oh, that will not do," he said of her frown. "You should smile and nod as if my conversation is terribly fascinating, which it is. Anything less than that will have every occupant of this ballroom, including myself, wondering why the Countess Bergen should be so angry with the Duke of Sutherland. Why don't you instead entertain us both by telling me just how, exactly, you came by this mysterious new title?"

She opened her mouth to speak. But glancing furtively around them, she thought twice about shouting that she had not just come by her title any more than
he
apparently had, and that his supposed indignation was no more valid than her own. She clamped her mouth shut. There was certainly more than one pair of eyes on them, including those of Charlotte Pritchit, and naturally, Magnus. Only Paul's surveillance was missing, but he was in the gaming room. She caught sight of Charlotte again, wistfully watching her. In the space of that moment, Lauren concluded she could not escape the arrogant duke without a scene, that she would have to tell him something to appease him in a very few minutes, and that she should at least get some small concession for being forced to his will. A good punch in the nose was more to her liking, but she would settle for a small token of kindness.

"All right, she whispered angrily, and forced a smile to her lips. "I shall tell you how I came by my title."

He inclined his head in a show of victory. "On one condition," she added coolly. "You must agree to dance with Miss Pritchit."

A shout of laughter escaped him. "Charlotte Pritchit? I shall need more than your little story to entice me to that!"

"You heard me," she breathed, then catching herself, graced him with a smile she hoped he would think sincere.

He did not think it terribly sincere, but it had to be the most alluring smile he had ever seen. "Well?" she demanded. "Will you agree to dance with Miss Pritchit?"

Alex chuckled. Beautiful, bold, and practical to the end. "May I ask
why?
"

"Because." She smiled sweetly, glancing across the ballroom. "It would be a nice thing to do."

That reasoning hit him like a left jab from nowhere. A
nice thing to do?
"Is that all? Or do you have any other odious trades in mind?" he asked, bowing chivalrously as the music came to an end.

Her exceptional eyes danced like fire. "What a
perfectly
arrogant thing to say! Dancing with Miss Pritchit is
hardly
odious! Honestly, you aristocrats are all alike!"

"I beg your pardon, madam, but we
aristocrats
are cut from the same cloth as
countesses
," he said, his fingers closing tightly around her elbow as he led her from the dance floor.

"Do we have a bargain?" she demanded.

It
was
a very small price to pay. "All right. I shall ask the little mouse to dance!"

With a firm nod of agreement, Lauren jerked her arm free and marched off the dance floor as if leading a charge. He deftly caught her elbow again. "You will incite the crowd into believing there is a fire if you walk out of here like that."

"I would get this over and done!" she murmured furiously, but paused long enough to snatch a flute of champagne from a passing footman. She took a sip—a good,
long
sip—and slammed the half-empty flute onto a table. Shooting him a look of total exasperation, she marched out into the cool night air with him close on her heels, leading him to a semisecluded spot on the popular balcony.

He settled one hip against the railing and folded his hands in his lap. "Well?"

She glanced out over the moonlit gardens and exhaled a long, agonized breath. Her eyes were amazing; they were the most bewitching things he had ever seen. His gaze wandered the sweep of her slender neck, the graceful swell of her bosom, and the long, lean line of her body in that provocative gown.

"All right," she said, turning slowly toward him. He reluctantly dragged his gaze to her face. "I was married to a very old, very senile man," she said slowly. "My uncle betrothed me to Count Helmut Bergen of Bergenschloss—that's in Bavaria, you know. The ceremony was performed by proxy, so I did not know how… how
infirm
he was until I arrived there." She paused; he kept his expression intentionally bland. She suddenly looked down and brushed an imaginary piece of lint from her gown.

"The terms of my betrothal were an heir in exchange for a generous annuity, and then, naturally, the estate upon his death." Lauren glanced up at him through the veil of her dark lashes; he made sure she could read nothing from his expression. She took another deep, steadying breath. "Helmut died several months ago."

"A hunting accident?" he asked.

She surprised him greatly with a snort and roll of her eyes. "Apparently you have heard my uncle's more romantic version. I am afraid he died of natural causes brought on by a positively ancient age. And since he never—I mean, since I had not provided the heir, I thought the inheritance forfeit. So I gave it to the new count, and he happened to agree rather strongly with my assessment. He thought I should return to England without delay." She demurely clasped her hands together, rocking unconsciously onto the balls of her feet and back again. "I did not tell you my true title at Rosewood, because it seemed… well,
empty
. I was married scarcely two years, and really, Helmut was never quite certain who I was. And I would have preferred to stay at Rosewood," she said, her brows dipping into a momentary frown, "but as we are struggling, my uncle is quite determined I shall marry again. It was
he
who spread the word of my title, not I!" She glanced shyly at him. "Really, one hardly has need of a title at Rosewood, so it did not seem to matter."

It only mattered in that it served to increase her allure. This woman was fascinating. Certainly she had to be the only woman in all of Britain who did not think a title mattered, or who would give her inheritance away. "Your uncle is right. A title will greatly improve your chances of a suitable match," he absently remarked.

He was caught off guard by the narrowing of her lovely eyes and the fists she clenched at her sides.

"You
are
an arrogant
swine
," she breathed.

"
Now
what have I said?" he asked, surprised.

"Is everyone in this town as obsessed as you with what makes a good
match?
"

Alex laughed. "I see we are bound to have this discussion again. All right then, is it not why you are here?"

She gasped, whether from surprise or indignation, he was not sure. It suddenly occurred to him that she was incensed because she had already made a match. "Forgive me, perhaps you have received an offer?

Who is the golden-haired man I have seen you with?" he asked casually.

Her lovely face reddened, and he thought for a moment she might positively explode. Or punch him in the nose. "Your grace, I owe you no further explanation, nor, I should think, do you
require
any," she said icily. "As we have now established, hopefully to your great satisfaction, that I have a
right
to be here, I will thank you to leave me alone!" With that, she turned abruptly on her heel and marched to the ballroom, her hips swinging pertly. Bloody hell, what had he said this time?

She did not see him for a long time after that. She made a point of not looking but finally gave into the overwhelming temptation. There he was, leaning against a column, smiling in that self-satisfied way of his as she danced a quadrille with Lord Wesley. She quickly looked away, but after a moment, she could not resist another peek. He was still watching her… and he watched her until the conclusion of the dance. As Lord Wesley escorted her from the floor, he inclined his head toward Charlotte, standing in the oppressive company of her mother. Lauren's heart skipped a beat. To dance with the duke would mean so
much
to Charlotte. Almost fearing what he would do, she watched nervously as he made a great show of walking over and asking Charlotte to dance. She could see Charlotte's bright smile and her mother's near faint. She could not help smiling as he escorted Charlotte onto the dance floor. He nodded, ever so slightly, in acknowledgment of her unspoken gratitude. Lauren did not care for the impact that small, intimate exchange had on her senses, and turned away.

But she was smiling.

When Magnus insisted on a second dance, she realized she was searching for the duke over and over.

Each time he seemed to catch her looking at him, and each time he gave her a smug grin, as if he knew what a wreck he was making of her emotions. She yanked her gaze away and nodded at something Magnus said, vowing to herself she would not look again.

And she did not, not really.

Standing next to her fiancé, Marlaine followed the direction of his gaze onto the dance floor. A small wave of disappointment swept through her when she found the object of his attention. The countess was now dancing with Lord Hollingsworth. With a twinge of queasiness, she glanced furtively at her betrothed again. Surely it was only her imagination that he kept staring at the countess. But when he excused himself, his eyes still on the countess, she turned away from the dance floor, her face devoid of any color.

She was
not
imagining things; she had not imagined a single thing all night. All right, Alex was often in the company of other women. But it never meant anything, and he always came back to her,
always
. This time would be no different. She walked away from the dance floor, confused and unthinking.

"Are you going to allow that?"

Marlaine gasped. She had stumbled upon her mother and father, standing together near an open window.

She swallowed. "Allow what?"

Lady Whitcomb frowned disapprovingly. "Are you going to allow your fiancé to pant like a dog over the countess?" she whispered loudly.

"Now Martha," her father said soothingly, "Sutherland is a popular fellow."

"Not nearly as popular as the countess, it would seem," she grumbled. "He has hardly taken his eyes from her."

Marlaine looked across the dance floor. Alex was where he had been most of the evening—near the countess. Catching a sigh in her throat, she reminded herself that he hated balls, and the countess was only a distraction. He was just amusing himself. She had nothing to fear. Nothing. "He shall be along soon, Mother, I know he shall," she said, desperately wanting to believe it.

Her mother made a sound of disagreement, but her father quickly spoke before she could voice her opinion. "What say we get a bite to eat? All this dancing makes a man hungry," he said kindly, and ushered the two women from the ballroom.