Nicole Jordan (19 page)

Their hosts awaited them in the drawing room, and both Lucian and Brynn stepped forward at their entrance. Raven felt a strange measure of satisfaction at Brynn’s start of feminine awareness upon spying Kell. His smoldering masculinity would make any woman take notice, even a beautiful woman like Brynn, who was madly in love with her own stunningly attractive husband.

Brynn recovered almost immediately, however, offering Kell her hand along with a welcoming smile.

Her husband was more reserved in his welcome, but just as sincere. Tall, lithe, dark-haired, Lucian had once been one of the country’s premier rakes. He shook hands with Kell, his blue eyes keen and measuring.

“Raven has told us of your generosity in coming to her rescue, Mr. Lasseter, and I would like to express my thanks. We owe you an enormous debt of gratitude.”

“You owe me nothing, my lord,” Kell replied with little inflection.

“On the contrary. Raven is very special to us, like a sister”—Lucian cast her a smile that could melt stone—“and I assure you I intend to find some means of repaying you.”

Seeing Kell’s jaw harden, Raven thought to intervene, but she was spared when her great-aunt and grandfather were announced.

Lord Luttrell embraced her warmly, then allowed himself to be settled on a couch with a glass of sherry. Lady Dalrymple greeted Raven with chilling politeness and spoke not a word to Raven’s new husband, making it perfectly clear she was here under duress.

After a few awkward moments, however, the others in the company ignored the frosty atmosphere while their hosts expertly steered the conversation to non-controversial subjects.

Brynn had planned a quiet dinner before the ball with only the family in attendance, and the meal proceeded with unexpected cordiality. Raven was particularly surprised when Kell not only participated in the discussions, but did so with ease. He was putting himself out for her benefit, she knew, although he would not meet her gaze.

Afterward they repaired to the ballroom to await the guests’ arrival. The light from myriad candles cast a shimmering glow over the vast chamber and took the chill from the winter evening, but no amount of flame could warm the growing ice in Raven’s stomach.

Her tension only mounted as they formed a receiving line. Her cowardly inner voices were encouraging her to flee, while her own rebellious instincts were clamoring for her to give up her aspirations of redeeming her ruined reputation.

She glanced at Kell, who stood grimly at her side, and for some inexplicable reason, she took heart. If he could endure what must seem like torture to him, then she could as well.

The Marquess of Wolverton was the first to arrive. Shunning proper etiquette entirely, Dare kissed Brynn’s cheek and then Raven’s, affably greeted Lucian and Kell and Lord Luttrell, and bowed deeply over Lady Dalrymple’s hand, pressing his lips to her fingers with a lingering sensuality that made the elderly lady flush.

Finally she snatched her hand away, muttering something under her breath about rogues and libertines and looking as if she would like to strike him with her fan.

Unfazed, Dare glanced around the empty ballroom, his glance touching on the orchestra that was preparing to play. “What, no one else is here? I am usually deplorably late to these tame affairs.”

“You are the only guest thus far, as you can see,” Raven admitted glumly.

Dare winked at her. “The more fortune for me, then. Without all your beaux for competition, I can claim half your dances.”

“You may have to claim them all if no one else comes.”

“Ah, no, love, they will come, if only to gawk. There’s not a man jack among the upper ten thousand who isn’t rabidly curious to meet the notorious pirate who stole the darling of the ton from under the nose of a duke.”

His prophecy proved shrewdly perceptive. Shortly after the stroke of nine, the guests started to arrive, first in trickles, then in swarms.

Her ball would likely be a veritable crush, Raven realized with more than a little relief. But perhaps she should have expected such a response from the fickle elements of society. Few people willingly turned down a select invitation from the Earl and Countess of Wycliff, and their prominent sponsorship of her would go a long way toward easing the scandal.

And she suspected Dare was indeed right. Even the haughtiest, most discriminating members of the ton would be curious to meet the man who had stolen the Duke of Halford’s bride away. Contrarily, the haute monde had a lust for scandal and a morbid fascination—even admiration—for rebels like Kell who blatantly broke their absurdly rigid rules.

As she greeted a guest in line and then passed him on to her husband with introductions, Raven surreptitiously eyed Kell, who stood beside her. He was mysteriously, broodingly handsome, and with his bold, dark eyes, he looked very much the pirate. Measured against his raw virility, most of the other gentlemen present looked weak and foppish.

Surprisingly enough, Kell appeared perfectly at ease among the elite company. His usual intensity was tempered, with no signs of the antagonism or biting sarcasm he’d sometimes accorded her.

Indeed, Raven thought, Kell seemed almost determined to put himself out to be pleasant. She watched in amazement as he charmed an elderly dowager as effectively as Dare had ever done. This was a side of Kell that she had never seen before, and it left her wondering wistfully if he would revert to form once the evening ended.

Still, no matter how fleeting his support tonight, she was grateful for it. And the size of the crowd filled her with hope that she might win back at least a toehold in polite society, if not genuine acceptance.

Many of the guests were as chillingly distant as her great-aunt had been, but Raven could detect only a handful of outright snubs as the interminable line of guests continued. The veiled insults mainly came as remarks regarding Kell’s brazen ownership of a gaming club or the fact that he was part Irish.

Raven returned a cool-eyed stare or lifted an arched eyebrow in mock dismay, her answers ready:

“Yes, Lady Poindexter, my husband owns the premier club in London. I daresay Lord Poindexter has enjoyed the sport there as much as Lord Wycliff or the Marquess of Wolverton.”

Or “You can’t mean that you don’t gamble, Mr. Smythe-Jones? I felt certain every self-respecting gentleman gambled. Didn’t I just hear of a wager you made last week with Sir Randall Dewhurst about which raindrop would first reach the sill of White’s bow window?”

Standing next to her, Kell watched her performance with a strange mixture of vexation and admiration. It rankled that Raven would have to defend him—and rankled still more that he cared about being defended. He was accustomed to being cut dead by these preeminent denizens of society, and he’d learned long ago to contain the simmering anger that gnarled in his gut at their infuriating presumption of superiority.

His usual anger, however, was somehow less fierce tonight, his feelings of inferiority diminished. Particularly when he observed his new wife smoothly dressing down his detractors as they moved along the line, a smile on her perfect lips. It didn’t surprise him that Raven had claws, but it did that she was willing to use them on his behalf, especially when her own position was so tenuous.

She was putting up a brave front, Kell admitted. No one would guess she was under indictment for the social equivalent of murder, with her lovely neck exposed to the blade of the guillotine.

She clearly didn’t like having to endure the threat of the knife, however. He had to repress a smile when he caught the unladylike oath Raven muttered in between greeting guests.

“Blast that woman for an interfering busybody,” she said under her breath. “The gall of some people.”

And he forcibly had to bite back laughter when Raven complained in that same peeved undervoice, “I feel like a stuffed peahen in a museum, on display for the gawking spectators.”

Yet when she moved closer to him in response to a snide comment about his Irish roots, her unconscious gesture seemed more protective than defensive. He found himself watching her covertly, studying the patrician lines of her delicate profile. Raven was still an enigma to him, a fascinating one. Her eyes soft and vulnerable one moment, then flashing defiance….

His gaze swept downward, over the slim, elegant curves of her figure revealed by her empire waist gown, returning to linger on her softly swelling bosom. Remembering how those sweet, firm breasts had tasted, he felt his loins pulse.

He swore at his body’s response, wishing he didn’t have to stand so close to her. And yet her efforts to protect him roused an unwilling tenderness inside him—along with a need to protect her in turn. He was determined to play his role as her loving husband to the hilt.

When the reception line disbanded, he led her out on the dance floor for the first dance, a minuet.

Raven gave him a questioning look. “You don’t have to do this, not if your leg is paining you.”

“Ah, but I do,” Kell responded with a slow, deliberate smile. “The company expects me to dance with my incredibly lovely wife.”

It was the first time he had smiled at her in that rakish way, without disdain or mockery, and the effect was dazzling. Her gaze fastened on his alarmingly sensual mouth. Kell was only fawning over her for the benefit of their observers, she knew, but even so she felt a shiver of sexual awareness all the way down to her satin slippers. And his dark eyes…

She glanced away, refusing to be seduced by the heat she saw there. Simulated or not, it left her feeling too dangerously defenseless. Kell Lasseter was a man who made her blood run hot but her heart quiver with alarm. She would do well to keep her distance.

She breathed more easily when she was claimed by another dance partner and could leave Kell to his own devices. From that point on, she found herself in constant demand. And for the rest of the evening, there were seldom any chances for intimacy with Kell or even much conversation.

It was three in the morning before the last guest departed. Brynn declared the evening a moderate triumph, predicting that Raven would find dozens of invitations on her salver on the morrow.

Weary but relieved, Raven embraced her friends and allowed Kell to lead her out to the waiting carriage. After the heat of the ballroom the frigid air felt wonderful.

She could feel her tension starting to ease as she sank back against the squabs. Although her future was far from settled, she couldn’t find the energy just now to worry about her prospects. And yet she owed Kell her gratitude.

She contemplated the dangerous man sitting silently beside her as he stared broodingly out the barouche at the dark streets.

“Thank you for attending with me,” she murmured. “It went far better than I hoped.”

“Yes,” he agreed, a cynical edge to his voice. “I own myself surprised at how they fawned over me. Most of those self-righteous prigs consider an Irishman lower than dirt, and a gamester not much better.”

A bastard would be lower than either, Raven thought involuntarily.

“My mother would never have been accepted by that horde,” Kell muttered. “Damn their souls.”

She heard the anger in his voice and suddenly wondered what he would say if she told him of her own origins. Would he understand the crushing loneliness of being an outcast? Of never belonging, of never being good enough? But long practice of hiding her secret kept her silent.

“I am sorry for what your mother had to endure,” she said instead.

He shrugged. “I no longer let such things bother me.”

But it had shaped him into the man he was, she was certain. She doubted he would be eager to debate the issue, though. After another moment, Raven turned her head away, feeling weariness overtake her.

Kell, however, only felt his own tension rising as he debated what to do for the remainder of the night. When the carriage arrived at his residence, he assisted Raven to alight and then escorted her up the front steps. A sconce had been lit to welcome them home, and the door was unlocked.

Kell opened it for her, then stepped aside to allow her to enter. But he was reluctant to follow.

“Where are the servants?” he asked, remaining in the doorway.

“I told them not to wait up for me since I would be so late returning.”

Another uncommon trait, Kell thought. Few ladies of his acquaintance would be so considerate of the servants.

She started to remove her cloak but then glanced back at him. “Do you not mean to come in?”

Kell remained exactly where he stood, knowing the wisdom of taking his leave at once. He’d watched Raven during the entire evening as she’d danced and charmed her way through her critical crowd of judges. She was all laughter and wit and vivacious beauty, demonstrating how she’d drawn half the male population of London under her spell during her Season. No wonder his brother had accused her of seduction.

He himself had felt an unreasonable spark of jealousy when he saw her working her wiles on the gentlemen present, even though he’d expected such a performance.

She was a temptress, pulsing with life and sensuality.And she was now his wife.

He had every legal right to stay with her.

The thought sent a searing heat shooting through Kell. He could spend the night enjoying the warm, exquisite body of his wife and no one would gainsay him—except perhaps Raven herself.

“To what purpose?” he asked, probing. “You said you didn’t want or need a lover.”

“No, I…I am not inviting you to share my bed, merely your house. I don’t like to think that I am driving you from your own home.”

Kell held her gaze, unable to look away. “It would be best if I left now. The play at the club may not have ended yet.”

“Perhaps so,” she murmured, her voice low. And yet she moved closer, as if drawn to him.

Kell felt every muscle in his body tighten at her disturbing nearness, his instinct for danger warring with the powerful need to take her in his arms. He knew better than to touch her, and yet…the impulse was unconquerable. Gently grasping her shoulders, he drew her against him.

A lightning stroke of desire surged through him. And from the darkening look in her eyes, he knew the fiery shock had touched her as well.