“Why, you heartless, contemptuous—”
“Careful, my dear,” he whispered smugly, “someone might overhear you. And what would they think?”
“That you’re rude and unconscionably bad-mannered!”
“Or that you’ve drunk too much wine, which is why you’re allowing me such liberties. Or that you’re eager to take the place of my supposed mistress. Or any number of unsavory assumptions based on nothing more than my holding you too closely.”
Drat him for being the most logical, devious creature in breeches! “All right,” she grumbled after they’d taken another turn. “You’ve made your point. Now let me go!”
“Oh, I haven’t even begun to make my point,” he murmured in a voice as silky as it was menacing.
Her thundering heart drowned out the ebbing music. He held her trapped in his arms more effectively than any truss. To escape him, she’d have to make a scene that half the ballroom would notice, which would only prove his point. Yes, he would enjoy watching her embarrass herself before so many important people, wouldn’t he?
And what did he mean, I haven’t even begun to make my point? With the next turn, they reached the edge of the crowd, and suddenly she knew. Panic ripped through her as she realized they danced toward the closed French doors leading onto the balcony.
“No,” she whispered, vainly trying to halt their forward movement. But she might as well have been pushing against a mill wheel. Like the mighty river that powered it, he moved inexorably, taking her with him, willing or no.
Two more deft turns, and they were at the doors. He released her hand only long enough to open one.
“I won’t go out there with you alone!” she hissed, but he shoved her through the door and onto the balcony as if she were no more than a rag doll.
Yanking her hand free, she whirled and headed back toward the ballroom. With alarming speed, he stepped between her and escape, shutting the glass door with a click.
Her breath came in puffs of frost, and she shivered. “You can’t mean to keep me out here. It’s freezing, for God’s sake.”
“Take my coat—” he began as he reached for the buttons.
“Don’t you dare!” That was the last thing she wanted, the Viscount St. Clair disrobing in such a private setting.
His unrepentant grin reminded her of her brothers when they were up to mischief. “I’m merely trying to be a gentleman.”
“And failing miserably.” She tried to peer over his shoulder into the ballroom to see if anyone had noticed their retreat, but his great height blocked her view. Then she cast a furtive glance around the balcony. Thankfully they were alone. “All right, you have me out here. What do you want from me?”
“That’s simple: I want you to see what it’s like to have your pristine reputation soiled by the unjust ‘speculations’ of gossiping females.” His grin faded abruptly. “Turnabout is fair play, Felicity.”
Why, of all the shameless, obnoxious—“Fair? You don’t know the meaning of the word! My pristine reputation was achieved by pristine living, and I’m sure you can’t say the same for yourself! If you don’t like your reputation, don’t blame me! I was not the one who made it so, you…you philandering oaf!”
He advanced on her, his jaw tightening dangerously. “Yes, that’s me. A ne’er-do-well who doesn’t deserve to marry any decent woman. A man whom no woman in her right mind would trust.” He caught her around the waist, tugging her into a close embrace. Sarcasm heavily laced his voice. “So why should I behave or treat you differently than the thousands of women I’ve debauched!”
“Why, you cursed—”
He gave her no chance to finish the insult. His mouth came down hard on hers.
It shocked her so utterly that for a moment she did nothing. It had been ages since a man had forced a kiss on her—when one of Papa’s patrons had done so.
That had been awful, however. This was not.
It commanded where the other had blustered, enticed where the other had revolted. Although he took complete charge of her person and showed no concern for propriety, she wasn’t disgusted. On the contrary, his kiss stirred strange feelings in her belly…and lower. The intimacy curled her toes and dissolved her insides into a puddle, which had certainly never happened with any other man. And to her horror, when he released her and stepped back, she felt an instant of disappointment.
A blush heated her cheeks, angering her. She never blushed, for almost nothing embarrassed her. And to think that this dratted viscount could make her do so…
“I see I’ve rendered you speechless.” His eyes smoldered as they passed over her face to fasten on her still-burning lips. “I didn’t think that possible.”
She ignored the insult. “Is this how you cow all your enemies?”
“Only the pretty ones.” He arched an eyebrow. “And you don’t look particularly cowed. I must be slipping.”
Desperate to hide her bewildering reaction to his assault, she retorted, “It would take a great deal more than a rude kiss to cow me.”
“Would it really?” A devilish smile touched his lips as he once more clasped her waist. When she arched away, he caught her jaw between his thumb and forefinger to hold it still. “Then I’m certainly willing to oblige.”
She stiffened, prepared to resist this time. But he took her by surprise. His mouth barely brushed hers, a gossamer touch that roused gooseflesh on her arms. Playfully, seductively, he toyed with her lips, the kiss as tempting as sweets to a starving child.
Until now, she hadn’t known how starving she was. But his mouth feeding on hers made hunger knot inside her belly, hunger for the unknown, the exotic. Then he slanted his lips over hers more firmly, and her world tilted. His fingers traced the line of her jaw in a whispery stroke that left her skin heated and tingling.
Pressing his thumb down on her chin, he opened her mouth beneath his, then plunged his tongue inside. The sudden intimacy made her stiffen, but he gentled her with his hand—fondled her neck…the base of her throat where her pulse beat erratically…her bared shoulder. When she relaxed beneath his touch, he deepened the kiss, exploring her mouth as if it were a succulent peach he wished to savor. With each foray of his tongue, he tasted and caressed her so intriguingly she thought it might drive her mad.
She hadn’t expected this disarming sweetness. Men of his sort didn’t treat women with such consideration, did they?
Resisting its pull was beyond her. She’d never known desire could be this intense…this sweeping a madness. She clasped his coat lapels and hung on for dear life, crushing the superfine in her fists. She didn’t know when she closed her eyes and surrendered herself to the heady richness of his mouth exploring hers, but it didn’t matter. Forbidden liquor pooled in her belly, hot and luscious and irresistible.
Some instinct made her slip her tongue tentatively into his mouth. With a groan, he dragged her flush against him, his lips crushing hers. The tenor of his kiss altered instantly to the raw energy of possession. His wretched control had vanished—she felt it in her blood, which thrummed and sang beneath the wild passion of his kiss.
Exquisite pleasures danced from her reeling head down to the tips of her frozen toes. She felt engulfed by his heat, by the urgency of his need, by the sheer size of his large frame. Yet strangely she felt no fear—nor any desire to stop him. She would never have allowed the cold, calculating viscount to touch her like this, but this warm-blooded man with his large hands playing over her ribs, her waist, her hips…He swept his tongue through her mouth as if he owned her, and eagerly she handed herself over to him.
The sudden sound of voices intruded on her senses, shattering her dazed enjoyment and reminding her why she mustn’t do this. Not here, at least. She tore her lips from his. “Lord St. Clair—”
“Ian,” he commanded, hot need in his gaze.
“Ian, someone’s coming,” she warned.
“Let them.” She tried to twist away, but he caught her face between his hands, kissing her a
gain with such force she almost forgot what she’d been protesting. But when she heard a gasp behind them, she roused herself and shoved him hard.
His grip on her went slack. For a long moment, his gaze locked with hers, eyes glittering hungrily in the darkness. Then his expression grew shuttered and his rapid breathing slowed. He glanced behind her at whoever had caught them.
And a self-satisfied smile spread over his face.
The heat of desire drained out of her at once. Oh, good Lord. She’d been wrong, horribly wrong. His kiss had only been a stratagem. Expert philanderer that he was, he’d made her believe it was more, made her believe he was as wrapped in the spell as she. And all the time, he’d been using seduction to lull her into embarrassing herself publicly!
Shame spread through her, rapidly replaced by fury. The unconscionable wretch! She slapped him, the crack of her hand on his cheek sounding loudly on the balcony. But it didn’t wipe the gloating expression from his face.
To think that she’d fallen into his trap—and even enjoyed it! She braced herself and turned to meet their audience.
There stood their hostess, Sara. And with her was the Galleon of Gossip, Lady Brumley herself. Curse him to hell for this!
Trying not to look like a woman who’d wantonly been welcoming a rake’s kisses, Felicity forced an expression of surprise to her face, as if she hadn’t realized they’d been standing there. “Oh, I beg your pardon. Lord St. Clair and I were having a discussion.”
“I see that.” Lady Brumley smiled like a cat who’d fallen into the cream pot.
“And if you’ll excuse us, we wish to continue it,” Ian said behind her. “Privately.”
His bland tone rubbed salt in the wound. She’d thought he felt passion because he’d made her feel something. How could she have been so stupid!
“We wish nothing of the sort,” she said with vehemence. “Apparently his lordship doesn’t understand the word ‘no.’” Forcing herself to face him, she added, “Good night, Lord St. Clair. I suggest you keep your hands to yourself in the future.” It was an ineffectual attempt to undo the damage, and she knew it.
“I will if you will,” he mocked, eyes gleaming with triumph.
Pulling together the shredded rags of her self-respect, she fled through the glass doors into the ballroom.
There were people everywhere, and it felt as if they all watched her. Oh, if only the marble floor would open up and swallow her whole! Keeping her eyes averted, she hurried through the ballroom. Her body trembled, and tears stung her eyes.
Fool! she chastised herself. Idiot! Ninny! How could she—who knew what sort of man he was—have allowed him to kiss her like that? She wished she could say he’d forced it on her, but she knew better. He’d only needed to caress her to have her swooning in his arms like a foolish schoolgirl.
Long ago, she’d resigned herself to never experiencing passion. The likelihood that she would marry was small, and she’d balked at the thought of indulging her urges any other way. But she’d still had them, those aching feelings deep in her belly, especially when she looked at the sultan painting or saw adoring couples. She’d been primed for Ian’s advances long before she’d met him.
Drat him for guessing her weakness so easily!
Mortification dogged her as she threaded her way through the dancing couples. She’d played right into his hands. He’d heard Lady Brumley and Sara approaching, yet he’d deliberately continued to kiss her so he could have his revenge and “soil” her “pristine reputation.” He’d no doubt reveled in her silly acquiescence, congratulating himself on making her accept his touch, nay, welcome it!
More tears stung her eyes, and she forced them back, drawing on her anger to keep from dissolving into weeping as she escaped the ballroom’s prying eyes. The scoundrel! So he wanted to ruin her reputation, did he? Well, he’d gone too far. Two could play that game! She would make that arrogant, unfeeling viscount pay for his presumption and his dratted tactics; make him regret he’d ever set foot inside the Taylor home.
Ooh, just wait until she wrote her next column!
Chapter 7
Last week a well-known heir to an earldom was seen with a respectable but penniless young woman in Lady Bellingham’s orchard. The heir’s father insists that his son intends only friendship. Judging from the son’s behavior, however, the father’s statement may be grounded in wishful thinking rather than fact.
LORD X, THE EVENING GAZETTE,
DECEMBER 10, 1820
Thunderclouds formed ugly gray bruises across the dawn sky when Ian strode toward the Worthing dining room the morning after the ball. He’d abandoned all thought of sleep hours ago, and now hoped to breakfast alone. Surely no one would be about at this hour, even on a Sunday when the family could be expected to attend services.
But luck wasn’t with him. He halted in the dining room entrance, suppressing a groan when he saw Sara glance at him from the far end of the amply laden table. Bloody hell, he should have known better. Of all the people who must be up, it would be her. And now she would attempt a discussion of last night’s little scene on the balcony.
Last night’s disturbing, inexplicable scene.
“Good morning,” she said tersely. “You’re quite the early riser, aren’t you?”
He chose a seat far enough away to discourage intimacy, but close enough not to appear boorish. “I could say the same about you.” The servant scurried to place a boiled egg before him, and Ian served himself some toast from a platter on the table.
Sara flicked her hand dismissively. “I can never sleep when guests are in the house. I’m always worried about making them comfortable.”
He grunted a response.
That didn’t daunt her. “You’d be surprised how many people are around at this time of the morning.” She pushed a sausage about on her plate with her fork. “Miss Taylor, for example, was up quite early.”
He refused to discuss Felicity with Sara. “Is there any coffee?”
“Certainly.” Sara motioned to the servant, who was already rounding the table with a pitcher. Watching Ian closely, Sara added, “She was up and off over an hour ago.”
“Who?” he said, feigning distraction.
“Miss Taylor, of course.”
“Of course,” he repeated dryly. Had he finally succeeded in driving the woman off? The thought didn’t sit well with him. “I suppose she had to leave early to reach home before the weather worsened. It looks as if we’re in for a devilish day.”
“Home? No, she didn’t go home. She merely went into Pickering for a while.”
He ignored the sudden increase of his pulse. Of course Felicity hadn’t run off. She never behaved like other women.
Last night, for example. He’d kissed her to make a point, fully expecting her to react in outrage, horror, even disgust, given her ideas about “philandering.” Instead she’d blinked and gaped at him, looking for all the devil like she’d never been properly kissed.
So what the bloody hell was he supposed to do when a lively, gorgeous creature gazed at him, her lips parted in invitation and her breath a medley of soft, urgent gasps? Ignore it? God Himself couldn’t have stopped him from kissing her just then. His second kiss had definitely not been to make a point. Unless the point was that he wanted her. Fiercely. Intensely.
And she’d wanted him, too, no matter what she said later. She’d met his kiss with utter compliance: her curving body fluid in his arms…her mouth sweet-scented and yielding…her pert breasts crushed against his chest—
Damn it, memories like these had kept him up half the night. He might have won their skirmish and tarnished her reputation, but thanks to that kiss, the rest of his evening had been one long parade of remembered images and sensations—of verdant eyes shadowed by night, lips pliant beneath his, a waist he could span with his hands, the rustle of satin as she’d let him fold her in his arms.
And her tart comment afterward hadn’t left him, either—Apparently his lordship doesn’t underst
and the word “no.” Impudent witch. She’d been just as impudent in his dreams after he’d finally fallen asleep. Oh, God, yes—impudent and eager, lying in his bed with her masses of coffee-hued hair tumbled out over the sheets and her body stripped of satin and lace. First she’d taunted him with that bold mouth of hers. Then she’d put it to better use against his lips, his chest…all over his randy body.
He groaned. It had seemed so real, he’d awakened as hard as the house’s stone pillars. The woman was a walking invitation to seduction, damn her, and now all he wanted was a chance to bare her body for his eyes and lips and hands.
The hands he now clenched into fists. God, how he desired her. He wanted her begging for his kisses. He wanted her lying beneath him and writhing in pleasure. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d wanted a woman so much. Not even his triumph at giving her a taste of her own medicine could banish that.
“I’m worried about Miss Taylor,” Sara continued, sipping her tea as if the topic of conversation were only of passing interest. “She should have returned by now. She said she was merely going into town to post a letter, but she went by horseback some time ago, and if she stays out much longer, she may find herself caught in the rain.”
An image of Felicity soaked to the skin, wet muslin clinging to every curve, leapt into his mind before he squelched it. And why was she posting a letter? Whom could she be writing? Thoughtfully he cracked his egg and tore off the top half of the shell. Ah, yes, her brothers. Naturally, she was notifying them that she’d arrived safely yesterday.
When he said nothing, Sara added, “I do hope she didn’t doze off in the saddle. She told me she didn’t sleep well last night.”
Undoubtedly Sara blamed him for Felicity’s inability to sleep. Her reproving reformer expression was firmly in place, the one that had driven her pirate husband to mend his ways.
Well, his own ways needed no mending. Pretending not to understand her implication, he dug out the egg’s center with a spoon, and said, “It’s hard to sleep well in a strange house, no matter how comfortable the arrangements.”
The Dangerous Lord Page 9
