Dicing with the Dangerous Lord. Margaret McPhee
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her.
‘Not yet, Venetia.’
She felt the spiralling panic and quelled it with a will of iron.
‘You go too far, sir.’
‘Or not far enough.’ He leaned closer and the brandy was strong upon his breath. His eyes stared down into hers for a moment and she could see in them both anger and lust.
‘Unhand me!’
‘I do not like to be made a fool of.’
‘The ballroom is full,’ she threatened.
‘But we are all alone in here, Miss Fox.’ His free hand ranged over her hip, over her buttock, pulling her close enough that her thigh brushed against his arousal. ‘Besides, they all know the situation between us.’
‘No!’ she snapped. Her mind was whirring. She knew she could not start screaming like a débutante. And he was right, no one would believe her. She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Release me,’ she said again, more fiercely this time, and struggled against him, but his mouth was already moving to take hers.
‘I believe the lady does not wish your attentions, Hawick.’ The familiar voice came from the shadows, low in volume, but loud in menace.
Hawick’s gaze shot round as Linwood stepped from the corner of the room. The moonlight cast his features in stark relief, making his dark hair look only darker and his eyes as black as the devil’s. His features were as perfect and cold and sculpted as those of the marble statues that surrounded them. The wolf’s eyes in his walking cane glittered as hard as his own. In the moonlight and shadows, he looked like the most handsome, most dangerous man in the world. Danger and threat exuded from his every pore. Everything of his stance, everything of his posture was sleek, poised and watchful, and yet with that underlying edge of aggression.
‘This is between me and Miss Fox. You are not stupid, Linwood. I am a powerful man, a rich man.’ Hawick glared at Linwood. ‘If you know what is good for you, you will turn around and walk away.’
‘That sounds like a threat.’
‘Take it as you will.’
The tension in the small gallery bristled. Venetia’s heart was beating so fast she felt sick. She held her breath, waiting for Linwood to do just that. Turn. Walk away. Leave her to Hawick.
‘I am not going anywhere,’ Linwood said in his quiet, dangerous voice.
The silence that followed was tight and tense. The two men watched one another, like two dogs with hackles raised.
‘Oh, I see,’ said Hawick with the air of a man making a discovery. ‘It’s not Devlin bidding against me, after at all, is it? It’s you.’
‘Step away from Miss Fox.’
‘And if I choose not to?’ Hawick said.
Linwood looked at Hawick and the expression in his eyes was one of absolute violence, a declaration that nothing was too far, a promise of death. She felt her blood run cold just at the sight of it. Hawick must have seen it, too, for where he held her still she felt the change in him.
‘Get out,’ Hawick said to her and, releasing his grip on her, pushed her across the gallery towards the door. ‘But know that this is not finished between us, Venetia.’
‘It is more than finished, Hawick,’ said Linwood darkly.
‘We will see about that, Linwood.’
‘Close the door behind you, Miss Fox,’ said Linwood.
She hesitated to leave, afraid of what might happen between the two men. Hawick was taller and heavier than Linwood, but Linwood was lithe and lean and strong, and with such dark deadliness about him.
Linwood’s gaze met hers for the first time since he had interrupted Hawick.
She gave a nod and, turning, hurried from the gallery, leaving the two men alone.
Venetia took her time threading her way around the periphery of the floor, as if she were as cool and unfazed as ever when the truth was quite the opposite, until at last she found Alice.
‘You enjoying yourself?’ Alice looked happy.
‘As ever.’
‘Bleedin’ hell!’ Alice blurted, but she was no longer looking at Venetia. She was staring instead at a point somewhere in the distance over Venetia’s shoulder with a look of fascinated horror.
The faces around them were staring, too, at the same thing that held Alice transfixed. The music came to a natural halt and in the gap there was the spread of the hushed murmur like a wave across the ballroom.
Venetia felt the shiver of foreboding ripple across her scalp and all the way down her spine. She did not want to look, but she was already turning, just as everyone else was.
Hawick was making his way through the crowd towards the door. The white of his shirt and cravat was splattered scarlet with blood and he was holding a large bloodied handkerchief to his nose.
Venetia’s eyes widened.
‘What on earth happened to him?’ Alice whispered.
Venetia gave no reply, even though she knew the answer very well. She watched Hawick like every other person in that ballroom.
‘Devlin?’ Alice murmured almost to herself. A number of others must have been having the same thought, for once Hawick disappeared through the door, all heads turned to find Devlin. But Devlin stood at the farthest side of the room from the gallery, by the French windows, looking as shocked as the rest of Fallingham’s guests.
Venetia took a deep breath and accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman, even though inside she was still shaking and her mind was reeling from the shock. All she could think of was how close she had just come to ruin, and that the man who had saved her was the one man she had thought would not. To shoot a man, unarmed and with his leg not yet fully recovered from a hunting accident, as he sat at his own desk—it took a certain type of villain to do that. Across the ballroom chatting to Razeby she saw Linwood. His dark gaze met hers across the floor and held. It lasted for only the briefest of moments, then the dance progressed and the bodies of the dancers hid him from her. And by the time the dance progressed again he was gone.
Her heart was beating fit to burst, her blood rushing too fast. She lowered her gaze, composing herself, conscious that Miss Fox must maintain her cool, collected air. So she held her head high and nodded as if she were listening to Alice’s chatter. The music played on, sweet and loud and vibrant, but all that Venetia could hear was the echo of Linwood’s voice playing again in her mind. I am not going anywhere.
He had saved her. Again. The uneasiness stirred all the more in her breast and she wondered if what she had learned of Linwood so far would disquiet her brother as much as it did her.
Chapter Five
There was a note from Linwood the next morning.
If it is not presumptive of me, may I request the pleasure of your company this afternoon for a drive in Hyde Park?
Your servant,
L.
His letters were angular, sharp, boldly formed by a pen nib pressed firm against the paper, the ink a deep opaque black, expensive as the embossed paper upon which the words were written. As she read the words it seemed that she could hear the rich smooth voice speaking them, the slight irony of his reference to ‘presumption’ following her taunt the night he had saved her from the ruffians, and see the dark handsome face, all cheekbones and harsh angles, with its lips that could drive every last vestige of sense from a woman’s head.
She screwed the cut sheet of paper into a ball, her fingers curling tight, crushing it within, tempted to throw it onto the coals of the fire and watch it burn