The Pleasure Trap (9 page)

Chapter Seven

The gown Eve wore for the outing to Vauxhall Gardens was on loan from Lady Valmede, who had bought it for her trousseau to wear to the opera. It was an appliqued red satin with a small padded bustle and was so low across the bosom that Eve had unfurled her fan and positioned it to preserve her modesty. Her hair was piled high and powdered; a beauty patch was glued to her cheek. She knew she had never looked lovelier, but she had never felt so uncomfortable, either. Her stays were killing her! A laugh, a cough would burst her strings, and she couldn’t sit down without squirming. She didn’t understand why women had ever put up with it.

Oh yes, she did. She wondered what Ash Denison would think when he saw her decked out in crimson satin.

She wasn’t playing fair. Lydia had wanted this particular gown, too, but Eve had talked her out of it. Crimson satin, she’d said, made Lydia look older, so Lydia had reluctantly given up her claims in favor of a gold brocade. And very nice she looked in it, too.

But gold brocade could not compare to crimson satin. The dress made Eve feel liberated, bold, desirable, just like the heroines in her books.

Just like the Eve in her dreams.

A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Maybe her dream man knew a thing or two. Just to test her theory, she’d rewritten the first two chapters of her story, making the villain, with a few adjustments, the hero of the piece. The result was electrifying. Her poor, capable heroine had her work cut out for her just to tame the beast. She didn’t know what would happen next, because her characters seemed to have developed a will of their own. If the dialogue got any hotter, the pages would catch fire.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” said Anna Contini, gesturing with one hand.

Eve dragged her thoughts from Ash and looked out on the scene. “Beautiful,” she agreed.

It was dark now, and the gardens looked as though they’d been plucked from a fairy tale. The lights from thousands of lamps shimmered as far as the eye could see—in the supper boxes, in the rotunda where the dancing took place, and along the tree-lined avenues and walks. To complete the fantasy, the strains of a stately minuet floated on the air.

Lady Valmede’s party was scattered among several supper boxes. It was a large party, and Eve had a hard time remembering so many faces and names. Some had wandered off to take in the sights. Those in the boxes watched the continuous flow of people or helped themselves to the wine and refreshments offered by an army of footmen who flitted from box to box.

In Eve’s box were Lady Sayers, Leigh Fleming, Anna Contini, and Mr. Henderson. He was a barrister and one of the gentlemen who had stood up with Ash to confront the hecklers. He wasn’t Eve’s idea of a barrister. He was too handsome, too suave, and too debonair. If she set him in one of her books, she’d make him a highwayman—

Books again! Think pleasure, she told herself. Naturally, that made her think of Ash Denison.

He was in the box next to hers, and with a will of their own, her eyes kept straying to him. He was, she thought, magnificent in his blue velvet coat with its huge turn-back cuffs that showed a profusion of white lace at the throat and wrists. She’d wager there wasn’t a wrinkle on his skintight white satin breeches or on his white silk stockings. His powdered wig was tied back with a black ribbon, but it was the mask that made her catch her breath. He looked as though he had stepped out of the pages of her own novel.

Eve looked away, and when she looked again, Ash was leading a striking brunette toward the rotunda where the dancing was in progress.

“That’s Lady Sophie Villiers,” whispered Lady Sayers in Eve’s ear. “I thought their affair was over. Seems I was mistaken.”

Lady Sophie looked ravishing in a silver tissue gown with a scrap of silver lace that served as a mask. Even her laugh was silvery. That was one lady, Eve decided, who needed no lectures from Ash Denison on how to enjoy herself.

Philip Henderson got up, excused himself, and wandered over to Lady Valmede’s box.

“I don’t know if that’s wise,” said Lady Sayers in the same hushed tone.

Eve followed the path of Lady Sayers’s gaze. Mr. Henderson was bending over Amanda’s hand, obviously requesting her to partner him in the dance. Amanda’s profile might have been chiseled in ice. It looked as if she would refuse, but her grandmother said something to her, and she rose gracefully to her feet and allowed him to lead her from the box.

Eve looked at Lady Sayers, waiting for her to elaborate, and when she didn’t, Eve carefully prompted, “Why isn’t it wise?”

Lady Sayers hesitated, as though reluctant to pass on gossip, but her reluctance lasted no more than a moment. “Oh, when Amanda was engaged to Mark, she suddenly broke it off and became engaged to Mr. Henderson. I don’t know all the ins and outs of it, but I do know that Mark was heartbroken. There was a duel, and the next thing we knew, Amanda had given up Henderson and was engaged to Mark again. That happened ten years ago and, as far as I know, they haven’t spoken to each other since.”

“I suppose,” said Eve dryly, “that Mark was wounded in the duel?”

Lady Sayers’s brows rose. “Oh, you’ve heard the story?”

“No. But I’ve used the same plot in one of my novels.”

Anna leaned toward Eve and whispered, “Don’t look now, but a ragamuffin just lifted an end of ham from a table over there and stuffed it under his coat, then ran off.”

“I didn’t know beggars were allowed in Vauxhall.”

“They’re not, poor devils, but hunger drives them in. And who can blame them? They must eat.”

Under Eve’s mystified gaze, Anna took one of the linen napkins lying on the table and wrapped it around two breasts of chicken. “Just wait and see,” said Anna. “When we leave our table, the ragamuffins will come out and play.”

Eve looked at Anna curiously. She was an odd sort of person who didn’t have much to say for herself. It wasn’t that she was shy. She lived a hermit’s existence in the wilds of Cornwall, but she wasn’t lonely, or she never complained of loneliness. Tonight, in her flaring black domino with its cowl, she could have passed for a monk.

“St. Francis,” Lydia called her, because she cared for stray and abused animals. It seemed that Anna’s vocation extended to people, as well.

Thinking of Nell, Eve sighed.

“Why the long face?” Anna asked.

“I was thinking of the runaway from Bedlam.” Eve’s eyes searched the crowds. “I hope she’s found a safe haven far, far away from here.”

“I doubt it.”

Eve shifted to get a better look at Anna’s face. “You doubt it?”

Anna’s shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug. “Where would she go? Who would look after her? Someone must have committed her to Bedlam. What’s to stop them doing it again? Oh, no, our runaway has nowhere to go. She’d be much better off here with the beggars, if she could ever bring herself to trust anyone, and that’s doubtful. I don’t think we’ll find her at Vauxhall. Too many people.”

“You sound,” said Eve slowly, “as though you are on her side.”

Anna replied quietly, “And you sound as though you know more than you’ve told me.”

Anna’s hard stare did not intimidate Eve. It was something in the older woman’s voice that thawed Eve’s misgivings. “Oh, Anna,” she said impulsively, “she isn’t mad or deranged. She’s only a frightened girl. She can hardly speak. If you’d only heard her try to say her name. I’d like to help her, but she’s as nervous as a creature of the wild.”

Anna nodded sympathetically. “It’s the same with my donkeys. Some of them have been so abused that they never learn to trust people. But we do what we can.”

Eve expected more questions, but none came. Anna suddenly got up. To the others at the table, she said in a loud, bright voice, “Why don’t we take a turn around the rotunda?”

When they returned to their table, Anna’s napkin was gone.

Eve was listening idly to her aunt’s glowing account of the many amiable people she had met at Vauxhall when a shadow fell across her and a masculine voice said, “Miss Dearing, would you do me the honor of taking a turn around the gardens with me?”

The voice belonged to Ash Denison.

Their progress was slow because the walks were choked with strollers and Eve hadn’t quite mastered the art of managing her hoops. Not everyone was in costume. In fact, the majority of people were in evening clothes and had chosen to wear only masks and those voluminous cloaks called dominoes to comply with the rules of admission.

The silence between them was beginning to annoy Eve. Here she was, decked out in crimson satin, looking perfectly ravishing, or as ravishing as she’d ever hoped to look, and not one little compliment passed his lips. This was not the man of her dreams. She wished she knew what he was thinking, but over the course of the evening she’d discovered that his mind was impervious to her little probes. It was no less than she expected. Claverleys couldn’t pick and choose whose thoughts they could read, and when it came to reading thoughts or receiving messages, she was practically a novice.

Ahead of them on the path were Lady Amanda and Jason Ford, one of Lady Valmede’s “spare” gentlemen who, like Mr. Henderson, had attended the symposium. They were laughing and talking, their two heads close together. As pleasantly as she could manage, Eve observed, “Lady Amanda seems to be enjoying herself. I don’t think I’ve seen her so animated.”

“You might want to copy her example.”

She searched his face for signs of humor, but he wasn’t joking. Stung, she replied, “What have I done now?”

He shrugged. “In spite of your fine feathers, you look as though you could be a mourner at a funeral. Do you know what I think, Eve? I think you miss your notebook, the one where you jot down your impressions of people and things to use later in your stories.”

He wasn’t even close to the truth. If she looked disgruntled, it was because her stays were killing her. She couldn’t tell him that because the subject of stays was too delicate to mention in mixed company.

She navigated her hooped skirts around several stragglers before she spoke. “We can’t all be grinning monkeys, making a spectacle of ourselves over every little joke,” she gave him a spare smile, “or ogling every pretty woman who catches your eye.”

He was amused and didn’t mind showing it. “So you’ve been spying on me again? I’m flattered, Eve.”

Her voice chilled. “Don’t be. I was merely observing the scene before me. That’s what writers do.”

He steered her into a side path where there were fewer people to obstruct their progress. She went ahead of him, but as soon as he came abreast of her, he took up where they’d left off. “There’s a time and place for everything, I suppose, but these are pleasure gardens. People come to Vauxhall to enjoy themselves.
Pleasure,
Eve. It’s not a bad word.”

She shot him a look from below her fiercely drawn brows. “We’ve had this conversation before. Your only ambition is to enjoy yourself, and I say there should be more to life than that.”

He was so quiet that she chanced a quick look at him. For one heart-stopping moment, she felt as though she’d said something to hurt him. He was very pale, and that mockery of a smile was on his lips. It was a look that spoke volumes, and for all her Claverley charisma, she didn’t know what to make of it.

A stately lady resembling a galleon in full sail was bearing down on them. There was no room to pass. They had to turn back or step off the path.

Ash guided Eve to one of the small ivy-covered arbors that were set out at intervals along the walk. The galleon in full sail passed them, but Ash made no move to rejoin the strollers on the path. Light from the lanterns outside filtered through the foliage and slats of the arbor, making patterns wherever it touched.

She looked at him, really looked at him, and her heart sank. The moment of serious introspection had passed, and he looked his usual, mocking self. But nothing could wipe the impression from her mind that her careless words had touched a nerve.

“Ash? Lord Denison?” she said softly.

He gave his rogue’s grin. “Eve,” he said, “this is a masquerade, not a church picnic. Every self-respecting lady expects some gentleman to steal a kiss from her in the course of the evening. Where is your sense of adventure? Where is your curiosity as a writer?”

So he wasn’t going to confide in her. She had no choice but to follow his lead. “I don’t have to experience everything firsthand to write about it,” she said lightly.

“So, I was right. You’ve never been kissed before.”

She knew where this was leading. He was going to kiss her, but only if she allowed it. A sensible woman would take to her heels. She didn’t want to be sensible. She wanted, hoped, to find the man in her dream. He had vanished before their lips met, and she’d been left hanging ever since.

This kiss, she told herself, was inevitable, and that settled any inner debate that might have pulled her two ways.

The kiss was inevitable.

She watched him remove his own mask, breathed slowly when he removed hers, then sucked in a breath when he traced the outline of her mouth with the tip of one finger.