Seducing an Angel

"Stephen has a sporting curricle," his sister Kate said, "a quite terrifying-looking beast. But he is a notable whip, Lady Paget. You will be quite safe with him."

"It had not occurred to me," Lady Paget said in her low, velvet voice,

"that I might not be."

Her eyes met Stephen's as he raised his cup to his lips, and for a moment he felt a return of this morning's anger. She was beautiful and she was desirable and she had him tangled in her web, like a spider with a fly. An ugly image. But an apt one.

"And it is a beautiful day for a drive," Meg said. "I thought it would rain this morning, but now, look, there is not a cloud in the sky. I do hope this weather bodes well for the summer."

"It is more likely, Lady Sheringford," Mrs. Craven said, shaking her head and looking mournful, "that we will suffer for this fine spell all through July and August."

The conversation fell into comfortably familiar cha

"Thank you for admitting me to your party, ma'am," he said to Lady Carling. "But if you will excuse Lady Paget and me, we will take our leave now. My horses will be getting frisky."

He bowed to all the ladies and smiled at each of his sisters – and held out an arm to Lady Paget, who had also risen to her feet. She slipped one hand beneath his elbow as she thanked Lady Carling for her hospitality, and they left the room together.

There would be no great rush of conversation after the door closed behind them, Stephen realized – his sisters were there. But there would be a great deal of it over various di

And yet, if he was not completely mistaken, a few invitations would soon begin to trickle into Lady Paget's house. A few hostesses would realize the advantages of having her at their entertainments before the novelty of her notoriety had begun to wear off. And by that time invitations might be sent to her as a matter of course.

"It is a smart curricle," she said as they stepped out of doors and the groom who had been walking his team back and forth in the street brought the vehicle up to the steps. "I wish you would take me directly home, though, Lord Merton."

"We will go through the park, as pla

"My point exactly," she said.

He took her hand in his, but she did not need any other assistance to ascend to the high seat. He went around the vehicle and climbed up beside her before taking the ribbons from the groom's hand.

"Are you so eager, then," she said, "to flaunt your new mistress before all your male friends, Lord Merton?"

He turned his head to look at her.

"You choose to insult me, Lady Paget," he said. "You will find me more circumspect, I hope. In private you are my /lover/. It is a relationship that concerns no one but you and me. In public you are Lady Paget, an acquaintance, perhaps even my friend, whom I choose to escort about town from time to time. And that description applies when you are with me and when you are not. Even when I am alone with my /male friends/."

"You are angry," she said.

"Yes," he agreed. "I am angry. Or, rather, I /was/ angry. I daresay you did not mean to insult me. Are you ready to go?"

He smiled at her.

"I believe," she said, "we would both look remarkably foolish if we were to sit here from now until darkness falls, Lord Merton. I am ready."

He gave his horses the signal to start.

Just two days ago, Cassandra thought as the curricle turned in to Hyde Park, she had walked here quite anonymously with Alice, and she had gone almost u

Her beauty – if that was what her appearance added up to – had not always been an asset. Indeed, it rarely had been. Sometimes – most times, in fact – it was something to hide behind. Her smile – that half-scornful, half-arrogant expression that lifted the corners of her lips and went together with a raised chin and languidly observant eyes – was no new thing. It kept other people from encroaching too closely upon the person who lurked within.

This morning the Earl of Merton had called it a mask.

Last evening her beauty had been an asset. It had got her a wealthy protector when she quite desperately needed one. Though she wished now she had chosen someone else, someone who would be content with visiting her stealthily at night for one purpose only and paying her regularly for services rendered.

"Why did you come to fetch me from Lady Carling's," she asked him, "when doing so forced you into making a very public a

"I believe," he said, "that every member of the beau monde would know by this evening whether I had come to Lady Carling's or waited for you to return home first."

"And yet," she said, "you are angry with me. You were angry this morning, and you are angry again this afternoon. You do not really like me, do you?"

It was a very foolish question to ask. Did she want this liaison to end almost before it had begun? Was it necessary that he like her? Or that he pretend to? Was it not enough that he desired her? That he would pay to satisfy that desire?

"Lady Paget," he asked her, "do /you/ like /me/?"

Everyone else did. He was, she suspected, society's darling. And it was not just his extraordinarily handsome, angelic looks. It was also his charm, his ease of ma

Kindness? Genuineness? His beauty and popularity did not appear to have made him conceited.

He had taken his beauty and used it to make people his friends, to make them smile and feel good about themselves. She had taken her beauty and snared for herself first a husband and now a lover. He was a giver and she was a taker. /Was/ he?

Was /she/?

"I do not even know you," she said, "except in the biblical sense. How can I know if I like you or not?"

He turned his head to gaze very directly into her face – and she realized how very close they were, crammed together on the seat of his sporting curricle. She could smell his cologne.

"Exactly," he said. "I have no idea either if I will like you or not, Cassandra. But it seems strange to me that last evening you set out deliberately to seduce me while today you seem intent upon getting rid of me. Is that what you want?"

She wished his eyes were not so blue or his gaze so intense. There was no escaping blue eyes. Blue eyes made her uncomfortable. They drew her in deep and in so doing stripped her of everything she most wanted to keep in place – /not/ her clothes, but… Well, they were fanciful thoughts, and she had never had them before. She had never noticed before now that she disliked blue eyes. Probably she did not. It was just /his/ blue eyes.

He had called her Cassandra.

"What I want," she said, smiling at him and lowering her voice, "is /you/, Stephen. In my house, in my bedchamber, in my bed. All this is quite u

She swept her arm about to indicate the park and the afternoon crush of carriages and horses and pedestrians they were fast approaching.

"I have always thought," he said, "that a relationship between a man and a woman – even that between a man and his lover – ought to be about more than just what happens between them in bed. Otherwise it is not a relationship at all."