Regency Desire: Mistress to the Marquis / Dicing with the Dangerous Lord. Margaret McPhee
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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.’
Irresistible. The same word Razeby always used. She did not want to hear it on Devlin’s lips. It felt wrong. As wrong as wearing this dress in any man other than Razeby’s company. But that was all the more reason to wear it. To take away its power. To take away his power over her. To prove once and for all there was nothing left between them, that there never had been, no matter how he looked at her.
‘You certainly know how to make a woman blush, Lord Devlin.’ She smiled.
He held out his elbow to her in invitation.
She ignored the unease that stroked like a feather against her skin, closed her ears to the doubts and the discomfort, and the nervousness that was jittering in her stomach. It might feel wrong but it was the right thing to do, she reassured herself. Besides, it was too late to change her mind. She had better just get on with it. Everything would be fine. This was not the place a marquis came to find a bride. With a smile she rested her fingers lightly against his arm and, holding her head up high, let Devlin lead her into the room from which the music was playing loud. Everything would be fine, she told herself again.
But the minute she walked through those doors she knew it was not.
On the opposite side of the dance floor stood Razeby.
Alice felt a sudden panic well up and threaten to spill over. The urge to turn around and run right back out that door almost overwhelmed her. She swallowed, forced herself to breathe, reined herself back under control.
It should not matter if he was here. It should not make the slightest difference. Indeed, maybe it was even for the best. That he would witness this ultimate show of denial. Denying her feelings. Denying him. Maybe he even deserved it, that taunt of what he had so thoughtlessly cast aside. She had almost convinced herself of it by the time Devlin led her over to him.
‘Razeby.’ Devlin bowed. ‘Did not think you would be here.’
‘Change of plan,’ Razeby replied and there was a coolness to his voice that stroked a warning down her spine.
Too many women, young, old and in between, were eyeing Razeby with a barely concealed interest. But Razeby seemed unaware and, notably, Miss Althrope was not by his side this evening. Indeed, there was no sign of a woman. Only Linwood.
Devlin’s smile was slightly stilted. ‘Not your usual scene.’
‘Nor yours,’ replied Razeby. He smiled, but there was something in the way he looked at Devlin, something almost threatening.
Devlin’s smile faded. ‘Miss Sweetly and I can certainly vouch for the quality of the champagne.’ He took a sip from his glass.
Alice said nothing. Her glass was still brimful, not one drop had passed her lips, even though her mouth was as dry as a bone and her pulse was thrumming in her throat.
It was just a dress, she told herself. But it was not.
She knew that.
And so did Razeby.
There was nothing of Razeby’s charm this evening, only a veneer of politeness so thin as to barely conceal a darkness and an intensity that made Linwood look positively light in comparison. She could feel the strain of the atmosphere between Razeby and Devlin, heavy with things that had nothing to do with friendship.
Devlin slid an arm around her waist, making her jump at his touch. ‘Does not Miss Sweetly look charming tonight?’ Spoken so politely, and yet there was that sense that he was deliberately baiting Razeby.
Razeby finally moved his gaze to her, letting his eyes wander from the green sparkle of her slippers, slowly up the silky green skirt, over her bodice and her breasts, until it finally met her own. Her heart was hammering harder than a blacksmith’s hammer against an anvil, her pulse pounding so fast in her throat that she felt sick.
His gaze was long and cool, his mouth unsmiling. ‘Charming indeed. But it is not the word I would use.’
Irresistible. The word whispered between them, and all that had passed between them while she was wearing this dress was there in the room, making the nerves flutter all the more wildly in her stomach.
She tore her gaze away. Swallowed. Oh, Lord! She quailed at the challenge, longed only to walk away. But she knew she could not do that. So, instead, she breathed and she stood there.
‘Shall we dance, Miss Sweetly?’ Devlin smiled.
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ she said and she meant it. Anything to get her away from Razeby and that terrible sense of something brewing, and the feeling that she could not have got this more wrong. She forced a tight smile and let Devlin lead her onto the floor.
Devlin did not return them to Razeby and Linwood. And she did not look at Razeby again, just got on with the evening. Danced two dances with Devlin. Drank half a glass of champagne. Smiled. Pretended she was interested in what Devlin was saying, that she was not conscious for every second of Razeby and the fact that he did not once dance.
Razeby saw Alice the minute she came into the room. He saw the evening dress she was wearing—the emerald silk—and he understood her message too well.
By his side he knew Linwood was watching her, too. Every man and woman in the room was. How could they fail to? She was the celebrated Miss Sweetly and looked golden and radiant and downright irresistible.
He thought of the rows of fine silks and satins she had left hanging in her wardrobe in Hart Street, and of the diamond bracelet and cheque that she had turned her back on. He had not understood it at the time. But now he did. She had chosen her weapon well. Saved it. And now she wielded it, pointed and sharp as a stiletto blade.
Linwood murmured something, but his friend’s voice went as unheard as the music that played.
He watched Devlin lead her out on the floor. He knew he should go and claim a woman to dance with. Any woman. It would not matter.