by Jane Goodger
He knew. There could be no other explanation as to why, after all this time, Waltham had issued that invitation. Waltham had just been playing with him the day they’d met outside the bookstore. He’d known; otherwise why would he have inquired about her? Of course, George would send his regrets, but why, other than to needle him, had the duke sent the invitation? He surely must know that George would never accept such an invitation.
George closed his eyes, knowing precisely why, even as he wished to deny it. Perhaps someone who had attended the opera had seen Melissa and reported her remarkable appearance to the duke. Just the thought of Waltham’s looking at his niece made his skin crawl.
A knock at the door saved him from further torturing himself with thoughts of protecting Melissa from her true father. “Enter.”
He stood as Miss Stanhope walked in, her steps efficient and graceful, her face passive. She wore her spinster’s uniform of a plain gray dress with black piping. All she needed was a lace cap and the effect would be complete. He couldn’t help but recall how pretty she’d looked at the ball when he’d first asked her to chaperone Melissa. Why did she insist on dressing as if she were ancient?
“You wanted to see me?” she asked, her gray eyes direct.
He motioned for her to sit and didn’t speak until they were both seated. “A neighbor is coming over this evening for dinner and to play cards. John is usually my partner, but as he is occupied with his friends, I wondered if you might agree to be my partner.”
Her mouth twitched as if she might smile. “What game?”
“The Pendergrasts enjoy whist and are quite good at it,” he said, subtly asking if Miss Stanhope considered herself a good player. Her smile told all.
“I know how to play,” she said.
That smile again. He had to school his features so that she could not see how it affected him. It was rather strange, this physical reaction he had to someone he’d always believed to be a rather plain woman. In fact, he could hardly think of a time in his life when he’d given Miss Stanhope more than a passing thought at all. She had been to many of the same entertainments as he throughout the years, but she’d been no more important than a sturdy chair or well-placed potted plant.
How was it, then, that all she needed to do now was walk in a room and he found himself fighting a rather distracting attraction? Lust of the distracting sort was not something that had had a hold on him since he’d met his wife. It was how he had learned that lust could not be trusted.
“I believe the young people are attending a small concert tonight in the village. The Pendergrasts are expected around seven.”
“Of course. That sounds lovely,” she said, and rose to leave, her awful gray dress rustling.
“I wonder . . .” He stopped, suddenly uncertain if suggesting a different dress would seem improper. But he truly did not want to be looking at that ugly gray dress all evening.
“Yes?”
“It is not important. Until this evening, then.”
She shook her head, as if exasperated. “Please, Lord Braddock, continue with your thought.”
“That dress. I wonder if you have another.” Yes, he realized instantly he should not have said a word. He could see it in her face, damn it, that he’d insulted her. Her expressive face first showed surprise, then fleeting pain, and finally annoyance.
“My dress.”
“It’s lovely, but . . . Well, actually, it’s not lovely at all, you see. Not that it’s important. What you wear is your concern and not mine. It’s not as if . . . that is to say you can wear whatever the bloody hell you want.” He finished this incredibly ineloquent speech on a note of desperation. When had he become such an idiot?
She tilted her head, and in that moment looked so utterly confused, something tugged uncomfortably in his chest. “I shall wear whatever the bloody hell I want. Thank you,” she said with little inflection. And with that, she walked from the room, leaving behind a man who was so thoroughly confused, he let out a groan.
Diane paced her room, anger in every step. Did she have another dress, he’d asked. Honestly. As if that were his concern. She was tempted to wear this dress just from spite, but not being a particularly spiteful person, she stood in front of her wardrobe, her maid, Becky, standing patiently behind her, looking for something she liked. She didn’t give a care what he thought. Perhaps she ought to wear her ugliest dress. She pulled it down, and Becky made a small sound of protest.
“No?”
Becky shook her head. “No.”
Diane let out a sigh and took down a deep red velvet dress that she loved but hadn’t had the occasion to wear yet. Holding it up in front of her, she gave Becky an inquiring look.
“Oh, yes, my lady.”
With her blond hair and gray eyes, the burgundy-colored dress did look rather nice. But she was not wearing it for him. She was wearing it to be presentable in front of company.
“Shall we wear the new comb tonight?” Becky asked. Poor girl, she was quite talented at all sorts of intricate hairstyles, which she rarely was able to show off. Diane would often find her leafing through Peterson’s Magazine, which showcased the latest fashions.
Diane smiled. Why not look pretty this night? Why not see if she could bring about that stunned look on Lord Braddock’s face? It was a heady thought—and a rather foreign one—that she would be able to provoke such an expression from him or any man, for that matter. Not that it meant a thing, of course—she wasn’t that much of a ninny—but it would be a novelty to feel desirable. “Yes. The comb. And I’m giving you carte blanche with the style.” Becky beamed a smile. “Remember, I’m dining and playing whist, not going to a ball.”
Becky nodded her head, still smiling. “You have such lovely hair, my lady. It’s a pleasure to work with.”
One hour later, at five minutes after the hour, Diane walked down the stairs just in time to greet their guests. Lord Braddock was there already, leading the couple to the drawing room, when he looked up and saw her. And stopped dead. He recovered quickly enough, but Diane’s heart sang just a bit as she made her way down the stairs.
Lord Braddock made the introductions, either ignoring or oblivious to the curious looks on Mr. and Mrs. Pendergrast’s faces. He did not introduce her as his niece’s chaperone, and no doubt the couple wondered at their relationship.
“I am Lord Braddock’s niece’s chaperone,” she said pointedly, extending her hand in greeting. She noted, with a small bit of pleasure, that Braddock frowned at the explanation. Had he wanted the couple to believe they were together? It didn’t signify.
The Pendergrasts were a lively couple, charming and vibrant in their midforties. Well traveled, they regaled Braddock and Diane with tales of their latest adventure to Cairo.
“It is the most exotic place I’ve ever been,” Mrs. Pendergrast said with enthusiasm. “You cannot imagine the vastness of the desert, nor the beauty of the Nile. And the pyramids.” She sighed. “It was stunning.”
“Tell her about the camel, my dear,” Mr. Pendergrast said, looking fondly at his wife. They clearly were a pair who enjoyed each other’s company and had no qualms about showing it.
“Oh, no, that is your story to tell,” the lady said, laughing.
“I was spat upon. By a camel,” he said, and his wife clutched his arm and laughed along with him.
It seemed strange to Diane that Lord Braddock would have such lively friends. Stranger still that he would deny that love could exist in marriage when dear friends of his were the finest examples of such a relationship. He seemed to thoroughly enjoy their company, laughing heartily and almost boisterously at their tales.
“I should love to travel,” Diane said.
“Then what is stopping you?” Mrs. Pendergrast said.
“Fear,” she said with complete honesty. “I cannot imagine making such a trip alone. I know there are brave souls who do it, but I’m afraid I am not one of them.”
“Perhaps if you went with a group,” Mr. P
endergrast said. “There are quite a few countrymen in Egypt nowadays. I’m certain they would welcome you. We made lasting friendships in the few months we were there. We met Edward Lear there, as a matter of fact.”
“The man who writes those nonsense poems?” Diane asked.
“Yes, indeed. Quite a fine artist, too.”
“Egypt does sound lovely,” Diane said. But she knew she’d never go. “Have you ever been, Lord Braddock?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“But you must. You both must,” Mrs. Pendergrast said, and Diane felt her cheeks redden. There was no “both,” only her, alone and too frightened to travel.
Lord Braddock darted her a look, perhaps of pity, but Diane looked away before she could decipher it.
“Sir, dinner is served,” the butler said, bowing out of the room.
Lord Braddock held his arm out for Diane, and she hesitated only briefly before taking it. “Pretty dress,” he said, and he stretched his neck a tad to look to the back of her head. “And hair.”
Diane gave him a level look that spoke volumes about how little she cared for his opinion. “Thank you.”
He smiled down at her, and Diane’s confusion grew, but she gave an inward shrug, deciding to simply enjoy the novelty of walking beside a handsome man who thought she looked pretty.
The two couples shared an intimate dinner, which left Diane more flustered and confused than she’d been in some time. Lord Braddock was acting strangely. Last evening he’d stood by and turned pages for her, then danced a waltz with her, and tonight he was acting as if . . . Her spinster’s heart gave a painful twist. Perhaps it was her sad imagination, but it seemed to her that he was looking at her like a man would look at a woman he cared for. Their light banter, his soft laughter, the way he caught her eye—it was all quite disconcerting.
After dinner, the four retired to the library, where a velvet-topped card table had been set up before a warm and cheerful fire. The gaslights were turned up high, and a carafe of wine was set up nearby, four glasses at the ready. And then a thought hit her almost violently: I belong here. It was almost as if someone had punched her stomach, the sickening feeling of hope that churned inside her. One dinner. A few kind words. A bit of flirtation. Really, could she be sillier? She almost laughed aloud at that thought, and instead headed to the sideboard and poured herself a generous glass of wine, hoping the spirits would stop her mad thoughts.
Diane was fiercely competitive, but often rather too aggressive and overconfident when it came to whist. Her partners were forever looking pained whenever she made a bid. But usually she was right about her hand—and lucky when it came to partners. One trick away from disaster and more often than not, her partner would have the one card she was missing.
Lord Braddock dealt the first hand, and Mr. Pendergrast immediately moaned.
“Bad hand?” she asked.
“Pay him no mind,” Lord Braddock said. “He groans when he passes and when he bids seven no trump. He thinks it fools me.”
Mrs. Pendergrast bid a timid four—much to her husband’s chagrin—and Diane bid six and watched delightedly as her partner’s eyebrows rose. He gave a small laugh.
“I’ve never had Miss Stanhope as a partner, but she did assure me she knew what she was doing.”
Diane simply smiled, knowing no one would outbid her, and also knowing she had a hand that, with a bit of help from her partner, could easily win. As the four began the hand, it became clear to Diane that the Pendergrasts were formidable opponents, but did not have the cards to stop her run. As the last trick was played, Lord Braddock gave her a wink, and she flushed. She wished, for the first time in her life, that she were more sophisticated and worldly, for a woman in her thirties shouldn’t flush like a schoolgirl because a handsome man winks at her.
The longer the couples played, the more wine was consumed, and by the end of the evening, Diane was feeling a bit tipsy. The Pendergrasts, already a lively pair, were downright boisterous after two generous glasses of wine. It was the most fun Diane could remember having in years.
She and Lord Braddock walked the couple to the door, bidding them good night and promising another round of cards in the near future. As they closed the door, Diane caught Lord Braddock’s eye and smiled. “That was exceedingly pleasant,” she said. “What a wonderful couple.” She was rather startled that she was having a bit of difficulty with her enunciation, which, oddly, caused her to giggle. “Oh, my, I do believe I’ve had too much wine this evening,” she said, looking up at the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on, who happened to be looking down at her with strange intensity. She might be a tad drunk, but he looked stone sober.
“You had but two glasses,” he said.
“Big glasses,” Diane responded, holding up her hands to indicate just how big they were.
“You are a bit foxed, aren’t you? You’re quite an adorable drunk,” he said.
She frowned. “No one’s ever called me adorable. I am not adorable.” She took a deep breath, wishing it would clear her foggy brain.
“You are adorable. And I am very glad you are here.” George was slightly taken aback by those words, because he realized with a start that they were true. He liked having her there, a soft woman to listen to him complain, to offer advice. To smile up at him as if he were a desirable man. He could not remember the last time a woman had looked at him and seen him, not his title and not his wealth. She smiled, and yes, she was a bit tipsy. But that only served to soften her a bit, to allow her to let down her guard, to relax that ramrod stiffness she seemed to think was so important.
“When was the last time you were kissed, Miss Stanhope?”
Her cheeks flushed becomingly, but she met his gaze with her unwavering one. “Quite some time,” she said.
“Why?” He was puzzled. She was pretty, intelligent, had a wonderful sense of humor. He couldn’t fathom why she had not married long ago. But his question, honestly asked, seemed to make her angry.
“Please do not patronize me, Lord Braddock. I think I should go to bed.”
She turned away, but George was having none of it, and he stayed her with a gentle grasp on her upper arm. She gave his hand a quick angry glance, then looked up at him.
“I find you pretty,” he said forcefully.
“How lovely.” It was not the reaction he had expected. Most women would have smiled up at him. But Diane Stanhope was not most women.
“I find you pretty, and I want to kiss you,” he said, sounding rather angry for a man who wanted a woman’s kiss.
She turned her head away. “Please do not.”
He moved closer to her, and she stiffened, her face still averted. “I want to kiss you,” he repeated, this time more softly. “May I?”
“No.”
He chuckled softly, and leaned closer, breathing in her softly feminine scent, which did nothing to curb his rather unexpected lust. “Just on the cheek,” he said, so low he wasn’t certain she even heard him. He pressed his lips against her heated skin, and her eyes drifted closed. He kissed her jaw, then her neck above the collar of her too-chaste dress. He licked her earlobe, and she let out a small sound of pleasure. Her breathing was becoming erratic, and George realized her reaction to his kisses was as much an aphrodisiac as her sweet scent and impossibly soft skin. She turned her head into his kiss, and he pressed his lips against the side of her mouth, just at the corner. If she turned even the slightest bit more, he would be kissing her full on the mouth. He was almost painfully aroused, something that was decidedly shocking, given the fact that he hadn’t touched her at all except for his mouth on her skin. It was the breathing, the soft sounds, her scent that made it difficult not to drag her into his arms and kiss her until she melted to the floor.
“Let me . . .”
And she turned, kissing him fully, her arms going around his neck, taking him by surprise. He recovered quickly, slanting his head to gain fuller access, pulling her close, letting her feel his arousal, l
etting her know he was a man who desired her. She gasped, and he pushed his tongue into her welcoming mouth, groaning in relief and desire. He deepened the kiss and moved his hands to her nicely rounded bottom, pulling her tight against him, so that his cock was pressed against her heated center. God, she was so responsive. He wouldn’t have expected that.
“Come to my room,” he said against her kiss-swollen lips.
He might have thrown a bucket of icy water on her instead of inviting her to his bed. She pushed away almost violently, her chest heaving, her face a mixture of unspent desire, anger, and mortification. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
He gave her a crooked smile. “I was kissing you.”
She gave him a withering look. “No. What do you mean by asking me to your room? Is that what you think of me? That I am a woman of loose morals? Yes, I had too much to drink tonight, which is evident from my disgraceful behavior. But you, sir, should know better than to accost a woman in your care.”
“Accost? I didn’t accost you. I kissed you.”
She looked flabbergasted. “And then asked me to your bed.”
“That is usually what follows such kissing. At least in my experience.” That last, perhaps, was a mistake to say.
“As a woman of no experience, I wouldn’t know,” she said, her voice tightening slightly as if she were trying not to cry.
Now he did feel like a cad. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d driven a woman to tears. “I apologize,” he said. “I was swept up in the moment. I have no excuse other than that I find you rather difficult to resist.”
He’d thought she would smile, but instead she scowled at him. “I have a mirror,” she said.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“I am not pretty. Nor desirable. I am passable at best. You, on the other hand, are exceedingly handsome, as you no doubt are aware of, and so you think you can seduce the poor, homely old maid. Well, sir, you cannot.”
“That is not at all what I was doing.”
She raised one eyebrow. “Really? And what, pray tell, were you doing?”
