Page 9 of Beneath the Devil’s Mask (The Hidden Hearts Collection #4)

He reached for her again, but this time she managed to evade his grasp. Whirling, she stumbled down the path. Her legs so unsteady, she was never sure how she made it back to the terrace.

It did not occur to her that Mandell was not pursuing until she had breached the threshold of the French doors. When the darkness behind her remained still, she drew up short, striving to regain her composure.

For once she blessed the fact that her presence attracted so little notice in a crowded ballroom.

The only one who seemed to observe her precipitate return was Mr. Nicholas Drummond.

He regarded her with a frown of concern.

But his stare did not bother her so much as another’s might have done.

She was sure Mr. Drummond was too much a gentleman to indulge in any speculation or gossip.

Though she scarce felt in control of herself, she forced herself to step away from the windows. It astonished her that more people were not glancing her way. Mandell’s kiss must have left some indelible mark upon her.

Making her way past a flock of chattering dowagers, Anne regarded herself in one of Lily’s opulent gilt mirrors.

She was both reassured and disturbed to see she looked much the same as ever.

The same pale, dull old Anne. Her cheeks were a little more flushed perhaps, but that could be attributed to the heat of the ballroom.

And her mouth? Her lips were composed into that familiar prim line that Mandell teased her about.

Only when she moistened them could she seem to taste the heated fury of Mandell’s kiss.

How could she have been such a fool to have trusted him, to have allowed him to lead her so deep into the gardens? She should have known better. A wolf, no matter how benign he might seem, was still by nature a wolf.

She had felt safe simply by virtue of her own propriety, her lack of beauty.

She was hardly the kind of woman to inspire a man to unbridled passion.

When Lily and Camilla had been on the verge of coming out, Anne knew that her mother had taken them both aside, warned them of the dangers of rakehells, how to handle the company of such men.

She had never felt it necessary to have such a talk with Anne.

So how should she have best reacted to Mandell?

With icy dignity? With furious scorn? Anne had no idea.

She only knew what she should not have done, and that was to have stood there meekly letting him kiss her, trembling like a frightened doe.

She could not begin to fathom his motives, why he had singled her out for his attentions.

Perhaps he had simply been bored, found it amusing to see if he could fluster the “virtuous Anne.” He had made no attempt to come after her.

Likely he lingered in the garden, laughing at the way she had run from him.

That thought cut her deeply, hurting Anne more than she would have believed possible.

She felt the stinging of tears in her eyes and swiped at them with the back of her hand.

That would be all she needed to make her humiliation complete.

She remembered that Mandell had asked her if she wanted to weep.

He had not sounded mocking then, only a little alarmed at that prospect.

“That is what you could have done,” Anne told herself sarcastically. “You could have blubbered all over him. That would have taught him a lesson.”

Angered by her own weakness, she gritted her teeth and tensed her hands into fists. She found some solace at the thought of teaching Mandell a lesson of a far different sort the next time he was ever so brash as to offer to let her hit him.

But there was not going to be any next time. She did not intend to let Mandell come within a dozen yards of her again. And she doubted that he would try. He had already had his diversion.

It had been a distressing incident, nothing more. She would be wise not to make too much of it. She had other worries, a far greater torment than Mandell to contend with.

Lucien.

It was three in the morning before Sir Lucien Fairhaven left the Countess Sumner’s ball, He strode down the curving stair into the entry hall, snatching his cloak from one of the footmen before Anne realized her brother-in-law was on the brink of departure.

Anne rushed to the door of the small parlor where she had hidden herself away since her walk in the garden with Mandell. Regardless of the curious stares of Lily’s servants, Anne called out, “Lucien! Wait!”

She was certain he heard her, but he did not once look back, stalking through the massive front doors into the night. Anne felt the familiar despair tighten in her chest and cursed herself for the inattentiveness that had allowed Lucien to escape.

She had retreated to the small downstairs parlor for most of the evening, leaving the door ajar so that she could observe all departures without running the risk of encountering Mandell again.

But the strain of too many sleepless nights and an exhaustion of spirit had finally taken their toll.

She must have nodded off, for how long she did not know.

Only the clock chiming three had startled her awake in time to see Lucien making his exit.

A minute more and she would have been too late. Perhaps she still was.

Refusing to accept that, Anne raced across the hall toward the front door. Lily’s elderly butler attempted to intercept her flight. “My lady, wait. At least allow me to fetch your shawl.”

But Anne brushed past him, all but stumbling in her haste to clear the stone steps, the short span of walkway leading to the pavement.

She halted, gazing frantically about her.

The cobblestones yet rang with the clatter of cabriolets and carriages pulled by smart-looking teams of horses.

This accursed city never seemed to sleep.

Anne feared that Lucien was already on his way to his next round of entertainment. But no! There was his elegant brougham pulled up to the curb at the corner. One of Lily’s own footmen had darted out to hold open the door.

“Lucien!” Anne cried, striving to be heard above the rumble of a passing vehicle. Lifting her skirts, she propelled herself forward with a desperate burst of speed.

Lucien affected not to hear her, but the footman touched his sleeve, respectfully indicating Anne’s approach.

Lucien paused with one foot mounted upon the step of his carriage. With obvious reluctance, he turned to face her. The streetlamp shone full on his blond hair and the harsh planes of his once handsome countenance. The sullen set of his mouth offered Anne no encouragement.

“What is amiss, Anne?” he snapped as Anne drew up beside him. “Did I forget my gloves or something?”

Anne placed one hand over the region of her heart, attempting to recover her breath. “No. You forgot—that is, you know I wished to speak to you.”

“Another time, perhaps. The night is still young. I have other engagements.”

“No, now!” Her voice sounded almost shrill. Anne forced herself to speak in milder, more placating tones. “I have been waiting so long.”

“To no purpose. You and I have little to say to each other.”

“We have a great deal to talk about. That is the sole reason Lily invited you tonight, so that we would have a chance to heal our differences.”

Lucien’s face washed a dull red. “The countess might have spared herself the invitation. She certainly did me no favor. An evening of cards with whelps and old men. And you, hanging upon my sleeve, like some Covent Garden doxy seeking a night’s work.”

Anne flinched at his insulting words, aware that Lucien’s coachman leaned forward to listen with undisguised interest. The young footman, holding the door, shuffled his feet with embarrassment, pretending not to hear.

“Please, Lucien,” Anne said, striving to keep calm and reasonable. “Come back into the house. We cannot discuss this in the street.”

“We cannot discuss this at all, Anne. Now, if you will excuse me, I have more important matters to attend.”

“Nothing is more important than this.”

Lucien turned as though he would mount into the carriage, but Anne clutched at his arm, clinging with a strength she never knew she possessed.

“For the love of God, Lucien. You have my daughter. You brought her here to London. One of Lily’s servants saw a little girl exactly like Norrie being carried into one of the houses nearby. You cannot deny it.”

“Why should I?” Lucien’s mouth curved into a hard ugly line. “I will tell you exactly where she is. I leased number twenty-six, a most elegant house. You need not worry about Eleanor. I have been giving her the best of everything.”

“You must let me see her!”

“Haven’t you got enough else to amuse you in London at the height of the season? You always have been a most strange creature, my dear sister Anne.”

“You have kept Norrie away from me for three months. Most of that time I did not even know where she was. You have no right.”

“I have every right. She is my ward. Gerald left guardianship of the girl to me.”

“He never meant for you to separate us in this cruel fashion.”

“Gerald’s intentions hardly matter now. Poor Anne.

That is the price you pay for choosing the wrong brother.

” His gloating smile only emphasized the coarse heaviness of his features, the dark rings beneath his eyes.

It was difficult for Anne to remember that this man was younger than she and that she had once harbored more gentle feelings toward him.

“Is that what this is all about then?” she asked. “A revenge against me because I wed Gerald instead of you?”

“I always told you that you would be sorry one day.”