The Demon's Mistress (3 page)

Maria remembered Lord Darius as a charming young rascal, always up to mischief, but her mind was presently fretting over another young man of about the same age. Was Lord Vandeimen lying in a puddle of blood?

She itched to invade his rooms again, to prevent disaster, but she stayed where she was and smiled. If he was dead, he was dead, and discovering it would not repair matters.

“Tattoos, Mama?” queried Lord Gravenham, the duchess's older son.

Maria paid attention and tried to guess what they were talking about.

“Sailors have them,” Sarah said earnestly. “So if they drown, their bodies are more easily recognized. If soldiers had tattoos, it would serve the same purpose.”

“It would do no harm,” said Lord Gravenham, but Maria suspected he was thinking as she was. There'd been more than ten thousand corpses to deal with after Waterloo, most thrown into mass graves to prevent disease. One of them had been Dare's, but in a situation like that, who was going to note tattoos for identification?

“I had the idea from Lord Wyvern,” Sarah was saying. “A friend of Dare's,” she added to Maria. “One of this Company of Rogues they formed at Harrow, though of course he wasn't Wyvern then. Just plain Con Somerford. Such good friends, and such good men . . .” She pressed a black-edged handkerchief to her eyes and took a visible moment to collect herself. “He and two friends had tattoos done before going to war. On the chest. A G for George.”

“That's a very common name, though, isn't it?” Maria said, trying to cover the moment and show an interest. “For true identification, it would need to be more distinctive. A full name?”

“They were all called George.”

Maria flashed Lord Gravenham a look, wondering if Sarah had finally slipped over the edge.

“So of course they needed something else,” Sarah went on. “Wyvern has a dragon. It fits the title he's inherited, though at the time he could not expect to. The other two men were a George Hawkinville—a hawk, and George Vandeimen, a demon. It goes with the sound of his title, of course, and it's the family name too. But not a wise choice.” She shrugged. “But then, they were only sixteen. I'm so glad to hear better news of him.”

“Vandeimen?” Maria asked, and it came out a little high. “The one who lost his fortune?” He had a
demon
on his chest?

“I was saying to the duke that we should do something. He and the others were so kind to Dare last year. Professional soldiers, you know. But Vandeimen's affairs seem to have sorted out. So, can you help me there, too, Maria? I will have to hire people who can do these tattoos, and obtain the cooperation of the Horse Guards . . .”

The orchestra struck a louder note, alerting all that the dancing was to begin. Sir Burleigh hovered. Maria promised support for the foolish tattoo fund and gave the persistent wasp her hand.

She loved to dance, though she knew she did it with grace rather than verve. They called her Lily because of her pale complexion and habit of wearing pale clothes, and Golden for her outrageous wealth. She knew they also called her the Languid Lily, and shared scurrilous jokes in the men's clubs about whether she was languid in bed.

She would love to be able to sparkle, and perhaps she had as a rompish sixteen. The years had taught her control and discretion, however, and they reigned even in the dance.

In the bed—well, that was a private matter.

Then as she turned in the dance pattern, she saw him.

She missed a step, and with a hasty apology she concentrated on the dance. When she glanced back across the room, Vandeimen was gone.

He was here, though. She couldn't have mistaken that tall lean grace and primrose hair, made more brilliant by dark evening clothes.

He was here.

Alive.

Ready to fulfill his bargain.

With a sudden beat of the heart, she knew it had begun.

Chapter Three

When the set was over, Maria felt flushed, an unusual occurrence for her. She plied her fan as her wasps gathered, all seeking the next chance at the jam pot. Maria playfully put off choosing.

Where was Vandeimen?

Had she imagined him?

Then she saw him, in company with Gravenham. Beside the marquess's mousy solidity, Vandeimen seemed a wild spirit, despite his perfect, tidy appearance. His primrose hair shone in the candlelight, and his scar, doubtless honorably gained, suggested wickedness, especially with the lingering marks of dissipation.

“Mrs. Celestin,” Gravenham said, “you have enraptured another of us poor males. Here's Vandeimen begging me for an introduction. Now mind,” he added, “I wouldn't agree if you were a sweet young innocent, but I judge you well able to deal with rascals such as he.”

Maria appreciated Gravenham's subtle warning. It showed that Vandeimen was in danger of losing his place in accepted circles.

“A rascal, my lord,” she said to Vandeimen, offering her hand. “How intriguing.”

She managed a cool manner, but was alarmed that she hadn't thought of this essential detail. Of course he couldn't just walk up to her. He had to find someone respectable to introduce him.

He bowed gracefully over her hand, perfectly judging the distance. A slight inclination would be cool. To actually touch his lips to her gloves would be scandalously bold. Just over halfway was within bounds, but hinted at interesting ardor.

She kept her light smile fixed and prayed not to shiver. This perfectly turned-out young man with deft social skills was not what she had expected.

“Then perhaps I might persuade you into the dance, Mrs. Celestin?” he said straightening but still holding her hand. “Some opportunity there to be rascally.”

“Really? I was not aware of that.”

“How dull your partners must have been.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Come, let me brighten your life.”

He stole her from under the noses of her wasps, and she wasn't sure whether to be outraged or wildly amused.

“My partners have not been particularly dull,” she said, as they joined a set.

“Good. Then you won't be shocked.”

She wasn't sure about that. What did he plan?

She did know about rascally dancing. If she let her mind slide back to her folly with Maurice, she could remember times when he'd used the dance to full advantage. After all, where else could a slightly disreputable man get close enough to a lady to tempt her to folly?

The music started and they began the steps. For the moment it was just a dance, giving her room to think.

She hadn't anticipated him planning to kill himself.

She hadn't anticipated him being dangerous.

She hadn't anticipated the need for introduction.

She hadn't anticipated his perfect management of the situation, or how he matched the steps of society as skillfully as he matched the steps of the dance.

She should have expected all of it. Heavens, social duties were part of an officer's life. And yet, she had failed to anticipate his social skills.

What else had she neglected?

That he would be wary.

As she met his eyes in the dance, she recognized that. Of course her quixotic actions must appear suspicious. As they joined hands and passed, she wondered what he feared. What did he think she wanted for her twenty thousand pounds?

And what—even more fascinating—would he be willing to do for it?

She danced back toward him, wicked thoughts stirring despite every attempt to bury them deep in her mind. They linked arms in an allemande, and turned, eye to eye, bodies moving in harmony.

A sudden awareness rippled through her of exactly what she could demand from him in service—for six long weeks. She knew her rare color was building, and spun off to the next gentleman with relief.

She'd never thought of such a thing when she'd planned this. Never! She must immediately put it out of her mind. It would be both foolish and wicked. She was supposed to be rescuing him, not exploiting him, and he was eight years her junior.

She fiercely concentrated on the present, on the weaving steps of the dance. She couldn't help but watch, however, as he danced with other women in the set. She was not alone in her reaction. Each one, young or old, responded with a brightening of the eyes, a widening of the smile.

He was a flirt. A handsome, instinctive flirt whom women could not resist responding to. She'd not anticipated that, either. She'd known the world would assume she was buying youth, but not that she had been charmed out of her wits and money.

The idea was so repulsive that she wanted to cry halt now. He could have the money and go to hell or heaven—

Then he was back to partner her. As they stepped together, first one way then the other, he said softly, “Am I supposed to fall madly in love with you, or is this a more considered affair?”

Mouth dry, eyes locked with his, she said, “Madly in love. Why not?” If she was going to be thought a fool, she'd rather be thought a mad one.

His eyes held hers, and then, as the dance moved him on, he lingered for a speaking moment. Fascinated, she realized she was doing the same thing, and hastily looked at her new partner, Sir Watkins Dore, to see an understanding smile.

“A handsome rascal,” the middle-aged man remarked, “but penniless and with a taste for the bottle and the tables, dear lady. A word to the wise.”

From there on, Maria passed through the dance unable to block the mortifying awareness that everyone thought they were witnessing a powerful attraction between an older woman and a charming young rascal.

She couldn't blame Vandeimen. He was following her instructions to the letter. Though smiling and polite, he had somehow muted his effect on the other ladies, and turned it all on her. Often her eyes collided with his intent ones. It was hard for her not to believe that she had suddenly become the center of his universe.

When the dance ended and she curtsied as he bowed, she knew all eyes were on them. It was excruciatingly hard not to say something cutting, or behave in a chilly manner to show that she was not a gullible fool. As it was, she let him place her hand in the crook of his arm, and strolled with him.

“Everyone's watching,” she said, though she knew she shouldn't. She was in control of this adventure, wasn't she?

“I'm sure you are watched anyway, Golden Lily.”

“I'm used to that, but not to this.” How absurd to feel that she could talk honestly to him like this. Of course, apart from Harriette, he was the only one aware of their purpose. “I'm probably not looking as dazzled as I should.”

“I'll be dazzled for both of us.” When she glanced sideways at him, she saw how his smiling eyes were intent on her. “Some wariness on your part is doubtless realistic,” he added. “You are too wise to actually marry me, after all.”

She smiled at the joke, but it pressed on an old wound. Her feelings were too like the lunatic infatuations she'd succumbed to when young, culminating in Maurice. She had a weakness for dashing, handsome, dangerous men, but she was no longer young and silly. Had she learned nothing?

Cool air startled her back to the immediate, and she realized he had led her out onto a small balcony. They were still in view, but it gave some protection from being overheard. It also must cause more talk.

What point in balking, though? She was about to be society's favorite topic of amusement for six long weeks. It was a price she would pay to right a wrong.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, wafting her fan and gazing out over the lamplit garden below.

“You thought I wouldn't pay my debt?”

A sudden chill in his voice made her turn to him. “I didn't mean it that way. You were . . . The need to—”

“Madam, you have bought me—body, mind, and most of my soul—for six weeks. I will go where you command, speak as you wish, act as you instruct, so long as it does not offend the part of my soul I have retained.”

Oh dear. Pain and wounded pride. She must remember that though war had aged him in many ways, he could still be tender in others.

“Excellent,” she said coolly, returning to the safe contemplation of the garden. “You are playing your part well, my lord, so please continue to act as if you were intent on winning me.” She glanced back with a carefully calculated smile. “I doubt that will hazard your immortal soul.”

They confronted each other for a moment in silence, and she nervously broke into chatter. “The lamps in the garden are pretty, are they not? I wonder if there is a way to explore there.”

Her gloved right hand rested on the iron railing, and he covered it with his left. A hand brown from years of sun and weather, strong with sinews and veins, long-fingered, marked by many minor scars. A hand that looked older than he was. A fine hand perhaps meant by nature for softer ways, for music, for art, for gentle love . . .

“I would know that I had little hope,” he said, curling his fingers around hers and lifting her hand from the railing, turning her toward him. “A penniless man with dilapidated estates, and eight years younger than you.”

“True . . .”

He brought her hand between them, chest high, and in the process angled his body so that he shielded her from the crowded room. “The only reason you would consider my suit is for my looks and charm. Poor Mrs. Celestin,” he added with a glint of edged humor, “you are going to have to succumb to looks and charm.”

“I would hardly be the first widow to do so. I'm sure I can play the part.” She returned exactly the same sort of edged look. “It's not as if I am actually going to place my person and my fortune in your hands, after all.”

“Just the additional nine thousand pounds.”

“
If
you behave yourself.” She looked him up and down. “You do, at least, have both looks and charm, and conduct yourself well in society. It would be even more galling to make a fool of myself over an
unappealing
wastrel.”

He stilled, his scar seeming to slash more darkly across his right cheek. She instantly recalled the man she had first met, the one who had disarmed her, and surely come close to hurting her.

He dropped her hand. “I can become unappealing anytime you want, Mrs. Celestin. I would advise you not to push me too far. A man ready to die is equally ready to consign nine thousand pounds to the devil.”

The small balcony was suddenly confining, and he blocked the way out. She desperately wanted to look away, or to try to push out of this confined space. As with an animal, however, to show fear was to lose control. She met his angry eyes. “What of the eleven thousand, my lord? You owe me service for that.”

His nostrils flared, and she suddenly saw in him a stallion. A young, magnificent, abused stallion on the edge of going bad. Dear heavens, who did she think she was, to try to keep together something so riven through with cracks?

“I'm sorry,” she said quickly. “I spoke thoughtlessly. I chose you for this because you are a gentleman.”

“But why did you choose anyone, Mrs. Celestin? What is the purpose of this extravagant charade?”

She'd hoped to put this off until she'd thought of a better rationale, but clearly she had to say something now. With great effort, she spoke lightly. “One person's extravagance is another's whim, Lord Vandeimen. I have a mind to enjoy this season, and I am pestered by fortune hunters. You are my guard against them, that is all.”

She must have presented it correctly, for she saw his tension ease in scarcely perceptible, but significant, ways.

“You must be very, very rich.”

“I am.”

“Then of course, I am completely at your service. Command me, dear lady.”

Shockingly, the requests that came to mind were all indecent. She sank back on what she had said before. “Do as you would if you were intent on sweeping me out of sanity and into your marital bed.”

He looked at her for a moment, then raised his left hand and rested it on her naked shoulder. Warm. Roughened from the practice of war.

No, not practice. Real, deadly war. How many deaths had those intent blue eyes seen? How many had his elegant hands delivered? How much suffering, during battle and after? She had lost no one of importance to her except a baby brother, half remembered, and Maurice, who had died miles away on a hunting field, and by then not truly grieved.

They called this man Demon. A terrible label for a noble soldier and hero, but she could only think of how very familiar he must be with death. No wonder he'd seemed indifferent as to whether she shot him or not. He probably cared for nothing at all, and was wounded too deeply for that to change.

Was he going to kiss her, here in full view of everyone? She should prevent that, but for the moment, she was paralyzed.

With scarcely a pause, however, he brushed his hand across her bare shoulder, sending shivers down her spine, until his fingers moved into the loose curls at the edge of her hair. He could be tidying a curl or brushing away an insect. He played there for a moment, eyes holding hers, then lowered his hand to his side.

Fear still held her, but underneath surged something even worse. Lust.

Triumph glinted in his sudden smile.

Ah.

She sucked in a deep breath. He was going to do what she had paid for, but for pride's sake he was going to try to seduce her at the same time. Not surprising, though yet again, something she had not anticipated.

She certainly had never anticipated that it might be so terribly possible.

Already a part of her was crying,
Why not? Why not? You could lie together with him tonight!
Deep muscles clenched at the thought.

She often lay in the quiet night remembering a man's body on hers, in hers. She didn't wish Maurice back, but memory of hot intimacy always left her feeling aching and hollow.