More or Less a Temptress

by Anna Bradley

  She winced a little when he touched her, but the worst of the throbbing pain had ebbed, and she was able to watch with steady nerves as he wrapped her foot in his cravat.

  Such large hands—who ever could have guessed a man with that black a scowl and such rough, enormous hands could have such a gentle touch? That a man could who could bloody a nose, or black an eye with one mighty blow from a gigantic fist could be so careful, so tender?

  She watched his hands, mesmerized.

  After a moment, he began to murmur to her, his voice gruff and mild in turns as he scolded and then soothed her. He ordered her never to be as foolish again as she’d been tonight. He said he was sorry, so sorry she’d been hurt, and he promised her she’d heal quickly.

  He told her she was brave.

  The strength of his hands, the curl and glide and pluck of his fingers and the husky rasp of his voice cast a spell over her. She lay back against the sofa, transfixed by him. What would it feel like, to have those hands move over her body? To hear that hoarse whisper in her ear as he touched her? Would he caress her with slow, gentle strokes as he was now, or would passion make him rough, demanding?

  Both. He’d be gentle and demanding, but he’d never hurt her. She knew this without any question, as surely as she knew no matter how he touched her, she’d sigh and writhe and cry out for him. He’d be like the whiskey she could still taste on her tongue. First a bite—a tiny, stinging nip, but underneath…

  Smooth, dark, seductive heat.

  Hyacinth shivered, and Lachlan, misinterpreting it, curled his hand around the heel of her foot. “Shhh. The worst is over. I’ve finished wrapping them, and now we only need to get you home. I met Ciaran in the hall earlier, and he went to fetch the carriage. They’ll be waiting for us by now.”

  He slid out from under her feet and went to her, but before he could lift her into his arms, Hyacinth stopped him with a hand on his cheek. “Lachlan, wait.”

  His hand covered hers, and for one brief, delirious moment his eyes flashed a dark, hot green as he held it against his cheek.She brushed the pads of her fingers over his face, reveling in the prickle of his emerging beard. “You’re a good man. The best of men.”

  His forehead met hers, and his eyes drifted closed. “No, I’m not, aingeal. You don’t know what I’ve done. All I’ve done…”

  His words died on his lips as she drew closer, so close their warm breath mingled, and then her lips met his. He tasted of whiskey, wild and dark.

  Then neither of them spoke at all.

  * * * *

  He’d dreamt of her kiss a hundred times since the night he’d first tasted her—the softness of her lips under his, the slow, tempting glide of her tongue—but even in his most fevered dreams, when he was lost in the deepest slumber, he’d never dared dream of such tenderness as this.

  How could a man dream of something he’d never had? Something he hadn’t believed existed, until her lips touched his?

  He tried to make himself release her, but his arms tightened around her, gathering her tighter against his chest, and he sank to his knees beside the sofa.

  God, the sweetness of her, the shy innocence of her kiss, wasted on a man so utterly unworthy of it. He didn’t deserve her sweetness, but like the blackguard he was, he’d take it from her. As soon as her palm cupped his face and she whispered his name, he no longer had a choice.

  She let out a soft sigh, as if his arms were the only place she wanted to be. “I, ah…I’m not very good at this. Am I…do you like this?” She pressed a tiny kiss to his jaw, then drew back, an anxious furrow between her brows.

  Lachlan leaned toward her and dropped a kiss on one corner of her mouth, then the other, a smile tugging at his lips. He was a scoundrel and a devil, but God, how could any man resist her? That tiny crease between her brows, the hesitant nibble on those plump pink lips—she was the sweetest thing he’d ever held in his arms, and the thought of letting her go made everything inside him howl in protest.

  “Your kiss couldn’t ever be wrong.” Lachlan dragged his thumb across the seam of her lips, his breath snagging in his chest when they parted. “That’s it, leannan. Open for me.”

  Deep pink color washed over her cheeks as he caressed her mouth. “What does that word mean? Leannan?”

  He traced the outline of her lips with his thumb, then tugged gently on her lower lip and drew closer, so his mouth was hovering over hers. “It means sweetheart,” he murmured, just before he claimed her mouth with his.

  Her first shy, innocent kiss had made his heart race, but this kiss…

  It set his body on fire.

  The way she welcomed him into her wet heat, the tip of her tongue teasing his, the soft nip of her teeth on his lower lip, her fingers tightening in his hair—within seconds every promise he’d made himself regarding Hyacinth Somerset fled, and he was lost in her. He kissed her and kissed her, his mouth ravenous and demanding, and she twined her arms around his neck and urged him on with an eager passion that thrilled him.

  She’s innocent…never even kissed a man…

  The thought penetrated the fog of his desire, but it was there and then gone, chased away by the hot press of her mouth on his, the seductive strokes of her tongue. Hers wasn’t a maiden’s kiss, but the kiss of woman who knew her own desires, and somehow, despite her inexperience, knew his, as well. Every brush of her lips, every stroke of her tongue, the maddening drag of her fingertips down his neck…

  God, he was wild for her—so aroused he was moaning, his shaft swollen and surging against his falls. It was as if she knew just how to touch him, just what to do to make him pant for her, as if she’d been made for him.

  No. She isn’t mine, and she never can be.

  But she was his, for now, while she was in his arms, with her breasts crushed against his chest and her soft gasps and whimpers in his ears. She was his, and he wanted her with a fierce desire he’d never felt for any woman before her. He wanted to touch her everywhere, with his hands and his mouth—to make her wet for him, only him, and then bury himself inside her until she shuddered with pleasure, and he spilled into her arching, writhing body.

  He tore his mouth from hers, then nudged her onto her back on the sofa and leaned over her to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses over her throat and neck. She gave a sharp cry when his teeth closed over her earlobe, and the desire curling in his stomach sparked at the needy sound and blazed through him, reducing his control to ashes.

  He nipped at her again, triumph swelling inside him at her soft moan. “Do you like that?” He reached behind his neck to unclasp her hands and hold them above her head, his fingers wrapped lightly around her wrists.

  “Yes.” She arched into him, rubbing her breasts against his chest.

  He buried his face in the curve of her neck, growling as he sucked at the soft skin there, out of his mind with desire, his cock straining against his breeches.

  She was still wrapped in his coat, and he worked his other hand under the edge of it, stroking his palm over the curve of her hip. Then he moved higher to brush his fingers against her collarbones and the upper swells of her breasts, desperate to feel her bare skin. “Tell me what else you like, aingeal.”

  She gazed up at him for a long moment without answering, then her lips curved in a dreamy smile. “Why do you call me aingeal? I’m not one, you know. Not even close.”

  Lachlan looked down at her face, at her sweet, guileless smile. “You’re the closest thing to an angel I’ve ever seen.”

  And the closest I’ll ever get to one.

  A sudden chill crept over him at the thought, chasing away the haze of his desire. He stared down at her, and all at once everything snapped into sharp, painful clarity.

  He was on top of her, one of his hands mere inches from cupping her breast. Her lips were pink and swollen from his kisses, and there were half a dozen tiny red marks on
her neck where his teeth had grazed her tender flesh.

  Jesus. What was he doing? He was pawing at her as if she were some doxy he’d found in a brothel on London’s West End, instead of his brother’s sister-in-law. She was young, naïve, and untouched, and she was…

  Lachlan closed his eyes as shame washed over him.

  She was injured.

  If she knew what he truly was, what he’d done, the secrets he was keeping from her, she’d never let him lay a finger on her. Perhaps she wasn’t an angel, just as she said, but she deserved far better than to be touched with hands as bloody as his. He yanked them away from her, horrified, then stumbled to his feet and backed away, putting space between them.

  “Lachlan?” She rose up onto her elbows, her puzzled gaze searching his face. “What’s wrong?”

  He dragged both hands through his hair. “We can’t…this was a mistake. I shouldn’t have touched you. I can’t…this can never happen again.”

  Her mouth opened, then closed, and she pulled his coat tighter around her in an unconscious effort to protect herself. “I don’t understand.”

  Lachlan blew out a harsh breath. No, she didn’t understand, and why would she? One moment he was kissing and touching her as if she were London’s merriest widow, and now he was so ashamed he couldn’t even look at her.

  “Your sister is married to my brother, Hyacinth. I swore to her I’d protect you, and I made the same promise to you. I said I’d take care of you just as I do Isla, as if you were my own…” He trailed off with a swallow.

  My own sister.

  It was absurd, given what had just happened between them.

  She flushed, and her eyes dropped to her lap. “I—t-this isn’t your f-fault. I k-kissed you, and I s-s-see I shouldn’t have.”

  He recoiled from the pain and confusion on her face. He wanted to take her hands, to reassure her she hadn’t done anything wrong, but he didn’t trust himself to touch her. “It is my fault. You’re an innocent, and I’m...”

  A scoundrel, a liar, a murderer…

  He blew out a hard breath. “I know better than to toy with a naïve girl.”

  She flinched. “Yes, well...I suppose a gentleman like you prefers more sophisticated ladies, like Lady Joanna.”

  Lady Joanna? Lachlan started at her, too shocked to answer. How could Hyacinth ever believe he’d prefer Lady Joanna to her?

  “I daresay Lady Joanna isn’t obliged to rush off to Brighton every time her nerves are overset,” she added, with a forlorn little laugh.

  The forced half-smile trembling on her lips made him want to tear his hair out with frustration. Did she actually believe she wasn’t good enough for him? That he didn’t want her?

  He did want her, so desperately he wasn’t sure he could stay away from her. “I want you and your grandmother to go to Brighton.”

  She started, and her face paled. “B-Brighton? But—”

  “As soon as you can ready yourselves.” Lachlan forced his face into an expressionless mask, even as he dug new half-moon scars into his palms.

  “No, Lachlan. I’m not going to Brighton. I told you—”

  “Yes, you are. We’re only a few weeks into the season, and you’ve already been hurt.” He jerked his chin toward her feet. “It’s only a matter of time before something worse happens. Your sisters and grandmother were right. London, the season, Lady Joanna and the ton—it’s too much for you.”

  Too much for both of us.

  If she was within his reach, and they lost control again as they’d done tonight, she’d be the one who paid for it. She’d be forced to marry him—to tie herself forever to man with nothing but ugly secrets and a dark past to offer her. A man she’d despise, once she knew the truth about him.

  A scoundrel, a liar, a murderer…

  “N-no, it’s not. I can do it, Lachlan. I can make it through—”

  “No, you can’t.” Lachlan choked the words past the bitter regret lodged in his throat. God, he hated himself for hurting her, for making her doubt herself, but he’d sworn to protect her, and there was nothing but heartbreak for her in London. “It’s best this way, Hyacinth.”

  She didn’t answer, only gazed up at him, her eyes two wide, dark blue pools of hurt.

  Lachlan turned away, unable to bear the pain and betrayal on her face. “I’ll get Ciaran and have him carry you to the carriage.”

  “All right,” she agreed, her voice dull.

  He crossed the room and opened the door, but stopped before going out. He told himself not to look back, not to look at her, but if was as if his feet were frozen in place.

  His head turned.

  She was huddled on the sofa, half-buried in his coat, her cheek resting on her bent knees, and her shoulders hunched. Her face was turned away from him, but there was no mistaking the way she’d curled into herself, as if she could fight back the pain by making herself smaller.

  Despair washed over Lachlan, but he didn’t linger.

  There wasn’t any point. It was done.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Fourth Ball

  Lord and Lady Sedley

  Request the honor of Miss Hyacinth Somerset’s presence

  At an evening ball on Thursday, February 19th

  At 6:00 o’clock, 40 Upper Brook Street

  Grosvenor Square

  Dancing to commence at 8:00 o’clock in the evening

  Hyacinth stared at her reflection in the glass, her elbow propped on her dressing-table, and her chin resting on her hand.

  Had it truly been only a matter of weeks since Lachlan had stood behind her at this very mirror, held the pale blue gown in front of her, and challenged her to face her reflection? Had it only been a matter of weeks since he’d insisted only she could wear that gown? That only she could dance in it?

  It was astounding, how much could change in such a short time.

  She no longer knew whether he’d meant the words he’d whispered in her ear that day, or indeed, any of the words he’d said to her since the night he arrived in London. His kisses, his promises, his murmured endearments—all those aingeals and leannans—perhaps it had all been a ploy from the start to coax her into a season, and smooth Isla’s way.

  Hyacinth didn’t know what to think anymore, but she did know one thing, beyond any doubt or hesitation.

  She wasn’t going to Brighton.

  No, she was going to the Sedleys’ ball, and to Lord Pomeroy’s ball next week, and to every other tedious, wretched ball she was invited to attend, right through to the end of the season, just as she’d planned.

  Lachlan was under the mistaken impression she and Lady Chase had left for Brighton this morning. How he’d been so misinformed, Hyacinth hadn’t the least idea. That is, she may have said something about Brighton to Isla, who’d come by yesterday afternoon to fetch some ribbons, and Isla may have repeated it to Lachlan, but then bits of gossip like that often got muddled in the retelling.

  What she’d told Isla was she didn’t intend to go to Brighton. If Lachlan had heard something else, well…that was unfortunate, but hardly Hyacinth’s fault. If he’d truly been concerned about her plans, he could have called on her, and asked her himself.

  But he hadn’t. He’d kept away from her since their passionate encounter in Lord Hayhurst’s library last week. Indeed, he’d made his feelings regarding their tryst perfectly clear, and there was nothing for her to do but accept it, and try and forget the kiss had ever happened. Rather difficult, when every moment of that kiss haunted her dreams—both the sleeping and waking ones.

  But not tonight. Tonight she was tired of it all—tired of mooning over a kiss, and tired of pale silk gowns and bland hairstyles. Tired of the ton’s vicious gossip, and tired of fruitless yearning.

  Tired of Lachlan Ramsey.

  “Shall I arrange your hair in the usual
style, miss?” Hyacinth’s maid stood behind her chair, a pair of hot tongs in her hand and a resigned expression on her face. Jenny’s fingers itched to work her hair into the kind of sophisticated, curled, bejeweled affair worn by all the other young ladies, and it irked her to no end Hyacinth insisted on such understated, simple styles.

  But tonight, Hyacinth was tired of the usual style. What good had it done her to try and fade into the background? She’d been bounced from one humiliation to the next since the season began, and she was sick to death of feeling like a billiard ball careening wildly around the baize as the ton struck at her from all sides.

  “This gown is dreadful on me, isn’t it?” She lifted a fold of the pale yellow silk, and met Jenny’s eyes in the mirror. “The color isn’t flattering, and the cut is better suited to the schoolroom than the ballroom. It makes me look like an infant. Besides, Miss Ramsey is wearing a yellow gown this evening. I want a different gown. Something brighter, Jenny.”

  Jenny went still, like a predator who longs to pounce, but is afraid of charging too quickly and scaring off her prey. “The blossom pink satin with the white lace, or the pale blue?” she asked, carefully assessing Hyacinth’s reaction in the glass. “The cream-colored one, with the tiny pearls?”

  Pearls. Hyacinth’s mouth twisted with distaste. “I suppose the cream will have to do.”

  Jenny regarded her for another moment, then she turned and disappeared into the wardrobe. In a few moments she returned, a triumphant smile on her face, and waved Iris’s violet gown in front of Hyacinth with a dramatic flourish.

  Hyacinth’s eyes widened. “No, Jenny. I couldn’t possibly wear something so...well, it’s far too daring, isn’t it? What will people say? They’ll all stare at me!”

  But they were already staring at her, and they’d do so tonight no matter what she wore, so what difference did it make?

  Jenny, who hadn’t much use for the ton, gave a great sniff of disdain. “Oh, let them all hang! I don’t see how it could be any worse than what happened at that last ball.”

  Both Hyacinth and Jenny glanced down at Hyacinth’s feet. She’d spent the week after her disastrous encounter with Lord Chester’s pumps hobbling about like a three-legged dog with the help of one of her grandmother’s canes.