“I can’t.”
He let her go. “Your ankle. Of course,” he said mockingly. Was he a fool to think she’d have chosen to dance with him over Lord Jeremy?
“No, I mean, I can’t dance,” she said. “I don’t know how, and by that, I mean I’m not very good at remembering the steps or moves. My father hired the best instructors and found the greatest partners from amongst the sons of his friends. Still, I failed every time, either stepping on everyone’s toes, running into other ladies, or falling into the quartet.”
He was stunned. “You fell into a quartet?”
She sighed. “This is my third Season, Lord Dunn. I’ve resigned myself to the truth of the matter. I’ll never dance.”
It was a pity that no man would ever be able to hold her as close as he was now.
Perhaps, that was for the best.
Three Seasons and she’d not married in all that time? It would have been fair of him to ask why, but the whys were none of his business.
“Forget I asked.” He took a step back.
She looked down at the flask in her hands. “I’ve ruined it, haven’t I?”
“Ruined what?”
She looked up again. “Are you enjoying yourself? Right now?”
With her? He took a breath. “Yes.”
She smiled. “Then let’s keep enjoying the night. Please.”
Her enjoyment was the last reason he’d come tonight.
He was supposed to frighten her. He frightened most people. This should have been easy.
Yet he couldn’t say no. Instead, he offered her his hand and called himself a fool when she took it and he led her away.
∫ ∫ ∫
0 7
* * *
“How does it taste?”
Vita cleared her throat and then smacked her lips. “Not fresh.”
“Well, it’s one of the oldest bottles of wine Belle possesses,” Dunn said.
“Then it tastes as it should. Old.”
Dunn chuckled as he searched the shelves in Belle’s cellar.
The roof shook, reminding Vita of the dancers and party upstairs.
Vita had been in many wine cellars but never had she seen one quite like Belle’s.
A vast amount of wine lined the walls, a library of bottles and barrels. The room had soft lighting. A few candles in scones on the walls and a chandelier.
The walls themselves had red wallpaper. The floor was carpeted the same shade.
In the center of the room was a divan of the same shade. The backless couch was low with dark wooden feet that matched the shelves. By its side was a small table. Vita could see Belle sitting there, drinking her wine contentedly.
Dunn approached her and splashed a different bottle of wine into her glass. It was just enough for her to taste and no more. “Try this.”
She did. “Good.”
He smiled. “It’s my favorite. It’s from Italy. Very old and very hard to get one’s hands on.”
Vita took the bottle and read the description. It translated as Life Bringer. “Will Belle be mad that you opened it?” she asked.
He took the bottle back and looked it over. “Belle owes me far more than a bottle of wine.”
“That sounds like a story.” Vita moved to the divan and sat. She placed her glass on the table. “Let’s hear it.”
Dunn looked her over. His expression was playful. “The details are not mine to tell.”
“Then tell me a story that is about you. Tell me about the scar.”
“It was a bear. I’d gone hunting—”
“Liar,” she said.
He smiled.
She smiled.
The door handle rattled. Someone began pounding. “Hello? Is there someone there? Johnson, you better not be drinking the mistress’ supply again. She’ll have your head for it.”
Vita covered her mouth to hold back her giggle.
Dunn took his jacket off and threw it at her. “Cover yourself,” he whispered.
She covered her face in it and was immediately plunged into darkness and the vanilla musk that made up Lord Dunn.
She heard the door open and stilled.
“Here, take these up,” Dunn said.
The servant stuttered, “Y-yes, my lord.”
The door closed and Vita dropped his jacket onto her lap. “What did you give him?”
“The bottles we’d already opened.”
She frowned. “You gave Life Bringer to him as well?”
He sighed. “It was in my hand. I wanted him gone before he saw you.”
He’d given it away to protect her.
He walked over to her and reached for his jacket.
She held it away. She wasn’t ready to give it up. It was dark and smelled good, just like him.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
He grinned and straightened. “She takes my flask. She takes my jacket. What is next?”
Your heart.
She bit her lip, so very glad that she’d not said it aloud. She did not want to ruin this night.
She never wanted it to end.
He moved back to the shelves.
Vita kicked off her slippers and tucked her stockinged feet under her dress. “You never told me how old you were.”
“I’m thirty-seven.”
“Don’t you want to know how old I am?” She watched the muscles in his arms flex as he moved them over the shelves. Without his jacket, everything about him was more profound. His shirt was black.
Her eyes moved down to his tapered waist and settled on his breeches for a very unladylike amount of time.
He’d been hard against her upstairs. She’d felt the evidence of his attraction. Though she’d never been with a man herself, she knew a great amount of what took place.
Her mother had had a lover. She’d managed to hide it from her father, but Vita had witnessed their couplings more than once.
When her mother ran away, she’d left things behind. Her father had planned to have his wife’s things burned, but Vita had saved what she could.
It wasn’t until later she discovered that the letters she’d taken from her mother’s room that possessed her mother’s handwriting were evidence of her affair.
She’d been a lewd woman. It had embarrassed Vita to read the secret notes that were meant for her mother’s lover, but then it was all she’d had left of Lady Bush.
The woman had written sonnets to the thing that hung between a man’s legs.
Vita wondered what it looked like.
Dunn cleared his voice.
Vita’s eyes widened.
She looked up very slowly.
Dunn stood frozen. There was another bottle in his hand.
She clutched his jacket to her chest. “Is that wine for me to try?” she whispered.
* * *
Remy was as hard as a piston and as hot as a steam engine.
He quickly turned away so she wouldn’t see. “No. This is not it.” Though it had been until he’d caught just where her gaze had been.
She’d been staring at the juncture between his thighs as though she could see through his breeches. The intensity had been hot.
He wiped his face.
“Liar,” she called to his back.
He chuckled and looked over his shoulder at her.
The light from the chandelier made her skin golden.
Her quiet smile made his heart skip.
He was so hard he could drill a hole through the wall to the other side.
She’d be the death of him.
It hadn’t been long since he’d last been with a woman. There were a few ladies he took his pleasure with when he could but never had he ached as much as he did just then.
“I’ll find a better one for you,” he said, referring to the wine.
“I want that one.” Her gaze challenged him. Was she trying to embarrass him?
Or perhaps, she was simply curious.
His thoughts grew heady ag
ain. He wondered how much he could play with her and not go to hell.
He turned toward her. Her gaze remained on his eyes as he approached.
He knelt beside the divan. His chest hit her knee.
He was eye to eye with her.
When she wasn’t shying away, he could see just how remarkable her eyes were.
Summer skies.
He barely took his eyes off her as he opened the bottle and splashed some into her cup. Then he put the bottle on the table and placed his hands on either side of her.
She held his gaze as she sipped. She licked her lips, and he groaned aloud. His fingers tightened on the bench.
Her voice was throaty. “It’s good. Try it.” She tilted the cup toward his mouth.
He had no choice, no time to protest. The liquid hit his mouth and then spilled down his chin and hit his shirt.
She pulled the cup back with a gasp. “Oh, no. Let me help you.” She put the cup down and reached for him.
He grabbed her hands in his right before they landed on his chest. “Don’t touch me.”
A flash of hurt swept over her features.
He should have left it there. He was spending too much time with her as it was.
And wasn’t there something else he was supposed to be doing?
Oh, right, frightening her.
He kissed the back of her knuckles, nearly moaned at the feel of how soft her skin was, and said, “It’s for your own good.”
Her cheeks turned red, and her smile returned.
He stood and tugged her on her feet as well. “Let’s go to a place that has more people.”
She wrinkled her nose, and he laughed.
“Trust me, it’s for your own good.”
“You think you know what’s best for me?”
He still held her hands. “I know what’s worse for you.” He let her go. “Come.”
She turned and grabbed his jacket.
He’d forgotten he wasn’t wearing it. His thoughts were far from what was proper.
He reached for it, and she snatched it out of his grasp.
She crooked a finger.
He chuckled and obeyed, giving her his back.
He slipped into the jacket with ease, and she brushed off his shoulders before he turned to her. “How do I look?” The question jabbed his memory and he remembered his scar. He only ever asked his valet that question, never a woman.
He didn’t want the answer.
“Perfect,” she whispered. Her small fingers did up his front buttons. When she was done, her hands fell to her sides. “You’re perfect.” She looked up and smiled at him.
From any other woman, he’d have suspected the words were a lie, but he saw the honesty in her gaze.
He shook his head in disbelief. No, she had goals tonight as well, didn’t she? She needed something from him, and he still didn’t know what.
What if everything between them was a lie? What if this whole night…
Her smile fell. “I ruined it again?”
“No.” He still didn’t know what she meant when she said “it,” but he didn’t like the disappointment he glimpsed at the word.
She looked away. “I thought I was doing well.”
He cupped her chin and forced her head toward him.
Her eyes did not follow. She kept them determinately to the side.
“Stubborn woman, you’ve ruined nothing.” It was he who was ruining… this. It. What was it? He sighed. “I’m having a wonderful time. With you.”
She looked at him. “Really?”
He nodded. He was having far too good a time.
“Excellent. I choose what we do next.” She broke from his hold and started from the cellar. “Follow me.”
As though he could do anything else.
∫ ∫ ∫
0 8
* * *
The moment Vita walked into the gallery, she became uncertain about her idea.
What if Dunn hated her idea? What if he thought it childlike?
He was thirty-seven, after all.
Uncertainty and doubt led her to take her next step.
And then she was marching across the gallery to the painting she liked most.
There were others present, various groups and couples. He’d wanted them around others.
The music was louder in the gallery. Since it was at the top of the stairs, it was open to all noise and all eyes.
And perhaps that was for the best, because in the cellar, Dunn had made her feel…
Hot.
And moist.
She cleared her throat as she came to the oil painting she liked most.
Dunn stepped up beside her. “Nicholas Poussin’s The Inspiration of —”
“No,” she cut in. “It’s not Poussin’s painting at all.”
Though it was. The painting was called The Inspiration of the Poet.
Deep vibrant hues. The image showed what many believed was a muse— half her dress down exposing one breast— lounging by a tree. In front of her sat Apollo, with a harp on his lap. Young infants, who were said to be gods as well, were poised in front of the muse and over the head of Apollo.
The one in the air had two laurel wreaths in his hands and a poet sat under the far side, a quill and scroll in her hand, a distant look in her eyes.
It was very lovely.
She was actually impressed with his knowledge of art but mostly because she knew nothing about it. “Poussin didn’t paint this,” she said, playing her game.
He lifted a brow and then he leaned toward her and whispered, “How did you know it was a forgery? It’s one of Belle’s most well-kept secrets.”
Vita gasped. “It’s a forgery? That isn’t what I meant at all.”
Dunn cursed and then looked pained. “I spoke too soon.”
“She told me it was real.” Vita could not believe she was standing in front of a forgery. She looked around at the other so-called masterpieces and scoffed. “How many others are forgeries?”
“Don’t tell Belle I told you,” he begged.
She smiled. “I’ll keep your secret but only if you give me the secret of your scar.”
He rolled his eyes. “Have you ever been cut by paper? I say to you, my lady, just when you think you’re safe, think again. They’re deadly—”
“Liar!” She covered her mouth when she realized she’d spoken louder than necessary. She jumped and kept her back to the rest of the hall. She was so embarrassed.
Dunn’s eyes tilted up, and he pressed his lips together to keep from laughing at her.
“Don’t laugh at me.”
“Yes, my lady.” He looked around. “No need to fret. No one is looking at you.”
“Really?”
“No, I’m a liar. Don’t you remember?”
They laughed.
He turned to the painting. “All right. Let’s play your game. Who painted it?”
“A young boy named Claude James,” she said. “He’s very good.”
“Is he?”
“And when he painted it, he called it…”
Dunn waited.
She looked at him. “Well, what do you see?”
He looked at the painting again. “I see… some ancient gods and a poet.”
“No.” Vita shook her head. “Don’t see what Poussin intended you to see. What do you see?”
“What do you see?” he asked.
She sighed and faced the painting. “The painting is called The Tossing of the Baby.”
“What?”
“Look.” She pointed to the chubby child at the top. “Clearly, the man with the harp has tossed the baby way up high in the air and the woman with the scroll is recording how high.”
Dunn gaped at her. “No one tosses babies that high.”
“Then where do they come from?” she countered.
“Where do they come from?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Someplace far. Do you travel?”
“I do.” Then he added, �
�In fact, I plan to set sail tomorrow.” He was watching her now.
And he was supposed to destroy Van Dero before he did.
But maybe that rumor was a lie.
“I like boats,” she said. “I saw so many when I saw my father away. Are you taking your own vessel?”
“No, I’m traveling with a friend.”
“What’s the name of his ship?”
“Why?”
“I might have seen it at the docks. Then I’ll know which boat you’re taking.”
“The Rosie.”
She didn’t recall The Rosie. She turned back to the painting, “Well, when you get to your destination, look around, they might be tossing babies.”
He chuckled. “The baby is clearly flying.” He leaned toward her and pointed up. “Look at his position, how his expression is without care. It’s clear as day.”
“Clear, you say? Oh, so you’ve you seen a baby fly, then?”
He smiled and then laughed. “It’s a not a baby, well, at least not a human. It’s a god.”
She pursed her lips and looked at the painting again. Then she pointed at the bottom child. “And why isn’t this one flying?”
“Because…” He shrugged. “He wants to be close to the muse.” He was playing along. He was very good.
“You’re wrong,” she said. “He’s on the ground because the gentleman has declared him positively too fat for throwing.”
Dunn laughed loudly. “You’re wrong. It’s the muse he wants.”
“How can you be so sure?”
He bent toward her and whispered, “Because one of her breasts is out and everyone loves breasts.”
She gasped. “You didn’t just say that!” Her hands went up to cover her chest. She’d never had a man say the word breast in her presence. She smiled. “You didn’t just say that,” she repeated.
He shrugged. “But is it not true? It's where a baby receives its nourishment and a man his… joy.”
She laughed. “How dare you?”
“I dare quite easily.” He offered his arm. “Show me another painting by Claude James.”
They went through the entire gallery in the same manner, speaking in hushed tones and laughing without a care in the world.
Vita often clung to him during her happiest moments, only to remember that while she could hold his arm, she was not to stand close. The distance was dreadful, but the company was the best she’d ever had.
A Knight to Dare: (The Valiant Love Regency Romance) (A Historical Romance Book) Page 4
