Heart’s Temptation Books 1–3

by Scott, Scarlett

  “We are once again in agreement, Cleo.” His voice regained some of its arrogance. “However, it did happen.”

  Her name on his lips startled her, but she didn’t bother taking him to task for it. After the intimacies she had just allowed, it would be hypocritical. She wished she could see him. The darkness became unbearable.

  “How could you so easily forget your own sins? You had your pretty little actress all the while you claimed to love me.”

  He said nothing. Silence extended between them. It was obstinate of her, but she wanted him to deny it. Thornton did not.

  “Aren’t there orphans about somewhere you should be saving?” She lashed out, then regretted her angry words. That was badly done of her. But this, being in Thornton’s arms after what he’d done…it went against the grain.

  “I think you should go,” she added.

  “I would if I could fight my way past your bloody skirts. There’s no help for it. Either you go first or we go together.”

  “We can’t go together! Your insufferable mother may be lurking out there somewhere.”

  “Then you must go first.”

  “I shall precede you,” she informed him.

  “I already suggested as much. Twice, if you had but listened.” He sounded peeved.

  The urge to stamp her foot hit her with fierce persistence. “You are a vexing man.”

  “And you, my love, are a shrew unless your mouth is otherwise occupied.”

  She gasped. “How dare you?”

  “Oh, I dare lots of things. Some of them, you may even like.” His voice had gone sinful and dark.

  The dreadful man. She drew herself up in full countess armor. “I’m leaving now.”

  Then he ruined her consequence by saying, “Lovely. Though you might want to fasten up your bodice before you go. I should think it terribly difficult to convince my mother we were talking about the weather when your finer bits are on display.”

  Her finer bits? It was the outside of enough. She slapped his arm. “Has the Prime Minister any idea what a coarse scoundrel you are? None of my…person would be on display if you hadn’t pulled me into the room and accosted me.”

  “You were well pleased for a woman being accosted,” he pointed out, smug.

  She hated him again, which was really for the best. He was too much of a temptation, too delicious, to borrow his word, and she was ever a fool for him. “You’re insufferable.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Cleo gave him her back and attempted to fasten her buttons. Drat. She pulled. She held her breath. She tugged her bodice’s stiff fabric again. The buttons wouldn’t meet their moorings. “Did you undo my lacings?” she demanded, realization dawning on her.

  “Perhaps.” Thornton’s voice had gone wistful. Sheepish, almost.

  Good heavens. How did he know his way around a woman’s undergarments so well he could get her undone and partially unlaced all while kissing her passionately? Beneath his haughty exterior still lay a womanizer’s heart.

  There was no help for it now. She couldn’t tight-lace herself. “I require some assistance,” she mumbled.

  “What was that?”

  Cleo gritted her teeth. “I can’t lace myself.”

  “Would a ‘please’ be in order?”

  “You’re the one who did the damage. It seems reasonable that you should repair it.”

  “Perhaps I can slip past your voluminous skirts after all,” he mused.

  “Please help me,” she blurted.

  “Turn around,” he ordered.

  Cleo spun, reluctant to face him again. She could barely see him in the murkiness, a tall, imposing figure. His hands slipped inside her bodice, expertly finding the lacings he had loosened.

  “Breathe in,” he told her.

  She did and he pulled tightly, cinching her waist to a painful wasp silhouette once more. “Thank you. I can manage the buttons.”

  He spun her about and brushed aside her fingers. “I’ll get them.” She swore she heard a smile in his voice. “After all, it only seems reasonable I repair the damage I’ve done.”

  “Fine then.” His breath fanned her lips and she could feel his intense gaze on her. She tilted her head to the side to ease her disquiet at his nearness. Was it just her imagination, or did his fingers linger at the buttons nearest her bosom?

  “There you are.” Thornton fastened the last one, brushing the hollow of her throat as he did so.

  She closed her eyes and willed away the desire that assaulted her. This man was not for her. He ran the backs of his fingers along her neck, stopping when he cupped her jaw.

  “Thank you,” she whispered again.

  “You’re most welcome,” he said, voice low.

  The magnetism between them was inexorable, just as it had been before. Despite the intervening years, despite all, she still recalled the way he had made her feel—weightless and enchanted, as though she had happened upon Shakespeare’s moonlit forest in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  His thumb brushed over her bottom lip. “If you don’t go, I’ll undo all the repairing I’ve just done.”

  She knew he warned himself as much as he warned her. Sadness pulsed between them, a mutual acknowledgment their lives could have turned up differently. So many unspoken words, so much confusion lingered.

  “I must go,” she said unnecessarily. She was reluctant to leave him and that was the plain truth of it. “I find my megrim has returned.”

  With that, she left, returning to the hall, to sunlight streaming in cathedral windows. More importantly, she hoped, she returned to sanity.

  Chapter Two

  The missive waiting in each guest’s chamber that night was an invitation to a dinner en plein air. Lady Cosgrove, their hostess, had transformed her Middle Ages inspired banquet hall into an outdoor seascape. The effect was masterful. Great curtains painted to appear as ocean waves and sand had been hung over the walls, pooling in ethereal beauty to the floor. Candles gave a soft yellow glow from a table littered with seashells, fresh flowers and long mirrors to reflect light as if it were water. The gas lights on the walls hadn’t been lit on account of the billowing curtains and an otherworldly sheen enveloped the entire room.

  Cleo had been seated next to Thornton, much to her dismay. The man’s presence was distracting enough without his divine scent making its way to her nose each time he shifted. No man had a right to smell that heavenly.

  The Earl of Ravenscroft sat across from her, with her younger sister Tia to her left. The Duke of Claridge and her older sister Helen sat to Ravenscroft’s right. Cleo wondered at Lady Cosgrove’s placement. Thankfully, at least, the draconian dowager Lady Thornton was seated far away with her daughter in what may have been another kingdom for the distance between them. It suited Cleo fine. The last thing she needed was the interference of the dowager to increase her discomfort. The woman’s son was punishment enough.

  “I missed you during our hostess’s games this afternoon, Lady Scarbrough,” Claridge said, giving her a conspiratorial glance.

  Her face flamed. She took a healthy sip of her wine to compose herself before answering. “Indeed. I’m sorry to have missed the festivities. I regret to say I was indisposed.”

  “Are you feeling much improved, my lady?” Thornton asked, solicitous. To the casual observer, he probably appeared unconcerned, even cool.

  “Yes, though I had quite a harrowing afternoon,” she replied, unable to keep a tart edge from her voice.

  “Do tell.” Thornton affected boredom like no other could.

  She yearned to kick him beneath the table. “A terrible attack of the megrims.”

  “I hope all is well.” Claridge put himself back into the conversation.

  Cleo smiled at him with too much warmth. He was handsome in a thoroughly English way and had been making polite overtures to her for over a season. “I’m much improved indeed.”

  The company remained silent but for the clattering of silverware on plate
s and some murmurings down the table. Thornton bumped her foot with his. When she shot him an annoyed glance, however, he ignored her, eating his roast pheasant as though nothing untoward had occurred.

  “I say, where were you this afternoon, Thornton?” Claridge asked.

  Cleo hurried to answer before Thornton could. “He was kind enough to escort me back to the main hall. After that, I expect he headed for the library as he said he would. Did you find the volume of Chaucer you were seeking, my lord?” She aimed an inquiring glance at him.

  “I certainly found what I was looking for,” he responded, his tone mild but the undercurrent obvious to her.

  “I’m delighted to hear it.” Her smile felt pained. She truly hated him. This time, she did land a fairly solid kick in his shin. “The Parliament of Fowls, was it?”

  A barely audible oof could be heard.

  “Did you sneeze, my lord?” she asked him in feigned sweetness. “Perhaps you caught a chill.”

  “I daresay he wears the countenance of a man who has been kicked,” Ravenscroft interceded.

  “Kicked?” Claridge perked up. “By whom?”

  “Fate?” Tia suggested in a honeyed voice. Bless her sister, always championing Cleo. She and Helen had been Cleo’s sole friends during the darkest days of Thornton’s betrayal and her marriage to Scarbrough.

  “How so?” An intriguing smile flitted at the corners of Thornton’s mouth.

  Cleo wanted to kiss him. Oh dear. This wasn’t good. How could she want him after what he had done to her? Was she a dullwit? A wanton? Perhaps both?

  “Fate has kicked you into realizing you should cease being a hermit and rejoin society,” Tia invented nicely. “Sometimes a sound proverbial kick is just the thing, I’ve discovered.”

  “Perhaps,” Thornton said, all noncommittal perfection.

  “Or you’ve been kicked by love,” Ravenscroft added.

  Cleo shot him a suspicious look. Why did she get the feeling the man knew more than he could or should? Had he seen them together? Had he spied her subtle kick beneath the table?

  Ravenscroft returned her gaze, appearing somehow innocent and fallen at the same time. He was a gorgeous creature, raven haired and blue eyed and bad to the core if his reputation was to be believed. Whispers abounded that he lived as a kept man.

  “Have you never been kicked by love, my lady?” He spoke softly, his brilliant gaze upon her.

  She swallowed. Not only had she been kicked—she had been run over like a lamb by a locomotive, first by Thornton, then by Scarbrough. “Yes. Have you?”

  He gave her a crooked grin. “Half a dozen times or more, I’m afraid.”

  “Do speak up so we can all hear you, Ravenscroft,” Thornton demanded.

  Cleo turned back to him. “Churl,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Shrew,” came his equally quiet invective.

  She glared at him openly, no longer caring for propriety. He stared back with maddening calm. How could he be so imperturbable, the blighter?

  “The scenery is lovely,” she said, determined to ignore him for the duration of the evening and, very possibly, the next fortnight.

  “Lady C. has outdone herself,” Claridge agreed with a jovial air.

  She turned her attention back to him. The duke was tall and slim, with golden hair, blue eyes and patrician features. In her experience, he was always polite and always at the best of society events. He neither smoked nor caroused with opera singers or actresses and was not addicted to cards or horseflesh. But he was not Thornton, a traitorous voice whispered. Heavens, what was she thinking? How could he make her want to forget?

  She graced Claridge with her most becoming smile, determined to cast Thornton from her mind. “Do tell me about the renovations you’ve undertaken on your ancestral home, Your Grace,” she implored.

  “Christ,” she heard Thornton grumble.

  “I’d be happy to,” Claridge began. “I’ve employed the architect Giles Courtenay and he’s assured me we can restore the manor to its former glory…”

  Cleo turned her attention to her meal and the soothing drone of the duke’s voice. She very nearly forgot Thornton’s presence altogether. But not quite.

  Later that evening found Cleo and her sisters in Helen’s chamber, catching up on everything from the ancient Lord Gull’s horrid Georgian era wig to Lady Smithton falling asleep during the soup course. Helen sprawled over the high poster bed with its elaborate carvings, Tia draped herself stylishly over a patterned chaise and Cleo had been stuck with a rather uncomfortable Louis Quatorze chair.

  “I have decided,” Tia announced like a monarchal decree, “that Cleo shall have an affaire this fortnight.”

  “Scandalous.” Helen grinned. “And far too fast for our dear Cleo. She’s not really the sort.”

  “Nor are you,” Cleo pointed out in a tart tone. “I’ll thank the both of you to keep your pointed noses from my business. I haven’t the slightest desire to share a bed with anyone.”

  Tia raised a brow. Helen rolled her eyes.

  “Well it isn’t as if you even know what married love is like, Helen,” Cleo shot back. “I’m not missing anything other than copious sweating, petting and noise-making. A lot of fuss for nothing, if you ask me.” Making love had not been horrid before John, a wicked inner voice argued. It wasn’t as if Thornton’s advances earlier had failed to produce a heated response in her blood. But no, she would not entertain that thought now. There was happiness in loneliness.

  “Scarbrough must be deadly dull.” Tia waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “It’s a wonder he curries the favors of all those actresses the way he does. But they’re after his coffers, I suppose and not his prowess.”

  Cleo reddened. She did not prefer to speak so plainly about John, married life, or his indiscretions. The topic was tired, a dead horse that didn’t need to be kicked, least of all dragged through the middle of the village.

  “Let’s not talk about the blighter.” Helen gave Cleo a sympathetic look. “He’s not worth the breath. Though I still don’t think Cleo is the sort to have an inamorato, Tia.”

  Cleo straightened her posture. “Why not?” She could be brazen when the need arose. Hadn’t she flirted madly with Mr. Carey-Harthwaite last season? He’d been attractive and dashing in his own way. That had to count for something, even if their relationship had never been consummated.

  “There was Mr. Carey-Addlepate,” Tia pointed out, sounding a bit nasty.

  “Harthwaite.” Cleo was compelled to correct. “He wasn’t that much of a dullard.” True, he had been very interested in the cut of his coat and had often been boring and self-important. Not to mention overly fond of his hair, even if it was a glorious flaxen and prettier than her own.

  “He was stupid,” Tia said with her typical bluntness.

  “A bore,” Helen added.

  “An original,” Cleo argued.

  “Originals are female, never male. Tell her, Helen.”

  Helen appeared aggrieved. “Original is a title appropriate to women only, I’m afraid. I love you, Cleo, but truly. Addlepate earned his diminutive the hard way and he outreached himself with you. His grandfather was in trade.”

  “Moreover,” Tia sounded triumphant, “Carey-Babblethwaite does not an affaire make.”

  “Leave poor Mr. Carey-Harthwaite out of it.” Cleo rose from her chair. “I shan’t stay here if the two of you insist on mucking about in my personal matters. There is a warm bed waiting for me only two doors down the hall and it would certainly trump sitting here in a blasted uncomfortable chair listening to the two of you plot.”

  Tia pooh-poohed. “Nonsense.”

  “I don’t have the slightest desire to take up a lover. My life is fulfilling just as it is.”

  “Yes, of course it is,” Tia drawled.

  “That’s harsh, Hypatia.” Helen took her turn again. Then she ruined her admonishment by shimmying closer to the end of the bed. “Who do you think it should be?”
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br />   “No one.” Cleo despaired. Must her sisters always be so vexing, so determined, so wrong-headed in their pursuit of happiness for her? “Tia, you’ve been widowed for two years. Why don’t you find yourself a lover instead?”

  Tia ignored Cleo’s protest. “The Duke of Claridge is a handsome fellow. Then there’s Ravenscroft, who’s deliciously inappropriate and who else, Helen?”

  Helen tapped her chin. “Who else indeed? I suppose we shall have to wait, as they say, and see.”

  “What you will see is an awful lot of puffed up society fellows who smell of tobacco and wear too much hair grease,” Cleo sniffed.

  “I have a feeling, dear sister, that you may be wrong,” Helen said.

  “Very wrong,” Tia added, sounding smug. “I think I have just the man in mind.”

  Cleo rose from the chair, determined to put an end to the sisterly machinations for good. “Men are the last thing I want on my mind ever again. Now if you will excuse me? I must retire.”

  She left her sisters to their plotting and their gossip and escaped to the privacy of her chamber. Seeing Thornton, falling so easily into his power once more, shook her more than she cared to admit. Still, she had changed so much since those naïve days. It was difficult almost to reconcile herself with the painfully foolish girl she’d been. The awful, aching possession, the agony, all juxtaposed with the wonders of being touched and kissed and held by him…seemed distant and improbable as years had intervened. She’d begun to wonder if her grand love had been a fancy of youth.

  Not so, she now found. Oh, it wasn’t that she still loved Thornton. Not at all. Indeed, what she felt for him was rather sinful and altogether impure. She had mostly forgiven him, somewhere along the years, for leaving her to an empty life with John. She’d accepted responsibility for her own part in the debacle. She was not even certain the betrayal she thought he’d committed occurred entirely as John had then suggested.

  Truly, they should have been able to meet here as impartial adults, perhaps even as two strangers. But it remained obvious neither of them could manage it. For her part, upon seeing Thornton, the old hurt lingered, a wound which had never healed.