A Warriner to Seduce Her

by Virginia Heath

  She sensed him.

  Turned around.

  Then guiltily tore the spectacles from her face.

  Spectacles!

  He hadn’t been expecting those. Spectacles which did peculiar things to his nether regions.

  ‘No. Leave them on. I rather like them.’

  Good lord—now his obligatory nightly fantasy involving this Cumbrian temptress would include those spectacles...and nothing else.

  ‘Mr Warriner, we’ve spoken about the flirting.’

  ‘We have indeed, Miss Blunt, but I am incorrigible.’ The knowing grin he shot her was all male arrogance. ‘Stifling my natural instinct to flirt with a beguiling woman would be as futile as suggesting I give up breathing. You are going to have to suffer it, I’m afraid. Especially as you are beguiling and have a fortuitous habit of lurking in the same alcoves as I do.’

  She stiffened her perfect shoulders and sniffed. ‘I am not lurking, Mr Warriner. I am pondering. You are lurking.’

  ‘Sounds important. What are you pondering?’ He pushed himself away from the pillar and sauntered towards her. ‘And might I suggest you ponder in those spectacles. There is something about a beautiful woman in spectacles. It gives her an air of the superior...the stern schoolmistress...the prim and proper governess...’ He flicked his wrist as if tossing the flirting aside. ‘But I digress. You are hiding again and I am intrigued to know why. It’s a fault of mine. I need to know everything about everyone.’

  ‘I am avoiding the Earl of Redditch.’

  ‘A very sensible thing to be doing, if you want my opinion. The man is a dreadful bore.’

  ‘He also smells like feet.’

  He laughed at that wonderfully blunt summary which perfectly matched his own from just a few hours before, enjoying her brutal honesty and the half-smile she tried to cover. ‘That he does. Has stinky Redditch taken a shine to you?’

  She pulled a face of disgust and made a great show of shuddering. ‘Unfortunately, yes. Even more unfortunate is my uncle’s persistence in foisting the man upon me. He has even gone as far as pencilling the Earl’s name on my dance card for the first waltz—’ she waved it angrily in front of his face ‘—and I am currently in two minds about what to do about it.’

  ‘And what are the two warring parts of your clever brain saying?’

  ‘The cowardly half thinks I should remain hidden during that dance and then have it out with my uncle later. The rebellious half wants me to dance it out of spite—but with a partner of my own choosing—and then have it out with my uncle later.’

  ‘My condolences to your uncle. Whichever you decide, he is in for it regardless.’

  ‘Although I doubt he will listen. Uncle Crispin is stubbornly ignorant of my feelings. When I speak, I am convinced his ears fill with wool, because he always does what he thinks I want regardless of my repeated assertions to the contrary. Why do men do that, Mr Warriner?’

  ‘I hope you are not tarring us all with the same brush, Miss Blunt? Some of us listen.’

  ‘You certainly don’t. I’ve asked you not to flirt and yet you still do it.’

  ‘I’m not flirting now. I’m listening.’ Although Jake wanted to flirt. Instead he lifted the dance card and leaned conspiratorially towards her. ‘I wonder why he wants you to dance with Redditch? The man is rich and titled, to be sure, but no more so than half the men in this ballroom. Did he give you any idea as to his motive?’

  ‘Aside from telling me to be pleasant to the old fool I was not apprised of the purpose. My uncle is irritatingly sparse with his conversation.’

  ‘Perhaps they are old friends?’

  ‘I believe theirs is a business relationship. It is the main topic of conversation during the interminable dinners I have had to sit through.’

  Jake’s ears pricked up with interest. ‘Who else was invited?’

  ‘What difference does it make who else was there?’

  Good lord, she was sharp and he was clumsy. ‘It doesn’t. As I just said, I’m simply a curious soul by nature. Was there any delicious gossip? I’ll bet there was.’

  She huffed and shook her head, the motion causing one stray gold ringlet to bounce enticingly by her cheek. ‘If only... I’m afraid the conversation was as deadly dull as it always is. They talked of canals.’

  Leatham had been right, then. ‘Canals? Gracious, that does sound dull. Tell me, are you now an expert on the subject?’

  ‘By default and quite unwillingly, yes—but I was brought up to believe it is the height of rudeness to snore at the dining table.’

  ‘That it is.’ He was on to something, but had to tread carefully. ‘Although I doubt it is dull enough to help me.’

  She folded her arms across her chest, something which did wonders for her figure. ‘Help you?’

  ‘Indeed. I’ve been suffering through a bout of insomnia, Miss Blunt.’ Largely caused because of her. ‘And am in dire need of some mind-numbingly boring things to think about in the wee hours to alleviate the problem. Indulge me with your dull expertise on canals. It might come in useful later tonight when I am tossing and turning and wistfully yearning for you. Only the dullest facts, if you please.’ Jake assumed a stance of a man ready to learn and it earned him another smile.

  ‘The Regent’s Canal will be almost nine miles long on completion later this year.’

  ‘A painfully short canal, then. Hardly worth all the bother of building it. Go on.’

  ‘Although painfully short, it will link the Grand Junction Canal with the docks in the east of the city.’ Docks which sat on the Thames and flowed conveniently out to sea. Smuggling boats could bring their contraband right into the city and then transfer it to barges to send it inland. Smaller boats wouldn’t even need to unload. They could sail on unencumbered by the Excise Men.

  ‘That is dull.’ Jake pretended to yawn. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The canal will have three tunnels, the longest of which is at Islington, which is already built, and runs to nine hundred and sixty yards, which I think you will agree is a very long tunnel indeed Mr Warriner.’

  A lovely, long, dark subterranean place to unload unseen. Not that Rowley would even need the tunnels. The fetid stench of most canals meant people tended to avoid them. ‘Long and deathly dull, Miss Blunt. I already sense a good night’s sleep coming on. I shall probably regret asking, but feel that I must—why on earth are the pair of them discussing an unfinished, painfully short canal over their soup? Does one of them have shares in it?’

  ‘I cannot tell you about that, Mr Warriner, as that is the most interesting part of the story and it might undo all of the good work we have done thus far to ease your sleeplessness.’

  ‘Tell me anyway, because now you have me intrigued.’

  ‘New investors had to be sought a few years ago when the promoter of the canal, a Mr Thomas Homer, embezzled all the funds. The Earl of Redditch snapped up a significant stake in the venture for a steal, or so he says, and is very smug about his brilliance for he has a magnificent fleet of barges which he intends to use on that same canal.’

  Transferring goods to and from the docks would be a lucrative business indeed for any canny investor. ‘And your uncle has plans to invest in this venture?’

  ‘Apparently, one cannot have enough barges, Mr Warriner, or so the stinky Earl of Feet claims. Uncle Crispin is one of three investors bidding to extend the fleet. So until the deal is sealed, he is doing his upmost to fawn over the old fool and I am expected to be pleasant to him and endure my uncle’s flagrant attempts at matchmaking.’

  ‘Does your uncle invest in other canals that you know of?’

  Chapter Five

  In the Renshaws’ stuffy ballroom

  ‘Why do you care?’ Because Fliss got the distinct impression he did for some strange reason. ‘And what has this to do with either your insomnia or my unc
le’s matchmaking attempts?’

  His expression changed. Briefly he appeared almost frustrated at her answer, harder, less flippant. Somehow more intelligent and, strangely, much more attractive. ‘It’s your fault. You promised me a dull story, then piqued my interest and now I want to know all the gory details. I’m fundamentally a nosy fellow, as you now know. All manner of things fascinate me.’ He smiled again and the easy charm returned, making her wonder if she had imagined the glimpse at a very different man who lived within the same skin as the dashing rogue.

  She probably had. And if she was brutally honest with herself, which of course she always was, she had likely done so because a tiny part of her wanted him to be more than a rogue. Aside from being the only person she’d had a decent conversation with since arriving in London, the female part of her was physically attracted to him. But attraction was a dangerous emotion which couldn’t be trusted alone. Sister Ursuline’s was filled with silly girls who had succumbed to the lure of attraction and then paid the ultimate price when the gentlemen concerned turned out not to be gentlemen at all. After their last meeting, Fliss had made some enquiries about Mr Jacob Warriner and her aunts had confirmed her initial assessment of his character.

  He was a rake.

  Handsome, charming. Hedonistic. A man who pursued pleasure with the same fervour a great scholar sought knowledge. She failed to acknowledge that the two old dears didn’t seem to disapprove of his rakishness at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. Cressida had sighed wistfully and declared that rakes made the very best lovers and then the pair of them had waxed lyrical about the startling array of scandalous gentleman they had enjoyed relations with. More shocking was their ability to compare notes on quite a few of them, which caused even more wistful sighing as they relayed all the gory and fascinating details. Details which conjured up images of sinful blue eyes which Fliss had not needed at all. Attributing deeper layers to such a man led to nothing but folly, especially when she knew better. The only thing such a man could be depended on to be was the sort no sensible woman could afford to be charmed by.

  ‘Their conversation was exceedingly dull, Mr Warriner. Tediously so. I spent most of the meal completely excluded from it, counting the fleurs-de-lys on the wallpaper.’ She had reached one hundred and sixty before she had lost count as all the patterns began to merge into one. No mean feat when she had been callously separated from her spectacles again. Uncle Crispin took great issue with them and had briefly threatened to stamp on them if he saw them again on her face before smiling insincerely and reassuring her it was a joke. Regardless, she had taken to keeping them hidden, and always on her person, just in case he had instructed one of the servants to conveniently lose them.

  ‘It was very rude of them to ignore you.’

  ‘I thought so. I came to the conclusion my presence at the table was entirely decorative.’ Fliss was stuffed into another new gown which was designed to show off her figure. While she much preferred the bold green silk from the insipid pastel frock she had been told to wear to Almack’s, the neckline still displayed far more flesh than she was used to displaying. She had pulled it up as far as it would go the moment she had stepped into the alcove. The additional inch did nothing to cover her modesty. ‘My uncle seems determined to find me a husband.’

  ‘Which you are adamant you do not want. Why is that?’ His dark head tilted to one side and for a moment Fliss found herself drowning in his deep blue assessing gaze before she remembered she was supposed to answer.

  ‘I am used to living on my own and actually rather enjoy it. It is liberating to only have to depend on one’s self, when others are nowhere near as reliable.’

  ‘It sounds awfully lonely.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Although lately it had been. Most of her best friends had married and moved on. Now that they had their own families to look after, friends, even the very dearest ones, tended to come second. Seeing them happy and content, embracing motherhood and all that came with it, did make a part of her yearn for the same. Not enough of a part to lower her high standards, of course, but enough to make her stop and think from time to time. ‘My life is phenomenally busy.’ Fliss got to look after other people’s children—an ever-changing, moving stream of girls went in and out of the convent’s doors.

  ‘There is a chance he is not really matchmaking. Have you considered the prospect he is using you as a distraction to lure Stinky Redditch into choosing him as a business partner?’

  ‘Of course I’ve considered it and I still resent it. I have no desire to be a distraction either, Mr Warriner.’

  ‘But you are Miss Blunt. Very distracting.’

  As he appeared on the cusp of laughing at his own words she couldn’t help smiling back at him. ‘If you were me, Mr Warriner, what would you do? Hide in the alcove or rebel?’

  ‘Wherever possible, I would rebel, Miss Blunt, but then I am a rebel, too, by nature. I wouldn’t dream of counselling you on the correct course of action and nor should you actively seek it from a man with my reputation. What does that intelligent, stubborn and vexing head of yours say?’

  ‘I am erring on the side of rebellion.’ Even after all these years, the precociousness still surfaced occasionally. ‘It sends a warning shot over the bow to Uncle Crispin stating I am not to be trifled with.’ Saying it out loud cemented her determination. Politeness had made her closed-mouthed about her clothes and spectacles up to now, but her uncle kept taking liberties. Now that she was secure in her growing dislike for her overbearing, cold and calculated only relative, there seemed little point in playing happy families any longer. Actions spoke louder than words. ‘I shall dance the waltz—but not with the aged and fusty Earl of Redditch.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’

  All Fliss needed was another man to waltz with. A man who was the exact opposite to the one who had been foisted on her. Someone young and handsome. One whom her uncle would heartily disapprove of. One she could nab quickly as, according to her dance card, the dratted waltz was imminent. ‘Mr Warriner, I don’t suppose you would dance with me?’

  The sinful grin spread up his face slowly. ‘I thought you would never ask, Miss Blunt.’ His eyes were twinkling with mischief. Outrageously blue eyes. Beautiful even. No wonder the ladies fell for him in their droves.

  ‘Don’t get any funny ideas. It is just a dance.’

  ‘It’s not just a dance. It’s the waltz, Miss Blunt. Renowned as the dance of love.’ He held out his arm and she took it, unprepared for the way the simple gesture would alter the dynamic between them. Jake was solid. Much taller up close than she had realised. Although patently not, against him she felt petite and because he smelled as gorgeous as he looked, she had the urge to lean closer and inhale him. Sensibly, she moved away instead. Just a few inches, but he was having none of it. He curled one warm hand over hers where it rested in the crook of his elbow, anchoring her gently but effectively at his side. It was a solicitous, possessive motion other men had done many, many times before, yet none of those had felt quite as significant.

  Fliss had never been so bothered by a man before. And she was bothered. Jacob Warriner was infinitely more dangerous to all her senses, if her rapid heartbeat was any indication. Even her tightly laced corset seemed suddenly tighter now that their hands touched. He dipped his head and whispered in her ear and her whole scalp tingled. Ripples of awareness shimmered down all her nerve endings the moment his hot breath caressed her cheek. ‘You should probably be warned I am devilishly good at waltzing. Barricade your heart now, Miss Blunt, else you’ll fall head over heels in love with me before we have twirled a complete circuit of the room.’

  ‘Oh, I can assure you there is no danger of that happening. I would never be so foolish as to fall in love with a rake, no matter how dashing and charming he is reported to be. Dashing and charming are not dependable and I’ll never fall head over heels for anything less.’ She made the mistake of s
lanting a glance up and into his intoxicating eyes. They must have contained magnets or something, as once his eyes locked with hers, hers were powerless to look away.

  ‘Never say never, Miss Blunt. Remember, even the mighty Achilles had a heel.’

  * * *

  Had Jake not been a little overawed by the intensity of the moment and his reaction to her, he would have patted himself on the back for the return of his smooth, subtle and effective charm. This time, it had been more successful, although he suspected there was a long way to go before he had the delightful Miss Blunt eating out of his hand. Thanks to their enlightening conversation, he was also making headway on his mission. There was dirt to be uncovered on Rowley, mud that perhaps they might make stick this time if they could prove a direct link to him and the smuggling ring. Investment in a new canal was not evidence enough to secure an arrest warrant. The Attorney General would need more before he set the King’s lawyers on a wealthy member of the aristocracy. So much more. A very good reason to keep his wits about him with Rowley’s clever niece. Unfortunately, his wits were currently scrambled and had been since the first moment she had touched him.

  Oddly nervous, he turned her towards him and slipped her hand in his, trying to ignore the excitement building within his body at the prospect of holding her close. Thinking calming thoughts weren’t helping, so he tore his eyes away from hers and scanned the edges of the dance floor. There was no sign, as yet, of either the Earl of Redditch or Crispin Rowley, but Flint was there. A half-smile on his face and a quick wink towards Jake; a stark reminder that he had come here with a job to do. That focused him.