Desire n-3

by Nicole Jordan

  “You might try for a smile, puss,” Grayson teased. “You look as if you’re being sent to the guillotine.”

  “I would far rather have stayed quietly home.”

  “I know. But it has been three years since the duke has issued any invitations to his home. It would never do to snub him-or his illustrious guest.”

  Brynn’s heart sank at the thought of that illustrious guest. The Earl of Wycliff. The aging duke was holding an assembly to honor his London visitor.

  “Moreover,” Gray added seriously, “it will do you good to get out for once. You are at risk of becoming a recluse.”

  “You know perfectly well why I keep out of the public eye.”

  “Yes, but you needn’t avoid society entirely, only males who show you undue attention. And curse or no curse, I doubt a man of Wycliff’s stamp will be in danger of swooning over you. He’s one of the most sought-after lords in England. Doubtless he will be attracted only to a great beauty with a fortune and title to match his own.”

  Yet the bold earl had been attracted to her, Brynn thought gloomily.

  Other than to warn her brother that she’d seen a stranger nosing around the cliffs, she hadn’t told Gray about her encounter with the lustful Lord Wycliff four days ago, nor did she intend to. Gray would be distressed to learn she had so narrowly escaped trouble, perhaps enough to forbid her to swim in the cove, which was one of her few liberties. He was as protective of her virtue as a mother hen.

  As they were admitted into the immense foyer of the ducal mansion, Grayson swept a critical eye over her. “I don’t think you need worry about attracting male attention, Brynn. You have disguised your feminine charms rather well.”

  Her ivory gown, which was four Seasons out of date, was of plain muslin and boasted a modestly high neckline, while her blazing hair was scraped back in a severe knot and mostly hidden beneath a feathered chapeau.

  “If he does pay you any notice, however, it will not hurt you to make yourself amenable. Wycliff wields a great deal of power in elite circles, and an acquaintance can only be beneficial.”

  “Beneficial to whom?” Brynn replied dryly.

  “To me, of course. To our family.”

  She heard the note of bitterness in her brother’s voice and glanced up at him. Her elder by four years, Grayson was a handsome man with features similar to her own, although his hair was much darker than hers, a rich chestnut brown. Despite his looks and title, however, his eligibility was greatly disadvantaged by the impoverished state of his finances-a circumstance for which he bore little blame.

  Their family had never been affluent, but after their father’s death three years ago, they were stunned to learn the extent of their debts. Samuel Caldwell not only had made several unwise investments, he had borrowed at usurious rates from a moneylender to purchase naval commissions for two of his older sons. Simply repaying the interest on the loan depleted the small income from the entailed Caldwell estate.

  As the heir, Grayson was at risk of being thrown into debtors’ prison, yet to his immense credit, he had shouldered the duty of supporting his five younger siblings without complaint and striven to keep their home from going to total ruin. It was a heavy burden, and Brynn had felt obliged to help relieve it, even to the extent of aiding Gray’s illicit smuggling activities. Although Free Trading was no proper role for a lady, she had sometimes performed sentry duty and occasionally even lugged her share of contraband. But her primary contribution was in selling their smuggled goods. She’d become quite adept at negotiating with the merchants in St. Mawes and Falmouth for the best prices.

  Grayson regretted her involvement, but he needed her help, especially after their younger brother Reese had joined the merchant marine last spring. And she owed Gray her allegiance. As her oldest brother, he’d always looked after her and fiercely protected her from her lustful suitors. She loved him dearly, despite her current vexation with him and their recent arguments regarding young Theo’s welfare.

  It galled Grayson to have to toady to anyone, Brynn knew. His pride was even greater than her own, and she understood his bitterness at being drowned in such crushing debt.

  “Very well,” she said, forcing a smile. “I will be the height of congeniality, fawning over Lord Wycliff as if he were a prince royal.”

  Her reply dredged a reluctant grin from Gray. “You needn’t fawn, puss. Just keep that tart tongue of yours between your teeth and don’t purposefully offend him.”

  Brynn very much hoped the opportunity to offend the earl would never arise. With luck, she could manage to avoid Lord Wycliff this evening. And if she were extremely fortunate, he wouldn’t recognize her as the nearly naked mermaid he’d kissed so thoroughly a few days before.

  She surrendered her wrap to a footman and allowed Gray to escort her to the ballroom, where much of the local gentry had already gathered. Brynn would have preferred to skip the receiving line entirely and repair to the ladies’ retiring room to hide, but her brother insisted that she honor the niceties.

  The elderly duke stood with several members of his family and another gentleman whose elegant bearing proclaimed him to be a lord. He was significantly taller than the others and possessed a lean, muscular grace that was missing in his more portly companions. His shoulders filled out his impeccably cut blue jacket to perfection, Brynn saw, risking a glance down the line, before her attention was claimed by her host.

  The duke, with his rheumy eyes blinking, greeted her fondly and then introduced her to his houseguest as “the loveliest young lady in all of Cornwall.”

  At this whisker, Brynn kept her eyes downcast, adopting a mousy manner when she offered her hand to his lordship and murmured a polite greeting. Yet any hope Wycliff wouldn’t recognize her died instantaneously; he froze in the act of bowing over her hand.

  The touch of his fingers burned, even through her gloves, but when Brynn tried to withdraw her hand, his grasp tightened almost imperceptibly, holding her captive and compelling her to lift her gaze.

  His sapphire eyes locked with hers. “Miss Caldwell? I am charmed.”

  “Th-thank you, my lord.”

  A ghost of a smile curved his beautiful mouth. “Have we met before?” His gaze boldly flickered downward over her breasts. “You seem vaguely familiar.”

  “I believe you must be mistaken,” Brynn replied stiffly, feeling herself flushing.

  “I’m not so certain. I rarely forget a lovely face.”

  She tried to stare him down, giving him her coolest look, but he affected not to notice.

  “You must promise me a dance, Miss Caldwell, so that we might further our acquaintance.”

  Brynn glanced helplessly at her brother, who was giving her a look that was half warning, half plea. “As you wish,” she capitulated. But she snatched her hand away and moved on more quickly than was polite.

  She took refuge in one corner of the room among the wallflowers and dowagers, while Gray went in search of his own friends. Brynn was glad for the chance to compose herself-and for the unusually amiable greetings she received, grateful to know she wouldn’t be entirely shunned for the evening because of who she was.

  The legend of Flaming Nell was accepted fact in these parts. Nearly two centuries ago Lady Eleanor Stanhope had been cursed for stealing a Gypsy woman’s lover and doomed to lure innocent men to their deaths. And Brynn, as one of her descendants, was believed to be burdened with the same affliction.

  Despite the Gypsy curse and the tragedy in her own past, however, she wasn’t quite an outcast with her neighbors. The women welcomed her company, even liked her for the most part. But she was considered a danger to their sons. They kept their menfolk far away from her, especially those of marriageable age.

  After making the requisite small talk, Brynn let the ladies’ conversation wash over her as she puzzled out her unusual reaction to Lord Wycliff.

  His crystalline blue eyes were just as compelling, his seductive half smile just as devastating as during their first
encounter, yet that didn’t excuse her behavior. She was still ashamed of the way her body had betrayed her that day in the cove, could still recall the hot, trembling sensations that had rushed through her at his erotic caresses.

  What on earth had come over her? No man had ever affected her that way. She had once experienced a girlish infatuation-to her profound regret and sorrow-but never had she even come close to losing control or surrendering to a man’s caresses. With Lord Wycliff she had acted a perfect wanton…

  But by all accounts Wycliff was a practiced rake who made seduction a sport. She had never been able to afford a London Season, but the duke’s granddaughter, Lady Meredith, was her closest friend. Meredith was now a viscountess and lived primarily in London, and her frequent letters were filled with lively on dits about the ton, describing in titillating detail exploits of the wicked rakes and dangerous adventurers who made up the infamous Hellfire League. And Lucian Tremayne, Earl of Wycliff, was one of its chief founders.

  Notorious for his scandalous conquests in the bedroom, he had cut a dazzling swath through society for years. Brynn could well believe the tales about him. Reportedly he had the power to make strong women weak-and she was living proof.

  Her fascination with Wycliff was incomprehensible. She had little respect for such noblemen-rich, idle, shallow, not to mention arrogant and infuriatingly puffed up by their own self-consequence.

  Her current companions, however, did not hold the same aversion, apparently.

  “Ah, if I were only twenty years younger,” the widowed Mrs. Prescott murmured beside her.

  “Twenty years still would not do you a bit of good, Honoria,” her friend, Mrs. Stobly, remarked with a cattish smile. “Gentlemen like that can have their pick of rich beauties, and you fit neither bill, I’m sorry to say.”

  “I don’t believe you are sorry in the least, Alice.”

  Following their gaze, Brynn felt herself frown as she watched the earl lead out the aging Duchess of Hennessy for a minuet. Wycliff cut a striking figure on the dance floor, lithe, elegant, yet with the supple, muscular build of a sportsman. He had captured every female eye in the ballroom, including hers.

  With a murmur of disgust, Brynn tore her gaze away. She had more admirable concerns than watching a legendary rake conquer feminine hearts.

  Lamentably, though, she caught the eye of a young dandy in the crowd, the local squire’s son who had fallen victim to her allure some months before.

  Alarmed to see Mr. Ridding making a direct bee-line for her, Brynn rose quickly to her feet. Yet before she could escape, he hastened to intercept her, bowing before her with a breathless grin.

  “Miss Caldwell, I hoped… no, I prayed you might come. I beg you to honor me with the next set of dances.”

  When he reached for her hand, Brynn pulled away anxiously, determined to dissuade his pursuit of her. “Mr. Ridding, you know that is unadvised.”

  “I dreamed of you last night, did you know? You were not so averse to me in my dream-”

  Just then his mama came rushing up to rescue him. “Orlan, come away from that young lady at once!”

  “Mama, I was only requesting a dance-”

  “I won’t allow it. You know very well the danger.”

  Mrs. Ridding tugged insistently on her son’s sleeve to draw him away, much to Brynn’s relief. And yet she felt her cheeks flush with humiliation and pain as she sensed the accusing eyes of the dowagers. They blamed her for the untimely, tragic death of her one-time suitor so many years ago. She couldn’t fault them for their condemnation, since she couldn’t forgive herself.

  Choosing to retreat rather than prolong the distressing moment, Brynn offered a forced smile and made her way through the swelling crowd and out of the ballroom, searching for the library. Perhaps she could make good use of her time until her brother was ready to leave.

  Upon exploring the shelves, she was somewhat heartened to find a copy of Beckford’s Latin Primer. Next week she was supposed to quiz Theo on the conjugation of verbs, and she still had a great deal of preparation to do; she had to keep at least two lessons ahead of her sharp-witted youngest brother if she had any hope of maintaining his respect for her as his tutor.

  As a girl her own education had been typical for a young lady-French, Italian, the use of globes, basic sums. Latin and Greek, history, and higher maths were considered the province of masculine minds, and she’d had to scramble to educate herself in those subjects after her family was forced to let their longtime governess go because of the pitiful state of their finances.

  Brynn had settled comfortably on the settee and was deep in concentration when an intimate male voice sounded behind her.

  “So this is where you’ve hidden yourself.”

  Giving a violent start of surprise, Brynn straightened and cast a wary glance over her shoulder. “You do have the most vexing habit of startling me, my lord.”

  Wycliff strolled into the room casually, as if he owned the place. Circling the couch, he stood before her a moment, measuring her. “Miss Brynn Caldwell, the genteel but impoverished daughter of a baronet. Imagine my delight to discover you weren’t an apparition after all-and my surprise to discover your true identity.”

  She felt herself flush, but remained mute.

  His intent masculine gaze raked over her, making her keenly aware of her femaleness. His mere presence set her pulse leaping, while that slow, heated look made her suddenly warm.

  “Why the deception?” he asked.

  “What deception?”

  “You told me your name was Beth.”

  “It is. I am Brynn Elizabeth.”

  “Why did you conceal it from me?”

  “Why?” she repeated warily. “Because I feared a scandal. It was bad enough that you… that I allowed myself to be caught in such a compromising position. I saw no reason to compound my indiscretion by advertising my identity.”

  “So you deceived me, claiming to have a protector.”

  “I do have a protector of sorts. My brother. Five brothers, in fact. They usually are quite proficient at shielding me from the unwanted advances of strange gentlemen.”

  A spark of amusement glimmered in his eyes. “An inventive way of shading the truth. But as memory serves, you let me think you a governess or a domestic.”

  “That was no lie, either. I regularly function in the role of governess. I tutor my youngest brother.”

  A slashing dark eyebrow rose with skepticism.

  “It’s true,” Brynn insisted. She held up the primer in her hand, showing him the title.

  “A Latin grammar?”

  “I am endeavoring to teach my brother the classics, although I’m severely disadvantaged, since my own linguistic education did not extend past Italian.”

  “Why do you not simply hire a tutor?”

  “My family, sadly, is not in a position to afford such luxuries,” Brynn said stiffly. “Not everyone possesses the fortune of a Midas, as you reportedly do, my lord.”

  His expression took on a measure of contrition. “Forgive me. That was gauche of me.”

  She thought-hoped-he might leave her alone then, but she had no such luck; he continued to study her from beneath long, wicked lashes.

  “You continually surprise me. First an enchanting sea creature, now a bluestocking. You interest me profoundly.”

  “I don’t intend to, I assure you. I have no desire to provoke your interest.”

  “How old are you?” he asked suddenly.

  Brynn gave him a blank look. “It is hardly polite to ask a lady to reveal her age, but if you must know, I am four-and-twenty.”

  “And still unwed? A woman of your obvious spirit and beauty?”

  “I am quite content with my spinsterhood.”

  “In God’s name, why?” The question was entirely serious.

  She hesitated, reluctant to bring up the curse and her fear of marriage. “Because I am responsible for raising my youngest brother. I have no intention of marrying. At le
ast not until he is safely settled.” And not even then, she added to herself.

  Wycliff shook his head in apparent disbelief. “A determined spinster bluestocking… I would never have guessed.”

  “But then your powers of intuition are not excessively well-developed. Not if you mistook me for Aphrodite.”

  Rather than Wycliff taking offense, the blatantly suggestive spark in his eyes blossomed into appreciative laughter. Even more to her surprise, he moved toward her. Brynn drew back instinctively, shrinking into the corner of the settee, but he merely seated himself beside her without so much as a by-your-leave.

  “I trust the cut on your foot healed well enough?”

  “Quite well… Thank you,” she added grudgingly.

  When Wycliff sat there curiously appraising her, she stiffened and eyed him nervously. “You really should go, my lord. The company will be missing you, since you are the guest of honor.”

  “You promised me a dance.”

  “Well, I cannot dance with you here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because… well, propriety, for one thing. I should not even be alone with you.”

  “You didn’t object so strenuously the other day.”

  She took a steadying breath. “I gave you the wrong impression that day, I know. But despite appearances, I am not the sort of female you think me.”

  “And what sort is that?”

  “The kind to welcome your attentions. I am not usually given to acting the wanton.”

  “A pity.”

  Brynn ignored the unholy laughter dancing in his eyes. “I am certainly not at all proud of my behavior, but yours was hardly admirable, either. Still, I suppose it was only to be expected from a rake.”

  “You consider me a rake because I treated you as a desirable woman rather than a lady?”

  “I consider you a rake because I know of your reputation. Even in the dull backwaters of Cornwall we have heard of your legendary exploits.” Brynn regarded him coolly. “I was not fortunate enough to have a London Season, but I have friends who report faithfully to me, and your wicked past is a common topic of discussion. You are notorious for your conquests among the ladies-and I have no desire to become one of your conquests.”