At dinner that evening, Vivien set out on her campaign to bewitch Lord Stokeford. The surprise was how swiftly he responded to her efforts.
When she’d smiled at him upon entering the dining chamber, he had greeted her without a hint of rancor, bantering pleasantries with her as if she were a lady he admired and respected. He had even complimented Vivien on her daffodil-yellow dress, though his gaze caressed her bosom in a way that was far from gentlemanly.
She hid her flustered response with a determined graciousness. He would only gloat at his power over her. Little did he know, she intended to have him in her power.
Presiding over one end of the long table, he dominated the candlelit chamber. Vivien could scarcely believe he was the same man who had insulted her that morning in the library at Stokeford Abbey. Tonight he was all charm and smiles, trading jests with the Rosebuds and relating the scandals in London. Even Lady Stokeford had left her bed to join them, and Vivien was glad the dowager’s health had taken a sudden turn for the better.
His eyes a piercing blue, he glanced at Vivien from time to time as if to make certain she was listening. And she was listening, more avidly than she’d expected of herself. He entertained them with tales of the ton, his descriptions so sharp and clever, she could easily picture the fashion-mad ladies who agonized over the proper size of a bonnet, the glittering parties where people danced until dawn, and even a decadent gathering where a mummy from ancient Egypt had been unwrapped. He made London society sound utterly frivolous—and so very foreign.
All too soon, Lady Stokeford rose slowly from her seat at the end of the table. The marquess leapt to his feet and strode to his grandmother’s side. “You’ve overtaxed yourself,” he said, reaching for her arm. “I told you not to come down for dinner.”
“I told you, I feel fit as a fiddle. I took a refreshing nap after you left me.” Eluding his aid, she made a shooing motion. “You needn’t coddle me.”
The other two Rosebuds came scurrying toward them. “Olivia and I shall watch over Lucy,” Lady Enid said, giving Vivien a blatant wink from behind Lord Stokeford. “You two youngsters are free to run along now. We elderly ladies must be boring you.”
“Oh, but you’re not,” Vivien protested. “I enjoy your company.”
“Nevertheless, we three shall retire to Lucy’s boudoir,” Lady Faversham said smoothly, taking Lady Stokeford’s arm. “But don’t let our departure spoil your evening. Lord Stokeford, you must keep Vivien engaged with your gossip.”
“A capital notion,” Lady Stokeford agreed. “Michael, I’m sure you have much more to say to dear Vivien.” The Rosebuds nodded and murmured their agreement. Then the trio strolled, arm in arm, out of the dining chamber, casting a few significant glances back at the couple. Left alone with the marquess, Vivien was aware of the dampness of her palms. The shadows cast by the candles gave him a sinister aspect, and her nerve wavered. Curse him, he was handsome as a devil in his fancy gorgio clothes, the dark blue coat and fawn-breeches, the white cravat at his throat. His eyes studied her, his mouth quirked into a faintly calculating half-smile that sent a shiver racing over her skin.
“So, Miss Thorne,” he drawled. “It seems we’ve been abandoned. On purpose.”
She swallowed, her mouth dry. Janus was vain and stupid, his thoughts easy to read. Michael Kenyon, however, remained a mystery to her. He was harsh and cold-hearted, and even now, when he behaved cordially, she sensed secrets in him. Did he truly still grieve for his wife?
No matter. If the Rosebuds wished her to practice her social skills on him, then she would do so. Surely he was a man like any other.
Curving her lips into the sensual smile she had practiced before the mirror, Vivien strolled toward him. “It would please your grandmother very much if we were friends.”
“The question is, can a man and a woman be just friends?”
“Not so long as the man thinks he’s her superior.”
He laughed. “Touché. Come, stroll with me in the conservatory.”
In his annoyingly masterful manner, he didn’t wait for her agreement. He took hold of her arm and guided her out into the dimly lit corridor. In spite of her resentment, the firm touch of his fingers stirred a curious thrill in her. For once, he seemed easy to please and genuinely interested in her. But Vivien didn’t entirely trust him. Why had he ceased his hostilities?
“This morning you made your dislike of me very plain,” she said. “What changed your mind?”
He shrugged. “There’s no point to enmity. My grandmother is determined to keep you, and I must bow to her wishes.”
“Or perhaps that blow knocked some sense into you.”
His teeth showed in a faintly feral grin. “Perhaps.”
So he didn’t like being reminded that a woman had bested him. She must guard her sharp tongue and play to his masculine weaknesses.
Edging closer, she batted her lashes. “Whatever the reason, my lord, I’m pleased that you and I are finally—”
He pulled her to a halt. “Is there something in your eye?”
“Why, no.”
“Then why are you blinking so much?”
Ignoring her protests, he walked her to a wall sconce. There, to her mortification, he cradled her cheeks in his large palms and tilted up her head, bending close to examine her face in the flickering light.
How novel an experience it was for a man to tower over her. His masculine scent submerged her in an awareness of him. His gentle touch on her cheeks caused a warmth that flashed downward to places that should never respond to him. He stood so near she could see the shadow of whiskers along his cheeks and jaw. She could also see the faint mark of a bruise where she had struck him.
And she felt an appallingly savage sense of satisfaction.
With his thumbs, he traced her lower lashes. “There’s no speck I can see,” he said. “Which eye is it that pains you?”
“Neither,” she snapped, annoyed that he couldn’t distinguish flirting from hurting. “It’s gone now.”
He held on to her, subjecting her to an intense scrutiny. His fingers stroked ever so slowly along her cheekbones.
“What beautiful eyes you have,” he said in a low, musing voice. “They reveal the fire inside you.”
Her heart skipped a beat, and his brooding half-smile scrambled her thoughts. She found herself staring in fascination at his mouth, at those firm and sensual lips.
“There’s something you should know,” he murmured.
She dragged her gaze back up to his. “What?”
“You should know that my grandmother has nothing at all to do with my being here with you.”
Vivien tensed. She was very aware of how alone they were in the passageway, the house silent around them. The Rosebuds had everything to do with her being here. But of course, she mustn’t tell him that.
“I’m here because you interest me,” he said in that smooth, silken tone. “I want to know all about you, Vivien. I trust you won’t mind if I address you so familiarly.”
Wary, she shook her head. “No, milord.”
“You must call me Michael,” he went on. “There’s no need to practice formality between...friends.” The gravelly inflection of his voice hinted at another meaning, though Vivien had no time to ponder it.
He leaned closer, and with a shock she realized he meant to kiss her. A pulse of heat seized her, and she couldn’t move or speak. Never before had she had the slightest interest in feeling a man’s lips on hers. But she did now. Now, she felt intensely curious to taste his inviting mouth, to learn how to kiss from an expert seducer...
Abruptly, the unfamiliarity of her yearning struck cold sense into her. She stepped back, clinging to her composure by a thread. It wouldn’t be easy to charm him without giving him the wrong idea. She wanted to make this gorgio lord fall in love with her, not to invite his physical attentions. She wanted to see him grovel.
For all that she had thwarted him, he had the nerve to look pleased with himself, lounging against the gold-papered wall like a sultan biding his time with a potential conquest. That made her all the more determined to seize the upper hand.
Mastering her anger, she summoned a ladylike smile. “How decent of you to show an interest in me...Michael,” she forced out. Among the Rom, everyone went by their first name, so she shouldn’t feel a reluctance to address him so. Yet in this formal gorgio society, it created an unsettling aura of intimacy. She went on, “I look forward to hearing more about your adventures in the city. Shall we proceed?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
Somehow his words sounded vaguely indecent; then he took her arm again and escorted her into the conservatory. Coming here with him was a mistake, she realized at once. The circular room was enormous, with much of the walls and the roof comprised of glass panes, giving the illusion of being outdoors yet entirely apart from the rest of the world. The scents of earth and vegetation held a lush intensity. A velvety darkness enveloped them, the only illumination cast by a silvery quarter moon through the windows.
Vivien promptly seated herself in the middle of a stone bench too small to accommodate another person.
To her chagrin, the marquess propped one foot beside her on the bench so that his shoe rested against the folds of her skirt. Not the marquess, she corrected herself. Michael. If she were ever to enrapture him, to manipulate him like a puppet, she must start thinking of him by his birth name.
“Tell me more about London,” she said. “The people there sound terribly elegant.”
“Rather, they are elegantly terrible. They’re a self-absorbed lot, concerned with fashion and gambling and amusements.”
“Then why do you live there?” she asked, curious at his cynicism. “Why would you choose to stay among disagreeable people?”
His elbow on his knee, Michael leaned over her in a casual pose, a tall shadow against the black outline of a palm tree. His scent drifted to her, something dark and masculine. She wished she could discern his expression in the gloom. “It appears I’ve given you the wrong impression,” he said smoothly. “Despite the buffleheads, there are also those who are clever and witty, intelligent and well-read. In the country, one cannot attend the opera or enjoy a literary debate.”
“You could if you found someone who’s read the same books as you.”
He laughed as if to deny any such person existed. “My friends are in London,” he said with a finality that closed the subject. “But enough about me. Tell me, how do you like living in a fine house? It must be very different from traveling all the time.”
How neatly he deflected her interest in him. A polite lady allowed the man to direct the conversation. Hiding her annoyance, she said sweetly, “I do like this grand house, though I was lost at first. It has too many rooms.”
“There can’t be more than twenty.”
“Twenty-four. I counted.” She had wandered around that first week, peeking through doorways, amazed at the size and number of chambers. Her entire kumpania could live here comfortably. “All for one person,” she added, shaking her head in mingled disgust and wonderment.
“Two now, it would seem.” Before Vivien could decide if he sounded resentful, Michael went on. “The Dower House is a mere cottage. Stokeford Abbey has more than one hundred and twenty rooms.”
She’d glimpsed a dizzying array of them that morning, on her way to and from the library. Yet she’d had no idea his house was so staggeringly huge. Of course, he was a gorgio lord, wasteful and extravagant. “How can you possibly use them all?”
“I don’t. Most of the rooms are closed off with dustcovers over the furniture.”
“But what is the purpose of having so many chambers?”
“It seems the ancestor of mine who built the place enjoyed entertaining.” He paused, and she heard the rustle of a leaf falling somewhere. “The rooms will be used again very soon. You see, my grandmother is planning a large party. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Rosebuds are writing the invitations as we speak.”
“A party? They haven’t mentioned any such event to me.”
“I’m sure they will. You see, Vivien, they intend to introduce you to society.”
Her heart faltered, then commenced a frantic clamoring. She’d hoped Lady Stokeford had given up that plan after Vivien had voiced her objections. She didn’t want to meet a lot of snooty strangers. She only wanted to bide her time here until her two months were up.
But if she didn’t behave as the dowager wished, her ladyship might send her away. She might never earn the two hundred guineas that would ensure her parents lived out the rest of their years in comfort.
“When?” she whispered.
“A fortnight or so from now.”
“How many people will there be?”
“Everyone my grandmother knows—and probably some she doesn’t know.” He laughed, a curiously hard-edged sound. “She was a celebrated hostess in her day, though she hasn’t done much entertaining these past few years.”
Worse and worse. Vivien had only two weeks in which to prepare herself. Two weeks to learn all the customs and rules so that she wouldn’t shame Lady Stokeford and be sent packing. Two weeks of freedom before she had to meet more hated gorgios. She couldn’t count on any other aristocrats to be as kind and welcoming as the Rosebuds.
Plucking a frond from a nearby fern, Michael leaned down to brush it over her cheek. “You needn’t look so alarmed,” he said in that urbanely mocking tone. “This is your chance to shine. To be accepted by all of society.”
The tickling leaves made her shiver, and she thrust his arm away. “I don’t want to be accepted,” she snapped without thinking. “Nor to choose a husband.”
“A husband?”
“The Rosebuds...have some mad notion that I should be married.”
Michael said nothing for a moment, and when he did speak, his voice was low and tight. “They’ve told you that?”
“Yes.” Frustration welled up and overflowed. “Develesa! Why can’t they see that a woman can be perfectly content without a man?”
He chuckled, toying with the frond of fern, drawing it through his fingers in long, smooth movements. “There are many reasons that women want men. For money, for children, for companionship.” His voice lowered to a husky roughness. “And for those women who have known a skilled lover, the foremost reason of all is...pleasure.”
All of her senses sprang to alertness. His masculine scent drifted through the cool, earthy darkness. The upper half of him was hidden by a pocket of shadow, the silvery moonlight illuminating only his trouser-clad leg, still propped on the bench, so close she had only to lift her hand slightly to touch him.
To slap him.
She laced her fingers in her lap. “You’re no gentleman to make such a wicked comment to a lady.”
“I beg your pardon.” Removing his foot from the bench, he made a formal bow, sweeping the frond like a feathered cavalier’s hat. “I must have drunk too much wine at dinner.”
She doubted he was truly sorry, and she forced herself to think of what a lady would say next. “Apology accepted. Surely you’ll be leaving before the party.”
“That depends. Would you like for me to stay?”
She’d like for him to go away, and never mind her plan to make him grovel like a dog. “Of course,” she said, injecting warmth into her voice. “Lady Stokeford would be very happy if you were to prolong your visit.”
“And you, Vivien? Would my presence make you happy?”
Perhaps it was that sinfully masculine tone, but he could make the simplest question sound heavy with insinuation. Flustered, she chose her words carefully. “I’ve enjoyed talking to you this evening. It’s good practice for when I meet society.”
He gave a short bark of humor. “A suitable answer, and very ladylike. Perhaps in time you’ll answer me more plainly.”
“I can’t imagine how much plainer I can be.”
“Well, I can.” He touched her with the frond again, this time lightly feathering it down her bare arm. Even as she tensed her muscles against a delicious chill, he added, “I do wish you wouldn’t be so cautious of me.”
She couldn’t hold back an ironic smile. “I’m cautious for a reason. I’ve heard you’re an infamous rogue.”
Michael laughed. “Rumors tend to stretch the truth. You must judge me for yourself.”
She seized the chance to feed his self-importance. Men liked to talk about themselves. “Then you must tell me more about yourself.”
“What do you wish to know?” he asked.
His secrecy intrigued her, and a hundred queries sprang to her mind. She settled on the most important question of all. “I’d like to know why you keep your daughter from Lady Stokeford.”
He didn’t move, though she sensed that every muscle in his body went rigid. “I won’t discuss Amy. Find something else to ask me.”
There was something odd going on with his little daughter that Vivien didn’t understand. “Is she deformed? Is that why you’re hiding her?”
“No! She’s perfect in every way.” He sounded as if he spoke through gritted teeth.
“Then bring her here,” Vivien urged. “It would ease her ladyship’s mind. She worries about you—and her great-granddaughter.”
“Grandmama shall have to console herself with circumstances as they stand. I don’t owe anyone any explanations.”
“Develesa! You owe her respect as your elder. And more than that, for taking care of you and your brothers all those years when your own mother and father neglected you.”
He inhaled a deep breath. “So the Rosebuds have been telling you tales, have they? Here’s a rule to add to all those you’ve been taught: men don’t like to be the subject of prying female gossip.”
“Gentlemen shouldn’t talk about women, either.”
“Have you been around so many gentlemen, then, to know their conversations?”
“Of course not. You know I grew up with the Rom.”
“Yes, the Gypsies.” Michael leaned a little closer, again touching the tip of the frond to her cheek and making her shiver. “I’m curious about your life before you came here. Was there a particular man who interested you?”
She edged away. “Why should it matter to you?”
“Because you interest me, Vivien. I want to learn all about you.” He lowered his voice to a caressing murmur. “I want to learn everything.”
Her heart beat faster, and she reminded herself not to respond to his seductiveness. “You wouldn’t answer my question. So why should I answer yours?”
“Because if ever you expect me to be honest, then you must first set a good example for me.”
“Bah. A man like you knows naught of honesty.”
“Just answer me.”
“Very well,” she said, deciding to bend the truth in the hope of making Michael jealous. “I was to marry a man named Janus.”
Through the darkness, Michael stared intently at her. “Has he bedded you?”
She pressed her lips together. The pig! It took a moment to leash her anger. “Among the Rom, it is considered to be moxado—impure—for a man to even brush the hem of a woman’s gown as he walks past her.”
“A roundabout answer is no answer at all.”
He wouldn’t believe the truth, so there was no point in arguing her innocence. “You have your secrets, my lord, and it seems I shall have mine.”
He was silent for a long moment, the only sound the drip of water somewhere in the conservatory. Then abruptly he asked, “Do you ride?”
“Only the men of the Rom ride.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“I...” Half glad of the change in topic, Vivien confessed, “Once in a while, I would sneak out at night and ride bareback. Until...”
“Until what?”
“Until I was caught.”
She cringed to remember her father’s angry, mournful expression. Pulika had appeared through the predawn mist as she picketed the horse at the farthest edge of the herd. Though she’d taken scrupulous care to be quiet and to rub down the animal, she hadn’t realized a man could tell the next morning if his horse had been ridden, or that her father had been suspicious for some time. He had subjected her to a stern and unforgettable scolding. She could still remember the painful sting of remorse, and the shame she’d felt at having disappointed her parents.
“There will be riding,” Michael said, “during the week my grandmother is entertaining. You’ll need the proper attire.”
“I won’t accept any more gowns from Lady Stokeford. She’s given me more than enough already.”
“You’ll also need instruction in the correct form,” he said, continuing as if she hadn’t spoken. “We’ll start your riding lessons tomorrow morning.”
“We?”
“Yes. I intend to teach you all you need to know.” Again, his voice held that hint of a double meaning.
Why was he so aggressively seeking her company? There could be only one reason—he wanted her in his bed. Even as the thought stirred her anger, she felt the reckless urge to tantalize him, to make him suffer.
He stepped closer, into the moonlight. From her seat on the bench, she looked up at him, struck by his splendor. A silvery shimmer created an aura over his dark hair and wide shoulders. The clean angles of his face held a confidence bred by untold generations of nobility. Discreet gold buttons glinted on his waistcoat, drawing the eye to the magnificent breadth of his chest and downward to places no lady should look.
Chiding herself, Vivien met his direct gaze. He was all she despised in a man, arrogant and proud and...gorgio. She didn’t want to do as he asked. Yet how fine it would be to bring him to heel.
“Where shall we meet?” she asked.
“The stables at Stokeford Abbey, nine o’clock.” He tossed away the frond and held out his hand to help her to her feet. His manner was gentlemanly, yet his fingers pressed warmly around hers, his thumb stroking her palm in a most distracting way. “Unless, of course, you turn coward.”
Awareness of him heightened her senses, and Vivien knew she played a dangerous game. A game she relished. The notion of besting this gorgio lord was like a fire burning in her blood.
Coolly, she drew her hand from his. “I’ll be there.”