Beyond A Wicked Kiss Page 36

  "No. That is unnecessary. I'm certain I am not the first to leave by that exit this evening, and no one has been lost yet."

  "No, indeed."

  Holding up both hands, Ria reminded the footman of the glass in each. He saw her dilemma and went straightaway to the door panel and opened it just enough for her to slip through. Ria paused on the other side as the panel clicked into place behind her.

  The gallery was not deserted. There were always those in attendance at any gathering of the ton who preferred the company of their intimates to the company of the crowd. If circumstances had not compelled West to be elsewhere and his friends to be in the ballroom, Ria suspected this is where she would have found the Compass Club. She could easily imagine them taking up position in one corner of the long room—perhaps beneath the large portrait of their host's ancestor on horseback—and making wagers as to the identity of the next person to walk through the wall. Moreover, they would wager on whether or not a refreshment would be carried and what it might be.

  Smiling faintly at her own musings, Ria started across the gallery to the door that would lead her into the hall. She was aware of heads turning as she passed, though whether there was some objection to her intrusion, she couldn't fathom. Caught up in each other, the couple on the settee paid her scant attention. The trio of matrons deliberately paused in their conversation. One gentleman turned from his study of a painting to apply the same scrutiny to her, another standing close by merely took a pinch of snuff. At the table where cards were being played, the game continued without interruption, though one gentleman found it was possible to raise his quizzing glass and make his trick simultaneously.

  Ria would have liked to linger, but the softly lilting sounds of the stringed orchestra beckoned her back to the ballroom. She was also aware that her absence would not go unnoticed for long. The colonel would certainly be in want of his drink, even if he did not desire her company.

  One of the ubiquitous footmen hastily stepped forward from his sentinel position at the door and opened it as Ria approached. Ria declined his offer to assist her with the drinks as she passed into the hallway. The music was louder here, as was the conversational drone of the guests. She glanced down the hall to the group of people milling at the entrance to the ballroom, and she knew she could not bear to go back there just yet. The door behind her was already closed and did not offer an easy retreat.

  She remembered the footman in the refreshments room had mentioned a library. It seemed like an offer of sanctuary now. Ria could not imagine that in a home as large as this one that there was but one way to arrive at the room. Pivoting soundlessly on her slippered heels, Ria set off—and walked directly into the path of Lady Powell.

  In spite of her astonishment and the awkwardness of the encounter, Ria managed to avoid spilling the sherry. The generous pour of whiskey that she had been holding protectively at the level of her bosom was another matter. It sloshed over the rim of the tumbler and splashed the bodice and skirt of her gown.

  Throwing up both hands as if to ward off another determined advance, Lady Powell jumped backward. At the same time, she issued a soft "Ooh " from her perfectly shaped bow mouth. When she saw how much of the drink was staining the front of Ria's gown, she gathered courage enough to examine the condition of her own attire. Except for a few droplets of whiskey collecting in her cleavage, she was perfectly dry. The satin bands that crisscrossed her bosom and held her ice-blue tunic in place were unmarked, as was every fold of her draped silk gown.

  Assured that she was all of a piece, Lady Powell turned her attention to the real casualty in this unfortunate collision. "Oh, my poor dear. You have taken the brunt of it, I'm afraid, though it was very good of you to do so."

  "I had no notion that you were just behind me," Ria said.

  "And I had no notion that you meant to spin like a dervish and reverse your course." She gazed significantly at the glasses Ria still held. "Nor any idea that you were armed. Here, allow me to take this one." Without waiting for an invitation, she relieved Ria of the nearly empty tumbler. "Come, we will find somewhere for you to make repairs and I will fetch a servant. They are everywhere, are they not, except when we have need of them." Looping her arm in Ria's just as if they were fast friends preparing to engage in a tete a tete, she led Ria down the hall away from the ballroom. "I am Lady Powell," she said. "My late husband was the Honorable Edmund Powell."

  "I am Maria Ashby."

  "Yes, I know. My husband knew the Duke of Westphal quite well. Similar political interests, I think, and business schemes. All of it beyond my ken, I assure you. Dull stuff. I rarely had occasion to cross paths with Westphal. I know his son considerably better."

  Ria concentrated on not spilling the sherry, though seizing the carrot Lady Powell dangled in front of her was tempting. She suspected her ladyship was acquainted with Tenley every bit as well as West, but had little doubt it was West to whom she was referring.

  "Ah, here we are." Lady Powell stopped in front of a polished, paneled door and set her palm around the brass handle. "I believe this is the music salon." She opened the door a crack. "Yes, there is the pianoforte and the harp. There can be nothing wrong with you using the room until I am advised of more suitable accommodations. Go on. It will only be a minute before I return. No longer." She threw open the door wider so Ria could enter. "A sip or two of the sherry would not be amiss," she advised. "You are unaccountably pale."

  The door closed behind her before Ria could react. Lady Powell was wrong. There was most certainly an explanation for the ashen state of her complexion: she was not alone in the salon. Sitting on the bench at the pianoforte, facing her, was Mr. Jonathan Beckwith.

  Reaching behind her, Ria groped for the handle. Her fingers curled around it, and she pulled. The door rattled but did not open.

  "Do not blame Lady Powell," Beckwith said. "She thinks her effort is in aid of supporting a lovers' reconciliation." He stood, smiling narrowly at Ria's patent expression of disbelief. "What? Never say you would not choose me over Westphal."

  "I would not choose you over a toad."

  He sighed, not at all offended. "My, that is lowering and uncommonly ill-mannered of you. As it happens, Lady Powell was not asked to credit it, either. She has a charmingly diabolical turn of mind, but there are limits to what she can be made to believe. She thinks only that I am acting on Westphal's behalf and that my function is to keep you here until the duke arrives."

  "Why does she think Westphal and I are lovers?"

  "I suppose because Sir Alex told her you were. Herndon also dropped that interesting bit of salacious gossip. You must acquit me of stirring the pot, as I did not mingle with the guests. You will perhaps find it shocking that I was not invited to this affair." He motioned to Ria to join him at the piano. "Come, we must go now."

  Ria didn't move. What she did was open her mouth to scream. The loud, discordant crashing of the keys on the pianoforte cut her off and left Ria feeling outmaneuvered. Only someone passing in the hall would have noted the noise and probably not made much of it. She slowly closed her mouth until her lips were just slightly parted then she raised the glass of sherry and sipped. "I will not be going anywhere with you, Mr. Beckwith, so you are welcome to play another tune."

  A dark brow arched dramatically. The effect was one of icy amusement, and Beckwith saw that he had hit his mark with it. Ria's hand was not quite as steady on the stem of the sherry glass as it had been the moment before. "Insolent baggage." He smiled suddenly. "It is not entirely without appeal, though it can become wearing."

  Ria tried the door again, but the handle remained jammed. On the far side of the piano were a pair of French doors. She supposed that Beckwith meant to escort her out through one of them and into the garden. There was a possibility that she could reach the portico and slip back inside, or at least call attention to herself. It was a certainty that someone would be looking for her. She had but to delay their departure.

  Beckwith pointed to a s
pot on the floor directly in front of him. "You will come here." He paused a beat, then added in a tone that was like the snap of a whip, "Now."

  Ria's stomach turned over. The effects of eating too little at supper and having had so few hours of sleep combined to make her feel unsettled and light-headed. At least it was what she told herself. She would not let herself believe it was Beckwith's sharp command. Her knees wobbled, and she took a second swallow of sherry. It struck her suddenly that fainting might just be the delaying tactic she required. Eyes darting around, she quickly assessed what pieces of furniture she must avoid.

  "Don't do it," Beckwith said, divining her thoughts. "Are you not eager to see Miss Petty?"

  Without conscious thought, Ria took a step forward.

  "Very good." Beckwith encouraged her action with a condescending smile. "Another, please. Then another. Truly, Miss Ashby, I cannot be held responsible for what befalls Jane if we are not gone from here soon. Her welfare depends greatly on your cooperation. Do you understand?"

  Ria did. She set her glass down and crossed the room, stopping at the precise spot that Beckwith had indicated earlier. "You will take me to see Jane?"

  "That is my intention exactly." He did not press when she would not accept his frock coat to thwart the cold, nor when she refused to take his arm. "This way, Miss Ashby. There is a hack waiting for us." He paused just before he opened the doors to leave the salon. "You will not want to call attention to your departure. There is so much more at stake here than the well-being of one of your students. You will want to consider the well-being of all of them."

  The threat was so large and so bold that Ria did not want to believe it had any teeth. Too late, she realized that her features were imperfectly schooled and that some measure of her doubt was displayed.

  "Would you care to wager on it?" Beckwith asked calmly. "I have already explained the stakes."

  Ria shook her head quickly. It was not possible to stave off the shiver that was climbing her spine. Instead of crossing her arms in front of her, she kept them quietly at her sides and did not try to resist the shudder.

  "Good." Beckwith's expression did not change, but his tone was approving. "We should make haste." He opened the door and ushered Ria outside.

  It seemed to her that the evening air was infinitely colder than it had been earlier. She glanced at the portico and saw that not one of the guests had ventured outside. Beckwith hurried through the small enclosed garden, and Ria followed. He pushed aside the servants' gate, waited for Ria to precede him, then caught up and took the lead once more. The hack that Beckwith had hired was near the end of a long line of carriages waiting for the conclusion of the reception. The driver recognized Beckwith and hopped down from his perch to assist in the boarding.

  Ria seated herself in the corner. When the driver realized she had no coat, he offered her his own rug. She did not want to take it, but her teeth would not stop chattering. Refusal was absurdly inappropriate. She saw, but could not hear, Beckwith give the driver an address before he climbed inside. Ria thought he would choose the bench opposite her, so when he sat beside her she almost recoiled.

  Striving for a measure of dignity, Ria told him, "I have no plans to leap from the cab. There is no need to block the door."

  "Is that what you think? I meant only to flatter you with my attentions." He chuckled when Ria pressed herself more deeply into the corner. "I am certain you do not mean to be insulting, Miss Ashby, but it is difficult to think of your actions in any other way."

  "You must not strain yourself, Mr. Beckwith. I mean to be insulting."

  "You smell like a whore come up from the docks. What did you spill on yourself?"

  Ria had steeled herself not to flinch, and this time she was successful. "Whiskey. The drink was for Colonel Blackwood."

  "So you were the cripple's serving wench."

  She did not respond. There was an edge of coarseness in the way Beckwith spoke the words. The odor of whiskey was so strong that she could not tell if he had been drinking.

  "A tavern maid," Beckwith said. "Would you enjoy that, do you suppose? Serving drinks to the rough trade. Taking orders from the regiment."

  "Where are we going?" Ria struggled not to sound desperate. She was coming to understand that Beckwith liked the idea that she could be made to fear him. Neither did challenging him have the desired effect. He did not respond as West did. Beckwith's amusement was somehow detached, not engaged. There was no applauding her effort, no appreciation. When Beckwith regarded her, there was pity in his dark glance, but even it was contemptuous. It was the kind of pathos reserved for one who didn't comprehend that struggling was hopeless. The fly in a spider's web. The moth in warm candle wax. The bee in a schoolboy's inverted glass jar.

  That was how Beckwith saw her, Ria thought: deserving of his study, his fascination, and finally his cold compassion because there was no more hope for her than the fly, the moth, or the bee.

  Beckwith was silent so long that Ria believed he did not mean to answer her. When he finally spoke, his response was a riddle.

  "We are going to a place that will be at once familiar and alien. You have seen it many times, yet do not know it."

  Even in the deep shadows of the carriage, Ria observed that he seemed inordinately pleased with his answer. She did not reveal her impatience and managed to keep her voice carefully neutral. "Jane will be there?"

  "Yes. Oh, yes. You must not believe that I will lie to you, Miss Ashby. Everything that will happen depends upon you knowing that I speak only the truth. If I say I will do it, I will do it."

  Ria held herself very still as Beckwith grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. He had put on his gloves, and the leather was cold and faintly rough against her skin. There was no hint of gentleness in his grip.

  "If I say it will be done, it will be done. Do you understand what I am telling you?"

  "Yes."

  "I wonder." He released her chin. "Show me your hands, Miss Ashby."

  Bewildered, Ria turned back the rug. Her elbow-length gloves shone pale as the hack passed a street lantern. She raised her hands in front of her, despising the gesture for its implication of surrender. Now she knew what Beckwith would do before he did it and made no attempt to shake him off when his fingers circled her wrists.

  "I will have your mouth now." Lowering his head, he placed his mouth hard on hers and ground his teeth against her closed lips.

  Ria tasted blood though whether it was hers or his was not possible to know. Its presence did not ease the pressure that Beckwith applied. Ria's stomach clenched then roiled. She wondered what satisfaction Beckwith would find from the taste of the bile rising in her throat. Her last thought before she was sick was that she should have eaten more at supper.

  * * *

  Upon returning to the reception, West was not surprised to find that the colonel was still holding court. He approached the circle around Blackwood but stopped short of becoming part of it. He listened with half an ear to what the colonel was saying to the appreciative audience, while allowing his eyes to wander about the ballroom. On two occasions he thought he glimpsed Ria on the floor, but each time the women were turned in his direction, his mistake was immediately apparent. It seemed to him that Elizabeth could have approved a color other than the mint green that Ria was wearing. To his way of thinking, there was far too much of it present this evening. He spotted that cool hue sweeping by once more, but this time on a woman almost half again as wide as Ria. The woman noticed his attention as she passed in front of him and gave him a coquettish smile over the shoulder of her unsuspecting partner.

  West winked boldly at her and was gratified to hear her laugh delightedly. Eastlyn's mother did not even pretend to be scandalized. He watched her lightly tap her husband on the cheek to keep him from glancing around to find the cause of her amusement. As Sir James and Lady Winslow moved on in perfect time to the waltz, West realized he had yet to see East or Sophie on the floor.

 
His eyes wandered over the guests again, this time searching for East's thick shock of chestnut hair. When he didn't find him, he looked for North. That worthy's bright helmet was the color of sunshine and easily spotted in a crowd—but not this time. Frowning now, West's sharp green glance sought out Southerton and India Parr.

  Gone as well. Even the niche beside the potted fern was unoccupied. West stepped back into the entrance hall and eyed the cupboard under the stairs. It had been the subject of some amusement earlier when East's parents had been seen slipping inside. West knew they were no longer using it, but it begged the question of whom might be. He opened it.

  "I beg your pardon," he said, mentally cursing his lamentably poor timing. The gentleman did not reveal himself from under the spread of the lady's gown, so West could not be certain of his identity, but Grace Powell's exquisite features were perfectly visible—as were her naked breasts, a good expanse of silken calf and thigh, and one polished gold-and-ivory earbob.

  Given the circumstances, West thought her ladyship regarded him with considerable aplomb. Although she blushed prettily enough, she made no attempt to cover herself and, for a moment, looked as if she might invite him to join her, or at least watch.

  West pointed to the man kneeling on the floor in front of her, his head buried between her thighs. "Not Sir Alex Cotton, is it?" he whispered.

  Lady Powell gave a small, negative shake and waved him off.

  Uncertain if he could believe her, West gave the gentleman a second glance, and this time noted that he was wearing the livery of their host's servants. A footman? Lady Powell was perhaps fortunate that he was the one to stumble upon them, for she would know she could depend upon his discretion.

  "You will want to secure the door," West said by way of taking his leave. He ducked out of the cupboard, closed it, and leaned his shoulder casually against it. Several guests milling at the entrance to the ballroom had taken note of his peculiar behavior. He smiled wanly at them and offered no explanation. When he heard the door being drawn tightly into place, he straightened and left his post. If Lady Powell kept as firm a grip on the door as she had on the hapless footman's head, she would experience no more interruptions.