“You now know otherwise. Shall I get you some ratafia?”
Ugh. Now he was all but relegating her to the schoolroom. She tossed her head. “No, thank you, my lord.” So much for the prospect of kisses and passion. They had been making such progress, and now he considered her untrustworthy. She bit her lip so it wouldn’t tremble. “As a matter of fact, the only thing I asked him was whether most men have mistresses.”
Now he looked like a thundercloud. “I already told you that I do not.”
Oh, no! Now he would think she had asked Colin for confirmation. “It was nothing to do with you!” She fumbled to explain, to show that she trusted him. “It was—it was because Lavinia told me her mother says all men have them. But Lady Eudora is horrible, and I don’t believe the half of what she says . . .”
His expression grew grimmer, if that were possible. Her temper flared, and she glared right back at him, hating the way her voice shook. “You’re as bad as my grandmother, all stodgy and proper, finding fault with every single thing I do.”
Miles glanced to the side, and she realized the corridor wasn’t deserted anymore. Two well-known gossips were headed their way. “We are observed,” Miles said, his voice low and harsh in her ear. “Shall we continue the charade of love, or have you had enough of play-acting?”
At this moment, she was close to loathing him, but she would not let the gossips prevail. She grimaced up at him with a travesty of a smile. “I’m frightfully weary, but let’s dance once more, darling, before we go home.”
His nostrils twitched with disgust, but he tucked her arm in his and they headed toward the ballroom. “One more dance then, my love.”
He’d blundered again. The misery in her eyes filled him with regret. She meant well, and she had every right to know the truth about his past, but she wouldn’t understand. She would misjudge him as most everyone else had. Perhaps when they knew each other better, when he’d fostered Rebecca out so her presence wouldn’t drive a wedge between them, he would find the courage to explain.
For the moment, he had to mend his fences as best he could. The instant they were out of earshot of the gossips, he said, “I apologize, Melinda. I wasn’t finding fault with you, and I’m glad you don’t tend to believe Lady Eudora, because anything she says about me will be brimful of lies.”
She took a deep, quivery breath, and her hand, which so far had rested limply on his arm, tightened a little. “I’m sorry I took so long in the retiring room.”
“It’s no matter,” Miles said, which was entirely untrue.
If she was out of his sight more than two minutes, he began to worry about with whom she might be speaking, whether it be a woman who told her lies or a man who desired her. He would have gone looking for her earlier, except that he’d been talking to Colin. He had too much pride to give his cousin any more reason to call him a jealous fool. If this marriage proved a disaster, at least Colin might still respect him, might remain his friend.
Which led to the unpleasant truth that if Miles hadn’t left said cousin two minutes earlier, he would have wondered how long Melinda had been with him. So much for his determination to trust Colin.
Enough, he told himself.
From now on, Miles decided, no more worry, no more jealousy. She was his wife. She had made a vow and would keep it, as he would his.
Done, he told himself, mentally brushing the destructive emotions away. He would prove himself a kind and tender husband, not a jealous one. “I’m sorry I misjudged you.” He made a point of not asking what she’d been doing all that time.
And was immediately rewarded with an explanation. “I found Lavinia there, weeping. I had to stay to comfort her.”
“Of course,” he said, overwhelmed by the grace and scent of her. Gad, she was beautiful. His longing for her had become almost painful.
“Lavinia doesn’t want to marry Lord Andrews,” Melinda said. “She doesn’t like him. She says—” She stopped, coloring up.
He could not have cared less about Lavinia, but Melinda’s blush intrigued him. He halted before they reached the ballroom, desperate not to lose this moment. “What?”
She went up on tiptoe and said in his ear, “That he’s a sloppy kisser.”
Her voice, her soft breath, sent a frisson down his spine. “How dreadful.”
“It is dreadful,” she said. “Imagine having to face sloppy kisses every day of one’s life.”
“I shan’t waste my imagination on anything so tedious,” he said, his eyes on her mouth, his cock stirring.
“Kisses are important,” she said, blushing even more. She licked her lips.
“What could I possibly want with any other woman,” he said, “when I have you?”
Desire coursed through her in such a powerful wave that she stumbled and almost tripped. “Steady now, sweetheart,” he said. His eyes travelled leisurely down her body and back up again, no longer cold.
Heat swarmed up her. He leaned close. “Do you have any idea how desirable you are?” His voice, soft and low and not soothing at all, sent quivers through her. “How much I want to peel your bodice down and kiss your breasts?”
They had flirted in the coach; flirted while they danced. This went beyond flirtation to blatant seduction. “You mustn’t talk like that here!” she hissed, glancing up and down the corridor.
“Earlier, you wanted to know my thoughts. Here I am, telling you exactly what’s going on in my mind…”
“Stop it!” she said, laughing in spite of herself.
“Let’s go where we can say what we wish.” He took her hand and she followed him, willy-nilly, through a set of double doors onto a terrace with statues and a few desultory lamps.
He pulled her behind a statue and drew her into his arms. Gently, ever so gently, his lips brushed hers, and then withdrew.
She let out a tiny sound of longing. She wanted more.
“How important are kisses?” he whispered into her mouth.
Frighteningly so. “Too important.” She wound her arms around his neck. She closed her eyes and leaned toward him. “Kiss me. Please.”
His lips caressed hers. His tongue slipped between her lips, and talking became kissing, and kissing became tasting and exploring. She sank against him, utterly swept away.
He broke the kiss again. “So much passion,” he said. “You’re like a bud waiting to burst into lush, vibrant life.”
She’d never felt so alive. Her whole being pulsed with awareness of the heat of his body so close to hers, of their quickened breathing. Of his hands resting on her hips and squeezing gently. He pressed his lips to her forehead, her temple, trailed to her ear.
He kissed her again, and she opened her mouth beneath his, drowning in the pleasure of it, unable to draw away…until she felt his member swell against her. Felt it even through her gown. She gasped, but he was already letting her go.
“Feel how much I want you?”
She nodded, quivering, astonished at how much the touch of his member excited her. At how much she wanted him, too.
His voice softened and soothed. “Did I frighten you?”
“No,” she said, not afraid but breathless and—and her heart was taking its time slowing down. “I just wish I knew more about what to expect.” She paused. “Although I’m sure Lady Eudora is wrong.”
“I’ve disarranged your hair,” he said, tidying it with surprisingly nimble fingers. “Wrong about what?”
“According to Lavinia, that one must simply lie still and put up with it.”
He broke into laughter. Preferably, then, one didn’t lie still. “I’m sure Adriana enjoys bedding Edward,” Melinda said, but the more she thought about it, the less she wanted to ask another woman what to expect.
A brilliant idea washed over her and lit up the night. “I know
what to do!”
“What?” He pulled open one of the double doors to the ballroom.
“I want you to tell me about lovemaking,” she said.
Chapter 9
Christ Almighty. He’d already fought his erection into submission once. Now he would have to do it again. He wondered how the devil he would last one more torturous day.
How strange and disconcerting that in a short space of time he’d gone from relative disinterest in women—he hadn’t had a mistress in a while—to hungering fiercely for this one. He shut the ballroom door again, leaned against the terrace wall and let out a long whistle.
“What’s wrong?”
“Merely that I need time to compose myself before going indoors.”
“I’m sorry if I shouldn’t ask it of you.” Melinda peered up at him in the near darkness. “But I thought it might be rather fun.”
Jesus. “Fun. Oh, yes, Melinda. So much fun that my desire for you is a trifle too evident at the moment.”
Her eyes flickered to his privates.
“Yes, what a pity it’s rather dark, or you would see clearly what I mean.”
She sucked in a breath. “Will it take long to, er, compose yourself?”
“That depends. Maybe if we talk about something entirely tedious . . . such as your vapid friend, Miss Darwin.”
“She’s not vapid,” Melinda said. “She’s timid and easily led, which makes it all the more important for her to marry an honorable man. I told her she must tell her mother she doesn’t want to marry Lord Andrews. That she wants to marry Mr. Fellowes instead.”
“Good God. Not again.”
“He is perfect for her. He’s good and kind, and he’ll take care of her. I just wish he had more money, because her mother and guardian are certain to say no. I don’t think he can afford another elopement.” She blinked at him in the uncertain light. “Perhaps if you let him use your coach again, he could manage it.”
“No,” Miles said. “He won’t get any help from me.”
“Why not? I thought you were his friend! You helped him before.”
“I am his friend—so much so that if I’d known more about Miss Darwin, I wouldn’t have helped in the first place.” This wasn’t entirely true, and he knew it.
To his shame, he hadn’t been thinking much about Fellowes’s welfare, but rather of getting back at Lady Eudora for making up her own version of what had happened between him and Desiree. It was no surprise that people still believed her version over his; even though Lady Eudora had married beneath her, she was the daughter of a well-respected earl, whilst Miles came of a family of degenerates.
“Now that I know Lavinia is a poor choice of wife,” he said, “I can’t reconcile it with my conscience to support him again.”
This wasn’t entirely true, either. If Lady Eudora found out that Melinda or Miles had helped Lavinia to elope, she would spread any vicious story she could dream up, and their acceptance in society would be in jeopardy again. Their sacrifices—Melinda’s to a loveless marriage and his to marriage itself—would be for nothing.
Except that he was finding, to his astonishment, that he enjoyed being married to Melinda, apart from the annoying fact that he couldn’t bear to let her out of his sight for worrying if she was with some other man.
No. He’d already decided to do away with jealousy. To stomp on that emotion every time it surfaced. But what if she met someone else now and fell madly in love?
He had to make her fall in love with him first, which bordered on absurd, seeing as he didn’t believe love even existed. But women tended to equate enjoyable bedding with love, so he would make sure she experienced a great deal of pleasure with him.
“Humph,” she said. “I suppose you have a right to your own conscience.”
“Thank you so kindly,” he said, realizing belatedly that he was resorting to sarcasm again, which she had interpreted rightly before.
In this case, it made no sense. His concern for their reputations aside, he felt no obligation to help Fellowes to a miserable marriage with a fickle woman. He’d come too close to one of those himself.
“I wonder if he could earn money using his artistic ability,” Melinda said. “He could give drawing lessons or paint portraits . . .” Her voice trailed away.
By this time, Miles’s erection had subsided completely. He’d also had enough of his first ball in six years. “Shall we go home?”
“Very well, but I must talk to Mr. Fellowes first.”
Damn it all. “Why?” demanded Miles.
“Because I promised Lavinia I would tell him she wants him back,” Melinda said, and held her breath. Surely he wouldn’t expect her to break her promise to Lavinia, after his pronouncement about not making promises she couldn’t keep.
“If you must,” Miles said, his disapproval clear.
Melinda couldn’t let that get in the way of Lavinia’s welfare, any more than she could let Lady Eudora’s spiteful gossip affect her feelings about Miles.
She couldn’t imagine him abandoning anyone; however, there wasn’t the slightest doubt that he was a competent seducer. Her nerves were still on fire, tingling from his kisses. Just thinking of them set her heart beating and her skin flushing . . . She put her hands to her hot cheeks. She mustn’t think of such things here and now; her arousal must be written on her face!
She spied Mr. Fellowes on the far side of the ballroom, sketchbook in hand. “There he is.”
“Very well,” Miles said, but instead of letting her go as she’d expected, he kept her arm tucked in his. How inconvenient; she rather hoped to discuss the possibility of another elopement, which she couldn’t do with Miles stern and disapproving by her side.
They reached Mr. Fellowes. “What are you drawing now?” she asked.
“Persephone and Hades.” He showed them a sketch which in dark, lurid detail portrayed the capture of Persephone by the lord of the underworld. Predictably, Hades was Lord Andrews, while Persephone looked a lot like Lavinia.
Miles snorted. Mr. Fellowes glowered at him and flipped a page. “And Daphne and Apollo.” There was the anguished Daphne turning into a tree right before Apollo’s lovelorn eyes. The god looked a little like Mr. Fellowes, whilst Lavinia was now in the role of Daphne.
“Good Lord,” Miles muttered under his breath. “When did you acquire a taste for bad drama?”
“He’s expressing his feelings,” Melinda said and poked a finger at the sketch. “The first one was horrid but good, but this one is all wrong.”
“No, it isn’t.” Mr. Fellowes prided himself on his intimate knowledge of the classics.
“Yes, it is. Lord Andrews should be Apollo as well as Hades, because Lavinia wants to escape him.”
He blinked. “Since when?”
“I found her in the ladies’ retiring room, crying her eyes out because she doesn’t like Lord Andrews, and meanwhile you won’t talk to her.”
“You’re damned right I won’t. I beg your pardon—bad language. She’s fickle.”
“Precisely,” Miles said. “As we already knew.”
“She is not fickle,” Melinda retorted. “She used to have a tendre for Lord Andrews, but she has grown up a lot since last year.” At least, Melinda hoped so, but sometimes a little embroidery of the truth was needed. “She is older and wiser now, and she likes you far better, but her mother forced her to reconsider Lord Andrews.” She frowned at Mr. Fellowes. “I thought you loved her!”
“I do, but what good does that do me?” Mr. Fellowes began to sound annoyed, while Miles stood to one side, arms crossed, the picture of bored impatience.
Melinda put her hands on her hips. “You have a bad attitude, Mr. Fellowes. As long as you believe Lavinia is unattainable, she will be. Instead of moping about making sketches of tragic sto
ries, you should do something useful.”
“Such as what?
“Such as making an offer for her yourself.”
“That dragon will never let me marry her,” Mr. Fellowes protested. “That’s why we were planning to elope.”
“I know, but perhaps once she has refused Lord Andrews it will be different.” She glared at him. “If you don’t try, how can you expect to succeed?”
“I don’t expect to succeed,” he said, snapping the sketchbook shut. “Now if you’ll excuse me, this subject is far too painful for me to discuss.”
To Kiss a Rake (Scandalous Kisses) Page 14
