She could not believe she'd let them talk her into it. Shay O'Sullivan kept muttering this mentally, as the crowded coach rocked and jostled on its way to the Lakeland manor and the Christmas ball. She was not of the fast set, not actually friends with the group who had somehow dragged her out of the Clairmont's sedate, boring, holiday musical. Yet she found herself in the wave that headed for the coaches--and here she sat, across from one of London's most wickedly handsome, terribly intimidating, and sought after rakehells.
Fortunately for her, someone, lady Janna, she thought, had given her a mask so the feathered thing hid some part of her mortified face. It didn't help that there were too many people squished in the coach, and that the aforementioned rake had long, muscular legs that were wedged, or weaved rather, between her own.
Her too-bloody-thin gown, worn for an indoor musical, not for a dash through a snowy night to a ball, did nothing to prevent the rasp of his polished boots or the warmth of his knee rubbing her own. Really! What could be more discomforting?
Actually, there was something more mortifying, but she'd spent the last few seasons' trying to forget that. Now it was in her face, so to speak. Lord Gerard Quinlan Noel Derrington, Earl of Blackbourne, had been at the center of her youthful indiscretion; the sort of horrendous thing an impoverished Viscount's daughter couldn't afford to let leak out.
Never mind that it was so far in the past, and her father was dead and her circumstances more dire, so that she barely had enough to keep any sort of pretence in society. The truth was that at twenty five, her prospects for a good marriage were gone, the country estate had been sold to pay the London rent on a less than fashionable townhouse, and all she had was her reputation and a few kind hostesses who included her in their season's invites.
Oh, the devil, Shay groaned. Ever since she'd lost her head and her virtue on that daring and reckless Christmas night, her luck had gone from bad to worse, and without her virginity, even if she had been asked for her hand, she would have refused.
This was too much. Really it was. Blackbourne was visible in London. Of course; his exploits kept the whispers going and the gossip rags filled with juicy scandal. But he was wealthy, lofty, handsome, and quite busy raking and slumming, so that it was not as if a lesser in the rungs of the social ladder would cross his path. She'd avoided it deliberately, quite nicely. But now the gods were laughing and no doubt rolling with glee, for she had at least an hour's ride yet, a night of entertainment to get through--and had the awful sinking feeling, it was his coach and he'd eventually have to see her home.
Amid the chatter, off key singing, rather drunken revelry of the other passengers, she peeked through the mask though not at his face, able to see only the ruffled white shirt, black coat over broad shoulders, and the silken edges of his long raven hair. She did not need to look up to know he had a hawkish, dark visage, sensual white smile and velvet lips. His thick lashes and deep smoky eyes were ingrained in her mind, seared there like a brand. He was tall, muscular, six four at the most, large enough to make a woman of her uncommon height at five foot six feel incredibly small.
She was known to her friends for her wit and common sense, for a mature bravado, which had carried her through the depressing circumstances of her life. Certainly one that got her through that after Christmas morning, when she'd realized what she had done, and whom she had done it with.
It had been her birthday, yes, born on Christmas, and she had turned twenty with a sort of reckless hysteric sadness, realizing that all her youthful dreams were behind her. Her father had told her the bare facts and held nothing back. There was little to provide for her then, and would be less when he passed on.
That night, out in the deep snow and to the grand ball at the duchess's house, she'd gone without invite, never expecting to ever go to London--or--have a season, hearing only the worst of her father's frank talk, she'd decided to have her fairy tale, even if she had to make herself.
She'd made it all right.
Shay looked out the window then decided to let it down, because the bodies and the heat made the coach unbearable. Between the perfume and cologne and the scent of brandy someone was nipping, her head was swimming enough without the memories.
Tiny flakes of snow flew inward; feeling pleasant on her hot cheeks. The crisp air cleared her mind somewhat. Leaning her head back, trying to ignore the gent mashing her left side and his somewhat annoying laugh, she finally looked at Blackbourne and wished like bloody hell she had not.
He was postured with his arm along the back of the seat, two males and a female crushed in beside him. But for all of that, his large frame filled enough space and with his shoulders being wider and his body taller, it was if the others did not exist. He was not masked, and his ebony hair was tucked behind his ears, exposing the strong bones and sinew of a face, that had become more wicked-looking at thirty-eight. Due to his legs wedged between hers, or the fact that he was seated so comfortably, he appeared to be less jostled by the fast moving coach, and was, quite frankly, looking right at her.
Those eyes, shimmering in the shadows like sooty mists of smoke, his arrow-like nose flared, and the sensual set of his lips, was enough to let her know the mask didn't do her a bit of good.
The man who supposedly bedded thousands had too good of a memory, and she knew, that he knew, exactly who she was.
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