One Night of Passion (6 page)

Oh, his father had been respected in diplomatic circles, where the previous Lord Danvers had spent forty years working for British interests. But in the narrow world of the
ton,
he’d always been regarded as a bit of an oddity—with his far-reaching travels and Spanish-born second wife—and therefore not quite up to snuff.

Colin had hoped that marriage to the sensible and esteemed Lady Diana would bring him the one thing the Danvers men never seemed able to attain: a normal life.

His father had eloped with his mother, Lady Susannah Devinn, the daughter of the Duke of Setchfield. Scandal had surrounded their marriage from the moment they’d dashed to Gretna Green until fourteen years later when the still spirited and independent Susannah had died of a fever following the birth of a daughter. The poor babe had followed her mother into a cold grave in Westphalia, where the Danvers family-had been living and gathering information for the Foreign Office.

No, Colin certainly wasn’t about to follow in the shoes of his globe-hopping, spy-chasing father. It wasn’t in his nature.

At least so he’d thought until six months ago, New Year’s Eve, after a dinner party with Nelson and all his captains. Hours into a celebration spent toasting the upcoming year and the victories they would share, the admiral had taken Colin aside and revealed evidence of a viper in their midst.

It was then that Nelson had asked Colin to become unfettered from the constraints of his uniform, to cut himself loose from naval regulations and codes of conduct, to become a social outcast.

So freed, Nelson believed that Colin would be able to find the turncoat nestled within the admiral’s inner circle—a man selling secrets to the French and undermining British supremacy at sea.

For who better to be viewed as a likely partner than a man with a grudge, a man without connections, a man who had supposedly just lost a considerable fortune?

They hoped to lure out the turncoat, dangling Colin as a possible ally, someone with inside knowledge, who would very likely take French gold without the honorable burdens that plagued a true and loyal officer of His Majesty’s Navy.

And though he’d readily agreed to the resulting disgrace, he hadn’t foreseen the rippling effects that would wipe away his relationships with his friends . . . his family . . . his betrothed. If he grieved for the loss of Lady Diana, it was mostly for the likely embarrassment he’d caused her. He only hoped their broken engagement wouldn’t be a detriment to her future happiness.

“Now,” Temple was saying, “watch and learn from an expert on what it means to be a dishonorable scoundrel. And try to remember—you are bad
ton
now.”

As his cousin waded into the crowded room, maneuvering through the ignoble assemblage with practiced ease, Colin knew he didn’t belong there.

His practical nature took over, for he had a ship to supply and a crew to finalize, and all before he sailed in two days’ time. He hardly needed to be looking for a mistress. Besides, there were still some hours left to the evening, so perhaps he could start looking over the reports he’d been sent by Nelson before calling it a night.

As he turned to make his escape before Temple came back with a pair of likelies on his arm, he found himself nearly bowled over by a tall dervish in purple silk.

“Oh!” she gasped as he tried to catch his balance, his hand mistakenly cupping a breast, his other grappling around the curve of her lush hip.

“Unhand me, you oaf!” she ordered, her heel landing solidly atop his newly polished boot.

Whether it was a mistake or intentional, Colin couldn’t tell. Gritting his teeth through the pain, he pulled his foot free before it sustained any permanent damage, then planted himself on the marble floor as if he were standing on a pitching deck. But the lady still teetered and wavered over the edge of the stairs, so he hauled her into his arms to save her from plunging into a heap of silk below.

She trembled for a few more seconds, then finally came to rest in his embrace.

In all the years he’d been betrothed to Lady Diana, he’d only gone so far as to kiss her properly gloved hand, but in a matter of seconds he felt as if he knew the lady he held intimately—how her body curved to fit his, the fullness of her breasts against his chest, the length of her willowy limbs wound around his with a strange familiarity, like they had been lovers for years.

So as the whirl of purple silk and lace began to stop fluttering, he looked down expecting to find just another glittery member of the demimonde, yet to his surprise, he discovered he was holding the oddest-looking Cyprian he’d ever seen.

Instead of the perfectly coiffed hair and array of paste jewels one associated with ladies of her profession, her blond hair was piled atop her head in a mêlée of hoydenish curls, barely held together with a handful of plain tortoiseshell pins. Her features bore no paint or artifice so commonly used by the incognitas and soiled doves; instead, her cheeks were rosy with the natural pink of embarrassment.

Oh, her dress was obviously that of a lady of easy virtue—the neckline was far too low to be considered respectable, while the hemline rose too high to be modest. The lace and silk allowed tantalizing hints of the wares beneath—long limbs, soft, luscious skin, and curves that no lady of the
ton
would ever dare bare so brazenly in public.

No, what made her such an oddity was that while all the pampered felines around her primped and moved with sensual precision and calculated poise, this lady was as graceful and engaging as an alley cat in lace.

She swiped her tangled web of hair out of her face with one hand, while the other made a none-too-elegant sweep at her coiffure with a couple of negligent pats, brushing the wayward strands this way and that.

When she finally just resorted to tossing her hair back off her brow, he saw her eyes—and through them, he could have sworn he saw down to her very soul.

They were the most earnest, fathomless brown he had ever seen, wide and deep, like a sable night. He was caught by some secret they seemed to hold, an innocence that he didn’t believe could exist—not here amongst London’s most jaded.

Innocence?

What was he thinking? An innocent at this gathering was about as likely as Lady Diana putting in an appearance.

“Are you well, sir?” she asked, shaking her arms and rattling at his grasp on her.

It was then that he realized he still held her . . . not that he minded having her so close.

For as they’d become entangled, her perfume had encircled them with a soft, subtle hint of flowers. Violets, he thought. Hardly the usual thick, annoying cloud of eau de cologne or lily of the valley favored by London’s fallen ladies.

The scent enticed one to come closer and inhale deeply of its fresh bounty.

Perhaps that was why he didn’t just set this chit aside and leave . . . No, he suspected his hesitation sprang from something that ran far deeper than just her beguiling perfume. For in that heartbeat of a moment, when he’d looked into her guileless eyes, something inside him thrummed to life.

Like a prevailing wind, it swept over his senses, whispering and prodding him to take advantage of the rare opportunity standing before him like a newly discovered Spanish treasure.

Colin had felt this way on several occasions, mostly at sea while engaged in battle when he’d spy an opportunity to take advantage of an enemy’s weakness, breaking ranks to seize the Fates with his own hands.

It was a reckless, dangerous temptation, but one he knew from experience wouldn’t disappoint him if he gave in to its siren invitation.

He need only trust its whispering call and step out of his usual cautious and conventional self.

And right now, for whatever reasons, his instincts were prodding him toward this odd, tempting armful, bringing to mind Temple’s earlier prediction.

Some nonsense about finding a woman who steals your heart at first glance . . .

It was just that, nonsense,
he told himself.
Utterly ridiculous . . .

Obviously tired of waiting for him to release her, she shook herself free, and with more strength than he would give a lady credit for. Straightening out her gown with one hand, she sighed over the state of it, then tugged her lacy shawl back into place over her bare shoulders.

“Oh, I have hurt you,” she said, before giving herself one last unladylike shake, sending more of her hair tumbling into disarray. “I’m so sorry. I fear I’ll find my death in these demmed shoes. If not, apparently, the death of someone else.”

She held out her foot, giving Colin a fair view of a high-heeled shoe, but an even better view of a well-trimmed calf enveloped in silk stockings. Glancing down at the footprint atop his boot, she blushed even more. “I didn’t break your foot, did I?”

Colin laughed, despite the fact that he had little to no feeling in his toes. “No, I think I’ll recover in a fortnight or so. But ‘tis hard to believe such lovely shoes could be so treacherous.”

She laughed in return, a sort of forced gaiety rising to her lips. He suspected she did it only out of sympathy for his poor attempt at humor.

And even more so, he found himself wondering what her laughter would sound like when it was allowed the freedom of spontaneity. He suspected this lady laughed with a rich joy capable of infecting all who heard it.

He didn’t know why, but he also thought that it had been a long time since she had laughed. Genuinely, wonderfully laughed.

“I mean to say . . .” he began, trying to think of what witty comment Temple might use to secure the lady’s attention, and at the same time wondering why he was trying so hard . . . “Well, what I meant to say is that I fear it isn’t my foot that is mortally wounded, dear lady, but my heart.”

At his exaggerated compliment, she laughed, this time a little too hard.

“And you find that funny?” he asked, a bit piqued to find his chivalry taken as a source of humor.

Her hand went to her lips, stifling the remaining giggles threatening to spill out. Then she glanced up, unabashedly staring, as if she were looking at him for the first time, and weighing some great decision—something that he alone could answer for her.

Yet whatever remedies she sought, he obviously didn’t suit, for she sighed again, her gaze dismissing him in a blink of sooty lashes, then drifting over his shoulder toward the crowded ballroom, searching for someone.

Someone else.

Colin didn’t like the realization that for some reason he’d come up lacking in her estimation. And for the life of him, it bothered him more than he cared to admit.

What the devil was wrong with him? His fiancée had cried off not an hour earlier and he was more irritated about an odd little Cyprian passing him over.

He glanced across the room to see if he could follow her gaze, but the blinding crush of people offered no answers. “Are you looking for someone?”

“Actually I am. A blackguard to be specific,” she said, her blunt answer leaving him open-mouthed.

“A what?” he sputtered.

“A blackguard. You know, a rake. A regular at these affairs.”

That accounted for every man in the room, Colin estimated, with the exception of himself. “Anyone specific?”

“Oh no,” she said. “Any rake will do. Just so long as he is amoral and experienced. But I must be on my way, as I haven’t much time.” She started toward the steps again, then paused, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Do you know anyone who might be available?”

It had been a while since he had been to London, but he didn’t remember the ladies of the demimonde being quite that blunt.

Especially this minx. She wasn’t wasting a moment.

“Well, I would say I have a certain reputation,” he offered, trying to remember what Temple had said. He was bad
ton.
Beyond the pale. A terrible bounder. Colin considered scowling at her a bit, but figured that might be a bit over the top.

She pursed her lips and eyed him critically. “Are you sure? You seem a bit too honorable for what I have in mind.”

Too honorable, indeed.
She needn’t sound so terribly disappointed at such a notion.

Mayhap he should have scowled.

“Let me assure you,” he said, recalling Lady Diana’s blistering assessment of his character, “I have it on good authority that I don’t possess an iota of honor.”

She considered him once again, and this time offered him a conciliatory smile.

If you think so
, her skepticism seemed to say.

“Weren’t you about to leave?” she said, more as a suggestion than a question.

“No,” he lied. “I was waiting for someone as well.” That wasn’t entirely an untruth—he was supposed to be waiting for Temple, who he now hoped was completely trapped in the crush.

Again she regarded him with an air of disbelief.

“Perhaps we can search for our parties together?” he said, offering his arm. He didn’t know what possessed him to make the suggestion, but for some reason the idea of her venturing into this room of predators tugged at his honor.

The same honor he wasn’t supposed to possess.

“How very kind of you,” she said, in the proper tones of a Bath miss accepting a dance at Almack’s, her fingers lightly coining to rest on his sleeve. “Perhaps you can offer me an introduction. I fear I don’t know a soul here.”

Her odd request, made with the manners and tone befitting a debutante, rattled at Colin’s better sense. As did her unwitting confession that she didn’t know anyone at the ball.

Who the devil was this woman?

She certainly wasn’t some chit in her first Season—she was too old to be trotting about the Marriage Mart. Looking at her, he gauged her to be at least twenty. Besides, no decent lady would be seen at such an assemblage unmasked and unescorted.

As they moved into the crowd, she walked with her head held high, her gaze constantly taking in her surroundings with the elegance of grace befitting a countess.

Perhaps she was the by-blow of some nobleman who’d afforded his ill-gotten issue an education in hopes she’d be able to gain suitable employment.

Gauging from her curious mix of manners and morals, Colin decided, she’d hardly make a modest lady’s companion, not with her flair for salty language.