beginning to pound—though I’m not entirely sure if that is due to fists or to too much brandy.”
He went with them to the carriage, but, agreeing with the driver that it would not be seemly for the lady to ride with a stranger, he opted to climb up beside the coachman. They drove the few blocks to the address he gave them, and as she rode in the carriage, Miranda considered the situation. He had said he was going to his mother’s and had pointed in the direction of Lady Ravenscar’s house. Could the man she had rescued be the man she had been supposed to meet tonight? Was it possible that this handsome, rather charming man who was good with his fists was the Earl of Ravenscar? It made sense. And his state of inebriation would certainly explain his tardiness, as well as match what she had heard of him. And Elizabeth had said he was charming and handsome—though mere words could not convey the intensity of his roguish appeal. There had been a strange moment when her entire being had thrilled to him, when she had thought that she belonged with him…This was the sort of man who could make a woman forget all else.
They came to a stop in front of his house: a small, graceful abode in the fashionable district, just the sort of house a bachelor of means and name might live in. The gentleman climbed down with the coachman’s help, and Miranda opened the door of the carriage and leaned out.
“Good night, sir.” She was reluctant to let him go, she found, another odd sensation for her. If only she knew if he was the Earl of Ravenscar… But she did not want to introduce herself to him. If he was Ravenscar, she did not want him to know that she was the heiress he had spent the evening drinking to avoid.
“Madam.” He bowed again, but she noticed that he was rather more unsteady now. “You are an angel from heaven.”
“That is a rather large exaggeration, but I thank you,” Miranda replied wryly.
He turned and made his weaving way up the steps of the house. A moment later, the door opened, and he went inside.
“Let’s go home, Beldon,” Miranda said, and the carriage rolled forward.
As she drove home, her thoughts circled around the man she had just rescued. Was he Ravenscar? And what would have happened if he had not been late to the party tonight? One thing she was certain of: if this man had been there, she would not have left early.
3
“Good evening, sir.” Carson, Devin’s valet, opened the door. He took in his employer’s disarray, more alarmed by the rumpled cravat and the rent in his coat than by the marks of fighting on Ravenscar’s face. “I say, my lord, are you all right? Did something happen?”
“Bit of a dustup,” Devin admitted. “A cold cloth for my face would be nice.”
“Of course, sir.” The servant hurried off to do his bidding.
Devin sighed and ran his hand back through his hair. He wondered if it had been simple thieves, as he had assured his fair rescuer. The coachman was right in saying that it wasn’t an area where thieves and ruffians were wont to linger. There were one or two of his creditors whom he would not be surprised to find were behind the attack. He suspected that if his rescuers had not routed the fellows, they might have told him to pay up if he didn’t want more of the same.
He would have to be more careful now…perhaps carry his little pistol, though that would mar the line of his coat. Carson would protest.
His thoughts wandered to his rescuers, and he smiled to himself. What an odd sort of woman! He had been somewhat distracted by his own fight, but he was almost sure that she had waded right into the melee and whacked one of the miscreants with her umbrella. A pretty thing, too. He wished the light had been better—and his vision not so impaired by alcohol. Her hair had been brown, and he had been unable to determine the color of her eyes, but they had been large and bright, and she had had a merry, laughing mouth. He remembered more distinctly the generous curve of her breasts above the neckline of her evening gown. He remembered, too, the unmistakable response of his body when he looked at her.
He wondered if she was a member of the demimonde. She had spoken and dressed like a lady, but he could not imagine any lady of his acquaintance wading into a fight like that. And there had been something odd about her speech. He could not quite put his finger on it, but there had been a certain inflection that was not quite right. Perhaps she had taught herself to speak like a lady, and an attractive bird of paradise could easily have a carriage and dress well. It would explain the actions, so unlike a woman of aristocratic breeding.
He toyed with the idea of trying to find out the woman’s name. She intrigued him. In general, Leona didn’t squawk about his brief dalliances with other women. She knew that he would never stray far. But, he remembered with a sigh, there was the lowering thought of the state of his finances. He could never hope to lure some ladybird from her obviously generous patron when his own pockets were to let. And the way to remedy that lay back at his mother’s house where, he suspected, he was something of a persona non grata at the moment.
His failure to appear tonight was something that could be remedied, he supposed, with some effort on his part, but, as always, he rebelled at the thought. Something inside him quailed at the idea of spending the rest of his life shackled to a woman for whom he felt at best indifference…and, at worst, active dislike. He had seen enough loveless marriages made for the sake of name and family—including that of his own parents, not to mention Rachel’s and Leona’s—to know that he did not want that state for himself. He was not, he hoped, such a romantic fool as to wish for love in a marriage—or, at least, he had not been for many years. However, he was fairly sure that it was better not to marry at all than to live in the sort of quiet loneliness that was Rachel’s and Westhampton’s lot.
Carson returned, carrying a cool, damp cloth on a small silver tray. Devin took the cloth and held it against the cut on his lip, remembering as he did so the way the woman tonight had wiped away his blood with her handkerchief. He could smell again the faint scent of roses that had clung to the lace-trimmed cotton. He wondered if she, too, smelled of roses.
“A note arrived for you tonight, sir,” Carson said and went over to the small table in the foyer, where another small salver held a square white piece of paper, folded over and sealed. “Ravenscar” was all that was written on the front, in the bold, loopy handwriting that he recognized instantly as Leona’s.
A familiar sense of anticipation snaked through him as he took the note from the tray Carson offered him. He split the seal and unfolded the note.
Darling,
Tonight after midnight. I have a surprise for you.
It was a message typical of Leona—brief, unsigned and faintly mysterious—and it immediately wiped out all thoughts of the woman he had met earlier this evening.
“What time is it, Carson?”
“Why, a bit after eleven, I believe.”
“Good. We have enough time. I need to clean up before my visitor arrives.”
Both of them knew who that visitor was, but neither would, of course, say it aloud. His relationship with Leona existed behind a veil of secrecy, however flimsy that veil might be. Though every gossip in London society knew about them and whispered about their long-standing affair behind their backs, it was still only gossip and not proven fact as long as they maintained their secrecy. Lord Vesey did not care what his wife did—they went their own ways quite happily—as long as he was not subjected to public ridicule.
So, as it had
