Wicked Becomes You (19 page)

The floor shuddered and set the dishes to rattling as the train slowed for a station. “Oh, please let’s not talk about how
nice
I am.”

“Wasn’t going to,” he said. “You’re shrewd. And disciplined as hell.”

Shrewd and disciplined?
This idea startled her into a pause. Soldiers were disciplined; so, too, were religious widows who spent entire nights on their knees in prayer. But she? And as for shrewd—ha! “You were right about that Aubusson in the Beechams’ library,” she said. “I had it checked before leaving London.”

“And?”

“And, you said I was shrewd.”

“Not in buying carpets,” he said. “But in your social success, yes. Far too complete to be the product of luck and charm and smiles alone.”

“Then what?” she asked. “I did not
purchase
my friends, if that’s what you mean.”

“No,” he said. The train had come to a full stop, now, and his voice sounded painfully precise in the new silence. “You gamed them.”

“
Gamed
them?” She speared up a prawn. Curious things, prawns. They seemed so peculiarly
naked
, curled around themselves, their delicate veins exposed so plainly. “You make it sound like my life was all a sham.”

“Wasn’t it?” He made a sound in his throat that managed to convey amusement and skepticism at once. “Don’t tell me you believed in it for a moment. You cracked that little world by mastering the rules and using them to suit yourself.”

He paused, and she kept her eyes on the prawn, hoping he was finished. Her skin seemed to be crawling. There was something curiously . . .
humiliating . . .
in hearing him analyze her so cold-bloodedly. She was not so calculating as he painted her, but she could see how a stranger might be persuaded by his view.

Was this really how he saw her?

He spoke more gently as he continued. “Gwen . . . had you taken that world so seriously—had you placed faith in any of the people in it—you’d never have played them so cleverly. You do know that, don’t you?”

The flaw in his argument emboldened her to look up. “Everyone knows there are rules,” she said. “Everyone, Alex. Otherwise etiquette guides wouldn’t be so popular.”

His blue eyes held hers steadily. “I’m not speaking of etiquette. I’m speaking of subtler arts. Flattery, for one. And the talent for well-timed obliviousness. You recall the soiree Caroline threw, three years ago? In June, I think it was.”

She shrugged and returned her attention to the prawn on her fork, twirling it around once. “There were so many—”

“Vomit in the lobby,” he said.

“Oh. Yes,” she said reluctantly. Vaguely she remembered it now. An unseasonably muggy day. Caroline had pitched a pretty striped tent in case of rain. For herself, she’d been abuzz with her impending wedding to Lord Trent. But half the guests had gotten sick, her fiancé included, because the shellfish—

She looked askance at prawn, then returned it to her plate. “The shellfish was off,” she said. “Thank you for reminding me.”

He laughed. “Yes, that was the single time I ever mistook Caro for Belinda. Her rage was extraordinary to behold.”

“I didn’t realize you were there.”

“I had no intention of coming. I was at the docks, overseeing the unloading of some shipment. When the guests started falling ill, Caro fetched me over to help load portly MPs into their carriages.” He smiled at some private memory. “Sweet God. Some of those men must
eat
. At any rate, I was there long enough to overhear you speaking to some grande dame or other. She introduced you to her friend as the daughter of a corner-shop apothecary who’d discovered a remarkable talent for capitalism.”

“Oh.” This sounded familiar. In the way that one sometimes recalled dreams, days or weeks later, it stirred some hazy emotional echo in her. As a policy, she never dwelled on such incidents.

“It was an insult,” he said cheerfully. “Undisguised. But your smile never wavered. You thanked her for being so kind as to remember your late father.”

“Did I?” She plucked up a radish from the plate and bit down on it. At first taste, these French radishes were mild and sweet, but they fought back with a spicy aftertaste that took the palate by surprise. She was forming quite an appreciation for them. “I don’t remember that,” she lied.

“No? I’ll never forget it.” The sudden sobriety of his tone drew her eyes. He held her look. “That was no piece of etiquette. It was a very clever strategy that you used to checkmate a hag.” More softly, he said, “You daft girl. Of course I never thought you were stupid.”

Her face went warm. The effect of the radish, maybe. “Perhaps I do remember now,” she said. “It was Lady Fulton, no?”

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “You know I take pains to avoid knowing any of that lot.”

Yes. It had been Lady Fulton. With the mention of the woman’s name, the moment returned to Gwen with perfect clarity. She’d been fretting over the humidity, which had melted the curl from the hair she’d frizzled over her forehead and made her feel like a sausage in overtight casing; such long, tight sleeves fashion had required that year! The remark had come out of nowhere, startling her from her more mundane miseries. She had looked around very quickly before replying, to make certain that Lord Trent had not been near enough to have overheard the slight.

How odd to think on it now. She’d been afraid. Rightly she should have looked to her fiancé to defend her. Instead she’d worried that a stray comment might change his opinion of her.

Well, for all she knew, a stray comment
had
changed his opinion. He’d never given a proper explanation for his defection.

These
men
.

“I loathe Lady Fulton,” she said.
Loathe
. What a lovely word. Why had she never used it before? “That woman is a mean-tempered little snob.”

“No doubt. As I said, I was greatly impressed by your restraint. Shriveled witch.”

“Shriveled,” she said. “Yes, that is
exactly
the word for her. I expect her soul resembles nothing so much as a withered corn husk.”

“I was thinking of her face, but I’ll concede the other, too.”

Together they laughed. It occurred to her that if Alex ever were to marry, his fiancée would not need to conceal such insults from him. He would be glad to step up and parry them for her.

Not that he would ever marry, of course. She turned her thoughts away from this dangerous ground. “But what you’re saying, then, is that you’ve always thought me a very clever hypocrite.”

“No. Well, perhaps,” he said with a grin. “But if hypocrisy is what the game requires, who am I to judge a hypocrite?”

“How flattering,” she said dryly.

“You should be flattered. I adjudged you to be good at the game. Indeed . . .” He gave her a slow smile that seemed to lick down her spine like flame. “I admired your performance enough to invite you to join a game of my own.”

She was no proof against that smile. He’d first shown it to her inside the elephant at the Moulin Rouge, and she had yet to build immunity to it. She inhaled slowly. “Tell me what I must do.”

“Bluntly put, you’re my ticket into the party. That’s more than enough. Barrington will certainly ask you to sing, but there’s no call to oblige him.” He paused, then set aside his wine. “Gwen, you do realize that Barrington is under the impression that we’re lovers?”

She could not control her blush, but she held his blue eyes by sheer dint of will. How casually he spoke that word. “Yes,” she said.

“So you understand that we’ll be sharing rooms, then.”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

“And most likely there will be only one bed provided.”

Her fingers dug into the plush velour of the cushion beneath her. “Of course,” she said, attempting nonchalance. But even to her ears, her voice sounded too breathless.

“Good. Simply behave prettily toward me, then, and keep the fictions about the Barbary Queen to a minimum. The fewer lies, the harder to get tripped up.”

She nodded, growing conscious of some rising dissatisfaction. The role he was outlining for her was that of a prop. But she wanted to be of
use
to him. “What are you looking for, anyway? Do you think he gulled Lord Weston out of the land, somehow?”

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Would be easier if I had an inkling. Something’s not right—certainly Barrington doesn’t present as a simple land baron. If he’s got the money to buy a house off the old guard on the Rue de Varenne, this entire trip may be a fool’s game. Perhaps he’s buying up English land just for the hell of it and never replied to my offer because he has no care for the profit he might make.” His mouth twisted at this idea. “What a perverse thing to collect,” he said softly.

“But how odd,” she said hesitantly. “If he’s so wealthy, it seems that one of us should have heard of his family, at least. Where did his money come from?”

“Yes, it’s damned odd,” Alex agreed. “But that still doesn’t mean it has aught to do with Gerry.” He drummed his fingers lightly atop the table, then shrugged and looked out the window. The train had begun to move again; the iron girders of the station were passing slowly by the window, and faces on the platform were lifting toward the departing train, turning after it like pale flowers toward the sun. “Either way, this is my one attempt to find out. I’ll give it two days.”

She hesitated. “May I ask why you care?”

He glanced blankly back to her. “About Gerry?”

“No,” she said, laughing. “About Heverley End. That is, I’m sure it’s lovely—but I thought you had no regard for the countryside. And it was a very minor estate, wasn’t it? Never entailed. What matter if he sold it?”

“None to me,” he said. “And yes, the estate is minor. But my sisters have taken the sale badly—so there’s that. And I can’t dismiss the idea that my brother has gotten in over his head, somehow. Not without looking into it, at least.”

She began to smile. “And you say you aren’t brotherly!”

“Oh, nothing noble to this, Gwen. I’m saddled with a passel of incompetents—a pompous bore of a brother and two shrill, complaining sisters who prefer fretting to fixing things. It’s easier this way—take care of the matter and they leave me alone. Until the next matter arises,” he added in a mutter.

Until the next matter arises
. How reluctantly and matter-of-factly he acknowledged this: whenever the need arose, he would step in, with no hesitation. He would always be there to help, whether he liked it or no.

As always when anyone spoke of family affairs, she became conscious of a stir of fascination. Envy, too: she would admit it, although it spoke ill of her character. Even in their quarrels, the Ramseys belonged to each other, permanently. For all the worry and grief Alex’s roaming caused his siblings, they always welcomed him home with open arms. For all the irritation the twins felt at Lord Weston, they still convened at his house on Sunday evenings for dinner. And Alex, who held himself aloof from polite society and preferred to be away from England whenever possible, did not fail to attend those dinners when he was in town.

It was so different than the upbringing Gwen had known. For the sake of their children’s advancement, her parents had willingly fractured
their family. Sometimes she wondered what life might have been like had they proved less ambitious.

She looked away from that thought, physically. She looked up into Alex’s face—blue eyes that made no pretense at generosity or optimism and glinted, always, with a cynical light. His brow rose, questioning, and without conscious direction, her fingers closed very tightly in her lap.

They wanted, she thought, a hand to hold. The right to reach out for someone, for him, any time she required his aid. Suddenly, with a physical ache in the pit of her stomach, she wanted—impossible things. Not marriage. God, not something so easily broken or betrayed. Something more than marriage—a bond as fierce and unbreakable as a physical embrace. Tight. Even suffocating. She would not struggle.

She’d hoped a wedding would guarantee such a bond. She had looked at Pennington and seen the father of her future children—four, five, six children, enough to begin to fill the bedrooms in that huge, empty, echoing estate her parents had built. Enough children to ensure that she would never be alone, and neither would they.

Instead of a hand, she closed her fingers over Richard’s ring, which she had strung on a chain around her neck.

But her eyes would not move from Alex.

She could not have him, of course. But God above, she wanted him.

It was inevitable, perhaps, that any period of extended conversation between them should turn, eventually, to Richard. They remained in the dining nook long after the dishes had been cleared away, sharing memories, swapping tales, laughing together like friends. And by the time the moon rose, round and heavy in the star-strewn sky, Gwen had regained her peace around him. All of this common ground, this love they had shared for her brother, made it very difficult to feel anxious in his presence.

How curious, then, that the longing still persisted. She had always supposed that attraction thrived on nerves and uncertainty, but the more comfortable she felt with him, the closer she wished to be.

After they had parted ways and gone to their separate compartments—her unassisted disrobing made possible by the simple clasps of the Pretty Housemaid corset she’d purchased in the Galeries du Louvre the day of her scandalous shopping spree—it occurred to her that she might be confusing her emotions. Perhaps what she felt for Alex was only an extension of her love for Richard.