The Wedding Chase (14 page)

The knot in her throat strangled her cry, as she whirled about, bolting through the door. Zel skirted the edges of the ballroom, vaguely aware of the need to avoid notice. He followed. She knew it and could think only of escaping him, the ballroom, the house. Upon reaching the entryway, she stopped, sending one footman for her aunt, another to summon a hack. She slid into a corner, but he found her and moved to touch her.

“No!” Zel shrank back from his hand, her voice low and hoarse. “Do not touch me.”

Wolfgang stopped, inches from her. “Zel, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “No, I’m not sorry.… Devil it, I don’t know. But there’s something between us. Why do you fight it so?”

“Leave me alone.”

“No. I want an answer.” She felt trapped, wedged securely in her corner, immobilized by his long, muscular frame.

“You know my situation.” She paused, moistening her lips. “I must make a good marriage and you are ruining everything.”

His eyes rose from her mouth to her eyes. “I’ll help you.”

“How can you help?” Zel forced a thick layer of scorn into her wavery voice. “I know you have no interest in marriage.”

“I’ll help you find a goddamn, old, feeble husband.”

She heard a gasp. They both turned to the sound to find her aunt, Lady Selby, and Lady Melbourne and her son circling them, their eyes riveted on Wolfgang’s cheek and her bloodstained gown. How much had they heard? By their faces, more than enough. She might be a naive fool, but she knew they would interpret his last remark as a plan to marry her off to gain free access to a bored wife or widow.

Zel looked to her aunt. “I want to go home.”

Aunt Diana moved to her side, placing a firm arm around her shoulders. “Julianna, may we take your coach?”

“Of course, my dear.” Lady Selby gave Wolfgang a cold look. “My coachman may return for me later.”

Wolfgang’s eyes were on her, hard, searing, but Zel did not back down. She held his stare, her voice harsh when she spoke. “Go wash your face. You are bleeding everywhere.” She stood tall, walking into the cool evening air on her aunt’s arm.

By the time they reached the carriage for the ride home, she was shuddering with the effort to hold in her tears, shaking from the center of her chest. Here was the violence that terrified her. This attraction was too wild, too passionate, too uncontrolled. It embodied the very same lack of control that
led to the violence in marriages like that of her parents, her aunt, and her maid.

Sinking into the carriage cushions, she tucked her feet up beneath her legs. She had been as consumed by the kiss as he, but her fear had erupted when he wouldn’t let her go, when he was so lost in desire he did not recognize her struggle. Zel had felt completely overwhelmed by his size and strength.

But then he stopped.

He stopped.

Oh, God. Her hand went to her cheek. She scratched him, drew blood, like some rabid alley cat. After he stopped.

Zel wrapped her arms tight around her ribs, a vain attempt to contain the wild swirl of emotions inside her. Fear, she easily identified. But fear was only one of those hurricane force emotions. And whom did she fear more? Wolfgang or herself?

He must like pain. Wolfgang paused before the stairs. There could be no other reason to be at her door.

He must want a broken bone or two to go along with the black eye, the scratch, and the ache in his groin. The black eye maybe he deserved, but the scratch was another matter. He had felt her stiffen, heard her say no, and he’d stopped. Damnation, he’d stopped and she’d scratched him anyway. If he had any sense at all, he would walk away and never seek her out again. Sighing, he put a foot on the bottom step. He wasn’t known for his good sense, was he? Perhaps he should do as he’d threatened and help her find just the husband she wished for. In a year or so he could look her up. When she was ripe with boredom and dissatisfaction. He took another step. Lucifer’s scaly skin, it shouldn’t be so difficult to think of her with another man.

He sighed again. If she agreed to see him today, would he try to make amends or continue his mad pursuit? Damned if he knew.

Wolfgang’s fingers were at the knocker before the door
swung open. The little butler’s clairvoyant powers were slipping. No, today’s guardian of the inner sanctum was a tiny redhead.

“My lord, she’s not in.” Wide green eyes furtively scanned his face. “No one is home unless young master Fleetwood is still abed.”

“I’ll wait.”

“My lord, Miss Zel and Mrs. Stanfield are walking the dog in Hyde Park.” She looked hesitantly up the street, then pulled farther back into the house. “I don’t know as you should try to see her. She’s still angry.”

“Angry?” Wolfgang smiled innocently. “At me?”

“Oh, my lord, please stay away, at least for a few days.” He noticed the faint yellow of an old bruise on her jaw and cheek and tried to catch her gaze.

“I’ll take a turn in the park.” He handed her his card. “If I happen to miss her, please let her know I came by.”

The sky was dotted with clouds, the air had that just-washed freshness only a spring shower can bring. A pleasant day for a walk in what would be a nearly deserted park. Clearly Zel walked for the exercise, as it was far too early to be seen. And much of the fashionable crowd would still be in Paris. He fingered the dog treats in his pocket. Thanks to his valet, when he met up with that beast she called a dog, he’d be prepared.

After an hour of circling the park he had not spotted her. Wolfgang leaned against a tree, closing his eyes. He could still envision her as she’d looked last night, her supple form draped in liquid blue, her eyes effulgent with gold flame, the exposed upper curves of her breasts softly translucent. He’d played the gentleman as long as he could, but he wanted to touch her and he chose not to deny himself. When she parted her lips under his mouth and pressed the length of her body into his, desire had burst over its banks. Carried away at flood tide he had moved too far too fast and terrified
her. But damming up the passion, a mighty struggle, had still not calmed her.

He rubbed the raw abrasion scoring his cheek. The sleek, sable feline had claws. Pushing off the tree, he strode for the main path. Satan’s small clothes! He’d seen enough of Hyde Park to last a month.

Thunder roared from a nearby stand of trees, followed instantaneously by a soft buzz as pain seared his right temple. Wolfgang stumbled to his knees, pitching forward into the soft mud. Dazed. Sticky liquid running down the side of his face.

He lay there, minute after minute, conscious of his own breath moving in and out, keeping cadence with the arrhythmic thud of his heart. That part of his mind trained by war listened but heard only bird cry punctuated by the chatter of squirrels. The shot had come from the trees on his right. The oak he had leaned on was the only cover in range, and it was a good ten paces away. He’d never make it, and the little dagger in his waistcoat was a feeble defense against a pistol or rifle.

Every muscle in his body tensed, ready for battle, as he forced himself to lie quiet and motionless as death itself. The minutes lengthened. Mud oozed damply through the layers of his clothing, chilling his skin. He supressed a shiver. The park was quiet save for the rustling of leaves in the breeze and the soft, soothing calls of animals.

Wolfgang ran his fingers surreptitiously up the side of his face, through the trail of blood. The wound seemed slight, a parting of the skin over the right temple. Remembering how copiously the mildest head wounds bled, he pushed up to his knees. His head felt suddenly light, his vision spotty. He knelt, in silence, still nothing but the usual sounds of the park about him. The dizziness passed. Raf would be back from France, his home only blocks away. Wolfgang stood, yanking out his handkerchief, wiping blood off his face and mud off his jacket and waistcoat. He made
his way through the park, drawing a few curious looks, but the scowl on his face kept at bay any offers of help.

When he reached Rafael’s town house, the perfect, never ruffled butler escorted him to a small salon. “His Grace will be down shortly.” Crompton spared a short look at his face. “Do you require a physician, my lord?”

“No, just send in Mrs. Saunders to help me clean up.”

He flung himself on the nearest sofa, lowering his bleeding head into his hands. Mephisto, he felt tired, dulled. Was he injured more than he realized? His brain refused to work.

“What kind of muddle have you gotten yourself into now?” Rafael Langford, the duke of Ridgemont, stood beside Wolfgang, his cultured voice more clipped than usual. Raf’s deceptively slight form bent smoothly over him while thin, immaculately groomed fingers pushed aside his matted hair to examine the wound. “You look like the devil himself, but it’s not much more than a flesh wound. I thought you had given up dueling.”

“You know I haven’t even thought of dueling in years.” A frisson of anger constricted his throat. He swallowed it. Rafael, his friend since schooldays at Eton, was only trying to help in his sardonic manner. “Someone shot me in the park.”

“A stray bullet?” Ridgemont’s golden brows rose.

“No, Raf. I believe someone is trying to kill me.”

The brows edged higher, but the sculpted face remained cool as marble. “This isn’t the first attempt?”

“No, the first was nearly two weeks ago. I was attacked by footpads outside of Brooks’s.”

“I’ve always told you those Whigs at Brooks’s are nothing but trouble, Wolf.”

Mrs. Saunders entered, intrepidly sure of her place. Both men were quiet as she made quick work of cleaning the wound and wrapping a bandage around Wolfgang’s head. After she tucked in the edge of the cloth, Raf ushered her out the door, thanking her for her labors.

“You believe the footpad attack was not a simple robbery?”
Rafael seated himself gracefully on a carved ebony chair.

“Between my coachman’s cudgel and my dagger, we convinced them that flight was the most judicious course.” Wolfgang rubbed at the bandage. “But as they fled, one complained that they’d better get the promised pay for the night’s work.”

“I see your point, footpads are normally paid by the proceeds of their work. You think they were hired assassins?” Raf’s excessively handsome face revealed none of his internal cognition, but Wolfgang knew he was rapidly piecing together the puzzle, placing it into an ordered pattern.

“I was suspicious enough to hire a runner, but as he turned up nothing, I began to doubt my assumptions.” Wolfgang swung an ankle up to rest on his knee. “Now this. Raf, the park was deserted. A stray bullet is too much of a coincidence.”

“I agree, Wolf.” Rafael scratched his head, sending his carefully ruffled Brutus into wild disarray. “I’ll bring in a few of my best men. You can meet with them tomorrow, tell them all you can of both attacks. One will stay with you, install him as a footman. And alert your ex-army staffers.” He paused a moment. “Whom do you suspect?”

“I’ve given it a lot of thought. The list is longer than I care to admit.” Wolfgang rose, stalking to the fireplace. “There are, of course, my relatives, who aren’t too happy that I’m head of the family. There’s Rosalind’s brother. He never approved of our marriage.” He traced the elaborate scrollwork along the mantel with his forefinger. “He was the first to accuse me of her death.”

“And we can’t forget the cuckolded husbands, spurned lovers, and bested rivals.” Raf’s sarcastic tone had a bite. “Who would bear a serious grudge, and be capable of murder?”

“The devil and his hellhounds! This is worse than I imagined. I haven’t been careful or kind.”

“Then perhaps you deserve to be shot.”

Wolfgang turned from the fireplace, glaring at him.

“That scratch looks evil, and is that the remnant of a black eye? I hear you’ve been tangling with more than footpads and assassins. Now you’re taking on virgin bluestockings.” Rafael gave him an appraising look. “Tell me the whole story.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” Wolfgang sighed broadly. He’d never win against Raf’s relentless questioning, so he might as well surrender now. “I suppose you’ll torture me if I don’t confess. I met her at the Selby’s house party, you know, the one you insisted I attend. The one to start me on the path of improving my standing in society.”

Rafael sat a little straighter in his chair. “Am I to blame then for trying to help you reenter polite society, for helping you build your career in the House of Lords?”

“Stop, I don’t need the lecture. I understand more laws are passed in drawing rooms than in the halls of Parliament.” He slumped into the chair opposite his tormentor. “I do appreciate your efforts on my behalf.”

“What about your bluestocking?”

“Our association started on a high note, but has been at the bottom of the scale ever since.” He slouched further in the chair. “Every time I touch her, she hits me.”

“That’s simple to deal with. Stop touching her. One line of gossip claims she’s your mistress, another that she rejected you, but you won’t give up.”