Her Prodigal Passion

by Grace Callaway

  Being ignored by a female was a novel experience. He couldn't say that he liked it, only because the female in question was Miss Sparkler. How could she be so indifferent after what had passed between them? Yet there she was sitting with her back to him and chatting up a storm with Kent, who sat on her other side.

  Paul gritted his teeth. He couldn't make out their conversation, but the attentive tilt of her head conveyed her absorption in the exchange. Damnit, shouldn't she be talking to him? After what had transpired at the gazebo, they had plenty to discuss.

  He remained appalled at his lack of self-control. At the same time, he reckoned that the kiss they'd shared would throw any man off-kilter. By God, in all his years he'd never experienced anything so ... consuming. So sweetly erotic. And the shock of discovering the passionate creature beneath that prim little exterior?

  His spine tingled; his groin stirred.

  Staring at the slender length of Miss Sparkler's back, all he could think about was how supple she'd felt in his arms. How beneath that bland grey frock lay the softest, silkiest skin. And her unique scent—he had the wild urge to nuzzle the curve of her neck to search out that elusive blend of linen and clean woman again. He hardened at the thought of smelling her, tasting her, losing himself in her honey and fire ...

  Focus, man. You're supposed to make amends, not debauch her all over again.

  The arrival of the final dessert course interrupted his brooding. As the poached pear in wine sauce was placed in front of him, Paul felt a slipper wandering up his calf. Unfortunately, it came from the wrong side. He jerked his leg away and cast the baroness a scathing glance.

  She giggled, her darkened eyelashes lowering in an unmistakable wink.

  For God's sake. Heat crept up his neck as he saw the knowing glances exchanged around the table. Sitting across from him, Marianne Kent sipped her wine, but he knew she didn't miss a thing. Through the silver bars of the candelabra, he could see the faint lift to her fair brows, and he knew that she—and the other guests—were judging him. As if getting molested by a randy matron was somehow his fault.

  Anger smoldered. Along with embers of embarrassment.

  Deuce take it, he was tired of the lewd affairs. The meaningless sexual games. Drowning one's sorrows with sex was no different than doing it with whiskey: the mindless oblivion was inevitably followed by regret and self-recrimination in the morning. When the baroness' slipper crept up his leg again, his hold on his temper slipped. Gentlemanly manners be damned.

  "Desist, madam." Though he spoke under his breath, the steel in his tone was unmistakable.

  Finally, she got the message. She gave him an uncertain glance—and removed her foot. Her curls bobbed as she quickly turned to the gentleman on her other side.

  Paul returned his attention to Charity, only to find that she was still absorbed in her conversation with Kent. What was so captivating about the blasted policeman? Just because Kent spent his days protecting society and chasing down criminals ... if he, Paul, wanted to do something useful, he could too.

  Probably. Maybe.

  Picking up his spoon, he stabbed at his pear. Vexing chit. She was confusing him on purpose. She'd lured him in with her unexpected depths and quiet empathy, that fascinating mix of propriety and sensuality and then—bam.

  She was giving him the cold shoulder. The coldest, in fact, that he'd ever gotten.

  "Stewing has never been my preference," Marianne Kent drawled from across the table.

  The amusement in her eyes made him cringe. He put on a debonair smile. "I suppose it depends on whether one likes one's fruit soft or,"—he waggled his brows—"with more of a bite."

  "Oh. Were we talking about the dessert?"

  Paul felt himself turn as red as the wine sauce. "What else would we be discussing?"

  "Your unusually meditative state." Leaning forward, Mrs. Kent said in an undertone, "She's lovely and original, you know. Mr. Kent is quite taken with her."

  "That doesn't bother you?"

  Mrs. Kent's lips curved. "I trust my husband."

  Though this was simply stated, Paul had to wonder at the change in this once infamous widow. Before her marriage, she'd been his match and more when it came to jaded sophistication. But since pledging her troth to Kent, she'd shed that world-weary mantle, revealing, of all things, an honest woman in love with her own spouse.

  "Easy for you to say. Kent has eyes for no one but you—poor bastard's been sneaking glances at you all evening long," Paul said.

  "I know." Her smile reached her eyes. "Now will you admit the same?"

  "That I've been admiring you, too? Guilty as charged."

  "You know what I meant." She sipped from her wine glass. "I've never known you to be a coward, Mr. Fines."

  Then obviously you don't know me very well.

  He'd nearly gotten Percy killed because he hadn't had the bollocks to face his gaming debts. He'd almost destroyed Fines & Co. because he couldn't handle a broken heart. And he'd lost Rosalind because he hadn't been man enough to convince her that he was a risk worth taking.

  Rosalind ... With a twinge, he saw again her shimmering violet eyes, the tears coursing down her alabaster cheeks.

  I love you, Paul, but what kind of future can you offer me? Earl Monteith has promised to pay off my father's debts, to bring my sisters out into Society. And Mama has always wanted a title for me. If I don't marry Monteith, my family will disown me, and I'll be disgraced forever. Is that what you wish?

  He'd failed to come up with a convincing argument. I love you hadn't been enough. And it'd been true that he lacked the things her family wanted. Worse yet, he hadn't even been able to find a single flaw with his rival: Monteith was known to be an upstanding peer, the rare lord who didn't drink or game and took his responsibilities seriously.

  Compared to such a paragon, how could Paul compete?

  Hell, he'd deserved to lose Rosalind.

  'Twas a reminder of why he'd avoided marriageable ladies since then. He didn't need to have his gut wrenched to pieces again. He slid a look at Charity—still jawing away with Kent—and his mouth tightened. He ought to be relieved that things hadn't progressed much beyond a kiss. And even more so that she'd headed his honorable offer off at the pass. What kind of husband would he make?

  "Oh, fie." A familiar, sultry voice penetrated his ear. "I dropped my reticule, and it seems to have rolled beneath your chair, sir."

  Just bloody perfect.

  His jaw set, he rose and turned to face Lady Augusta. She wore a low-cut gown and a smirking expression. He'd spent all of last evening deflecting her and Louisa's advances. What would it take to be rid of the wenches?

  "Allow me to fetch it for you, my lady," he said curtly.

  As he bent to retrieve the object, his gaze collided with Charity's. Jeweled fire blazed in her eyes ... and then she turned away. Staring at the rigid back of her topknot, he was swept up in a bewildering gust of rage and shame. He hadn't invited Augusta to drop her bag beneath his chair; it wasn't his fault that she was employing the most transparent ploy imaginable to get his attention. A ploy that was, unfortunately, inviting more than a few raised brows and knowing looks.

  Wanting to get the business over with, he bent down on one knee to complete the fool's errand. On the pretense of helping, Augusta squatted beside him.

  "Come to my room tonight," she said sotto voce. "It'll just be you and me this time—Louisa's got her hands full with her lord's sudden appearance." Glee lit her eyes. "When he's not off gallivanting, Parkington keeps her on a short chain."

  Paul could give a fig about Louisa's marital affairs. In truth, he wished he'd never bedded either of the sisters. Why did the paths he chose always end up being the rockiest ones? What was supposed to be a casual tumble was fast turning into a sticky situation; he needed to extricate himself from the twins' web posthaste.

  "Thank you, but I must decline." He groped in the darkness. Where was that blasted bag?

  "Decline? You're turn
ing me down? Surely you jest."

  Catching the strings of the beaded purse at last, he pushed it at her. "As you'll recall, we agreed to share a night's diversion," he said in low tones, "and nothing more. Let us not taint that pleasant memory."

  "Taint it? Au contraire, lover, I wish to add to it. I haven't yet had my fill of you."

  "I, however, am done." He swatted away her grasping hands. "I hope you'll enjoy the rest of your visit. I shan't be a part of it."

  Flags of color stood out on her face.

  "Rest assured, I shall not lack for company," she hissed.

  "Your servant." Rising, he offered his hand.

  Ignoring his assistance, Augusta jumped to her feet and stormed off in a swish of red. Jaw taut, Paul looked to Charity's seat: its emptiness was as glaring as a judge. Snickers emerged around the table, fans beating the air in a titillated rhythm. Not wanting to provide further fodder for gossip, he sat down, his shoulders stiff.

  Why the devil was he always mired in disaster? Why couldn't he do anything right? The answer blazed in his brain: Because you're a failure through and through.

  He found himself staring at his wineglass. He hadn't touched it all evening—and now the ruby depths winked at him. He could almost taste the oaky spice upon his tongue, feel the smooth slide over his insides, the numbing warmth. It was just wine, after all. Not heavy spirits, so it would only be bending, not breaking, the rules.

  Kent's low voice reached him just as his fingers circled the stem. "I think you've been down that road before, lad, and decided it wasn't a trip worth repeating."

  Paul clenched the crystal.

  "What's done is done," Kent said quietly. "The only thing a man can control is the present."

  Paul's grip on the glass tightened ... and then he let go.

  Hell's teeth, Kent was right. He had been down this particular path before, and it had led him straight to hell. He had no intention of going there again.

  He blew out a breath. "I seem to have lost my thirst."

  Kent's chin lowered in approval.

  "In that case," Mrs. Kent said, "I suggest we make our way out. There's to be a lecture in the Ivy Room, and indeed,"—she paused delicately—"I believe Miss Sparkler was headed in that direction."

  Normally, he couldn't give a damn what others thought of him, but with Miss Sparkler, it was … different. Maybe, in this instance, different was good. Sudden energy buzzed through him, a feeling not unlike the rush he experienced during a boxing match. He'd just stared down one of his demons; surely he could take on a stubborn miss.

  He made his decision.

  He would speak to Charity, try to fix the animosity between them.

  "Lead the way," he said.

  ELEVEN

  Charity followed the trail of guests to the Ivy Room, a high-ceilinged chamber with a leafy trellis stenciled over the mint green walls. The rows of chairs had filled up quickly, leaving only a few empty seats near the back. Charity considered abandoning the enterprise, yet she had promised to attend and wasn't one to go back on her word. Neither was she a coward. She refused to flee to her chamber and give into an unprecedented bout of tears.

  She was done crying over Paul Fines.

  "Please take your seats everyone."

  Lady Helena's clear tones came from the front of the room. Beside the marchioness stood a gentleman with silver spectacles and a stern, schoolmasterish bearing that made Charity hastily slide into one of the remaining seats.

  "I have the great pleasure of introducing our speaker for this evening," Lady Helena said. "Dr. Ernst Frankel is renowned for his work in the science of cranioscopy, and tonight he will be lecturing on the diagnosis of temperaments from the shape of the human skull. Please join me in welcoming our distinguished guest."

  Excited murmurs and applause swirled through the room.

  "Thank you," the doctor said in a heavy German accent. "To begin, I draw your attention to the map of the human brain."

  His pointing stick whipped against the poster on the stand behind him, so sharply that several members of the audience gasped and twitched in their seats.

  Dr. Frankel's lecture proved a welcome distraction. Charity found herself fascinated by the notion that one's personality could be derived from the profile of one's skull. She followed along as Dr. Frankel mapped out the locations of various faculties: acquisitiveness (the tendency to amass and hoard riches, located at the lower temple), secretiveness (the capacity for cunning, seated near the top of the head), and ideality (the pursuit of perfection, which could be read from the width of the temples).

  "You don't really believe this claptrap, do you?" With nonchalant grace, Paul Fines took the seat beside her. "The bumps on a skull no more determine one's disposition and future than a gypsy's cards."

  Charity's hands balled in her lap. Why did he persist in interfering with her peace? Clearly he had no shortage of females to go bother—why was he pestering her?

  She kept her eyes forward, saying repressively, "You're interrupting the lecture, sir."

  "Didn't know you were a bluestocking."

  "There's a lot you don't know about me."

  "Each time we meet, I'm discovering that more." She made the mistake of glancing over; his slow smile made her heart flip-flop as haplessly as a fish washed ashore. "You surprise me at every turn, and never more so than at our last encounter."

  "I don't want to talk about it," she said.

  "But I do. If only to apologize."

  "Fine, you've apologized. Now will you leave me be?" she said curtly. "I'm sure you have many friends to get back to."

  "Why, Miss Sparkler, I didn't know that you noticed or cared about the company I keep."

  "I don't." Feeling the heat of censorious glances, Charity tamped her voice down. "What you do and whom you do it with is none of my business, Mr. Fines."

  For an instant, she thought she'd quieted him.

  Then he murmured, "You're wrong, you know."

  Hearing the annoyed grumbling around them, she kept her eyes fixed on Dr. Frankel as he pointed out areas of the brain. The scholar could have been speaking Greek for all she knew. Mr. Fines, blast him, had hooked her attention.

  Unable to help herself, she muttered, "Wrong? About what?"

  "I don't have many friends." This startling assertion made her turn her head. His smile was crooked and boyish, devoid of its usual urbanity. The effect battered at her defenses. "Not many with whom I could share a heartfelt conversation, at any rate. And not any I could talk to ... the way I find myself talking to you."

  Don't give in. He regrets kissing you. He called it a mistake.

  She swallowed. "I'm not interested in being your friend."

  "Maybe that's not what I want from you either."

  He looked as surprised by his words as she was.

  Her pulse raced. Don't get fooled again by his charm.

  "I don't care what you want," she said.

  His brow furrowed. "For a slip of a thing, you're remarkably stubborn."

  The reference to her insignificance made her patience snap. "First I'm a mouse, now I'm a slip? Well, I may be small, but you have an overly large head," she said in a furious undertone. "Especially when it comes to your own countenance."

  Mr. Fines' lips pressed together. Before she could savor the triumph of putting him in his place, a muscle twitched alongside his mouth. His eyes danced. He was silently laughing at her!

  All pretense of listening to the lecture fled.

  She spun in her chair to face him. "I fail to see what is so amusing."

  He shook his head, his wide shoulders shaking.

  "Ahem. Am I interrupting anything?"

  The heavily accented words directed Charity's gaze toward the stage. Dr. Frankel's grey brows formed a stern line, his wooden stick directed at them like an accusing finger. "The gentleman and lady at the back. Do you have something you'd care to share with the rest of the audience?"

  "N-no," Charity stammered. She fe
lt like an errant miss caught in a prank, a sensation as novel as it was mortifying. Her cheeks pulsed as every pair of eyes turned in her direction. "B-beg pardon, sir. We were just—"

  The doctor gestured impatiently with his stick. "Since you have captured the audience's attention, I will use the pair of you for my demonstration."

  "No, really, I—"

  "Glad to lend a hand, Dr. Frankel. Fascinating stuff, your lecture." Mr. Fines' insouciant tones cut her off. He pulled her to her feet, murmuring, "Come on, this will be fun."

  "No, it won't." She tried to pull her arm free.

  But his grip didn't budge from her elbow, and he steered her down the aisle. "When one is called to the carpet," he said under his breath, "resisting is futile. Doing so will result in satisfaction for him and rug burn for you. Best to play along—trust me on this."

  "You would know," she said through her teeth.

  He flashed an unrepentant grin. "Getting into hot water is a Fines trait, I'm afraid. If you think Percy has a talent for it, wait until you see her older brother at work."

  It was too late to argue further; they'd arrived at the stage.

  "Take a seat facing one another," Dr. Frankel instructed.

  Fuming, she took the chair on the right. Mr. Fines took the opposite one, which was placed so close to hers that their knees touched. She pulled away as if burned.

  "Who will conduct the examination first?" the doctor asked.

  Charity's hands grew clammy. All her life, she'd followed rules and done what was expected of her. Yet thanks to Mr. Fines, she had no clue how to proceed.

  The cad had the gall to offer her a bland smile. "Shall I have a go first, Miss Sparkler?"

  Torn between relief and annoyance, she gave a curt nod. He reached over, and her pulse leapt at his nearness. As he ran his hands gently over her hair, his subtle cologne teased her senses. The masculine combination of cedar and musk warmed her insides, made them quiver.

  In desperation, she tried to concentrate on something else. She counted the grey stripes on his waistcoat. One stripe, two, three … when he moved, the fabric stretched over his chest, molding perfectly to the rigid musculature. Perspiration bloomed on her skin as she recalled the sensation of that virile form crushing her body, her breasts pressing against unyielding sinew—