by Diana Quincy
“You kissed me,” she said blankly.
He couldn’t abide the idea of her going to Bellingham. “I thought you should have a real taste of passion before attaching yourself to that cold fish.”
She frowned. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Bellingham.” He struggled to keep his tone even, despite the uproar kissing her had incited within his body. “You did stage this little show for his benefit, did you not? Perhaps you hope to inspire jealousy.”
She recoiled. “How dare you?”
Heat and lust pounded through his heart deep down into his gut. “You so clearly wanted to be kissed. I merely obliged.”
Shaking, she jumped to her feet, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “To take such advances and then to act like a…like a cad! To treat me like a common—”
Forcing his gaze away from her swollen lips, Hart pushed to his feet. “Like a common what?” His words dripped with sarcasm. “I merely gave the lady what she desired. Was it not to your liking? Perhaps you would care to make another attempt. Or maybe not, since we don’t have an audience.”
She gasped at the realization he’d seen Augustus in the doorway. “You pressed your advances on me even though you knew I was not serious? You took grievous advantage of me, sir!”
“I took advantage of you?” He moved his face near to hers, his soft tone laced with contempt. “Do you know what one calls a lady who seeks advances from a man in front of an appreciative audience?” He didn’t wait for her answer. Jealousy dimmed his vision and the angry words careened off his tongue. “I can tell you such women are not usually found in Mayfair and, I assure you, we do not call them ‘ladies.’”
Her hand lashed out to slap him, but he caught her by the wrist, his eyes never leaving her face. Their bodies almost touching, she radiated heat, and her breath rasped out in short, quick pants. Her eyes gleamed with outrage and something else so blatantly sensual, it was all he could do not to toss her to the ground and take her right there.
Struggling for control, he said, “In the future, do not play games that you are unwilling to see to completion.”
She yanked her wrist out of his grip and smoothed any emotion out of her face. “I suspect you play an altogether different game, one that began at Cambridge.” Each wintry word scraped against his heated skin like an icy shard. “Your animus toward the earl is well known and I have no intention of being a weapon in your battle with him.”
The magnificent ice queen was returned. He uttered a contemptuous laugh. “Strange. I thought I was the pawn this evening. And you the puppet master.”
“If only.” She drew back her shoulders, straightened her spine, and glided back into the drawing room.
Chapter Six
Two weeks later, Hart met with the merchant whose property he hoped to purchase for his London headquarters. They conducted their meeting at the three-story building on Bond Street, which housed a coffee house on the street level.
Simple in design, the coffee house was a comfortable and welcoming place, furnished mostly with tables and chairs although a few larger, more comfortable seats were clustered around the hearth. A young boy of perhaps eleven cleared the tables, but Hart noted that most of the employees were women.
“Who manages this establishment?” he asked Mr. Webb, the building’s current owner.
“A Mr. Gordon, Your Grace. Although I have never had the pleasure of making the gentleman’s acquaintance.” Webb led the way up the stairs. “He lives abroad and the rent arrives regularly from a solicitor here in Town.”
“I see mostly females work here.”
“Yes, he’s a bit of a radical, our Mr. Gordon. He employs widows who have fallen into dire straits.” Leaning closer to Hart, he lowered his voice. “Although I do suspect some of these wenches have never had a husband, if you take my meaning. I’ve increased the rent twice to encourage their decampment, but to no avail.”
After a tour of the upstairs space, Hart determined it would be adequate for his needs and told Webb to expect further correspondence from his man of business. Once the meeting concluded, he spotted Cam arriving at the coffee house with David Selwyn, their old friend from Cambridge.
“Hart, it is good to find you here,” the marquess said amiably. “Won’t you join us?” He’d seen Cam several times over the course of the last couple of weeks, their friendship picking up where it had left off before Hart went to India. They’d met up at the gaming tables, or at Brooks, and had taken in a boxing match.
There was no mention of Willa, even though she’d taken up permanent residence inside Hart’s mind; both that toe-curling kiss and his own regrettable behavior afterward. His words had been reprehensible. Cruel even. He’d not intended to allude to her already-damaged reputation, but his temper had gotten the better of him. It struck him that he was driven by jealousy. Provoked by an oaf like Bellingham, of all people, thanks to an infuriating, incomparable chit with intelligent eyes, a tart tongue, and endless curves.
He’d immediately tried to apologize to the lady for his base behavior, yet the flowers he’d sent the following morning had been returned, as was the contrite note that followed. All refused in a manner which provoked reluctant admiration in him. Few females rejected the persistent attentions of a duke.
Agreeing to join his friends, Hart asked, “Do you frequent this establishment?” He wondered if they would miss the coffee house should he force its closure, which seemed likely. He needed the space for his clerks.
“It is my first visit, but Willa has recently discovered it and can’t stop talking about the tea.” Cam gestured toward a table by the window. “The ladies are already seated. We were to meet them here once they’d completed their shopping.”
The mention of Willa prickled his insides. He followed Cam’s gaze to find the lady in question sitting with her sister and a slender girl with outlandishly red hair. “Look who we’ve run into,” Cam said as the men joined the ladies. He turned to Willa. “You missed Bellingham again. He came to call as I departed to join you here.”
The sister perked up. “Was Race with him?”
Cam chucked her playfully on the chin. “No, you little hoyden. However, I understand he is joining us this evening for supper.” Hart barely heard the interaction. So Bellingham had taken to calling upon Willa with some regularity. Irritation flicked his chest.
“It is to our great fortune to join you ladies,” said Selwyn.
Willa favored Selwyn with a soft smile, and those luminous eyes glistened. “Are you always so gallant, Mr. Selwyn?” Selwyn flushed, almost imperceptibly, but he was clearly not immune to the attentions of a beautiful lady. What male wouldn’t react to her?
“What is good here?” Hart asked almost gruffly. “I understand you favor this establishment, Lady Wilhelmina.”
Cool chocolate eyes moved to him with obvious reluctance, all warmth gone from them. She looked unbelievably alluring in a soft lavender robe with delicate golden embroidery that also trimmed her matching turban. “The tea blends here are quite excellent.”
“Coffee for me.” Cam winked at his cousin. “All tea is bland next to Willa’s.”
She smiled at the flattery, an honest reaction, radiant and unencumbered, buoyed by her obvious affection for Camryn. The redhead who’d been introduced as Lady Florinda gave an impish smile. “Perhaps you should try it, my lord. The tea here is without equal—with the exception of Willa’s, of course.”
Willa fixed the girl with a quelling look. “Let Cam have his coffee, Flor.”
What was that about? Perhaps the lady worried her blends would pale in comparison to the establishment’s tea. Having sampled Willa’s exceptional tea, he doubted that could happen. “I should like some tea,” he said.
“This is not the usual coffee house,” Hart commented once they had all placed their orders.
“Mostly women work here, Your Grace,” the redhead answered with a vivacious smile. “Women do have a right to support their families.�
� Her tone almost dared him to disagree. Hart bit back a smile. Red would be a handful for any future husband.
“That is most commendable,” said Selwyn. “Who is the proprietor?”
“He is said to live abroad,” Hart said, giving Willa a sidelong glance. Those plush lips were pushed together in a mutinous line. Lord, but she was a beauty, one who seemed determined to engage him as little as possible. “Do you have any knowledge of the owner, Lady Wilhelmina?”
She gave a slow, deliberate blink as though it pained her to respond. “You appear to be acquainted with him. Was that not the owner of the building we saw you with just now?”
“Mr. Webb. Yes, I have business with him, but he does not own the coffee house enterprise.”
“I only know it is a respectable establishment where a lady might meet with her acquaintances without fear of censure.”
He looked at the books on the table. “You read here as well?”
“Our Ladies Reading Society meets here from time to time,” said Red.
“That is most unusual. Meeting in a public place.”
Willa smiled insincerely, as cool and polite as ever. “Perhaps you are not accustomed to ladies who read.”
He ignored the provocation. “May I ask what you are reading?”
She cut him a defiant glance. “A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.”
“Ah, Mary Wollstonecraft then.”
Her eyes widened. “You are familiar with her?”
“Perhaps not as much as you, but I am aware of some of her…ah…themes.”
The sister, who had appeared quite bored, straightened up. “A vindication of what? I thought you were reading one of those Maria Edgeworth novels.”
“Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. It’s a treatise on the rights of women,” she said to her sister before returning Hart’s unwavering gaze. “Frankly, I’m surprised the Duke of Hartwell would read such a forward-thinking document.”
“I do pick up a book on occasion. I hear it exercises the mind.”
Ignoring his sarcasm, Willa perched her chin on her hand, regarding him with renewed interest. “And what do you think?”
“Well, in the defense of my gender, I hardly think it is the fault of men that women are regarded as objects of allure. They are objects of allure. Pure and simple.” He tried not to stare at her pink lips or to become too entranced by the luxurious chocolate of her enormous eyes. “It is the way of nature. Men and women are supposed to attract each other. That attraction is vital…er…to the perpetuation of the human race.”
Willa leaned forward and the smell of roses slinked around him, making it difficult to think. “But you are purposely focusing your attention on only one side of Miss Wollstonecraft’s argument,” she said. “Gentlemen are allowed to enjoy and even act upon that attraction to women of all sorts. But you are also free to pursue many other interests. As a woman, I am not. I am to keep to home and hearth.”
The sister rolled her eyes. “Willa, His Grace will think you are quite radical when nothing could be further from the truth.”
Hartwell smiled at Lady Adela. “Not at all, my lady. I find the discourse most engaging.” He turned his attention back to Willa. “Pray do continue, Lady Wilhelmina.”
“A woman is entitled to more than a domestic education. If a woman has no interest in domestic pursuits, she is doomed to a life of boredom,” Willa said. “Her mind is essentially wasted.”
“Some would argue that women do have a duty,” said Selwyn, still obviously dazzled by Willa’s radiance. “The importance of raising a family and running a household are not to be underestimated.”
“But what if a woman does not marry?” she said. “At my age, I will likely never marry. Am I doomed, then, to a life without intellectual pursuit?”
The lady’s eyes glittered with activity, a lovely flush of color high on her cheeks. Hart had never seen her so animated and engaged, her aloof demeanor stripped away, her passion apparent. Ah, to have that passion directed at oneself. “Is that what you desire, the right to never marry?”
“Yes. I shall never wed.” Willa’s answer was firm. “But if I were to marry and bear children, wouldn’t they be best served by a mother who is educated? Should they not be guided by a mother with an active, learned mind? An educated woman is best for her family and for society. So it follows that educated women are good for the prosperity of the nation.”
Hart had always liked women with keen minds. But social debates had never aroused both his mind and body before. By God, this unwitting temptress had his blood surging through his body in mindless anticipation.
“I concur with that part of Miss Wollstonecraft’s argument,” he said. “A well-educated woman is an asset not only to herself, but to her husband and children. And, of course, that benefits a civilized society. It is my contention, though, that members of your gender can be alluring to men as well as highly educated and intelligent. The two are not necessarily mutually exclusive.”
The arrival of the tea interrupted their discussion. Sipping it, Hart realized the brew not only compared to Willa’s, it actually surpassed it. In fact, the hint of citrus combined with an edge of rosemary sweetened with cinnamon was frisky on the tongue in a way that might make it the best cup of tea he’d ever had.
He looked up to find Willa watching him with more than just a passing curiosity. In fact, that intense, almost anticipatory look was remarkably similar to the one she’d worn the day he’d tasted her tea at Camryn House. Come to think of it, this tea seemed quite similar to that tea. Too similar. As though it had in fact been mixed by the same hand.
His eyebrows lifted. Surely she wouldn’t dare sell her blends. No lady would court scandal like that, not even one who spouted the virtues of Wollstonecraft. “This tea is quite good actually, excellent even.”
Her answering smile of satisfaction told him all he needed to know. “Yes,” she said in a propriety manner. “It is why Flor and I frequent this establishment.”
“It tastes familiar somehow.”
Willa’s expression froze with her lush lips slightly parted. Red sputtered into her teacup and coughed several times.
“Lady Florinda?” Cam leaned forward to offer her his kerchief. “Are you well?”
“Yes, quite well,” Red choked out, her face as flaming as her hair. She grabbed the linen cloth and put it to her mouth. “Thank you ever so much.”
Hart downed more tea. “Yes, I’m sure of it. Do you agree the tea tastes familiar, Lady Wilhelmina?”
Steely eyes met his. “I can’t say that it does.”
“Really?” Taking another sip, he allowed the warm liquid to roll around in his mouth. “Of course, your blends are sharper on the tongue.”
“Flor is unwell.” She pushed to her feet quite abruptly, added color tingeing those high cheekbones. Sadly, he couldn’t check the temperature of her ears because they were hidden beneath her turban. “We should go.”
“Are you certain?” he said as the gentlemen came to their feet. “We were having such an enlightening conversation.”
“Yes.” She gave him a frigid look. “Quite sure.”
After a moment’s delay, Red got to her feet. “I do feel rather badly.”
“You are a bit flushed,” he said, amusement in his voice. “Allow me to see you home.”
Willa’s enormous eyes narrowed. “That will not be necessary. Cam can escort us.”
“I suppose Selwyn and I will stay behind to finish our tea.” Hart bowed. “What did you say this blend is called?”
“I didn’t say.” Taking Red by the arm, she smiled serenely, not about to get caught in his obvious trap. “Come, Florinda, let us go.”
Looking back over her shoulder as Willa firmly guided her away, Red called back to him, “It’s called Heavenly Tea.”
…
Willa moved about the morning room mixing her latest tea blend for the shop when Smythe appeared with a sizeable package.
&n
bsp; “Who is it from?” she asked, eyeing the parcel.
“It was just delivered by a footman in the Duke of Hartwell’s livery.”
A pang cramped Willa’s insides, a mix of both ire and lingering wounded feelings after his humiliation of her in the garden. She turned back to her tea leaves. “Send it back.”
“I am to read the accompanying note to you before the parcel is returned.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Willa measured out the leaves. “I’m not the least bit interested.”
Smythe cleared his throat. “Please, my lady, I wouldn’t want His Grace displeased with me. And if her ladyship learns of this—”
She regretted the butler’s distress. He’d had to rebuff both an earl and a duke on her behalf more than once this week. She shook her head with exasperation. It was as though everyone had suddenly forgotten she was ruined.
Without turning around, she said, “Oh, very well, just read it and have done with it.”
“Yes, my lady.” Relief weighted his voice. “If I may, it says, ‘To an angel of a lady who mixes the most heavenly of teas.’”
The silver mixing spoon clattered to the floor. She whirled around. “What else does it say?”
“That is all,” he said serenely. “Shall I return the package now?”
So Hartwell had rightly guessed the coffee house tea was her very own blend. Icy fear gave way to a rising tide of indignation. Did he mean to threaten her into accepting his notes and gifts? “You may leave the parcel. That will be all.”
After Smythe departed, Willa eyed the sizable package. A fiery sensation flared in her chest at the thought of Hartwell. And that kiss. Passionate and delicious in a way that made her insides clamor for more, Hartwell’s embrace had been nothing like her regrettable intimacy with Augustus. She’d never willingly opened her mouth for Augustus; it had disgusted her. Yet, with Hartwell, her lips had parted almost of their own volition. She’d wanted to taste him.
And then he’d stopped. With the harsh words that followed, her humiliation had been complete. Rumors of her ruination had undoubtedly reached him. Why else would he have treated her like a strumpet? She had only herself to blame for the soreness in her chest when she thought of the duke; she of all people shouldn’t require reminders about the true nature of men. Besides, Hartwell’s meeting with Mr. Webb suggested he was the potential buyer who meant to purchase the building and close the coffee house. Clearly, it meant nothing to the duke to put struggling mothers out of work.
