Thunder and Roses (30 page)

As she descended the last few steps, he replied, “Perhaps not beautiful.”

Her heart twitched; apparently she had wanted him to perjure himself.

“Bewitching is a better word.” He took the end of her shawl so that it unwound when he circled around her. “Irresistible.” The shawl slithered to the floor and pooled around Clare’s slippers. He leaned forward and touched warm, firm lips to the sensitive juncture of throat and jaw. “A potent mixture of innocence and sensuality.”

A strange, intoxicating feeling shivered through Clare, as much a product of his admiration as his kiss. All of a sudden she felt that she was that woman in the mirror—alluring, intensely female, as capable of playing the games of love as Nicholas. It was like being possessed by the spirit of another woman—one who was not at all respectable.

“I’m glad you approve.” She raised her hand and traced the planes of his face with her fingertips, taking care not to disturb the crisp folds of his cravat. He had just shaved and his jaw was very smooth. “Have I mentioned lately that you are undoubtedly the handsomest man in Great Britain, if not the whole of Europe?”

He chuckled and reached for her. “Shall we continue this exchange of compliments upstairs?”

Gracefully she eluded his grasp, knowing that her movement would release the scent of her perfume, a haunting wild rose fragrance that Polly had suggested. “It’s time we were going. We mustn’t miss the chance to find Lord Michael.”

“You’re learning to be dangerous, Clarissima,” he murmured, desire and amusement warring in his face.

“I’m studying with the best.”

He laughed, then retrieved the shawl and draped it around her shoulders. The light brush of his hands sent fire racing through her veins. She took his arm and they went out to the waiting carriage.

As they settled inside, Clare asked, “Why did Lord Strathmore say this wasn’t a suitable place to take me? Does the duke throw orgies?” She let her hand rest on his and stroked his palm with her thumb.

“Nothing like that, though it’s true that few families would let their unmarried daughters attend. Rafe’s entertainments are considered fast —the sort of occasion where a man might take his mistress, and perhaps meet his wife who is attending with her lover.” Nicholas twined his fingers with Clare’s and rested their hands on his knee. “Most of the women will be from fashionable society, but some will be high-grade courtesans.”

“How can I tell the difference?”

“The most flamboyant will be society women,” he explained. “The courtesans will be a bit more discreet.”

She smiled. In the intimate darkness of the carriage, it was easy to flirt. Polly had been right: the provocative woman in the mirror had been real—a dangerous part of herself that Clare had never acknowledged. Yet as she let her knee brush his as if by accident, she did not regret what she was becoming. She would do that later.

In the darkness Nicholas’s mouth found hers for a long, leisurely kiss that intensified when he slid his hand under the shawl and caressed the back of her bare shoulders. Thirty seconds more, and she would melt at his feet and let him do whatever he willed.

Remembering that
offense
was the best form of defense, she put her hand on his knee and squeezed. A tremor went through him. “Definitely dangerous,” he said in a voice that wasn’t quite level. His hand moved to her breast.

“Do you want to learn how far it is possible to go in a carriage?”

She gave a gurgle of laughter. “You said that the duke’s house is quite near yours.”

“That isn’t what I meant and you know it, minx.”

Her nipple hardened as his thumb teased it through the silk. Much more of this and they would be testing the limits of the coach in earnest. She drew a deep breath, then said, “Time to stop, I think.”

His hand moved from her breast to the safer territory of her waist. “For the rest of the night?”

She thought. “Enough for now. It’s too early to give up touching for the rest of the night.”

“I quite agree.” He settled back against the velvet-covered seat, but kept her hand in his.

As Clare steadied her breathing, she realized that trust was what made this mad game possible. Whenever she said to stop, Nicholas stopped, and his self-control gave her the freedom to play the role of siren. She smiled into the darkness and wondered what the next phase of the game would be.

16
             

 
As they waited in a short receiving line at Candover House, Clare said, “Have you seen the duke since returning to London?”

“I paid a call, but he wasn’t in, so I left a card.” Nicholas smiled. “Rafe sent back a note inviting me to the ball, with a threat to drag me here by the scruff of the neck if I didn’t come voluntarily.”

“You’ll probably be unable to do much except say hello to each other,” she remarked. “I’ve always heard that a London ball has to be a great crush to be considered fashionable.”

“Rafe doesn’t follow fashion, he sets it. Since he doesn’t enjoy unruly crowds, his gatherings are a more comfortable size. Makes them more exclusive, as well.”

She gave him a teasing glance. “Does he not bother to invite unmarried girls since they aren’t allowed to come?”

“Rafe has no interest in well-bred virgins,” Nicholas said dryly. Gesturing to the woman standing by the host, he added, “That’s Lady Welcott, his current mistress, according to Lucien.”

“A married woman?”

Nicholas nodded. “The only kind of female Rafe has any interest in. They know the rules and don’t cause trouble by falling in love with him.”

Sounding very much like a preacher’s daughter, Clare said, “Is adultery a way of life in fashionable society?”

He shrugged. “Since many aristocratic marriages are made for reasons of family and property, it’s hardly surprising when people look elsewhere for pleasure.”

Was that why Nicholas had been unfaithful to his wife? Even Clare’s glorious gown didn’t give her the courage to ask that question. Instead, she said, “Surely the duke is in a position to marry a woman of his choice rather than for dynastic reasons.”

“He came close once—fell head over heels for a girl when he was just down from Oxford. I never met her, since I was still at university, but he wrote me some incoherent drivel to the effect that she was a goddess come to earth and they would become officially betrothed when the

Season was over. It was the only time I’ve ever known Rafe to sound unbalanced.”

“Did the girl die and he’s never met another woman who was her equal?” Clare asked sympathetically.

A hard glitter in his eyes, Nicholas replied, “No, she betrayed him. Isn’t that what love means?”

Clare felt as if all the air had been knocked out of her lungs. Then she sputtered, “That is, without a doubt, the most cynical remark I have ever heard in my life.”

“Is it? My experience says otherwise. Everyone who has ever claimed to love me—was His voice cut off abruptly.

Realizing that he had accidentally exposed one of the painful truths that made him what he was, she took his unresponsive hand in hers. “I suppose that some people claim to love when the real motive is neediness, or a desire for control, or something equally selfish,” she said thoughtfully. “Yet there are also people like Owen and Marged Morris, and Emily and Robert Holcroft. Do you think their love involves betrayal?”

His hand slowly tightened on hers. “No, I suppose not. Perhaps honest love is a talent, or simply luck, that some people have and others don’t.”

“I’ve sometimes thought that myself,” Clare said wistfully. “If you don’t believe in love, what do you believe in?”

After another pause, he said, “Friendship, I suppose.”

“One can do worse than believing in friendship,” she said, “but deep friendship is also a kind of love.”

“I suppose so.” He gave a self-mocking smile. “But since the stakes are much lower, betrayal is less likely, which makes friendship much safer.”

They reached the head of the receiving line, and Clare got her first clear look at the Duke of Candover as he talked to the couple ahead of them. The duke was tall, handsome, and almost as dark as Nicholas, with an aristocratic air that she guessed was as natural to him as breathing. Polite, pleasant, controlled—the very picture of a proper English gentleman.

The previous guests moved on and the duke turned to them. His face immediately lit up.

“Nicholas! I’m glad you were able to come.” He shook hands with real enthusiasm. “We probably won’t have much time to talk tonight, so I hope you’ll join me for luncheon at White’s tomorrow.”

Just as Clare had approved of Lucien for fighting beside an outnumbered schoolboy, she now liked the duke for his obvious pleasure in the reunion. Though Nicholas had a low opinion of love, he obviously had the gift of making friends.

Drawing Clare forward, he said, “Rafe, this is my friend Miss Morgan.”

Their talk had given her a new appreciation of what it meant that he introduced her as a friend. Smiling, she said, “It’s a great pleasure, Your Grace.”

He bowed elegantly. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Morgan.” Unlike Nicholas, his eyes were a very English gray, and she saw both curiosity and masculine approval in the cool depths. Completing the introductions, he said, “Lady Welcott, the Earl of Aberdare and Miss Morgan.”

The duke’s mistress was several years older than he, perhaps forty. She was a handsome, fair-haired woman with a worldly air; not the sort to fall hysterically in love with a man who had no taste for untidy emotions. Clare thought of the “goddess come to earth” who had brought Rafe to this, and repressed a sigh. Poor duke. So many people wanted love, yet there never seemed to be enough to go around.

Lady Welcott gave Clare a perfunctory nod, but her eyes brightened when she turned to Nicholas. “Lord Aberdare,” she said warmly, extending a hand. “You may not remember, but we met when you were Viscount
Tregar
. At Blenheim, I believe.”

He bowed over her hand. “Of course I remember. I never forget an attractive woman.”

Lady Welcott was too sophisticated to simper, though in Clare’s jaundiced opinion it was a near thing. Fluttering her fan gracefully, her ladyship said, “Now that you’ve returned to Britain, I hope we’ll be seeing more of you in London.”

“Very likely you will.” His smile was charming; his smiles always were.

Though the duke seemed mildly amused by the interaction, Clare had to repress a desire to kick either Nicholas or her ladyship in the ankle. Nicholas slanted an amused glance at her, and Clare was sure he could read her thoughts. Smoothly he said, “We’re holding up the line. If we don’t have a chance to talk tonight, Rafe, I’ll see you at White’s tomorrow.”

He took Clare’s arm and led her into the enormous entry hall, then turned left toward the ballroom. “To succeed in society, Clare, you must learn to control your expression. I was afraid you were going to bite Lady Welcott.”

“I’ve no desire for social success,” she said acidly. “And surely it was rude of her aging ladyship to drool over you in front of me.”

He grinned. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy? I thought it was one of the seven deadly sins.”

“Jealousy isn’t, but envy is, along with covetousness, lust, anger, gluttony, pride, and sloth,” she retorted.

“I know the list well.” His eyes were dancing. “Everyone needs ideals to aspire to.”

She had to laugh. “You’re disgraceful.”

“I try,” he said modestly.

They stepped through an arch of scarlet flowers into a large ballroom, where beautifully dressed men and women drifted about between dances. Yet even though it was Clare’s first grand society event, what drew her astonished attention was not the people but the decor.