Chapter 9

Chapter

Nine

N ic, elegant in his black and white evening wear, stood with a glass of champagne in his hand and observed the ebb and flow of the crowded ballroom. Guests were arriving and greeting one another, their voices rising above the soft music of the orchestra on the dais at the far end of the enormous room. Above, a chandelier the size of a small moon shone down on glossy hair and glittering jewelry and the finest clothing money could buy.

A casual visitor might have imagined these were lords and ladies, the aristocracy come out to play, but if he looked harder, he'd notice that the evening gowns were far more risqué than any true society hostess would dare wear, and the manner in which the men and women were gazing at each other, the experience and comehither in their eyes, was a world away from innocent flirtation.

The truth was, these women were not respectable matrons and debutantes; they were whores and dancers and actresses, and they were seeking a meal ticket in exchange for their professional expertise . A few of the men had brought along their mistresses, but the rest of the women were on the lookout for a lover for the night, or even a billet for a month or more, if the conditions were right.

That suited Nic perfectly.

Apart from satisfying his physical needs, Nic wanted a companion who was intelligent enough to hold her own in conversation with him—when he felt like conversing—and who was familiar enough with his privileged world, even if she did not originate from it, not to embarrass him with too many faux pas. More importantly, he wanted someone who wasn't foolish enough to believe their liaison was anything more than a business transaction.

There was a surprisingly large number of women out there who were happy to agree to his terms. They had a living to make, and they did not want anything permanent, and that was the way Nic liked it.

He sipped his champagne and enjoyed the view. For the past six years he'd been to every demimonde ball, and this was the part he looked forward to the most—watching the arrivals , catching the sly glances and the suggestive pouts. Then came the difficult task of making his choice, circling his prey, and consummating the bargain.

He'd never been refused. He was wealthy and reasonably goodlooking. It was true that his temper was sometimes uncertain and he was lame, but he was known as a generous protector. When he was done with them, his mistresses were always left well rewarded.

Nic's gaze lingered on a brunette with a wide mouth, her bosom bursting from her emerald green bodice, and moved on to a redhead with wild springing curls and a trilling laugh. There was a yellowhaired creature in red, and a Gypsy-like dancer with flashing eyes and a temper he'd like to tame. He'd been standing there for an hour, and he didn't have any complaints, he was spoiled for choice, this was his favorite part of the demimonde ball, and yet . . .

And yet he didn't feel the same as he usually did.

There was something wrong, and for some reason he couldn't explain, the usual excitement and anticipation just weren't there. Instead he felt irritable and restless and . . . yes, bored . What the devil was wrong with him? All these stunning women perambulating around the room and he couldn't see a single one he was inclined to make the effort to pursue!

Disgusted with himself, Nic reached for another glass of champagne from a passing servant. He had a trip to Paris planned, and he was damned if he was going alone. Perhaps if he invited both the brunette and the redhead into a private room, and gave himself up to the hot sensual pleasures of the flesh, he'd feel more like his old self? Nic smiled as he imagined a ménage à trois, each woman vying with the other for his attention .

But the next moment he was cursing under his breath as he realized that he'd been picturing the two women with the same face. A face he knew all too well and was trying hard to forget.

Olivia Monteith's face.

As soon as Olivia stepped through the door, she entered another world. A darker, far more sensual world than any she was familiar with. Beautiful women in revealing gowns circled the room, as elegant as gazelles, and gentlemen prowled among them, like sleek jungle lions, hunting.

A shiver ran over her flesh.

In all the preparation and fuss of getting there, she had not allowed herself to consider that what she was doing was dangerous, but she knew that if she had . . . well, she would have ignored the warning. After all, she was hunting, too—husband hunting. She was on the scent of Wicked Nic Lacey, and when she found him she'd lure him into her trap and close the door.

Estelle had been very helpful, seeing to her travel plans and her stay, incognito, in an inn at a nearby town—information, she said, she'd learned from Abbot. Olivia soon discovered she wasn't the only single lady staying there, and what was normally a situation for censure and comment provoked no questions at all, not even a curious sideways glance. Understanding followed. The demimonde ball, held in a grand manor house outside London, was a lucrative yearly event, and the innkeeper had no intention of making things awkward for his customers.

Estelle also chose her clothing for the ball, smuggling it into her room at Bassingthorpe. She'd liberated it from the attic, and after a thorough cleaning, and various additions and alterations, it was ready. Olivia laughed when she tried on the dress for the first time, unbelieving that anyone would be seen in public in anything so revealing, but Estelle insisted there would be far more eye-catching outfits than this. Now, of course, she understood that the dress was perfect. Estelle had known exactly what Olivia needed to wear in a place where the woman who created the most attention attracted the wealthiest protector.

Black silk and velvet.

The dress was tight at the waist and indecently low over her breasts, accentuating her curves, while its starkness framed her fair beauty. The other women had gone for bright colors, to draw the eye, or pale shades, as if to mock their long-lost innocence. In her black dress, Olivia stood out like a raven among the pigeons. She was already being ogled, and although she had yet to see the man she had come to capture, she told herself that it wouldn't be long before he spotted her.

"Pretend you're at a debutante ball, miss," Estelle had advised her. "Abbot told me that the principle is the same, really, because the prettiest, most outstanding ladies go to the highest bidders."

This seemed a cynical attitude, but Olivia found it did help to think of the exercise in such terms. After the first moment of awkwardness, she set her chin high, and thrust back her shoulders, and strolled into the glittering ballroom as if she had been born to be a demimondaine.

She soon discovered that many of the women knew one another, and there were some curious and resentful glances cast in Olivia's direction. Ignoring them, and the stares of the gentlemen standing around the perimeter of the room, she began to circle with the others.

It didn't take Olivia very long to pick up their manner of walking—swinging her hips and tossing her head. A wicked smile curled her lips as she perambulated, wishing her four friends from the Husband Hunters Club could see her now. They were the only ones she would ever be able to tell about this adventure, and she was looking forward to describing to them, in lurid detail, the grand ballroom and its colorful occupants.

A gentleman taking snuff stopped with his fingers halfway to his nostrils to ogle her chest. Olivia glanced down, realizing her décolletage was slipping. It was already so low that it barely clung to the upper swell of her breasts and was dangerously close to exposing the pink circles of her areolas. Olivia gave the neckline a surreptitious tug. It was all very well to play at being a demimondaine, but she had no intention of showing her naked body to anyone but Wicked Nic Lacey.

The snufftaking gentleman was trying to catch her eye, but she ignored him, setting out to circle the room again. If she didn't find Nic soon she'd have to rethink her plans. Perhaps he'd changed his mind, perhaps he wasn't here after all and this had all been for nothing . . .

And then she saw him.

His long body was folded against the wall, and he looked devastatingly handsome in his evening wear. A swath of dark hair had fallen over his brow, giving him an even more rakish appearance than usual. How could any woman not give him a second, or even a third, glance? As she watched, he sipped from his glass, his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the passing parade of women, coolly assessing them. He was like a groom at a horse fair on the lookout for a new mare.

The metaphor made her flush. Such thoughts were not for respectable young ladies. But Olivia had discovered she was different from the others of her class and position, and if Nic didn't know it by now, then he soon would.

He sipped his champagne again. She was directly in his line of sight now, but he seemed to be concentrating on the redhead next to her, the one with the appallingly horsy laugh. Just as she thought he'd never see her, and she'd have to go around again, his gaze shifted and he looked straight at her.

Nic's expression went blank with shocked surprise. He straightened up, and she saw anger flash into his dark eyes, as they slid over her black dress and lingered on all that bare, exposed flesh. Anger turned to outrage as his gaze returned to hers, holding her frozen for a brief moment that seemed an eternity, before her steps took her past him.

She realized she was trembling.

Olivia knew she was a little afraid of his anger, but at the same time, the memory of his eyes scalding her bare skin was exciting and shocking, almost as if he had physically touched her. She knew it was up to her now. To soothe Nic's temper and show him that she was not the untouchable young lady he believed her to be, and that there was absolutely no need for him to be noble.

"What in Hades are you doing here, Olivia?"

She jumped before she could stop herself as his angry voice rasped in her ear. He slipped his arm through hers and pulled her against his side, holding her there. She stumbled a little, steadied herself, before turning her head to look up into his face. She could see the emotion boiling in his dark eyes, turning his smile into a sneer. He was spoiling for a fight, but she wasn't about to give him one.

"I don't think my presence here is any of your business, Lord—"

"Nic or Lacey." His voice was a furious hiss. "Tonight we are men and women first, lords and ladies second."

"I wouldn't have thought there were any ladies here."

"You'd be surprised who's here, Olivia." His breath felt warm and intimate against her cheek. " And you haven't answered my question. What are you doing here?"

"I did answer your question. It's none of your business."

"You knew I'd be here, didn't you? Answer me."

His fury was making him incautious, and others had noticed. They were openly watching and enjoying the scene, as if they were spectators at a cockfight. Olivia pulled away from him, forcing herself to smile gaily, as if he wasn't glowering at her as if he'd like to throttle her.

"No, I won't answer you. I'm here for my own personal and private reasons." She widened her eyes at him. "And those reasons have nothing whatsoever to do with you, Nic. Why on earth did you think they did?"

Before he could let fly with a blistering reply, they were interrupted by the snufftaking gentleman, who suddenly appeared on Olivia's other side, leering.

"What do you want, Neville?" Nic growled.

"Lacey, you're monopolizing the most fetching woman in the room," Neville protested, his pale eyes sliding down over her breasts and lingering where the velvet teetered on the verge of slipping. "Come with Neville, my beauty. He's far better tempered than this moody brute."

Olivia never liked men who spoke of themselves in the third person—she always believed they secretly thought themselves more important than anybody else, like royalty .

"Oh, I don't mind a man with passion," Olivia said airily.

"Neville has passion," he rumbled. "He's a firebrand of passion."

She opened her mouth to give him a setdown, but Nic was too quick for her.

"Keep the devil out of this, Neville," he said nastily. Sliding his arm around Olivia's waist, he turned her and led her out of the crush.

"That was rude," Olivia said reprovingly, although she was secretly delighted by his possessive attitude. She was enjoying herself very much, but it wouldn't do to let Nic see that.

"You don't know what rude is," he snarled, tugging her toward a secluded alcove, where there was just space enough for a sofa and a potted fern on a plinth.

Nic untied a gold silk cord that was holding up a looped, red velvet curtain and let it fall, effectively creating a separate room. Inside, it was surprisingly private, while the noise from the ballroom beyond became a background hum.

"What possible reasons could you have for coming to a place like this?" he said in a voice that probably brought dread to the hearts of most people.

But not to Olivia. "The same reasons as you, I expect," she said mildly, seating herself on the sofa and arranging her skirts.

He raised his eyebrows in mocking disbelief. "You're looking for a lover for the night? I very much doubt— "

"Nic, I have a secret." She lowered her voice, her heart beginning to beat faster. "I am not quite the angel you think me. I find myself drawn to excitement and to danger. I want to experience all that life has to offer. When you spoke of the demimonde ball, I knew I had to see it for myself. That is why I am here."

He stared into her eyes as if trying to read the lies, and then his gaze dropped down to her neckline, and she recognized the sear of heat in their darkness. Olivia looked down, too, and saw that her bodice had slipped again, only this time her pink areolas were partially visible, and the hint of one nipple. In another moment she would be half naked before him.

That was when Olivia knew for certain that she was no respectable young lady.

Because she was looking forward to it.

Nic tasted the sweet tang of lust. It tightened his muscles and tendons, and jolted his body into readiness. If she was anyone else but Miss Olivia Monteith, he'd be kissing her by now, his hands busy freeing her from her bodice so that he could caress her until she begged for more.

But she wasn't anyone else. She was Miss Olivia Monteith, and it was up to him to keep her safe from scoundrels and seducers like himself.

He closed his eyes with a groan, and when he opened them again found she had tugged up her dress to a more respectable level. Although—he swallowed—not by much. The swell of her breasts threatened to overflow again at any moment, and Nic was finding it difficult to breathe normally.

He tried to concentrate on her expression, and the words she had just spoken. I have a secret. Nic was certain she was playing games with him, but her smooth face and unflinching gaze made it difficult for him to tell her true feelings from her lies. Olivia Monteith addicted to danger and excitement? Olivia Monteith eager to experience life on the edge? Impossible! Girls like Olivia were made to be placed on a marble pedestal, far above the dirt and grime of ordinary life, where they could be an inspiration to lesser mortals.

"Should we be hiding in here, Nic?"

He frowned at her, forcing his wits to focus. "Hiding?"

"Well, I don't think this can be the way things are done at functions like this. How will I ever meet any nice exciting men if I'm shut up in here with you glowering over me like a dog with a bone?"

Something inside him jolted, and an angry protest rose to his lips. Nice exciting men be damned! He bit it back. That was probably exactly what she wanted, to push him to the point of insisting he take her home. Then his evening would be ruined, as well as his visit to Paris, and she'd have him in her clutches once more.

"You are neither my relative nor my guardian," Olivia was saying calmly, giving her bodice another upward tug. "You can't stop me from doing as I please, and my pleasure is to enjoy myself. "

"Olivia, the men who come here are only concerned with finding a pliable woman to take to their beds. Don't tell me that is what you want, because I won't believe you."

She laughed. "You must think me very simple not to know that, Nic. Of course they want to take me to bed, and—" she leaned closer again, bringing with her a heady waft of perfume—"I am more than willing to go. If I am to spend the remainder of my days with Mr. Garsed, I'll need something very special to remember, to distract me from the boredom."

He stared at her, openmouthed. She couldn't possibly mean that. No, she was still trying to bamboozle him into saving her, like some knight in shining armor, no matter how much she had once protested to the contrary.

"You speak of the bedroom as if you know all about it," he sneered. "You can't convince me you are anything but an innocent, Olivia."

"Well, I know a little," she said thoughtfully. "You let me touch you, remember, so I know what a man can feel like. Of course I don't know everything, but I am very keen to learn. Do you want to show me?" she added innocently. "So I don't make a fool of myself? I'd hate to be laughed at in such experienced company."

Yet again Nic found himself without anything to say. She wanted him to "show her" what to do? He knew in his black rake's heart he wanted nothing more than to be her tutor in all things sensual, but instead he was clinging by his fingernails to his tattered gentleman's honor. Just.

"Go home, Olivia. You will be hurt and ruined if you stay here, and I won't be able to protect you."

"I don't want you to protect me," she retorted crossly. "I didn't come here to be a burden on you. I want to enjoy myself. Now, are you going to let me go?"

He looked at her a moment more, trying to read past her defiance, and then he shrugged and held the red velvet curtain aside. Outside their secluded alcove the ball was more boisterous than ever. A couple stood by the wall, just beyond the alcove, their mouths seeking, their bodies pressed tightly together. The woman's skirts were pulled up and the man's hand was busy beneath her silks.

Nic glanced at Olivia and thought she turned a little pale at such blatant lust, but when she noticed him watching, she made a point of standing and viewing the scene with open curiosity.

"This uninhibited behavior is very refreshing," she said. "Have you ever—"

"Not in public. Not here," he spoke between his teeth.

"So you prefer closed doors and privacy, rather like any other gentleman?" She sounded disappointed, blast her.

"I went to an orgy in Rome once," he said, "but I don't remember much after the first hour."

Her blue eyes flickered to his and away again. " What a waste, Nic, if you can't remember it. I'm sure when I go to an orgy I will want to experience every second of it over and over again."

"You're not going to any orgies," he almost shouted.

Olivia glanced at him again, and this time she smiled. He narrowed his eyes at her as she reached out and twisted a dark strand of his hair around her finger, smoothing it back from his neck and his collar. Her touch made him ache, and he wondered how he managed not to haul her into his arms and kiss the life out of her. Perhaps because he knew that he'd find it hard to stop.

"I think I might go and meet some of these interesting people now, Nic."

"Please yourself," he growled.

She hesitated, as if she expected him to argue, but Nic wasn't going to argue with her any more. If and when she wanted help to get home, she could come to him and ask nicely. In the meantime he wasn't going to waste any more time on her. He was there to enjoy himself, and, goddamn it, that was what he was going to do.