Anne Barbour (17 page)

March’s fingers fumbled impatiently with the laces at the neck of her gown and Alison lifted her own to help him. She gasped at the feel of him inside her bodice, but when he pushed aside the thin fabric of her shift to press his hand to her breast, she stilled suddenly. No! A voice cried inside her. This was too much—this was wrong! Terribly wrong. She attempted to pull away, and when he would have stayed her, she cried aloud, jerking from his grasp.

“No! Dear God—I don’t know what—” Her eyes were wide and bewildered and cloudy with passion. “March—please! I— I am not like this! I am not—” She could finish neither her thought nor her sentence, and with another small cry, she turned and fled the room.

Reaching the sanctuary of her chamber, she flung herself across her bed. Dear God, what had she become? She had always thought of herself as a civilized, well-bred female, fully in charge of herself and her emotions at all times. She had heard whispers of other kinds of women, filled with secret desires and cravings—spinsters many of them, such as herself, who in desperate attempts to satisfy their shameful appetites fell victim to men who preyed on their lust and thus brought about their own ruin. Was she one of this depraved sisterhood? Was the shattering response she had experienced at March’s touch merely the result of her own long-suppressed urges? She knew a moment of sickening shame at the memory of her body writhing against him-—like an animal in heat.

She tried to bring her chaotic thoughts to order. She had been kissed before and never felt the slightest inclination to indulge further. She considered the other men of her acquaintance. Jack Crawford, for example. If Jack were to so much as kiss her cheek, her first instinct would be to hit him with the handiest blunt instrument.

No, it was the man who had prompted her response, not the situation. She rolled over on her back and flung an arm over her eyes. She had returned March’s kiss with all the passion in her being. She had wanted to give herself to him wholly. She had wanted ...

She groaned and twisted herself into an upright position. Her thoughts were leading her in a direction she feared to pursue. Mayhap she was letting her problems with Crawford overwhelm her usually good judgment? No. she had admitted to herself sometime before that she had come to like March. What she had not realized was that she had come to like him very much. In fact, she very much feared that the explosion of emotion she had felt at his touch could easily be explained by the fact that she had grown to love him.

She groaned again. Damn the man! He had crept into her heart with the ease of a competent second-story man entering an empty house. And in her blissful idiocy, she had let it happen. Of all the men in the world whose presence in her life, let alone in her heart, spelled disaster, it was Anthony Brent, the Earl of Marchford, who was the most dangerous, and it was he who had breached her defenses with practiced ease.

For him, she was sure, the embrace they had just shared was the merest dalliance. Though she rather thought March was above the casual seduction practiced by most men of his class, he would surely regard his aunt’s drab companion as fair game for a bit of tickle and squeeze. The fact that she had participated so willingly in that embrace would merely confirm that assumption.

Her mind flicked back to that other embrace, shared in the glittering darkness of Sydney Gardens. Remembering her response then, she squirmed. Lord, he must think her endowed with the morals of a Covent Garden nun.

She had not thought much about love since the days of her abortive come-out. At that time, she had thought to marry someday. Not to one of the disinterested young lordlings to whom she was presented with persistent frequency. But surely there must be someone to whom she would represent a heart’s desire. Someone of her own station in life, who did not require a large dowry and an exalted background to make him happy. Surely, there was a man somewhere who would love her for herself alone, and upon whom she could bestow her affection,

Of course, her disastrous sojourn in London had dashed any dreams she might have had for a proper marriage, and in the ensuing years she had come to view love as an unrealistic fantasy, to be indulged in only by the very young or the very respectable. She was, of course, neither.

She sat on the edge of her bed, her fists clenched. She had lived without a man’s love, and managed very well, thank you. She had Lady Edith’s love and her own plans for a self-sufficient life. She needed no more. What she felt for Lord Marchford was a temporary, painful flowering, which in time, without nourishment, would wither and die. Her lips curved in a bitter smile. Given her susceptibility to his presence, she would simply have to make sure that she would not be alone with him again for the remainder of his time in Bath.

In her mind’s eye, she saw again the strong curve of his jaw bent close to her, his lion’s eyes piercing her peace. Please God he would return to London soon.

Chapter 13

A few days later, Alison, with Lady Edith and March, stood once more in the doorway of the Upper Assembly Rooms. As before. Lady Edith waved the two young people into the ballroom and took a seat among friends attending the gathering. This time, however, Alison immediately swung away from the earl and made her way with an air of determination to a far corner of the room to converse with another group.

March followed her with his gaze, his expression stony. He suppressed an urge to hasten after her, to grasp her arm, to ask her why she was treating him as though he had suddenly contracted leprosy. He uttered a short laugh. He knew the answer to that well enough, he supposed.

My God, he had fallen on her like a starving wolf on a helpless doe. He had never lost himself so completely. He had come to his aunt’s house prepared to lull Lissa Reynard with a sprightly, flirtatious manner. Then, when she’d spoken of her love for her father, he had known a terrible flash of anger. How dare she pretend to possess sentiments he knew well she was incapable of feeling? Before he knew what he was about, he had grasped her, intending to vent his fury by shaking her until that dark hair tumbled about her shoulders.

His mistake, he supposed, had been in allowing himself to look into those fathomless, sky-colored eyes, for at that instant, he had been lost. His control had evaporated like snow flung into a fire, transforming his rage into a brutal kiss that had seared him to the core of his being. To his astonishment and unwelcome delight, she had responded with a ferocity that had matched his own, and the feel of her mouth had fired his own passion until he thought he might die of it. He snorted inwardly. What fanciful, womanish nonsense. As though he would be likely to turn up his toes over an interlude of dalliance—an interlude, admittedly, that had gotten sorely out of hand. Again, he had found himself wanting to punish her, but when her mouth had clung to his with such incandescent sweetness, he had wished only to plunder the warmth within. It was as though she had turned to molten flame at his touch, and he had been consumed in her fire. His rage had turned to need, and the taste of her had stirred him to a frenzy of wanting.

Who would have thought such a furnace could blaze beneath her cool exterior? If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn her passion was genuine, and that it sprang from a desire as innocent as it was new to her. And he would also have sworn that she was genuinely dismayed at her response. Her eyes, when she’d finally pulled away from him, had been anguished.

And now, she avoided his touch as though it would contaminate her. That was well and good, he told himself. He had no desire to become emotionally embroiled with the female. He had wished only to gain her confidence and her good will. Unfortunately, it was quite unclear that he’d botched his campaign irretrievably.

His only hope of regaining his lost ground was to maintain an air of friendly courtesy with her until she was comfortable with him again. There would be no more embraces in secluded pathways or kisses stolen in a servants’ pantry. In the future, he would be all that was correct with Miss Alison Fox—at least, until he was ready to seek his vengeance from Lissa Reynard. He still had not determined what form that vengeance would take, but when she was more at ease with him he would learn what drove her. His path would be made clear.

His eyes narrowed as he watched Alison’s progress along the perimeter of the ballroom. She had stopped to talk to—yes, it was Jack Crawford. His insides clenched as Jack placed a possessive hand on her arm. Alison looked up swiftly and whispered something that caused him to flush and jerk his hand back. In a few moments, Alison turned away.

To March’s surprise, she moved toward the card room, and he followed at a leisurely pace. He was struck by the rigidity of her demeanor as she moved, and when she turned briefly to face him, he was shocked at the expression in her eyes. They were wide and staring and dark as a winter midnight, like those of a sleeper trapped in a walking nightmare. Just in time, he checked an involuntary motion toward her and stepped back to watch her unobserved. In the card room she was greeted by Old Lady Melksham, who invited her to join her and the others at the table. March settled himself against a pillar, hidden from Alison’s direct view, and watched events unfold. He was puzzled for a few moments by her seemingly willing participation in a pastime for which she had so little aptitude, but a bitter smile twisted his lips as he realized that he had, for an instant, confused Alison Fox with her skilled alter ego. What was Lissa Reynard up to? he wondered, in sudden apprehension.

A scant hour later, her reticule bulging with the money she had won at whist, Alison rose from the table and moved to another part of the room, where she was again hailed by an acquaintance. My God, March thought, he had just watched his nemesis cheat his aunt’s best friend out of what looked like a large sum of money. Swallowing his rage, he continued to watch as Alison, her eyes glittering with brittle laughter, played for another hour. The pile of counters before her grew steadily. When at last she left the card table, the reticule could hold no more.

March suddenly became aware that someone else had taken an interest in Alison’s activities. Across the room, a figure emerged from the shadows and approached Alison as she moved gracefully toward the exit. Crawford had to hurry to catch up with her, touching her shoulder in a familiar manner when he finally did so. Alison whirled, and without speaking, transferred the paper notes and coins from her reticule to Crawford. It was as he suspected, March thought. Jack Crawford was—or had been—Alison’s lover. They were obviously still co-conspirators. Crawford must have come to Bath with the express purpose of resuming his affair with his erstwhile doxy. And who could blame him? The woman was a veritable gold mine.

The two murmured a few words to each other, then, with a mocking smile, Crawford bowed and hurried away, leaving Alison alone, and, reflected March grimly, looking pitifully vulnerable.

He squelched the thought and strolled toward her.

“Been trying your hand at the tables?” he asked casually.

Alison paled visibly, but she raised her chin and answered calmly. “Yes, Lady Melksham asked me to join her party.”

“I hope your efforts met with some success this evening.” There was nothing beyond courteous interest in the earl’s tone, but Alison’s laughter was forced.

“As opposed to last time? Yes, my lord, I am pleased and somewhat astonished to inform you that I won quite handily.”

March’s brows lifted in surprise at her admission. Of course, he concluded almost immediately, a lie in that direction would be exposed the very next time his aunt and Lady Melksham came together for one of their gossips. A frown creased his forehead. What was he going to do about Aunt Edith? If the Fox woman was gearing up for another go at the coffers of the
haut monde,
the old lady must be informed. It would hurt her terribly, and at her age, he was not sure how she would deal with such an emotional upheaval. March cursed inwardly, but his smile was bland as he solicited Alison’s hand for a country dance. As they moved mechanically through the figures, March’s expression gradually lightened, and when he came together with Alison for the last flourish, the smile he bestowed on her was quite genuine. A plan had sprung into his mind, full blown, for the ruin of Miss Alison Fox.

* * * *

The evening had been the longest of her life, reflected Alison as she sank down on her bed some hours later. She sat for several long moments, simply staring in front of her before she rose again and began making weary preparations for bed. At least, she thought tiredly, the whole ugly business should not take long. She had given Jack over fifty pounds tonight. A few evenings more at the tables would see the fulfillment of their wretched bargain.

She sat down before her dressing table, frowning as a new problem raised its head. Her unexpected winnings had been the cause of much surprised hilarity and speculation this evening. The next time she won, the other players would not be so amused. She was well known to all the people from whom she had won money tonight—and, what was worse, so was Lady Edith. Her newfound skill would be commented on. Lord Marchford would be sure to hear of it. Then what?

Then she would be in the suds. March, she was sure, would immediately make the connection between the sudden acquired talent of Alison Fox and the phenomenal skill of Lissa Reynard. No, somehow she must keep March from learning of her success at the tables.

She flung down the brush with which she had been stroking her hair and climbed into bed, where she lay, wide-eyed, staring at the ceiling. It was unfortunate that Bath was such a close-knit little community, where everyone’s doings were everyone’s business.

No. Wait... She had for so long been a member of the tight little group that was high society in Bath that she had forgotten there was another layer of existence here. Below the light frosting of nobility lay a solid, middle-class wedge of citizenry who, though not possessed of the vast wealth of their betters, still enjoyed taking part in the gambling frenzy that made up life in the Regent’s England.