Wicked Becomes You (14 page)

They procured two glasses of Allsopp from the stand, but when they turned away, a freckled girl in a blue gown that barely covered her breasts bounded up and caught hold of Alex’s sleeve. She spoke in a colloquial patter that Gwen could not follow, and he replied at an unintelligible clip, sounding polite but amused. From the vehement shake of her curling black head and the tug she gave to his cuff, the girl disagreed. But she was having trouble maintaining her pout; it continually broke into a smile.

He glanced at Gwen, one brow lifting apologetically, and then stepped sharply free of the girl’s grasp. The girl spared her a glare before whirling away and stalking back into the ballroom.

“What did she want?” Gwen asked.

His lips canted as he handed her a glass. “Company.”

“Oh.” To her irritation, she felt a blush heat her face. “But—she knew I was with you!”

“I don’t think that bothered her,” he said, laughing.

It took a moment to follow the implication of this statement. Then, as she followed him to a nearby table, her hand flew to her mouth. No! Surely she was misunderstanding him!

To hide her shocked expression, she pretended a close interest in the vase of orange tulips sitting atop the tablecloth. Such a strangely domestic appointment amidst this bohemian scene. Her eyes rose again to the spectacle of the elephant, from which spilled a peculiar, foreign melody. A few couples were twirling to the song on the small, canopied dance floor.

A curious amazement washed over her.
I am doing this. I am drinking beer at a Parisian pleasure club
. And yes, it
was
Alex who had pressed a
bock
upon her and was now sitting at her side, watching her with evident curiosity but no visible judgment whatsoever.

Her disbelief shifted into something giddier. How generous of him to take her at her word—to respect her desire for adventure despite his obvious skepticism at dinner! She found herself smiling up at him, utterly afire with gratitude. “Have you come here often, then?”

He shook his head slightly. His eyes fell to her mouth briefly before he looked back to the dancers. “Never, in fact.”

“How do you know it so well, then?”

His laughter seemed to brush against her skin, a tangible thing that made her stomach contract. He smiled at her, and it was a gypsy’s smile, taunting her for the staidness of her own small world. “They’re all very much the same, Gwen. The Bal Bullier, the Moulin, the Pere Chateau . . .”

“Well, thank you for agreeing to escort me,” she said. “I know you didn’t wish to do so. All this must be very routine and boring for you.”

He made an impatient noise. “If you mean to be wicked, here’s my first piece of advice: never fish for compliments by demeaning yourself. Assume there is no place I’d rather be than by your side.”

“But I know that’s not true.”

“It doesn’t matter what
my
truth is. Know your worth and assume others do, too. Modesty, if you consider it, is the most unforgivable sort of falsehood: it’s a lie that does damage to no one but yourself.”

She laughed. “Damage? I like that. Of course, you’re a heretic by profession. Most gentlemen consider modesty very becoming to a lady.”

“No doubt they do,” he agreed. He reached out to cup a tulip blossom. “The same gentlemen who liken ladies to flowers, no doubt.” He urged the blossom gently upward, as tenderly as a man might tip up a lady’s chin for a kiss, and stroked it with one long finger.

A peculiar dizziness struck her. She tried to take her eyes off his hand, but they would not budge.

“Others of us,” he said courteously as his hand dropped, “do not believe a woman’s main aim is to decorate a room.”

She looked up into his eyes. Her mouth felt dry. How odd. This was only Alex. And yet—hints of exotic mysteries seemed suddenly to cling to his shirtsleeves. Every time he came back from abroad, bits of strange new worlds clung to him.

“Modesty is useless,” he said with a shrug. “And, as I said, offensive. Cast it away for tonight.” He gave a wave of fluttering fingers, as though to illustrate the evaporation of this virtue.

The gesture struck a curious chord in her. It seemed like a flourish in some exotic dance, decidedly foreign. As he leaned back, propping his elbow atop the back of the chair, the close fit of his jacket emphasized the flatness of his belly. His black-clad shoulder was a hair’s breadth from her own.

The silence seemed to thicken, a weird, electric charge bridging the space between them, so she felt that only a breath separated their skin. She had a visceral sense of how far he had traveled, all the distant lands he’d seen—dark adventures and sultry nights she would never know about. Her hand curled at the sudden memory of how he had felt to touch, the hew of his muscle. She had dug her fingers into his arms as he’d kissed her. He’d felt so solid.

Why hadn’t he kissed her again? He had no care for morals.

She turned her face into her beer, taking a very large swallow.

“Give it a go,” he said.

“What?”

“Practice makes perfect. Say something immodest.”

She took a deep breath and looked up. “I want to touch you,” she said.

He smiled. “Very good. But perhaps the first lesson should concern the avoidance of beer foam.” His hand lifted, brushing across her cheek.

Did he not realize she was serious? Some wild impulse winged up through her. She grabbed his wrist.

His smile widened. “You have foam,” he said patiently. “On your cheek. I only meant to brush it away.”

She could feel his pulse beneath her thumb. She opened her mouth, but words dried up. His wrist was solid and hot. There was such density to him. Her fingers tightened, testing it.

His face changed. Such an indefinable shift: only the expansion of his pupils, the slight loosening of his lips. But her body understood it. The wild instinct made her thumb press harder. Strange, predatory thought:
I’ve caught you.

He exhaled through his nose. “Let go.”

“No.” The whisper felt drawn from her by some power outside herself. As he met her eyes, she did not even feel embarrassed. The dim glow of the fairy lights, the violinists’ abrupt segue into a waltz, made the scene surreal, dreamlike.

She required a scandal to drive suitors away?
He
could be her scandal.

Why, she thought, he was not misunderstanding her at all. He was only
pretending
to do so. A flush moved through her; instinctively she recognized that his descent into pretense spelled a triumph for her. “And what—” Her mouth had gone dry. She licked her lips, and as he glanced down to watch her tongue, his own mouth seemed to harden. “What if I asked you to kiss me again?”

His free hand rose, knuckles brushing lightly down her jaw. “An interesting approach,” he said. His thumb settled against her lower lip, exerting the slightest pressure. Her lips parted. She tasted the salt of his skin, and her entire body seemed to contract to the awareness of it. She leaned forward, instinctively, and touched the tip of her tongue to his thumb.

The breath hissed from him. He removed his hand and sat back. “Bit risky, though, for your first night of adventure.” His voice sounded strained.

“I am in the mood for risk,” she whispered.

His eyes narrowed. “I suggest something subtler.”

“I’m not playing,” she said.

He gripped her chin with sudden, startling firmness. “Better to play,” he said. “Between us, at least.”

She did not move, did not lower her eyes. “Why?”

He let out a breath that bordered on a laugh. “Surely I needn’t list all the reasons. You know me well enough. You think I have an interest in debutantes?”

“No,” she said. “But I am no longer a debutante.”

“There’s also the small matter of your brother.”

“Richard?” The name was like a slap. She sat back out of his grip. “What does
he
have to do with this?”

His eyes held hers, steady and unflinching. “If we’re not pretending,” he said, “then we must be speaking honestly, no? I told my sisters the full story of my quarrel with him the night he died. They must have told you.”

“Yes,” she said. “But he was wrong, of course—”

“Oh, you and I both know that. But we also know, then, what he wished for you—and what he most ardently did
not
wish.”

“Meaning you,” she said.

“Meaning anyone like me,” he said impatiently. “Richard knew me well. He knew you well. And while his alarm was mistaken, it would certainly have been justified, were his suspicions correct.”

“So you mean to say that I . . . disrespect his memory somehow? By asking you to
kiss
me?” The thought was outrageous. “Richard wanted me to be happy, Alex. That was
all
he wanted. And I’m pursuing my happiness, right here, now. If a scandal is what it requires, then surely he would prefer me to pursue one with you than with some no-name stranger!”

“I see,” he said at length. “You think to use me as your avenue to ruin, then?”

“You yourself said it: three million pounds.” Her voice sounded suddenly bitter. But what woman in the history of the world had ever had to justify her own seduction to convince a man like this to take advantage of her? It seemed so unjust. He must be
trying
to embarrass her. “It will take a great deal to undo my appeal. A man with your reputation would come in handy.”

His eyes narrowed. “How charming. To which aspect of my reputation do you refer?”

“Recall, we are being honest,” she bit out. “I refer to the fact that you are a well-known rake.”

“Ah, yes.” He sat back in his chair, smiling unpleasantly. In his hand he turned the beer glass back and forth, making the barest pause after each twirl, lending the movement a contemplative flavor. “It’s true, I suppose. And of all my accomplishments, I am of course flattered that you deign to find useful this one, oh-so-impressive achievement. But if it’s sex you want, there are several men in London who can’t keep their trousers up. No need to follow me to Paris for it.”

Her cheeks ached with the force of her blush. “Do not mock me,” she managed. “You have
earned
your reputation.”

“No, no, I don’t mock you,” he said soberly. “Indeed, as a businessman, I applaud your strategy; very economical, very thrifty. No doubt a mere brush against my coattails would blacken the halo of a saint. But you must forgive me if I have no interest in being used to suit your purposes. As you point out, I have a name to uphold, and falling victim to a virgin’s machinations would put me in very poor company.”

She glared at him. “What do you mean? What sort of company?”

He tossed back the rest of his beer. “Trent,” he said when he’d swallowed. “Pennington. Every sad toff whom you’ve contemplated purchasing in order to have your title.”

“
Purchasing
—”

“Do you deny it? I thought we were being honest.”

She could match his sarcasm. “I tell you now, if a title appealed to me, it was merely because I knew that once I had one, no one would
dare
to speak to me like this.”

He shocked her by laughing. “Nobody ever speaks to you like this, Gwen.” He carefully placed his glass onto the table. “You’ve taken pains to ensure that. These smiles you don’t mean, these compliments you waste on people who don’t deserve them, even this sad little habit of devaluing your own worth—you’re as manipulative as any financier. Only your method is different.”

“And my motive,” she said furiously. “Unlike you, Mr. Ramsey, we do not all appraise a person like some commodity from which we might stand to make a profit. I wanted a family; I wanted a home. But I never tried to undertake a marriage that would benefit only me. Now my aims have changed, but I am no less committed to a fair exchange. If you don’t wish to help me, I will simply find someone who does.”

“The hell you will,” he said grimly.

“I should like to see you stop me.”

He spoke slowly. “Perhaps you haven’t been attending to my reputation as closely as you claim. Otherwise I don’t think you would imagine yourself a match for me.”

The breath hissed through her clenched teeth. “I hardly think myself a match for you. I have a far better regard for myself.”

“Oh? As I said, I could argue that point.”

“I do not want to hear it.”

“I’m certain you don’t.” He glanced beyond her, as if bored with the conversation, and his expression suddenly shifted, his eyes narrowing before his face went absolutely blank.

The transformation was dramatic enough that a thread of curiosity fractured her anger. She turned to follow his regard. He was looking at the girl in the low-cut blue gown. The girl had found a new object for her attentions now—a handsome blond man in a well-cut tail coat. Together with his companions, he was twitting her into giggling, teasing the hem of her skirts with the tip of his gold-knobbed cane.

“Stay here a minute,” Alex said. And then, with a hard look: “I mean it. Do not leave this seat.”

With no further explanation, he rose and walked away.

In disbelief, she twisted to follow his progress. He made directly for the blond man, but his path was impeded by the man’s friends, who stepped forward and exchanged words with him. Meanwhile, the blond took the girl’s arm and strolled around this scene, onward in Gwen’s direction.

Alex took a step after him. The other men interceded. One of them gestured toward the interior of the building. After a visible hesitation and a brief, unreadable glance toward Gwen, Alex pivoted and followed them.

Take her here and
abandon
her, would he?

She looked wildly around. Alone, in the Moulin Rouge! Amidst all these people!

She jerked up her chin, staring fixedly at the elephant. She would be fine. She did not need Alex’s company, or anybody else’s, for that matter. She could manage very well on her own.

The elephant’s face looked sad. Why had the artist chosen to paint it that way? Its great, dark eyes fixed woefully on some point in the distance, enduring without enthusiasm the antics of stupid boys climbing in and out of its belly. Poor, dumb creature! It looked so resigned. And so lonely.

A terrible wave of pity rose in her. Tears came to her eyes, which seemed
beyond
stupid; impatiently she pressed her fingertips to her eyelids. What nonsense. It was only a statue. Those eyes were the work of a very talented artist.

Still, something about the scene suddenly felt unbearable. The knot in her throat was growing. She came to her feet, planning to go after Alex, or to leave and hail a cab herself—

—and as she turned, she bumped directly into the blond man whom Alex had tried to approach. The girl clinging to his arm flashed Gwen a hostile look, but the gentleman stopped immediately and sketched a short bow. “Pardon me, mademoiselle,” he said in English. “I didn’t see you there.”

“No, no, it was my fault,” Gwen said. She should have realized he was a fellow countryman when he’d given Alex the cut. He had the ruddy, wholesome good looks that bespoke the playing fields at public schools, and summers spent scrambling across the countryside with howling hounds in tow. “Please accept my apologies, sir.”

His brow lifted. Her accent startled him, maybe. One didn’t expect to hear such posh tones emerging from an unaccompanied woman—not here, at least.

This realization revived her anger. Her hand closed over the visceral memory of her stinging palm, all those endless raps from the ruler.
We do not say “tha,” Miss Gwendolyn. We say “you.”

Why
, she thought,
I have been a trained, talking dog
. No wonder Alex showed contempt to her. For all her life, she had done as she was told, and when she had yapped for attention, it had taken but a word to make her sit quietly.

“Perhaps you can tell me,” the gentleman said, “since my companion seems to know no English.” He glanced at said companion, releasing her elbow with a smile, ignoring her quick protest. “Was there not meant to be singing, tonight?”

Gwen felt the girl’s glower as a hot pressure on her cheek. “Yes, but not until midnight.” It seemed unnecessary to add that this information came from her guidebook rather than any firsthand knowledge.

He nodded slowly. “What a pity,” he said. “I shall have to find something else to occupy my time.”

His accent wasn’t quite as good as hers. She heard it now—some buried, rural inflection that wormed up through his vowels, sabotaging him at the occasional syllable. For some reason, the realization emboldened her. “I have a very nice singing voice,” she said. “Alas, I know no lyrics for this sort of music.”

“Oh?” The Englishman turned his body just enough to give the French girl his back. This marked signal made her cross her arms over her chest, then whirl and stalk away. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said pleasantly. “I am Mr. Rollo Barrington, of Manchester.”

“Far from home,” she said lightly.

“And all the better for it,” he said, eyeing her. “I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Manchester, but I always say that
escape
is the only verb that properly describes one’s departure from it.”

She laughed. “And how does one term one’s departure from Paris, then?”

“Punishment,” he said with a smile. “I say, mademoiselle—might I make a bold proposal? The surroundings certainly encourage it.”

Through the double doors standing open to the ballroom, she spied Alex wending his way back through the crowd. Her heartbeat stuttered, then quickened. “You may attempt boldness, sir. I do not promise to encourage it.”

He had a charming laugh, light and free of malice. “Then I will gather up my courage, and ask if I might have the honor of watching you drink a glass of champagne.”

She hesitated. Alex expected to find her exactly where he had left her. Of course he did. Trained dogs did not wander, after all.

Fresh anger lurched through her. It felt stronger and even headier than the beer she’d been drinking.

She produced a smile. “I suppose you may watch me drink champagne,” she said. “But I have two conditions.”

Mr. Barrington sketched a bow. “I pray I may meet your terms.”

“Oh, my terms are very simple,” she said. Amazing how well her smile worked! The gentleman leaned toward her, now, his manner attentive and intrigued. She felt another heady rush—of satisfaction; of power; perhaps of relief. Alex would learn he did not know her as well as he thought. “First, you must allow me the same honor, for champagne is never meant to be drunk alone. And second, you must guarantee that we drink to celebrate an achievement.”

He laughed. “And what achievement might that be, dare I ask?”

“Why, your success in smuggling me into that elephant.”

A bribe of five francs satisfied the lad standing guard by the elephant’s trunk. Gwen entered first. The short flight of iron stairs led to a carpeted platform lit by bluish gas lamps, with a red velvet love seat at the center. Exotic silks covered the walls, shades of scarlet and teal and saffron embellished with silver embroidery and fringed with gold coins. At the end of the platform stood a large wooden screen, intricately carved, concealing the remainder of the space. From somewhere behind it came the rhythmic jingling of bells.

“Not yet,” Mr. Barrington called out. The smell of pomade and cigars surrounded her, and then his gloved hand closed over her elbow, giving her heart a startled lurch. “Careful,” he murmured. “The floorboards are uneven.”