More or Less a Temptress

by Anna Bradley

  Hyacinth’s mouth dropped open in shock. Cyprian?

  Hot anger flooded through her, and she jerked her arm from his grasp. “How dare you? I don’t look like a Cyprian, and the only one gawking at me is you.”

  She was rather proud of this speech—not a single stammer!—but Lachlan’s face darkened. “Look around you. There isn’t a single man in here who isn’t gaping at you, and down to the last one of them, they’re wishing they could get their hands on you.”

  She huffed out a breath. “So what if they are? It’s my season, remember? Attracting the attention of eligible gentlemen is rather the point.”

  “Not this kind of attention. I said I’d watch over you this season, if you recall. Shall I bloody the nose of every aristocrat who’s staring at you?”

  Hyacinth threw her hands up in the air. “You’re being ridiculous, Lachlan! No one is staring. I daresay no one’s even noticed me—”

  “Miss Somerset?”

  Hyacinth broke off, and dropped into a hasty curtsey before the tall, fair-haired gentleman who’d addressed her. “Lord Dixon. How do you do?”

  She’d met Lord Dixon once or twice before. He was a bit older than she was, and considered very handsome, charming and sophisticated by the ladies of the ton. She’d never heard anything to his discredit, but he wasn’t the sort of gentleman who frequented debutante balls. Hyacinth couldn’t quite hide her surprise at his sudden appearance before her.

  “I’m very well, thank you.” He nodded briefly to Lachlan, then turned and offered Hyacinth a polite bow. “Would you care to dance, Miss Somerset?”

  “Miss Somerset isn’t dancing this evening,” Lachlan snapped, before Hyacinth had a chance to reply. “She’s injured.”

  He didn’t make even the slightest pretense at politeness. Hyacinth shot him a glower that would have felled a lesser man, then turned back to Lord Dixon with an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid Mr. Ramsey is correct, my lord. I injured my foot a week ago, and I’m still unable to dance on it.”

  “How unfortunate. Should you perhaps be sitting, then? Allow me to escort you to a chair.” Lord Dixon smiled again, and offered her his arm.

  After a slight hesitation, Hyacinth took it. She couldn’t at all account for such sudden and pointed attention from Lord Dixon, but he was the first gentleman to offer her anything other than an insolent sneer since her season began, and she didn’t care to stand here and argue with Lachlan about Cyprians and bloody noses. If he wanted a lady to simper and fawn over him, let him go and find Lady Joanna.

  “I wish you a pleasant evening, Mr. Ramsey.” Hyacinth’s eyes met his for a brief second, and a shiver rippled over her skin at the fierce possessiveness glittering in those hazel depths, but before he could offer a single word in response, she laid her hand on Lord Dixon’s arm, and let him lead her away.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Oh, ah…pardon me. I mistook you for another gentleman.”

  Ciaran had ambled all the way across the ballroom to speak to him, but as soon as he got close enough to see the murderous expression on Lachlan’s face, he turned on his heel to flee.

  Lachlan stopped him with a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “No place special.” Ciaran shrugged Lachlan’s hand off. “Just getting my face out of the way of your fist, that’s all. You look as if you’re about to bloody someone’s nose, and I’d just as soon it wasn’t mine. I’ve only just become pretty again after our last brawl.”

  “It’s a ballroom, Ciaran. I’m not going to bloody anyone’s nose in the middle of a ballroom. Not yours, anyway.” He couldn’t say the same for that scoundrel who’d just led Hyacinth away.

  “Who, then?” Ciaran turned to see who Lachlan was glaring at, and a knowing grin touched his lips. “Ah. I did wonder if it was like that.”

  Lachlan snapped his gaze back to Ciaran, bristling. “What the devil does that mean? Like what?”

  Ciaran rolled his eyes. “Oh come now, Lach. Do you think I haven’t noticed the way you look at Hyacinth Somerset? I’ve seen sheep wear that same pathetic expression, and do you know what always follows?”

  “Damn it, I’m not staring at—”

  “Lambs, Lachlan. Lambs are what follow.”

  Lachlan gritted his teeth. Maybe he’d bloody Ciaran’s nose, after all. “I told you—I’m not staring at Hyacin—that is, Miss Somerset. I told Lady Huntington I’d look out for her, and that’s what I’m doing.”

  Ciaran snorted. “If you mean to look out for her, then you should have advised her to choose a different gown tonight. She looks utterly delicious. Dixon certainly seems to think so.”

  Lachlan’s jaw tightened another notch. Jesus, that gown. How the devil had she gotten out the door without Lady Chase having an apoplexy? He wanted to start at her hems and nip his way up to her bare neck, then tear the gown from her luscious curves with his teeth, and start all over again.

  And he wasn’t the only one. If Dixon stole another sneaky glance at Hyacinth’s bosom, Lachlan was going to bloody more than the man’s nose. “Dixon’s a blackguard. I don’t trust him.”

  Ciaran shrugged. “Dixon’s not so bad. I’ve never heard any complaints about him, though the gossips have it he’s fond of cards, and plays rather deep. Besides, you don’t trust anyone, brother.”

  Lachlan grunted at that. No, he bloody didn’t trust anyone, and he had damn good reason not to. He sure as hell didn’t trust Dixon, who was leering at Hyacinth as if he wanted to dive into her bodice and stay there for the rest of the night.

  “Anyway, you can hardly blame Dixon for having a go,” Ciaran added. “She looks...that is, she’s very—”

  “Tempting,” Lachlan said grimly.

  “Ah, there’s the word I wanted. No chaste pink or white gown tonight, eh, Lach?” Ciaran arched an eyebrow at him. “I’m not complaining, mind you, but why do you think she decided to wear that particular gown tonight?”

  To torture me.

  She was punishing him, for trying to send her off to Brighton. To teach him a lesson about doubting her.

  To make him see her.

  He’d tried not to. He’d tried to convince himself she was some pure, untouchable being—an angel, rather than a flesh and blood woman, with a woman’s desires, and a woman’s needs. Under that tight bodice and clinging silk she was still Hyacinth, with all the same sweet kindness that made his heart race and his lungs struggle for breath.

  But tonight, she didn’t look like an angel. Tonight, she was all woman.

  Warm, seductive, tempting woman.

  Those alluring tendrils of hair teasing at the long, smooth expanse of her throat, her white shoulders rising from the tight embrace of the violet silk, the upward thrust of her breasts, with just the faintest hint of her nipples straining against the flimsy silk…

  Lachlan drew a deep breath and tried to will away the blood now surging into his shaft.

  That was why she’d worn the gown. To remind him of her soft skin, and her warm, plump lips and wicked, seeking tongue. But it wasn’t just the gown, or the arrangement of her hair that made him weak with desire. It was the mysterious, feminine half-smile gracing her lips.

  That was no angel’s smile.

  It was the smile of a woman who knew what she wanted, and had set out tonight to remind him he wanted it, too.

  He dragged a hand through his hair.

  She needn’t have bothered. Her scent, the way she’d trembled in his arms, the taste of her on his lips—he could never forget it. Those memories haunted him every moment of every day, until he felt as if he were drowning in them, the water closing over his head—

  “Damn it, Lach. Stop gaping at her with that miserable expression on your face. If you want her—and the entire bloody ballroom can see you do—then why don’t you tell her? I have a suspicion Hyacinth won
’t send you away if you do.”

  Ciaran’s last comment hit Lachlan like a fist to the gut. It was bad enough he wanted her, but to think she might actually want him in return was torture. “I can’t tell her, Ciaran. You know it as well as I do.”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t know any such thing. If you care for her, and she cares for you, then I don’t see what all the fuss is about. You’re waffling, brother, when what you should be doing is making Hyacinth yours. Seems to me you’re damn lucky to have the chance.”

  Lachlan didn’t miss the trace of bitterness in Ciaran’s voice. It was the same bitterness that had been there ever since they left Scotland, with Isobel Campbell’s curses still ringing in their ears.

  “For God’s sakes, Lach. You really have become an Englishman, haven’t you? No Scot would stand about like a bloody fool while some other man steals his woman.”

  Lachlan glanced over at Hyacinth just in time to see her raise her face to Dixon’s and offer the man a sweet smile. Lachlan looked away from her, his chest tight. “She wouldn’t want me if she knew who I really was. What I’d done.”

  “Oh, what bloody bollocks. You know it is.” Ciaran’s voice was hard.

  “You didn’t see her face the night we arrived, Ciaran. She pointed right at me, and called me a murderer. She was horrified. Worse, she was…”

  Frightened of me.

  She’d been terrified, as if she thought he was going to lunge for her. Hurt her. She’d shrank away from him, revulsion clear on her face. He still shuddered when he remembered how she’d looked, how just the mere sight of him made her panic.

  “Damn it to hell, Lachlan.” Ciaran turned on him, his face tight with fury. “She made a mistake, nothing more. She was horrified because she thought you’d done something you didn’t do.”

  “But I did do it.” Not in the way Hyacinth imagined he had, no, but what difference did it make? He was still a murderer.

  “No, you did what you had to do—what any decent man would have done in your place. It went wrong, yes, and that’s bloody awful, but it wasn’t your fault.”

  Lachlan turned to stare at Ciaran, and saw the furrow between his brother’s brows, the edge of white at his pinched lips. Despite his words, there was a part of Ciaran that still blamed Lachlan for that day, and for everything that had come afterwards.

  Perhaps he always would.

  “What about the lie, Ciaran?” Lachlan’s voice was quiet. “Maybe any man would have done as I did, but a decent man wouldn’t have lied about it.”

  “It’s a secret, Lachlan, not a lie.”

  But Ciaran didn’t meet his eyes, and Lachlan let out a short, hard laugh. “It’s the same thing.”

  “We could still tell the truth.” Ciaran gave him a hopeful look. “Perhaps it’s not too late.”

  “No, perhaps not.”

  For the past few weeks Lachlan had been considering telling Finn everything, but he wasn’t going to discuss it with Ciaran in the middle of the Sedleys’ ballroom. “Isla looks happy tonight,” he said, to change the subject.

  They both stood for a moment in silence, watching Isla as she twirled across the dance floor in Lord Sydney’s arms, her face wreathed in smiles. “She does. Do you think she cares for Sydney?”

  “Who can tell with Isla? It would be damn convenient if she did care for him. He seems to admire her, and he’s a good sort.”

  Ciaran nodded. “Sydney’s solid. Much better than all these other uptight English prigs.”

  “Honorable, too, by all accounts, titled, and from a well-respected family. He’d be a good match for her, and a decent husband.”

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Lachlan. Isla won’t marry without love, and I’m not sure she’s in love with Sydney.”

  Lachlan didn’t reply, but watched as Isla made her way through the set. Every now and then she darted a smile in Sydney’s direction, but it was a friendly smile only, and Lachlan sensed her attention was elsewhere. Damned if he knew where, though, or on who. Isla made as much sense to her brothers as hieroglyphics carved on a cave wall.

  “Speaking of love, Lach, I believe Lady Joanna is looking for you, and I doubt she’ll be pleased to find you panting after Hyacinth Somerset. Shall I go and distract her while you, ah…guard Hyacinth?”

  Damn it. He’d rather have a tooth pulled than spend another minute with Lady Joanna, but she was Sydney’s friend, and Lachlan didn’t want to offend her now—not when Sydney could be on the verge of asking to court Isla.

  He glanced back at Hyacinth and Lord Dixon, who were chatting amiably with Lady Chase and Lady Atherton. Lachlan couldn’t ask for two more formidable chaperones than that pair, and it didn’t seem likely Hyacinth would leave their side for the rest of the evening. She couldn’t dance, so there was no chance of Dixon trying to manoeuver her onto a deserted terrace when Lady Chase wasn’t looking.

  Meanwhile, Isla was perfectly mobile, and prone to mischief. There was no telling what scrape she’d get into if Lachlan wasn’t there to keep an eye on her.

  “No, I’ll go. Why don’t you ask Miss Atkinson to dance? She’s a good lass. God knows the gentlemen pay her little enough attention, for reasons I don’t pretend to understand.”

  “No money. An unforgiveable offense, I’m afraid.”

  “You don’t need a woman’s money.”

  “So I don’t, brother, and you’re right. She’s an agreeable lass, and so are all the other ladies banished to wallflower row. Perhaps I’ll dance with them all again tonight.” Ciaran ambled off in that direction, his mouth curved in an affable smile.

  Lachlan started toward Lady Joanna, but before he’d taken a dozen steps his unwilling gaze was dragged back to Hyacinth. She had her hand on Dixon’s arm, and she was laughing at something he’d said, as if she found him utterly charming. A bitter taste coated Lachlan’s throat, but he forced himself to swallow it back down.

  He hadn’t seen a smile on her face at a single ball this season. She’d had precious little reason to be pleased. If Dixon could change that—if he could give her something to smile about—well, only a selfish ass would begrudge her that.

  Lachlan turned away, and headed to a far corner of the ballroom, to where Lady Joanna was holding court. He pasted a stiff smile on his face, and tried to forget he wasn’t the one who was making Hyacinth smile. He wasn’t the one who was making her laugh.

  It didn’t work.

  The next thing he knew, he’d turned around and was marching back the way he’d come, across the ballroom, and back to Hyacinth’s side. By the time he reached her, he was in no mood to bother with pleasantries. He took her by the wrist, and tugged her away from Lord Dixon. “A word, Miss Somerset.”

  “Mr. Ramsey!” She tried to jerk free of his grasp. “What are you doing?”

  Behaving like a selfish ass.

  * * * *

  “I, ah—I beg your pardon, my lord.” Hyacinth turned to Lord Dixon, her cheeks aflame. “Please do excuse me for a moment.”

  Dixon’s gaze lingered on the place where Lachlan held Hyacinth’s wrist, then rose to Lachlan’s face, his blue eyes narrow and calculating. Lachlan tensed, but before he could assess the strange look, Dixon covered it with a charming smile. “Of course.”

  He bowed to Hyacinth, but Lachlan didn’t give her a chance to return the courtesy before he tugged her off to a quiet corner on the other side of the ballroom.

  “Columns?” She leaned against the pillar at her back, and raised an eyebrow at Lachlan. “Are you making a joke, Mr. Ramsey? Or are you being intentionally ironic?”

  Lachlan didn’t answer. He was staring down at her, his throat dry, with only one thought echoing over and over in his head.

  Do you know how beautiful you are?

  She looked like a butterfly, in her purple gown with the white column at her back, the gauzy silk o
f her skirts fluttering in a draft of air from a nearby open terrace door. A butterfly or a flower—a hyacinth, like her namesake—slender and vibrant, and with that sweet scent, like wild honey—

  “What do you want, Lachlan? You dragged me over here, and now you don’t have a single word to say to me?”

  He blinked down at her. Damn it, why had he dragged her over here? He hadn’t thought it out, or considered what excuse he’d offer when he got her alone. He just knew he couldn’t bear to see her smile at Dixon again.

  She frowned up at him when he didn’t answer. “You were terribly rude to Lord Dixon, you know. I’ll have to beg his pardon on your behalf now.”

  Dixon’s name on her lips made Lachlan want to slam his fist into the marble column until he’d reduced it to a powder. “What’s Dixon want with you?” he growled at last. “I haven’t seen him at a single ball so far this season, and yet here he is, come out of nowhere, and he’s looking at you as if he’s one snap of his jaws away from devouring you.”

  She glared at him, her color rising. “How should I know what he wants? Oh, wait. I do know. He must have seen my gown, and mistaken me for a Cyprian.”

  Lachlan winced. That had been the wrong thing to say. “I beg your pardon. I never should have said that. You don’t look like a Cyprian. You look…very well.”

  You’re far too beautiful, and seeing all these greedy male gazes on you is driving me mad—

  “I look very well?” She folded her arms over her chest. “Is that what you just said?”

  It was what he’d said. It wasn’t what he thought, but damn it, what was he supposed to say? He’d wasn’t the sort of man who could get away with poetic ramblings about butterflies and flowers and honey. He was too big and rough, and…scowlish. “Well, yes. You look very well.”

  This only seemed to incense her further, so Lachlan tried again. “What I mean is, you look…nice.”