His own glance raked her briefly, displaying merely a flicker of acknowledgment of her own appearance, before he offered her his arm. “Shall we go then?”
He escorted her downstairs, where they retrieved cloaks and gloves and Kell’s tall beaver hat before braving the chill winter night and settling into his barouche.
They were the first to arrive at the Wycliff mansion. As she alighted on the silent street, Raven felt her disquiet rise. Had she made a grave mistake, thinking that anyone at all would attend her ball?
The house was quietly magnificent, adorned with winter roses and hothouse flowers, the crystal chandeliers sparkling with candleflame.
Their hosts awaited them in the drawing room, and both Lucian and Brynn stepped forward at their entrance. Raven felt a strange measure of satisfaction at Brynn’s start of feminine awareness upon spying Kell. His smoldering masculinity would make any woman take notice, even a beautiful woman like Brynn, who was madly in love with her own stunningly attractive husband.
Brynn recovered almost immediately, however, offering Kell her hand along with a welcoming smile.
Her husband was more reserved in his welcome, but just as sincere. Tall, lithe, dark-haired, Lucian had once been one of the country’s premier rakes. He shook hands with Kell, his blue eyes keen and measuring.
“Raven has told us of your generosity in coming to her rescue, Mr. Lasseter, and I would like to express my thanks. We owe you an enormous debt of gratitude.”
“You owe me nothing, my lord,” Kell replied with little inflection.
“On the contrary. Raven is very special to us, like a sister”-Lucian cast her a smile that could melt stone-“and I assure you I intend to find some means of repaying you.”
Seeing Kell’s jaw harden, Raven thought to intervene, but she was spared when her great-aunt and grandfather were announced.
Lord Luttrell embraced her warmly, then allowed himself to be settled on a couch with a glass of sherry. Lady Dalrymple greeted Raven with chilling politeness and spoke not a word to Raven’s new husband, making it perfectly clear she was here under duress.
After a few awkward moments, however, the others in the company ignored the frosty atmosphere while their hosts expertly steered the conversation to non-controversial subjects.
Brynn had planned a quiet dinner before the ball with only the family in attendance, and the meal proceeded with unexpected cordiality. Raven was particularly surprised when Kell not only participated in the discussions, but did so with ease. He was putting himself out for her benefit, she knew, although he would not meet her gaze.
Afterward they repaired to the ballroom to await the guests’ arrival. The light from myriad candles cast a shimmering glow over the vast chamber and took the chill from the winter evening, but no amount of flame could warm the growing ice in Raven’s stomach.
Her tension only mounted as they formed a receiving line. Her cowardly inner voices were encouraging her to flee, while her own rebellious instincts were clamoring for her to give up her aspirations of redeeming her ruined reputation.
She glanced at Kell, who stood grimly at her side, and for some inexplicable reason, she took heart. If he could endure what must seem like torture to him, then she could as well.
The Marquess of Wolverton was the first to arrive. Shunning proper etiquette entirely, Dare kissed Brynn’s cheek and then Raven’s, affably greeted Lucian and Kell and Lord Luttrell, and bowed deeply over Lady Dalrymple’s hand, pressing his lips to her fingers with a lingering sensuality that made the elderly lady flush.
Finally she snatched her hand away, muttering something under her breath about rogues and libertines and looking as if she would like to strike him with her fan.
Unfazed, Dare glanced around the empty ballroom, his glance touching on the orchestra that was preparing to play. “What, no one else is here? I am usually deplorably late to these tame affairs.”
“You are the only guest thus far, as you can see,” Raven admitted glumly.
Dare winked at her. “The more fortune for me, then. Without all your beaux
for competition, I can claim half your dances.”
“You may have to claim them all if no one else comes.”
“Ah, no, love, they will come, if only to gawk. There’s not a man jack among the upper ten thousand who isn’t rabidly curious to meet the notorious pirate who stole the darling of the ton from under the nose of a duke.”
His prophecy proved shrewdly perceptive. Shortly after the stroke of nine, the guests started to arrive, first in trickles, then in swarms.
Her ball would likely be a veritable crush, Raven realized with more than a little relief. But perhaps she should have expected such a response from the fickle elements of society. Few people willingly turned down a select invitation from the Earl and Countess of Wycliff, and their prominent sponsorship of her would go a long way toward easing the scandal.
And she suspected Dare was indeed right. Even the haughtiest, most discriminating members of the ton would be curious to meet the man who had stolen the Duke of Halford’s bride away. Contrarily, the haute monde had a lust for scandal and a morbid fascination-even admiration-for rebels like Kell who blatantly broke their absurdly rigid rules.
As she greeted a guest in line and then passed him on to her husband with introductions, Raven surreptitiously eyed Kell, who stood beside her. He was mysteriously, broodingly handsome, and with his bold, dark eyes, he looked very much the pirate. Measured against his raw virility, most of the other gentlemen present looked weak and foppish.
Surprisingly enough, Kell appeared perfectly at ease among the elite company. His usual intensity was tempered, with no signs of the antagonism or biting sarcasm he’d sometimes accorded her.