The Lady In Question (16 page)

“What kind of problems?”

“Well, I certainly have not been the subject of scandal, but I have made any number of new acquaintances recently and, of course, one always renews old friendships during the season, and —”

“Anyone in
particular
I should be aware of?”

“Not really. The gentlemen I mentioned last night, perhaps, but I have engaged in nothing more than mild flirtations, for the most part. At least as far as I can recall.” Cassie thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, I’m certain there is nothing to be concerned with.”

“You’ve never been especially good at remembering details.”

“Even so, I do tend to remember men. Of the two of us, I have always been the one more interested in marriage, and therefore the one more attuned to the relative merits and detriments of any particular gentleman. And if I don’t remember a man, he is not worth remembering.”

“Excellent point,” Delia murmured.

“However, if you find yourself in an awkward situation, simply tilt your head, widen your eyes and say, ‘Sir, you have me at a disadvantage.’

“And this works?”

“Always.”

“Why haven’t you told me this before?”

“You’ve never needed it before. Remember, before your Lord Wilmont, your suitors were also eminently respectable —”

“Boring,” Delia murmured.

“— and therefore you were never in an especially difficult position nor did you have the opportunity to develop the finer points of flirting. Now you are going to be me and you need to know how to proceed accordingly.” Cassie grinned. “This should indeed be an adventure.”

“I don’t know.” Delia shook her head. “This is so —”

“Honestly, Delia.” Cassie glared. “It’s been months since you wore anything but black or did anything that even remotely resembled fun. You’ve hidden yourself away and you’ve been the perfect little widow, but it’s absurd that you should be married for a few days and have to pay for it forever. Why, Grandmother as much as said the same —”

“That’s quite enough,” Delia said firmly.

“Not it’s not,” Cassie snapped. “It’s not nearly enough. And I daresay —”

“Cassie,” Delia said in a cool, level tone that belied the fluttering in her stomach. “If you don’t hold your tongue right now and help me into this gown” — Delia grinned — “I shall never get back to the ball.”

Welcome to the game.

Tony returned to the ballroom, the phrase lingering ominously in his mind.
Welcome to the game.

It scarcely mattered, of course; no one would ever discover his masquerade as Gordon. Still, would it be so bad to be forced to do the honorable thing when it came to Delia? Or would be…delightful?

He smiled at the thought of just how delightful it might be, then stepped into the ballroom and nearly collided with Delia’s sister.

“Oh, dear.” Wide blue eyes, the exact shade of her sister’s, stared up at him. How could two women possibly look so much alike? She even wore the same fragrance as Delia. “I do apologize. I fear I was not paying attention.”

“It is of no consequence, Miss Effington,” he said firmly. “Indeed, it is I who should apologize.”

“Whatever for?”

“For not knowing where the loveliest woman here is at any given moment.” He took her gloved hand and drew it to his lips.

She stared for a moment, then laughed. The sound rippled through his blood. “Your words are as polished as your manner, sir.” She withdrew her hand. “Now then, if you will excuse me —”

“But surely you are not leaving before we have had our dance?” The words were out before he could stop himself. Although, why shouldn’t he share a dance with Miss Effington? He might well learn something about her sister that could assist him.

“Our dance?” A touch of what might have been panic flashed in her eyes, replaced almost at once by a look of determination and a slight lift of her chin. “I would not dream of leaving before we have had our dance.” She cast him a brilliant smile and her dimple flashed. “But you must forgive me, I seem to have forgotten your name.”

“Anthony St. Stephens,” he said slowly. Of course she wouldn’t remember his name; they’d never met. “Or rather Viscount St. Stephens.” He shook his head. There was something here… “Now you must forgive me. I have only recently inherited my title and I fear I am not yet used to it.”

“I have always thought titles a bit difficult myself. There are so many rules regarding who we are, or rather what we are, and what we should be called. Were we not born to it, we should never be able to understand it at all and even now” — again the dimple in her right cheek appeared with her smile — “it can be most confusing.”

“Indeed it can, my la —” He caught himself, startled to note that somewhere in the back of his mind he had seen the truth. “Miss Effington.”

Except this was not Miss Cassandra Effington. The dimple told him that, as did the look in her eyes, the tilt of her chin and probably her fragrance as well.

He should be shocked by her ruse, her blatant disregard for propriety. Instead, the oddest feeling of anticipation surged through him. The opening strains of a waltz filled the air and his blood quickened at the thought of taking her in his arms.

“And I believe this is our dance.” He offered her his arm.

“So it is, my lord.” She smiled and laid her hand softly on his arm.

They took their place among the dancers. She fit into his arms as if she were made for him, as if they were made for each other. He resisted the urge to pull her close against him. They moved through the steps of the dance with a shocking ease. She was graceful and fluid; he had never been much more than adequate, or perhaps he had never had a partner as perfect for him until now. It was as if they had danced together before. As if they were meant to dance together. Tonight. Always.

She looked up at him with a curious smile. “You dance quite well, my lord.”

“We dance well together, Miss Effington.” He grinned down at her and couldn’t resist calling her bluff. “But then, we always have.”

Unease flickered in her eyes, but she didn’t hesitate. “Have we?”

“Indeed we have. And I grow more certain of it every time we take to the floor. I thought so again last week when we danced at Lady Locksley’s gala, and before that at Lord and Lady Chalmer’s ball and, of course, at Mrs. Huntly’s birthday celebration. In truth, I think we are fated to dance together.”

“Do you really think so my, my lord? Why, I should attribute it more to” — she smiled innocently —

“sheer practice.”

He laughed. “You are as charming as ever, Miss Effington.”

“And you are as forward as ever.” There was a distinct challenge in her tone and abruptly he realized she enjoyed the charade. And why not? Didn’t she deserve a few minutes of enjoyment?

Didn’t he?

“It is entirely your fault, Miss Effington.” He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “You bring out the worst in me. I am usually most proper, and indeed have even been called stuffy and narrow-minded upon occasion.”

She laughed. “I can’t imagine that.”

“It’s true.” His gaze caught hers. “Although, I must say I quite like what you bring out in me.”

Her brow rose. “Do you?”

“I do indeed.” For a long moment they stared into each other’s eyes. His heart thudded in his chest. The room around them seemed to dim and vanish. The world, and everything in it, was of no consequence. Nothing mattered beyond the two of them.

He barely noticed when the music stopped. Reluctantly he released her and stepped back.

“How very odd, I find it difficult to catch my breath,” she murmured. “It has been such a long time since I’ve danced a waltz.” She caught her mistake and cast him a teasing smile. “At least a quarter hour or so.”

“Then perhaps you should like a breath of fresh air.” He offered his arm. “Would you accompany me to the terrace?”

“I get in rather a lot of trouble on terraces,” she said, more to herself than to him.

“It is a beautiful night,” he said in a tempting manner.

“Indeed it is, my lord, but” — she leaned toward him confidentially — “surely you realize if you and I are seen leaving together it would quite ruin my reputation.”

“Of course.” He cast her a resigned smile and pushed aside his disappointment. He couldn’t blame her. It wouldn’t be her reputation at stake, after all, but her sister’s.

“Still…” She paused and he could read a myriad of thoughts in her eyes. Indecision and temptation and, at last, a glimmer of resolve. His hopes rose.

“However” — she smiled in a too-innocent manner — “if you should feel the need for fresh air, I would encourage you to retire to the terrace.” Her gaze met his and she waved her fan before her face in a slow, seductive manner that would scarcely move a breath of air but was doing rather remarkable things to his insides. “One never knows who else might feel a similar need.”

“I see.” He nodded thoughtfully. “And perhaps I should bring a glass of champagne with me?”

“Or two. To sustain you, of course, against the night air.”

“Of course.” He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers. He breathed in the scent he could recognize in his sleep, felt the warmth of her hand through her gloves, lost himself in the deep blue of her eyes. In the slight puzzlement, the touch of apprehension and the cautious anticipation he saw there.

Her gaze locked with his and, without warning, the moment between them changed, lengthened, stretched endlessly. He wanted to pull her into his arms right here, right now, taste her lips, feel the warmth of her flesh beneath his hands, mold her body against his. Right here, right now, and the rest of the world be damned. He didn’t care about impropriety or her uncle or his work or her husband or his friend. And he knew, from the look in her eye and the slight intake of her breath and the heat that flashed between them, without question, without doubt, she felt the same shocking connection. He held her hand a beat longer than he should have. She pulled away a moment later than she should have.

“I…” She shook her head slightly as though to clear it, and he resisted the need to do the same.

“Perhaps we shall meet again, my lord.”

“Sooner rather than later, I should hope.”

She nodded, smiled and took her leave, leaving a distinct air of confusion in her wake. It would have been quite satisfying if he hadn’t been more than a bit befuddled himself. What exactly had just happened here? They were playing a game of sorts, flirtatious and entirely lighthearted. At least, it had started as a game. And a dangerous one at that. Still, was it wrong to want to be with her as himself and not as an elderly servant? Wrong to wonder where things between the two of them might lead? What the end result would be between Lady Wilmont and Viscount St. Stephens? It was not especially wise, perhaps, but wrong? He had no idea. It might well be inevitable.

He strolled toward the terrace and grinned to himself, resisting the oddest urge to whistle.
Welcome to the game.

Chapter 9

“I wasn’t entirely sure you’d meet me.”

“I wasn’t entirely sure I’d meet you either.” Delia sipped her champagne and studied the viscount curiously. What game was this man playing? Not that she really cared. She was rather enjoying it all. She had taken the time to find Cassie in the library and quiz her about the charming viscount. Cassie couldn’t so much as remember his name and pointed out, once again, if she could not remember a gentleman he was not worth remembering.

In this particular case, Delia suspected Cassie was wrong.

They stood in the shadows in a far corner of the terrace, just out of the pool of light cast by chandeliers placed along the stone balustrade. Delia and Cassie had been aware of the benefits of this particular spot for years. It was discreet but not overly secluded, with a conveniently placed stone bench. If one wanted to cast caution aside, there were any number of spots in the garden, most notably the mazes, as well as a variety of other well-placed benches, that provided far more privacy. However, this spot on the terrace was the perfect location for a rendezvous one did not want to get out of hand. Especially when one was pretending to be one’s sister and, thanks to said sister’s poor memory, had no idea how far things had progressed with the gentleman in question. St. Stephens chuckled, a rather nice sound that warmed her down to her toes. “I’m not certain if I’m relieved by your hesitation or disappointed.”

“Relieved, my lord?” She raised a brow. “Because of that stuffy, narrow-minded nature of yours?”

“It is my greatest fault,” he said with an exaggerated sigh.

“Somehow I doubt that,” she said wryly. He couldn’t possibly be as stuffy as he claimed. If he were, he would not be engaged in a private meeting with an unmarried woman. In truth, he was rather amusing, this unknown lord who apparently was in the midst of an ongoing flirtation with her sister. Or at least thought he was. She and Cassie had talked well into the late hours last night and Cassie had spoken of any number of prospective suitors who may or may not come up to scratch this season, and may or may not be worth the effort at any rate, but she hadn’t mentioned St. Stephens. Which meant Cassie’s affections were not so much as mildly engaged. St. Stephens’s intentions, however, were unknown.

“And your disappointment?”

Although how Cassie could fail to mention St. Stephens, even in passing, was something of a mystery. He was entirely too handsome to be overlooked, and wonderfully tall, with the most intriguing gleam in his eye, as if he could see right through her and knew all her secrets.

“The reason for that, my dear Miss Effington, is obvious.”

And liked what he saw. “Is it?”

“I quite treasure the opportunity to be alone with you.”