Dicing with the Dangerous Lord. Margaret McPhee
first his mother and then his sister sitting by his side. Marianne’s focus was intent upon the play, the emotions that played across her face showing that she was caught entirely in the fate of the character Venetia was portraying. There was a contentment and a confidence about his sister these days, and Linwood was glad of it. His eyes moved to the man responsible, her husband who sat on the other side of the box, Rafe Knight.
He waited until the interval, then left with Knight to fetch the women refreshments.
‘You saw yesterday’s copy of the Messenger?’
‘Of course.’ Knight’s mouth tightened. ‘The Bow Street office has discovered that Rotherham did not die by his own hand.’
Linwood thought of the rumour of suicide, the seeds of which his own newspaper had sown.
‘Murder or suicide, either way there will be an end to it now,’ said Knight.
Linwood shook his head. ‘There will be questions and digging into the past. An investigation risks stirring up that which should remain hidden.’
‘The bastard is causing trouble even from beyond the grave.’
‘Maybe you should leave town, take Marianne to the country for the winter.’
‘We’re better off here, knowing what is happening. If the truth comes out…’
Linwood felt his face harden. ‘It will not come out. I will see to that.’
The two men looked at one another with respect. Neither liked the other, but they were united in a common cause.
Knight gave a nod. ‘You have not asked me.’
‘And you have not asked me,’ said Linwood. ‘It is better if we leave it that way, for Marianne’s sake.’
Knight gave a grim nod of agreement.
It was the night after Linwood had brought his family to the theatre. Venetia’s night off, if attending Fallingham’s ball could be described as such a thing. She was so busy keeping track of where Linwood was in the ballroom that she did not notice Hawick’s approach.
‘Venetia…’ His voice was low and possessive. She felt her heart sink even as she turned to face him.
‘Your Grace.’ She curtsied.
Hawick’s gaze lingered over her breasts as he spoke. ‘Come now, there is no need for such formality between us.’
‘There is every need and I do not wish to insult you,’ she said.
‘As if you could ever do that.’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘Are we not friends?’
‘In as far as men and women can ever be friends.’
He laughed.
She smiled up at him, her smooth practised smile that held just the hint of seduction.
‘Are you enjoying the ball?’
‘Indeed. It is a sumptuous affair, your Grace.’
‘My name is Anthony, Venetia. I would that you used it.’
She smiled again, as if in agreement, but she did not use his given name. ‘Lord Fallingham has gone to much expense.’
‘It is nothing compared to the ball I will give for you.’
‘We have been through all of this before.’
‘Indulge me,’ he whispered.
She smiled and looked into his eyes. ‘You know that I indulge no one save myself.’
He smiled. ‘You are a cruel woman, Venetia.’
‘But an honest one.’
He laughed again. ‘Come place your hand within my arm and let us take a small promenade around the room.’
Despite the antipathy she felt towards Hawick and his arrogance, she tucked her hand into his elbow and let him lead her round the edge of the ballroom. She was confident in her ability to remain in control, but when they got to the small exhibition room in which Fallingham had his collection of antiquities, Hawick made a quick unexpected move and, before she realised what was happening, he had steered her into the exhibition room.
‘Your Grace! I must protest.’ Venetia had spent a lifetime avoiding situations such as this. She knew that flirting with men in the safety of a crowd was one thing, but being alone with them in private was quite another.
Hawick was dressed more expensively than any other man or woman in the room. With his title and riches and classically handsome looks she supposed he was the epitome of what most women in her position sought. But Venetia had no intention of ever being any man’s mistress. Hell would freeze over before she would put herself in that position—selling herself to some rich man, letting him take everything of her before he grew tired and cast her aside as if she were a worthless piece of rubbish. Echoes of her childhood whispered through her mind, fuelling her determination and disgust all the more.
‘I am sure that you will agree it is far beyond the time that we spoke with a degree of privacy, Venetia.’ His eyes, so clear and blue, bored down into hers. ‘Enough of letters and notes and conducting our negotiations in public.’
The moon lit the gallery in soft silver, casting shadows before the carved marble statues, gifting them with a life they did not possess.
‘Stay here and contemplate what you will. If you will excuse me, I have other dances to dance.’
He caught her wrist as she turned to walk away, pulling her back to him. ‘Not until we have spoken together.’
She raised her eyebrow and looked pointedly at where he gripped her, before shifting her gaze to his. There was nothing of enticement now, only cool wrath.
‘Please, Venetia,’ he begged, but he did not ease the tightness of his fingers around her wrist.
‘Very well,’ she said, trying to control both her anger and the little germ of panic. ‘As you are so impolitely insistent.’
‘Let us not prevaricate any longer. You know that I want you, that I have wanted you for months. I have offered you more than any other woman and always it seems the sum is never quite enough.’
‘You misunderstand, Your Grace—’
But he held up his other hand to stop her. ‘And now Devlin is on the scene, bidding against me.’
‘You are mistaken.’
‘I do not think so, Venetia. Your ploy has worked.’
‘Ploy?’
‘Using Devlin to drive up your price.’ He smiled. ‘I know the game as well as you, and, indeed, I commend you on the way you have played it. I bow to your shrewdness.’ His fair hair glinted silver in the moonlight as he bowed his head to her in acknowledgement. ‘You win. You shall have whatever you want. Carte blanche. I am yours to command. Name your price and I will pay it.’
‘As I said, you misunderstand me, Your Grace.’
‘On the contrary, I think I understand you very well, Venetia.’
‘I am not for sale.’ She spoke slowly, coldly, all the while holding his gaze with an implacable force that matched those of the words. ‘So if you would be so kind as to release my wrist I do not believe we have anything more to say to one another.’
She saw the flare of incredulity in his eyes.
‘What new tactic is this?’
‘No tactic. It is the truth.’
‘We have been in negotiations for months.’
‘No, we have not. You have sent me letters making offers. I have never replied to a single one of them.’
There was a silence in which the light in