The hairs at the back of her neck brushed his fingertips, and her cheeks were soft against his palms. He could hear the swish of silk, feel her leg move against his, smell the delicate orange blossom fragrance of her French perfume. It was an intoxicating mix, more intoxicating than alcohol could ever be.
His body was as enthralled as his senses, for his heart pounded in his chest, his pulses raced, and lust coursed through him like a tidal flood. He felt as if he was drowning in sensation.
He tore his mouth from hers, but not to stop. Instead, he sucked in a deep breath of air, tilted his head the other way, and kissed her again. This time, he parted her lips with his, and his tongue entered her mouth. She stirred, and he felt her hands flatten against his shoulders. Though she wasn’t pushing him away, in the vague recesses of his mind, he knew it was his cue to stop. He ought to, he knew, but his need was more powerful than either his good sense or his gallantry, and besides, being her trustee was absurd, unworkable, impossible. He’d known that all along. A trustee had to be trustworthy, and he’d never been a trustworthy chap.
As if to prove it, he slid one hand down between her upraised arms to cup her breast, embracing the full, generous shape even through the layers of fabric.
This time, she was the one who broke the kiss, turning her face away. “We can’t do this,” she panted, the heel of her hand pushing his shoulder. “We can’t.”
He knew that, but the sight before him was too tempting to resist. He bent his head to trail kisses along her throat, over her collarbone, and down to the plump curve of her breast. He turned his hand, sliding his fingertips under the edge of her neckline, shoving his hand beneath silk and satin and nainsook to cup her breast fully in his palm.
She gave a startled gasp at the contact, and suddenly, she was pushing against him with enough force to penetrate even his dazed senses. “Stop, Christian,” she ordered, her breath coming in quick gasps as her hand shoved his away. “You have to stop.”
He did, tearing himself away and stepping back even as every nerve and cell of his body protested this unthinkable act. He watched her eyes open to stare at him, her dismay obvious. Her dress was wrinkled, the skirt twisted sideways. Her hair was mussed; several locks had come loose to tumble around her face and shoulders. One fell across her breast. He stared at it, heat curling in his groin.
“Cryin’ all night,” she whispered, sounding miserable instead of glad, her voice bringing his gaze back to her face. He stared at her lips, swollen by his kisses, and he watched her press her fingertips to them with a little moan. “What are we supposed to do now?”
“More of the same?” he murmured, moving toward her.
She flattened a palm against his chest to keep him at bay. “This can’t happen again.”
“But it will,” he pointed out. “Given the arrangement we have, it’s inevitable.”
“No, it’s not. Not as long as we make sure we’re never alone together.”
He kept perfectly still, fighting the urge to take her in his arms again. “Do you really think that will work?”
“It has to.”
“Why?”
She took a deep breath and looked straight into his eyes. “Because you’re no good for me, Christian.” With that, she stepped around him and ran for the door. “You’re no good for me.”
She was right, of course. Because of him, all her hopes and dreams had already gone awry. Because of him, everything she’d ever wanted was now at risk. Now, he had to make up for what he’d done by playing the role assigned to him. He owed her that, and his own desires be damned.
Christian sank into his chair and rubbed a hand over his face. Acting the part of the dutiful, protective guardian was proving to be even harder than he’d thought it would be, perhaps the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.
During the two weeks that followed, Annabel tried not to think about what had happened in the library. Every time she remembered Christian’s mouth on hers, the feel of his strong arms holding her close, or his hands caressing her, she shoved those memories right back out of her mind quick as she could.
Thankfully, Lady Sylvia provided her with many distractions—shopping in New Bond Street, motoring around Hyde Park, paying calls on the ladies of the ton, having tea at the Savoy, and attending the opera at Covent Garden. Though the setting was different, these activities were just what she and Jennie Carter had always longed for while sitting side by side in the wallflower chairs at charity balls or huddled with the other outsiders at the far end of Newport’s Polo Field.
She made several new friends, striking up an especially friendly acquaintance with Lady Edith’s older sister, Isabel, who, upon being introduced, had laughingly deemed them “Annabel and Isabel, the two belles of the season,” declared her tea gown “simply smashing” and begged her for fashion advice. A shopping excursion the following day cemented their acquaintance into friendship.
During that fortnight, Annabel began to feel as if she was finally living the life she’d once only been able to dream about, and it was every bit as enjoyable as she’d always imagined. There was, however, one fly in the ointment.
Annabel slanted a look down the long dining table at Kayne House to the fly in question. He wasn’t hard to find. As a duke, Christian was the man of highest rank present this evening, which meant he was at the opposite end of the long dining table from her, seated at the right hand of their hostess, Lady Kayne. That put him directly in her line of vision every time she glanced toward her dinner companion, which was often, since Mr. Wilbur was not only a passionate birdwatcher and amateur zoologist, he was also a garrulous talker who required an attentive listener. Nor were the table decorations of any help to her, for though the gleaming silver, flowers, and candles made a tall and elaborate display, they could not obscure Christian’s face from her view.
During the past two weeks they had donned the façade she had engineered, the façade of ward and guardian, wealthy heiress and conscientious trustee, making every effort to demonstrate to the world that nothing improper had ever existed between them. It was an easy role for her to play during the day, when he was off conducting his own business and she was off paying calls on her new circle of acquaintances or shopping with Sylvia. But in the evenings, whenever she was in the same room with him, memories of the hot kisses they’d shared came roaring back, arousing her, confusing her, and making the fiction much harder to sustain.
Christian, she couldn’t help noticing, didn’t seem to share her discomfiture when they were together, and though she ought to be relieved by his superb acting skills, she wasn’t. She was actually a bit chagrined that he seemed able to play his part perfectly, while she felt as transparent as glass.
This dinner party at Kayne House was a perfect example, she thought, trying to study him as unobtrusively as possible. The candlelight gleamed on his dark hair and glinted off the silver cuff links at his wrists. Behind him, the enormous painting of the English countryside seemed an appropriate backdrop, for within its gilt frame, he looked every inch the proper duke.
This was the world into which he’d been born, she thought with a quick glance around the elegant room, and though he didn’t have much fondness for it, that didn’t stop him from being completely at ease within it. He sat relaxed in his chair as he conversed with Lady Kayne, amusing her with whatever story he was telling her, making her laugh.
Smiling, he reached for his wineglass, and as he did, he happened to glance up and caught Annabel watching. His smile vanished at once.
She froze, suddenly paralyzed, seeing for the first time in two weeks what she’d seen that night in the library and in the Turkish baths aboard ship, watching his mask slip to reveal his desire for her.
She wanted to look away, before everyone else could observe what he was suddenly, inexplicably making no effort to conceal.
Don’t look at me like that, she wanted to shout. People will see. They’ll think something’s between us.
And those peop
le would be wrong. There was nothing between them, nothing important or lasting anyway. All they had was lust, and she knew that was nothing at all, not with a man who wasn’t willing to step up to the altar and marry a girl honorably. There was no future for any girl in wanting Christian Du Quesne, no future but a big, fat heartache.
She forced her gaze away and returned her attention to the gentleman beside her, who was still talking nineteen to the dozen about the nesting habitats of the English chaffinch. “Why, Mr. Wilbur,” she murmured when she could get a word in, “that is just the most fascinatin’ thing I have ever heard.”
As she spoke, she pasted on a smile and pretended she hadn’t seen naked desire written all over Christian’s face, praying he hadn’t seen it in hers.
She carried on the pretense, but with each passing day, it proved harder to sustain. She did everything she could to stay away from him, but it wasn’t always possible. When she took Sylvia out motoring around Hyde Park in her beloved Model A Ford, he insisted on coming, too, and she couldn’t make a fuss without rousing Sylvia’s suspicions. When they went to tea with the Duke and Duchess of St. Cyres at their villa in Bayswater, he was also invited, and she had to drag Dinah out for a tour of the splendid gardens to avoid him. But when Sylvia pointed out that she needed to reserve one dance for Christian on her dance card for the May Day Ball, she balked. That was just too much temptation for any girl.
“But Annabel,” Sylvia said, bewildered by her flat refusal, “the May Day Ball is the social event that definitively launches the season, and because he is the Duke of Scarborough, a dance with him bolsters any girl’s chances of social success. And as your guardian, Christian is a perfectly acceptable dance partner for you. It’s a very public way for our family to demonstrate our strong support for your family. Why are you so opposed?”
“People will think there’s something in it.” She tried to look directly at Sylvia across the writing desk in the study, but she couldn’t quite meet her gaze. “Something between him and me.”
“They’ll be more apt to think that if you don’t dance with him, my dear.”
Not likely. There was no way she could be in Christian’s arms in a room full of people and carry on the farce.
“I said no,” she answered, and bolted from the room, leaving a very astonished Lady Sylvia staring after her.
By the time they departed for the May Day Ball the following night, Annabel had gotten her emotions back under control. Nonetheless, she was glad Christian did not test her renewed resolve by riding with them to Kayne House.
Busy with other engagements earlier in the evening, he made his own transportation arrangements, giving Sylvia use of the ducal carriage to transport them from Chiswick. And when they arrived at the ball, it was such a crush that with any luck, she might not see him at all.
They left their wraps in the cloakroom and took their places in the line moving toward the ballroom. It was a long journey, for each party was greeted at the entrance to the ballroom by Lady Kayne, but Annabel didn’t mind. She’d been waiting for an event like this to come her way for seven long years. She could wait a little longer. Anticipation was half the fun.
At last, they were able to enter the ballroom, an enormous, very crowded room decorated with purple lilacs, garlands of fern and ivy, and massive ice sculptures that served to keep the temperature comfortable. To one side, an eight-piece orchestra played and many people milled about the dance floor, but no one was dancing, since Lady Kayne was still greeting guests and had not yet opened that segment of the evening’s festivities. Along the back wall behind the dance floor, pairs of French doors leading out onto the terrace were open to catch the spring breeze. Annabel and her family followed Sylvia along the edge of the dance floor, where they paused by the first set of opened doors.
“This is perfect,” Sylvia told Annabel and her mother, raising her voice to be heard above the music and conversation. “Take note, ladies, of our location, for this shall be our place to meet should we become separated during the evening. We must be sure to gather here before four o’clock, for it shall take nearly an hour to have our carriage brought around, and I do not intend for anyone to ever say I was the last to leave a ball.”
She shuddered as if that were a fate worse than death, then she turned to George and Arthur. “You gentlemen may do as you like, of course, returning with us to Chiswick after the ball or staying in town, as you please. There is a card room and a smoking room, should you not wish to dance. Now, I must have a brief word with Lady Kayne. I’m dying to know how much we’ve raised for the Orphanage Fund. If you will pardon me?”
Sylvia bustled off. George and Arthur also excused themselves to go in search of that card room, leaving Annabel and her mother alone to study the scene spread out before them—ladies in bright silk ball gowns and glittering jewels strolled about the room with elegant gentlemen in immaculate white linen and black tuxedos.
Watching them, Annabel gave a deep sigh, savoring a social victory that had been mighty long in coming. She’d been to balls before, of course—charity balls mostly, where a person wasn’t necessarily required to have high social position to attend. One could usually buy an invitation with a generous enough contribution. But though the Marquess of Kayne’s May Day Ball was a charity event, Annabel hadn’t had to buy her way in, not this time. She and her family had been invited to attend, and that made all the difference.
“Well, Mama?” she asked the woman beside her. “What do you think?”
Henrietta looked at her, and her own happiness grew even stronger at the sight of her mother’s smile. “It’s mighty fine, darlin’, I have to say.” She laughed. “We’ve come a long way from Gooseneck Bend.”
“We have, Mama,” she agreed, and put an arm across her mother’s shoulder for a quick hug. “We sure have.”
“At last!”
The sound of another voice entering the conversation had both women turning as Lady Isabel Helspeth came toward them. “I thought you’d never arrive!” she added, giving Annabel a quick kiss on each cheek in the French style.
Isabel was similar to her younger sister in appearance, having the same blond hair and blue eyes, but unlike Edith, Isabel was not the least bit timid or shy. She was lively and self-confident. Even more important, she hadn’t seemed to care a whit about Annabel’s humble background.
“Mrs. Chumley,” Isabel greeted her mother. “It’s so good to see you again. Mama is over by the refreshment table, having a fit of the vapors over the lack of strawberry ices. Do you think you might go over and calm her with some of your American good sense? She’s quite distraught.”
Henrietta smiled, not the least bit fooled. “I know when I’m bein’ got rid of,” she murmured in her wry way. “Of course you two want to have some girl talk.”
Henrietta departed to find Lady Helspeth, and Isabel returned her attention to Annabel, leaning back to eye her ball gown of pale pink silk. “Stunning dress,” she pronounced. “I do wish Mama would let me wear the lower necklines! But she simply won’t be moved. We Brits are so stodgy, while you Americans are so much more daring, and you have such a way with clothes. Oh, I say,” she added with the air of one who just remembered something, “have you any openings on your dance card?”
Annabel was already accustomed to her new friend’s quick, birdlike way of flittering from subject to subject, so the question didn’t even take her back. “A few,” she answered, and glanced at the card dangling from her wrist. “The first one, a Roger de Coverly just before the supper, and . . .” She paused to flip the card over. “And two waltzes right after. Why?”
“My brother, that’s why.” She rolled her eyes. “Tiger has been pestering me for an introduction to you ever since he saw you at Mama’s at-home the other day. Like most men, he avoids at-homes like the plague, but he heard you talking as he passed by the drawing room, and he went absolutely mad about your American voice.”
It’s a luscious voice, absolutely splendid.
&
nbsp; Annabel closed her eyes long enough to force Christian back out of her thoughts, then she returned her attention to her friend.
“Of course, then,” Isabel was going on, “he had to have a peek into the drawing room, and when he saw you, he declared you to be the prettiest girl of the season. I fear he’s got a crush.”
“Oh!” Annabel laughed, flattered. She’d never been the recipient of a crush, at least none that she knew of. “I see.”
“When he found out you were to be here, he asked me to discover if you had a waltz open, the idea being that I’ll introduce you just before and then he can ask you to dance. Brothers are such a bother.” She frowned, looking vexed. “I was hoping you’d be fully engaged.”
Annabel felt a pang of alarm, fearing the worst—that she might have been mistaken in her newfound friend’s opinion of her. “Do you not . . . want your brother to take an interest in me?”
“Darling!” Isabel looked stricken. “That’s not it at all, you silly goose. Quite the opposite. It’s Tiger. He’s awful, a thorough scapegrace in every way, and not to be trusted by any girl. I hate to say such things about my own brother, but there it is. Even girls with brains go moronic over him. I’ve seen it happen time and again. It’s inexplicable, and quite nauseating. I should hate to see that happen to you.”
Annabel laughed, relieved. “I think I can handle your brother. I’ve no intention of forming any serious attachments, at least for a while.”
“Quite right of you!” Isabel said with approval. “I feel the same way myself. I shall go to Italy, paint, and have dozens of lovers. But I shall never fall in love myself! Of course,” she added, “I might feel differently if I were staying at Cinders. The Duke of Scarborough is divine. Too bad he’s so unattainable.” She sighed. “Poor Edith.”
They both glanced at the far wall where Edith sat with the other wallflowers, gazing hopefully—too hopefully—over the gathering crowd.
“I wish she’d give it up,” Isabel went on. “It’s well known Scarborough won’t ever marry again, and she knows that. What she needs is a few suitors hanging about to distract her. Oh, here’s Mr. Wentworth to claim me, for I promised him the first dance. I must go.” She started forward to meet the young man approaching them, adding over her shoulder, “I’ll bring Tiger to you right after the supper, then?”
Trouble at the Wedding Page 20
