Midnight's Wild Passion Page 3

  It was as though the devil served the perfect opportunity on a silver platter. Through Cassie, Ranelaw would finally requite Eloise’s sufferings.

  Then perhaps, perhaps Ranelaw would no longer feel he’d failed the only person who had ever loved him.

  Chapter Three

  Evading Lord Ranelaw over the next week proved more difficult than Antonia had expected.

  For a man with a reputation for avoiding respectable gatherings the way a healthy person avoided plague, he appeared at every ball, rout, and musicale Cassie attended. He always danced with Cassie and acknowledged Antonia with a nod but, thank heaven, no conversation. After that hostile exchange the night they met, Antonia was wary, but his dismissal also irked. She burned to give the bumptious marquess the dressing-down he deserved.

  Invariably as they returned home in the small hours, Antonia berated Cassie for showing the reprobate marked favor. Cassie, however, had overnight turned into a headstrong miss who refused to heed counsel from older, wiser friends. With complete accuracy, she pointed out that Lord Ranelaw did nothing exceptionable and he never requested more than the acceptable two dances.

  After days of battling to curtail the marquess’s attentions to her charge, Antonia’s patience dwindled. Her head ached with constant tension. Partly because of the marquess’s unwanted presence during her evenings supervising Cassie. More because of his unwanted presence in her thoughts even when physically absent.

  Every time she saw Ranelaw, she desperately searched for something unappealing about him. Instead the list of his attractions lengthened. He was, as Cassandra continually and irritatingly reminded her, a remarkably handsome man with his gold hair and Gypsy-dark features.

  Antonia was immune to mere good looks—or at least she’d believed so—but she was less immune to Ranelaw’s dry humor. She wasn’t at all immune to the sizzle in the air when he prowled into their little group like a panther into a hen coop.

  Tonight she and Cassie attended the Bradhams’ musicale, and of course the Marquess of Ranelaw was present. He inveigled a place beside Cassandra when the concert began. Antonia perched on Cassandra’s other side, fuming and surreptitiously watching for the rogue to make some advance. Then found no satisfaction when he sat unmoving through some surprisingly adept performances. Antonia couldn’t blame her burgeoning headache on the music—rare for a society musicale, where the entertainment was usually execrable.

  When the first half of the concert ended, everyone trailed away to the supper room. It wasn’t a huge crush and Cassandra remained under the watchful eye of Mrs. Merriweather, who also launched her daughter this season. Antonia sighed and struggled to relax tight shoulders. Surely a few minutes to herself wouldn’t result in disaster.

  She slipped onto the dark and mercifully empty terrace. It was too early in the year for people to seek the outdoors, but the cold night and solitude were exactly what she wanted.

  Drawing her first unfettered breath in hours, she stepped forward to lean on the balustrade. She tugged off her spectacles and rubbed tired eyes. Lord Ranelaw didn’t spoil only her untroubled relationship with her cousin. He spoiled her sleep as well. She prayed he quickly became bored with pursuing a young girl who was so manifestly unsuitable.

  She didn’t like her chances.

  A distant hum drifted from inside but otherwise the night was blessedly quiet. Antonia inhaled again and felt her tension unwind.

  The season had barely started. If only Cassie quickly fell in love with some eligible gentleman, bypassing all risk of disaster with the rakish marquess. Antonia would go insane if she had to devote the next months to keeping Ranelaw away from Cassandra. Between her prickling awareness, Ranelaw’s lures, and the girl’s rebelliousness, this London visit stretched ahead as an ordeal to try anyone’s nerves.

  “Careless shepherdess. Aren’t you afraid I’ll whisk your lamb away?”

  Had her very thoughts conjured up Ranelaw? Her heartbeat a wayward gallop, she straightened and turned to face the open French doors. In the darkness on the edge of the balcony, the marquess lounged against the wall. His very stillness breathed danger.

  Antonia was burningly aware they’d never been alone before. She was also burningly aware that if anyone caught them together, her reputation would be in tatters.

  She fumbled to replace her glasses, although in this light, he wouldn’t make out her features. “You admit your purposes are dishonorable?”

  She should go inside. But something—perhaps the untamed spirit she’d never quite conquered, no matter how she tried—kept her leaning against the balustrade, studying the notorious rake who made her blood surge. And who reminded her of so much she’d struggled to forget through ten lonely, painful years.

  He shifted, a patch of darker shadow in the shadows. She imagined the smile that curled his long mouth. He always acted as if he considered life a sardonic joke. His cynical amusement shouldn’t be attractive, but it was.

  Like everything else about him.

  “Even if I denied that, you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  He gave a soft, knowing laugh, already familiar. The sound brushed across her skin like thick velvet. Why, oh, why did sin always adopt such compelling guise? She knew to her bones what this man was, yet nothing stemmed the fascination.

  Perhaps she could take advantage of this encounter to speak more plainly than she could in a crowded ballroom. “I want you to leave Cassandra alone.”

  He prowled forward, his movements smooth and lethal as the panther she’d compared him to earlier. The uncertain light from inside revealed that he wasn’t smiling and that his gaze remained intent upon her.

  Another frisson of awareness rippled through her. Thank heaven she was so far below his touch, in both rank and beauty. If he leveled those glinting eyes on her with any purpose other than subverting her duty, she’d be lost.

  “Why should I care about your wishes, Miss Smith?”

  Antonia spread her hands and decided on honesty. “Cassandra’s too good for you.”

  Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she saw him more clearly than she wanted. A ghost of a smile flickered. “She has better manners than her chaperone, I’ll give her that.”

  “Let her find some decent young man to make her happy.”

  “Bore her stiff, you mean?”

  “Decency isn’t necessarily boring.”

  “Haven’t you found it so?”

  Without making any overt move, he was far too close. Looming above her so his head blocked the stars. The faint illumination from inside cast a sheen across his gold hair as if even the candlelight couldn’t resist touching him.

  Despair engulfed Antonia as her gaze clung hungrily to his lean, rangy body. It was wrong, wrong, wrong that he was so beautiful. It was wrong that she was so susceptible to his beauty. Beauty was an accident, a random arrangement of muscle and bone and coloring. It shouldn’t have this power to cut to her heart.

  “What . . . what are you doing?” she asked nervously, abandoning her pretense at bravery. She backed away, to find herself trapped against the balustrade.

  “Proving your expectations correct, of course,” he murmured, bending nearer.

  Curse that deep, musical voice. It always made her senses vibrate, even in a packed room. Here where there was only night and silence, that rich voice was as alluring as treasure to a miser.

  His scent teased her nostrils. Soap. Healthy male. He should smell like fire and brimstone. Instead he smelled like everything clean and good. She resisted the urge to draw that delicious scent deep into her lungs. Good Lord, she was in enough trouble.

  Although the movement brought them closer, Antonia straightened to full height. Once, she’d been a pliant reed in a rake’s clutches. Never again. She was twenty-seven, not seventeen. She might imagine the air quivered with sensual awareness,
but in truth, Ranelaw set out to manipulate her. Unless she demonstrated some backbone, he’d succeed, damn him.

  She forced disdain into her voice. Miss Smith’s voice, not Lady Antonia Hilliard’s. “Come, Lord Ranelaw! If the gossips catch you flirting with an ape leader like me, your reputation will never recover. Let’s take the lukewarm seduction as read and move on to discouraging your attentions to Miss Demarest.”

  Another soft laugh. “Miss Smith, you misjudge yourself—and my powers of observation.”

  Icy fear pierced the haze of attraction. She’d become so used to people taking her for granted, it hadn’t occurred that a particularly perceptive pair of eyes might penetrate her disguise.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Antonia. Nobody’s questioned your identity in ten years. This louche scoundrel is trying to frighten you into giving him access to Cassandra.

  “Does crass flattery often gain your way?” Her voice was sharp. “I’m disappointed. I’d expected better.”

  He stroked her cheek. Inside he’d worn gloves. Somewhere since he’d taken them off. “Oh, I rarely disappoint.”

  The shock of his bare skin on hers made her jerk away. She drew a shaky breath, then regretted it when Ranelaw’s scent flooded her senses.

  Good God, the man was a walking honeypot. No wonder he was so confident of his appeal. Even an old spinster like her longed to explore that hard chest, measure those broad shoulders, test the heat radiating from his long body.

  “Do you imagine some unconvincing interest will magically dissolve my objections to your courtship? You overestimate your charms and underestimate my good sense.”

  “Never.” He tapped her cheek softly as if in reproof. “And why should you find my interest unconvincing? On my honor, it’s meant sincerely.”

  Her breath hitched at the casual caress, although it was over in an instant. She struggled for her usual barbed response to importunate gentlemen. Not that she’d dealt with many in the last ten years.

  “Such an oath confirms your falsehood. You must be desperate for Cassandra or you’d scarcely waste time on such a fright as her chaperone.”

  It was strange though—without the evidence of her eyes, she’d guess his interest in Cassandra wasn’t sexual. There was no crackle when they were together. Nothing approaching the sparking lightning that arced between him and Antonia now.

  Stupid, stupid girl. That was a rake’s skill, the ability to make any woman imagine herself his sole interest. Common sense, so far remarkably lacking, insisted he couldn’t be attracted to Cassandra’s forbidding duenna.

  He used his formidable appeal to overwhelm her. She, silly goose, allowed him.

  She felt him staring at her through the shadows. But she was safe. Her disguise had protected her for ten years. Lord Ranelaw just made her nervous.

  It was as if he read her thoughts. “You know, your assumption of invincibility is damned challenging.”

  She shrugged. “Why would you bother? I’m well below your notice, my lord. Except in my role as Cassandra’s guard dog. Be warned, I take that seriously. You’re not a suitable match. Her father will never agree to a marriage if that’s your hope. If you’ve anything other than marriage in mind, you’re wasting your time. She’s too sensible to allow herself to be ruined.”

  “Is that so?” he asked in a musing voice. “What about you?”

  His nonchalance caught her on the raw. Anger rescued her from tumbling into beguilement. Anger she’d crammed deep inside for years. It was so easy for men like Ranelaw. No consequences. No dangers. Their swaggering left a bloody trail of broken hearts and lives, but what did they care as long as they satisfied their selfish desires?

  For once Lord Ranelaw wasn’t getting his own way.

  She spoke with complete conviction. “Your attentions aren’t welcome. Leave me alone. Leave Cassandra alone.” She shoved hard at his chest. Her strength couldn’t match his so she was surprised he stepped back. “Good night, my lord. I hope this is our last conversation.”

  “I would be devastated if that were so,” he said in a silky voice that made her bristle.

  “I’m sure you’ll recover.” She flicked her meager skirts and marched through the French doors.

  She should feel triumphant she put the overweening Lord Ranelaw in his place. Sadly, she was aware she only escaped because he let her go.

  This particular duel had hardly started.

  Ranelaw watched the dragon flounce away. Unholy excitement bubbled in his blood. With every encounter, she became more intriguing, with her spirit and her resistance and her secrets, one of which he’d long ago guessed.

  However much she wanted to hate him, she was far from immune to the heat surging between them.

  An owl hooted from the undergrowth, reminding him he wasn’t here to satisfy his desires but to set his mark on the Demarest girl. With luck—and with women, he was always supremely lucky—he’d waylay her after supper.

  Wishing he garnered more enthusiasm for the task, he grimly tugged on his gloves and strode inside.

  He lurked in the gallery off the supper room and was delighted to see Cassie returning ahead of the crowd in company with another butterfly. Even better, gimlet-eyed Miss Smith was nowhere in evidence.

  Perhaps his subtle threats daunted her.

  Hell, he mused on the guardian and not the charge again. He needed to be careful. Cassie was innocent and easily flattered, but he couldn’t become too blasé about seducing her. The prize in this game was too important for him to mar his chances with overconfidence.

  “Miss Demarest, have you seen this beautiful Claude? Allow me to show you.” He fastened a possessive hand around Cassie’s arm. The girl started but made no attempt to escape.

  Miss Demarest’s companion burst into a peal of irritating giggles and blushed red as a tomato. Cassie cast him a skeptical glance that proved an unwelcome reminder of the way her chaperone had received his seductive overtures.

  Cassie’s voice emerged steadily. “Miss Smith and I admired the Claudes in the National Gallery last week. I should dearly love to see more of the artist’s work.”

  “I’ll find Mamma,” the other girl twittered and darted back to the supper room in a rustle of white skirts.

  “How kind of your friend to grant us privacy,” Ranelaw murmured, staring at Cassie in his best rake manner and tightening his hold on her arm. “I’ve longed for a moment alone with you.”

  “We won’t be alone for very long,” the girl pointed out coolly.

  “All the more reason to take advantage of our chance,” he said, then added with complete honesty, “You’re a devilish pretty girl, Miss Demarest.”

  “Thank you.”

  What the hell? He’d expected a little more reaction than that to his blatant interest. Blast the chit, she betrayed not one whit of nervousness. Instead she studied him with an utterly sexless curiosity.

  When they’d been in public together, she’d seemed bedazzled by his attentions. Now, not so much. Briefly he wondered if his magic touch with women failed. Surely not. For all that she struggled to hide her reactions, he set Miss Smith quivering with excitement. The problem with Miss Smith was that she set him quivering with excitement in return.

  He kept his voice low, persuasive. “I suppose a hundred men have told you that.”

  Amusement brightened her blue eyes. She really was a peach. What a fool he was, not to be more excited at the prospect of having her. “Oh, thousands.”

  He laughed softly. This particular game of advance and retreat was mightily familiar. He’d so often set himself to charm a woman hovering between uncertainty and surrender, and with far less reason than he had to seduce Cassandra Demarest. Surely it was only a passing humor that, much as he tried, he summoned so little interest in the chase. “Somerset must be awash in broken hearts now you’ve abandoned the country for London.”
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  “You’re teasing me, my lord.” As he’d seen her do so many times before, she lowered her lashes coquettishly. “I’m not sure it’s quite proper when we’re on our own.”

  “I’m sure it’s not.” He let a wolfish grin curve his lips and he drew her closer but not so close that she’d take fright and run. “Miss Demarest, you make it impossible not to kiss you.”

  Her eyes flashed up to meet his. “If anyone sees, there will be a dreadful to-do.”

  The girl was either a hardened flirt or too stupid to guess his wicked intentions. At the very least, his improper declaration should make her blush. He was the notorious Marquess of Ranelaw. Mothers all over England used his name to frighten their virginal daughters into good behavior.

  “Heaven forbid.” His voice deepened to a purr. “It seems a pity to rush this . . . conversation. Let me take you somewhere we won’t be interrupted.”

  On a giggling tide, the room flooded with a dozen debutantes, including Cassie’s scarlet-faced friend. With a flash of irritation, Ranelaw realized his moment had passed.

  “Not tonight, my lord,” she said with a faint smile. She stepped away to turn, calm as you please, toward the painting behind them. Not a Claude.

  His vengeance was no further advanced and it was his own bloody fault. He should have pursued the chit with more conviction. No wonder his wooing left her less than overwhelmed.

  Damn Antonia Smith, if he spent less time thinking of her and more time luring his prey, he could be well on his way to achieving Miss Demarest’s ruin.

  As Ranelaw strolled away from the musicale, he yet again contemplated the prickly but increasingly appealing Miss Smith. Which didn’t exactly please him. At last he had Cassie Demarest in his sights. He should concentrate on his overdue vengeance. Instead his mind veered toward the unwelcoming companion.

  Except that while Miss Smith’s lips spoke a continual no, her body whispered an alluring yes. The body he’d realized days ago was considerably more voluptuous than he’d first guessed. Those hideous dresses masked a wealth of promise.