No true gentleman, p.10
No True Gentleman, page 10
But Catherine had never been a risk taker. What was it about this man that made her pulse ratchet upward and her knees go weak? Thus preoccupied, Catherine failed to keep her beat, entangling her feet with his. On a graceless jerk, her whole body tipped rigidly forward, but, without misstep, Mr. de Rohan caught her, then slowed to a halt. The french windows, flung wide open, were now very near, and, before she could protest, Catherine found herself being swept out of Lord Walrafen’s ballroom and onto the terrace beyond.
His touch was tender but implacable. “Mr. de Rohan!” she protested, spinning away from him to glance anxiously about the empty expanse of lawn. “Whatever do you think you’re about?”
The moment of gentleness had vanished as abruptly as it had come, but de Rohan had not released her hand. “Preserving our toes,” he muttered. Then, without preamble, he drew her to his side and into the shadows. “I fear we are neither of us able to dance with any degree of competence, Lady Catherine. And I, for one, have something to say.”
Catherine had never met a man so plainly spoken. “I dance perfectly well, thank you!” she exclaimed, trying to jerk her hand from his. “And I have nothing to say.”
De Rohan merely drew her closer, and, strangely, she let him. “Be still, Catherine,” he whispered, his voice so near it stirred her hair. “I am no danger to you here.”
Was he not? He felt very dangerous indeed. In the cool night air, with his arm about her shoulders, his male heat seemed to drown her. Maximilian de Rohan seemed to exude restrained power and a raw beauty which left her stomach weak and bottomless. Catherine jerked her hand again, and this time, he let her go. “Say what you will and have done with it, Mr. de Rohan,” she whispered.
His lips thinned as if he were vexed. But with whom? Himself, Catherine thought.
“I insulted you abominably two days ago,” de Rohan began abruptly. “I beg your forgiveness. I am very glad you paid me back in kind at once.”
“In kind?” she murmured incredulously. “I merely made a suggestion. One which you richly deserved.”
Surprisingly, his fingers came up to press shut her lips, his hard black eyes almost twinkling. “And an anatomically difficult one, at that,” he said, chuckling softly.
Her face flamed at the recollection of what she’d said. Suddenly, Catherine found the entire situation wildly absurd. Beneath his fingers—and totally against her will—she made a sputtering sound, half laughter, half indignation.
“Oh, no!” he cautioned, his voice a low, seductive rumble. “Don’t try to mount your moral high horse now, Lady Catherine. It’s far too late. I’ve already noticed you’ve got a temper like a wasp and a mouth like a fishwife.”
Catherine felt her blush heighten. He was almost right.
“And that having been said,” de Rohan continued, dropping his fingers from her lips, “I should very much like to accept your invitation to dinner. I owe you some sort of explanation. One which I’d prefer to make in a more private setting.”
Her face was flushed with lovely color, and her brown eyes flashed with defiance. An utterly irresistible combination. De Rohan spoke rapidly, impetuously, before his brain could catch up with his heart. “Come, Lady Catherine, be impulsive. Run away with me.”
“You must be perfectly insane.”
“I begin to think it quite likely.”
De Rohan watched her intelligent brown eyes flick down his length. To his amazement, Lady Catherine Wodeway drew herself up to her full height, which was indeed impressive. “Mr. de Rohan,” she coolly responded. “You have avoided me, kissed me, then insulted me, and now waltzed with me. Why, if I knew you at all—which I don’t—then I should probably think you given to very fanciful moods indeed. I can’t think why I ought to go anywhere at all in your company.”
De Rohan tried to gentle his expression. If he could steal just an hour alone with her, if he could make his apology and obtain her forgiveness—yes, then perhaps he could set aside his strange preoccupation with the woman. “You probably oughtn’t go with me,” he admitted awkwardly. “Certainly, I would not advise a young woman of good character to leave a ball with a man she hardly knows. After all, I might be dangerous.”
An odd, faintly humorous expression flitted over her face. “Oh, I’m quite sure you are, sir,” she murmured. “But not, I pray, a danger to me.”
De Rohan raised his slashing black brows at that. “And you are astute enough to know the difference?”
“I think so.” Lady Catherine stood before him, quietly confident. She was dressed in a gown of cobalt satin slashed with ivory. Low on her shoulders, she wore a shawl of midnight blue velvet, and around her throat three strands of perfectly matched pearls. Her heavy mahogany hair was twisted into an elegant arrangement which accentuated the lovely length of her neck.
Ah, Dio! She was elegance personified. Simple beauty. His worst weakness. Inwardly, de Rohan sighed and let his daydream slip away. “So where does that leave us, Lady Catherine?” Strangely, his voice came out as a soft whisper—not his own voice at all. “Admit it, you were almost as miserable inside that ballroom as I was.”
In the still, murky night, Lady Catherine paused for a long moment. A dozen emotions seemed to dance across her extraordinary face—anger, curiosity, amusement, and then, to his surprise, understanding. “I shall fetch my cloak,” she finally responded, moving as if to reenter the ballroom.
“Will you?” He caught her lightly by the shoulder, and she half turned to face him. “Why?”
Lady Catherine’s smile was like a burst of sun, her wide, full mouth turning up at both corners. “Well, you may be rather mad and moody, Mr. de Rohan,” she murmured. “But at least you aren’t boring.”
He gave her one of his stiff Continental bows. “I daresay a man must take his compliments where he finds them.”
The warmth of her smile deepened. “Meet me on the steps in five minutes.”
Catherine felt the heat of Mr. de Rohan’s stare on her back as she strode away. Good heavens, what had she agreed to? It was a bold thing to leave the safety of a ball in the company of a man whom one hardly knew. A man who felt just a little edgy and dangerous—and who had already demonstrated a shocking disregard for propriety. And yet, was that not a part of his attraction? He made her angry, yes. But any emotion was better than nothing, was it not? She was tired of feeling dead and dull inside. It was time to seize life—both the good and the bad—again. She only wished she knew which Maximilian de Rohan would turn out to be.
Still, for all her brave thoughts, Catherine moved purposefully through the crowd, afraid to slow down. Afraid she might reconsider. But as she approached the corridor which led to the ladies’ retiring room, Catherine heard a low, sophisticated voice call out her name. She spun about to see Lord Bodley following her down the dimly lit corridor. The man smiled condescendingly as he drew up beside her.
“My dear girl.” His voice was like silk. “I handled that situation very poorly. I do beg your pardon.”
Catherine looked at him quizzically. “Indeed, I must beg yours, my lord. Whatever are you talking about?”
His posture stiffened. “Why, that magistrate—that policeman—or whatever the fellow is,” Bodley continued. “I am sure you did not wish to dance with him. I should have insisted you not. No doubt your aunt is furious with me for not interceding.”
Catherine lifted her brows very deliberately. It was not Mr. de Rohan whom Isabel had been concerned about, that much Catherine had concluded. “Pray do not regard it, my lord,” she said, turning back toward the retiring room. “Obviously, you did not realize that Mr. de Rohan is Lady Kirton’s friend.”
But Bodley grasped her lightly by the forearm. Catherine spun about, staring at his hand where it lay upon her arm. “Really, Lady Catherine,” he said quietly. “Business associations are not at all the same thing as social connections.”
“He is also Lord Walrafen’s guest.”
“And Walrafen is a liberal-minded fool,” snapped Bodley. “I cannot think de Rohan is anyone with whom your family should wish you to associate. I have heard a few things about the fellow, you see. You are new to town, my dear. Let me assure you, he is not our kind.”
Catherine lifted her gaze to his and pinned him with it. “Be so good as to remove your hand from my arm, my lord,” she said very clearly. “I was just on my way out.”
With a stiff nod, he stepped back. Catherine spun about and hastened along the passageway. Lord Bodley did not follow.
A few minutes after uttering his inane invitation, de Rohan stood upon Walrafen’s top step, his hat and stick in hand, realizing the true folly of his actions. He had come in a hired hackney. A lady like Catherine would assuredly have arrived by private carriage. What the devil had he been thinking? Perhaps, he admitted to himself, he’d wished to test her. To see if the pretty, wellborn English widow would indeed appear in public with him.
Apparently, she would. He felt her warm, capable hand rest lightly upon his coat sleeve as he stared down at the row of fine vehicles which lined Hill Street. And yet his pride would not permit him to ask that she call for her own coach.
Lady Catherine saved him from both his pride and his folly. “I came with Aunt Isabel,” she said candidly. “So shall we walk? I’m afraid I don’t know the proper etiquette for escaping a lavish ball. It’s my first, you see.”
Quizzically, he looked down at her. “Your first—?”
Lady Catherine grinned. “Lavish ball.”
He wasn’t sure he believed her, but de Rohan felt his frustration wane. “I came by hackney,” he admitted, stepping down to press a vail into the hand of one of Walrafen’s footmen. “I’ll have another brought round. You cannot walk far in dancing slippers.”
For a moment, Lady Catherine looked tempted to argue, then her shoulders fell. “It really would be selfish to ruin these shoes,” she agreed. “Isabel spent an hour choosing them.”
As de Rohan pondered her words, a hackney coach drew up. “Where shall we go?” she asked as he helped her inside. “I would love a bite of supper, but in this gown . . . ?”
Suddenly, de Rohan realized she was right. He’d hoped to bespeak a private dining room in one of the better hotels, but even there, dressed as she was, she would be uncomfortable. He should have considered that. Lady Catherine’s proximity seemed to muddle his logic.
But Catherine was still speaking, much to his salvation. “I’m staying at my brother’s house in Mortimer Street,” she said a little mordantly. “If we went there so that I might change into something more comfortable, would you again accuse me of being bent on seduction?”
Bent on seduction?
Go home with her?
Two such phrases should never have been permitted to share his thoughts, let alone be spoken aloud. Asking her to dine with him was folly enough. “I shall endeavor to give you the benefit of the doubt,” he managed to reply. And with a musing smile, Lady Catherine leaned down to give her address to the footman, who promptly shut the door.
At the sound of the latch snapping shut, de Rohan suffered the unsettling impression of having flung his soul into some sort of an abyss, free-falling in a way he could neither control nor understand. As if to heighten the torment, he let his gaze flow over Catherine. In her elegant fabrics and understated jewels, she looked like a nobleman’s wife. She looked like trouble. He had convinced himself that he meant only to seek out a private moment in which to make his apology, but was he lying to himself, the most treacherous deceit of all?
“Are you sorry I’ve taken you away from Walrafen’s?” he heard himself ask.
Lamplight flickered over her open countenance as the carriage rumbled through Berkeley Square. “I don’t believe I was precisely taken,” she answered, turning away to stare through the glass at the lamp-lit street.
Again, her words were gently satirical, as if she knew what he were thinking yet took no offense. Save for Cecilia, de Rohan had rarely met a highborn English lady so seemingly devoid of guile. Was she real? Or, like Penelope and a dozen other women he’d known, was she just a carefully crafted façade? Certainly, it was a beautiful façade, if nothing more. At that thought, de Rohan’s gaze caught upon the heavy pearl drop which swung from her left earlobe, and he found himself seized by the oddest impulse. He wanted to suck it, pearl and all, into his mouth. Suddenly, he wanted her in his mouth. On him. Beneath him, her long, strong legs entwined about his waist.
Fleetingly, he closed his eyes. Oh, God! Was there any chance? Any prayer, however slender, that Lady Catherine Wodeway would do the very thing he had so bluntly—and so wrongly—accused her of? The very idea tore the breath from his chest and left his skin shivering, like a stallion scenting his mate. God almighty! What was wrong with him? He’d be a fool to sleep with her, even if she begged. Max shoved his insane notions back into the black recesses of his mind where they belonged, and opened his eyes. Lady Catherine was smiling at him quite innocently.
“I saw you speaking with Bodley,” he said too abruptly. “I hope, ma’am, that you will have a care with such a man.”
Lady Catherine looked as if she might burst into laughter. “Why, how blunt you are, Mr. de Rohan,” she began in a slightly exasperated tone. “Have you nothing in the way of ordinary conversation?”
De Rohan felt his expression stiffen. “Forgive me. I am not much in society.”
“Rather more than you should wish, though, I’ll venture,” murmured Lady Catherine. “Besides, Bodley is a generous benefactor of Isabel’s charity for wayward women. Outwardly, that would seem to speak well of him, would it not?”
De Rohan caught the hint of challenge in her voice. “It is usually easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle,” he retorted, “than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God. Their temptations, you see, are so easily affordable.”
Lady Catherine looked vaguely amused. “So I’ve been told,” she agreed. “And just what do you think Bodley wishes to do with his donated riches?”
“Perhaps purchase absolution?” he suggested, unable to keep the cynicism from his tone. “His sort always think a little gold can whiten their souls.”
Lady Catherine’s gaze seemed to turn inward. “Mr. de Rohan, I think you must be an exceedingly hardhearted man.”
For a long, silent moment, he eyed her through the gloom. “I am,” he finally answered. “Perhaps we’d both do well to remember it.”
“Well, I did not say you were wholly wrong, mind,” Catherine continued, undeterred. “Bodley is handsome enough, but he does give one a chill up the spine.”
She was, just as he’d guessed, nobody’s fool. He relaxed a little against the worn leather seat. “Then it would seem you have good instincts, after all,” he said simply. “I hope, ma’am, that you will trust them.”
Just then, the coach rocked to a halt. “Apparently, I do,” she retorted as the driver leapt down to fling open the door. “After all, I’m just about to admit a very strange man into my home.”
Chapter Six
Avoid as much as you can, in mixed companies,
argumentative, polemical conversations.
—LORD CHESTERFIELD, 1776,
The Fine Gentleman’s Etiquette
The house on Mortimer Street was quiet. No footman awaited Lady Catherine’s arrival, and, as if all was as she had expected, she drew a key from her reticule. Politely, de Rohan took it from her outstretched hand, reached past her to snap open the lock, and followed her in. Inside, the house smelled pleasant but foreign. No aroma of simmering spices and smoldering herbs greeted him as was the norm in his nonna’s house. Rather, the fragrance of well-waxed furniture and steeping tea seemed to have permeated the very walls.
He followed the swish of Catherine’s blue silk skirts down a passageway lined with a heavy carpet and flickering wall sconces. They turned into a drawing room hung with gold watered silk and furnished in a Chinoiserie style which had been all the rage a decade earlier. Without asking, she poured him a snifter of cognac—his favorite—and pressed it into his hand. Her touch warmed him. Inflamed him. He wanted it to stop.
Then, with a serene smile, Catherine let her fingers slide away, leaving him . . . what? Bereft? No, he’d not felt that miserable emotion since the ruins of his father’s chateau stopped smoldering. He felt lust, no more than that. Well, perhaps he found her beautiful and amusing. And intriguing. But those emotions were safe enough. Still, as he watched her walk out of the room, her stride long and confident, the sway of her hips sensuous and natural, he felt the unwelcome desire heighten again. And, to his exasperation, he felt the old doubts stir anew.
Her brother is an earl . . . wildly rich.
Cecilia’s words echoed in his head. He told himself he did not care. This house was no more ostentatious than Nonna Sofia’s, its furnishings comfortable rather than elegant. Still, de Rohan looked about, unaccountably ill at ease. Why? He was not a poor man. He was probably quite a wealthy one. And while the success of Castelli, de Rohan & Co. was no secret, he had always quite deliberately—and perhaps a little ruthlessly—distanced himself from it. In his world, wealth made a man suspect. Besides, he wanted nothing his money might buy, and to recklessly display his wealth might undermine his credibility. It might give the impression that his career was little more than a rich man’s lark. He was not on a lark. He was deadly serious.
No, he gave not a tinker’s damn for Catherine’s brother’s position. It was the lady herself, or rather, his reaction to her, which troubled him. But raw lust, surely, he could manage? A strong man did not let his appetites control him. Max had done so only once, and once had been trouble enough.
Somewhat reassured by that, he settled down on a soft leather sofa and let the alcohol kindle a soothing fire in his belly. Eventually, he relaxed enough to turn his attention to the fine paintings which adorned the walls. One portrait inexplicably held his interest—a striking man wearing a brocade coat and powdered wig, his handsome face already running to fat. By God, he knew that face! Those harsh black brows, those hot, arrogant eyes . . .
