Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

G wen was glad to see there was a footman at the door instead of Lake, but she’d expected that at this hour of the evening. Her parents had left an hour ago, and they wouldn’t return until well after midnight. Perhaps as late as two.

Anticipation thrummed in her veins as she walked into the entrance hall at the appointed time of departure. Somerton had said he wouldn’t send his groom to the door, that she must be ready to come outside.

Thinking she heard the approach of a vehicle, she went to the door. The footman opened it, and indeed, a coach had just stopped in front of the house.

Waving toward the footman, Gwen departed and hurried to the coach. The groom opened the door for her, and Gwen climbed inside.

She sat on the forward-facing seat and noted that the viscount was across from her. Did he not want to sit next to her? His coach was large enough for them to do so quite comfortably.

“Good evening, Miss Price. That is an excellent choice of gown, though it still doesn’t quite say ‘reclusive Great-Aunt Beatrice.’” He smirked at her.

“It was the best I could do. At least it’s dark blue. And I wore sturdy boots.” She lifted her hem and held out one foot, wiggling it for his perusal.

“Very clever. You didn’t forget your veil, did you?”

“No. It was just too large to fit into a reticule.” She lifted her skirt higher. “You may want to turn your head.”

His eyes widened before he snapped his head to the side and closed them. “What are you doing?”

“I had to tuck the veil up my skirt.” She pulled it from where it was tucked into her petticoat and settled her gown back down over her legs. “You can look now.”

It took him a moment to return his gaze to hers, and when he did so, Gwen was intensely aware of a smoldering heat. What had happened?

She recalled what he’d said that afternoon about being a rogue and how if she’d been anyone else, he would have stolen a half dozen kisses or more from her by now. Indeed, she’d thought of that revelation many times in the intervening hours. She was torn between wishing she’d never known that and hoping he might yet kiss her.

Though, she shouldn’t want that. Not from a rogue. Except it was precisely for that reason that she did. To be kissed by the Viscount Somerton had to be a transcendent experience. It was too bad she would never know for certain.

“Are you just going to drape that over your head?” he asked.

“Yes, why?”

“I thought you might have a hat or something. How will you keep it in place?”

“I have pins.” She smiled at him. “Those fit in my pocket.”

Placing the veil over her head, she adjusted it so the ends hit her shoulders. Then she pulled the pins from her pocket and set them in her lap.

“You look as though you’re going to a nunnery,” he said.

Gwen laughed. “Do I? How would you know how someone would dress before visiting a nunnery?”

“Not to visit,” he clarified. “To become a novice or whatever one does to learn to be a nun.”

“I am definitely not doing that.” She put one pin through the veil on top of her head and stuck it into her hair. “You are going to have to aid me this evening. I’m afraid I can’t see well. When I tested it earlier, I walked into a chair in my bedchamber.”

“I will be at your side all evening.”

“Perchance asking someone who is already ungainly to wear a veil was not the best plan.” She inserted another pin. “But I will persevere.”

“Did you practice your speaking voice?” he asked.

“I did,” she responded in a high, measured tone. “I tested several, and this seemed the easiest and most believable. Does it sound all right?”

“You sound like a bird who’s drunk a flagon of wine.”

Gwen snorted a laugh, which reminded her of her friends Persephone and Minerva. Both were great snorters. She applied the last pin and shook her head to ensure the veil was secure. “How do I look?”

“Not like a nun in training, but a fortune-teller speaking to the dead.”

Sniggering, Gwen smoothed the veil down against her head. “Perhaps I’ll try conversing with Shakespeare or Milton.”

“You will be the toast of the salon.” He leaned toward the window. “We are nearly there. Are you ready to become Miss Beatrice Villiers?”

Gwen nodded. “This is the most exciting night of my life. Everything about it exceeds my imagination. I can’t thank you enough.”

“I’m so glad.”

The coach came to a stop, and shortly, the door opened. Somerton stepped down and helped Gwen out. She then realized the worst part of the veil—she wasn’t able to see him very well. His sultry gaze and brilliant smile were blurred, and she couldn’t appreciate how handsome he looked in his black suit of clothing.

They walked to the door and were admitted into the stately terrace by a stiff butler. Gwen’s pulse pounded so loudly, she could hear the echo in her ears. She took a deep breath and tried not to clutch Somerton so tightly.

“All right?” he murmured.

“Just excited,” she whispered back. “And nervous.”

The butler instructed them to go upstairs to the drawing room. Gwen went back to squeezing Somerton’s arm as they started up the stairs. “Don’t let me trip,” she said, though if she angled her head down just right, she could see the stairs beneath the hem of the veil.

“I’ve got you,” he assured her, putting his other hand over hers where she gripped his sleeve.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Gwen breathed a sigh of relief. Looking back over her shoulder, she decided going down would be trickier.

“Here we go,” Somerton said softly as they approached the doorway to the drawing room.

Gwen made out the figure of a woman standing just inside. She had gray hair adorned with a cluster of feathers and wore a heavy, jeweled necklace.

“Welcome,” the woman, who must be their hostess, Mrs. Davenport, said. “I assume you are Lord Somerton and his great-aunt?”

“Indeed we are.” Somerton bowed. “I do appreciate you including us this evening. Allow me to present my beloved great-aunt, Miss Beatrice Villiers. She is visiting from the country and was eager to attend a literary salon.”

“We are always delighted to welcome like-minded people with a passion for literature.” Mrs. Davenport seemed to focus on Gwen, but Gwen couldn’t be sure. “Is it possible you attended one of the original Bluestocking Society salons as a young lady?”

“I did not,” Gwen replied in her fake voice, hoping she sounded believable. She would not be able to discern anyone’s reactions through the thick veil. “This is my first visit to London.”

“Oh! Then I am glad you were able to come. Let me introduce you to everyone.” Mrs. Davenport turned—that much Gwen could see—and went into the room.

Thankfully, Somerton escorted her. If she had to let go of him, she worried there might be disaster. They spent the next quarter hour meeting everyone—there were writers, booksellers, a painter, and a small contingent from Society. In fact, there was one name that was familiar to Gwen, so she was relieved to be hidden beneath the veil.

The last person she was introduced to was Miss Josephine Harker. Gwen couldn’t tell for sure, but thought she might be close to her in age.

Mrs. Davenport moved to the center of the room and bade them all sit—there was a semicircle of chairs situated. Somerton guided Gwen to a chair and sat beside her. Gwen noted that Miss Harker sat on his other side. Mrs. Davenport introduced the evening’s featured author, Miss Helena Stainesby, a woman of middle age who’d written a collection of several stories published in the Lady’s Monthly Museum .

Miss Stainesby told them about her stories, which featured women in leadership roles, such as running their own farm, a circulation library, and a gambling den. At her mention of the last one, Miss Harker chuckled, and Gwen saw Somerton look toward her. He also smiled.

When she finished discussing her works, she launched a conversation about the changing roles of women and what they might look like twenty or fifty years from now. It was an engaging topic, and Gwen listened raptly until she could no longer keep quiet. Raising her hand to speak, she said she hoped that one day women would be admitted to universities so they could learn at the same level as men since they were just as intelligent.

This was met with agreement, and the conversation veered toward education. Gwen had no idea how much time elapsed, but Mrs. Davenport announced they would take a respite for refreshment. “Is there no alcohol as with the original Blue Stockings Society meetings?” she asked Somerton in a low voice.

“I don’t know,” he responded. “Would you like wine if it’s available?”

“I’d best not drink or eat anything with this veil.” She envisioned any number of mishaps as she tried to put the food or drink to her mouth while not dislodging the veil. “But you must help yourself. I’m just going to stand for a moment.”

He rose with her. “I’ll be right back.”

Gwen watched him walk away through the haze of her veil. Smiling, she looked about the room. How she would love to attend every week. Perhaps Tamsin could garner an invitation and bring Gwen as her guest. Then, Gwen wouldn’t have to wear a veil.

Miss Stainesby was standing nearby. Though Gwen was hesitant to move, she was also eager to tell the woman how much she admired her and that she looked forward to reading her stories.

It was only a short walk, perhaps five or six shuffling older-woman steps. Surely she could make it that far without assistance.

Two steps in, she caught her foot on the leg of a chair and wobbled. The chair was pushed up against a piece of furniture—a table or a cupboard, Gwen couldn’t exactly tell—and of course that wobbled too. Struggling to keep her balance, she stepped around the chair and gripped the back of the chair, sweeping her body around to face the center of the room. There! She’d done it.

But now she was stuck, as she ought not chance moving again.

“Bloody hell, you’re on fire!”

Gwen wasn’t sure who’d said that, but she immediately smelled something burning. Then she was bathed in liquid from the top of her head and down her back. “What the devil?”

Too late, she realized she hadn’t modulated her tone.

Then she was plunged into darkness as a garment was thrown over her head. The smell of burnt fabric filled her nostrils as someone smacked at the back of her head and shoulders.

“It’s out,” Somerton said, sounding relieved. “Come, Great-Aunt Beatrice, let us survey the damage.” He took Gwen’s arm and steered her toward the doorway.

“There’s a retiring room at the end of the corridor on the left,” Mrs. Davenport said near the door. “Are you all right, Miss Villiers?”

Gwen now understood that she had been on fire. Rather her veil. And Somerton had thrown whatever beverage he’d obtained at her, then draped a garment over her. Was it his coat?

“She’ll be fine,” Somerton said before Gwen could respond. Then they were out of the drawing room, and he was hurrying her toward the retiring room. When they arrived, he ushered her into the room, but upon hearing voices, Gwen realized it was not empty.

“Pardon us,” Somerton said. “Would you mind giving me and my great-aunt some privacy? She’s just suffered a mishap with a candle and her veil, and I’m afraid she’ll need to tidy up.”

“Of course,” someone replied, and a moment later, Gwen heard the snap of the door closing.

And then there was light—or more light than there had been—as Somerton removed the garment. “Are you all right?” he asked, sounding most concerned.

He moved behind her, and she felt him fussing with her veil and then running his hand over her shoulder and the upper part of her back. That felt rather nice, actually.

“Your veil has a large hole, and from the right angle, someone standing beside you can see your ear and probably the side of your face. I threw my coat over you to ensure no one glimpsed that you are not a pockmarked septuagenarian.”

Gwen pushed the veil up so she could see. “This is so much better.” She pivoted to face him. “Did I really catch my veil on fire ?”

“Yes.” He stared at her, his expression a mix of concern and consternation.

“I was just trying to walk to Miss Stainesby so I could speak with her.” Gwen pursed her lips. “I knew I shouldn’t have tried, but it was only a handful of steps!” She lifted her hand to touch the veil where it was damaged. “What did you toss on me? It feels sticky.”

“Ratafia. That was all that was available. I didn’t really want it, but Mrs. Davenport insisted you needed something to drink. So I took it, and I’m glad I did.”

There was a tall mirror in the corner. Gwen went to stand in front of it and survey the damage. Turning her head, she saw the singed veil. “You are correct that this will allow people to see me.” An idea struck her. “I can just take it off and turn it so the hole is in the back, though it is rather damp. Will that allow people to see I am not an elderly woman?” She began removing pins.

When she was finished, she looked in the mirror once more. Her gaze met Somerton’s. He was standing behind her—not too close, but the intensity of his stare in the glass made it feel like he was directly at her back. Indeed, she imagined she felt his hand moving over her again, his caress stirring something forbidden inside her.

Gwen turned to face him. “Will you help me adjust it so the hole won’t reveal anything?”

Somerton stepped toward her, his eyes dark and his jaw tight. He lifted his hands and rotated the veil atop her head.

Now he was very close. So close she could smell his tantalizing fragrance—pine and spice. It stirred her senses, as did his proximity. She’d been this close to him before when they’d waltzed and when they’d worked together on his reading. But this felt different.

“Did you mean what you said this afternoon?” she asked, her voice now sounding rather low and gravelly, quite the opposite of her Great-Aunt Beatrice voice.

“What?” His gaze held hers as his hands remained poised at her head.

“That if I weren’t your friend’s sister, you would have kissed me a half dozen times.”

“Yes. At least that many.” He uttered the words without hesitation and with great certainty.

“Perhaps you could just let me have one?”

His hands came onto her head and skimmed down her face, cupping her cheeks. “Gwen, do you know what you are asking?”

“Yes.”

“And you know who I am. What I am.”

“Yes. That’s why I want you to kiss me.”

He groaned, his eyes closing for the barest moment. “You tempt me greatly.”

Gwen turned her head slightly and brushed her lips against his palm. “You tempt me. I’m only asking for one kiss. Please?”

His eyes darkened to a turbulent storm. “This is not part of our agreement.” He brushed his thumb over her lower lip, and Gwen wanted to lean into him. Her body trembled with desire.

She wanted his kiss so badly, but recognized she’d put him in a terrible position. He was trying very hard not to be a rogue, and here she was begging him to be. “I am asking too much.”

“Ask me one more time, and I will grant your wish.”

Without hesitation, she said, “Please, Somerton, kiss me.”

“Lazarus,” he rasped. “My name is Lazarus.”

His lips swept over hers as his hands moved back to cup her head. Gwen sparked to life, as if she’d been lying dormant over winter and the sun had awakened her once more.

She put her hands on his shoulders, one of them still grasping the hairpins, as his mouth whispered against hers. Eager to feel him, Gwen pressed her body closer to his.

Lazarus licked her lip and slipped his tongue inside her mouth. Gasping with delight, Gwen clutched at him more tightly as he deepened the kiss, his head angling as their lips moved together.

He lifted his head briefly, but only for the barest respite, as he claimed her mouth once more. He kissed her with a passion that surpassed any flowery words she’d ever read in a love poem. Indeed, she wasn’t sure she could find words to describe what was happening.

“Oh, good God, what are you doing ?”

Lazarus stepped back from Gwen, and she brought her hand to her mouth, both because her lips were quivering from his kiss and because she was horrified they’d been caught. She’d broken several rogue rules, and she was most certainly going to have to pay the price.

Gwen saw that it was Miss Harker who’d seen them. She cast an accusatory glare at Lazarus. “Somerton, you are an absolute scoundrel. You know better!”

His gaze dipped, and he appeared more than sufficiently reprimanded. Gwen sent Miss Harker a worried look. “It wasn’t entirely his fault.” Gwen had practically begged him to kiss her. That had to make her a roguess. Or something.

“He is wholly to blame,” Miss Harker insisted. “Although you should know better also. But then, you came to this event in a disguise in his company without supervision.”

Put like that, she made Gwen sound utterly devoid of intelligence—or propriety. Gwen wondered if she might be right. At least when it came to the viscount. He made her want to risk things she oughtn’t. Because he made her feel beautiful and desirable. No one had ever made her feel that way.

Gwen mounted the only defense she had. “The viscount was kind enough to organize this invitation for me because he knew I would enjoy attending a literary salon.”

“ I organized it for you,” Miss Harker said. She sent Lazarus another scolding look and clucked her tongue. “You’re lucky it was me who found you. I wanted to see if all was well or if Miss Price needed to leave.”

“You knew it was me under the veil?” Gwen asked. How did she even know who Gwen was when Gwen hadn’t ever met her before?

“I did, because Somerton asked me to obtain an invitation for him and for you.”

“I never said it was for her,” Lazarus mumbled. “You assumed.”

Why had she assumed? Unfortunately, Gwen did not have time to chase that thought at the moment. “I was just going to repin my veil so I could return to the drawing room,” Gwen explained. “Somerton was, er, helping me rotate the veil so the hole caused by the candle is at the back of my head.”

“I’ll help you get it secured,” Miss Harker offered, though it sounded more like a command. She glanced toward Lazarus. “You can wait outside or in the drawing room.”

“She’ll need help to get back. She can’t see well with the veil.”

“And I’m clumsy even without it,” Gwen added. “With it, I’m a walking disaster, as evidenced by my scorched headwear.” She was fortunate nothing else had caught on fire, such as her hair.

“I’ll be in the drawing room.” Lazarus met Gwen’s gaze, and she saw a flash of regret. It made her heart twist with disappointment. “We should leave soon.”

Gwen nodded as he departed, her earlier joy replaced by a pang of sadness. What had been a thrilling adventure had devolved into a catastrophe. “I suppose I’m ruined now.” There had been no discussion of marriage, which would be required since they’d been caught in a compromising position.

“You are not ruined,” Miss Harker said firmly. “Sit.” She gestured to a chair set at a small dressing table with a mirror.

“You don’t plan to tell anyone what you saw?” Gwen handed her one of the pins.

“Why would I? If I wanted to be a horrible gossip, I would have already told all and sundry who you really were under the veil.”

That was true. “How did you know who I was?” Gwen asked as Miss Harker fixed the first pin through the veil into her hair. “I mean, why did you assume it was me?”

“Because I was needling Somerton about his association with you. I thought he might actually have feelings for you.” She arched a brow at Gwen in the mirror. “Perhaps I was right.”

“He wanted to kiss me, and I wanted him to,” Gwen said. “That hardly signifies as ‘feelings.’”

Miss Harker shrugged. “That’s possible, given his reputation, but he gave me the sense that he at least liked you very much.”

Gwen’s mood rebounded upon hearing that. “How do you know him?” Gwen didn’t think Miss Harker was part of Society, but perhaps Gwen just hadn’t met her yet. She looked like a Society miss, with her fashionable dark coral evening gown that could have come from Bond Street.

Taking another pin from Gwen, Miss Harker replied, “My mother owns the Siren’s Call, and I work there most evenings.”

“You work at a gambling hell?” Gwen flinched as Miss Harker stabbed another pin into her veil—not because the pin hurt her, but because she’d probably just insulted her by calling her mother’s establishment a hell.

Miss Harker smiled. “Yes. Owned and operated by women.”

“Somerton is a frequent visitor?” Gwen asked.

“Somewhat.” Miss Harker took the final pin and set it through the veil. “Pull that down and let’s make sure it looks all right. We probably should have done that bit first. Particularly to guard against anyone else coming in.” She shook her head. “This was ill-advised, and I’m sorry for my part in it.”

Gwen pulled the veil over her face and surveyed her image in the mirror. “It looks good to me, but you are likely a better judge.”

“It is passable,” Miss Harker said. “It’s fortunate the hole could be moved.”

Smiling, Gwen turned to the side of the chair and lifted the veil so she could see Miss Harker more clearly. Just for a moment. “Thank you. Not just for helping me now and not telling anyone what you saw, but for securing an invitation tonight. This has been the most wonderful evening of my life.”

Miss Harker’s dark brow ticked up again and her wide mouth tipped into a smirk. “Because of Somerton or the literary conversation?”

Both, but Gwen didn’t know Miss Harker well enough to share that. She wasn’t even sure if she’d share it with her friends when they met tomorrow. Grasping the edge of her veil to pull it down once more, she met Miss Harker’s gaze. “Would you like to come to tea tomorrow? I meet weekly with some dear friends. Perhaps you’d care to join us.”

Miss Harker hesitated. “Why?”

Gwen just knew Miss Harker would fit in. Anyone who would help her attend a literary salon and keep her secret about kissing a known rogue was someone worth calling friend. “Because after the way you helped me tonight, we are already friends. I should like to return your kindness, and I will have trouble doing that that unless we are in the same social circle.”

Laughing, Miss Harker fixed her with a curious stare. “You are unlike anyone I’ve ever met. I don’t think we can be in the same social circle. Not really. While I do attend certain Society functions—with my father—I have not had a Season and never will. I’d be judged too old at twenty-five. And while you are undoubtedly delightful, I am not sure I’d feel as comfortable with your friends.”

“Bah, of course you will. They are just like me. Except one is the daughter of a duke. And one is an actual duchess, but she won’t be there tomorrow as she’s recently become a mother. There will be a baroness and, this will make you feel more comfortable, a companion with absolutely no ties to Society save her friend—that’s the daughter of the duke, Lady Minerva.”

“Halifax?” Miss Harker asked. “The Duke of Henlow’s daughter?”

“The very one.”

“I know her brother—he also comes into the Siren’s Call. But then I also know your brother. He’s become a frequent patron this Season.”

“That is not surprising. Because he’s now very good friends with Sheff and Somerton.”

“You call him ‘Sheff’? You must know him well.”

“Min is one of my closest friends. We met at Weston nearly two years ago. I’ve come to know her brother while we are all in residence there in August. The gentlemen don’t stay the entire month as we do, but they are there a week or so. This past August, we socialized more because one of the gentlemen—the Duke of Wellesbourne, married one of our friends.”

“That is the duchess, then,” Miss Harker concluded.

Gwen nodded. “You’ll come tomorrow?”

Miss Harker shrugged. “Why not?”

Smiling, Gwen lowered the veil and stood. She gave Miss Harker the time and her address. “Now, you really will need to guide me to the drawing room, or I will likely walk into the wall.”

Miss Harker offered Gwen her arm. “I hope the kiss with Somerton was just that—a curiosity that will not be repeated. You seem a nice person, and I would hate for him to break your heart.”

“But I thought you suspected he had romantic inclinations toward me,” Gwen said.

“He may, but that doesn’t mean he will make a good husband. Some people are not able to be monogamous. Perhaps that doesn’t bother you, however.”

The idea of an unfaithful spouse was unacceptable to Gwen. She’d be devastated if her husband was disloyal. After watching her own parents, she wasn’t sure she could settle for less than mutual, unconditional love. Alas, she would probably have to. But keeping faith was a requirement upon which she would demand. “I think it would. Do some people not mind?”

Miss Harker lifted a shoulder—at least Gwen thought she did. “My own parents are not faithful to one another, but neither of them cares. They don’t live together, and they rarely see each other. Honestly, I see no benefit in marriage.”

“None? Not even the…physical aspect?”

“One needn’t be married to enjoy that,” Miss Harker said, sounding as though she was smiling. “But that is not advice,” she added firmly.

They left the retiring room, and Gwen considered what Miss Harker had said to her—about Lazarus and about herself, cautioning her not to have her heart broken. Was Gwen remotely in danger of that? Wanting to be kissed by Lazarus and harboring a tendre for him were not the same thing.

She would do well to remember that. And to not think about kissing him again.

That last part was going to be difficult.