Nicole Jordan

by Wicked Fantasy

  Either way, Heward went rigid. “Don’t be absurd, Deverill. I am not afraid. I simply don’t choose to make a spectacle of myself or Miss Maitland.”

  “Or is it because you have so little faith in her abilities?”

  Stiffening herself, Antonia came to her betrothed’s defense. “If you care to volunteer as the target, Mr. Deverill, I might consider shooting at you.”

  A lazy smile touched Deverill’s lips. “I would be happy to oblige.”

  Realizing it had been his goal all along to provoke her into accepting his dare, Antonia hesitated.

  “Come now, Miss Maitland, where is your sense of adventure?” His smile was charming, his gaze wicked. “It should be easy for an Amazon princess to shoot a hat.”

  That did it! Antonia rose to his bait; she couldn’t help herself. “Very well, I accept your challenge,” she declared, flashing him a taunting half smile of her own.

  She heard the gasps and titters from the audience that still lingered. Beside her, Emily clapped a hand over her mouth to stop a chortle of shocked mirth.

  Ignoring the reactions, Antonia handed her silver cup to her friend, then returned to the shooters’ table, where her bow rested.

  Miss Tottle’s slender hands fluttered nervously in the air. “Should you, my dear? You might k-kill him.”

  Perhaps she shouldn’t, Antonia reflected. It was foolish, mad even, but if Deverill was daring enough to risk his life at her hands, she wasn’t going to gainsay him.

  “My dear,” Heward interjected, his tone sharp, “this is not wise.” Moving to stand beside her, Heward leaned close and lowered his voice. “I forbid you to make a spectacle of yourself in this demeaning manner.”

  At his tone, Antonia sent him a chill smile, but Deverill drawled before she could reply. “Perhaps you should reconsider, Miss Maitland, since his lordship obviously doesn’t approve.”

  He was prodding Heward even more than he was testing her mettle, Antonia knew, but her temper had been inflamed by Heward’s command. It was not his place to forbid her to do anything.

  Pressing her own lips together, she began untying the ribbons of her bonnet. “You are not wearing a hat, Mr. Deverill, but I am willing to sacrifice mine this once. Come here, if you please.”

  When he obliged, albeit warily, she reached up to perch her bonnet on top of his head.

  The frilly confection looked absurd on him, and the appreciative gleam in Deverill’s eye told her he knew it. She had managed to get a little of her own back at him, Antonia was pleased to note.

  Beside her, Heward stood stiffly, anger in every line of his body, but she ignored him and instead pointed at one of the alders that lined the bank of the Thames. “Pray, go stand in front of that tree. I don’t want my bonnet to go flying into the river. The trim can probably be saved if I hit the crown.”

  She waited while Deverill did as she bid. Walking over to the tree some thirty yards away, he turned and casually leaned back against the trunk, crossing his arms over his broad chest, his stance one of supreme confidence. “Whenever you are ready, Miss Maitland.”

  Antonia picked up her bow and nocked an arrow.

  “Antonia?” Miss Tottle repeated weakly.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t miss at this distance.”

  She wouldn’t miss; she couldn’t. She couldn’t imagine hurting the beautiful, rugged, provoking devil who stood gazing steadily back at her with amusement and challenge and—she had to admit—complete trust.

  Antonia inhaled a slow breath and raised the bow. It was not her own weapon, but the feel was similar, and the draw was nearly the same strength.

  Deverill was right, though. Shooting at a live mark was far different from shooting a straw target. Her palms were damp, her nerves a little shaky. But she knew her fortitude would only lessen the longer she waited.

  Her heart pounding, she took aim and let the arrow fly.

  Four

  The arrow struck true, spitting the crown precisely in the center.

  “A pity,” Antonia mused, hiding her fervent relief. “I was rather partial to that bonnet.”

  Deverill laughed outright. Stepping away, he pulled the arrow from the tree trunk and disentangled the disfigured bonnet, then returned both to her with a gallant bow. When he flashed her a hot, easy smile, Antonia caught the deadly glance Heward sent him. If looks were arrows, Deverill would have been instantly skewered.

  Heward was still furious at her as well, she realized as she tied the ribbons around her throat and let the ruined bonnet hang down her back.

  When she was done, his lordship took her elbow and turned her toward the manor house. “I will escort you home now, my dear.”

  His grip was actually painful. Flinching, Antonia pulled her arm away. “I think not, my lord. If you wish to leave just now, I will have Lord and Lady Sudbury take me home.”

  Lowering his voice, he said through gritted teeth, “I insist you oblige me in this, Antonia.”

  She shook her head. It was wiser to let the baron’s temper cool, not to mention she had no desire to suffer a scolding from him, which he was clearly set on delivering just as soon as he could speak privately. “I’m certain Miss Tottle is not ready to abandon the festivities just yet.”

  Heward stared at Antonia, a muscle working in his jaw as he struggled for self-control. “Very well,” he ground out finally, before spinning on his heel and stalking away.

  She watched him go, fury seething from him. Then she noticed the shocked and disapproving glances from her audience.

  Their censure, Antonia suspected, was not so much because she had accepted a bold dare and shot a hat off a man’s head, or even because she’d engaged in a lover’s quarrel in public, but because she had defied Lord Heward in a very unladylike manner and made him appear impotent.

  Embarrassment singed Antonia’s cheeks. She regretted her behavior already. Heward was a proud man and would hate to seem weak—which probably had been Deverill’s purpose all along.

  She glanced up at Deverill, who was watching her intently. Meeting his unsettling gaze, Antonia grimaced, vexed at both him and at herself. He had managed to goad her into a dispute with her betrothed, but she had allowed it. She had to admire Deverill’s methods, though, for they were quite effective.

  “I must congratulate you,” she said sardonically. “It seems you won that round.”

  From the wicked gleam in his eyes, he knew exactly what she meant. “But not the battle.”

  “No, and you won’t, either.”

  “We shall see.”

  Attempting to shrug off his confident retort, Antonia returned to the tents with Emily and Mildred Tottle, but the afternoon was spoiled for her. And her remorse only grew as the day wore on. Even though the guests seemed mostly to have forgotten about the contretemps, Antonia could not. By the time the breakfast ended at six o’clock, she was more than eager to leave.

  She and Mildred were driven home by Emily and her genial, handsome husband, Lord Sudbury. When Mildred professed a desire to retire upstairs and take a nap before dinner, Antonia had no objections. “Please go ahead. I would be poor company just now.”

  Instead of settling in the drawing room as usual, Antonia found herself wandering out to the gardens at the rear of the estate. She had thought about shooting off her frustration at the archery range, but she didn’t want to be so pointedly reminded of the disagreeable incident this afternoon.

  When she came to the secluded little gazebo that her father had built for her mother, Antonia climbed the two steps and settled on a wooden bench to her right. The gazebo was the perfect place to be alone with her thoughts. The elegant, white latticework and domed roof were overgrown with ivy and climbing roses, hiding her from view of the gardens and offering welcome tranquillity. Golden rays from the setting sun filtered through the greenery, warming the interior and scenting the air with the sweet perfume of summer blossoms.

  Wrapping her arms around her updrawn legs, Antonia rested her forehead on
her knees and gave free rein to her disturbing reflections.

  She would have to apologize to Lord Heward, of course, for she’d behaved badly toward him. He didn’t deserve such thoughtless treatment from her. Heward had been nothing but kind and helpful to her in the year since her father’s untimely death.

  And he was appropriately concerned for her reputation. Like Caesar’s wife, she had to be above reproach if she hoped to rise above her common origins, as her father had wished. It wasn’t only a title her father had sought for her; it was the full acceptance of the ton into their hallowed ranks. If she failed to achieve their sanction through her own reckless behavior, then everything her father had striven for would be for naught.

  Yet that wasn’t the true source of her emotional turmoil; it was her feelings for her betrothed that troubled Antonia most. Or rather her lack of feelings.

  She should be perfectly content with Lord Heward for her husband. They had much in common. They enjoyed the same literature, the same plays and art. He was not as inordinately passionate about riding as she, but they both relished long drives in the country in his curricle and pleasant strolls in the park.

  She was quite fond of him, and yet . . . she only wished she could love him. Wished she could feel the slightest spark of passion for him. Physically Heward was appealing, with his elegant, aristocratic looks. And he was athletically fit as well, for he regularly practiced fisticuffs at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing rooms and fenced at Angelo’s salle, in addition to shooting pistols at Manton’s shooting gallery. He was not as fit as Deverill, however. . . .

  Antonia gave a soft groan. That was the problem. She kept comparing the two men, and her betrothed came up short every time.

  It was not Heward’s fault that she found Deverill so dynamic and magnetic, so exhilarating to be near. Or that Deverill had always been her ideal: strong, courageous, bold, exciting. That for years she had admired and envied his adventuresome spirit.

  The deplorable truth was, she found Deverill’s brazen behavior secretly enticing. He defied society’s rigid rules the way she often longed to do. And his provocative charm, no matter how exasperating, was nearly irresistible.

  Oh, why did it have to be Deverill who attracted her so fiercely? Who made her blood tingle? Who filled her with forbidden desires to do more and be more and feel more? Deverill made her dream. He made her reckless and daring. He made her feel gloriously alive.

  Worst of all, he made her yearn for the kind of passion and adventure she knew she would never have in a marriage of convenience to Lord Heward.

  Damn him, damn him, damn him—

  A footfall on the wooden steps made Antonia warily raise her head. When she saw who it was, she went rigid.

  “I am surprised you aren’t at your archery range,” Deverill said in his deep voice. “I expected to find you shooting me in effigy about now.”

  “Oh, it’s you,” Antonia said irritably, putting her forehead back down on her knees. “Will you please go away? I prefer to lick my wounded sensibilities in private.”

  “Why are you hiding yourself here?”

  “I am not hiding. I am determining how best to grovel. I owe Heward an apology.”

  “I disagree. You did nothing wrong.”

  “Indeed, I did. I knew taking up your dare would upset him, yet I let you provoke me into it. You deliberately challenged me so I would quarrel with him.”

  “How wicked of me. How could I have been such a cad?”

  Antonia raised her head to glare at him. “It is extremely rag-mannered to gloat, Mr. Deverill. Now, pray go away! You are a dreadful influence on me, and I want nothing more to do with you.”

  Rather than leave, however, he settled on the bench beside her, stretching out his long legs and lacing his hands over his flat stomach. “I beg to differ. I’m an excellent influence on you. I shake you out of your stifling, decorous pretenses.”

  “To my immense regret. I was foolish to risk your life today. I could have killed you.”

  “I don’t regret it. Taking risks lets you know you’re alive. My guess is that you’ve only been half alive these past four years, buried under your prim and proper rules of social etiquette.”

  Raising a plaintive gaze to the ceiling, Antonia gave another low groan. “Whatever did I do to deserve you?”

  A chuckle escaped Deverill. “You’re only nettled because you’ve begun to see I am right: You don’t want Heward for your husband. He is far too tame and stiff-necked for you.”

  Even if it was true, the accusation brought Antonia loyally to her betrothed’s defense. “He is not too tame!” She leveled an arctic stare at Deverill. “So what if he isn’t brave and dashing? Not every man is like you. Lord Heward is gentle and caring, and he is always willing to put my interests above his own. He loves me.”

  “Does he?” Deverill sounded highly skeptical.

  “Yes! And I love him.”

  One slashing eyebrow shot up, as if he knew very well her claim was a lie.

  In frustration, Antonia jumped up from her seat and whirled to frown down at him. She didn’t love Heward, but even if she was privately having second thoughts about wedding him, she was not about to let Deverill know it. In fact, she would do better to convince him she was entering into a love match, for then he might drop his absurd campaign to end her betrothal.

  “I do love him,” she insisted.

  “I take leave to doubt that. You could never be swept away by a cold fish like Heward.”

  “He is not in the least a cold fish. He is a very passionate man.”

  That made Deverill smile.

  “It’s true. Lord Heward is as passionate a lover as any woman could wish. A better lover than you could ever be, I’ll warrant.”

  His green gaze sharpened. “So now you expect me to believe you’re not a virgin?”

  A blush stained her cheeks, but Antonia was determined to feign nonchalance. “That is precisely what I expect you to believe. After waiting so long for our nuptials, I saw no reason to hold off becoming intimate with Heward. I asked him to indulge my curiosity and consummate our union a trifle prematurely, so you see why I have no intention of ending our betrothal—”

  Antonia broke off suddenly, for Deverill had risen to his feet and wore a scowl on his face that alarmed her.

  She took a wary step back, toward the arched entryway. She hadn’t expected him to be so angry simply because she professed to have bestowed her innocence on her betrothed.

  But Deverill did indeed look angry. A muscle flexed in his jaw, as if he was striving for control. When he advanced toward her, she retreated, yet she never made it to the doorway. Instead, her back came up against the wooden lattice.

  Deverill halted barely a step from her, watching her with searing eyes. Tension throbbed in the air as he asked softly, “A better lover, hmm?”

  Perhaps she should never have made that wild claim, Antonia belatedly realized. It was no doubt unwise to challenge a man’s sexual prowess. “Well, perhaps I exaggerated a little. . . .”

  “Perhaps the problem is that you don’t know any better. You have no other lovers to compare to.”

  Her chin lifted. “I don’t need any comparisons.”

  He was regarding her through half-closed lids. “Has Heward brought you to pleasure?”

  Caught off guard by the question, she hesitated a moment too long. “Yes, of course.”

  “I wonder.”

  Deverill stepped even closer, until their bodies almost touched. He stood unmoving, holding her with nothing more than his glance.

  Exhilaration made Antonia’s heart pump harder, while the very air crackled between them.

  “I very much doubt,” he murmured, “that you know what true pleasure is.”

  Remembering the incredibly pleasurable kiss Deverill had once given her, she found herself staring at his mouth . . . that sensuous, beautifully carved mouth. She couldn’t bring herself to look away.

  His eyes were focused on her mo
uth as he reached up to touch her. When his knuckles brushed over her parted lips, a frisson of fiery sensation sparked from his fingers to her flesh.

  Startled, Antonia clutched at his arm, holding him away. “You can’t kiss me, Deverill.”

  “I won’t. It would leave your lips swollen and passion-bruised, and I don’t want to give the appearance that we have been making love.”

  Instead, his thumb stroked her jaw, his touch lingering and provocative. She wanted to move, to flee his disturbing nearness, yet she was held captive by the intensity of his gaze, by the raw, powerful sexuality emanating from him.

  And his low, rich voice stroked her senses like velvet, further weakening her defenses. “I don’t intend to caress your breasts as I would like, either, since I don’t want to dishevel your gown.”

  A heated tremor eddied deep in the pit of her stomach, even before she felt his glance travel along the line of her face and throat to the swell of her bosom. She couldn’t prevent the shameful tingling of her breasts, the brazen warmth that coiled inside her.

  Despite her restraining grasp, Deverill slowly ran the back of his hand down the side of her throat to the square neckline of her gown, then lower still to lightly brush the lavender muslin of her bodice. Antonia drew a sharp breath, wondering how his barest touch could make her burn like this, want like this. When he trailed his fingers deliberately over her breast in a caress that was calculatedly erotic, her senses skittered wildly.

  Deverill smiled, satisfied.

  Antonia clutched more tightly at his arm. “Deverill, stop!”

  “Why? I can see how much you want me.”

  “I don’t want you.”

  “Then why are your nipples peaked and throbbing? Why is your pulse racing?” The backs of his fingers stroked her nipple again, making her pulse throb even more wildly. “I doubt your proper, starched nobleman affects you like this.”

  Antonia took a deep breath, struggling to resist him, even as her body shuddered with longing. Deverill’s arrogance galled her, but it infuriated her more that all he had to do was touch her and she melted.