How to Woo a Reluctant Lady Read online

  Before she could escape, a fellow dressed as a French courtier clasped her about the waist and hauled her up against him. “Well, if it isn’t the Queen of Queans!”

  He laughed at his little jest, and she gaped at him. Had he just called her a whore?

  To her disgust, he pressed his mouth to her ear and thrust his tongue inside. “Why don’t you come upstairs, sweet, so we can play our roles in private?”

  Before she could stomp on his foot, she was jerked from him by another fellow, who said, “Bugger off, Lansing. I saw her first.” A knight in shining cloth draped an arm about her shoulders with a lascivious grin.

  Lansing? Could that be the Earl of Lansing? Why, she knew his wife—a sweet young thing, though a trifle plump. He attended the same church as Gran, for pity’s sake!

  “Come now, Hartley, give over,” Lansing said peevishly. “I’m dressed the part.”

  Hartley must be the highly esteemed Viscount Hartley, whose own wife had a frosty beauty only matched by her frosty manner. Hartley and Lansing were grand friends. And Minerva had always assumed they were decent fellows, too . . . until now.

  She was still reeling from the realization of their true characters when Lansing grabbed her arm.

  “We could share her,” he said without an ounce of conscience. “Done it before.”

  Share her! As if she would go off willingly to a room with two drunken buffoons.

  She wriggled free. “I beg your pardon, but I already have an assignation with Lord Stoneville.” Oliver outranked them both, so perhaps that would put them off.

  But Hartley just chuckled and flicked his finger toward the far corner of the room. “Stoneville’s busy right now, dearie.”

  Minerva glanced over to find her brother sprawled in a chair, watching a woman dressed as Cleopatra dancing to entice him. He was as bad as Jarret, for pity’s sake . . . as bad as these profligate lords.

  Very well, she would teach him a lesson—and rid herself of these fools in the process. Planting her hands on her hips, she flashed him an exasperated look. “How dare that little weasel flirt with another woman after giving me the pox?”

  That did it. Hartley and Lansing couldn’t flee her fast enough.

  Freed of her pesky admirers, she threaded her way through the crowd, heading for the door. A wicked smile crossed her lips. She hoped word got around about Marie Antoinette’s “affliction” and who’d given it to her. It would serve Oliver right for consorting with such awful men.

  The other guests were just as dreadful. As she went past kings and paupers, she heard things no maiden should ever hear, spoken in the familiar voices of men she knew. Some were young rascals like her brothers, sowing their wild oats, but several were married men. Good Lord, did all men have Papa’s roving eye?

  No, not all men. Not Giles. The very fact that he’d chosen to comfort his mother rather than come here proved that he was already mending his rogue’s ways.

  She finally pushed her way out of the room, then paused in the dark hall to gain her bearings. She didn’t want to stumble into any more trouble than she already had.

  Suddenly a door at the end of the hall opened and a man dressed as a priest came toward her, carrying a candle. Blood pounding, she melted behind some curtains and prayed he hadn’t spotted her. The curtains weren’t thick—she could see him too plainly for comfort—but she didn’t think he could see her with the candle in his hand.

  He paused nearby and cocked his head, as if listening. The light fell full on his profile . . . and on the mole below his ear.

  She swallowed a gasp. She knew that profile only too well; she’d memorized every line of it. Giles was here. But what was he doing sneaking down the hall?

  When he hurried into a nearby room, it came to her. He must be having an assignation with a tart! Curse him to hell, how could he? He was as bad as her brothers!

  Unless she’d been mistaken. After all, the butler had said he wasn’t in attendance.

  She slid out from behind the curtains. How could she leave without knowing for sure if Giles was here consorting with some doxy? Oh, she couldn’t bear it if he was, but she had to know.

  Creeping down the hall, she came to the door he’d disappeared through, gathered her courage, and slipped inside. The man she’d followed was half-turned away from the door, too intent on rifling the desk to notice her silent entrance. Frozen, she watched as he methodically searched each drawer. If this was Giles, what on earth was he doing?

  It certainly looked like Giles. He moved with the same subtle grace, the same leashed control, and his hair was the same wavy, walnut brown, from what she could see of it under his wide-brimmed hat. He pulled out a file, opened it, then held its contents closer to the candle. Cursing, he removed his mask to examine the papers better.

  Her heart hammered in her chest. It was Giles. What was he up to? And why?

  After thumbing through everything in the file, he shoved the entire thing under his priest’s robes, then quickly turned, and spotted her. Without missing a beat, he pasted a charming smile to his lips and casually slid his mask back into place. “I believe you’re lost, madam. The party is in the ballroom.”

  She should have played dumb, but she just couldn’t. “If I’m lost, so are you, Giles Masters.”

  He sucked in a breath. In a flash he was across the room, lifting the mask from her face. “Minerva? What the hell—”

  “I’m the one who ought to be asking questions. What are you stealing? Why are you here? I thought you were in the country with your mother.”

  His eyes glittered beneath the mask. “As far as anyone is concerned, I am.” He scanned her with a critical eye. “And how did you get an invitation to a party thrown by the likes of Newmarsh, anyway?”

  When she fumbled for an explanation, he shook his head. “You snuck in, didn’t you? And it was just my rotten luck that you found me.”

  That really hurt. “I wasn’t trying to find you,” she lied. “I merely came here on a lark after I heard my brothers talking about it. I happened to see you, and—”

  “Your curiosity got the better of your good sense.” He gripped both her arms, as if to shake her. “Bloody little fool—what if I’d been some unscrupulous fellow who might stick a knife between your ribs for your meddling?”

  “How do I know you aren’t?” she snapped, annoyed at being called a fool. “You still haven’t said why you’re stealing.”

  “It’s none of your concern, Miss Nosy Britches.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake, don’t treat me like a child. I’m not nine anymore.”

  “Could have fooled me,” he muttered as he tugged her mask back into place and propelled her toward the door. “I would leave you to the tender mercies of your brothers, but no one must know I’m here. And I daresay you don’t want anyone to know you’re here, either. So I’m taking you home before you get into more trouble.”

  She would have given him a blistering retort, except that they were now in the hallway, too near the ballroom to risk it. Besides, at the moment they had the same goal—to escape without being unmasked. But once he got her out of here, she would give him a piece of her mind. Miss Nosy Britches, indeed. And he hadn’t even noticed her costume! Was he always going to see her as a little girl?

  He led her through a dizzying warren of rooms and halls, which made her realize he’d been here before, probably for one of these parties. Unless he made a habit of stealing things? No, there must be a good explanation for that.

  But he gave her no chance to ask. As soon as he got them outside and into the mews where they wouldn’t be seen, he tore off his mask. “Who the hell are you supposed to be, anyway?”

  “Marie Antoinette.”

  “Good God. Do you realize what could have happened if anyone had recognized you?” With purposeful steps, he hurried her down the lane toward Gran’s town house. “It would have been the end of your future. After being discovered at one of Newmarsh’s affairs, the scandal would have destroyed yo
ur reputation for good. No decent man would marry—”

  “What decent man will marry me anyway?” As irritated as he, she jerked off her mask. “My family is mired in scandal, and the only men who’ve been sniffing around me during my season are fortune hunters and wastrels.”

  Besides, I want only you.

  He shot her a sidelong glance. “If that’s true, then you shouldn’t be so eager to heap more scandal upon yourself. We both know how society repays those who flout its rules. You should be trying to redeem your family name.”

  Coming from him, that was infuriating. “Like my brothers are doing?” she said bitterly. “Like you are?” They’d reached the back garden of the Plumtree town house, so she had to get the truth out of him now. “Why were you stealing those papers, Giles? What are they for?”

  A muscle worked in his jaw as he faced her. “You shouldn’t have seen that. And I hope you’ll have the good sense to keep quiet about it.”

  “And what if I don’t? What will you do to me?” Her tone thickened with sarcasm. “Stick a knife between my ribs?”

  “Very amusing.” His eyes turned calculating in the faint moonlight. “But if you tell anyone about my being there, you’ll have to reveal that you were there, and I daresay that’s not something you wish to do. Especially when you’re dressed like . . . like . . .”

  When his voice trailed off and his eyes dropped to the cameo resting right in the center of her partially bared bosom, she caught her breath. At last he was seeing her as a woman. “Like what?” she asked, her voice as low and seductive as she knew to make it.

  His gaze snapped back to hers. “Like some blowsy tart,” he said tersely. “You don’t want to be caught dressed like that here.”

  A tart! He thought she looked like a tart? And a blowsy one, at that. “Why not? Because it might destroy my reputation? I doubt it’s even possible to make my situation any worse.”

  “You have a dowry—”

  “Which only ensures that the wrong sort of men seek me out.” She tipped up her chin. “Besides, you wouldn’t ruin my reputation for spite. I know you wouldn’t. You’re too much a gentleman for that.”

  He lifted one eyebrow. “And you wouldn’t watch me hang for stealing. I know you wouldn’t. You’re too much a friend for that.”

  If he was trying to soften her up, he was doing a good job. “Ah, but I could mention it to your brother, the viscount,” she pointed out. “I doubt he would approve.”

  That seemed to give Giles pause. “And I could mention your little adventure to your brothers. I know for a fact that they wouldn’t approve.”

  “Go ahead,” she bluffed. “I don’t care what they think.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “So you see, you have only one choice, and that’s to tell me the truth.”

  “I have a better idea.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Name your price, Minerva. I don’t earn much as a barrister yet, but I can afford to buy your silence.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” When his lips curved up in a sly smile, she realized he’d only been goading her with his talk of money and prices. “So you absolutely refuse to tell me what you were doing and why.”

  He shrugged. “I prefer to keep my secrets.”

  And he knew she would keep them, too, drat him, if he asked it. But that didn’t mean she had to roll over and play dead. “Very well, here’s my price. A kiss.”

  That clearly startled him. “A what?”

  “A kiss.” Her tone turned sarcastic. “You know, like the ones you and my brothers bestow willy-nilly on every taproom maid, doxy, and opera dancer in your acquaintance. One kiss. To buy my silence.” Perhaps then he would see her as a woman he could trust, could court . . . could love.

  He raked her body with a long, slow glance, rousing warm feelings in places she’d never felt warm before and setting her pulse racing. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Whyever not?”

  “For one thing,” he said drily, “your brothers would skin me alive if they heard of it.”

  “Then let’s not tell them.” When he just stood there, she added, “It’s my nineteenth birthday, and I just had a loathsome experience at a scandalous party where two gentlemen discussed sharing me between them.”

  At the stormy look that came over his face, she added hastily, “Although I escaped their disgusting advances before they could do anything, I need something nice to help me forget I nearly became a rogue sandwich. And I’m asking you to provide it.”

  “What makes you think that a kiss from me would be nice?” he asked in a rough murmur that sent delicious shivers skittering down her spine.

  She fought to sound as worldly as he. “It had better be, if you want me to keep your secrets.”

  To her surprise, he laughed. “Fine, you infernal minx. I’ll meet your price.”

  He bent forward and pressed his lips to hers in a kiss that was as brief and disappointing as it was chaste.

  When he drew back, she scowled. “Perhaps I should have clarified. By ‘nice,’ I meant ‘satisfying.’ I didn’t mean the sort of kiss you give your grandmother.”

  He stared at her. Then an unholy light gleamed in his eyes, and without warning, he cupped her head in his hands and took her mouth again. Except this time his kiss was hard, unforgiving, overpowering. He parted her lips with his tongue, then delved inside her mouth over and over, until her head spun and her knees turned to mush.

  In one fell swoop, he shattered her girlishly romantic dreams, replacing them with a wild, seething wanting unlike anything she’d ever known.

  It shocked her.

  It intoxicated her.

  Without thinking, she lifted her arms to twine about his neck. He muttered some curse against her lips, then dragged her flush against him so his mouth could explore hers more thoroughly.

  His stubbled chin scraped her cheek, and he smelled of candle smoke and brandy, the combination oddly enticing. This was everything she’d dreamed of. And when his hands then swept up her ribs, he made her yearn for more . . . more caresses, more kisses . . . more of him.

  It was several moments before he drew back to say in a choked voice, “Does that suit your notion of a nice kiss?”

  Still reeling from the wonder of his mouth on hers, she gazed up into his handsome face with a dreamy smile. “It was absolutely perfect, Giles.”

  He blinked. Then a look of pure alarm crossed his face, and he set her roughly from him. “So I’ve met my obligation?”

  Too stunned by that response to do more than nod, she gaped at him, hoping for something to soften the cold word obligation.

  “Good.”

  As she watched dumbfounded, he turned to walk away. Then he paused to glance back at her, his eyes now as lazy as his tone was careless. “Do be careful, my dear, next time you decide to act like a doxy. Some men don’t take kindly to blackmail. You might find yourself on your back in an alley. And I doubt you’d enjoy playing the tart in truth.”

  The crude words slapped at her pride. He’d seen their kiss as her playing a doxy? Hadn’t he felt the passion sparking between them, the thrill of two souls joining as one? Had he felt nothing from the kiss that had changed her forever from a girl into a woman?

  Apparently not. He’d thrust his knife deeply enough to pierce her heart.

  Somehow she held herself together as he sauntered off down the mews. But once he was out of sight, she burst into tears.

  That was the night she fell out of love with Giles Masters.

  Chapter One

  London

  1825

  Shortly after dawn, Giles watched from the trees as the Viscount Ravenswood, undersecretary to the Home Office, entered the boathouse on the Serpentine River in Hyde Park. When fifteen minutes had passed and no one else had come along, Giles crossed to the boathouse himself and went inside.

  After he and Ravenswood exchanged the usual pleasantries, the viscount said, “I hear you’re being considered for a King’s Counsel.�
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  Giles tensed. He should have known Ravenswood would find that out. The man had eyes in the back of his head. “So they tell me.”

  “I suppose that if you’re selected, you won’t be able to continue your efforts for me.”

  “King’s Counsel is a demanding position,” Giles said warily. He hadn’t expected to have this conversation quite so soon.

  “And a very prestigious one for a barrister. Not to mention highly political. So pretending to be a scapegrace while you gather information for me won’t be very convenient anymore.”

  “Exactly.” He searched Ravenswood’s face, unable to read his stoic expression. “To be honest, whether they choose me as King’s Counsel or not, I’ve decided to stop my work for you. Things are quieter now, and I doubt I would be—”

  “No need to explain, Masters. I’m surprised you continued with it this long. You’ve served your country well, with little benefit and even less pay, when you could have focused on your more lucrative position as a barrister. I don’t blame you for thinking that it’s time you consider your own career. You’re what, thirty-seven now? Certainly you’re old enough to want more out of life than doing this. And I’ll support your decision as much as possible.”

  Giles released a long breath. He’d been dreading this conversation. But he should have known that Ravenswood would remain his friend no matter what.

  He and the viscount had first met at Eton. Though the other man was three years older than Giles, they’d forged an unusual friendship, considering that Ravenswood had been sober and industrious and Giles wild and adventurous.

  So it was Ravenswood, already being groomed for politics, whom Giles had turned to nine years ago when he’d burned to see justice done. Ravenswood had taken the documents Giles had stolen from Newmarsh and made good use of them. Thus had begun Giles’s covert association with the Home Office and its role as keeper of the peace.

  It had proved fruitful for them both. From time to time, Giles had passed information on to the undersecretary that the man wouldn’t have learned any other way. Men in the stews let all sorts of juicy details slip out around the profligate Giles Masters. After the war, the Home Office had been swamped with cases of fraud, forgery, and even treason, and with different parts of the country on the verge of revolution, it had needed all the help it could get.