“My fault that we weren’t able to speak much that evening,” he replied.
“I know.” She paused, her gaze locking with his. “You should make up for the slight, my lord.”
Ah, she was indeed very bold. He found it rather delightful.
“It sounds as if the orchestra is tuning their instruments.” She glanced over her shoulder, gave a subtle shove against her brother’s arm so that he had no choice but to step back. “I haven’t danced at all this evening.” She smiled brilliantly at Hartwell once again and he swallowed hard.
“A shame.” If that wasn’t a blatant suggestion that she wanted him to ask her to dance, he didn’t know what else it could be.
“I see someone over by the door you know, Daph—” Huxley interrupted and she quelled him with a look.
He wanted to ask her. It was only right that he return the favor. The words hung on the tip of his tongue, ready to tumble forward, but it was as if his tongue suddenly grew thick, preventing him from getting the request out.
He saw the menacing look her brother shot him. Any attention Hartwell paid to his lovely sister, Huxley wanted to stop. Immediately.
“Come along, sister.” Huxley took the countess by her arm and started to lead her away. “It appears Hartwell is too busy for a dance.”
Disappointment was written all over her pretty face and she reluctantly let Huxley drag her away. He’d failed in asking her quickly enough and missed his opportunity. His mother asked often why he wasn’t married yet. He hadn’t the courage to admit he was so worried over making an arse of himself in front of a woman that he simply chose not to speak at all.
Clearly, that strategy wasn’t working out well whatsoever.
Hartwell turned on his booted heel and left. He hurried as far and as fast as he could to get away from everyone, especially the beautiful, vivacious and thoroughly intimidating lady. A snort of laughter burst forth from far behind and he shook his head. Was it Huxley irritated by his supposed rudeness? It wouldn’t surprise him in the least if the lovely widow tittered an irritated giggle as well. He couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing the dowager countess. What must she think of him?
He couldn’t dwell on the thought for fear it might devastate him too much.
Chapter Four
Daphne pushed through the crowd, the only one in a sea of people going in the complete opposite direction of everyone else. Well, everyone but the gorgeous Lord Hartwell. He’d already fled the room, making his great escape down a long, darkened hall just off the ballroom.
She had every intention to follow him down that hall and talk to him. Really speak with Hartwell and get to know him without her brother standing nearby or any of the gossiping ladies of the ton watching them covertly. She believed she’d seen a glimpse of the real him when they danced at the masquerade and she wanted to encounter that man again.
The fleeting vulnerability she saw in his expression that evening, the naked want, had struck her deeply. She knew that feeling, knew then that society, her brother, everyone had read the man wrong. He wasn’t arrogant or disdainful.
He’d appeared incredibly lonely.
Catching sight of his broad shoulders just ahead, she hurried her steps, jostling into one person after another, murmuring an apology with her every stumble. It was so crowded and hot she swore she felt her skin mist with a soft dampness from all the bodies crowding in.
How did Hartwell feel about pushing through the heavy crowd? How he must hate it. Just from the few brief glimpses she’d had of him, she believed he didn’t like the crush. Didn’t appear to enjoy speaking much, either.
His cheeks had turned a ruddy color when his gaze met hers as her brother introduced them. And she swore his voice shook even more than the first time they met, when he spoke those very few and precious words in his deliciously deep voice. For a man in his position and the reluctant respect he received for his known and brilliant mind, she found his behavior oddly endearing.
Confirming yet again her suspicions. There were depths to this man people ignored. She couldn’t begin to explain her curiosity for him, but instinct told her he was worth pursuing.
Daphne entered the narrow hall, heard a door creak open a few steps down from where she stood. A glimpse of yellowed light shone briefly. Then the door clicked closed, the light disappearing. She slowed her steps, knowing exactly which door he’d used, and took a deep breath as she stopped before it. Resting a hand over her chest, she felt the pounding of her heart beneath her palm.
I can do this. I can walk inside and talk with him and make him comfortable. I know I can.
Searching for courage, she opened the door slowly and stepped inside. He stood across the room before a large desk with his back to her, busy pouring himself a drink of amber-colored liquid. She quietly closed the door and leaned against it, unabashedly admiring his fine form. He was exquisitely made, from the impossibly broad shoulders to his long, strong legs. His dark brown hair curled at his nape and about the collar of his jacket, and she itched to touch him there. See if his hair was soft, if the slight curls might wind about her fingers.
A sigh full of longing escaped her. He whirled around, very nearly dropping the glass that dangled from his fingers. His dark brown eyes widened with surprise when he saw her and he visibly swallowed.
“My apologies if I startled you, my lord.” She pushed away from the door, trying her hardest to appear completely composed. As if his very nearness didn’t send her heart into palpitations and make her limbs shake.
“Lady Pomeroy.” The velvet timbre of his voice washed over her and she stepped closer, desperate to hear more. “A-are you lost?”
His question made her smile. Was the man completely daft? Could he not tell she pursued him like a common harlot? She still wasn’t quite sure what had come over her. “I’m afraid not. You see, I wanted to ask you a question.”
He set the glass on the edge of the desk and folded his arms in front of him, his dark brows lowered. “A question for me?” He sounded startled. Did no one seek out his company?
“Yes, I hope you don’t think me too forward.”
His sensual mouth curved faintly; all the air lodged in her throat. He was breathtakingly handsome when he smiled. “Well, you haven’t asked yet.”
“Right, of course.” Her hands fluttered in front of her and she pressed her palm against her chest. “I wanted to make sure I didn’t—offend you earlier when my brother introduced us. I’m afraid I might’ve been too blatant in my attempts to get to know you.”
“You didn’t offend.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She took another step closer, then another. Until she stood directly before where he leaned against the desk, his thick arms still crossed in front of his chest, a curious glint lighting his chocolate-colored eyes. It was far too tempting having him close enough to touch. “It’s just that you left so quickly, I thought I might’ve done something to make you flee.”
“It wasn’t you, Lady Pomeroy,” he confessed with a slight shake of his head. “Trust me.”
“Please, call me Daphne.” Unable to stop herself, she reached out, rested her fingers on his forearm for a fleeting moment. The fine material beneath her grip covered warm, firm skin and she dropped her hand. Sadly.
His gaze fell to where she’d touched him so briefly then lifted to meet her eyes. “What are you about, Lady…I mean…Daphne.”
Oh, to have that deep voice say her name brought forth a flood of pleasurable sensations. All of them completely unfamiliar and making her want to experience them again. “My subtle hint was too subtle, I’m afraid.” She stood straight and watched with delight as his gaze fell to her chest, where he studied her appreciatively. Her skin tingled and she marveled at the sensations his blatant gaze brought forth.
“Your hint?” He cocked a brow, a rather rakish and surprising move since she didn’t consider him particularly rakish.
Until now.
“I wanted you to ask me to dance
.” There. She’d found the courage and said it.
If he turned her down, she would be devastated. And feel like a complete fool.
“Dance?” He said the word as if it were foreign to him. “I’m not one to dance, my lady.”
“You danced with me at the masquerade ball,” she said softly.
His lips thinned and his expression grew pained. “That was a—most unusual circumstance.”
“You danced divinely.”
He shrugged, as if he didn’t know what to say.
“You’re a man of few words, aren’t you? I pray I’m not making you uncomfortable.”
“Not uncomfortable,” he admitted. “Surprised, yes.”
“So why do you come to such gatherings if they make you so ill at ease?”
He eyed her carefully. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“My apologies.” Heat suffused her cheeks and she glanced down, feeling silly. She’d pushed too hard. But there was something about this particular man that provoked her.
“No need to apologize.”
She lifted her head and studied him. Saw that he studied her with equal intent. Her heart lifted, fluttered wildly in anticipation of what might happen next.
“I-I’m not quite sure what came over me that evening when I agreed to waltz with you. As I said, I’m not one to dance much.”
Her cheeks warmed even more and she smiled. “I’m flattered that you chose me for such a rare appearance on the ballroom floor, then. You’re a very fine dancer, my lord.”
“Thank you, so were—wait, what are you doing?”
She reached for him. His arms unwound from each other and he stood tall, towering over her. Clasping his large hands in hers, she drew him close, getting him into position. “I’m going to dance with you again. Here.”
“But there is no music…”
“Ssh, listen.”
They both paused. All she heard was the sound of his soft breath and hers. And then the delicate strains of the orchestra came from the ballroom in the distance.
“Can you hear it now?”
“Yes, but…”
“Good. Just follow my lead.”
* * *
Hartwell drew the delicate woman into his arms and held her close. Her skirts brushed against his legs, one slender lace-gloved hand clasped in his, the other resting on his shoulder. He placed his hand against her lower back, felt the warmth of her skin burn his palm and breathed deep of her scent. Her soft hair tickled his jaw, the side of his face like a caress.
Exquisite, delicious, staggering torture it was, having her in his arms. She completely unnerved him, yet when he spoke to her he discovered his stutter almost disappeared.
Strange.
“I cannot believe a man of your position doesn’t enjoy spinning a lady around the dance floor on a nightly basis,” she said, flashing him another one of those gorgeous smiles.
How could he admit his father berated him constantly, instilling the belief that his son was socially unacceptable? The only child and heir proved such a disappointment his family hadn’t bothered much with social graces beyond the occasional dance lesson from his mother when he’d been very, very young.
Thank goodness for his mother. She’d been the balm to his troubled soul. Made him feel good, wanted, loved. His tutor had done much the same. Hartwell had been like a sponge when he was young, always learning, always wanting to know more. His intelligence had taken him far in life, particularly once he’d inherited the title. Investing the meager earnings, the Hartwell lands produced and tripled them in a short amount of time.
Ah, if his father had been alive to see that, he would’ve been surely stunned—perhaps even proud—at the transformation.
“I was rather awkward growing up,” he finally said, not straying far from the truth.
“Well, you don’t seem awkward now.” She gave a little push and he followed her steps, allowing her the lead for but a moment before he took over and led her about the room. The smile she offered him was so full of pleasure it tugged at something deep within him. “You’re very graceful.”
“And you’re a flatterer.”
“I merely speak the truth. You dance wonderfully.”
“Perhaps it’s my partner.” Ah, and now he flirted, something he never did.
What was it about this particular lady who brought forth such courage, such assuredness? He’d had his share of women, but no one like Lady Pomeroy. He’d had brief affairs with courtesans, for they were the only ones who tolerated his quiet behavior, his occasional stuttering. They looked past it, didn’t judge, whereas a young debutante on the marriage market would most likely laugh in his face if he stuttered his way through a conversation.
“I hope that was a compliment,” she said, sounding slightly breathless.
“If you have to ask, then it must’ve not been a very good one.”
Her smile grew and relief flooded him. She seemed to enjoy his company. And for whatever strange reason when he spoke to her, he didn’t stutter at all.
Inexplicably, he felt comfortable with Lady Pomeroy. Daphne. Such a pretty name, it fit her.
“You’re different.” They stopped dancing and stood in the middle of the room, their hands still clutched. He felt her slender fingers curl about his shoulder and she took the subtlest step closer to him. “I like that about you.”
“Really?” He was certainly different. She had no idea what she’d just touched upon.
“Yes.” She nodded, her tongue sneaking out to dab at her lips. The sight of it made his groin tighten with need. “I’ve been drawn to you since the first moment I saw you.”
That confession was absolutely startling. Why in the world would she be drawn to him? “You flatter me again, my lady.”
“It’s Daphne. And I speak the truth.” Her hand moved from his shoulder to rest against his cheek. She caressed his flesh with delicate fingers, making his body tighten. He was so completely aware of her. How closely she stood, how delectable she smelled, how wonderful she felt in his arms. “Are you merely shy, my lord? Hence your reluctance to socialize with others?”
His entire body stiffened as he pondered his answer. Should he reveal the truth, or would that be a grave mistake?
“You don’t have to answer my question,” she said in a rush, her expression full of worry. “It was rude of me to ask such a thing. Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” he said, voice low, gaze locked on the sweet curve of her mouth, which was turned down in the most appealing frown he’d ever seen.
She lifted her lids, her stunningly beautiful eyes meeting his, and he momentarily forgot himself. Let himself drown in the sea blue swirling depths of her gaze, the open, warm expression on her face. She looked at him not in disdain or disgust but in…pleasure. And, his hopeful heart told him, yearning.
As if she might yearn for him.
Chapter Five
Kiss me, kiss me.
Daphne tilted her head back and lifted her chin, aligning her lips with Hartwell’s. He leaned forward, the movement subtle, his warm breath drifting across her cheek, and her eyes slid closed in anticipation.
If he didn’t kiss her at this very moment she just might die with wanting it.
Finally, he settled his lips upon hers, warm and whisper-soft and far too briefly. Almost as if she imagined the entire exchange. One moment he was there, the next gone. She opened her eyes to find him close, his gaze locked upon her, a mystified expression on his handsome and slightly troubled face.
“Kiss me again,” she urged in a raw whisper, feeling the wanton and for once not having a care. She’d imagined this from the first moment she saw him and she wasn’t about to let him get away. Not yet.
His mouth curved and he did, indeed, kiss her again. His lips were hot and damp as they brushed against hers once, twice, three times. Subtly coaxing her mouth open until his tongue dabbed against hers and then retreated.
A strangled little cry escaped her at th
e quickening, arousing touch. He tangled his tongue with hers again as if to appease her. She dropped her hand from his shoulder and slipped it around his waist, drawing him as close as she could get him. His lean, hard body collided with hers, sending a cascade of tingles washing over her skin.
Heaven. It felt like absolute heaven in his arms, his mouth locked with hers. She’d never kissed a man until her husband and his kisses, though pleasant, had lacked passion.
She’d heard and read stories of kisses that made a lady’s head spin, made her stomach flutter, caused her entire body to shiver with awareness and she’d believed them all fairytales. Complete and utter nonsense.
But no. She lived the fairytale in the arms of the Marquess of Hartwell. A man everyone believed arrogant, cold-hearted.
She knew better. The real Hartwell was her own newly discovered treasure. One she would guard most covetously.
“My lady,” he breathed after he finally broke the kiss. “Our…clandestine meeting would most likely be considered rather scandalous, especially if we are discovered.”
“I’ve always wanted to be involved in a scandal,” she declared as she reluctantly removed herself from his embrace, smiling faintly. “Don’t worry. No one knows we’re together alone. And I locked the door behind me when I entered.”
His dark brows drew together. “You did?”
“Indeed, I did.” She nodded, wayward curls brushing against her cheeks. “May I ask you a question? And I promise it won’t be too intrusive.”
He nodded warily.
“Might I extend an invitation for a supper party at my home in two nights’ time? I would be delighted to have you as company. My guest of honor, if you will.”
He appeared stunned speechless. The man surely received loads of invitations, though he was rarely in attendance. “I—I don’t do well in crowds, my lady.”
“Daphne,” she corrected, and he coughed. “And don’t worry about crowds. This will be a rather…intimate supper party.” She wanted to laugh at her choice of words. Oh, she really was being a wanton but she couldn’t help herself. She was desperate to get the handsome marquess into her home. Alone.
A Scandalous Affair Page 3
