To Seduce a Scoundrel (5 page)

While sounds of rustling stirred parts of his body better left ignored, he went in search of a replacement mask for her and hopefully one for himself. For all that he deserved his black reputation, he didn’t particularly like walking around Lockwood House with his face exposed.

First he tried the drawers in the armoire. Fripperies and undergarments. He turned to decide where next to look and caught sight of her pulling the green velvet up her body, shielding her partially-clad form from his view.

She stood with her back to him. “Can you fasten the gown?”

It was more time-consuming to dress her than undress her, which gave him more time to contemplate her scent and her softness. Dangerous ground. He hurried at his task, which naturally only served to make the ordeal take longer. Finally, she was clothed, but when she turned to face him, any sense of relief fled.

The dark green velvet draped her form beautifully, as if it had been crafted just for her. The neckline was low, accentuating the creaminess of her skin and the beckoning valley between her breasts. Breasts that were held up and displayed to painful perfection—painful to him, anyway.

“Is it all right?” An honest question, devoid of guile, asked by a young woman who’d seen far more than she ought this night.

It was more than all right. “You’ll do. Now, let us find masks.”

“What about that?” she pointed a slippered toe at her discarded gown.

“Ah, yes, another bit of fuel for the fire.” He grabbed the poker and stirred the coals in the fireplace.

“If we toss the entire thing on the coals, it might douse the fire. Perhaps we should tear it into smaller pieces?”

“What a resourceful girl you’re proving to be.” He smiled at her, enjoying her company despite the absurdity of the entire evening.

After returning the poker to its stand, he plucked up the garment, grasped the already ripped bodice, and rent it from neckline to hem down the front and again down the back. He dropped one half while he worked to get the other into smaller pieces. It surprised him a little when she picked up the discarded half and viciously ripped the sleeve off and threw it atop the glowing coals.

She caught him watching her and bent her head to her task. “I never liked this dress. My mother chose the pattern and the color.” She continued pulling at the fabric, having a more difficult time ripping through it than he did, so when he was finished with his half, he took over hers. She released the tattered silk with a nod. “Thank you for helping me tonight.”

He chuckled darkly. “Is that what you call it?”

She lightly touched his arm. “Yes. You gave me a mask and tried to help me escape. It’s not your fault we were accosted.”

“Save your appreciation for when I actually get you out of here.” He tossed the last of the dress atop the coals. The first pieces had caught, and flames now licked at the other remnants. He handed her the poker. “Stir that while I look for masks.”

He started with a small dresser next to the bed. It was filled with an array of cravats, scarves, and long lengths of silk, all of which were suitable for binding. He was immediately grateful she was occupied with the fire.

The next drawer held something mask-like. He held it up.

“Is that a blindfold?” she asked. “Do they play parlor games in here?”

He grinned at her naïveté, glad that she’d no idea. Her innocence—and her curiosity—were refreshing. He quickly tucked it back into the drawer. “Not exactly, no. Someday your husband can explain it to you.”

“I see.” She returned her attention to the fire, a bit of color again rushing to her cheeks. So sweet.

He pulled another piece of black silk from the drawer, but pivoted his body so she wouldn’t be able to see it as he investigated its usefulness. It was a hood designed to completely cover a person’s head with cutouts for the eyes, nose, and mouth. He turned toward her. “I’ve found something that will work.” He handed it to her and took over the poker, stabbing the last bits of fabric into the fire.

“Why, it looks like a hangman’s hood.” She glanced at him with a touch of humor in her gaze. “Not that I’ve actually
been
to a hanging. Did you find something for you?”

“Not yet.” He stirred the embers of her dress and then replaced the poker in the stand.

She stared into the fire. “My mother would hate to see what happened to that gown,” she noted, and not without a bit of scorn. “And she’d detest this one.” She smoothed her hands over the emerald velvet, drawing his attention to the curve of her hip.

He looked away and was about to continue his search for a mask when the door flew open and disaster fell upon them. Again.

Chapter Three

PHILLIPA froze in mid-stride as the hulking footman who’d earlier bade them wait their turn entered the room. And he was not alone. Quickly, she pulled the hood over her head and hurried close to Sevrin’s side.

Sevrin turned to face the intruder, stepping just a bit in front of her. He’d spent the entire evening trying to keep her out of harm’s way, yet harm seemed destined to find them.

“My lord, this gentleman insists it’s his turn for the room.” The footman indicated a tall, slender man. He seemed vaguely familiar, but then her vision was trying to adjust through the tiny eyeholes.

“Our apologies,” Sevrin said.

“I should hope so,” a dark, feminine voice said.

Philippa sucked in her breath. There was no mistaking the haughty tone of her mother.

The tall man slipped his hand around a woman’s waist—Philippa’s mother’s waist. She’d traded her peacock blue gown for a vivid scarlet. The man had to be Booth-Barrows. Another couple stood behind them. Good Lord, what was her mother going to do in here? Philippa really didn’t want to know. She just wanted to leave. Now.

She wound her fingers through Sevrin’s and gave his hand a tug.

“We were just leaving. Again, my apologies.” Sevrin walked with her toward the door.

A feminine voice—not Mother’s, thank goodness—said, “Why don’t you stay, Lord Sevrin. And I suppose your little friend can too.”

Philippa nearly gagged.

“How charming of you to invite us, but I’m afraid we have another engagement.” His fingers squeezed into hers as he rushed her from the room.

“Lord Sevrin, wait.”
Her mother
. Fabric rustled as her mother perhaps approached them in the alcove. Philippa daren’t turn around to look. “Your friend seems familiar. Is she your personal guest or one of Lockwood’s?”

Philippa froze, her belly churning until she was afraid she’d cast her accounts right into the center of the alcove outside the room.

Sevrin paused and guided her in front of him. Then she felt him pivot. She heard the amusement in his voice and gave him credit for playing his part so well. “Forgive me if I decline to answer your question as the purpose of Lockwood House is to provide anonymity for those who wish it.” His voice dropped to a bare whisper. “Isn’t that right, Lady Herrick?”

Her mother gasped softly. “How did you know?”

“Your secrets are safe with me,” he said quietly. “Enjoy your evening.”

His arm came around Philippa’s waist and he swept her away down the corridor. The door to the prop room closed behind them.

He led her to the right—back the way they’d come earlier—and then left toward what she thought was the front of the house. Philippa stopped and leaned against the wall, allowing her anxiety to pulse out of her in deep, gasping breaths. She pulled off her mask, needing a greater supply of air.

“Put your hood back on,” Sevrin urged. He’d stopped next to her and was glancing up and down the corridor. “Anyone could happen upon us at any moment.”

“We’ll revert to your kissing stratagem, then. I need a minute to catch my breath.”

“I know this has been a trying evening.” He kept his voice low.

“‘Trying’?” Hysterical laughter bubbled in her chest, but Philippa fought to keep it inside. “Why did you call my mother by name?”

He looked up as if he were contemplating the question, then his gaze found hers with warm intensity. “I wanted to put her on notice that she is not immune to scandal.”

A roguish thing to do, certainly, but he’d done it for
her
, which somehow took the edge off Philippa’s panic. She took a deep breath.

Sevrin frowned. “I hear footsteps. Put your hood back on.”

She frowned back at him but did as he said. A huge figure circled the corner ahead and walked straight for them. Sevrin pulled her away from the wall and tucked her against the side of his warm body. He was still coatless—why hadn’t they thought to get him a new one from that room?

“Sevrin, you’ve disdained a mask this evening. How bold.”

The large man stepped into the light splashing from a sconce and Philippa had to bite back a shocked gasp. He was quite simply the biggest person she’d ever seen. Impossibly tall and massively wide, with hair the color of coal and eyes like a storm cloud. But most unnerving of all was the scar running from the tip of his left eye to the base of his jaw. Was this the mysterious Lord Lockwood? Though he lived—and clearly entertained, if one could call it that—in London, she’d never seen him at a Society event.

“I’ve nothing to hide, Lockwood.” There was a smirk in Sevrin’s tone and, not for the first time tonight, Philippa wondered if he really embraced his notoriety or simply had no other choice. What would
she
do if she were a pariah? She’d still be the daughter of an earl, but she’d be relegated to a fringe existence, always clinging to the outside. Never getting in. Never being accepted. She felt a rush of sadness for Sevrin, and more than a surge of panic for her own situation.

Lord Lockwood clasped his hands behind his back, for all purposes seeming as though they chatted at the edge of a ballroom. “Not surprising, but curious since you donned a mask on your other visits. And tonight you brought entertainment, but then my offerings never did catch your eye.”

So Sevrin came to these parties but had yet to indulge, according to Lockwood anyway. However, since he’d taken her directly to that room with the dresses perhaps, as the huge footman had asked, Sevrin merely liked to watch. She peered at him through the slits of her mask, envisioning him watching activities like she’d seen downstairs. Had she ruined his evening’s plans?

“A note, however,” Lockwood said, his voice dark and deep and mysterious. “A girl like her will draw notice. If you’re at all worried about disclosing her identity, you ought to consider covering that mark on her arm. Gloves might have been in order. In fact, if you ask one of the footmen in the foyer, he’ll procure a pair for her.”

Philippa stiffened in his embrace. She’d earned the crescent-shaped scar just below the crook of her elbow falling from a tree when she was eight. Lord Lockwood was frighteningly observant.

Sevrin stroked her arm, covering the tell-tale scar. She relaxed just a bit.

“We appreciate your discretion, Lockwood,” he said. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Of course.” He smiled and it stretched the scar on his face, making him appear more menacing than he already did. Too bad he hadn’t encountered the footpads earlier. They’d have taken one look at him and run screaming in the other direction. He clapped a hand on Sevrin’s shoulder, and the man’s strength carried into Philippa’s frame. “Enjoy your evening.” Lord Lockwood continued past them down the corridor.

Sevrin took her elbow and pulled her forward. He sounded as if his breathing had become a bit difficult. “We need to get out of here as soon as possible. Your carriage is waiting for you?”

“I hope so.” Just when she’d begun to believe she might actually escape this nightmare unscathed, the encounter with Lockwood disrupted her equilibrium. “Do you think running into Lockwood will prove to be a problem? My scar, I mean…”

He didn’t slow their pace. “Lockwood designed these parties to be as anonymous and secretive as an attendee deigns. He won’t divulge anything.”

Philippa wished she could say this alleviated her concern, but how could it? Her entire reputation—indeed her entire livelihood—was at stake.

They rushed down the stairs, but—and she should’ve expected it really, given how her night had progressed—a group of gentlemen stood in the center of the marble room. In unison, the men turned and watched her and Sevrin descend the staircase. If Lockwood had looked at her appreciatively, these men regarded her with unguarded lust.

“Follow my lead,” Sevrin whispered close to her ear. He moved her to his left side, presumably so her scar would be hidden between them. He wrapped her hand around his arm as he guided her down to the marble floor.

“Sevrin,” one of them said, “a mask is too good for you, eh?”

He gave them a bland smile, and Philippa was glad her entire face was covered for she couldn’t have managed such a feat. In fact, she felt more than a trifle guilty that she was anonymous while Sevrin was not. “I must’ve forgotten it upstairs,” he drawled.

“Your coat too, apparently.” It was clear this gentleman thought himself above Sevrin. Unaccountably, Philippa wanted to kick him.

“Who’s your friend?” a second man asked. The man was of average height and thick build. He seemed vaguely familiar, but Philippa suspected she knew most of these people and would be shocked by more than a few of them, as she’d been with her mother. He stepped toward Philippa, studying her closely.