Wicked Angel (22 page)

Stung, Lauren shrugged indifferently. Paul fairly exploded. "Don't pursue him!" he shouted.

Outraged by that accusation, Lauren gasped. "I am not
pursuing
him!"

"Sutherland is above your reach. He is one of the most influential peers of the realm, and he is to be married at the end of the Season. If
he
is paying
you
any particular attention, it is because he would trifle with you!"

She gaped in disbelief at her brother, who was now, apparently, an expert on the Duke of Sutherland.

What could he possibly know?
He
had never met Mr. Christian or been kissed by a duke. He had no idea the myriad feelings that man could evoke, feelings that were
still
rifling through her and turning her inside out. She placed the port on the drink cart. "I have had a rather long day. Please excuse me."

Turning on her heels, she walked swiftly to the door.

"Do not see him again, Lauren," Paul warned.

She whipped around, her eyes narrowed with anger. "I understand the duke resides on Audley Street, Paul. Perhaps you should dispatch a messenger to inform him that as I am so wholly unsuitable as
a
friend
, he should cease to present himself every blasted place I go!" she exclaimed, and sailed through the door before he could utter another word.

Several miserable days followed in which she could think of little else than Alex. As if it made any difference, she mourned the fact that he was so far above her in social situation.
Miles
above her—so high that she could no longer even pretend. Mr. Christian, the stuff of her dreams, was gone, and in his place was the very handsome Duke of Sutherland. She rebuked herself for desiring him so completely and hopelessly,
particularly
since he was engaged. Particularly since he was so bloody
prominent
.

She read every paper she could get her hands on, devouring the news of what was happening at Parliament with a mixture of awe and resignation. Some said the Duke of Sutherland was a Radical, a dangerous man with a dangerous agenda. Others said his progressive thinking was just what the country needed, that his foresight was inspirational. The middle class cheered his efforts; the Quality sniffed disdainfully that his quest for economic and social reform would lead to Catholic seats in Parliament.

Some editorials hinted that his motives were not altogether pure—the duke's shipping empire stood to gain from the very reforms he touted.

Nonetheless,
The Times
called one of his many speeches to the august membership of the Lords brilliant.

He argued that unfair representation and oppressive taxation, the very reasons England had lost America, were now the very reasons England could lose its own people. Reform, he insisted, was not an academic debate, but imperative to the health and well-being of the Crown.

As political pundits argued in print whether Sutherland was helping or hurting the reform movement, on one thing they all agreed: Reform could not pass the Lords without the influence of the Duke of Sutherland, and Sutherland could not garner enough influence without the Earl of Whitcomb. No one could dispute the importance of the Christian-Reese family alliance.

But the dailies gave every indication that the Earl of Whitcomb was less than enthusiastic about reform—apparently, the popular earl did not want to include Catholic emancipation in the reform movement. He was purported to have said that while some change was vital to the nation, too much change was dangerous.

As Lauren pounded her fist into her pillow for the hundredth time one night, she realized Paul was right.

Alex was fighting an uphill battle, a battle for reforms that Rosewood desperately needed. Any hint of impropriety would taint what good he had done or could hope to do, particularly, she gathered, among the old guard, who did not tolerate public indiscretions. And as nothing could
ever
come of her consuming desire for him, her only hope was to put him out of her mind, to avoid him at all costs.

If only it were that easy.

God help her, if she closed her eyes, she could still feel his hands and lips on her. She could still smell his cologne, see his handsome face and green eyes. His kiss had ignited a fire in her that was left smoldering, and nothing, apparently, would extinguish it. God knew she had tried, but she was incapable of suppressing her thoughts of Alex or the overwhelming desire to be held by him again. He had awakened in her the powerful desire for a man's touch. The fiery kisses they had shared had only scratched the surface of what she instinctively knew could be between a man and a woman, and she ached to know it

all, to feel him inside her, his hands and mouth on her skin, his breath on her neck. And damn it, it seemed
nothing
would ease such extraordinary yearning—as the poet Keats had once put it, "

yearning like a God in pain
."

But it could never be.

Nothing short of a miracle could change anything. There was nothing she could do but put him out of her mind, once and for all, and concentrate on the task of finding a suitable match. She had to think of Rosewood, and above all, she had to stay away from him. It was bloody impossible to be near him and not want him, and utterly devastating to desire him so fiercely.

Lauren tried to cope by focusing on a weekend trip to Rosewood. Ethan had finally relented, and they planned to leave in two days' time. The anticipation helped to buoy her spirits, and she busied herself as best she could. She took to visiting the Haddington Road Infirmary to fill the time. She had gone once with Paul to visit an old school chum of his who had fallen into ill health. As they had walked down the corridor, several patients looked up, hopeful that they had come to visit them. Realizing how lonely some of them were—particularly the elderly—Lauren had been drawn back. It meant so much to the patients, and it filled a void in her.

She donned a new soft-green gown one glorious morning after a solid week of putting Alex from her mind. It was a perfect day for the Darfield garden party, and she had promised Abbey she would come.

Actually, she was looking
forward
to the garden party, anxious to pass the time until the following morning when they would leave for Rosewood. That, she mused, was a sign she was finally able to put some distance between her feelings for Alex Christian and the reality of who he was—the Duke of Sutherland.

Alex Christian, however, was a man obsessed.

Taunted by her memory, he had tried to erase Lauren's image with copious amounts of port, but it had not helped—nor had what little sleep he had gotten. He was not even deterred from his thoughts after meeting Lauren's rather odious uncle in the company of Mrs. Clark and Aunt Paddy one day, or the rather frightful discovery that the ignominious man was a childhood chum of Mrs. Clark. There was nothing on God's earth that could turn his thoughts from the angel—not Marlaine, not his impending nuptials, not even Lauren's very cool behavior toward him.

Two nights past, he had bumped into her at the Fordham mansion. Although she had managed to avoid eye contact with him, he had been unable to keep his eyes from her. In a sumptuous gown of ice-blue silk that left little to his imagination, she had smiled thinly, mumbling her rather terse responses to his small talk, all the while studying the tips of her slippers. And then Madgoose had intervened. That damned German was beginning to irritate him greatly—so greatly that he had walked away without even excusing himself.

Yet he had unwillingly glanced back and had caught Lauren looking at him. The unreadable expression in her vivid blue eyes was almost as disturbing as seeing her dancing with Madgoose later, laughing at something he said, and smiling that devastating smile of hers.

It had almost undone him.

It had also left him feeling intolerably restless.

The restlessness had continued well into the days that followed. At the Vauxhall Gardens fireworks

display, he had chafed with unease for the better part of two hours as he sat with Marlaine in a box reserved for dignitaries. No matter how hard he tried to keep his thoughts on his fiancée, he could not keep his mind from wandering to Lauren. When Marlaine requested a walk about, he was grateful for the distraction, and had led her on an aimless stroll through the crowds.

He did not see Lauren until he was almost upon her.

Standing near Madgoose in the dim evening light, she did not notice him, either. Staring up at the dark sky, she smiled brilliantly as a charge exploded in the night air. Spellbound, Alex watched as she tilted her head back and stretched her arms out, as if his angel sought heaven's light. As the glittering light had faded from the sky, she had uttered, " '
The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out; at one stride comes the
dark.' "
The stanza was from
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
, one of his favorite poems. It had stirred him so deeply he had hardly heard Marlaine speak his name, or notice the cold glare Madgoose had bestowed on him. They had walked on, just as Lauren turned. He was certain he had seen a flicker in her eyes, a brief surge of…
something
. But her eyes had quickly shuttered and she had turned away again, pretending not to have noticed him.

He was a man obsessed.

One bright, sun-drenched day, Alex smiled thinly at Marlaine's enthusiasm for the Darfield garden party.

For her sake, he was prepared to endure the chatter of the prowlers for hours if he must, but when he walked out onto the terrace with Marlaine on his arm, he heard Lauren's gentle laugh. It shook him—for some reason, he had not thought that she would be there.

Bothered by the strange churning of his gut, he stiffly greeted Michael and Abbey then kissed his mother, who had arrived earlier with Aunt Paddy. He then took a seat—prudently, he thought—as far away from Lauren as he could get. Only then did he allow himself to look at her.

"Your grace, you have come just in time!" Paddy insisted with great exuberance. "Honestly, there can be no consensus gained among us! You shall help us, shan't you?"

"I shall certainly try, Aunt. What seems to be the issue?" he asked, stealing a glance at Lauren. Smiling serenely, her eyes fixed on a point in the middle of the group. He had the distinct impression she was determined not to look at him.

"As you are to be married in St. Paul's Cathedral at precisely eleven o'clock in the morning—"

"On a Friday," clarified Mrs. Clark.

"On a Friday, and as it is a summer wedding, I thought that pews would be most handsomely set off with lilies of the valley, but your dear mother has suggested white roses."

Alex exchanged a weary look with Michael. "I shall be quite happy with whatever Marlaine decides." He smiled at his bride-to-be; her fair cheeks pinkened as she shyly returned his smile.

"Oh, that is not very helpful a'tall! Very well, then, we shall inquire of Countess Bergen
her
opinion," the elderly woman decreed, and turned her head so sharply that the ringlets about her face bounced like fat little sausages.

Lauren's head jerked up, her serene smile gone. "
My
opinion? I, ah, think either one would be very lovely," she murmured uncertainly to Paddy's nod.

Paddy frowned. "Come now, surely you have an
opinion?
"

"She is not required to have an opinion," Lady Thistlecourt imperiously informed her. Paddy shifted an impatient look to the terror of the loo tables.

"Paddy," Hannah interrupted lightly, staving off an imminent argument, "what if we mixed them? Lilies and roses?"

"Lilies and roses? How very odd," Mrs. Clark mused. Paddy snorted at what she obviously considered a preposterous suggestion and looked expectantly at Lauren.

She paled, glancing nervously at the flagstones. "I, uh, cannot say," she murmured.

"Oh come now, dear. What
flower
do you prefer?"

"I adore gardenias," Mrs. Clark suddenly interjected, "don't you, Countess Bergen?"

She responded to the question by choking on a swallow of punch and turning wide blue eyes to Mrs.

Clark.

"My goodness, what on earth is wrong, Countess Bergen?" Hannah exclaimed, coming swiftly to her feet.

Lauren's laugh was nervously high pitched. "Why, nothing!" she insisted, and attempted to wave the duchess away, but Hannah was quickly at her side. Lauren looked panicked; she stumbled to her feet, her gaze scudding across Alex before settling on Mrs. Clark. "W-Would you believe," she said nervously, "that I cannot tolerate sugar? I did not know the drink was sugared, and I took a very large drink of it, and well, I simply cannot take sugar!" She smiled brightly. Too brightly, Alex thought. The reference to gardenias had truly disturbed her.
Good
. He hoped she was suffering at least a little. He certainly was.

"But that is your second glass," Mrs. Clark observed.

"Is it?" Lauren asked weakly. She laughed again, and carefully placed her punch on a table. "I rather think a bit of air is all I need." A bit of air, indeed, Alex thought dryly.

"What a marvelous idea. Would you mind terribly if I joined you for a turn about the gardens?" Marlaine asked.

Astonished, Alex gaped at his fiancée. It was so unlike her, so
very
unlike her. He peered at her closely, wondering madly what was going through her head, but she carefully avoided his gaze.

"Why, that… that would be lovely," Lauren calmly responded, but her stunned expression belied her words. Suddenly very uncomfortable, Alex looked from Marlaine to Lauren and back again. As the two women started down the garden path, Alex glanced at his mother. Hannah regarded him curiously enough, but worse yet, Lady Whitcomb, who was seated next to Hannah, was staring daggers at him.

"Hmmm… that could be trouble," Michael uttered as his gaze followed the two women. Horrified, Alex jerked a startled gaze to him. Michael chuckled. "They will probably return with the notion of lilies, roses,
and
gardenias on every pew!" He shrugged when Alex closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.