Dicing with the Dangerous Lord

He sat with his back to the horses, giving the direction of travel to Miss Fox.

His gaze studied her as he leaned back against the squabs. She was a woman he could have looked at for a lifetime and never grown tired. She appeared as relaxed, as cool and in control as ever she had been. But when he looked into those clear pale eyes, it was as if she had drawn a curtain behind them to hide herself from him.

‘A new landau.’ She stroked over the leather of the seats and bolster, the soft pale-cream kid of her gloves so stark in contrast to the black leather interior of the carriage.

‘My father’s,’ he said.

Her fingers touched the small neat coat of arms embroidered upon the bolster. ‘The Earl of Misbourne. Does he know that you are using it to squire actresses about London?’

‘One actress only,’ said Linwood and deliberately did not answer the rest of her question.

‘And yet you have taken an apartment in St James’s Place when your father’s house is not so very far away.’

‘You have been enquiring about me.’ The realisation would have been a compliment to any man’s ego and Linwood was no exception.

‘No more than you have been enquiring about me. You knew my direction without my telling you the other night.’

‘Then it seems we both are caught with an interest in the other.’

She glanced away, as if unwilling to admit it.

‘And yet you are not looking for a protector,’ he said in a low voice.

‘Nor you for a mistress,’ she replied silkily.

She looked over at him, her eyes meeting his so directly that he felt the desire lance through him swift and sharp. Her mouth curved to a small enticing smile that did not touch her eyes, before she turned her attention to their surroundings.

They had entered through Hyde Park Corner, taking the fashionable route along Rotten Row, although the lateness of year and the chill in the air meant the park was relatively quiet. They passed only two other carriages, one a group of elderly dowagers, who, having scrutinised the occupants of the landau, turned away as respectability deemed they must. And the other, the Duke of Arlesford and his wife. The two men exchanged a look that held distinct animosity, but Linwood was not troubled by it.

Overhead the sky was a clear white-blue and the sun hung so low that its pale dazzling light made him narrow his eyes. The chill in the air held the dampness of autumn and the leaves on the trees rustled in the flame-vivid colours, littering the grass around them. But the vibrant vital beauty of the surroundings paled to nothing against the woman sitting opposite him.

‘Your performance the other night was excellent.’

She seemed to still and, for a moment, he saw the flicker of confusion and a slight underlying fear in her eyes. ‘My performance?’

‘I brought my mother, my sister and her husband to see the play.’

She closed her eyes and smiled, and he could sense the release of tension, the relief that flowed through her in its place. He wondered at her reaction, but when she opened her eyes she was her normal self once more. ‘I saw you there, in your father’s box. How did your mother and sister find the evening?’

‘Most enjoyable.’

‘Your father did not accompany you?’

‘He did not.’ He did not expand upon it.

The breeze stroked against the fur of her hat, so that it quivered soft as down. They drove the rest of the time, speaking occasionally of nothing important, small things, and silences that were comfortable. He had never known a woman who did not try to fill them. Eventually the carriage reached the north-east Cumberland Gate. Her eyes moved to sweep over the greenery of the park and above to the sky and the sunlight. She inhaled deeply.

‘Such a fine day,’ she murmured almost to herself, ‘too often I see only evenings and nights’, and then she turned her gaze to him and smiled such a radiant warm smile. ‘Thank you for bringing me out in it.’

‘You are welcome’, and he felt his own mouth curve in response to the pleasure that lit her face.

‘Perhaps I could tempt you to a hot chocolate at Gunter’s?’ he asked as they left the park. Anything to prolong this time in her company.

‘You really have been enquiring of my vices, Lord Linwood.’ She smiled again.

And so did he.

And then the carriage turned into Park Lane and the sight there that, for Linwood, shrivelled all the sunshine of the day to darkness.

A costermonger’s barrow had overturned not far from the corner, spilling shiny red-and-green-striped apples across the road. Children swooped like starlings, chattering and grabbing and quarrelling with each other over the spoils. Linwood’s carriage was forced to stop directly outside the place he least wanted to be—the lone dark scar in the row of pale Portland-stone town houses.

Venetia stared at the charred wreckage of the burnt house, wondering if it were fate or Robert’s intervention that had brought the carriage to a halt at this very spot.

‘The Duke of Rotherham’s house,’ she said softly and the companionship that had been between her and Linwood only a moment early was ripped away, exposing it for the sham it was, even though it had felt real enough to fool her.

Linwood said nothing, but she sensed the change in him without even looking. Or perhaps the change was all in herself.

‘Apparently it was an act of arson.’ Venetia kept her voice light as if it were not a matter of such consequence of which she spoke.

‘Was it?’ All of Linwood’s reserve and caution had slotted back into place.

‘Someone must have disliked Rotherham very much indeed.’

‘So it seems.’ His expression was closed, cool, almost uninterested in the subject.

She turned her eyes to his, held his gaze with her own. ‘Did you know him?’

‘Of a fashion. My father and he ran together when they were young.’ His eyes did not so much as flicker. ‘Did you?’

She felt caught unawares by his question. She doubted any other man would have asked it of her. ‘Only a very little,’ she answered, and it was not a lie. ‘He was a patron of the theatre.’ But Rotherham had also been a lot more than that to her.

‘What was your opinion of him?’

She thought carefully. ‘He was a cold, precise man who liked things his own way, cruel in many respects, arrogant and rich, a man with too much power and yet one who did not default from his duty.’

‘Duty?’ Linwood gave a small ironic laugh.

‘He was a man of his word, to the letter,’ she said, knowing that, much as she had disliked Rotherham, she would defend him over this.

‘He was most certainly that,’ said Linwood with a hard edge to his tone as if he were referring to something specific that had happened between the two men in the past. ‘It seems that you knew Rotherham more than a little.’

Her heart gave a judder at his words. The seconds seemed too long before she found a reply. ‘Hardly,’ she said in a lazy tone she hoped hid the sudden fear coursing through her. Linwood could not know, she reassured herself. Hardly anyone knew. But it reminded her of how carefully she must tread in this game they were playing.

‘Did you like him?’ he asked.

‘No.’ Another truthful answer. ‘I tried, but I could not.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.