Margaret McPhee - Regency Desire - Mistress to the Marquis / Dicing with the Dangerous Lord

At last Alice slipped into the room, resuming her place beside Kemble once more. She did not so much as glance his way. Just sat there seemingly quietly intent upon Madame Catalani’s performance. But she did not need to look at him. He was so damned aware of her that Madame Catalani could have missed every single note and he would not have noticed. He could feel the sense of Alice thudding through his chest, feel the knowledge of what was between them in his blood and in his bones. He stared straight ahead, as if watching the soprano, but he was watching Alice for every minute of that concert. And he could not look away.

Alice did not know how she got through the rest of that musicale. Her hands were still trembling when she got home. She told herself it was because of Quigley, but she knew it was not.

It was wrong on so many levels. Razeby had rid himself of her without the slightest regard for her feelings. What had been between them was nothing more than sex. He was actively searching for a woman to marry. And yet this afternoon in that ladies’ room made her think she had got it all wrong. It was preposterous. Downright ridiculous. But that look in his eyes, filled with meaning, piercing, as if he could see right through to her very soul. As if he felt, really felt, the same as her. The whole experience had shaken her more than she wanted to admit, stripping all her denials away for the flimsy pretences they were.

And that realisation made her feel weak and out of control and afraid. Afraid that the mask was in danger of slipping, the threat of all that lay beneath exposed to the world.

Never let them see how much they hurt you.

The mantra came easily to her lips. She knew it by heart and had said it to herself a thousand times since that night with Razeby. And yet now she was panicking, gathering her armour around her all the tighter. Telling herself that she had been mistaken in what she felt and what she thought she had seen in his eyes.

He had taken all she had to give, used it and discarded it. She could never allow herself to forget. All she had left was her pride. She would not let him take that. She could not let him take that. She had no choice but to carry on.

‘So, how was Madame Catalani the other day?’ Venetia took a small sip of coffee and glanced across to where Alice sat on the sofa in Mercer Street.

‘She’s got a wonderful voice on her. Magical almost.’ So magical that it could make a woman betray herself and imagine things.

‘I heard Razeby was there, too.’

‘Was he?’ She tried to sound vague, but she could not meet Venetia’s eye.

‘Alice,’ Venetia said softly, ‘there is a rumour going around, about you and Razeby, at the musicale.’

‘There are always rumours,’ Alice said flippantly.

Venetia said nothing, just held her eyes, looking at her, knowing she was lying.

Alice closed her eyes and gave a sigh. ‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘What was it like?’

‘It was Quigley. He followed me into the ladies’. You know what he’s like.’

‘A lecherous old toad.’

‘He made a pass at me. He’s got a strength in him that you wouldn’t credit, Venetia. I thought he was just an old man. I never thought that he’d actually use force.’

Venetia paled. There was a look of horror in her pale eyes, even though she was trying to hide it and her voice when she spoke was calm. ‘Did he… hurt… you, Alice?’

‘No. He tried to kiss me. I don’t know how far he really meant to go, but he got nowhere. Razeby stopped him.’

‘And how did Razeby come to be in the ladies’ withdrawing room?’

Alice glanced away. ‘He was just passing.’

Venetia raised her eyebrows and Alice could see the scepticism in her friend’s expression. ‘Are the two of you back together?’

‘No.’ Alice closed her eyes with a weariness. The confusion milling in her brain since that day seemed like it was sapping the very life from her. ‘How could we ever be back together? After all he di—’ She caught back what she had been about to say and stopped herself. ‘He’s searching for a bride. He was there with Miss Althrope.’

‘You still have feelings for him, don’t you,

Alice?’

‘Yes. No.’ She glanced away. ‘How could I?’

‘We feel what we feel, Alice, regardless of sense or logic.’ Venetia paused. ‘I know you have no wish to avoid him, but maybe you should, just for a little while.’

‘No. I can’t.’ She shook her head, feeling more afraid than ever. ‘I won’t, Venetia.’ Because to do so would be to admit the truth. Never turn your face from the thing you fear. Be bold and brave. And never, never let them see how much they hurt you. ‘In fact, what I need to do is the very opposite.’

‘Alice…’ Venetia cautioned softly.

‘He saved me from Quigley. But it doesn’t change anything,’ Alice said. ‘I mean, I’m grateful for his intervention, of course I am. But—’ Her heart was beating faster even at the memory of his eyes staring down into hers, of all that had strained and trembled between them. And the dreams and nightmares that had made sleep impossible. And the thoughts that jibed at her all night and whispered in her ear every day. ‘It changes nothing,’ she said again, more firmly. ‘I have to get on with my life. I have to show them all Razeby doesn’t matter to me. I have to show him he doesn’t matter to me.’

There was a small silence.

‘Then be very careful, Alice.’

‘I will,’ she replied softly.

The doors of her wardrobe were wide open. Alice stood before them, looking in at the line of new silk evening dresses hanging there. They were both beautiful and expensive. They were her fresh start, bought with the money she had won at Dryden’s that night.

Her eyes moved to the emerald silk dress at the very end of the wardrobe, hanging slightly separate from all the others. The one dress that she had taken from the house in Hart Street. The dress she had had made with Razeby in mind. The dress that he always swore he could not resist her in.

She reached out and lightly touched her fingers to the long flowing green silk of the skirt and the images flashed in her mind—vivid and real enough to make her gasp: Razeby’s mouth on hers, his hands peeling off the bodice to expose her breasts naked and aching for his touch. Her rucking up the skirt and straddling Razeby in his town coach because they could not wait until they got home. Making love across the desk in his study, on the sofa in the drawing room, on the Turkish rug before the drawing-room fireplace. And the time on the staircase and then again on its window seat before they had made it into the bedchamber. The razing intensity of the memories had her shivering. She snatched her hand back as if the cool silk had burned her.

She forced herself to breathe, to still the tremor that was racing all through her body and deny those feelings that were threatening to escape from the dark place in which she had locked them, grasping at anything to shore up the cracks in the walls of her defences.

It was just sex. It had always been just sex, and nothing more, for Razeby. And for her. She needed to prove that to herself, once and for all. And she knew the very way she could do it… if she was brave enough.

Alice took another breath and turned her eyes to the emerald-green silk once more.

Wearing the emerald-green evening dress had seemed such a good idea at the time, but standing here on the threshold of the Brewer Street Rooms, with Devlin looking at her with desire so blatant in his eyes, Alice was not so sure.

‘That dress, Miss Sweetly…’ Devlin’s eyes dropped lower to the pale swell of her breasts over the tight green silk of her bodice. He leaned a little closer and lowered his voice for her ears only. ‘You look positively irresistible.’