Wicked Wager (4 page)

He liked her quick humour. ‘Then now is your chance, Miss Rosington, for I
shall
think of some way you can thank me. In the meantime, might I be permitted to compliment you on your raven locks? I barely recognised you, and may not again once you defer to the powder puff to which all you ladies seem addicted.'

‘It is not only the ladies, sir. You also look very different without your wig. You have very fine eyes. I could not miss those.'

‘A very pretty compliment.' He grinned, feeling ridiculously pleased by this little exchange. But he was also aware of Miss Rosington's cousin in the distance, looking over his shoulder. He bowed. ‘Sadly and with huge regret, I must retire before I am chased away for making unwanted overtures.' An unexpected thrill surged through him as he turned away from the sight of Miss Rosington looking after him with such clear interest in her lovely blue eyes.

Had Xenia not been watching, he might have been less guarded in his response. But now his old friend was gliding up to grip his wrist as he returned to her orbit, whispering in his ear, ‘She is smitten, if ever I've seen a woman lusting after a man, Perry. Ah, but you were lucky. She will be a nice, easy fish to reel in. Watch her closely, for I believe she'll look for any opportunity to elude her gaolers and you must be waiting.'

***

Celeste hadn't realised she was staring into the darkness like a moon-eyed green girl until Raphael reclaimed her attention with a tug at the lace at her wrists.

‘Worshipping the stars, my dear, or have you seen a vision?'

Somehow he managed to imbue everything with an irony that implied she was lacking in some way. As a child they'd played and tumbled together, but when Raphael had come down from university he had developed a worldly air that suggested his cleverness was not easily matched. And certainly not by Celeste, whom he treated with condescending fondness, as if she must be cared for, and by him, like any of the other vacuous females of his closer acquaintance he loved to ridicule.

‘Perhaps I have seen a vision, Raphael.' She smiled as she brought her attention back to him. ‘Perhaps it was a shining vision with a golden wand, dispensing words of wisdom.'

‘Well, tell me? What words of wisdom did it dispense, then?'

‘It said I must follow my heart.'

‘You have a perfectly sound head, my dear. I think the sensible thing would be to follow the voice of reason. Hearts have a habit of behaving erratically. They are not to be trusted. Not like common sense.'

Celeste sighed and declined to pursue the topic. He would not sanction her desire to end their betrothal and besides, what choice did she have? She was to be married within three weeks to the man she'd happily accepted as her husband-to-be before she was old enough to understand.

What foolishness was it that she should imagine an alternative future?

***

The night was warm and still with a heaven of twinkling stars overhead. Celeste took comfort in their constancy as she told herself Raphael would be a good husband, regardless of whether he pledged his heart to another. That was the tragedy of it. She believed
she
could train her heart to take her marriage in good part, if she'd not learned the truth of exactly what a sham this marriage would be from the start.

Murmuring her intention to return shortly, as Raphael was caught up in conversation with a lively group of gentlemen, she took a couple of steps away, intending to greet an acquaintance she'd met at a number of her aunt's
salons
. A glance at her chaperone reassured her that the old woman was thoroughly engrossed in gossiping with a stout matron by a tree.

‘Miss Leddings,' Celeste began, only to find the young lady she'd intended to address gone. Unexpectedly alone, she turned on her heel as she prepared to resume her position at Raphael's side.

‘You appear lost, Miss Rosington? No chaperone? Perhaps you'd allow me to return you to your friends, though being alone in my company for even those few seconds might be dangerous. I would strongly warn you against it.'

A hanging lantern revealed the now familiar face of the gentleman she'd met earlier, cast in shadows and planes, his admiration apparent. It thrilled her, forbidden though it was. Of course she should smile politely, to soften her rebuttal, then take a few steps into the light towards Raphael.

Instead she said softly, ‘Sometimes a dangerous offer is too tempting to resist—if it were but for a moment.' Such words had never issued from her mouth and she trembled violently as she observed the surprise with which he offered her his arm.

‘Ten steps to the left would have you amidst the milling crowd and is where I strongly suggest I lead you.' He paused, his voice suddenly husky. ‘However, I can recommend a pleasant detour with little more than ten steps into the darkness in the opposite direction. It would be dangerous to choose this direction, but it's the one
I
strongly favour.'

For a moment common sense swept aside her rash daring, for what possible reason could he have for leading her to a secluded part of the gardens than to take liberties that, if discovered, could ruin her?

She was not such a fool.

But oh, she was tempted.

Unable to make a clear decision, she wavered. ‘Why are you always at my shoulder, sir? I could almost imagine you are following me.'

‘And why should that come as a surprise to the most beautiful woman in the gardens tonight? I thought it when you turned and gazed at me at the opera on Thursday. When you'd gone I believed I must have imagined such luminescence. Now my eyes assure me I did not.'

‘A very pretty speech, sir. Do you use it on all the ladies?'

‘Only those whose acquaintance I wish to further. You are not … attached to that gentleman with whom I saw you earlier? I might think your beauty unrivalled but I am not a libertine. I would wish to know if you are free to bestow your attentions upon me.'

She hesitated for the merest second before replying quickly, ‘Raphael is my cousin. He often accompanies me to such places.' She tilted her head to smile at him. Artless and encouraging, and Peregrine felt a curious surge of excitement, but disappointment too. For she had lied to him. By omission, at any rate.

Drawing her, unresisting, a short distance away into the darkness, he murmured, ‘Then if you are so bold as to court the attentions of a dangerous stranger, I would be so bold as to ask for a kiss.' Her transparent, clearly unfeigned shock heightened his desire. So she was not in the habit of making conquests, as Xenia suggested her dealings with Harry Carstairs implied.

Her eyelids fluttered closed as she ran the tip of her tongue across her top lip. Experimenting? Priming it? He gave her barely a chance to do either before he swooped to seize the moment, nestling her against his chest while he gently traced the line of her beautiful mouth with his thumb.

Her body tensed before she melted in his embrace, responding with fleeting but impassioned ardour when her mouth fused with his, sealing his desire with a kiss of such incendiary passion he could almost believe it sufficient to incinerate them both.

Brief as it was passionate, for suddenly she was pushing him away, spinning on her heel to gain distance, her shocked face illuminated by the lantern hanging from the branches of a nearby tree.

‘I don't know what came over me. It defies rational explanation.' She put her fingers to her lips, as if she could not believe what they'd been subjected to. ‘Please excuse my reckless behaviour.'

‘I would prefer to encourage it.'

She opened her mouth to say more, then added simply, ‘Goodnight, sir.'

When Peregrine blinked again she was gone and he was left standing alone beneath the spreading branches of a plane tree, his brief elation swept away by disappointment and another feeling that he was not prepared to identify. One he'd felt when his older and favourite cousin no longer had any wish to deal with him. But surely devastation was too strong a word for what was a calculated conquest that took no account of the heart?

***

Celeste crested the hill to find herself almost upon Raphael and his cohorts. He was laughing, in fine humour, and so fortunately responded to her slight disorder with careless concern.

‘Communing with the Vauxhall ghost, my dear? Here, a glass of champagne will have you up to the mark. My friend Sir Samuel has just been telling me the latest
on-dit
. Apparently Lord Peregrine's sister is about to take Holy Orders after she was, to all intents and purposes, jilted at the altar.' Raphael clapped Sir Samuel on the back in a gesture of uncharacteristic bonhomie, which Celeste recognised for what it was: a deliberate attempt to wheedle more out of Sir Samuel.

‘Jilted at the altar? Yes, I heard it, but this is old news. Poor young woman. Have you any idea why?' Dry-mouthed, Celeste asked the question required of her, relieved when Sir Samuel raised his palms in a gesture of helplessness. ‘The question is on everyone's lips, Miss Rosington.'

‘As is the whereabouts of the prospective groom, no doubt.' Celeste, though still highly discomposed by her recent encounter, was sharp enough to seize her opportunity. It would be one less matter to displease Raphael when he called her to account later that evening.

Sir Samuel raised his eyes heavenward. ‘The man has not yet settled his account after I won a tidy sum from him just before he went to Jamaica. Now he is back, but disappeared within a day of disembarking upon English soil. Miss Paige is not the only one who would like to know where Harry Carstairs is.'

Celeste was aware of Raphael's eyes trained on her. Waiting. Obediently she asked, ‘Has there been no word from Mr Carstairs at all? I believe he was visiting his plantation in Jamaica and had returned to England to claim an inheritance and marry Miss Paige. Perhaps he received a chilly reception from Miss Paige and decided returned to warmer climes.'

Sir Samuel smiled thinly. ‘I hope not. If he's on the high seas then I will not see what's owed me, will I?' He changed the subject. ‘You're looking uncommonly fetching this evening, Miss Rosington, if it's not too bold to say in front of your intended. I'm sure the end of the month can't come soon enough, when you'll become mistress of estates, both here and in Jamaica, and the envy of half the women of the realm.'

This time it was Celeste's turn to offer what was, at best, a thin smile in return. ‘Indeed, Sir Samuel,' she replied, touching her lips, which still burned from the most exciting, illicit kiss she'd ever experienced.

Chapter Three

During a brief moment of solitude in his dressing room, Peregrine leaned over his desk, searching for answers in the puzzling ruins of the message contained in the gold locket his sister had thrust unceremoniously at him. He'd have preferred to have remained in his red velvet upholstered armchair, enjoying the quiet and the warmth of the fire in his dressing room, but soon Nelson would be on hand to dress him for a dinner he was to attend in honour of his old friend, Lord Cowdril, for his elevation to the House of Lords. A house party attended by more guests would follow.

Straining to see the letters more clearly in the weak light, he traced his forefinger over the crumpled, partly destroyed parchment: ‘este mmediately …'

Charlotte maintained that ‘este' referred to the last letters of Miss Rosington's Christian name, but Perry was not convinced. He tapped the tiny locket, which had also contained the miniature of Charlotte behind which the scrap of paper had been hidden, stuck to the glue when the rest of the note had presumably been torn out. When the time was right he'd find a way to bring up with Miss Rosington the subject of that night, when the locket had been lost. First, though, he had to gain her trust.

He smiled, savouring the image he had of her, all wide-eyed horror at the scandal of the month—for of course she'd deny involvement initially—before he once again plundered her mouth.

While she, of course, would be entirely amenable. No … he smiled. Delightfully responsive.

His mood was lightened by the arrival of the dignified Nelson, with whom he struck up a lively conversation on the evils of strong liquor. Nelson made him laugh like few others of his acquaintance. Nelson's keen eye also ensured Perry appeared a cut above the rest, which tonight had him dressed in a brocade coat, richly embroidered in cherry and silver, a cream and buff waistcoat and navy pantaloons.

Reluctant to venture out into the cold once his toilette was complete, Perry paused longer than usual to admire his reflection in the cheval mirror. Idly he asked, ‘Do I appear the Devil Incarnate, Nelson?' He ran his finger around the inside of his stock. ‘Do you shudder when you behold me, knowing that my sins go deeper than mere fondness for strong spirits?'

‘The Devil Incarnate, my lord?' Nelson asked in his precise English, his eloquent shrug conveying as much as his words. He looked as imposing as his lordship in his gold and royal blue livery. ‘To me, you are a fine master. To the rest of the world, you are who you choose to be.'

Nelson's response took him aback and Perry sighed with the closest he'd come to genuine regret, as a picture of past exploits and future, equally underwhelming examples of moral behaviour, flashed before his eyes. ‘I fear that it was written in my stars the moment I was born that I am beyond redemption, Nelson. My father counselled me to resist the temptations of the flesh, of greed and jealousy, though I was only nine when he died. He said I must be a better man than he; that like himself, I might realise this truth through the unexpected offices of a good woman. It happened when he met my mother.' He sighed again. ‘But it's not going to happen to me, Nelson. No
good
woman with a brain likely to interest me would touch me with a ten-foot pole. My uncle confirmed it.' He smiled wryly. ‘Alas, I cannot change fate.'

‘Fate is changed by those brave enough to battle the more difficult road, my lord.'