The Danger of Desire Page 2

  “I’d prefer to ruin my entire gown than see you further damage my bracelet with your poking about,” the chit said, her voice surprisingly low and throaty. “If you gentlemen would just let me pass, I’d fish it out myself.”

  “Nonsense, we can do it,” the other two said as they fought over the stick wielded by the drunk. In the process, they managed to jab Miss Trevor in the arm.

  “Ow!” She attempted to snatch the stick. “For pity’s sake, gentlemen . . .”

  Warren had seen enough. “Stand aside, lads.” He pushed through the arses. Shoving his coat sleeve up as far as it would go, he thrust his hand into the fountain and grabbed the bracelet. Then he turned to offer it to the young lady. “I assume this is yours, miss.”

  When her startled gaze shot to him, he froze. She had the loveliest blue eyes he’d ever seen.

  Though her gown was even more outrageous from the front, the rest of her was unremarkable. Tall and slender, with no breasts to speak of, she had decent skin, a sharp nose, and a rather impudent-looking mouth. She was a pretty enough brunette, but by no means a beauty. And not his sort. At all.

  Yet those eyes . . .

  Fringed with long black lashes, they glittered like stars against an early-evening sky, making desire tighten low in his belly. Utterly absurd.

  Until her lips curved into a sparkling smile that matched the incandescence of her eyes. “Thank you, sir. The bracelet was a gift from my late brother. Though I fear you may have ruined your shirt retrieving it.”

  “Nonsense.” He held out the bracelet. “My valet is very good at his job.”

  As she took the jewelry from him, an odd expression crossed her face. “You’re left-handed.”

  He arched one brow. “How clever of you to notice.”

  “How clever of you to be so. And it’s hard not to notice, since I’m left-handed, too. There aren’t that many of us around.”

  “Or none that will lay claim to the affliction, anyway.” He’d never before met a lady who would.

  “True.” She slipped the bracelet into her reticule with a twinkle in her eye. “I’ve always heard it’s gauche to be left-handed.”

  Well, well, she was definitely not a twit, if she knew that gauche was the French word for left. “I’ve always heard it’s a sign of subservience to the devil.”

  “That, too. Though the last time I paid a visit to Lucifer, he pretended not to know me. What about you?”

  “I know him only to speak to at parties. He’s quite busy these days. He has trouble fitting me into his schedule.”

  “I can well imagine.” Pointedly ignoring the three men watching them in bewilderment, she added, “He has all those innocents to tempt and gamblers to ruin and drinkers to intoxicate. However would he find time to waste on a fellow like you, who comes to the aid of a lady so readily? You’re clearly not wicked enough to merit his interest.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he said dryly. “Besides, Lucifer gains more pleasure from corrupting decent gentlemen than wicked ones.” This had to be the strangest conversation he’d ever had with a debutante.

  “Excellent point. Well, then, next time you see him, give him my regards.” Her voice hardened as she cast a side glance at their companions. “He seems to have been overzealous in his activities of late.”

  When the gentlemen looked offended, Clarissa put in hastily, “Don’t be silly. The devil is only as busy as people allow him to be, and we shall not allow him to loiter around here, shall we, Warren?” She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow.

  “No, indeed. That would be a sin.”

  “And so are my poor manners.” Clarissa smiled at her friend. “I’ve neglected to introduce you. Delia, may I present my cousin, the Marquess of Knightford and rescuer of bracelets. Warren, this is my good friend, Miss Delia Trevor, the cleverest woman I know, despite her gauche left hand.”

  Cynically, he waited for Miss Trevor’s smile to brighten as she realized what a prime catch he was. So he was surprised when it faded to politeness instead. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. Clarissa has told me much about you.”

  He narrowed his gaze on her. “I’m sure she has. My cousin loves gossip.”

  “No more than you love to provide fodder for it, from what I’ve heard.”

  “I do enjoy giving gossips something to talk about.”

  “No doubt they appreciate it. Otherwise, they’d be limited to poking fun at spinsters and then I would never get any rest.”

  He snorted. “I’d hardly consider you a spinster, madam. My cousin tells me this is your first Season.”

  “And hopefully my last.” As the other fellows protested that, she said, “Now, now, gentlemen. You know I’m not the society sort.” She fixed Warren with a cool look. “I do better with less lofty companions. You, my lord, are far too worldly and sophisticated for me.”

  “I somehow doubt that,” he said.

  “I hear the dancing starting up,” Clarissa cut in. “Perhaps you two can puzzle it out if you stand up together for this set.”

  He had to stifle his laugh. Clarissa wasn’t usually so clumsy in her social machinations. She must really like this chit. He was beginning to understand why. Miss Trevor was rather entertaining. At least when she wasn’t looking down her nose at him for his moral lapses.

  Which was odd for a woman sneaking around to meet with an unsuitable suitor, wasn’t it?

  “Excellent idea.” He held out his hand to the young lady. “Shall we?”

  “Now see here,” Pitford interrupted. “Miss Trevor has already promised the first dance to me.”

  “It’s true,” she told Warren, a hint of challenge in her tone. “I’m promised for all the dances this afternoon.”

  Hmm. Warren turned to Pitford. “Fulkham was looking for you earlier, old chap. He’s in the card room, I believe. I’ll just head there and tell him he can find you dancing with Miss Trevor.”

  Pitford blanched. “I . . . er . . . cannot . . . that is . . .” He bowed to Miss Trevor. “Forgive me, madam, but I shall have to relinquish this dance to his lordship. I forgot a prior engagement.”

  The fellow scurried off for the gates as fast as his tight pantaloons would carry him. Probably because he owed Fulkham a cartload of money.

  And Pitford’s withdrawal was all it took for the other two gentlemen to excuse themselves, leaving Warren alone with his cousin and Miss Trevor.

  Smiling, he offered his arm again to Clarissa’s friend. “It appears that you are now free to dance. Shall we?”

  To his shock, the impudent female hesitated. But she obviously knew better than to refuse a marquess and took the arm he offered, though she wouldn’t look at him, staring grimly ahead.

  As they headed toward the lawn where the dancing was taking place, she said in clipped tones, “Do you always get your way in everything, Lord Knightford?”

  “I certainly try. What good is being a marquess if I can’t make use of the privilege from time to time?”

  “Even if it means bullying some poor fellow into fleeing a perfectly good party?”

  He shot her a long glance. “Pitford is deeply in debt and looking for a rich wife. You ought to thank me.”

  “I know what Pitford is. I know what they all are. It matters naught to me. I have no romantic interest in any of them.”

  Pulling her into the swirl of dancers, he said, “Because you prefer a fellow you left behind at home? Or because you’ve set your sights elsewhere in town?”

  Her expression grew guarded. “For a man of such lofty consequence, you are surprisingly interested in my affairs. Why is that?”

  “I’m merely dancing with the friend of my cousin,” he said smoothly. “And for a woman who has ‘no interest’ in the three fortune hunters you were just with, you certainly found a good way to get them vying for your attention.”

  She stared at him. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  “The clasp on that bracelet wasn’t broken, Miss Trevor.” When she bl
inked, he knew he’d hit his mark. “So I can only think that you had some other purpose for dropping it into the fountain.”

  As they came together in the dance, he lowered his voice. “And if it wasn’t to engage those men’s interest in you personally, I have to wonder what other reason you might have to risk such a sentimental heirloom. Care to enlighten me?”

  Two

  Thank heaven the dance parted them just then, giving Delia a chance to debate her answer as she went through the moves. Bad enough that his lordship had run Lord Pitford off; must he also insist upon sticking his nose in her business?

  Men like him did nothing without reason. They simply didn’t let anyone else know what it was.

  Like her brother, Reynold.

  Grief knotted in her belly, and she gritted her teeth. She refused to think of that just now—how he’d selfishly abandoned them. How dared he leave her to clean up his mess, to make sure that Brilliana and little Silas were secure?

  He’d probably assumed she would simply marry some fellow who’d take care of them. But aside from the practical difficulties of that, after Papa and Reynold, the last thing she needed was another selfish man in her life.

  So, although she wanted to enjoy this glittering world of dances and music and witty lords, to be young and carefree, she could not. She had a family to care for.

  And now she had Lord Knightford, a well-known rakehell, suspiciously asking her to dance. Surely he could tell when his cousin was up to her usual matchmaking, so why would he put up with that? Unless he had some other reason for going along.

  Could he truly be interested in her? Delia glanced across the circle that she and Lord Knightford formed with another couple. Highly unlikely. A wealthy marquess like him could have any woman he wanted. Especially when he was possessed of fathomless dark eyes, a jaw chiseled enough to cut glass, and perfectly combed raven hair that made a woman want to reach up and tousle it.

  What would he do if she did?

  Lord, she must be daft. He could very well be the enemy. Never mind that he was supposed to be one of those St. George’s fellows, a self-proclaimed protector of women’s virtue, who shared information about fortune hunters to determine who was dangerous and warn their female relations. His rakish smile proved he was anything but a protector.

  Unless . . .

  Oh, fudge. Clarissa must have bullied Lord Knightford into cautioning Delia about those three fortune hunters. Bother it all. Clarissa was a lovely friend, one of the few in the ton that Delia trusted, but she couldn’t afford the countess’s interference. Not in this.

  Delia and Lord Knightford came together in the dance again.

  “Well?” he prodded. “Why did you drop your bracelet?”

  “The truth, sir?” she said, stalling.

  “It’s generally more entertaining than a lie, so yes.”

  Oh, he had no idea. But in this case, the truth was just outrageous enough that it might spark an honest response. She doubted he was the man she’d been hunting for all these months—it made no sense for a wealthy marquess to be a card cheat—but it couldn’t hurt to witness his reaction. “I wanted to see if the gentlemen had tattoos.”

  Gaping at her, he actually missed a step, which she found rather satisfying, since the man danced far too well for any woman’s sanity. It also convinced her that she’d been right in her assumption about him. A guilty man would have sought to hide his shock.

  Besides, at least one of his lower arms was unblemished—she’d seen it clearly through the translucent fabric of his wet shirt. Though it didn’t necessarily eliminate him from being connected to the man she sought.

  He quickly recovered his composure. “I assume you’re talking about those vile things sailors put on their skin?”

  “I wouldn’t describe them as vile. I have a fascination for them, you see.”

  “Because you want to acquire one?”

  She couldn’t help her burst of laughter. “Of course not. If being left-handed is gauche, only imagine what the gossips would make of my having a tattoo. It’s simply not done.”

  “Yet you thought that those fellows—gentlemen of rank, no less—might have them.”

  “I hoped they might. How else am I to get a close look at one?”

  Lord Knightford had just enough time to stare at her incredulously before the dance parted them once more.

  But the music couldn’t drown out the memory of her brother’s rant on the night before his death: I should have known that the scoundrel was a card cheat when I saw the sun tattoo above his wrist. What lord of any character would defile his body with such a thing?

  What lord, indeed?

  A lord who would ruin a man for his own profit and drive him to throw himself into—

  Delia choked down her futile rage. She’d believed Reynold when he’d sworn never to pick up Papa’s habits. When he’d claimed to prefer caring for their estate, Camden Hall. But he’d proved just as reckless as Papa. Not only had he gambled, but someone had cheated him out of everything.

  She would find out who it was. She would trap the scoundrel into cheating again and then threaten to expose him if he didn’t pay back the money he’d stolen from Reynold.

  Unfortunately, Reynold had refused to name the card cheat, no matter how much she’d begged him to. All Delia had to go on was the mention of his being a lord with a sun tattoo. She’d been searching for such a man the whole time she’d been in London for her debut, but it hadn’t been easy. No gentleman would bare his arms to a lady except under unavoidable situations—which she’d been trying to create when Lord Knightford had ruined everything and run off her most recent suspects.

  Now she’d have to find her information another way. Perhaps from his lordship, assuming he was as much a gossip as his cousin.

  He approached her in the dance again. “So you want to see a tattoo in the flesh.”

  “On the flesh, to be more precise.” She forced a light smile to her lips. It grew harder by the day to hide her desperation for the truth. “Do you know anybody who has one?”

  “No one respectable enough to introduce to you.”

  “So, no gentlemen.” Bother it all.

  “Gentlemen do not have tattoos,” he said firmly, which didn’t help her at all. “And why on earth would you have a fascination with them, anyway? It’s not exactly a ladylike pursuit.”

  “Nightly visits to the stews aren’t a gentlemanly pursuit, either, yet that doesn’t stop you.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “I see my cousin has told you quite a bit about me.”

  “Enough for me to be aware of your . . . proclivities.”

  “How unfair, since I know nothing about your proclivities, beyond your fondness for tattoos. Do you tipple sherry? Write lurid novels?” He leaned nearer to whisper, “Embroider secret naughty messages on fire screens?”

  A laugh sputtered out of her. He was trying to distract her from his own vices by being charming, blast him. And it was working. “I’m afraid I don’t embroider much of anything. I’m horrible with a needle.” She stared him down. “Besides, secret naughty messages seem more your type of proclivity.”

  “Trust me, when I spend my nights in the stews, I don’t need secret messages. I say exactly what I mean.”

  “So you admit to spending your nights in the stews.”

  “Why wouldn’t I admit it? It’s the truth.” He swung her about in a turn, making her feel light-headed. “I take it that you disapprove.”

  “I have no feelings about it either way.” She actually preferred honest rogues to lying gentlemen. Not that this rogue was interested in her. He was decidedly not. “Why should I care if you visit brothels?”

  Judging from his searching glance, her remark surprised him. “Because you’re a woman in search of a husband and I’m an eligible man?”

  She lobbed that nonsense right back at him. “Are you, really? I was under the impression that you weren’t remotely eligible, being in no haste to marry. And in truth, sir
, neither am I.”

  “I can see why,” he drawled, “if you’re hoping for a tattooed gentleman.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I want to look at one, not marry one.”

  “Well, if I ever hear of one, I’ll be sure to tell you.” The dance ended and he led her rather slowly to the edge of the lawn. “So who is standing up with you for the next dance?”

  “You ran him off, too,” she said, “so I suppose I’m sitting this one out.”

  “No need for that. Since it’s my fault you’re without a partner, I would be happy to dance with you again.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “The waltz? You do know that if you dance a waltz with me after just dancing a set with me, people will talk.”

  “If you don’t care, I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “The truth?”

  “Certainly, since we’re being so confessional.”

  He chuckled. “If Clarissa thinks I’m showing you interest, she’ll stop matchmaking for a while and I can get some peace. I’m sure she hopes that you and I will become besotted with each other and end up married. That’s why she was so eager to have me stand up with you.”

  “Ah. And you figure since I’m not interested in marriage, then it would be safe to be seen regularly with me.”

  “Something like that.”

  She considered his idea. It had certain advantages. She could move about society more easily.

  But she would have a lord dogging her steps. “I like your plan, but I doubt it would work. Clarissa knows you’re not the sort to become besotted. Or, for that matter, to easily end up married. And I’m definitely not the sort to inspire besottedness.”

  “Besottedness isn’t a word.”

  “Besottedment? The point is, you’re notorious for not having any interest in marriage, and she couldn’t possibly believe you would change your ways simply because you laid eyes on me.”

  “Why not?” His gaze flicked down her. “You’re a very pretty girl.”

  Skeptical of the easily given compliment, she lifted her eyebrow. “My figure isn’t exactly stellar: My curves are in all the wrong places and I have none where I need them. I have too large a mouth and no sense of fashion, not to mention a deplorable tendency to say precisely what I mean. I’m sure I’m not remotely your preference.”