“You should have come directly to me.”
Augusta narrowed her eyes. “What would have been the point? You would have lectured me and made a most unpleasant scene, just as you are doing now.”
“I would have taken care of the matter for you,” Harry said grimly. “And you would not have put your neck and your reputation at risk as you did tonight.”
“It seems to me, my lord, that both of our necks and our reputations were at risk tonight.” Augusta tried a tentative smile of appeasement. “And I must say, you were most impressive. I am very glad you turned up when you did, sir. It seems to me it all turned out for the best and we should both be thankful the thing is over.”
“Do you really believe I am going to let the matter rest there?”
Augusta drew herself up proudly. “I will, of course, understand completely if you feel my actions tonight have put me beyond the pale. If you feel you cannot possibly tolerate the notion of marrying me, I shall be quite willing to cry off and free you from this engagement.”
“Free me, Augusta?” Harry reached out to catch hold of her wrist. “I fear that is impossible now. I have come to the conclusion that I shall never be free of you. You are going to bedevil me for the rest of my life and if that is to be my fate, I may as well take what consolation I can for what I shall be obliged to endure.”
Before Augusta had time to realize what he intended, Harry had yanked her across the short distance between them. An instant later she found herself lying across his strong thighs, as his mouth came down on hers.…
Rendezvous
Bantam Books by Amanda Quick
Ask your bookseller
for the books you have missed
AFFAIR
DANGEROUS
DECEPTION
DESIRE
DON’T LOOK BACK
I THEE WED
LATE FOR THE WEDDING
MISCHIEF
MISTRESS
MYSTIQUE
RAVISHED
RECKLESS
RENDEZVOUS
SCANDAL
SEDUCTION
SLIGHTLY SHADY
SURRENDER
WICKED WIDOW
WITH THIS RING
FOR TWO VALUED EDITORS:
Coleen O’Shea, who took a chance
on the first Amanda Quick books
AND
Rebecca Cabaza, who edits them now
with understanding and perception.
MY THANKS
PROLOGUE
The war was over.
The man once known as Nemesis stood at the window of his study and listened to the clamor in the streets. All London was celebrating the final defeat of Napoléon at Waterloo as only Londoners could celebrate. Fireworks, music, and the roar of thousands of exuberant people filled the city.
It was over, but as far as Nemesis was concerned it was not finished. Now it appeared it would never be finished, at least not to his satisfaction. The identity of the traitor who had called himself Spider was still a mystery. The final puzzle must go unsolved. There would be no justice for those who had died at the Spider’s hands.
As for Nemesis, he knew it was time to get on with his own life. He had duties and responsibilities to fulfill, not the least of which was the matter of finding himself a suitable bride. He would approach the task as he approached everything else, with logic and intellectual precision. He would make up a list of candidates and he would choose one from the list.
He knew exactly what he wanted in a wife. For the sake of his name and title, she must be a woman of virtue. For the sake of his soul she must be a woman he could trust, a woman who understood the meaning of loyalty.
Nemesis had lived too long in the shadows. He had learned the true value of trust and loyalty and he knew they were priceless.
He listened to the noise in the streets. It was over. No man was more grateful for an end to the appalling waste of war than the man who had been called Nemesis.
But a part of him would always regret that there had been no final rendezvous between himself and the bloody traitor known as Spider.
There was no sound as the library door was opened, but the slight draft created caused the candle flame to flicker. Crouched in the shadows at the opposite end of the long room, Augusta Ballinger froze in the act of trying to insert a hairpin into the lock of her host’s desk.
From her damning position on her knees behind the massive oak desk she stared in stunned shock at the single candle she had allowed herself for illumination. The flame sputtered once more as the door was closed very softly. With a gathering sense of dread, Augusta peered over the edge of the desk and gazed down the length of the darkened room.
The man who had entered the library stood quietly in the inky depths near the door. He was tall and appeared to be wearing a black dressing gown. She could not see his face in the gloom. Nevertheless, as she crouched there holding her breath, Augusta was aware of a deep, disturbing sense of awareness.
Only one man had this effect on Augusta’s senses. She did not need to see him clearly in order to hazard a guess as to who lounged there like a large beast of prey in the shadows. She was almost certain it was Graystone.
He was not sounding an alarm, however, which was an enormous relief. It was strange how at ease he appeared to be in the darkness, as if it were his natural environment. Then again, Augusta thought optimistically, perhaps he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps he had only come downstairs to look for a book and assumed the candle had been carelessly left behind by someone who had come down before him.
For an instant Augusta even dared to hope he had not noticed her peering anxiously at him over the top of the desk. Perhaps he had failed to observe her there at the other end of the big room. If she was very careful she might still get out of this mess with her reputation intact. She ducked her head behind the edge of the heavily carved oak.
She heard no footfalls on the thick Persian carpet, but a moment later the man spoke from no more than a few feet away.
“Good evening, Miss Ballinger. I trust you have found something suitably edifying to read down there behind Enfield’s desk? But surely the light is rather poor in that location.”
Augusta recognized the terrifyingly calm, unemotional male voice at once and groaned silently as her worst fears were confirmed. It was Graystone.
Just her bad luck that of all the guests who were inhabiting Lord Enfield’s country house this weekend, her discoverer was her uncle’s good friend. Harry Fleming, Earl of Graystone, was the one man in the house who probably would not believe any of the glib tales she had carefully prepared.
Graystone made Augusta uneasy for several reasons, one of which was that he had a disconcerting manner of looking straight into her eyes as if he would look into her very soul and demand the truth. Another reason she was wary around him was that he was simply too bloody damned clever.
Frantically Augusta began sorting among the various stories she had planned to use in just such an eventuality as this. It would have to be a very clever story. Graystone was no fool. He was gravely dignified, chillingly correct, and at times solemnly pompous as far as Augusta was concerned, but he was no fool.
Augusta decided she had no choice but to brazen out the embarrassing situation. She forced herself to smile very brightly as she looked up with a feigned little start of surprise.
“Oh, hello, my lord. I did not expect to encounter anyone here in the library at this hour. I was just searching for a hairpin. I seem to have dropped one.”
“There appears to be a hairpin stuck in the lock of the desk.”
Augusta managed another amazed start and jumped to her feet. “Good heavens. So there is. What a very odd place for it to have landed.” Her fingers trembled as she snatched the
pin out of the lock and dropped it into the pocket of her chintz wrapper. “I came downstairs to look for something to read because I could not sleep and the next thing I knew, I had lost my hairpin.”
Graystone solemnly considered her bright smile in the pale glow of the candle flame. “I am surprised you could not sleep, Miss Ballinger. You certainly had plenty of exercise today. I believe you participated in the archery contest organized for the ladies this afternoon, and then there was the long walk to the old Roman ruins and the picnic. All topped off by a great deal of dancing and whist this evening. One would have thought you’d have been quite exhausted.”
“Yes, well, I expect the unfamiliarity of my surroundings is to blame. You know how it is, my lord, when one sleeps in a strange bed.”
His cool gray eyes, which always made Augusta think of a cold winter sea, gleamed faintly. “What an interesting observation. Do you sleep in a lot of strange beds, Miss Ballinger?”
Augusta stared at him, uncertain how to take the question. A part of her was very nearly inclined to believe there might have been a deliberate sexual innuendo in Graystone’s seemingly polite remark. But that was impossible, she quickly decided. This was Graystone, after all. He would never do or say anything the least improper in the presence of a lady. Of course, he might not consider her a lady, she reminded herself bleakly.
“No, my lord, I do not have much opportunity to travel and therefore have not grown accustomed to the notion of changing beds frequently. Now, if you will excuse me, I had best be getting back upstairs. My cousin might awaken and notice I am gone. She would worry.”
“Ah, yes. The lovely Claudia. We certainly would not want the Angel to become concerned about her hoyden of a cousin, would we?”
Augusta winced. It was obvious she had sunk quite low in the earl’s estimation. Graystone clearly considered her an ill-mannered baggage. She could only hope he did not also think her a thief.
“No, my lord, I would not want to worry Claudia. Good evening, sir.” Head high, she made to step around him. He did not move and she was forced to halt directly in front of him. He was extremely large, she noticed. Standing this close, she felt overwhelmed by the solid, unyielding strength in him. Augusta gathered her courage.
“Surely you do not intend to keep me from returning to my bedchamber, my lord?”
Graystone’s brows rose slightly. “I would not want you to go back upstairs without that which you came for.”
Augusta’s mouth went dry. He could not possibly know about Rosalind Morrissey’s journal. “As it happens, I feel quite sleepy now, my lord. I do not think I shall need anything to read, after all.”
“Not even the item you hoped to find in Enfield’s desk?”
Augusta took refuge in high dudgeon. “How dare you imply I was attempting to get into Lord Enfield’s desk? I told you, my hairpin simply happened to land in the lock when it fell.”
“Allow me, Miss Ballinger.” Graystone removed a length of wire from his dressing gown pocket and slid it gently into the desk lock. There was a faint but quite distinct snick.
Augusta watched in astonishment as he eased open the top drawer and studied the contents. Then he waved a casual hand, inviting her to search for what she wanted.
Augusta eyed the earl warily, chewed on her lower lip for a few tense seconds, and then hastily leaned down and began pawing through the drawer. She found the small leather-bound volume beneath several sheets of foolscap. She snatched it up at once.
“My lord, I do not know what to say.” Augusta clutched the journal and looked up to meet Graystone’s eyes.
The earl’s harsh features appeared even more grim than usual in the flickering candlelight. He was not a handsome man by any measure, but Augusta had found him strangely compelling since the moment her uncle had introduced her to him at the start of The Season.
There was something in those aloof gray eyes of his that made her want to reach out to him, even though she knew he probably would not thank her for it. Part of the attraction, she knew, must have been nothing more than sheer feminine curiosity. She sensed a closed door deep inside the man and she longed to open it. She did not know why.
He was really not her type at all. By rights she ought to have found Graystone extremely dull. Instead, she found him a dangerously disturbing enigma.
Graystone’s thick, dark hair was flecked with silver. He was in his mid-thirties but he could easily have passed for forty, not because of any softness in his face or form; rather the opposite. There was a hard, somber quality about him that spoke of too much experience and too much knowledge. It was an odd mien for a classical scholar, she realized. Another part of the enigma.
Dressed as he was for his bedchamber, it was clear the breadth of Graystone’s shoulders and the lean, solid lines of his body were natural and owed nothing to his tailor. There was a sleek, heavy, predatory grace about him that sent strange sensations down Augusta’s spine. She had never met a man who had the effect on her that Graystone had.
She did not understand why she found herself attracted to him. They were complete opposites in temperament and manner. In any event, the effect was quite wasted, she was sure. The sensual thrill, the shiver of excitement that vibrated deep within her whenever the earl was close, the feelings of anxiety and wistful longing she experienced when she spoke to him, all meant nothing.
Her deep conviction that Graystone had known loss, just as she had, and the knowledge that he needed love and laughter to overcome the bleak, cold shadows in his eyes did not matter in the slightest. It was well known Graystone was hunting a bride, but Augusta knew he would not consider a woman who might overset his carefully regulated life. No, he would select another sort of female entirely.
She had heard the gossip and knew what the earl required in a wife. Rumor had it that, being the methodical type he was, Graystone had a list and that he had set his standards very high. Any woman who wished to get herself added to his list, it was said, must be a model of the female virtues. She must be a paragon: serious of mind and temperament, dignified of manner and bearing, and totally unsullied by even a hint of gossip. In short, Graystone’s bride would be a pattern of propriety.
The sort of female who would never dream of rifling through her host’s desk in the middle of the night.
“I would imagine,” the earl murmured, eying the small volume in Augusta’s hand, “that the less said, the better. The owner of that journal is a close friend of yours, I assume?”
Augusta sighed. There was little to lose now. Further protests of innocence were useless. Graystone obviously knew far more than he ought about this night’s adventures.
“Yes, my lord, she is.” Augusta lifted her chin. “My friend made the foolish mistake of writing down certain matters of the heart in her journal. She later came to regret those emotions when she discovered that the man involved was not equally sincere in his feelings.”
“That man being Enfield?”
Augusta’s mouth tightened grimly. “The answer to that is obvious. The journal is here in his desk, is it not? Lord Enfield may be accepted in the most important drawing rooms because of his title and his heroic actions during the war, but I fear he is a despicable cad when it comes to dealing with women. My friend’s journal was stolen immediately after she told him she was no longer in love with him. We believe a maid was bribed.”
“We?” Graystone repeated softly.
Augusta ignored the veiled inquiry. She certainly was not going to tell him everything. Most especially she was not going to enlighten him on the matter of how she had arranged to be here at Enfield’s estate this weekend. “Enfield told my friend he intended to demand her hand in marriage and that he would use the contents of her journal to ensure that she accepted.”
“Why would Enfield bother to blackmail your friend into marriage? He is exceedingly popular with the ladies these days. They all appear to be quite enthralled by his account of his own actions at Waterloo.”
“My frie
nd is the heiress to a great fortune, my lord.” Augusta shrugged. “Gossip has it that Enfield has gambled away a great deal of his own inheritance since returning from the continent. He and his mother have apparently decided he must marry money.”
“I see. I had not realized word of Enfield’s recent losses had spread so quickly among the fair sex. He and his mother have both worked very hard to keep the matter quiet. This large house party is evidence of that.”
Augusta smiled very pointedly. “Yes, well, you know how it is when a man begins hunting for a very particular sort of bride, my lord. The rumors of his intentions precede him and the more intelligent of the quarry take note.”
“Are you implying something about my own intentions, by any chance, Miss Ballinger?”
Augusta felt the heat in her cheeks but refused to back down before his cool, disapproving gaze. After all, Graystone invariably looked disapproving when he was talking to her.
“Since you ask, my lord,” Augusta said firmly, “I may as well tell you that it is well known you are looking for a very specific sort of female to marry. It is even said you have a list.”
“Fascinating. And do they say who is on my list?”
She glowered at him. “No. One hears only that it is a very short list. But I suppose that is understandable when one considers your requirements, which are said to be extremely strict and exacting.”
“This grows more intriguing by the moment. What, precisely, are my requirements in a wife, Miss Ballinger?”
Augusta wished she had kept her mouth shut. But prudence had never been one of the stronger suits of the Ballingers who descended from the Northumberland side of the family. She plunged on recklessly. “Rumor has it that, like Caesar’s wife, your bride must be above suspicion in every way. A serious-minded female of excessively refined sensibilities. A pattern of propriety. In short, my lord, you are looking for perfection. I wish you luck.”
“From your rather scathing tone, I have the impression you think a truly virtuous woman is not going to be easy to find.”