After the Kiss

by Joan Johnston

He took several steps toward her.

  She held out her hand, palm open, to stop him from coming any closer. “I do not need a demonstration, Captain Wharton. I believe I understand the concept.”

  “Very well. Show me how it works,” he challenged, walking forward until her palm rested flat against his chest.

  She swallowed hard. “You are suggesting I stand close to Julian.”

  He nodded.

  “Closer than arm’s width.”

  He nodded again.

  She let her hand drop and took two steps toward him. Less than a foot of space remained between them. “This threatens propriety, Captain,” she said in a quiet voice.

  “To the devil with propriety, Miss Sheringham. Remember you are bent on seduction.”

  She raised uncertain eyes to his. “Anything closer would suggest an intimacy that does not yet exist between myself and Julian.”

  “Come closer, Miss Sheringham,” he murmured.

  She took another step and stared up at him. Now she could see the spray of darker blue around his pupils that gave such vivid color to his eyes. He remained perfectly still as she reached up to satisfy her curiosity by touching the night’s growth of whiskers on his face.

  She gave a surprised laugh. “It feels so rough!”

  He grasped her wrist. “You are an apt pupil, Miss Sheringham. I believe that is quite close enough.”

  A teasing glint lit her eyes, and a mischievous smile curved her lips. “This is a great deal more fun than I had imagined, Captain.”

  She inched closer and gasped as the tips of her breasts grazed his chest. A frisson of excitement danced down her spine. She felt the danger, but was not ready to stop.

  She watched her hands, of their own accord, slowly unbutton his waistcoat and slide beneath it to discover the hard muscle of his chest and rib cage, and the heavy beat of his heart beneath the thin lawn shirt.

  She met his feral gaze and saw she was no longer facing Captain Wharton, Julian’s friend, but the merciless rakehell who had seduced dozens of women without a single look back.

  His hand slowly curled around her nape and drew her face toward his. His mouth captured her lips in a kiss that was as brutal as it was passionate. He bound her tight against him from chest to thighs.

  She was not prepared for the kiss, for the depth of his passion, for the feel of his hard, aroused body as he spread his legs and angled her between them. She kept her teeth gritted tight against his probing tongue, but the hand at her nape held her fast, until he had what he wanted—her mouth, open to him. The sensations he aroused were both exhilarating and terrifying.

  He released her at last, his eyes glittering with raw sexual need. Her heart thundered with fear, her whole body trembled, yet she stared at him defiantly, daring him to force himself on her again.

  “You are no gentleman!”

  “Lesson number four, Miss Sheringham,” he said in a silky voice. “Never, never underestimate your adversary.”

  “Adversary! We are not at war, Captain Wharton.”

  “Oh, but we are. To capture a man’s heart, you must break through his defenses, and you must do so without losing the constant battle between the sexes. If you ever give in to the power of seduction, Miss Sheringham, you have lost … everything.”

  “I am perfectly capable of protecting my virtue,” she retorted.

  “I doubt it. You are playing with fire, Miss Sheringham. Be careful you don’t get burned.”

  “Are you through?” she demanded.

  “I believe I am. Good luck with Julian, Miss Sheringham.”

  He left her standing with her mouth agape and marched over to retrieve his jacket. He stopped to put it on, no easy task when fashion demanded it fit like a second skin. He had barely settled it on his shoulders when he began yanking it off again, cursing and slapping at his back. He turned the jacket inside out and shook it hard several times.

  “Is something wrong, Captain?”

  “It should please you to know, Miss Sheringham, that I have just been stung by a bee.”

  She stared at his indignant face, then burst out laughing.

  He stalked to his horse, the offending jacket over his arm, mounted, and was gone before she could curb her whoops of mirth.

  Unfortunately, even after the captain was long gone, Eliza could not seem to stop laughing. Her ribs ached from the effort to catch her breath, and her legs trembled uncontrollably. Tears squeezed from her eyes. She managed to reach the steps of the folly and collapse, her arms wrapped tight around her to keep her insides from flying out.

  That awful, despicable man! She wished a hundred bees had stung him. The Beau deserved his reputation. The bounder! How dare he make her want him!

  Eliza wiped her hand across her lips but could not rid herself of the taste of him. She would show him! She would take the lessons he had taught her and use them to bring Julian to the point. Just see how smug he was when she stood at the altar with another man!

  Mephistopheles suddenly lifted his head, ears alert, eyes searching the horizon, nostrils flaring as he tested the wind. He whinnied loudly, not a challenge, but a question. The call was answered by another horse somewhere over the hill.

  Eliza felt a momentary panic. If anyone saw her dressed like this—She decided it must be Captain Wharton’s horse that Mephistopheles had scented. Surely no one else was out riding this early.

  A quick glance revealed the sun was fully up. The Beau’s lessons must have lasted much longer than she had realized. She would have a much more difficult time sneaking back into Somersville Manor unnoticed in the daylight. However, during her two years at Ravenwood, it was her experience that only the servants got up this early. Ladies and gentlemen stayed ensconced in their rooms until much later. All was not yet lost. She need only exercise discretion, and all would be well.

  That comfort lasted only until she saw a curricle drawn by a stunningly handsome pair of grays crest the hill above her.

  It was Julian. And Miss Whitcomb.

  She had been certain the Diamond was one of those who never raised her head from the pillow before noon. What was Julian doing with the Diamond at this hour of the morning? How had they known where to find her?

  She saw Miss Whitcomb pointing, saw the frown form on Julian’s face. She was tempted to make a run for it, but there was no disguising Mephistopheles. Miss Whitcomb had criticized Eliza publicly yesterday afternoon for mounting such a “dangerous wild beast” and pointed out that she must be “as strong as a man” to control him. The Diamond had added, with a mocking laugh, “She is certainly as tall as one. In fact, Miss Sheringham towers over every man here.”

  Despite a pleading look in Julian’s direction, he had said nothing in her defense. Belatedly, she realized he probably agreed with Miss Whitcomb. Nevertheless, she felt betrayed by his defection. He was her cousin. If only for the sake of that relation, he should have come to her rescue.

  Captain Wharton had been the one to turn Miss Whitcomb’s words back on her, much as Eliza might have done herself if he had not intervened.

  He stood beside the Diamond and looked a very long way down his aristocratic nose at her. “You may not envy Miss Sheringham’s height,” he said. “But you must certainly regret the lack of her many other noteworthy assets.” The captain’s eyes had very obviously skipped from the Diamond’s face to her bosom.

  Miss Whitcomb’s features turned to ice.

  “Personally, I prefer my women—and of course my wine—to be a little fuller-bodied,” he said.

  The other young misses tittered. Their mamas glared, while the gentleman, including Miss Whitcomb’s papa, chuckled and chortled behind their hands.

  Miss Whitcomb turned red as a radish and discovered a tear in her hem that necessitated retiring immediately to have it mended.

  Eliza did not want to think what insults Miss Whitcomb would unleash this morning, when she realized whom she had caught wearing men’s trousers.

  Eliza was not sure wheth
er to be relieved or alarmed when several more vehicles, apparently full of servants, and a landau bearing both Charlie and the duchess, followed Julian over the hill.

  She led Mephistopheles over to the steps of the folly and hurriedly mounted. She tugged her hat down low and spurred the stallion around Julian’s curricle, heading directly for the landau that carried Charlie, where she was sure to find solace.

  Escape was not to be so easy.

  “Miss Sheringham? Is that you?” Miss Whitcomb queried.

  Eliza thought of riding past Julian’s curricle, but Julian pulled to a stop right in front of her.

  “Good morning, Julian, Miss Whitcomb,” Eliza said, tipping her hat as a gentleman would.

  “It is you,” Miss Whitcomb said delightedly, “I could scarcely believe my eyes. I told Major Sheringham it must be you, because of that brutish black horse you ride.”

  Mephistopheles curvetted restlessly, and Miss Whitcomb gave him a nervous glance.

  “What brings you here this morning?” Eliza asked.

  Miss Whitcomb made a show of rearranging the large bow beneath her chin, even though her straw hat was perched perfectly on her head. “Major Sheringham and I have come with Her Grace and the countess to help plan where the tables should be set for the picnic this afternoon.”

  Eliza remembered hearing something about a picnic at supper last night, but she had been too busy planning how to get a note to Captain Wharton to pay attention. “Here at the folly? This afternoon?”

  Miss Whitcomb carefully realigned each finger of her white gloves as she spoke. “Really, Miss Sheringham. I know you were sitting at the supper table when everything was settled. Where was your mind, I wonder?”

  “Not nearly so deep in the gutter as yours,” Eliza retorted.

  Miss Whitcomb gasped and fanned her face. “Why, I never—” She turned to Julian, injured tears already sparkling in her eyes.

  Eliza felt sick. She should have kept her tongue leashed. Why had she let the Diamond provoke her? She simply could not understand how Julian could be interested in such an unpleasant female. How had Miss Whitcomb cajoled him into attending her?

  Eliza was so very glad for her lessons from the Beau. It would likely take some very special maneuvers to loosen Julian from the Diamond’s groping, white-gloved grasp.

  At least Miss Whitcomb had refrained from mentioning her attire. “I will leave you to your planning,” Eliza said. “I must be elsewhere this morning.” Anywhere Miss Whitcomb was not.

  “Miss Sheringham.” Miss Whitcomb’s sharp voice caused Mephistopheles to jump sideways.

  Eliza brought the stallion back under control and said through gritted teeth, “Yes, Miss Whitcomb?”

  “Where is the masquerade, Miss Sheringham?”

  “Masquerade?” Eliza said cautiously.

  Miss Whitcomb smiled spitefully. “The one you are attending, dressed as a man.”

  “You should know, Miss Whitcomb. It is likely the same one you are attending, dressed as a woman.”

  Julian stared at her in open disbelief.

  Eliza clamped her teeth on any apology he might demand. Surely she had the right to defend herself.

  When Julian’s open disbelief became obvious disapproval, Eliza put spurs to the stallion’s flanks. She had left Miss Whitcomb in the dust long before she heard the Diamond’s shriek of outrage. It had taken that long for the Diamond to understand the insult.

  Eliza waved at Charlie and the duchess as she thundered by without reducing her speed. She watched them put their heads together and knew it was only a matter of time before she received another lecture on propriety.

  Eliza did not care. She had always been different. The scandal had made it so. She did not know how to be like them. She could only be who she was. But it seemed she did not please anyone. Julian least of all.

  Her eyes blurred, and her stomach churned. She could not give up now. She must use the lessons she had learned this morning at the picnic this afternoon. She would win Julian’s love. She could not possibly lose him to someone as dreadful as the Diamond.

  Chapter 11

  Marcus could hardly bear to watch miss Sheringham exercising her seductive charms on Julian. Unfortunately, she could not use shivering as a ploy. It was clearly impossible to plead either cold or fear during a warm afternoon picnic with a dozen other couples seated on blankets nearby.

  But she had used proximity to good effect. Not an inch of space remained between her arm and Julian’s as they stood next to each other near the lake, conversing with the ever-cheerful Countess of Denbigh.

  Miss Sheringham had more natural allure than the most practiced courtesans he had bedded, yet Julian seemed impervious to her wiles. What was wrong with the man? Marcus would have forfeited his perfect face and form to have Miss Sheringham just once glance at him with the sort of adoration she offered Julian.

  He did not know what it was about the girl that intrigued him. Perhaps it was their first violent meeting. Or her odd features and unusual height. Or the knowledge that she flouted the rules of Society as freely as he did. Or perhaps it was that amusing, and yes, enticing interlude teaching her the art of seduction.

  He was very much afraid his efforts had been wasted. As far as he could tell, Miss Sheringham was in love with the wrong man.

  As Penthia had claimed to be. I love you, Marcus. I only married Alastair to be near you. Please, let me come to you tonight. Alastair will never know.

  He shook his head to clear it of Penthia’s hypnotizing voice. She had taught him hard lessons, lessons he would never forget. No woman could be trusted. Beneath their beautiful facades, they were all manipulative, selfish creatures. Any man who tied himself to one for life was a fool and an idiot.

  Captain Lord Marcus Wharton was neither.

  He had confined himself to flirting with innocents, knowing the grim consequences of indulging himself further with one of them.

  Until Miss Sheringham had come along.

  He had made the mistake of letting himself get close enough to kiss her, to hold her in his arms, to give himself a delicious taste of what he was missing. And what he must deny himself.

  He was tempted to satisfy his craving for her. His blood surged as forbidden images rose before him. Kissing her swollen lips, caressing her naked breasts and belly, putting himself inside her, the first man to do so. And the last.

  Marcus closed his trembling hands into fists, denying the fierce surge of possessiveness that quivered through him. Making a commitment to one woman was not in his nature. Or his future. If he hoped to keep his sanity, he must put her from his mind. There would be other women. There always had been.

  Not like her. She is unforgettable. One of a kind.

  He swore and slid a finger between his throat and the neck cloth that was strangling him.

  “Good afternoon, Captain Wharton.”

  Miss Whitcomb had snuck up on him while he was busy thinking about Miss Sheringham. The Diamond was wearing a muslin dress ruffled on top to maximize her meager assets and carried a matching yellow parasol. Before he could say a word in greeting, she had slid her arm through his and sidled up next to him.

  His lips twisted wryly. The chit had proximity down to an art.

  She batted her eyelashes at him above an ivory and lace fan that swayed gently over the lower half of her face. “You look warm, Captain.”

  She even provided the innuendo, relieving him of the chore. She reminded him of Penthia, in the days when Alastair was courting her. Marcus had been young and foolish enough then to turn rock hard at the mere suggestion that he might be “warm” in a lady’s presence.

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the perspiration on his face and noticed the Blackthorne B stitched into it. It reminded him powerfully of the first night he had met Miss Sheringham.

  Forget her. She will only cause you pain in the end.

  He removed the moisture from his upper lip and forehead, smiled benignly at Miss Wh
itcomb, and said, “Yes, I am warm. The sun is hot this afternoon.”

  Nothing spiked the effect of innuendo like a literal response. Miss Whitcomb looked perplexed, but only for a moment. She twirled the parasol laid over her shoulder and said, “Perhaps you would be more comfortable in the shade.”

  She indicated the nearby forest with a tip of her head. The chit had moved beyond seduction to invitation. He knew better than to be maneuvered into the stand of oak and ash, where they could be found by her mama in whatever compromising position she would have him in by then.

  “I have just remembered I promised to take Miss Sheringham for a cooling walk among the trees. Thank you for reminding me, Miss Whitcomb. May I escort you back to your mama?”

  He caught her quick, stabbing glare in Miss Sheringham’s direction before she pouted prettily and said, “Perhaps I will keep Major Sheringham company while you are entertaining his country cousin.”

  The girl slid a sideways look at him, to see if her effort at maneuvering him with jealousy had worked.

  The latest Season’s diamond held no interest for him; Miss Sheringham, however, did. He felt insulted on her behalf at the Diamond’s denigrating reference to Julian’s “country cousin.”

  “Do you ride, Miss Whitcomb?” he asked, knowing full well she did not.

  “I am afraid not, Captain,” she said. “Horses frighten me.”

  “Too bad,” he said. “Miss Sheringham is a bruising rider, you know. All those fields in the country to practice on, I suppose. I think I shall see if I can get a riding party together. We will miss you, Miss Whitcomb.”

  He watched the Diamond struggle to keep her face from contorting with fury.

  “Miss Sheringham is—”

  He shot her an icy look that stopped her in mid-speech. “I will warn you only once, Miss Whitcomb. I do not wish to hear you malign Miss Sheringham again. To me, or anyone else in this party.”

  Her large blue eyes filled with the sort of virulent hatred he had seen often on Penthia’s face. Miss Whitcomb was only eighteen. He knew firsthand how malice would harden her features as she matured. She had certainly proved herself a Diamond—right down to her coal black heart.