Lady Rosabella's Ruse

He gritted his teeth and forced the thought aside, letting his idle gaze drift to Mrs Mallow. The woman pouted. He pretended not to notice. His gaze once more fell on Hapton, who was lounging, eyes half-closed as if listening to the music, when in reality he was also watching the companion ply her needle.

Garth kept his hands relaxed and his gaze moving. Mrs De Lacy and Mrs Phillips had commandeered the window seat furthest from the harpsichord and were exchanging remarks about their dress and yawning copiously.

All the while their plump hostess sat beaming happily.

For a house rumoured to be seething with carnal sin and every kind of vice known to man, he had never been so bored in his life.

He pushed to his feet as Penelope played the closing notes of the piece of music. Applauding loudly, he strolled to her side. Others politely joined him. Penelope blushed, rose to her feet and dipped a curtsy.

Garth took her hand and led her away from the instrument. ‘Let us take a turn about the room. You have been wearing your fingers to the bone, my lady. Perhaps there is someone else who would like to play or sing for us?’

Her gaze when it met his contained resentment. He gave her his most charming smile.

Lady Keswick said something to her companion, too low to be heard, and Mrs Travenor nodded and rose to her feet.

Hapton sat up. ‘Why, I believe Mrs Travenor has been hiding her light under a bushel.’

The lady in question stiffened, but kept walking.

‘How delightful,’ Mrs Mallow said.

‘Mrs Travenor has a beautiful voice,’ Lady Keswick said. ‘Will someone play while she sings?’

‘I will,’ Mrs De Lacy said from the window. She was one of the kindest of the racy females here. The ardent expression on Mrs Phillips’s face indicated a hope that the beautiful widow would sing like the old crow whose feathers she emulated in her dress. Garth found himself wincing. He had no wish to see Mrs Travenor embarrassed.

He guided Penelope to a chair and perched one hip on the arm, blocking her from any possible intrusion. Garth bared his teeth at the approaching Bannerby and the man gave him a sour look and with a huff took the seat vacated by Mrs De Lacy.

Rose—Mrs Travenor, Garth corrected himself—glided to stand beside the instrument. Black suited her. It emphasised the warm tones of her skin, the beauty of her stunningly expressive eyes and the lush ripeness of her lips. Most women looked washed out in black, their skin deadened. She looked dramatic, like an exotic fruit that could taste either gloriously sweet or surprisingly bitter.

Every muscle, every sinew, every blood beat inside him, wanted to taste, to savour, to learn her unique flavour. He curled his lip at his body’s state of arousal. These days most of the thrill lay in the chase, not in the capture.

He doubted this one would be any different.

In which case, why bother?

And yet …

Mrs Travenor gave Mrs De Lacy her music and stood at her right shoulder.

‘Why are you doing this?’ Penelope hissed up at him.

‘Adoring you?’ he murmured back. ‘Isn’t that what you want?’

‘No.’

He raised a brow and for a moment Penelope looked ready to scream. He curbed a smile. Adoring swains did not find the tantrums of their adored ones amusing, though he dearly wanted to laugh at her chagrin.

Mark would not appreciate his being amused. Probably wouldn’t appreciate his methods either. But that was his friend’s fault. He should better guard what was his instead of being so trusting. Had he learned nothing during his years on the town?

The first notes from Mrs Travenor’s throat were low and hoarse. Panic filled her gaze and he winced, expecting the worst. She dragged in another quick breath and her voice steadied; at first barely audible, it grew in volume. Everyone paused mid-breath the better to hear. Even Garth. Then her voice swelled with astonishing depth and strength. The room vibrated with its power.

Not a weak tinny soprano, after all, this dark exotic female. A stunning contralto. She’d chosen Handel’s ‘Ombra Mai Fu’, a distinctly odd choice. Originally composed for a castrato, it was often performed as a female trouser role. Her tones were rich with passion and dark with mystery.

There wasn’t a man in the room who wasn’t wholly focused on her. A feral odour of lust and excitement filled the room, when all she was singing about was sitting beneath the shade of a tree.

As the last notes died away, male applause thundered. Bannerby cried, ‘Bravo.’

Garth rose to his feet. ‘Encore.’

Hapton followed suit, as did Fitz and Phillips.

The women smiled and clapped, any sound deadened by their gloves.

Mrs Travenor curtsied and brought Mrs De Lacy to her feet. Both women curtsied together. Garth narrowed his eyes. So the mysterious young widow was wont to perform. In drawing rooms? Or on the stage? The professional manner, the confidence—hell, the skill—said she was no amateur. What a surprise. An opera singer who left the house in the dead of night.

What the hell was she up to?

Despite the calls for more, Mrs Travenor shook her head and returned to the shadows behind her employer, who said cheerfully, ‘Be still, you rascals. She will sing for us again another day. Will you play for us, Mrs Mallow, or will you sing?’

Mrs Mallow’s irritation in being asked to follow such a performance could not have been more obvious.

Garth leaned forwards to whisper in Penelope’s ear, ‘Be glad she did not call on you.’

Penelope’s expression said she was very glad indeed. She shrugged an impatient shoulder.

A glance at Mrs Travenor revealed no expression at all. The woman was an actress par excellence. First she played the nun and now the siren. His curiosity had been thoroughly roused. Along with a decidedly unruly part of his anatomy.

The woman presented a challenge. His blood stirred at the realisation. Very well. He’d pick up the gauntlet and find out exactly what she was about. Honest or nefarious. Virtuous or clever whore. The truth would out.

Mrs Mallow elected to play rather than sing. No fool, Maria Mallow. She never had been. She’d landed an ancient earl at the age of sixteen, buried him not long afterwards and spent most of her adult life as a rich and very indulged widow. She was the sort of woman he’d have been only too delighted to pursue at this kind of party, if his interest hadn’t been diverted.

Boredom had dissipated. He felt enervated. All because of Mrs Travenor. Fiend seize it, his quarry would be a whole lot easier to catch if he didn’t have to play nursemaid to Penelope.

He gulped down half of his wine and gave Penelope a toothsome smile.

She glowered over her fan. ‘Why can’t you bother someone else?’

‘Go home and I won’t bother you at all.’

Like the spoiled miss she was, Penelope slumped in her chair and gazed at the piano, her pretty mouth in a pout. What the hell was Mark thinking marrying such a girl? Obviously thought hadn’t entered into his decision. Thank God Bannerby was too much of a coward to challenge Garth head-on for what he wanted, the puny weakling.

Another warning would probably do it, despite Penelope’s encouragement. Not that she seemed particularly encouraging today. More sulky and unhappy.

No doubt because Garth was getting in the way. Well, she should have picked a man with a stiffer spine.

Hapton was a different proposition altogether. He took what he wanted and got away with it. Of all the men here, he presented the most danger to the pretty bride should he bestir himself in her direction. Fortunately, he seemed more taken with the lady companion. Garth suppressed the urge to warn him off there, too.

To Hapton that would be an irresistible dare.