| |
He had sent his acceptance for the dinner party. Daphne still could not believe it.
Her mother had told her just before they’d entered the carriage on the way to the opera. Her father had a box—he would be coming directly from his club with two of her brothers, and perhaps one of her sisters would be in attendance as well. The box was always full of her siblings and their spouses.
Only Daphne ever had to sit unaccompanied.
But perhaps that would change. Colin had accepted the invitation to the dinner party. She’d expected him to decline. She’d expected her father to have to harangue him, but after one invitation he’d acquiesced.
It was too easy...
“I don’t know why I tell you anything,” her mother said sharply enough that Daphne turned from the window to look at her. “You don’t listen to me.”
“I’m sorry, Mama. I was looking out the window.”
Her mother frowned. “If you are to use that excuse, you might at least make certain the curtains are open first.” She brushed the closed curtains with her hand. “As I was saying, Lord Stockford has lost his entire fortune in some scheme or other. It’s quite the scandal.”
“I know already.”
Lady Isabella had told her all about it, breathless with excitement. There was nothing Lady Isabella and Lady Pavenley liked more than a scandal. Daphne was a little ashamed to realize she had once been the same, eager for any juicy morsel she could spread about. Now she felt sorry for Lord Stockford and his wife and children. “What will happen to them?”
Her mother all but reared back. “I should think they will decamp to the Continent, but I do not know. In any case, that is not the point I wanted to make. You are not to speak to Lady Stockford. Give her the cut direct, Daphne.”
Daphne imagined Lady Stockford, who was a pretty woman just two or three years younger than she. She could imagine her face when Daphne turned her back on her.
“You are thinking,” her mother observed. “Stop.”
“I can’t stop thinking, Mama. It’s something one does instinctually.”
“Yes, well you are thinking hard. I can see the way your forehead wrinkles. Those wrinkles will not smooth out so easily in a few years. Best not to create them.”
“I will try, Mama. In the meantime, I cannot help but wonder—”
“Wondering is too close to thinking, Daphne,” the duchess said tartly.
“—and yet I wonder if we should really be so quick to cut someone like Lady Stockford. After all, what if Mr. FitzRoy asks for an annulment—”
“An annulment? On what grounds?”
“Very well, a divorce.”
The duchess inhaled sharply. “He will not! Your father will run him out of Parliament if he dares step foot in chambers with that request.”
“Mother, my point is that we are none of us without some flaw, some secret, something worthy of gossip.”
“And that is precisely why your father has called for the dinner party with Mr. FitzRoy. We will settle this once and for all. Now, about Lord Cheeveton—”
She went on, relating information Daphne already knew. There was little about the goings on in the ton Daphne did not know. And it was only because she managed the two biggest gossips in Society—Lady Isabella and Lady Pavenley—that she was not more of a source of gossip than she was. A little talk was not a bad thing. It made one interesting and mysterious. But she feared the talk about her was growing, even more now that FitzRoy had so publicly sought her out.
She exited the carriage at Covent Garden and went through the motions of greeting people she knew, ignoring those trying to elevate themselves, and ingratiating herself to those above her. How she did grow tired of Prinny staring at her breasts. She shouldn’t have worn such a low-cut gown, but she hadn’t been thinking when she’d told her maid which dress to press. She’d forgotten Prinny would be here tonight. She’d just wanted something that would look good in the theater’s light, and the silver thread worked through the bodice, sleeves, and hem of the bright pink dress always looked very good in dim light. But the dress also had a large pink bow right between her breasts, and it drew the eye—especially the prince’s eye.
Using her fan to cover her décolletage, Daphne curtsied and took the first opportunity to go to the Warcliffe box. There she fanned herself and pretended to look out over the mostly still empty seats. Lady Pavenley and her husband had a box to her right, and Lady Isabella had a box almost directly across from them. Her brothers enjoyed that as Lady Isabella had a tendency to lean over to watch the performance and her dress often looked as though it might fail to contain her bosom at any moment. There were usually wagers as to whether a nipple would be visible or an entire breast would pop out.
Daphne’s own dress was low enough that she might have the same problem if she had been fond of sitting near the banister and looking over. She almost always sat in the second or third row of seats, though. And her posture was impeccable.
She heard the curtain swish as someone else entered, and she looked behind her, a smile ready. But it wasn’t one of her siblings or her parents.
“Lady Daphne, I was hoping you would attend tonight.”
Daphne took a deep breath and tried not to panic. “My lord.” She gave only a slight curtsey to show the Earl of Battersea she did not hold him in high regard. “You know I never miss the opening of an opera.”
He gave her a thin smile, his gaze sharp. “Everyone knows that, but I did think you might not attend tonight. You have been trying so hard to avoid me.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
He moved closer, and she thought, not for the first time, that he moved like a snake. He was tall and sinewy, with copper hair that seemed to signal he was poisonous. “I think you do. You and I both know you are running out of time to pay your debt to me.”
She gave him a look of disgust. “How can you be so vulgar as to mention such a thing to a lady?”
He smiled, and his thin lips stretched taut over his teeth. “You have no idea how vulgar I can be, Lady Daphne. But I do hope you will find out.” He hissed the last bit, moving closer to her, his eyes alight with what she could only assume was lust.
“I did pay my debt to you.” They’d had this conversation before, and she knew what he would reply.
“Not promptly, and you have yet to pay the interest, which grows day by day.” He licked his thin lips, and she shuddered. She’d heard rumors he’d played a part in the untimely death—some said murder—of a baroness years ago. The way he looked at her now, she could believe it was true. She looked down at his gloved hands and could imagine them wrapped around her own neck.
“A gentleman does not charge interest,” she said faintly, still looking at his hands.
“A lady does not gamble. But you made the wager, and I will be sure you pay.” He was close enough to kiss her now. “If not with blunt then with your person.” His hand snaked up her arm and caught her painfully where her long gloves ended. She tried to move away, but he was deceptively strong and pulled her closer. “I am done waiting. You have two days. If you do not pay me in full, you are mine.” He moved to kiss her, but thankfully, her father parted the curtain in the next moment and the earl was forced to release her.
“Battersea,” the duke said, and it was almost a bark. He looked at Daphne then back at the earl. “Good to see you, my lord.”
Battersea bowed. “Your Grace. Your daughter and I were just discussing our mutual love of the opera.”
The duke looked unconvinced. “You should go back to your seat, Battersea. The opera is about to begin.”
“Of course. We will speak more later, Lady Daphne.” He took her gloved hand and kissed it, his tongue sneaking out to lick the pink leather. Daphne swallowed her revulsion as the curtains swayed behind him.
“Why was he here?” the duke asked.
“I have no idea. He came in without an invitation and began to talk of the opera.”
“He’s a bad sort. I’ve told you to stay clear of him.”
“He had only been here a moment before you came in, Papa. I would have dismissed him.”
Her father nodded, and she knew he was thinking that she was quite capable of doing just as she’d said. But he also didn’t know her secret or that she owed Battersea money. She had wished on so many occasions she could go back in time and refuse his invitation to play a hand of cards. She wished she’d refused to go to the private room with him, refused the high stakes, and walked away from the group of men she hadn’t known well. She hadn’t wanted to seem afraid. She had wanted to look brave and smart and rebellious.
Now she knew she’d been played for a fool. The earl had made certain she would never be able to repay her debt. She’d planned to ask him for more time, but she could see that would be pointless. He wanted her to default on her debt. He’d never give her more time.
“Good,” her father said, apparently mollified. “I am sure you have heard rumors about him, and I will not expound on those, but suffice it to say, he is not the sort of man you should involve yourself with.”
“Of course not, Papa. I am married.”
He blew out his breath, clearly not pleased by that response.
She didn’t blame him, but she’d rather speak of FitzRoy than Battersea. She could never tell her father what she had heard of Battersea. Ladies weren’t supposed to discuss what was rumored to happen at his country house parties—drinking, opium, prostitutes, and orgies. The rumors had made him seem dangerous, and it had been amusing to flirt with that danger. Until it had gone too far.
Now she would have to take drastic measures. The problem was that she would have to take them soon. Very soon. And that dratted dinner party with her husband was tomorrow night.
Her second to oldest brother and his wife entered, and she was happy to abandon the topic and speak of the business of a charitable organization with Lady William. Then two of her sisters and their husbands arrived with her mother and soon everyone was talking over everyone and no one quieted until halfway through the first act when the soprano sang so loudly they could not help but pay attention.
Daphne sat in the second row of seats, her mother, father, brother William and his wife in the first row. Her sisters and their husbands shared her row, and she was on the end closest to the stage and feeling a bit crowded. One row of chairs had been placed behind her in case her other sister or one of her other brothers made an appearance. She might have sat there except she would have had to sit alone. Daphne had quite forgotten it until she sensed someone sitting in the seat directly behind her.
At first she caught her breath, fearful it was Battersea. But no, she knew where his box was, and he was in it, leering at the courtesan seated beside him. She glanced at her siblings and their husbands, but they were all either watching the stage or the others in the audience. She saw her two brothers-in-law exchange coins and glanced at Lady Isabella, who was indeed tucking her bosom back into its meager confines.
Slowly, she turned her head and looked into the gaze of Colin FitzRoy. He was watching her, not the stage, not Lady Isabella’s chest. Her.
Her first impulse was to ask what he was doing there, to stand up and demand how long he had been sitting there, but she was aware that she, like every other person in a box, was on full display. People were watching her and hoping for the scandal broth her mother so wanted to avoid.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“Watching the opera, what else?” he replied, his voice low but not quite low enough. One of her sisters turned and looked at her. Her eyes widened as she noticed Colin. Daphne gritted her teeth.
“You know want I am asking. What are you doing in my box?”
“Would you like to come to mine? The view is not quite as good, and my sisters will assuredly shush you.”
As if to underscore the differences between their families, Lady Cora, one of Daphne’s sisters leaned over. “Do speak up so we can hear, dear. It strains my ears, all this whispering.”
“That’s it.” Daphne rose and exited the box, the red velvet curtains swishing in her wake. For a moment she stood in the deserted corridor behind the box, wondering if Colin would follow her, then the curtains parted and he emerged, looking amused. He propped one shoulder against the wall separating the Warcliffe box from the one adjacent and looked down at her.
“Now,” she said quietly, “why are you here? You are never at the opera.”
He shrugged. “You are here, wife.”
It seemed as though he mocked her with the words. “Don’t call me that. I’m no more your wife than...” She looked about and watched a woman re-enter a box far down the corridor. “Than she is.”
“Not true. You and I exchanged vows.”
“As though that means anything.”
“Your father thinks it means something, else he wouldn’t have summoned me to a dinner where, no doubt, he intends to take me to task for neglecting my husbandly duties.” He looked at her, his green eyes on her face. “Does he know about the trouble you are in?”
“No. I mean, I am not in any sort of trouble.” Dratted man! When he looked at her with those eyes, she practically forgot how to speak.
Colin smiled. “Right.”
“Go away.” She started back through the curtain, but Colin caught her by the waist and pulled her gently back. She tensed until his lips brushed her ear.
“I’m not going away.”
She shivered at the way his warm breath caressed her ear. But she was all too familiar with this unfulfilled promise. “We’ll see,” she said, loosing his fingers and stepping out of his hold. She pushed aside the curtain and re-entered the box. But Colin was right behind her, and he cut off her path to the chair she’d occupied. Instead, he directed her to a seat in the third row of chairs, pulling it out for her then taking the one beside it.
She sat, back stiff and straight, and concentrated on ignoring him. She’d almost succeeded too when he took her hand. She jumped at the warm contact as his gloved hand covered hers. She tried to pull hers away, but he held on. She glanced across the theater and saw Lady Isabella watching her, brows raised. Daphne pretended to watch the opera again. She would have had to make a large gesture to free herself, and that would have only set tongues wagging.
She could allow him to hold her hand. It wasn’t as though they were actually touching. She kept her attention on the opera, not able to fully enjoy it with him so close. Finally, after a few moments of the soprano’s aria, he leaned over. “My Italian is a bit out of use. What is she singing about?”
Daphne didn’t believe him for a moment. She’d heard he was able to speak several languages. She couldn’t imagine Italian wasn’t one of them. But if he wanted to play this game, she would show him who was the master. “She is singing about the night she spent with her lover,” she murmured, turning her head slightly in his direction. “His kisses set her heart on fire. She longs for his touch. She is lost without him.”
“Bereft,” he said, leaning close. “That’s stronger than lost.”
She cut a look at him. “I thought you didn’t understand Italian.”
His eyes, dark in the dimly lit rear of the box, looked into her own. She felt her heart speed up.
“I understand a little.” He looked back at the stage, and she was thankful for the break in eye contact. But just as she was able to breathe again, he tilted his head until his lips were close to her ear. “I don’t suppose you understand what she is singing about.”
Daphne stiffened. “What sort of question is that?”
He shrugged. “The sort a husband might ask. After all, I didn’t make you feel any of that fire on our wedding night. I have wondered if some other man has managed to enlighten you.”
Daphne’s jaw dropped, and she turned her head to stare at him outright. Colin looked at her, his gaze unwavering. “What shocked you more? That I admit I was a poor lover or that I ask if you have a paramour?”
She opened her mouth then closed it again. “You weren’t—”
He smiled and shook his head. “Don’t. I had no idea what I was doing.” The hand holding hers dropped to her knee, resting there lightly. “But if we tried again, I’d make sure you enjoyed it.”
Her chest felt tight and when she tried to breathe, her hardened nipples were so sensitive that they chafed when they brushed against the soft fabric of her chemise. Her body betrayed her, but her mind cleared. “Because now you have had so much practice,” she said stiffly. “All of those French girls, I imagine.”
“You imagine wrong.” His gaze shifted back to the stage, and he seemed utterly transfixed by the singer. Daphne watched her too, but she couldn’t stop wondering what he meant.
You imagine wrong.
I’d make sure you enjoyed it.
Finally, she could not take it anymore. She turned her head to look at him. “What do you mean, I imagine wrong?”
She saw the ghost of a smile play on his lips. “Watch the opera or people will talk.”
“People will talk anyway,” she said, but she turned her head to the stage again. After a moment, he leaned toward her. To anyone who watched them, it would appear as though he was enraptured by the singers.
“We spoke before of our mutual friend.”
She closed her eyes briefly, attempting to ignore the warmth of his body beside hers and the low timbre of his voice resonating through her, and to focus on his words. “Mr. Beaumont?” she asked, finally.
“Rafe, yes. Do you know what he was called during the war?” Colin asked.
She shook her head.
Colin leaned closer, so close she felt his lips on her jaw, just below her ear. “The Seducer,” he murmured.
She exhaled a slow, shaky breath. The way Colin’s voice sounded on that word, seducer, made her belly tighten.
“We often worked together. I would be in disguise, and he as well. But I would stand in the corner, unobtrusive, observing and gathering intelligence by seeming to become one with the men of the town or the French officers, depending on where we were. But Rafe would sit down at a table and within minutes, he’d have three or four women at his side. He’d charm them until they told him practically everything he wanted to know.
“If he needed more information, he’d take them to bed. Sometimes even when he didn’t need more information. It was my task to gather the information the women didn’t know. We worked in tandem for month after month. I couldn’t help but learn a few things about what pleases a woman. What gives her pleasure.” The hand on her knee moved slightly, one of his fingers tracing a slow circle on her gown.
That circle seemed to be made of fire. Her skin, under her brightly-colored gown, felt itchy and uncomfortable. She wanted him to stop. And yet, she wanted him to move his hand higher.
And then, as though she’d spoken her wish aloud, his hand did move slightly higher, the heat of his touch radiating through her body like a newly lit fire on a cold winter evening. She should tell him to stop. She should put her hand over his and force him to stop, but her hand stayed on the arm of the chair, and her eyes were on the stage, though her entire being was compressed into that one location on her body.
“These are just observations,” he said, tearing her mind away from the mesmerizing feel of his hand on her thigh. “Perhaps you could confirm.” His hand slid higher. “Being that you are”—and higher—“most definitely”—and higher—“a woman.”
His hand slid over the V between her thighs and she all but jumped out of her seat. One of her sisters turned to peer at her curiously, and Daphne kept her eyes on the stage while surreptitiously sliding Colin’s hand back down her leg.
She held his gloved hand tightly in hers for several minutes then leaned over and whispered, “Don’t toy with me.”
“And here I thought I was seducing you.”
“Why? What do you hope to gain?”
He was silent for a long time, and she finally turned to look at him. His expression was, as ever, unreadable, but she thought she saw sadness. “You’ve been in London too long,” he answered. “You think everything is about winning or losing. I am on your side, Daphne. You don’t lose if you admit you need help.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to claim she didn’t need help, but she feared that would amount to protesting too much. And as she considered other retorts, her gaze drifted to Battersea. His courtesan was whispering in his ear, but his gaze was on her, hungry and knowing. He knew he had her right where he wanted her, and nothing except acquiescing to his whims would save her from ruin.
Except giving in was its own sort of ruin.
“Fine,” she said quietly, her gaze still on Battersea. “I’ll tell you everything at the dinner party.”
“We aren’t likely to have a moment alone.”
“I can arrange it.”
“No doubt you can. And you will tell me everything?”
“Yes.” Her gaze went back to the stage again. She couldn’t tell him everything. She couldn’t tell him even half of it, but if pressed, she would tell him something. It would buy her some time, time she needed to work out the details of her plan.
“Then I will speak to you more tomorrow.” He moved his hand out of hers, and she’d almost forgotten she was still holding it. The sudden loss made her feel very alone.
He rose then, quietly and without seeming to draw the attention of the others in the box. But before he departed, he leaned over her chair and whispered into her hair. “I have ways of finding out the truth. I want to give you the courtesy of confiding in me first. If you haven’t after tomorrow, I will use my skills.”
She turned to glare at him, to offer a rejoinder. But he was already gone. Daphne turned back to the stage, but the soprano sounded too high and shrill, and though she was surrounded by people and the air in the box a bit stale and warm, she shivered with a sudden chill.