by Darcy Burke
His body leapt at the thought of having her. He forced himself to train all of his energy on making the correct turns at each street corner and not being flattened by a barouche. He didn’t regret the terms of their association…but…
Much as he’d like to pretend he was immune to her… He wasn’t.
Finally, full darkness fell. He made his way to Elizabeth’s doorstep and paused before knocking. He needed to get himself under control. Somewhere between Will’s and this door, his imagination had run afoul of him. He was frustrated, emotionally, intellectually and now sexually. His body thrummed as though he really were about to enter his mistress’s house. Not a mistress in name only, but a beautiful woman who’d see to his pleasure until he opened his pocketbook and dumped it across her bed.
Curse his need to play the gallant. And double-curse the fact that it was much safer to keep their important bits at arms’ length. He would do well to remember that his pledge to Oliver came first.
It was with this professional mindset that he knocked upon her door. The butler saw him into a room Con vaguely recalled from his last visit. A window stood cracked open, letting in the night breeze and the occasional sounds from the busy street below. Candles wavered in the draft. It seemed the entire room was one warm glow, in fact...
To and fro his head jerked as he took in the multitude of tapers arranged on every surface. This wasn’t right. He was here to be seen coming and going, not for what his peers would assume went on in between.
What he hoped…
Absolutely not. He might not understand this setup, but he knew how far it was going. Nowhere.
Piqued by her presumption, he stalked to the window. His ire had a long time to build. She kept him waiting half an hour. An infuriating half-turn around the mantel clock. Long enough to play a dozen scenarios in his head, all of them ending with her back pressed against that window seat, her legs draped over this chair…
No.
A swish of skirts behind him broke into his latest fantasy. “Lord Constantine,” Elizabeth murmured in a voice made to drip down his spine, “how thoughtful of you to see me tonight.”
He pulled the window frame closed and snapped toward the voice. He expected to see her in her customary garb: a modish day dress that complemented her dark locks and fine gray eyes. Not a plunging neckline outdone only by tantalizing black lace, and trimming a pale peach skirt so sheer and clinging, he could see the curve of her thighs and the outline of— “Good God, woman, what are you wearing?” He wrenched his right arm from his coat. His shoulder twisted painfully as the garment protested removal from his person. He muttered another oath and fairly ripped the other sleeve from his left arm. By God, he wouldn’t be tempted like some sex-starved sailor facing his first dockside wench.
“Oh, this? Do you like it?” She trailed her fingertips over one rounded hip. “It’s been some time since I had cause to wear it.”
Sleeves freed, he thrust his coat out and marched toward her. The closer he came to her, the more aware he was that he’d just lost a key barrier between his skin and hers.
She watched his approach with curious amusement. When he stopped before her, her eyes roamed his person from the top of his head to his arms extended toward her, to the coat gaping before her hips. “Here,” he said, giving the coat a little shake, because he was suddenly aware he couldn’t very well put his arms around her, and even if he could, what would he do? Tie the sleeves behind her? Then he would be close enough to smell her hair, or her skin, or press his lips right there… “Here,” he said again, “take this.”
Her lips curved in a slow, seductive smile. “I’m not cold, my lord.”
“You ought to be,” he said with as much hauteur as he could muster. “You’ve dampened your skirts. You’ll catch your death.”
“I’ll have the fire built up. Rand?” She turned as she called, giving Con a view of her backside torturously swathed in peach silk. “Have a maid sent in. And brandy. Lots of it.”
“This isn’t a social call,” Con said, still holding his coat out. The room had seemed cold in the split second when he’d removed his coat, but now he didn’t need the fire stoked. His body was warming by the second. Her slender spine and generous hips were cast in a golden glow that slid and dipped into the shadowy crevices created by the dampened silk. Curls large enough for him to wrap around his fist had slipped from their hairpins, giving her a bed-tousled look. His traitorous body responded with barely-leashed desire. He wanted her.
Confound her.
Her hand slid ever so slowly from her hip to her thigh, her open palm caressing the curves he would give his last shilling to touch.
“Stop that,” he ground out.
She raised her eyes to meet his. “Is something amiss, my lord?”
“I didn’t come here to be seduced.”
“Ah. But there is no harm in a little surprise every now and again, is there?” She sauntered toward him. Her eyes never left his face. “I’d hoped we might get to know each other better. In fact, I’m quite set on it.”
She’d come within reaching distance again. This time he didn’t hesitate. Ignoring her gasp, he flourished his coat over her head and draped it across her backside, then deftly pulled the sleeves around her waist and knotted them.
He meant to step back after that. But her hands splayed over his chest, as though she’d meant to push him away and then changed her mind. Her breasts rose with quick, sharp pants of desire and her gray eyes fixed on him with luminous interest.
Confound it, he could smell her skin. Honeysuckle, and a faint, warm scent he couldn’t define.
“There.” His voice was husky with desire. “Much better.”
She didn’t move. He awarded her a point for sheer intrepidity. With a mental sigh for his own stringent morals, he dropped his hands and took a step away. He couldn’t do this. Not the way she was doing it. There were several strong arguments for why this was a poor decision, but he wasn’t concerned with any of them at the moment. It was something else.
Her seduction of him…just felt…wrong.
She straightened but otherwise didn’t move. Her gaze dropped to the superfine coat slung about her hips. Her eyebrows rose together. “Are you…” She paused. Her head shook. “Never mind.”
A maid entered, making it impossible for him to ask Elizabeth to finish her sentence. The maid’s eyes darted to her mistress’s awkward pannier. Without comment, she set down a tray arranged with a bottle of brandy and two snifters, then went to tend the fire.
The room brightened as the flames roared back to life. Elizabeth went to the fireplace and stretched her hands toward the grate. He was caught by the gracefulness in the gesture, the languid way her hands extended from her slightly curved posture… Then he realized what he’d unconsciously been aware of the entire time. Her grace was not unintended. It was planned.
“That will be all, Penny.” Her voice purred, thick for seduction. It trailed like sharp nails across his back. Arousing yet off-putting. What did she mean, entrancing him like this? They had no business in bed. Taking their arrangement between the sheets left them open for a lover’s spat, or worse.
Then where would Oliver be?
He didn’t mistake the hunger in her eyes when she turned around. The gentle snick of the door closing behind the maid broke the silence. They were alone. Why? The longer he searched her face, the surer he felt that this wasn’t right. She seemed…it felt as though she looked right through him. As if she were forcing herself to entice him, or playing a well-rehearsed part. Why? Why this sudden, brazen attempt to get him into her bed?
A very, very tiny little part of him asked very loudly, Couldn’t the answer wait until tomorrow?
***
Elizabeth easily read the emotions playing across his face. Hunger. Desire. Confusion. They mirrored her own tangled thoughts. She did mean to seduce him, to hold him physically so he wouldn’t feel the need to leave and find solace in another woman’s arms. He was a
man, and a virile man at that. When he wanted to expend himself, he would. He must choose her when he felt that desire.
She hadn’t expected to want him.
He was attractive, of course; she’d already admitted as much. Impossibly tall, with a stylish disorderliness to his hair and that wrinkled line of concern between his brows. He cut a fine figure in his starched cravat, purple waistcoat and—heaven help her—billowing shirtsleeves. Perhaps that was when her head had stopped controlling her behavior, and instinct had kicked in. When he’d undressed, his muscles bunching as he’d struggled out of the tight coat, and watched her with a crystal fire that had seared her to her toes.
With his coat on he was broad of shoulder and trim through the waist, as she was used to seeing him. With his coat off and his shirtsleeves free to flow about him like a pirate captain’s, she was barely able to calculate her next move.
She’d always been intrigued by powerful men. Older men, usually, but she was coming to think there was a hunger to be stoked in a younger man. One who hadn’t had twenty years of sexual encounters to jade him.
Yet it wasn’t her thrill at his dishabille that caused her to fear what would happen next. It was his reaction to her. His passion empowered her, and like a heady drug, addicted her. His tightly leashed desire to push up her skirts and throw her over the back of the couch excited her in a way his pretty words wouldn’t. She fed off his desire. He wanted her, and she longed with all of her heart to be wanted.
She must play her cards right. He wanted her, but not because he wanted to. Why he didn’t remained a mystery, one she would unravel with her next few moves. She’d succeeded with less.
Until she knew him better, she must be mindful. She’d provoke him carefully and observe his reactions. Any action on her part could turn his desire into loathing, or worse, disgust. If he thought she needed him more than he needed her…she would never draw him into her bed.
She made no move to adjust his heavy coat slung around her hips. It draped down the backs of her legs and caught the heat of the fireplace against her limbs. “Refreshment, my lord?” She moved toward the tray. Swish. Swish.
She poured out two snifters, each move deliberate, and set the stopper into the mouth of the bottle. She turned and held one cut-crystal vessel toward him. He hesitated. She curved her lips into a teasing smile. “My brandy is perfectly illegal, I assure you.”
The scowl between his eyebrows crinkled. “I’d daresay most men would kill to be in my position at the moment. But you, madam, have me quite on edge.”
And there it was. Confirmation that he didn’t think he wanted to be seduced. She must tread very, very carefully. “I’ll stop.”
He cocked his head at her blunt acknowledgment. “You admit you’re trying to seduce me?”
She held her gaze fixed with his as she sipped her brandy. Boldness suited the moment. If she seemed weak, he’d be repulsed by her neediness. “You’re a handsome man. I was lonely.”
He gaped at her. “Is this an appropriate conversation?”
She laughed. “Do you think only men feel desire? Forgive me if I saw a handsome man and became carried away. It won’t happen again.”
He flinched. “Yes, well… See that it doesn’t.”
She smiled serenely, as if she’d agreed. “Now, where were we? Lust does have a way of wiping all thought from one’s brain.”
“Elizabeth!”
She chuckled. “No more, I promise.”
He regarded her warily. “Are we to have dinner? Or was this nothing but an attempt to draw me into your bed?”
An unbidden laugh escaped her. “There will be dinner.”
His lips parted. He wanted to ask her more, and understand what she was doing. She couldn’t let him guess. To her relief, he fixed his eyes on an oversized, carved picture frame suspended to her left above an azure French settee. She couldn’t think he’d suddenly developed an appreciation for the Baroque nude framed within it.
His gaze swung back to hers. “A trifle over-the-top, wouldn’t you say?”
She was sure he didn’t mean the painting.
This wasn’t going as easily as she’d thought. He was virile. She was enticing. Why was he fighting it? “What sorts of paintings do you find appropriate?”
His brows drew down. As though he’d never afforded it much thought. “Ones with more clothes.”
She held her snifter in two long fingers and lightly caressed the bottom of the glass with her other hand. “Are you a prude?”
A smile crept across his lips. “I never thought so before.”
She shrugged. “Maybe you’ve changed. I know I never was one for dull displays, in my youth. I preferred dramatic expression, and it suited me, I think. Now that I’m older, I don’t have time for silliness. I like this oil because it brings both halves of me together.” It was also one of the few things she’d brought with her from the apartments Nicholas had let for her after Oliver’s birth.
Lord Constantine regarded her. “When did you change?”
It was her turn to be surprised. “Recently, I suppose.”
He stepped to her right to move around her, then began a slow promenade about the drawing room. Not a large room compared to what he must be used to, coming from the ancestral pile his brother managed in Devon, and Merritt House here in London, but a good size considering it was maintained on her annuities. Her income came from arrangements she’d made prior to him, and she was proud to be able to support herself now that she was settled.
The furnishings were largely part of the house lease, though she’d managed to salvage a few of her personal items before Nicholas had tossed her completely on her ear. The painting was one. The brightly colored pillows Constantine considered pensively were another.
He picked up one overstuffed ultramarine-colored pillow and gave it a squeeze. “I wouldn’t call these subdued, either. You’re not one for dull colors, I gather.”
“What color are your cushions, my lord?” She meant it teasingly, for this inane topic couldn’t possibly be interesting to him. Nonetheless, he was right. The bland hue of the townhouse interior drove her mad.
He set the bolster down and lifted a brilliant, poppy-colored one in its stead. “This one is pleasing, though I can’t say I would have chosen it myself. Then again, I’m sure I’ve never been asked for my opinion. Montborne is the one with a head for fabrics. Montborne and Darius,” he amended. “Darius finds it all too easy to spend money that isn’t his.”
Elizabeth watched him from beneath her lashes as he stared blindly at the bright red pillow. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Lord Darius,” she said, though she did know of him. No one was quite sure why the youngest Alexander would destroy himself in the image of their father, but that didn’t keep the ton from speculating.
“I’m surprised you haven’t. He fancies himself a ladies’ man, in addition to his predilection for the tables. And horses.” Con sighed. “I fear he’s as lost as our father was.” His eyes went wide, and his cheeks hollowed as his mouth formed a horrified O. “Never tell anyone I said so. God, I can’t believe I—” He turned slowly and seated himself, still clutching the poppy pillow. “I should never have thought such a thing, let alone said it aloud. He’s not so far gone that he can’t return.”
His love for his brother, a damaged fellow with little to recommend him, softened her heart. She waited a moment before walking toward him. If she went to him too quickly, she’d lose her appearance of detachment. More than anything, she didn’t want him to know how much his suffering affected her. She didn’t doubt he’d reject her pity and find her concern suffocating.
But if she kept herself apart from him long enough…
His shoulders hunched ever so slightly. He sat like that a moment before his blue eyes sought hers and the worry between his brow smoothed. His chin lifted.
There. This. It was his decision to find her, or so he thought. She may have distanced him with her first attempt to lure him,
but she hadn’t lost her touch completely. She’d simply needed to step away. A simple tactic she’d used often enough. Her instinct to bring a man around had been a part of her for as long as she could remember…long before she’d made a fool of herself chasing Nicholas.
She didn’t have to be proud of her methods. Just successful.
She chuckled soothingly. “Plenty of good men are gambling men. I count Lord de Winter among my friends, and heaven knows he hasn’t a shilling that’s not owed.”
Lord Constantine scowled. “Darius is not good.” Then he looked staggered again. “I suppose I have certain feelings about my brother that I never realized. I hope I haven’t given you reason to think I want anything but the best for him.”
“We cannot always get on with our siblings, my lord. I have three, myself.” She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Though I fear I was the one driving them to distraction.”
“Were you?” His brow smoothed a fraction.
It was her turn to be astonished. She’d never spoken of Sarah and Ellen and her brother Oliver to a lover. To anyone besides Celeste, in fact. She brushed her fingertips across his shoulder, suddenly filled with a sweet sense of longing. Even when he was huddled over, his muscles cut a fine form against his pale shirtsleeves.
She’d not exaggerated earlier, even if she’d misconstrued the truth a little. She was a woman of passion, who enjoyed the feel of a man beneath her hands.
But she didn’t dawdle with her touch. Not tonight. After that quick reassurance he wasn’t alone, she turned and went to the bellpull. It did her no good to have Lord Constantine blue-deviled the entire evening. He’d come to her to be entertained, not dragged through a gauntlet of his demons. She’d bared his soul enough. It was time to see to the rest of him.
Rand entered. “Yes, madam?”
“I should think we’d be served by now,” she said. “Has something gone wrong?”
Rand’s shoulders straightened. He glanced at Lord Constantine. “My humble apologies. I had one last thing to see to, but ’tis taken care of. Please, proceed into dinner.”
