Three Weeks with a Princess by Vanessa Kelly (16)

“Because you have no right to do so, for one thing,” Lia said, trying not to glower at Sinclair. She was exceedingly weary of well-intentioned males trying to run her life. “And I hardly think dragging me out of a ballroom under protest will achieve your desired end of shielding me from gossip. Just the opposite, don’t you think?”

When he started to argue, she pointedly looked past him to the long French windows that appeared to lead out to a terrace. “Unless, of course, you wish to throw me over your shoulder and spirit me away through the back garden,” she added. “I’m sure that wouldn’t look the slightest bit suspicious. And think of the fuss my friends would kick up when they discover I’m missing.”

Sinclair blew out a disgruntled breath. “I am tempted to haul you out through the back garden, believe me.”

“Go right ahead. But you’d better be ready to explain your actions, because I won’t go willingly. In fact, it’s entirely possible my mask will fall off, and then you’ll be stuck. If people see us in such a compromising situation, you might even be forced to declare your hand. Otherwise, you would risk being murdered by one of the men in my very overprotective family, who will no doubt hold you responsible for demolishing what’s left of my reputation.”

His mouth dropped open to give him a somewhat breathless look. Obviously, that thought hadn’t occurred to the poor man.

“I don’t think you want to do that, do you?” she asked gently. “Marry me, I mean.”

He cleared his throat. “Well, no. I mean, of course, any man would be honored to call you his wife, but that’s not . . . oh, bloody hell. You know what I mean,” he said with a wince.

“I do. There is another alternative, of course. Would you like me to become your mistress?”

His eyes popped wide with outrage. “Of course not! What kind of loose screw do you take me for? Of all the outrageous suggestions . . . to think I would take advantage of a gently bred lady such as yourself.”

Lia nodded. “Then I think we understand each other, sir. Please believe that I know exactly what I’m doing. My friends will see me safely home, so that should set your conscience at ease.”

“That doesn’t do a damn thing for my conscience,” he said tartly. “Not with Sir Nathan as your escort. He doesn’t know who you are, does he? As far as I can tell, he’s entirely lacking in morals and is an inveterate gossip to boot.”

“I’m not a complete idiot, Mr. Sinclair. Of course he doesn’t know who I am. As for my two friends, I trust them completely—if for no other reason than my stepfather would probably fire them from his acting troupe if he knew they’d helped me tonight.”

He shook his head. “You’re not just kicking up larks, are you? You’re courting disaster by doing this, you know. It’s completely insane.”

Lia reminded herself that he was trying to be helpful. “I’m touched by your concern, but please believe that I know what I’m about.”

“If you’re on the lookout for a paramour, I must disagree with you.”

When his gaze flicked over her body, lingering for a few moments on her bosom, she was grateful she wore a mask to hide her blush. It wasn’t pleasant to present oneself as an object of commerce to strangers, but to see herself judged in that context by someone she knew—and liked—was disturbing.

The disapproval in his eyes gave her a taste of the future. The people she loved would feel more than disapproval—they would feel betrayed, probably even disgusted. Jack would want nothing to do with her. He would be infuriated that she had so recklessly disregarded his wishes and would no doubt vow never to see her again.

“What’s wrong?” Sinclair asked, his expression transforming into one of concern. “You’re looking rather ill just now.”

She forced a smile. “I’m laced too tightly into this costume, that’s all.”

He waved a vaguely imperious finger at her. “What are you supposed to be, a milkmaid? Where’s your bucket and stool?”

“I checked them with a footman, obviously.” She made a point of perusing his garb. He looked very elegant in discreet black and white, with a black silk evening cloak flung carelessly over his shoulders.

She waved a vague finger back at him. “That’s not much of a costume. What are you supposed to be?”

“A bored gentleman of business,” he said dryly.

She laughed. “I suppose that fits, then. And I’m afraid I agree that this affair is rather boring, despite its salacious nature.”

For a moment Lia considered sounding the retreat and allowing Sinclair to escort her home. But who knew when she would have another opportunity to scout out potential protectors? She couldn’t afford to let this opportunity go to waste.

“Then let me take you home,” he said gently, as if reading her thoughts. “You don’t need to do this.”

Lia shrugged. “Not true. And I suspect you’ve already heard why I do.”

“I have, but that ugly incident wasn’t your fault.”

“It doesn’t matter whose fault it was, the damage is done.”

“Your family would not agree.”

“My family is wrong.”

She thought she saw pity in his gaze. That felt worse than his disapproval; pity was likely the only charitable feeling she could expect from her family and friends. And pity so often turned to scorn.

“If you’ll excuse me, sir,” she said, desperate now to make her escape. “I must find my—”

“I know what it’s like to be an outsider, you know,” he interrupted. “To realize that no one can understand you.”

She couldn’t repress a snort. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Sinclair, but you’re wealthy and the son of a well-regarded baronet. Short of being a royal, one couldn’t be much more of an insider, especially among the beau monde.” If he noted the irony in her statement—because royal blood ran through her veins—he didn’t acknowledge it.

“I don’t pretend to understand your particular situation,” he said, “but I will say that appearances can be deceiving. My personal history, for instance, involved an exile from my home and everyone I cared for. I was in India for over ten years and it was not by choice.”

His somber expression tugged at her sympathies as well as her curiosity. Lia wished she could ask for an explanation, but she’d already spent too much time with him. Barbara would come looking for her sooner rather than later and she didn’t want to risk another scene.

She briefly pressed his forearm. “You’re very kind, Mr. Sinclair. Please don’t worry about me. I promise to be careful.”

When he tried to hold on to her, she evaded his grasp.

“Wait, don’t go,” he said in a sharp tone.

Lia dodged away from him and onto the dance floor. She heard him curse but didn’t look back. Instead, she wove between the groups of dancers, ducking low as she made her way across the wide room to the other side. When she finally cleared the floor, she glanced back and breathed a sigh of relief. Sinclair was lost in the mass of bodies that crowded the room. With any luck, he would respect her wishes and leave her alone for the rest of the evening.

She made her way into a long corridor that appeared to stretch to the back of the mansion. It was dimly lit and much cooler than the ballroom or saloons and she longed to take off her mask and breathe in the fresher air. But that would be a mistake. Despite her almost careless manner with Sinclair, she intended to be very careful. She had no desire to be pitched into the middle of another scandal before she had a plan and the resources to control the outcome.

The occasional servant scurried by, but Lia had the corridor mostly to herself. She did pass a shadowed alcove that contained a couple behaving a bit too amorously for her taste, but Barbara and her new friend were nowhere to be seen.

She found a comfortable bench and was settling in to wait when three gentlemen came out of the ballroom and turned in her direction. Clearly in their cups, they burst into raucous laughter and began to weave down the hall.

As they came closer, Lia’s heart lurched. She recognized one of the men from the Levertons’ ball. In fact, she’d not only chatted with the man—a middle-aged, widowed viscount—she’d even stood up with him for a set of country dances.

Fighting panic, she debated her best course of action. Dressed as she was, it was unlikely he would recognize her, especially in the dimmer lighting of the hall. She curled up on the corner of the bench, hoping they were too inebriated to pay her notice.

As usual, she wasn’t that lucky. The viscount changed direction and weaved to a stop in front of her, a gently puzzled expression marking his pleasant features.

“I say, don’t I know you?” he asked, hiccupping a bit.

Lia shot to her feet, dropping a quick curtsy while she glanced past them and calculated a path of escape. “No, milord,” she said, affecting a nasal tone. “Never seen you before in my life.”

He frowned. “Voice ain’t familiar, but your nose and mouth . . . I swear I’ve seen you before.”

One of his companions dug him in the ribs. “Who cares where you saw her? She’s here now and a tasty little piece she is.” He gave Lia a sloppy leer that made her hand itch with the desire to slap him.

“That she is,” said the third man. He was tall and thin and, bizarrely, wore a jester’s belled cap with his sober evening attire. When he held up a quizzing glass to inspect her, he was so jug-bitten he almost poked himself in the eye. “Would you like to share a beverage with us, miss?” he asked in a polite tone.

“And then we can take turns sharing you afterward,” the leering one added.

They erupted into more laughter, the rude one slapping his knee as if he’d just made the cleverest joke.

While they were doubled over, Lia scampered around them and started backing away. “No thank you, sirs. I . . . I’ve got an assignation with another gent. You’ll have to excuse me.”

The viscount snapped his fingers. “Ah, I definitely know you. Just give me a minute and I’ll figure it out.”

Confound it. She’d allowed her accent to waver. Mama was right; she was an utter failure as an actress.

The leering man started after her. “Now, don’t run off, my pretty one. I’m sure we can give you much better romps than your mysterious beau.”

“And I want to see who’s under that mask,” said the viscount. He began stumbling after her with stubborn determination.

Lia threw dignity to the winds and bolted down the hall. With her tormenters in hot, if clumsy pursuit, she rounded a corner into another hallway. Flinging open the door to the first room she came to, she looked inside. The small sitting room was thankfully empty.

And it had a key in the lock.

She quickly closed the door and twisted the key. Then she slumped against the wooden panels, struggling to catch her breath. Outside, the viscount and his friends loudly called for her and crashed about like a herd of wild boar. When one of them thumped on the door and rattled the knob, she slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a startled yelp.

She crept back a few feet, holding her breath. It was highly unlikely they could break in, but they could hunt down a footman to open it for them. Or else they could simply try to wait her out. Lia couldn’t help castigating herself for allowing Sinclair to separate her from her friends.

Trying to keep her panic in check, she stole over to the room’s only window and hissed out a small sigh of relief. There was a large balustrade that fronted a wall separating the house and a lane. If necessary, she could climb out the window and across the balustrade and then shimmy down the wall. It was a rather high drop to the lane, but she had climbed any number of trees in her youth and fallen off limbs that were higher than the top of that wall. While she’d probably ruin the costume and receive a scolding from her mother that was infinitely preferable to fending off three drunks who’d taken her for a light-skirt.

After all, she’d done everything she could to advertise that very fact. Still, it was infuriating that they hadn’t accepted her very polite refusal. No man had the right to force himself on any woman, even if she were a light-skirt.

With a sigh, she dropped into a leather reading chair by the empty fireplace grate, rubbing the corded muscles in the back of her neck. So far, her incipient career as a courtesan had proven as ill-favored and hapless as her acting career.

Her biggest problem at the moment remained the viscount, and the chance that he might identify her. Lia could only hope her drunken admirers would grow bored and wander off, allowing her to slip out and find Barbara. With any luck, she could be home and in bed long before Chloe and Dominic returned from the opera.

Within a few minutes, the ruckus in the hall began to lessen. One man proclaimed his boredom with the search, and soon their voices receded. A blessed silence once more reigned in that part of the house.

Cautiously, she got up and tiptoed to the door, then peered through the keyhole. Seeing nothing, she turned the key and cracked the door open, peeking out but ready to slam it at the first sign of trouble. Fortunately, the shadowed hall was disturbed only by the sound of music echoing faintly from the distant ballroom.

She hurried out of the room, untying the long sash at her waist as she went. Wrapping it over her head and across her chest, she tucked the ends into her bodice. Her priority was no longer to flaunt her plumage to attract a male but to disguise herself as much as possible.

When she came to the main corridor, she stopped to peer around the corner. A few guests strolled outside the ballroom or headed toward the terrace, and footmen bearing trays rushed hither and yon. Fortunately, the viscount and his drunken friends were not in sight.

Unfortunately, there was no Barbara in sight either.

Lia was beginning to think she’d have to brave the street and hire a hackney because forging through the mob in the ballroom in search of her friends was a daunting prospect. It had never occurred to her that there would be so many vexing details to confront when attending a Cyprians’ ball. Clearly, she needed to pay more attention to the practical aspects of her future career.

While she pondered her next move, she heard the patter of hurried footsteps. She spun around to see Barbara rushing toward her, wide skirts bunched up in her hands. Breathing out a sigh, Lia sagged against the wall, feeling weak with relief.

“There you are,” she said as Barbara skidded to a halt. “I was beginning to—”

The girl grabbed her arm. “Where have you been? I’ve been searching everywhere.”

Lia blinked, disconcerted by her sharp tone. “I had to hide from some very persistent gentlemen. One was convinced he knew me from somewhere.”

Barbara grimaced. “Did he?”

“Yes, but he was too drunk to puzzle it out and I was able to escape before he got close.”

“Thank God.” She started to drag Lia back the way she’d come. “We’d have been in an awful mess if he’d recognized you.”

“Barbara, what’s wrong? Why are we going to the back of the house?”

“Because Amy’s in trouble.” Her voice was thin with anxiety. “She and Prudhoe got into a fight and he hit her. Hard.”

Lia stumbled. “What? Why?”

Barbara urged her on. “Because he’s a bastard, that’s why. She wouldn’t do something he wanted her to do.”

“What did he want her to do?”

Her friend threw her a grim look. “Nothing you need to know, love. Trust me on that.”

That sounded awful. “Where are they?”

“There’s an orangery at the back of the house. When you didn’t show, my gentleman and I took a short stroll and that’s where we ended up. Prudhoe and Amy were already there and we heard them fighting.”

“Did you go in?”

“Of course I did. He was shaking poor Amy like a rattle, the bastard. I yelled at him to stop, but he told me he’d give it to me next if I didn’t watch out. I tried to get my gentleman to help, but he tore out of there like his arse was lit with a rocket. That’s when I decided to look for you. Maybe the two of us can get her away from him.”

“Should we try to get a footman to help?” Lia asked.

Barbara grimly shook her head. “They won’t want to help neither. Not against a lord.”

They rounded another corner and halted in front of a set of doors that led into the glass-fronted observatory. Barbara reached for the door, but Lia stopped her. “Barbara, listen. I’ll try to talk some sense into Prudhoe and get Amy out of there. But I want you to return to the ballroom to see if you can find my friend, Sinclair. He’s a very good man and he’ll come to our aid.”

The girl’s eyes went wide. “I can’t leave you alone with that pig. Your ma will kill me if she finds out.”

“It’s fine, I promise. I can manage it.” If worse came to worse, she’d take off her mask and threaten Prudhoe with the wrath of Sir Dominic Hunter. It would expose her to scandal, but it was a risk she had to take.

She gave Barbara a little shove. “Now run.”

Her friend lifted her up Elizabethan skirts and took off down the hall.

Lia sucked in a calming breath, ordering her pounding heart to slow down. Then she threw back her shoulders, opened the door, and strode into the room.

She came to an abrupt halt because she could barely see more than a few feet ahead of her. The various potted plants and trees cast heavy shadows and the light seemed filtered and diffused throughout the unusually shaped glass structure. Lia blinked several times, forcing her vision to adjust.

Her hearing was fine, however, and what she heard made her stomach churn. Amy’s voice was thick with tears as she pleaded with Prudhoe to stop hurting her. Lia picked up her skirts and rushed up the center aisle of the orangery, following the voices. She rounded a high stand of potted bamboo plants and ground to a halt.

Amy was on the floor, huddled against the side of an ornate marble fountain. The cheerful burble of water flowing from a stone cherub’s jug formed a ghastly counterpoint to the girl’s wrenching sobs. Her diaphanous gown was torn, exposing most of her breasts. Her hair was badly disheveled, as if someone had dug his fingers into her coiffure and dragged her across the room. Even in the dim light, Lia could make out the bruises on the dancer’s face and neck.

The girl was hunched over, her hands wrapped tightly around herself as if to guard her midsection. Prudhoe loomed menacingly above her.

“Don’t kick me again,” Amy sobbed. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Yes, you will, you whore,” the brute said. “And you’ll do it whether I hit you or not.” He barked out an ugly laugh. “I do enjoy hitting your sweet, plump flesh, my little Amy. It feels so lovely under my fist or boot.”

When he drew back his leg, Lia catapulted forward.

“Stop it, you monster,” she yelled, shoving him from behind with all her might.

Prudhoe stumbled hard, cursing as he crashed heavily against the side of the fountain.

Lia braced herself, legs wide. She didn’t dare turn her back on him, so she just threw a quick glance over her shoulder at Amy, who’d all but curled up into a shivering ball.

“Can you get up?” Lia asked.

“I . . . I think so.”

As Amy laid trembling hands on the rim of the fountain and started to pull herself up, Prudhoe made it up on his knees, his features twisted with pain. His dark eyes blazed with a fury that made Lia’s heart pound its way into her throat.

“You goddamn bitch,” he snarled. “I’ll bloody well kill you both.”

“I think not.” Lia was rather astonished by her outward sense of control because her insides were trembling like a broken branch in a gale. “In fact, if you don’t take yourself off immediately, I will report you to the magistrate myself. I assure you, he’ll take this matter very seriously.”

Prudhoe finally hauled himself to his feet in an awkward maneuver; his shoulder was clearly damaged. Lia had no regrets about injuring him.

“Really?” he said with a nasty hoot as he planted himself in front of her. “Do you think a magistrate will take the word of two whores over that of a baronet? Hardly, you daft bitch.”

“While whores are just as deserving of justice as anyone else, may I point out that we are actresses? Mr. Lester will be livid when he sees how you’ve abused poor Amy. I’m sure he’ll swear out charges.”

Prudhoe went still, his head tilted at an odd angle as he studied her. Then his lips peeled back in a vicious smile. Lia silently thanked the saints that she wasn’t a woman prone to fainting because the evil intent in his expression was truly unnerving.

“Not when Mr. Lester—and the magistrate, if necessary—learn that you and your little friend tried to rob me.”

“Trust me, Sir Nathan, Mr. Lester will not believe you.”

“How’s this for an idea? Why don’t I fetch a constable right now and see what he has to say about it? Or, better yet, why don’t we proceed directly to Bow Street? Then we’ll see who believes whom.”

Amy clutched at Lia’s skirts. “Miss, I can’t go to Bow Street,” she whispered in a shaky voice. “It’ll be a huge scandal. Please, let’s just get out of here.”

“Nobody’s going to Bow Street,” Lia said firmly. “Except possibly Sir Nathan after we tell Mr. Lester what happened here.”

Unfortunately, her threat seemed to have little effect on the dreadful man. He took a menacing step forward. Amy whimpered, sinking down again. She kept a firm grip on Lia’s skirts, which would hamper their ability to escape.

“Not another step, Sir Nathan,” Lia ordered, holding up an imperious hand. If Barbara didn’t return with help soon, she’d have to resort to desperate measures.

Naturally, he ignored her and moved closer. The glint in his eyes told her that he was enjoying himself, despite his injured shoulder.

“What will you do if I don’t obey your silly commands?” he drawled. “Will you hit me again? I assure you, the result will not be pleasant if you do. But how I punish you in return will be exceedingly pleasant for me.”

If only Gillian were here, she would deliver a smashing uppercut to the bastard’s jaw, or stab him, if necessary. Lia, unfortunately, had never trained in the pugilistic arts, nor did she carry a knife, although she intended to address that oversight in the future.

For now, she could only rely on her wits.

As calmly as she could, she reached behind her head and untied her mask. When she pulled it down, Prudhoe’s mouth sagged open.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “You’re the Kincaid girl.”

“I am also the cousin of the Duchess of Leverton and, more to the point, the niece of Lady Hunter.” Lia gave him a bright, artificial smile. “You do know who my aunt’s husband is, do you not? Sir Dominic Hunter is a magistrate, and an extremely powerful one, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”

He stared at her for a few seconds longer, clearly stunned. But then he shrugged it off, as if her words held no more inconvenience than a pesky fly. Her gambit had failed to have the desired effect. It probably didn’t help that the man was likely made reckless by intoxication.

“I also know what happened at the Leverton ball,” he said. “You were exposed as a whore, just like your mother. And if you were still under the protection of Dominic Hunter, you wouldn’t be cavorting with whores at a Cyprians’ ball.”

“I’m simply enjoying an evening out with friends,” she said.

He ignored that bit of errant nonsense. “I’d also wager you’re looking for a protector, aren’t you?” he mused. “What other choice do you have? No decent man would have you, naturally. You’re soiled goods.”

Blast. He might be drunk, but he wasn’t stupid. Lia had now effectively put her fate into the hands of the worst sort of person and there would be no recovering from it.

He patted his chest. “Well, I’m happy to inform you that you’ve found your new protector. Your little friend Amy has grown most dreary; it’s time to replace her with someone fresh. In fact, I’ve a mind to have a little taste right now. Shall we see what’s between those sweet thighs of yours?”

Desperately, Lia tried to pull Amy to her feet. “If you touch me, I’ll kill you,” she said through clenched teeth.

“I’m going to do more than touch you,” Prudhoe snarled.

His hand shot out so quickly that he caught her off guard. His fingers curled into her bodice, slipping inside her stays. Lia tried to pull away, but he easily yanked her against him. His strength was frightening.

“Let me go, you bastard,” she growled. His other arm went around her, his fingers digging into her side. Still she managed to dodge his wet, openmouthed kiss as he bobbed down.

“Let her go,” Amy shrieked, trying to shove at Prudhoe’s legs while still holding on to Lia.

She appreciated the effort, but Amy’s weight was throwing her off balance. Lia clamped her lips shut for what she knew would be a slobbering, disgusting kiss. But perhaps when Prudhoe was occupied with that nasty business, she’d be able to get enough purchase to give him a knee to the groin.

Then she felt a rush of movement from behind her and something as hard as stone butted against her back—something warm and blessedly familiar. The clean, masculine scent of him, the shape of his muscular frame—she knew it all instantly, as well as she knew herself.

Prudhoe’s hold on her bodice loosened and he went slack-jawed with surprise. He took two quick steps back.

“You’d best listen to the girl,” Jack said in a voice that promised death. When she shivered at his icy tone, his hands curled protectively over her hips. “Because if you ever touch her again, I will bloody well tear you apart. Or maybe I’ll just do that anyway, for the fun of it.”