"Thank goodness."

The Wedding Wish.

Alexandra Ivy.

One.

The lush, opulent beauty of the Opera house went largely unappreciated by the vast crowds that moved through the corridors and flitted from box to box. The vast crowds did not attend the opera to marvel at the glittering beauty of the surroundings or the extravagant performance being enacted upon the stage. One quite simply went to the opera to see and be seen.

Standing near the grand staircase Miss Rachel Cresswell watched the passing throng with a lively interest. Although it was still February, a number of the ton had grown weary of the harsh winter and had fled back to the pleasures of London.

At first glance she was a pretty maiden. Her form was tiny, but nicely curved, her hair the shade of ripe wheat and her hazel eyes sprinkled with gold. But it was not her dainty features or porcelain skin that had ensured that she would be toasted as an Incomparable throughout every gentleman's club in London.

It was instead the vibrant energy that shimmered and swirled about her. This was no insipid debutant, the gentlemen universally agreed. She was bold, reckless, and daringly alive. She was also maddeningly elusive. A mixture designed to capture the attention of the most jaded rogue.

Well aware of her fatal allure, Rachel accepted her bevy of admirers with careless satisfaction. And why not? As the daughter of the Devilish Dandy she knew that the doors to society should have been firmly closed against her. There was an ironic sense of justice in forcing the thin-lipped, disapproving hostesses to issue her invitations or risk an uprising by their male guests.

Attired in a satin gown in a daring shade of burgundy, Rachel slowly waved her fan against the oppressive heat. At her side a tall, sinfully attractive gentleman gazed longingly at the provocative cut of her neckline.

"You are exquisite," he was whispering in a tone he had perfected to send a thrill down a lady's spine. "As beautiful as a sunrise, as tempting as ..."

"Really, Mr. Mondale, you are becoming repetitive," Rachel drawled, supremely indifferent to the fact this gentleman was considered irresistible by most females. "You compared me to a sunrise only last evening."

The deep blue eyes sparkled with amusement. "It is only because words are such a paltry means of revealing the depth of my desire for you, my dove. There are far more pleasurable methods of proving such sweet emotions."

"No doubt." Rachel lifted a hand to stifle a yawn.

Mr. Mondale gave an appreciative chuckle even as he moved closer to savor the faint scent of roses that clung to her skin.

"How long do you intend to torment me?" he asked.

"For as long as you amuse me."

"Devil."

Rachel sighed. "And only moments ago I was an angel fallen from heaven."

"Let us leave this place. I must be alone with you."

"Do not be absurd." Rachel paid little heed to the predictable attempts at seduction; instead her restless gaze abruptly landed on a dark male form standing across the corridor. She was uncertain what had captured her attention. He was handsome enough, she conceded, in a rather poetic manner. His dark hair was longer than fashionable and his features finely chiseled. But his black attire was without adornment and his presence unassuming. He should have been easily overlooked, and yet she discovered herself oddly intrigued by the stillness settled about his lean form and the compelling intensity in the black eyes. He was so very different from the other flamboyant dandies parading through the crowd. "Who is that?"

Careful to disguise any hint of impatience at her pointed lack of regard for his determined pursuit, Mr. Mondale turned to scan the crowd.

"Where?"

"The gentleman attired in black."

"Ah, Anthony Clarke."

"I do not believe I have ever seen him about."

Mr. Mondale shrugged. "I should be surprised if you had. He is an inventor and doesn't much care for society. Prefers to dabble with gadgets and whatnots than making a dash in town."

"He prefers gadgets to society?" she demanded in disbelief. "He must be very odd."

"Peculiar perhaps, but a nice-enough chap."

Rachel's gaze traveled over the dark form. Despite her certainty that anyone who would willingly seclude themselves from society must be a bit daft, she could not deny a hint of curiosity about Anthony Clarke.

"He does have beautiful eyes," she murmured. "And very nice shoulders."

"A waste of your talent, my princess," Mr. Mondale mocked lightly.

She gave a cool lift of her brows. "Pardon me?"

"Clarke will never be bewitched by a mere female, even one as lovely as you."

"Why do you say that?"

"The gentleman is one of the richest in England. He has had every debutant, widow, and courtesan tossing themselves at his feet since he came of age. No matter how eligible or how beautiful, they have never managed to stir the faintest hint of interest. Only the exquisite Pandora has ever managed to claim a small part of his life, and that is simply because she is as cold-blooded as himself."

Rachel's eyes narrowed in a predatory manner. She was a female accustomed to all too easy conquests. The thought that there might be a gentleman indifferent to her charms was bound to pique her interest.

"A challenge."

"Fah." Mr. Mondale attempted to distract her wandering attention. "The man has ice in his veins. He could never appreciate a vibrant, passionate woman. I, on the other hand, am capable of full, unbridled appreciation. Would you desire me to demonstrate?"

She flashed him a speaking glance. "You have demonstrated quite enough, Mr. Mondale."

"I have only begun," he warned in fervent tones, leaning forward to blow softly in her ear. Then, noting the slender boyishly handsome gentleman approaching them with an eager expression, he stiffened. "Damnation. It appears that one of your bevy of love-struck schoolboys is about to descend upon us."

Slowly turning, Rachel allowed a small smile to curve her lips. Mr. Mondale was not to know that Lord Newell was not just another admirer. She had taken special care to ensnare the young gentleman the moment he had arrived in London.

Now she willingly held out her hand and allowed the gentleman to press a fervent kiss upon her fingers.

"Miss Cresswell," he breathed with a charming innocence. "I feared I might not discover you among this dreadful crush."

Rachel pulled her hand free as she glanced coyly through her tangle of thick, black lashes. "Surely, my lord, you have not been searching for me?"

He appeared shocked that she would even have to ask. "But of course I have. I never would have allowed myself to be bullied into coming to such a devilishly dull place if it weren't for the hope of meeting you. As it is I was forced to endure a near hour of that wretched screeching before I could slip from the box."

"Gads, the boy still smells of the nursery," Mr. Mondale whispered in her ear. "Let us be gone from here."

Rachel ignored the rogue at her side and instead directed the full impact of her charm upon the hapless Lord Newell.

"How very dreadful for you, my lord."

"I say," Lord Newell agreed morosely, then his expression abruptly brightened. "Still, it was worth every moment to see you."

"What a charming thing to say."

"It is only the truth. You must know how I feel."

"Do I?" she coaxed softly.

On the point of swearing his undying devotion, Lord Newell was halted as a large matron attired in a hideous yellow silk stepped into the corridor and stabbed him with a steely gaze.

"George," she called loudly, her long face pinched with fury at the sight of the young lord paying obvious court to Rachel.

"Dash it all," Lord Newell muttered, his countenance flaming with embarrassment.

"Is there a problem, my lord?" Rachel demanded in lazy amusement.

"My godmother. She is determined to leg-shackle me to that whey-faced daughter of hers."

Rachel's gaze moved to the two maidens standing behind Lady Broswell. They bore an unfortunate resemblance to their mother, with their long, pale faces and broad forms. A secretive smile curved her lips.

"How very unfortunate."

"A bloody nuisance," Lord Newell mourned.

"George," Lady Broswell shrilly called again, her face an ugly shade of crimson. "Come away at this moment. How dare you consort with a common tart?"

"My lady," Lord Newell protested in shock.

Rachel snapped shut her fan, the hazel eyes glittering with a dangerous fire.

"A tart?" she demanded in silky tones.

"What could one expect from the daughter of a notorious thief?" Lady Broswell spat, too angry to note the gathering crowd. "Everyone knows that your father is fit for nothing more than a hangman's noose."

"At least my father taught me a measure of good manners," Rachel gritted. "It appears to be sadly lacking in some members of society."

"You are a spawn of the devil and I can only thank goodness we shall be leaving for Surrey tomorrow where those such as you are not welcome."

"I am certain London will celebrate your absence."

Somewhere in the crowd someone giggled at the thrust and the long face quivered with rage.

"Why you ill-bred jade. I suppose I should expect no better from you."

"Really? And why is that?" Rachel drawled "Blood always runs true," Lady Broswell retorted in angry arrogance.

"Ah, you wish to speak of bloodlines?" Rachel demanded with a cold smile.

Genuine fear flashed in the older woman's eyes as she belatedly realized her mistake. As a rule she was very cautious to hide her attempts to bar Rachel from polite society behind closed doors. She far preferred malicious rumors to direct confrontation. After all, there was always the knowledge she might provoke Rachel into revealing the truth about them.

Now she wet her thin lips as she sought a means of escape without appearing a coward.

"George, we are leaving. I will not have my daughters exposed to such a woman."

"But, my lady . . ." Lord Newell stuttered.

"Now, George."

She surged past Rachel and down the staircase like a battleship in full retreat.

"Forgive me," Lord Newell muttered, acutely embarrassed as he offered her a hasty bow. "I shall call upon you the moment I return from Surrey."

Keeping a smile pasted on her stiff lips, Rachel turned back to her companion as the boy hurried in the wake of his godmother. She had never been so furious in her life. How dare the harridan insult her in such a public manner? To call her a tart and the spawn of the devil . . . and then, to imply her precious daughters might be sullied by her mere presence... it all went beyond the pale.

She longed to launch herself at the retreating matron. To force her to admit they had far more in common than she wished to acknowledge.

Instead she calmly waved her fan as her fingers unconsciously toyed with the large ruby hung about her neck. She was painfully aware of the large crowd that had gathered to witness the ugly scene. She was not about to provide the avid gossip-seekers with grist for their mills. The only means of enduring a public humiliation was to pretend that it had never occurred.

"Gads, what a surly old witch," Mr. Mondale murmured, his gaze studying her far too bright eyes. "She does not appear to care much for you, my dove."

"This time she has pressed me too far," Rachel swore between gritted teeth.

"I do not particularly care for that expression on you lovely features. What are you plotting?"

Rachel gave a start of surprise. She was indeed plotting, but she had not expected the rogue to be so perceptive. She was clearly in need of privacy to complete the details of her burning desire for revenge.

"Nothing more scandalous than a visit to Surrey," she retorted in flippant tones.

"Surrey?" Mr. Mondale gave a shudder of disgust. "You must be jesting. You would be bored witless within a day."

"Actually, I can think of few things more entertaining at the moment," she assured him in dangerously soft tones. "Now if you will excuse me, I must be on my way."

With her head held high Rachel swept through the crowd and down the staircase. She knew that there were a wave of twitters behind her, but her expression remained regally serene as she collected her cloak and moved to await the Amberly carriage that had brought her to the opera along with Mrs. Amberly and her daughter Serena. Mrs. Amberly was unlikely to desire to leave the performance early, Rachel was certain. There would be ample time to be taken to the small home she shared with her father and have the carriage returned to collect her hostess. She would tell a servant to inform Mrs. Amberly that she had developed a headache and was forced to seek the comfort of her bed.

Allowing a footman to settle the fur-lined cloak about her shoulders, Rachel impatiently turned to pace across the shadowed foyer. "Lady Broswell desire a battle," she muttered beneath her breath. Well, she was quite happy to provide her with one. Miss Rachel Cresswell had never backed down from a challenge in her life.

Intent on her dark thoughts, Rachel did not realize she was no longer alone. Not until she abruptly turned about and collided sharply with a firm male body.

"Oh."

"Careful," a dark, smoky voice murmured as a pair of strong arms encircled her waist to keep her upright.