“And I am equally certain you did not. What I asked was how do you know, unless you give me the same chance you would give a rotter like Quenington?” he repeated, as he inwardly kicked himself in the arse.
What was he doing? What was he thinking? Of all the bad ideas he had ever entertained, surely proposing to kiss the innocent friend of Sin’s countess was the worst.
And yet, as he gazed down upon Lady Jo Danvers now, he could not deny it also was the most intriguing. The most tempting, too.
Just as she was. She truly was a little gem, so much fire hiding beneath her quiet exterior. Before, he had always supposed her prudish. Cold-blooded. Her list had proven otherwise. There was much she hid, simmering beneath her surface. Was it wrong of him to want a taste?
His cock told him no.
His conscience told him yes.
Unfortunately, his cock was winning.
“I would be an utter fool if I did something so reckless,” she said, at last finding her tongue as they approached the final steps of the waltz.
He twirled them about fast, faster than necessary. He spun her one final time before the dance ended. He bowed. She curtseyed.
“Meet me in the blue salon in half an hour,” he dared, offering her his arm.
“You are wasting your time, sir,” she said quietly as he escorted her from the dance floor.
“If you are too frightened, of course, I understand.” He led her to the periphery of the fête, where he had found her.
“Of course I am not afraid.”
“Oh?” He gave her a look that clearly said he did not believe her.
Lady Jo’s cheeks were still flushed from a combination of exertion and charming embarrassment. Her honey-brown eyes were glossy, her pink lips parted. He wanted to drag her from the ballroom and kiss her not just breathless but mindless as well.
“I am not afraid,” she asserted. “You do not frighten me.”
He bloody well ought to frighten her. Indeed, if she had an inkling of the thoughts churning through his mind right now—all the things he could do to her, teach her—she would flee like an outnumbered flank of infantry facing a cavalry charge.
He sketched a bow. “Prove it, then. The blue salon. Half an hour.”
Without awaiting her response, Decker walked away from her. He would be lying if he said he did not feel her stare upon him like a caress as he walked away.
Jo told herself she was not going to the blue salon.
She was not going to meet Mr. Elijah Decker.
Not in half an hour.
Not ever.
No, indeed. She wanted to be wicked, but not with a man like him. In truth, her list had not been drafted completely or with attention to what she was writing down. Compelled by yet another dinner during which she watched the nauseatingly in-love couples around her and had consumed far too many glasses of claret, she had begun her silly catalog before bed one night.
Upon a wine-soaked whim, it was true.
But even a novice like Jo could see that there were gentlemen with whom one could safely dally, and then there was Mr. Elijah Decker. The vexing, maddeningly handsome man was in a class all his own.
“Have you tired of the dancing and the fawning and the nonsense yet?” her sister, Lady Alexandra Marlow, asked abruptly at Jo’s side, barely stifling a yawn.
Alexandra was a science-minded lady. She detested balls. But she and her husband, Lord Harry Marlow, had agreed to escort Jo to her friend Callie’s ball this evening. Jo did not particularly enjoy balls either, but she would not have missed Callie’s first ball as the Countess of Sinclair for anything.
“The ball is scarcely underway,” she told Alexandra, frowning. “You cannot mean to flee already?”
“My calculations are awaiting me,” Alexandra said. “I am on the cusp of some very important findings concerning rainbands, and my book will not write itself.”
Her sister was beloved to Jo, but she would never entirely understand Alexandra’s love of the weather. “This is Callie’s first ball, and I promised her I would remain until the very end, Alexandra.”
Alexandra’s nose crinkled in distaste. “I was hoping I could disabuse you of your notion of loyalty, admirable though it is. Good heavens, Jo, neither of us have ever found this sort of spectacle entertaining.”
No, Jo had not.
At least, not until a devilishly handsome rake had swept her into a waltz and arranged an assignation. Not that she wanted to meet Mr. Decker, she reminded herself. He was untrustworthy, and entirely too aware of his own masculine beauty. Callie admitted his reputation was dreadful and had warned her to keep her distance on numerous occasions. He was the sort of gentleman one could admire from afar, rather like a lion in a menagerie. She would never dare step inside his cage, trust herself to be alone with him.
At his mercy.
No.
And yet, some part of her remained curious. Some part of her wanted to accept that invitation to the blue salon. To allow him to prove he could kiss her breathless. He was handsome. Tempting.
He was everything she should avoid.
And he was everything she wanted. Jo could admit the horrible truth to herself, if no one else. Mr. Decker intrigued her as no other man ever had.
“Jo?” her sister prodded. “Are you sotted?”
That would be the only proper excuse for the emotions coursing through her. But, alas, Jo had only partaken of the lemonade. “Of course not. I have scarcely had a drop to drink this evening.”
Or a bite to eat. Mayhap that was the need, deep within. Hunger, of the ordinary variety and not the carnal.
Mayhap the odd sense of fluttery butterfly wings in her belly had nothing whatsoever to do with Mr. Decker’s invitation to sin.
Oh, who was she trying to fool? It had everything to do with him. He had planted them there, with his hands upon her and the delicious way he had guided her through the waltz earlier. She had been giddy, in awe of him, longing for…
More.
Whatever that entailed. She was certain a man like Mr. Elijah Decker would have no problem with introducing her to it, whatever it was, whatever it meant.
“You seem distracted,” Alexandra observed, her eyes narrowing as she searched Jo’s face.
“I was looking for Callie,” she lied. “Have you seen her? This crush is so magnificent, I only had the chance to speak with her once.”
“Are you certain I cannot persuade you to see reason, dearest sister?” Alexandra asked, hope tingeing her voice.
“I am not ready to go yet.”
How long had it been since he had told her to meet him in the blue salon? Had it been half an hour ago? What if he was waiting for her there, now?
Did she care?
No.
Yes, whispered a wicked voice inside her.
Jo banished the voice. Banished, too, the urge to do his bidding. What would it garner her, after all, save a ruined reputation? Or worse, a broken heart?
“You two look as if you are plotting something diabolical,” said her brother-in-law, Lord Harry, as he reached their sides.
“I am not plotting anything,” Jo denied. “Your wife is the diabolical sister, of the two of us. Surely you ought to know that by now.”
Lord Harry grinned and winked. “I live in fear.”
He was lighthearted and easy to converse with and he appreciated Alexandra’s peculiarities and her sharp mind in equal measure. He was also madly in love with her. All those qualities made Jo like her brother-in-law quite immensely. He was the perfect foil for Alexandra.
Alexandra swatted his forearm playfully. “Tell your son that, a few months hence.”
The smile Lord Harry sent her sister was laden with love. “Or our daughter.”
Jo fought off an unwanted pang of envy at the reminder that she was unwed. Unkissed. Untouched. Unhappy. Meanwhile, her sister was wildly in love, carrying her first child with her husband, the roundness of her belly cleverly hidden beneath the fall of her b
eautiful skirts.
But Jo was a wallflower, unable to free herself from the mold into which she had been poured. She was not intelligent and handsome like Alexandra, with a mind sharp enough to cut anyone else to shreds. Nor was she vivacious and gregarious and beautiful in the way of her friend Callie. She was small and quiet and shy in the presence of others.
She sighed.
“The two of you make me want to retch,” she announced without heat.
In truth, she loved them both, and she was pleased they were happy. Was it wrong of her to want that same happiness for herself?
“Or mayhap we make you want to find a love match of your own,” Alexandra said, shrewd as ever. “Is there anyone who has struck your fancy?”
An image of Mr. Elijah Decker rose to Jo’s mind.
Blast him, he was even beautiful in her thoughts. Every bit as attractive and tempting. Sinfully so.
“No one,” she said, perhaps with a touch too much brightness. “I have only just come out. Surely this sort of thing requires time.”
Alexandra and Harry shared a telling look.
“Of course it does, my dear,” her sister said in a high-pitched voice that Jo instantly recognized.
It meant her sister was lying.
“Just because you and Lord Harry found love instantly does not mean everyone else must,” Jo grumbled.
“It was not instant,” her sister denied.
“Of course it was, darling,” her husband argued back, his tone warm, his gaze radiating with love as it settled upon Alexandra.
Jo sighed. “Have your dance, the two of you. I will find Callie.”
Without waiting for their responses, she swept off into the crush. But the amount of people—a staggering number of guests, in truth—meant that covering a small distance required intense effort. She was skirting people, curtseying, engaging in brief conversation, and being so polite, it made her teeth ache.
By the time she found Callie, Jo was grinding her molars.
But her friend’s smile chased all the irritation away.
“I was about to find you,” Callie told her. “Sin told me I ought to allow you time to mingle before stealing you away from the crush.”
Sin was the Earl of Sinclair, Callie’s husband.
“Sinclair is consideration personified,” Jo returned. “However, I have no wish to be a part of the crush, as you well know. Rescue me from it whenever you wish.”
“That is what I told him,” her friend agreed, linking her arm in Jo’s. “Now come with me, do. There are some ladies I want you to meet whom I think would make excellent additions to the Lady’s Suffrage Society…”
Jo allowed Callie to lead her away.
She never made it to the blue salon or Mr. Decker after all.
And she told herself it was for the best.
Chapter Three
Lady Jo had not come to the salon.
Decker still could not believe it, two days later. He had never, for as long as he had been chasing skirts, been refused. Never. Not once.
Not. Ever.
And yet, innocent, proper, prim, wallflower Lady Jo, who had been flushed and breathless following their waltz the evening before, had failed to accept his invitation. It boggled the mind.
He had waited, pacing the newly decorated salon, glaring at the blue damask wall coverings dotted with paintings by Moreau. His strides had all but worn holes in the plush Axminster—a damned improvement upon its threadbare predecessor, Decker could not deny.
He was embarrassed to admit he had arrived ten minutes early and had remained ten minutes after the appointed time. Twenty minutes lost, spent upon a woman who had never had any intention of accepting his offer.
Had she been too afraid?
Did he care?
What he ought to do was discreetly send the list back to her and forget he had ever seen it.
Not bloody likely. It was secreted inside a pocket in his jacket even now.
“Brandy?”
Sin interrupted Decker’s tumultuous thoughts, bringing him back to the present where he belonged. He had decided to pay a call on his old friend today, needing some distraction. Not because of her, naturally. He was merely restless.
Lady Jo had nothing to do with his affliction.
He blinked, focusing upon the earl. “No brandy today, old chap. I have a manuscript to read this afternoon for the press.”
Sin poured a brandy for himself from the sideboard in his study. “Deadly dull these days, Decker.”
“I am a man of business,” he pointed out sans heat. “I must earn my keep. And I may as well say the same of you, now that you are a happily domesticated beast.”
Sin grinned. “Domesticity is bliss. Perhaps you ought to try it yourself.”
Decker shuddered. “Blasphemy.”
He was pleased to see Sin in a marriage that—in spite of its dubious beginnings—contented him. But marriage was not for everyone. And it most certainly was not for Decker. After Nora, the notion of cleaving to one woman made him bilious. He would sooner dip his prick in a pot of hot tar.
Since he was deuced fond of his prick, that was not about to happen.
“Marriage with the wrong woman is hell on earth,” Sin agreed, taking a sip of his brandy. “But marriage with the right woman is—”
“Spare me the gory details, will you?” he interrupted.
Little wonder he had drifted into his own musings. What was it about a happily married man that made him think all his friends needed to shackle themselves as well? Thank God Nora had revealed herself for what and who she truly was and jilted him. She had done him a favor.
“I was going to say paradise,” Sin groused. “Mark my words, Decker. The day will come for you.”
Decker grimaced. “When I allow a woman to lead me around by the ballocks? No bloody thank you.”
“Here now.” Sin frowned. “My wife does not lead me around by the ballocks.”
“You hosted a ball,” he pointed out.
“I wanted an excuse to dance with my beautiful countess,” Sin countered.
“You have only been to the club once since you married,” Decker added.
He owned the Black Souls Club, but it had long been one of their mutual haunts.
His friend shrugged. “I have no need for diversion any longer, now that my wife keeps me otherwise distracted. Besides, I was scarcely there before, whilst I was attempting to court Miss Vandenberg.”
True, but Decker had still rather had enough of this blasted conversation. He did have a manuscript to read—that much had not been a lie. To say nothing of countless other tasks awaiting him. Being a man with diverse business interests meant he was also often a man with too little time.
“Damn it, I told you to spare me the gory details, not expound upon them,” he grumbled at his friend. “That will be my cue to flee, before you start waxing poetic over the color of Lady Sinclair’s hair or the shape of her eyebrows.”
“She does have beautiful eyebrows.” Sin grinned, unrepentant. “And the color of her hair is—”
“Enough,” Decker bit out on a strangled laugh. “Thank you for the company, but I must leave you to your sonnets and lovesick whatnots.”
“Not very sporting of you, old chap,” his friend complained. “Lady Sinclair is occupied with a meeting of the Lady’s Suffrage Society in the library, and I expect her to be similarly engaged for at least the next hour or so. Who will keep me entertained until I can once more have her all to myself?”
“Get a dog,” Decker suggested nicely.
Secretly, he was no better than a hound himself, his proverbial ears perking at the mentioning of the Lady’s Suffrage Society. There was a certain member who was not far from his mind. Whose list was burning in his pocket.
Lady Jo was here.
Beneath the same roof.
All he had to do was find her.
“Lady Sinclair has requested the addition of a household cat,” Sin was saying, stroking his jaw.
“Mayhap we should find a feline. I rather fancy the idea of a soft little beast curled up on my lap.”
“You see?” Decker raised a brow. “Thoroughly domesticated and utterly ruined. I despair of you, my friend. But as much as I would like to linger and give you the opportunity to provide me with further proof of the fact you’ve lost your bloody mind, I truly must go.”
Sin’s expression had turned maudlin. “A cat could be just the thing. You are brilliant, Decker.”
“I suggested a dog,” he muttered, bemused.
What the devil had happened to his friend?
Love was a horrid thing.
Best to stay his course—wickedness.
Now, Decker just had to find his quarry.
For the first time, the weekly meeting of the Lady’s Suffrage Society had convened at the townhome of the Earl and Countess of Sinclair. The gathering was being held in the library, and Jo was listening to Lady Helena Davenport discussing suggestions for hosting a charity bazaar to encourage new society members to join.
And that was when she saw him standing at the threshold of the open library door.
Mr. Elijah Decker.
Their gazes connected.
He beckoned her. She glanced wildly about to see if anyone else had noticed him. Everyone’s attention was directed toward Lady Helena, however. Her gaze flicked back to him. He was still there.
He motioned again.
She shook her head, mouthed a frantic denial. No.
He flashed her the grin that made heat pool between her thighs. His lips moved in a soundless response. Yes.
For a frantic moment, she remained where she was, frozen. Wondering if she ought to go, just so that he would cease hovering at the threshold, trying to lure her nearer to danger, or if she ought to stay put and ignore him. He crooked a finger.
She swallowed. Looked away. But Lady Helena’s dulcet voice was not sufficient distraction. She could not concentrate upon a single word Lady Helena uttered. When she glanced toward the door once more, he was gone. She could not deny the swift rush of disappointment lancing her.
Had he truly left? Was he so certain she would do his bidding that he was awaiting her now? Moreover, what did he want?
Lady Wallflower Page 3
