She’d been so lost in the memory of his kiss, she hadn’t even considered these possibilities. Now the thought of them made her twisted stomach feel like a stone had settled somewhere within the knots.
One of the younger ladies began to sing, and all eyes in the room riveted to her. The air in the drawing room was close and thick, and Esme clenched her fists with the now-familiar feeling of her skin prickling and sweat beading at her temples. She gave Sarah’s arm a squeeze. “I think I’ll go outside for a moment. I’ll be back shortly.”
“Should I send…?”
But Esme was already opening the double doors to the terrace. She slipped out into the night and closed the doors quietly behind her, moving to stand in the narrow space between two potted trees. She placed her hands on the railing and looked out over Green Park.
The spring evening was very dark, with no moon and just a smattering of stars breaking through London’s coal haze. There was no one else on the terrace, perhaps because it had grown somewhat cool. She gazed at the park, only able to make out the shadowy outlines of trees and bushes in the dimness.
Except those moments when she was in his company, she’d hardly thought about Henry tonight. She hadn’t even noticed where he’d been seated at the dinner table.
Guilt swept through her, tightening her chest. She bowed her head in shame. McLeod had swamped her thoughts to such an extent that she hadn’t been able to allow anyone else in. And it wasn’t only fear that he’d reveal her secrets. It was the thrill of having him close to her again.
“Lady Esme.”
She went stiff all over. It was him, the silky rumble of his Scottish brogue. He’d come up behind her, his lips very close to her ear. She kept her head bent, gazing down over the railing. “Mr. McLeod,” she whispered.
“Where’s your wee notebook tonight?” he asked, pressing his body between her and the tree. She squeezed closer to the other tree to give him more room.
She didn’t move her eyes from their focus upon the railing. “I…didn’t bring it to the party.”
“Is it hiding in your bedchamber, then? Upstairs?”
She glanced toward the dark window at the corner of the upper story of the house. He followed her gaze, a smile curling on his lips.
“Is that your bedchamber, Esme? That one?” The brazen man pointed directly at her room. “Is that where I can find your notebook?”
She ground her teeth. “That’s none of your business, sir.”
“I intend to make it my business.”
The wickedness of his words sent a strange jolt of heat through her. She drew in a shaky breath, trying to harden her resolve. Looking at him from the corner of her eye, she said, “You mustn’t tell anyone where I was last night.”
“Why not?”
She swung her head around to face him, knowing he had to be teasing, as she didn’t think he was that dim-witted. “Because it will put the final nail in the coffin of my reputation. And worse, it would hurt my family.”
“I see.” He gave a low, deprecating laugh. “Well, if I’d wanted to tell anyone, lass, I already would have. I’ve no interest in those people or their gossip.”
He seemed sincere, and relief washed over her.
“But what I do have an interest in, Lady Esme, is you.”
Her heart pounded so hard he must have been able to hear it. He was a flash of white-hot energy in the cool night air. He was electric, and his presence, so close to her, made her skin prickle with sensitivity.
“Why was an innocent lass like you—the sister of the Duke of Trent, no less—in that whorehouse last night?” He moved closer to her, the length and heat of his body just an inch away from hers. “What’s in that notebook of yours?”
She gripped the railing so tightly the white of her knuckles seemed to glow in the dim light. “That’s none of your concern,” she said faintly.
“Oh, but you’re wrong about that, milady. I’m concerned.” He inched close enough that she could feel the whisper of his breath on her lips. “Deeply concerned.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“Here’s what I’d like to know,” he murmured, his lips a hairsbreadth from hers. “Why did you kiss me when you’re marrying that bore Henry Whitworth?”
Esme squeezed her eyes shut. McLeod reached around her, and the tips of his fingers skimmed down her arm, from the top of her sleeve to her wrist, leaving a trail of heat in their wake that made her shudder.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” she pushed out through her closed throat. “It was very wrong of me. I can’t do it again.” She gripped the railing even tighter, fighting her body’s impulse to press against him, to lose herself in the heat of his embrace.
“You dinna love Henry Whitworth,” he whispered, his lips skimming the shell of her ear.
“How…how can you possibly know that?” she managed.
His laughter was a soft puff in her ear. “Oh, I ken,” he said confidently. “You dinna want him.” After a beat of silence, he added, “End it now, before ’tis too late.”
She gasped and straightened, every muscle in her body going rigid in anger. How dare he presume to know whom she loved and what she should do with her life?
“You are very forward, sir.”
He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. Shocked by the forceful movement, she stared up into his face. Even in shadows, it was incredibly appealing, the dark slashes of his bone structure and brows and the glint of his light eyes. “Dinna play the innocent English miss with me, Esme. That might work with those idiots in there”—he gestured roughly toward the house—“but not with me. Dinna pretend to be one of them when I ken you’re not. You were at a whorehouse last night. There’s something about that notebook you carry…”
She didn’t move. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d drawn breath, but she didn’t need air. She felt suspended, frozen in time. Terrified and thrilled at once. On the edge of something that would change her life, but whether it would destroy her or bring her happiness, she couldn’t tell.
His fingers dug into the skin of her shoulders. Not to the point of pain, but almost. The sensation buzzed through her—a heady rush of arousal…and to combat it she clenched her thighs.
“Does Whitworth ken you visited a whorehouse?”
That broke the spell. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, turning her face away from him.
He gave a cynical laugh. “I thought not. He doesna know about your wee notebook, either, does he?”
She bowed her head, shame rushing through her all over again.
“Does he know you at all? Or do I already know you better, after meeting you only once before tonight?”
Oh God. He was right. She squeezed her eyes shut and balled her fists over the railing. She’d known Henry almost her whole life, and this man—this arrogant, handsome, forceful man—already knew her better than her own fiancé.
A sense of doom flooded her, dark and forbidding.
He took her by the chin as he had last night, forcing her to face him. He leaned forward until his lips feathered against hers. “Dinna think you can keep any part of yourself from me, Esme. I’m going to learn all your secrets. I’m going to know every inch of you. Of your mind, of your thoughts, of your body. Then we’ll see what you think about marrying Henry Whitworth.”
And then, for the second time in two nights, his lips crashed onto hers.
Chapter 7
She tasted so damn good. She’d reeled him in tonight, and he’d gone willingly, eagerly, a fish eyeing the bait, then wanting to devour it.
Her big brown eyes, that flushed, fresh skin, that thick, dark hair. He’d thought she was delectable at Mrs. Trickelbank’s. Here…she was like some erotic goddess who made him hard as a rock and his self-control a distant memory.
The Duke of Trent’s sister. Good God. He never would have guessed it. Not in a million years.
On the other hand, it explained a lot. Like her charming, sweet innocence
. He wanted to take it and wrap himself in it. It was warm, comforting, so sweet he wanted to devour it like a confection.
And right now he ached to kiss her until that innocence was part of him—until she was part of him. She tasted like nothing he’d ever experienced, and he’d kissed many women in his time. She was hesitant and shy, but there was heat, a deep, throbbing sensuality in her. He could taste that, too, and it made him crazy.
He slipped his arms around her, around the dip in her waist hidden by the straight line of her dress. His fingers slid over the pink silk, and he flattened his palms on her lower back, feeling the slope of her arse at the bottom of his hands. He ground against her, dizzy for it, for wanting her.
She gave a soft moan that he swallowed up like the greedy bastard he was.
Scenarios ran through his mind. Of how to most quickly rid her of this annoying silk that was between him and his pleasure. Top down, revealing her skin bit by bit? Unwrapping her like a delectable gift? Or bottom up, ripping it off her so he could see all of her faster?
Bottom up, he decided. He had never been a patient man.
She gave a little gasp. Her hands cupped his cheeks, and she drew back, holding him at arm’s length. “Stop, Mr. McLeod. We need to stop.”
He looked at her through lust-clouded eyes. No woman in his entire life had ever asked him to stop. He didn’t exactly know what to do, so he just gazed at her.
“Someone might come out onto the terrace,” she breathed. “The scandal…it would be…it would be unbearable.”
Who gave a damn about scandals? He sure as hell didn’t.
But then he remembered her position. Her brother was a paragon of society, well loved, and very much in the public eye. Society would have no compunction about throwing her to the wolves.
And surprisingly, he didn’t want there to be any kind of carnage. Not with Esme, and not because of him. He didn’t want to analyze the protectiveness that surged through him at the thought of those bastards tearing this woman apart.
He pressed on her lower back. That exquisite feeling—the pressure of her body against his—would sustain him. He hoped. “Esme,” he said, and his voice was gruff as hell, “I canna wait to unwrap you.” And he meant that in every way possible.
Her eyes widened, but then she shook her head slightly. “That’s impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible. Not if we both want it. I definitely want it, and I ken you do, too.” She did want him. He could sense these things—he had a nose for it. The woman wanted him, maybe even to the same extent he wanted her.
This knowledge only made him hotter for her.
She glanced toward the door that led from the drawing room onto the terrace. “Who are you, Mr. McLeod?”
“It doesna matter.” It didn’t. None of it mattered. He could be a gravedigger or the king. He was a man when he was with Esme. He didn’t care about anything else.
“You came with Lord Pinfield,” she observed.
Cam pressed his lips together, annoyed at the intrusion of Pinfield on this moment. “I did.”
“You are good friends?”
He raised a brow. “You’re full of questions, aren’t you now, milady?”
“I am merely curious.”
He loved her voice. It was hesitant, but it was clear and smooth, a bit lower-pitched than most female voices.
His lip curled. “Nay, we are not good friends.”
“Then…why did you come tonight? My sister-in-law said you and he were friends and he asked for an invitation for you.”
“Ah, is that what he told her?” Cam tried not to roll his eyes.
“It wasn’t the truth?” she pressed.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “There is a price for my secrets, Lady Esme.”
She pulled farther back from him. “What…what would that be?”
“Och, I can imagine many things that you could give me in recompense.” He let his eyes make a hot trail over her body. “But…let’s begin with a secret for a secret. I’ll tell you one of mine; you tell me one of yours.”
Her lips pursed, and she turned to face Green Park, clutching the railing. “Then, no. I don’t need to know your secrets that badly.”
“Don’t you now?”
She shook her head, and he studied her. Her secrets—What was in her notebook? Why had she been at the whorehouse?—they were deep ones. So deep, he’d wager the clothes on his back that even her family didn’t know them.
And they were driving him mad. He would learn them. He didn’t know how—not yet. But if this beautiful, exotic, stimulating woman thought she could hide from him forever, she was in for a great disappointment.
She slid her eyes to him. “You’re staring at me.”
“There’s nothing else I’m interested in looking at,” he answered honestly.
She took a shaky breath, gripping the railing so hard he could see the whiteness in her knuckles. “I can’t…I shouldn’t even be talking to you. I am engaged to Mr. Whitworth. He is to be my husband.”
A wave of disgust washed through him at that. “Nay.”
It was her turn to cock a brow. “Nay?”
“That’s what I said.”
“You have no say over what I do.” Her words were harsh but her tone was soft, and she watched him carefully, as if curious as to how he might react to her statement.
“Oh, but Lady Esme, I would very much like to have a say over what you do.”
Her lips curved ever so slightly, but then she shook her head. “Alas, it is too late for that…any of it,” she murmured.
“ ’Tis never too late.”
“You’re wrong about that, Mr. McLeod.” She said it with such certainty it felt like a slap.
He hesitated only a fraction of a second. “Aye, well, I concede, sometimes it is. After the vows have been spoken and a marriage consummated. Only then is it too late.”
She was silent for a moment, and then her lips curved higher. “That, of all the things you’ve said tonight, impresses me the most.”
He tilted his head at her, not comprehending.
“Many of the men in our society believe a consummated marriage doesn’t mean it’s too late to engage in flippant affairs,” she explained. “In fact, many believe that after they’re married, adultery is the next logical step.”
Cam thought of his father, and bitterness rushed through him, so potent he had to look away from Esme and turn to gaze out over the park. “ ’Tis a good thing I’m not part of society, then,” he said quietly.
“But you are part of society. You are here tonight,” she argued.
“Only because—” He broke off, then slid her a glance. “I nearly forgot, I’m not to be telling you why. But I’ll say my presence here is in no way an effort to reestablish myself into society.”
“Hmm,” she said. “I think I believe you. You possess little regard for society, don’t you?”
“Very little,” he agreed. “But back to your belief that it’s too late. That you are already well and truly tied to Whitworth. I’m going to say again—’tisn’t too late. Engagements can be broken. You must break yours.”
“You cannot be serious.”
He gave her a dry look. “I’m completely serious.”
She simply stared at him.
He gave a patient sigh. “Esme. I’ve made no secret of my interest in you. Now I ken where you live. I ken your true identity. D’you really think I’ll stay away?”
“I…” Her voice dwindled, and he shook his head firmly.
“I wilna stay away,” he said softly. “Because I want you.”
She closed her eyes. “I cannot break my engagement. I would not do that to Henry. I could not hurt him like that.”
Cam held back a snort of disgust. Because he was fairly certain that Henry Whitworth was exactly one of those men who considered adultery the natural next step after marriage. But he couldn’t prove it—he hadn’t seen Whitworth in years and had no idea where and with whom he
spent his time.
Obviously Esme thought the man was some kind of a saint.
He gave her a slow smile. “You’ll change your mind.”
She looked away from him, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in the skirt of her dress.
Her lovely, expensive, stylish dress. The dress of an English duke’s sister. A part of him was amazed by the intensity of his attraction for her. Even knowing that she was an English duke’s sister—the Duke of Trent’s sister—hadn’t dampened his interest.
“I don’t think so,” she said quietly. “I made my decision, Mr. McLeod, long before I knew you.”
He shrugged.
“And even now I hardly know you at all. I know you’re an earl’s son.” He stiffened, but she didn’t seem to notice. “And that you’re Scottish. But that’s all. How can I break an engagement based on those simple facts?”
Simple? Hardly. “You ken more,” he said.
“Such as?”
“My name. What I look like. What my lips feel like on yours. How much I want you.”
Even in the dim moonlight, he could see the blush spread over her cheekbones. He wanted to touch her there. Feel the heat rushing over her skin against his fingertips.
She lowered her eyes, her lashes lush on the light olive tone of her skin.
“Mr. McLeod…you…” She shook her head. “The things you make me…”
“Feel?” he said softly.
“Yes.” She raised her gaze until it met his. “Yes. The things you make me feel…The things you say to me…I don’t know how to…what to…” She pressed her lips together.
He couldn’t help himself; he slid a finger down the side of her cheek. “ ’Tis all right, love. You will understand those feelings one day. Because I wilna be stopping until you do.”
She leaned into his touch, her lashes lowering once again. “A part of me doesn’t want you to stop.”
“Good,” he said huskily.
“But you must.” She drew away from him.
He ground his teeth. He needed her to stop worrying about Henry Whitworth. Cam wished he could just demand pistols at dawn and be done with it. But no. He was going to have to woo himself out of this one.
Highland Awakening Page 5
