Undone by His Kiss

by Anabelle Bryant

  Her maid, Agnes, had arranged her hair in a wonderful style with soft tendrils falling around her ears and neck, the result becoming. Not one to fuss over her ordinary brown hair, Emily seldom took time to examine her features and attempt improvement. Tonight, with her new bracelet and elegant dress, she portrayed exactly what her mother wished. The realization brought melancholy and much-needed comfort. She’d force herself to try harder to be the kind of biddable daughter her mother needed.

  With sadness, she glanced to the basket beside her bed, filled with unsent letters Bianca had composed, at times with painstaking care and constituting further evidence of love’s trap. Emily had covered the basket with a blanket to prevent discovery. What a blessing Mary aided in her discretion and assisted in carrying out the charade. Commonsense prodded Emily attempt anything to protect her mother from further disappointment, but to what end? Shaking free from her maudlin thoughts and unwilling to mar the evening, she collected her wrap from the foot of the bed and hurried downstairs.

  Inside Portia’s carriage, the mood was light and cheery. Lady Edmonstone chattered endlessly about the attributes of the Bandlewits and Portia and Emily communicated their opinions through a variety of eye widening and subdued smirks. At times, Emily found herself biting the inside of her cheek to keep laughter in check. It proved pleasant despite both girls knew Portia’s mother would be determined in her attempt to see her daughter wed as soon as possible.

  “You both look lovely this evening.” Lady Edmonstone’s trilling pronouncement had Emily suppressing another trickle of laughter. “I’d wager you’ll garner a high degree of attention this evening. It’s to your detriment that you don’t venture out more often, girls. It would take hardly any work at all to marry you off.”

  These last few words erased the congenial mood.

  “Mother, I doubt Emily wishes to take part in such a devastating endeavor regardless how lovely she looks.” Portia shifted her attention. “Your blue eyes are absolutely stunning with the hue of your gown, by the way.”

  Any further discussion was curtailed as the carriage rolled to a stop before a grand white stone house with ornate railings and finely detailed shutters. Despite any shortcomings noted in the prospect of marriage to a Bandlewit, surely their impeccable taste and imposing wealth forged a remarkable first impression. Lady Edmonstone’s grand gleaming smile seemed to surmise the same conclusion.

  Once inside they greeted their hosts and dinner proceeded in a pleasant manner. Emily decided it wasn’t altogether horrible to be out amongst the fashionable ton despite conversation from all sides revolved around who’d made their debut, secured a proposal, or produced offspring. Perhaps she would make an effort to socialize more often. If her mother improved, that is. Only then.

  Lord and Lady Bandlewit were the proud parents of five sons who were stuffed into formalwear like poorly cased sausage. The quintet of male specimens resembled their father with pale skin and short sandy locks, as if once created all originality has been exhausted, resulting in a disappointing lack of inspiration.

  Marriage posed a suspicious prospect as it were. Emily could never allow Portia to be bartered off to a gentleman unless her friend found him outwardly and, more importantly, inwardly, appealing. She flicked a glance to where Portia remained captive by discussion with Norris, the eldest Bandlewit and bachelor currently on the chopping block. Perhaps she should rescue her, although some conversation would be expected for the purpose of common courtesy. Norris did not appear the type to explore the pyramids of Egypt or climb mountains in Italy, but appearances were deceiving. Emily knew that as fact.

  She shook her head with distressing consideration and turned attention to the hall where three gentlemen entered and made for the gathering in the drawing room. The furniture had been removed and the carpets rolled up to allow for dancing. These guests had arrived just in time for reverie. The musicians tuned their instruments with care and an unexpected frizzle of excitement rippled through her.

  As she perused the newly arrived guests, a startling recognition took hold. Two of the men were from the building on upper Bond Street below the league office. The third guest she did not recognize, although he was a fair degree older than his companions and impeccably dressed. She might have continued her examination, except Mr. St. David glanced across the room and smiled upon matching her eyes. Panic struck and when she locked with his gaze, a jolt of awareness radiated from her core to the tips of her toes and fingers, across her scalp and within, to wiggle about and tickle her brain. She was all at once unsettled, when she’d been enjoying herself, perfectly calm and reserved, only moments before. How dare he?

  Jasper stepped around Beaufort who’d taken to introducing Penwick within the room. He wanted to give an impression of confident assurance, yet a definite throb of exhilaration motivated his passage through the crowd, intent on locating Miss Shaw on the other side. This was the sole serendipitous occurrence of the evening, an unexpected happenstance that evoked a brilliant spark of attraction. He pulled toward her as if a magnet finding its mate.

  “Miss Shaw, what a pleasant surprise.” He bowed low, his eyes sliding from her silk slippers upward to settle at her delightful face, although he stole a quick glance to her bosom, neatly tucked into the gown’s demure neckline where some gauzy sarcenet tempted he discover what lay beneath.

  The musicians began a lively tune and around him guests reassembled though Jasper didn’t budge, captivated by the female in periwinkle, a gentle scowl marring her beauty.

  “Good evening, Mr…I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.”

  The minx. So she’d play a coy little game. He didn’t mind. Miss Shaw was the most intriguing novelty he’d happened upon in a very long time; worth a greater investment than Nasmyth’s steam hammer and utterly more charming.

  “Jasper St. David, at your service, although I’m beginning to believe you’re independently capable and in need of little assistance.”

  “Mr. St. David, yes. Now I remember. You occupy the lower office on Bond Street and presume you own the public sidewalk.”

  Oh, this was fun. She didn’t fool him for a minute. “Funny how the memory plays tricks.” He’d accept she’d told the truth when two Sundays came together. And damn, her little upturned nose would be the death of him. “May I have this dance?”

  The question seemed to disrupt her cool demeanor. She eyed him as if he was a midnight highwayman commanding she surrender her virginity. A timeless lapse ensued. At last, she found her tongue although Jasper reckoned he’d had happily found it for her.

  “What do you want?”

  The silky edge of her question forced his eyes to her lips. “A partner for the waltz. I thought my request clearly made. You were standing on the side of the room looking pensive and not at all in the spirit of the evening. I thought I’d cross over and instigate a bit of conversation.”

  “A woman doesn’t require a man to rush to her rescue. Thank you for the kind offer, but I need for nothing at the moment.”

  Her words were laced with an underlying note of contradiction. He couldn’t help but notice.

  “Needs and wants are as different as gloves and boots, besides you do need a dance partner. That’s something you can’t possibly accomplish alone, Miss Shaw.”

  She straightened her shoulders the smallest degree and he noticed the gentle sweep of her neck, how the lacy edge of each silk sleeve arched delicately against her creamy pink skin.

  “What can’t I accomplish?” Her voice hinted at just the right amount of fluster and it pleased him immensely. She seemed far too comfortable with the upper hand.

  “A waltz.” He indicated the dance floor with a slight nod of his head. “Dance with me, Miss Shaw.”

  “And what is your goal? Surely you harbor an underlying reason for your request.” Her voice dropped to a hushed whisper. Was she angry or playfully deceptive? He couldn’t decide.

  “Such cynicism from one so young and beautiful, but I prom
ise you, I desire nothing complicated. I like music and enjoy dancing. I want nothing more.”

  She cocked a delicate brow just as she’d done in front of his office and he was drawn into the blue ocean of her eyes rather than deterred from his message, as similar an experience as in front of his office. His heart thudded an anxious beat as he waited on her answer and when she smiled, the smallest curl of her lips, and took a step toward the dance floor, he embraced a moment of genuine surprise.

  She fitted into his hold perfectly, although she still seemed cautious of his intentions. Had she heard unfavorable gossip concerning his person? He couldn’t imagine why she’d behave so standoffish. He was an all around easy-going fellow and everyone labeled him such.

  “Now, isn’t this preferable to standing near the wall watching others enjoy the entertainment?”

  Her eyes shot to his as if she was startled he’d read her thoughts so easily.

  “I’m still considering your motives.”

  Jasper chuckled. Damn, the lady behaved curiously.

  “I can’t imagine why. We’re sharing a waltz, just as I proposed.” He felt a shiver coarse through her and unsure of her reaction, he pressed on. “Are you suspicious by nature? Surely I’ve given you no cause.”

  “I’ve only just made your acquaintance. You might be the worst sort of gentleman.”

  Again her words held a weight of censure.

  “That, Miss Shaw, is a huge leap of imagination, I assure you. A rakehell? A rogue? Never have I been viewed as such.” He stifled the grin itching to be freed. “Were I a man of low reputation I might have pulled you against me in unseemly familiarity.” And just to tweak her stern expression, he tightened his hold and moved closer. She smelled delightful, a mixture of rose water and bitter orange, a fitting combination. She angled her chin with his action, but she didn’t object.

  “Nor have I suffered a case of roaming hands, taking advantage of the situation and proximity of your lovely stature.” He slid his left palm lower to stroke his thumb against the row of buttons tracing her spine. She made the smallest sound in the back of her throat; not at all the loud objection she’d voiced on the walkway outside the offices yesterday.

  “A rogue would lean in and whisper intimate endearments against your ear.” He purposely didn’t lean. Not even an inch and by damn, he experienced a surge of victory when she swayed toward him. Jasper refused to accept it was the vertiginous pattern of the waltz that caused her increased nearness. She somehow felt more fluid, pliant and relaxed in his arms; as if with his teasing, he’d melted a layer of her icy veneer. “Had I a devious motive, I might have showered you with compliments, spouting gratuitous prose describing the captivating hue of your eyes, the way your irises sparkle with delight when you deliver a cutting remark, or how the candlelight casts glossy highlights across the ribbons of your hair, the color of warm brandy on a cold night.”

  At last she found her voice.

  “Mr. St. David—” Her tone completed the sentence.

  “I’d prefer Jasper. We’re sharing this dance and let’s not forget our joined place of business.”

  The mention of their offices returned the militant erectility to her posture.

  “Mr. St. David…” She paused as if collecting her thoughts and rearranging her intended reply.

  “I’m relieved to hear you remember my name. Your previous bout with forgetfulness had me wondering if you need come into the office tomorrow and invest in brain massage.”

  The queer expression on her face was worth every ounce of his daring comment.

  “Brain massage. Good heavens, what would that entail?”

  “A curious, yet effective new treatment, I assure you.” They turned at the corner of the dance floor, the violin holding a final note, the waltz at its end. A pang of disappointment lanced his heart. He’d have liked to continue dancing and teasing prickly Miss Shaw.

  Chapter 8

  Emily resisted the urge to sputter a string of expletives. Mr. St. David, Jasper as he’d insisted, had thanked her, excused himself and strolled across the room to his friends. Typical and overbearing, the manner in which he manipulated her during the waltz. She could still feel the pressure of his hand against the small of her back, his warmth imprinted in the fabric. The shiver of delight he evoked when his fingertips traced the row of buttons had made breathing difficult. Still he’d insisted he desired a dance and nothing more. To examine each action seemed an exercise in futility.

  Trapped within the dance frame, she’d had nowhere to look except at his face or else risk he’d believe he’d embarrassed her. She was no one’s coward. So she studied his every feature; the strong angle of his chin, his full lips hesitant to smile despite his clever banter, and green eyes that sparkled, not just from the chandeliers above but as if lit from within. Had he been laughing at her the whole time? Mocking her? She wouldn’t believe it, yet he certainly held the power to charm. No gentleman should be allowed such long dark lashes, most especially when hers were thin and spiky.

  To make the situation worse, Jasper had smelled wonderful, a spicy mixture that lured her forward, the shadowy trace of whiskers along his jaw an invitation to nuzzle closer, nearer his mouth, a sensual temptation that suggested the most magnificent, curious things. What intimate expressions would he have whispered in her ear? Easily led to the bait, Emily wanted to know.

  At the same time her fingers twitched to slap him despite her mind conjured naughty thoughts. Somehow he possessed the ability to evoke her smile when she did her best to present a haughty demeanor. What was it about him? She shook her head hoping to pry the answer loose.

  “I saw you dancing with a handsome gentleman.” Portia squeezed Emily’s upper arm as if to produce an answer faster.

  “Mr. St. David? Do you recall him from yesterday’s quarrel on the sidewalk outside the office? He’s renting the space below us, although I believe he thinks himself quite above.”

  Portia’s gaze lingered on the trio of men across the room and Emily followed her lead. The gentlemen were currently engrossed in a lively conversation, but it was easy to notice St. David cared more about what happened on their side of the drawing room. His eyes flicked across often and then skittered away, as if he didn’t want to get caught. His not-so-subtle deception was rather endearing.

  “His hair looks thick and velvety. I’d like to run my fingers through it just for the sake of the sensation.”

  Emily glanced at Portia as if she’d grown a third arm, the fanciful comment so unlike her usual contemplative conversation.

  Portia screwed her face into a scowl before defending her remark. “It reminds me of Fortescue.”

  “Fortescue is your cat.” Emily’s disbelief transformed to friendly teasing.

  “And the very best of friends. Someday Fortescue will travel the globe safely tucked in a basket at my hip. We shall explore all the world has to offer without the interference of a domineering husband.” Portia finished her little speech with a meaningful eyeball in Norris’ direction.

  “I take it Lord Bandlewit has failed to impress.”

  “I’m sure he amazes many, if you favor the ostensible sort.” Portia’s frown buoyed into a makeshift smile as her mother approached, Norris less than two steps behind. “But I’d rather follow a more innovatory path.”

  Jasper cast a look of regret out the window as his carriage rolled down the cobbles. Randolph had cajoled Penwick into attending a late-night soirée in Mayfair and Jasper, not wishing to be the broken leg in the group, agreed to venture along although he’d have liked to spend more time with Miss Shaw.

  Funny how he hadn’t learned her first name. He’d introduced himself twice. With ease, he recalled the feel of her lush, little body within the circle of his arms, their waltz not nearly long enough. Her delicate fragrance lingered in his memory. Still, he was not fooled. She was a sly opponent in this little game they played. One who’d erected high walls around her person for some unperceivable reason. Good th
ing he was adept at problem solving and inventive solutions.

  By the time the carriage reached his apartments, only rat catchers held possession of the night. The entryway clock read half past three in the soft glow of the moon as he opened the door and climbed the stairs. In no need of a valet, he discarded his waistcoat, loosened his cravat, and lit a fire in the hearth. Walking to the closest window he stared out into the empty night and smiled. Miss Shaw. Her image had stayed with him through Penwick’s company and Randolph’s endless chatter. Tonight his friend had had tongue enough for two sets of teeth. Yet the vivid memory of the lady persisted despite the plethora of night entertainment. Curious female with a beauty beyond compare. He had no wish for romantic entanglements at this stage of life, the success of his business requiring his solitary focus, yet the woman intrigued him more than any newfangled machine or revolutionary sketch offered by the most ingenuous inventors.

  He flicked his gaze to the stars before turning toward bed, wondering all the while who Miss Shaw was dreaming of this evening.

  The earliest rays of morning slanted through the curtains Jasper had neglected to draw the night before, too preoccupied with curiosity and plans. Slitting his eyes, he realized it wasn’t the persistent sunlight suggesting he awaken, but the steady thud of the brass knocker downstairs. Damn, he wasn’t ready to rise. Whoever demanded he do so, best have a good reason.

  Muttering curses, he dressed only in necessities and ventured downstairs, barefooted and ill tempered, stumbling as he reached the bottom step, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. At times like this he wished he’d indulged in a butler.