Page 5 of Buon Natale, My Wicked Rogue
“I don’t know,” Susan dithered, drawing her golden brows together.
Angela was no longer sure that she wanted to attend the masquerade. She’d had all the excitement and adventure she could bear for the evening.
“No one will be the wiser,” Lady Wyndam said. “You will have an excellent time. I daresay you are both very much in needof some relaxing diversion after your harrowing encounter this evening.”
“We will be home very late.” Susan looked convincingly torn. Angela supposed it was better not to say that they had intended to sneak into the aristocratic gathering, but did Susan really have to appear so believable? It made her uncomfortable. Duplicity in others always disturbed her.
“I will send you home in my carriage and explain the whole matter to your dear Papa. I will say that my servants rescued you from those miscreants and that I invited you for a visit with my cousin’s widow, the dowager countess at Whitestone Manor.”
“I am grateful to you, Your Grace. But I fear I am too fatigued from this evening’s events to attend a ball.” Angela just hoped that she sounded grateful enough. She didn’t need to make enemies with any more British aristocrats than she already had. But truthfully, despite the cheerful braziers in the carriage, the chill of the autumn night crept into her bones. She fought a shiver and pulled the edges of her pelisse more tightly together. Oh, to just find her bed and seek refuge in the cozy quilts.
“But you two are so young, and the night is just beginning.” The lady’s exaggerated expression of disappointment almost disarmed her.
Unable to help her small smile, she shook her head. “I am afraid I rarely feel that young anymore.”
Lady Wyndam gave her an appraising look. “You might find something to make staying up later at night more worthwhile.”
Just then, a yawn overcame her. She suppressed it as best she could, patting her mouth, having barely heard the lady, much less made sense of her words. “Sorry, Your Grace.”
Lady Wyndam’s eyes twinkled with definite mischief. “I know a deliciously sensual man who can keep you warm on these long nights. You will know him immediately by his uniquely gorgeous green eyes.”
Angela swallowed her gasp. The statement was so personal, so unexpected. The lady’s eyes still twinkled with mischievous amusement. Was she making sport of her? But why should this noble stranger do such a thing? Unless she wished to make a fool of Angela and laugh about it later with her friends. But why should such a privileged woman seek her fun in such a base way?
But then again, why should a gentleman as privileged as Jacob have done so? Why would those men he called friends have needed to seek their fun by making fun of his wife? She didn’t understand it.
“We can stop at the dowager’s house. Lady Barnet will not mind. She hardly ever resides there but stays at the manor house with her son. You can refresh yourselves at the bedchamber washstand and then rest in front of the fire with a hot drink. Lord Barnet owns several orchards, and he always has the best apple cider.” Lady Wyndam’s brown eyes appeared to hold only good-natured concern.
But people could hide their intentions so well. Angela sighed inwardly. She didn’t want to think badly of the lady. She wanted to like her, and the woman’s sense of play intrigued her. Yet, she found it hard not to have second thoughts about the motives of these English nobles.
“Angela said she wanted a warm spiced cider or mulled wine,” Susan said.
“Ah, well, there you are. We shall definitely stop at the dowager house for a warm drink, and then we’ll go on to themasquerade when you both feel ready.” The lady clapped her hands. “It will be splendid fun!”
“Oh, please, Angela, say yes.” Susan flashed the lady a conspiratorial grin.
“Yes, Mrs. Berry, please say yes,” Lady Wyndam’s face shone with an almost girlish excitement.
How could Angela possibly disappoint either of them? Feeling trapped in the situation, she sank into the seat.
Evan approached the two masked women. One mature, wearing a bejeweled turban, smiling as he approached. The other, young, her deep brown hair glowing with reddish glints in the chandelier light. What he could see of her face appeared paler than earlier, and she hugged her shoulders. Well, no wonder.
Shots were fired.
A clammy chill wound its way through Evan’s guts. Damnation, how had things gone so far out of control? It hadn’t been his men, and it hadn’t been Mrs. Kingston. It had been that friend of his great-aunt’s, Lady Wyndam. Her driver had stopped the carriage and played savior to the two young women in need.
He had planned for the fake abduction attempt to take place amid the fireworks. He was certain that everyone would be out on the terrace or lawn, watching the fiery display. Who would have come so late to such enjoyable entertainment?
Damn it all, that road should have remained empty. There shouldn’t have been any chance of saviors or guns. Still, it remained his responsibility that things had gone wrong.
If she or Mrs. Kingston had come to any harm, it would have been wholly his fault. If she had been harmed...
A sick feeling replaced the earlier sinking sensation.
If she had been harmed.
Regret filled him. And the strength of the sensation took him aback. Such a feeling could prove to be a distraction that he could not afford. He knew the importance of his mission. The danger that she might pose to British commerce.
Upon returning to Whitestone Manor, he’d found Mrs. Kingston outside, frankly sick with nerves, and he’d comforted her the best he could.
