by Anna Bradley
Delia put her hands on her hips and glared at him. She didn’t like that wicked gleam in his eye. Not one bit. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Of course it is. Now,” he began, just as if he were a tutor and she a thick-skulled student. “Your mistake is in thinking flirtation is about what you say. It isn’t. It’s about what you do.”
Delia gave him a sullen look. “That wasn’t my only mistake.” She hated to admit it, but he was far more clever and perceptive than was convenient.
“Well, you got the setting right. A rose garden is an excellent place to conduct a flirtation. You could start by asking the gentleman which is his favorite rose, or by showing him yours.”
“I didn’t choose the setting, Lord Carlisle. You did.”
“Yes, well, I am very good at flirtation, but in this case, for the sake of discussion, let’s assume you lured me out into the rose garden for your own licentious purposes.”
Her licentious purposes? Despite herself, Delia laughed. She couldn’t help it. It was so silly, and he looked so much like a naughty little boy. “All right, we’ll imagine, for the sake of discussion, I’m the licentious one in this scenario, and I lured you into the rose garden with evil intent.”
She had been trying to lure him, but only to find out whether he’d take advantage of a little innocent flirtation on her part. It was what a man bent on seduction would do. Surely that didn’t make her licentious?
It hadn’t worked anyway, so it didn’t count.
“Very good. Now, as I said, the rose garden is a perfect setting for a flirtation. It’s private, but not so secluded it’s improper.”
Delia nodded gravely. “I’m glad to hear we’re observing the proprieties, Lord Carlisle. I thought you might insist we move this lesson to a deserted road somewhere.”
She couldn’t have explained why she said it—perhaps to see that smile twitch at the corner of his mouth? Whatever the reason, she couldn’t resist.
He looked amazed, but then an appreciative smile took slow possession of his face. “What you saw on that road was not a flirtation, Miss Somerset. I shudder to think where you’ll end up if you don’t know the difference.”
Right where you want me, no doubt.
She’d do well to remember that, but in the meantime she was beginning to enjoy herself. “Please, Lord Carlisle.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Even I know the difference between a flirtation and . . .” She hesitated, trying to find a ladylike way to say it.
“Fornication? You have no idea how relieved I am to hear it. Now, you won’t catch the gentleman’s attention by flattering him, especially a gentleman who’s used to receiving female attentions.”
“And of course they’re the only gentlemen worth flirting with.”
“Very good, Miss Somerset.” He grinned like a boy again. “You’re an apt pupil so far. Everything you say should be pleasant, of course. That may prove challenging for you.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “But true flirtation comes from your body, not your conversation.”
“My body?” Delia swallowed nervously. Surely she shouldn’t be discussing her body with Lord Carlisle?
“Yes. You look a little flushed, Miss Somerset. Shall I stop the lesson?” There was an unmistakable flash of challenge in his dark eyes.
“Certainly not.” Delia stubbornly met his gaze. She wasn’t going to back down now.
“Very well. It starts with your eyes.”
Delia breathed a silent sigh of relief. Eyes. That seemed harmless enough. “Indeed?”
“Yes. That is particularly good advice for you.”
What in the world was that supposed to mean? That she must rely on her eyes because she had such a sharp tongue? “Why is that, my lord?” she asked, irritated.
“Because your eyes are so unusual, and so extraordinarily beautiful.”
Oh, my. Delia’s breath stopped in her chest. She opened her mouth to reply, but no words emerged. She hadn’t been expecting a compliment, especially not one so lovely.
“Speechless, Miss Somerset? It’s true, you know.” He laughed softly, but he didn’t appear to be amused anymore. “Your eyes could move the most jaded rogue to poetry. Eyes such a dark blue they’re nearly indigo. Eyes like glimmering sapphires. Eyes like pools of water, endlessly blue, and endlessly deep.” He drew in a sharp breath and continued almost angrily, as though the words were dragged out of the depths of his body against his will. “Hold a man’s eyes with your own, or dart teasing glances at him from under your eyelashes. The poor devil won’t even be able to remember his own name.”
Delia was astonished and mesmerized at once. Had he moved closer to her? Or had she taken a step toward him? She waited, breathless and wide-eyed, for him to continue.
“And your mouth,” he said huskily. His eyes dropped to her lips and lingered there. “Your lips. Draw his attention to them. Smile. Laugh.”
For one wild moment Delia thought he was going to touch her mouth, could almost feel his thumb brushing gently across her lips. She parted them just slightly in unconscious invitation, and her tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip.
“Yes,” he hissed softly, the word ending on a near groan. “That’s it. Just like that.”
Delia’s heart gave a painful thump in her chest. It occurred to her they were very much alone in the rose garden, and somehow what had begun as a jest had turned dangerously intimate. She needed to stop this, to stop him before he said anything else. But she didn’t. She couldn’t, not when everything in her strained toward him, both anticipating and dreading what he’d say next.
“Use your hands.” His voice had gone hoarse. “Touch him. Walk just a little too close beside him so your shoulder brushes against his. Put your hand on his arm, or stroke your fingertips against his palm when he takes your hand in his. Light, teasing touches are the most exquisite torment, for they leave a man aching for more.”
His silky, coaxing voice felt like fingertips trailing across her skin, leaving a flush of pink in their wake. His gaze touched her, too, his lids heavy over eyes gone black. An image arose in her mind then, of the woman from the day before, of his hand, slipping into her bodice, seeking and finding her breast. Caressing. The woman had sighed, as if his touch was exquisite torment.
What would his fingers feel like against her heated skin? Visions of his knowing, teasing hands had haunted her ever since she’d heard that fevered sigh. If he touched her, would she ache for more?
Delia waited, trembling, desperate for him to touch her. Her eyes dropped involuntarily to seek his hands.
His arms were rigid at his sides, his hands clenching into fists and then unclenching, as if he exerted the most unbearable restraint over them. A low, pained sound tore from his throat when he noticed her gaze on them.
She wanted him to touch her.
“Will he . . .” she began, but the words were trapped in her throat. She took a deep breath and tried again. “Will he touch me?” Her voice was the barest whisper.
“He’ll want to.” His voice was low, rough. “He may kiss your hands. But a true gentleman will not—”
He broke off then, and shook his head from side to side as if to clear it. There was a long pause while he stared hard at her, his expression lost somewhere between amazement and fury. When he spoke again, it was as if he’d awakened from a spell. “A true gentleman won’t touch you unless he’s courting you. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. As you know, Miss Somerset, I’m no gentleman.”
His voice had gone cold.
His sneering, sarcastic tone hit Delia like a physical blow. She instinctively staggered back several steps to get away from him, away from a cold fury she didn’t understand. She was stunned, much as she’d been a day ago when the coach had thrown an axle. One minute she’d been admiring the scenery outside the window, and the next she was thrown to the floor, her bone
s rattling as the coach screeched to a violent stop.
He either didn’t notice her dazed expression, or he didn’t care. “The secret to flirtation is to keep the illusion intact. Once it’s shattered”—his icy gaze locked on her face—“the gentleman may be forced to ask himself some unpleasant questions.” He closed the distance she’d put between them with one long stride. “For instance, I might ask myself why you’d want to flirt with me in the first place.”
His voice was calm, but Delia heard the trace of menace.
To teach you a lesson. This time she didn’t have to struggle to keep the truth to herself.
“You’ve made it plain you don’t like or trust me,” he said when she didn’t reply. “You despise the ton in general. I must conclude, then, you have your own private reasons for trying to engage my attentions.”
“Why should I like or trust you, Lord Carlisle?” she shot back.
There was a tense pause, then, “You shouldn’t.”
“You’re full of advice today, my lord.” She struggled to keep her voice from shaking.
He stared at her, his eyes hard and accusing. “What is your game, Miss Somerset?”
“Game?” Her hands fluttered nervously, like a moth too near a candle flame. She shoved them behind her back to hide their trembling. “I don’t know what you mean, my lord.”
It was a lie. She was playing a game—the very same game he was playing, except she was on the opposite side of the chessboard. If he won, the ton would leave this house party whispering in scandalized delight that the Earl of Carlisle had seduced Millicent Somerset’s daughter and avenged the insult offered to his father all those years ago. They’d say the Somersets were no better than they should be, that they’d been sent back to the depths of Surrey where they belonged.
Oh, she’d let him think she could be seduced, that she was swooning with desire for him. He’d believe she was ripe for the plucking, right up to the point when he reached up a hand to grasp the fruit. Then she’d dash away to Surrey with her reputation and innocence intact. Unplucked, as it were.
His eyes narrowed. “I think you do.”
She shrugged, as if she didn’t care what he thought. “As you say, my reasons are my own.”
But if she outwitted him . . . ah, if she emerged the victor! An insignificant nobody from some rustic village in God knew where, humbling the powerful and handsome Earl of Carlisle! A Somerset, no less. Then the ton would gossip about how history had repeated itself.
“I warn you, Miss Somerset—”
“I’m late for luncheon, my lord,” she said in clipped tones. She didn’t want to hear his warning. She might feel compelled to heed it, and it was far too late for that. “I find myself in need of refreshment. Good afternoon.”
She gathered her skirts into her hands and turned to walk away, back straight and chin held high. She didn’t turn back to look at him, but she felt his eyes following her every move until she disappeared inside the house.
Chapter Ten
“Never known you to be a liar before, Carlisle.”
Archie took a long, leisurely draw on his cheroot, then blew a wreath of smoke into the air above his head. “You’re an unpleasant fellow,” he continued genially. “Ill-tempered. Arrogant. Always winning at billiards. But I’ve never known you to be a liar before.”
Alec watched the tip of Archie’s cheroot glow a hot red in the relative gloom of the study. He and Archie had retired here after what felt like the longest evening of Alec’s life.
He sighed. No use fighting it. “What did I lie about, Archie?”
Archie leaned forward in his chair. “Miss Somerset, of course. You told me she was plain. Sharp-tongued and plain.”
Alec rolled his eyes. “I never said—”
“Sharp-tongued and plain,” Archie repeated. “A dreadful combination, you said.”
“What’s the matter, Archie?” Alec asked, grinning a little, despite his annoyance. “Didn’t you think she was sharp-tongued?”
Archie sat back in his chair and blew another plume of smoke into the air, considering. “No. She seemed quite sweet. Lovely, really, and she sure as hell isn’t plain.”
She was sweet. Ruin-a-man-for-other-sweets kind of sweet. Mouthwatering.
“No, she’s not plain.” That much was patently obvious.
“Neither is her sister,” Archie said with a roguish grin. “Remarkable-looking girls, both of them.”
“Les yeux des feu bleu,” Alec murmured, feeling foolish even as the words left his mouth.
Archie nodded. “Yes. Complicates things for you, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed.” Whatever else she may be, sweet or sharp-tongued, dreadful or lovely, one thing Delia Somerset most assuredly was, was complicated.
“Robyn didn’t take his eyes off her all evening,” Archie supplied helpfully. “Come to think of it, unless it was to gawk at her sister, neither did Shepherdson.”
Alec’s mouth tightened. Shepherdson was fortunate tonight’s dinner had been a casual family affair, because he wouldn’t have survived additional courses with his limbs intact. Watching Shepherdson ogle and drool like an animal over Delia Somerset made Alec unaccountably furious. Of course, he’d have the same concern for any young lady under his protection.
Of course he would.
Tomorrow he’d speak to his mother about changing the seating arrangements. No matter what kind of mischief she was up to, Miss Somerset didn’t deserve to have a drunken fool like Shepherdson leering at her from across the dinner table.
“You looked at her a good deal, too, Carlisle,” Archie observed. His tone was carefully neutral.
Alec leapt from his chair and paced to the fireplace, unable to sit still for one second longer. God, his muscles ached. He’d been as tight as a noose ever since this afternoon in the rose garden. And when had Archie become so bloody perceptive?
Archie startled at the sudden movement. “I’m not blaming you for looking.” He held his hands up defensively. “Any man would.”
“I have to watch her, Archie.” Alec’s voice sounded raw even to his own ears. “It’s the only way to keep her apart from Robyn.”
He had to watch her. He shouldn’t want to watch her.
But he did.
“Not bad work, that,” Archie murmured.
Alec leaned an arm against the mantel. “She’s up to something.”
“Up to something?” Archie stared at him, the forgotten cheroot dangling in his fingers. “What does that mean?”
Alec shrugged. “I’m not sure. She flirted with me.”
At least she’d tried to. In spite of his foul mood, Alec grinned. She was hopeless at flirtation, probably because it required some level of deception. It had taken her all of five minutes this afternoon to drop her pretense and blurt out the truth.
Her version of the truth anyway.
“You don’t seem too upset about it,” Archie remarked. “You look rather pleased, in fact.”
Alec’s grin faded. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would she want to flirt with me? What possible purpose could it serve?”
“Maybe she just finds you charming.”
“She doesn’t.” That much was certain.
“No. Probably not.” Archie frowned at his cheroot. “Maybe she’s angling for a bigger fish.”
Alec was staring into the fire, but at this, his head snapped toward Archie. “What do you mean?”
“Why settle for an earl’s younger brother when you may have a chance to hook the earl himself?”
Alec froze. “Why should she think she has a chance to hook me?”
Aside from the fact that I can’t take my eyes off her?
Archie gave him a disgusted look, as if Alec were a slow-witted child. “Let’s see, Carlisle.” He started ticking points off on his fingers. “Her eyes. Her hair
. Her skin. Her figure. Why, her figure alone . . .”
But Alec had stopped listening.
Her mouth. He closed his eyes. Good God, her mouth.
“What’s the matter with you, Carlisle? Do you have a pain? You look like you’re in agony.”
I am in agony. “I’m fine.”
“Well? Do you think she’s fishing for an earl?”
“It’s possible. I wouldn’t entirely dismiss the idea.”
It did make perfect sense. If that was her object, this game would be over before it began. Whatever she was playing at, it didn’t come naturally to her. That put her at a disadvantage, because he was born to play games.
To play them, and to win them.
Miss Somerset was intriguing and desirable, but in the end it didn’t make any difference. It complicated matters, yes, but what satisfaction was to be had in a game too easily won? He did like a challenging game of chess, and it would be much more diverting with a living, breathing queen. Or a pawn? Yes. She was a tempting little pawn. He closed his eyes and imagined smooth ivory under his fingertips, except this ivory was warm, soft, translucent skin.
He could never have her, of course. There were limits. But fortunately there was a vast uncharted territory between a few harmless kisses and raising the skirts of a chaste young virgin.
Alec excelled at gray areas. He spent a good deal of time there.
He’d teach Miss Somerset a much-needed lesson about playing games with a man like him—that was, a man ruthless in pursuit of his desires, who enjoyed all of the advantages of wealth and social position. But he’d send her back to Surrey with her virginity intact.
Technically intact.
But she’d know he hadn’t taken her because he chose not to, not because he couldn’t have had her. It would humble her, and perhaps next time she’d know better.
“Maybe she’s trying to make Robyn jealous,” Archie said unexpectedly. “Or maybe she’s just practicing on you. For when she’s alone with Robyn.”
