Someone to Watch Over Me

CHAPTER 9

As the veteran of countless balls and soirees, Grant had come to view such events with a jaded eye. One was the same as any other; the parade of dark formal wear for the gentlemen, revealing gowns for the ladies...the elderly guests playing whist in the cardroom while the younger crowd danced in the drawing room and amorous couples gathered in the sitting rooms. The music played by pianist, violinist, and cellist...the ladies seated in small chairs at the side of the room, awaiting invitations to dance...the busy hum of guests in the refreshments room...the large, lukewarm supper.

And the heat, the gossip, the plague of insincere social smiles, the melange of grease-and sugarbased pomades and heavily applied perfume.

A monotonous bore, every bit of it.

But tonight would be different. He was appearing with a woman whom most of London assumed to be dead. By tomorrow the news would have spread through every layer of society that Vivien Duvall was alive--and that she had appeared at the Lichfield ball on Grant Morgan's arm. He had no doubt that after the revelations of this evening, the man who had tried to kill her would be flushed out.

Drinking from a snifter of brandy, Grant waited in the entrance hall of his home. His black and gold carriage, attended by outriders and footmen, had been stationed at the front door. It was ten minutes past the time he had bid Vivien to be ready, but he knew from experience that women were always late for such events.

One of the housemaids, Mary, descended the stairs at a rapid pace, her face glowing with excitement. "She's almost ready, sir. Mrs. Buttons is seeing to the last few details." Grant nodded shortly, glancing around and realizing that the entrance hall was becoming filled with footmen, the butler, the maids, and even his valet, Kellow, all of them staring expectantly at the stairs. It puzzled him, the feeling of pleasure they seemed to share in the proceedings. Vivien's presence had enlivened the house, had subtly altered the starkly masculine atmosphere until it no longer seemed a bachelor's residence. This could have been any ordinary gathering of servants waiting eagerly for the lady of the house to appear in her finery, a ritual that occurred in so many of the elegant residences in London...but never his.

Grant scowled at the group of servants, although none of them seemed to notice his simmering disapproval. Vivien was not the lady of the house. No one seemed to want to acknowledge that, however. She had made them like her in spite of themselves, using the power of her charm and sweetness to mesmerize everyone from the housekeeper down to the scullery maid. He had contempt for all of them, including himself, for being taken in by her.

Every thought in his head disappeared the moment Vivien appeared and a collective sigh of admiration escaped the servants. She made her way downstairs unescorted, wearing a glimmering bronze gown that swirled around her hips and legs as if it were liquid metal. No other color could have brought out the richness of her hair or the peaches and cream of her complexion half so well. The low, scooped bodice pushed the mounds of her breasts up and together in a display that literally made Grant's mouth water. Swallowing hard, he stared at her while the brandy snifter wobbled precariously in his fingers. He was hardly aware of Kellow tactfully removing it from his unsteady grasp.

The short, full sleeves exposed the curves of Vivien's shoulders, while her arms were encased in full-length white gloves. A French silk scarf of bronze trimmed in gold was draped loosely around her elbows. The only ornamentation on the gown was a stomacher of woven gold and bronze, cinched just above her small waist.

As he met Vivien's gaze, the smile in her thickly lashed blue eyes made his heart slam against his ribs in a funny little extra thump. Her hair was pinned up in a regal crown of braids and curls, in a style he had never seen before but which would undoubtedly be copied by every woman in London on the morrow. She wore no jewelry--he hadn't given it a thought until now. The old Vivien would have demanded some kind of ornamentation, especially when going to a ball where all the other women would be wearing their most ostentatious jewels.

Instead, it appeared that Vivien and the servants had improvised. A length of sheer bronze gauze had been wrapped around her throat, concealing the last remaining bruises. A tiny gold cravat pin shaped like a crown had been used to secure the gauze in front. The pin was unmistakable, a gift the king had given to each and all of the Runners who had guarded him on special occasions. It was the only bit of personal finery Grant possessed.

Seeing one of the Runners' distinctive crown pins adorning Vivien's pretty throat would arouse a torrent of gossip. Everyone at the ball tonight would have no choice but to assume that Vivien was Grant's mistress.

Half pleased, half annoyed, Grant shot a questioning glance at Kellow. The valet's long, balding forehead turned pink. "Er...Mrs. Buttons asked if there were some kind of pin they might use," he said apologetically. "It was the only one I could find, sir."

"In future, don't lend my personal possessions before asking my permission," Grant muttered.

"Yes, sir." Vivien reached Grant and raised the arc of one cinnamon-colored eyebrow in silent question.

Grant stared at her without smiling. "You'll do," he said tersely. He was unable to say more without his voice cracking.

There was a moment of silence, and he was aware of the servants' chiding stares. Suddenly, as a group, they broke into effusive compliments in an effort to atone for their master's boorishness.

"You're as lovely as a picture, miss!"

"...no one there will outshine you..."

"...a queen in that gown..."

A hot, troubling feeling expanded in Grant's chest, and he wanted to snap at them for being so ungodly solicitous of the feelings of a professional harlot. But he couldn't...because he was as much under her spell as the rest of them.

The desultory conversation in the enclosed carriage faded into silence as they traveled along the entrance avenue of the Lichfields' London estate. Obviously Vivien was nervous, and Grant felt a pang of guilt for not soothing her fears. She was about to face a crowd of strangers. Added to that pressure was the knowledge that after this evening, she would once again be a target for whoever had tried to kill her. Grant admired her bravery, her outward calmness, her willingness to trust him with her own safety.

However, he deliberately withheld the reassurance that she needed. Some obstruction in his throat prevented him from making the situation easier for her. He was angry with her, for being so beautiful, for having led the kind of life that made all this necessary. He wanted to punish her for being spendthrift with her sexual favors...for not saving herself for him alone.

The thought shocked him, but he couldn't get it out of his mind. He wanted exclusive rights to Vivien, past, present, and future. Such a thing wasn't possible or reasonable.

It was hypocritical of him to hold Vivien's past against her, he told himself. After all, he had hardly led the life of a monk. And it wasn't in Vivien's power to change what she had done in the past. She claimed to regret her promiscuity, and he believed her. But he couldn't control his own jealousy...jealous of a whore...Oh, his friends and enemies alike would take malicious pleasure in the situation, if they knew. No one must ever find out, including Vivien, how he cared for her.

"How many people will attend, do you think?" Vivien asked, staring out the window at the huge gabled manor house, its E-shaped design of heavy front porch and two wings contained in a shell of amber-tinted stone. The area at the sides and back of the stately manor was surrounded by high garden walls topped with sculpted lions that seemed to survey the surroundings with regal disdain.

"At least three hundred," Grant replied briefly.

A visible shiver chased across the exposed flesh of Vivien's shoulders as she continued to lean toward the window. "So many people watching me...I'm glad I won't be able to dance." She settled back and lifted the hem of her gown to expose a trim silk-stockinged ankle, regarding it idly. Grant's eyes narrowed as he stared at her prettily turned ankle. He wanted so badly to touch it, and slide his hand up to her knee, her inner thigh, and beyond, that his fingers twitched. The atmosphere in the carriage turned deadly quiet, and Vivien stared at him in concern.

"Something is wrong," she said frankly. "Your manner is...well, you're being distant. Could it be that you're having an attack of nerves just as I am? Or is something else bothering you?"

The fact that she had to ask what was bothering him, when it would have been obvious to any woman of experience, made Grant long to grab her and shake her. "Guess," he said in one sharp, bitten-off word.

Clearly perplexed, Vivien shook her head. "If I've said or done something to offend you...oh." She stopped suddenly, her fingers flying up to the cravat pin at her throat. "It's this, isn't it?" she asked remorsefully. "I knew I shouldn't have worn it, but we had nothing else, and I wanted to hide the marks on my neck. I told Mrs. Buttons and Kellow, but they said you never..." She tried to remove the little gold pin. "I'm so sorry. Help me take it off before we go inside, and forgive me for borrowing something of yours--"

"Stop," he said harshly. "It's not the damned pin." When she continued to tug at it, he leaned forward in the confined space of the carriage and caught her agitated hands in his. She went motionless, her small face close to his, the luscious display of her breasts right under his nose and chin. With little effort, he could reach down and free those delectable curves, fondle and kiss them, fasten his mouth over the soft pink tips and swirl his tongue over them.

His grip tightened on Vivien's fingers until she winced, but she made no attempt to pull away from him. Grant knew his breathing was betraying him--he was starting to sound like a running footman keeping pace with his master's carriage. With each deep inhalation, he was aware of a sweet, pure fragrance that entered his nostrils and spread through his brain like a drug.

"What is that smell?" he muttered.

Vivien answered in a hushed voice. "Mrs. Buttons distilled some vanilla water for me. Do you like it?"

"We brought your perfume from the town house. Why didn't you use that?"

Her gaze flickered to his mouth and back to his eyes. "It didn't suit me," she whispered. "Too heavy."

Grant drew in another lungful of delicate vanilla-scented air. "You smell like a sugar biscuit," he said gruffly. One he badly wanted to bite into. Her scent was innocent and homey and appetizing, making his blood surge and his muscles harden in acute yearning.

Vivien's hands relaxed in his compelling grip, her body yielding to the proximity of his. Their breath mingled, and Grant saw the soft color rising in her face. Thoughts slid through his mind...He considered signaling the driver to move on, and as the carriage rolled and swayed through the streets of London, he would make love to Vivien right here, pulling her to his lap and fitting himself inside her body while she writhed in pleasure--

The footman knocked at the carriage door and opened it perfunctorily. Grant released Vivien with a suddenness that caused her to gasp. Bewildered and lovely, she occupied herself with gathering up a brown silk pelisse and pulling it over her shoulders. The night air flooded the carriage with blessed coolness, helping to restore the function of Grant's brain. He rubbed his eyes hard, as if waking from a deep sleep, and left the carriage. The footman placed a movable step beneath the carriage door and assisted Vivien as she emerged from the vehicle.

Almost immediately Vivien attracted the attention of the groups of gentlemen and ladies who were making their way to the manor's entrance. Her red hair seemed to catch every stray shaft of light from the carriage lanterns and glow with a life of its own. She took Grant's arm in a deceptively light grasp, but he felt her fingers digging into the surface of his coat.

"My God," he heard someone murmur nearby, "can it really be..."

"Just look..." someone else exclaimed.

"But I had heard..."

"Hasn't been seen..."

Muffled gossip followed them during the short walk from the carriage to the manor. Vivien's face was devoid of expression, her gaze darting from one side to the other. They merged into the stream of guests entering the house, halting at random intervals as the hostess personally welcomed each party. The interior of Lichfield House was grand and Italianate, with rich oak paneling, and ceilings and walls that had been liberally covered with gilded plasterwork. As they arrived in the massive great hall, with its pilaster-lined walls and elaborate stone mantelpiece, Vivien tugged at Grant's sleeve. He bent his head to hear her whisper.

"How long must we stay here?"

The question brought a reluctant smile to his lips. "We haven't even met Lady Lichfield, and you want to leave?"

"I don't like the way people are staring at me...as if I were a spectacle at the county fair."

Her assessment was absolutely correct. People were indeed staring openly, clearly amazed to learn that the rumors of Vivien's death had been unfounded...and at such a time and place! Her appearance at Lady Lichfield's ball--an event she would never have ordinarily been allowed to attend--was a source of shock for the ladies and profound uneasiness for the gentlemen. Many of the fine lords who were present tonight had enjoyed Vivien's favors in the past, but they hardly wanted to be confronted with her while their suspicious wives were at their sides.

Grant touched the small hand clinging to his arm, running his fingers over hers in a quick, reassuring stroke. "Of course they're looking at you," he mumured. "Rumors of your disappearance and death have been flying all over London. They're surprised to see that you're still alive."

"Now that they've seen me, I want to go home."

"Later." Grant suppressed a taut sigh, ignoring his own desire to return home with her at once, rather than put her through the gauntlet of first society. It promised to be a long evening for both of them. "In the meanwhile, try to have some backbone. The old Vivien would have enjoyed all this attention. You would have welcomed any opportunity to flaunt yourself."

"If I didn't have backbone, I wouldn't be here," she retorted beneath her breath. They reached Lady Lichfield, a plump woman in her forties who had once been considered the greatest beauty in London. Although the years of indulgence had taken a toll on her striking face, she was still remarkably attractive. The thickly lashed blue eyes were still radiant above her heavy cheeks, and her shining black hair was coiled atop her head to reveal a classic profile. She was a queen of London's elite circles, a widow who led an outwardly circumspect life--though it was rumored that she had often taken young men as lovers and rewarded them richly for their services. Indeed, she had flirted with Grant at their last meeting, a soiree at the beginning of the season, and had hinted broadly that she would like to "deepen their acquaintance."

As she caught sight of him, Lady Lichfield proffered both her hands. "How can it be that this is only the second time we have met?" she asked. "I feel as if we are old friends, Mr. Morgan."

"Say 'dear friends,'" Grant suggested, pressing an obligatory kiss to the gloved backs of her hands. "The word 'old' should never be mentioned in the same sentence with you, milady."

She giggled and preened. "I doubt I am the first, nor the last, to fall prey to your flattery, you charming rake."

He grinned and deliberately held her hands longer than was strictly proper. "Nor am I the last to fall under the spell of an enchantress with the bluest eyes in England."

The flattery obviously pleased her, though she laughed with a touch of irony. "Mr. Morgan, pray stop before you reduce me to a puddle at your feet." She turned to Vivien, subjecting her to a head-to-toe inspection. Her smile cooled considerably. "Welcome, Miss Duvall. I see you're in good health, contrary to the astonishing rumors that have flown about the past month or so."

"Thank you, my lady." Vivien curtsied and regarded her with a hesitant smile. "Please forgive me, but...have we met before?"

All traces of good humor left Lady Lichfield's expression. "No," she said softly. "Although I believe you were once quite well acquainted with my late husband."

There was no mistaking her meaning. Faced with yet more evidence of her own scandalous past, Vivien could make no reply. She was grateful when Grant ushered her away speedily, leaving Lady Lichfield to welcome more guests.

"She doesn't like me," Vivien said in a dry tone, pausing as Grant removed her cloak and handed it to a waiting servant.

"Few women do."

"Thank you for that boost to my confidence. I feel so much better after the multitude of compliments you've showered on me."

"You want compliments?" They entered an overheated drawing room, the buzz of conversation intensifying as soon as they appeared.

"One or two would hardly hurt," Vivien said in a subdued tone, wincing as hundreds of gazes arrowed to her. "Though now you'll make me out to be silly and vain for desiring it."

Seeming entirely comfortable in spite of the public scrutiny, Grant nodded in response to the greeting of a passing acquaintance, and drew Vivien to an unoccupied space at the side of the room. He stared down at her with smoldering green eyes. "You are beautiful," he said. "The most beautiful woman I've ever known, and the most desirable. I've never wanted anyone the way I want you. And I'm afraid to look at you for too long, or I'll end up taking you in the middle of the drawing room floor."

"Oh." Flustered, Vivien toyed with the edge of her stomacher. Byron, he was not. But the blunt statements caused little knots of excitement and pleasure to tighten in her stomach. She returned his gaze with a direct one of her own. "Why were you flirting with Lady Lichfield like that?" she asked. "Were you once lovers?"

"No. It amuses her to banter with younger men, and it's easy enough to indulge her. She's already proven to be a useful acquaintance. Besides, I happen to like her."

Vivien frowned, experiencing a sting of jealousy. "You wouldn't have an affair with a woman her age, would you?"

"She's hardly an ancient relic," he said. Suddenly the shadow of a smile played on his lips. "She's an attractive woman in her forties."

"But she is at least ten years older than yourself. Perhaps even fifteen."

His dark brows lifted expressively. "You don't approve of women having affairs with younger men?"

Vivien made an effort to swallow back the unpleasant tightness in her throat. "I'm hardly in a position to disapprove of anyone."

"The French have a more relaxed attitude toward these matters than we do. They believe a woman's appeal increases with maturity and experience...and if she gives her favors to a younger man, he's considered quite fortunate."

"Pray don't let me keep you from Lady Lichfield, then," Vivien said tartly. "Why don't you go to her?"

"I'm not going to have an affair with Lady Lichfield," he murmured, amusement flickering in the depths of his verdant eyes.

"Why are you smiling like that?" She felt sour and uncomfortable, as if she had somehow made a fool of herself.

"Because you're jealous."

"No, I'm not," Vivien countered in rising dismay. "Really, I'm--" She stopped as a dark figure approached them. "Who is that?" she asked warily.

Grant glanced over his shoulder, then turned to face the visitor. Although there was no change in his expression, Vivien sensed that this was a man whom Grant liked and respected very much...one of the few people on earth whose good opinion he desired. "Sir Ross," he said easily, bringing Vivien forward a step. "May I introduce Miss Duvall?"

Sir Ross Cannon, the Bow Street magistrate. Vivien curtsied and stared at him intently, finding him to be an extraordinary figure, though she couldn't quite say why. Sir Ross was a tall man, though he did not match Grant's towering height. He possessed a self-contained quality, a sense of tremendous power held in check. He had black hair, a build that was just a bit too lean, and curiously light gray eyes that seemed to have observed too much of everyone else's business. Most striking about his appearance was a distinctly remote air, as if he were not quite part of the gathering even though he was mingling among them. And he seemed comfortable with his quality of aloneness.

A mortifying thought occurred to Vivien...Grant reported to this man, consulted with him. There was no doubt that he knew all about her, including the things she had written in that dreadful book. Instinctively she moved closer to Grant.

Cannon's watchful gaze did not leave her. "Miss Duvall...a great pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Have we..." Vivien started, then bit her tongue. She could hardly go about asking everyone at the ball if she had met them before.

Cannon understood the unfinished question, and answered gently. "To my regret, no."

She searched his expression for traces of censure or sarcasm, but found none. The cool gray eyes were comfortingly impassive.

Cannon and Grant exchanged a glance that seemed to contain an entire conversation. After bowing once more to Vivien, Cannon left them with a polite murmur.

Grant cupped his hand around Vivien's elbow. "Come, Miss Duvall," he said smoothly. "I think it's time we exchanged pleasantries with the other guests."

"Is it?" she asked, accompanying him reluctantly. She dreaded the prospect of meeting anyone, when there was no way of knowing who was friend or foe. "I was just thinking it's time to have a glass of wine. A large one."

"You'll have all the wine you want later." His hand inexorably urged her forward.

To hide her unease, Vivien made her face still and composed. They approached a group amid the sea of speculative faces, two ladies and three gentlemen, and introductions were made. Lord and Lady Wenman, Lord Fuller, and Mrs. Marshall, all of them curiously stilted and brittle as they regarded Vivien. Mercifully there seemed to be little need for her to speak. Vivien glanced frequently at Grant as he made conversation with the others. His expression was bland, but his eyes were watchful, and she sensed that he was taking measure, testing, waiting.

Vivien's gaze flickered to Lord Wenman, who appeared composed except for the subtly agitated rat-a-tat-tat of his toes on the floor. He returned her glance, his pale blue eyes filled with an insolence that perplexed her. Wenman...She did not recognize his face, but the name was oddly familiar. Where had she seen or heard it before?

Grant guided Vivien to another group, pointedly introducing her to Viscount Hatton. The viscount was an elderly gentleman with yellow-gray hair and skin like crumpled paper. Although his manner was polite, he stared at her with a mixture of accusation and wariness that was impossible to miss. It didn't take long for Vivien to remember that he and Wenman were two of the names mentioned in her diary.

She had had affairs with them. Discomfort fanned over her like an icy breeze. It was bad enough to have read the details of her own affairs in that damned book, but even worse to be forcibly brought face-to-face with the men she had slept with. How many more of her past lovers were here tonight? She turned toward Grant with an accusation leaping from her lips.

Before she could say a word, she was approached by a man with eyes like small chips of coal, set deep in a ruddy face. Unlike the others, he did not pretend to be a stranger. He came up to her immediately, taking her hands in a possessive, familiar grip, seeming unaware of the way Grant stiffened at her side.

"Good God, Vivien," the man said in a strained voice. "I literally thought you were dead. How could you disappear like that? Have you no concern for what you've put me through? I had no way to reach you, no way to assure myself of your well-being." As he spoke, his liquor-soaked breath wafted heavily into her face. "Though knowing you, I shouldn't have wasted a moment of worry." He paused to give Grant a baleful glance, then returned his attention to Vivien. "You've always landed on your feet like a cat, haven't you?"

Vivien allowed her hands to remain unresisting in his. She was uncomfortably aware that the attention of the entire room was focused on them.

"Good evening, Gerard," Grant said softly.

Of course. Lord Gerard, her former protector. Vivien forced herself to smile, though her lips were trembling. Anger, protest, shame, all shot through her veins in a scorching blast. She felt as if she had been put on display for the amusement of the snobbish members of theton...and indeed, she had been.

Seeming too foxed to notice the attention they were attracting, Gerard gripped her gloved hands more tightly. He bent to whisper thickly in her ear. "Promise you'll slip away to meet me later. I must talk with you."

"I promise," she murmured, tugging at her hands until they were free.

Gerard meandered away, and Vivien headed in the opposite direction, hardly noticing where she was going. Grant followed her, seeming no more pleased by the situation than she. Striding through the doorway of the drawing room, Vivien located a long picture gallery lined with upholstered benches. She stopped before a portrait of a haughty-faced Lichfield ancestor, and stood with her arms locked tightly across her chest.

Knowing without turning around that Grant was close by, Vivien spoke through her teeth. Anger made her jaw stiff, but she kept her tone soft, mindful of another couple perusing works of art at the other end of the gallery. "How on earth did you manage it? I've met three of my past lovers before ten minutes have elapsed. Somehow you've managed to have everyone in my diary included in the guest list."

"Lady Lichfield was persuaded to send extra invitations," Grant said tonelessly.

"How helpful of her," Vivien replied bitterly.

"Who the bloody hell did you think would be attending, Vivien? You knew we were using this as an occasion for you to come out in the open."

"But you've done more than that. You've invited anyone and everyone who could possibly wish me harm! I'm being dangled before them like live bait, and you're waiting to see who will snap!"

"There are half a dozen Runners and constables attending tonight, not to mention myself and Sir Ross. We're all keeping our eyes on you. You're in no danger." His words had the effect of throwing brandy on a fire. She flared in fury, her lips drawn back from her teeth. "You could have told me what you were planning! But you didn't, because you wanted me to be unprepared, and humiliated, and shamed by the sight of the multitude I've slept with."

"So you think this is all some elaborate punishment I've devised for you?" he sneered. "Try again, Vivien. Bow Street has better things to do than support personal vendettas. My job is to catch the man that tried to kill you, and this is the best way of doing it. If you happen to be embarrassed by the evidence of your past, that's no fault of mine."

"You manipulative, arrogant..." She tried to think of the nastiest word possible, while her hand rose to slap him.

"Go on," Grant said softly, "if it makes you feel better."

Vivien stared at him, so handsome in his black evening wear, so strong and invulnerable that one slap would only amuse him. She curled her shaking hand into a fist and clenched it against her middle, using all her will to control her tumult of emotions.

"You can hardly bear to hurt anyone, can you?" Grant murmured. "Even when they deserve it. But that's not like you. You used to rip a man's heart out and crush it beneath your foot with no more concern than you would swat a damned fly. What the hell has happened to you?"

She had never truly felt like a prostitute until this moment. Suddenly she wished--for the first time--that she could instantly change back into that other Vivien, the shameless, uncaring woman who did exactly as she pleased. Perhaps then the ache of betrayal would fade away. Until now she had regarded Grant Morgan as her protector, her friend. She had fallen in love with him, though she would never have expected anything to come of it. But he was not her friend. He was as much her adversary as everyone else here tonight. She felt very much alone, like a woman about to be stoned. Well...damn them all and let them all stare.

Raising her head, she stared at Grant steadily, the color fading from her face except for two bright arcs high on her cheeks. "All right," she said in a low voice. "Tonight I'll give everyone, including you, what they want."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Only that I intend to make your job easier for you."

She squared her shoulders and left the gallery with determined strides, plunging back into the drawing room like a gladiator. Grant followed more slowly, his gaze locked on her small, trim form. Any trace of shame or timidity had left her. She moved among the guests with a straight spine and a regal tilt to her head. It seemed as if the Vivien he had remembered was now back, as alluring and coquettish as ever.

Openly flirting and teasing, Vivien began to attract men like flies to a honey pot. Before long a circle of five had gathered around her. Three of them were former paramours, and by all appearances more than willing to renew their previous arrangements with her. Clasping a goblet of wine in her delicate fingers, Vivien finished it far too quickly and accepted another.

Grant moved forward, feeling like a starving man being forced to watch as others feasted athis picnic. At that moment he felt Sir Ross's restraining clasp on his shoulder. "Let her be," came Cannon's cool murmur. "She's doing exactly what needs to be done. A clever woman, your friend."

"Vivien is merely reverting to type," Grant said bitterly. "She can't rest until she's made every man in the room want her."

"Really." Cannon's voice turned dry and chiding. "Take a closer look, Morgan, and tell me what you see."

"A courtesan, enjoying the hell out of herself." Grant drank deeply of his brandy.

"Oh? I see a woman with perspiration on her forehead, holding her wineglass in a death grip. I see the tension of a woman attending to an unpleasant duty regardless of the embarrassment it causes her."

Grant snorted. "She isn't capable of embarrassment."

Cannon regarded him speculatively. "If you say so. Though at the moment I haven't much faith in your objectivity."

Grant waited until the magistrate left him before he replied under his breath, "Neither do I."

He continued to watch Vivien while jealousy and anger swirled in a fomenting mass inside him. This was what it would be like for any man fool enough to care about Vivien. He watched her flirting and talking with her former lovers, and he couldn't help recalling the sickening details of what she had done with each and every one of them. He wanted to smash, pummel, skewer, mangle someone...anything to release this welling violence. He hadn't known he was capable of such irrational rage, and he was appalled by it.

Until now, Vivien hadn't known it was possible to present a facade of pleasure and gaiety when she was abjectly miserable. It was the worst kind of torture to stand here and pretend sexual interest in any and all the men that surrounded her, when all she wanted was to be alone.

She did not look directly at Grant, but she saw him from the corner of her eye, a grim giant who looked as though he had swallowed a bellyful of wasps. She couldn't help thinking of him as the cause of her problems...though that wasn't quite fair. If she hadn't led the kind of life that had resulted in this unholy mess, she wouldn't need his protection. She was to blame for the entire situation. But he, damn his arrogant hide, didn't have to treat her with such ambivalence, being kind and caring one moment and sarcastic and superior the next. It would be easier for them both if he would either like or hate her, instead of tormenting her with his mercurial moods.

Lord Gerard caught her eye from afar. He was standing near the glass-paned doors that led to the outside gardens. Inclining his head questioningly, he gestured to the door.

Realizing that he wanted her to meet him outside, Vivien gave him an agreeable wink, though her heart shriveled in dread at the prospect. No doubt he would attempt to seduce her...either that or try to strangle her. As her former protector, and reputedly jealous by nature, he might very well have been the one to throw her into the Thames. She was afraid to be alone with him. But Grant had said that she would be safe, and she believed him.

Recognizing the need to separate herself from the crowd that had accumulated around her, she glanced about for Grant. Her gaze was momentarily caught by a tall, elderly man with a shock of iron-gray hair and a long, angular face. He was staring at her intently. Although he was not handsome, he was undeniably distinguished in appearance. What attracted her notice the most was the hatred in his eyes.

Uncomfortable, she tore her gaze from him and continued to look for Grant. Finding his tall, familiar form in the crowd, she sent him a meaningful glance. The subtle signal was all Grant required. He was at her side in an instant, shouldering through the besotted herd. Ignoring the group's protests, he jerked her out of their midst.

"What is it?" he muttered, bending his head to catch her soft murmur.

"Dance with me."

He scowled at the request. "I don't dance well."

"Lord Gerard has indicated that he would like to meet with me in the garden. I was hoping you would dance with me to the doors at the other side of the room, and help me to slip outside discreetly."

Grant hesitated, his gaze flickering to the outside doors. It was highly likely that a meeting between Gerard and Vivien would yield valuable information. The fact that Vivien was willing to confront the ex-lover who might have killed her, and to face him without the aid of her memory, was proof of her courage. However, he didn't want her to do it. He was jealous, and concerned for her safety, and at the moment there was nothing in the world he wanted more than to be alone with her.

"What about your ankle?" he asked.

"I'll manage," she said immediately. "I only feel a little twinge now and then."

"When you go outside, you'll stay in view of the house," he said quietly. "You won't venture past the doors leading to the lower lawns. Agreed?"

"Yes, of course."

Reluctantly he pulled her into the swirl of dancers as a waltz began. Despite the tension that had gripped each of them, or perhaps because of it, Vivien was tempted to giggle. Grant had not been falsely modest--he was definitelynot a good dancer. He was proficient but hardly graceful, handling her as if she were a rag doll.

Gamely they struggled on, making slow but steady progress to the other side of the room. Grant stared at the shiny flame-hued curls on the top of Vivien's head, mechanically drawing her through the figures of the waltz. He was terrified of stepping on her. One misplaced foot and he could cripple her for life. Vivien was silent, apparently as uncomfortable as he...and then he heard a smothered sound that sounded like weeping. He broke their rhythm long enough to shove his fingers beneath her chin and force her face upward. Her lips quivered violently, and her deep blue eyes glimmered with laughter.

"This is dreadful," Vivien gasped, and bit her lip to control an eruption of amusement.

Grant was offended and relieved at the same time. "I told you," he growled.

"The fault isn't yours. Really. You would do much better with a taller partner. We're so unsuited to each other." She shook her head, and a wistful softness swept through her tone. "We're a mismatch." "Yes." But Grant didn't agree, or more precisely, didn't care. He loved her short legs and high waist and little hands...loved the way she felt in his arms...loved every detail of her, perfect and imperfect. The knowledge spread inside him like an opiate, the kind that caused the senses to soar dizzyingly high and then crash with sickening speed. Of all the women he had known...why did it have to be her?

The music rose to a crescendo, and as the ballroom spun with color and light, Grant shoved Vivien toward the door that led outside. "Go," he muttered. "Gerard is waiting." And he shielded her with his back while she slipped out to meet her former lover.