Ruined by a Rake (12 page)

Ignoring his blasphemy, Jane couldn’t stop the inelegant snort of disbelief. “Right, my dear cousin, fresh from years at sea, came all the way here to London to assault me.”

“I didn’t know you bloody well knew him!”

She scowled at his vile language as Mr. Black thumped his side with the toe of his boot in warning. Who did he think he was, saying something like that in her own shop? Besides, what did it matter if it was her cousin or a customer—attacking an innocent person was inexcusable. “So you chose to attack first and ask questions later?” She was not about to let the man snake his way out of the punishment he was due. In her experience, that happened all too often. She clenched her teeth, pushing away the powerful emotions that the injustices of her past evoked. Lifting her chin, she addressed her two rescuers. “Sirs, this man is a nuisance and a lunatic. Please take him away.”

None too gently, they dragged the horrible man to his feet. He was quite a bit taller than she had realized, and she took a few involuntary steps backward. Despite his fancy clothes, he looked strong and powerful, and she wanted nothing to do with the man. Especially with the look of fury darkening his bloodshot eyes. He looked as though he would gladly throw her into the Thames if given even an inch of leeway.

“I am
not
a lunatic,” he growled, jerking his arms against the hands that held him. “I’m the bloody Earl of Raleigh!”

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“So this is the lady who belongs to the scent of lilacs. How lovely of you to come out and join me.”

He was amused. 

She was not.

Never mind that the almost musical lilt of his Scottish-tinged accent sent a shiver down the back of Bea’s already chilled neck. If he knew she was there, he should have had the decency to say as much. Embarrassment stiffened her spine—Lord she must look a fool. With as much dignity as one in her position could muster, she extracted herself from the heavy drapes and shook out her skirts. “Yes, well, since you wouldn’t leave like a proper gentleman, it seems as though I had little choice.”

He lifted a dark eyebrow, tilting his head just enough so that a lock of midnight black hair fell across his temple. “I do beg your pardon. I should have left the moment I realized there was a debutant-shaped lump behind the curtains.”

Well, when he said it like that. She lifted her chin regally. “Pardon granted, Mr…?”

She waited, but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he pushed away from the wall, closing the distance between them with measured, unhurried steps. He wasn’t overly tall, but he had a certain presence about him, as if he could command an army, if so inclined. She couldn’t have taken her eyes from him if she wanted to.

With every step he took, her heart beat seemed to increase, until it fluttered like a caged bird beneath her breast.  He wasn’t traditionally handsome, not like her brother or even her brother-in-law.  His appeal was much more intense than that. His jaw looked as sharp as if it were carved from granite, and already possessed the slightest hint of dark stubble. His cheeks angled high, almost like a woman’s, but his bold, masculine brow provided exactly enough counterbalance to give his features exquisite symmetry and depth.  Such unique beauty made her fingers itch to take up her brushes and commit his visage to canvas. 

Her gaze was too bold by half, but he didn’t seem to mind her inspection. In fact, he watched her right back, his flint-colored eyes seeming to take in everything about her, leaving her feeling quite exposed. “Now, now, we haven’a been introduced. I wouldn’a want to break protocol at my very first ball.  Unless, of course, it is your wish, Miss…?”

Beatrice almost smiled. She’d as soon walk naked through the ballroom than tell him who she was. A lady did
not
get caught hiding behind curtains.  “Yes, well…I suppose rules are rules.” 

She realized then the importance of what he had said: This was his first ball.  There was no doubt in her mind that he was the mystery guest Lady Churly was so eager to present. Who
was this man? He was five-and-twenty if he was a day, so why had he never been to a ball? Beatrice’s curiosity rebelled with an almost physical force, but she firmly tamped it down. She was dying to know who he was, this man with the lyrical voice, compelling features, and the unmistakable air of mystery, but not at the price of revealing her own identity.

“Indeed.” He paused at exactly the proper distance away and folded his arms, considering her. “Although I suspect that you doona always play by the rules.” He nodded to the curtains behind her.

This time she did smile. “My character exposed in two minutes or less.  Alas, I cannot deny it. Following the rules will gain you naught but a stellar reputation and a tremendously boring life.” Her older siblings, Evie and Richard, had taught her that much.

His answering smile was nearly as delicious as his accent, his perfectly bowed upper lip curving to reveal beautiful white teeth. Beatrice pressed her lips together.  She hated the crooked front tooth that marred her own smile.

“Then you’d think me very tedious, indeed, I’m afraid,” he said, mock regret weighting his tone. “I must admit, I am a rule follower to a fault.”

She very nearly rolled her eyes. Any man with a face like that couldn’t possibly be boring. “I don’t believe you. If you were a rule follower, you would never have waited for me to emerge. Speaking alone with a strange female in a darkened gallery is not exactly perfect protocol.”

Lifting a shoulder in a sort of half shrug, his grin widened. “Then it is a very good thing that you doona know my name. I’d hate to have it bandied about that I was anything less than a perfect gentleman upon my entrance into society.”

“And if we encounter each other by chance?”

“Then I’ll throw myself upon your mercy to protect my reputation. In fact, perhaps I should do so now. Preemptively, so as I know I’m safe.”

She crossed her arms and nodded, unable to resist playing along.  There was something about the anonymity of the moment that was almost intoxicating, like a first sip of champagne.  “Very well—you may commence groveling.”

He dipped his head gravely. “As you wish. Though I wonder, how should I address you?” He took in her elegant gown and the emeralds decorating her ears and neck. “Princess, perhaps?”

“I should think not,” she said, wrinkling her nose. That was the very last thing she would wish to be called. Though she was the daughter of a marquis, she was no overly privileged, dreadfully coddled princess. “I value my freedom much too fervently for that.”

“Clearly.” Even in the low light, she could see the irony in his gaze. Which was a good thing, since it was deuced hard to detect it in the lilt of his accent. “
A stór
, then. It suits you, I think.”

“A story? How on earth does that suit me?”

“Not ‘a story’,” he said, pantomiming opening a book. “
A stór
. My treasure.”

She sucked in a surprised breath, warmth infusing her whole body before flooding her face. His
treasure
? Her heart shuddered within her. There was something shockingly intimate about being called such a thing by a near complete stranger. 

Before she could think of a response, he chuckled.  “As in
buried
treasure. Unearthed from the depths of the curtains. I didna mean to imply anything else.”

“Of course not,” she replied, nodding as though her mind hadn’t gone directly to that ‘something else’.  “You may call me whatever you wish. Now, on with the groveling, if you please—I’ll be missed if I remain much longer.” Hopefully, the soft s
trains of music from the ballroom disguised the breathlessness of her voice.

He stepped forward, bringing them closer than even the most liberal of hosts would have deemed proper.  He put a hand to his heart and dipped his head to hers. Mischief lit his eyes, subtly challenging her. She blinked—why did he suddenly look so familiar?

“I beg you,
a stór
, from the very depths of me—could you find it in your heart to have mercy on my depraved soul? Could you carry this encounter close to your breast, not to be revealed under threat of death, or worse—gossip?”

Good heavens, he was positively mesmerizing when he put his mind to it. The soft, lilting tones of his voice washed over her
skin like warm silk, and she only just suppressed the shiver that flitted down her spine. Doing her best to sound lightly amused, she said, “Very well, you have my mercy. It was a pleasure
not
to meet you, sir.  I do hope you enjoy the ball.”

With a reluctance that surprised her, she started to turn.

“Perhaps,” he said, drawing her attention to him once more, “you’d save a dance for me.”

She lifted her brow. “Ah, but that would require an introduction, would it not?” Even so, the offer was absurdly tempting. The idea of being pulled into his arms was almost enough to make her forget that dancing wasn’t her forte.

“An excellent point, to which I offer this solution: If by the end of the night, you wish to take me up on my offer, then I leave it to you to seek an introduction to me. Seeing how I now have assurance of your mercy, of course.”

Beatrice drew back in surprise. “Seek an introduction to
you? I do hate to disabuse you of whatever opinion you have formed of me in these past few minutes, but I am not a desperate woman. I assure you, I will be seeking an introduction to no one.”

He didn’t look the least bit disappointed, or the slightest bit offended.  Instead, the corners of his eyes crinkled in an almost imperceptible smile. Dipping his head in the approximation of a bow, he said, “Your prerogative.  However, I do feel it prudent to clarify that I was giving you the option of
not
being introduced, should you wish to remain anonymous. I assure you it was not meant to disparage your prospects. I of course shall respect your decision.”

He certainly had a way with words. Was it the accent or his sentiment that muddled her brain and had her leaning the slightest bit forward? “Er, thank you.” Already she was feeling like a ninny for having reacted as she did.

“You’re welcome. And just so you know,” he said, slipping a gloved hand beneath hers and lifting her fingers to his lips for a feather soft kiss that had her holding her breath all over again. “I’ll be keeping the last dance free.”

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Despite being an avid reader and closet writer her whole life, Erin Knightley decided to pursue a sensible career in science.  It was only after earning her B.S. and working in the field for years that she realized doing the sensible thing wasn't any fun at all.  Following her dreams, Erin left her practical side behind and now spends her days writing. Together with her tall, dark, and handsome husband and their three spoiled mutts, she is living her own Happily Ever After in North Carolina. 

Find her at www.ErinKnightley.com, on Twitter.com/ErinKnightley, or at facebook.com/ErinKnightley

More than a Stranger

Copyright © 2012 by Erin Rieber

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A Taste for Scandal

Copyright © 2012 by Erin Rieber

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Flirting with Fortune

Copyright © 2013 by Erin Rieber

SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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