Heart’s Temptation Books 1–3

by Scott, Scarlett

  He pulled her closer and rolled to his back so her cheek rested on his chest. His fingers began to undo her upsweep. “Nor have I.”

  “Do you think we will be able to keep it, this happiness between us?”

  Alex dropped a kiss on her head. “I think you worry too much, Cleo. We cannot fear everything. We can only live to make ourselves happy.”

  “Not in this world of ours,” she fretted. “It is different in our set. You know it as well as I. We live for alliances and wealth and keeping up the appearances when in truth our lives are in shambles.”

  “We are not everyone else.” She felt him unwinding her hair and spreading the silky skeins over her shoulders and back. “We are only you and I, Alex and Cleo. That is all we must ever be, whether here in this room together or in the drawing room. If we are going to be together, we cannot hide our love as if it were damning. I won’t be shamed for something that is right.”

  She nestled closer to him, breathing deeply of his scent. “It is right,” she echoed just before she fell into a deep, careless sleep. “It is very right indeed.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cleo and Thornton spent the next few nights secretly popping in and out of one another’s chambers, dodging servants and guests alike. The first evening, it was a lark. Cleo and her sisters had grown up, much to their mother’s dismay, with many games of spy and enemy soldier thanks to their brothers. As she ducked down a shadowy corridor, she was rather put in mind of that, merely an adult version laden with many more consequences.

  On the second night they spent in secret, Thornton caught her in her bath and they made love in the warm water, splashing half the contents of the tub onto the tile floor. On the third night, he tore her night dress into pieces and tossed them over his shoulder. He also forgot to return to his bed at dawn and Bridget had entered that morning to stoke the fire. If the scarlet flush on her cheeks was any indication, the poor woman had gotten rather an eyeful of Thornton, Cleo feared. And that hastily, their secret was a secret no more. Although Bridget was a dear heart, Cleo was not altogether certain that her love of gossip wouldn’t win over her loyalty to her mistress.

  The day before the last of Lady C.’s house party, Cleo met Thornton for an afternoon ride. They traveled out of sight of Wilton House, into the same copse of wood they had so recently made use of. Alex dismounted, tethered his horse to a nearby oak and then helped her from her mare. After the mare was secured, he took her in his arms, burying his face in her neck, hands running over her back.

  “Ah,” he breathed. “If I spend one more morning having to slink away from you as if I were a bloody East End thief, I’ll go mad.”

  “We must be circumspect,” she reminded him, raising her mouth to his for a kiss.

  “To hell with that. Your maid has likely told half the county she found me shagging you to death.”

  “Alex!”

  “Darling, it’s true. You must admit you were nearly swooning at that moment.” The look of masculine satisfaction on his face was unmistakable. “As I recall, my head was quite under the counterpane while my hands were—”

  “That’s enough out of you, sir.” She kissed him again to silence him. “I was utterly mortified when I heard her drop the poker to the floor.”

  “I thought it amusing to see how quickly she disappeared.”

  “You would, you reprobate.”

  “Reprobate now, am I?” He grinned the grin of the sinful unrepentant. “I thought you fancied scoundrels. After all, you were panting after Ravenscroft for a bit until you regained your senses.”

  “You’re horrid.” She laughed despite herself. “Julian is only my friend.”

  “And he damn well better stay that way,” Thornton growled, cupping her breasts possessively through her riding habit and wrap. “No more talk of Julian now, if you please.”

  Of their own accord, her hands twined around his neck, her fingers toying with the too-long hair at the nape of his neck. How she loved this man. Her heart ached at their unbearable circumstances. “I’m worried for us, Alex. Your position in the Liberal Party could be threatened. I can’t fathom the Prime Minister would allow such scandal to go unanswered.”

  His mouth swooped down on hers, stifling all protest. “We’ve been over this before, darling. Gossip is a bugbear.”

  “That could well be your undoing,” she pressed, then kissed him before she could stop herself.

  “You will be my undoing.” Their tongues dueled.

  “That’s a bit of an understatement,” she managed, breathless. “Though I dare say you shall be mine first.”

  “Oh?” He raised a brow and gave her a wicked grin, appearing as if he relished the notion.

  “You are a naughty man, my lord.” They kissed again and from that point, their conversation only traveled in a decidedly depraved fashion.

  By the time they meandered back to Wilton House, Cleo’s hair was in a terrible state of disrepair, the hem of her gown was torn, muddied and wet and she had dirt smears on her bodice.

  “You’re ruining me,” she informed him without a shade of regret in her voice.

  “It’s my greatest hope,” he said with a wink. He dropped a hasty kiss on her lips. “Until tonight.”

  “Until tonight,” she echoed, feeling oddly bereft when he had gone. She wondered if it would always be this way between them, if she would forever feel as if half of herself was missing when he was gone from her side.

  She was forced to scurry into a side entrance to avoid prying eyes again. Once in her chamber, she could breathe safely. Almost. Because Bridget was waiting for her, her costume for that evening’s mask ball laid out on the bed. When she caught sight of Cleo, she frowned.

  “My lady.” She dipped into a stiff curtsy.

  Cleo felt her face flame. “Bridget. I did not expect you so soon.”

  “Of course, Lady Scarbrough,” she murmured, casting her eyes to the carpet. “How may I be of service to you now?”

  How could she have forgotten that tonight was the night Lady Cosgrove would stage her infamous Last Mask? On the last evening of her Shakespearean Country House Party, Lady C. always held a mask in which revelers were expected to dress as characters from Shakespeare’s works.

  “I suppose it’s too late for a bath?” Cleo asked hesitantly.

  “Too late indeed, my lady.”

  Cleo waltzed across the room to sit before the dressing table. She met Bridget’s disapproving gaze in the looking glass. “Bridget,” she started, then sighed and halted.

  “Yes, my lady?”

  She thought very carefully before starting anew. “I would appreciate your discretion.”

  Bridget’s hands were already undoing her tangled chignon, but she stilled at Cleo’s words. “My lady?”

  Cleo cleared her throat. “I believe we have not addressed the, er, situation of the other morning.”

  “Oh dear me.” Bridget’s cheeks reflected an even brighter red than Cleo’s in the mirror. “My lady, you needn’t explain to me.”

  “Please do not speak of it to anyone,” she said simply.

  Bridget was silent for quite some time. She dismantled Cleo’s hair, then ran a comb through the long locks. “Are you certain it’s wise, my lady?”

  Cleo smiled. “It is likely most unwise, dearest Bridget, but I find that it no longer matters.”

  “But all those years ago, when he left you with nothing more than a bye your leave?”

  “It was my fault,” she said honestly. “I chose Scarbrough over Thornton, thinking it the best choice. I was wrong. Surely you see that as well, Bridget?”

  “It’s not my place to say, my lady. I only fear for you.”

  “As do I.” Mostly, she feared for her heart, that it would become bruised and broken beyond repair. She was still terribly uncertain as to how she and Thornton could make their unlikely relationship work outside the freeing gates of Wilton House. “But it is what I must do, Bridget, as I love him more than I love br
eath in my lungs.”

  “My lady, I’ll not speak a word of it.”

  “Thank you.” They spoke no more of it, but it was still there, indefinable and uncertain, tingling in the air between them as Bridget skillfully curled Cleo’s hair into lengthy ringlets. She had chosen to wear her hair unbound for the event in part because she knew Thornton would approve and in part because it was in keeping with her costume.

  Cleo was, of course, to be dressed as a sort of modern Cleopatra, even if it meant taking liberties with Lady Cosgrove’s strict dress requirements of Shakespeare characters only. Which was to say she wore impressively draped silk skirts of white, without bustle but with a great deal of ornamentation that was not perhaps altogether Egyptian.

  Bridget helped her into her costume in silence, still disapproving but with less obviousness. In truth, the costume had been designed for her by Worth just for the occasion and had been extremely dear at nearly two hundred pounds. Her hair was arrayed in gold chain and scarabs of lapis and carnelian. Yes, she was aware that Cleopatra had not quite made her way into the lines of Julius Caesar, but she remained unconcerned. It was a near enough thing, the pun well understood. She felt extraordinarily lovely in her dress.

  Her mask was too darling, a gem-encrusted affair that covered the upper half of her face and left her mouth exposed. Her curls traveled down her back and on her feet she wore, quite shockingly, no shoes. The glass in her chamber reflected a different woman entirely. A wanton. A jade. The woman she saw in the mirror well could have been the woman at the source of so much speculation. She was unafraid of consequence, marveling in her own feminine power, delighting in her sway over men. Cleo very much wished she could be the woman she saw, a woman capable of anything, it seemed.

  “Oh, my lady,” Bridget breathed. “It’s lovely, you are. His lordship will not be able to keep a distance.”

  A satisfied smile curved Cleo’s lips as she stared at her reflection. “That is precisely what I had hoped, Bridget.”

  Nearly a thousand candles lit the Wilton House ballroom that night. Cleo felt as if she had stepped into the enchanted forest. She couldn’t help but notice that there was an inordinate amount of Juliets walking about, along with a fair number of Romeos. Really, did no one have a sense of adventure?

  She spotted Tia and Helen instantly and joined them. “Darlings,” she greeted them happily. She had been so engrossed in Alex the last few days that she had actually seen frightfully little of them. “You both look lovely!”

  Tia frowned below her half mask. “How did you locate us with such alarming perspicacity? I dare say I thought myself quite incognito.”

  “Properly,” Cleo agreed, “yet if you will but remember, you told me that you would be dressing as Desdemona.”

  “Never mind our sister,” Helen broke in with a smile. “Tia is ever convinced there is some sort of conspiracy mucking about.”

  “I had forgotten I told her,” Tia groused. “Really, I’m so busy these days that I cannot recall what I tell to whom. Not as much can be said for you, I should think, even given your advanced age.”

  “I am not so old as you would have me sound,” Helen countered.

  “Sisters,” Cleo interrupted. “Need we argue already? The mask has yet to truly even begin and already Desdemona is at the throat of Cordelia.”

  “Bosh,” Tia dismissed. “We’re not making a row of it, Cleo. We’re merely discussing. You’ve been so distant from us these past few days that you likely have forgotten how we deal with one another.”

  “I was otherwise occupied,” Cleo defended herself, looking about the room, searching through glittering masks and Iagos and Romeos and King Lears in search of Thornton. She could not help herself, really. It had been all of two hours since they’d last kissed.

  “The lovelorn make me sick,” Tia lamented. “Do they not make you ill, Helen?”

  “Virulently,” Helen agreed.

  “I am not lovelorn.” Cleo’s gaze was still skittering about for Alex. “I merely miss him.”

  “So very much worse than we’d supposed,” Tia sighed.

  “She’s utterly gone,” Helen confirmed.

  “I love him,” Cleo defended. “What have you to say of it?”

  Tia shrugged. “Nothing, my dear. We only wish you happy.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t believe you when you continually bemoan my fate.”

  “Don’t be shrewish,” Tia snapped. “Where is Ravenscroft when you need him?”

  “At your service, my loves.” The deep voice at Cleo’s back was unmistakably the notorious earl’s.

  She turned to allow him entrance into their private circle. He wore an Elizabethan costume styled all in black. He was also resplendently handsome in a black velvet half mask. Cleo wondered briefly if he was harboring a tendre for Tia. She never would have guessed but for the way he was looking at her just now. Then again, Ravenscroft tended to examine all women like a fox eying up a choice hen in the chicken yard. Very likely, it was nothing.

  “And what do you presume to be, my lord?” Cleo asked with a saucy grin. She still liked the notorious earl, even if Thornton had sworn her off him. Well, Thornton was hardly her master. She need not adhere to his every wish and whim.

  Julian bowed. “Hamlet, your humble servant, my lady.”

  “Your highness,” Tia said, grinning.

  Oh dear. This promised to be troublesome. There was a dashing Julius Caesar striding in their direction with an unmistakable set to his jaw beneath his gold mask. He looked divine. His strong legs peeped out daringly from beneath a toga and his muscular forearms were bare beneath a military style cape hung at his throat with a thin gold chain. Cleo caught her lip between her teeth, thinking she’d rather enjoy being conquered.

  “Your knight errant seeks to save you, Cleo,” Julian intoned, dry voiced. “Let’s make him stew a tad, shall we?”

  Cleo wasn’t altogether certain she wished to make the arrogant, frowning male bearing down on them ‘stew’, as the earl phrased it. After all, the earl would not have to face the serious consequences of perturbing Thornton.

  But Julian was not about to give her the opportunity to refuse. He placed her arm in his and steered her into the bevy of cheerful dancers. She attempted to send an apologetic glance to Thornton over her shoulder, but she lost sight of him in the crowd.

  As she turned back to her partner, Julian grinned beneath his mask and patted her hand. “He wants to tosh me.”

  Cleo colored. “Am I very obvious?”

  “Horridly,” Julian murmured, his tone unconcerned. “But don’t worry, I won’t let it affect my ego too much. Besides, you, my dear girl, need my assistance.”

  They faced one another as a lively reel struck up. She raised a brow. “May I inquire as to why?”

  “You’re new at this conducting an affaire business, while I’m an old hand.” He missed a step and nearly trounced her foot. “Unfortunately, the same does not apply to my dancing skills, which are quite pathetic, really. Christ, it’s difficult to dance while wearing a bloody mask.”

  She laughed, delighted, as usual, by his wit. “Why should you think I am conducting an affaire?”

  “I believe we’ve already established the fact that you are horridly obvious, my dear.”

  She winced. “Of course.”

  They traveled through a series of spins and swapped partners, precluding further conversation until they met up once again, both laughing and out of breath.

  “Do you ever fear you’re getting too old for all this?” Julian asked, his voice warm, his hand at her waist easy and familiar.

  It would have been so much easier, she thought once more, to have fallen in love with him. Yet it was Alex who stole her breath, made her skin feel hot, made her corset shrink, made her ache. It was Alex who could lose so much merely by loving her in return. Alas, she had learned that life was not a fair game, nor was it an easy one.

  She gave Julian a wistful smile. “Too old for dancing?
”

  “Zounds, yes. I think I may have amputated that poor girl’s toes on the last go.”

  “I didn’t notice any drops of blood on the floor.” She was laughing again. This time, she did catch sight of Alex as she twirled yet again. He was flanked by her sisters and he was smoldering. His stare never wavered from hers. Oh my. He was not pleased.

  “Thornton is probably fantasizing about skewering me about now,” Julian said, gleeful.

  “You enjoy his pain,” she observed.

  “I enjoy you,” he countered, “and you need me. God, I can’t take any more of this bobbing and whirling nonsense. Let’s go get a drop of champagne, shall we?”

  Without waiting for her to answer, he led her from the dancers and from Thornton’s glittering gaze both. He led her well away from the main crowds, hailed a footman and procured two flutes.

  “Here you are, my dear. Drink up while I enlighten you.” He handed her a flute and winked. “I’ve scads of years more experience than you and by my calculations, we’ve only two minutes before Caesar is going to stomp into our midst.”

  Cleo accepted the champagne and took a sip, trying to hide her grin. Really, she liked the man too much. “Do begin, Hamlet.”

  “Rule number one of conducting an affaire is to never make one’s self excessively available. Keep the blighter on his toes. Don’t allow him to take you for granted.” He grew serious. “And rule number two is that if he breaks your heart, I’ll break his face.”

  She placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Julian.”

  “I mean what I say, Cleo. I consider you a true friend. Rare between myself and a female, but there you have it. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “I won’t be,” she promised. “But I thank you all the same. You truly are a dear heart, you know.”

  He shuddered. “Don’t let anyone else hear you say that for God’s sake. You’ll ruin me.” The he cleared his throat and shook the maudlin sentiments from him. “Now, back to my rules. Rule number three…”