One Night With You (The Derrings #3)(24)

She had been neglected, to be sure, but free. That she had so little control now, less even than when she was a child, burned through her like acid.

She was no better than a prisoner in her own home. It was not to be borne. Her mind worked desperately, struggling to come up with a way to free herself from Desmond's suffocating yoke. After several moments, she sighed, ceased her pacing, and collapsed on the small couch at the foot of her bed.

Her bedchamber door opened. Anna bustled inside. "What did that scoundrel do to you?" she cried. "I knew he was up to no good when he sent me halfway across Town to Leadenhall market for clams we could have purchased from the fishmonger who delivers to our very door!" Jane shook her head. "I have to get out of here, Anna."

"I know, love, I know." The maid lowered her substantial girth onto the bench beside Jane. Wrapping a soft arm around her shoulders, Anna gave her a squeeze. She worked her hand up and down Jane's arm, the rhythmic motion comforting. "I tried to stop that trollop from coming in here, but Mr. Billings was there. I couldn't—"

"Trollop?"

"Yes." Anna blinked. "I thought you knew Berthe was the one who…"

"Went through my things?" Jane finished, surging off the bench. "Oh, I'm sure she took great joy in that!" The little viper already gloated over Jane being relegated to a governess. Her gaze drifted to her armoire, her stomach rolling at the thought of Berthe, Marcus's favorite maid, rummaging through her personal things. It brought to mind the day Jane had caught the maid trying on one of her gowns, twirling before her cheval mirror bold as a peacock. Jane never held hope that the girl would be dismissed, not when she earned her wages in Marcus's bed.

"If I stay in this room a moment longer I shall go mad."

Anna pulled back to look at her. "What are you thinking of?" Jane lifted her chin. "They don't own me." A fire kindled in her blood, burning a smoldering path up her chest. "They may have confiscated my clothes and jewelry, but I'm not their prisoner. Nor am I child to be led about. Anna, I'll be venturing out tonight."

"They can prevent you from taking a carriage," Anna pointed out. Jane paced. "The lack of a carriage did not stop me last time. I have friends. Lucy can loan me a carriage." She glanced down at her gown. "And a dress more suitable for my destination."

"Where are you going?"

It took only a moment for her to answer, and she realized that the answer had been there all along, a shadow hovering in the back of her mind—her goal perhaps from the start.

"Vauxhall."





Chapter 12


People teemed Vauxhall, their voices a heavy thrum that competed with the blare of the orchestra. Even though he stood outdoors, Seth craved air. Air and space. He had decided almost instantly that Fiona Manchester would never do as his wife. She could not look long upon his face. Not an uncommon reaction, to be sure—especially from a lady. He should have come to expect no less. Call him fool, but he wanted a wife that could at least bear the sight of him.

When he addressed her, she held his gaze only a moment before her eyes trailed the line of his scar, then darted away as skittish as a bird.

And that was another matter. She looked as though she could break beneath the slightest pressure. Indeed, she reminded him of some delicate piece of crystal to be handled with utmost care. Not the kind of woman he wanted in his bed.

The image of a full-bodied woman in a gold dress flashed in his head. Now that was a woman he could handle without fear of hurting. And Jane, a voice whispered, unbidden, across his mind. The voluptuous body that strained against her widow's weeds was made for a lover's hands. His palms tingled and he closed them into tight fists, cursing himself a fool. Jane was not the sort of female to entertain an illicit affair. For no other reason could he have walked away from her earlier today. Not with desire for her pumping through him, fierce as the tide. However, he was the sort a man took to wife. Only not him. He may have put the past behind him, but he was not fool enough to marry into the Spencer clan.

Fiona Manchester was the sort he should wed. Theirs would be a marriage of politeness and formality—what he had claimed to want.

The question at hand, he reminded himself, was whether she could be trusted to care for Julianne. That was all that mattered. The only thing to be considered. Not his personal desires.

"Lord St. Claire, are you not enjoying yourself?" Fiona Manchester asked, flicking him with her fan coyly. A forced gesture, to be certain. That she took pains to flirt with him, despite her obvious distaste, marked her every bit the social climber he first judged her. He opened his mouth to respond, then froze at the sight of another woman, wondering if the vision real or merely an extension of the dreams he had suffered these last nights. Garbed in the same gown of gold silk, she weaved among the throng of people, dodging the hands that tried to grasp her arm and pull her into their circle.

She walked haltingly, her neck craning as though she searched for someone. As breathtaking as the first time he clapped eyes on her, she wore the black domino again. The golden diamonds at her throat glittered in the lamplight.

Seth shook his head, telling himself she couldn't be real. Couldn't be here. Still, he felt himself moving, breaking from his group, leaving the startled Miss Manchester in midsentence as he advanced on his mystery woman with steadfast purpose. The blood rushed his veins, filling his ears with a desperate tempo to rival the beat of the orchestra. As he shoved through the crush, other men stopped to gawk and devour the sight of this lone enchantress, and he knew she was no vision, but real. Flesh and blood woman. His Aurora, set free to fly the night. Even as he told himself it was insanity to react so strongly to a woman whose face he had yet to see, whose name he had yet to speak, he moved, stalking her like a jungle cat honing in on its prey.