Rogues Gallery (16 page)

She continued to outline his face with her fingers. He did not want her to stop, yet the waiting for her answer was well nigh unbearable. Her exploration ended with her fingertips against his lips, and he kissed the soft skin, relishing her answering sigh.

"Angel," he pleaded, his voice a whisper.

Marisa swallowed with some difficulty, and then answered with conviction, "I will remain here."

Gabriel pulled her into his embrace. "It may take some time," he added, providing her another opportunity to change her mind, hoping she would not do so. He needed more time with her.

"I will do my best to remain patient," she said, "though I must warn you it is not one of my virtues."

Gabriel squeezed her before commencing to kiss her senseless, glorying in her impassioned response, giddy with her belief in him.

He finally ceased the delightful kissing, for there was more information he needed. He sat down in a chair with her cradled in his arms, pressing her head against his shoulder. "Your brother—Bernard, is it? Does he know of my visits?"

"Of course not! He is little more than a traitor, siding with Father and Lord Westbrook, after professing to be my ally."

Gabriel tucked that away for future reference. He well understood how Marisa could not easily forgive betrayal of any sort. However, he did not dwell on how he had nearly done the same to her. She had given him this opportunity to atone for that particular sin, and he was not about to forego it.

"The betrothal ball is to be held soon?"

Marisa nodded. "Sunday next." She nuzzled his chest before adding with a hint of triumph, "'Tis to be a masquerade."

"Why do I suspect the masquerade was your idea, not Lord Westbrook's?" He smiled as he kissed the top of her head, breathing in the intoxicating fragrance of her hair. "Have you devised your costume?"

She giggled before answering with the impertinence he adored, "I am having some difficulty finding the appropriate accessories for a sacrificial virgin ensemble."

"You do have a propensity for wickedness," he said.

"Thank you," she answered with pert satisfaction, earning herself another squeeze. "You know, what with your recent exploits, I vow every male present will be attired as a dashing highwayman."

"There are bound to be one or two, I imagine," Gabriel responded.

They remained comfortably entwined for some time, until Gabriel realized Marisa was trying to stifle her yawns, with little success. He stood up, intending to walk toward her bed, but she clutched at him.

"No! Do not go!"

He kissed her forehead. "I shall return," he said. "Do not tremble so."

"I shall hold you to your word," she said, tilting her chin up with unmistakable defiance.

"I expected you would," he answered, breathless at the quest he had just taken on. Could he possibly live up to her expectations of him? Could he do anything less?

Within minutes of placing her in her bed, Marisa was fast asleep, her lips turned up in a contented fashion.

Gabriel ambled toward the open window. With a whispered oath at his utter recklessness, he returned to Marisa's side. He dug into his pocket and extracted a scarf emblazoned with a crescent moon.

He folded the scrap of silk into the smallest possible shape and then pressed it into Marisa's hand, closing her fingers around it. With a glance to the ceiling, he prayed she would view this as a symbol of his devotion.

He also added a plea for divine guidance for, despite his rash vow, he had little idea how to rescue Marisa and her aunt.

Marisa marveled at the myriad guests dancing and gossiping at her betrothal ball. Was Lady Haverstone truly naked beneath the sheer muslin of her Venus costume? Marisa turned to see a
faux
Marie Antoinette, who clearly regretted the width of her panniers while attempting to pass her partner in the quadrille.

At any other time Marisa would have been delighted with the imaginative attire her guests had devised for the masquerade. Yet this was not a joyous event. It was merely the first step en route to her life imprisonment as Lady Westbrook.

Edmund had spared no expense, and it was made quite obvious. Flowers of every color and description, from lilies to roses, had been brought in from the greenhouse, and their exotic scents mingled with the sweet honey aroma of the beeswax candles in the chandeliers. Champagne and negus punch flowed freely, freeing her guests of the remainder of their inhibitions. Marisa had no doubt the supper later would be comprised of every delicacy possible, including lobster patties and white soup.

The occasion would be quite romantic were she in love with the man she was forced to wed.

Marisa swallowed the lump of tears. They had been her only—nay, constant—companion the entire sennight that Edmund and Bernard were in London. Each day her heightened hopes for a dramatic rescue had eroded, until at last she was forced to admit she had placed her faith in an avowed criminal.

How could she have been so foolish? She had let certain escape slip through her fingers, all because she had fancied herself in love with Lord Midnight. Worse, she had even believed his pledge to be a sign that he might return her affections.

It was no good telling herself she never should have indulged in such a hairbrained notion, for she had done so, to her detriment. Yet how could she have avoided falling in love with such a man?

He had turned her head with his fervent claim of being unable to resist her. Then, her senses reeling, he had presented her with the tantalizing possibility of having both freedom and Lord Midnight.

Her greediness had assured she would have neither.

How would she explain to Aunt Althea, when the poor soul was locked away, that Marisa had frittered away the woman's liberty, all because Marisa had chosen to love a man bound to abuse her trust?

Marisa refused to give vent to tears. Lord Midnight may have abandoned her, her brother had definitely played her false, but there was no reason she would permit her heart's continued defection.

She strolled away from the dancers, seeking the footman who had promised he would return with a tray filled with glasses of champagne. All of them for her.

At least her father had been too ill to travel to the betrothal ball, so he would remain unaware of her dashed hopes. She would be spared the torment of his gloating expression at having bested her in this lifelong battle of wills. Thankfully she could also avoid confessing to Aunt Althea that her thoughtless niece had sealed her doom.

She could inform her of that dreadful fact at the wedding.

Marisa glanced down at her own costume—Diana, the huntress. She had savored the irony of adopting the role of the goddess, spending many of her waking hours designing the flowing white satin dress. The Grecian border, and the yellow gauze overlay, provided the perfect backdrop for the embroidered gold crescent moons. The head-dress was her particular favorite, since the wreath of artificial flowers ended with a crescent on her forehead composed of pearls and sapphires.

But instead of a sly reference to Lord Midnight's token, now the goddess's symbol reminded her of an inconstant highwayman. She chided herself for letting Lord Midnight's image slip into her mind, even for the briefest of moments.

He had given her a glib promise with little thought of the consequences to her impressionable heart, so there was no use dwelling on whatever chivalry she once believed he possessed. It was not as if it were the first surprise, or disappointment, in her lifetime. However, it would be the last time she permitted herself to trust a man's word where her future was concerned.

Marisa halted by the open doors leading to the terrace, thankful for the cool air dissipating the heat from the dancers' bodies. Though she was the reason for the social gathering, Marisa realized she was paid little attention by the numerous guests. How easy it would be to slip away unnoticed. She unconsciously fingered the too-heavy diamond necklace at her throat, a betrothal gift from Edmund.

Her heart began to beat faster. If she were to steal away before Edmund made the announcement, she could be in the stables, before anyone even remarked on her absence. The jewels would surely finance a decent living for her and her aunt for many years to come.

Marisa bit her lip as she contemplated the quickest way to depart without being noticed. Perhaps the terrace, though she would have to close her eyes to avoid the illicit lovers sure to be there, taking advantage of the darkness.

She turned, but her path was blocked.

"Pardon me," she said, moving aside, but the gentleman stepped in front of her once more.

"Would you permit me the honor of this dance?"

Marisa flicked a glance at the man's costume, barely containing her aggravation. She had danced with three highwaymen already, and did not care to do so with yet another. She needed no further reminders of Lord Midnight this night.

Marisa opened her mouth to decline the request.

"It is but a small favor I request. Mistress Angel."

She gasped, her gaze flying up to meet Lord Midnight's eyes glinting with unholy mischief. She struggled to take another breath, possibly her last. He grasped her arm above the elbow just as her knees buckled.

He continued to croon in a reassuring undertone, smiling as he guided her to the center of the ballroom. Marisa's heart was in her throat, so she didn't even attempt to croak out her amazement, or worse, her fear at his brazen audacity.

"Smile, my angel," he said in a low voice. "Your pale countenance will convince your guests I am causing you harm."

She swallowed, though it was painful to do so, and then pasted a smile on her face. His chuckle confirmed it was a grim one.

Once they reached the ballroom floor, he placed his arm around her waist and drew her into his embrace for the waltz. His arms encircled her so naturally, and deliciously. The heat emanating from his body—or was it hers?—should have set her costume aflame.

Marisa closed her eyes, fighting off the threatening swoon. It would have been her first, but she could not afford the indulgence.

Nor could her bold companion.

After three torturous revolutions in his arms, Marisa finally found her voice.

"You're mad!"

"I know."

She groaned at his cheerful response. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze as he pulled her close enough to cause a scandal. His sandalwood scent enveloped her, reminding her of other intimate moments they had shared, driving her to the brink of madness. She could not even think clearly, yet he twirled her about the dance floor, as if they were at their own private betrothal ball.

"What are you doing here? You could be apprehended!" Her initial fright gave way to another, equally strong, emotion. "And perhaps," she continued with a cool tone, "I shall sound the alarm."

"Angel," he chided, clucking his tongue. "Do not tell me you are not glad to see me."

She nearly choked at his words. Had he no idea she wanted to rail at him for his heartless, empty promise to rescue her and her aunt? It would be more than satisfying to tear a strip from his handsome hide. In a less public arena, she would have given in to the temptation. Instead, she flashed him a look that would convince her guests she was the happiest of creatures at that moment.

"Of course I am glad to see you," she said with unveiled sarcasm. "Clearly my shocked response at seeing you is part of your plan, to ensure my demise so I cannot be wed."

He tossed his head back and laughed with utter abandon.

She pulled him closer, trying to ignore the familiar responses ignited by his nearness. "Must you call even more attention to yourself?"

"I am but one of many highwaymen here this evening, just as you suspected. There is nothing that will single me out from the others, nor alert the authorities that I am the 'exalted lord of the highways' that has been bedeviling them."

"You
are
mad! How can you think you are not singular? Just look at these other men. They are pale imitations of you. You are tall and quite hand—"

"Yes?"

She shot him a warning look. Thankfully he could not know how her heart skipped at the roguish twinkle in his eyes. He had only to appear and she forgot all of her sane reasons for not trusting the fickle man.

Before she could forget herself entirely, she said, "I suppose you have come to withdraw your pledge."

His face darkened, and she feared she had pressed too far. But the way his arm tightened around her was proprietary, and for some irrational reason it reassured her.

"Mistress Angel, I have given you my word, and it is never given lightly."

He paused, his lips pressed together as if his next words were ones he did not wish to utter. "Yet if you wish to release me from this promise, I will not deny you."

Marisa gulped. Did she want to release him from his pledge? And did he truly mean he was still planning to fulfill his vow?

Her mind whirled as she sought answers to her dilemma. Before she was able to discover any, Lord Midnight said in an apologetic voice, "I suppose my absence has caused you some concern. But I fear I do not have a great deal of experience at rescuing damsels in distress."

She bit her lip to keep the smile at bay. "Surely your vast experience at playing the gallant for your victims could prove beneficial."

He made a moue of distaste. "Perhaps you can enlighten me how being accosted by the likes of Lady Colecroft shall aid in a rescue. I confess I am at a loss."

His irreverent response threatened to dislodge her pique. Fortunately, before she could do anything so rash as to forgive him his inconstancy, the music ended. She almost wished he would recklessly claim her for the next dance as well, for while she was in his arms, she could almost believe he was worthy of the trust she had given him.

He bowed over her hand with a courtly kiss. His eyes danced with mischief, as if to persuade her his chivalrous behavior was bestowed on her alone.

Marisa opened her mouth to inform him she was immune to his charm, even though it was the grandest falsehood she would ever hope to utter.