Fever Dreams
Page 12
Ryder let himself out of the house, grateful to escape with his control barely intact. He needed a long walk in the cool night air to lower the fever that had taken over his mind and body.
Desire still knifed through him, sharp and insistent. His own throbbing arousal wasn’t solely to blame, though. Eve’s response to his caresses wrenched him to his soul. That sob of surprise and pleasure she’d given had nearly brought him to his knees.
It had required all of his strength to pull back, almost brutal fortitude to refrain from carrying his lovemaking further. But he hadn’t even kissed her.
Holding back had been sheer torment, leaving him burning with an ache so fierce, he felt on fire. And restraining his desire in the future would be an even greater torment, now that he knew how soft her skin felt, how sweet and ripe her breasts were, how perfectly they fit his hands, how inviting and tempting her woman’s flesh was.
Yet he would do it all over again. He had relished every tremble and shudder of her response, relished knowing how right he’d been about Eve. She might appear coolly elegant on the outside, but she was searing, passionate heat on the inside. If only he could uncover it.
He would have to go slowly, he knew damned well. Her late husband had given her a fear and disgust of lovemaking, a revulsion that would take great patience to overcome. Her sensual awakening was merely the first step.
Ryder forced himself to exhale slowly, girding himself for the protracted battle ahead. For the time being, he would have to keep a savage rein on his desire, even if it meant continuing to endure this gut-twisting hunger that turned him inside out.
Chapter
Six
Eve was determined to forget that forbidden interlude with Ryder in the library. The difficulty was, she had to face him late the next afternoon, when he called to take her brother and sister to supper and an evening performance of the circus at Astley’s Royal Amphitheatre. Or rather, Eve forced herself to face him.
When Ryder was admitted to the entrance hall, she drew him aside for a private word while the twins donned their evening cloaks and summoned Janet to act as chaperone.
Eve could scarcely meet his gaze. Even though Ryder gave every appearance of nonchalance and did nothing overt to remind her of their scandalous tryst, the burning memory of his embrace wouldn’t leave her. She thought of his hands touching her secret flesh and felt her stomach quiver.
Chastising herself, Eve cleared her throat and kept her voice low. “Whatever you said to Cecil this morning seems to have had a positive effect.”
Ryder’s reply held a wry note. “I don’t believe it was what I said that influenced him. Cecil was still suffering from his bout with the port bottle when I required him to take a drive with me in my curricle. It was a tame sort of punishment, but it will make him think twice about getting sotted again, especially when he’s in proximity of a card table.”
“I sincerely hope so,” Eve said with a shudder.
“We also discussed the details of how he was to repay me,” Ryder added. “Since his quarterly allowance is nearly depleted, I intend to put him to work performing some secretarial tasks.”
“He told me of your agreement,” she confirmed. “And astonishingly enough, he claims to be looking forward to it. Or at least he prefers working for you over being banished to the country.”
Fearful of that threat, Cecil had groveled appropriately and vowed solemnly that he would never again enter a gaming hell, at least not until he filled his pockets and could hold his liquor better. Eve had accepted her brother’s apology, although knowing it was only a matter of time before he got into more mischief. She quelled her impulse to keep him on a tighter leash, though, realizing it would be best to let Ryder handle her brother man-to-man.
“Thank you for dealing with him, Ryder,” Eve said sincerely. “And for what you did for Claire last evening. The door knocker has practically fallen off its hinges today with callers and servants delivering flowers.” She indicated a side table, where a vase of daffodils rested. “She’s received posies and bouquets from half a dozen young gentlemen, all of whom called this afternoon. Claire is in alt with her success.”
Ryder nodded in satisfaction. “I knew it wouldn’t take much to make her finer qualities known.”
“As long as you are here,” Eve said, “I wanted to suggest a slight change to our Vauxhall outing.” Ryder had invited the family to Vauxhall Gardens one evening this week to enjoy a lavish musical entertainment and supper, culminating in a grand fireworks display. Both aunts were to accompany them.
At his raised eyebrow, Eve explained. “I thought we might expand the party to include two or three of the young gentlemen who are interested in Claire—the ones she favors most—to give them a chance to become better acquainted under less formal circumstances.”
“Of course. Invite whomever you would like.”
“If you mean it, then I would like to ask my friend Lydia, Lady Keeling, to join us, so you can come to know her better.”
A glimmer of amusement lit his dark eyes. “You are taking your role of matchmaker fully to heart, aren’t you, Countess?”
Eve had no idea why she should feel like blushing, particularly when Ryder had requested her matchmaking services. “Well, yes, Lydia is by far the most agreeable candidate on your list, and you did say she was your favorite.”
“I also said I was partial to Mrs. Ferris-Jones.”
Eve hesitated, trying to hide her distaste. “Certainly we could invite her as well.”
“You don’t approve?”
“It isn’t my place to approve or disapprove of your choice.”
“Then I would like her to come also.”
Just then the twins joined them and there was no chance for further conversation in the bustle of seeing them off.
When the front door closed behind them, Eve was left pursing her lips in frustration. Mrs. Ferris-Jones was acceptable enough, if a bit scandalous, so if Ryder wanted the beautiful widow in his party, there was no reason not to include her.
Indeed, Eve told herself irritably as she mounted the stairs to dress for a boring levee the aunts wished to attend, she should be trying to encourage the attachment. The best way for her to avoid temptation was for Ryder to become fully occupied in courting his chosen bride, for then he would have no time to indulge in late-night forbidden trysts in the library with her.
And that was precisely what she wanted, Eve reminded herself firmly. Wasn’t it?
Eve continued to remind herself of her goal at Vauxhall Gardens three nights later as she watched Mrs. Ferris-Jones flirting outrageously with Ryder. Thus far the flame-haired beauty had monopolized his attention nearly the entire evening.
His party was a large one, consisting of Eve, the twins, and both aunts; Eve’s friend Lady Keeling; Phoebe Ferris-Jones; three young suitors whom Claire favored; and Ryder’s friend, Mr. Beau Macklin.
Upon arriving, they had strolled the grounds of the lavish pleasure gardens, along graveled, tree-lined walkways illuminated by colored lanterns of crimson and gold. And as a group, they had playfully explored the Dark Walk, which unlike the other unexceptional pleasure walks at Vauxhall, had gained a reputation for infamy. Its shadowed alcoves and romantic hideaways had been designed for lovers, but more than one young damsel’s good name had been ruined there.
The widow, Eve had noted, hung back with Ryder, clinging to his arm like a limpet and laughing huskily up at him.
Eventually they all settled in his hired box for the music concert, which boasted a sizable orchestra and vocal performers. Phoebe immediately seated herself next to Ryder and proceeded to exert her charm in an effort to claim his sole attention, while the other guests enjoyed a lively conversation of their own.
During the intermission, they left the box to view a magical extravaganza of a cascading waterfall. When they returned, they dined on paper-thin slices of shaved ham, sparrow-sized chickens, pigeon pie, and potent Vauxhall punch, followed by strawberries and ch
erries and flavored ices. After the concert, they would walk down to the riverbank to watch the spectacular fireworks and view the rockets bursting overhead in a reenactment of Napoléon’s defeat at the Battle of Waterloo.
It was a gay evening, and Eve tried hard to appreciate the musical entertainment and the delicious supper. And she did enjoy the company of her friend Lydia. It was the other beautiful widow that Eve found hard to stomach.
Watching Ryder’s head bent toward the lady, Eve was conscious of a nameless dissatisfaction. She didn’t want to call it longing, yet she couldn’t help wishing she were in Phoebe’s shoes at that moment.
She could see why such a woman would appeal to him. The beauty oozed a sensual confidence that had every male within a hundred yards lusting after her, including Cecil, who was clearly moonstruck.
That Ryder would lust after Phoebe was to be expected. A virile man like him would have appetites that could be satisfied much better by an experienced widow than by a young debutante.
Despite her own widowhood, Eve knew she didn’t fit that bill, since she had almost no carnal experience at all, other than forcing herself to lie passively beneath her husband’s rutting body and trying not to cry out from the pain while he performed his duty.
She had never felt sexually attractive or alluring, either, and wouldn’t know the first thing about pleasing a man in bed. Even if she were to consider having an affair with Ryder—which she couldn’t possibly—he would never see her as an object of desire, as he obviously saw Phoebe Ferris-Jones.
Phoebe was evidently wary of her competition, though. A short while later, when the concert ended, the party rose from their chairs and began to file out of the box in order to view the fireworks. When somehow Mrs. Ferris-Jones stumbled right into Ryder’s arms, his reflexes were swift enough that he caught her with ease, but not before she had flung the entire contents of her punch cup down the front of Lydia’s silk gown.
Lydia gasped at the drenching while the other guests froze in shock.
“Oh, I am so terribly sorry, Lady Keeling,” Phoebe exclaimed. “How clumsy of me.”
Eve gritted her teeth, knowing the accident had been deliberate, despite the woman’s effusive apologies. “It was indeed clumsy of you, Phoebe,” she replied coolly as she swept up a cloth napkin and gave it to her friend. “But your aim was perfect.”
“I cannot think what you mean.”
“No, of course not.” Eve smiled supportively at Lydia, who was wiping futilely at the dripping stain. “I will accompany you to the ladies’ retiring room, where we can try to repair the damage to your gown.”
“No, please go ahead,” Lydia protested. “I wouldn’t want you to miss the fireworks and spoil your evening.”
Eve cast a darkling glance at Phoebe, thinking that her evening had been spoiled long before this. “It’s no bother, truly, Lydia. I’ve seen similar spectacles numerous times on previous visits to Vauxhall,” she said aloud before murmuring under her breath so that only her friend could hear: “You would be doing me a service, for if I remain here, I might just cause some fireworks of my own.”
In the carriage ride home, however, Eve let Ryder know of her objections. “You do realize that spill was deliberate?”
Beside her, Claire looked shocked, while Drucilla nodded sagely.
“I had my suspicions,” Ryder replied in a mild tone.
“That sort of cattish behavior is precisely why I didn’t want Mrs. Ferris-Jones on your bride list.”
“You’re right, of course. Consider her stricken.”
Eve stared at him warily, wondering at his easy capitulation. “Do you mean it?”
“Certainly. I gave myself over to your talented hands, so if you advise me to drop her, then I will do so.”
“It is for the best, Ryder,” Eve felt compelled to explain. “If you wish to move in the highest circles, then you will want a bride whose reputation is spotless.”
“That is exactly what I want,” he murmured blandly.
When Eve continued to scrutinize him in the light of the carriage lamp, Ryder flashed her a smile that took her breath away.
That smile could prove lethal to her senses, Eve realized, feeling a shiver of heat slowly slide down her spine.
She was very glad when his town coach stopped before her house and set them all down so she could part from Ryder without making a fool of herself by fawning over him as a certain other obnoxious widow had done.
The incident at Vauxhall proved typical of the competition for Ryder’s notice. For although he had scratched several ladies off his list, there were others eagerly vying to be his choice of bride.
Eve witnessed one particular altercation herself. It occurred in Hyde Park, during the fashionable hour of five, when the ton congregated in order to see and be seen. She was acting as chaperone for Claire and a prospective suitor when their phaeton came upon Ryder and two of the debutantes on his list.
He clearly had his hands full, Eve realized at once. Apparently he had taken up the stylish, wealthy Miss Gouge in his curricle for a drive. But Miss Pittard, the reigning beauty of the Season, who was currently riding with friends, had lost her seat when her horse suddenly shied and had conveniently tumbled off directly in front of Ryder’s equipage.
Eve’s gasp turned to a sigh of relief when she saw Ryder expertly bring his spirited pair of grays to a halt in time to avoid the fallen damsel.
Dazed, Miss Pittard pushed herself up and looked around her, her gaze immediately latching onto Ryder. “Oh, Sir Alex, thank heavens it is you,” the raven-haired beauty exclaimed. “No one else could have reacted so splendidly. You saved my life.”
When she added forlornly, “I know you will help me,” he sat debating for the barest instant. To his credit, there was only the slightest edge of dryness to his voice when he replied, “Of course I will help you, Miss Pittard.”
When he handed the reins to Miss Gouge beside him, however, that young lady gave a startled protest. “But I don’t know how to drive.”
“Just hold the horses steady and don’t saw on their mouths,” Ryder said patiently before going to Miss Pittard’s rescue.
“I seem to have sprained my ankle,” the girl complained, her lower lip trembling dramatically.
Eve considered helping Ryder deal with the spoiled beauty, but seeing the difficulty Miss Gouge was having in controlling his grays, who were nervous from the spectators and the unexpected commotion, she decided that the horses needed her more. Climbing down from the phaeton, Eve went to their heads and spoke to them soothingly while Ryder gingerly examined Miss Pittard’s ankle.
“You see, Sir Alex, how swollen it is? I vow, it is painful enough to make me swoon. I would be ever so grateful if you would take me home in your curricle.” Without even waiting for his response, she shamelessly put her arms around his neck.
“But there is no room,” Miss Gouge objected coldly.
Miss Pittard tossed her head. “I am certain Sir Alex will make room. He would never be so ungallant as to leave an injured lady lying on the ground to fend for herself.”
By now a crowd had gathered to watch, so Ryder had no choice but to comply, and Eve had difficulty swallowing a laugh at how easily he had been maneuvered by the little hussy.
He seemed to share the sentiment, for his expression held sardonic amusement as he met Eve’s gaze over the girl’s head. Visibly quelling his exasperation, however, he lifted Miss Pittard in his arms and carried her to his vehicle, where he settled her on the seat beside her fuming rival, Miss Gouge.
Miss Pittard’s escorts—two dashing young bucks riding spirited mounts—were clearly not happy to lose her, and both threw Ryder dark looks beneath the brims of their tall beaver hats.
Ignoring them as well as the other gawkers, Ryder climbed into the driver’s seat—a tight squeeze with himself and two passengers—and resumed control of the reins.
“Thank you, Lady Hayden, for your presence of mind,” he said solemnly to Eve.
The gleam sparking in his eyes promised retribution, but he merely gave her a bow and snapped the reins, sending his pair moving briskly forward.
The gossip columns delighted in recounting the incident the following day, and the Morning Chronicle even displayed a cartoon showing two ladies squabbling over Ryder in a fistfight.
Eve was reading the paper in the morning room when Ryder was shown in. “Ah, the conquering hero returns,” she remarked, not hiding her amusement.
“Vixen,” he murmured without heat. “That was a low blow yesterday, scoffing at my heroics.”
“I do beg pardon, Sir Alex. I don’t mean to disparage your gallantry in the least. Indeed, I am quite impressed to see the competition for your favors heating up.”
Ryder settled himself comfortably in a chair near Eve. “Perhaps you were a bit too successful in finding candidates willing to wed me.”
“Oh, no, I cannot take credit for the fact that damsels are swooning over you and throwing themselves at your feet. However, I’m not certain this sort of publicity is productive to your campaign.” She waved the cartoon at him. “The mamas who are high sticklers will not be pleased to see their precious daughters engaging in fisticuffs.”
“It hardly seems fair when I did nothing to provoke it.”
“Ah, but you did, Ryder. Your charm is to blame.”
He raised a sardonic eyebrow. “My charm?”
“Certainly. You can be devilishly charming when you put your mind to it. It has made you an even more inviting matrimonial prize. But perhaps you should restrain yourself a little if you don’t wish to put off the more modest candidates,” Eve commented with an impish version of her bewitching smile.