So Enchanting

by Connie Brockway

  “I was fully clad,” she said with a gasp.

  “Your hair was down, madam,” he said in his most quelling tones. Ever since he’d seen her wet hair hanging down her back, he’d been haunted by the idea of her long black tresses rippling across his palms. And every other part of his person.

  An expression of befuddlement replaced her ire. More nightingales added their voices to the first. “What?”

  “Don’t play the innocent with me, madam. Your appearance was planned to distract men’s attention whilst your husband plucked violin stings with his toes. And a damn good distraction it was. Who could spare a glance for a whey-faced spiritualist when a dark beauty was disporting herself so decorously?”

  “You cad!”

  “If stating a fact makes me a cad, I plead guilty,” he said, feeling like an utter cad, but refusing to back down. If she gained the upper hand for one instant, she would take advantage of it.

  He’d known dozens of charlatans and frauds and confidence tricksters. He’d hunted them, exposed them, chased them from their dark salons and stance parlors into the merciless light of public scrutiny. He’d broken more of them than this woman had years. They were all the same, preying on grief and tragedy, exploiting their fellow man when he was at his most vulnerable. Her husband had been one of them, a pale, effete poseur with no more blood in him than a blancmange.

  But she…? A volatile, passionate nature roared for release beneath her icy exterior. A Valkyrie—

  “Please leave.”

  “What?”

  “Are you deaf as well as—” She bit off the last word. A dog outside began snarling. A cat answered with a hiss. “I am asking you— No. I am telling you to leave. Now.”

  Good Lord. She was throwing him out.

  Now, Grey had been thrown out of places before, but never a private home. At least, not in recent history. And most certainly never by a confidence artist.

  “Why are you looking at me like that? You cannot really expect to remain welcome in this house after saying such things?” She gave a short, astonished laugh. “By God, you do. You are beyond amazing.”

  Hurriedly, he regrouped. He wasn’t ready to call it quits yet. The battle had barely begun. “You are only throwing me out to evade detection.”

  “Detection? Of what?”

  “Exactly,” he said. “Why all this hand-wringing and drama over a little—what was that word? Canoodling? Miss Chase is obviously languishing for want of some male attention, and if all she’s been offered is that stick McGowan, I daresay Hayden’s gallantries will do her a world of good. That banker reeks of postage paste.”

  “Oh!” Fanny huffed as the dog outside began his barking more emphatically. “Mr. McGowan is not a stick. And he does not smell like paste! He is a gentleman. With excellent manners. And refinement. He wouldn’t appear at a dinner table in a—” Her scathing gaze raked over his person. “Rumpled shirt and limp tie.”

  Involuntarily, his hand rose toward his collar. He snatched it back.

  “Nor would Bernard McGowan ever, ever say reprehensible things to me,” she continued.

  McGowan’s name on her lips sent a rush of unreasonable jealousy rippling through Grey. Unreasonable, but irrefutable. And ungovernable. He spoke before he could think better of it. “Doubtless true. But neither would I. To Francesca Brown, however…”

  Her hand shot out to strike him across the face. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch, the feeling that he deserved being slapped eradicating any satisfaction at having scored a point. But then, at the last instant, she jerked her hand away, staring at it in horror. Outside, another dog joined in the barking. A fox must be skirting the property.

  “I will never forgive you,” Fanny whispered with shaming dignity.

  Luckily, Grey was not easily shamed.

  “For reminding you of your former trade?”

  “No. For nearly making me forget I am a lady and lowering myself to your level.” It would have been fine had she stopped there. She didn’t. “And for offending our good, our only friend here, Mr. McGowan.”

  Why the bloody hell did she have to keep bringing up McGowan?

  “You cannot really have set your sights on that monosyllabic stamp collector?” he asked. “One would think you’d had enough of milquetoasts. Or is that the reason you don’t want Hayden flirting with Amelie? Are you jealous that she might experience something you have never known?”

  He waited for her to refute any attraction to Mc Gowan. Instead of firing back a response, she narrowed her eyes, and just as he was about to ask her what she was thinking, she muttered, “To hell with being a lady,” and took a swing.

  Had Amelie declared herself a leprechaun, the Queen of Siam, or an American sharpshooter, Hayden would have supported the notion. Therefore “not a witch exactly” and “certain attributes” seemed relatively minor obstacles for his love to overcome. Besides which, she’d said that the objects-moving-about thingy hadn’t happened in years. Perhaps it had been nothing but idiosyncrasy, simply a phase. As for talking to animals, well…he liked animals.

  “Oh, it’s not exactly like that. There’s a connection between us. I have always been fond of them, but I understand now that the affinity is closer. Last fall, I diverted a team of horses from running Fanny and me down, and…well, did you see the ravens in Little Firkin?”

  Ravens seemed harmless enough. And as for diverting stampeding draft teams, well, one couldn’t object to that. “Can you read their minds?” he asked.

  “Oh, no. I don’t hear anything or see anything. I don’t even feel much of anything. I just have witnessed how they react to me.”

  “Amazing! Anything else?”

  “Once in a while, when I am feeling very sad, like when I’ve had words with Fanny, a vixen comes and stands beneath my window and whimpers.”

  “That’s extraordinary. You are extraordinary,” he said, looking down at Amelie.

  She gazed at him as though he had just ridden on his white steed over the ogre guarding her moat. She gave him a radiant smile, and his heart thudded in response. “Thank you.”

  “Thank me? For what?”

  “Most people would have said, ‘Coincidence,’ ‘It’s your imagination,’ or something like that. But you didn’t. You believed me. In me.”

  “Of course I believe you. That’s what people in love do. Believe in one another,” Hayden replied, quite sincerely. “Besides, why ever would you lie about something like that?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t exactly lie,” she said, pinking up prettily. “But you might think I was deluding myself.”

  “Why would you do that? Clearly, you are a stable, levelheaded sort of girl. Normal as pie. Not at all the type to go all vaporish over some silly story she’d invented to make herself interesting. Believe me, I know.”

  She smiled tremulously. “Oh, Lord Hayden, Hayden, I do believe I love you, too!”

  Hayden regarded her in bewilderment. Paeans to her beauty and first-rate declarations of love had pried only amusement from her, but tell her he didn’t think she was a liar and her expression filled with as much rapture as any heartsick swain could want. Nonplussed he might be, but Hayden was no Johnny-come-lately, either. He came out of his bemused state quickly when he realized Amelie’s piquant face was raised to his.

  Eagerly, he raised his hands to draw her into his embrace, but then…then he realized that this was no ordinary girl, no society coquette, no diversion at a ball. This was the woman he loved.

  Reverently, he placed his hands on the lace covering her shoulders, being careful not to touch her skin with his bare hand. Just as reverently, he stepped closer while still maintaining a respectful distance between his chest and her soft, milky— No, no. Such thoughts were inappropriate for now. Then finally, adoringly, he lowered his face to hers and, with the most reverent touch of all, pressed his lips to hers.

  Grey caught Fanny’s wrist before she could land the blow and tugged her off balance, tumbling her forward. Using h
er momentum, he spun her around, looped an arm around her waist, and pulled her back against his chest. Every detail of her form thus pressed against him awoke excruciating desire. He was aware of every soft swell and winsome valley: the glide of her hair beneath his chin, the imprint of her shoulder blades against his chest, and the lush mounds of her buttocks snuggled intimately against his groin.

  “You seem to have a penchant for manhandling me, Sheffield,” she proclaimed. But her voice was breathy and the chill hauteur a wafer-thin veneer. “Let me go.”

  He had no intention of letting her go. He’d been cowed by that tone once today. It wasn’t going to work twice. He wheeled her in his embrace, one hand encircling her throat, the other tipping her chin up.

  “Not this time, Fanny,” he muttered as his mouth descended hungrily on hers.

  For a heartbeat she froze, and then she flung her arms around his neck and was kissing him back, her mouth opening with delicious surrender, her body arching up in passionate response as he fell forward with her to the couch so conveniently at hand there. He loosed one arm and swept books and magazines from the cushions, sending them flying across the room as, lips locked to hers, he gently laid her down. Bracing a knee next to her hip, he lowered himself over her.

  Her body trembled. Urgently, he combed his fingers through her black hair. A cascade of pins skittered across the floorboards as the thick, glossy veil fell free. He groaned deep in his throat, twisting a rope of the satiny-tresses around his palm and pulling her head gently back.

  He released her mouth, and she made a soft sound of protest before his lips fell on the smooth column of her arching neck. Through the cobweb-fine lace, he kissed her, dampening the cloth. She gasped and sighed, her arms traveling restlessly around his waist, her hands roving over his back, settling on his shoulders, only to jerk away, return, wrap tighter, release him once more, and then come back again, destroying his reason.

  She seemed to have no idea how to move or where to go. Her mouth remained sealed, almost prim, but then would open intuitively, her untutored tongue devastating in its unskilled ardor. Slowly, a din of sound penetrated his conscience. Loud, caterwauling cries came from outside, where Hayden— Good God. If they came in, Fanny’s reputation wouldn’t be—

  It took every bit of his effort to do so, but he tore his mouth from hers and rose, stepping back, his chest heaving like a bellows. They stared at each other, the only sound the duet of their labored breathing. Her lips were rosy and swollen from his kisses, a small piece of lace dangling loose from her collar.

  He saw the self-awareness seep slowly into her onyx eyes. She scooted up on her elbows, going bright red, and touched her cheek with shaking fingers. “Don’t you own a decent razor?”

  A series of bloodcurdling screams splintered the still night air.

  “What was that?” Hayden asked, straightening abruptly.

  “A cat,” Amelie said, annoyed. “Or rather, cats, from the sound of it.”

  “Cats?” Hayden asked, looking confused—in an entirely noble manner.

  She smiled shyly. “It is, after all, spring.”

  “Oh? Oh!” Hayden smiled rakishly, and Amelie’s cheeks warmed. He reached for her—

  “Hayden! Hayden, we’re leaving! At once!” Lord Sheffield bellowed from inside the drawing room.

  Hayden looked over his shoulder, his face darkening thunderously.

  “You’d best go,” Amelie said, unable to keep her disappointment from her voice.

  “I’m my own man, Amelie.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Of course you are. But I am not my own woman. I am under Mrs. Walcott’s care and guidance. Should she decide not to allow you into the house—and she can, you know. My father gave her authority over the household—I would have no recourse but to…”

  She let hang in the air the suggestion that she would be forced to sneak from the house and meet him. Of course, if it came down to it, she would. One did not abandon the love of one’s life over a set of unreasonable dictates. But she loved Fanny, and so would rather not deceive her more than absolutely necessary.

  “You would not ask me to do anything against my conscience?” she asked, fairly certain of his answer. Still, she appreciated his insulted expression.

  “I should say not! I’ll go, but I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise.”

  “I will look for you.”

  “Until I see you again, every second shall seem an eternity.” Gracefully, he fell to one knee, securing her hands in his and gazing earnestly up into her face. “I will not be able to eat or drink. I can only hope to sleep away each hour that separates us so that I will not know the torment of—”

  “Hayden, you young bounder! Now!”

  Amelie, though quite liking Hayden’s protestations of love, was, as he’d so discerningly pointed out, a practical girl. She grabbed hold of his arm and urged him to his feet, swiping at the dirt on his knee.

  “Best go,” she whispered, and then, because even though she was practical, she was also eighteen and in love, she rose up on her tiptoes and butterflied a kiss against his lips.

  At once, he responded in kind. She was gratified to find this second kiss even more wonderful than the first, a fact that gave her great hopes for the third and fourth and all subsequent kisses.

  Then she shoved him gently, nodding encouragingly. “Until tomorrow, then. Good night.”

  Chapter 18

  A fist hammering on her bedroom door awoke Fanny the next day. Fanny knew that hammering.

  “What is it, Violet?”

  “The lord from the new lodge is downstairs asking fer you,” Violet yelled through the closed door. “Ye want I should send him on ’is way?”

  Fanny bolted upright in her bed. “What lord? Which lord?”

  “The big black-haired one.”

  Grey was here? What could he want? Had he come to apologize, or… Why even bother guessing? Grey did not follow any pattern. It was impossible to predict what the man would do or why.

  “Well? I ain’t got all day.”

  “Come in here! Stop bellowing!”

  “Can’t. Me arms’re full of laundry,” Violet replied. “Now, should I send ’im on his way or not?”

  “Not! Have him wait…” Not the drawing room. The memory of last night was too fresh. “Have him wait in the library.”

  “Fine.” Violet’s heavy-booted tread began retreating down the hallway.

  “Wait!”

  “What now?”

  “Has he asked for Miss Chase, too?”

  “No,” Violet snapped. “Now, if you don’t mind…?”

  Fanny didn’t bother replying. She looked at the mantel clock. Eight o’clock? The man had come calling at eight o’clock in the morning? He deserved to wait for his audacity. Let him wait all morning.

  She flung off the blankets and hurried over to the armoire. What to wear? What to wear? Something that bespoke seriousness. Something flattering, but serious. Seriously flattering. She was in a dither and she knew it, and it didn’t help.

  Why should she worry about impressing Grey Sheffield? He did not trust her, he thought the worst of her, and he was suspicious of her.

  Lavender. The pale lavender kerchief material with the coffee brown knot design. Just the thing! Feminine but not frivolous.

  She tossed the dress on the chair and flew to her dressing table, already unbraiding her hair. Last night, Sheffield had caught her off guard when he’d scooped her up in his arms as easily as if she’d been a doll. She hadn’t had time to throw up defenses.

  And then she hadn’t wanted to.

  She stared into the mirror. A stranger looked back, one with sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks, her lips swollen from kisses. Wonderingly, she touched her reflection. Was that her?

  She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Sheffield had stolen it, just as he’d stolen her peace of mind. He’d stripped away the immunity she’d spent six years perfecting. He provoked her, frightened her, amused her, incited her…
even moved her.

  She knew who’d sent the fish that had saved their dinner last night. It was an unaccountably gentlemanly gesture, and since he was, by his own admission, no gentleman, that meant his action had been inspired by something else.

  What in blazes was she thinking?

  She jerked her brush through her hair and wrapped it into a loose coil on the crown of her head. She didn’t know whether she was a bigger fool now than she was then. At least with Alphonse she’d had the excuse of being young and lonely and naive. And Alphonse Brown had been beautiful, with his delicate features, limpid brown eyes, and slender physique. Everything about him had been celestial.

  There was nothing beautiful or in the least celestial about Greyson Sheffield. He was striking, imposing, disdainful, and unrepentantly earthy. Mars convicted to a sentence on earth. Her eyes drifted shut as she called up the memory of how he’d braced himself over her as he ravished her mouth.

  Hers had been a nearly celibate marriage. Alphonse had claimed they risked compromising their respective “gifts” through too much carnal exercise.

  Carnal exercise.

  Abruptly, Fanny stood up and pulled the ties holding her nightgown at the neck so that it fell in a pool around her feet. She couldn’t imagine Grey Sheffield using a term like carnal exercise. Something raw, offensive, and forthright, yes, that she could imagine him saying. Like the man himself, his speech would use a dizzying mixture of polish and roughness, bluntness and then refinement.

  Oh, God, what was she thinking? She slipped on her undergarments. He was an impossible, rude, arrogant bully. But there had been instances when she’d glimpsed something else beneath his rough demeanor, a sensitivity he kept buried. A pain and even a vulnerability he went to great lengths to conceal.

  She understood. She’d lived a similar life, keeping her emotions at arm’s length, never daring to be spontaneous, avoiding the heights and depths of human feeling. Her brother, Wesley, and the rage that had led to his crippling was always in the back of her mind. And yet, yesterday when Grey and she had been sparring and the cats and dogs and all those dratted birds had responded, nothing terrible or dangerous had happened. And she was older now. If nothing else, her experience as Amelie’s governess had taught her that pubescent girls were passionate, frenzied, liable creatures. It was perhaps her adolescent emotions that had run out of control rather than her odd…influence on animals.