More or Less a Temptress

by Anna Bradley

  “My dear, how shocking!”

  “It was, especially for a lady like myself—that is, a lady with delicate nerves.” As she spoke, Hyacinth’s voice grew stronger. “I was very upset by it. It was still much on my mind the night of the ball, and when Mr. Ramsey approached me—I hadn’t yet met him at that time, and didn’t know his connection to Lord Huntington—I made a dreadful mistake and mistook him for the man I’d seen at the inn several nights before. Their countenances are similar, you see, though I confess not so similar it justifies my error.”

  This explanation was met with a long silence while Lady Bagshot regarded Hyacinth with narrow-eyed suspicion. It was plain she didn’t entirely believe the tale, but it wasn’t so far out of probability she could challenge it outright.

  At last, she gave a reluctant nod. “Well, that is a rather…curious series of events, isn’t it, my dear?”

  “Yes. You can’t know how deeply I regret it, my lady.”

  “I should say so.” Lady Bagshot turned to Lachlan. “Well, Mr. Ramsey. I’m very sorry our dear Miss Somerset should have made such a grievous error, but she’s always been a bit high strung, I’m afraid.”

  Lachlan was staring at Hyacinth with an unreadable expression, but now he turned and nodded to Lady Bagshot. “You’re very kind, my lady.”

  Lady Bagshot rattled on for another five minutes about their common acquaintances in London, dropping bits of gossip here and there like a trail of breadcrumbs, but Hyacinth had said what she’d come to say, and she and the Ramseys took their leave soon afterwards.

  Isla chatted happily away on the drive from Lady Bagshot’s back to Grosvenor Square, prattling about how well Hyacinth had managed her ladyship, and making plans for the Hayhursts’ ball, but Lachlan only nodded now and again in reply.

  Hyacinth didn’t say a word, but kept her face turned toward the glass, and watched the London streets pass by her window, her heart still pounding.

  She could scarcely believe how well she’d done. Oh, she didn’t fool herself into thinking this would put an end to the gossip. The ton would continue to speculate, but she’d explained her actions, made her family’s position regarding the Ramseys perfectly clear, and discouraged further questions.

  It just might do.

  “Oh, look! Lord and Lady Huntington are back.” Isla nodded at their carriage, which was sitting in the drive. “Shall we go find Ciaran, Hyacinth, and tell him what happened with Lady Bagshot? He’ll laugh, of course, and poke fun at us, but he’ll like it.”

  Isla didn’t wait for an answer, but leapt from the carriage as soon as it stopped, and ran across the drive toward the house. Hyacinth slid across the seat, intending to follow her, but Lachlan Ramsey stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  “Wait. I want to talk to you, Miss Somerset.”

  Hyacinth glanced back at him. Her gaze caught on his hard mouth, on the hazel gleam of his eyes, and sudden heat washed over her, leaving flushed, prickling skin in its wake. His gaze followed the pink wave over her cheeks and down her throat, his eyes darkening as they drifted over her neck.

  A strange warmth pooled in Hyacinth’s belly, part alarm, and part…well, she didn’t know what, but she was quite sure it wasn’t proper. She snatched her arm away, suddenly panicked. “Can’t it wait? I...I’m f-fatigued, Mr. Ramsey.”

  “It won’t take long.” He didn’t attempt to touch her again, but he studied her so intently he may as well have slid his fingertips over her skin.

  “I beg your pardon,” he murmured at last. “You told me you knew how to manage Lady Bagshot, and you did. It was cleverly done. Masterful, even.”

  Hyacinth’s eyes went wide. She hadn’t expected an apology from Lachlan Ramsey, but then, was it really an apology? It sounded more like a scold disguised as an apology. “I, ah…well, thank you.”

  I think.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  “No.” He shifted slightly, so she’d have to brush against him if she wished to exit the carriage. “Not yet.” His voice had dropped to a murmur, as if were sharing a secret with her, or coaxing her to share one with him. “You’re not delicate, Miss Somerset. Shy, yes, and timid on occasion, but you’re stronger than your family thinks you are. Stay in London, and finish your season. Your health isn’t at risk. You don’t need to be shuffled off to Brighton, and you know it, don’t you?”

  Hyacinth stared into his burning eyes, and a nameless fear clutched at her throat. “Do you pretend to know more about me than my own family? We’ve only just met. You don’t...you d-don’t know anything a-about me.”

  She jerked her gaze from his, and reached for the door latch. She was getting out of this carriage, even if she had to crawl over his lap to do it—

  “You lied to Lady Bagshot.” He caught her wrist, and this time, he didn’t let go. “You told her you made a mistake about the man you saw that night at the inn, but we both know you didn’t. You took all the blame onto yourself, instead of telling her the truth about my fight with Ciaran.”

  He wasn’t holding her tightly. On the contrary, his huge hands were careful, his thick fingers gentle, but the warmth of his skin against hers was so distracting, she wished he’d squeeze her hard, and remind her who he was. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “That fight would do you no credit with the ton, Mr. Ramsey.” She risked a glance at his face, but her gaze skittered away the moment she met his eyes. “And because I deserve the blame. This whole mess is my fault.”

  “Not just yours. Don’t…don’t ever sacrifice yourself for me again, Hyacinth.”

  His words were harsh, but there was a pleading look on his face she’d never seen before. The way he uttered her name—in that low, hoarse voice—sent another unexpected rush of heat through her.

  And with it, a question she hadn’t allowed herself to ask.

  Did I do it for him?

  That lie she’d told Lady Bagshot—had she told it for him?

  “I didn’t. I—I wouldn’t.” She swallowed. “I did it for Isla.”

  He didn’t reply, but his gaze dropped to her hand. His eyelids went heavy over his dark eyes, and as if he were in a trance, he leaned forward and brushed his fingertips across the pale skin of her wrist, then lower, stroking over the sensitive flesh of her palm.

  The heat that had been gathering in her belly forked into a streak of lightning, and struck straight at her core. Hyacinth gasped, and snatched her hand away. She fumbled for the door latch, and this time he let her go.

  But as she scrambled out of the carriage and ran for the house, her hand closed into a fist, to keep the memory of his touch tight against her palm.

  Chapter Seven

  Lachlan had made two discoveries this afternoon.

  The first was that Hyacinth Somerset had the softest skin he’d ever touched. He didn’t know why this surprised him. He had only to look at her hands; at that fine tracing of blue veins and those long, delicate fingers to know her skin would be nothing less than perfection.

  He turned over his hand and studied his own fingers, but they were the same blunt, rough, coarse things they’d always been. He’d half-expected to find she’d left some mark on him—some imprint or evidence to prove that glide of warm satin under his fingertips had been real, and not just his imagination.

  There was nothing, but she had left something else behind.

  Questions.

  He’d seen a hint of her temper in the stables the other day when she’d called him an ass, but he’d thought it was a thing of the moment only, a brief flare of courage that would vanish as quickly as it appeared.

  He’d been wrong.

  Underneath that delicate skin, that angel’s face and those downcast eyes, she was hiding another lady—one of great cleverness and conviction, with a thread of steel in her spine, and a devil of a sharp tongue.

 
He liked it. He liked her.

  That was his second discovery this afternoon.

  Finn had insisted there was a great deal more to her than anyone suspected, but Lachlan had shrugged this off as the ramblings of a fond brother-in-law. She was a sweet lass, and she’d been kind to his sister, but Lachlan had been relieved when she’d refused Finn’s offer to continue with her season. Hyacinth Somerset was no match for the English ton. The sooner Lady Chase took her off to Brighton, the better.

  Or so he’d thought, until this afternoon.

  Even getting access to Lady Bagshot had been a devil of a thing, but it was nothing compared to Miss Somerset’s performance once they’d gained the drawing room. She’d doled out the gossip to Lady Bagshot the way a nun deals out bowls of gruel to her orphan charges. Stingily, careful to stretch every meagre spoonful to feed as many gaping mouths as possible.

  To make it count.

  Lady Bagshot had swallowed every drop, and the old lady would no doubt cast it back up again, right into the ton’s ears, just as Miss Somerset meant her to.

  Damned if he saw any sign of the “delicate nerves” he kept hearing about.

  That lie she’d told, about his fight with Ciaran? If he’d known she intended to lie he’d have put a stop to it, but he’d never imagined she’d put her own neck on the block to protect a rough devil like him—

  “Lachlan! For goodness’ sakes, why are you sitting alone in the carriage, talking to yourself?” Isla was peering at him through the carriage window. “Come inside. Lord Huntington has called us all in.”

  Once again, they found the party assembled in the drawing room.

  “Well?” Lachlan asked Ciaran, as he settled beside him on the settee. “Did you get the invitation from Lady Hayhurst?”

  Ciaran rolled his eyes, as if it were a foolish question. “Of course. You forget how charming I can be, Lach. Lady Hayhurst was quite taken with me.”

  Lachlan suspected their success had more to do with Lady Huntington than Ciaran, but he didn’t bother to argue the point. They’d gotten both the invitations they needed, and with it a chance at a successful London season for Isla. That was all that mattered. Lachlan glanced at his sister’s glowing face, and for the first time since they’d left Scotland, a glimmer of hope rose in his chest.

  She might yet get all she ever wanted—all she deserved.

  Now if he could only find a way to help Ciaran. He didn’t have much hope his brother would fall in love again—not after his bitter disappointment with Isobel Campbell—but there were many pretty girls in London. Maybe one of them would catch Ciaran’s eye this season—

  “Lord and Lady Dare are occupied with a messenger from Ashdown Park at the moment,” Finn said, hurrying into the room. “But they’ve assured me the Worthingtons have agreed to throw their support behind the Ramseys. How did you do with Lady Atherton, Lady Chase?”

  “Well, I won’t pretend Lady Atherton wasn’t shocked by the rumors she’d heard, but we’ve been friends for years now, and she wouldn’t dream of denying any request of mine. She assures me she’ll be pleased to make the Ramseys acquaintance.”

  Finn looked relieved. “That’s very good, my lady. What of Lady Bagshot, Hyacinth?”

  “Yes, tell us how you managed the old dragon.” Ciaran grinned at Miss Somerset. “Isla says you prodded and squeezed until she finally spat out an invitation.”

  “Mr. Ciaran Ramsey, your manners leave a great deal to be desired.” Lady Chase attempted to turn her most severe frown on Ciaran, but she couldn’t quite hide her glee at hearing her nemesis maligned.

  Ciaran’s grin widened. “Beg pardon, my lady.”

  “Humph. Still, Lady Bagshot is our greatest concern. How did she behave, Hyacinth? I daresay she refused to receive you.”

  “No.” Hyacinth shook her head. “She received us, and she was…quite gracious.”

  Lachlan’s head snapped up at this brazen lie. Lady Bagshot had refused their call, and when she’d admitted them at last, she’d been about as gracious as a Seven Dials cutpurse.

  Lachlan scowled at Hyacinth, but she avoided his gaze.

  Lady Chase, however, was as skeptical of this story as Lachlan, and she didn’t hesitate to say so. “Gracious? Why, that woman’s never been gracious about anything in her life. I don’t believe a word of it.”

  “Well, perhaps I should say she was as gracious as Lady Bagshot ever is. She’ll spend the next week spreading gossip about us all over London, of course, but that was to be expected, and at least now, she’ll repeat our preferred version of events. More or less.”

  “Oh, yes!” Isla beamed at Miss Somerset. “Hyacinth was ever so clever about it all. She had Lady Bagshot right on the edge of her chair. At one point I thought her ladyship was going to have an apoplexy from the suspense.”

  Lady Huntington laughed. “Hyacinth’s very good at managing Lady Bagshot. I don’t know how you do it, Hyacinth. She’s an awful old thing, but somehow you always contrive to get around her.”

  Lady Chase gave her skirts a sharp tug. “Why you can’t contrive to give her a real apoplexy, Hyacinth, I’ll never know. I assure you all of London would thank you for it.”

  Lachlan said nothing, but he watched Miss Somerset, curious to see what she’d do as they all sang her praises. Her cheeks flushed, and she looked increasingly nervous with every compliment, until at last she interrupted them in a high, thin voice.

  “Is it warm in here?”

  Lady Chase turned to her granddaughter, noticed her change in color, and began at once to fuss over her. “Are you overwarm, child? I hope you aren’t getting a fever. Oh, dear. You’re bound to be weakened after that swoon the other night.”

  Lady Huntington rushed to put a screen in front of the fire, to divert the heat away from her sister. “There. Is that better? It is rather close in here.”

  “I’m fine, really. Just a trifle warm—”

  “Let me just take your shawl.” Lady Huntington drew the shawl off her sister’s shoulders. “There. Just a bit of air, I think. Tell me if you feel at all chilled, Hyacinth.”

  Lachlan watched this little drama unfold with tight lips. It was plain to see Miss Somerset’s family cared deeply for her. As they scurried about to make her comfortable, their faces were twisted with a tender anxiety that was difficult to witness.

  And yet…

  Miss Somerset was a trifle warm, nothing more. What would they do if she took a chill? Set the sofa ablaze?

  Lachlan glanced at Finn. He seemed to understand exactly what Lachlan was thinking, and raised an eloquent eyebrow at him.

  Lachlan let his gaze drift back to Miss Somerset. Damn it, not one hour ago she’d played Lady Bagshot like a virtuoso plays a violin. She knew just how to pluck every string, coax every note, but here she was now, acting as if she were a porcelain vase about to tip sideways and shatter onto the floor.

  It was the columns all over again.

  The first time he’d seen her, she’d been tucked out of sight behind that column in Lord Huntington’s ballroom. Her gown, her hair, and her behavior that evening—she’d been doing everything she could to go unnoticed.

  She’d been hiding, and she was doing it again, right now. Hiding her cleverness. As soon as they thought she might be feverish, her family had forgotten all about her triumph with Lady Bagshot.

  Being underestimated provided a certain paltry freedom, he supposed. No one expected much of an invalid.

  But every escape came with a price.

  Did she even know she was paying it? Did she realize the light in her face grew dim, and then dimmer still as she sat quietly in the midst of all the fuss surrounding her? With every ray that was extinguished, Lachlan’s chest grew tighter and tighter, until he couldn’t stand to watch another moment of it. “You mentioned something about your gowns the other day, Miss Somerset,” he bl
urted, his voice louder than he’d intended.

  She turned to him in surprise. “Oh, yes. Thank you, Mr. Ramsey. I thought I’d…yes, please, Iris, I’ll have my shawl back.”

  Hyacinth let Lady Huntington drape the shawl about her shoulders, then turned to Isla with one of her shy smiles. “We have just over a week before Lady Bagshot’s ball. We’ll have to go through my gowns, find those that flatter you, and have them altered to fit you. Do you suppose we can have Madame Bell in this week, grandmother?”

  “Yes, I daresay she’ll come on short notice. It’s lovely of you, dear, to offer your gowns to Miss Ramsey.” Lady Chase patted Hyacinth’s hand. “You’re a good girl.”

  Lachlan’s teeth clenched. Oh, Miss Somerset was good, all right—as good at managing her grandmother as she was Lady Bagshot. Good at managing everyone, in fact.

  “Shall we go upstairs and see if any of your own gowns will do for the season, Miss Ramsey? It will help us to decide what you still need. Iris, you’ll come up too, won’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.” Lady Huntington gave her husband’s hand an affectionate squeeze, then rose from the settee to follow them.

  But before they could leave the room, Lady Dare burst through the door. “Oh, dear. It’s the most dreadful news. Poor Lady Westcott has had a fall, and broken her leg!”

  Lady Huntington gasped. “Oh, no, Violet. Will she be all right?”

  Lady Dare’s face was pale, and she was wringing her hands. “The doctor says she will be. He says it was a clean break, whatever that means. He’s set the bone, and made Lady Westcott comfortable, but Nick is beside himself. He’s gone to fetch the servants to pack our trunks. We must return to Ashdown Park at once.”

  “Of course, you must,” Hyacinth said, her brow creased with concern. “Poor Lady Westcott! What can we do to help?”

  “I’m too scattered to tell. Oh, Miss Ramsey!” Lady Dare spun toward Isla and grasped her hand, her face a picture of distress. “I’m so terribly sorry, but it seems we won’t be able to assist with your London season, after all. Oh, it’s the worst timing, truly! I realize you were counting on our support.”