She would not think of it. She would compose herself and then go in and find Cousin Phoebe to tell her she wanted to leave. She'd done what she'd set out to do. She'd made an appearance in society. Even danced a set.
A dance that has left you shaken.
No, she corrected herself. It wasn't the dance. It was the man himself. She was honest enough to admit that. There was something about him, something that both frightened and exhilarated her. When he touched his palm to hers, she'd found herself thinking more than once that there was more to him than met the eye. It was that which alerted her to danger and that which piqued her curiosity.
She found a bench at the edge of the lawn far away from the ballroom and prying eyes. Spreading her lavender skirts, she sat down upon the stone seat. Coldness seeped through her dress, but it failed to chill her. Warmth from her dance still permeated her blood. Was it because she sensed within him a kindred spirit? Someone who also endured his share of rude and offensive looks? Is that what it was? Truly, she did not know.
"There you are."
And as if she'd conjured him up, the object of her thoughts stood before her. Light from the ballroom shone on the right side of his face, leaving his left in shadow. And though with the scar he looked roguishly handsome, without it he looked devastatingly handsome. The sight took her breath away. Forceful, silver eyes were like enigmatic pools of mercury, his lips a sensuous invitation that smiled down at her invitingly.
"You raced away so quickly, we didn't have time to say good-bye."
And all she did was stare, and with that stare came the oddest emotion. . .almost a desire. But that was ridiculous. She'd only just met the man.
Slowly she stood. Her dress rustled as she did so, dew collecting upon the edge of her gown and moistening her slippers.
"You followed me."
Even in the darkness she could see him lift a wry black brow. "How very astute of you to notice."
And still a part of her liked his dry humor. Liked it very well indeed. "Yes, well, I truly wish you hadn't. Just right now I wish to be left alone."
The brow dropped. "Indeed. Off to lick your wounds, my lady?" He invaded her space, not because he moved toward her, but because of the sensual way he looked at her. Even in darkness she could see his eyes flame. "Or are you afraid of me?" And this time he did lean toward her.
"Why should I be afraid of you?"
He shrugged broad, powerful shoulders. "No reason."
The heat increased. Ah, but she was afraid of him, though she refused to let him see it.
"And I repeat, sir, what concern is it of yours if I run away or not?"
"Because I refuse to let you do so."
"I don't need your permission to stay or go."
"No, but it would be a shame to run away before the game has begun," he said mockingly, his expression one of disappointment.
"What game?" she asked, confusion filling her.
He stared down at her, Ariel growing uncomfortable as she waited for his response. He straightened, a gleam in his eyes sparking, or perhaps it was the moonlight. "I've decided to help you."
"With what?"
"Getting even."
She laughed, she couldn't help it. "I see. And what do you propose to do? Help me put snakes in everyone's bedroom? Perhaps cockroaches in their soup?"
"I would certainly like to join you in a bedroom."
Her pulse leaped. And though she told herself he behaved exactly like Archie had, she still felt that surge of excitement that he would say such a thing to her. Gracious, but it'd been a long time since a man flirted with her. She forced herself to relax her stance, to look up at the stars.
"What are you doing?" he asked, when she said nothing further.
"Looking to see if pigs are flying, for that is about when you will ever find me in a bedroom with you."
He laughed. She liked his laugh. Deep. Masculine. Hearty.
"You have quite a tongue on you, my lady."
"Yes, well, I do try."
"And your words sound very much like a challenge."
For some ridiculous reason she found herself unable to move, even though every nerve screamed run! A man flirting with her could only lead to trouble or even worse, hurt. "Only you would think so."
"I suppose time will tell."
"Yes, tell you that you're wasting your time."
He didn't respond. She found herself oddly disappointed by that.
"But are you not the least bit curious about what I propose?" he said instead.
"No. I am wary of men who come bearing gifts."
"I bring you no gifts but myself."
"Thank you, but someone else offered me a bottle of the plague tonight. I think I shall accept that instead."
He laughed again. Ariel was surprised and alarmed to find herself enjoying their banter.
"You know how to cut a man to the quick, my lady."
"Would that it was your wrists instead."
He clutched at his heart as if wounded. "Ouch."
"Ouch? What happened, sir? Did your ego get too big for your chest? Did it hurt?"
He held up his hands. "Truce. I cry a truce. I cannot take any more of your sallies."
"Good, then perhaps you will leave me alone."
"Not before you answer me. Do you or do you not want my help?"
"With what?" she asked, exasperated.
"Setting society upon its ear."
"Indeed?"
"Indeed."
"And why do you have such a burning desire to wreak havoc upon people you yourself said I had no cause to concern myself with?" she asked.
"Because I find the English stuffy bores. Because if I must stay in England, I should like to amuse myself. Because at this moment you're the best chance I have of that happening."
"Or perhaps because you are trying to seduce me." Perversely enough, she found herself holding her breath as she waited for his response. She could see that she'd shocked him. No, not shocked. Something else. She stretched her senses out, trying to get a feel for what this man might want. But it was a sad truth that sometimes her intuition worked and sometimes not. Heaven knows it'd failed where Archie was concerned.
"My lady, no doubt there is a plethora of women more willing to be seduced by me than you."
"Yes, the kind you have to pay."
He laughed, even as she wondered where the words had come from.
"Exactly," he said.
"I would wager that sort of women is not much of a challenge."
"Are you offering to challenge me?"
"Heavens, no, merely stating a fact."
"I see."
"But you must understand why I find it hard to believe you wish to help me, a complete stranger, out of the goodness of your heart. Let us just say that my experience with men has left me more jaded than that." And it had. No matter that she found herself oddly excited by their impromptu meeting. She was wiser than she'd been in youth, more in control of herself.
"Is it so hard to believe that a man would want to help you out of the kindness of his heart?"
"The men I've known have no heart."
"Perhaps I'm not like other men."
She doubted it. All men were alike.
"Perhaps you should take a chance that I'm sincerely trying to befriend you." He took a step toward her. She held her ground, though she felt her body spring alive at his nearness.
Danger.
"Perhaps you should know that I would consider it a mistake for you go scurrying back to the country, content to let society rule your actions for the rest of your days."
She lifted her chin. His silver eyes glittered in the moonlight.
"And perhaps you should know that I consider half the people in that ballroom hypocrites of the first order. That they malign you when they themselves have no honor is the biggest hypocrisy I've seen since coming to London."
He leaned toward her. "Don't let them win, my lady. If you do, you will be fending off indecent offers fro
m men for the rest of your life."
She felt her breath quicken as she stared up at his handsome face, knowing he was right. Though he hadn't looked at her indecently this night, others had. Those men considered her fair game because of her ruination. She hated them for that.
He waited for her to say something, she realized, grimly holding her tongue. But he could go to the devil for all she cared, he and his silly, ridiculous observations.
"Or is that what you want?" he asked.
Still she held her tongue, though she knew doing so provoked him, perhaps to the point that he'd do something rash.
Like what? asked a voice.
Like kiss me.
"No," she answered.
"No, my lady?" he said, thinking she meant no to his question, not to her ridiculous thought that he might kiss her. "That I wonder." He took another step toward her. And now she could feel the heat radiate off his body like warmth off lantern glass. His smell, too, permeated her senses. A scent that was all maleness and uniquely his. She retreated a step. The back of her legs came in contact with the bench.
"That is a pretty ring," she commented, trying to distract him, grasping at anything that came to mind to do so.
"Is it?" he asked, still advancing.
"Yes. . .ah. . .what kind of stone is it?" she croaked. Gracious, but he still came at her.
"A serpentine."
"Oh." How appropriate. A serpentine for a man who moved like a serpent. "I've never seen one before."
He didn't answer, just closed the distance between them. All thoughts of his ring vanished. "What are you doing?" she asked, and she hated that her voice sounded breathless.
"I'm going to test the waters."
Test the wat—
"Oh, no," she said, instantly gleaning his meaning. She tried to duck around him, but he moved faster. Masculine arms pulled her against him, a gasp of protest turning into a moan of "Nooo" as he lowered his head.
"Yes," she heard him answer, and then she felt the warm pressure of his lips against her own. She stood there, stunned, as myriad sensations flooded her senses: Fear. Shock. And a sweet desire that startled her with its intensity.
And then it was over. He released her. Stepping back almost as if their kiss had jolted him, too.
"Is that what you want, Lady D'Archer—stolen kisses pilfered in a garden? For if that is the life you envision for yourself, then go. But I warn you, if you give in to your cowardly urge to retreat, you will regret it for the rest of your days."
Turning on his heel, he left. She watched his dark form get swallowed up by the darkness, broad shoulders stiff with disapproval.
Or disappointment?
Or was she disappointed? Gracious heavens, she didn't know. Nor did she care to analyze why her shoulders slumped as he walked away. Why her lips felt burned. Or her legs felt as weak as cook's favorite noodle.
She sank to the bench, her hand covering her erratically beating heart. And as his footsteps receded she found herself thinking that he was right. Men would forever treat her as he had. Worse, she wondered if all of them would make her heart race as he had.
He shouldn't have kissed her, Nathan thought, as he rode home in his uncle's elegant ducal carriage. Damn, but he shouldn't have done it.
And just why had he done it? he asked himself, swiping a hand over the left side of his face. He could feel the ridge of the scar tissue there, a memento of why he should never desire or trust a beautiful woman again. Besides, women such as she found his disfigured face interesting for only so long before they went on their way. 'Twas a bitter irony, really, for it was a woman who had shot him and caused the disfigurement. But he would not think of the woman who'd betrayed him. The lying, treacherous whore was no longer his concern. Lady Ariel D'Archer was.
Damn, but he couldn't stop thinking of her. Those lips enticed him. He felt a need such as he'd never known, which made his anger surge to the point that kissing her had seemed reasonable at the time.
Reasonable!
Bloody hell.
The coach swayed upon its springs as he settled back angrily into the plush, red velvet squabs, the luxury that surrounded him completely ignored. Fury at himself had him clenching his fists. He would not make such a mistake again—if she ever let him near her.
Damnation. She must.
Yet as he stared out at the dark London streets, he found himself thinking not of how to rectify his failure but of her. Of those wonderful, seductive lips. And of her eyes—gold and brilliant and fringed with dark lashes. Those eyes dominated her face. She reminded him of an exotic dancer he'd once seen. Stunning. Elusive. Not for him.
No, not for him. Not ever. He meant to use her and then discard her, just as she would no doubt use him if given the chance.
Jerking angrily, he opened the compartment concealed in a panel of the carriage. A crystal decanter sat next to a matching crystal glass. He lifted the brandy out, poured himself a drink, then tossed it down. The liquor burned a path to his stomach. He welcomed it.
Wess, I will not fail again. I promise you I will do whatever it takes to find you.
And that included befriending Lady Ariel D'Archer, daughter of the First Lord, and a man who refused to help him find his brother, Wess Trevain—Wess, who'd been impressed off the deck of his American ship. Wess, who seemed to have disappeared without a trace. But there would be a record of him somewhere. And he knew Lord Bettencourt had that information. Bettencourt merely withheld it because of Nathan's past. Never mind that the war had been over these past six months. His lordship still held a grudge. But what his lordship didn't know was that Nathan Trevain, heir to the duke of Davenport, was also one of the American colonies' most famous spies: Helios. Nor did Bettencourt know that he went by the last name of Mills in the colonies as a safeguard to protect him against exactly that which had happened, being forced to fight with the British against his fellow colonists. No, only few knew of his connection to the duke, and it would stay that way.
Unless Lady D'Archer proved useless for helping him to infiltrate her father's house.
Then all would be revealed. It would be his turn to use a British woman to his advantage, as they had tried to use one to their advantage. Only he didn't plan on killing Lady D'Archer, as that British wench had planned to kill him. He rubbed the scar again. No, he would kidnap her, if need be, but he'd not kill her.
Yet somehow he must recover from today's debacle. He would need to gain Lady D'Archer's trust, then be given access to her house. His overwhelming goal was to find out what lay in the room he'd discovered when he'd broken into the house. The room had no windows; it had a door thicker than any he'd ever seen. What he sought must be in there. He knew it. And if he could get close enough to her to enlist her help. . .
The carriage came to a halt. One of his uncle's staff opened the door practically the moment the vehicle stopped. Nathan hardly noticed. Nor did he notice the front door being held open for him, despite the lateness of the hour. Nor the footman who stood waiting for his coat. He shrugged out of it, wanting only to retire to the study and think. He loosened his cravat along the way.
"The duke wishes to see you in the morning, sir."
A lifted hand was all he used to acknowledge the request, the ring her ladyship had commented upon sparking in the light. A serpentine, he'd told her, not the true name of the stone. And really, the gem could pass for a serpentine with its green background. Only a close observer would note the red flecks that made it a bloodstone. But the stone's true name would remain his secret, along with its hidden meaning.
A footman raced forward to open the study door. He walked right by the three-hundred-year-old vase that sat upon a pedestal to his right, nearly tipped over the two-hundred-year-old hunter-green armchair in his haste to pull it out. Next he rested his feet upon an Elizabethan footrest, slipping his buckled shoes off as he did so, putting his feet near the fire.
"Can I get you anything, sir?"
He didn't even look up as h
e replied, "No."
"If we need anything, we shall ring."
Nathan sat up abruptly, his head turning toward the door.
"Yes, your grace," the servant responded.
He was in time to see the servant bow out of the room. His uncle stood there, a man who looked so much like Nathan's deceased father that he swallowed back a surge of bitterness. Miles Trevain, duke of Davenport, had gray hair even when not capped by a wig. But whereas Nathan's father had been lean and trim, his uncle had a paunch nearing King George's proportions. Still, the shape of the face was the same. Gray eyes, square jaw, high cheekbones that looked prominent despite the layer of fat and the deepness of his wrinkles.
"You're home early, I see."
Nathan nodded.
"No young ladies there to hold your interest?"
Nathan held back a sigh. Since his reunion with his uncle, the man had plagued him incessantly about settling down and producing an heir. He seemed not to notice that most young ladies were either repelled or frightened by his face. Nathan had, but it worked to his advantage, for he had no intention of ever settling down or even staying in England. No, if he needed to dally with a woman, there were those who were intrigued by his scar, those who would suffer his presence for a night, if only out of curiosity. A one-night affair would suit him well, especially if this ridiculous attraction he felt for her ladyship didn't wane.
"None?" the duke asked again, pulling a chair out to sit opposite him.
"Actually," Nathan offered. "I did meet someone tonight."
He saw the hopeful look in his uncle's eyes and for a brief moment felt guilty about his deceit, but then he reminded himself of all the man had put his father through. It was because of the duke that William Trevain had left England, forced to do so by his very own brother. Not a word of communication had ever been exchanged between the two since the break, not a single word, until Nathan had received a letter six months previously asking for a meeting. The duke hadn't even known his brother had died in the war or that his nephew was disfigured. And the reason for his wish to make amends? Two marriages and not a child from either of them. The duke needed an heir, disfigured or no, and Nathan was only too willing to play the part—for now.
Enchanted by Your Kisses Page 3
