His Lady Mistress (29 page)

Max took deep breath. Braybrook? Seduce Verity? He swallowed.

‘Damn it, Ricky! Braybrook’s a friend of mine!’ Wasn’t he?

‘Max,’ said Richard patiently, ‘use your brain. The danger is not that Julian
will
seduce Verity. The danger is that the quidnuncs will
say
that he did. With Almeria, I’ll wager, at
the head of the pack. If that’s what she’s saying to you, imagine what she’s confiding to her bosom bows.’

Almeria’s voice echoed through Max’s brain:
She danced with every gazetted rake in London.
He didn’t believe, couldn’t believe, that she would encourage any of them on purpose.

There was only one solution. Richard was right. Forcing Verity to accept the protection of his name had not been enough. It had removed her from her uncle’s guardianship, but it would not protect her against what society could do to her if he did not step in and make it plain that she was
fully
under his protection. It remained to be seen how Verity responded to his decision.

He turned to Richard. ‘You’re right. I’ll have to escort her to the evening functions and warn off all the wolves.’

Richard raised a brow. ‘Such a hardship. Would I be stepping across the line if I asked why you didn’t do that in the first place?’

Max stared into the fire. ‘Verity wants nothing to do with me. She cannot even bear to be in the same room. You saw how she fled this morning.’

Richard’s mouth twisted. ‘Yes. I saw. But…’

‘I didn’t want to force anything on her,’ said Max carefully. ‘I thought if I gave her time, a breathing space, she might come to me again.’ He knew now that it wouldn’t work.

‘Slight problem with that,’ observed Richard. ‘You need to convince her that you want her. Difficult if you don’t spend any time with her.’

He opened the door between their rooms very quietly. Verity sat before the dressing table, slender arms raised as she clasped the Blakehurst pearls around her throat. He felt his mouth dry at the memory of those arms twining around his neck, at the memory of the fluttering pulse in her throat just above where the pearls now sheened.

And the gown. Modest, demure in sky blue silk, with a pink sash and trim. It was the gown she had worn on his birthday at Blakeney. She looked…lovely. And all he could think of was how he had kissed her in the stillroom. How he had made love to her later.

He took a deep breath. And another. Just to make sure his voice didn’t shake. ‘There are earrings to match, Verity.’

Verity whipped around, her eyes wide. ‘What…what are
you
doing here?’

‘They should have been with the necklace.’ He ignored her question and her sharp intake of breath as he approached.

The earrings lay on the dressing table.

‘Permit me,’ he said huskily as he picked them up.

‘N…no. It’s quite…I can—’

Her protests died as he carefully put on the first earring. Lilies of the valley wreathed through him in beckoning innocence. His breathing seized as her breath fractured when his fingers caressed the silken throat. Desire was an aching knot in his gut as he dealt with the second earring. Finished, he set his hands on her shoulders and drew her towards him.

‘No…’ A whisper, uncertain, vulnerable. But not afraid. He knew that as surely as he knew he wanted her. Whatever else she felt for him, she didn’t fear him. For now, that was enough and more than he deserved.

‘Yes,’ he murmured and kissed her. Gently, tenderly, the fierce leap of passion savagely restrained. Her lips softened and he tasted her sweetness. And then he released her. Before she could struggle. Before he gave her a reason to do so.

Eyes wide, she backed away. ‘I…no. Please—no more…Lady Arnsworth—she will be here any moment!’

Pain lanced deep. He inclined his head. ‘As you wish, my dear. But I am your escort for this evening. We will see Almeria there.’

Her jaw dropped. ‘You…you are escorting me? But—why?’

To spy on you? To protect you?
‘For the pleasure of your company, my dear,’ he lied. God help him, it would be more like torture.

Verity smiled and extended a hand automatically to her host and hostess. The brief carriage ride and the crush in the hall had not helped her confusion in the least. From Max’s silence in the carriage she had the impression that he was bothered about something. He kept shifting restlessly and he avoided her gaze.

Still reeling with shock at his unexpected tenderness, she exchanged nods and bows, wondering who would cut her acquaintance this evening. To her frustration, on Max’s arm, she was greeted by most with far more respect. By the ladies as well as the gentlemen. It was enough to make her spit. This was precisely what she needed—Max at the same ball, and everyone behaved as though she were a pattern card of respectability.

Except for the Duke of Calverston, who took advantage of Max greeting a friend to lift Verity’s hand to his lips and simultaneously leer into her bodice. Her skin crawled at his touch even through the fine kid of her glove. Compared to the gowns some ladies were wearing, this one was positively chaste, but she found herself wishing she’d worn a fichu with it. Just in case Max noticed, she forced a smile for his Grace, ignoring a shaft of pain in her temples.

‘How delightful to see you, Lady Blakehurst.’ Calverston’s smile left her feeling smirched. ‘I believe you promised me a waltz this evening. I shall look out for you later.’ He pressed her hand and she fought down the impulse to snatch it away. As he disappeared into the crush she surreptitiously rubbed her hand on her skirts.

‘Really, niece,’ hissed Lady Arnsworth from behind her. ‘Must you encourage every man you meet to ogle you? People were shocked at your conduct last night! I felt myself obliged to inform Max!’

Verity forgot her role in a flare of rage as she swung
around. ‘Good evening, ma’am. Yes, it was shocking, wasn’t it?’ she said equably. ‘Just think, I merely stood there when I should have kicked him, or told him to get his snuff-stained nose out of my bodice and stop slobbering on my glove.’

‘Niece!’ snapped Lady Arnsworth. ‘Remember where you are!’

‘I did,’ she said demurely. ‘That’s why I didn’t kick him.’

A deep voice said, ‘Good evening, Almeria. Your pardon, Verity. I was neglecting you.’

Verity felt every drop of blood drain from her face and her temples throbbed as she stared up at her husband. Had he heard her? His jaw looked as though it were about to crack under some sort of strain. Her mind whirled. Damn Almeria for her gossip No. Wait. She
wanted
Max to know. Oh! How could she think of anything after that kiss? Even knowing that he had only escorted her this evening in the hope of catching her in some compromising situation.

Seeing that Max had his arm crooked, ready to escort her again, she laid her gloved hand lightly on his sleeve. There. No tremors. No excitement. It was just an ordinary sleeve. With a perfectly ordinary arm in it. Anything else was pure imagination. Including the tenderness of that kiss.

Without warning his hand came across and anchored her fingers to his sleeve. Every nerve skittered wildly. It wasn’t just imagination, his hand scorched her through the glove. She was trembling, especially since one long finger was gently caressing her wrist. She froze every muscle, every fibre of her body, to still the tremor of sensuous pleasure that washed through her at his touch. Just as it had when he kissed her.

He didn’t look at her, but nodded to his aunt. ‘Good evening, Almeria. Do excuse us.’ He led her away. ‘Verity, if Calverston or anyone else of that ilk approaches you—’

She baulked and pulled her hand away. ‘So you
are
here to play watchdog! A spy!’ she hissed. ‘If you think for one minute—’ Recalling her plan, she changed tack. Flapping her
eyelashes at him in what she hoped was a thoroughly vulgar display, she cooed, ‘Why, Blakehurst, are you come to make sure that I am behaving myself? How charming!’

His brows snapped together. ‘Are you referring to what I said to you down at Blakeney?’

Ice formed in her stomach, a solid nauseating lump. ‘At Blakeney, my lord? You said a great deal at Blakeney, on one subject or another.’ She forcibly curved her lips into a glittering smile. ‘Oh. I have it now! Do you mean on the terrace?’

His jaw appeared to have turned to granite. ‘Precisely,’ he ground out. ‘I wish to inform you—’

‘No need, my lord,’ she said. ‘My memory is neither at fault, nor am I in the least stupid. I recall your words perfectly. Ah, here is Lord Selkirk.’ She repressed a shudder and her headache stabbed spitefully. ‘I believe I am promised to dance with him now. Good evening, Lord Selkirk!’

Max was forced to stand back and watch Selkirk, whom he had no hesitation in stigmatising an oily brute, making up to his wife. His fists clenched. What the devil was Verity playing at, encouraging Selkirk? If he bowed any lower in the dance he’d be cross-eyed staring down her bodice. Damn it all! Just look at her! Flirting behind her fan as she extended her hand! That ghastly giggle, high, shrill. But why had she objected to Calverston? Selkirk was just as bad.

A familiar voice spoke at his elbow. ‘Congratulations. You certainly know how to put a woman on her mettle.’

He turned and glared at Richard. ‘Oh, shut up! What the hell is she playing at?’ He jerked his head towards Verity, now prancing about in some vulgar country dance.

‘You insulted her and now she’s giving you exactly what she thinks you expect?’ suggested Richard blandly. He helped himself to champagne from a tray borne by a passing footman and handed a glass to Max. ‘Here, try this. It might make you less bubble headed.’ He cast a considering glance at Max. ‘Might even cool you off a trifle.’

Sipping his champagne, he watched his sister-in-law. ‘Can’t think why you suggested she should try her talents at Drury Lane, Max.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s a terrible actress! Even I’m better at pretending to enjoy myself than that.’

The calm words floored Max.
Pretending?

Richard continued. ‘The trick is to think of something else at the same time. Something pleasant. Then your smile has an odds-on chance of looking genuine.’

Shaken, Max focused on Verity’s face rather than his own jealousy. Her smile looked as though it had been painted clumsily. And that blank look in her eyes tore at him. He’d seen it before—when she was hiding something. Fear, or hurt.

What was she up to? Surely she wouldn’t court this sort of risk to make him jealous? She didn’t want anything to do with him. Another possibility raked him. Vengeance. He dismissed it. Verity didn’t have a vindictive bone in her body.

My memory is neither at fault, nor am I in the least stupid
…she knew precisely what she was doing. He only wished he did. But if she thought he’d permit just anyone to waltz with her, she was in for a crashing disappointment.

He waited until the last possible moment to claim her for the waltz, until her hand had been claimed and Calverston was about to take the floor with her. ‘Excuse me, Calverston. My dance, I believe.’

His Grace opened his mouth to protest, saw who had cut in, and promptly shut it again.

Verity had no such qualms about protesting. ‘I am already engaged for this dance, my lord.’

Max observed, with a twinge of amusement, her outraged expression as his Grace beat a hasty retreat to the swell of the violins.

His brows rose. ‘Perhaps you haven’t realised, my lady—as your husband,
my
rights take precedence.’ Then he saw that frozen look flicker across her face, and could have kicked
himself. And did she look paler than at the outset of the evening?

‘Your rights, my lord?’ The storm clouds had gathered in her dark eyes. ‘I was under the impression that you had renounced your rights. Or would repudiated be the correct word?’

He possessed himself of her hand and bowed over it, turning it slightly to press a kiss on the bare skin of her inner wrist. Her slight shiver racked him. ‘I’m sorry, Verity,’ he said quietly. ‘That was not how I meant it. Come. Dance with me. Believe me, waltzing with Calverston will be infinitely worse than Roger de Coverley with Selkirk. At least you can trust me to keep my hands where they ought to be during a dance.’

Her eyes closed briefly. ‘Yes. Very well.’

He led her into the dance, savagely aware of the soft, sinuous waist under his hand, the gently rounded hip just below. The temptation to let his hand slip, caress her, draw her closer…if he did that, he was lost.

Conversation. One was meant to converse with one’s dance partner. Light, social chit-chat that could help a man ignore the scent of roses and lilies twining through him and the need pounding in his blood. He wanted to speak to her of love, of how much he wanted to take her in his arms…He groaned inwardly. He’d done that. She was in his arms. And it was killing him. He wanted to remove her from the ballroom and…he wanted to kiss her. Make love to her. Make her believe, understand that she was his. That he had been a damned fool. And he couldn’t say any of that, let alone
do
any of that, in a crowded ballroom.

She stumbled slightly as he whirled her through a turn. His arms tightened, drawing her close, supporting her until she regained her balance. Ruthlessly he ignored her efforts to pull back to a more decorous distance.

‘Max—people are watching. Don’t you think…?’

‘Too much,’ he growled. If people were watching, and he
saw no reason to doubt it, then a waltz like this would send a very clear warning. A hands-off-if-you-want-to-keep-them sort of warning. Exactly what he wanted.

‘You’re my wife. Remember? No one can whip up a scandal out of a husband dancing with his own wife.’ Not unless the said husband forgot his surroundings and did precisely what he wanted to do. He rather thought that might cause the sort of scandal to set the ear trumpets a-quiver for decades. Every muscle rigid with restraint, he concentrated on dancing, ignoring the heady scent of roses and lilies and the sensuous curve of a supple waist sheathed in silk shifting beneath his hand.