More or Less a Temptress

by Anna Bradley

  “Paraffin wax.” Lord Sydney took the wax back from Ciaran and closed it tight in his fist. “For marking cards.”

  “I never cheated! It’s not mine, Sydney,” Lord Dixon protested in a scratchy, rasping voice.

  “I see. There must be some other reasonable explanation for its presence in the pocket of your waistcoat, then? Christ, I can’t believe I didn’t realize it sooner. No one’s that bloody lucky at cards.”

  “She put it there!” Lord Dixon pointed an accusing finger at Hyacinth.

  Lord Sydney let out an incredulous laugh. “Miss Somerset? My God, Sydney. You expect me to believe a gently bred young lady like Miss Somerset knows so much about marking cards she sneaked a piece of wax into your pocket to implicate you? You’ve lost your bloody wits.”

  Lord Dixon was growing desperate. “For God’s sake, Sydney, why do you think she lured me down here in the first place? Think, man! Do you suppose you stumbled upon us by accident?” He jerked his head toward Isla. “These two planned the entire thing! It’s obvious what happened—”

  “Are you calling my sister a liar, Dixon?” Ciaran thrust his face into Dixon’s. “My sister, and my sister-in-law?”

  Dixon stumbled back a step. “I—”

  “I don’t understand, Lord Dixon.” Hyacinth clasped her hands in front of her, and looked around the room, her eyes wide. “Why should I wish to put wax, of all things, into your waistcoat pocket?”

  Lord Sydney gave a grim laugh. “I suppose your uncommon luck at the card tables is also Miss Somerset’s and Miss Ramsey’s fault, eh, Dixon?”

  “I’m telling you, Sydney, the wax isn’t mine!”

  Lord Sydney tucked the incriminating piece of wax into his pocket, and studied Dixon for a moment with narrowed eyes. “Very well, Dixon, since you’re so insistent upon your innocence, why don’t we adjourn to the card room this minute, and you can explain yourself to every gentleman there whose money you’ve taken. Of course, I’ll be obliged to show them this.” Lord Sydney patted his pocket. “And to tell them where I found it, but I’m certain they’ll all believe you when you claim it was simply a trick of Miss Somerset’s and Miss Ramsey’s.”

  Lord Dixon’s face grew increasingly pale with each of Lord Sydney’s words. He didn’t say anything for quite some time, but at last, he shook his head.

  “Is that a no, Dixon?” Lord Sydney asked. “Well, how curious that option shouldn’t appeal to you. I can’t think why you wouldn’t choose to clear your good name, but no matter. I have another idea, and perhaps you’ll like this one better. What if I take you to your lodgings, allow you fifteen minutes to collect whatever paltry belongings you can’t do without, and then see you out of London on the next stage?”

  Lord Dixon glanced at Lachlan, then at Ciaran, and then for one long, unnerving minute, he stared hard at Hyacinth, but at last he met Lord Sydney’s eyes, and gave a brief nod.

  “Ah, good. So glad that’s settled. Oh, but one thing, Dixon, before we go. If you did try to return to London, I’d be forced to reveal this business about the wax to my friends. I’m afraid it would get about rather quickly, and would give rise to some unpleasantness. Duels, you know, or worse, perhaps. That would be a great pity, wouldn’t it? Now, I’ve nothing to do with this business between you and the Ramseys—something about a secret, I believe it was? Mr. Ramsey has given his permission for you to spread his family’s business far and wide, and that’s naught to do with me, but it’s odd, isn’t it, how rumors tend to breed more rumors? And I’ve found—perhaps you’ve found this as well, Dixon—that people are far less likely to believe the word of a cheat.”

  There wasn’t anything Lord Dixon could say to that. He held his tongue as Lord Sydney turned and offered Isla a formal bow. “Miss Ramsey, it was my pleasure to have your company this evening. May I call on you tomorrow, to enquire after your health?”

  Isla was beaming at him. “Of course, my lord. I’ll look forward—”

  “No. I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  Every head snapped towards Lachlan.

  “My apologies, Sydney, but we’re leaving London tomorrow, for Huntington Lodge. My sister will welcome your visit when we return.”

  “I see.” Lord Sydney glanced at Isla. “When will that be?”

  “Not before the end of the season.”

  “What? You mean to say Isla’s season is over?” Hyacinth forced herself to face Lachlan. “But—”

  “Not just Isla’s season.” Lachlan’s voice was flat. “Yours, as well. Half of Lady Entwhistle’s guests saw Ciaran and I burst into the ballroom this evening, and they all witnessed our search for you and Isla. We’re not exactly dressed for a ball, and we attracted a lot of attention.”

  Hyacinth’s gaze swept over Lachlan, and for the first time she noticed he was still in the same clothing he’d been wearing when she saw him this afternoon at her grandmother’s house. He and Ciaran had come to Lady Entwhistle’s in a hurry, then—so much so they hadn’t even stopped to change their clothes.

  And the way Lachlan had burst into the library, the look of panic on his face…

  Dread settled like a stone in Hyacinth’s chest. Somehow, Lachlan had found out something about this sordid business with Lord Dixon, and there was no question he’d demand she tell him the rest of it.

  “By the end of the evening, every gossip in London will know some sort of scandal took place in Lady Entwhistle’s library. Your reputations are ruined.” Lachlan took a step toward her, his hazel eyes burning into her blue ones. “When we arrive at Huntington Lodge tomorrow afternoon, the two of you are going to explain to Finn how that happened.”

  Hyacinth and Isla looked at each other, their eyes wide, but neither of them offered a word of argument. It was plain to see their seasons were, indeed, over. A pang of regret pierced Hyacinth’s breast for Isla, and any hopes she may have had of Lord Pierce.

  For her own part, Hyacinth felt only relief, but as the heat of Lachlan’s gaze seared her, whatever courage had seen her through this evening withered away to nothing.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  By the time they reached Lady Entwhistle’s entryway, the gossip had spread throughout the ballroom. Like most gossip, the tiny grain of truth in every rumor was buried under dozens of lies.

  Some had it Isla Ramsey had been stripped down to her corset when she’d been caught in the library with Lord Sydney. Others insisted she’d been fully clothed, but Lachlan Ramsey had fallen into a rage nonetheless, and beat Lord Dixon to within an inch of his life. Still others claimed the whole business was part of a complicated scheme hatched by Hyacinth Somerset to trap Lord Dixon into marriage.

  But they all agreed on one thing. Both Isla Ramsey and Hyacinth Somerset were guilty of…well, something, and whatever it was, it was dreadfully shocking, and required immediate banishment from proper society.

  By the time they reached the carriage, Hyacinth’s ears were burning, and she’d never been so grateful to leave a ball in her life. It wasn’t until the carriage door closed behind her that she realized there was one thing worse than whispered rumors.

  Silence. Deep, profound, condemning silence.

  No one said a single word the entire ride to Grosvenor Street. Isla’s gaze never strayed from the window. Lachlan sat next to Isla, his face as cold and hard as stone. Even Ciaran seemed at a loss for words, and remained quiet.

  Hyacinth, who knew she’d be called upon to explain herself soon enough, spent the time inventing and then discarding explanations, and biting her lip bloody.

  Sure enough, when they reached Grosvenor Square and Ciaran and Isla climbed down from the carriage, Lachlan remained where he was. Isla gave Hyacinth one last anxious look before Lachlan pulled the carriage door closed, and he and Hyacinth were on their way to Bedford Square.

  They rode in silence. They abandoned the carriage, entered the h
ouse, and paused in the entryway, all in silence. Lachlan took her arm and led her down the hallway to the library, and still neither of them said a word.

  He waited for her to enter, then closed the door behind them, brushed by her without a glance, and went to stand in front of the fireplace.

  Hyacinth waited, breath held, for him to speak, but he stood silently, his back to her, and stared down at the empty grate.

  The silence dragged on and on, until at last Hyacinth couldn’t stand another minute of it. “Lachlan, talk to me.”

  “Did you put the wax in Dixon’s pocket?” His voice was tight, controlled.

  Hyacinth hesitated. She had no intention of lying to him, but it was all so complicated—

  “Answer me, Hyacinth. Did you put the wax in his pocket?”

  “Yes.” She took an instinctive step toward him. “But it was his. I took it from him by mistake, that night on Lord Pomeroy’s terrace, and tonight I…I put it back.”

  His hands clenched into fists. “You lured him to the library, slipped the wax in his pocket, got him out of his coat and waistcoat, then you…distracted him until Isla could get Sydney down there to catch Dixon out.”

  Hyacinth’s chin rose, and when she spoke, there wasn’t a trace of regret in her voice. “Yes, and I’d do it again if I had to.”

  Lachlan’s back went rigid. “Did you ever think, for a single moment, of what he would have done to you if he’d figured out your scheme?” His voice rose with each word, his tight control slipping. “Did it ever occur to you he might have hurt you?”

  “But he didn’t. He didn’t hurt me.” She stepped closer to him, and laid her hand on his arm. “Look at me, Lachlan.”

  The stark anguish on Lachlan’s face, when at last he turned to her, made Hyacinth’s heart splinter to pieces inside her chest.

  “He ripped your gown.” He caught the torn bit of silk between his fingers. “He ripped your gown.”

  Those were his words, but his words didn’t matter. Her gown didn’t matter. What mattered were the words hidden between the ones he spoke, the fear and love tucked between each syllable.

  Hyacinth heard the words he didn’t say.

  I couldn’t bear to see you hurt…

  She raised her hand to touch his face. “My gown, Lachlan. Nothing more.”

  Something flickered in his eyes. She thought he’d take her in his arms then, and every part of her ached to be held by him, to let the steady beat of his heart against her cheek chase away the memory of Lord Dixon’s touch.

  He didn’t. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist, drew her hand away from his face, and stepped back. “I told you never to sacrifice yourself for me again.”

  “Yes.” It was the truth. Hyacinth didn’t try to deny it.

  His eyes grew darker, and his hands clenched into fists. “Why, then?”

  Why. She wanted to say, because it wasn’t a sacrifice. She wanted to say, because I’d do anything to keep you from being hurt again. She wanted to say, because I didn’t have a choice.

  She wanted to say, you already know why.

  But in the end, she didn’t say any of those things. Or perhaps she said them all, just in far fewer words. “Because I love you, Lachlan.”

  And oh, it was so easy to say it. She’d thought it would be difficult—she’d been afraid she’d hesitate, or stammer—but then those words had been hovering on her lips almost since the first moment she saw him. They’d been poised on her tongue, just waiting for her to speak them aloud.

  His mouth opened, and his throat worked, but no sound emerged.

  A tremor shot through her at his silence, but she’d said what was in her heart, and she wouldn’t take it back, even if she could. Hyacinth gathered her courage, stepped closer, wrapped her arms around his waist, and buried her face against his chest.

  He smelled so good, like fresh air and the outdoors, and something else, something earthy, like…heather. Scottish heather, woody and mossy, with just a faint hint of honeysuckle. She pressed her face into his neck, inhaled deeply, and wondered if one could become drunk on a scent.

  A scent, or a smile, or a man’s gentle hands…

  “Go to bed, Hyacinth.” He reached behind him, grasped her wrists, and tugged her hands away. “Tomorrow, when we see Finn, you’ll tell him the truth, and answer every question he asks. Do you understand me? You won’t sacrifice yourself for me—or for Isla or Ciaran—again.”

  He was staring down at her, his face so hard and still Hyacinth’s nerve nearly failed her. The other Hyacinth—the timid one—wanted to run from the room, but she could feel his struggle in the tremble of his body, in every harsh, labored breath he drew.

  He wanted her as much as she wanted him, and tonight, that was enough.

  “I’m not going to bed.” She slid her hands over his chest to his shoulders and worked his coat down his arms. His breath caught when it fell to the floor with a heavy thud, then it stopped in his chest when she loosened the buttons of his waistcoat, dragged it off him, and tossed it to the floor.

  “Don’t.” His voice was harsh. He caught her wrists in his hands again to stop her, but Hyacinth heard the pleading note hidden in the gruff command, and she saw the way his eyes darkened as he stared down at her.

  He held her fast, refusing to free her wrists, so Hyacinth leaned forward and pressed her mouth to the hollow of his throat. She felt his gasp, the convulsive movement of his throat against her lips as he tried to swallow back a moan.

  “Let go of my hands, Lachlan,” she murmured against his heated skin.

  “No, damn you.” He was fighting to catch his breath. “You’re not wasting yourself on me.”

  His words were lost in another gasp as she opened her mouth and grazed her teeth lightly over his throat. “Waste myself? No, Lachlan. It’s not a waste to give myself to the man I love.”

  “No. You can’t love me. I won’t let you.” But even as he protested, his body was straining toward her, every muscle tensed with need. “You can’t love me, leannan.”

  She laughed softly as she dragged her tongue around the curve of his ear. She nipped his earlobe, then moved lower to trail hot kisses over the bare skin revealed by the open neck of his shirt. “It’s too late, you stubborn, foolish man.”

  He threw his head back in helpless invitation, a low groan tearing loose from his chest, but a part of him was fighting her still. “No, it can’t be too late. I don’t…I can’t have you.”

  The broken, despairing note in his voice threatened to tear Hyacinth’s heart in two. “You already do.”

  “No.” His fingers tightened around her wrists. She knew he was going to try to push her away, and she knew she couldn’t let him. All at once, everything hinged on this moment, but she didn’t know what to do, or how to change his mind, to make him understand…

  So she did the only thing she could think of. She pressed her lips against the center of his chest, and spoke right into his heart. “I’m yours, Lachlan. How could I not be, when you’ve the fiercest, most loving heart I’ve ever known? You’re a good man, Lachlan—the best of men, and my heart has chosen you.”

  He didn’t answer, or speak at all, but just when Hyacinth was on the verge of despair, he drew in a long, shuddering breath. His fingers went slack around her wrists, and then his arms closed around her, and he buried his face in her hair.

  He held her like that for a long time, neither of them speaking. At last, she raised her eyes to his, and reached up to take his face in her hands. “I want more than just your arms around me, Lachlan. I want all of you.”

  He leaned over her, his mouth hovering over hers, and Hyacinth opened her lips to him, eager to welcome him inside. His tongue found hers at once, stroking and teasing until she was panting from the delicious torment. She sank her fingers into his thick, dark hair and held him still, her lips clinging to his
, her tongue nipping and licking into his mouth to deepen the kiss.

  “So sweet, leannan,” he whispered to her between long, slow, drugging kisses. “Dreamed of holding you like this, touching you…making you mine.”

  Hyacinth shivered at his hot breath drifting over her throat, the glide of his lips over the sensitive skin of her neck. She writhed and squirmed to press closer to him, to touch her bare skin to his, but she was frustrated by his shirt, and what felt like endless layers of silk gown and boned corset.

  “Too many clothes.” Her cheeks heated at her own shamelessness, but she grasped a fold of his shirt and tugged it loose from his breeches, then slid her hands up the solid curve of his spine. His skin was warm, and stretched taut over the rippling muscles of his back.

  The half-grin she loved so much drifted over his lips, and he reached behind him and pulled the shirt over his head.

  “Oh.” Her breath caught in her throat when his chest and stomach were bared to her gaze. “You’re so…”

  She trailed off, because she’d never seen anything as beautiful as he was, and she wasn’t sure a woman was supposed to call a man beautiful. She’d known he was strong—a coat, a waistcoat, layers of linen and wool—they couldn’t disguise the power of his body, but to see him like this, with those impossibly wide shoulders, the hard planes of his chest, and his smooth, perfect skin stretched over layers of muscle…

  She laid her hand against his taut belly. A hoarse groan rumbled in his chest, and his abdomen tensed and jerked at her touch.

  Her eyes darted to his face. He was watching her with heavy-lidded hazel eyes. “Do you want to touch me, leannan?” he asked, his voice husky, strained.

  She watched his face as she let her hand drift lower, her fingers tracing the dark, narrow line of hair on his belly. “Yes. Everywhere.”

  He took her hand and pressed his lips against her palm in a searing kiss, then without warning he swung her up into his arms, cradling her against his bare chest as he crossed the room and laid her down on a sofa in front of the fireplace.