Wicked Angel (27 page)

When Alex touched her hand, she almost jumped out of her skin. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye as he leaned toward her with quiet smile. "I think," he said charmingly, "they are admiring your beautiful gown."

An inadvertent chuckle escaped her. He was a clever man, she would give him that, but in some respects, he was as thick as the fog outside. She wore a very plain, unadorned gown. "They are most decidedly not admiring my gown."

"Why not? I think it is beautiful."

She turned slightly to see if he trifled with her, but he looked genuinely sincere, and against her will, it pleased her enormously. She unconsciously opened the fan she had borrowed from Abbey and waved it in her face. "It is functional," she muttered.

He chuckled. "Functional, is it? Well, I do believe it is the loveliest gown I have ever had the opportunity to admire on a woman."

Good God, was he mad? A bit in his cups? He had to be one or the other, because each time Lauren had seen Lady Marlaine, that beautiful creature had been dressed in the finest
haute couture
, which included a variety of pastels and frills. Lady Marlaine most decidedly did
not
dress in dark colors with little adornment. "You should not leave your quizzing glass at home, your grace, if you cannot see better than that."

Alex smiled quietly as the curtain was drawn. "I wish you would call me Alex," he murmured. But the first strains of music had been played, and Lauren did not respond, losing interest in him and everything else.

He barely heard the music at all, and had to keep reminding himself to breathe. The woman simply took his breath away. Dressed in a shimmering gown the color of peacock feathers, her skin glowed radiantly.

Her bosom swelled enticingly above the low-cut bodice, and a single strand of dark chestnut hair that had escaped her simply elegant coif draped sensuously across her eye. And those eyes, dear God, those eyes that had haunted him the past week sparkled brilliantly.

She was completely enraptured with the performance. With her hands clasped tightly in her lap, she leaned forward, hanging on every note. He could not take his eyes from her classic profile, or the loose strand of hair that fell again each time she delicately brushed it from her face. He drank her in, practically paralyzed by the overwhelming desire to touch her, to caress her skin, to taste her lips.

The power of his emotion completely bewildered him.

It was the power of the music that helped to relax Lauren. As the curtain was pulled for intermission, she sighed contentedly and fell back against the velvet chair, her hand resting lightly on her throat.

"You seem to enjoy the music."

She smiled in unspoken agreement, and risked looking at him. In the soft glow of the candlelight, he looked extremely virile. As he handed her a glass of champagne, the rich brown waves of his thick hair brushed his collar. His green eyes were soft and liquid, and his lips, pursed just slightly, reminded her of the explosive kiss they had shared. A shiver unexpectedly raced through her.

"My God, you are more beautiful than I imagined you would be." His eyes casually flicked the length of her.

The compliment startled her; the flute wavered in her hand. "You should not say such things."

He smiled. "Why not? I told you once before I believe beauty should be openly and honestly admired.

Did you think I jested with you?"

"I did not believe you," she admitted truthfully.

His green eyes danced dangerously. "Angel, if you believe nothing else, believe this. You are the most enchanting woman I have ever known."

Oh God, she desperately wanted to believe it. Lauren realized she was trembling. She put down the champagne flute and clasped her hands tightly together in her lap. Alex did not say anything, but regarded her so tenderly that her pulse began to race. Slowly, he reached across the gap that separated them and carefully laid his hand upon hers. She swallowed a gasp at the gentle gesture and stared at his hand, his strong, broad hand, lying simply, easily, across her own. It was so
comforting
, so safe. She saw each dark hair, the way his long fingers tapered, the way the ruby cuff links looked like drops of blood against the stark white of his shirt.

"I wanted you to come tonight, but not for the reasons you think," he said softly. "I apologize for my methods, but I had to see you again."

A flood of emotion began to course through her; she could not drag her eyes from his hand. "I thought we agreed." It was her voice, but she would have sworn someone else spoke.

He was silent for a long moment. "I am very sorry," he finally uttered, "but I cannot honor whatever it is you think we agreed to."

Lauren drew a steadying breath. "But you must. We agreed, nothing can come of it! Lady Marlaine—"

"No." He cut her off. "Just tonight, let us not speak of anything else. Let us have just one night, Lauren, one night, only you and me… no one else."

She was mad to even consider such a request, to let her guard down, even for a moment. Yet her heart was of a different opinion, and she lifted her gaze from his hand and looked at him. The earnestness in his expression amazed her; it was with a yearning she understood too well. He suddenly lifted her hand and kissed her gloved knuckles. "One night. You want it, too, I think, as badly as I do."

Unable to answer him, she dragged her gaze to his hand again. She should deny it. She should demand he fetch Lady Paddington. Mother of God, could she allow herself this pleasure, this single moment in time? It seemed so
easy
—they were in a crowded opera house. Nothing could possibly happen! It was

meaningless! It was
possible
. For only one night. He mistook her hesitation and slowly released her hand. Lauren impetuously grasped it and held it in her lap. "Just one night," she whispered.

Alex moaned with relief and leaned closer, his forehead almost touching hers. "One
blessed
night, angel,"

he whispered, his breath fanning her cheek. He brushed the strand of hair from her temple, leaving a trail of sparks to flow through her.

She gripped his hand tighter. "But… but we cannot sit here… we must converse. We must
talk
," she said hesitantly. "Do you, ah, play an instrument?" she asked nervously.

He chuckled at her nervousness and fondly squeezed her hand. "There were some singing lessons, but the instructor eventually convinced my mother she was throwing good money after bad. Three boys, and none of us had the temperament for the arts. We preferred hunting to singing, mud to paints."

"You had an older brother," she stated.

"Yes, Anthony. Died in a fall from his horse and broke his fool neck," he said, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

"It must have been terribly difficult to lose a brother and inherit such an important title all at once."

Startled, Alex blinked. How on earth could she know that? "He was the duke," he heard himself say. "I was the second son. It was an arrangement that suited us perfectly. There are times I find I have yet to adjust completely."

He was still marveling at that unprecedented revelation when she asked, "What did you do?" He must have looked puzzled, because she quickly clarified, "When you were the second son, I mean."

"Chased things," he said with an enigmatic grin, caressing the inside of her slender wrist.

"Chased things?" she echoed.

"Pursuits of a cerebral nature," he said, smiling, "the search for adventure."

"Ah, so '
thy chase had a beast in view. '
" She laughed lightly at the Dryden poem, an appealing blush rising in her cheeks. "I should not tell you so, but the first time we met, I thought you looked like a man who had climbed mountains."

Whether it was the treasure of a glimpse into her thoughts of him, or the fact that he had indeed scaled mountains, he did not know, but he was inwardly startled. "I have climbed a few," he said simply.

She grinned with delight. "You
have?
"

The impact of that gorgeous smile hit him squarely in the chest—how he had longed to see it! He chuckled warmly. "I beg your pardon, Countess, but do you think a duke is incapable of climbing mountains?"

She flashed a charming smile and leaned forward, unwittingly affording him a tantalizing view of her cleavage. "I rather suppose I thought a
duke
might send a footman ahead to do his climbing."

"Not all dukes rely on their footman for such things," he said in a lightly admonishing tone. "Some of us relish the experience of all things physical in nature." Blushing prettily, she tossed him an impertinent grin.

"And what did you do before you married your count?" he asked as his fingers stroked her palm.

"I don't know." With an unaffected shrug of her shoulders, she smiled. "I suppose I tended things. Paul,

the children, the animals. My uncle, when he found time to visit Rosewood."

"Your guardian uncle? I had opportunity to meet him recently. Did he not live at Rosewood with you?"

"He preferred the continent." She smiled again. "I must check the rules of foolish wagers, your grace. I should think a discourse on my uncle was not included with one night at the opera."

He briefly wondered what it would take to learn every last thing about her, but nodded congenially.

"Perhaps not. But I do think the wager entitles you to call me by my given name."

Lauren smiled shyly. "For just one night, Alex," she murmured, and turned eagerly toward the stage as the orchestra picked up again.

Across the house, Mrs. Clark snapped open her fan with a practiced flick of her wrist and leaned toward Aunt Paddy. "I told you so," she muttered behind the fan's cover.

Aunt Paddy surreptitiously slid her gaze to the ornate ducal box as she pretended to study a cuticle.

Countess Bergen looked particularly lovely this evening; but then again, she always looked as if she had arisen from spring's gardens. "You have an overactive imagination," she sighed wearily.

"Admit it, Clara. Just look at the way he speaks with her! I daresay that smile on his lips has not wavered since he set foot in the box! Nor has he stopped looking at her. I am telling you, Sutherland has a particular attachment for the countess."

"He has nothing of the sort! He is quite in love with Lady Marlaine, and is merely biding his time until the poor creature returns from Tarriton!"

"You simply cannot abide it when I am right," Mrs. Clark sniffed. "Look there, he is holding her hand!"

she whispered frantically. Both women gasped audibly when the duke lifted the countess's hand to his lips. "Now
that
is not friendly interest, if you ask me," Mrs. Clark murmured.

"I did not ask you that I recall! Really, why must you read so much into an innocent situation?" Paddy asked, a little desperately.

Mrs. Clark rolled her eyes and waved her fan for some air. "I know you are inordinately fond of the duke, Clara, but he and Countess Bergen have more than a passing interest in one another. Your nephew Westfall certainly believes so—you recall what he said about the park? And why do you suppose the duke sat you here this evening? He hasn't come for you as he said he would, and it is not out of regard for
my
feelings, I can assure you! If you don't believe me, just look at Count Bergen! I would wager
he
does not think it a friendly interest, either!"

Both women slyly shifted their gaze to the box next to them, where Count Bergen sat stiffly in the company of Lord and Lady Harris. He stared at Countess Bergen, had stared at her since he had seated himself during the first act. "That poor, poor man. He simply adores her," Mrs. Clark said sadly.

"And she adores him, Mrs. Clark. Everyone knows she will soon accept his offer and return to her beloved Bavaria," Paddy proclaimed.

"My dear"—Mrs. Clark sighed, as if speaking to an ignorant child—"even
Count Bergen
knows she does not
adore
him. She is tolerant of him, to be sure, and I would even go so far as to say she is somewhat fond of him, but she
adores
your nephew."

Aunt Paddy frowned mightily at her companion. "As I live and breathe, Elizabeth, you know
nothing
.

Goodness, he is to be married in three weeks! The dear boy is not a fool—he knows a good circumstance when he sees one, and he would do nothing to jeopardize that! He is very kindly escorting Countess Bergen to an opera, nothing more!"

"Honestly, Clara, you of all people should know that men do not confine themselves to good circumstance! Lord Paddington hardly confined himself to your tidy little fortune, now did he? The duke is a man, my dear, a man who is quite simply captivated by a beauty!" Simultaneously, the women slid their gaze back to the duke's box. "Dear
Lord,"'
Mrs. Clark exclaimed, "they are terribly admiring of one another, aren't they?"

Lauren was smiling into the duke's eyes, and he—well, even Paddy could not ignore the fact that he could not take his eyes from her. "I tell you, he adores Lady Marlaine!" she insisted weakly, and huffed with exasperation when her good friend lifted an imperious brow.

When the curtain finally fell to thunderous applause, Alex smiled as Lauren leapt out of her seat in enthusiastic praise of the performance. When the last bows were made and patrons began to file out of the house, she turned to him, her face flushed with excitement. "It was
marvelous
," she said, beaming.

Extraordinary as it was, he would do just about anything to put such joy in her face. "I am glad you enjoyed it." He suggested they have another glass of champagne as they waited for the crush to clear the house. While he poured, she laughingly compared this performance to the plays she had seen at Bergenschloss.

"Frau Batenhorst had the good fortune to see a play in Munich as a young girl, and she was thereafter convinced that every actress worth her stage bows should wear ostrich feathers. It did not matter what role she was assigned, she wore her feathers. I do not believe I shall ever forget the sight of her playing a poor farmer's wife with that plume of ostrich feathers sticking out every which way!"