Regency High Society Vol 7: A Reputable Rake / The Heart's Wager / The Venetian's Mistress / The Gambler's Heart. Diane Gaston
Morgana nodded firmly. ‘I am certain such rumours are none of our affair.’
The guests began returning to their seats for the second half of the programme, and Morgana had an excuse to escape Lady Rawley.
When she again took her seat next to Sloane, he said, ‘I see you met Lord and Lady Rawley.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said brightly. ‘Charming woman. She could not say enough about you.’
He laughed, that deep sound that seemed to resonate inside her like the bass notes of the music. ‘I hope you defended my honour, Miss Hart.’
She looked him directly in the eyes. ‘I did.’
Hannah leaned over her to ask Sloane something about the music. Soon the second half commenced, several selections from Haydn, guaranteed to please everyone.
It was not until the supper after the performance that Morgana found an opportunity to speak with Sloane again. He had not remained with their party for the meal, but joined some others, to Hannah’s complete dismay. Morgana noticed him walk over to the buffet table to fill his plate and so joined him.
‘May I assist you, Miss Hart?’ he asked politely.
‘How kind of you.’ She seized this chance, keeping her tone casual. ‘I have been meaning to ask you, Mr Sloane. There is a service you might do for me, if you would be so good.’
He cast her a suspicious look. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing of consequence,’ she assured him. ‘I wish to contact Harriette Wilson, and I wondered if you might give me her direction so that I might pen her a letter.’
‘Harriette Wilson?’ His voice barely managed to remain a whisper. He moved closer to her and put a small round potato on her plate. ‘Why the devil do you want to correspond with her?’
‘Oh,’ she said lightly, ‘that need not concern you. I only need to discover where she resides, and because you are acquainted with her, I thought you would help me.’
‘What are you up to, Miss Hart? Does this have anything to do with that infernal glove shop?’ he asked in a fierce whisper.
‘No,’ she said, pointing to a small sausage, and again not entirely telling the truth. ‘I wish you might forget that episode.’
‘And the scrap in the park? And what else? I do not need to be involved in your schemes, Miss Hart.’ He pointed to a parsnip and she shook her head.
‘Then I am sorry I troubled you. I thank you for providing my meal.’ She reached for the plate.
He did not let go. ‘I will carry it for you.’
They walked across the room, both with stiff expressions on their faces. When Hannah spied Sloane, she insisted he join them, sitting him next to her, of course. He looked distracted and annoyed, even as he listened to Hannah’s chatter.
Morgana, blood still boiling at his scold, could barely muster a word of conversation with her aunt, whose favourite topic of the moment was how splendid Mr Sloane was, and how kind he’d been to attend to her dinner. On the other side, her cousin Varney mumbled to her about how he did not care if Sloane was worth more than ten thousand a year, he did not like him paying his addresses to Hannah.
Lady Cowdlin leaned over both Morgana and Varney to speak to the Poltrops. A moment later she insisted to Sloane that he share their carriage after the musicale.
* * *
When the party had ended, Morgana stood at Sloane’s side while they waited for the line of carriages to move.
Sloane pretended not to notice as Morgana tapped her foot impatiently. True, he was also tired of the wait, and Hannah’s constant chatter had worn very thin. He could have walked home twice already and the carriage was not yet in sight.
What the devil was Morgana up to this time? He swore it must have to do with that female Lucy. Had not the altercation in the park shown her how dangerous the dissolute world could be? Harriette Wilson, indeed. Harriette was just the sort who would spread in every gentleman’s ear that Cyprian Sloane’s acquaintance Miss Hart had corresponded with her. He would be blamed for whatever mischief Morgana Hart was plotting.
The carriage finally pulled up. Even though he was thoroughly vexed with her, Sloane could not help but relish the feel of her hand in his as he assisted her into the carriage. He took the seat next to her, her perfume filling his nostrils, the heat of her body warming him. She sat stiffly and turned her head to look out of the window into the dark night.
When the carriage arrived at Culross Street and good-nights were said, Sloane helped Miss Hart from the vehicle. The coachman drove off and Sloane walked her to her door.
When she reached for her door knocker, he stilled her hand. ‘Not so hasty, Miss Hart. I would speak with you first.’
Chapter Eight
Sloane doused the rush light, giving her time to enter her house if she chose. She did not. The darkness afforded some protection from passers-by, though it also gave the illusion of intimacy, as if a blanket wrapped around them both.
He stood close to her. The night breeze stirred a lock of her hair that had come loose from its pins. He almost swept it back into place.
He forced himself to get to the point. ‘Tell me why you wish to correspond with Harriette Wilson.’
She did not flinch from him, but remained still, face upturned to his. ‘I seek some information from her.’
He disliked her evasion. ‘What information?’
‘That, sir, is private.’ He could almost see her chin set in stubbornness. She turned to her door.
He grabbed her arms. ‘I have a nose for trouble, Miss Hart, and I smell it now.’ But what he really smelled was the exotic spice and floral scent she wore. ‘I demand to know what mischief you are in this time.’
She did not pull away from his grip. ‘I assure you, it is no mischief,’ she said softly.
‘You are flirting with a dangerous world, Miss Hart.’ He leaned closer to make her heed his words. ‘The glove shop may be respectable by day, but you can be sure it is not respectable at night.’
‘I know this.’ Her voice was low. It put him in mind of dark bedchambers rather than dark entryways. ‘You need not worry.’
But he was worried. He told himself his only interest was avoiding blame for whatever her scheme was this time. He told himself he rued the day he had purchased property next to hers.
But, at the same time, she seemed pliant under his grasp. Her femininity was an intoxicating lure. It had been long since he’d tasted a woman’s lips, or held a woman against him. Morgana Hart felt wonderful in his arms. He leaned closer and she rose on tiptoe. She placed her palms against his chest, her touch soft, but it filled him with heat. He wanted to slide his hands behind her and press her to his groin, to ease the ache that increased with each sweet breath that cooled his cheeks.
His arm trembled as he set her away from him, then released her. He sounded her knocker and stepped away, waiting until the door opened and she disappeared inside. She did not look back and he made his way slowly to his own door.
Morgana hesitated only slightly as she stepped into the hall. She greeted Cripps as if nothing had happened, but inside she felt altered, as if Sloane had rearranged all her organs. He must have removed one of them, because she was aware of needing… something.
She sounded very normal when she spoke to Cripps about closing up the house for the night. She even calmly ascended the stairs.
But once out of her butler’s sight, she ran to the door of her bedchamber. She felt like dancing—or weeping—she did not