The Courtesan's Secret Page 17

  Ruan, on the other hand, was one of the best uses of skin and bone and muscle that she had seen in many years, and because of that, he was most dangerous to her resolve. Ruan was not a duke, but what Ruan was created problems. He was worldly, experienced, and handsome in an unfashionably rugged fashion. Ruan, truth be told, was a little bit frightening. The fact that Ruan was merely being polite to her and showed no special interest in her at all helped matters some, but only some.

  But the worst aspect of her place at table, between two of the ton’s most famous men of unmarried status, was that Aunt Mary was seated on the other side of Ruan, which clearly put her too close to Amelia. Louisa, mysteriously absent now for more than a few minutes, could evade Mary to some degree to pursue her amorous interests, but as Louisa’s amorous interests were rigidly defined within the person of the Marquis of Dutton and not Mr. George Grey or the Marquis of Penrith, she didn’t suppose not having to deal with Mary meant a thing to Louisa.

  It shouldn’t have meant anything to Amelia. After all, she was after a duke, and the closest duke to her at this precise moment was the Duke of Edenham, seated approximately fifteen people down from her and across, so there was no possibility of making any headway with him, not that she was certain she wanted to. Edenham was just the tiniest bit frightening, given his personal history. If at all possible, she’d prefer Iveston, or even Calbourne.

  Though, at this point, after two Seasons out, she didn’t suppose she could be very choosy. It was something of a miracle that there were three dukes or almost dukes available at once and one shouldn’t, and she never did, look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Though where the gift horse was, she couldn’t quite determine.

  At the moment, her problem was Aunt Mary, for even though she did not want to encourage an alliance with either Ruan or Dutton, she also did not want Aunt Mary to embarrass her. Mary was very close, very close, to doing so.

  Aunt Mary, for as often and as deeply as she drank, was foxed. Completely foxed, as opposed to nearly foxed or almost foxed or on her way to being foxed, all of which were her usual states. Completely foxed was something of a novelty, and Mary could not have chosen a more inconvenient time to toy with her degrees of drunkenness.

  Amelia had worked and planned and schemed, in the most ladylike ways possible, naturally, to achieve this invitation for more than two years, ever since she’d been made aware that Iveston’s birthday was celebrated in this fashion, and she couldn’t, she simply couldn’t allow Mary to ruin everything now.

  Penrith, observing from across the table, seemed distantly amused. George Grey had noted Mary’s slumped form and slurred words and then proceeded to ignore everything but the doorway through which Louisa had passed minutes ago.

  Which, truly, did strike Amelia as more than peculiar. Of what interest could Louisa have for him? Had he just not met her only this very day? And was he not a stranger of sorts to London and all of London Society? What had Louisa done to the man to arouse his rather intense interest in just a few minutes of conversation?

  Whatever it was, she’d like to copy it to the exact detail and use it in her next brush with Iveston. Or Calbourne. Or, if matters grew truly desperate, Edenham.

  She did so hope that matters did not grow desperate.

  She also, rather forlornly, it must be added, wondered if matters were not already desperate.

  “Matters are not so desperate,” Ruan said softly, causing her to jolt out of her thoughts and stare at him rather more closely than was proper. How had he known what she was thinking? “The wine is likely stronger than she expected and has caught her by the heels.”

  Oh. He was speaking of Mary. Well, that was better, although not really.

  It was at that particular moment, one could almost say, poetically ironic moment, that Mary signaled the footman to pull back her chair and in raising her hand, knocked her cap askew.

  “Shoddy service, at best,” Mary grumbled none too softly, apparently drawing the conclusion that a footman had knocked her cap. It would have been preferable, that was certainly true. “I’m not,” Mary continued, trying to stand before the chair had been fully removed and banging her knees against the wood, which caused her to topple forward, which naturally necessitated that she brace her hands on the table. As they were eating soup at the time, it sloshed over the rim of Mary’s bowl, as well as Lord Penrith’s. Mr. Grey saved his soup by simply lifting his bowl mere seconds before Mary made contact with the table.

  It was an impressive bit of timing and speed, which she supposed the Indians of the Americas were rather known for.

  “I’d say she is,” Dutton said in dry humor, finishing Mary’s unfinished pronouncement. “Definitely and completely.”

  Ruan merely smiled and watched Amelia, which was not at all helpful.

  “I’m not,” Mary said again, even more forcefully and this time fully on her feet so that she could scan the table and see everyone. And everyone could see her.

  Small wonder that Amelia had such trouble in snaring a duke with help of this sort.

  “At all,” Mary said, her voice rising in tune with her temper, “tolerant of this, your grace.” Upon which, naturally, every duke in the room, including and most specifically the Duke of Hyde, stopped eating to stare at Mary. “Lady Louisa is gone missing. Lord Henry is gone missing. I insist that she be found. This is not at all regular, not regular at all.”

  And, of course it wasn’t, but did making public statements about it help anyone at all?

  Being sober, Amelia thought the answer obvious. Unfortunately, Mary was not sober. It was at times like these, when everyone at the large table, a table that sat sixty-four comfortably, stared at Amelia, obviously seeking signs of the same disposition or deportment in the girl that was so prominently displayed in the girl’s chaperone, when Amelia felt the need of a good, strong drink.

  Naturally, she said nothing of the sort, but merely kept a pleasant, proper, polite, slightly perplexed look on her face.

  It was a brilliant bit of execution on her part and it was only spoiled by the fact that the Marquis of Ruan, still smiling, slid her drink closer to her.

  SOPHIA, almost twenty-five seats down from Mary, Lady Jordan, took a sip of her drink and smiled behind the rim of her glass. Where would the world be without chaperones?

  “I do think she has a point,” Sophia said in the general direction of both Robert Blakesley and George Blakesley, the second and third sons of Hyde.

  Sophia was seated, providentially, right next to Henry Blakesley, Hyde’s fourth son, and as his seat was currently and unmistakably empty, it made such obvious sense for her to cast her eyes in that direction and look with concern at Lord Henry’s brothers. That Edenham was sitting in the same general vicinity and grinned at her comment she promptly ignored. Edenham had no part in this evening’s entertainment, not at present, anyway.

  “Do you?” snarled the Earl of Westlin, who was one of Sophia’s most entertaining enemies and, by spectacular good fortune, her daughter’s new father-in-law. They were now related. It was wonderful, for now, as family, she could torment Westlin until the day he died. Such fun.

  It was somewhat unfortunate that Westlin had been seated across from her at dinner, but that he was five seats down made it more than bearable. He could see her, hear her, but was dissuaded from speaking to her. Perfection itself.

  “But of course I do,” Sophia said sweetly, which caused Westlin to frown in what he surely hoped was dreadful intimidation. Sophia laughed. “We can’t have young, vibrant, unmarried people wandering about, can we, Lord Westlin? Surely such behavior among Britain’s finest would lead to ruination?”

  “You hope,” he snarled, again.

  Really, he was so limited in his forms of disapproval. She would have to see if she could help him improve on that. Westlin was a never-ending source of fun, made all the more amusing as he could not see it at all. Well, then, so few people saw themselves with any clarity at all, which made the
m even more amusing as a rule.

  “Of course I hope,” she said. “I hope we find them and that they have not got themselves into any mischief, though in such a well-run house as this, I hardly need worry.”

  A house with five unmarried sons in it. Was any house of that sort well-run?

  Upon which the two Blakesleys closest to her stood as one, to be followed only slightly less closely by the youngest of the Blakesley brood, one Josiah Blakesley, who happened to be a particular and not altogether well-intentioned friend of Markham’s. It was Josiah and Markham’s poor luck that they had been dragged back from a frolic in Paris just the week before by John and his three sons. It was hardly to be expected that Josiah would cherish a friendship with George Grey, who he naturally saw as something of a jailor, though Sophia was certain that would pass in time, not that it mattered in any regard. Men must be managed, that was all there was to it, and if they pulled against the restraints, then it was merely a question of providing them with the proper training.

  She had absolutely no qualms about delivering the proper training. It made them so much better in the end, and really, shouldn’t they be pleased at being improved?

  Molly, Duchess of Hyde, looked about her as her sons rose and left the room as discreetly as possible, which was hardly discreet at all, gave her husband a particularly quelling glance, tried to proceed as if Iveston’s celebration had not been so oddly interrupted, but was then made to watch as Iveston got up and left, to be swiftly followed by George Grey and, then, an odd smile on his face, Penrith.

  It was as close to pandemonium as these evenings ever got before midnight after that. Dutton rose, almost knocking over his chair and the footman behind it, leaving by the main doorway back into the blue reception room. One would almost think he didn’t want to find Louisa as anyone who’d been paying attention knew that she’d left the red reception room by the doorway into the yellow drawing room. And, if Sophia was not mistaken, and she never was in these sorts of situations, she’d heard the rather distinctive sound of a body being knocked against a door.

  And anyone with any experience knew what that particular sound meant.

  And she was definitely a woman with experience of that particular sort.

  So it was, as the party split roughly in half to look for Louisa and Henry, that Sophia grinned and casually followed the crowd.

  It was turning into such an entertaining and memorable evening, quite exactly as she’d expected.

  Fourteen

  BLAKES was quite a superb kisser. Not that Louisa had anyone to compare him to, but he certainly seemed to know what he was doing.

  She wasn’t, however, at all certain anymore that she knew what she was doing.

  Whatever reason she had had for kissing him in the first place, if she had even taken the time to think of a reason, was lost now in the pure sensation of kissing him and of being kissed by him.

  He was very, very good at it.

  One would think that he’d be more insistent upon displaying his talent, but, oddly, Blakes kept pulling away from her, lifting his head, pushing her hands away from his monstrously thick waistcoat, to say the most extraordinarily meaningless things.

  “If we’re found, you shall be ruined,” he said, and not for the first time.

  He was holding her hands clasped within his fists, rather like warm shackles. It wasn’t at all annoying, though she did like it better when she could touch him, her hands very modestly on his shoulders or around his neck. Well, fairly modestly, anyway.

  “We shall be required to marry,” he said, just before he brushed a kiss over her cheek.

  “I’ve told you and told you, Blakes,” she said, turning her mouth toward his, wanting to be done with this silly cheek-kissing business and on to the full effect of his mouth firmly pressed upon hers, “we shan’t be found. I shall not be ruined.”

  “Yes, ’tis I who is being ruined,” he breathed against her skin, his mouth whispering down her face to her throat, pressing itself against the top of her shoulder. She was so delighted to have worn a gown that presented her shoulders so flagrantly. “I believe you, I think. You have ruined me, Louisa. What do you intend to do about it?”

  She giggled softly against his skin, her mouth brushing against his ear, and he responded by pressing his body against hers lightly, teasing her with its weight. She wanted his weight against her, that was the odd bit; she wanted to feel him press her down, her hips to his. Most peculiar, but there it was.

  When one succumbed to instinct, one was left where instinct led.

  Not at all reassuring, that, but as to being ruined, Blakes would never allow it. He was a very stubborn sort, consider only that he wouldn’t let her touch him and would only allow their kisses to be of the briefest variety.

  She happened to know that kisses could be quite lengthy affairs as she had once seen her father, the annoying Melverley, kiss one of his mistresses in the Theatre Royal for upwards of three minutes running. It had been most illuminating and, obviously, most disgusting.

  “I intend to continue on, ruining you as best I may,” she said. “Now, kindly kiss me, Blakes, I need the practice.”

  “Hardly that,” he said, pulling away from her completely, even to the releasing of her hands from his.

  Stubborn and contrary. She should have said nothing and let him think of it on his own, because surely he would have. He did seem to enjoy kissing her, which was only to be expected. She had decided in the last few minutes that she was imminently kissable and that it was a stellar quality to possess.

  “You must go back in. You cannot stay so long away. Your absence will be missed. Is being missed,” he added, his head cocked abruptly, listening.

  There did seem to be some sort of commotion going on behind the door. Likely some footman had spilled the soup. It didn’t concern them, here, in the flickering light, his mouth so tantalizingly close to hers.

  Blakes took another step away from her and then another.

  “It’s just dinner being served,” she said, stalking him greedily. She had to admit that Blakes was imminently kissable, too. How very convenient for her that he was so very available.

  The noise spread and grew louder until it became, even to Louisa, a certain fact that they were being very quickly surrounded from behind the still closed doors to the yellow drawing room. There was no telling how long those doors would remain closed, and there was no being caught alone in the yellow drawing room. For all her jests about being ruined, it was a very real concern and she was very determined not to allow it.

  It was so very unfortunate that she could think of no way to avoid it.

  “Do something!” she snapped, backing away from Blakesley like a cornered rat.

  “What did you have in mind?” he said sharply, just before he grabbed her hand and dragged her very willing body across the length of the yellow drawing room and into the Hyde dressing room and firmly closed the door behind them. The very same door of the very same dressing room where, not a week past, Lady Caroline and the Marquis of Ashdon had been caught in what was rumored to be a severely compromising situation, and what was in fact compromising enough to require them to marry the very next morning.

  It did not escape Louisa’s notice that Blakes had played some small part in that escapade, pearls, girl, dressing room, and all.

  She turned a withering eye upon Blakesley and snapped under her breath, “What is it with you and this room?”

  “What is it with you and kissing men with pearl necklaces?” he snapped back.

  Well. That was uncalled for, certainly.

  Stubborn, contrary, and rude.

  “You are the only man I’ve ever kissed, pearls or not. And, by the way, when do I get my pearls back?”

  “Is that why you kissed me? To get your pearls?”

  “Whyever else?” she hissed, as furious with him now as she had been doe-eyed just moments before. Men were so contrary, causing her to change her opinion of him in the blink of an ey
e. Inconstant creatures, sowing inconstancy wherever they went and upon whomever they touched. “You certainly can’t think that I would kiss you for no reason. I do have morals, after all.”

  “Yes, the sort of morals that allow you to kiss a man ardently and quite insistently, I might add, just for the reward of a pearl necklace. Nice, Louisa, very nice.”

  “You certainly can’t be implying that I’d kiss a man without the promise of something as extraordinary as a pearl necklace! I’m hardly cheap, Lord Henry. Besides, it was to win a wager and regain ownership of my pearls! Certainly that lends the whole escapade, foolish as it was, I see now so clearly, a certain nobility of purpose.”

  “Only in your twisted little mind, Louisa,” Blakesley snarled.

  Twisted, mind you! The man was a monster, as changeable as a weather vane. He certainly had had no higher cause to kiss her.

  Unless . . . had that been part of his wager at White’s? To compromise the skittish Lady Louisa? For she was skittish with all men, her heart being so firmly set on Lord Dutton.

  Oh, yes, Lord Dutton. Was he out there with the rest of the rabble, looking for her? And if he found her with Lord Henry, what might that lead to?

  Whatever it was, she wasn’t certain it would help her and so she couldn’t risk it.

  “Thank you for . . . practicing with me, Lord Henry,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster, which was considerable, considering that they were hiding in an unlit room in the middle of a ducal dinner. “I’m certain I shall use all you taught me to good purpose when I marry.”

  She waited for him to snap at her, some tight response that would attempt, unsuccessfully, to put her in her place, which was exalted.

  He remained silent, but it wasn’t the comforting silence of a dark and cozy room. Hardly. It was the complete silence of motion just before the striking of a snake.