Miss Pymbroke's Rules (11 page)

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Verity did not know the number of the house where the masquerade was being held. She therefore instructed the driver of the hackney coach to drive around Portman Square until told to halt.

Betty sat huddled nervously in the corner of the coach. “Miss, please, let’s go home. I’m that sure Mrs. Barrington can take care of herself.”

Her attention on the passing houses, Verity said, “I am persuaded she does not know the wickedness of this party. Such want of caution is not to be desired, but is understandable in someone with Louisa’s high spirits.”

“But, miss, you haring off like this without a gentleman to protect you ain’t right either,” Betty protested.

“Hush, Betty,” Verity ordered in the face of this truth. “You are impertinent.” Then she spied a couple dressed as Sir Walter Raleigh and Queen Elizabeth hurrying up a walkway and being admitted to a gray stone house. She quickly lowered the glass and called to the coachman to stop.

After alighting from the vehicle and paying the driver, Verity and Betty stood alone on the chilly street. Verity looked up at the house, a shiver of apprehension stopping her from proceeding to the door.

Usually, during an entertainment, the hostess would be sure all the draperies of the house were pulled back and numerous candles lit, so passersby could look enviously upon all the finely dressed ladies and gentlemen gracing her home.

However, all the curtains of this house were drawn tightly against curious eyes. Muted sounds of laughter could be heard coming from within.

Ignoring her feelings of trepidation, Verity straightened her shoulders, adjusted her mask, and marched toward the door, the white velvet domino flowing out behind her. Betty followed, muttering of dire happenings sure to befall them.

Their knock was answered immediately, not by a butler, but by a court jester who waved them inside with drunken exuberance.

Verity crossed into the hallway, her brown eyes widening as she took in her surroundings.

The rooms were crowded with people dressed in everything from elaborate costumes to formal ball dress with only a mask to conceal their identity. Everyone appeared very lively. Most seemed to be drinking heavily and feeling the effects. Verity felt heat rush to her face as she realized many of the ladies were wearing near-transparent dresses. Some of the men danced with
both
arms around their partners.

She experienced a strong desire to turn and run back out the door. If only she could find Louisa and Sir Ramsey.

A mere few feet away on the other side of a Greek statue, Louisa stood staring at the girl who had just entered the room. She did not recognize her sister by her face, but rather by her own pink gown and white domino. Grinding her teeth in frustration, Louisa realized her prudish little sister had found her out and would shortly spoil her evening.

She turned to Sir Ramsey, her gray eyes beseeching him from under her lashes. “La, sir, I fear I grow weary of this ball. After that boring breakfast at the Foxworths’, you promised me some fun. Perhaps you know of a quiet place we could go, where we might be allowed some privacy.”

Staring down at Mrs. Barrington’s nipples, which were revealed through her filmy white Roman gown, Sir Ramsey’s face broke into a smile. They could be quite alone at his townhouse. And the lady was most willing. “I know just the place.”

Verity did not notice them when they slipped past her out the front door. She did perceive that Betty, who had become more distraught with each passing minute, had become separated from her in the crush, but she would find her after rescuing Louisa.

Suddenly she was forced to think of her own safety when a young man in a gypsy costume dared to place his arms around her waist and dance her halfway around the room before she could stop him. Verity began giving him a blistering set-down.

Several people surrounding the pair heard the lady’s tone and moralizing-lecture, and a laughing group gathered around them goading the young man to take further liberties.

Across the room, the Marquess of Carrisworth, striking in dark evening clothes and a black mask, was trying to detach himself from his former mistress. Roxanna had clung to him since his arrival at the masquerade some thirty minutes before. While she was magnificent in a revealing costume meant to represent Venus, he received the distinct impression she was trying to lure him back to her bed.

Really, he thought with some irritation, he was done with her and she should know it. Idly, he wondered what all the fuss was about on the other side of the room. He decided to use whatever it was as an excuse to be rid of her. “Roxanna, you know I have an insatiable curiosity. I am intrigued by that fracas. Excuse me while I investigate.”

Leaving the thwarted Roxanna behind, he sauntered through the crowd.

In the middle of the jeering circle of faces, Verity felt small and alone. Then her gaze fell on a man dressed in clerical garb holding a Bible and peering at her intently. She fell upon him like an anchor in a storm.

“Oh, sir, have you come to save these corrupt souls? I, too, feel it my duty to help the wicked see the light,” she cried out in a ringing voice, deliriously happy now that it appeared rescue was at hand.

Her relief was short lived.

“Corruption of souls is indeed why I am here,” the “preacher” intoned. Then, without warning, he grabbed her and pulled her flush against him. With one hand he held her tight, while his other hand moved to rip open the front of her domino, revealing her dress. He then grasped her chin in a fierce hold. The crowd called out their encouragements.

Verity opened her mouth and screamed. Immediately, she felt the lecherous preacher torn from her, and she stumbled to the floor from the suddenness of the movement.

Verity heard the fickle crowd now cheering a tall gentleman in evening dress who was delivering a crushing blow to the preacher’s jaw. The Bible went flying, and the preacher was stretched out unconscious on the floor.

The ball was rapidly disintegrating into a romp. Trying to rise to her feet, Verity abruptly felt herself lifted up into the tall gentleman’s arms and carried out the front door of the house amidst more whistles and cheers. Out on the street, she struggled against him, fearing yet another attack on her person.

“Ouch! Be still, you little minx.”

Verity froze. For the first time she looked up into the green eyes glaring at her from behind the black mask. “Oh,” she exclaimed resentfully. “It is you!”

“Is that the thanks I get for freeing you from that ‘preacher,’ Miss Pymbroke?” Lord Carrisworth asked. “By God, I should have left you. Now that I think on it, I recall you are immensely attracted to members of the clergy.”

His face was so close to her own, Verity found her breath coming in gasps. “Release me at once, my lord.”

The marquess obliged her by dropping her unceremoniously to her feet. “Are you going to run back inside and exchange sermons with that imposter?”

Ignoring this mocking question, Verity asked, “How did you recognize me?”

Lord Carrisworth threw back his dark head and laughed. “Who else would be standing in the middle of a masquerade delivering a jaw-me-dead? What in heaven’s name were you doing there in the first place?”

Remembering her sister’s plight. Verity’s hands flew to her cheeks. “Oh, my lord, my sister is in there. I must find her and take her home.”

She turned as if to go back. Lord Carrisworth reached out his arm and spun her around on her heel. His gaze dropped to the neck of her gown. The pink dress was tight across her bosom, pushing the two ivory mounds of her breasts up against the cloth. The marquess tore his gaze from the tantalizing sight. “There is no need. Mrs. Barrington left with Sir Ramsey about twenty minutes ago.”

“She did? Thank goodness she is safe.”

The marquess kept his thoughts to himself. He judged it would not be prudent to inform Miss Pymbroke that her sister was at that very moment most likely in Sir Ramsey’s bed.

Verity looked at him curiously. “What were you doing in such low company, my lord? I could tell from the inelegant speech of some of the guests that I was not in Polite Society. Why would someone of your rank attend ...” she trailed off, seeing the cynical amusement in his eyes. She turned her head away.

Perceiving the disapproval in her posture, the marquess paused. He had truly not been enjoying the evening. It could only have ended in another meaningless flirtation, like so many he had enjoyed in the past, the thought of which now brought no anticipation of pleasure.

He noticed she was shivering. “Come now, you cannot be cold, my avenging angel. Surely, the mantle of virtue you always cloak yourself in will keep you warm.”

She turned to him, a sudden flash of insight making her respond tartly. “Just as the reputation of a dissolute rake keeps you from any real feelings, my lord?”

The marquess felt like shaking her. Instead, he decided to be shot of her as quickly as possible, “Miss Pymbroke, allow me to escort you home. I have my Town coach.” He signaled to a servant a short distance down the street, and a moment later a vehicle pulled up in front of them,

She laid a small hand on his arm. “My lord, I almost forgot. My maid, Betty, was with me, and I do not know what happened to her.”

Lord Carrisworth released his breath in a long-suffering sigh. “Stay here with my servant until I return. Indeed, get in the coach and wait for me.”

Verity pursed her lips. “I shall not. It is a closed carriage, and the rules of what is proper behavior for an unmarried lady state she must not ride in a closed carriage alone with a gentleman.”

“Good God, was there ever such a female? Miss Pymbroke, since we determined at the Foxworths’ breakfast yesterday that I am no gentleman, it cannot signify. Now, get in the coach, and hopefully I shall return in a few minutes with Betty.”

“Jake,” he called to the coachman. “Look after the lady.” He strode off toward the house without so much as a backward glance.

Verity stood by the vehicle, half in anticipation, half in dread. Where was Betty? Had she been frightened enough by the goings on to leave?

Most disturbing, though, was the thought of being alone with the marquess. The strength of his arms around her when he had carried her out of the house had been exhilarating.

Verity bit her lip. The night air was growing colder. How else was she to get home if she did not accept his offer of transport? She had been in such a rush to leave the house, she had failed to bring sufficient coins with her for another hack.

The marquess’s servant was standing at attention, the door to the coach open. Making up her mind, Verity accepted his hand and entered the coach.

She loosened the white domino, then reached up and untied the strings of the mask, allowing the hood to fall back.

A moment later, she jumped when the door to the coach opened, and the marquess entered, his tall body suddenly making the roomy coach seem small.

They were very much alone.

Instead of taking the seat opposite her, his lordship sat beside Verity, forcing her to move over. He gave the order to the coachman for Lady Iris’s, then, untying his mask, said softly, “It seems your heartless maid was seen running headlong into the night soon after your arrival.”

Verity found she could not muster much anger at Betty for deserting her.  She stared at the gentleman beside her and noticed the strength of his long, white fingers. In the closeness of the coach, she could smell the faint lime scent he always wore.

She turned her head abruptly away.

The marquess studied her profile. God, she was beautiful. Did she not realize the effect that too-tight pink gown would have on a man?

And her eyes. They reflected her feelings so well. They sparkled when she was angry. They softened when they rested on someone she cared for. They shed tears when her heart was touched, such as during the play.

And they avoided him when he made her uncomfortable. Like now. He did not want her to avoid him, he thought unexpectedly.

“Come, Miss Pymbroke. Would I take advantage of a moment like this? Use it for my own evil intentions?”

This was said in such a mocking manner. Verity could only stare at the skirt of her gown, all the while hiding a blush.

Abruptly, without quite knowing how it happened, she found herself across the marquess’s lap. She barely had time to look up into his laughing eyes before he murmured, “You know me so well,” and his lips came down on hers.

Verity had never been kissed before. The touch of the marquess’s lips on her mouth set her body aflame. All at once her rules flew out the window, and she could not get enough of his warm, firm lips. She returned his kiss with reckless abandon, shutting out any emotions save the ones he was calling forth. In response, she heard a low moan come from the marquess’s throat, which only served to heighten her passion.

Then, somewhere in the distance, Verity could hear church bells ring. Abruptly, she was hurtled back to the reality that she was kissing the Marquess of Carrisworth, a known rake.

She tore herself out of his arms, her breath coming hard and fast. His lordship’s eyes were heavy lidded and half closed. She could see his lips were still moist from their kiss.

Stung by her withdrawal, the marquess drawled, “I beg your pardon.”

Verity began to shake. This, then, was what came from ignoring the conventions, from breaking rules.

The coach had come to a stop in South Audley Street. Without a word, Verity scrambled out and ran up the steps to Lady Iris’s.

Lord Carrisworth deemed it necessary to remain where he was for a minute for decency’s sake.

For the first time, he judged he had been less than clever with a lady. Miss Pymbroke’s innocence struck him like a reproach.

The marquess tried to relax, leaning his dark head back against the comfortable leather squabs of the seat. What a fool he was! How did the old saying go? “Be Careful What You Wish Lest You Get It”?

He had wanted to see if a passionate nature lay beneath Miss Pymbroke’s outwardly prim behavior. Now he had gotten his wish and had his answer.