“The Misters Craven await you in the parlor with their wives. I’ll show you there straight away, my lord.” He inclined his head and shoulders toward Edwin, then did the same to me. “My lady.”
If possible, my lady was a worse moniker than miss. It implied I would one day be Edwin’s wife. When I stiffened, Edwin ran his hand over mine. His warmth reminded me of the situation. I forced myself to relax and smile.
As the butler turned, I reached out and rested a hand on his arm, stilling him. “May I ask your name?”
When he stared warily at my hand, I retracted it. Stiffly, he answered, “Chester. Chester Bloomfield.”
“Thank you for your assistance, Chester.”
As he turned to lead us along a wide hall, brightly lit with lamps smelling of oily flowers, Edwin lowered his head to meet mine.
“Will you stop making friends with the servants?”
“Why? I like servants better than I like most peers.”
Edwin glared at me. I grimaced at the strength of my voice. Although the butler paused in his step, he resumed his gait without comment. Maybe he hadn’t heard. Maybe he didn’t care.
Edwin countered, “Maybe so, but for tonight you have to act like the future Lady Sutton, with all the decorum the Cravens guests expect. We have business together, and I would like to remain in their good graces.”
“So it’s good I wore the ribbons, then.”
The corner of Edwin’s mouth lifted in what might be the ghost of a smile. He schooled it into a serene expression when the butler paused at an open doorway. Light and chatter spilled from within. When Chester cleared his throat, the babble faded into a deathly hush. In a strong voice, the butler announced me and Edwin. As he backed away, he indicated the room with a sweep of his arm.
“Here you are, my lord, my lady.”
I nodded to him. “Thank you.”
Edwin nudged me forward with his grip on my arm. My palms felt moist against my gloves. Why was I nervous? As promised, only four people occupied the room, two men and two women. If anything, this intimate group formed the perfect audience for my first performance. After the next two weeks, I’d never have to see them again.
Perhaps it was the state of the room that induced my anxiety. Although the furnishings were perfectly ordinary, the decorations were anything but. Brightly painted tribal masks loomed from slots on the walls, coupled by crude statues and vividly colored vases stuffed with ferns. It felt a bit like I’d stepped into a jungle.
The two women stood with broad smiles as Edwin and I approached. While their husbands—who looked almost identical with auburn hair, light eyes, and similar builds—reached out to clasp Edwin’s forearm, the women herded me away to the settee. Both taller than me, they sat to either side. Unlike their husbands, the pair looked as different as night and day. The woman to my right was lithe, suntanned, with dark hair pulled into a simple knot fixed at one side of her nape, a mysterious tilt to her lips, and a slight upturn to her nose. On my left, the curvaceous woman looked as if she burned beneath strong lamplight, her porcelain skin a touch paler than her eyebrows and blond hair. Both beamed at me.
“I’m Winifred,” said the blonde. “Married to Graham.”
That would make the woman on my right Annabel, married to Quentin. She confirmed as much a moment later. Since I still couldn’t tell the difference between their husbands, I resolved to call them both Mr. Craven.
A bit overwhelmed at the intensity of their focus, I forced a smile and introduced myself. “Mary Babington-Smith. Married to no one at present.”
Annabel leaned closer with a wink. “Not for long, though. We read the announcement in the Times this morning. Congratulations! Sutton was hinting that happy news was on the horizon. Huck was beginning to think his luck had dried up. We’re so happy to see that the opposite is true!”
As she clasped my hand tightly with a radiant smile, I frowned. “Huck?”
“Oh,” Winifred answered, “she means her husband. They come from a long line of botanists. To the family, they answer to their middle names. Quentin’s is Huckleberry, Huck for short.”
One of the Misters Craven noticed the way the women had cornered me and raised his voice. “Be careful, she stings!” He laughed.
Winifred laughed along with him. “Oh, Petunia.” She blew him a kiss.
At my guess, the one to Edwin’s right was her husband, Graham. Now, so long as neither of them moved, I should be able to tell the Craven brothers apart.
With a tap to my arm, Annabel drew my attention. “How remiss of us! Would you care for a drink before supper?”
“Certainly,” I answered, wondering what she intended to offer. The table held two empty crystal tumblers, and the men seemed to be nursing a pale liquid.
“Gin or vermouth?” Annabel asked as she stood.
I frowned. Was this some sort of test? Edwin had been adamant that I act ladylike. Shouldn’t they offer something a bit less potent? “Vermouth?” I mumbled under my breath, surprised at the choice.
“Is that your answer, or are you perplexed at its inclusion? We have a pale vermouth that is all the rage in France right now, a fantastic stimulant of the appetite.”
A glance at Edwin proved that he wasn’t paying any mind to my conversation. Hesitantly, I nodded. “I’ll try that.” It seemed to be the right answer.
Winifred smiled. “You’ll like it, I’m sure.”
When Annabel reached the mantle and uncorked one of the crystal decanters, one of the Craven brothers called, “Fetch a glass for Sutton, would you, Bluebell?”
“Gin?”
Edwin nodded. “Please.”
Frowning, I leaned toward Winifred. “Do you all have plant nicknames?”
She gave a light laugh reminiscent of tinkling bells, an analogy ruined a second later when she snorted. “Dear me, no. That’s a pet name. Only Quentin calls her Bluebell.” She tilted her head with a smile, her blond hair cascading over one shoulder. “Don’t you and Sutton have pet names for each other?”
I started to answer honestly, but then bit my lip to contain a smile as a devious idea crossed my mind. He wanted us to play the happy couple, didn’t he? Oblivious to my mischievous bent, he continued to carry on his conversation in a low tone.
As Annabel returned with my tumbler, I accepted it from her with a smile and answered, “We do, in fact. His is Chryssie.”
Holding Edwin’s tumbler in her hand, Annabel smirked as she continued to stand. “Chryssie?”
“Short for Chrysanthemums. My favorite flower.”
They made me sneeze.
Her smile widened. “I wonder if he’ll answer to it from anyone else.” With a wink, she turned on her heel and marched over to Edwin to offer his drink. “Here you are, Chryssie.”
Edwin frowned.
One of the Craven brothers barked a laugh. “What did you call him?”
“Chryssie. Short for Chrysanthemum.” She leaned closer, but didn’t lower her voice enough not to carry. Conspiratorially, she added, “It’s his pet name.”
The same Mr. Craven asked, “What’s hers?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Edwin met my gaze and answered, “Thistle.”
The brothers roared with laughter. “That prickly, is she?”
“Or are you suggesting she yells loud when touched?”
I glared at Edwin. He lifted his glass to me, as if to say, Two can play that game.
As I tasted the vermouth to try to mask my displeasure, I took small, ladylike sips. Each barely allowed me to taste the dry liquor at all. Should I be raising my pinky? I was better at emulating the men around me, determined to be treated equal, than I was at pretending delicacy.
Annabel settled once more at my side. “So, Mary, how do you like to spend your time? Are you a botanist, like Sutton?”
I choked on the vermouth. “Me?” I gulped for air to recover, my eyes watering. When I had my wits about me, I forced a smile. “I’m not near his intellectual equal and wo
uld never dare to intrude on his manly domain. I spend my time doing things more suited to my small female brain, like…trimming bonnets.” Judging by the blank looks given to me by both women, not to mention the look of bewilderment shot my way by Edwin during a pause in his conversation, that wasn’t the right answer. What was considered a feminine activity? Oh, blast. “And needlepoint.” Upon getting a bit more expression from the women, I felt encouraged. “Or painting gloves.” Too late, I recalled that I wore gloves with no adornment whatsoever. I pressed the backs of my hands against my thighs, shielding them.
Winifred leaned forward and touched my arm, encouraging. “You paint? Marvelous! Annabel does as well.”
Damnation! I didn’t know the first thing about painting.
“I prefer watercolor for my medium. Have you tried?”
My palms sweated as Annabel fixed me beneath what looked to be genuine interest. I tried to feign mine. “Of course. Aren’t all young ladies taught?” I must have been shown at one point during my education…
“Certainly,” Winifred answered with a giggle. “But some people have more aptitude for it than others. I have none whatsoever.”
Annabel shrugged. “It adds a pleasing splash of color to my drawings. What do you say we get together one day and paint together?”
That sounded horrid. I glanced at Edwin, but he was too deep in conversation to notice when I needed rescuing. He wanted me to get on with his friends, didn’t he? This is only for thirteen more days. I took a deep breath before turning back.
“That sounds lovely,” I lied. With luck, she would set the date for a month from now.
“Are you free tomorrow afternoon if the weather behaves? Near two o’clock, perhaps.”
I had no luck, because I couldn’t think of a single excuse. “Of course.” My voice weakened.
At my acquiescence, Winifred straightened. “Wonderful! I don’t paint, but I’m certain I have a bonnet that needs trimming. I’ll bring it along, and you can show me how.”
Hell and damnation! Was it too late to recant?
The butler, Chester, rapped on the open door. “Dinner is served.”
“About time,” exclaimed one of the Craven brothers. Both converged on the settee to collect their wives. Although they paused to give an official introduction and express their pleasure at meeting me, I still couldn’t tell them apart until they offered their arms to their wives.
As they led the way from the room, Edwin stepped abreast of me. I raised my hand to lay on his arm when he offered it. He never did. Instead, he caught my hand in his. He waited for his friends to leave the room, his impenetrable gaze fixed on the doorway. The moment it was vacant, he turned that piercing look on me.
“What are you doing?”
“What do you mean? I’m doing exactly as you asked.”
He glanced again at the doorway. “Keep your voice down.”
When I tugged at my hand, he pulled me into his chest. My breath gushed from my lungs at the impact. He took advantage of my momentary disorientation to catch my other hand, holding them to either side of me. Off-balance, I had no choice but to lean against him or fall.
He added, “I asked you to act as though you’re in love with me, not to be a ninny.”
I smirked, not bothering to lower my voice. “Who’s to say they aren’t—” the same.
He cut off my sentence as he captured my mouth in a hard kiss. It shocked me to such an extent, it rendered me mute. I stilled, even once he pulled away.
“Keep your voice down,” he repeated in a whisper.
He craned his neck but must not have seen anyone coming down the hall, because the muscles in his abdomen relaxed against me. He swung his gaze to meet mine once more.
“Recall why we’re here. All you need to do is act as though this is a love match. I never asked you not to be yourself.”
I made a face but matched my tone to his. “In fact, you did when you berated me for treating the butler with an ounce of courtesy. I believe you called it, ‘acting as would befit the future Lady Sutton.’”
“You know what I meant.” His voice was low, dangerous, and full of warning.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Do I? Because that is who I am, courteous to those who do favors for me, even if it is their jobs to do it.”
“Mary, this isn’t the time. Let’s speak of this later.”
“Isn’t it?” I squirmed against him, testing his hold to see if I could break free. Unfortunately, he was too much bigger than me. I wouldn’t separate from him until he let me. I sighed, leaning against him. Eventually, he would tire and drop his hold.
“Mary, have a care.” Edwin dipped his head so close to mine his breath stirred the curls by my cheek. He lowered his voice even further. “You know why we’re here. Act polite and don’t draw attention to yourself. This isn’t the night to prove a point or engage in one of your hunts.”
“Hunts? I do not hunt.”
I turned my head. Our mouths lingered, inches apart. My lips tingled with the memory of his last kiss, even if he’d only done it to keep me from speaking. If I raised my voice, would he kiss me again?
I didn’t want him to. I must be starved for companionship if I considered even Edwin’s kisses to be desirable. I firmed my chin. When I raised my gaze, I found him staring at my mouth. My breath hitched.
“I protect those with no voice against the men who mistreat them. Will I have need to do that with the sort of company you keep these days?” My voice was breathy, little more than a whisper. This time, not by design. Hopefully, he wouldn’t realize that.
Although we pressed against each other as close as possible with our clothes on, his breathing was even, his touch unwavering. He licked his lips, a nervous habit. I couldn’t look away. I bit the inside of my cheek, praying for clarity to return.
“Of course not. And if you have to protect anyone during the course of our engagement, I’ll thank you to tell me before you do anything rash.”
“Why?” I demanded, my voice rising. He didn’t own me or my actions, and he never would. “Are you afraid I’ll tarnish your precious reputation?”
He tightened his grip on mine. “Perhaps I care more for your safety than you do.”
The silence rang in the wake of his words. I peered into his face, trying to decipher his expression. He looked surprisingly gentle. Could he mean what he said?
“Mary?” His voice held a wary edge.
He’d never married. Long after we’d parted on unfriendly terms, to my knowledge, he’d never come close. And he might have if he’d tried. The Edwin I knew hadn’t let any obstacles stand in the path of his desires. Even if his desires had been different from what I’d hoped. After all, he’d chosen years at university over—
No. We’d never been more than friends.
Still, I couldn’t help but ask, “Why didn’t you ever offer for Francine? If anyone suited you, wouldn’t she be at the top of the list?” They were both botanists, and she had been quite desperate to marry a month ago.
“Miss Annesley?” He lifted his chin, staring over my shoulder. “We are more than our interests.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
Edwin released me. I barely caught my balance in time before he turned away.
“I’m never going to marry for love.”
The only place for him to look was the door. When he rested his hand on the wood, I slipped beneath his arm and pressed my back against the door.
My front pressed intimately against Edwin from chest to thigh. But it didn’t matter right now. I grabbed a fistful of his jacket, anchoring him in place. He had to talk to me some time. I wanted a straight answer.
“If things go sour, you might find yourself married to me.”
He made an odd sound between a scoff and a cough. Although he canted his neck down to meet my gaze, I couldn’t make out the emotion driving his intense expression. He curled his fingers against the wood by my head.
“You’re different.” Hi
s voice was low, strained. Almost defeated.
For a moment, a strange surge of triumph swept through me.
At least, until he added, “Miss Annesley would expect romance. Love, or at least affection. You’re more practical.”
My fist convulsed against his jacket. The involuntary movement drew him down even further. His breath batted the bridge of my nose, almost a tangible touch. I tilted my head up, searching his eyes in vain.
“You don’t believe I deserve love?”
My voice was small. Hurt. I swallowed. Was that why all my friends had left?
Men insult you every day. But not Edwin. Instead of anger warming me, a small, cold feeling clamped around my chest.
“Mary—”
“No.” I pushed at his chest and turned my face, but his arm blocked me as he lowered it. His firm chest, packed with muscles, might as well have been made from granite.
“I didn’t mean it,” he rasped.
I shifted, trying and failing to put more distance between us. As I moved, his leg brushed against the crux of my thighs. A rush of awareness sent a throb low to my belly. Desire.
No. Fear. Awareness. Anything else. I didn’t want him.
Certainly not him.
With his free hand, he turned up my chin, hesitating a moment before he pressed his mouth to mine. Is that meant to show me I deserve love? I shut my eyes, intending to push him away after I soaked in the comfort of his nearness. But his warmth permeated me as he teased at my lips. His dark, cedar-and-soap scent enveloped me. Within seconds, I surrendered to him.
He held me upright with his body. He surrounded me, sheltered me. Protected me. And he claimed me with the first sweep of his tongue inside my mouth. He tasted sharp, of gin.
The wisp of tenderness in his kiss evaporated as he turned urgent, primal. It sparked a fire in my core that spread to every limb in my body. I couldn’t think; I didn’t want to. I slid my hands up as far as I could, tangling them in his hair. Shifting his weight, he slid his arm around my back and lifted me higher.
He pressed me against the door as he devoured my mouth. Little groans of satisfaction emitted from both of us. I clutched him to me. My head spun. My core ached with the need to be appeased. Before long, I rocked against his abdomen, the same wild way I’d done with my past lovers.
How to Fall for the Wrong Man Page 6
