Something In Red (Fancytales Regency Romance Series) Read online

  “Perhaps not.” He shrugged, nonchalant. “But then...”

  He sat back against the squabs once again, head tilted at a studious angle, the barest hint of a question in his gaze. “What say you to a reprieve of sorts, little Red?”

  Now he wanted her to bargain with him? Rhiad wanted to slap the studied look off his face. She wanted to rap her delicate, glove-encased knuckles upon the ceiling of the carriage and have the driver continue their journey until dawn, so their time together inside the carriage might never end.

  She wanted to know if his embrace were as warm as the hint of sultry passion in his gaze, but more than anything, Rhiad wished her grandmother hadn't forced her to attend tonight's masquerade ball. If she had not, Rhiad realized, she would never have found herself sitting across from this frustrating, delightfully intriguing but completely out of her league heartless rogue who taunted and tempted her with naught more than his presence.

  “A reprieve?”

  He nodded. “Aye. Rather than exit the carriage here in front of the house, as your grandmother's invited guests must do, perhaps we could have the driver go 'round to the back instead?”

  Rhiad considered his proposal. If she fled the carriage here, her grandmother's guests would certainly notice and wonder at her reaction, even if Lord Wolfe remained inside. But if they did not join the gathering crowd of carriages in the lane and drove round to the stables instead... was it possible to escape the curious stares of her grandmother's guests and certain ruination after all?

  She peered at him, considering. What, now, was his game? “Why the sudden change of plan, my lord, for I know you have no heart.”

  “Of course,” he said, his tone mocking. Then, without waiting for her capitulation, he thumped his knuckles against the roof of the carriage and called out instructions to the driver before continuing his explanation. “I've only just recalled the story, Red. To remain true, as you so kindly pointed out before, I must first take care of your grandmother.”

  Chapter Four

  After what seemed like hours, an upstairs maid had finally reported that Red had been received and dutifully tucked into her family's private wing and was even now safely ensconced in a bedroom which he believed the earl and countess kept prepared for her occasional visits here in the country.

  Certain Rhiad had made it safely inside without mishap, Damien quietly made his way across the Earl of Ashwood's back lawn, where he then stole through a matched pair of stained glass doors from the terrace into the Countess's private sitting room.

  Carefully, he closed the doors behind him, but the barely audible click must have been enough to alert the countess to his presence because she turned immediately to find him lounging against the frame.

  “My grand-daughter is safe?”

  The lady's solemnly intoned question hung in the semi-silence of the room, as much a demand for positive affirmation as a sincere query. Her eyes held concern, even if her voice did not.

  Not if she continues to play bold with the less than honorable members of theton, Damien thought. But he said, “For the moment.”

  Lady Althea Hoode rose, bent to retrieve a small pouch from a drawer at the front of her writing desk, and then, taking the gold and ivory feathered fan from her escritoire with her, she confronted him boldly. “What of Lord Woodhurst?”

  “The young lord will, at the very least, be detained this evening, my lady.” He bowed before her, and then rose, a slight grin turning up the corners of his mouth.

  “Pressing matters to attend, you understand,” Damien explained. In fact, the over-eager swain now sported a blackened eye and a split and bleeding lip, not to mention a pair or more of sorely bruised, if not broken, ribs.

  Stupid fellow. Boasting of one's intention to compromise the grand-daughter of an earl was not the brightest of ideas, but to further explain how one intended to do so was the sheer height of lunacy. Yet that was exactly what Burley Woodhurst had done.

  He had even gone so far as to have it written in the betting books at his gentleman's club. A pity one of his young comrades had taken the tale to a lady-love who had spoken with the countess, and she had, in turn, come to Damien for assistance.

  The boy planned to do exactly as Damien himself had done – overtake her carriage as she made her way to the masquerade ball at her grandmother's estate in the country.

  How surprised he had been when, after successfully halting the carriage, he found himself facing Damien and his driver over a brace of pistols.

  The chiming of the clock upon the mantle proclaimed the hour. The countess adjusted her ivory feathered mask in preparation for joining the growing crowd of guests below.

  Apparently satisfied with its arrangement, Althea took up her fringed, cream silk shawl, passed the pouch she had retrieved earlier to Damien, and crossed the room where she opened the door leading into the hallway. “You have my undying gratitude, Lord Wolfe.”

  Hefting the pouch in his hand for a moment, Damien watched in silence while, pulling the cream colored shawl across her shoulders, the countess fussed with the loose ends for a bit before a frown settled across her brow. He followed her to the door, surreptitiously depositing the pouch on a corner of the escritoire as he passed.

  They were standing in the dimly lit corridor outside the sitting room when she said, “I must have forgotten the pin.”

  “Pin?” Damien asked.

  Waving away his question, the countess ordered him to “wait here,” and then stepped past him back into the room.

  He waited, but when, after several minutes, she still had not re-appeared, Damien's impatience got the better of him. Leaning close, he rapped his knuckles three times in quick succession against the closed door. “Countess?”

  “What are you doing outside my grandmother's room?”

  Lady Rhiad's muted whisper hissed into his ear. Damien turned and put his fingers against his lips, signaling to her for silence. Another knock, and then he said, “Countess Ashwood? Lady Althea, I am coming in.”

  Silence.

  Damien's muscles bunched in preparation for forcible entry into the room, and then tensed all the more when Rhiad's small hand caught at his shoulder.

  “You cannot mean to break down her door! Good heavens, my lord, I had thought you but teased me earlier in reference to the story, but I cannot allow you to harm my grandmother.” She put herself between him and the door. “Go away, Lord Wolfe.”

  “Of all the preposterous, idiotic assumptions.” Damien's eyes narrowed and he peered at her for the space of a heartbeat. Did she really think he meant the countess harm?

  In one move, he caught her by the shoulders and set her out of the way. One quick spin, and she was facing the staircase. “Go play, Red. Hie yourself off downstairs and smile and dance and flirt with the fellows like a good spoiled little princess while I find out what has detained your grandmother.”

  He swatted her bottom for good measure, ignoring her quickly indrawn breath at the impropriety of his action, and returned to the task at hand. His shoulder met the door with more than a little force, and it slammed inward. He caught it before it could crash against the opposite wall, his keen gaze taking in the room in one swift pass.

  Everything was exactly as it had been when he'd stepped through the door a few moments ago – including the countesses absence. Nothing moved, nothing out of place, nothing open that had not been opened or closed that had not been closed.

  The pouch of coin she had given him for services rendered still sat where he had left it on the corner of her escritoire. Damien palmed it, slid open a drawer, and dropped it inside.

  The doors to the terrace were closed, but he thought he saw a shadow, a flash of material...

  “What have you done? Where is my grandmother?”

  Chapter Five

  Voices in the corridor outside alerted Rhiad to the imminent possibility of compromise. If she should be caught here by a guest, alone in her grandmother's chambers with Lord Wolfe, the outcom
e would be tragic.

  Without giving the matter much thought, she hurriedly closed the door, locked it, and then fumbled with a moment of uncertainty. What if the voice she had heard had been her grandmother? Her hand reached for the key...only to collide with Lord Wolfe's. Again, he cautioned her to silence before he pulled her toward the doors to the terrace.

  “Your grandmother went out through here, Red. Any idea where she might have gone? Or if she planned to meet with someone else?” he asked, pulling her along with him without even bothering to ask her to accompany him or for her permission.

  “Someone else? I don't understand...” Outside on the terrace now, Rhiad peered left and right into the darkness, searching for another presence.

  Damien tugged at her hand. “Your grandmother asked me to take care of something for her tonight. I was to report here when the matter was done. I did so, but then your grandmother mentioned something about her pin, went back inside her room, and disappeared. Was she to meet with someone other than me before the ball, Red?”

  Rhiad shook her head. “What did Grams want you to do?”

  The smirk on his lips was barely detectable, here in the shadows as they were. “Save you, of course.”

  He pulled at her hand again, but Rhiad refused to budge. “Save me? From what? Or whom? I would think Grams would rather be more interested in saving me from you!”

  “Tsk, tsk, Red. We have already established it is I who should be worried about ravishment at your hand. It seems you have a habit of indulging in your little curiosities, as well. Lord Gant, Lord Sebreton, Lord Wallingsley....”

  Rhiad raised her hand, fully intending to slap the censure in his tone away, but he caught it in his own, twisted it behind her, and forced her up against his chest. “You should have a care, Red. The ton is not known for silence. The gossip mills sing with a well-oiled hum, and your name is frequently among the lyrics.”

  Pressed hard against his chest, Rhiad could not quite keep her thoughts on their conversation. Instead, her mind was busy cataloging the details her body reported in stunning detail. Like how soft his lips seemed at such close proximity, how hard his body felt, and how warm. How the rumble of his voice low in his chest caused an answering vibration within her she could not explain, and how the faint scent of man emanating from him merely added to the growing cacophony of reaction his nearness was causing through her senses.

  “My, you certainly have an ear for gossip, my lord. Perhaps we should discuss a few of your current friendships.”

  “We could, but it would surely be a case of the pot calling the kettle black, would it not?” A wry smile twisted his lips. He squeezed her closer, the action causing yet another riot of sensation. “Your grandmother is not in her rooms, Red. She left through those terrace doors while knowing I waited for her in the corridor. Why?”

  “Perhaps she knew I was coming, my lord. I vow she has the keenest sense of hearing in all England. She likely knew Lady Marsden and Lord Wetherley were coming up the stairs as well.”

  Encouraged by her deductive line of thinking, Rhiad began to tick her fingers against his coat with each point made. “She knew you would come inside to find her, knew I would see you, and--” her eyes widened. “My grandmother wanted me to be compromised!”

  He released her so fast she would have fallen if he hadn't reached out to steady her. “Rubbish. If she wanted you compromised, why would she ask me to save you from that exact fate earlier this evening?”

  Rhiad peered at him. “Someone wanted to compromise me?”

  “Does the name Lord Woodhurst ring a bell?” He arched a brow. “The fellow intended to high-jack your carriage this evening and have his wicked way with you. By the time the two of you arrived together for your grandmother's ball, your fate would have been sealed.”

  “Lord Woodhurst? Jaime?” Rhiad could not contain her laughter. “I do believe you are mistaken, my lord.”

  His scoff, though muted, was obvious. “I am not mistaken. The boy announced his intentions at a well-known gentleman's establishment. Do you know odds were laid and bets placed?”

  “I do hope you did not wager against me, my lord.” Rhiad couldn't seem to wipe the smile from her lips. Nor could she manage to ignore the way his scent made her want to curl up against his chest and nuzzle her nose in the warm, masculine smell of him.

  He ignored her teasing. “If you've another explanation, Red, now is the time to give it.”

  “My name is Rhiad, my lord. Ree-add. Learn to say it properly and perhaps I shall.” She stared up into his eyes, waiting. He said nothing. The silence between them stretched and was soon filled with the strains of a waltz coming from the grand ballroom inside. “We should join the others.”

  Without waiting for him, she walked away, down the steps and onto the cobblestones leading to the front of the house. After a moment, his footsteps sounded behind her. “Separately, my lord. Go back through the terrace doors and down the back stairs. From there, go to the carriage house and have Selbert prepare a mount for you. I am sure you have much more important affairs to attend this evening than acting as my protector or searching for my matchmaking grandmother.”

  “Don't be absurd, Red. It is dark. You are a defenseless woman, alone. You need my protection. I won't leave you until I am sure you are safe.” He caught her arm. “What do you mean, your matchmaking grandmother?”

  Rhiad halted, turned, and smiled. Slowly, she reached up to smooth her hand along his shoulder and then down his arm, where she caught his hand and entwined her fingers with his.

  “Isn't it obvious, Lord Wolfe? My grandmother planned this ball for a reason, you see. To announce my forthcoming wedding,” she explained.

  His furrowed brow said she had only added to his confusion. “You are betrothed?”

  Rhiad chuckled. “No, my lord, I am not. But I should have been well and truly compromised by now, wouldn't you think?”

  “Yet, you are not compromised.”

  “Precisely.” Keeping her fingers twined with his, she started along the path once more, forcing him to walk beside her. “And my darling grandmother seems to have disappeared, leaving you to save me, yet again.”

  The sounds of gaiety from inside the manor grew louder and Rhiad slowed her pace. It really would not do to be caught alone with the man at her side. Although...

  Shaking her head at the dangerous turn her thoughts had taken, Rhiad said, “While I do so hate to spoil your sense of heroism, Lord Wolfe, Jaime would never harm me. But he would not be above pretending such a thing, were someone dear to ask it of him.”

  When he still showed no sign of accurately assessing the situation, she halted their stroll to explain, “My grandmother knew arriving with a man who was not a relation would ruin me, my lord, so she did the only thing she could, under the circumstances. She made a choice.”

  “She chose, and then you went and spoiled things by having the forethought to make sure our arrival together was not witnessed by others.” Her eyes sought his in the darkness so she might better gauge his reaction. “You see, Lord Wolfe, the only fellow you have managed to save me from is--”

  “Me.”

  Chapter Six

  Damien waited a full quarter hour after seeing Rhiad safely inside the ballroom to have the majordomo announce his arrival. His unadorned, plain black domino in place, he scoured the crowd, searching for – and finding – the countess.

  In the time it took for him to move from the receiving line into the ballroom, she had maneuvered herself onto a newly erected mock-balcony which acted as a raised dais near the front of the ballroom. The railed fabrication allowed her to stand heads and shoulders above the milling crowd.

  The sound of priceless silver against expensive cut crystal drew the attention of her guests, and the countess smiled with seeming pleasure before passing the goblet and spoon to a passing servant. She lifted her hands toward the crowd, palm up, somehow giving the gesture the warm appeal of a group hug.

  “The
re is nothing more heartwarming than being able to share wonderful news with friends,” she said at last, speaking from her lofty position to the assemblage of guests, friends and family below.

  The countess certainly seemed to be enjoying the effects of her theatrics, Damien thought, but his gaze searched the crowd for a now-familiar red, gold, and black half-mask. Some faint feeling of alarm in his gut told him whatever the countess's announcement may be, her grand-daughter would not like it.

  Where was she?

  “My dearest friends, thank you. Thank you for coming here tonight, to share in our happiness over this most special occasion.”

  His senses prickling with warning, Damien began to move through the throng, searching for Rhiad. She had said her grandmother planned to make an announcement tonight, and it now appeared she had been correct. But, he wondered, had Rhiad been right in guessing which announcement the countess would make?

  “Tonight, I am utterly delighted and positively thrilled to announce the betrothal of my lovely grand-daughter, Rhiad.”

  He huffed a very inappropriate snort at the countesses revelation. He and Red had side-stepped her clever machinations more than once this evening, yet his relief at finding himself unscathed barely matched his curiosity now.

  To whom would Rhiad now find herself betrothed?

  Despite being unwilling himself to be caught, Damien found he could not help but wonder which chap here tonight had had the misfortune to fall into the countesses clever scheme. His other reaction, prickles of annoyance which bore a startling kinship with jealousy, were not to be examined.

  Although he would readily admit to feeling more than his usual, passing desire when in her presence, he had no designs on Lady Rhiad Hoode, no matter how bad a Wolfe he might be.

  A cacophony of chatter rose among the guests, shouted congratulations and applause mingled with curious speculation among the gents regarding the question of whom the lucky fellow might be while the ladies, married and unattached alike, seemed to hold their breath in anxious anticipation of learning just which of their eligible bachelors were about to be removed from (or, in the case of the marrieds, be entered into) the fray.