More or Less a Temptress

by Anna Bradley

  His dark gaze met hers, and the look in those hazel depths made her breath stop in her chest.

  * * * *

  This woman. God in heaven, this woman.

  When he’d first seen Hyacinth Somerset, he’d thought she looked like an angel. After she’d accused him of murder, he’d thought her mad. Then he’d believed her sane enough, but too fragile to be of much use to anyone, and he’d decided they’d all be better off once her grandmother took her away to Brighton.

  But then he’d caught a glimpse of all she kept hidden. Cleverness. Determination. And a hesitant sort of bravery she’d only just begun to understand.

  And when he looked at her now…

  Lachlan gazed into her wide blue eyes—eyes that were pleading with him to hear her, to understand—and he found he couldn’t say a word. His mouth was dry, his breathing labored, and his heart…it was shuddering and jerking and swelling inside him as if it were about to crash through his ribcage.

  He’d been right, all those weeks ago. She was an angel.

  Not because of her beauty. No, he’d been wrong about that. Her blue eyes, golden hair, and soft, smooth skin would distract any man, but dozens of ladies in the ballroom tonight had golden hair and blue eyes, and not one of them made his heart swell. None of them made him want to sink to his knees.

  Not a single one of them was the angel she was.

  Her eyes and her hair, her skin and her smile—it caught people’s eyes, and turned their heads, but her beauty didn’t end there.

  It didn’t begin there, either.

  It began in her heart.

  Her pure, true kindness was rarer and more precious than any gem. Her kindness was her strength. He thought of her feet—of the blood staining the white satin—and of her face as it had been in the ballroom, when every dancer in the set was laughing at her.

  She’d looked into Lord Chester’s face and smiled at him. She’d finished the dance, her head high.

  That was strength, and it came from the deepest part of her.

  And her smile...dear God. She had the sweetest smile he’d ever seen.

  After the trouble in Scotland, he’d vowed he’d never put faith in loyalty or kindness again. They were lies, nothing more. People liked to pretend they existed, but they didn’t. Not really.

  But here they were deep inside the heart of this little English lass, with her timid stammer and sweet smile, and her wide, anxious eyes.

  She was waiting for him to say something, but Lachlan had no words for her. Nothing he said could explain how he felt at this moment. He’d never been the sort of man who could magically spin his feelings into pretty words. He was rough and hard and more likely to scowl than smile, but he did know how make his actions say what he couldn’t.

  He reached for her slowly, and then, as gently as his big hands would allow, he wrapped his fingers around one of her slender ankles. She stiffened at once as if to pull away, but he stopped her with a soft murmur. “Let me see your feet, aingeal. I won’t hurt you.”

  She hesitated, then gave a brief nod.

  He shifted closer to her, slid his hand under the hem of her skirts, and carefully drew out one of her feet, then the other, and laid them both gently across his thighs.

  Lachlan had seen more than his fair share of bloody noses. He’d had more than his fair share of them, as well, along with the usual gashes and punctures and a variety of other gaping, seeping wounds one would expect of a boy raised in the Scottish Highlands. His body was a roadmap of nicks and scars.

  He’d never in his life recoiled from the sight of blood.

  Not until it was hers.

  The toes of her white satin slippers and her fine white stockings were smeared with ugly red stains. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I need to take your slippers off, and your feet have swollen to twice their size.” Damn it, her toes could be crushed.

  “It looks worse than it is, I’m sure.”

  But her voice was shaky, and when Lachlan glanced at her face, he could see she’d gone pale. His jaw went hard and his thighs tensed, and she must have noticed it, because she tried to slide her feet off his lap. “You look angry. Perhaps this isn’t a good idea, Lachlan.”

  He cupped one of her heels in his palm to still her. “It’s all right. I’m not angry. I won’t even scowl.”

  He was angry. He was bloody furious, but she didn’t need him falling into a rage right now. She was hurt, and in more pain than she was letting on. He wasn’t calm, gentle or patient, but for Hyacinth, he’d do his best.

  “Settle back against the sofa, and try and relax. I know it’s difficult.” He rubbed his palm back and forth across one of her ankles in a slow, soothing motion until he felt some of the tension drain from her. “There. That’s better.”

  She sighed, and let her head fall back against the sofa’s arm. “That feels…nice.”

  Lachlan thought so, too. Far too nice.

  He cleared his throat. “I want to take off your slippers before your feet swell any more. Will you let me do that? You’ll feel better when the silk isn’t cutting into your skin, but it’s, ah…it’s going to hurt when I take them off.”

  “It already hurts.” She lifted her head and gave him a wan smile. “So you may as well go ahead.”

  He nodded. “Rest your head against the sofa again, and close your eyes.”

  She obeyed, and after a brief struggle, Lachlan managed to slip the tip of his finger between her heel and the back of her slipper. He slid it down as gently as he could, then nudged the top loose to free her toes. A small gasp of pain escaped her, but then she clamped her lips shut. Lachlan had the distinct impression she was trying to be quiet to make this easier on him.

  “There. That’s the worst of that foot done.” He resumed his steady, rhythmic stroking of her ankle until her breathing steadied. “One more, aingeal. Lie back again, and close your eyes.”

  By the time he slid the second slipper free, his hands were shaking. Perspiration misted her face and neck, and she was so white, alarm shot through Lachlan. “It’s all done now. Take a deep breath.”

  “Are they…how bad is it?” Her eyes were tightly closed still, as if she were afraid to look.

  Lachlan studied her feet, but he couldn’t see much. “I can’t tell. Your stockings. Can you remove them?”

  “Yes, all right.” She sat up, but then lay back down immediately, and what was left of the color in her face drained away entirely. “In a moment, perhaps. I’m a bit dizzy.”

  “I’ll do it. That is, with your permission, I’ll take them off for you. I don’t have to lift your skirts to do it, but just slide my hands under…”

  Lift your skirts? Slide my hands under?

  Christ. Did he have to sound so eager?

  “Yes, I—I think that would be best. That is, it’s a bit awkward for both of us, but if you’re willing…”

  Willing? There wasn’t a man alive who wouldn’t be willing to slide his hands under her skirts. He was more willing than any of them, which was precisely the reason he shouldn’t be doing it.

  “I wouldn’t suggest such a thing, but if the blood dries the silk will stick to it, and it will be much more painful to remove them,” she added, her cheeks reddening.

  “Right, of course.” For God’s sake, she wasn’t his lover, and this wasn’t some bloody seduction. She was hurt, her head dizzy with pain, and he was sitting here like a scoundrel, thinking about untying her garters.

  “Lachlan? If you’d rather not, then—”

  “No, I will. You’re right. We don’t want the blood to dry. All right, then. Lie back, and…”

  No! Don’t lie back. There would be no lying back of any kind while he was foraging around under her skirts for her garters.

  “This will only take a moment.” He fumbled about, his fingers clumsy, but at last he managed t
o slide his hands under her hems. Smooth silk over warm skin filled his palms, and her legs, the slender, sweet curve of her calves…

  The longest moment of my life.

  Chapter Fourteen

  If anyone had told Hyacinth this evening would end with Lachlan Ramsey’s hands under her skirts, she would have denied the charge most vehemently. She would have said she’d never allow such a thing. She’d have insisted they were mad.

  Then she would have spent the rest of the evening wondering what those huge hands might feel like, sliding over her legs, his rough fingertips catching on the delicate silk…

  Divine. She’d never had a man’s hands under her skirts before, but now she had, she understood perfectly how it was young ladies could end up ruined.

  Or was it just this man’s hands that were so delicious? Was it only his touch that made her eyelids drift closed, and her chest rise and fall like a bellows with each panting breath? Dear God, her bosom was actually heaving. She’d heard whispers about heaving bosoms. She’d always thought it was mere exaggeration, but here she was…

  Heaving.

  It was so divine she forgot the awful throbbing in her toes and the sharp stab of pain in the arch of her left foot. With a tiny sigh she gave herself over to the seductive stroke of his palm over the back of her knee.

  “Damn it. I can’t get the bow loose.” He fumbled at her garters, and Hyacinth let out a soft gasp as his thick fingers grazed the bare skin at the top of her stockings.

  His gaze jerked to her face. “Hyacinth? Are you dizzy still? Are you going to swoon?”

  Swoon? And miss this? No, indeed.

  “No, no, don’t stop…I mean, I’m quite all right, and not the least bit dizzy anymore.” A lie, of course. She was dizzy, but for an entirely different reason now.

  He gave her a doubtful look, but he continued his fumbling, and after a moment he managed to grasp one end of the ribbon. He gave it a quick tug to loosen it. “There. Got it. I’m going to, um...slide the stocking down your leg now.”

  She nodded, bracing herself, but when he dipped his fingers under the top edge of the stocking, it took all of her concentration not to whimper at the seductive glide of his palms over the bare skin of her leg.

  My goodness. The shy, prim, reserved Hyacinth Somerset, a wanton? Why, how shameful, or…something else. Delightful?

  “There. Just one more to go.”

  Hyacinth’s eyes were still closed, but she opened them again at the strained, tortured note in Lachlan’s voice. It was so low and gravelly he sounded like a great, predatory lion, unable to make up his mind whether to growl or purr.

  She rose onto her elbows, her brow creased with concern as she studied him. He’d taken great care to keep her skirts pulled down and arranged modestly over her legs, and his gaze was firmly fixed on something over her left shoulder. All very proper, of course, but the fact that he refused to look at her meant he spent a great deal more time foraging around under her skirts than he would have otherwise.

  “You can raise my skirts a bit,” she offered. “Just enough so you can see what you’re—”

  “No!” The word flew from his lips like a shot from a rifle.

  Hyacinth’s eyebrows shot up. “Very well. Are you…are you quite all right?”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t look it. He drew his arm across his forehead to wipe away beads of sweat, and when he turned his attention back to her skirts, he wore the same look of grim determination her brother-in law Nick wore whenever Violet dragged him off to the opera.

  “Just one more to go,” he muttered again, gritting his teeth, and delving under her skirts a second time. This time he did all he could to keep from touching her, but, alas, the ribbons on her garters wouldn’t untie themselves.

  His palm stroking over her calf, the brush of his fingers against her thigh—it was all Hyacinth could do not to stretch and writhe like a lazy cat under his touch, as he left dozens of burning fingerprints on her skin.

  By the time he got the bow loose and dragged the remaining stocking down her leg, they were both panting, and Lachlan sagged back against the sofa as if he were exhausted.

  Neither of them spoke as they caught their breath, but at last Lachlan turned to her, the hint of a wry grin hovering on his lips. “You couldn’t have chosen to hide in Lord Hayhurst’s study, instead of the library? There’s whiskey there.”

  “Next time, perhaps.”

  His grin vanished, and the black scowl returned. “There won’t be a next time.”

  The hard, uncompromising note in his voice sobered her, and whatever warm glow his touch had engendered dissipated as he gathered her feet back into his lap and carefully drew the first stocking over her heel, and off her foot.

  When they saw it, they both gasped, and an agonized curse escaped his lips. “Jesus.” He moved instinctively to cradle her foot, but he froze with his hand hovering helplessly over the battered limb, clearly afraid to touch her.

  Hyacinth stared down at her foot as if it didn’t belong to her at all. She’d known it was bad, but this…dear God, how could a pair of gentleman’s pumps do so much damage? How had she managed to stand, much less walk out of the ballroom and down a long hallway to the library?

  The toes on her left foot were swollen to twice their normal size, and the white skin on the top of that foot was covered with ugly red heel marks. The room began to spin as she stared down at it. Dark spots appeared in front of her eyes, then faded to black as her vision began to tunnel.

  But she didn’t swoon. She might have done, but Lachlan’s whisper stopped her.

  “No, damn it. No.” He was still staring at her feet.

  The anguish in his voice dragged her back from the edge of unconsciousness, and she fought and clawed the rest of the way to the surface. She’d done this—she’d chosen to continue with the dance. She didn’t regret it, but this was the consequence of that choice, and she wouldn’t escape it with a swoon.

  After several deep, slow breaths she felt steady again. “Let’s see the rest of it, then. Take off my other stocking, Lachlan.”

  He looked as if he wanted to argue, but he must have seen there was no point, because he worked her other foot free of its stocking. They both stared at it for a moment without speaking, then Hyacinth let out a little sigh of relief. “This one’s not as bad.”

  In truth her right foot was such a mess it was impossible to assess its condition, but at least she recognized it as her own foot. Surely that was a good sign?

  Lachlan grunted. “Bad enough.”

  “But not as much swelling.” She turned her ankle slightly to test it. The pain she felt was confined to her poor abused toes, which were scraped and bleeding. “I think I could walk on it.”

  “The devil you will,” he rasped, turning on her with another scowl, this one so deep and black it put every other scowl to shame. “I’ll wrap it, then carry you to the carriage.”

  Carry her? That would set even more tongues wagging, but at this point Hyacinth was happy enough to let them wag. They would anyway, regardless of what she did, so what did it matter?

  The thought was oddly freeing.

  “Don’t move. I’ll be back in a moment.” Lachlan raised her feet off his lap, rose, then placed them carefully back down on the sofa.

  “What?” Hyacinth turned her face up to his, suddenly anxious. “You’re leaving me here? Where are you going?”

  “Just down the hall to the study for two glasses of Lord Hayhurst’s whiskey. I’ll come right back.”

  “I don’t like whiskey.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her. “I do. And you’ll like it well enough when I’m wrapping your feet. It’s going to hurt like the devil.”

  She frowned up at him. She’d fought off one swoon already, and she didn’t intend to succumb to another. “Do you suppose I’ll swoon wi
thout the whiskey? I’m not as feeble as all that, Lachlan.” She sounded like a fretful child, but dash it, she’d made it this far, hadn’t she? What good was prolonged consciousness if one never got any credit for it?

  He paused for a moment to gaze down at her, and then, as if he couldn’t quite resist, he stroked the backs of his fingers over her cheek. “I know you’re not, aingeal.” A smile twitched at his lips. “I’m not worried about you. It’s me. I won’t be much good to you if I swoon.”

  Hyacinth snorted at that, but she let him go without further argument and, true to his word, he was back within minutes. He handed her a glass with a generous pour of some amber-colored spirit, darker than sherry, and with a lovely scent of peat and oak.

  He tossed back the contents of his own glass in one swallow, then watched as she took a tiny, experimental sip of hers. It was surprisingly pleasant—smooth, but with a bit of a bite. It wasn’t sweet, but there was a hint of some flavor in it that reminded her, strangely enough, of treacle. “Mmmm.”

  She took another, deeper sip, and Lachlan gave her one of his rare grins. “Drink your whiskey. That’s a good lass.” He removed his coat, tucked it around her, and then unwound his cravat.

  “Why are you removing your clothing?” My, this whiskey was nice, and if it made him wish to undress, well, that was nice, too.

  “Just my coat and cravat. I’ll keep the rest on.”

  Well, that was rather a pity. Hyacinth took another deep swallow of her drink.

  “I’ll wrap your feet with this.” He ripped a hole into his cravat with his teeth, then tore the long length of white linen straight down the middle.

  “Oh, dear. What a waste of a perfectly good cravat.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t have much luck with cravats. Somehow they always end up stained with blood. Usually Ciaran’s.”

  “Or yours, I imagine.” Hyacinth burrowed into his coat, which was so large she could go swimming inside it, and followed him with sleepy eyes as he returned to his seat at the end of the sofa and gathered her feet into his lap again.