Too Wicked to Wed (6 page)
The marquess looked nonplussed. Her cousin stared down at his boots.
“Well?” she pressed.
“No,” admitted Gryff. “I wouldn’t.”
“Then that is the end of it,” she announced.
“I fear it’s j’st the beginning,” replied Gryff slowly. “Unless, o’course, you will let me redeem the vowel at, say, double the value?”
She shook her head.
“Y’re a dab hand at cards, Lady Alexa. Appear t’ have a clever mind an’ steady nerve as well.” The marquess smoothed at his rumpled cravat. “Hope ye have a spine o’ steel hidden beneath the gent’s garb. Y’ll need it when the Wolfhound hears o’ this.”
“Don’t worry about me, sir.” She paused as she tucked her hair back under her hat. “As you have seen, I’m not afraid to go
mano a mano
against any gentleman, however fierce his reputation.”
J
aw clenched, eyes narrowed, Connor paced the perimeter of the dance floor, all too aware of his unfortunate resemblance to a predator stalking its quarry. The other guests were quick to slink out of his way, wary yet watchful, their curious gazes following his every move. Already he could hear the faint whispers behind his back. Speculation, no doubt, on what had brought the Hellhounds out to prowl through the inner circle of Polite Society.
The music, a lilting Viennese waltz, set his teeth further on edge.
Damn Gryff and his jug-bitten judgment.
As he stalked past the musicians, Connor was sorely tempted to put his foot through the delicate inlaid veneer of the pianoforte.
Pivoting on his heel, the earl brushed by the colonnaded gallery, his brusque step setting a wave of ostrich plumes to fluttering as several turbaned matrons fled like hens before a fox. He watched them regroup and begin an agitated clucking—which he answered with a black scowl.
On the morrow, of course, the drawing rooms would be humming with the latest example of the Wolfhound’s vicious temper. But at least the tale would be true, unlike most of the outrageous ondits.
His mouth stretched taut as the bass string of a viola, he fell in stride with Gryff, who had just finished a turn through the entrance hall. “Any sign of her?”
“No.” The marquess essayed a note of grim humor. “But perhaps I should check the card room.”
“Perhaps you should check your damn tongue, if you do not wish to have it yanked from your throat and chopped into mincemeat.”
The faint smile disappeared. “Sorry. Just trying to add a bit of levity to the proceedings.”
“Well, don’t,” snapped Connor. “The situation isn’t remotely funny.”
“I know, I know.” Looking away, his friend fell to scanning the swirl of bright silks. “I ought to be drawn and quartered, and my head skewered on a pike.”
“One can’t stick a spike into thin air,” he retorted.
Gryff repressed a wince. “Bloody hell, I warned you not to trust me with the cursed scrap, Connor.” His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass—which, the earl noted, contained ratafia punch rather than champagne. “I’m aware that my drinking has been getting out of control. But I didn’t give a damn about the consequences. Until now.”
His friend’s face was twisted in such an uncharacteristic look of hangdog remorse that Connor found his anger ebbing away. “You did warn me. So don’t cut yourself up about it,” he muttered gruffly. “Besides, I fully intend to recoup my losses.”
The marquess took a swallow of his drink and grimaced. “You think she will accept the offer you have in mind?”
“How many ladies have you met who can resist the allure of money?” The Wolfhound’s mouth curled up at the corners. “What do you think all the primping and posturing is about on the Marriage Mart, if not to sell themselves to the highest bidder?”
“You have a point.” A slight furrow creased his friend’s brow. “But Seb’s sister struck me as somehow…different. I daresay there are those who care for aught than money or material things.”
Were there?
Connor turned for a moment to watch the dancing couples, aswirl in a vortex of rich silks, costly jewels and polished manners. He supposed he should not be so cynical. However, after all he had experienced in his life, assuming the worst of people had become an ingrained habit.
He was rarely disappointed.
The wife of a duke passed, so close that her fluttering skirts brushed his evening shoes. A tiny turn of her head revealed a fluttering of lashes as well, and a wink. A wink reflected a million times over by the ornate diamond necklace kissing the cleavage of her bosom. The earl had bedded enough such ladies of the
beau monde
to know that beneath many a soft curve and sultry smile beat a mercenary heart.
There were the odd exceptions, he supposed. In his walk of life, he rarely encountered them.
And Alexa Hendrie?
No question she was different. His lips gave a grudging twitch. Not many innocent young ladies would have possessed the courage or imagination to barge into a brothel, undaunted by the danger to her person and her reputation. Just as not many innocent young ladies would have dared dress as a man and risk playing at high-stakes games of chance.
What was she hoping to gain?
He didn’t know her nearly well enough to hazard a guess. Their first two encounters had revealed a stubborn streak of loyalty and fierce show of independence—not to speak of a hidden depth of passions. But as for her most recent escapade…
It was, he reminded himself roughly, a matter of complete indifference to him what the chit was after, as long as he got back his damned scrap of paper.
“Every lady has her price,” he said softly. “It’s merely a question of whether a gentleman is willing to pay it.”
Gryff, looking thoughtful, did not reply.
A moment later they were joined by another gentleman. Impeccably attired in elegant evening clothes, he appeared the very picture of patrician elegance—save for the shocking pink neckcloth that frothed down in a perfect Waterfall knot.
“I got your note.” Cameron Daggett arched a well-groomed brow at Gryff. “Very amusing. And here I thought that
I
was the one with the lurid imagination.”
Of the three Hellhounds, Cameron Daggett was perhaps the most whimsical. And enigmatic. Known for his biting wit and flamboyant style, he gave the appearance of viewing life as nothing more than a scathing joke. Connor and Gryff were among the few people who could stand up to his worldly cynicism. But even they did not know all the secrets that lay beneath the show of detachment.
“Perhaps you ought to eschew your lyrical landscape essays and take up writing novels for Minerva Press,” went on Cameron. He pinched a speck of dust from his fuchsia neckcloth. “Now, what’s the real story?”
Gryff scowled at the veiled reference to his artistic endeavors. “Swallow your usual sarcasm, Cam. The Wolf’s teeth are already on edge.” His expression screwed tighter. “By the by, where did you find that garish rag? Wrapped around the thigh of a French whore?”
Unlike his two friends, who appeared in unrelenting black and white, Cameron enjoyed tweaking the rules of gentlemanly dress as well as deportment. “I’ll have you know this bit of rare silk cost an arm and a leg,” he drawled. “But then, originality is not to everyone’s taste.”
“Neither is your sense of humor.”
Cameron exaggerated a sigh. “The two of you simply have no eye for fashion.”
“You look like a bloody Barbary pirate,” growled Gryff.
The other man fingered the large diamond stud in his left earlobe. “You don’t like my latest acquisition? Perhaps I ought to return it to its rightful owner.”
“Dare I ask where you’ve been for the last sennight?”
Cameron’s answer was a cocky smirk. “Just amusing myself.” He was deliberately vague about a great many things, and would often drop out of sight for days or weeks, returning just as suddenly with no explanation of where he had been. Or why. “Apparently my games were more profitable than yours.”
Normally, Connor would have found the sharp exchange of banter diverting, but his patience was coming perilously close to snapping.
Eyeing the clench of the earl’s fist, Gryff was quick to retort. “You won’t be finding things any too amusing in another moment unless you bite that devilishly sharp tongue of yours.”
“Is it true, then? A lady now owns half of The Wolf’s Lair?” The glint of unholy amusement in Cameron’s green eyes darkened somewhat as Connor answered with a grim nod. “Good God, I leave you two alone for a few weeks and all hell breaks loose.” He wagged a finger at Gryff. “Naughty dog. One of these days, your taste for brandy is going to suck us all under.”
“Don’t lecture me on the perils of drink,” barked the marquess.
Dismissing the retort with a slight shrug, Cameron focused his attention on the dance floor. “Which one is the Lady of the Lair?”
“Lady Alexa Hendrie has yet to make an appearance,” growled Connor. With any luck, she had come to her senses and scampered back to Yorkshire. However, as luck was proving damned elusive of late, he wasn’t counting on it.
“Sebastian Hendrie’s sister?” Cameron’s gaze sharpened as the dancers spun by. “That certainly adds an intriguing twist to the affair,” he mused. “In Lisbon, Seb showed me some of her letters—she struck me as a very sensible, intelligent young lady.”
“Ha! You might revise your opinion once you have met her.”
“How—”
Ignoring the question, Connor turned on his heel. “That’s enough jawing. Can the two of you stop snapping at each other’s flanks long enough to check around the refreshment tables while I make another turn of the room?”
Alexa was aware of the earl’s presence before she looked around. A prickling sensation started at the back of her neck, teasing the tiny hairs to stand on end. A shivering tingle trilled down her spine, as if that piercing gray gaze was a finger of cold steel laid against her bare skin.
It was frighteningly sensual…not that such a thing made any sense at all.
But then, her wits seemed to be slowed by a jumble of conflicting sensations. Unlike her pulse, which had quickened considerably in the last few moments. She drew in a gulp of air, only to find that her breathing had gone rather ragged as well.
Now was not the time for a flutter of schoolgirl nerves. She had been expecting the earl to seek her out, so there was no reason to feel…whatever it was that was turning her knees to the consistency of jelly. Not if she wished to impress upon him the fact that she was his equal, not just on paper but in worldly aplomb.
“Lady Alexa.”
Somehow, she managed not to jump out of her skin at the rumble of his voice.
“Lord Killingworth.” She turned with deliberate slowness.
He moved a step closer, the black of his evening clothes a stark contrast to the bouquets of creamy lilies and alabaster urns decorating the alcove. “If you are not too engrossed in the study of botany, might I request the pleasure of your company for the next dance.”
There was no mistaking the mockery of his politeness, nor the fact that his words were more of an order than a request.
“I would be delighted.” She had recovered enough from her odd little lurch in composure to respond with an equal measure of sardonic formality.
A flash of teeth.
Which she doubted was meant to be taken as a smile.
Still, the subtle heat of his body and the light pressure of his gloved hands drawing her close were oddly reassuring. A certain harmony seemed to flow between them, allowing her to follow his lead without thinking, though she usually felt awkward and unsure on the dance floor.
But as the first figures of the waltz drew them far enough from the other couples to ensure some privacy, the earl wasted no time in dispelling such a fantasy. Dropping any pretense of pleasantries, he said curtly, “Enough foolishness, Lady Alexa. You have had your fun with Haddan, but don’t think you can make me jump through hoops like some trained lapdog. You have something that belongs to me. I expect it returned—at once.”
So much for striking a chord of camaraderie.
Stung by the condescension in his tone, she felt all her well-rehearsed reasonings skitter away. “You must be mistaken, sir. I have nothing in my possession that is not rightfully mine.”
His eyes daggered to quicksilver points of anger. “Don’t play games with me, Lady Alexa.”
“Why not? I seem to be better at them than most gentlemen—including Lord Haddan.” The retort slipped out before she could stop it. The conversation was taking an entirely different turn than she had intended.
“I am warning you…” The approach of another couple forced him to bite off his words.
Alexa’s gaze dropped to folds of his neckcloth. As usual, she had allowed her bluntness to get the better of her. Instead of appearing polished and poised, she had only managed to goad the earl into a real temper.
She drew in a breath, which proved yet another mistake. Overpowering the subtle scent of bay rum and shaving soap was the essence of aroused pride and raw masculinity. The pulsing of anger was visible at his throat, and beneath her gloved fingers, the rippling of taut muscle hinted at an inner beast that might be unleashed at any moment.
Dangerous.
She didn’t need his growled warning to tell her of that. Yet his aura of untamed, unpredictable passions was not frightening. Quite the opposite. The Irish Wolfhound was the most intriguing, interesting man she had ever met.
“You may have bested a bunch of brandylogged nodcocks, but if you think you are any match for me, you will find yourself in for a very rude awakening,” continued the earl, once he was sure they could no longer be overheard.
Ruder than your manner at this moment?
She rather doubted that was possible.
Quickening his steps, he spun her through a series of intricate figures that seemed designed to show off the ease with which he assumed control. “Perhaps I did not make it clear that I am not expecting you to walk away empty-handed. I mean to pay you the fair value for the note, as well as an extra premium for Haddan’s carelessness.”
“I am not interested in your money, Lord Killingworth.”
He looked somewhat surprised. “What, precisely, are you interested in?
You.
The truth nearly tripped right then and there from her tongue.
Another lush kiss. The grip of desire upon my naked flesh.
All the things that seemed unlikely to come her way again. Would he think her mad if she dared voice such desires aloud?
Or merely pathetic.
“I cannot quite picture you playing an active role in The Wolf’s Lair,” he added tightly.
“Why?” she blurted out.
There was a fraction of a pause before the earl answered. “I don’t think you possess the attributes necessary for the job.”
“How would you know, without giving me a chance to prove my worth?” she demanded hotly. “I have a number of skills that would prove very useful.”