“Non. It is the woman who makes the man desire her. You drove me to heights I’ve not been before. I must have you again. Soon.”
Something lit in her eyes. “That can be arranged, my lord,” she said.
Wesley bit back a triumphant smile. Women were so easy. This one would be putty in his hands.
Ian watched Wesley the next afternoon at lunch. The mon had not put in an appearance before one o’clock, probably due to the fact that he had been out until near dawn again. Ian’s chamber was at the back of the house and his window overlooked the stables. He wasn’t sure why he kept such a watch over Wesley, but he knew he didn’t trust him.
The mon had disappeared with the Earl of Sherrington’s wife last night, he was sure of it. The woman—Delia, she had told him to call her—seemed to care not a wit for her husband, a mon whom Ian found to be less pretentious and more practical than most of the others he’d met. ’Twas an irony that Delia looked so much like Jillian with the same sunlit chestnut hair and green eyes. Aye, they were even the same height, but no two women could be more different.
Ian sensed that Jillian’s marriage had not been a happy one, but for the life of him, he couldna see her cheating on her husband, although he was sure many a mon may have tried to get her interest. Looking at her now, in her high-necked morning dress with its pearl buttons and long sleeves, she looked both innocent and irresistible. His fingers itched to slowly undo those buttons, one at a time, his mouth and lips savoring each delicate inch of skin as he exposed it. How he wanted to press his mouth to her soft, full lips where right now her pink tongue was slipping out to lick a morsel of bread crumb.
She looked up just then and caught him staring at her. Did he imagine a faint blush rising on her cheeks?
“Did you have a good time last eve?” she asked.
“I doona like crowds over much,” he answered. “A mon can’t see where danger lies.” Or draw his dagger if he needed it. Jillian had insisted he leave his claymore at home, even though he did not deem that wise.
“English Society is civilized, Highlander,” Wesley drawled from his end of the table. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of unarmed men and ladies?”
Ian clenched his fist under the table, wishing it could provide satisfying contact with Newburn’s jaw. He already disliked the mon, but someone who dallied with another mon’s wife was no more than swine.
“I’m nae sure how civilized your society is,” Ian said and held Wesley’s gaze long enough for the double message to sink in. When he saw the muscle twitch in Newburn’s jaw, he almost smiled. “There are street ruffians about, nae? Who will protect the ladies if the men are nae armed?”
“Street ruffians are not normally allowed into one’s home as a guest,” Wesley countered with a stare that made Ian sure that he meant himself. Jillian was beginning to look uneasy, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from goading the Frenchman on.
“Perhaps ye don’t go armed because ye canna protect yerself, Newburn?”
Wesley threw his napkin down like a gauntlet. “Do you want to find out?”
Ian tossed his napkin too. “I do.”
“Then let’s take it outside to the courtyard.” Wesley stood. “Swords?”
Ian rose as well. “Swords it is.”
“Swords it is not,” Jillian said in a tone that brooked no reply. Both men turned to stare at her.
“You, Lord Cantford, have a dance lesson this afternoon.”
He looked at her as though she’d lost her wits. “Lass, a dance lesson can wait.”
“It cannot. I have arranged for private lessons with Miss Berry and her students. I will not keep her waiting.” She turned to Wesley. “And you, Lord Newburn, have an appointment with Lord Liverpool. Or have you forgotten? I’m sure the Prince of Wales doesn’t want his prime minister to be kept waiting either.”
The men glared at each other.
“Tomorrow then,” Ian growled. “As soon as you can get out of bed.”
“Tomorrow,” Wesley said stiffly. “And be prepared.”
Both men were behaving like small boys, Jillian reflected as she led Ian into the dance studio later that afternoon. She’d already sent a messenger to request Pierre Grenier’s presence at their match in the morning, lest one of them get too serious and actually draw blood or worse.
She looked up at Ian now. He was dressed properly like a gentleman, complete with frock coat, waistcoat and cravat, much to his muttered disgust. Even though she knew Jones had shaved him this morning, the dark shadow of a beard and his flowing raven hair gave him a roguish appearance. She could almost see him in a tricorn hat and the long, black cloak of a highwayman.
The interior of Miss Berry’s dance studio was cool and devoid of any furniture other than the chairs where three musicians sat and a long wooden barre along one wall. The wooden floor was waxed to a reflective gleam and in the center three young girls and boys waited along with the dance teacher.
Ian stopped mid-step. “’Tis only children here. What kind of sport are ye having with me?”
“They’re nearly Mari’s age, Lord Cantford, preparing for their first invitations into Society. Just follow the instructions and their lead and you’ll do fine.”
He gave her an indignant look as he went to take his place in the square of dancers. Jillian moved toward the barre to be out of the way.
“Why are you over there, Lady Newburn?” Miss Berry asked.
She halted and turned around. “To be out of the way. The quadrille becomes quite lively at times.”
“It does,” the teacher agreed, “which is why I instruct from the center. Kindly step up to your partner.”
“Oh, I don’t dance,” Jillian answered. Rufus had had a bad leg and he didn’t allow her to dance with anyone else.
Miss Berry tapped her timing stick to the floor. “Then you will learn along with Lord Cantford. He needs a partner.”
“Aye,” Ian said with pure mischief in his voice. “Ye do want me to learn, nae?”
One of the girls giggled. Miss Berry turned a fierce eye on her. “None of that.”
“But he talks funny!” the girl said in protest.
Miss Berry’s stick tapped the floor once more. “Miss Marjorie, will I have to speak to your mother about your rudeness?”
The girl sobered. “No, ma’am.” She curtsied to Ian. “My apologies, my lord.”
“Well, then,” Miss Berry said as Jillian reluctantly took a position next to Ian, “we are ready to begin. Miss Marjorie, you and your partner will kindly walk the steps of the first figure so that Lord Cantford can observe.”
The boy bowed to the girl from his position in the corner of the square and lifted her hand. Marjorie took four slow, gliding steps to turn partially to face him.
“It doona look hard,” Ian whispered and held out his hand.
“Just wait,” Jillian whispered back as she placed her fingers in his large palm, remembering only too late that she had removed her gloves when she came inside.
A corner of his mouth lifted slightly as he managed to caress her fingertips with the pad of his thumb. “I may like this dance, after all.”
Miss Berry tapped her stick. “No talking, please.”
Jillian smiled as she turned and was picked up by the boy who had moved away from Marjorie and now courtesy-turned her to face the center. They proceeded around the square in a stately fashion.
“Kindly demonstrate the second theme to this first figure,” Miss Berry instructed Marjorie again when they were back in their original positions.
“Now, we will set this to music,” Miss Berry said and nodded to the musicians. “La Pantalon, if you please.”
The music lifted the beat and the dancers moved in measured steps. Each time Ian partnered with Jillian, he made sure to stroke her hand seductively until, if she were going to be honest with herself, she looked forward to finding out what he’d try next. Circling her palm lightly or brushing her bare wrist was certainly safe in the middle of a group of s
tudents. He wouldn’t take liberties beyond that.
But when it came time to hold hands during the second figure, she wasn’t so sure. How could anyone manage to so sensually massage her hand while moving and bobbing about? She truly hoped none of the young dancers realized what was going on. If Miss Berry did, she said nothing.
But when the dance instructor called for more difficult moves such as a small jeté and some slow, rather deep pliés, Jillian wasn’t so sure that Miss Berry didn’t have a sadistic streak in her. Even Ian had a light sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“By the auld gods,” he said after they had completed all five figures of the quadrille, “why does there need to be so much leaping about? And why does a mon have to do it wearing all these clothes?”
Muscles clenched deep inside her belly and her nipples pebbled at the sudden image of Ian leaping about without his clothes. She’d already seen the hard, corded muscles of his thighs… Good Lord. What am I thinking? But she couldn’t get the idea out of her head of what he would look like without his shirt, with that broad chest and strong arms bare…
Ian was watching her with a strange expression on his face that was turning rapidly to one of intimate awareness of her thoughts.
“It be a good thing ye doona play poker, lass.”
She felt her cheeks grow warm. Drat. Better to change the subject.
“Which parts of the dance did you find difficult, my lord?”
“The ones where I was separated from you,” he said promptly.
“Lord Cantford. Please be serious.” She hoped her blush wasn’t increasing.
“I am.” His dark eyes penetrated hers and she saw a look of raw desire in them before they began to twinkle with mirth. “After all, ye are the only one tall enough for me not to get an ache in my back.” He made a show of stooping over. “I canna see the urchins unless I do this.”
Jillian laughed as he straightened. With a start, she realized she hadn’t laughed in a very long time.
“And why—” Ian continued exaggerating his aches and pains, “—does the thing have to last so long?”
She continued to smile, realizing how good it felt to be having a teasing, light-hearted conversation.
“Just be thankful you didn’t have to learn a cotillion,” she responded. “The quadrille is a shorter version and quite the thing right now, being new.”
“And long.” Ian rolled his eyes.
“Well, the five parts—La Pantalon, L’été, La Poule, La Pastourelle and Finale—all tell a story of sorts about summer, a shepherd girl, and a hen…it’s quite the rage in France, I’m told.”
“Aye. Strange relations England has with France, with the war not finished.”
Jillian shrugged. “We thought it was. Napoleon was supposed to be safely exiled to Elba. However, even if he hadn’t been, I’m sure Lady Jersey would have found a way to bring the dance to England. She’s quite capable of almost anything.”
“Such as?”
“Well, most importantly for me, she is a patroness of Almack’s,” Jillian said, “and with Mari’s Season next year, it’s good sense to learn this dance she loves.”
“Will we be meeting her?” Ian asked in a more serious tone.
“Probably.” Jillian glanced up at him. “If we do—”
Ian placed his fingertips across her lips. “Doona fash, lass. I will do nothing to shame ye.”
Jillian’s face felt hot again, but whether from embarrassment or the fact that she had an almost insane urge to draw his fingers into her mouth, she couldn’t say. What was it about him? Wherever he touched her, that part ignited into a flame that spread all over her body.
“I’m sure you’ll behave just fine,” she finally managed when he removed his hand. “Now if I could persuade you to be on better behavior with Wesley…?”
The smile that had been in his eyes died and his jaw tightened.
“All I can promise is that I willna kill the man on the morrow.”
Jillian opened her mouth to retort and then closed it. She really didn’t want to know if he meant that or not.
Chapter Six
Boys. Jillian shook her head as she watched Ian and Wesley eyeing each other warily in the small yard in front of the stables the next morning. Wesley had dressed in a white fencer’s suit complete with glove and mask. Ian had scoffed at the outfit, saying he preferred seeing his opponent.
Jillian could certainly see him. His leather breeches hugged his corded thighs like a second skin. Over his expansive chest he wore a boiled-leather hauberk that left his heavily muscled arms bare save for the wide silver bands around his wrists. He flexed his muscles, testing the balance of the rapier that Pierre had brought for him.
“Lord Cantford certainly looks impressive,” Mari said from beside her. “It seems the maids think so too.”
Forcing her gaze away from watching Ian practice swinging the blade, Jillian turned her attention to the back entrance that led to the kitchens. Darcy, Fern and several scullery and chambermaids stood there, giggling and poking one another. The housekeeper, Mrs. Fields, came bustling out, scolding and herding the girls back inside, but even she paused for a moment to give Ian an appreciative glance.
Jillian sighed. No one seemed immune to his barbarian charms, it seemed. Married women flirted openly with him. The debutantes blushed furiously when he spoke to them, to say nothing of Violetta and Amelia practically ready to scratch each other’s eyes out. It didn’t help that he was unfailingly courteous to all of them, like one of King Arthur’s knights, or that when he focused his attention on a woman, he made her feel like she was the center of the universe. Jillian had seen that dazed, blushed look come upon too many feminine faces not to realize that he was charming them as surely as Lancelot did Gwenevere.
He had told her he would be charming, hadn’t he? So she should be glad about that. What did it matter that he had actually made her laugh at the dance class?
“Oooh, they’re about to begin,” Mari exclaimed.
Jillian refocused her attention. Pierre was explaining the rules—points would be awarded for a touch. No blood-letting. Ian and Wesley glared at each other before nodding grudgingly to Pierre. Wesley donned his mask and they stiffly saluted each other with swords raised.
“On guard!” the instructor called and hurriedly backed out of the way.
They circled each other, each looking for a vulnerable position on which to strike. Wesley lunged suddenly, but Ian parried, their blades clashing, before Ian disengaged. Not giving Wesley time for a second attack, Ian did a quick riposte, advancing with fast blows to the left and right. Wesley retreated and then feinted right, bringing his blade up in a cut that caught Ian in the vulnerable part of the hauberk where it laced together along his ribs. Blood spurted down Ian’s side.
“Foul!” Pierre called and crossed his own blade over Wesley’s to stop the match.
“Tell Mrs. Fields to get some bandages,” Jillian said to Mari as she rushed to Ian’s side. “How badly are you hurt, my lord?”
“’Tis naught but a scratch,” Ian said as he glowered at Wesley.
Wesley stared back. “You should have worn the suit, Cantford.”
“Never mind that,” Jillian said as she pulled off her shawl and pressed it to Ian’s side. “You’re bleeding a lot.”
“’Tis just a wee cut—”
“Not another word,” Jillian said and looped his arm around her shoulder, one arm around his waist while her hand held the shawl in place. “Into the house with you.”
Mrs. Fields set a pot of water to boiling as Jillian eased him into a chair. Fern brought in clean strips of linen and Darcy followed her with the medicine bag.
Givens appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. “Shall I send for the doctor?”
“Not until I see how bad it is,” Jillian said as she unlaced the stiff hauberk.
“My lady, allow me to do that,” Givens said as he stepped forward. “It’s really not fitting for you—”
> “Nonsense,” Jillian said as she slid the leather covering off Ian, exposing his bare chest. “I attended to Papa’s cuts and bruises long before I became a marchioness. And it isn’t as if I haven’t seen—” She broke off suddenly, all too aware that she had never seen a man so magnificently shaped as Ian was. Smooth muscles defined and contoured his shoulders and biceps. His entire torso was bronzed. A light sprinkling of dark hair brushed across his chest and proceeded downward in a thin line across the hard ridges of his flat belly to disappear into the waistband of his breeches. Jillian caught her breath.
“Perhaps you should escort Mari to the parlor,” she said to Givens.
Mari opened her mouth to protest, but Mrs. Fields shooed her away along with the ever-hopeful Fern. Darcy remained, staring at Ian.
“You may go too, Darcy,” Jillian said. “Mrs. Fields will be all the assistance I need at present.”
Ian’s dark eyes glinted as she bent over him to examine the wound, bathing the dirt and blood away. He held himself still while she poured whisky over the cut to cleanse it, although she noticed the whiteness around the tight line of his mouth.
“I don’t think it will require stitches,” she said as the bleeding slowed. She reached into the duffel and removed some sphagnum moss which she pressed over the wound. “Hold this while I get a bandage ready.”
He obliged her, sitting forward and lifting his arm so she could wrap the bandage around his chest. As she reached around behind him, he bent his head, his lips brushing against hers in the lightest of kisses.
“Thank ye, lass.”
Flustered, she tucked the tip of the cloth into the bandage and stood abruptly. Thank goodness Mrs. Fields had been turned away. Ian had probably not meant anything more than a simple thank you. It wasn’t like he had reached out to hold her or tried to demand any type of response from her. Yet her lips tingled from that mere graze and her breasts felt swollen and heavy.
Ian was watching her with a half-smile on his luscious mouth, no doubt relishing her confusion. Charming indeed. She really didn’t think he needed to practice on her.
Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1 Page 7
