London's Most Wanted Rake (3 page)

By ‘situation’ she meant widowed and wealthy and that made her available to all manner of advances. It did not help that her husband had been a French count and everyone knew life on the Continent was far looser, morally, than it was in England. There were even some who felt a good English lady was better off coming home than remaining among such a debauched set. That was a story Channing had spun.

Channing had spent a good deal of his time that Christmas setting the script into play for her and in the intervening months the story had hatched into plausibility, even if their relationship had hatched into disaster.

‘What is it that you need from me? An introduction or a shield?’ Thanks to his efforts, Miss Alina Marliss had been accepted back into society. But they both knew that acceptance was tentative. One false move on her part and society would not hesitate to expel her.

‘Both.’ Alina flicked open the fan she carried about her wrist, a pretty white-lace affair with painted pink flowers, the kind of accessory a decent Englishwoman would carry and a testament to how carefully she crafted this facet of her persona. ‘I need to meet Mr Roland Seymour.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know him.’ He didn’t sound like someone Amery would know either. Mere misters were not their speciality.

‘But you
will
know him. That’s the point of house parties, isn’t it? To mingle and hopefully expand one’s social network in useful ways?’ Alina waved the fan back and forth in a slow languid gesture. The action called subtle attention to the expanse of bosom on display in a deceptively demure afternoon dress of soft pink muslin.

Channing gave a wry grin and tried to keep his eyes above her neck, but it was deuce difficult and
he
knew
she
knew it. ‘You want me to befriend him and then insinuate you into his crowd,’ Channing divined.

‘Essentially. Play a little billiards.’ She smiled at him over the top of her fan. ‘Shoot a few things, preferably not each other, whatever it is gentlemen do.’ She was trying awfully hard to distract him; smiles, fans and bosoms. It made him suspicious, especially coming from a woman who’d been icily distant a few minutes ago.

‘Why?’ Even knowing she was playing with him, he couldn’t help but flirt back. Channing leaned closer, breathing in the light rose fragrance of her soap. She’d even gone so far as to smell like an Englishwoman.

‘I wish to pursue some business with Mr Seymour.’

Channing raised an eyebrow at this. ‘Are you going to tell me what sort of business?’

‘No.’ She laughed and took a step backwards. ‘Now, you have work to do and I have ladies to ingratiate myself with. If you’ll excuse me?’

It was a clear dismissal and he let her go. Amery had not been wrong when he said the Continent was stamped all over her. She’d cut her teeth in the salons of Paris where Channing had first met her, the extraordinary Comtesse de Charentes. She’d been a married woman then, but that had not stopped the thrill of flirting with her. That same thrill had been present today even among all of his misgivings. She could get to him in ways the Marianne Bixleys of the world couldn’t. He wished all the lush perfection of her didn’t affect him so thoroughly, but it did and that didn’t begin to address the layer of intellect and wit.

She was every man’s fantasy. Perhaps that was her greatest trick. She could make herself all things to all men. He had yet to meet a man who had not fallen under her spell. It made Channing angry and intrigued all at once. Angry because he prided himself on being less susceptible than other men when it came to sexual politics, but in her case he seemed to be no different than the rest; intrigued because he did wonder who she was when no one was looking.

Was there anyone to whom she showed her true self? Once upon a time, he’d spent too many hours contemplating who that true self might be and how he might convince her to show that self to him. It was one of the innumerable fantasies he had about her.

He wasn’t alone. Channing watched the eyes of the other men in the garden track her progress to the French doors leading inside. Their thoughts were fairly transparent. Lord Barrett, married with three children, was thinking how he could arrange an affair back in London. Lord Durham was thinking of how he could get into her room at the house party, tonight even. Lord Parkhurst’s son, blond and indolent, was calculating whether or not his allowance could afford her if he set her up as his mistress, as if Alina would allow such a thing. Channing hoped he wasn’t as obvious as the rest of them. No wonder she felt she needed Amery’s presence as protection.

He eyed his own target across the garden, deep in discussion with Elliott Mansfield, whom he did know. He and Elliott were both members at White’s. It was time to presume upon that acquaintance. Channing couldn’t help but wonder: if he was there to protect Alina from unwanted advances, who was going to protect Roland Seymour from her? Business with Alina Marliss was guaranteed to be dangerous. He was living proof of it. The beginning of all his own woes could be traced back to her. Channing was starting to think it was the
comtesse
who had ruined him for other women.

Chapter Three

T
here was no competing with the Comtesse de Charentes when the company gathered in the drawing room for dinner that night. Alina made a grand entrance, alone, at five minutes after seven, exuding confident sensuality in a watered sage-green satin that commanded the attention of every male in the room and the jealousy of every female.

The choice was carefully calculated on her part. There was no doubt in Channing’s mind she’d done it on purpose. It was a bold strategy, one that said she was ashamed of nothing. She would meet head on the stories that had already started circulating in fits and starts after tea. They were the same stories that always accompanied her: her husband had died suddenly without reason. It made her both a tragic figure and a suspicious one. He’d heard the tale and had immediately gone to work steering it in a useful manner. He’d done so, he clarified for himself, not out of any lingering empathy for the
comtesse,
but because Amery would have done so if he’d been here. It was his job.

The rise of the old story was not unexpected. This was a crowd to whom the
comtesse
was only partially known. Some of the more highbrow guests like Durham and Barrett had encountered her in London, but the others present did not run in such high circles or stayed closer to home at their country estates. They were entirely reliant on gossip in forming their first impressions of this relative newcomer. Still, she had come to this house party where she knew what she’d be up against when surely there were easier invitations to accept, making this a most interesting and almost illogical choice. Now she stood among a room of strangers, garnering all their attention, both good and bad.

That,
he could understand. Channing saw her stratagem at once. She had cast her net wide to catch all the fish in the hopes of catching the attention of the one that mattered most. In this instance, that fish was Roland Seymour. The gambit had worked, Channing noted. Seymour’s eyes followed her about the room just as every other man’s had.

For his part, Channing wasn’t much taken with Seymour and he was hard pressed to imagine what Alina saw in him. For that matter, he didn’t know what Alina saw in this house party. Lady Lionel’s circle wasn’t exactly the
haute
elevations Alina had so painstakingly cultivated.

The supper bell rang and Channing silently commended Alina’s choice of timing. Like all else about her, it was immaculate. She’d come down in enough time to command attention, but close enough to the bell so that she wouldn’t have to make small talk, or worse, risk a cold shoulder from jealous matrons.

Lady Lionel was fussing over getting everyone paired for the dinner parade, another sign that this was not the high set he or Alina were used to frequenting. In his circles, people knew their place in line implicitly and needn’t be herded. Channing rather resented the parade that separated natural couples and pitted social ranks against one another. When he was growing up, his mother had assured him it was to facilitate the meeting of new people. But Channing felt the only thing it facilitated was the prevention of people associating with others of an inappropriate station.

However, he did fight back a twitch of a smile as he watched Lady Lionel struggle with where to place Alina. As a countess, she was the highest-ranking woman in the room next to Lady Lionel, but she was a French countess who teetered on scandal, which was quite different than being an English countess of good standing. Lady Lionel erred on the side of caution and partnered Alina with her husband. Alina tossed Channing a smug victory glance over her shoulder.

He’d take that as a gauntlet being thrown down. So they were to play, were they? He wondered if she’d meant to play with Amery or if this was a signal that they were to resume their usual warfare. There was power in sex and they both knew it well. It didn’t matter that he was paired with a baronet’s daughter or that he was sitting a little further down on the opposite side of the table. He was adept at flirting at a distance. He smiled politely at something the baronet’s daughter said and offered her his arm. Supper was about to get interesting.

* * *

The meal turned into a covertly wicked affair. He cupped the bowl of his wine glass; she stroked the stem of hers, idly, of course, and without even looking at whom the message was intended. That was the trick of the game, not to get caught. He bit into the duck as if it were the most tender of flesh. She bit into a berry and used a quick flick of her tongue to wipe a droplet of juice from her lips.

That had been risky, almost too overt. The other trick of the game was to keep the gesture questionably vague so that anyone who happened to pick up on it could only wonder if the gesture was actually meant for them. Roland Seymour had caught the lick and from the sly smile on his face was even now contemplating whether that lick was meant for him.

By the time the cherry ices arrived, Channing was contemplating other things beyond spoon sucking that could be done with the refreshing after-dinner treat. He wondered if Seymour was as well. He rather regretted the ladies’ departure for the drawing room. Buttonholing the port around the table wouldn’t be nearly as much fun. But it would be a chance to further Alina’s agenda, whatever it was, with Roland Seymour. Channing settled into making himself agreeable. He knew two or three of the men present and Sir Lionel made it easy.

‘So, Seymour, Durham here tells me you’re an investor.’ Lionel filled his glass and slid the decanter to the right. ‘What do you invest in?’

Seymour gave an unnatural smile, one that Channing thought the man must practise in front of the mirror to achieve the proper amount of wryness. If so, he could use more practice. It didn’t quite ring true. ‘In land, it’s the one thing that will outlast us all. I believe it’s the only true investment out there. It won’t short-change you and it will always hold its value.’

A few of the older gentlemen at the table exchanged uncomfortable looks. They were weighing the acceptability of such a profession or even if it was a profession at all. That was the sticking point. A profession wasn’t acceptable at all. A real gentleman didn’t work. Did investing qualify as work? A few of the younger men present seemed intrigued, however.

‘Do you develop the land? What do you do after you invest in it?’ Parkhurst’s son asked. Channing’s gaze drifted back to Seymour. It was a trick question. Was Seymour well-bred enough to know it? Land development would definitely classify as work, whereas simple land ownership and real estate could be excused. Channing himself held several deeds for properties all over London. Buying was all right. It was a show of wealth.

Seymour took a swallow of his drink. ‘I hold on to it until it’s time to let it go,’ he replied vaguely. Channing was starting to dislike Seymour more and more. The conversation shifted to other things and Channing used the opportunity to take Seymour’s measure.

Dark-haired and of medium height, Channing supposed women would not find him unattractive. He’d probably appear more attractive one on one with no other males around for comparison. But there was an insincere quality to him that gave him the perception of being oily, a certain slickness that branded him as bourgeois. He wasn’t Alina’s type at all for business or for pleasure. She’d been adamant it was business in this case, but Channing had to wonder—why Seymour? If she wanted to dabble in real estate, he could recommend a better quality agent with more suitable credentials.

Not that it’s your business who she does business with,
Channing cautioned himself
.
He had to remember she’d hired Amery, not him. He was not here as her friend—those days were long past. He’d offered her friendship, more than friendship once, and she’d shunned it. He was here only as a substitute and as the result of coincidence. He would do himself a favour by remaining detached. It was his job to act as a shield against unwanted advances if they arose and to help smooth any slanderous gossip. It was
not
his job to tell her how to do business or with whom. Still, he could make a polite suggestion before things went any further and leave it at that.

* * *

A well-placed hint here and there would redirect Alina’s ‘business’ as soon as the gentlemen rejoined the ladies for tea in the drawing room, but a quick scan of the drawing room indicated Alina was not present. Had something happened in the interval? With a reputation as precarious as hers, that was always a hovering possibility. Asking Lady Lionel was out of the question. It was too obvious and it made Alina a point of interest on his behalf, something he’d rather avoid. A flash of white in the darkness beyond the French doors caught his eye and Channing made his way discreetly towards it. She’d gone out. That decided it. He could do with a bit of fresh air himself.

He’d found her. Alina straightened at the railing, keeping her back towards the door, refusing to acknowledge him by turning around. ‘I knew you’d come.’ He’d had a few hours to contemplate the situation. Now the questions would start. Perhaps she could stall them with a polite freeze.

‘It’s uncanny how you do that. I tried to be extraordinarily quiet this time.’ Channing refused to be put off by her cold shoulder. He was all friendly affability as he moved to stand by her at the balustrade. Not that she believed the act for a moment. ‘What gave me away this time? Don’t tell me it was my cologne, it’s hardly heavy enough to be noticed.’

‘It was the warmer air and the slight change in light patterns when the door opened,’ Alina confessed in aloof tones, making clear that he was not welcome, that she’d come out here to be alone, not to invite private conversation. ‘How did
you
know
I
was out here?’ For two people who did not do well together, they had a knack for always knowing when the other was near.

Channing tapped his head with a finger and grinned. ‘Your hair. All that platinum is like a star in a night sky. Still, you’d make an admirable spy. Have you thought of offering your services to the Home Office?’ he joked.

‘I’ll pretend that’s a compliment, not a criticism.’ She was having none of it. A careless woman was too easily sucked into his easy flattery and then it was too late. Alina forced him straight to the chase. ‘What did you really come out here for?’

‘Fresh air and answers.’ Channing’s voice was sharp and quiet in the darkness as he, too, discarded any veneer of civility. The people they’d once been had been forged into new people who were harder, stronger, people who were built to last.

Of course he’d want answers. He’d had a few hours to contemplate the situation. Now the questions would start as he tried to fill in the pieces.

‘I met Seymour,’ Channing began. ‘He doesn’t seem like your sort. Perhaps you might tell me what you need an introduction for.’

She was not going to make it easy on him. ‘I’m the one paying your fee.’ Let him be reminded that for all his tricks and flattery, she was the one in charge here. She’d hired him, not the other way around.

‘I can terminate the contract at any point if I am not comfortable with the terms,’ Channing reminded her. ‘Perhaps you mean to lead me into nefarious crimes as an unwitting assistant.

‘Scandal? You? Hah!’ Alina snorted in a most unladylike fashion. What he posited was ridiculous, all things considered. ‘It won’t work, you know, you standing there posturing like a virgin with a reputation to protect. You’re Channing Deveril, the “luckiest” man in London; a new woman, a new bed, every night. You’re worried about scandals? You
are
a scandal.’

‘I will not blindly get you an introduction and find myself embroiled in scandal,’ Channing repeated calmly.

She met him with silence. This would be a perfect opportunity for him to go back inside and in his manly pride feel he’d emerged from the encounter triumphant. But the dratted man didn’t take the chance.

‘If you won’t tell me about Seymour, why don’t you tell me about dinner?’ Channing said rather drily. ‘I should point out to you that Seymour noticed our little table game. From his response, it wasn’t clear he understood the game wasn’t for his benefit. Or was it? You clearly have his attention. Why do you need me to approach him?’

Channing was a dog with a bone. This question wasn’t really about dinner. It was still about Seymour, just from a different angle. She gave a throaty laugh. ‘You should know, a lady never promotes herself to a gentleman on her own behalf. It would be too pushy by far.’

‘Yes, well, that being said, I must inform you that a lady also doesn’t stroke the stem of her wine glass as if it were a man’s phallus.’

Her voice lit with dark humour. ‘Why, Channing Deveril, what a naughty mind you have! And to think you got all of that out of the way I held my wine glass. Along those lines, one might think you were cupping the underside of a woman’s breast the way you held yours.’

‘Maybe I was.’ Something hot and dangerous sparked between them. At some point in their exchange they’d turned towards one another, neither of them looking out over the expanse of garden any longer. The space between them was negligible. If she drew a deep enough breath, her breasts would brush the front of his dinner jacket. This was where she had to be careful. The line was so very close, so very easy to cross. If she crossed it, she’d have to be cautious—what was work, what was pleasure?

For him it was always work. She would do best to remember it because she’d forgotten once to her detriment. This hot détente could not last. She glanced over his shoulder into the drawing room. ‘Shall we go in?’

Channing turned his head to catch the scene through the doors. ‘Ah, is it bedtime already?’

‘What a rather clumsy segue for you. Usually you are more...’ She waved a hand to indicate she was looking for a word.

‘Suave? Debonair?’ Channing supplied.

‘Subtle.’ She raised her brows, sensing her chance to even the playing field. He’d come out here looking to clarify their situation. She’d give him some clarity, then. ‘Since we’re
not
being subtle at the moment, let me remind you, I’m paying you for protection. I’m not paying you for sex.’ She gave him a knowing look and ran her gaze down the length of him in provocative suggestion. ‘I’ve had that from you before for free.’