Wicked Promise (23 page)

Bascomb! With a plumed hat perched on his head and a musketeer's cape billowing out behind him, he was only a few steps away. He caught her wrist before she could escape, pulled her into an alcove, and pressed her up against the wall.

"Let me go or I promise you I shall scream."

His full lips curved. "I wish you would, my dear, I truly do. I'm sure the ladies down the hall would be quite aghast at my boldness." He was as tall as Nicholas; two years older and more thickly built, with dark brown hair and deep blue eyes, a handsome man, most would say. Elizabeth did not think so. "Of course, I would merely explain that my heart has completely addled my brain where you are concerned, that I have asked you to marry and was doing my best to convince you to say yes."

Her mouth thinned. "Whereupon I would simply tell them I am not interested in marriage to you—not now, nor at any time in the future."

"You could do that—but screaming would certainly make them believe there was a great deal more going on than a man merely trying to woo you into marriage. You would be ruined. You would no longer be welcomed in the ton, and neither would Raven worth nor his sister."

Elizabeth tensed. Nicholas wouldn't care what the ton thought about him, but Maggie—Maggie was a far different story.

"What is it you want?"

He made no response, just hauled her close and dragged her mouth up to his for a wet, sticky kiss, his fleshy lips almost swallowing her whole before she could jerk free and slap him.

The sharp sting brought a moment of stunned disbelief. She pulled free of his hold and darted away, gone before he could stop her, almost running down the hall toward the stairs. She was shaking all over, her pulse so fast she felt a little dizzy. If ever she had doubted how much she despised Oliver Hampton, one of his rancid, sloppy kisses, one touch of his damp, clammy hands was enough to remind her.

She returned to the ballroom, still a little shaken, pondering her unfortunate encounter with Bascomb. She shoved the memory away, her mind turning instead to thoughts of Nicholas and the night ahead.

A tremor of anticipation ran through her. It was tempered with a hint of uncertainty. Tonight she would become his mistress in truth. She wondered what particular lesson he might have in mind for the hours ahead.

Gowned in blue silk, a shade lighter than her eyes, Maggie Warring stood next to Rand Clayton, who stood beside the Marquess of Trent. Even though he wore a fifteenth-century doublet, she remembered Andrew Sutton, a good-looking, brown-haired man of medium height and build, a friend of Nick's from Oxford. He and Andrew had been close before her brother went to prison, but as Nicholas had done with the rest of his former acquaintances, he had reasoned, as a convicted criminal and outcast of Society, that his friendship with the marquess was at an end.

Maggie hadn't seen him since the scandal and didn't think her brother had. She remembered his teasing, lighthearted banter when she was a girl. She hadn't paid attention to him then, her head full of foolish fantasies about Stephen Hampton.

As a woman, she felt the marquess's presence as she hadn't before, felt those assessing brown eyes and the power of his smile, and an odd little shiver raced over her skin.

"That was your brother, was it not—dressed as the Knave of Hearts?"

Maggie smiled. "I'm surprised you recognized him. I helped him with the costume. I thought it a good disguise."

"For most perhaps, but I have known him far too long." His mouth curved faintly. "The costume was appropriate, I think. Nick has always had a way with the ladies and tonight is no exception. The way he was looking at that lovely creature in the feathered gown, there was little doubt what he was thinking—nor that the lady returned his interest."

Surprise was followed by a trickle of unease. In the beginning, she had been worried about Elizabeth and Nick, but she had convinced herself she was wrong. Tonight she had been having such fun, been so engrossed in the evening, she had paid little attention to Elizabeth or her brother. They had danced together, was all. Nick was fond of her, might even be attracted to her, but he would never actually pursue her. And she didn't believe Elizabeth would encourage him even if he did. The marquess must be wrong.

"At any rate," he continued, "I'm glad to see he's decided to make his return. I know his past has made things difficult, but whatever happened with Hampton that night—and there are those of us who have our doubts—he has paid for his sins, and I for one am happy to see him here."

Maggie smiled, relieved the subject had taken a different turn. "That is kind of you, my lord. Perhaps Nick has more friends than he believes. It would please him to know the way you feel."

He gave her a long assessing glance and the odd little shiver returned. "Then I hope that you will tell him." He smiled. "Or perhaps, with your permission, I shall call upon you both and tell him myself."

Her stomach fluttered strangely. Surely he wasn't implying he would be making a call on her? No matter what her brother might want for her, she wasn't ready to entertain suitors—she had been locked away far too long. And yet this particular man intrigued her.

"That would be very thoughtful, my lord. I'm sure it would mean a lot to Nick." His gaze lingered, a warm velvet brown, and finally she glanced away.

"Perhaps, Lady Margaret, you would care to dance?"

Maggie smiled with a bit of uncertainty. It was one thing to dance with men she thought of as friends and another thing altogether to dance with a man who made her insides turn to mush.

"My lady?" he pressed.

She placed her hand in his but made no effort to move forward. That first night at the ball, she had been terrified to step out on the dance floor. She'd been petrified of what people would say, but in the end, with Rand's protection and gentle encouragement, the evening had been a success.

There had been a few lewd remarks, of course, but the dowager had squelched most of the gossip. The story was told that she had entered the convent because of the scandal her brother had caused. The why of Stephen Bascomb's death remained shrouded in mystery, and the blame for Maggie's departure dumped squarely on poor Nick's shoulders, but they were broad, and he didn't seem to mind.

The Duke of Beldon appeared beside her, "Go on, Maggie. You'll be as safe with Andrew as you are with me."

He was right, of course. The marquess was a friend of Nick's and the perfect escort, a man nearly as powerful as the duke. She smiled into Andrew Sutton's handsome face.

"All right, but I warn you, my lord—I am still a little rusty. I pray you will have patience."

He returned the smile and her heart beat faster. "I was born with patience, my lady." He extended his arm and she rested her hand on the heavy velvet sleeve of his doublet.

On the way to the dance floor, a few sly comments were made as they usually were, but the wagging tongues stilled when they realized her escort was the wealthy Marquess of Trent. It was a long dance and she thoroughly enjoyed it.

"Thank you, my lord," she said to him when the music ended.

A thick brown eyebrow went up. "What for?"

"For helping me remember some of the pleasures of life."

The brown of his eyes went indigo dark. He bowed over her hand. "Perhaps there is more I can show you, my lady."

His breath felt warm through her glove and a tingle ran up her arm. "Perhaps there is, my lord."