The Greatest Lover Ever (3 page)

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Georgie could only be glad that her mask hid her scarlet face. She had run with a fast set of young people during the season that her betrothal to the Earl of Beckenham had ended so spectacularly. But even in those reckless days she’d never attended a party like this.

She knew all about the Westruthers, thanks to her long association with Beckenham. The host of this evening’s affair, Xavier Westruther, Marquis of Steyne, was a notorious member of that family. By reputation, he was a shocking libertine, steeped in dissipation. What she knew of him personally, she did not like.

Her opinion of the marquis was not improved when she slipped into his house uninvited that night.

She’d been forced to mock up a costume from the limited wardrobe she’d brought to Brighton. Absent a mask, she’d managed to fashion one by cutting eyeholes into a black lace scarf. The beauty of the scarf was that it covered her entire face, completely obscuring her features.

Her thick, flame red hair was more difficult to disguise, but by dressing it in the style of a generation earlier and dredging it with powder, she’d managed to conceal its exuberance.

She wore her new jade green evening gown because no one would have seen her in it before. With a pang, she realized she could never wear it again after tonight.

Drat that girl! But of course, what did clothes matter when it came to saving Violet’s reputation? Violet was clever and good-natured, but her mama’s example had given her a somewhat skewed perspective on proper behavior. Heaven only knew what she’d get up to at the Makepeaces’ instigation.

Once inside Lord Steyne’s villa, Georgie realized how utterly daunting a task she’d undertaken. This was no ordinary ball, where the guests were largely confined to a ballroom and refreshment parlor, perhaps a card room, too.

It seemed as if the entire population of Brighton had overtaken every room in the house and the grounds besides. How would she ever find Violet here?

As she moved upstairs to the second floor in search of her half sister, Georgie suffered several lewd propositions from men who lounged against the wall, accosting passersby. Masculine hands strayed over her person in shocking familiarity.

Georgie was wholly unaccustomed to such treatment. Her frigid stares and icy disdain did not succeed as well as they might in a London ballroom. Stripped of her identity, to these men she was just one more tasty morsel in a banquet of loose-moraled loveliness.

As the rowdy voices grew more boisterous and the attempts to halt her progress more determined, she picked up her skirts and fled down the corridor. Her tormentors, scenting sport, pelted after her with a shout that more properly belonged on the hunting field.

Panic gripped her. What would they do to her when they caught her? Oh, dear Heaven, what madness had brought her here? Where was Violet in all of this? At least Violet had the dubious protection of Mrs. Makepeace and her horrible brother-in-law. Georgie, hoping to get in and out of this party with Violet’s and her own reputation intact, had brought no one.

Throwing a glance over her shoulder at the gaining pursuers, Georgie cannoned into a man who had just entered the corridor from a doorway. Aware of a tall figure with a very hard chest, she pressed her palms against him to push away.

It was her host, the Marquis of Steyne.

“Oh, thank goodness,” she murmured between pants.

Unlike his guests, the marquis had not donned a costume for this affair, eschewing flamboyant finery for plain evening dress in black and blinding white. A sapphire pin nestling in his cravat glittered as he moved, but the gem was no more intense than his blue, blue eyes. His black hair hung a little long over his brow, but that was the only soft thing about him. The slashing eyebrows, the angular bones of his face, and the strong jaw, not to mention the hard glitter of those pitiless eyes, signaled that he was not a man to cross.

The marquis regarded the men who followed her. One infinitesimal lift of his slashing black eyebrows was enough to bring them skidding to a halt. The merest inclination of his dark head sent them backtracking hurriedly with stuttered apologies.

Recollecting herself, Georgie realized she might well have jumped from the frying pan into the fire. Steyne might have saved her from physical harm, but if anyone at this party was likely to discover her identity, it was he.

With a deep curtsy, she murmured thanks to her savior and made as if to return downstairs.

But his hand on her wrist stayed her. Effortlessly, he drew her back to face him, used finger and thumb to capture her chin and tilt her face to the light.

“Good God, what have we here?” the marquis murmured, lips curling in that cynical, unpleasant smile of his. “A diamond amongst the rough.”

Without a by-your-leave, he drew her arm through his in one languid move and began to lead her farther down the corridor. She tried to pull away from him, but his seemingly negligent grip beneath her elbow was too firm.

He turned his head sharply to her, as if scenting a secret on the wind. “I know you, don’t I?”

Georgie tensed beneath the guiding pressure of his hand. “I don’t think so, my lord.”

Of all the bad luck! Xavier, Marquis of Steyne, was not only the one person clever enough to penetrate her disguise but the one person ruthless enough to make use of it in some devilishly unpleasant manner.

Before she could decide how to get away from him without making herself more intriguing, the marquis had drawn her out of the corridor, into an empty bedchamber.

Georgie cast an apprehensive glance at the opulent bed with its canopy festooned in crimson swags of silk brocade. Were it anyone else but Lord Steyne, she’d kick him in the shin and run. She’d worn sturdy shoes for that very purpose.

But his words suggested he might already have guessed who she was. If she ran now and Steyne spoke of her presence here to anyone … That didn’t bear thinking about. She needed to throw him off the scent.

Adopting her stepmother’s mode of speech with a slightly higher pitch than her usual tone, she said, “Oh, la! Fancy your lordship saying as he knows the likes of me.”

“Faces often elude me,” he mused as if she hadn’t spoken, “but when a woman with a figure like yours crosses my path, I don’t forget.”

His gaze bored into her, as if he might penetrate her mask by the sheer force of his will. Such was the power of his personality, she almost believed he’d succeed.

She thought he might try to remove her disguise by more prosaic methods, but he stepped back the better to scrutinize her body, in the way that one might view a life-sized painting at an art gallery. He did it with a kind of focused attention that made her flush hotly. She could not help suspecting he stripped her naked in his mind.

Georgie dearly wished she could box his ears. Instead, she must play the part of a female who liked being surveyed in such an insolent manner. Why else would a woman come to this place if not to be ogled and groped? Ugh!

With his raven-black hair and vivid blue eyes, Steyne was ridiculously handsome, but she’d always found his style of male beauty cold and unappealing.

Unfortunately, he appeared to like what he saw in her, for he smiled. “I can’t place you, it’s true.” He tapped one finger to his lips. “I don’t think I’ve had you before.”

Casually, he moved to the door. Looking back at her, he added, “Which will make this all the more interesting, won’t it? And here I’d thought to be thoroughly bored tonight.”

He turned the key in the lock, drew the key out, and pocketed it.

Alarm rang through Georgie’s body. She did her best to tamp it down but her voice shook. “I’m not here for the, er, entertainment. I’m looking for someone.”

Again the flashing smile that did not reach his eyes. He bowed. “Well, my lovely, you’ve just found him.”

As Steyne reached out to her, she backed away. There was a steely glint in his eye that told her he would not give up on this seduction easily. Lord, why didn’t she run away when she’d had the chance? She’d always felt safe around Steyne because she’d known Marcus would protect her.

Now, she could not claim such shelter. She realized Steyne’s pursuit had maneuvered her toward the bed when she nearly stumbled over the dais on which the bed stood.

Scrambling to get her footing, she fetched up against the mattress. Before she could regain her balance, he put out his hands on either side of her, trapping her between him and the bed.

Her heart raced as she stared into his face. Even through her panic, she saw that his expression did not convey passion or even desire, but merely cool intent.

Did he mean to rape her? Good God, surely not. That was a line no gentleman would cross. She’d scream her head off if it came to that, reputation or no. But for now, if she could just turn him away without fuss, that would be the better solution.

Steyne reached into her coiffure to finger her powdered curls. “What color is your hair, my glorious girl?”

If he discovered that, the game would be up.

Desperate, she said the one thing that might halt this rake’s progress. “No, you must not, my lord. I … it was Lord Beckenham I sought in your rooms tonight. I’m—” She swallowed hard. “I’m under his protection, you see.”

She knew Beckenham wouldn’t be here, but she could still say she looked for him, couldn’t she? That she’d thought he might attend a party given by his cousin. Never mind that he loathed Brighton and never set foot in the place.

That stopped the marquis in his tracks. His black eyebrows drew together. “Under
Beckenham’s
protection, you say?” He cocked his head. “How extraordinary.”

He stared at her hard, then pushed away from the bed, watching her through narrowed eyes as he retreated.

She’d taken a huge risk implying she was Beckenham’s mistress, but if it made Steyne let her go, it would be worth it.

Suddenly, his mouth curled into the first genuine smile he’d given her. “Well, well. The sly dog,” he said, laughing softly.

With a courtly bow, Steyne said, “My compliments and my apologies, Miss, er … It seems I have been importunate.”

She simply stared at him, disconcerted at his abrupt change of front, unable to believe it had been so easy to arrest his advances. She couldn’t detect from his demeanor whether he’d recognized her. She thought not. She
hoped
not.

Georgie rose and shook out her skirts. “Then if you’ve finished importuning me—”

Steyne held out both hands, palms toward her. “Oh, no, my dear,” he said in that soft, hateful voice, “I’m not done with you yet.”

With an ironic bow, he left the bedchamber, shutting the door behind him.

The room seemed to reverberate in time with her heartbeat. Georgie collected her wits, and hurried for the door.

On the other side of the oak panels, the key turned in the lock with a loud click.

Georgie rattled the doorknob, knowing it would be hopeless. What in Heaven’s name was the wretched man up to now? A quick glance around showed no other possible means of escape. She had better search the room for weapons.

She discovered nothing of practical use in the sparsely furnished chamber—not even a fire iron with which to brain her host should he try to ravish her.

The minutes dragged by; she realized how foolish it had been to suppose she could rescue her sister from this kind of peril. Ten to one, Violet enjoyed the festivities, happy as a lark, watched over by her companions. While Georgie was imprisoned in a boudoir by a lecherous marquis with a grossly overblown opinion of his charms.

Fools rush in,
indeed. Hadn’t Marcus always complained of her impetuousness? It seemed she still hadn’t learned her lesson.

The key turning in the lock made her stiffen, her heart bounding into her throat.

Georgie moved as far from the bed as she could manage. Not that it would make any difference to Steyne, but it made her feel better. She snatched up the Chinese vase from the mantel, tested its weight. Too delicate to do any damage and probably priceless into the bargain. She set it down again.

But the tall, dark-haired figure who entered was not Lord Steyne.

It was his cousin, her former fiancé. Marcus Westruther, Earl of Beckenham.

He stood there for what seemed an age, silhouetted against the doorway. She couldn’t see his features clearly in the shadows but she didn’t have to. They were as sharp and clear in her mind’s eye as they had ever been in the flesh.

The shock of seeing him again suspended her faculties. Her lips parted but no sound came out.

Emotion flooded her chest, a swirling mass of reactions that could not be separated into constituent parts. The strength and tumult of her feelings made her light-headed.

What could she say to him? She’d avoided a meeting between them for years, and now, to see him in such fantastical circumstances … Could anything be more disastrous? She dreaded to imagine what he’d think if he discovered her identity.

Ought she simply tell him the real reason she was here?

Could she trust him? Instinct told her yes. He was the most solidly dependable person she’d ever known.

But why on earth should he help her, even if she told him her troubles? He’d washed his hands of her years ago.

She’d rejected him as a husband, dealt a severe blow to his pride, made them both the talk of the Ton. As far as Beckenham was concerned, there could not be a more unforgivable crime than that. He was a man who prized honor and loyalty above all other qualities.

So she waited in the silence. She would follow his lead.

Her awareness of him was so heightened that the slight tilt of his head as he studied her made her heart zing about her chest like a firework. She heard nothing but her own breathing. The unruly hitch in it seemed to echo in the silence.

He moved into the room, then closed the door. “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

His deep voice resonated through her body, stirring the embers of a fire that had long lain dormant.
Yes, but never in my wildest dreams did I think you’d be here.

She didn’t answer. Oh, God, it was awful and humiliating and … and
wonderful
to see him. She hadn’t laid eyes on him since that dreadful night when she released him from the engagement. Almost by tacit agreement, she lived in Town while he’d largely kept to his estate. She’d heard he attended Lady Cecily Westruther’s come-out ball in London last season, but of course she hadn’t been invited to that auspicious event. Most pointedly not invited.