Promise me forever - The Lost Lords Trilogy 03

by Lorraine Heath

  “You didn’t ask Lydia to tell me that you’d be out here walking?”

  “No. My cousin seems to be involved in a bit of mischief. I didn’t realize she was so acutely aware of my habits.”

  Her voice contained no censure, maybe a spark of teasing, as though she wasn’t completely upset that Lydia had shared her little ritual with Tom.

  “Why do you always stroll in the garden during these particular dances?”

  “I simply need some time away from the madness, and planning always to sit out the same dances worked well.”

  “So do you mind if I join you?”

  “Not as long as you behave.”

  “You take away all the fun.” Still, he extended his arm, and she placed her hand on it.

  “You seem to be enjoying the ball,” she said, after they’d taken a few steps and settled into an easy stride.

  How could he explain? He was in favor of having a good time, couldn’t deny that he found pleasure in holding a woman in his arms and whirling her over a dance floor, and yet—

  “There are so many rules that it diminishes the fun a bit.”

  She smiled up at him. “I’ve never quite been able to put my finger on exactly what it was that bothered me. Perhaps that’s it. I can’t deny that I enjoy dancing, and the gentlemen are always pleasant—”

  “Maybe too pleasant.”

  Before Lauren realized what he intended, he’d snaked an arm around her waist and guided her off the path and into the shadowy darkness behind a trellis of roses. She found her back up against a wall, Tom so near, not touching, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body seeping into hers.

  “Admit it, Lauren. What you don’t like is that they’re too refined over here, that they don’t tempt you to do the forbidden.”

  He grazed his bare finger along her cheek. When had he removed his glove? Did he always have to remove it before he touched her?

  “They’re proper,” he said.

  He boldly trailed his finger down to her collarbone, stealing her ability to speak as it passed along her throat.

  “They’re tamed,” he continued, as his touch dipped slightly lower, hovering just above the swell of her breast, causing her nipples to harden in anticipation, her knees to weaken.

  “And, darlin’, you’ve always had too much wildness to settle for the tamed.”

  Hungrily, he blanketed her mouth with his, his hand moving up to stroke her cheek, the underside of her chin, her throat…improperly in a proper sort of way. He certainly could have been more bold, and she was so far lost in the passion elicited by his questing tongue that she wouldn’t have objected. He could have peeled back her bodice, exposed her to his dark gaze, and she’d have not cared.

  He took only what he was certain she was willing to give, and she was beyond thinking clearly so that she might urge him to take more. Instead, she simply returned his kiss with equal fervor, raking her hands up into his hair, holding him tightly in place, at once wanting him near and fearing that without his support she would simply collapse to the ground because her legs had somehow lost the strength to hold her up without powerful assistance, and he was beyond any doubt powerful.

  His arms came around her like banded steel, pressing her close as he changed the angle of the kiss so he could increase the intimacy. Heat and desire almost overwhelmed her. She’d managed over the past week to keep both at bay, to think of Tom as a project, someone to be taught, but not touched, someone to expose to London life without wondering what it might be like to live with him. She fought to remain aloof, to build up her walls, to refrain from wondering how different it all might be if he were still in Texas waiting for her.

  She thought he’d become properly civilized.

  Instead, his kiss was clearly demonstrating the error in her thinking. He was still as untamed as the land that had once brought them together.

  And so was she.

  To want as badly as she did to have his mouth devouring hers, to need his arms around her as much as she did. Want and need, bouncing back and forth, like a ball across a tennis lawn. Want. Need. Need. Want.

  His mouth was suddenly gone, and she found her cheek pressed into the crook of his shoulder, where she could hear the hammering of his heart, each harsh rapid breath, his and hers, filling up the night, drowning out every other sound.

  How long had they been there? How many dances had passed? Had they been missed?

  She felt something tickle faintly over her shoulder, went to brush it away, and realized it was her hair. Panicked, she pushed away from Tom, reached up to touch her coiffure, and realized that a good deal of it was no longer in place. She could hardly return to the ballroom with swollen, tingling lips and mussed hair. And she had a feeling he might look equally untidy. After all, she recalled her fingers scraping along his scalp. She didn’t know why she didn’t recall his doing the same.

  “There’s a side door that leads into the servant area that will at least get us back into the house, hopefully undetected so we can put ourselves back to rights,” she told him.

  She felt him tugging on loosened strands of her hair, could see the flash of his grin in the faint light provided by the gaslights.

  “I like the way you look now,” he said.

  “You can’t see me clearly in the dark.”

  “Clear enough.”

  She wished the deep rumble of his voice didn’t make her want to latch her mouth on to his again. Wild indeed. She made a move to edge past him, and he grabbed her arm, effectively stilling her movement.

  “Don’t go get straightened up,” he said. “Let’s just leave.”

  “Leave and do what? I think this little foray behind the roses has clearly demonstrated that neither of us is as civilized as we should be.”

  “It also demonstrated that we’re not as wild as we could be. You’re still dressed.”

  Completely and absolutely, which she considered somewhat of a miracle since her body had grown as warm as Texas in August.

  “Tom, it’s completely inappropriate for me to leave with you.”

  “Even if we’re not seen?”

  “My parents will be looking for me, as well as the gentlemen to whom I’ve promised dances. No, I’m sorry. I can’t risk ruining my reputation.”

  “You’re leaving, Lauren. In Texas, your reputation will be what ever you damned well want it to be.”

  “But I’m not there yet, and I have my family to consider. I won’t have any embarrassment visited upon them, because you and I haven’t the strength to behave civilized.”

  She freed her arm of his grip, pressed a kiss to her fingertips, and touched them to his warm lips. “Last dance. I’ll see you then.”

  She peered out from behind the trellis, saw no one about, and hurried to the side of the house, grateful that she knew her cousin’s house as well as her own and could make it safely inside where she could quickly put her hair back into place and hope no one noticed that it didn’t look quite as it originally had.

  Get back inside where it might be easier to resist the temptations offered by Thomas Warner, who not only tempted her to leave with him, but tempted her to stay as well.

  Tom wasn’t enjoying his second dance with Lady Blythe as much as he had the first, mostly because he was viewing it as simply a way to pass the time until the final dance, when he would again hold Lauren in his arms. A shame he wouldn’t be able to do more than that, at least not in a gaily lit ballroom. He wondered if she might be willing to take another walk in the garden.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Lauren coming back into the ballroom, no outward appearances that she’d almost been ravished behind the roses. How could she look so calm and unaffected, when he was still carrying the scent of her on his skin?

  “My lord,” Lady Blythe began.

  Tom tilted his head slightly, wondering what she was waiting for. “Yes, darlin’?”

  She released her short breathless giggle. “I do so love
when you call me that.” She gnawed on her lower lip, did a quick glance around, before locking her gaze on his. “My lord, I couldn’t help but notice that you seem to give quite a bit of attention to Fairfield.”

  Tom fought not to clench his jaw or tell her that to whom he gave attention was none of her business. He was proud of the smile that he gave Lady Blythe and the flat tone of his voice. “Yes, as it happens, I do.”

  “I hope you won’t consider me too presumptuous, and as a rule, I’m not one to speak ill of anyone, can’t tolerate gossip and the hurt that it has the potential to cause, but as you are only recently arrived in London, you might be unaware that Miss Fairfield has gained a reputation as a lady who lures a man in only to humiliate him. The poor Duke of Kimburton sought her favor last Season, and she granted it, unwaveringly, until he was assured that he held her heart. When he asked for her hand in marriage, she humiliated him by declining.”

  Tom lost the battle not to clench his jaw. “Maybe he misunderstood—”

  “Oh, no. You can ask anyone here. She flirted with him shamelessly. A lady shouldn’t encourage a man for whom she feels nothing. It’s quite simply not done. The result is disastrous, to his heart, to his confidence. All were convinced that she favored him. No one was surprised when he proposed marriage, but all were stunned, shocked, actually, when she rejected the offer without explanation or any inkling as to the reason.”

  “Is Kimburton here to night?”

  He wanted to see the man, get his side of the story.

  “Oh, my word, no. He was mortified. He’s chosen not to come to London this Season, and I, for one, can hardly blame him. I tell you this only as a precaution. I have always liked Fairfield and still consider her a friend, but even as a friend I cannot approve of her blatant disregard for the duke’s honor, and I fear she may lead you down a similar unhappy path.”

  She blinked, smiled, blinked again. Tom usually wasn’t at a loss for words, but he hardly knew what to say, mostly because his mind was reeling with the knowledge that another man had asked for Lauren’s hand; that Lauren had actually encouraged him, that she might have even been seriously considering the offer.

  “I would never encourage a man whom I did not wish to wed,” Lady Blythe said, as though she’d grown tired of waiting for Tom to come up with some sort of response, to fill up the silence stretching between them. “It seems rather cruel to me.”

  “I don’t guess it’s possible that he misinterpreted her actions—”

  “Oh, no. On occasion she rather boldly sought him out, and everyone simply attributed her forthrightness to her American upbringing, but now one must wonder if she perhaps had an ulterior motive, although one can only guess what it might have been. And as I don’t have a propensity toward unkind behavior, I must sadly confess to being at a complete loss regarding what she might have been thinking.”

  The music drifted into silence. Lady Blythe placed her gloved hand on his arm, her eyes filled with concern. “I beg of you, do take care where she is concerned. It is obvious you are vulnerable to her wiles. And as I said, it would pain me greatly to see you hurt. While I have only been in your company a short time, I have grown rather fond of you.”

  “I appreciate your concern.”

  The lie rolled off his tongue with ease, when in truth he wanted to lash out at her for the things she’d told him. His muscles were tense, his jaw aching as he escorted her off the dance floor and returned her to a group of young ladies who were tittering and giggling. Suddenly he was irritated with everything.

  He left them to their gossip, and he had no doubt they would begin to gossip—about him, about Lauren.

  He wondered why she’d never mentioned Kimburton, wondered exactly what her feelings toward the man had been. It seemed he and Lauren had a hell of a lot more to discuss. He wanted to find her and—

  “—believe she had the audacity to attend this ball.”

  “The Duchess of Harrington is her cousin. She could hardly not come.”

  “On the contrary, I believe she should have had the decency not to show regardless of any relationship she may have with the hostess.”

  “I daresay she seems to have caught Sachse’s attention.”

  “Poor blighter has no idea regarding the humiliation she’s capable of inflicting.”

  “Perhaps we should seek an introduction, so we can explain the truth of the matter and save him the misfortune of making a complete fool of himself where Fairfield is concerned.”

  “No introduction needed,” Tom said to the backs of the three men standing at the edge of the dance floor. If he hadn’t been in a dangerously foul mood after Lady Blythe’s revelations—before hearing their pompous words—he might have laughed at the way they all jerked and spun around as though they were puppets dangling on strings.

  “I say, Sachse, I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced,” the taller and lankier of the trio said.

  Tom, unkindly, could envision him serving as a scarecrow in a field of corn. As a matter of fact, he wouldn’t mind hanging him on the poles himself.

  “Allow me to do the honors,” the man continued as Tom held his silence. “I’m the Earl of Whithaven and my cohorts”—chuckle, chuckle—“are the Marquess of Kingston and Viscount Reynolds.”

  The other two gentlemen mumbled greetings.

  “You were gossiping about Miss Fairfield,” Tom said pointedly.

  “Oh, no, no, no, dear fellow,” Whithaven said. “Women gossip. We were merely…conversing, exchanging concerns, speculating on the inevitability of a Season gone awry. We couldn’t help but notice that you seemed quite smitten by Miss Fairfield—”

  “I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”

  “Perhaps not, but we felt that we should warn you that she treated one of our friends rather badly last Season. A very likable chap, Kimburton, and that is not even taking into consideration the prestige of his title, for which she showed blatant disregard.”

  “Because she said no?”

  “Because, old chap, she gave every indication that she would say yes. I lost a fortune on the wagers. Hardly sporting of her to dupe us all.”

  “Hardly sporting of you to wager on the outcome.” He’d made his delivery in a perfect British accent that had all three men bugging their eyes.

  Tom took a step toward the man who appeared to be the leader of the bunch. “If I were you, I’d stop talking about Miss Fairfield, or I’ll be making a wager on whether or not you’re fast enough to duck my fist.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Tom gave his head a shake, turned to go, couldn’t do it—

  His fist was flying into Whithaven’s face before he realized it. The man would have lost the wager had he made it. He wasn’t fast enough to duck. He stumbled back into a dancing couple before landing on the floor with a thud.

  Someone screamed, Tom heard a few gasps, a squeal, the music suddenly stopped, Reynolds was sputtering.

  “See here!” Kingston said. “That was uncalled for.”

  Tom felt a hand on his arm, looked over to see Lauren staring at him, her brow deeply furrowed, horror at his actions clearly etched in her eyes. “Tom, what on earth do you think you’re doing?”

  “Being a barbaric Texan.”

  “Is there a problem?” Harrington asked.

  Tom turned to the man he’d thought he might be able to develop a friendship with. “I’m sorry for disrupting your party. I should have taken this outside.”

  “Perhaps you should come to the library—”

  “No, thank you, I think it would be best if I left.” He looked over at Whithaven. A woman with blond hair and green eyes was kneeling beside him, while Kingston and Reynolds were muttering and trying to get the man’s nose to stop bleeding.

  Then Tom was storming out of the room before he did more damage. So much for proving he wasn’t his father.

  Chapter 12

  T om was so angry that he could have chewed nails. Angry at him
self for losing control, angry at Whithaven for daring to dare him, angry at Lauren for showing interest in another man, even if that interest had ended.

  Angry at himself for storming out. Angry at Lauren for not following, not that he’d invited her to, but still he’d thought she might come after him. Angry because he wore the veneer of civilization, but that’s all it was. A veneer that looked good on the outside, but the shining surface hid from view the rotting wood beneath. He wished they’d never come searching for him. He wished his father’s blood didn’t race through his veins.

  He was angry about that most of all.

  That he couldn’t be the man he’d become.

  He sat in a heavy, brocaded chair in the sitting area of his bedchamber, a fire burning in the fireplace because he couldn’t get used to the chill of the night or the cold of the house. Even the whiskey he was downing straight from the bottle seemed unable to warm him.

  He heard the door open, close. Damned valet. The man seemed to think he was in charge of more than Tom’s clothes; he was in charge of his life. “Thought I told you to go on to bed, that I could undress myself to night.”

  “Actually, I don’t recall your saying that to me.”

  Lauren.

  Tom came up out of the chair so fast, turning so quickly, that his head spun, and he thought he might bring up the whiskey he’d already downed.

  Standing just inside the room, she wore a simple dress, not a single flounce, ribbon, or bow on it. Something she could have put on without any help at all, something like what she’d worn that first night when they’d gone down to the river. Her hair was piled on her head, and he cursed himself for longing to see it released, draped around her shoulders, flowing down her back. Where she was concerned, he seemed unable to stop himself from longing for a lot of things.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she crossed the short distance separating them, moving around a small table until she was near and nothing separated them except the memories that joined them.

  Her eyes reflected a sadness that made him want to reach out, take her in his arms, and comfort her, assure her that everything would be all right. But he’d never been a man to make promises he couldn’t keep.