"I shall send an invitation to Mr. Kent, then?" Helena inquired.
Marianne's throat tightened. Could she share the truth with Kent? Surely, he wouldn't betray her like other men had—or would he? He had promised to help her: if she told him about Rosie, would he help her find her little girl? She looked at Helena's expectant expression, and guilt punctured her hopes. She'd kept secrets for so long; was she even capable of letting down those walls of fear and shame?
"Let me think on it." At the other's crestfallen countenance, she said quietly, "I appreciate your concern. You are too good to me, dearest."
"Just try not to think too long," Helena sighed, her hand fluttering to the amethyst silk over her belly. "Soon I shan't be fit for company, and you know how Harteford gets when I am increasing."
As if on cue, the marquess came striding through the crowd bearing a glass of lemonade. His eyes flashed with concern as they honed in on the position of Helena's hand. "Tired, my love? Would you like me to find you a seat?"
"No, thank you. What I should like to do is dance," Helena said.
"Dance?" Harteford's dark brows came together. "But are you certain—"
"They're playing a waltz, and you are my favorite partner. You know the physician has cleared me for my normal activities."
When her husband looked as if he meant to argue, the marchioness stood on tiptoe and whispered something in his ear. She must have delivered her tit-for-tat because his jaw turned quite ruddy.
He cleared his throat, his smoldering gaze fixed on his wife. "If you'll excuse us, Lady Draven?"
"Of course," Marianne said.
The pair headed off—not in the direction of the dance floor, she noted with a mixture of amusement and envy—but toward the exit. When Helena turned back to mouth, "Let me know," Marianne gave a quick nod.
Alone, she was left to deal with the encroaching gentlemen. Turning down offers of champagne, dancing, and other activities best left unrepeated, she made her escape to the periphery of the ballroom. She took momentary shelter behind a small white gazebo the hostess had fancifully erected indoors. Peering around the wood frame, she saw the looks of consternation on the men's faces—thank heavens her pursuers hadn't the brains to match their libidos.
"Tiresome, isn't it?"
Her head whipped in the direction of the smooth accents. She recovered in the next instant.
"What is, pray tell?" she said, arching her brows.
"Being pursued. I, myself, prefer being on the other end of the hunt." The tawny-haired rake flashed her a white smile. "Devlin St. James, Viscount Ashcroft, at your service Lady Draven."
"I know who you are," she said.Now I mean to discover what you're hiding. What did Leach have on you, you blighter—did he buy Rosie on your behalf?
"My reputation precedes me, then. In a good way, I hope."
Clenching the sticks of her fan, she shaped her lips into a flirtatious curve. "If your reputation is as large as they say, my lord, then I should say it is in averygood way."
Ashcroft laughed. Up close, she saw he had a weak chin—one made soft by easy living and dissipation. "Touché, my lady. Then, again, you have quite the reputation yourself."
"It takes one to know one," she said in a coquettish tone.
"In that case, I suggest we avail ourselves of Auberville's fine champagne and get to know one another'sreputationsbetter." Winking, Ashcroft held out an arm.
Though her stomach recoiled, her fingers went to rest lightly on the black superfine. "By all means, my lord, I'd like nothing more than to know you better."
22
An hour later,Marianne found herself rolling along in Ashcroft's well-sprung carriage. It was a position no doubt envied by some, but it was all she could do to suppress a shudder as he ran a gloved finger down her arm. Though her cloak covered her, his touch raised the hairs on her skin. His pale gaze was bloodshot, his expression more leering than suave. This was likely due to the fact that she'd plied him with drink at the Aubervilles' assembly while scarcely partaking of her own. She wanted him three seas over; it would make him easier to interrogate.
"You have the most beautiful eyes. Like big, shiny emeralds," he said in slurred accents.
"Youareoriginal, aren't you?" she said.
He grinned, apparently beyond the reach of sarcasm. "That's what all the ladies say. I'll show you things in bed that you've never even heard of. I've got a few tricks up my sleeve to tickle your fancy—and elsewhere."
Be still my beating heart.
