Page 8 of How to Court a Rake
He’d gone too far there. Regret flickered low in her belly. ‘Are you flirting with me, Lord Barrow?’ She didn’t want flirting from him. He flirted with everyone.
Her disappointment must have shown in her eyes. ‘Do you really want me to answer that?’
No. She didn’t. She’d not wanted to beeveryonein this moment. She’d wanted to be unique to him, not just another partner, not like all the other women he flirted with.
Silly ninny, her logic berated her.Your hopes are too high for an apology dance—how quickly you’ve forgotten why he’s dancing with you at all.
And her logic was right.
Caine leaned close, his mouth grazing her ear, the adventurous citrusy sandalwood scent of him brushing her nostrils, reigniting the thrill of awareness that rippled through her when he was near like this. ‘In my experience, it is best not to call out flirting. It ruins the mystique.’
Heaven forfend she ruin the mystique and embrace the reminder that he was flirting to be nice, although one did not usually associate such a milquetoast word as ‘nice’ with Caine Parkhurst. He was worthy of strong words like dashing, reckless, fearless, shocking, scandalous. But he was not merely ‘nice’.
The Viscount who’d courted her during her first Season was ‘nice’. Harlow was ‘nice’. Caine Parkhurst, who said wicked things about big men and used her first name without permission, was not nice. Which begged the question, why was he being nice now?
‘What do you get out of this? No one asked you to make it up to me.’ She did not believe for an instant that Caine Parkhurst was doing this out of entirely altruistic purpose, not when he had a brother to mourn.
‘I should think it obvious,’ he replied with a wicked smile. ‘I get to dance with an accomplished partner, a chance to make reparations and I get a break from the suddenly adoring crowds of insipid debutantes while satisfying my hostess’s desire to see me on the dance floor doing my duty to the ladies present.’
‘I see. One stone, three birds, as it were.’ This time Mary was careful to cover her disappointment. Caine would call her out on it if she didn’t. Shehadlearned that lesson, at least, even if she hadn’t learned there were consequences for asking Caine Parkhurst bold questions.
Caine chuckled. ‘Don’t ask questions of an honest man if you don’t want honest answers, Mary.’
She tilted her head. ‘Areyou an honest man, Lord Barrow?’
‘I am. Honest enough to admit I am sorry our dance is ending. Honest enough to prefer you call me Caine.’
She shook her head, feeling prim and prudish, the very epitome of what society had made her into, as she uttered the words, ‘You know I cannot. It is far too improper based on the newness of our acquaintance.’ But how delicious such a privilege would be, to be able to claim that kind of intimacy with this man who had the devil’s own reputation, but the decency enough to make reparations.
Perhaps it was yet another contradiction in the character of Caine Parkhurst, or perhaps someone who knew him well would understand how the pieces all fit seamlessly together. Perhaps they would understand, too, that he was more than what London rumour made him to be? What would it be like to be that person—the person who was privy to the heart and soul of rakish Caine Parkhurst? Did he, like her, hunger to be truly seen? Was there even such a person who saw him?
That person would not be her. Soon, their dance would be over, he would bow over her hand, thank her for the dance and be gone, her questions unanswered, her comfort unoffered. The music stopped and a little wave of sadness swept her. She would not see him again, not close up at least. They would cross paths at various entertainments now that his new title was of interest to so many, but his duty to her was discharged. She would not dance a breathless waltz with him again.
She prepared to curtsy to him and depart, but he reached for her arm. ‘Would you care to walk in the garden with me?’ His voice was low, his eyes intent as if he very much wanted her to accept.
There was no flirtation now, no obligation to satisfy, and the lack of a structure in which to understand the request startled her. There was no reason for this invitation except genuine preference for her company and that was perhaps more intoxicating than anything else he’d done. Here was the real danger.
She had no guidebook for this, for going into a garden with a known rake where the protections of the ballroom did not exist. She would be on her own. She ought to say no. Two weeks ago she might have refused. But that was before she’d become a woman living on borrowed time—the sands in the hourglass of her freedom were running swiftly now. If she was to be led to the altar like a sacrificial lamb, she would not go quietly. If her father did his worst, she would have at least a few memories to take with her.
‘Yes, a walk in the garden would be lovely.’ She offered him a conspirator’s smile, inwardly celebrating her boldness and the thrill of satisfaction that came from it. ‘If anyone should ask, I find the ballroom has grown…heated.’
‘As have I.’ He offered a private laugh that did funny things to her stomach and made her glad she’d chosen boldness.
***
Heated. Crowded. Overpopulated with too many people he didn’t want to spend time with. Underpopulated with people that he did. Caine had not intended to do more than dance with Lady Mary Kimber and discharge his self-imposed duty of rectifying things with her. Normally, he wouldn’t bother. His usual sort of woman understood the rules and risks of being with him. In fact, they thrived on it. But Lady Mary had been unsuspecting.
Despite her surprisingly sharp wit, she had not been prepared for what dancing with him might mean that night at the Barnstables’ ball. He’d intended to dance with her tonight, but he’d not intended to like it quite so much, or to be loath to leave her company when it ended. Perhaps the reason was nothing more than the logic of comparison. She was far better company than the mamas and daughters who stood waiting for his return.
Outside, he steered them towards less travelled paths in the hopes of privacy. The fewer people encountered, the better. The ballroom was work—a chance to seek information about the saboteur under the auspices of bride-searching. Out here, the garden represented a moment’s escape. He didn’twantto stop to talk to anyone. There would be time for that later when he returned inside.
‘This is much better.’ Mary played with the gold locket at her throat, the gesture belying her nerves.
‘Is it? Are you uncomfortable being out here with me?’ That would be a first. Most women went to great lengths to be in the dark with him.
‘No, of course not.’ She let go of the locket. ‘It’s just that I want to discuss something and I am not sure how to go about it. I do not want to pry and I am cognisant that we are mere acquaintances.’ Her grey eyes were genuine, sincere. He gave her a nod of permission. ‘What happened in Wapping?’ she asked softly.
With anyone else, he would indeed have found the question intrusive, a blatant bid for gossip. With Mary the question seemed genuine. But it didn’t change his answer. He covered her hand with his where it lay on his arm, wanting to convey his own sincerity in his response, yet one more way in which he found himself taking pains to sheathe his jagged edges when he was with her. ‘I regret, Lady Mary, that is something I cannot divulge.’
