When they weren’t discussing books and pamphlets and newspaper articles, they were abroad in high and low society, pretending to be lovers. They went to dances and routs, intimate supper parties, respectable and disreputable gaming houses, the theater, the opera; within days it was widely known that the Honorable Philip Riordan’s new companion was the daughter of Patrick Merlin, that traitor they’d hanged at Newgate scarcely two weeks ago, and the chit wasn’t even in mourning. But what could you expect of a damned Frenchwoman? Or as good as a Frenchwoman since she’d lived her whole life there and probably sympathized with the frogs just as much as her turncoat father. No one asked what the illustrious M.P. saw in her, they knew his reputation and they’d heard what she looked like. The only mystery was why he didn’t move her out of her aunt’s shabby digs in Holborn and set her up properly someplace in Mayfair.
Cass’s appreciation of Riordan’s acting ability deepened as she began to understand the real depth of the chasm between what he was and what he seemed to be. They developed a complex system of relating to each other in public as the days passed, until by week’s end their teamwork was flawless. He drank alcohol in minute sips, and then only when he was being watched; Cass, who had always held her wine well, learned to drink most of her own glass of wine or claret quickly and then exchange it for his while no one was looking. She became adept at staying upright when he lurched drunkenly against her or stumbled while holding onto her. She grew used to his belligerence when he lost at cards, and acquired the ability to laugh heartily at his and his friends’ ribald jokes.
The only thing she couldn’t get used to was the intimate way he touched her in public—or more accurately, the way such intimacies had no meaning for him except to further the charade. When they were out, it seemed his hands were always on her, pressing, stroking, holding, and for the life of her Cass couldn’t help but respond. Once at a pantomime in Vauxhall, he’d caressed her neck and shoulders for what seemed like hours, standing behind her in a crowd of his boisterous cronies. At last, blind to everything in front of her, knees trembling, she’d pulled his hand away and kissed the knuckles casually, just as though her bones weren’t melting, her stomach knotted with warm, forbidden sensations. When they were alone later and he treated her with the same friendly politeness as always, she’d felt used, almost dirty—and oddly bleak.
She liked him too much. She knew it, but couldn’t think what to do about it. He was the nicest friend she’d ever had. It didn’t matter that their friendship was a purely contrived affair or that it had a finite end—he was warm and funny and exciting, and when they were together she was happy. She knew no good could come of it, but she lacked the sophistication or the cynicism it would have taken to hold herself away from him.
“What time is it?” she asked now, more to break the silence than to know the answer; it couldn’t be very many minutes later than the last time she’d asked.
Riordan drew out his watch and flipped open the silver top. “Half-past eleven. He’ll be along soon.” He glanced across at her, taking in her new rose linen riding habit with what she could swear was disapproval before returning his stony gaze to the path.
“Do I look all right?” she asked anxiously, fidgeting at the pin that held her perky new riding hat securely to her upswept hair. Her palms were perspiring inside her leather gloves. She didn’t understand his silence, his coolness, just now when she was finally about to meet Wade. She was as skittish as a colt, knowing that everything they’d worked for, that Mr. Quinn had paid for, was riding on her personal credibility for the next thirty minutes or so. But at the moment when she needed his support most, the free flow of words between them seemed to have dwindled to a trickle, and now came in infrequent drops.
He looked at her again, this time with a cold, assessing expression that came bewilderingly close to an insult. “Like a ripe plum, Cass, ready for plucking.”
The words and his sneering tone were like a slap in the face. She turned her head away and bit her lip in dismay. What was wrong? What had she done?
“If you feel out of control even for a second, stop your own horse, is that clear? We’ll find another way to get his attention. I hate to see women galloping sidesaddle, anyway. Did you hear me, Cass?”
“I heard you perfectly,” she returned tightly. “I’m an excellent horsewoman, Mr. Riordan. I’m hardly likely to lose control of this gentle hack, I assure you.”
“Fine. Then you can concentrate on smiling and batting your eyelashes. Just don’t say anything so stupid that you give the game away.”
She stared. What was the matter with him? The contrast between this angry, unpleasant man and the generous, laughing friend he’d been was incomprehensible. It had started last night, she realized, when they’d begun to plan for Wade in earnest. She looked straight ahead, hands clenched on the reins, and willed herself to relax, not to cry, to think only of what she had to do. She jumped when a man’s voice behind them called good morning, but it was only one of Riordan’s friends and he rode on without stopping.
The day was overcast, the air oppressively warm. Hyde Park was emptier than usual for a Sunday morning because of the threat of rain. Colin Wade rode here every Sunday, and Cass alternately feared and hoped he would cancel his ride today. Nervously, she adjusted the maroon ascot at her throat and pushed back the sleeves of her jacket to reveal the snow-white lace cuffs underneath. She’d purchased the new riding habit, ready-made, with Quinn’s money. Was that what was bothering Riordan? The idea made her angry. What business was it of his how she spent her money? Besides, what else was she supposed to do? Everybody expected her to seduce Mr. Wade. How was she to accomplish that unless she made herself attractive to him? She breathed a troubled sigh, then went rigid when she heard Riordan say softly, “There he is.”
Up ahead, riding toward them, was a young man on a white mare. As he drew closer Cass saw, under cover of her lashes, that he was indeed, as Riordan had said, blond and beautiful. His waistcoat today was powder-blue instead of pink, his coat a striking damson. His pale yellow hair was combed straight back from a high forehead. Eyes set deep in a bony, perfectly modeled face wore a look of intense boredom. When he saw them, his brows rose slightly, accenting the haughtiness of his expression. He nodded distantly to Riordan and started to ride past when his cinnamon-colored eyes flicked across, then came to rest on Cass. He reined his horse to a stop.
“Wade,” said Riordan.
“Riordan,” said Wade.
Both men were watching Cass, whose wide eyes were fixed on the yellow-haired man as if he were a long-lost pot of gold. Wade waited expectantly; after a pointed delay, Riordan performed a graceless, grudging introduction.
“Miss Merlin,” he intoned silkily, bowing from the waist, his eyes sweeping her from boot tip to hat top.
“How do you do?” Cass took off her right glove and put her hand out to him across a distance of six feet. Without dropping his gaze, he kneed his horse closer until the two animals were touching and his glossy riding boot nudged at her skirts. He took her bare hand, held it, smoothed the top with his thumb as if to make a place for his lips, and kissed it. Cass drew an audible breath, squeezing his fingers lightly, lingeringly, before letting go. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue and threw her head back a little. Wade’s thin, arrogant nostrils flared.
Riordan, who had been holding his breath, grabbed Cass’s bridle and pulled her horse away from Wade’s with an impatient tug. “We’re in a hurry, Wade. Good morning to you.”
“A hurry?” the yellow-haired man repeated, in a voice like honey flowing over velvet. “I thought the great House was in recess. A well-deserved one, I’m sure, after all the wise, far-seeing laws the honorable gentlemen passed this term. Statesmanship must be ever so exhausting.” His smirk turned to a smile when Cass smothered a giggle against her palm.
“No, it’s talking to maggoty, tarted-up coxcombs that’s exhausting,” Riordan snapped in an angry, too-loud voice. This time he sp
urred his horse to a walk, dragging Cass’s mount with him. The mellifluous sound of Wade’s laughter followed them until she twisted around in her saddle and sent him a heart-stopping smile. He raised his hand in a gesture of mingled promise and farewell; she returned it silently with her eyes, before Riordan’s muttered oath made her turn to face forward again.
They rounded a turn in the path and stopped. Neither spoke for a moment. Now that it was over, Cass felt herself beginning to tremble in reaction. “It worked, didn’t it? I think he liked me, don’t you?” She took off her other glove and massaged the soft leather with nervous fingers. “Don’t you think it went well?”
“I think if it had gone any better, the son of a bitch would’ve humped you right there in the bridal path.” His lips thinned spitefully at the choking sound she made and the sudden rush of purple to her cheeks. “There’s hardly any need for the second phase of the assault now, you were so successful at the first. I confess, Cass, I didn’t sufficiently appreciate your talents in the art of seduction. I see I underestimated the vast diversity of your experience.”
She swallowed with difficulty. “So it would seem,” she said with icy, hard-won control. Bastard! she thought. Her chest ached and the sting of unshed tears was excruciating. He still had her bridle; she twitched it out of his hand and turned her horse around.
“Wait! You’re going after him?”
“I always finish what I start, Mr. Riordan. Get out of my way.”
“Remember what I said—end it immediately if you feel the horse running away or there’s the least—”
“I said move!” The hard slap of the reins made her horse jump, shoving Riordan’s mount aside as they jerked away. She heard him call something after her but shut her ears, concentrating instead on urging the well-bred hack to simulate a wild, out-of-control gallop. She could see Wade now, trotting away from her some thirty yards ahead.
“Faster, horse!” she called softly, swatting his hindquarters with the reins. “Faster!” But it was no use; she couldn’t prod him out of his sedate canter. In desperation she took her foot from the stirrup and dropped the reins, hugging the horse’s neck and seizing a handful of mane. If she couldn’t make him look out of control, at least she could make herself look imperiled.
Wade heard them and turned around. As they flew by, Cass let out a terrorized scream. She was clutching the horse in earnest now as his choppy, frightened gait threatened to unseat her. A backward glance told her Wade was riding hard after, and she prayed she wouldn’t fall off before he could save her. Now he was beside her; she saw his hand snake out and jerk the sagging reins. Her horse pulled up sharply, so sharply she lost her seat, rolled over his head, and landed in a loose heap on the side of the path.
She sat up shakily, trying not to wince from the shooting pain in her ankle. Wade was beside her in seconds, touching her, asking if she was all right. She became aware that her skirts were up to her knees, dusty petticoats askew, her stockinged calves fully visible to his interested gaze. She wanted to jerk her gown down, but forced herself instead to lie back against his snowy shirtfront with half-closed eyes and moan a little.
“Oh, Mr. Wade, you saved me! I shall be forever grateful to you.” Riordan was right, she thought swiftly; I am good at this.
“Thank God you’re all right. Do you think you can stand?”
“If you’ll help me.”
He grasped her around the middle in what would otherwise have been an embrace and easily lifted her to her feet. Afterward he kept his hands on her for a little longer than was necessary. She put her weight on her good foot and sent him a dizzying smile of gratitude. Close up, he was older than she’d thought, much older. His face was at the stage in which one could simultaneously see the youth he’d been and the middle-aged man he was becoming. The skin around his eyes looked dry and not quite healthy; an early hint of jowl had begun to show beneath his classically shaped jaw.
He took both her hands and turned the palms up, examining the scraped skin. “You’re hurt,” he said, frowning down in concern.
“It’s nothing.” She pretended to lose herself in his cinnamon gaze, her lips slightly parted, breath coming shallowly. She thought for a second he was going to kiss her, and something inside rose up to rebel, but instead he took her by the arm and led her a few steps away to a fallen tree trunk. Biting back a groan, she made herself walk without limping, and sank down on the log gratefully.
“Where’s Riordan?” He sat beside her and took her hands again.
“He got down from his horse to—take care of a private matter,” she said softly, blushing prettily. “I was annoyed and started to ride away. Then a rabbit dashed through my horse’s legs, and before I knew it I was lying on the ground! Thank heavens you were here, Mr. Wade, or I don’t know what might have happened.”
“Call me Colin,” he told her in his silky, languid voice. “Tell me, is it true that he’s always drunk?”
She bristled at his impudence, but turned her face away as if in confusion. “Very nearly,” she admitted. “But not today. At least, I don’t think so.”
“Then why do you—I beg your pardon. Forgive me for intruding on your private business.”
She turned back. She opened her mouth and then closed it. She searched his face for a long, intimate moment, then spoke quietly. “A woman in my position can’t always choose with whom she associates, Mr. Wade.” She took a breath. “Colin.” Their eyes held, and this time she was certain he would kiss her. But at that moment she heard a rider approaching and snatched her hands away. “It’s Philip!” she said in dismay.
“Are you afraid of him? Shall I send him away?”
“Oh, no! Oh, please, you mustn’t!” She let an edge of panic into her tone.
“Very well, but I must see you again. Tell me I may call on you.”
Riordan was almost upon them. “Yes, yes,” she said distractedly. “I should like that ever so much. But you don’t know where I live!”
“I’ll find you.” He took her hands again and touched his lips to the injured palms in a feather-light kiss. Cass sighed blissfully.
“Now, there’s a sight to make a fellow want to puke.” Riordan climbed off his horse clumsily; in the process his silver flask fell to the ground with a clatter. “Balls!” he roared, watching the brownish liquid seep into the ground. He advanced on the seated pair menacingly. “Why don’t you get your prissy arse out of here, Wade, before I lodge my boot in it?”
Wade came off the log slowly. “Riordan, you’re a drunken pig.”
Cass caught his sleeve in alarm. “Please!” she implored softly. “Thank you for helping me, but truly, it’s better if you go.”
Wade turned to her uncertainly. “Are you sure? I don’t like leaving you with him.”
Riordan observed the touching exchange in mounting frustration. Everything was going well, better than he’d hoped, but all he wanted to do was knock their heads together like a couple of pumpkins.
“Very well, then, if you’re sure you’ll be all right.” Wade straightened. “But I’d better not hear that this lady’s been abused in any way, Riordan. If I do, I promise you’ll regret it.”
“This lady is none of your business, you pastel fop. Take yourself off.”
“Just remember what I said,” Wade warned, curling his lip with distaste. He went to his white mare and mounted. “Au revoir, Miss Merlin,” he said with a bow and a melting smile that made Riordan want to spit. He gave her a slow, somehow suggestive little salute and rode away.
Cass leaned back on her hands and frowned. “You came too soon. And you were much too harsh with him. What if you’ve scared him away for good?”
“Not bloody likely. The bastard knows a sure thing when he sees it. He’ll come sniffing around tomorrow or the next day, like a hound after a bitch in heat,” he snarled, glaring down at her. He felt like wiping the feel of Wade’s lips from her hands. And then kissing her until she couldn’t stand up.
“You’re di
sgusting,” she flared, red-faced. “You don’t even need to act this part, do you? Because Wade was right—you are a pig!”
Growling, he grabbed her hand and yanked her to her feet. She yelped in pain and clutched at his lapels for balance, lurching against him. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded, alarm causing his voice to sound even angrier.
“My ankle, damn you!”
“You fell off your horse?”