Ecstasy

Chapter Ten

The night of the ball arrived with chilling swiftness. After donning her armor, Raven dismissed her maid and stood staring at her reflection in the cheval glass. She saw a patrician young lady gowned in an elegant confection of peach and gold, her ebony hair piled high on her head and secured with a gold bandeau.

A comforting sight, she thought, encouraged. She was about to do battle and she would need every advantage she could muster. She glanced at the mantel clock. Shortly the hostilities would begin…

Defiantly Raven lifted her chin and turned to pace her bedchamber while she waited for her husband’s escort. Kell had returned home to dress, she knew, for she’d heard him moving around in the adjacent dressing room, speaking to his valet.

In only a few moments a knock sounded on her bedchamber door. When she opened it, a ruggedly beautiful stranger stood there. She stared at Kell, breathless.

“Well, do I meet with your approval?”

He looked dark and diabolically handsome in a blue superfine coat, pristine white cravat, silver brocade waistcoat, white satin knee smalls, and black patent pumps with silver buckles.

“Y-yes…” she stammered. “Yes, of course.”

His own glance raked her briefly, displaying merely a flicker of acknowledgment of her own appearance, before he offered her his arm. “Shall we go then?”

He escorted her downstairs, where they retrieved cloaks and gloves and Kell’s tall beaver hat before braving the chill winter night and settling into his barouche.

They were the first to arrive at the Wycliff mansion. As she alighted on the silent street, Raven felt her disquiet rise. Had she made a grave mistake, thinking that anyone at all would attend her ball?

The house was quietly magnificent, adorned with winter roses and hothouse flowers, the crystal chandeliers sparkling with candleflame.

Their hosts awaited them in the drawing room, and both Lucian and Brynn stepped forward at their entrance. Raven felt a strange measure of satisfaction at Brynn’s start of feminine awareness upon spying Kell. His smoldering masculinity would make any woman take notice, even a beautiful woman like Brynn, who was madly in love with her own stunningly attractive husband.

Brynn recovered almost immediately, however, offering Kell her hand along with a welcoming smile.

Her husband was more reserved in his welcome, but just as sincere. Tall, lithe, dark-haired, Lucian had once been one of the country’s premier rakes. He shook hands with Kell, his blue eyes keen and measuring.

“Raven has told us of your generosity in coming to her rescue, Mr. Lasseter, and I would like to express my thanks. We owe you an enormous debt of gratitude.”

“You owe me nothing, my lord,” Kell replied with little inflection.

“On the contrary. Raven is very special to us, like a sister”-Lucian cast her a smile that could melt stone-“and I assure you I intend to find some means of repaying you.”

Seeing Kell’s jaw harden, Raven thought to intervene, but she was spared when her great-aunt and grandfather were announced.

Lord Luttrell embraced her warmly, then allowed himself to be settled on a couch with a glass of sherry. Lady Dalrymple greeted Raven with chilling politeness and spoke not a word to Raven’s new husband, making it perfectly clear she was here under duress.

After a few awkward moments, however, the others in the company ignored the frosty atmosphere while their hosts expertly steered the conversation to non-controversial subjects.

Brynn had planned a quiet dinner before the ball with only the family in attendance, and the meal proceeded with unexpected cordiality. Raven was particularly surprised when Kell not only participated in the discussions, but did so with ease. He was putting himself out for her benefit, she knew, although he would not meet her gaze.

Afterward they repaired to the ballroom to await the guests’ arrival. The light from myriad candles cast a shimmering glow over the vast chamber and took the chill from the winter evening, but no amount of flame could warm the growing ice in Raven’s stomach.

Her tension only mounted as they formed a receiving line. Her cowardly inner voices were encouraging her to flee, while her own rebellious instincts were clamoring for her to give up her aspirations of redeeming her ruined reputation.

She glanced at Kell, who stood grimly at her side, and for some inexplicable reason, she took heart. If he could endure what must seem like torture to him, then she could as well.

The Marquess of Wolverton was the first to arrive. Shunning proper etiquette entirely, Dare kissed Brynn’s cheek and then Raven’s, affably greeted Lucian and Kell and Lord Luttrell, and bowed deeply over Lady Dalrymple’s hand, pressing his lips to her fingers with a lingering sensuality that made the elderly lady flush.

Finally she snatched her hand away, muttering something under her breath about rogues and libertines and looking as if she would like to strike him with her fan.

Unfazed, Dare glanced around the empty ballroom, his glance touching on the orchestra that was preparing to play. “What, no one else is here? I am usually deplorably late to these tame affairs.”

“You are the only guest thus far, as you can see,” Raven admitted glumly.

Dare winked at her. “The more fortune for me, then. Without all your beaux for competition, I can claim half your dances.”

“You may have to claim them all if no one else comes.”

“Ah, no, love, they will come, if only to gawk. There’s not a man jack among the upper ten thousand who isn’t rabidly curious to meet the notorious pirate who stole the darling of the ton from under the nose of a duke.”

His prophecy proved shrewdly perceptive. Shortly after the stroke of nine, the guests started to arrive, first in trickles, then in swarms.

Her ball would likely be a veritable crush, Raven realized with more than a little relief. But perhaps she should have expected such a response from the fickle elements of society. Few people willingly turned down a select invitation from the Earl and Countess of Wycliff, and their prominent sponsorship of her would go a long way toward easing the scandal.

And she suspected Dare was indeed right. Even the haughtiest, most discriminating members of the ton would be curious to meet the man who had stolen the Duke of Halford’s bride away. Contrarily, the haute monde had a lust for scandal and a morbid fascination-even admiration-for rebels like Kell who blatantly broke their absurdly rigid rules.

As she greeted a guest in line and then passed him on to her husband with introductions, Raven surreptitiously eyed Kell, who stood beside her. He was mysteriously, broodingly handsome, and with his bold, dark eyes, he looked very much the pirate. Measured against his raw virility, most of the other gentlemen present looked weak and foppish.

Surprisingly enough, Kell appeared perfectly at ease among the elite company. His usual intensity was tempered, with no signs of the antagonism or biting sarcasm he’d sometimes accorded her.

Indeed, Raven thought, Kell seemed almost determined to put himself out to be pleasant. She watched in amazement as he charmed an elderly dowager as effectively as Dare had ever done. This was a side of Kell that she had never seen before, and it left her wondering wistfully if he would revert to form once the evening ended.

Still, no matter how fleeting his support tonight, she was grateful for it. And the size of the crowd filled her with hope that she might win back at least a toehold in polite society, if not genuine acceptance.

Many of the guests were as chillingly distant as her great-aunt had been, but Raven could detect only a handful of outright snubs as the interminable line of guests continued. The veiled insults mainly came as remarks regarding Kell’s brazen ownership of a gaming club or the fact that he was part Irish.

Raven returned a cool-eyed stare or lifted an arched eyebrow in mock dismay, her answers ready:

“Yes, Lady Poindexter, my husband owns the premier club in London. I daresay Lord Poindexter has enjoyed the sport there as much as Lord Wycliff or the Marquess of Wolverton.”

Or “You can’t mean that you don’t gamble, Mr. Smythe-Jones? I felt certain every self-respecting gentleman gambled. Didn’t I just hear of a wager you made last week with Sir Randall Dewhurst about which raindrop would first reach the sill of White’s bow window?”

Standing next to her, Kell watched her performance with a strange mixture of vexation and admiration. It rankled that Raven would have to defend him-and rankled still more that he cared about being defended. He was accustomed to being cut dead by these preeminent denizens of society, and he’d learned long ago to contain the simmering anger that gnarled in his gut at their infuriating presumption of superiority.

His usual anger, however, was somehow less fierce tonight, his feelings of inferiority diminished. Particularly when he observed his new wife smoothly dressing down his detractors as they moved along the line, a smile on her perfect lips. It didn’t surprise him that Raven had claws, but it did that she was willing to use them on his behalf, especially when her own position was so tenuous.

She was putting up a brave front, Kell admitted. No one would guess she was under indictment for the social equivalent of murder, with her lovely neck exposed to the blade of the guillotine.

She clearly didn’t like having to endure the threat of the knife, however. He had to repress a smile when he caught the unladylike oath Raven muttered in between greeting guests.

“Blast that woman for an interfering busybody,” she said under her breath. “The gall of some people.”

And he forcibly had to bite back laughter when Raven complained in that same peeved undervoice, “I feel like a stuffed peahen in a museum, on display for the gawking spectators.”

Yet when she moved closer to him in response to a snide comment about his Irish roots, her unconscious gesture seemed more protective than defensive. He found himself watching her covertly, studying the patrician lines of her delicate profile. Raven was still an enigma to him, a fascinating one. Her eyes soft and vulnerable one moment, then flashing defiance…

His gaze swept downward, over the slim, elegant curves of her figure revealed by her empire waist gown, returning to linger on her softly swelling bosom. Remembering how those sweet, firm breasts had tasted, he felt his loins pulse.

He swore at his body’s response, wishing he didn’t have to stand so close to her. And yet her efforts to protect him roused an unwilling tenderness inside him-along with a need to protect her in turn. He was determined to play his role as her loving husband to the hilt.

When the reception line disbanded, he led her out on the dance floor for the first dance, a minuet.

Raven gave him a questioning look. “You don’t have to do this, not if your leg is paining you.”

“Ah, but I do,” Kell responded with a slow, deliberate smile. “The company expects me to dance with my incredibly lovely wife.”

It was the first time he had smiled at her in that rakish way, without disdain or mockery, and the effect was dazzling. Her gaze fastened on his alarmingly sensual mouth. Kell was only fawning over her for the benefit of their observers, she knew, but even so she felt a shiver of sexual awareness all the way down to her satin slippers. And his dark eyes…

She glanced away, refusing to be seduced by the heat she saw there. Simulated or not, it left her feeling too dangerously defenseless. Kell Lasseter was a man who made her blood run hot but her heart quiver with alarm. She would do well to keep her distance.

She breathed more easily when she was claimed by another dance partner and could leave Kell to his own devices. From that point on, she found herself in constant demand. And for the rest of the evening, there were seldom any chances for intimacy with Kell or even much conversation.

It was three in the morning before the last guest departed. Brynn declared the evening a moderate triumph, predicting that Raven would find dozens of invitations on her salver on the morrow.

Weary but relieved, Raven embraced her friends and allowed Kell to lead her out to the waiting carriage. After the heat of the ballroom the frigid air felt wonderful.

She could feel her tension starting to ease as she sank back against the squabs. Although her future was far from settled, she couldn’t find the energy just now to worry about her prospects. And yet she owed Kell her gratitude.

She contemplated the dangerous man sitting silently beside her as he stared broodingly out the barouche at the dark streets.

“Thank you for attending with me,” she murmured. “It went far better than I hoped.”

“Yes,” he agreed, a cynical edge to his voice. “I own myself surprised at how they fawned over me. Most of those self-righteous prigs consider an Irishman lower than dirt, and a gamester not much better.”

A bastard would be lower than either, Raven thought involuntarily.

“My mother would never have been accepted by that horde,” Kell muttered. “Damn their souls.”

She heard the anger in his voice and suddenly wondered what he would say if she told him of her own origins. Would he understand the crushing loneliness of being an outcast? Of never belonging, of never being good enough? But long practice of hiding her secret kept her silent.

“I am sorry for what your mother had to endure,” she said instead.

He shrugged. “I no longer let such things bother me.”

But it had shaped him into the man he was, she was certain. She doubted he would be eager to debate the issue, though. After another moment, Raven turned her head away, feeling weariness overtake her.

Kell, however, only felt his own tension rising as he debated what to do for the remainder of the night. When the carriage arrived at his residence, he assisted Raven to alight and then escorted her up the front steps. A sconce had been lit to welcome them home, and the door was unlocked.

Kell opened it for her, then stepped aside to allow her to enter. But he was reluctant to follow.

“Where are the servants?” he asked, remaining in the doorway.

“I told them not to wait up for me since I would be so late returning.”

Another uncommon trait, Kell thought. Few ladies of his acquaintance would be so considerate of the servants.

She started to remove her cloak but then glanced back at him. “Do you not mean to come in?”

Kell remained exactly where he stood, knowing the wisdom of taking his leave at once. He’d watched Raven during the entire evening as she’d danced and charmed her way through her critical crowd of judges. She was all laughter and wit and vivacious beauty, demonstrating how she’d drawn half the male population of London under her spell during her Season. No wonder his brother had accused her of seduction.

He himself had felt an unreasonable spark of jealousy when he saw her working her wiles on the gentlemen present, even though he’d expected such a performance.

She was a temptress, pulsing with life and sensuality. And she was now his wife.

He had every legal right to stay with her.

The thought sent a searing heat shooting through Kell. He could spend the night enjoying the warm, exquisite body of his wife and no one would gainsay him-except perhaps Raven herself.

“To what purpose?” he asked, probing. “You said you didn’t want or need a lover.”

“No, I…I am not inviting you to share my bed, merely your house. I don’t like to think that I am driving you from your own home.”

Kell held her gaze, unable to look away. “It would be best if I left now. The play at the club may not have ended yet.”

“Perhaps so,” she murmured, her voice low. And yet she moved closer, as if drawn to him.

Kell felt every muscle in his body tighten at her disturbing nearness, his instinct for danger warring with the powerful need to take her in his arms. He knew better than to touch her, and yet…the impulse was unconquerable. Gently grasping her shoulders, he drew her against him.

A lightning stroke of desire surged through him. And from the darkening look in her eyes, he knew the fiery shock had touched her as well.

He tightened his hold-and felt himself swell with an immediate, throbbing erection.

Kell groaned silently, fighting the primal urge that was rampaging through him. He had to take care. Such hunger was dangerous, lethal. This woman could hurt him badly if he wasn’t careful.

Yet he couldn’t move. He gazed down into her crystalline blue eyes, seeing the color in their depths shift like richly hued gemstones. He felt as if he were drowning in her gaze, drowning in her alluring combination of fire and fragility, her vibrancy.

He wanted so badly to kiss her. To crush her mouth with his. Wanted to bury the ache of his arousal in the welcoming sheath that was made to receive him.

Kell inhaled sharply, shaken by the intensity of his desire.

Raven seemed just as spellbound. She reached up to touch his scar, and he felt something shift inside him…tenderness, lust, need. Desperate need.

His head lowered…

“So what have we here, big brother?” a snide voice drawled behind him.

Kell gave a start, while Raven froze. Turning his head, he saw Sean mounting the front steps.

Kell cursed the untimely interruption, a curse that was swiftly followed by a surge of self-censure. He’d been caught embracing Raven when he’d resolved to keep his distance. It irked him to think he was so weak that his powers of resistance would crumble at the first test.

He would have held her away, but she stepped back on her own, into the shelter of the hall, a purely defensive gesture, eyeing Sean with wariness, even alarm.

“How inconsiderate of you, Kell,” Sean sneered as he came to a halt on the upper landing. “You neglected to invite your own brother to your nuptial ball.”

Biting back a retort, Kell regarded his brother over his shoulder. Sean had avoided him this past week, probably because he didn’t want to be pressed into leaving London. He was the worse for drink now, and clearly infuriated.

“The ball,” Kell observed with little patience, “was merely an attempt to curb the scandal you caused. A means to show our unity and support our pretense of a love match.”

“You call the touching scene I just witnessed pretense? Admit it, brother, you’re smitten with her.”

“I was escorting my wife home,” Kell said sharply. “A circumstance that would not have existed if not for you.”

Sean jerked back as if he’d been slapped.

“But in fact,” Kell added grimly, “I was just on my way to the club. Why don’t you accompany me?”

Raven felt a sudden chill as Kell stepped back from her, deliberately distancing himself, a closing out of emotion. His features as hard and remote as ever, he turned to his brother.

“Come.” Without waiting for a protest, he ushered Sean down the steps.

Raven watched them leave, regret coursing through her, along with a fierce surge of relief. She had despised meeting Sean again, and though it was cowardly to admit, she still dreaded dealing with him. She was glad he had gone.

And yet she was profoundly glad he had come as well. Without the interruption, she might have given in to her senses. For a riveting moment as Kell had held her in his arms, she’d almost forgotten that their marriage was a sham. She had wanted him to kiss her, to touch her. To take her, heaven help her.

Fool, she muttered fiercely to herself.

Raven shivered in the freezing night air, realizing how narrowly she had avoided peril. Muttering a curse, she shut the door firmly and turned to go upstairs to seek her bed alone.