by Adele Clee
The lie slipped easily from his lips. He did not give a damn about Kendall. But his conscience would not permit the dullard to ruin Miss Kendall’s reputation. The lady was quite capable of doing that on her own.
Valentine cast daggers of disdain Kendall’s way. One wrong word and he would rip the man to shreds. Being the considerate, rational one in his group of friends did not mean men shouldn’t fear him. Though why he held his tongue to protect a woman he hardly knew proved baffling.
“When a man faces the prospect of death, it must make him consider what is important.” Portia ran her tongue across the seam of her lips, lips stained almost as red as her fiery hair. “No one wants to live a sad, lonely existence.” She turned to Valentine, placed a gloved hand on his arm and whispered, “No one wants to sleep in a cold, empty bed.”
Valentine considered Lady Durrant. As a debutante, she had been vibrant and exciting. And yet it had not been enough to satisfy him. Now, he found an ugly bitterness hiding behind the lavish exterior.
He could not keep his vow.
He could not marry Portia Durrant.
But the widow was right about one thing. “When a man stares down the barrel of a pistol, it certainly makes him evaluate his life.”
“Oh, and what were your findings?” Portia’s arched brow gave an air of arrogance to her countenance.
He had discovered that the calm, ordered existence he craved was only possible when a man had detached from his emotions. He had discovered that he was fallible when dealing with an intelligent woman out to prove a point.
“A man may think he knows his mind,” Valentine said, “but he is often mistaken.” Fearing Lady Durrant might misunderstand his meaning, he added, “Yesterday’s dreams and desires no longer seem so appealing today.”
The comment drew his thoughts back to the lady who had taken permanent residency in a cosy corner of his mind—the lady responsible for his attendance at the ball this evening.
Impatience burned.
Would Miss Kendall make an appearance?
Excitement flared.
Would he feel the same lack of control in her presence?
“Well, my mind is resolute,” Jonathan Kendall said, desperate for attention. He captured Portia’s hand and brought it to his lips. “I am unwavering in my devotion and beg that you mark me down for every waltz.”
Portia stared down her nose at Valentine. She turned away from him and bestowed a coy smile on the doe-eyed Mr Kendall. “You know I never use dance cards. You know I make it a rule only to dance with the most captivating man in the room.”
Valentine had heard enough.
What the hell made him think he could marry this woman? He needed a woman he admired more for her heart and mind than her body. Despite trying to convince himself otherwise, Valentine could not overlook Portia’s coquettish ways or devious manner simply to ease his mother’s anxiety regarding his marital status. Moreover, he had to question his mother’s judgement for encouraging the match.
Once again, Valentine scanned the room looking for Miss Kendall. Was she dancing with one of the many gentlemen clambering to offer? Would the gaiety of the evening awaken a need for pleasure? Would she grow more flirtatious after the umpteenth glass of champagne?
The notion that another gentleman might claim the privilege of holding her close caused knots in his stomach. Knots! Devil take him. He was not a boy fresh out of the schoolroom.
The lady might well be a thief, he told himself hoping to eradicate this mild infatuation.
“Then perhaps you might like to take a stroll in the garden,” Mr Kendall said, his devotion to Portia Durrant evident in his slippery tone. “Once there, you might find that my gift will prove captivating enough to tempt you to dance.”
“A gift? For me?” Portia laughed and batted Kendall on the arm with her closed fan.
Valentine turned away for fear of casting up his accounts on Rockford’s polished oak floor. Had Portia not beckoned him over he would have avoided her company tonight. Then again, he had not planned to attend at all.
“Then let us slip away from here, Mr Kendall,” Portia continued, raising her voice loud enough for Valentine to hear, but he turned his attention to the host of people filling the ballroom.
The thrum of anticipation in the air drew his gaze beyond the dancers taking their places for the quadrille, to the row of marble pillars running parallel to the far wall. Like a tiger on the hunt, he studied the revellers, hoping to glimpse the lady who was as annoying as she was arousing.
Aveline Kendall was in the room.
He knew it like he knew his own name.
Convinced he could smell the stimulating tones of her Floris perfume, Valentine’s gaze flicked back and forth. Blood raced through his veins. His breath came a little quicker. Like the earth’s magnetic pull, the tug in his gut drew him away from Portia Durrant, and he slipped stealthily through the crowd searching for his prey.
How odd that he knew exactly where to find her.
The first glimpse of those tantalising curls caressing Aveline Kendall’s jaw caused untold havoc with his insides. She stood hidden behind a marble pillar, her slender fingers gripping the structure as she peered at the crowd. As if aware of his approach, she turned her head and their gazes locked.
The pounding of his heartbeat in his ears drowned out the lively hum of music and conversation. It was as if no one else in the room existed. Pure carnal lust shot through Valentine’s body like a lightning bolt. Never had he experienced such powerful tremors.
As he drew closer, he imagined pulling her into an embrace and kissing those bewitching lips. In reality, he could do nothing but stare.
“Lord Valentine. I did not expect to find you here this evening.” Miss Kendall inhaled deeply to catch her breath. “Honora seemed convinced you were otherwise engaged.”
For a moment it was as if Valentine had entered an ulterior world. The calm, emotionless man had vanished, replaced by a blithering idiot who struggled to form a word. It wasn’t the exposed curve of her breast encased in grey silk that captivated him—though the urge to see her naked drummed a potent rhythm in his loins. It wasn’t that she looked every bit the Grecian beauty from a mythical land—regal, mysterious. It was the intelligence in her eyes, coupled with a hint of vulnerability, that held him spellbound.
“After receiving your note this morning, I thought it best to keep a watchful eye on your brother.”
He could hardly tell the truth, could hardly confess that his desire to see her was too great to keep him away. She had commanded a permanent place in his mind ever since she aimed the muzzle of her pistol at his chest and threatened to fire.
“I presume you’re here for the same reason,” he added.
Why else was she hiding behind a pillar, spying on the guests?
A blush touched her cheeks. “My brother is the bane of my existence. He will not be content until I have to drag his blood-soaked body off the duelling field.”
“And now that he no longer lives in your house, you must resort to traipsing around town to keep him from challenging another poor soul to a dawn appointment.”
The lady arched a brow. “One would hardly consider you a poor soul, my lord.”
“No? Then how would you describe me, Miss Kendall?”
Clearly, the question unnerved her. Her chin trembled, and he could almost hear the war raging in her mind as she fought the urge to lie. She would tell the truth, of course. He knew it the moment she straightened her shoulders.
“A man as rich as Croesus cannot be considered poor. I cannot pity a man possessed of a handsome countenance and an intelligent mind. And with your rigid sense of honour, I can find nothing deficient in your moral character.”
When assessing the worth of anyone’s good opinion, one must examine the motive behind the compliment. Was Miss Kendall merely expressing facts, or had he heard a hint of admiration? He could not tell. Would she think of him tonight during those moments before sleep?
Or was this strange obsession playing tricks with his mind?
The first strains of a waltz drifted through the room, giving him a perfect opportunity to test a theory, to gauge her body’s reaction to him.
“Then as you appear to hold me in such high esteem, Miss Kendall, perhaps you might like to join me on the floor.”
She drew her head back in shock. “You’re asking me to dance?” Biting down on her lip, she glanced back over her shoulder, towards the door. “Forgive me, but I fear I lack the skill necessary to keep up with you.”
Valentine chuckled. “Is this where I pander to your inexperience only to discover you dance with the poise of an angel?”
Miss Kendall stared into his eyes and gave a coy shrug. “My father taught me to dance when I was a girl, though I have never graced a ballroom floor.”
“Then I imagine you’re an expert.” Valentine offered his hand. “Allow me to apologise in advance for my careless footwork.”
“You, careless? You are toying with me again, my lord, just as you were this morning.”
Oh, he was most definitely toying with her, but not in the mocking sense. When in the company of Miss Kendall, he slipped into the role of an amorous flirt.
“I am asking you to dance,” he said, “not elope to Gretna Green. There is no need to look nervous.”
“Under present circumstances, the prospect of running away sounds rather appealing.” The lady placed her gloved hand into his, and he led her onto the floor.
Valentine’s fingers throbbed with the need to touch her, to run his hands over every soft curve. His mind ached to hear her stimulating conversation. Possessed of a ravaging hunger, he longed to devour every aspect of this woman until thoroughly sated.
The first twirl drew a breathless gasp from her lips. As they glided around the floor, it was clear neither had anything to fear. Their steps were smooth, in perfect unison. A wild, vibrant passion for the dance took them to another place, one where every musical note, where every sleek movement satisfied on a level deeper than anything he had experienced before.
He could not tear his gaze away from her parted lips, from the way her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath, from the look of wonder swimming in her eyes. In his mind he was making love to her, thrusting deep, pouring everything of himself into her willing body.
For a moment he felt free. Free from the nightmares of the past. Free from the fear that a monster lurked within him, too. Free from the constraints of his position.
The dance ended all too soon, and he resisted the impulse to drop to his knees and beg for another. Instead of using the opportunity to study the workings of the lady’s mind, to determine the language of her body, he had only succeeded in understanding himself a little more.
This lady had a power over him even he could not comprehend. She might be a thief, and it didn’t seem to matter. She wanted nothing from him, and he liked that, too.
Valentine took a moment to glance around the ballroom. All eyes were upon them. Whispers breezed through the crowd, passing from one person to the next like crisp leaves in the wind. And while Portia Durrant and Jonathan Kendall glared at them with the devil’s own eyes, the wolves were gathering. Every rakish lord of the ton edged closer to the dance floor, ready to sink their bared fangs into Miss Kendall’s milky-white flesh.
Panic crushed the air from Valentine’s chest. A primal urge took hold. The urge to mark his territory, stake his claim. For a man usually so composed, so disengaged, such disturbing emotions were new to him.
“I shall return you to your chaperone,” Valentine said, hoping she had the sense to command the companionship of a matron or friend. Her brother lacked the ability to care for himself let alone a woman as alluring as Aveline Kendall.
“Chaperone? I came alone, my lord.”
“Alone!” Had she lost her mind? Clearly, intelligence and wisdom were not the same things. He supposed he should take comfort from the fact most people would assume she came with her brother. As he escorted her from the floor, Valentine leant closer and whispered, “Every rogue in here will be vying for your attention.”
“Surely not.” She looked puzzled. “Few people know me here in town.”
“Some men do not care for introductions.”
Perhaps Miss Kendall was unaware of the threat.
Perhaps she thought herself capable of dealing with devils.
The lady cast him a reassuring smile. “Once I have attended to a personal matter, I have no intention of staying, no intention of ever setting foot in a ballroom again.” She placed a gloved hand on his arm. “Thank you. You really are a remarkable dancer. It brings to mind my favourite Epictetus quote.”
Hungry to hear anything that fell from her mouth, Valentine said, “Oh, and which one is that?”
Her eyes were still alight with excitement from their dance. “The key is to keep company only with people who uplift you, whose presence calls forth your best.”
“And do I call forth your best, Miss Kendall?”
“Certainly, when it comes to duelling and dancing.”
The compliment touched him.
Valentine lowered his voice to a more intimate level. “Perhaps the same might be said for other vigorous activities.” His gaze dipped to the impressive swell of her breasts. Good God! With Aveline Kendall, he wanted to be the worst kind of scoundrel.
She raised a mocking brow. “If you’re referring to your vice for amorous activities, I shall have to trust your word. Alas, your bedchamber is one place I shall never venture.”
Had she thrown down the gauntlet?
Never had the prospect of seducing a woman into bed seemed so appealing.
“I imagine you never thought to duel or dance with me, either.”
A rosy glow touched her cheeks. The lady confounded him on every level. On the one hand, she appeared confident, in command of her mind and emotions. On the other, she looked as vulnerable and naive as a debutante making her first appearance. She danced like a courtesan—with a sensual sway that promised skill in other areas, too. She blushed like a virgin—embarrassed at the mere prospect of his lewd suggestions.
“While I find your playful banter somewhat amusing,” she said, focusing on a point beyond his shoulder, “my quarry is on the move.”
Valentine glanced behind to see Jonathan Kendall and Portia Durrant slip out through the terrace doors. The sudden pang in his chest had nothing to do with jealousy and everything to do with the fact Miss Kendall was about to follow them out into the garden.
He should offer to accompany her.
What? And have every person in the room believe she’s his mistress?
“If you have come to berate your brother, I assure you, the matter is best dealt with away from here, away from prying eyes.” Devil take it. He could not even offer her a safe escort home in his carriage. Valentine scanned the room, caught sight of Lady Cartwright’s garish orange turban. “Allow me to arrange for your friend Lady Cartwright to see you home.”
A smile formed on Miss Kendall’s luscious lips and she looked at him as if he were a puppy—adorable and laughably inexperienced. “As a spinster, I am afforded a certain degree of recklessness, my lord.”
“As a young, desirable woman, you are mistaken.” The words left his lips without thought.
The lady sucked in a breath. “As always your chivalrous nature informs your judgement.”
Anger flared at the remark. His overzealous need for gallantry was not the problem here.
Valentine gripped her elbow. “Don’t be a fool. One day you may wish to marry. If there is one thing I know about those in Society, it’s that they never forget.” It was why his mother had fought so hard to hide the family secret.
“You don’t understand,” she whispered through gritted teeth. She tugged her arm free from his grasp. “My brother took something from me, something that matters more than reputation, something I would risk my life to see returned.”
The intensity in her
voice shocked him. “Then, as a woman with an abundance of intelligence, I strongly advise you apply a degree of logic.”
She jerked her head back and blinked rapidly. Heat swam in her eyes, but it was not anger he saw there. “So you think me desirable and intelligent. Are you trying to seduce me, Lord Valentine?”
Valentine scoffed. Was she trying to unnerve him with her direct approach? Oh, she was playing with a master.
“Trust me, Miss Kendall,” he drawled. “Were I intent on seduction, you would be in no doubt.”
Miss Kendall raised a coy brow. “That is fortunate, as it saves me having to rebuke your advances.”
The need to prove her wrong took hold. In three moves, Valentine could have her panting in his arms. One firm, masculine hand gripping her hip would unsettle her steely composure. But they were in a ballroom full of vultures looking for a fleshy morsel of gossip, and some were already circling.
Valentine stepped aside and made a sweeping gesture. “Your reputation is your own affair.” All attempts of chivalry had fallen on deaf ears. If titles were given for determination, this lady would be a duchess. “Keep to the path,” he advised. Wolves prowled the perimeter. “Stray at your peril.”
She moved to place a gloved hand on his arm but drew it back. “I do not mean to appear ungrateful. Your concerns are welcome and duly noted. But I cannot let the matter rest. I am a victim of the worst kind of betrayal and cannot leave here without answers.”
Water welled in the corners of her eyes. The sight tugged at an unfamiliar place deep in his gut. The urge to force his fist down Jonathan Kendall’s throat surfaced.
“Would you care for a handkerchief?”
Miss Kendall shook her head and inhaled deeply to gather her composure. “I refuse to shed another tear over that fool.”
“Your brother has lost sight of what is important,” he agreed.
“Only the worst kind of man steals from his family.”
The comment did more than pique Valentine’s interest.
