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What a ridiculous statement, she thought, as if she had accepted an invitation for a ride in the park with him.
“There are rooms here reserved for more, er, amorous pursuits. Shall we retire to one of them?” she inquired, meeting his gaze this time, then wishing she hadn’t. The contrast of dark intensity with the glimmer of light in his eyes disconcerted her.
“That won’t do. The accommodations here are hardly adequate,” he replied. “My carriage shall meet you here two nights hence. The wait will deepen the anticipation.”
Anticipation? His or hers? Perhaps his self-assurance was arrogance after all.
“My only request,” he continued with a stern tone, “is that you do not arrive inebriated.”
Again, she reddened. She was known to have had a glass too many on occasion, but how did this man whom she barely knew acquire such knowledge of her? And why should it matter to him what state she was in? Lest he was expecting her to perform certain acts upon him? The thought made her blush deeper.
His features softened as he lifted her hand to his lips. “Au revoir.”
As she watched him depart, she began to regret her decision, for she could not attribute to indignation alone the warmth she felt spreading throughout her.
* * * * *
“Are you headed to that gaming hell again?” her aunt queried as Deana finished her supper and prepared to leave the table. “You’ll never find a husband if you waste your hours there in the company of cads and rogues.”
“Leave her be,” her mother responded. “We can ill afford her not to go. It were not as if she had any marital prospects to entertain.”
On that merry note, Deana ascended the stairs t
o her bedroom. Had she known her father would pass from an untimely failure of the heart, she would have sought matrimony earlier. While he had earned a decent income as a barrister, they had over time eaten into what savings they had, including funds intended as her dowry. If it were not for a flair and more luck than not at the card tables, she knew not how they would have fared. She had to acquit herself of her debt to Lord Rockwell or her hours at the gambling hall would be long indeed.
Struggling with her attire, she settled first on her plainest muslin, but vanity, and perhaps a subtle desire to please Lord Rockwell, led her to a simple but elegant gown of batiste. She could not deny a part of her was flattered that he wished to bed her. He had a physiognomy pleasing to the eye, a physique that knew few rivals, and a grace to his movements and carriage. She had relived the kiss to her hand over and over despite herself. The firmness, the gentleness with which he had held her hand and the deliberateness in how he had released her made her quiver. Though not uncomely herself, she would be as naïve as a schoolroom chit to think she was a skirt of singular interest to him. There were rumors enough of the women he had taken to bed, and undoubtedly others that had not risen to the level of tittle-tattle.
At the gaming hell, she drummed her fingers against the card table before bolstering her courage with a third glass of burgundy. She played a few rounds of faro, hoping that in the final minutes Lady Luck would spare her the humiliation of prostituting herself for a mislaid wager. She had assumed Lord Rockwell to be discreet, for she had not known him to confirm any of his liaisons, but she had no guarantee of his confidence. Granted, her patronage of a gaming hell had already diminished her repute, but word of her lifting her skirts to Lord Rockwell would discharge any prospects for matrimony—the only stable salvation for her family.
“Your carriage awaits, Miss Herwood,” a footman informed her.
She retrieved her gloves and hat, pulling its veil low over her face before she stepped into the carriage. By the time it pulled up in front of Lord Rockwell’s Town home, the burgundy had calmed her anxiety and put her in a more cheerful disposition. She had consumed three glasses of wine in the past with no significant impacts. Despite his command that she arrive sober, he would be no wiser. No doubt he differed little from others of his sex and, after twenty minutes, she would find him spent, her obligation complete, and herself returned home before midnight.
Once inside, the butler offered to take her pelisse but she declined. He showed her into the drawing room. Compared to her address, the room was richly furnished and its décor stately but not garish. The gleam of the wood and the shine of the upholstery indicated the furnishings to be new or well cared for, unlike the few pieces her family owned or borrowed. A healthy fire kept the room warm and the candelabras on the silken walls gave it light. A small elephant carved from ivory caught her eye. She picked it up from the end table and admired the detailing and its two ruby eyes.
“Do sit, Miss Herwood.”
She bobbled the figurine before clutching it tightly to her chest to keep it from falling. She turned in the direction of the rich tenor.
Lord Rockwell stood at the threshold, appearing as dapper in his banyan as he did in full dress. Quickly she returned the elephant to its home. The thought that she had nearly dropped what was no doubt an expensive item made her tremble. God knew what she would owe him then.
“Two and twenty thousand rupees,” he answered as if she had asked the price. “It belonged to a Hindu rajah.”
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured.
“Sit, Miss Herwood.”
His imperial tone contrasted with the more courteous manners he exhibited at the gaming hell. Perhaps he fancied himself a rajah in his own abode. Though tempted to defy him, she sat down upon a settee, noting that tea had been set upon the table before it. He sat opposite her and poured her a cup, which she accepted gratefully, for she would not know what to do with her hands otherwise. She took a sip of the fragrant Darjeeling, ignoring his penetrating gaze.
“You’re inebriated,” he stated with a frown.
Damn. How the bloody hell did he discern that? Caught, she opted to mask her embarrassment with childish insolence.
“I had myself a glass,” she admitted with a dismissive shrug, avoiding his stare by focusing on her tea. “I am no child, Lord Rockwell, and you are not my guardian.”
“Indeed. If I were, you would certainly not be spending your time in a gaming hell.”
“And if I were yours, you would not be making indecent propositions to ladies you hardly know.”
