Revealed (6 page)

One deep breath later, Phillippa placed a placid smile on her face and headed down the hall to the ladies’ retiring room, putting thoughts of Mr. Marcus Worth out of her head. He had eavesdropped poorly, luckily for her, missing the most crucial part of her conversation. And besides, Marcus Worth was a nobody in the eyes of the Ton—and therefore a nobody in total. And Phillippa Benning did not concern herself with nobodies.

She instead turned her attention to Broughton. Delicious, desireable Broughton—and the one thing she knew she had that Lady Jane Cummings didn’t: a midnight appointment with the object of both their attention.

H
E had to show, he simply had to. Forty minutes later, after a obligatory dance or two and an obligatory curious glance from Nora, Phillippa slipped through the door of what Reggie had assured her was the Fieldstone library and, after a heart-stopping moment where the door didn’t seem to want to unlatch (luckily it did), slipped through.

After lighting a nearby candle, she blinked for several moments as her eyes adjusted, certain she was in the wrong room.

Because this—
this
was the most insane library she had ever seen.

But she was certain she counted the number of doors in the hallway correctly, and it had been the room with the ivory door handles. It had to be the library.

But it certainly didn’t house books.

Phillippa had heard tales that the Fieldstone library housed Lord Fieldstone’s pride and joy: his collection of Classical antiquities—a very fashionable hobby. But she expected there to be at least a few staples of the common English library, a desk, maybe a book on British history or two, but the entire room was covered in bas-relief tiles, paintings, statuary, even a massive sarcophagus in the middle! It was highly possible, knowing Lord Fieldstone, that an ancient Egyptian mummy was currently in residence.

Oh, the statuary itself was lovely, the paintings amazing (although Phillippa decided she would not be the one to inform Lord Fieldstone of the fraudulent nature of two of his four Caravaggios), but the space had been so cramped, so uncomfortable, that no one could appreciate the decor. Phillippa decided that Lady Fieldstone must have wisely limited her husband’s enthusiasm for his collecting to one room of the house. But oh! What that man could fit into one room!

It was the most uncomfortable and most unlikely place for a romantic rendezvous.

“Well,” she said aloud, hearing her voice reverberate dully off the multitude of stone objects, “it was meant to be a short visit in any case.”

Truly, she only had ten minutes or so to spare before she and Totty were due to leave for their next engagement. So Broughton had best hurry and arrive, she thought with a small pout. Ten minutes was a worthy timetable, wasn’t it? Nothing truly scandalous could happen in only ten minutes; she couldn’t even unknot her garters in ten minutes, for goodness’ sake. She was safe, wasn’t she?

The room was warmer than she had expected of a small, high place completely done in marble. But perhaps that was her imagination.

Or her nerves.

“Nonsense,” she said aloud again. “Phillippa Benning does not become nervous over a man.”

No, it was she who made men nervous.

Still, whatever her collected outward appearance, whatever the world speculated as her private activities, she was not given to rendezvous with men in libraries. The situation at hand was . . . uncharted, in her experience.

And uncharted territory always revealed a certain extra sensitivity to her surroundings.

So was it her imagination, or did she hear . . . breathing?

Was it her own?

But such a thought was quickly tossed aside, as the trickiness of the door handle lay prey to another victim.

Ducking into the shadows, Phillippa held her breath, watched wide-eyed as the door opened and Broughton revealed himself in the doorway.

And what a sight he made.

“Mrs. Benning,” he whispered, drawing out each letter like satin over her skin. “Phillippa?”

She stepped into the light, knowing full well that she made a stunning entrance, and she received the small thrill of watching Broughton grin with anticipation.

“Close the door.” She spoke, surprised to find her voice—normally schooled into seductive huskiness—slightly thready and weak.

Once the door had been shut, they were plunged back into darkness. Alone at last with Broughton, Phillippa found herself at a small loss. She had only intended to have him meet her there, to show him her ability to take risks; the actual meeting itself was not so well thought out.

“I accepted your challenge, as you see,” Broughton spoke in a deep rumble.

“As I accepted yours earlier this evening,” she countered, happy that her voice was resuming a normal pitch.

“Although,” he said, stepping closer to her, “I’m afraid I do have to question your choice of locale for a tryst. There’s barely room for one person to move freely here. We shall have to stand very”—he took another step toward her—“very close.”

A delicate hand came up to his chest, gently pushing the approaching Adonis back on his heels—although such a gesture of protest only made his smile deepen.

“Why, Broughton, who said one word about a tryst? We are simply friends who have met in this secluded space for . . . conversation and enlightenment.”

Broughton caught her hand against his chest, held it there. For a moment, Phillippa’s mind flashed back to a similar warm hand, holding hers steady against a man’s chest. But a different man. Very, very different.

“Enlightenment?” Broughton spoke, his voice a near growl. “Well, in the hopes of honest conversation, allow me to enlighten you what it means to invite a man to a library at midnight.”

And he plunged forward, taking her mouth, her neck, her jaw.

Would she allow his kiss? Certainly. She was Phillippa Benning. She was one and twenty; she had, discreetly and sometimes publicly, kissed and been kissed by several gentlemen. But as Broughton opened his mouth, inviting her to do the same, she wondered if she would allow more than this kiss.

She would have to think on that.

Gathering her closer, Broughton broke away, placing his mouth by her ear, all the while his hand flexing over the exposed flesh of her back.

“I’ll chase you,” he growled, sending low shivers to her toes, “but know I always catch my prey.” And with that, he captured her mouth again.

Phillippa felt her head swimming. She was enjoying Broughton’s skillful assault on her senses tremendously—no one could say the man’s reported practice hadn’t paid off—but more than that, she was enjoying the notion that she could catch Broughton. Snare him, allure him to her will. Certainly she would have to stop this lovemaking before it became the actual act instead of the precursor, but for the time being, she would just relax into his embrace.

She did, until she suddenly felt her bare back touch the cool stone surface of the sarcophagus lid.

Maybe she had become too relaxed.

“Eek!” Phillippa yelped, having been brought ruthlessly to her senses, and she sat up quickly. So quickly, in fact, that her forehead hit Broughton’s temple with a solid
thwack
!

“Ow!” was the reply that reverberated off the statuary, as Broughton stumbled back, nearly upsetting a collection of knee-high Venuses rising from the foam.

“Oh! I am sorry!” Phillippa cried, once she had recovered from her own head injury, her contrition genuine (as well as a certain amount of unexpressed relief; she was, perhaps, getting in over her head). “The . . . the stone was so very cold, it startled me, you see.”

“Yes, well,” he grumbled, “er, perhaps you’ll allow me the privilege of choosing the location of our next tête-à-tête?” He chuckled at his own joke.

Phillippa smiled slowly, a purr entering her voice. “Why, my lord, where in the world did you get the idea there would be another meeting?”

A frown creased Broughton’s brow. “Mrs. Benning, I have been locked away at my estate for so long, with no one to play with. It was terribly dull. I simply cannot abide dullness, you know? But now I’ve come to town and met you. You accepted my challenge, and I accepted yours. Do you intend to stop now?” His scowl took on a tone of petulance. “Just when we were beginning to have fun? I should have never thought you so boring.”

“You are correct, my lord,” she let the words slip off her tongue, her voice taking on its most demure, most innocent, most seductive tone. “I did accept your challenge. I should hope to never be so boring as . . . as some dull dish like Lady Jane Cummings.”

“Lady Jane?” An eyebrow went up.

“I heard you danced with her earlier. A girl like her—surely she would not be so bold as to play the game on your terms. Surely, she is too insignificant to be worth your time.”

“Ah. I see,” Broughton replied, his brow clearing.

“I would hate for anyone to think that she and I are on the same level in your eyes.” She again laid her hand upon his chest, assuming a posture of vulnerability, and began to play with the buttons of his shirt.

“Oh dear, I’ve undone one. Drat, that’s two buttons gone. How do you keep these together? They’re so very small and slippery.” She allowed her gloved hand the freedom to roam over the exposed flesh of his chest. His breath hitched.

“You,” he gasped, “are far more worth my time than any other female.”

“Every other female? Including Lady Jane?”

His grin deepened as he removed her hand from beneath his shirt. “I choose our next gambit.”

“Of course, my—” But her practiced demureness was never to reach its full effect, because at that moment, the distinct sound of the door latch catching against the wood frame echoed through the space.

“Someone’s at the door!” she whispered.

“Quick!” Broughton grabbed Phillippa by the arm and swiftly lifted the lid of the sarcophagus. It seemed hydraulic hinges had been installed for just such an occasion.

“Have you gone mad?” Phillippa cried under her breath. “Why should I be the one to hide?” But Broughton didn’t respond, so she tried a different tack. “What if there’s a mummy in there?”

“For your sake,” he replied, “I sincerely hope not.”

And before she could open her mouth in protest, Philippa found herself unceremoniously tossed inside.

Much to her relief, she did not land on a mummy.

Much to her surprise, she landed on something else entirely.

W
HEN he thought about it, Marcus Worth decided he was having a rather eventful evening.

First of all, he had attended Almack’s, which is not a terribly eventful occurrence, other than the fact that he rarely attended any such societal gatherings. Unfortunately, it was a necessary component to his plan, one that had forced him to gad about town for the past week attending every dance, soiree, and dinner party he could wrangle an invitation to. His sister-in-law, Mariah, was keen to assist with the wrangling. Also the occasional public gathering, an opera or a parade. It was important to look like he was sociable, providing cover for his real intention. Luckily, his elder brother, Graham, and Mariah managed to include him in many of their outings. But those were smaller, less auspicious affairs than the Fieldstones’ or Almack’s. The fact that he had managed a voucher for Almack’s was a feat of bribery, good luck, and subterfuge unlikely to be repeated.

Once at Almack’s, of course, he had orangeat spilled all down his shirt.

A singular experience.

It was a turn of events Marcus hadn’t minded, really, as it allowed him to depart early with a memorable and worthy excuse. Again, luckily, Graham’s house was within walking distance (however uncouth walking in London may be), where he procured a spare shirt from Graham’s nonplussed valet.

Next, of course, he arrived at the Fieldstone affair, the party he had been waiting for all week, the party during which he had requested a private audience with the director of the War Department. While waiting for time to tick by, he walked in on Mrs. Phillippa Benning—millionheiress, and locally revered as some sort of goddess, apparently—while she bribed a child with sweets to spy for her on that fluffed-up idiot, Broughton.

Then, while idly waiting for the director to come through the Fieldstone Library doors (no easy feat, considering the director was possibly as wide as he was tall), the door was opened by someone who didn’t know that the lock tended to stick, whose shadow was unexpectedly narrow, and so he hid in the only hiding place available in the overstuffed space: the sarcophagus.

Then Phillippa Benning landed on him.

While individually the events of his evening were not terribly impressive, taken together, they amassed to be very eventful indeed.

The conversation that Marcus had been subject to, between Mrs. Benning and her prey Broughton, left very little to the imagination. What landed on him shortly thereafter, well, that left very little to the imagination, too.

Phillippa Benning’s left ankle landed squarely on his head with an audible
crack
! And as such, Phillippa Benning’s head landed on his calf, twisted as his long frame was into the sarcophagus’s cramped space. When he had first occupied the sarcophagus (thank heaven for the historically inappropriate hinges Fieldstone had installed!), he was very happy to find that it housed only a few spare antique yards of cloth, softening his landing. No ancient Egyptians in residence.

However, ancient Egyptians were obviously smaller than modern Englishmen, and as Marcus himself was a good head taller than said modern Englishmen, the space was not terribly accommodating. Add another person to the pile, and space became extremely dear.

She wore silk stockings—not much of a surprise, as most ladies of wealth did—but still rather disconcerting against his cheek. It was nearly pitch-black in the stone tomb, but what little light filtered through the crack between the sarcophagus and its lid showed a very fine embroidery of ivy winding over Phillippa’s ankle, which for some reason made Marcus smile, just a little. However, her soft rear had landed in a somewhat inopportune spot. Or opportune, depending on one’s outlook.