“You say that as if it were a dictate,” she had said.
“It is. Make no mistake—if you come to the ball without the locket and you dance with me, you are sealing our agreement. You are giving me your solemn word that you will obey me in all things, over the following four weeks, to the best of your ability.”
Her solemn word. A measured risk to trust him.
“Lady Cranfield?”
She offered him a trembling smile and placed her gloved hand on his arm. His muscles were tight beneath the superfine cloth. His body heat radiated to hers. He took her hand. A brief, hard squeeze. It reminded her of how he had held her wrists, holding her firm, resisting her struggles.
A wave of heat flashed over her. Electrifying her senses. Tightening her nipples.
“Good girl,” he said, just audible for her.
Warmth curled through her tummy like pure, liquid honey. She glanced up, her smile steady now.
He grinned and winked at her. The shared secret of their intended affaire thrummed between them. Another wave of excitement tingled through her, stronger this time, filling her body with energy and strength to face the crowd of curious eyes. She allowed him to lead her across the floor to the line of dancers. As they approached, all eyes seemed to narrow in on her. The gentlemen ogled her person, their expressions speculative, appreciative. The ladies weighed her with their stares as if competitively sizing up her worth.
She looked across to Ruel. His eyes were distant, his expression slightly bored. A knot formed in her stomach and it was hard to remember the feeling of their connection just a moment before. The dance began. They did not speak when the steps brought them together. At the end, he kissed her hand and winked at her again.
Then he left her.
The temperature in the room seemed to suddenly drop and her energy drained.
“Other than the one dance, I shan’t even talk to you. We shall leave our attachment a secret, for your sake. However, you will stay at least until after the midnight supper and you must dance with whoever asks.”
His words from the night before came back to her. He was so demanding of her and was it fair? Demanding that she leave off William’s locket. Demanding that she put off her mourning. Demanding that she dance with whomever asked. Ruel had allowed her no quarter, anywhere.
He said she needed these things in her life—measured risks. Something to shore up her bravery to face life’s randomness. But maybe his way was too extreme. Then again, her way had yielded failure thus far.
She hated this sort of situation. It wasn’t like playing chess, where one could predict the effect of the next move. There were too many unknown variables. She was giving Ruel too much say over what she did, too much power. But what had she to lose here, except social face? She wouldn’t be dancing just because Ruel had said she must. It would still be her decision.
It had nothing to do with craving the warm sensation that curled through her insides every time he said “good girl” in his velvet-smooth voice.
“Lady Cranfield?”
Anne startled from her thoughts.
Lord Parwick smiled at her and offered his arm. “Would you care to dance?”
His eyes were so open and friendly. Deciding to trust in the moment, she made the choice to accept and let him lead her away. Set after set, gentlemen asked her to dance. It was very different from her Seasons. The men looked at her as if she were interesting, they spoke and jested and flirted with her as if they wanted her to think they were interesting.
Meanwhile, Jon danced, talking and laughing with other ladies.
At the midnight supper, Jon escorted Cherry. From the corner of her eye, Anne watched as he spent the entire meal actively charming the young widow.
A cold sickness settled in Anne’s stomach. A sickness tinged in green—jealousy. She didn’t want to admit it, even to herself. Indignation stiffened her spine. She turned away from her plate of sumptuous food and studied Mr Kean.
Candlelight made his dark red hair brighter, almost like William’s flaming locks. However, Kean’s jaw was longer, more square, his nose bigger. Though he was their closest neighbour, Kean belonged to Richard’s circle of friends, so William had stubbornly snubbed him. Richard and William had been cousins and lifelong, bitter rivals.
Kean turned and returned her gaze with green eyes that were kind, tolerant yet somehow remote at the same time. As if he were a superior being roughing it amidst the peasants, instead of being the only untitled gentleman invited to spend these two weeks at Whitecross Hall.
Yet he had real breeding. He didn’t lower his gaze to her low cut bodice, as every other gentleman’s had tonight, as if they were all sizing her up for an affaire. However, he had been most insistent on escorting her in to supper.
“We served together,” he said without preamble, apparently assuming she was privy to his thoughts. It seemed to be his habit.
“Pardon me, Mr Kean?”
“Ruel and I. We served together in the dragoons.” He tilted his wineglass to his lips and took a sip. “Well, more precisely, I served under him as a lieutenant.”
“And were you a true and faithful servant?” Anne asked, aping Francesca and Lady Scott’s flirtatious tones.
A grin transformed his handsomeness into sheer masculine magnificence. “I daresay I still am, Lady Cranfield.” Kean lowered his voice. “He asked me to partner you for supper.”
Heat suffused her face. She bent her head down and to the side, trying to conceal it. Sweat soaked her gloves and her palms grew itchy. “Did he indeed?”
“Indeed. And how could I refuse to escort such a lovely and enchanting lady?”
She glanced up through her lashes.
Kean was staring at her so intensely that she immediately dropped her gaze back to her plate.
“I think he wanted me to chase away all your admirers. Little did he realise, I am one of them.”
At his warm, intimate tone, she twisted her hands in her lap. So this was flirting? Good God, it was like an ordeal. She wished she could simply run and hide.
“Fortunately for him, I regard him as a brother. I won’t step out of line.”
Jon’s laugh seemed to rise above the other voices. He certainly seemed to be enjoying the widow’s silly banter. A jarring pang stabbed her heart. She made herself look up and give Kean a smile. Dazzling, she hoped. “Should I be relieved or disappointed about that?”
Kean’s pupils widened and he let his sensual lips part slightly. Then he laughed, deeply and loudly enough for the sound to carry over the other conversations. “Lady Cranfield, what a surprise you are.”
She forced a merry-sounding laugh and reached for her claret glass. Ruel stared at her. The moment their eyes met, he tapped his glass, then briefly held up two fingers.
Her heart sped up. But she’d only had a couple of glasses. He had no call to limit how much she drank. She tore her gaze away from his, lifted her glass and downed half of its contents.
The wine didn’t taste nearly as sweet as it should have. His eyes still burned into her—she knew it. Her stomach gave a little anxious lurch. To soothe herself, she quaffed the remainder of her wine. But soothe herself why? She glanced up at Ruel, at his tightly held jaw and his disapproving expression. She nearly dropped her glass as her stomach sank with shame.
But why? Just because she’d made that ridiculous agreement for the four weeks with him—to be his little wench—it should not affect the way she felt inside about herself.
“What’s wrong, my lady?” Kean asked.
She turned back to him. “I feel just a bit overheated. Maybe I’ve had too much wine.”
“The meal will soon be over—please allow me to escort you outside.”
* * * *
Anne listened with half her attention to Kean relating some tale about his days in the dragoons. The cool night breeze did very little to ease her overheated nerves. Her stomach remained heavy—foreboding rode her hard.
She glanced, for wh
at must be the hundredth time, at the French doors leading back to the ballroom.
Lamplight shone in glowing orange tones upon Ruel’s pale blond hair. His expression, customarily fierce, betrayed nothing of his thoughts as he exited the ballroom to come onto the balcony.
She caught her breath and her body came to attention, as if someone had pulled her strings.
Kean bid her farewell and left her alone with Ruel.
She glanced up at him. His gaze, so intently focused on her, gave nothing away. He must be angry. He would berate her. Of course he would. She’d always detested being berated over anything. Not that it had been a common occurrence in her life. Her parents had left her to be raised by servants, who dared not push Saxby’s daughter too far, and William had lived apart from her, in Mayfair. Other than Nellie, no one had ever cared much what she did, unless it interfered with some momentary whim of theirs.
This was very different.
He took her arm, gently yet firmly.
She watched lamplight play over his strong cheekbones. Dry mouthed, she licked her lips. She should think up a good apology. However, she wasn’t good at that sort of a thing. She simply avoided others as much as possible and thus avoided offending them. Why had she drunk the wine after he had signalled to her to stop? Yes… It galled her to admit it but, yes, she’d been jealous of the pretty widow.
The shameful word echoed in her mind, her heart beating harder as if punctuating each repeat.
Jealous, jealous, jealous.
Just like a pathetic ribbon girl. She deserved every single word he would hurl at her. She braced herself.
“In an hour,” he said in a calm tone, “I am coming to your chamber. Be ready for me.”
Chapter Eight
An hour later, Anne opened the door to her chamber.
Jon was standing there, his eyes reflecting the flames in her hearth and glittering with such intense lust—she’d never seen anything like it in a man’s eyes.
Could he hear her heart beating? Surely so. He must be able to.
He grabbed her by the arms so suddenly that she gasped. He spun her swiftly. She sucked in her breath. He kicked the door shut, then he pressed her to it. He brought his mouth down on hers. He kissed her. Bruising. Demanding. Taking what he wanted as if he were ravenous for her.
By the time he raised his head, she was gasping for breath. Stunned. Bemused. He rested his hand on her collarbone. “You’re mine now, Nan.”
His tone was even more demanding than his kiss had been, yet his expression was calm. Controlled. “What did I say I would require from you?”
Her stomach felt as if it had gone lighter than air, followed by a burst of heat and almost pleasurable anticipation.
“I asked a question, Anne.”
She rocked on her heels. “Well…”
“Well, what?”
“Well, this obedience business is what I wanted to negotiate with you.”
“Nan, it’s non-negotiable. You made a bargain with me. One month of your total submission to my will in exchange for my help.”
She could say nothing to that.
He touched the belt of her wrapper, running his fingers over the velvet with sensual leisure; she ached to feel them upon herself. “This shade of red becomes you.”
He slowly pulled the knot loose, then pushed the garment off her shoulders. It fell at her feet. Her thin muslin nightdress offered little protection as his gaze roamed over her body—her nipples and internal muscles tightened under his intense regard. He placed his hands on her shoulders and pressed gently.
“On your knees, Nan.”
His voice was implacable. She wanted to deny him but her knees went all rubbery, making it easier to do as he asked than to argue. She dropped to her knees on the plush carpet and found herself staring at the large bulge in his trousers.
Being limited on how much claret she could drink was ludicrous and she intended to tell him that. “My lord—”
He interrupted her. “When we are alone, I am Jon. In the seven years since my grandfather died, I have been ‘my lorded’ unto sickness.”
“Jon…”
He touched her head and caressed her hair. “Don’t speak now, just listen.”
She gaped at him. Don’t speak? Did he think she was going to play the child for him? She looked up at him and opened her mouth.
His jaw tensed almost imperceptibly but a touch of approbation entered his eyes and he grasped her hair in his hand and tightened it.
She closed her mouth as a thrill chased through her insides straight through to her sex. A frisson of irritation followed. Her faithless body seemed to have a mind of its own where he was concerned.
“No doubt you think me unfair, demanding that you limit your consumption of claret. Nevertheless, to be brave in the way you need to be, you must learn to face your own feelings, not hide from them in drink. You are possessed of a self-destructive sort of wilfulness that I find unattractive.”
Why was she playing along with this nonsense?
He traced a fingertip between her eyes. “Don’t think so hard, just feel.”
She hadn’t realised she’d been frowning. With effort, she relaxed her face.
He caressed her hair. “Good girl.”
He bent and his warm breath blew over her cheek as he leaned over her. His familiar scent surrounded her and she wanted to turn to him and have him take her into his arms. He took one of her wrists in each hand. His touch thrilled her and, thinking her would embrace her again, she let him do what he would. However, he didn’t pull her arms towards his body. Instead, he moved them to the small of her back. “Clasp your hands here and keep your back straight. Hold this position.”
He let her hands go and she allowed them to fall apart. Why wouldn’t he hold her as she wanted?
He pressed them tightly together again. “Keep them clasped tightly, Nan, else I shall tie them together.”
Alarm tingled through her, followed by disbelief. “Tie—”
“Do not speak.” He leaned closer to her and his body brushed hers as he placed his fingers over her lips. His firm tone, his scent, his closeness all conspired to make desire flare between her legs. Wetness flowed from her sex. His fingertips brushed her lips and she couldn’t stop herself from pressing back, kissing his fingers. To her horror, she allowed her tongue to steal out and avidly lick those caressing digits. Over the steadily increasing beat of her heart, she heard the catch in his breath. But he pulled his hand away.
“This is punishment. For disobeying me about the claret.” He pointed to a framed painting of a vase of roses on the opposite wall. “Focus there. Don’t look away.”
He left her there. A moment later she heard the ropes in her bed creak as he settled on it. She felt foolish and strangely bereft without his company. It was a hard position to hold. She wasn’t used to sitting this way. Nonetheless, she held her back straight and kept her hands folded behind her back and focused her eyes on the damned painting. This was so stupid. Why the devil didn’t she just get off her knees and tell him to leave? She couldn’t explain why. It might have something to with the steady slide of her own juices down the insides of her thighs.
After an eternity, his footfalls sounded, coming towards her. The sound stopped. “All right, Nan—give me your hands.”
She turned her face to his and shot him a glare.
He reached out to her. “Now.”
An overwhelming urge to take his hands warred with the more rational voice that said to resist.
He leaned over her and reached behind her, then took her wrists, pulling them to her front. “Come now, on your feet.”
She allowed him to help her to stand. Her legs were weak—wobbly—and she swayed. He pressed the small of her back, forcing her to lean against his hard frame. When most of the blood had returned to her legs, he gently pushed her away from him.
She studied his face, seeking any hint of what was going through his mind.
“Nan, when I am
giving you instruction, you will keep your eyes downcast unless I say otherwise.”
Without thinking—with such alacrity that it made her feel foolish—she glanced down.
“You may apologise to me now.”
At the sound of his deep tones, her heart raced in panic. As if it mattered whether she apologised to his satisfaction or not. It didn’t. She’d done nothing wrong.
“A simple “I am sorry” will suffice,” he said.
She frowned.
“Don’t think so hard, Nan.” He gave her a sharp smack on her bottom. The irreverent gesture should have insulted her. William would never have accosted her person in such a manner. Instead, she found herself warming inside in a most disquieting way. A sweet ache blossomed between her legs and she longed to press her pelvis against his body.
“Three little words, Nan. Speak them, then think of it no more.” He stroked her buttocks and her insides melted.
“I am sorry.”
Her hand shot up and touched her lips. But it was too late. She’d already given him what he wanted. What did it mean? Did it mean she was a degree or two less her own person? A fear niggled at the edges of her mind that she’d never get back that bit of autonomy.
“Tell me.”
His question startled her. “Tell you what?”
“Tell me what is making you frown like that.”
She remained silent.
“Things will go so much more smoothly between us if you will be forthcoming with me.”
“I don’t like any of this.”
“Little liar.”
No one had called her ‘little’ in years and years. But up against his tall, powerful frame, she did feel little.
“I am not lying.”
“And you’re a liar twice over. I can smell your arousal. I can see your nipples pointed against your nightgown. I should punish you again, for lying to me. But you‘re new to this, between us.”
He touched the buttons on her nightdress.
She clutched at his hand. “What are you doing?”
“I want to see your body.” He began slipping the buttons undone.
A Measured Risk Page 9
