Going Rogue (12 page)

She needed time—time to think, to get her bearings.

She turned around and looked at the gown strewn across her maid’s arms. There simply wasn’t a moment she could take for herself. She was a Ribbon. She’d be expected to attend the event looking stunning and being her usual, lively self. There was no room in her deliriously happy life for things like worry.

She forced a smile. “I apologize, Lizzie. You’re completely right. We must hurry if I’m to make it there in a timely manner. It’s one thing to be fashionably late—it’s another thing to miss dinner altogether. Besides, everyone will be waiting for me.”

Lizzie curtsied and began flitting about the room.

Meredith stood, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the vanity mirror. She quickly looked away, not wanting to see the person staring back.

Derek and Brayan had met the Duke of Glastonbury after entering White’s that first time. The Duke had declared his support of Derek based solely on his exploits. Later, he’d insisted the two men attend a
small soiree
at his
humble home
with
just a few
of his closest friends. According to the other men about the club, gatherings at Lord Glastonbury’s were quite lavish and often times unforgettable. Derek hadn’t been to a good roux in ages, and thought it wouldn’t hurt to take the evening off from King’s Transport and enjoy a night out with his cousin.

Upon arrival, they were greeted by Lord Glastonbury’s butler, who was wearing a wreath of bay laurels atop his head, but was otherwise outfitted in typical service regalia.

“The guests are gathering in the gardens. Dinner will be served promptly at ten, followed by dancing and other
games
.”

The men exchanged curious glances before being escorted to the back of the house by a footman dressed in what appeared to be a sheet that barely covered his torso and thighs.

“What’s all this about?” Brayan asked.

“Didn’t Glastonbury say something about the meal being inspired by life in the Mediterranean?”

The servant opened a set of French doors which led to the back gardens.

Both men stood there, rendered speechless by what they saw. It was like stepping back in time. The gardens were lit by torches and people painted as statues were placed throughout the space, only moving occasionally to change poses. Men and women were dressed in togas, and sitting on blankets scattered across the lawn.

Brayan leaned toward Derek. “Did I miss something?”

“Apparently we both did.”

“It would seem that we’ve left Mayfair and landed smack dab in the middle of Ancient Greece. I’m feeling a bit overdressed for the occasion.”

“At least you’re wearing a skirt. I appear to be the only one here wearing pants.”

Brayan’s nostrils flared. “I told ye before, it’s not a skirt. It’s a kilt.”

Derek ignored him, nodding toward a man dressed very much like a goat. “There’s Glastonbury.” The two started walking toward him.

“What’s he supposed to be?”

“I’m guessing Pan.”

“Your Grace.” Derek bowed.

The rather rotund man slapped Derek on the back. “None of that
grace
business—you’ll call me Glastonbury and I’ll call you Sutherland. You, too, MacCalistair.”

“Agreed. Now, about tonight.” Derek gestured toward the garden. “I may have missed the part about the required dress for the evening.”

“Or lack thereof.” Glastonbury rubbed his hairy, shirtless belly.

“Are those
fur
breeches?” Brayan asked in a voice that registered somewhere between fascination and repulsion.

“Authentic, aren’t they? You’re familiar with the story of Pan, aren’t you?”

Derek nodded. He’d left England with very little schooling under his belt. But time spent travelling had allowed him to study subjects he’d never had the chance to before—Greek mythology being one of them. “Satyr? He was one of the more perverse gods if I recall.”

“He had quite the way with the ladies.” Glastonbury nudged Brayan in the side.

“And goats,” Brayan added, crossing his arms over his chest.

Glastonbury cast him a sideways glance, ignoring the remark otherwise. A footman, armed with a carafe and three glasses, offered them wine.

“Have some.” Their host handed each of the men a glass. “I have an estate in the west where this is made. I don’t allow any of that shat from France in my home.”

Brayan took a drink, then started coughing violently. “I’ve tasted whiskey that wasn’t half as strong as this,” he observed when he was once again able to speak. He stared at the glass of red wine again, then took another swig.

Derek looked around the lawn. Here was London’s elite, in all their wanton glory. He’d seen courtesans with more modesty than some of the ladies lounging about the lawn. The guests’ behavior was tame enough for the time being, but after they’d enjoyed a couple glasses of Glastonbury’s private reserve, he had little doubt that the garden would transform itself from Athens to something more closely resembling Sodom and Gomorrah.

Brayan poked him in the arm. “Look over there—near that torch.”

“Is she supposed to be some sort of nymph?” Derek replied nonchalantly, taking his glass and gulping its contents. It felt as if he’d just downed liquid fire.

“I suppose so. And by the looks of it, that nymph isn’t wearing her chemise.”

The sensation of being burned alive was quickly replaced by a sense of euphoria. It was the worst wine he’d ever sampled, and by far the most potent. “Well, then . . .” Derek helped himself to another glass from the tray of a passing servant. “. . . we should go introduce ourselves, shouldn’t we?”

As Derek had suspected, the wine was flowing all too freely. He’d always fancied himself more of a brandy man, but who was he to not play along with the evening’s theme?

Brayan had gotten along famously with the wood nymph, who happened to be a lovely soprano currently touring the continent. He would have pursued her himself had he not been so distracted by a particularly stunning woman calling herself Artemis. He’d hoped she would join him to dine on one of the blankets their host had so graciously provided, but apparently she’d needed to get back to her husband.

He smiled to himself. It had been far too long since he’d enjoyed such levels of depravity.

“Do you hear that?” Brayan asked.

“Hear what?” Derek’s head was spinning a bit from all the wine.

“Singing.”

Derek snorted. “Perhaps it’s another one of those wood nymphs . . . or it could be the wine finally getting to you.”

Brayan shook his head. “No, there’s definitely somebody singing. And is that a pianoforte?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps Glastonbury hired entertainment for the evening.”

His cousin laughed. “I doubt it’s a professional. I’ve heard that same ditty from the boys out by the stables.”

Derek motioned for him to be quiet while he listened. It was indeed the type of song one heard in village pubs and only truly appreciated after a few tankards of ale. And the woman’s voice made the situation all the more hilarious—it was so pretty, so angelic, so . . .

Familiar.

Chapter 15

Derek sprinted toward the house with Brayan barely able to keep up.

“Have ye gone mad?” his cousin yelled after him.

Derek didn’t bother to answer.

He threw open the French doors leading back into the house and fought through the crush that had gathered in the music room. He pushed the last person aside, providing a completely unimpeded view of the bawdy performer.

There was Meredith Castle, sitting behind the pianoforte in her Grecian-styled gown, as if she were singing a hymn in church, rather than a completely inappropriate, raunchy sailor’s ballad.

“Is that—”

“Not now, Brayan,” Derek hissed, waving him off.

What the hell was she doing there? Not just at the pianoforte, but what on earth was she doing at Glastonbury’s home at all? The party was completely inappropriate for a young, unmarried woman. Hell, the party was barely acceptable for a man like him. It was all he could do to resist throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her back to her aunt’s.

The audience cheered at the end of the song, and she stood, curtseying with a regal flair.

The chit was actually proud of her little stunt! She was relishing the attention, like a common street performer.

She was joined by a group of young ladies, a few faces he recognized from events about Town. And then it occurred to him—could Ophelia also be in attendance?

He wasn’t going to wait to find out.

Derek stormed up behind her, grabbing her elbow and whirling her around to face him.

“Lord Sutherland!” she exclaimed, trying to pull away from him.

“Derek . . .” Brayan said, putting a hand on his arm in caution.

Derek let her go. “Miss Castle, could I have a word with you?” he asked calmly, but with a healthy dose of warning behind it.

She walked over to him, leaving the girls in a fit of whispers, gossiping behind white-gloved hands. He noticed them all wearing identical yellow ribbons around their wrists and rolled his eyes. Another ridiculous trend in fashion, he supposed.

She wasn’t angry like one would expect, or even remotely offended by his assault. Instead, she was smiling and even giggling a little. “Lord Sutherland? Did you see me play? It’s been ages since I’ve sat down and played. I would have preferred something a bit more classical in nature, but a guest must do what the host requests.”

He made a note to have words with Glastonbury just as soon as he’d finished with Meredith.

“Lord MacCalistair.” She curtsied, looking up at him through a fan of long, dark lashes.

Derek felt the anger sear up his chest and neck. She was flirting.
Flirting
!

Brayan leaned closer to Derek. “I do believe she’s tried the wine.”

Meredith set her shoulders back, flipping her hair in the process. She’d worn the majority of it down, with only the sides gathered up with what looked to be gold combs. She looked every bit the Grecian goddess in all her golden splendor.

“I may have had a glass or two with dinner,” she said defiantly. Then hiccupped.

“You’ve been imbibing?” Derek cried.
Unbelievable!

“I’ve done nothing of the sort. My chaperone, Mrs. Nelson, has been with me the entire time.” She nodded toward a small, graying woman, sitting in the corner singing to herself.

Derek and Brayan exchanged glances. The old woman looked to be no less than a hundred and was obviously addled. She had just about as much right chaperoning young women as he did.

He turned back to Meredith. “And where’s the chaperone for your chaperone? What happened to Lady Browning?”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Mrs. Nelson has been my chaperone ever since I arrived in London. Aunt Cynthia is far too busy with her own schedule to have to follow me around.”

Clearly a mistake on her part, he thought to himself. “If you don’t want me to embarrass you in front of your friends, then I suggest you follow me into the garden,” he warned quietly so that only she could hear.

Meredith bit her lip, then looked back at the small group of girls. “I’m going to get another glass of ratafia. Lord MacCalistair, would you be so kind as to wait here and entertain these ladies while I’m away?”

Brayan swallowed, obviously uncomfortable with the idea. Derek couldn’t blame him. These girls with the ribbons seemed a particularly aggressive sort. “Aye,” he finally agreed.

Derek left first, knowing Meredith would be following shortly.

“You’re not leaving, are you, Sutherland?” A hand reached out to paw at him as he walked across the room.

Artemis
.

He caught her hand and briefly kissed it. “Don’t worry—I’ll be right back. Please say you’ll save me a dance?”

She smiled at him. “Of course.” Artemis winked, turned around, and wiggled her behind before slowly walking away.

He gazed after her for a moment before remembering he wasn’t alone. When he turned back, he could see Meredith glaring at him with her arms set firmly on her hips.

“She’s the Goddess of the Hunt,” he explained.

“Obviously,” she returned flatly.

Derek bit his tongue and proceeded to lead her into the garden.

Some of the torches were extinguished, leaving much of the garden in the dark. It was a starless night, a layer of clouds blocking out what little light the night sky provided.

Derek stopped when he reached a secluded area, a large bush obscuring them from public view. “Tell me you haven’t brought Miss Marshall?” he asked, his voice much louder than he’d intended. But damn, he was angry.

“What would it matter if I did?”

“This isn’t the type of place for a woman like her.” Or for Meredith, he added silently.

Meredith shook her head “The Duke of Glastonbury is a very important man and she’d be lucky to have received an invitation.”

“Just because he’s popular, doesn’t make this a privilege.” He raked his hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t be here.”

She jutted her chin like a petulant child. “I have to attend. Anyone who’s anyone is here tonight.”

“And that’s how you impress them all? By acting no better than a common barmaid, blasting out naughty songs?”

“There was nothing wrong with what I did back there,” she argued. “Glastonbury asked me to play the piece, and so I did. Besides, I was only having a bit of fun and the guests loved it.”

“You can justify your behavior any way you want. Just make sure you don’t involve Miss Marshall in any of it.”

“And just what right do you have to dictate the extracurricular activities of Miss Ophelia Marshall?”

“Because I plan on making her my wife.”

Meredith stomped her foot. “You will do nothing of the sort. I’ll be damned before I let Miss Marshall sell herself short to someone like you.”

“
Someone like me
?” he repeated, taking a threatening step closer. He’d stabbed men for less and couldn’t believe he was being dressed down by an insolent female.