reply, even though she knew the answer very well. She watched Hawick like every other person in that ballroom.
‘Devlin?’ Alice murmured almost to herself. A number of others must have been having the same thought, for once Hawick disappeared through the door, all heads turned to find Devlin. But Devlin stood at the farthest side of the room from the gallery, by the French windows, looking as shocked as the rest of Fallingham’s guests.
Venetia took a deep breath and accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman, even though inside she was still shaking and her mind was reeling from the shock. All she could think of was how close she had just come to ruin, and that the man who had saved her was the one man she had thought would not. To shoot a man, unarmed and with his leg not yet fully recovered from a hunting accident, as he sat at his own desk—it took a certain type of villain to do that. Across the ballroom chatting to Razeby she saw Linwood. His dark gaze met hers across the floor and held. It lasted for only the briefest of moments, then the dance progressed and the bodies of the dancers hid him from her. And by the time the dance progressed again he was gone.
Her heart was beating fit to burst, her blood rushing too fast. She lowered her gaze, composing herself, conscious that Miss Fox must maintain her cool, collected air. So she held her head high and nodded as if she were listening to Alice’s chatter. The music played on, sweet and loud and vibrant, but all that Venetia could hear was the echo of Linwood’s voice playing again in her mind. I am not going anywhere.
He had saved her. Again. The uneasiness stirred all the more in her breast and she wondered if what she had learned of Linwood so far would disquiet her brother as much as it did her.
Chapter Five
There was a note from Linwood the next morning.
If it is not presumptive of me, may I request the pleasure of your company this afternoon for a drive in Hyde Park?
Your servant,
L.
His letters were angular, sharp, boldly formed by a pen nib pressed firm against the paper, the ink a deep opaque black, expensive as the embossed paper upon which the words were written. As she read the words it seemed that she could hear the rich smooth voice speaking them, the slight irony of his reference to ‘presumption’ following her taunt the night he had saved her from the ruffians, and see the dark handsome face, all cheekbones and harsh angles, with its lips that could drive every last vestige of sense from a woman’s head.
She screwed the cut sheet of paper into a ball, her fingers curling tight, crushing it within, tempted to throw it onto the coals of the fire and watch it burn away to nothing. She did not want to go driving with him, not when, against all rhyme and reason, he made her feel the way he did. Aroused. Attracted. Out of control. She squeezed her eyes shut, knowing that she could not refuse him. This was part of what she had agreed to do, the game she had willingly entered into. With a sigh, she carefully eased the paper open, smoothing out every crease she had inflicted upon it. She stood by the window and stared at the paper for a long time in the cold autumn light, thinking of the man who had written the words and of the man he had murdered in cold blood. Then, taking a deep breath, she sat down at the small desk within her little parlour. She slipped Linwood’s letter into the drawer, then set a clean sheet of paper before her. Taking up her pen, she dipped it into the inkwell and began to write.
When Albert told her Linwood was waiting in her drawing room she felt a sense of dread and beneath it, for all she would deny it, a stab of satisfaction that he had come. Part of her wanted to have Albert send him away, and part, for all she was loath to admit it, was eager to see him. She felt unusually unsettled and told herself that she could not send him away, that she had a job to do here, that that was the only reason she must see him. She sat in front of her dressing table, staring into the oval peering glass and seeing nothing. Deliberately slowing her actions, she took her time inserting the wire of the pearl-drop earrings through the lobes of her ears, before smoothing butterfly fingers over the soft white-rabbit fur of her hat and checking the pins that held it in place.
Her dress and matching pelisse were of icy blue silk, the same colour as the sea on a sunny winter morning, clear and pale as her eyes. She was stalling, making him wait, calming herself as she did just before any performance, except that she had never felt this nervous before any other role. Taking a deep breath, she moved to resume the game.
‘Lord Linwood.’
He was standing by the fireplace, dressed in a midnight-blue fitted tailcoat, buff-coloured breeches and glossy black riding boots, as if he had known the colour of her outfit and dressed to complement it. Every time she saw him she felt that same small shock at the effect his dark handsome looks had upon her. Her eyes moved over him, noting that his hat, wolf’s-head walking cane and gloves, were still in his left hand, even though Albert must have offered to relieve him of them. The dark eyes met hers and she, the famously cool, calm and collected Miss Fox, felt herself blush. And that small betrayal made her angry and determined—which was exactly what she needed to be when she was with him.
She saw his gaze rove over her.
‘You are beautiful.’
‘You flatter me.’
‘You know I do not.’
They looked at one another and all of her body seemed to shimmer with the memory of the kiss they had shared.
‘Hyde Park,’ she said.
‘Unless you have another preference.’ And there was that same darkness in his eyes that had been there before he had kissed her. The air seemed too thin for her lungs, making it hard to breath and the atmosphere was thick and writhing with sensual suggestion. Images flashed in her mind. Too real. Too potent. His lips on hers, their tongues entwining, breathing his breath, tasting him, feeling the hard muscle beneath her fingers, her palms; the flickering flame of desire that just the scent of him seemed to fan to an inferno. She stepped back from him, from temptation, from danger.
She shook her head, the small lazy smile that curved her lips in such contrast to the race of her heart and the simmer of her blood. ‘All in good time, my lord.’
He drew her a small nod of acknowledgement, as if what would happen between them had just been agreed. Her heart fluttered with fear, but she had already turned away and was walking out of the room, out of her house, towards Linwood’s carriage.
He sat with his back to the horses, giving the direction of travel to Miss Fox.
His gaze studied her as he leaned back against the squabs. She was a woman he could have looked at for a lifetime and never grown tired. She appeared as relaxed, as cool and in control as ever she had been. But when he looked into those clear pale eyes, it was as if she had drawn a curtain behind them to hide herself from him.
‘A new landau.’ She stroked over the leather of the seats and bolster, the soft pale-cream kid of her gloves so stark in contrast to the black leather interior of the carriage.
‘My father’s,’ he said.
Her fingers touched the small neat coat of arms embroidered upon the bolster. ‘The Earl of Misbourne. Does he know that you are using it to squire actresses about London?’
‘One actress only,’ said Linwood and deliberately did not answer the rest of her question.
‘And yet you have taken an apartment in St
