“Oh yes, there he is,” Armstrong said, directing his attention to the south end of the room.
Following his friend’s stare, James spotted Granville in the thick of a mass of hooped skirts and dangling dance cards, his dark head visible above the throng.
At that moment, Missy danced into his line of vision, instantly knocking thoughts of the earl from his mind completely. Against his will—and going against every bit of common sense he possessed—her allure drew his attention once again and he sensed danger lurked perilously close.
Her hair, pinned loosely at her crown to allow burnished chestnut curls to brush her neck and bare shoulders, looked soft and shiny, unlike the pomade-laden stiffness of most of the other ladies present. She wore a pale blue gown, the bodice lovingly hugging her slender torso, the cut-off-the-shoulder neckline revealing an expanse of creamy, porcelain skin. In the short, and long, she looked magnificent. And, by the openly admiring stares being cast her way, he was only one of the many men who had taken due notice. Like hounds on the prowl, they circled the periphery and watched as if getting ready to pounce.
Unfortunately, the men’s late arrival and relative anonymity didn’t last long. Within minutes of making their appearance, they were surrounded by a gaggle of mothers and their debutante daughters. This was what James dreaded most about these affairs, the lack of subtlety had become not only accepted by the ton, but expected.
Lady Stanton initiated the barrage with her two less-than-comely daughters whose names failed to stay in his memory moments later. And Lady Randall was not to be outdone as she dragged a chubby, sallow-faced girl whom she introduced as her niece, Miss Margaret Crawford. The poor girl only made fleeting eye contact with the three men before resuming her intent regard of the wood planks of the highly beeswaxed floor.
Between polite nods and feigned smiles, James searched the large hall for venues of escape. As eligible, titled gentlemen were not so easy to come by, he had to get away before the crowd grew any larger. Spotting the viscountess at the opposite end of the room gave him the perfect excuse.
“If you will pardon me, ladies, I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t pay my respects to our hostess.”
Quick to seize on the opportunity for a clean exit, Armstrong echoed his sentiments. Before anyone could blink, their long strides had eaten up sufficient distance to leave the growing crowd of crestfallen women behind. A look back revealed Cartwright had been less fortunate. Lightly palming the pale elbow of one of Lady Stanton’s daughters, he proceeded to escort the tittering miss over to the refreshment table.
James smiled. It was Cartwright’s just deserts for needling him.
James looked spectacular in his formal wear. Like many of the other gentlemen present, he’d opted for white tie and tails. A fine wool coat with a satin collar and lapels further accentuated his broad shoulders. A strip of black satin arrowed down the sides of his trousers, which skimmed long, lean legs. As he and Thomas crossed the room and navigated the treacherous waters of marriage-hungry debutantes, their striking but contrasting good looks and elegant appearance had ladies’ necks craning, and their fans and eyes fluttering.
Missy had never been so anxious for a dance to conclude. While she tracked his progress, happily noting it ended at her mother’s side, the strains of the waltz played in joyous finality. After declining Lord Crawley’s persistent offer for refreshments with an amiable smile, she hastened toward the men, along the way turning down another half dozen invitations to dance.
“As you can see, the men are here,” the viscountess remarked, upon her arrival.
“I hardly think we were missed from the bevy of gentlemen vying for Missy’s attention,” Thomas teased.
“You mean Lord Crawley? You know quite well he is an acquaintance, nothing more.” Even as she made light of her brother’s comment, her senses were finely attuned to James standing silent at his side. She didn’t want him to fear there were rivals for her affections. She was his. Always had been and would always be—if only he’d allow it to be so.
James made a sound in his throat, his narrowed gaze flitting to Lord Crawley, who stood with three other gentlemen, his regard fixed on Missy. When the brawny lord noticed their accumulative regard, he held up his glass in salutation. Thomas nodded his acknowledgment. James’s jaw tightened.
“Which gentleman present this evening wouldn’t find Millicent absolutely breathtaking?” the viscountess said, her face beaming with maternal pride.
Thomas smiled and Missy flushed. James’s gaze flickered to her before he quickly glanced away. All the while, his expression remained impassive.
Taking a swift look around, the viscountess said, “Thomas, I do believe I see Charlotte Ridgeway. That pink gown is quite becoming on her, wouldn’t you agree?”
Thomas chuckled wryly. The viscountess was not known for her subtlety, and Missy was certain that her mother’s relationship with Lady Ridgeway had something to do with her timely observation. It was well known that Lady Charlotte had a tendre for her brother. With a mock bow, a tight smile, and a hard, quick look at James, Thomas obliged his mother and left to seek out the lady in question.
“And James,” the viscountess said, turning to him, “since it appears you have frightened away the gentlemen with that glower of yours, why don’t you take my daughter on a spin about the floor? She has grown quite accomplished in your absence.” The word absence held a note of reprimand, undoubtedly in reference to the prior two years he’d begged off from attending the annual event. Her mother did, however, quirk her mouth in a manner that had a softening effect. Not quite a command, but close.
A dark flush stained James’s dimpled cheeks as he inclined his head toward Missy and extended his hand. She could barely contain her joy as he escorted her back to the dance floor. He drew her into his arms, taking one of her hands in his, placing the other one circumspectly on her waist. She fairly shivered at the touch. Keeping his head stiffly erect, he stared fixedly over the top of hers and commenced the waltz.
A peek through a wealth of dark lashes revealed a rather stern-faced James, his gaze directed off in the distance. Then, as if he felt the weight of her stare, his gaze flickered down to her upturned face. Not even a smile broke his granite features. He must still be miffed with her over the incident in the library. Which meant only one thing; she’d simply have to redouble her efforts.
“My mother was right. You look absolutely forbidding this evening.” She kept her tone light and teasing.
“You know these are hardly the sort of affairs I enjoy,” he said in a remote voice.
“And just what kind of affairs do you enjoy?”
At her question, his hand tightened on her waist, bringing her closer to his hard frame. Something dark flashed in his eyes.
His response was slow in coming. “Certainly none that can be spoken about in mixed company.”
“Perhaps it is something I, too, would enjoy.”
James, a gentleman known for his grace as a faultless dancer, misstepped. It was a small enough error the casual observer would have overlooked, but not someone who had committed every nuance of his demeanor of the past ten years to memory.
“Yes, it appears you are very eager to learn”—he subjected her to a hard, almost angry stare, dropping his gaze to linger in the vicinity of her breasts a fraction longer than could be considered polite—“the more basic aspects of life.”
Heat led a charge up from her chest to her face but instinct and his firm lead glided her across the floor. When the dance concluded, instead of escorting her back to her mother’s side, James clasped her lightly by the elbow, and led her toward the arched doorway hidden from the rest of the hall by two oversized potted ferns. With his head high and stiffly erect, he steered her down the hall and into a small study.
Trembling with a mixture of trepidation and excitement, Missy was only too happy to follow his lead…once again.
Chapter Three
In the dimly lit study where
the soft hiss of a fire dying played its own tune, James placed her solidly in front of him. “One kiss, you said. Well, one kiss is what you’ll get if it will end this.”
She stared at him with big round eyes. After a moment, a nervous half smile tipped the edges of her lush mouth.
Oh God, her mouth. Oh hell, her mouth.
What he intended was sheer madness. He knew in that moment he should halt this silly game of hers. But it was either this or commit unspeakable acts with her out on the dance floor. He could almost hear the report of the pistol when Armstrong buried a bullet in his chest. At this point, he would do anything to end her flirtation. Her infatuation. The bloody chase. In this instance, the ends did indeed justify the means.
One kiss.
Surely he had enough willpower to remain impassive and unmoved for the duration of one bloody kiss? Good Lord, no matter what other appeal she possessed, Missy was a virgin. He preferred his women with much more expertise in the sexual arena.
But what she’d lacked in experience she’d made up in passion. He dismissed the provoking voice playing tantalizing games with his mind.
“Well?” Now it was his turn to challenge her.
“Are you not going to kiss me?” She shifted on her feet, looking younger and more uncertain than her years.
“This kiss was not my idea. You’re the one who won’t stop until we dispel the mystery of whatever you think is between us. Go ahead, dispel away.”
They stared at each other for several more seconds before Missy stepped forward and leaned until the silk corsage of her gown met the wool and satin of his jacket. James tried to ignore the shock of desire that pierced him and had him again rethinking his stratagem.
Tipping her head back, she placed her hands upon his shoulders, and when her eyes fluttered close, touched her lips to his. He remained still, afraid to move a single muscle—at least of those he could control. She pressed her lips more firmly against his closed mouth, her breasts flush against his chest. A jolt of lust coursed down to his loins.
Enough! He couldn’t draw a decent sanity-giving breath.
He lifted his hands to remove hers. There, she’d received her kiss. Now, if God above took pity on him, she’d leave him in peace. But before he could remove the hands from his shoulders, her arms wound tightly about his neck, forcing his head lower. That was when she began the true assault.
It was an innocent yet provocative kiss, offered up by soft, closed lips. A primitive hunger twisted his insides into a coiled knot as she moved her mouth sweetly over his. Sweat beaded his temples while he fought for control. Reaching back, he grasped her hands and desperately tried to pry them from around his neck. In response, Missy arched her hips. Through a swatch of cotton and silk, his erection found that inviting notch between her thighs. And just like that, he was lost.
His hands abruptly gave up the fight and cupped the sides of her face, his thumbs stroking the smooth skin of her cheeks. Opening his mouth, he tasted. Heat exploded in him, for what he discovered was she tasted even sweeter than before, her lips soft and luscious. He allowed himself the indulgence of learning the shape and feel of them as he pressed and sipped, his ministrations eliciting tiny gasps and moans. He used that opportunity to ply them apart, plunging his tongue on a voyage of discovery, and reveled when hers swiftly joined. At first, she was tentative in her explorations, but soon participated with a relish that nearly had him completely undone.
She twisted in his arms in mindless abandon, her hands anchored to him like a boat in a turbulent storm, pressing the sweet curves of her breasts against him. James felt branded. He knew he should stop, but the rampaging hunger inside him proved unwilling to cooperate. His hands dropped to grasp her hips and brought her solidly against his throbbing erection.
Soft mewling sounds emerged from her throat on ragged sighs and heady whimpers. He groaned low in his throat, the fires of passion licking close at his heels—no, burning him alive. His hand slid over her quivering stomach up to the underside of her breasts when the distant sound of voices registered in his sluggish senses.
Then awareness hit like a thunderbolt. He was in the study taking untold liberties with the daughter of his hostess and the sister of his friend. The friend who had asked him to discourage her. The consequences of their actions, if discovered, would be enormous.
She stared at him, her eyes unfocused, her lips cherry-red and pouty from his kisses. He hastily set her away.
James tensed as the voices drew closer. After several long moments, they grew distant, eventually dissipating until only the jaunty sounds of a polka and the general rumble of gaiety could be heard. Only then did he allow himself to relax. To breathe. To curse the tent in his trousers. He had far from proven his disinterest.
Guilt gave his voice a hard edge, and unspent lust, a gravelly sound, when he turned to her and said, “There, you got your kiss.”
“Yes, I did,” she said softly, sounding slightly dazed.
“You’re too innocent to know these kinds of kisses mean nothing. It’s a man’s bodily response to a pretty and willing female.”
Her mouth opened, as if to speak, and then snapped shut. She turned and reached for the handle of the door. He closed his hands over her delicate wrists before she could grasp it.
In a hard, cold voice, he said, “I hope you haven’t granted other men the same liberties you allowed me tonight. If you have, you’ll soon find yourself acquiring a reputation you will not like.”
Missy tilted her head to look him square in the eye. “I would never allow just any man those liberties.” Her meaning was unmistakable.
James jerked his hand from hers as if he had touched the andiron of a blazing fireplace.
“I expect you to keep your promise, so I expect to see you this Season at all the events.” The same nervous half smile reappeared on her lips. Opening the door, she checked to ensure no one would witness her departure before slipping out.
James remained rooted in the same spot for another minute, mounting dread consuming him.
Aware that she could not reappear at the ball with her hair mussed and looking as if she’d just been thoroughly kissed, Missy sought out the ladies’ dressing room. It was a room fit for royalty with two large oval gilt-framed mirrors dominating nearly an entire wall. From the corniced ceiling hung a rose crystal chandelier, and beyond the normal trappings was a silk embroidered settee where a woman could take her repose.
Missy observed her reflection and immediately set about smoothing and repinning her hair, then spent several minutes more, grateful for the privacy it afforded to cool the fiery flush in her cheeks.
She reentered the hall feeling somewhat more composed, only to be greeted by the sight of James dancing attendance to Lady Victoria Spencer. The glow of residual passion vanished in that instant. She watched as he leaned down and whispered something into her ear, his dark hair in sharp contrast with Lady Victoria’s blond locks. Her throat closed up and a wave of jealousy—the red-hot variety—washed over her.
Her stare should have turned them both to stone. Before she could turn away, his head lifted and he caught her gaze. For a moment, he held her regard, his expression opaque, before turning his attention back to the fair-haired miss at his side.
“I wondered where you had gone.”
Missy started at the sound of her friend’s voice.
“I see you managed to snag Lord Rutherford for a dance,” Claire said, appearing at her side. It was a statement expectant of elaboration.
Missy continued toward the refreshment area, now in desperate need of something to soothe her suddenly parched throat. Claire fell in step with her, their skirts brushing gently as they walked.
“Yes, we danced, but no more beyond that.” There was no need to tell her about the kiss and what had occurred in the library the prior day. Since she’d confessed her feelings to Claire at the age of sixteen, her friend hadn’t been shy in voicing her misgivings about a match between them and, right now, Mis
sy wasn’t in the mood for one of her lectures.
Accepting a glass of punch from the liveried footman posted at the table, Missy offered it to her. Claire declined with a quick shake of her head. “Mr. Finley has already filled my glass twice this evening.”
Missy sent her a probing look. Claire remained noncommittal. Unwilling to pry, she took a deep sip of the overly sweet liquid.
After already four years in the marriage-mart, her friend had all but resigned herself to spinsterhood. Why she wasn’t married, Missy could not understand. Any gentleman would be lucky to have her as his wife. Claire was pretty, petite and blond. And despite her claims that she could stand to lose a stone, Missy thought her figure lush and curvaceous.
However, after declining a marriage proposal from a baron twice her age in her first Season, a viscount twice-widowed with seven children, and Lord Rudnick, who was rumored to have a penchant for young boys, in the second, Claire had yet to receive another.
“I think you should give up this entire plan of yours. Isn’t it enough you’ve already wasted three perfectly good Seasons pining over a man who, it’s obvious, doesn’t care a fig about you? If I’d received even half the offers you’ve received, not only would I be married, but I’d no doubt be expecting my second child by now. For heaven’s sakes, at this very moment, you could be the future Duchess of Wiltshire. Isn’t it obvious Lord Rutherford is no more ready to settle down than your brother or Lord Alex?” Claire turned and directed a pointed look at James and the marquess’s daughter.
While Missy liked Lord Granville very much, she wasn’t even close to being in love with him. Moreover, he had yet to actually propose. Oh, he had hinted at it, seeming to deliberate the notion to such a degree, it was clear his heart was not the least involved in whatever decision he should come to.
As for any dalliance between James and Lady Victoria, despite the jealousy still churning her insides, Missy thought it highly unlikely. The woman had never shown an interest in any gentleman since she’d debuted. She was beautiful and excessively refined, but she was cold. Or perhaps cold wasn’t the apt term. She was like one of those porcelain dolls, shiny and beautiful with nothing beneath the hard, brittle surface.
Beverley Kendall Page 4
