Invitation to Seduction.html

by Lorraine Heath

  But now no reason remained for him to lag behind, nothing his slowness would accomplish. She faced him, and in the dim light cast by the gas lamps illuminating the front of the house, she saw a hardness to the set of his mouth, a tautness at the corners of his eyes, and a stiffness to the way he held his body. He was not moving with the fluid motions that had characterized him that afternoon nor on the rocks where she’d first sighted him.

  “Are you in pain?” she suddenly surprised herself by asking.

  Surprised him as well if the astonished expression on his face was any indication.

  “My back is troubling me, but I thought I was disguising my discomfort quite well,” he said.

  “You were…you are.” She shook her head. “I was rude to ask. Forgive me.”

  “I would forgive you anything, Miss Robertson.”

  “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Speak to me as though I mean more to you than I ever could.”

  “If you think that, then you fail to realize the full extent of my esteemed regard for you.”

  “I intend to marry Lord Farthingham.”

  “The best intentions sometimes go astray.”

  “Is that hope or warning in your voice?” she asked.

  The tightness at his mouth eased, and he smiled. “A little of both, I should think. I am not a man who gives up easily when he wants something.”

  “I think you want me because you cannot have me. Forbidden fruit is perceived as being much sweeter.”

  He took a step closer, his smile fading. “What do you know of forbidden fruit?”

  What she knew of it, she had no wish to discuss, so she decided to ignore the question and distract him with a warning. “Your sister can see you from the coach.”

  “So she can.” He tucked a gloved finger up beneath her chin. “I could make you happy.”

  “I love Lord Farthingham. He makes me happy.”

  “I would make you happier.”

  Laughing lightly, she stepped back, freeing her chin from his claim to it. “You are too arrogant.”

  “Only if my claims are proven false.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you were in pain?” she asked, determined to change the course of his thoughts.

  “Would you have offered to rub where I ache?”

  “No, but we could have postponed our night at the opera until you were feeling better.”

  “The discomfort is tolerable. Not spending the evening with you wasn’t.”

  She shook her head, amazed that he had the ability to turn everything to his advantage. It was past time to take her leave. “Thank you, Your Grace, for the evening.”

  “What? Will you not describe it as you did for Anne? Enjoyable? Memorable? Unforgettable?”

  “Where you’re concerned—irritating, bothersome, infuriating—might be more appropriate. This evening you took liberties to which you had no right.” There. She’d said it. It was out in the open.

  “I didn’t notice you objecting.”

  “What recourse did I have except to endure it? Slap your hand and draw Lady Anne’s attention to where you’d placed it?”

  The scoundrel had the audacity to hitch up one corner of his mouth in the semblance of a smile. “Endure it? Miss Robertson, I strongly believe you relished it.”

  The crack of her palm hitting his cheek echoed between them, as tears stung her eyes because she had indeed savored every caress. “I don’t like you, Your Grace. I don’t like you at all.”

  Spinning on her heel, she shoved open the door and escaped inside before she could humiliate herself further.

  The astonished butler snapped to attention immediately. “Miss Robertson—”

  “Please, send my maid up so she can help me prepare for bed and instruct her to bring a bottle of my father’s finest whiskey.”

  She admired the man for not showing surprise at her request. She trudged up the stairs, each step harder to climb than the one before it. She wished she’d never taken a walk along the seashore, wished she’d never spotted Poseidon.

  She endured Nancy’s help in undressing and preparing for bed only because removing her gown and undergarments was impossible to accomplish alone. Why couldn’t women have clothing that was constructed as simply as a man’s?

  She avoided her reflection in the mirror while Nancy combed out and plaited her hair. Why couldn’t women wear their hair as short as a man’s? Not that she really had any desire to chop off her hair, but at times when she was anxious for solitude, it was an inconvenience she’d prefer not to be bothered with.

  After Nancy left, Kitty poured the whiskey into a large glass and went to sit in her favorite chair beside the window. Downing the whiskey as though it were water, she coughed, relishing the burning to her throat, the watering of her eyes. Whiskey was her secret sin—if she did not count encounters with Weddington. She suspected her father knew of her drinking, but he’d never confronted her when a bottle disappeared. But sometimes indulging simply seemed the quickest way to obtain oblivion.

  Tonight, however, rather than dull her senses, it seemed to sharpen them. Closing her eyes, she trailed her finger along her collarbone. She could still feel Weddington’s touch as though he’d left behind a part of himself.

  Damn him, damn him, damn him for making her want to experience his caress again. And damn her own traitorous body for wishing he were there now to inflame the fires still burning within her.

  She awoke in hell. Her head pounded with the erratic rhythm of a drummer who’d yet to learn a consistent cadence. A dry fuzziness tickled her mouth as though she’d swallowed a cat’s tail. Her eyes ached, her temples throbbed, and her stomach roiled.

  A heavy price to pay for deciding each tear shed should be followed with a drop of whiskey. She didn’t even want to contemplate how she’d explain the missing bottle to her parents should they deign to ask her about it. Her father kept inventory of his liquor the way she kept inventory of her jewelry. Hopefully, he’d overlook the short count as he had in the past when she’d sneaked a bottle.

  She cringed as the pounding in her head grew in intensity and loudness.

  “Miss Robertson?”

  She squinted into the darkness. “What?”

  Her voice sounded like the mating call of a bullfrog, not the delicate soft voice of a lady. Oh, dear God, spare me. She’d reverted to her origins. The saloonkeeper’s granddaughter. She thought she might be ill.

  She was a snob…exactly as Weddington appeared to be, spouting all his nonsense about commoners. She detested having anything in common with that man.

  The door squeaked open, and her skull threatened to split in two at the sound.

  “Oh, Miss Robertson, they are the loveliest!”

  She heard a thump, and then the awful rasp of draperies being drawn aside, and the unforgiving sunlight crashing against her eyes. With a moan, she threw the covers over her head and buried herself deep within the feather mattress. With any luck she could hide here forever.

  “Miss Robertson, you are the luckiest of ladies. Will you not at least read Lord Farthingham’s note?”

  She moved the blanket down until she could peer over the thick coverlet. “What?”

  “The flowers, miss.”

  Kitty became aware then of the subtle fragrance wafting toward her: a lovely blend of orchids and roses. She opened her eyes farther and saw Nancy holding a missive toward her. And beyond Nancy was a vase in which had been arranged the most beautiful and abundant collection of flowers Kitty had ever seen.

  Her headache forgotten, she forced herself to sit up. “Are they from Lord Farthingham?”

  “We assumed so, miss.”

  She thought the brightness of her smile might make her jaw ache. No doubt he’d missed her last night as much as she’d missed him. She took the note from Nancy, unfolded it…and her headache returned in full force. Not from Farthingham.

  My dear Miss Robertson,

  A thousand a
pologies for what you were forced to endure while in my company evening last. You and Lord Farthingham may have exclusive use of my box at the Royal Italian Opera House for as long as you are in London.

  Yours most devotedly,

  The Duke of Weddington

  “Whatever’s wrong, miss?” Nancy asked.

  Kitty shook her head, regretting the movement as soon as she began it. “They aren’t a gift from Farthingham. They’re an apology from Weddington.”

  “All of them?”

  Kitty scoffed. “No, only the roses. I’ve no earthly idea who the orchids are from.” She scowled. “Of course, all of them are from the duke. Why would you think otherwise?”

  “Because he sent so many, miss.”

  Kitty scrambled out of bed for a closer look. Without counting, she thought it looked as though at least two dozen flowers filled the vase. Each one exquisite, each one a blossom to be admired. But she found it difficult to appreciate them knowing from whom they’d come.

  “Why don’t you take them down to the parlor so everyone can enjoy them?”

  “I don’t know that there’s room, miss.”

  Why must inefficiency run rampant on this of all mornings—when she was in no condition to deal with it properly?

  “I realize it’s a large arrangement, Nancy, but then again, the parlor is a large room.”

  “Yes, miss, but the other flowers are taking up almost the entire space in the parlor and the drawing room.”

  “What other flowers?” she asked, a sense of apprehension filling her, as Nancy’s earlier exuberance about the flowers began to take root.

  “All the others he sent. There must be close to a thousand, I should think. They’ve been arriving for the past hour, and we can hardly locate enough vases to arrange them all properly.”

  Kitty snatched her robe off a nearby chair, shoved her arms into it, tightened the sash, and hastened out of the room. Down the sweeping stairs she dashed, halfway expecting to see Weddington waiting at the foot of them.

  She came to a stuttering halt at the entry to the parlor. Every type of flower in every imaginable color filled the room. Some in vases, most simply bound together with ribbon. A thousand flowers. A thousand apologies.

  “Kitty, what on earth is going on?” her mother asked, holding a large bouquet as though she was at a loss as to what to do with it.

  Kitty shook her head. How could she even begin to explain without revealing all?

  “Your father will not be at all pleased to see that Farthingham goes to such excess and extravagance—”

  “Not Farthingham. Weddington.”

  Her mother looked as though Kitty had drawn a pistol on her. “The duke?”

  Kitty nodded.

  “Why would he send—”

  “To apologize.”

  “What does he need to apologize for?”

  Kitty couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. “He has an interest in me, Mama. And I have none in him.”

  “He’s apologizing for having an interest?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Appears so.”

  Shaking her head, Kitty walked to one of the vases and touched a velvety petal. “How typical of a man to think he can win a lady over simply by spending money on her.”

  “He doesn’t know you well at all if he thinks you can be lured by objects.”

  Kitty sighed. “You’re absolutely right. He knows nothing about me.”

  And if she kept to her original intentions, he never would.

  Kitty’s headache started anew when she received word that the Duchess of Weddington and her daughter had come to call. Of all the afternoons for them to make an appearance—when she wasn’t feeling quite herself. Still, she dressed appropriately, pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to get a little color into them, and went down to the parlor to greet her guests.

  A petite silver-haired woman was wandering through the room admiring all the fresh flowers. Lady Anne sat on a sofa, her hands folded on her lap. She rose to her feet as soon as she saw Kitty.

  “Miss Robertson.”

  “Lady Anne.”

  The older woman turned, and Lady Anne beamed. “Mother, I would like to introduce Miss Kitty Robertson.”

  The duchess smiled warmly. “Miss Robertson, it is indeed a pleasure.”

  “Your Grace, I’m so honored that you would pay me a visit. Please, sit.” Twisting slightly, Kitty signaled to the waiting servant to bring tea.

  The duchess sat beside her daughter on the sofa, and Kitty took her place in a chair sitting opposite them.

  “The flowers are absolutely lovely,” the duchess said.

  “Thank you, Your Grace, but I can take no credit for their beauty.”

  “I am well aware of that, dear girl. Anne says that I’m mistaken, but I do believe these are Richard’s flowers. Too many resemble the ones that filled his greenhouse until this morning. I daresay, he must have been up all night preparing them for delivery here.”

  Kitty barely noticed the servant placing the tea tray on the table in front of her as she stared at the duchess. “You don’t believe these came from a flower shop or vendor?”

  “I hardly think so. His conservatory was filled yesterday, and when I sent my girl out this morning to gather a few fresh flowers for my room, she reported the place was practically barren of blossoms.” She waved her hand. “And here they seem to be.”

  Kitty felt somewhat better that he hadn’t gone to great expense on her behalf. “Your gardener is to be applauded—”

  “No, no, no, dear girl. Not our gardener. Richard. They are his flowers. He allows no one to touch them when we are in London, which is the very reason that I must send my girl out at the crack of dawn if I want any. To sneak a few out without his knowing. She said this morning that he was instructing servants to load them into carriages.”

  “Are you saying that your son grew these flowers?”

  “If they are indeed his, which I have no reason to believe otherwise.” The duchess arched a finely shaped brow. “Are they?”

  Kitty shifted her gaze between the duchess and Lady Anne. She felt the heat climbing up her face. “The note that accompanied them was from the Duke of Weddington.”

  “Whatever did you do to gain such favor from him?”

  The lid clattered as Kitty picked up the teapot, because her hands were trembling so badly. “I really can’t say,” she said, hoping the manner in which she emphasized the words gave the impression that she didn’t have a clue rather than that she wouldn’t say. I kissed him at dawn and set our blood to boiling. Apparently, he’s having no more luck forgetting it than I am.

  “Orchids are a hobby of his, although I don’t think he’s as obsessed as Joseph Chamberlain is reported to be. I believe Richard finds solace in his conservatory. There and on the sea.”

  Kitty handed the cups and saucers to her guests. “I’m fond of the sea as well.”

  “You must visit us at Drummond Manor sometime,” Lady Anne said. “We would make you feel most welcome, wouldn’t we, Mother?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Richard could take you out on one of his yachts.”

  “I really don’t see where I’ll have time, with all the plans I need to make with Lord Farthingham.”

  “Of course, but still it’s a pity. I was telling Mother how very much I’ve enjoyed your company since meeting you,” Lady Anne said. “We do hope you will come to call.”

  “I’d be most pleased to do so.”

  “Splendid,” the duchess said. “Now, we must be off. We have other calls to make this afternoon.”

  After the duchess and Lady Anne left, Kitty sat in the parlor, surrounded by the sweet fragrance, her gaze lighting on each flower. She would have preferred that he’d purchased the blasted things. She didn’t like the idea of his giving her something he’d nurtured and coaxed into blooming—didn’t like the idea of him alone all night standing in a greenhouse with plants, standing alone on a
rocky shoreline gazing out to sea.

  She’d had three Seasons and not once had she met him. How could such an impossible loner be friends with Farthingham, who constantly gathered people around himself as though he needed them in order to breathe?

  And why, oh why, could she not tear her thoughts away from Weddington?

  Chapter 9

  Richard heard the deep laughter echoing into the hallway long before the butler escorted him into the library.

  “Weddington! So glad you came by,” Farthingham said, coming to his feet and greeting him as soon as he entered the room. “You’ve had the honor of meeting Frederick Montague, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, we were introduced a few years ago.”

  “I thought so.”

  “I managed to catch your performance in a play that Farthingham recommended to me,” Richard said to Montague. “I was impressed with your acting talent.”

  Montague was young, but his gray eyes reflected intelligence and perhaps a bit of seeing more of the world than he would have liked. He bowed slightly and smiled. “Your Grace, I am honored that you would be impressed by any of my humble efforts.”

  “As well you should be, Freddie. Weddington, would you care for some port?”

  “I believe I will.” Richard sat in a plush chair, one of four that sat around an octagonal table.

  Farthingham lifted the decanter and pointed it toward Montague. “Freddie has recently left the stage, however, to work behind it—as a playwright. I was just reading his latest work. It’s fantastic.”

  “Based on the laughter I heard before I came in, I presume it’s a comedy.”

  “Quite so,” Farthingham said, handing Richard a goblet. “It’s the story of a man who commits murder in order to gain a woman’s affections.”

  “I’ve never considered murder to be humorous.”

  “Admit it, Weddington, you consider very little in life to be humorous. But Freddie’s play is brilliant. I predict it would make even you chuckle a time or two. Perhaps he’ll let you read it.”