The Scoundrel's Secret Siren (3 page)

His chuckle
rumbled low in his chest and she fought the unexpected urge to lean back into him as she steered Tulip along the road.

“Like a Greek siren? I would tell you
, then, that it would be a most delightful way to die.” There was a wicked, tantalising note in his voice. She had never been spoken to in such a way before. It startled her for a moment, as did the accidental connection he’d made with her name. When they were children, Con had had a grand time teasing Lorelei for being named after a wicked kind of water spirit who lured gentlemen to their watery graves with her voice.

“Or…
Or perhaps,” Lorelei continued breathlessly, so as to distract him from his current theme, “perhaps I am out hunting ghosts.” There was a note of challenge in her voice.

“That would make you a very singular
lady. I am sure none of the fair flock at Almack’s could claim such an achievement as ghost hunting among their virtues.”

Lorelei
knew that the exclusive doors of Almack’s would be forever barred to her if anyone ever got wind of her current exploit. The Lady Patronesses of the hallowed social club set very high standards of reputation and behaviour for their guests. There had been instances of poets receiving vouchers when a duke had been refused. She had never set foot within the establishment herself, and was very eager that the situation should be remedied: it was to her the very embodiment of the excitement that was the London Season. They fell into a surprisingly comfortable silence as they cantered down the road, the night quiet around them and the lights of the village twinkling in the distance. The whole situation was so very unexpected that Lorelei could not find it in herself to feel bashful, though she was aware of a strangely pleasant tension at his nearness.

Half a mile from the village
, he broke the silence again, his fingers flexing lightly along her ribs. “If you will not tell me your purpose, will you at least give me a name by which to call you?” he teased.

“Why, no, sir I will not.  Besides
, you have not given me yours.”

“My name? Very well, if that is all you wish of me,” his voice was a cares
s, “my name is Alistair Tilbury. I am the sixth Earl of Winbourne.”

The name sounded familiar, though nothing concrete came to mind. She supposed she might have heard it mentioned somewhere in passing.
Certainly she did not know any earls herself, apart from the Earl of Finley, who was a friend of her father’s and rather elderly. “Well, my lord Winbourne,” she said, drawing the horse to a halt, suddenly sure that remaining in his company was a danger to her, though she was not certain in what way, “this is where I set you down. I cannot go into the village, after all.”

“But how shall I find you again, my
elusive siren? For you still owe me your name.”

“
By your own words, I am an apparition, sir. And so you cannot ever find me, for I shall fade to nothingness with the first light of day,” she whispered, suddenly knowing that this was very true. In the unlikely event that she ever crossed paths with Alistair Tilbury, she could never reveal herself to be his mysterious ghost. It was a fancy that did not belong in fashionable Society. And there was no chance that ordinary Lorelei Lindon would ever catch the eye of such a man.

The hand that had been resting over her ribs slid up her arm and along her jaw, caressing the sensitive skin
beneath her veil, brushing the delicate fabric aside. She could feel his warm breath on her cheek and it sent tingles through her body.

“Then
I must steal my kiss before this night is through,” he said in a husky voice, while his other hand grasped her shoulder and pulled her against his chest. Before she could react, he tilted her chin towards him, and then his lips covered hers in a searing kiss that she could feel pulsing through every inch of her trembling body.

He
r heart pounded in her ears. Propriety demanded that she pull away, protest, but instead she found herself lost in the sensation, the romance, of the moment. His hand brushed her throat and tangled in her hair, making her shiver. For a second, Lorelei felt a strange tug at her collar, but paid it no attention, so lost was she in the caresses of his sensual mouth. The kiss was over as suddenly as it had begun and he was on the ground beside her, tipping his hat to her politely as if they had met at a picnic in town.

“
Well, my lady Ghost, good bye. Until we meet again.”

Turning her mare around, still in a daze, Lorelei
set Tulip into a gallop, hoping that the exercise would return some sense into her dazed brain. She did not look back. She knew that to do so would be very dangerous indeed. It was a good thing Tulip knew her way home, because Lorelei could not bring her mind to focus on anything as mundane as directions.

It was not until she was home and undressing
, while trying to answer her sister’s eager questions without revealing her strange encounter, that she realised the chain with her mother’s moonstone pendant was gone.

“It is a lovely colour on you, my dear,” said Lady Hurst, while the
modiste
draped the pale pink fabric over Lorelei’s shoulders.

“But, Lady Hurst, I am not at all certain I
need
another gown,” Lorelei protested weakly, though she had to admit that it
was
a lovely colour.

“Stuff! You father gave express orders that you are to be p
roperly dressed for your first Season, and pale pink is the perfect colour for a girl only just presented. Oh! That reminds me! We must see about your presentation gown.”

They had been in London barely two weeks, staying with Lady Hurst
in her fashionable townhouse in Russell Square, and in the two weeks since their arrival in the metropolis, the Lindon girls had hardly had a moment to themselves. Lady Hurst had declared their country establishment unbearably dreary, just as she had expected. Having no love for the country, she had wasted no time whisking the girls away to London to re-join civilised society and take part in numerous entertainments. She had been so kind as to permit Lorelei to bring Sirius: any separation was entirely unthinkable. The dog had wasted no time making himself comfortable in his new London establishment, quickly winning over the kitchen staff – once they’d grown accustomed to the Newfoundland’s fearsome size.

Constance had been right: there was always something to do in London. There were plays to attend, dresses to order and places of interest to visit. Constance had expressed many times her envy that Lorelei was to be presented, sighing that her own turn could not come soon enough.

In the midst of all
this flurry, Lorelei still found the time to think about her encounter with the Earl of Winbourne. He had stolen her beloved pendant, she was sure of it. She had made Constance walk down to the village with her the following morning so that she might scan the ground for it, but had discovered no trace of the necklace. She knew she had to recover it somehow, that she had to have it back at all costs, but she could not think how she might achieve this without somehow revealing her identity or compromising her reputation. She had not told anyone of their meeting and she had not seen hide nor hair of the man in the two weeks she had already spent in London, though she had certainly been on the look-out for the handsome Corinthian. Lorelei dared not enquire after him of Lady Hurst, knowing that doing so was bound to raise questions.

She had
fruitlessly looked for him in parks and at the theatre, she had scanned the Society journals for his name… all to no avail. To be perfectly fair, she was not entirely sure what the man looked like. She knew he had broad shoulders and strong hands, and a voice that made her shiver. She knew the taste of his kiss and that his hair was blond and he was taller than she, but none of that was quite enough to identify him in a crowd of tall, fair gentlemen. This did not stop her from trying, surreptitiously, as she stole quick glances, careful that she should not be caught at it. She was sure that her heart would know him instantly, even if her eyes did not.

“Lorelei? My dear
, are you listening?” Lady Hurst asked with some concern. She did not believe that too much introspection was good for young girls who hoped to strike a suitable match on the marriage mart, and she found that Lorelei had been somewhat absent-minded of late. “This may seem a trifle to you and no wonder, for you are very young, but nothing is as important as one’s wardrobe if one wishes to cut a dash about town!”

“I’m sorry, Lady Hurst. I was thinking of a suitable cap to match the dress,” Lorelei prevaricated, carefully not looking the older woman in the eye.

“Not to worry. Mrs Holt, the haberdasher, makes the finest hats in all London – I am confident she will have something that will go charmingly. However, I was saying that you might wear your new gown to Lady Bassincourt’s garden party this Thursday. With that pretty blue pelisse. I understand it is to be very much an event to be seen at, and quite a novel way to start off the Season. Her own daughter, Lady Julia Kinsey, is to make her debut this year, and Lady Bassincourt means to establish Julia as soon as possible, sparing no expense. Not to worry, my dear. Julia is certainly a very pretty girl, but she is also very shy, and her own brown locks won’t draw any eyes from your golden curls.”

Lorelei laugh
ed at that and reminded her hostess that, her unusual hair aside, she was unlikely to be considered any more a beauty than Lady Julia. Her own eyes were an unremarkable green and her features not at all of the kind to strike a gentleman dumb across a crowded room.

“Besides which, you are being very kind, Lady Hurst, but there is no denying that blonde hair is quite out of fashion.” Lorelei
had often wished for striking ebony curls, when inspecting her own hair in her cheval glass.

Lady Hurst, who was a determined matchmaker, laughed at that. “Nonsense,
child! What good is a gentleman struck dumb? He won’t be very likely to make an offer if he cannot speak for the sight of your beauty. Now, don’t you worry about such silly fancies as that. Look, here comes Miss Hughes with a marvellous violet crepe. It will do very nicely for driving about the park.”

*

Had Lorelei seen the Earl of Winbourne after all, she would have been hard pressed to recognise him. He was seated by the fire in the library of his townhouse on Brook Street, long legs comfortably stretched out before him as he lounged in his favourite armchair. His dark eyes were glacial. His mouth was set in mocking amusement as he twirled the moonstone pendant on its fine sliver chain, held stretched taught across his long, elegant fingers. Winbourne was not a classically handsome man, but there was something striking in his piercing gaze and the elegant features of his face, so that ladies never seemed to notice his lack of traditional male beauty. He gave the impression of vitality, wickedness and barely-restrained virility that never failed to catch the attention of a score of women wherever they happened to glimpse him. Furthermore, he enjoyed all the advantages of being in possession of a very large fortune and no less than three excellently-maintained country estates.

Gone was the amusement of that strange night on the road, which he had almost chalked down as an anomaly.
He was far too disillusioned with women and their fickle affections to want anything more from them than instant gratification of his own desires. That strange siren in her dark dress had been an exception
precisely
because he had not known her. She had wanted nothing from him, had not even known his name. There had been no games and no expectations, and she had truly vanished with the morning – just as she had professed. Since returning to London, he had not seen the likeness of the beautiful golden curls he had glimpsed under her veil and hat, nor heard her laugh, which he was somehow unable to forget though he had tried his utmost to do so. The pendant was his only proof that he had not imagined the encounter. He knew that the real woman, whoever she might be, would inevitably disappoint the ideal – no doubt she would have numerous irritating habits, chatter constantly and spend his entire fortune on hats. No. To see her again would surely ruin the memory, so perfectly preserved in mystery. And yet she lingered in his mind’s eye, taunting, as he recalled her slender waist and her amusing conversation. He knew he would have to start seeking a wife soon, but he would not be searching for his lady ghost to fill that role.

A knock on the door interrupted his introspection, and he fixed an indolent
look upon his butler, who stood impassively in the doorway.

“Yes, Watts? What is it this time?” Winbourne sighed,
closing his fist around the delicate pendant, as though some part of him did not wish anyone else to glimpse this symbol of his private vulnerability.

“It is your sister, my lord.
Lady Bassincourt. She is waiting in the parlour.” Watts made no acknowledgement of his lord’s visible lack of interest.

Winbourne did not particularly wish to see his elder sister, who took too much of a motherly interest in his personal life and
especially his lack of an heir, but he knew better than to try and fob her off. With a sigh, he rose from his chair, pocketed the pendant and motioned his butler in the general direction of the study.

“Very well then,” he sighed, “best to get it over with quickly. I shall see Honoria in the parlour. You
had best send for some cake and tea, while you’re at it, Watts. She’ll be wanting refreshment after the trouble she took in driving all the way over here.” The irony was implicit in the sardonic smile that curled the corners of his mouth, but he set off to face his fate with as much good grace as he could manage.

The door to the family parlour was ajar.

“Honoria,” he greeted, entering the room. The woman wore a lavender gown created by the finest
modiste
in Paris. It put one in mind of confectionery. She rose unceremoniously and kissed her brother on the cheek – a gesture of excessive sensibility which he would only ever bear in private. Then she stepped back and sorrowfully took in his lack of a coat – she had always disapproved of the fact that her brother made not the least effort for her visits.

“Alastair!
I am most excessively glad to see that you are well. Given the infrequency of your letters, one is never quite sure.” The chastisement in her blue eyes when she met his gaze squarely was hard to ignore, but he did so regardless. They took their seats, she on a pretty sofa that had been picked out by their mother years ago, and he in a comfortable wingback.

“I have an aversion
to such absurdities as writing my sister every detail of my day, Honoria. And how is Bassincourt?”

“As well as can be. He is dreading the garden party
, of course, but there is no way around it. It is to introduce Julia into Society and, as her father, he must be present. As must her uncle Winbourne.” Another meaning glance was directed at him with those words.

“Ah. Now we get to the heart of the matter. You wish me to add consequence to your party, no doubt?”
“I wish you to be polite and to dance. There will be many lovely young ladies present, you know. It is an important moment for Julia and she would have you there. Why, Eloise is coming from the country.”

Eloise, his younger sister, had been married the previous year and had only just returned
from the Continent with her husband, Geoffrey, the Earl of Gilmont. Gilmont was a far more pleasant brother-in-law than Bassincourt, who was widely considered one of the dullest bores on the
ton
.

Winbourne
enjoyed the company of Eloise and Geoffrey enough that he thought he might just about bear Honoria’s party. Besides, he supposed his sister’s garden party was as good a place as any other to begin his half-hearted search for a suitably biddable woman to be his countess. He was getting rather tired of Honoria’s badgering on the subject.

“I have ordered C
ook to make your favourite vanilla
mille-feulles
.”

“Oh, very well, then. You have convinced me, sister.”
He made sure to sound appropriately bored.

At that moment, Watts appeared, with a footman in tow, to provide Honoria with tea and fancies.

“Ah, good!” she exclaimed. “I am quite famished. You always do know exactly when to send for tea, brother.”

When they were quite alone and Honoria was happily partaking of the cherry cake, she ventured to broach her favourite subject.

“You know, I have invited Miss Dunn. And Lady Eleanor Smythe. They are both expected to do famously in the Season.”

“I expect that is your way of telling me that they are great beauties worthy of a coronet. But I know that when she laughs, Miss
Dunn develops a slight squint and Lady Eleanor Smythe has little interest in anything beyond her spaniels.” He said the last partly to annoy Honoria. He had no intention of telling her that he meant to pick any suitably meek creature who did not irritate him overmuch and whose appearance was passably tolerable.

“Nonsense! Miss Hartley does not have a squint! And Lady Eleanor is a very sporting young lady to enjoy the hunt as she does.
You’re being beastly again, Alastair.”

“Am I
? I am certain I was only making an observation, Honoria. More cake?”

*

Constance had been quite upset to be obliged to remain at home, and Lorelei, despite her admonitions to herself that it was just a garden party, was rather excited to attend. She did her best to hide her enthusiasm out of consideration for her sister’s feelings. Con felt that she would never be deemed old enough to attend such soirées, though she was every bit as capable of conducting herself as her sister.

Despite her best efforts, Lorelei could not stop her eyes from sparkling with enthusiasm.
It was so much better than wasting away at Ledley, in the fog and rain, with nothing but country squires’ wives for company. It was her first party of the Season and her excitement was almost enough to drive the thought of her mystery earl out of her mind. Almost, but not quite. She wondered if he would be there, certain that her heart would know the earl the instant her eyes fell on him. She considered what she would do if she were to see him there. He would not know her and she knew she could not be so bold as to approach the earl and speak to him! And whatever in the world would she say?