BY THE TIME Belinda returned home to face Trubridge, she had decided her best defense was a good offense, so when he arrived, she waited just until he’d stepped through the door of her drawing room before she spoke.
“I can allow you fifteen minutes, Lord Trubridge,” she said the moment he came in. “After that, I must rush off, for as I told you, I am expected at the Duchess of Margrave’s house in Grosvenor Square for an Afternoon-At-Home. I cannot be late, and you wouldn’t want me to be, for there are several young ladies attending who might be possibilities for you.”
“That,” he said dryly, “doesn’t inspire my confidence.”
She strove for an air of innocent bewilderment. “You didn’t like Miss Hunt? But you insisted that intelligence was important to you, and there’s no doubt Miss Hunt is intelligent. Quite well educated for a woman. She went to Radcliffe College. Graduated summa cum laude, I believe.”
“And if I wanted to discuss the dismal state of things over breakfast each morning, Miss Hunt might do. But I don’t.”
“Still, Geraldine is pretty, don’t you think?”
“I suppose she is, but—”
“And she’s quite rich, too—richer than Carlotta, or even Rosalie. And she’s willing to make a material marriage. She can’t inherit until she marries, you see, and she has great plans for what to do with her fortune.”
He held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. No doubt she has grand, sweeping ideas of how her money can be used to improve the world, but—”
“Don’t you care about improving the world?” Belinda asked, momentarily diverted.
“Would it matter if I did? In case you hadn’t noticed, the world is quite resistant to change. Rather inconvenient, that, for people like Miss Hunt, but there it is.”
“And you don’t think things can be improved?”
“Not by talking about how awful they are all the time, no. And I told you already, I don’t expect all that much from life. I’ll grant you that, day by day, a little bit at a time, one can make things better within one’s own circle. There are things one can do in one’s own village, perhaps, or—”
“And what are you doing in that regard?” she cut in. “How are you improving things in the village of . . . where is your estate in Kent?”
“Near Maidstone. And if you could stop questioning my every word and listen, I’m fully aware that if I had the funds to make Honeywood a grand estate, it would make a vast difference in the lives of the people of the county, but I don’t have those funds. That’s rather the point. And no, before you even ask, my trust income isn’t enough to make much difference. The place is leased, and that enables it to keep going, and if I chose to live there myself, I could do the same with my trust income—if I still had it, of course. But beyond that, not much can be done to improve the lot of the people there, not with crop sales and land rents so low. A great influx of cash is the only thing that would make any difference.”
“But Landsdowne is enormously wealthy. He could help you—”
“No.”
“But if he knew you needed it, not to spend on yourself, but for your estate . . .” She paused as she watched his jaw set. His massive frame stiffened to the rigidity of a wall. She sensed she was skating onto thin ice, but if she were going to find him a wife that suited him, she had to know more about him, so she persevered. “If you asked him for the money—”
“No. I already told you, I will never ask Landsdowne for anything. I hope that’s now understood.”
She could see the anger in his expression, but whatever it was about his father that flicked him on the raw, she’d not learn it by further pressing him. “All right, then. Shall we return to the topic at hand?”
His body relaxed. The tension in his shoulders eased, and the anger vanished from his expression. “Gladly. I’d rather talk about the state of the world, contemplate marriage to Geraldine Hunt, or be stuffed with nails and rolled down a hillside than discuss Landsdowne.”
“Well, there’s no need to contemplate marriage to Geraldine,” she said with a sigh, “since you’re not the least bit interested in her. She feels the same about you, by the way,” she couldn’t help adding.
“Thank God,” he muttered. “I am saved from spontaneous eruptions of poetry in public places, then.”
This reminder of Geraldine’s reciting Blake in the National Gallery was too much, and Belinda burst into laughter. “You should have seen your face,” she said. “It was beyond description.”
Trubridge’s lips twitched, but he didn’t laugh with her. Instead, he folded his arms and waited for her to stop laughing.
“Oh, come now, Trubridge,” she choked at last, “you must admit that today was amusing.”
“I can see that you think so, especially when your amusement is at my expense.”
“Well, yes,” she confessed, unashamed. “Especially then.”
“Still, this isn’t bringing you any closer to fulfilling the terms of our agreement.”
She tried her best to seem bewildered. “I don’t know what you mean. Matchmaking isn’t an exact science. It’s a matter of try, try, and try again. There’s no way to predict the results of these encounters ahead of time.” She shot him a meaningful look. “Especially when a client refuses to provide any specific information.”
“On the contrary,” he said as he unfolded his arms and began walking toward her, “I think you predicted the results of today’s events with perfect accuracy, and last Friday’s as well. And I can’t help wondering why you are presenting me with choices you know will not appeal to me.”
Belinda lifted her chin to meet his gaze as he halted in front of her. “If you won’t allow me to conduct my customary interview, how can I determine what sort of women appeals to you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered in his careless, offhand way. “Look in a mirror perhaps?”
Shocked, she could only stare at him, and he made a rueful grimace in the wake of her silence. “Hard to believe, I know, since you despise me, but there it is.”
“I—” She broke off, forgetting what she’d intended to say. It seemed incredible that she should be the sort of woman he fancied—ludicrous, in fact.
He closed the last bit of distance between them, making her aware of things she’d never noticed about him before. She could see the dark brown ring around each of his irises and the blunt straightness of his eyelashes. She could smell the fresh, light spiciness of bay rum and feel the warmth that emanated from his body.
His gaze roamed openly over her face, but though she found the scrutiny unnerving, she couldn’t look away. “You seem to want jokes at my expense, after all,” he went on, “and that’s a good one, you must admit. Laugh if you like.” He lifted his hand to touch her face. “I don’t mind.”
At the touch of his fingers, warmth pooled in her midsection. Her toes curled in her shoes. Her wits began slipping, and laughter was the furthest thing from her mind as his fingertips grazed lightly across her cheek to her ear.
“You see,” he went on as he curled a loosened tendril of her hair around one finger, “I’ve always been partial to women with black hair and blue eyes. It’s a particular weakness of mine.”
His hand opened, his palm cupped her cheek, his fingers slid to the nape of her neck, and desire washed over her like a wave, bringing a flood of sensations she hadn’t felt for years. Tingles raced up her spine, her pulses quickened, inner muscles flexed and tightened.
Desperate, she tried to find safer ground. “M . . . many clients are attracted to . . . to certain physical traits. I’ll be sure to take that information into consideration.”
“That’s all very well.” His breath was warm on her face. “But I’m still not sure you understand what I’m looking for.”
She knew she should stop him, shove him back, duck past him, do . . . something. Yet even as her mind
willed her to act on any one of those options, she couldn’t seem to move. “What is there to understand?” she asked, fighting hard to regain her scattered wits. “I’m giving you what you said you wanted.”
“I beg to differ.” His palm caressed her cheek, and though it seemed scorching hot, the caress made her shiver. “You’re not giving me what I want at all.”
Heavens, what was wrong with her? She was no innocent. Men had made advances upon her person before, and she’d never had trouble giving a firm rebuff. But this man, a man she didn’t even like, was making her melt like butter.
She strove to regain control of herself and of the situation. “I am operating on the criteria you gave me: rich, pretty, willing to make a material match. Your preferences in looks aside, what else is there?”
“You forgot one.” He was so close now that as he spoke, his lips brushed hers. “The most important one, in fact.”
She couldn’t think well enough to determine what she’d left out. “Which one is that?”
He wrapped his free arm around her waist and pulled her hard against him. “This one,” he said, and kissed her.
The touch of his lips sent a flood of pleasure through her entire body, pleasure so unexpected that she cried out against his mouth. The desire he’d stirred to life opened within her, blossoming into pure carnality, spreading heat through every cell of her body.
I don’t want this, she thought wildly. I don’t want it.
Even as repudiation and denial passed through her mind, she gripped the lapels of his jacket in her fists and pulled him closer, hungry for things she thought she’d never want again. The lush openness of a man’s mouth on hers, the thrill of his arms around her, the hard strength of his body . . . these were things she thought she’d left behind long ago, but this man was proving her wrong. At this moment, in his arms, her body had a will of its own, reason was forgotten, and painful lessons of the past floated away like so much flotsam, vanishing on the wind.
Her lips parted, and at once, he deepened the kiss, caressing her tongue with his own, inflaming her desire even further. She let go of his lapels and rose on her toes, wrapping her arms around his neck to bring him even closer, needing more.
He made a rough sound against her mouth. His hands cupped her buttocks and lifted her off the ground, pressing her hips to his. In a position of such intimacy, there was no mistaking his arousal, and that enabled Belinda to regain a vestige of sanity.
She turned her face, breaking the kiss, and she could hear her own panting frantic breaths as she rested her forehead on his shoulder. His breathing was as ragged as hers, and she wondered if his heart was thudding in his chest with the same painful force.
He eased her down, lowering her to the ground, but when she pressed her palms against his shoulders, he did not let her go. Keeping one arm around her waist, his free hand glided up and down her spine, and he pressed a kiss to her hair.
Reality began to set in. Not only had she allowed a man she hardly knew to commit a violation of her person, she had welcomed it, even relished it. Trubridge had no doubt done this many times before with many other women, but she was not like him. She did not do this sort of thing. She did not feel these exciting, wanton things anymore. And to make things even worse, this man was a client.
She pushed harder against his shoulders, but when he still seemed reluctant to let her go, she leaned back to meet his gaze. “Release me,” she said, trying to put some dampening scorn into her voice. Her words, however, came out in breathless rush.
Nonetheless, he complied, easing his hold until, at last, his arms slid away and he stepped back. “There now,” he said, his voice a bit unsteady. “I hope I’ve clarified what I’m looking for?”
With that, he turned and walked out, leaving a stunned, chagrined, thoroughly mortified Belinda staring after him.
Chapter 9
Nicholas strode out of Belinda’s house into the cool spring air, his body burning, his brains—obviously—missing. He wasn’t quite up to snuff on matters of etiquette, but he’d wager a hefty sum that kissing the woman who was trying to find you a wife was not comme il faut. Not that he cared much about things like that, but she did. Hell, she already considered him an inch or two below pond muck, and hauling off and kissing her wasn’t likely to raise him in her estimation.
He paused in front of Conyers’s carriage. The driver was holding the door open for him, but after a moment of consideration, he shook his head. “I think I’ll walk, Smythe. You go on ahead.”
“Very good, my lord, if you’re certain,” the driver said, and closed the carriage door. “But it’s a bit chilly to be walking.”
“All the better,” Nicholas muttered under his breath as he turned away. “I could do with some chilling just now.”
After her insistence on entertaining herself at his expense, all he’d intended to do was turn the tables, and yet, somehow, he’d ended up confessing an attraction he’d had no intention of ever revealing.
How idiotic was that? He’d left himself open and vulnerable to a woman who despised him. He was surprised she hadn’t slapped his face and sent him packing then and there.
But she hadn’t. Nicholas stopped on the sidewalk. He’d just kissed Belinda Featherstone, London’s most proper widow, a woman filled to her fingertips with rectitude, moral sensibility, and nothing but contempt for men with rakish tendencies. But instead of giving him a stinging slap across the face for the liberties he’d taken, she’d kissed him back. She’d wrapped her arms around his neck and parted her lips and kissed him back.
A grin of pure manly satisfaction spread across his face, but that momentary good humor was checked at once by the thought that he’d probably be receiving a letter in the morning post terminating their agreement. Without her support, he might not be able to find a wife. On the other hand, if she did continue to work with him, that would probably be worse. A man just couldn’t go lusting after his matchmaker, but he suspected that whenever he was in proximity to Belinda, lust would be the inevitable consequence. And that put him squarely between the devil and the deep blue sea.
THE DUCHESS OF Margrave’s At-Home parties were among the most anticipated delights of the season. Any hostess worth her salt could manage to fill her drawing room with plenty of women on a given afternoon, but persuading the men to come was a trickier business. An Afternoon-At-Home not only competed with race meetings, cards at the club, and riding the Row as diversions for London’s bachelors, but these events were also designed for the purpose of making them acquainted with marriage-minded young ladies, and in consequence, many hostesses found only the most desperate and unattractive bachelors at their Afternoon-At-Homes.
The Duchess of Margrave, however, was far more subtle than most London hostesses, and also more sensible. She always made sure there was plenty of meat and cheese on hand, provided good, strong claret cups as well as champagne ones, and took pains to invite only those young women who were clever and delightful company as well as pretty to look at. The men came in droves.
Belinda was always invited to these At-Homes, for the duchess was a personal friend and these parties a perfect foil for her profession. Today, however, she could take little interest in just who she ought to match up with whom. Only one client dominated her thoughts, and as she looked around the duchess’s dining room, she found little hope of pairing him with anybody. How could she, after what had happened less than an hour ago? Her lips still burned from his kiss.
Even now, she could still taste his mouth on hers and feel the heat of his palms cupping her buttocks and the hardness of his arousal pressed against her body. She could still feel her own desires flaring up out of nowhere and making her as indifferent to propriety as he. She winced, remembering with painful clarity how she’d flung her arms around his neck and returned his kiss.
She didn’t understand what on earth had come over her. How? she wondered in
abject bewilderment. How could she have participated in that kiss with such wantonness? With all she knew, with all the pain and humiliation she’d experienced at Featherstone’s hands, she’d willingly accepted the advances of a man who seemed—despite his denials—to be just like her late husband. She’d not only accepted Trubridge’s kiss, she’d reveled in it with an abandonment she hadn’t felt since she was a lovesick girl of seventeen. And now she was supposed to find Trubridge a wife? It was hypocritical. It was ludicrous. It was awful.
She wished she could terminate their agreement, but she had no doubt he’d go straight back to Rosalie. After this afternoon’s events, it was more clear than ever that a romantic girl like Rosalie would find no lasting happiness with a man like Trubridge. Belinda knew her only choice was to steer him toward a woman who would suit him better.
But who would that be? As she looked around the room, she tried to envision one of these charming, lovely young ladies with Trubridge, and she just couldn’t form the picture. How could she recommend him to any girl when he wasn’t likely to be an attentive or faithful husband? Hadn’t that kiss today proved as much?
The Duchess of Margrave came into view, her tall, slender figure moving with easy grace amid the guests. The duchess was not a beautiful woman—in fact, there were many who called her plain—but at this moment, her titian hair shining in the afternoon sunlight that poured through the windows, her pale skin gleaming like porcelain, she looked lovely. She’d come a long way since her debut four years earlier. The first time New Money heiress Edith Ann Jewell had sat in Belinda’s Berkeley Street drawing room, she’d been a truculent, awkward girl, with a defensive glint in her eyes and an unmistakable chip on her shoulder. Now, she was a graceful, confident woman, an excellent hostess, and devoted friend.
If only Margrave could see her now, Belinda thought with a hint of bitterness. But that wasn’t possible, for the Duke of Margrave was in Kenya.
Edie turned her head to smile at one of her guests as she walked through the crowded dining room, and the sight of that smile hurt Belinda’s heart and smote her conscience, for the duchess’s marriage to Margrave was her most colossal failure.
American Heiress [1]When The Marquess Met His Match Page 11
