Lady Cresswood had engineered his appearance at yet another ball, and Colter toyed with the idea of making her pay for it later.
“Really darling,” she’d teased, “you have no choice but to accommodate me. I promised my husband an heir, and since I must somehow whet my appetite for his attentions, I chose you. Don’t be cruel enough to deny me.”
“Dammit, Katherine, I’m in no mood for your tricks. I am not in a mood for another boring evening, either.”
“The only trick will be finding a few minutes to be alone with you before I must apply myself to Cresswood.”
She’d draped herself around him, pressed her body so close to him there was no need to hide his reaction. But he hadn’t taken what she so freely offered, and ignored her pouting face when he pushed her away.
“How novel,” she murmured with an arch of her brow. “For the best, I suppose. How awkward it would be to present Cresswood with a blue-eyed, rake-hell heir.”
“It’s been done by more than one titled lady. I’m sure you’d find a way around it.”
Her laugh was throaty, her gaze speculative. “Yes, I can only imagine my dear husband’s chagrin should I be foolish enough to do so. However, back to the ball. The prince will be in attendance, and a certain Lord Mowry wishes to meet with you. Do say you’ll be there, Colter, for I should so hate to disappoint Mowry.”
Mowry—Lord Liverpool’s hireling, a man far too comfortable with political intrigues for his liking. He had never quite trusted the man, but he was the prime minister’s agent and those who weren’t careful often found themselves suffering repercussions that were never successfully traced to the source.
“So now you’re doing Mowry’s dirty work. I’ll attend the damn ball,” he’d said, “but when my business with Mowry is done, I’m leaving. A word of warning—you’re keeping bad company when you dally with Mowry.”
Katherine was one of those completely amoral females who could be as entertaining as she was dangerous.
“But of course you can leave, darling,” she’d said with a guileless smile that hadn’t fooled him at all. “And I fancy bad company, as you should well know.”
Lady Stafford’s expansive home was in the heart of Mayfair, a regal dwelling that hosted affairs attended by kings and princes. Tonight was no exception. The regent was to appear with his usual retinue, sycophants and beleaguered officials of his realm trotting at his heels like well-trained dogs.
Lord Mowry arrived well before the prince regent, as was his wont. A tall, thin man with a gaunt face and intense dark eyes, he moved casually through the crowd, pausing to speak to acquaintances.
Colter watched Mowry approach; his air of geniality was deceptive. Beneath the ill-fitting coat and baggy breeches he wore, lurked the soul of a politician, glib and given to sharp, perceptive judgments. Mowry was ruthless in his goals, remorseless in his ambition.
“My lord Northington,” he greeted him finally, “it is a pleasant surprise to see you here.”
“Hardly a surprise, I would think, since you had Lady Cresswood summon me.” Colter eyed him over the rim of his half-empty glass.
Mowry gave him a sharp glance. “Perhaps it is a surprise that you agreed to come. You have not always been so amenable.”
“If I haven’t always been amenable, it may have something to do with the fact that you haven’t always been honest with me.”
A negligent wave of his hand dismissed Colter’s reply as Mowry said, “Politics often breeds the necessity for a swift change of plans. It’s not always possible to notify those involved.”
“That can be damned inconvenient for a man expecting an agreement to be honored.”
“You refer to that Saint Peter’s Field business, I presume.”
“Hardly a business, Mowry. It was a damned massacre.”
Mowry regarded him blandly. “Only eleven were killed. It could have ended much worse.”
“It could have been avoided entirely.”
“Yes, but unfortunately, those idiotic rabble-rousers resisted the constable’s demands to disperse.”
“It was a meeting, for Christ’s sake, and bloodshed could have been prevented if you’d listened to me in the first place. I warned you.”
“You are not infallible, Northington, though you seem to think so. Hunt, Carlisle and the others incited a riot. They will be tried before the proper magistrates and duly sentenced. That will be an end to it.”
“No reformers are welcome in England, I see. I find that view most unsurprising, but shortsighted.”
“My dear lord Northington, I expect only cooperation from you. Your Whig notions are not my concern, nor of any interest to me.” Thin lips twitched in an imitation of a smile. “What is of interest to me is your expertise in certain areas. As you know, the king is very ill and not expected to live long. After the recent attempt on the regent’s life, we must always be prepared.”
“Prepared for what? An insurrection?”
Mowry’s lips tightened. “When the Six Acts are passed, as they surely will be, we expect rebellion from certain factions. Lord Sidmouth is most concerned, and has written a letter to Lord Liverpool regarding this matter.”
“Christ, government creates resentment and then sets about suppressing any protest. Didn’t the American Revolution teach us anything?”
“Ah, Whig sentiments running rife, my lord?”
“I prefer to consider my views as Liberal instead of Whig. As does any man capable of free thought.”
“Are you suggesting we allow the rabble to run the country?”
“No. I’m suggesting we not alienate the citizens. The Six Acts Parliament proposes will only create rebellion. I promise you, there will be an unpleasant reaction.”
“And that is what Liverpool wishes you to prevent, my lord. Either you work with us or against us.” Mowry’s gaze was darkly cold. “Your cooperation is required. Need I remind you of your duty?”
“I know my duty. It does not require me to dance at your pleasure. If you’ll remember, for all intents and purposes, I’m nothing more than an idle buck concerned only with gambling and horses.”
“Ah, yes, and of course, the occasional feminine conquest.” Mowry’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Never fear, Northington, your masquerade is not endangered. Nor is it far off the mark, in my opinion. We simply request that you use your talents to discover any rebellions that may occur in reaction to Parliament’s taking a stern stand on this matter.”
“Christ, any yeoman with a pikestaff can do the same thing,” Colter said. “What do you really want from me.”
“There has been talk. Henry Hunt, the Orator, is stirring up sedition. James Wroe described the incident at Saint Peter’s Field in the Manchester Observer as The Peterloo Massacre. We do not need another misstep.”
Mowry used we as a reminder that he had the government behind him, an implication that the regent confided in him. It was more likely that Prinny was fairly oblivious to anything in regard to politics, and it was certain that his father was too caught up in his own fatal madness to care.
“You,” Mowry continued, “have been seen too much lately and are in danger of coming under suspicion. It’s been suggested that you retire from public light for a short time. Tyler will make investigations and report to you what he learns. When you return to London, you’ll operate under the guise you’ve been using. It’s proven quite effective so far.” His mouth curled. “Whig sentiments have earned you a certain amount of trust from the radicals.”
“And suspicion from the Tories.” Colter shrugged. “I’ll go to Kent, but when I return I intend to conduct matters my own way. No interference from you this time.”
“My dear lord Northington, I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your plans. Do remember to keep us advised, however. It wouldn’t do to counteract your efforts or ours again.”
Mowry drifted away, melding into the guests who were still arriving and queuing up in the receiving line to be graciously greeted and announced before descending into the ballroom.
Restless now, Colter considered leaving. He’d had his meeting with Mowry. His reason for lingering was gone. The desire for fresh air increased with each passing moment, and he made his way toward the doors.
“Northington, do come here. I believe you know Lady Leverton, do you not? Oh, of course you’ve met her daughter, Miss Carolyn Leverton, I’m certain. Have you been introduced to Miss St. Clair yet?”
Katherine’s wickedly amused introduction was made with an expression so innocent, it would be difficult to believe she had any intention in mind but civility if he didn’t know better. He turned to face the inevitable.
Lady Leverton and her daughter offered gracious replies to his greeting, but it was Celia St. Clair who caught his instant attention.
No virginal white gown tonight, but a gown of a deep scarlet trimmed in gold, vivid in color and seductive in style as it clung to her curves more closely than fashion dictated. She was creating quite a sensation in it, too, as men craned to view this lovely creature who trod very close to the line between respectability and indecency.
Her every movement made the gold-and-crimson silk shimmer with reflected light, giving the appearance of a flame. The little vixen had to be aware of the glances of admiration, the murmurs of appreciation cast her way, for she wore a small, satisfied smile as she met his gaze and held it, cool green eyes regarding him with speculation. Or was that anticipation?
A gauntlet had been thrown down.
“Miss St. Clair,” he drawled, “you do waltz, as I recall.”
“I do, my lord.”
She gave a small gasp when he gripped her hand a bit too tightly. It was time he let her know that he had no intention of being maneuvered, either by her or by Katherine—who would definitely pay later for her malice.
“You needn’t have gone to so much trouble, Miss St. Clair,” he said softly as he swung her into the pattern of the waltz. “I would have been glad to play your game as long as it’s done by my rules.”
“Then it would be your game, my lord,” she replied, unperturbed, her arm held stiffly to keep him at a proper distance. “My rules are more negotiable.”
Lemon verbena was a faint, teasing fragrance that radiated upward as he held her lightly, his hand pressed against her upper back. Christ, the gown revealed every sleek line and curve of her body. It wasn’t a dress, it was a proposition. His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Do your rules include seduction, Miss St. Clair?”
Her head tilted as she looked up at him. Lamplight glittered on the rich lustre of rubies nestled in the curls piled artfully atop her head.
“A presumptuous question, my lord.”
“I prefer to think it astute. You’ve set a trap for someone tonight.”
“Have I? Perhaps you’re right. But if so, why would I be so foolish as to confide in you?”
Celia St. Clair turned gracefully in the steps of the dance, a movement that brought her even closer, the swoosh of her skirts a crimson and gold complement to her cool blond beauty. Her flowery fragrance was delicate and arousing. He was tempted to scoop her into his arms and carry her from the ballroom to the nearest bed.
As her lashes lifted and she tilted her head to gaze up into his eyes, temptation coalesced into firm resolve. She played a game with the wrong man. Someone should have warned her.
The lilting melody of a waltz caressed the air as he steered her smoothly toward an alcove at the far end of the wide ballroom. If she noticed she made no protest.
The music ended briefly just as they reached a curtained recess half-hidden by potted palms behind serving tables for the use of footmen—a private nook once the doors closed.
She gave him a startled glance when he swept her into the shadowed corner and shut the doors. “Sir! This is—”
“Now,” he said softly, cutting off her protest, “I’ll acquaint you with my rules. I think you must already be familiar with a few of them.” His arms shot out to imprison her when she tried to leave, trapping her with his hands against the wall, his body a hard force leaning against her. “Ladies who tempt men with fluttering lashes and scarlet gowns are either foolish, or not ladies. I can’t decide which you are, foolish with your big cat eyes and ingenuous chatter, or available as that dress suggests so eloquently. Which is it?”
“I—you are too forward, sir!”
“Oh, no, this is what you wanted, isn’t it? With your knowing glances and simpering sighs. It’s all been a ruse. I don’t know what your goal is, but I assure you that if it’s only an idle flirtation, I’m not in the mood. I take this sort of thing seriously, Miss St. Clair, so don’t tease the tiger unless you’re willing to risk the full consequences.”
Her chin tilted, mouth thinning into a taut line as her eyes glinted with anger. “You give yourself far too much credit, my lord! Do you think you’re so irresistible that all women must pursue you?”
“No, but by God I know when a woman makes herself available, and you’ve done everything but leap naked into my bed.”
“Your imagination is vivid, but quite mistaken. Let me go before I scream.”
“Scream. It will bring attention to the fact that you’ve been compromised. I imagine your cousin will be delighted by the scandal, while it won’t affect my already tarnished reputation. So do that, Miss St. Clair, scream and bring the entire room running to your aid.”
“You—you bastard!”
His lips curled into a sardonic smile. “Ah, that’s better. Now I see the real person instead of this mirage you’ve tried so hard to keep intact.”
Celia tried to twist free but he dropped his hands to her shoulders, fingers digging into bare skin to hold her. “Ah, no, it’s time to give you what you’ve been so prettily asking for, I think—or at least a preview of future interludes.”
Oh, he sounded so…so harsh! Her heart pounded fiercely as his mouth came down over hers with brutal force. His hand cupped behind her neck to hold her head still for his kiss though she offered no struggle. This kiss was different than the last. This was more like an invasion, an assault on her senses that was overpowering.
There was no gentleness in him as he held her pinned against the length of his body, his kiss savage and thorough and almost frightening. His tongue was in her mouth, a heated intrusion that left her lightheaded, with a pounding pulse loud in her ears.
The wall was unyielding behind her, his hard body a relentless pressure against her chest, belly and thighs. Oh God, his hand had moved to her breast, shaping it in his palm, fingers stroking in sly circles beneath the braided edge of her bodice, a riveting sensation that shot bolts of fire through her entire body.
What was he…? Oh, it was insane, but a strange heat seared her skin, quivered inside her, the stroke of his tongue in her mouth coaxing a response despite her intention of remaining coy and detached. How could she be detached when he did that with his hand, on so intimate a place!
Rolling her nipple between his thumb and finger, he seemed to know how it made her feel, how that awful and delicious throb ignited in her belly and between her thighs, for he deepened his kiss until she truly felt faint this time, as if the floor was dipping away from her and the entire world had faded into a heated mist. She was clutching at him, both hands somehow tangled in the front of his elegant evening coat, clinging to him as if she could no longer stand.
“Christ…Celia,” he muttered thickly, the words sounding almost like a groan.
Suddenly his head bent and he was kissing her breast, his tongue tracing erotic patterns over the sensitive peak as she shuddered and clung to him and made little whimpering sounds in the back of her throat.
She gave a halfhearted protest, though it sounded muffled and more like a moan. His arms were so strong, insistent, and she closed her eyes and yielded to the intensity that raged inside her, a tight, burning knot that spread fire through her entire body.
Celia arched against him, seeking an elusive release from the torment, far too conscious of the pressure of his long, hard-muscled legs against hers, of the abrasion of his elegant evening jacket against her bare breasts.
Everything had disappeared around her, the shadowed alcove, the filtered strains of a waltz, the laughter and conversation of hundreds of guests beyond the flimsy wall disappearing as if never in existence. All that was real was the pulse, like a heartbeat, that urged her to lean into him, to allow him to take these indecent liberties.
Celia didn’t know what would have happened had he not suddenly pulled away, leaving her feeling strangely bruised and aching inside, bereft.
As if through a fog she heard him say, “As much as I’d like to continue this, it’s neither the time nor place.”
He stepped back, his hands on her shoulders again, a steady pressure to hold her. “Fix your dress. For God’s sake, don’t look at me like that,” he said more harshly when she didn’t move, shocking her into response.
She jerked at her bodice to cover her breasts, her face flaming. “If you do not like how I’m looking at you, my lord, that can be easily remedied.”
Wrenching away from him, she almost ran out of the alcove, pausing behind the screen of palms to wipe her mouth and rearrange her bodice, her fingers trembling so badly it was difficult.
Damn him! He had so effortlessly unraveled her plans, sweeping them away with no trouble at all. And he had shown her how foolish she’d been to think she could control him.
Celia managed to compose herself, and was glad for her years of training under the nuns at St. Mary’s, for she betrayed no sign of turmoil when Northington appeared at her elbow, his voice a low command.
“For God’s sake, behave as though nothing is wrong, then no one will notice. I’ll escort you to your cousin.”
“That’s the least you can do,” she returned coolly. Oh, it wasn’t so difficult if she concentrated on anything but him. She was aware of the crowd as they passed through women garbed in diamonds, rubies and sapphires, aware of the interested glances from men in knee breeches and dark evening coats such as Northington wore.
“Don’t play with fire, Miss St. Clair,” he said just before they reached Jacqueline, “unless you know how to keep from being burned.”
Turning toward him, she smiled, and saw his eyes narrow. “Your warning is appreciated, but as you can see, I’m not even singed, my lord.”
An appreciative smile curled his mouth. “Ever the surprise with you, I see. Perhaps I misjudged you.”
“Oh, no. I think your judgment is astute.”
“You do like taking risks, then. We’ll see how you fare when the stakes are much higher.”
“Is that a challenge, my lord Northington?”
“Think of it as—an invitation.”
They had reached Jacqueline and Carolyn, and with a sardonic bow, Northington presented her to her cousin and murmured his gratitude for the dance.
Lady Leverton fixed him with a rather cool eye as she said, “Your impetuous conduct has disappointed several of the gentlemen present tonight, Lord Northington. By claiming the first dance with Miss St. Clair, you have dashed numerous hopes.”
“Have I? My apologies, Lady Leverton. As you can see, I have returned her to you in excellent condition.”
“As you found her,” was the tart reply, and Colter’s brow rose.
“Her reputation is intact, my lady. She merely felt a bit faint and I revived her.”
Colter took Celia’s hand, lifted it to his lips and murmured in French, “Until we meet again,” then left them.
“Are you all right?” Jacqueline leaned close to murmur in her ear, and Celia nodded.
“Yes. Though I do think,” she replied with a shaky smile, “that he is definitely dangerous.”