Royal's Bride (16 page)

He laughed softly and Jocelyn relaxed back into his embrace. She kissed him again, opening her mouth so that he could taste her more deeply, and Christopher groaned. Lifting her skirts all the way to her waist, he slid his hands over the twin globes of her bottom. She could feel the heat of his palms through the thin fabric of her drawers and a soft ache throbbed between her legs.

“We’ll take our time,” he whispered. “I’ll give you what you want—I promise you.”

Jocelyn gasped as his hands eased beneath the waistband of her drawers, slid over her bottom to caress her naked flesh, gripped and lifted until she was riding his thigh and moaning softly.

“You’ve a good deal to learn, sweeting,” he said, tilting her chin so that he could kiss her throat. “I don’t think one night is going to be enough.”

“No,” she whispered, lacing her fingers in his thick dark hair. “I don’t suppose it will.”

Christopher’s body tightened as he forced himself to end the embrace and move away. Setting her on her feet, he let her skirts fall back into place over her hips. “It’s time for me to go. If I stay, I’ll give in to my need and have you right here on the table.”

Jocelyn’s eyes widened at the vivid image. Unable to form a single word, she simply nodded.

“Is your carriage here?” he asked as he straightened his clothes.

“Yes, just outside.”

“Then I shall leave you. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” With a last, hard kiss, he was gone.

For long moments, Jocelyn just stood there. She felt weak and dizzy, her body damp and throbbing. She had
made the necessary preparations. Christopher had agreed. Now all she had to do was see it done.

She squared her shoulders. She wanted this—wanted him.

Tomorrow night she was going to have him.

S
aturday night arrived all too soon. Dressed in her Gypsy costume, posing as Lady Nightingale’s special entertainment for the evening, Lily entered the elegant brick mansion through the servants’ entrance. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she caught a wave from Uncle Jack, who would be waiting for her in the alley when her performance was finished.

Taking a breath to steady her nerves, Lily started along the hallway, passing the stairs to the kitchen, moving past the butler’s pantry, stepping out of the way as a bevy of servants rushed by on their way to the drawing room where the party was being held.

She stopped a footman before he had time to escape, lowered her voice and slipped into the slight accent that she had used in the role long ago. “I am sorry to bother you, but I vould appreciate your help. Vould you pleaze tell Lady Nightingale Madam Tsaya has arrived.”

She kept her voice husky and her cadence slow. She could do a very good Hungarian accent, but they had
decided it should be kept to a minimum. If her great-aunt was Madam Medela, an old woman when she died, Tsaya would likely have lived in England for quite some time.

Standing in the shadows at the end of the hall, she could see into the entry, three stories high and crowned with a stained-glass dome. The walls were lined with marble busts of famous heads of state, and flowers in crystal vases filled the house with a fragrant scent.

Most of the guests had already arrived. At ten o’clock, Lady Nightingale would introduce her, telling those in attendance that she was a seer known for her ability to predict good fortune to certain lucky individuals.

At their weekly meeting at the Red Rooster, they had discussed Royal’s plans to introduce Madam Tsaya into society and he had told them a little about the people who would be helping them. At various affairs, Royal’s friends would attest that she had made uncanny predictions that had indeed come true.

Tonight she was going to predict good fortune for Lord Nightingale, her host, as well as a viscount named March. She wouldn’t approach Preston Loomis—not tonight. With the help of Royal’s friends, Loomis would be invited to other affairs where she would be included. In time, she would seek him out and begin to predict good fortune for him.

“Madam Tsaya! Do come in.” Lady Nightingale, a small woman, lightly freckled and copper-haired, hurried toward her. She was young, no more than five-and-twenty, her smile so genuinely warm Lily found herself instantly at ease.

“My lady,” she said with a slight curtsy.

“I am so glad you could come. Your name has come up quite often of late. It is said you have incredible powers.”

“I am a Gypsy. Some of us can see things other people cannot. It is not so difficult as it may seem.”

“Well, I could scarcely begin to predict who might or might not have good fortune.” The little countess took her arm. “Come now, and I shall present you to my guests.”

Lily felt a wave of nerves that made her stomach flutter. It had always been that way and yet, eventually, the feeling would pass and she would be able to do what she had come for. She let the countess lead her into the main salon, a spectacular chamber done in dark green and gold with molded ceilings and thick Persian carpets. Huge marble fireplaces warmed each end of the room.

Laughter and gaiety filled the air, along with the sound of music. The countess raised her hand as a signal to the orchestra playing in a corner of the drawing room, and the music instantly ceased.

“If I may please have your attention.” Little by little the guests began to quiet until Lady Nightingale had their full attention. “Some of you may have heard of our very special guest tonight. For those of you who have not, it is my pleasure to present Madam Tsaya. Over the course of the evening, some of you may be lucky enough to have her seek you out. You see, Madam Tsaya has the ability to predict good fortune.”

A rumble came from the crowd, followed by looks of interest. The countess turned the floor over to her guest. “Madam?”

“Good evening,” Lily said. “It is my pleasure to be here. I hope I vill see good fortune for many of you tonight.” She glanced round the room, spotted a number
of familiar faces but, dressed in such wildly different clothes, her blond hair stuffed under the heavy black wig, she had no fear of being recognized.

As she moved beside the countess, she saw Sheridan Knowles standing next to Jonathan Savage and robust Dillon St. Michaels, men she had met at Lady Westmore’s ball. St. Michaels conversed with an elegant young woman with honey-brown hair, while Savage spoke to a lean, attractive man with hard, carved features and a far-too-serious expression.

The men were Royal’s conspirators, she knew, along with some she didn’t yet know, perhaps the woman, as well. Her perusal continued past one guest after another and suddenly her breath caught. Tall and golden, the duke was impossible to miss in his black evening clothes. He chatted with his aunt, his head bent toward the elderly woman as he listened to what she said, but over her thin shoulders, his tawny gaze was fixed on Lily.

Her pulse kicked up, began to pound in her ears. For an instant, she couldn’t look away. But if their plan was going to succeed, she needed to concentrate on her role, to forget the Duke of Bransford and become entirely Madam Tsaya.

Lily fixed a long-ago practiced, faintly mysterious smile on her face and returned her attention to Lady Nightingale, who escorted her round the room. The countess paused next to Lord Wellesley. “I believe, my lord, you have already met our guest, Madam Tsaya.”

“Why, yes,” said the viscount. “As a matter of fact, Madam Tsaya predicted I would win a wager I had made with Lord Nightingale, and so I did.”

Two or three people turned at the announcement to
study her more closely. Lady Nightingale kept moving, guiding Lily through the crowd. “Mr. Savage…I believe you are also acquainted with Madam Tsaya.”

He flashed a devilish smile, caught her hand, bowed over it and kissed the back. “Indeed, I am.” She wasn’t wearing gloves and she could feel the warmth of his lips against her skin. He was an incredibly handsome man, dark and mysterious, the exact opposite of Royal.

“The lady predicted my stallion, Black Star, would win at the racetrack,” he said. “I bet heavily, and I won—just as she said.”

“Astounding,” said the countess.

Lily just smiled. From the corner of her eye, she saw Royal, closer now, his jaw hard as he watched her interplay with Savage. Jocelyn was nowhere to be seen. She was ensconced in a suite at the Parkland Hotel, waiting for her lover.

Lily still found it hard to believe. Not only was her cousin’s engagement soon to be announced, she was a virgin. But Jocelyn had always been headstrong and spoiled, and Royal’s inattention had wounded her pride.

The countess led Lily toward the tall man with the carved features she had noticed before.

“Madam, may I present you to Viscount March.”

“How do you do, my lord?”

March made a faint bow of his head, causing a strand of dark brown hair to tumble forward. “A pleasure, madam.”

Lily studied him for several long moments, her gaze going over his dark eyes and lean features. “You will be playing cards later at your club,” she said as if it were a fact and not a question.

“Why, yes. I plan to stop by on my way home.”

“If you play tonight,” she told him, “you will win.”

He chuckled as if he found her prediction amusing but didn’t give it much credence. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

At their next affair, March would announce his good fortune in winning at his club—whether he actually went there or not. A time would come when they would have to be careful to make sure each prediction could be verified, but not yet.

The evening progressed and Lily settled more deeply into her role. The countess made a number of other introductions, then left her in the care of a group of young men who were instantly enamored of the exotic woman she pretended to be. The description she had of Preston Loomis fit a man standing a few feet away. In his early sixties, tall and silver-haired, he reminded her of Charles Sinclair, with the same sort of imposing presence. But Loomis’s eyes were blue and not brown, and he boasted an elegant silver mustache.

She made no move to approach him, just kept her attention fixed on the young men in the group, smiling and laughing as if everything they said was utterly fascinating. She lowered her lashes and kept her mysterious smile in place.

“So…Madam Tsaya, may I ask if you are a married lady?” This from the son of a viscount who was introduced to her as Mr. Emmet Burrows. “Or is there some hope for us poor besotted fools?”

She mustered an uncertain expression. “I vas married once,” she said gravely. “My husband passed to the other side three years ago.”

“You have my most sincere regrets,” Burrows said.

“So you are a widow,” said another young man. “You must be very lonely.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “One gets used to being alone.”

“There is hardly a need for that,” said Burrows, slim, blond and eager. “I would be happy to entertain you. Perhaps you would care to accompany me to a play.”

Her soot-blackened lashes swept down. “I do not know you well enough. Perhaps at some time in the future.” She gave him a look of encouragement before making her farewells and walking off toward Lord Nightingale.

She paused just in front of him. “My lord?”

He looked up as if he hadn’t been expecting her, which she knew he had. Like the rest of Royal’s friends, Nightingale was handsome, with his nearly black hair and hazel eyes. He seemed older than the others, though she knew he wasn’t. “What is it, my dear?”

“It has come to me that should you wish to increase your fortune, you should buy stock in…” She leaned over and pretended to whisper the name, as if the information were for his ears alone.

“I believe I’ve heard of that company. I shall give it some consideration. Thank you, my dear.”

She turned away, barely glanced at Loomis, who was staring at her with shrewd blue eyes. It wasn’t the first time he had noticed her. Loomis had been watching her off and on since the moment of her arrival.

It appeared she had accomplished what she had come for. She had captured his interest. The game would continue from here.

Exhaustion began to set in, as it always did after a performance. Grateful it was finally time to leave, Lily excused herself to the ladies’ retiring room, made her way to the staircase and headed upstairs.

Royal laughed politely at whatever it was Sherry said, excused himself and followed the slender, black-haired Gypsy out of the drawing room. All evening, he had watched her. With her exotic beauty and gaudy silk skirts, she had lured men to her like bees to honey.

He had known Lily would be disguised, but the woman at the tavern seemed a mild version of the creature here tonight. He couldn’t believe the seductive smile belonged to his sweet Lily, nor the kohl-rimmed, pale eyes that made her look even more exotic. Like the rest of the men, he found himself mesmerized by her husky laughter and faraway glances. Though she never quite flirted, she left men staring after her wherever she went, drawn to her dark allure, wanting her in their beds.

None of them wanting her as badly as he did.

Jealousy burned through him as he followed her up the stairs. He saw her disappear into the ladies’ retiring room and walked on past, waited out of sight until she reappeared then strode toward her, his temper rising with every step. This woman wasn’t some mysterious stranger, she was Lily, and Lily did not behave the way this woman did!

His hand clamped around her arm and her eyes flew to his. She didn’t say a word, nor did she protest when he led her along the corridor, checked to be sure no one saw them, hauled her into one of the bedrooms, closed the door and turned the key.

“What is it?” she asked. “What is wrong?” She looked up at him with her long, black lashes, her pale skin in contrast to her glossy black hair.

“What is wrong?” he repeated, his temper barely in check. “What is wrong is that you have spent the entire evening seducing every man in the drawing room. You have half the men here imagining you spread beneath them. You smile and tease and let them believe you are interested in their advances. The fools are half-mad with lust for you.”

Instead of being sorry, her chin went up. “I am playing a role,
Your Grace
—in case you have forgot. The role of Gypsy fortune-teller. A role I am playing for
you!
”

Her lips were stained a lush ruby red and when she moistened them they glistened. His groin tightened. He went hard to the point of pain.

“Is that so? You didn’t look like you were playing a role when Savage kissed your hand. You looked like you were enjoying his attention, as if you would welcome him into your bed!”

“What are you talking about?”

“And that little pip-squeak, Emmet Burrows. You had him salivating at the thought of what would happen when he got you alone.”

“I just wanted to keep his interest. It is part of the game.”

“Really?” He moved toward her, forcing her backward till her shoulders came up against the wall. “What about me?” He slid his hands beneath her heavy black hair. “Am I a game to you, too?” Tilting her head back, he crushed his mouth down over hers and for an instant, Lily went still.