“Balloon ascension!” Maryanne cried. In London, they had all gone to see one in a park. “Goodness, people are going to make love in a balloon?”
4
Torches burned in a ring, flickering in the summer’s breeze, licking at the dark sky. At this time of night, Hyde Park was quiet, and, of course, at this time of year, many of the haute volée were not in town.
The flames crackled softly, sending a smoky, warm scent into the gently roiling air.
Maryanne gazed upward at the taut ropes illuminated by the soft light. The bottom of the enormous balloon could be seen, gaudily patterned, but the top disappeared into the star-flecked darkness. The woven basket beneath looked precarious and impossibly small.
She faltered. She couldn’t go up in the air in that!
Lord Swansborough’s fingers cupped her elbow. Sandalwood surrounded, tempted. “We appear to be the only couple here.” A soft rumble by her ear, his voice buoyed her courage. Yet they were not really a couple. Not really partners.
“You needn’t have come with me. I could have taken a hackney myself.”
His hand released, then slid around, and he held her the way a man held a dockside tart, with hand locked around her waist, and her body snuggled tight against him.
“You, at least, I can protect, love.” His voice was low yet intense. A deep, dangerous sound.
Did she want his protection? Did she want a partner? Georgiana, her partner in publishing, caused her nothing but trouble—had brought her into this dangerous game. And her mother had once believed Rodesson would stand at her side as the most intimate partner—husband. Her mother had been left to rely on herself.
The torchlight lit up the faces of the men attending the balloon. Red-gold light caught a beaked nose, a hollowed cheek, even the scarring of a man who’d lost an eye. They looked like demons in Hades, drinking and smoking, laughing raunchily in the quiet park.
Was Georgiana here in the park? Had these men seen her?
And below, serpent’s river and thundering horse will hear the roar, the riddle read.
Maryanne stopped, and Swansborough halted with her. His aristocratic face gazed down in concern. Painted by golden firelight, he was utterly breathtaking—his face a sculpture of sharp cheekbones and firm, sensuous lips. Darkly shadowed, his eyes reflected both silver moonlight and bright torchlight.
“Gentlemen usually ride in the early morning, don’t they?” she asked. “Doesn’t that mean we will have to wait? Aren’t there supposed to be thundering horses?”
“We will see. Your madam might already be there.”
“Georgiana is not my madam. She is my…” She could not say partner, not without piquing his interest, prompting questions she didn’t want to answer. “My friend.”
“Friend,” he repeated. His lips lifted in a smile. “And you hesitated a very long time.”
“Why are you not like other drunk gentlemen?” What foxed man would listen so intently to her conversation? What sober man, for that matter? “Any other man would have fallen asleep by now.”
“Well acquainted with drunk men, Verity?” He sounded amused, but with his face in shadow, she couldn’t be certain.
“As most women are.” Which was true. Any woman who spent time around men, even in a country setting, in the most innocent of contact, would become acquainted with foxed men.
“You are very intriguing, Verity. Most women would be wondering what they could obtain from me. We made love, after all. What did that mean to you?”
Everything. But she knew it meant nothing to him. It had been merely an amusement.
A rattle behind sent her heart hammering. She spun around as a curricle drew up and two grays tossed their heads. Long white plumes waved on a lady’s bonnet, and Maryanne felt both hope and fear. The lady was clad entirely in silver and white. Georgiana did that on occasion. Who was the gentleman driving the carriage—was he a threat?
But as the tall gentleman, attired in a heavy, three-tiered greatcoat, jumped down, Swansborough murmured, “Lady Yardley and the Duke of Ashton.”
Lady Yardley waved a greeting at Swansborough. “Dear Lancelot! Have you completed the task?”
Lancelot?
Maryanne gaped as he released her waist and swept a bow for the Countess of Yardley. “Not yet, my dear Sophia.”
The countess smiled wickedly and toyed with a silvery blond curl. Though she was not young, she was exquisitely lovely, and her lines gave fascinating character to a charming face. She was compelling, seductive, alluring.
Her soft, melodic laughter was enticingly feminine. “It looks treacherous.”
“Only for the intrepid,” Swansborough agreed, and Maryanne felt him direct her toward the balloon with a gentle push on her bottom. She swallowed shock—they’d made love. How could she be startled by a caress on her clothed derriere?
Maryanne’s chest tightened. She took a deep breath, remembering the feel of Swansborough’s hot, wide back as her hands had skimmed over it. Remembering the scent of his skin, the taste of his neck…
Her heart ached at the thought of other women touching him that way. It had been everything to her. It hadn’t mattered to him.
“Are you all right, love?” Deep and concerned, Swansborough’s voice cut through her horrified thoughts.
She fought for calm. “Lancelot?” she asked. A pet name from a lover, perhaps? How could she, untutored and country bred, compete with such a beautiful woman? Of course, she couldn’t—and she wouldn’t be. She was his partner for this night—this one night.
Swallowing hard, she realized the truth. That might have been her one chance to make love. She couldn’t marry now—which was what she’d wanted, of course—but now the realization stunned her. She couldn’t take lovers—that could cause scandal, and she didn’t dare hurt her mother, her sisters, and Venetia’s coming child with scandal.
Her heart was pounding into the silence. He didn’t answer, so she pressed. “Why Lancelot? Confide.”
“Verity wants truth, of course.” They’d reached the circle of torches, where the smoke was thick and sweet, and the light showed his wry grin.
What woman could resist that slightly self-mocking smile? It made Maryanne’s legs turn to treacle.
“It’s my name,” he admitted. “Dashiel Lancelot Blackmore. Dashiel was my father’s choice, a family name, to him a sign of longevity. Lancelot was my mother’s flighty wish.”
She nodded in understanding. Rodesson had bestowed Venetia’s name upon her, but her mother had named both her and Grace, determined not to give in to romantic fancy.
Though she couldn’t explain any of that, he smiled. “My father gritted his teeth every time he heard it,” his lordship continued. “It amuses Sophia—Lady Yardley—to use it. She pretends I am a noble knight, which, of course, I am not. My sister’s name is Anne Persephone—once again, my parents came to an odd compromise.”
“Aren’t you a noble knight?” she teased and marveled at her bravery. The few times she’d met Lord Swansborough, she’d managed an awkward curtsy but almost no conversation.
“No, sweetheart, don’t fancy me to be Lancelot, because I’m not. I wish I could charge in and rescue damsels.”
He moved away, and though the summer’s breeze was warm and humid, she shivered at the loss of contact. He hailed one of the men,