by Anna Bradley
A cold knot of fury settled in Alec’s chest. “She’s not going to be alone with him. Ever. Robyn can’t control himself.”
He didn’t mention he’d nearly lost control of himself in the garden with her today. One more breathless sigh or shy smile and he’d have touched her. If he’d touched her, he’d have kissed her, and he wouldn’t have been able to stop kissing her.
“You know, Alec,” Archie began, but then paused, as if not sure how to continue.
That caught Alec’s attention. Archie very rarely called him by his given name.
“Your father used to say the same thing about you. You resented it bitterly, if you remember.”
Alec’s body went rigid. “What the hell does that mean, Archie?” His voice was dangerously quiet.
Archie looked him right in the eye. “Stay out of Robyn’s affairs. That’s what it means.”
Alec didn’t move or speak for several minutes, but then he slowly shook his head. “I can’t do that, Archie. I’m responsible for him. For all of them.”
Archie looked hard at him, as if he wanted to say more, but then something like sympathy appeared in his eyes, and he merely nodded.
A tense silence settled over the room while Archie finished his cheroot and Alec stared into the fire. Finally, Archie stirred. “Where is Robyn?”
Alec jerked his chin in the direction of the door. “Playing billiards with Shepherdson.”
“Have the ladies retired for the evening?”
“My sisters and Lily Somerset are strolling in the garden. Miss Somerset retired soon after dinner.” Alec wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t. No, he’d be trailing after her, like an infant on leading strings. He didn’t enjoy the image.
Alec turned from the fire and paced over to the tall glass doors that looked out onto the formal gardens. The cold, wet winter had given way to a glorious spring. The evening was warm for April, and the moon was nearly full. It cast its cool, unearthly light over the rose garden.
How romantic. It was a perfect setting for Miss Somerset to cast her lures, especially now he’d taught her just how to do it. Robyn would be dazzled, helpless, at the mercy of those brilliant blue eyes and lush pink lips. Alec’s hands clenched. Tempting glances, smiles, teasing touches . . .
He’d been staring into the garden, unseeing, when his eye was caught by a flash of deep blue. Blue, in the rose garden? Unless he was mistaken, there were no blue roses.
But Miss Somerset had been wearing a violet blue gown this evening at dinner.
Without a word to Archie, Alec opened the door and slipped out onto the terrace. He searched the muted light of the garden, straining for another flash of what he was certain was a blue silk gown.
She was standing near the center of the garden, facing away from him, partially obscured by a towering rose arbor. Her deep blue gown fluttered and shimmered in the light breeze, and the moon drew gentle fingers of pale light over her smooth white shoulders and neck.
“I thought you’d retired for the evening, Miss Somerset.”
Her slim body stiffened, and a slight tremor shivered down her back. She turned toward him. “I left my sketch book here this afternoon when we . . .” Her voice trailed off. “I came back down to fetch it.” She was holding the book tightly against her bosom, as if for protection.
“You never told me which rose is your favorite.” His voice was at once both soft and rough.
She turned away again to look at the roses. “May I guess yours instead?”
Alec drew a deep breath and held it. She never said what he expected her to say, and he seemed to be always holding his breath when he spoke with her, waiting to hear what she’d say next. Anticipating it.
He moved closer to her, because all at once the distance between them felt unbearable. He was close enough so the edges of his coat brushed against her gown. Alec closed his eyes and breathed in the delicate scent of her hair, so much more tempting than the scent of the roses surrounding them. Jasmine? The faintest hint of honey.
“Please,” he murmured near her ear, not sure anymore what he asked for.
She paused for a moment, and for one delirious instant Alec thought she was savoring his nearness. Then she walked a few steps closer to the center of the garden and came to a halt next to a tall rose with a large, luxuriant red bloom. “This one, my lord.” She turned to face him. “The red. So extravagant.” She ran the tips of her fingers over the lush scarlet petals.
Alec understood immediately. The rose, spectacularly red, with its heavy sweet scent, was the showpiece of the rose garden. All of the other roses were just a prelude to it. Every path in the formal garden ended at this one elaborate bloom.
But Alec didn’t spare the ornate red rose a glance. He fixed his eyes on hers, then reached out and wrapped his long fingers around her delicate wrist. He turned and walked deeper into the garden, past the arbor and into the dark shadows even this bright moon had failed to illuminate.
“Here.” He tightened his fingers around her wrist and drew her forward, close beside him. “This is my favorite.”
This rose hadn’t yet fully opened. The outermost petals were still gathered around the center of the bloom, but the barest hint of deep gold was visible inside, peeking shyly out from the protective embrace of the velvety cream-colored petals.
“So delicate,” Alec murmured. “Like honey in a bowl of cream.”
He reached out and stroked a finger against one of the milky white petals. When he drew his hand away, a drop of dew clung to his fingertip. Still clasping her wrist, Alec turned her hand up and slowly drew his damp finger across the center of her palm.
Miss Somerset gasped softly. Desire shot through Alec, so powerful it nearly sent him to his knees. If he ran his tongue over her soft palm, what would she do? Would she cry out? What would she taste like?
Honey and cream.
Alec looked into her face. Her lips had parted and her breathing was shallow and quick. His own breathing had gone ragged.
But her eyes . . . they were enormous in her pale face, and though they were soft with desire, he also saw uncertainty there. It cleared his head just enough for him to be able to look closely at her.
She seemed very young, standing in the moonlight, gazing at him with wide eyes. She was young, she’d recently lost both parents, and despite the dangerous game she was playing, she was an innocent. His jaw went tight and a surge of shame dampened the desire raging inside him.
She was brave. Exceptionally so. Surely you must see that, Alec?
His mother’s voice echoed in his head. He’d scoffed at her words at the time. She’d been speaking of Millicent Chase, but the same could be said of the young woman trembling before him. Where did an inexperienced little chit from Surrey get the courage to challenge an earl? She had no family, no wealth, and no social standing. No protection, even, except what he was willing to afford her as a guest in his house. And she was toying with him. Engaging in a contest of wills, as if she believed she had a prayer of winning it.
It was almost laughable, except Alec didn’t find it amusing. He found it fascinating, and painfully arousing. He was riveted by her.
But there was something else, too. He recognized, deep in his gut, that if he kissed her now, it was, somehow, like moving his king across the chessboard to take her queen. God help him, but he wasn’t yet ready for the game to end, even if it meant winning it.
It was this more than anything that made him release her hand and step away from her, away from the temptation of her parted pink lips and sweetly curved body. “It grows late, Miss Somerset.” He stepped to the side and inclined his head toward the house. “You should retire now.”
She hesitated long enough for Alec to notice the amazement on her face, but then she passed by him without a word. It took all his control to keep from wrapping his arm around her waist to pull her back against
him.
“Delia?” he murmured as soon as she was safely out of reach.
She froze. Waited.
“Sweet dreams.”
Chapter Eleven
She did dream, of cream-colored roses and knowing black eyes. A long, damp finger dragging lightly across the center of her palm. A voice, whispering.
Don’t you like roses? If I desire something, I have it. Sweet dreams, Delia.
She dreamed of exquisite torture.
“Delia?”
She half opened one eye.
“Delia! Why would you hide something so important from me?” The voice was close to her ear, and a determined hand shook her shoulder. Delia opened the eye all the way and groaned. Lily stood by the side of the bed, looking at her with an injured air.
“You never used to keep secrets from me,” Lily accused, putting her hands on her hips.
“Wha—” Delia croaked. She forced the other eye open and rolled over onto her back. “What secret?”
Which secret?
Lily rolled her eyes. “That Robyn Sutherland is courting you!”
Delia stared at Lily, her mouth dropping open. “He is?”
Now she was awake.
Lily let out a long-suffering sigh. “Well, perhaps he’s not courting you yet, but he grows more besotted by the day. Look what he sent you this morning.” Lily gestured triumphantly to the table by the door.
Delia shot up to a sitting position in the bed. The little table was dwarfed by a huge bouquet of cream-colored roses, their delicate golden centers aglow in the late-morning light coming through the window.
“I—I—” Delia stuttered. Was she still dreaming?
“Let’s see what the card says.” Lily riffled carefully through the delicate blooms.
It wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare. Delia closed her eyes and prayed desperately.
Please don’t let there be a card. Please . . .
“There’s no card,” Lily said, disappointed.
Thank God. Delia cast her eyes heavenward. I promise to be good for the rest of the house party.
“My goodness, Delia. Here we are just arrived and already Robyn has sent you flowers!” Lily smiled with delight. “It’s quite romantic.”
Good God. What a mess. Delia resisted the urge to pull the covers over her head. “Lily, Robyn isn’t courting me. What a ridiculous notion! He must have noticed me admiring the roses, and he sent them to be kind.”
No need to clarify who he was, or explain that kindness had nothing to do with it.
“Oh, it’s very kind indeed,” Lily agreed with a smirk.
“Lily,” Delia began in a warning tone. “Promise me you won’t discuss this with anyone else, especially not Ellie and Charlotte. Promise me, Lily.”
“Oh, all right. I promise. Now you’d better get dressed. You’ve already missed breakfast and you’ll miss luncheon if you don’t hurry. It’s not like you to sleep so late. Are you well?”
No. “Yes, very well. You look rested this morning,” she added after a moment, noting the color in Lily’s cheeks and her clear, bright eyes. “I think Kent agrees with you.”
Lily smoothed her hands down her pristine skirts. “Yes. I feel well, and I have an enormous appetite this afternoon, so I won’t wait for you to dress, but will see you at luncheon.” She hurried toward the door that connected her room to Delia’s. “Stop worrying, Delia,” she said before she disappeared into her own room.
Stop worrying. If only it were that easy.
Delia crawled out from underneath the warm cocoon of blankets and lowered her feet to the floor, pausing when her bare toes brushed against the edge of her sketchbook. She’d thrown it on the floor last night in a fit of temper. Now she was tempted to kick it the rest of the way under the bed. Let a maid find it and turn it over to Lord Carlisle after she was safely returned to Surrey.
Blasted thing. Delia snatched it up and ripped the offensive page from the book. She stared at it. Nothing less than fear of its discovery could have tempted her from her room last night, not after the afternoon encounter with Lord Carlisle in the rose garden. But leave her room she had, and now Lord Carlisle haunted her dreams and her reality.
If he did intend to seduce her, he’d had ample opportunity to attempt it last night. She closed her eyes and remembered the trail of fire his finger had left against her palm. Her cheeks flooded with heat. Instead, he’d sent her back to her room as untouched and unkissed as she’d left it.
Which was just as it should be, of course. She wasn’t in the least disappointed.
But if a wicked rake doesn’t kiss a young lady when they’re alone in a moonlit rose garden, mightn’t it mean he doesn’t intend to? She thought there were rules about such things. They might even be written down somewhere. If not, then they should be. A Treatise on Rakes, written for Susceptible Young Ladies, by a Lady of Distinction.
Not that she was susceptible to Lord Carlisle’s charms, of course. Still, what was he playing at? She wouldn’t put it past him to tease her to amuse himself. She doubted he’d abandoned his dastardly plot to seduce her, but one thing was certain. A caress with one finger and a few dozen roses did not add up to a wicked seduction.
She considered destroying the sketch, but at the last minute she slipped it under her pillow instead, then washed her face and dressed simply in a pale pink day gown. It was the perfect dress for fading into the background, and that was what she intended to do until Lord Carlisle moved another piece across the chessboard.
She made her way down the stairs and into the breakfast room. The doors that led onto the terrace had been left open to catch the afternoon light and the fresh breeze. Ah, that was better. Delia stepped outside and turned her face up to the sun, relaxing a bit for the first time since she’d woken up to find Lily hovering over her.
“Good afternoon, Miss Somerset.”
Delia froze. Lord Carlisle sat at the table, his long fingers wrapped around a cup and his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He looked the picture of relaxed ease, but he pinned her with his dark eyes and tracked her every move as she hesitantly approached the table.
He was alone. Worse, he looked devastating this afternoon. He wore an exquisitely tailored dark green morning coat that emphasized his wide shoulders, and snug buff-colored breeches that seemed to cling for dear life to his muscular thighs. His hair was damp, as if he’d just bathed. Delia had to shake her head to dislodge the tantalizing image of that long, lean body reclined in a warm bath.
Oh, why did he have to be so handsome? Drat it. And where in the world was Lily?
“Tell me,” he said, his tone pleasant. “Did you have sweet dreams? I know I did.”
“I didn’t—” She cleared her throat. “I didn’t dream of anything.” Her denial sounded a bit too emphatic.
“Ah. Pity.” A sensual smile drifted across his lips. “I had very vivid dreams myself, and when I awoke, I found I had a powerful desire for honey.”
Delia gaped at him, her face heating again at his suggestive tone. He may have let her escape untouched last night, but this morning he looked very much like a man bent on seduction. “Honey?” She slipped into a seat several spaces away from his. Perhaps it would help if she put the table between them.
But he abandoned his place at the table in favor of the chair across from hers. “Yes. I dreamed of something smooth and sweet on my tongue.” He leaned back in his chair and grinned cockily, obviously gratified by her deepening blush.
Delia would have preferred not to hear him say the word tongue just then. “I’m not sure why you’d bother to tell me, my lord,” she said, trying to gather her wits. “I suggest you have a word with your cook.”
He chuckled. “Perhaps I will.” There was a brief pause while he studied her face and she avoided looking at his. “The roses I sent you this mornin
g are from the hothouse. I thought you might enjoy the chance to see them in full bloom. Do you like them?”
Yes, because they’re your favorite, and I wouldn’t have expected them to be.
“Don’t all young ladies like roses?” Much to her dismay, her voice emerged as a breathy whisper.
“We’ve established you’re not like most young ladies.” He frowned a bit, as if that puzzled him, then searched her face, as if he could find the answer to the mystery there. “Surprising, like the honey in the center of the petals.”
Delia felt her heart begin to pound in her chest, but she was excused from having to answer by Robyn, who stumbled onto the terrace at that moment, looking as if he wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there.
“Good morning.” Robyn dropped into a chair across the table from his brother. “My, Alec, don’t you look smug this morning. I suppose that’s no different from every other morning, though.”
“Good afternoon, Robyn. It’s always a pleasure to see you before teatime.”
Robyn glowered at this, but his face altered completely when he turned his attention to Delia. “How sweet you look today, Delia.” He gave her a slow smile and raised her hand to his lips.
“Good afternoon, Robyn.” She looked up to return his smile but faltered in confusion when she caught the murderous look on Lord Carlisle’s face. His entire body had gone rigid and his long fingers were wrapped so tightly around the delicate porcelain cup, Delia was afraid it would shatter in his hand.
What in God’s name was the matter?
Lily and Charlotte followed Robyn onto the terrace just then, however, and Lord Carlisle’s expression went blank, as if he’d pulled the shutters closed on a window.
“Where have you been, Lily?” Delia hissed when Lily settled into the chair next to hers.
Lily looked at her in surprise. “I ran to fetch Charlotte. She didn’t care for her hat, so we went back to change it, and then I remembered I wanted to bring my hat . . .” She trailed off with a shrug.
“You don’t need your sister’s escort at Bellwood, Miss Somerset,” Lord Carlisle drawled. “I hope you feel free to wander the house alone anytime you wish. And the gardens.”
