Four Times The Temptation (The Northumberland Nine Series Book 4)

by Dayna Quince

  Jeanie’s nerves danced. A smattering of light drops touching her skin.

  But it still wasn’t raining, not yet.

  “I like the flowers in your hair,” he said, not commenting on her forlorn conclusion about herself. How polite of him.

  She touched her curls. They must look terrible now, falling all over the place. She’d have to go straight to the retiring room. Or better yet. Walk home.

  “Thank you. But I think I should go.”

  “I can’t let you.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t let you leave without at least one dance. What sort of gentleman would I be? Everyone should enjoy their first ball.”

  She tried not to look at him, didn’t want to see her pitiful disposition reflected in his expression. It was sad enough that after eleven days sharing the same roof, this was their first conversation.

  “My lord…” She sighed and peeked up at him. He stole her breath. His eyes shimmered like moonlight on water. Her mouth dried up and she forgot what she was about to say.

  “I hope you did not hear what Mr. Reginald said?”

  “Mr. Reginald?

  Reggie. Man One, pleasant youthful voice.

  Mistress material.

  He sighed. “I can see you did.”

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping,” she hurried to say. “I just didn’t want to be seen. I was out here first, you know.”

  He smiled. “I figured as much. But I don’t want you to take what he said to heart. The comment about…”

  “My sisters and I being mistress material?”

  He winced. “You did hear.”

  Jeanie glanced toward the water. The surface undulated, rising and falling, an ocean of black ink.

  “Don’t take it to heart, please,” he continued. “He’s young and…dumb.” The softness of his tone caught her attention and did strange things to her insides. She had the sensation she was sinking into quicksand, but it wasn’t at all frightening, more like, drugging. She’d once taken laudanum for a toothache and remembered the way her body had seemed heavier, and yet her head floated.

  His gaze wandered over her face.

  “What makes me mistress material, my lord?”

  “Why did you run away earlier?”

  She gulped. “You saw that?”

  He grinned. “I did.”

  Jeanie moaned and leaned on the balustrade, covering her face.

  “I’m terrible at this.”

  “What exactly is this?”

  She shrugged, staring down at the waves crashing into the cliff. She should jump. It would be just as effective as the social suicide she’d already committed.

  “Speaking, socializing…”

  “Dancing.”

  “I didn’t say I was terrible at dancing. I just don’t want to do it here.”

  “I’d really love to dance with you.”

  She peeked at him between her fingers. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re a beautiful young woman. Need I say more?”

  “Yes. You didn’t answer my question.”

  He grimaced. “I’d rather not.”

  “But I rather you did. I’m clearly not cut out to be in society. I have none of the social graces. Perhaps—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  She frowned. “Why not? You’re part of that social circle and you’re a man. Who is more qualified than you to determine if I’m mistress material?”

  “Stop saying that phrase,” he growled. “It is not something anyone should aspire to.”

  “I don’t have anything to aspire to.”

  He stepped closer. “You don’t know that.”

  But she did. Because she was one of nine daughters, with a father who was absent most of the year “husband hunting,” and the time he was home doing very little to manage their small plot of land. Every year things got a bit harder, their hopes for marrying smaller, the food budget just a little bit tighter. They weren’t infamous. They were a laughingstock. They were known far and wide because their father traveled England on precious coin looking—or rather—begging for men to come marry his daughters.

  No one ever returned home with him.

  Ever.

  And when her father died—her throat grew tight—cousin Irving would take possession of their home, and they didn’t have any place to go.

  So what could be worse than being a mistress?

  Any number of things.

  Starvation, workhouses, joining a convent, no, that last one she’d save for a secondary plan if she couldn’t find a man of reasonable means to marry her. She could always apply for a job she supposed. Maybe she’d go to London after all and find work.

  Tears pricked her eyes. “I’m sure I’d make a terrible mistress too. My only skill is with needle and thread.”

  He didn’t laugh at her quip.

  “Dance with me,” he said.

  “I can’t dance with you.”

  “Why?”

  Because if I do, I’ll dream again. Of you, of this, and I’ll hope, the most dangerous temptation of all.

  Chapter 2

  He couldn’t let her go, not without a dance. For eleven days, he’d tried to stay away from Jeanette Marsden. He’d noticed her the moment she’d entered the King’s Hall, the yellow blossoms in her hair so wholesome she may as well have been a cup of warm milk and honey. Were those gorse flowers? He studied her while she looked away, ashamed of her circumstances, embarrassed by her lack of social experience, but that was what drew him. She was not exhaustingly jaded like most of the women he knew. She was real in the sense that she knew struggle, she knew to appreciate what she had.

  And she was gorgeous tonight, her curls falling all over the place, like she’d just come from a vigorous tryst, but she was too pure for that. No, he’d rather imagine her dishevelment was a result of dancing not lovemaking.

  Damn it, he wished he had his pencil on hand to draw a quick sketch, something to spur his memory later that he could finish.

  She was the personification of country charm, floating in a dress of soft white muslin, a yellow silk ribbon around her bodice. But in the shadows of the night, the light flat and bleak, her dress glowed like moonlight itself. She was a flame in the dark and he a besotted moth.

  He could spend hours studying her, trying and possibly failing to replicate her on a canvas. She had sunshine and sea air on her skin, flowers in her hair and the eyes of rich earth. He wanted to lose himself in her beauty, unrefined and pure as it was, wanted to paint her so badly he could taste it.

  To paint a subject was not just to see it from the outside. One had to go beyond the façade and discover what made that person or object what it was, the past, the traumas, the memories.

  He bit his cheek. Mistress material.

  She most certainly was not. She deserved to be worshiped for a lifetime. Protected, loved, to bounce a babe on her knee.

  Being some lout’s mistress would destroy her.

  She didn’t answer him. Instead, she stared out at the darkness, her expression sorrowful.

  He touched her chin and turned her face toward him.

  “Dance with me?” he asked again.

  She nodded, her gaze meeting his hesitantly. She bit her lip.

  He took a deep breath. Her lip, the plumpness, the shade a deep mauve. In his head, he started mixing colors to match it.

  She turned to go back the way they’d come.

  “No. Right here.”

  “Here? But there’s no music and it’s too dark.”

  He could dance blindfolded, ears stuffed with cotton and never miss a step. He might try it, just for a lark, but not tonight with her. He wanted all his sense to experience her.

  He picked up her hand and placed it on his shoulder, stepping close. He could feel the tension in her body, the tremble in her fingertips.

  He’d never have a chance to paint her, not in person. This one night was all he would have to learn enough of her and catalogue her features
to draw her later. He could sketch her tonight in his room, but it would be weeks until he was back in his studio.

  “When I look at you, I hear music.”

  He put one hand on the small of her back and lifted the other. “Have you waltzed?”

  “No,” she whispered. “My mother was our dance instructor and she never learned.”

  The wind almost carried her voice away, a few drops sprinkling them in warning.

  “It’s going to rain,” she added.

  “I know,” he said. “Listen to my voice. I’ll start slow and all you have to do is follow my lead. Do you trust me?”

  She blinked up at him. “Yes.”

  Christ she was like a good tonic, warm, sweet, and soothing. He wanted to drink her up.

  He stared down at her, forgetting what he intended to do.

  Her mouth opened, just the tiniest bit, and the urge to kiss her was nearly overwhelming.

  Dancing. That’s what he’d intended.

  And only dancing because despite what she thought, she deserved a better life than that of a mistress. He knew what it was like to feel like an outsider. But she couldn’t give up yet. A dance might not change her mind about her bleak future, but it was all he could do. All he could give her of himself.

  If circumstances were different, then maybe… No, he wouldn’t let his mind go there. He had nothing to offer her. He had his own reasons for attending these parties. He didn’t want to lead her on, make her think that he could give her anything more than friendship.

  He should have stayed home and saved the coin, but he must keep up his usual behavior or rumors would spread. Some already suspected but without proof, they wouldn’t openly speculate.

  Most days he didn’t want to get out of bed, but he had too. There was too much to worry about to stay in bed. He had things to do, for his brother and for his sister.

  He pushed them out of his mind for now. If he dwelled on their circumstances, he’d be a dark cloud and then what would he do? He’d have to explain why he wasn’t his typical self, and there was no way to explain the perpetual black mood he buried deep, only showing what people wanted to see, the care free rake, the sophisticated gentleman.

  He focused on Miss Jeanette. Unlike him, she wore no disguise. She was exactly who she was.

  Fascinating and refreshing, like a cool breeze after a hot day, when evening set in and the whole world exhaled with relief. He could close his eyes and feel it if he wanted, but he kept his attention on her, the living breathing draught of medicine that was her.

  He couldn’t give her more than a dance, but to a wallflower, sometimes a dance was all that was needed to bring her out of her shell and give her a bit of hope for the future.

  She deserved every bit of cheer this evening. Lord Roderick Andrews had told him enough about his neighbors, these Marsden women, for Luc to know that they were in desperate straits.

  Aren’t we all?

  Though he should count himself lucky. He was titled, and handsome, and a man. Miss Jeanette was poor and her future depended on marrying someone who could provide a decent living for her.

  Luc buried a laugh.

  By God, they had the same goal. She needed husband, and he needed an heiress to fill the empty coffers of his family’s depleted fortune.

  Luc had the ability to give the illusion of happiness, as his father before him did, while hiding enough debt to make a king sweat.

  She shifted, the muscles of her back moving under his hand. Her focus moved to him and Luc half smiled.

  Arousal stabbed at him.

  His mouth went dry, his palms sweating in his gloves. Their gazes held as he led her in the waltz. Heat exploded inside him, crawling up his neck, burning over his chest.

  Good God was he blushing?

  This wouldn’t do.

  “The timing is one two three, one two three, one two three,” he said.

  She nodded and mouthed the words.

  Luc hummed a simple refrain and their steps increased in speed.

  Her face lit up as did his chest.

  “I’m doing it,” she smiled, her first real smile of the evening.

  He felt like a champion.

  “You’re a natural.”

  Did she have any idea what danger she was in, being here with him, alone in the dark with only the moon to witness?

  Or was he alone in this torture?

  She was too pure for him. And not because she was an unmarried innocent woman. She was light and he was dark. The two were never to meet.

  But…just a few more minutes. The air was misty, and the clouds had thinned, the moon shining through them with just enough light that he could see her lashes clearly. He did a slow circle, and she tripped, bumping into him and recoiling. He held fast to her, keeping her close as they came to a halt.

  He chuckled.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “’Tis my fault. I forgot my timing.”

  “Oh. She tucked a curl behind her ear.

  Mist settled over her cheeks, and he couldn’t resist dragging his thumb across, collecting the dew.

  He heard her indrawn breath, but the thunder of his own heart drowned out all else.

  His gaze fell to her lips, slightly parted and damp from the air.

  “Promise me one thing,” he said, his voice gravel across his throat.

  “What, my lord.”

  “Luc,” he said, his body tensing.

  What am I doing?

  She frowned. “Luc?”

  “Lucian is my given name, but Luc is what my mother used to call me, and my friends do as well.”

  She swallowed. “Luc.”

  He tried to focus on his thoughts. He was about to tell her something important. What was it? Oh, right. A promise.

  “Promise me you’ll never become any man’s mistress.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Promise me.” He pulled her tighter against him. As close as lovers, chest to chest, hip to hip, close enough to kiss with minimal effort.

  She licked her lips.

  Desire clawed at him.

  “I promise,” she said.

  It could have been a lie. He had no right to her future. He’d likely never see her again, but for tonight, for this moment, he wanted to believe that she might one day be his.

  And on that thought, a split second of impulse, he kissed her.

  He tasted her surprise, her delight.

  And then her gasp as he nudged her mouth open expertly and sampled her. Gently probing—he didn’t want to frighten her in what was clearly her first kiss. She didn’t move but nor did she reject him.

  Her mouth stayed pliant under his as he explored her thoroughly, and then he pulled away to brush his lips across hers, absorbing the feel to remember later tonight and likely years from now.

  As he pulled away, she opened her eyes slowly as if dazed.

  The light mist had turned to drizzle and as if to pull the curtain over them both, a heavy cloud covered the moon at that moment, shrouding them in darkness.

  Was this fate telling him to kiss her again? To seize the magic? Or was it a warning?

  “I should get you inside.”

  She blinked, looking around them. “It’s very dark now.”

  “And wet. You’ll catch a chill.”

  She shivered. Luc removed his jacket and placed it over her shoulders before ushering her back to the terrace and inside.

  They paused at the door and the light of the lit room, which was thankfully empty due to the ball being in full swing, and Luc inspected their appearances. She was more than a little damp, her hair falling.

  “I can’t go back like this. I have to go home.”

  “How will you get there?”

  “I’ll walk.”

  “The he—I mean, I’ll have a carriage summoned for you.”

  “I live very close.”

  He might be a rake, one who’d just kissed an innocent woman, but he was still chivalrous. “It’s t
oo wet now. You’ll catch your death. Wait here and I’ll find a maid to see you warm and dry.”

  She nodded.

  He put his coat back on and went in search of help. He returned a moment later with a footman to assist but she was gone.

  He cursed under his breath.

  “Sir?” the footman asked.

  “Miss Jeanette was just here. She got caught in the rain outside.”

  “She likely went home, my lord. Tough girls, they are. Don’t like accepting much help.”

  Luc gritted his teeth. He was the same.

  Chapter 3

  Four months later… Another house party at Selbourne Castle

  Jeanie couldn’t keep her hands still as she waited on the terrace, staring at the bottom tier where he’d kissed her three months before. Like a ghost he’d lurked in her mind, a glimmering dream she couldn’t touch or let go of. Her fingers ached from being twisted and bent, over and over, but she couldn’t help it. She hadn’t slept last night at all, her mind spinning, tossing and turning until Georgie woke and scowled at her. But what could she do?

  This party had been all she could think about for weeks now, other than…

  Him.

  Lord Lucian Zachariah Edward, Viscount Luckfeld.

  She’d dreamed of him almost every night. When awake, she still routinely stared off, her thoughts of him, imagining him, and then she’d stab herself with a needle and return to reality. She liked to think the jab of the needle was fate reminding her how futile her dreams were.

  He was a viscount, according to Debrett's Peerage in the castle library. Both parents deceased and two younger siblings. Viscounts may not be the highest of ranks but they certainly didn’t marry women like her. She looked down at her gloves. The tip of her right index finger had another hole she hadn’t noticed. She fisted her hands and tucked them behind her back.

  That night, she’d thought she’d finally get to see a hint of the delights London had to offer. What she hadn’t imagined was losing her heart to a beautiful man so perfect and out of her reach.

  She couldn’t be in love with him. They’d danced one time, her head told her, but her heart disagreed, and she was wont to side with her heart.