She’d never have survived Grendle’s. Though she had the courage, she lacked the skill—because no gently bred female was allowed to acquire the necessary experience.
Now he wondered if she had the skill—sophistication, as she put it—to manage the petty treacheries of the Beau Monde. Not that her beaux weren’t respectable. Andover would make sure of that. Still, she should not settle merely for respectability. She needed someone who’d not only allow her, but would teach her how to be free, how to find expression for the wild tumult always churning in her eyes.
He didn’t realise he’d stopped the carriage and was staring fixedly into those eyes, because he was preoccupied with wondering what he saw there that made him feel he was whirling in a maelstrom.
“My Lord,” she said somewhat breathlessly, “we’ve stopped.”
She jerked her own gaze away to stare past him. Then her eyes widened in shock and her face paled and froze. Lord Rand looked in the same direction to discover Lord Browdie, in company with a female Miss Pelliston had better not know, bearing down upon them.
“Don’t let on you see them,” Max warned. “If he knows what’s what, he won’t dare acknowledge you—not with that demirep beside him.” He urged the horses into motion.
Miss Pelliston lifted her chin and gazed straight ahead. Browdie and his barque of frailty clattered past, both of them staring boldly at the pair opposite.
“Now if that didn’t look like a chariot from hell, with a couple of brazen demons in it,” said Lord Rand when the vehicle had passed. “Him with his painted head and his trollop with her painted face. What a nerve the brute has to gawk at you—Miss Pelliston, are you ill?” he asked in sudden alarm. She’d gone very white indeed and was trembling.
“N-no,” she gasped. “Please. Get me out of here.”
Chapter Twelve
They had reached the Hyde Park Corner gates. Lord Rand steered the horses through them and on to Green Park. The place was nearly deserted. He stopped the carriage by a stand of trees and turned to his companion.
“What is it?” he asked. “Are you ill? Or was it that disgusting fellow leering at you?”
“I know that woman. I thought I’d dreamed her, but there she was, real—and—dear heaven!—she was wearing my peach muslin dress! Oh, Lord,” she cried. “I am undone. She knew me—I could see it. Didn’t you see the way she smiled?”
Lord Rand saw at the moment only that Miss Pelliston was beside herself with grief. Since she was also beside him, he did what any gallant gentleman would do. He put his arms around her in a comforting, brotherly sort of way. He experienced a shock.
At that moment, Miss Pelliston looked up at him, her eyes very bright with unshed tears. His grip tightened slightly. His head bent and his lips touched hers. He experienced another shock as a wave of most unbrotherly feeling coursed through him.
Miss Pelliston made a tiny, strangled sound and pushed him away.
Lord Rand stared at her. She stared back. Her eyes were very wild indeed, he thought, as he resumed his grip on the reins and restored the horses to order. Perhaps she would knock him senseless. He wished she would. He had much rather be senseless at the moment. He did not like what he was feeling. Why the devil didn’t she box his ears at least? He would settle for pain if insensibility was out of the question.
“I’m sorry,” he made himself say, though he suspected he wasn’t remotely sorry. “Something came over me.”
“Oh, dear,” said Miss Pelliston, turning away. She was also turning pink, and that at least was an improvement. “How very awkward.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated stupidly. “I couldn’t help it.”
“How could you not help it?” she demanded. “What came over you?” She turned to look at him and he thought he saw in her eyes... was it fear?
“Miss Pelliston, you were in distress. I meant to comfort you, but I’m afraid my—my baser instincts got the better of me. As you know, I’m rather impetuous—drat it.” He fell like a fool. What on earth had possessed him to kiss Catherine Pelliston of all people?
Her eyes were still distraught, though her voice sounded calmer. “My Lord, there are times when honesty is preferable to tact. I have come to think of you as a friend. I hope, therefore, you will be quite frank with me. Did I… did I do or say anything to—to encourage you?”
“No, of course not. It was all my own doing, I assure you,” he answered with some pique.
Her face cleared. “Well, that’s all right then.”
Taken aback, he spoke without thinking. “Is it? Does that mean you wouldn’t object if I did it again?” But he didn’t mean to do it again, he told himself.
“Oh, I must object, of course.”
“‘Must’? Only because you’re supposed to?” he asked though he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to hear the answer.
She bit her lip. “My Lord, I asked you to be frank. I will return the favour. You are a very attractive man and I am completely inexperienced. No gentleman has ever kissed me before—at least no one who wasn’t kin—and that was on the cheek. I think—I believe I’m... flattered. All the same, I am not fast,” she added.
“Of course you’re not.”
“Therefore I had rather you didn’t... flatter me again, My Lord. Right now I have enough on my mind without having to question my morals as well. In fact,” she went on sadly, “it looks as though the whole world will be questioning my morals soon enough.”
“There’s nothing to fear,” Max answered, firmly thrusting the image of a blonde Juno from his mind. “I’ll marry you.”
“What?” she gasped.
“Isn’t it obvious? We should have done it at the outset. You can’t expect to hang about in brothels and spend a night in my lodgings without some trouble coming of it. It’s our duty to marry, Miss Pelliston.”
Miss Pelliston’s colour heightened. “With all due respect, My Lord, that is out of the question. It is perfectly ridiculous, in fact.”
“With all due respect, it’s you who’s ridiculous. The tart is wearing your dress. She’s with Browdie. If she’s recognised you, she’ll tell him, and since he’s no gentleman, hell carry the tale. The only way to spike his guns is to marry me. Then, if he so much as hints scandal, I’ll call him out and put a bullet through his painted head. It’s quite simple.”
Catherine grew irritated. She had not escaped a drunken tyrant of a father in order to acquire an overbearing rakehell of a husband. She did not express her objections in precisely these terms, but object she did, and in detail. She treated the viscount to a lengthy discourse upon her views of marriage, in which suitability of temperament figured most prominently.
Lord Rand reacting to this sermon with blank indifference, she went on in some desperation to tear to pieces his rationale for proposing.
In the first place, she told him, perhaps that wasn’t her dress after all, or if it was, very likely Granny Grendle had sold it to a secondhand dealer and that was how Lord Browdie’s companion had come by it.
Second, Miss Pelliston could not be absolutely certain she recognised the woman. With all that paint, fallen women tended to look alike. She’d barely glimpsed any other women besides Granny during her brief time in the brothel, having been drugged for most of that time.
Third, even if the woman knew her and did tell Lord Browdie, he likely wouldn’t believe it. Or if he did, he was not so foolhardy as to carry so improbable a tale, especially when that might lead to a breach—or worse—with her Papa or Lord Andover. Either might challenge Lord Browdie to duel, and he was a great coward.
Max glared at her. “So you claim you’re not in the least alarmed?”
“Not in the least,” she answered spiritedly.
“Then why did you take a fit?”
“I did not take a fit. If I gave way for a moment that was because I was shocked. Possibly I overreacted.”
“All the same, I’ve compromised you,” he reminded. “Besides everything else, I just kissed you i
n a public park.”
“Good heavens, you can’t be serious. Surely you do not go about proposing marriage to every woman you kiss. In your case that would most assuredly lead to bigamy.”
Catherine stared off into the distance, her spine ramrod straight and her chin high.
“I think you must be drunk,” she continued. “Yes, I’m sure you are. It was your vices that entangled you in my difficulties in the first place, and though I am grateful you were there to rescue me I cannot but regret the reasons you were there. Just now, vice has nearly led you into a grievous error which you would have cause to regret all the rest of your days. Later, when you are sober, I hope you will consider the matter and learn from the experience. For the present, I wish you would take me home.”
“There now,” said Lynnette. “Didn’t I tell you it was him?” Her companion appeared not to hear her. He was sulking. Lord Browdie might not care where he found his entertainment, but he had rather keep that entertainment out of public view—unless, of course, the female at his side was in great demand among Society’s gentlemen and one might lord it over the competition.
Whatever degree of popularity Lynnette had achieved at Granny Grendle’s, she was scarcely in the morning with the Wilson sisters. She ought, therefore, to know her place and be content to abide quietly, awaiting her protector’s pleasure in the modest house he’d rented for her. But no, she must be wheedling and whining at a fellow the livelong day for “a breath of fresh air.” Wasn’t any fresh air in London. And now Miss Prim and Proper and her uppity viscount had seen him in company with a common harlot.
“Didn’t I tell you it was him?” she prodded.
“Him, who?” was the peevish response.
“The one that took the new girl off.” Lynnette went on to describe the highly entertaining scene she’d unabashedly watched from the top of the stairs.
“That’s how I got this dress,” she said. “I saw the old witch take it from the box and made her give it me.” Lynnette neglected to add that the dress was the compensation she’d demanded for having turned such a promising customer over to a mere beginner. Lynnette had deeply and loudly resented having to entertain an ugly, drunken sailor instead of a drunken Adonis.
“Fifty quid?” Lord Browdie repeated as she concluded her story. “You meant to say the fool paid fifty quid for a scrawny country servant?”
“I never got more than a glimpse of her, but she looked all skin and bones to me. Anyhow, it was thirty for her and twenty for her things—only they never did get all her things, as I said. Then the poor man is back two days later looking for her. The ignorant thing must have run off, thinking she could do better. Some girls have no common sense at all, I declare. A viscount you said he was?” Lynnette shook her head in regret, and perhaps not all of that emotion was reserved for the poor rustic who’d tossed away a golden opportunity.
The news that Granny Grendle had so easily cozened the aggravating viscount restored Lord Browdie to good humour. When he had a moment to himself he’d turn the matter over and see what could be made of it. Rand gulled by an old bawd and then the gal bolts after all. Oh, that was rich, it was.
Had Miss Pelliston been privy to the exchange between Lord Browdie and his light o’love, she would have had the unalloyed satisfaction of knowing she had acted aright in rejecting Lord Rand’s offer. She had not heard that conversation, however, and was consequently most uneasy on two counts. One, whatever assurances she’d offered the viscount, she was certain that painted face was familiar; therefore Catherine was sure Lord Browdie knew her secret. Second, she did not believe he’d keep the tale to himself. He might not want to alienate her papa or Lord Andover and he might not want to be killed in a duel, but Lord Browdie was first and foremost a drunkard, and a loud, indiscreet, talkative one.
She could expect the rumour mills to begin grinding any day now, and after a short while they would grind her reputation to dust. Her poor unsuspecting cousin and his wife—they had no idea the scandal in store.
The worst was that she couldn’t warn them. Of course Lord Andover would believe in her innocence. All the same, he’d make Lord Rand marry her. Even the viscount, for all his wild ways and impatience with convention, believed that was the only solution.
Catherine trudged slowly up the stairs to her bedchamber, followed by a prattling Molly, who could not say enough about Lord Rand’s elegant carriage, prime cattle, and altogether stunning personal appearance. She declared that Miss Pelliston was the most fortunate woman in creation, having been honoured by a drive with the most splendid man in all of Christendom—and heathendom besides.
“Really, Miss, I always said as he was the handsomest man,” she raved, “only that was in a rough sort of way, you know. I do think he never cared much how he looked. But, oh, when I seen the carriage come up and him sitting there like the prince in the fairy tale like the sun itself was only shining to shine on him—”
Catherine cut short this venture into the realms of poesy with the information that she was very tired and wanted a nap if she was to survive tonight’s festivities in honour of Miss Gravistock’s birthday.
Molly subsided. That is to say she left off talking and commenced to sighing. However, this evidence of the state of her feelings had only to be endured a quarter hour, at the end of which time she left her mistress to her “nap”—if one could call the torments of the damned a nap.
Catherine lay her head upon her pillow and immediately that head grew feverish.
He had kissed her. As kisses go, it was not much of a kiss, but Catherine knew little of how kisses went, as she’d told him. She now wished to learn no more. What had she told him? Flattered? She touched her lips then jerked her fingers away. Her whole face burned, and in her mind, where there ought to be sober reason, there was only the chaos of jolting thoughts and alien, edgy sensations.
It was only a kiss, she told herself, and only the most fleeting contact at that—but somehow the sky had changed, and that was not how it should be, not with him. Good Lord, not with him.
In novels, heroines got kissed, but by the heroes they would marry, which made it acceptable, if not technically proper. This was not the same, and not acceptable for her. And she had liked it, which made no sense.
Had she not met him in a brothel? Hadn’t he been utterly castaway at the time? Hadn’t she heard Lord Andover’s ironic sympathy for the gentlemen at White’s with whom Lord Rand regularly gambled? Hadn’t she heard as well from several others how Lord Rand had tried to start a brawl on the very steps of that club?
Besides, he was overbearing and hasty, just like Papa. Why, the viscount even affected the speech of common ruffians, full of oaths and bad grammar. That was hardly the stuff of which heroes were made.
Yet despite the ill she knew of him, she’d pushed him away only because she’d been so startled—and immediately she’d wished she hadn’t made it stop.
Who was the Catherine who’d thrilled at the muscular strength of his arms, who even now lay shuddering as she remembered the soft, moist touch of his mouth, so light— only an instant—yet somehow hinting a warm promise that made her want... oh, more. There was the clean masculine scent of him, his face so close as his dark lashes veiled the deep blue of his eyes, the warmth of his hands on her back... only that. It was not so much. What had it done to her—and why him?
If she were a true lady, she would have recoiled at his polluted touch. She hadn’t, and the reason was obvious: she’d inherited her papa’s depravity.
Why not? She had inherited his temper. The only difference between them was that she took the trouble—and it was a deal of trouble—to keep hers in check. Now there was yet another demon to restrain... and a rakehell had released it.
Lord Rand had rather a knack, didn’t he, of drawing out the worst in her. Good heavens—she’d even sat there blithely chattering away about wanting to murder her father and practically boasting about her scheme to run away.
Catherine turned angrily
onto her stomach and buried her hot face in the pillow.
The man was dangerous. He seemed reassuring even as he was turning the world upside down. He was already making a shambles of her neat system of values. What would he do, given the opportunity, to her morals? What would he do if he knew how easily he conjured up those demons? He could turn her into a monster of passion—like Papa—wild, angry, driven. Lord—marry him! She’d as soon plunge into a tidal wave. Never. Her reputation was precious, but so was her sanity. If the reputation needed saving, she must save it herself.
In his own way, Lord Rand was as troubled as Miss Pelliston. The fact that he’d kissed her filled him with every species of astonishment. The fact that he’d liked kissing her filled him with horror. The fact that he’d proposed to her was so utterly bizarre that he could think of no expression suitable to characterise it.
He was not, however, given to prolonged introspection. He’d taken leave of his senses, which was not at all unusual, and had behaved rashly, which was even less unusual. That was all the explanation he needed.
Regardless what had driven him to commit this afternoon’s atrocities, they’d pointed out, just as Miss Pelliston had noted, that he had become entangled in her affairs. If he wanted to make progress with the blonde Juno, he’d better get himself unentangled very soon. The way to do that was to eliminate Miss Pelliston’s problem.
Lord Browdie, possessed of information certain to make the blond viscount the laughingstock of the clubs, lost no time in relaying this news to his friend, Sir Reggie. The baronet’s reaction was not what he’d hoped for.
“Oh, yes,” said Reggie. “Heard about that from one of those fellows—Jos, I think it was. Imagine. Him and Cholly both no match for Rand—and them twice his weight and him foxed in the bargain. Broke Cholly’s nose, you know.”