Lord Langley Is Back in Town (23 page)

In other words, the night was a grand success.

That is for everyone but Minerva. She spent the first act fidgeting in her seat, trying to determine how she was going to give Lord Langley the slip at intermission and meet Adlington, as his note had demanded.

When she shifted yet another time, Lord Langley leaned over. “Bored?”

“Not at all,” she whispered back. “Enchanted.”

“Then you might want to stop twisting your reticule strings into knots—you’ll break them, and then where will you tuck away whatever it is you ladies keep inside those things?” His hand slid over and came to rest atop hers, as well as her reticule, and all she could do was stiffen and stare straight ahead.

She didn’t dare glance at him to gauge why he would say such a thing. Not when in the carriage she’d sworn he could see right through her, knew all her secrets.

All her desires . . . Well, he’d certainly done an excellent job of uncovering, or rather unraveling those.

A hot blush rose on her face as she recalled how wanton she’d been. Nearly naked beneath him. His fingers plying from her the most delicious notes of passion, and how she’d fallen so easily under his seductive spell. Her insides warmed and she shifted in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position.

Langley leaned over again. “Warm? You look flushed.” He grinned at her and then winked.

Oh, the arrogant man! He thought she was woolgathering about him—never mind that she was—but of all the impertinence.

“Would you watch the play,” she told him, pointing at the stage.

“I prefer the one being conducted up here.”

She glanced over at him. What was he up to now? Studying her as if he knew of the note in her reticule. Minerva pried her gaze from his and fixed it back on Kean. And the play. Anything other than the man beside her.

Oh fiddle! She was being ridiculous. Of course he didn’t know what was in her reticule. He couldn’t have seen Adlington pressing his horrible note into her hand or her hiding it.

Nor did he know all her secrets.

Not that he wasn’t apt at ferreting them out or making a few very good, albeit educated guesses. Still, that didn’t mean she should underestimate him; she suspected he was a dangerous foe—just look at how he’d gotten her babbling on about the Sterling diamonds.

Better the necklace than other subjects,
she mused, curling her fingers into the knit stitches of her reticule.

His fingers were still atop hers and appeared to have no intention of leaving. The warmth of his touch curled into her hand, up her arm, and as much as she knew she should slip free of his intoxicating touch, she just couldn’t.

She wanted him to hold her hand, touch her.

And if she was willing to admit it—which she wasn’t—she wanted him to do so much more.

Minerva shifted in her seat and tugged her hand free of Lord Langley’s grasp.

“Whatever is the matter?” he whispered to her, picking up the spray of orange blossoms he’d purchased for her and taking an appreciative sniff. “I thought you loved the theatre?”

“I do,” she replied, retrieving her blossoms. “But I find it distracting to have everyone staring at us and not the stage.”

“They are staring at us?” he asked, his voice full of innocent surprise, as if he hadn’t noticed the none-so-discreet pointing and whispers aimed at them.

“Why wouldn’t they?” Minerva shook her head. “This box is akin to Astley’s circus.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “What? Has the margravine taken to riding naked again while I was watching Kean?” He winked at her, settled deeply into his seat and fixed his gaze on the actors as if it was the only amusement to be had.

Minerva pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. Oh, bother the man! He truly was incorrigible.

Nor was he done.

“It isn’t just your houseguests who have everyone staring in our direction,” he mused quietly.

“
Your
guests,” she corrected.

He reached over and took her hand again. And this time he held it so there would be no slipping free. Not without making a scene.
“Our guests.”

Our guests!
Minerva wanted to box his ears. There was no “our.” Just a facade of a betrothal. This mire of scandal into which she’d tumbled.

Rather, he’d done the tumbling and she’d been the innocent victim in all of this. At least, she’d been the innocent one until the carriage ride over.

Though given the wry looks Jamilla and Brigid had cast at her when they’d joined her on the steps, she had to imagine they’d guessed the truth.

She only hoped no one else had.

They hadn’t, had they? She sat up in her seat and surveyed the faces staring up at her.

“Whatever is the matter now?” He leaned over closer. “Mr. Frisk has just made Miss Kelly an honorable proposal of marriage. The squire shall not win her hand.”

Minerva shook her head. “Whoever is Mr. Frisk?”

He smiled indulgently. “Are you not paying attention to the play?”

The play? She glanced at the stage as the actress was taking the young actor’s hand and declaring her love. Oh, that Mr. Frisk. “How can I?” she said in her defense. “With everyone staring at this box.”

“They are not staring at this box,” he demurred.

“They aren’t?”

“No,” he said with a slight shake of his head. “They are staring at you.”

“Me?” She let out a sigh. “You’re mad.”

“For you,” he said, grinning like the wicked baron he was.

This time she didn’t care if she made a scene. She pulled her hand free. “Will you please stop that.”

“Whyever for?” He stubbornly reached over and took her hand again. And demmit if her heart didn’t patter a little to be once again in his grasp. “We have a performance to give. Remember?”

“They can watch the play,” she told him tartly.

He squeezed her fingers slightly, but it was enough to send her heart racing again.

“It appears all of London is in the mood for a romance,” he said, his glance smoldering with a look that said,
As am I
.

Devilish fellow. He knows exactly how handsome and charming and worldly he is . . .
Minerva pressed her lips together.
But he is only acting, putting on a performance for the entire
ton
to witness
.

He didn’t desire her. A dowdy London widow? No, he couldn’t.

Oh, but if only he did . . .

She tamped down the most uncharacteristic sigh that nearly slipped from her lips and reminded herself of one simple fact: This was Lord Langley. And if that wasn’t enough to stomp out these ridiculous foolish fancies, then she obviously needed to remind herself that this man was the Duchess of Hollindrake’s father! When Felicity heard of her father’s impromptu betrothal, there would be hell to pay.

She took a deep breath, ignored his fingers still wound around hers, and instead glanced around, scanning the crowd, and immediately wished she hadn’t.

For there was Gerald watching her. Not her precisely. His avaricious gaze was fixed a little lower. On the Sterling diamonds to be exact. And most likely mentally weighing the stones and adding up their worth.

And here she’d told him she didn’t have anything of value. Oh, foolish, foolish, foolish. Why had she worn them?

If only she didn’t know the answer to that. The same reason she liked to put them on late at night when she was all alone, when she wanted to imagine herself as beautiful and desired and loved.

Because she wanted to burn with the same fire that they did when touched by the right light, just as Langley had said earlier.

Still, she couldn’t have imagined the blaze he would ignite in the carriage ride over. Now all she could wonder was how she would ever put such a fire out.

For like her decision to wear these jewels tonight, now there were repercussions, just as the vile note folded away in her reticule promised.

There were always consequences to everything.
Always
.

And this the bastard daughter of an earl, masquerading as a marchioness, knew better than anyone. Probably even better than Langley himself.

Chapter 9

Never put anything in your reticule you wouldn’t want your dear maman or even your best confidante to discover. And your bodice is never a good second choice. Your lover will most decidedly discover it there.

Advice to Felicity Langley from her Nanny Brigid

W
hen the curtain fell for intermission, Lady Standon plucked her hand from Langley’s grasp and leapt to her feet, saying in a heady rush, “Yes, well, there it is. I’ll be right back.”

Langley caught her by the elbow. “You needn’t go without me, my dear.” He watched the emotions—frustration, concern, and pique—play out behind her kohl-lined eyes. No, she certainly didn’t want his company. “I can go fetch whatever you desire.”

“I don’t desire anything,” she told him, trying to pull her arm free and not succeeding.

He should just let her go, let her play out her intrigues, for Lord knows he had his own pile of troubles to contend with, but something inside him tugged possessively at his heart.

You need to help her
, it urged.
You must help her.

Those words echoed through his thoughts, like the hiss of a stage manager off to one side prompting a forgetful actor to remember his lines.

But he didn’t want to be prompted to do what was right, what was honorable.

Just let her go and concentrate on keeping Sir Basil off balance, he told himself, recounting the plans he had made with Thomas-William and Lord Andrew.

Including the one that would start tonight.

But intervention came in the form of Tasha, stepping between him and Minerva with all the ease of a sleek cat. “Darling, sometimes a lady doesn’t need a man’s company,” she told him, her brows arched as if to say,
In certain circumstances
. She extracted Minerva from his side and pulled her to the aisle. “Come, Lady Standon. Men, even one such as Langley, can be so obtuse about a lady’s needs.”

The two women departed, and Langley watched them go, his lips pursed in frustration. He shouldn’t be frustrated, he should be relieved, so he could get on with what he needed to get done, but at the door, Minerva took one furtive glance over her shoulder at him—a guiltier look he had never seen—which only served to drive his curiosity wild.

What the devil was Lady Standon up to?

Then as his gaze swept around, he spied the one thing that would answer his question.

Her reticule.

Dropped and forgotten when she’d bounded to her feet.

He reached down and plucked it up, making a good show of returning it to its rightful place in her seat, even while his fingers slipped inside and plucked out the note she’d concealed.

Surreptitiously, he flipped it open and read it.

Time’s up. Meet me at intermission. Or else.

Langley sniffed. Good God.
Or else?
What sort of mushroom writes such melodramatic nonsense?

Any number of reasons for such a demand ran through his head—gambling debts, an insult or slight, a love affair gone sour. That last one he dismissed as quickly as he thought of it. Ridiculous notion, that.

Proud and proper Lady Standon in some sort of sordid love affair? He snorted and tossed the thought aside.

Besides, the image of another man with her left him with a pit in his stomach. For what reason he couldn’t fathom, but he didn’t like the idea of it. Not in the least.

Crumpling the paper and then shoving it in his pocket, he made his way through the press of people, determined to put this distraction to an end; that is, until a large gentleman stepped into his path.

“Langley! It is you! Heard you were in Town.”

“Lord Chudley! Why it’s been years. Good to see you, sir,” Langley replied, holding out his hand.

“Take your hand away, you cad. I will not shake it,” Chudley declared. “You are a dead man to me.”

“S
o that’s him,” Adlington sneered as he glanced over Minerva’s shoulder.

She looked across the foyer, where Langley was coming out of the doorway of their box.

“Leave me. Leave me now!” she said, moving to dodge away. “Before he sees us.”

Gerald stopped her flight almost immediately, catching hold of her elbow and towing her back into place. “What if he does? Doesn’t look like much,” he said. “Besides, I hear tell he’s a traitor.”