by Diana Quincy
“I doubt you could look empty-headed, Miss Livingston. And even if you managed to pull off such a deception, your rather impressive writings would give you away.”
She crooked her lips, drawing his attention to her mouth. Unlike the lean, spare lines of her body, her lips were plump and succulently rounded. A sudden, unexpected urge to taste them assailed him. Startled, he shoved it away.
“As if you have read my essays.”
It took him a moment to refocus on their conversation. Ah yes, her essays. “Indeed I have. And I have enjoyed them.” Her obvious surprise amused him. They took another lavish twirl. “Even if your point is somewhat misguided.”
She stiffened, indignation shining in those brilliant eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your essays on the Luddites are brilliantly written, of course. However, I find the sentiment in them to be rather naive.” He smiled to realize he was enjoying the conversation. “You have an unfortunate tendency to romanticize the machine wreckers. There can be no legitimate excuse for behaving in an unlawful manner.”
Her nostrils flared. “Machinery is driving down their wages at a time when food prices have never been higher,” she said heatedly. “The fires have died in their hearths, and their children are starving. I think you, sir, are the one who is naive.”
Her eyes were even lovelier when lit with passion. Desire warmed his groin. Devil take it. What was the matter with him? “The life of the operative class has never been ideal,” he responded, trying to ignore his twitching prick. “Machinery could ultimately be advantageous for everyone, including our working people.”
She wrinkled her nose. “It is certainly so for the factory owners who achieve higher profits by decreasing wages and reducing the number of hours worked.”
She was no empty-headed chit. Refreshing. The throbbing in his head began to ease. Eager to engage Miss Livingston in an animated debate on the subject, Cam began to respond, but the swelling music cut him short. The movement reached a crescendo making it difficult to converse at all.
…
As she danced with the Marquess of Camryn, Charlotte became acutely aware of the envious gazes burning into her back by the marriage-minded maidens in attendance. They needn’t worry. Camryn only danced with her out of courtesy, which suited her perfectly. She much preferred the forward thinkers in her circles, intellectuals who concerned themselves with pressing social problems. Even if they weren’t particularly exciting.
Unlike the Marquess of Camryn. With his gilded looks and lithely muscled form, he exuded a blatant physicality that made a girl’s insides quiver. Even when she should know better.
“Well, Miss Livingston,” he said when the music softened, the candlelight shimmering through the rumpled waves of his amber hair. “Clearly I have been negligent in not asking for a spot on your dance card. You must promise me a waltz each time we meet.”
She smiled with genuine amusement. “Are you taking pity on a wallflower, my lord?”
“Hardly.” Camryn regarded her through lowered lashes, drawing her attention to the tiny specks of gold glittering in his sea-green eyes. They were laughing eyes, which crinkled at the corners even when he wasn’t smiling, giving the impression of perpetual amusement. “Surely you are aware that you are the last woman deserving of pity.” He spoke softly as if his own words surprised him. “Rather, it is the gentleman who falls under your spell who deserves sympathy.”
“Oh?” To her annoyance, her heart fluttered. “Do tell, why is that?”
“I sense there are very few men who would be a match for you.” He answered in measured tones, as though the thought had just occurred to him. “Most would be helpless to resist your charms.”
This time, her heart didn’t merely flutter; it thumped so hard she feared he’d notice it knocking beneath her gown. “I’m afraid I’ve never been accused of possessing charms before.”
“That’s just it. They are well hidden, but those fortunate enough to glimpse them would be utterly defeated long before they comprehended what was occurring.”
Irritated at herself for allowing him to fluster her, she forced a stilted laugh. “You have a very talented tongue, my lord.”
“I do give it my best effort,” he answered in a velvety tone.
Heat flooded her body. It didn’t seem like they were talking about the same thing anymore. Lord, it was better when he ignored her. The way Camryn regarded her now prompted a curious warmth to ooze through her.
“Goodness, it’s close in here,” she said, eager to be away from him. The man emanated an energy that made her nervous, which was absolutely ridiculous. She, of all people, knew what a rakehell he could be. Lawks, the images were branded on her brain.
Camryn’s bronze face creased into a frown. “Are you unwell? You do appear flushed.” He waltzed her toward the open terrace doors, coming to a stop in front of them. Releasing her, he offered his arm. “Perhaps some fresh air will do you good.”
Drat. Charlotte could think of no graceful way to disoblige him. Resigned, she took his arm, strolling across the terrace where other guests also mingled, their light chatter filling the night. She sucked the brisk air deep into her lungs, its cool sharpness filled her chest, contrasting with the warm, muscled arm beneath her hand.
He examined her face. “Better?”
No. “Yes, thank you. I am well. Truly.” She smoothed her free hand over front bodice of her dress. “I am not much for large routs. To be truthful, I avoid them whenever possible.”
He nodded in agreement. “As do I.”
“I came for Willa as she is my dearest friend. Is that the reason you are in attendance?”
“In part. I also have business to attend to.”
“Business? Cheshire is a long way from Town.”
“Not the lords. I have a factory near here.”
The brisk air turned icy sharp in her lungs. Halting, she pulled her hand from his arm. “A factory?”
He placed a hand against his chest. “Surely, you don’t hold to the Ton notion that engaging in enterprise is beneath a gentleman?”
Tension strained the muscles across the back of her shoulders. “What kind of factory?”
“I have a textile mill.”
“I should have known.” Her chest burned at the realization the Marquess of Camryn was far worse than a mere rakehell. “You are an industrialist.”
“You take offense because I dabble in enterprise?”
“Dabble?” Her voice rose. “Your so-called dabbling leaves textile artisans with no way to provide for their families.”
“Mechanized looms are the way of the future, as we’ve just discussed.” He spoke in a calm, almost offhand, manner, as if wrecking people’s lives came as naturally to him as strolling on the terrace. “Perhaps you’d care to visit one of my factories to investigate for yourself.”
“I know all about how workers are treated in those places, my lord.” It wasn’t as though she hadn’t visited factories before. She’d seen people working in filthy, overheated buildings with no ventilation. Dust choked the air, and floating fibers crept into the workers’ lungs, stealing their breath. The child laborers often fell ill from moving between the sweltering heat of the workroom and the cold, damp outdoor air. Many of the youngest gasped and wheezed, their lungs inflamed. He dropped his proffered arm. “You know nothing of my factories.”
Factories. As in, more than one. “I fully comprehend starving weavers are cheated out of their livelihoods by your mechanized looms. All so men like you can fatten their already considerable purses.” Charlotte’s entire body quivered. “And the deplorable working conditions in factories such as yours are well known.” She strode away, unable to bear being in the presence of a man responsible for devastating so many lives. She realized they’d walked well beyond the other guests and were quite alone on the section of terrace that hugged the side of the manor.
Long, implacable fingers closed around her upper arm, a vise impeding her departure. �
��How dare you presume to touch me.” She spun around, indignation swelling in her chest. “Unhand me this instant.”
Camryn leaned closer, until his flushed face was inches from hers. “What gives you leave to make ignorant assumptions about my character?” Although the words were low and contained, they simmered with power and aggression.
“I make no presumptions about the quality of your character. Your actions speak for themselves.”
“Do they now?” His musky, masculine scent blanketed her, making Charlotte aware of just how close he stood. She could smell the flinty, fruity aroma of champagne on his breath. Waves of tension vibrated off his body, rolling over onto hers. Something shifted in her belly.
Camryn’s consuming gaze held her captive, as surely as if her feet were rooted into the stone terrace. The air around them crackled, charged with something more than anger. Charlotte inhaled and tried to fill her lungs. Just before Camryn’s lips came crashing down on hers.
Chapter Two
Charlotte’s first instinct was to shove him away. Only her thoughts scattered like birds responding to the crack of a gunshot the instant Camryn’s mouth touched hers.
Hard and pressing at first, his lips demanded a response. Then she felt his sharp intake of breath, and his mouth gentled. Lips that were both firm and soft slid against hers, taking thoughtful, entrancing nips. He even tasted good, a mix of crisply sweet champagne and something uniquely, ardently male. If passion had a taste, this must be it.
She glowed with delicious heat, from her heart to her stomach, and to other places she usually didn’t give much thought to.
He gave a throaty murmur, as though he’d sampled something delectable. Strong, sure hands slipped around her waist, drawing her closer. His tongue, wet and warm, flickered against the seam of her lips. The movement shocked her back to her sensible self, and she pulled away, her heart clamoring so hard she thought it might burst out of her chest.
Camryn’s face was flushed. His eyes lit with surprise and something much more elemental, almost savage. He stepped closer.
She drew back. “Don’t,” she whispered shakily. “I wonder, my lord, have you no shame?”
To her horror, she realized she was in danger of swooning. She turned away, hoping he wouldn’t notice, praying her tottering limbs wouldn’t fail her before she stumbled back to the safety of the ballroom.
…
When Miss Livingston pulled away from his kiss, the astonishment and haze of desire in her endless eyes sent unfettered lust rocketing straight to Cam’s prick. Her high, angled cheeks were flushed with the rush of passion, her plush lips pink and swollen. She’d looked considerably less plain. In fact, she’d looked almost…appealing.
Struggling to calm his raging body, he locked his gaze on her long, lithe form as she made her retreat. He paid scant attention to the single leaf that broke free of her indignantly swishing skirts and fluttered quietly away.
…
That evening he slept fitfully, jolting awake just after dawn in an agitated state. After throwing on some clothes, he headed for the stables, anxious for a solitary ride before the rest of the guests stirred. Restless clouds loomed overhead, casting a gray pall over the rolling landscape. As he stalked through the grass, the morning dew left damp speckles on his worn leather riding boots.
He barely noted his surroundings, for his thoughts were full of last evening and the source of his discomposure. He hadn’t meant to kiss Miss Livingston. Charlotte. And he wasn’t quite sure why he had. One minute he’d been furious at her presumption to judge him. She had no business casting aspersions on his factories and the treatment of his workers, which she knew nothing about. The next thing he knew, his lips were consuming hers, devouring the nectar he found there, as if he couldn’t get enough.
Cam plowed both hands through his hair. His reaction perplexed him. With her slender form and serious nature, Charlotte wasn’t the type of female who normally attracted him. She couldn’t be more different from the voluptuous, flamboyant females with whom he usually consorted. And, yet, kissing her, holding her willowy softness in his arms, had set his blood rushing and his heart pumping as though he’d run the race of his life.
All in all, it had been anything but mundane.
The realization that he’d taken liberties with a gently bred lady, an innocent, also plagued him. It was a line he’d never crossed before. Perhaps he’d overstepped because Charlotte didn’t seem innocent. She wasn’t young and foolish like most coquettes on the marriage mart.
His unfathomable attraction to her might also stem from the challenge she presented. Up until last night, she’d barely acknowledged his existence. Then again, maybe he just itched to wipe the look of disdain off her face. Or silence the insults that flew out of her mouth. Whatever his motivation, an apology was owed and he intended to deliver it.
As he approached the stables, an appealing sprinkling of female laughter cut into his thoughts. She appeared, and his chest felt lighter. Partially visible inside the stable door, Charlotte conversed with someone Cam couldn’t see from his vantage point. Leaning forward, she laughed openly, with warmth and affection, her incomparable blue eyes glittering while she replied to something her companion said. The movement took her out of his line of sight until she pulled back again with an unguarded expression on her face. She reached out to touch her companion’s arm with shocking intimacy. Irritation stabbed Cam’s gut.
“Good day, Miss Livingston,” he called out. “I see I am not the only early riser at Fairview Manor this week.” She looked in his direction and her eyes widened once she registered his presence.
When she took a smooth step away from whoever she’d been talking to, Cam quickened his step, eager to see whose company she so enjoyed. Rounding the door to the cavernous stable, he saw no one at first, except for a groom walking away. Cam glanced around. Surely she wouldn’t allow such familiarity with a stable boy. He looked back at Charlotte and any questions or gentlemanly intentions he might have had flew right out of his head.
She wasn’t wearing a riding costume. No, she’d clad herself in riding breeches just like any buck. His cousin, Addie, a first-rate hoyden of whom he was very fond, had been known to do so on occasion, but never in front of polite company. And certainly never to this effect.
The way the fawn-colored fabric caressed Charlotte’s subtle curves looked anything but masculine. Cam’s eyes widened while another part of his anatomy stirred with interest.
“What a surprise to find you up so early, my lord.”
“Are you going riding, Miss Livingston?”
She stretched her arms out at her sides as though showing off her clothing. “It would seem so, yes.”
The movement drew Cam’s eyes to her breeches again and the entrancing way the clinging material swept over the delicate turn of her hips, down a length of leg that seemed to go on and on. “If that is an example of your usual riding attire, I can see why poor Mrs. Livingston is often scandalized.”
She glanced down at her breeches, her eyes widening as though she’d quite forgotten them. “Oh,” she said. “I never encounter other guests this early. I’m usually safely back in my chamber before anyone awakes.” Her gaze flickered over him. “I must confess I am shocked to see you awake before noon. One would think last night’s activities should have quite worn you out.”
Did she refer to their argument? Or the kiss? “I am especially glad to have awakened early this morning.” He gave his smile a roguish slant. “Nothing in my bedchamber is as entrancing as the sight of you in those breeches.”
She flushed, vibrant slashes of pink against her pale complexion. Funny, today he found her to be far less commonplace. Those extraordinary azure eyes, set off by a straight nose and plump, pink lips, shone brightly against smooth skin. She was refreshingly free of artifice. What might have struck him as plain yesterday seemed appealing in a natural way this morning. Especially since she wasn’t looking at him with outright derision.
&n
bsp; “Nathan is saddling a mount for me.” Her casual use of the groom’s Christian name distracted him from the curve of her hips. So she knew the groom’s name. Unusual for a visiting guest.
The groom she called Nathan, a slim, tall, dark-haired cull, walked her horse forward. “There you go, miss. Have a care while you are out this morning. The gamekeeper is having trouble with poachers again.” He patted the horse’s flanks. “And Flame here can be skittish around sudden noises.” He glanced at Cam. “Good morning, my lord.” Cam noted the groom’s tone stopped just short of insolence.
Cam inclined his head, motioning for one of the other stable boys to saddle his stallion. Turning his attention back to Charlotte, he said, “Perhaps you’ll permit me to join you.”
“Lud, Camryn, you needn’t be polite on my account. After all, His Grace isn’t here to mandate it. If you slipped out early to enjoy a solitary ride, I won’t encumber you with my company.”
“It’s no encumbrance unless you are a novice rider.” He baited her on purpose in hopes of seeing her eyes flash again as they had last evening. “I do like to give my steed a good run.”
Her crystal-blue eyes lit up just as he’d hoped. “As do I,” she said, bristling at having her riding prowess called into question.
“Besides, if there are poachers afoot you shouldn’t be riding alone.”
“Very well, let us ride together.” She stroked the horse’s neck with a smooth, pale hand. The tapered line of her slender fingers struck him as surprisingly feminine and delicate for such a capable female. “Flame and I shall get on splendidly, shan’t we, girl?”
A slight, young groom brought Cam’s powerful black stallion forward, keeping a tight grip on the bridle as the massive animal snorted and pranced with anticipation.
“That’s quite a beast you have there.” Charlotte ran an admiring gaze over Hercules’ elegant, arched neck, down to the pronounced musculature rippling under the animal’s glistening midnight coat. “He must be quite the challenge.”
