by Gill, Tamara
She tiptoed up to the desk and peered over. Mary stumbled back, knocking the chair over that was behind her and with a loud thump, she landed on her bottom.
A muffling curse came from the other side of the room, but Mary didn’t bother to wait for them to stand and see her there. She bolted for the door into the library, slamming her father’s office door firmly behind her as she ran as fast as she could in silk slippers and a gown that was not made to assist with such physical activity.
Mary left the library, coming into her mama’s private parlor and slammed head long into the duke of Carlton.
Again…
His arms wrapped about her and for a second time, they went down, Mary landing on top of him. The duke made an oomph sound as he took the brunt of the fall.
This time Mary shuffled off him as fast as she could, determined to leave, to get away from everyone and go to her room. Tears stung her eyes at what a silly little dupe she’d been the past few days. Thinking that Lord Weston might actually be a candidate for marriage. To like what he saw in her and be the first and last man to kiss her properly. Shame washed through her at not trusting herself, at not listening to the duke and allowing the little bit of attention he afforded her these past days to give rise to hopes that marriage to a man who suited her character was a possibility.
She was a fool.
“Mary wait,” the duke said, catching up to her and pulling her to a stop. “You’re upset. What has happened.”
At that very moment Lord Weston and Lady Hectorville ran into her father’s library, both Mary and the duke turned to look at them. They were still disheveled but at least dressed. Heat bloomed on Mary’s cheeks, and she turned her back on them. She could hear Lord Weston start toward them, but the duke moved away, slamming the parlor room door closed and cutting them both off. The snip of the lock echoed in the room before a comforting arm came about her shoulder, leading her toward a nearby chair.
“You need not tell me what you saw, I only needed to look at them to know what has happened. Do you wish for me to tell your parents of Lord Weston’s and her ladyship’s actions?”
Mary shook her head, shamed that a part of her, the other part of her that was not affronted or shocked by what she saw, was also a little curious. Jealous even. Were men and women able to do such things to each other? If they were, she’d never known of it.
“No, your grace, that won’t be necessary.” She stood, throwing him a small smile. He continued to sit, glancing up at her and blast it all he was so handsome. With his strong jaw and chiseled cheekbones, he was an English Adonis.
Before her sat one of the most sought-after gentlemen in England, and just like the rest of them, Mary was always the good-natured friend, always to be sidelined as the dependable, intelligent sister to the future Earl of Lancaster. Never a lady to seek out, to court, and possibly steal a kiss or two from. Oh no, she was too much of a wallflower, a bluestocking to be seen as anything else than that. “Thank you for your concern, but I think I shall retire to my room. I do not feel like socializing any longer today.”
Mary left without another word, and just as she expected the duke did not try and stop her. And why would he? He didn’t look at her as anything but a friend. A woman to respect but little else.
It seemed to be the story of her life and she was sick of it.
The eve of the Mistletoe Ball arrived with a deluge of snow, but even with the chill of the outdoors, it could not dampen the excitement from the house guests over the festive ball.
Dale stood at the side of Lord and Lady Lancaster’s ballroom and watched Lord Weston flounce about like the little peacock that he was. The bastard having been caught with Lady Hectorville, his front falls still gaping from being open, left little imagination as to what he’d been doing with her ladyship. Dale didn’t even need to ask Mary what she’d seen.
That the poor girl had harbored feelings toward Lord Weston was unfortunate. The man wouldn’t give the chit a second glance. Too opinionated and if Dale was correct, Mary would be too intelligent for such a prick, and the gentleman was too thick to know it. With his own self-importance, that was one trait Dale knew Lord Weston wouldn’t tolerate in a bride.
Still, Mary didn’t deserve to be taught this lesson in the way that she had been, and he would ensure he sought her out tonight and danced with her.
A little tittering went through the sea of guests and Dale cast his eye across the room, trying to see what everyone was in a little fuss about.
He felt his mouth gape and he closed it with a snap. “Damnation,” he muttered, remembering to breathe. His eyes feasted on Lady Mary as she walked into the room. How had she remained hidden for so long when there was such a beauty under all those atrocious gowns her mother had made her wear? More worrying perhaps, was how on earth he’d missed seeing such a prize.
Tonight Mary sparkled like a rare diamond amongst paste.
Arm in arm with her closest friend Louise, she walked through the guests, welcoming and smiling as was her nature. Dale watched as she passed Lord Weston and Lady Hectorville, pleased to see she refused to be lured into conversation, even though the prig Lord Weston still tried, even after his shameful actions that she had happened upon.
The thought made Dale hate him even more and under no circumstances would he allow his lordship to touch one hair on her dark, pretty head.
The man who won Lady Mary’s heart would be worthy of her affections. As her brother’s best friend, he would ensure that was so, and guarantee that Peter too followed this rule. A rarity such as Mary should not marry anyone who did not deserve her.
Dale narrowed his eyes, the thought of her married to someone else, laughing and enjoying herself as she now was, did not fill him with pleasure. If anything, it soured his mood. He rubbed a hand across his jaw, unsure of why it unsettled him so.
“My sister is a success, it would seem,” Peter said, coming up to Dale and pulling his gaze from her.
He nodded, schooling his features. “It would seem she is. I would warn you to keep her from Lord Weston however. I think his lordship has other ideas when it comes to marriage.”
They glanced toward the gentleman in question and Dale was glad Peter saw Lady Hectorville slide her hand along Lord Weston’s arm, their level of acquaintance obvious to anyone who’d enjoyed such house party games themselves.
“I see,” Peter said. “I will mention my concern to father, but as for Mary, well, she doesn’t seem to know that his lordship is even here.” Peter nodded toward the ballroom floor. “What are your thoughts on Lord Fairchild? He would certainly make a good husband for her. He’s titled, a good sort of fellow who doesn’t partake in anything notorious, and he has a Scottish hunting lodge even though he hails from Kent. Good game in the highlands.”
Dale turned his attention back to Mary who danced a minuet with Lord Fairchild. Her smile lit up the room and their ease of enjoyment together was clear. Mary’s face as she looked up at his lordship with something akin to enthrallment and his lordship’s was similarly pleased.
A cold knot lodged in his gut. “I know little of him, but I’ve not heard anything that would cause concern either,” Dale said, knowing if he darkened the gentleman’s name Peter would listen and would not allow his sister to be courted by him. But Dale could not act with such dishonor. He made a point of relaxing, unfisting his hands at his side. “He looks rather smitten if I’m honest,” Dale said instead. “Lady Mary may not need another Season after all.”
Peter nodded, then clapped him on the back. “I’m ashamed to say a few days ago I acted atrociously toward you.”
“In what way?” Dale thought over their conversations and couldn’t remember anything offensive.
“I practically warned you off my sister, albeit not directly, but I feel that you may have believed that to be the case. I hope I have not offended you. Blame it on sibling protectiveness, and know that I believe my concern to be an absurd notion.”
Dale glanced at P
eter sharply. “Why was it an absurd notion?”
Peter raised his brow, his eyes full of mirth. “Because you would never look at Mary in such a way. She’s not your usual type for a start and well, she may have scrubbed up better than any time before this evening, but by tomorrow she’ll be back to her normal bluestocking, wallflower self and all this will be forgotten.”
Dale turned back to watch the dancers, one in particular whose infectious laughter made his lips twitch. If only that were true. Dale had come to realize that for several days now, even before if he were honest with himself, his attention often lingered on Mary. He was keenly aware whenever she entered a room or when he saw her somewhere in the house, busy with her own pursuits.
Of all the guests here for the Christmas celebrations, Mary was by far the most interesting. And now with her newly found fashion sense, she was blossoming into a beautiful woman, comfortable with who she was, no matter whom she conversed with. She now allowed gentlemen admirers to court her and not be so cold and aloof and it made the little rough pebble she once was, sparkle into a diamond.
Not that Peter needed to know his thoughts. If their friendship was to survive, he would have to get over his growing admiration of his friend’s sister and find another lady to occupy his time and attentions.
“Of course you are right. When it comes to your sister, she is quite safe with me.” Unable to tear his eyes away from her, he drank in the vision of perfection she was. As if sensing his scrutiny, she glanced up and their eyes met. Held.
A tremor of awareness ran over him, as if she’d recognized the lie he’d just told and was calling him out on it. Within a moment she turned her attention back to Lord Fairchild and he clenched his fist as his side before excusing himself and leaving the ballroom.
He could not want Lady Mary. He ground his teeth, heading for the card room set up in Lord Lancaster’s library for the evening, in need of a small respite. He needed to get a grip on his attraction for the chit who he reminded himself, was not what he wanted.
He’d spent his whole childhood on tenterhooks with his parents arguing, he would not have a marriage where the woman might question his decisions and argue with him. Not that he could ever be violent toward a woman, but in the heat of an argument, he also knew he’d not had the best role models on how to go about such matters. The risk was too high.
He stood at the Faro table with Lord Lancaster and two other gentlemen he’d never met before, ready to lose blunt if it meant he’d forget the jewel out on the dance floor.
He would take out his frustrations here instead of with Lady Mary, where if he were able, he’d give her the first proper kiss she craved, and enjoy every blasted moment of it too.
Chapter 8
Mary left the ballroom after dancing with as many gentlemen as the time allowed before supper was called. With everyone taking repast in the dining room, she took the opportunity to leave for a moment’s peace.
While she’d enjoyed the gentlemen who paid court to her this evening, Lord Fairchild in particular, the very one whom she’d hoped to dance with most had been absent.
She walked past the library and glancing inside could not see the Duke of Carlton anywhere. So where was he? He’d not come back into the ballroom after she’d seen him during her first dance, and after settling her mama down in the dining room for supper she knew he hadn’t crept in there either.
Mary checked the usual haunts that gentlemen ventured to during such balls and parties, but the billiard room was empty and so too was the conservatory, so he wasn’t having a midnight tryst with anyone.
The idea made the pit of her stomach clench. She pushed the image aside, not wanting to imagine the duke with anyone. She paused at the threshold of a small parlor that was rarely used during the winter months due to its position and lack of sunlight throughout the day.
At least in here she could have a moment alone and regain her composure and remind herself that if she had set her cap for the duke it was only because he’d been so kind to her after finding her in distress over Lord Weston.
A gentleman such as he would never look at a woman such as herself. He was her friend, yes, but she was deluding herself if she thought anything further could come of that friendship.
Mary pushed open the door and the slither of light from the passage illuminated the lone figure sitting on the chaise staring at the unlit hearth before him.
“Your grace,” she said, coming into the room and closing the door. “Is everything well? You’re sitting in here in the dark.”
He turned and watched her; his dark hooded eyes hard to read in the shadowy room that was only somewhat illuminated by the moonlight coming in through the windows.
“You should not be in here alone with me, Mary.”
His voice sounded annoyed and she bit her lip. Maybe they were not friends after all, and she’d imagined wrong when she thought they were.
“Apologies, your grace. I shall leave you.” She turned for the door, hating the fact that her eyes smarted with rejection.
“Wait,” he said as her hand clasped the door handle.
Mary turned but didn’t venture to speak.
He stood, watching her with an intensity that sent a shiver of awareness down her spine. Just as it did when she was dancing earlier with Lord Fairchild and she’d caught the duke watching her. He looked displeased seeing her then and she couldn’t help but wonder at it. Couldn’t help but hope that it might mean he didn’t like seeing her dance with anyone but himself.
The duke ran a hand over his jaw, seemingly struggling with some inner turmoil.
“Have you received your proper kiss yet?”
She started, having not expected him to voice such a question to her. “Would you care or even wish to know if I had, your grace? Do you not have other concerns more taxing on your mind than whether I’ve been kissed or not?”
“It ought to not concern me,” he said, with a disgruntled air. “But it does.”
What did that mean? Mary walked slowly toward the duke. She couldn’t gauge his mood, but the way he stood before her, as if he were almost scared of her and would take flight at any moment, made her bolder than she’d normally be.
“To answer your question, no, I have not kissed anyone, but the night is young, and I seem to have caught the attention of a few eligible gentlemen this evening. Maybe my luck is changing,” she teased.
His grace frowned.
“You would throw yourself at anyone?”
Mary gasped. “Excuse me?” she said, shocked that he’d say such a thing to her. She wasn’t a wanton hussy. “Jealousy does not suit you, your grace.” The moment the words left her lips she regretted them. Of course he wasn’t jealous, he was merely looking out for his friend’s sister. Didn’t wish for her to make a spectacle or fool of herself.
He stepped closer and his chest brushed hers. Mary licked her lips, liking the feel of him touching her there. Perhaps there was a part of her that wanted to act a little wild, rail against the cage of conformity that she was obliged to abide in life.
Her love of the outdoors, doing things only men would normally take part in and should not exclude the fairer sex. Why should women always do as they’re told, toe the line and behave? Not cause a scandal. Why couldn’t her husband love her with a passion that suited her spirit?
“If I were to kiss you, Lady Mary, I fear that I should ruin all future kisses you should receive from other suitors, or even that of your future husband.”
His words spiked her temper and boldly she lifted her hand, running it down the lapel of his coat. The superfine material was soft to the touch, and yet beneath it lay a bed of hardness, a beating heart that even she could feel was racing beneath her palm.
“Perhaps it will be I who’ll ruin all future kisses for you, your grace. I may be an untried miss, but I’m a quick study.”
Dale stared down at the little hellion before him, her sweet face beguiled, tempting him like no other had before and he groun
d his teeth, wondering if he should kiss her and damn well prove his point that she’d never have a better instruction in the art with anyone else. He leaned down, but a feather separating their lips. This close she smelled as divine as she looked, a tempting little morsel just waiting to be gobbled up.
“Would you like me to kiss you, Mary?” He used her given name and didn’t miss the pleasure that flooded her face.
Her hand, that was still lodged firmly on his chest, slid up over his shoulder to wrap about his neck. The action brought her up hard against his chest, and through the thin silk of her gown all her delectable womanly assets pressed against him.
Her action robbed him of the opportunity to shock her a little, make her turn and run out of here. Instead, she’d met his taunt and upped the stake with a move that left him reeling.
Dale instinctively wrapped his arm about her waist, settling her snug against him and catching her gaze, now heavy with need and expectation, there was little left in him to refuse her wish.
He sealed his lips against hers, but she didn’t kiss him back, and her innocence in taking part in such pastimes should’ve been like a dose of cold water, that had him setting away and keeping her safe.
She was a maid after all. Untried and his best friend’s sister. A woman who should’ve been well and truly off limits.
His wits however, had other ideas.
Instead, he clasped her jaw, tilting her face to meet his kiss better and tempted her with small, soft brushes of his lips against hers. She opened on a sigh and he took the opportunity to delve between her lips, touching her tongue with his.
A sound of utter pleasure emanated from her and he groaned as she mimicked his actions, her own tentative tongue sliding against his.
“Damn it, Mary,” he muttered, clasping her jaw with both hands. He stared at her, beseeching her to run. She licked her bottom lip and all sense fled. Muffling a curse, he took her lips again and kissed her. Hard. She met his onslaught head-on, a quick study she certainly was, and her ability to take charge, turn the tables on him and send him reeling when she nipped his lip with a teasing air coiled heat through his veins.
