Wedding Night Revenge (5 page)

'I don't want to pry, my dear, but was Connor...did he...?'

Rachel gave a choke of laughter. 'Yes, mama, he did recognise me and, yes, I believe he has an axe to grind, although for the moment he keeps it suitably sheathed. To be fair, he behaved very well...impeccably, as Papa would put it. He came to our assistance, actually, and but for his intervention we might even now be stranded in Charing Cross, watching brave Ralph doing battle with a brewer...' She gave her mother a concise account of what had occurred, and the people involved. Finally she added, 'It's odd; yesterday, I would have sworn I could not have accurately described how he looks after all this time. Yet I recognised him straight away; the moment Lucinda pointed him out...' Tiny lilac buds were absently nipped away with her nails and dropped through the window on to the dry earth below.

'What did he say to you? What did you say to him? You weren't rude, Rachel, were you? Your papa would be furious if he thought you had again been mean to that man.'

'Of course not.' Rachel reassured her on a faint laugh, feeling her insides squirm at the fib. In truth, she
was
remorseful over her behaviour. Lord Devane wasa stranger now and he had given her no real cause to be surly.

The lilac head was ferociously denuded, then tossed away. 'He said...well, not much actually. He just mentioned he thought me little changed...'

The cadence of his Irish drawl had been imprinted on her mind ever since:

You're little changed, Miss Meredith, and that's fortunate for me and pretty
disastrous for you...

A sense of deep foreboding had assailed her thereafter as she'd watched him stroll so casually away. His words had been carefully chosen for effect, she knew, and should not be too carefully attended, yet she had constantly picked them over for hidden meaning. During their carriage ride home, Lucinda had said that she'd certainly detected sarcasm in his comment, but nothing more sinister. In fact, she'd admitted to finding his humour rather droll and appealing, which had earned her a scowl from Rachel.

But Rachel had felt reassured by Lucinda's objective opinion, and by the time she reached Beaulieu Gardens had decided that Lord Devane's remarks were intended to be crushing rather than threatening. He had been ironically giving thanks for having escaped marriage to a woman who was still, as he saw it, sadly lacking in the basic graces. Had she given a fig how he took to her after six years, she might have felt mortified...but she didn't, so she wasn't...

As her reflection subsided, Rachel became conscious of her mother's steady gaze. Casually, she resumed recounting the details of this afternoon's events.

'Then Lord Devane departed in his phaeton with a female companion.

Lucinda believes the woman is an Italian opera singer who is allegedly all the rage and very popular with the gentlemen. I imagine they are...are in a liaison: she seemed keen for him to rejoin her, and to witness her flirting with a few macaronis who were dawdling about. Anyway,' Rachel concluded on a smile, 'I am quite glad now that we did happen upon each other. After six years, the dreaded meeting has come and gone...and good riddance. And I'm sure his lordship feels the same way. Whatever Papa says, I am glad the Earl of Devane had the good sense and manners to reject the wedding invitation and stay well away. He obviously deems it best not to socialise with us and I, for one, do not feel we shall be deprived of his company. Quite the reverse.'

'It sounds as though his lady friend might have been Maria Laviola...'

'Yes, I think that's the name that Lucinda mentioned.'

Gloria Meredith seemed about to add something, but a winsome smile closed her dropped jaw, not further conversation. The news that Signora Laviola was to be guest of honour at the Pembertons'
musicale
planned for later in the week might, on reflection, be best kept to herself.

She patted affectionately at her eldest daughter's aim- while pondering that if the feted diva was Devane's mistress, then he would probably deign to attend that evening. If Rachel knew, she might possibly make excuses to stay away. Gloria didn't want that. Her eldest daughter's unusual absence from their family party might stir more spiteful speculation than would her appearance at the same venue as the man she had once callously jilted.

Rachel was right: the dreaded reunion was over with. It was now time for all concerned to treat the affair as old news and render the gossips disappointed.

With another little pat at Rachel's arm she approached June and William, determined to try and prise out of her prospective son-in-law a few details about his mother's chosen outfit for the nuptials.

He was glad he still had that effect on her, Connor thought as he watched Rachel Meredith blush. Even when they'd been engaged, she would colour prettily at the sight of him. In his youthful arrogance, he'd liked to imagine it was in pleasure. His cynical smile strengthened, causing her to sharply turn her head. Now he knew differently. She'd blushed then, as she did now, because his presence disconcerted her and she wanted one or other of them to be elsewhere. A mean achievement, to be sure; nevertheless, a part of him was satisfied knowing something was the same: she wasn't entirely indifferent to him.

Under cover of a laughing conversation with his stepbrother, he leisurely repositioned himself so he could discreetly study her. His eyes skimmed her sylph-like silhouette, sheathed in opalescent blue silk. Was she presenting him with her best side? he wryly wondered, as his eyes lingered on her perfect profile. Her golden ringlets looked artfully arranged, the column of her long neck beneath the burnished coils of hair resembled flawless alabaster. Quite a goddess, he reflected ironically, then winced. It was too much truth for comfort. Earlier this week he'd seen her at close quarters and he'd not managed to stop thinking of her since. Grudgingly, he'd had to admit to himself that, even though approaching twenty-six, she was certainly as lovely as she ever had been. Now she was on her feet, with her figure properly displayed, she was revealed to be as alluring and desirable as the nineteen- year old temptress who'd enslaved him. If anything, her shape looked lusciously fuller.

And God knew she had tempted him, behaving like a novice Jezebel while he had behaved like a eunuch, who also acquiesced to act blind, deaf and dumb. He'd not been unaware six years ago that the bold teasing glances from her big blue eyes were not exclusively his privilege. Louche gallants who preyed on and pandered to the vanity of responsive females had been similarly enticed by his beloved. Those gentlemen had relished seeing him suffer in silence whilst his future wife playfully acted the coquette and treated him like a risible fool.

He was cognisant with
beau monde
etiquette: a lady—especially one whose reputation was protected by a formal relationship—was permitted to have her circle of admirers. He knew, too, that a display of jealousy by a partner was seen as unnecessary and vulgar. Even so, there had been times when polite society mores putiiis teeth on edge, when his patience and endurance had been strained to the limit. On one particular occasion at Vauxhall Gardens, Rachel's blatant flirting with a dandified fop he was known to detest had engendered such mischievous gossip as couldn't be ignored. He'd been on the point of dragging her into the nearest thicket, to teach her a lesson in prudent behaviour around aroused men, when she'd smiled at him as though no one else mattered.

So he'd let her be, even though knowing there was little more implied than that she'd mastered the art of defusing his ire and keeping him tame. He had been in love with her, and curbing his temper, his male needs and acting in the way he thought she'd wanted had become second nature. How wrong he'd been. She hadn't ever wanted him at all. For her, it had all been some sort of childish game she had decided to play on her terms...only her terms, or he paid a forfeit.

Of their own volition his eyes were straying to her body again. He watched her sense his scrutiny, become flustered beneath his roving eyes. She half-turned towards him as though she might challenge his covert observation with a steely glare. Instead, she put a hand to her face; it cupped a rosy cheek, then fussed at her hair before she deliberately presented him with her graceful back.

A very sardonic smile slanted his sensual lips; the provocative little madam with come-hither eyes was gone. Perhaps in the interim a man with a shorter fuse than he had treated her to a much-needed lesson in modesty and respectful behaviour. He'd heard she'd aborted other betrothals over the years and now was considered on the shelf; not primarily because of her age, for her inheritance was a tempting lure, but because she was branded a heartless tease who might make ridiculous any man who dared approach her.

She certainly exuded an air of tranquil detachment in her frost-blue gown and, though he couldn't compare them now her back was turned, he knew the shade matched her large, icy eyes.

Since the moment he'd caught sight of her looking cool and content, chatting to her friend in her landau, he'd wanted to upset her equilibrium. Yet, strangely, when she'd been hemmed in on all sides by belligerent men, he'd been only a moment or two entertained by her predicament before he'd found himself stepping in to help. And why he'd made that stupid remark on taking his leave, he'd no idea. Simply to unsettle her, he supposed.

And now he had the urge to do it again. He wanted to strip her of hauteur and deliberately make her hurt the way she had deliberately hurt him. He wanted to be her nemesis. And that was curious. Six years ago he'd congratulated himself—others had, too—on coping admirably with the loss and humiliation of being jilted. Then he'd forgotten her. He'd fought a war, made enemies, made friends, made money—he'd even made love once or twice in amongst the numerous couplings he'd enjoyed. Now, because his lost fiancee looked beautiful and unmarked by any of it, he was consciously acknowledging his need for revenge.

He dropped his eyes from her, quelling a twinge of self-disgust, and indicated to his brother they should move. Making polite responses to the many greetings received en route, he allowed Jason to steer him slowly through the people thronging the Pembertons' hallway. Eventually they'd picked a path to a dual stairway that marched in symmetrical twisting sweeps to the reception rooms above. Through the din of a hundred conversations, Connor could detect instruments being tuned in readiness for tonight's concert. As he mounted the first step, the discordant medley became more distinct because the cacophony in the hallway no longer buffered the sound. Instinctively he knew the lull in conversations was significant to him and he glanced up.

His mistress was gliding down the stairs towards him in a pure white gown dotted here and there with scarlet rosebuds. It had been artfully designed to display an alluring decolletage while the gossamer folds of the skirt hinted at the exotic skin beneath.

Some considerate soul had thought to open every door and window the house possessed to try and expel the heavy heat that refused to disperse at dusk. A welcome, tepid breeze had been flickering the candle flames and cooling the brows of stuffily attired gentlemen. Now it reversed its effect: a sudden gusting draught got beneath the gauze of Maria's skirt and made it billow as high as her shapely nude knees. Countless cravats were suddenly being loosened from inflamed throats and a collective male sigh whispered about the vestibule. Some ladies, recognising the signs and girding their loins for a little amatory skirmish later, cursed the dratted woman.

Connor just caught Maria's low, amused chuckle, but she adopted a bashful mien whilst restraining the fine material taut across her lissom thighs.

In absolute silence she continued her descent to- • wards him while he watched her from beneath lazy lids. Idly he wondered whether he'd be the one paying handsomely for the indecent scrap giving pleasure to so many.

His secretary had presented him with a stack of bills for his perusal that morning. A good amount seemed to be from milliners or modistes who claimed to have turned out yards of lady's finery in his name.

Maria's sultry gaze was roving his face and she smiled an intimate, exclusive welcome before her sloe eyes condescended to drop to the waiting, watching assembly. Her small chin tilted proudly, sending a ripple of thick black ringlets over her bare shoulders.

Rachel, in common with everyone else, was viewing the explicitly sensual display with an absorbed fascination. The atmosphere seemed to crackle with a shocking excitement. She found it impossible to look away, as Maria Laviola triumphantly joined the Earl of Devane on the wide, wine-red step.

The
signora
then melted so close to him it seemed his broad, black- jacketed torso was emerging from a tousled white sheet. A small hand was slipped possessively through his arm before Maria turned to greet the gentleman accompanying the Earl. With an inaudible murmur of recognition, Rachel identified him as his stepbrother, Jason Davenport. The soprano's sable curls bounced prettily as she went on tip-toe to whisper in her lover's ear. Then her lips were hovering close to Jason's fair hair as a little intimate conversation was bestowed on him, too.

Th£ woman was revelling in the role of femme fa- tale, Rachel realised. She adored the undivided attention it brought her, whilst pretending to be unaware of it. And now, having theatrically sketched her territory to the ladies present, she was apparently satisfied. She slipped an olive-skinned hand through the crook of one arm of each of her companions and the trio proceeded slowly up the snake of stairway.