A Little Deception (8 page)

It was time to take him to task.

Thus, when Rose found herself in that gentleman’s arms on
the dance floor, questioning him about Yarrowby was one way to alleviate the
self-consciousness she felt at being in such close proximity, to counter the
light-headed sensations that threatened to turn her into a fool, for the aroma
of bergamot-scented soap, leather and fresh sweat were a powerfully erotic
combination.

Watching an ecstatic Arabella whirl past in Lord Yarrowby’s
embrace, Rose remarked, ‘I can’t believe Lord Yarrowby is as bad as you say. He
appears such a good-natured gentleman.’

Rampton, executing a tight manoeuvre past a couple who had
stumbled, pressed Rose more tightly against his chest. For one wild moment she
was possessed by the idea of touching her lips to the triangle of bare flesh
revealed by his open pirate’s shirt – pretending it an accident, of
course – just to see what a man’s bare skin actually felt like. Indeed,
daring and excitement thrummed through her and she immediately berated herself
for missing her opportunity as he resumed the former steady rhythm of the
dancing and remarked, conversationally, ‘Far more good natured than I am, I
daresay.’

‘But the other day you said—’

He cut her off. ‘With respect, my dear Lady Chesterfield,
this is neither the time nor the place. Now,’ he finished briskly, as the music
slowed to a finish, ‘perhaps you would care to admire our host’s fine
collection of Old Masters.’

A tantalizing offer she dare not accept. ‘I can’t possibly
leave Aunt Alice on her own….’

‘Your Aunt Alice looks very pleasantly diverted by that
notorious gossip, Lady Rodham. She’ll keep her entertained for hours. Now, if
that’s the best excuse you can come up with …’ Caging her hand on his arm, he
led her off the dance floor as if he would countenance no refusal.

And why not? Rose thought, fearful and excited as she
followed him, uncertain as to what she felt about the liberties he might take.

Heart pounding, she justified her lack of resistance. What
could be the harm in taking a married woman to view a collection of old
paintings in a house filled with hundreds of people?

Nevertheless, when they found themselves in the annexe Rose
was concerned to discover no evidence of any of the hundreds of guests who had
thronged the ballroom as her lack of experience kicked in. She was an
inexperienced, unmarried woman with a reputation to protect, after all.

She turned to leave but his grip on her upper arm was firm
and, as he drew her almost languidly back to him, she felt her defences crumble
amidst a myriad of other emotions, not least self-condemnation.

This lasted little more than a second. Now was no time to
act the coy maiden. There was Lord Rampton’s good will to retain, and the
knowledge that discovery would render her a fool, not to mention endangering
their good standing with the gentleman to whom they owed so much.

‘Helena…?’ he murmured, as if savouring the sound of her
name. Placing one finger under her chin he tilted her head so that she was
gazing into his eyes, hooded as they lingered on her face. ‘You don’t mind if I
call you that?’ His voice was a sensuous whisper. Rose felt her insides turn to
jelly, a sensation accompanied by all the other hallmarks of what she increasingly
realised denoted melting desire.

She closed her eyes while she felt herself enslaved by
sensation. His proximity was driving her wild. Heat prickled the surface of her
skin and she was conscious of her ragged breathing. She sucked in air sharply at
the disconcerting feeling of her nipples puckering beneath her stays; opening
her eyes in time to see his beautifully shaped lips moving closer towards hers.

Sense prevailed: she stepped backwards and out of his grasp,
affecting a polite, amused smile as she wandered over to stand before one of
the paintings. She was a single young woman. Yes, she was mad with desire right
now but she also had no desire to be married. Should someone who knew or
discovered her real identity walk into this room to find them kissing her reputation
would be compromised and his lordship would be under an obligation to marry
her.

It was as simple as that.

Oh, but how she longed to feel his arms around her and his
lips pressed to hers. Never in all her twenty-six years had she felt like this.

‘I daresay you can call a woman who owes you a thousand
pounds anything you like,’ she responded, relieved she managed to effect the
mantle of cool experience. ‘I have always admired Lely, haven’t you?’

‘I must confess to a preference for Van Dyck.’ Dropping the
intimate tone he appeared at her side to study the painting that had caught her
apparent interest. ‘A noble calling, don’t you think? Committing the world as
you see it to canvas, and preserving it for posterity.’ He pointed to a
portrait. ‘The Duchess of Conway. Warts and all. To have painted her as a
beauty would have made a mockery of the artist’s talent. My brother paints, you
know.’ He fixed Rose with an appraising look. ‘I feel sure that if I asked him
he would paint your portrait.’

‘And why would you do that, my lord?’

‘Because, my dear Helena,’ Lord Rampton extended a hand
towards her and gently traced the line of her cheek with his forefinger, his
words dripping with suggestiveness, ‘apart from the fact that such a painting
would add to your husband’s consequence, it would mean I could spend a great
deal more time with you.’

***

‘Cousin Helena!’

Startled by the youth who stepped in front of her, blocking
her progress, Helena’s momentary confusion was replaced by derision as
recognition dawned.

‘Master Oswald, I did not recognize you. A common highwayman.’
With a curt nod she made to brush past Aunt Alice’s stepson, adding, ‘And I am
not your cousin Helena.’ The lad was a spoilt brat, at least three years her
junior, and here he was trying to play the swaggering sophisticate. She did not
appreciate such forwardness.

Unless it came from a real man like—she licked her
lips and felt desire tingling her nerve-endings at the thought of him—Lord
Rampton.

‘Ah yes, Mama told me! Nevertheless, you are married to my
cousin, Charles.’ Oswald took a step backwards, impeding her progress. ‘Perhaps
you would honour me’ -
 
slate-grey
eyes glittered at her through the slits of his mask - ‘with the next dance?’

‘I wouldn’t dance with a highwayman if my life depended upon
it.’ Removing his gloved hand from her arm, Helena made no attempt to mask her
distaste, but after a couple of steps she faltered, discovering to her dismay
and irritation that her husband had disappeared, and there was no sign, either,
of her sisters-in-law or Aunt Alice. Or, regrettably, his lordship.

‘The lady is abandoned?’ Oswald’s voice sounded in her ear.
‘Perhaps, indeed, it is an opportune moment for a dance. Ah, a waltz. Not too
daring, I trust?’

He was a good dancer, she allowed him that after he had led
her on to the dance floor. After several more glasses of champagne Oswald
didn’t seem quite so insufferable, especially as he was so fulsome in his
admiration of her.

Obviously he enjoyed talking about himself, like most
puffed-up popinjays, and it amused her enormously when he suddenly burst out,
irritated, ‘What you are looking at?’

Raising her head to look into his eyes, she broke into a
peal of laughter. ‘My reflection in your hessians!’

Oswald, who had been about to respond angrily at the slight,
found himself, instead, steadying Helena as she swayed on her feet. ‘It would
appear the lady is foxed. Come, Cousin Helena, we must find somewhere where you
can sit down.’

With little show of gratitude she accepted the orgeat he
procured for her as he led her to a small sofa in a secluded annexe between the
card room and the ballroom.

‘I’d rather have what you’re having,’ she complained.

‘And I’d rather return you to the company at large without
besmirching my reputation.’

She hiccupped. ‘Your reputation is nothing to be proud of,
if what your dear mama says is true.’

‘Oh ho, tales from home.’ Oswald sounded more amused than
angry. ‘Incidentally, she’s not my mother. She’s some addle-brained fool my
senile old father married before he jumped ship for the Far East, and now I’m
stuck with her until Papa gets called up. Sadly, his Maker appears to be in no
hurry.’

‘Just as I’m stuck with that addle-headed fool I married until
he slips off this mortal coil.’ Helena studied the trompe l’oeil on the ceiling
while Oswald regarded her with greater interest.

‘So the novelty of becoming Lady Chesterfield has lost its
lustre …’ He moved a little closer. ‘You realize, madam, that there are other
avenues for disillusioned married women to pursue?’

‘It wasn’t my idea not to be Lady Chesterfield,’ said Helena
petulantly, slapping away Oswald’s hand which he had insinuated on to her
thigh. ‘Your cousin Rose hatched the ridiculous notion that she could do a
better job than I of petitioning Lord Rampton for a little favour.’ She gave
another hiccup. ‘Now he’s decided not to go to the Continent after all and I’m
stuck playing the innocent virgin. I’m sure your mama has exacted the promise of
silence from you under pain of death.’

The champagne was having its effect and Oswald’s persistent
questioning soon ferreted out the details his mother had omitted.

Helena smoothed the silky folds of her diaphanous gown.
‘Your mother hinted that she knows how to lay hands on the funds to repay Lord
Rampton. I think we’re just waiting for someone to die … though she said she’s
prepared to lend an advance if that takes too long—’

‘Oh, she is, is she?’

‘Well, it seems only fair, since your stepmama inherited a
fortune while nothing went to Charles and Rose’s mama—’

‘Because of their late father’s faro habit, I believe,’
Oswald interjected drily.

‘Anyway,’ Helena bit back defensively, ‘Aunt Alice has no
children, for you don’t count.’

‘Though she has reared me since I was ten years old.’ Oswald
smiled. ‘So Mama is aiding and abetting this wild charade with her usual
childish enthusiasm.’

‘Yes, although she doesn’t quite know the size of the debt
owed to Lord Rampton. She just thinks Rose has lost her head to him. Which of
course she has. And while I don’t care a fig about Rose’s reputation, I do care
about securing the funds.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘Charles says if Rose can
find a way of absolving us of the debt, he’ll buy me a diamond collar.’

The corners of Oswald’s thin mouth curled up. ‘A diamond
collar,’ he said, as if much impressed.

‘Yes, a diamond collar,’ repeated Helena, avarice making her
eyes sparkle.

‘Well, my dear, I would hate to stand between you and a
diamond collar.’ His gaze strayed from her face to her décolletage, then back
again. He scratched his pointed chin, appearing to ponder the matter. ‘In
effect, you want to dash your sister-in-law’s chances of making good out of
this so-called ridiculous charade and win yourself a diamond collar.’

‘Yes, and I can’t decide which is more important to me.’

Daringly, Oswald plucked at the sheer fabric of Helena’s
costume, as if to smooth it, and gave a low chuckle. The lovely Helen of Troy
was clearly lost in a reverie of sparkling diamonds and heady revenge. Putting
his lips to her pretty, seashell ear, he murmured, ‘Have you not considered
that both might be possible?’

***

Rose returned to find Aunt Alice deep in conversation with Lady
Rodham.

‘Where’s Arabella?’ she asked.

The women jerked their heads up almost guiltily.

‘She’s in safe hands, dancing with Yarrowby,’ Aunt Alice
reassured her.

‘Dancing with Lord Yarrowby – again?’ The concern in
Rose’s voice caused the women to break off their enthusiastically resumed
conversation.

‘She’s made a fine impression on him.’ Aunt Alice looked
smug.

Rose glanced across the floor and saw Arabella, a fairylike
creature in palest pink, supported like a fragile flower in Lord Yarrowby’s
embrace as he waltzed her around the room.

‘We really know very little about Lord Yarrowby, Aunt
Alice,’ Rose cautioned. ‘He appears charming, but …’

‘Only son, set to inherit a vast fortune, and a title that
goes back to Henry the Eighth’s time. Like Rampton, he’d be a catch of the
season. What else do you need to know, my girl?’ asked the Lady Rodham. ‘A
simple lass from the West Indies would struggle to do better.’

‘Yes, but what about other … well, you know … other associations?’
Rose floundered.

‘Ay, there’ve been mistresses. Noble women and dancing
girls, alike. What of it?’

Rose felt embarrassed for reacting like the cloistered colonial
she was. Of course, many married men of their rank kept mistresses; it wasn’t
as if Lord Yarrowby had a wife as well.

‘Miss Celia Baxter was the most notorious,’ Lady Rodham said
thoughtfully. ‘An opera dancer. Dark-haired, round, ripe and pretty. I saw her
at Covent Garden the night London was buzzing over the famous altercation
between Rampton and Yarrowby.’