Beverley Kendall

by Sinful Surrender (lit)

  James’s brows shot up. He couldn’t help it. “And where is that? A few kisses and some heated moments and you think to know me so well?” he said disdainfully. “What do you expect when you show up like this alone?”

  Missy regarded him silently. Something unfathomable flickered in her eyes. “That’s right, any pretty face would cause the same reaction in you. Perhaps then I, too, should discover if any man with a handsome face would affect me similarly.”

  The rage in him came to a frantic boil. He swiftly closed the distance between them. She smelled like some sweet sexual intoxicant. He dropped back a step. “If you think to play these sorts of games with the gentlemen of the ton, I warn you, unlike me, they will take what you have to offer.”

  “I’m certain you are correct.”

  James inhaled sharply. “Good God, you are shameless.”

  The look she leveled him with didn’t appear the least bit ashamed. “And do you think it is because they want me more than you want me?” Allowing only a heartbeat of a pause, she pressed on. “So why do you think that they would while you will not?”

  “What the devil are you talking about?” James asked, baffled. If there was a correct answer to her cryptic question, he was simply agog to hear it.

  “I will give you some time to think on it.” Missy then issued him a quaint, satisfied nod before quietly taking her leave.

  After returning home, Missy remained in her bedchamber awaiting her mother and sisters’ return from their outing. She lay on her bed, her lips still tingling from the scorching heat of James’s kisses. Memories of what occurred in the library, on the chair, in his lap, evoked an achy, full feeling within her and washed over her like an inundating tide, her nipples puckering in ready response.

  Thoughts of his long, tapered fingers and sensuous mouth on her breasts pleasuring her had her pulsing hot and damp between her thighs. James was right. She was completely shameless, but it was his fault. He had given her a taste of passion and it appeared she developed an insatiable appetite for more. But only with him. And his response to her told her he was far from immune. His refusal to take what she’d been unable to deny him told her his feelings must go far deeper than simple lust. It was the only reason that explained why he’d deny himself something it was obvious he wanted. Now all she had to do was to figure how she could use this knowledge to her advantage…and James’s inevitable capitulation.

  Chapter Eight

  James glanced around the dimly lit interior of White’s, the air thick and hazy, carrying with it the pungent scent of cigar smoke and raucous conversation. The swells of Parliament flooded every inch of the prestigious club. An early recess from a day of debates didn’t send the members home to the loving arms of their wives; not when there was money to be thrown away gambling and yet more politics, horses, and women to be discussed. An image of his mother’s beautiful but bitter countenance came to mind. He could hardly fault the men if their wives were similarly disposed.

  Tucked away in the far corner of the main room, James sat indolently cradling a tumbler of brandy in one hand. His other hand drummed a distinctly impatient beat on the smooth hard wood of the table as he drained the remaining liquid from the glass. An hour had already come and gone and another ten minutes crawled by before he saw Armstrong pressing his way toward him through the crush.

  Dropping into the chair opposite him, his friend immediately hailed a passing black-clad server. He ordered their best rum, his usual beverage of choice, before settling into the cushioned seat.

  “You look like hell,” Armstrong said smiling, peeling off his gloves and tossing them on the table.

  James shot him a dark glare. “Is it any wonder now that you’ve kept me waiting for over an hour?” He certainly would not admit his ill temper had more to do with Missy than it did his friend’s tardiness. The damned chit had managed to firmly lodge herself in his thoughts since the incident at his townhouse two weeks ago.

  He’d convinced himself that his real problem was his three months of unintentional celibacy. The length of time he’d been without a mistress was the reason he found himself particularly vulnerable to Missy’s innocent sensuality.

  “Sibling duty calls, not that you would know anything about that,” Armstrong tossed out with a teasing grin. It had been an ongoing joke of sorts that James’s responsibility to his brother, who was a vast twelve years younger, could not compare to those the young viscount had to his three sisters.

  “I would hardly call myself an only child,” James replied dryly.

  “No, not in the literal sense, though you and Christopher have essentially grown up as such.”

  The server returned and carefully set the drink on the table, putting a momentary halt to their conversation. Armstrong rewarded him by dropping a shilling on the tray. His generosity was met with an appreciative smile and a shallow bow.

  James waited until the server moved off to the next table before saying, “Regardless, it doesn’t speak of my affection for the boy.” Everyone who was acquainted with James knew of his love for his younger brother. There was very little he wouldn’t do for the scamp, which Christopher also knew and, at times, had used unfairly to his advantage.

  “Of course not, but it’s not the same as having nothing but sisters—and beautiful ones at that. If only Missy would finally settle on Granville, I’d at least have some peace until next year.” He sounded amused and grim at the same time. “I gather this is what it will be like should I have daughters of my own someday—that is, should I marry.” His expression was rueful as he sipped the rum.

  “What family duties?” James made a show of nonchalance. “Don’t tell me you’ve again been put in charge of beating away the hordes of suitors begging a place in your mother’s drawing room?”

  Armstrong chuckled. “Given it’s her fourth Season, I’m just relieved she still has prospects. And my mother hasn’t changed. She continues to demand a full account of every gentleman who would assume to court my dear sister. My God, the list was as long as my arm.”

  As beautiful as she was, it certainly wasn’t a surprise, but how the very words chafed him. Three heated kisses had apparently sent him into a tailspin.

  For years he’d avoided it: the suitors, the lady herself. But no longer. No more running. This Season he’d face the slew of gentlemen, many his own counterparts, out to make Missy their wife. Like a clenched fist, the thought caused a tightening in his chest.

  “And just who deems himself fit to be your brother by marriage?” The question came before he could stop it and he silently cursed the need for him to know. He cursed he even cared.

  “Riley, Malborough, Essex, and—as you know—Granville, just to name a few,” Armstrong replied.

  “Good God, I can’t believe you would allow Malborough or Essex to come within ten feet of her. Second sons on the hunt for an heiress are all they are. Most doorframes can’t accommodate Malborough’s girth. And Essex has ears the size of an elephant. Surely, you wouldn’t wish either trait on any nephew or niece of yours. Missy would never be happy with them. And, by God, Riley? The man has a spine of a jellyfish. His mother still leads him around by her apron strings. That accursed woman will make Missy’s life miserable.”

  Pushing his chair back from the table, Armstrong propped a negligent foot on his knee and regarded him, a derisive smile twisting his mouth. “And Granville? I am quite sure you’re just dying to tell me why he will not suit my sister as well.”

  It was as if Armstrong suspected something. Something in James’s charge indicating more than friendly concern. But he hadn’t intended to comment on the earl’s suitability. He was probably as perfect a match for Missy as there could be. The only problem was Missy didn’t want Granville. She wanted him.

  “I’m surprised you can jest over such a serious matter. As close as you are to your family, I would assume you would be more particular in which gentlemen you would permit to pay her court.” He hadn’t meant it to be a condemnation but
, blast, Armstrong had maddened him with his blasé attitude.

  His friend’s rejoinder was swift, an ominous tone threading his words. “Never question my devotion to my sisters and their well-being. If I dismissed all of the men based on your exacting criteria, there would be no one left. Every year you find fault with just about all of them. Lord, at this rate it will be a choice between spinsterhood or permitting her to marry you as she so desperately wants.”

  James’s eyes widened with a start, and the words came tumbling out before he could quash them. “Lord, am I such an odious prospect that you’d rather see her grow old alone?” Damn and blast it! He had no desire to court or wed Missy. Pure pride had gotten in the way of common sense.

  Several seconds ticked by as Armstrong eyed him silently, his gaze assessing. “Is that to say that you are an interested suitor?” He took another drink from his glass, his eyes never once leaving James’s face.

  James forced a laugh. “Hardly. I just hate to have myself cast as the worst thing that could happen to a young lady of quality. One day, I’m sure I’ll make a fine husband and father.”

  “Yes perhaps, if the lady wouldn’t mind sharing you with half the women of London. Missy deserves better than you and you know it. In any case, you are allowing your inflated opinion of your charms to get in the way of sound judgment. You haven’t any interest in my sister, and certainly none in marriage at this stage of your life.”

  At his friend’s confident assertion, James lifted his drink to his mouth, praying the heat flooding his face didn’t betray his guilt. “Yes, that’s all true but I’m speaking of when I am ready for marriage.”

  “As I said, perhaps for a certain kind of woman,” Armstrong said, with the firm understanding Missy didn’t fall into the category of women he referred to.

  Armstrong’s attention then shifted to rest just above James’s right shoulder, and it was at that time he sensed a presence at his back. Lord Clive Essex stepped forward before he was forced to twist his neck to identify him. James could see his friend fighting back an ironic smile as he greeted him.

  “Essex, it’s been a while. What is it, no less than twenty-four hours since we last saw one another?” Essex, slight and short, reddened at Armstrong’s wry tone, causing his pointed nose to appear even larger and longer under the dim glow of the gaslights.

  “With your beautiful and charming sister, I would be hard-pressed to stay away,” he replied gallantly.

  Eyeing the man, James bit back a sharp retort. With Essex’s pallid complexion and his bulging eyes—and those ears—the baron could hardly be considered a fine-looking catch.

  “Rutherford.” The greeting was followed by a brief nod in his direction.

  “Essex,” James muttered.

  Armstrong played the part of the young privileged lord to the hilt, reposed in his seat, hands folded loosely across his chest, legs outstretched. “Yes, I see you’re brave enough to throw your hat into the ring.”

  Essex swallowed nervously while still trying to maintain a winsome smile. “I don’t believe bravery has anything to do with it. Your sister is a prize in her own right.”

  “And no doubt you know exactly how much she is worth,” James charged, his hit direct and unequivocal.

  Clearly surprised by the attack, Essex sputtered for several seconds before regaining his voice. His stare swung to James. “Just what are you insinuating, Rutherford?”

  James pinned him with a narrow, contemptuous gaze. “I don’t believe I was insinuating anything.” The man was nothing but an opportunistic milksop.

  The baron’s posture appeared so rigid, James was sure that if felled by a blow, he would snap in two.

  “You are out of line,” Essex said, trying for a certain amount of hauteur but failing miserably when forced to swipe a hand over his face to catch the bead of sweat threatening his rapidly thinning hairline.

  Armstrong seemed content to sit back and watch the charged interaction as a quiet observer, his brows raised much of the time.

  “And you don’t have a chance, Essex. My advice to you is to find another heiress to pursue.”

  Most men knew that if they tangled with James, they would most likely lose—although his intimates held no such fears. Showing the proper amount of affront, Essex mumbled his good-bye to Armstrong and made a hasty retreat.

  James watched him until he exited the club. His gaze shifted to his friend, who watched him intently, his expression inscrutable.

  “What, dammit?” he bit out after too long under Armstrong’s penetrating green-eyed stare.

  “You’d better be posting for the position of her protector and not her suitor.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” he snapped in response.

  Armstrong threw back his head and gave a hearty laugh. “My, you are getting touchy. You must be losing your sense of humor if you can no longer tolerate a little teasing.”

  Teasing? Nothing about this situation with Missy was remotely amusing.

  A shadow crossed their table and once again, James was at a disadvantage as to the identity of this new intruder.

  “Clifton,” Armstrong called out, as it appeared the man hadn’t intended to stop.

  James turned to see Sir George Clifton pause. His expression not entirely amiable but it appeared indecision gave way to propriety. He turned to face Armstrong.

  “Armstrong,” he said before his gaze flickered to James. He gave him a curt nod and muttered, “Rutherford.”

  “I’ve been telling everyone how you have taken Parliament by storm.” The viscount motioned to the empty chair on his left.

  Clifton’s smile appeared strained as he shook his head in refusal. “As you know, I am merely trying to make a difference for the working class in the city. Unfortunately, my lords, I must be on my way. I have pressing matters to attend to at home. Good evening.” With a brisk nod toward Armstrong, he proceeded on this way.

  Was he imagining things, or had the man just slighted him? This was not the first time he’d experienced a vague sense of unease in Clifton’s presence. And this was not a normal circumstance as they had all attended Cambridge together. Although Armstrong had forged a deeper acquaintance with him, James and he had been quite amiable in a loose sort of way. But it was apparent matters, perhaps of a personal nature, occupied his thoughts.

  He discovered his friend was of a similar mind when he remarked, “He hardly seems himself.”

  Circling the rim of the empty glass with his forefinger, James nodded in agreement.

  “I consider myself quite adept at reading others and I wager he’s having woman problems,” the viscount continued.

  The irony of his statement was not lost on James.

  “Oh, before I forget, Mother has requested your attendance next week for supper.” An invitation from the viscountess was the equivalent of a ducal command.

  “And don’t think that your absence this past week has gone unnoticed. For a whole ten minutes I was forced to listen to Lady Melvin complain how you never seem to make her soirees.”

  James groaned. “One less bachelor for the two daughters she’s so desperate to marry off. Yes, I can imagine she was completely distraught.”

  “And since your absence has coincided with Lady Victoria’s, the gossipmongers are having a time. It appears you were seen squiring the lady about in Hyde Park. Then several evenings later, you were both notably absent from Lady Melvin’s fete. An invitation that the countess herself insisted you had both accepted.” The taunting grin on Armstrong’s handsome face made it clear that he took obvious pleasure in conveying that piece of information.

  “Let them talk,” James said, averting his eyes.

  Angling his head, Armstrong quirked a brow. “Should I give any credence to the gossips?”

  “Don’t be an arse.” He grumbled the terse retort.

  “Yes, I don’t think even you could thaw the ice maiden. But if I didn’t know better, I would think you’re suffering the same malaise as Clifton. Yo
u’re downright caustic these days and acting like a man deprived.”

  It took James only a second to determine that any response would only fan the burning flame of his friend’s imagination, so he did the wisest thing—he changed the subject.

  “Is Cartwright also expected to make an appearance at this dinner?” As Lady Armstrong’s suppers tended to be intimate family affairs, with only a few friends invited, he was hoping to shore up some reinforcements—or at least one.

  “Cartwright has been summoned back to Yorkshire by his dear papa,” the viscount replied.

  James’s brows shot up. “It’s been a while since the duke has shown any interest in him.” Cartwright’s father, the Duke of Hastings, rarely had much to do with his youngest son. Though their friend rarely spoke of him, James knew they had been estranged for years.

  Armstrong shrugged. “I expect he will return sometime in the next few weeks. He has a new mistress. I’m sure he’ll be back by the Derby. The important thing is your presence. I’ll inform my mother you’ll be escorting someone. And for Missy’s sake, the more stunning she is, the better.”

  “I certainly don’t want to see her hurt,” James grumbled. Lord, at times it was difficult enough to look his friend in the eye with guilt eating a hole in his conscience. But the whole of it sounded so cold and calculated, for Armstrong had essentially tasked him with breaking her heart.

  “Don’t you think it would be much crueler to have her rusticating alone in Devon in ten years’ time without a family of her own? Believe me, Rutherford, this is not cruelty, this is done out of love.”

  James lapsed into silence. Funny how something done out of love could make him feel so wretched.

  It was just a small family supper, Missy reminded herself for the tenth time. Since Beatrice had left ten minutes ago, she’d checked her hair and dress repeatedly.

  Emily and Sarah poked their heads into the bedchamber with nary a knock—as usual—and then sashayed in with the vivacity of impertinent young misses.