Chapter 12
April 2-3, 1814
It was nearly midnight, dinner would not be served for three hours, and Grey began to feel bored even before entering the ballroom where the rout was in progress. Covering his mouth with a gloved hand, he yawned.
Gib paused in the doorway and glanced over at his friend. “Look here, Grey, perhaps I ought to remind you that this was your notion of a rousing good time. Observe: There, spread before us, is the cream of London’s demimonde. Dozens—nay, hundreds of beautiful cyprians all waiting to take the place of your dear Alycia, waiting to help you forget the trials of the past years in the most delightful ways possi—”
“Dear old Gib, you’re in danger of becoming a prattlebox,” Grey murmured. “Must you lecture me at every turn?”
The Honorable Osgood Gibson positively bristled. “I say, there’s no need to be unpleasant!”
They both took glasses of champagne, drained them, and took seconds from the same tray. “Devilish hot in here,” Grey remarked. “Where’s the duchess?”
“In Kent, no doubt, with her grandchildren. Roundwellen only installs her here these days when there is some sort of state occasion, if you take my meaning.”
Nodding, Grey stifled another yawn and leisurely surveyed the packed ballroom from the safety of the crowd’s edge. As Gib had asserted, there were indeed a great many lovely young ladies. There were also many dandies much younger than he, all strutting like peacocks in exaggeratedly narrow-waisted coats, tight trousers, and impossibly high collarpoints shooting up over their flawlessly tied cravats. Holding canes or quizzing-glasses in one hand and hooking the fingers of the other in their waistcoat pockets, every one of them assumed a nearly identical degage attitude. With an inward start of surprise, Grey realized that he no longer belonged in their ranks.
In the not-so-distant past, it had been important to him to meet certain standards, to pass muster with people like Beau Brummell. Now, all that seemed... rather frivolous, an amusement of his youth. Looking at the simpering young dandies and eager girls, some of whom appeared to be scarcely out of the schoolroom, Grey suddenly felt much older than he had even during the time he’d spent in London two years ago.
“Do you know, Gib,” he said ruefully, “I feel rather like one of those old reprobates I used to mock—those aging noblemen who come to slightly decadent routs like this one and lick their lips as they survey the newest crop of demireps.”
“Nonsense, old chap! You’re only thirty-six.”
Grey’s eyes met Gib’s and his brows rose meaningfully. “Exactly so.”
He reached for another glass of champagne as the thought occurred to him that he no longer cared for this sort of life. Quickly he drank before his mind could proceed to the point of wondering what all this meant regarding his future.
Fortunately distraction appeared in the form of Mrs. Sykes. Grey saw her standing not far away, also on the edge of the crowd. Next to her was the flaxen-haired, rosy-cheeked Venetia Hedgecoe. They were conversing with a young nobleman whom Grey recognized but could not place. Deeper in the crush, he spied Adrienne Beauvisage, looking more beautiful than he remembered, her chestnut curls drawn back from her lively, glowing face. So young! How could Mrs. Sykes have brought her into this den of sin? Adrienne wore a simple, virginal-looking gown of white muslin, but the effect was spoiled by the sight of the man paying her court. Viscount Pryce was one of the most notorious members of the Carlton House set, a truly infamous libertine.
Distractedly Grey rubbed the scar on the back of his hand through the glove that covered it. “Gib, do you know anything about Mrs. Sykes? What is she about with those girls she’s taken in?”
“There’s a tale,” Gib said, with relish. “After your father broke with Mrs. Sykes, she apparently decided that her chances of finding another... sponsor, were growing slim. After all, even Lord Hartford didn’t really keep her, as you’re well aware. So, Mrs. Sykes shifted boats and became what she calls a ‘patroness.’ She brings girls into her home, grooms them, I suppose you’d call it, then introduces them into the demimonde. Here’s the kicker: She charges what she terms a ‘presentation fee.’ Every man who wants to meet one of her girls has to pay for the privilege, and apparently there are additional charges if Mrs. Sykes decides to let matters progress to their natural conclusion.”
“How do you know all this?” Grey asked, his throat suddenly dry.
“Oh, it’s common knowledge at the clubs,” Gib answered gaily. “I know all sorts of fellows who’ve paid that presentation fee, and Valbourne made one of her girls his mistress last year. Keeps her in lovely rooms near Covent Garden. Incredible, hmm?”
“Yes. Quite” His mind was racing while his eyes raked the crowd for Natalya. Was it possible...? “Gib, have there been many girls? I mean—”
“Under Mrs. Sykes’s wing, so to speak? Gad, yes! A dozen or so, at different times, of course. Rumor has it that she now has two new ones, but I haven’t had a chance to see them for myself because I’ve been occupied with Mary.” He looked at Grey and blinked. “Perhaps you’re right. We are getting old.”
“You’ll have to excuse me for a short while,” Grey said. “There’s a matter I must attend to.”
“Certainly. Go right ahead. More than enough people here to keep me occupied.”
Grey went straight to Mrs. Sykes, who looked up in surprise to find him looming over her, his face stormy. A smile faltered on her lips.
“What an unexpected pleasure this is, my lord. I didn’t see you before, but then that’s hardly unusual given the number of guests. Are you well, my lord? I do hope so. My dear Natalya speaks so kindly of you, and I’m—”
“Is she here?” he cut in, eyes narrowing.
“Natalya? Miss Beauvisage?” Mrs. Sykes laughed nervously and put up a hand to adjust the peacock feathers that swept upward from her coiled hair. “Yes, yes, indeed she is. I must assure you, my lord, that it was entirely her own idea. I mean—”
“That I won’t have to pay a presentation fee to speak with her?”
“Ha, ha, ha! How amusing you are, my lord! My, such a wit. Wherever did you get such a notion as that?” She was growing increasingly pale behind her painted cheeks.
“I’ll deal with you later regarding the younger Miss Beauvisage and”—he glanced down at the round-eyed, confused Venetia—” this young lady. First, however, I’ll thank you to direct me to Natalya.”
Mrs. Sykes was on the verge of proclaiming her innocence, but the stare Grey suddenly leveled at her cut her dead. The smile wilted on her red mouth. “She’s back there somewhere,” she told him sourly. “Near the painting of the centaur, last time I looked.”
Without another word, Grey started into the sea of jostling, laughing people. Others had tried to move around the ballroom without success, but the energy surrounding Grey’s tall, broad-shouldered body seemed to precede him, and the crowd parted before him. The air was warm and heavy with the odors of perfume and champagne. The women’s gossamer-thin muslin gowns were slipping off their plump shoulders to afford glimpses of the rouged tips of their breasts, while the men had begun to perspire in earnest, as much from lust and drink as the heat. Grey moved through them without acknowledging either the greetings of acquaintances or the curious, admiring gazes of the women. His eyes were shot with silver as they sought Natalya.
Had only a day passed since their parting in Piccadilly? So much had happened, it seemed much longer, and deep inside Grey felt a pang of deprivation. He missed her. He never should have let her go with that woman, despite the invitation of her young cousin. He had promised her uncle that he would guard her, that he would not desert her in London, and now she was lost in this rakehell’s paradise of sin....
Grey glimpsed the tall figure of Lord Byron first, standing not far from the painting of the wicked-looking centaur carrying a naked woman. He was staring through his quizzing-glass at something, eyebrows lifted with interest. Grey looked to the left to see what it was and discovered that the object of Byron’s scrutiny was Natalya—or, more precisely, her bosom. Grey’s heart clenched as he took in the sight of her sparkling eyes, flushed cheeks, and gay smile.
Natalya was laughing—and drinking champagne!
Worse, she appeared to be surrounded by drooling admirers. Bryon was on the edge of the circle, and there was that old fool Pondsmarsh, and right in front of Natalya stood Sir Christian Laidlaw, looking more like a fox than ever. As the crowd parted to let Grey through, he saw Laidlaw take Natalya’s slim hand and kiss her palm lingeringly.
“Excuse me,” Grey said coldly, reaching over to remove Natalya’s hand from the grasp of her would-be ravisher.
“Grey!” she exclaimed, startled. “What’s the matter?” Dear God, how handsome he looked, and how dangerous. He was considerably taller than most of the other guests and looked more powerful despite his leanness. Most impressive of all, however, was his proud head: the mane of black hair with gleaming strands of silver, slashing brows over stormy gray eyes, sculpted nose and cheekbones, and the hard set of his mouth and jaw.
“You are coming with me,” he told her, his voice ominously low.
Sir Christian was looking on with growing annoyance. “See here, Altburne, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait your turn!”
“I’ll thank you to remove your hand from my arm, Laidlaw, and step aside.”
“I’ll do no such thing!” Rivulets of perspiration marred the layer of powder on his face. “I suggest that you take this up with Mrs. Sykes, Altburne. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I paid for Miss Beauvisage’s company.”
“What?” cried Natalya, her confusion mounting.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Mrs. Sykes for a refund,” Grey told Sir Christian in acid tones. “You see, Miss Beauvisage is not for sale.”
He pulled her along after him then, and the crowd parted again. Behind them Laidlaw was shouting, “I ought to call you out for this, Altburne! You’ll hear from my second!”
Grey never looked back. Natalya thought she heard him mutter, “Terrifying,” in a sarcastic undertone. Her wrist chafed beneath his grip, but she was too conscious of the hundreds of silent, curious faces to protest. As they neared the edge of the crowd, Grey paused to confront Mrs. Sykes.
“I suggest that you pry Adrienne Beauvisage and her friend away from their admirers and have your carriage brought round, Mrs. Sykes. I will take Natalya home and wait for you there so that we may discuss this matter more... fully.”
There was a menacing note in his voice and a steely glint in his eyes that told her all would be worse if she argued. So Mrs. Sykes gave him a short nod full of resentment and turned away.
Grey found Gib still standing near the door holding yet another glass of champagne.
“By Jupiter, old chap,” Gib exclaimed, “whatever are you on about? Looks as if you’ve been making a tremendous scene.”
“Never mind. I’ll explain later. I have to leave now.” Grey glanced back at Natalya, who appeared to be seething with anger. “Shall I come back for you?”
Gib blinked. “Hardly necessary, is it? Someone’ll bring me along. Come by tomorrow.”
Mrs. Lynchford appeared then, looking distraught. “My lord, is anything the matter?”
He gave her a tight smile. “I fear that Miss Beauvisage and I must cry off for dinner tonight, Mrs. Lynchford, but I rather doubt whether we’ll be missed.”
Moments later, Natalya found herself being pulled behind him down the magnificent marble staircases, her senses swimming. Servants stared as they passed, and a footman handed Grey his cape and Natalya her mantelet when they reached the front door. Because of the line of richly garbed footmen who stood in the entry hall, Natalya kept quiet as they waited for Grey’s post chaise to be brought round. The deep rose staining her cheeks and the flash of her turquoise eyes were the only indications of the storm building behind her silence.
When the post chaise arrived, Grey reached for her arm, and she pulled away. “I am quite capable, sir,” she said, and strode past him into the night air.
Once inside the light carriage, Natalya moved sharply away when Grey seated himself beside her. Their eyes met in the shadows and sparks seemed to fly.
“I have never been more humiliated in my life,” she pronounced as the post chaise began the journey to Bennett Street.
“I should think not,” Grey returned coolly. “You reek of champagne.”
“I am referring, sir, to your conduct!” Her voice rose.
“Indeed? Perhaps more might be gained by examining your own. Or are you now in the habit of attending cyprians’ balls and encouraging the attentions of lascivious men who care only to imagine how you might look in their beds?”
Her emotions ran riot and she seemed powerless to control them. “I only went to that ball because Adrienne invited me, and I have been trying to learn more about the life she is leading! Do you imagine that I know anything of cyprians outside of Greek literature?”
“You would appear to be a quick study, my dear,” Grey said cynically.
“You had no right to interfere,” she cried. “I am not a child!”
“That is evident, I assure you.” His gaze dropped meaningfully to her breasts. He wanted to tell her that it had driven him mad to see Byron undressing her in his mind, to watch her laugh up at Laidlaw, seeming to encourage his lust. But he could say none of these things.
Natalya blushed under his regard. “You are a bigger cad than all of them! What a hypocrite you are, coming to that rout like a randy stallion and then forcing me to leave because you saw that I was enjoying myself. I am a grown woman, my lord, and I do not need or desire your protection.”
“Exactly what do you need and desire, my beautiful little hellion?” Grey asked softly. “Perhaps I can supply it.”
Suddenly she was conscious of his nearness in an entirely different way. She knew she ought to slap him but found that she could neither move nor speak. In the tense silence, Natalya was certain he must hear the pounding of her heart. We’ve both had too much champagne, she thought dizzily, and he thinks I’m... experienced... or something.
Lucid thought ended when his gloved forefinger touched her chin, tilting it up. “You really are—so beautiful,” he said, and it sounded as if the words burned his throat. Softly his mouth grazed hers, and the feeling was so exquisite that tears sprang to her eyes. She leaned forward instinctively, and then Grey took her in his arms and her lips parted. She tasted sweetly of champagne, but also of a kind of innocence that he had nearly forgotten. Her response was passionate and guileless all at once; utterly enchanting to him. Dimly it occurred to him that they both had been locked up far too long, he in his prison and she in her chateau.
He bent her back against the velvet seat of the post chaise and ran his mouth down the soft length of her neck. When Natalya gave a low moan, he pulled off his right glove with his teeth and touched her. First his fingers traced the softness of her throat, then wandered lower, curving around the warm fullness of a breast. Strong currents of arousal washed over him full force, and he nearly bit his lip in an effort to contain them. Heat was surging in his loins.
Natalya ran her fingers through his thick hair as they kissed again, his tongue stroking hers. She loved the taste of him, the heady clean male scent of him, the strength and size of his body against her own. His hand was moving lower, over the lush curve of her hip, across the softness of her belly. Natalya gasped when he touched the throbbing place between her legs through the silk and muslin of her gown.
“Dear God, how magnificently you are made,” he whispered hoarsely. “Natalya, you are made for love.”
Suddenly she was frightened. What was she doing? “Grey, please—”
He drew back immediately. Reality struck him like a splash of icy water and he sat up, raking a hand through his hair. “I beg your pardon.” His eyes met hers in the wavering shadows as he endeavored to forget the dull throb in his groin. “It seems you were right about me after all. I am no better than those other men.”
As the post chaise drew up before Mrs. Sykes’s house on Bennett Street, Natalya realized that her hands were trembling. She balled them into fists and said, “That’s the reason I prefer to write about men rather than deal with the flesh-and-blood variety. In the real world, you are all far too predictable. Rather boring, actually.” Was her voice shaking, too? Privately she realized that she was responsible in part for what had occurred between them, but she could not admit that to Grey.
He arched a dark brow and let her go on.
Natalya’s tone became business like. “I propose that we put this... incident behind us. After all, I’ll soon be gone and we shall never see each other again.” She took a deep breath. “At the moment there is another matter to deal with. You see, I am very worried about my cousin. You must explain to me what it is you have learned about Mrs. Sykes, and then we must see to it that Adrienne is removed from the clutches of that woman and returned to Miss Harrington’s Seminary.”
As he helped her out of the carriage, Grey smiled wryly at the back of her head with its froth of honey curls. Had she called him boring? Aloud he said, “We’d better work fast, then, my sweet. You are sailing for America in two days—and I’m going with you.”