What had his mother called her hair?
Marvelous? Gorgeous? Glorious. That was it. Without stopping to think about what he was doing, Henry reached out and captured a curl between his thumb and forefinger.
“W-what are you doing?”
The little quiver in her voice prodded at something inside him, something male and primitive that would have been best left sleeping. Now the beast stirred awake.
“I’m trying to decide the color of your hair.” The words emerged on a husky whisper.
He met her startled gaze and found her eyes were the colors of his dreams. Chestnut stars flecked with gold overlaid a field of rich green—a glossy Arabian streaking across the turf. As their eyes held, her breath caught. He kept hold of her silky curl, but his gaze dropped to her mouth.
He looked at her then, really looked at her. Though he’d danced with her countless times, if asked to describe Diana Merriwether, he would have said she was tall with red hair. He would have had to guess at her eye color. In all the years he’d known her, he had never really seen her.
How had he never noticed that she had a mouth made for sin? In the landscape of her serious face, her mouth was a folly, surprising and sensual. She likely thought it a bit too wide, her lips a shade too full. Women had the oddest notions about these things. From a male point of view, Diana’s mouth was perfection. Lush, naughty perfection.
That bothered him. He was bothered because he hadn’t noticed before, bothered because he noticed now, bothered because the bothersome mouth in question belonged to Diana, and mostly bothered that he was feeling… bothered. And hot.
He released her hair to tug at his cravat.
“My hair is the same unfortunate color it has always been: red.” Her brow furrowed as she patted at her curls. “You asked why I wouldn’t fall in love with you. Mr. Weston, I’m not a young girl wishing for a handsome gentleman to sweep me off my feet. I am determined this will be my last Season. If I haven’t found a husband after this many years of looking, I doubt I ever shall. I’m not averse to the notion of marriage—I should like to have my own household and children—but I want nothing to do with love and less to do with scandal. My family has been subject to enough pointing fingers and wagging tongues. Thus, I think it unlikely I’ll succumb to your charms.”
Henry got to his feet and extended his hand to her. “Come. Walk with me.”
After a slight hesitation, she stood and took his arm. “I don’t see how I can refuse”—she flashed him a smile—“given that you didn’t bother asking. We shouldn’t stay out too long, though. Half of the guests likely saw you come after me, and they’ll talk if we linger here too long.”
Henry wasn’t used to caring if people talked about him, but given what his father had said earlier, he must learn to care. In order to convince Parr to sell Ravensfield, Henry had to become respectable. He could learn from Miss Merriwether. As she said, there was scandal in her family history, but the lady herself was propriety personified.
They walked the length of the courtyard in companionable silence. The musical notes of the pianoforte and the chatter of polite conversation spilled down from the open windows above. He found himself noticing little things about her.
The way she carried herself, tall and regal. The long, graceful line of her throat. The pale copper freckles decorating her porcelain skin. The faint scent of orange blossoms, fresh linen, and woman.
He wondered if he’d overlooked her because his mother was always pushing her at him, but in his heart, he knew the truth, which was far less palatable. Society had deemed Miss Diana Merriwether beneath its notice, and Henry was nothing if not a member of society. He bedded its widows, gambled with its men, flirted with its matrons, and danced with its maidens. He loved society, and society loved him right back.
He and his siblings had many blessings, and his parents had always encouraged them to share their good fortune. Henry listened with one ear to the reminders, thinking his parents were speaking of taking baskets to their tenants and treating servants well. It dawned on him now why his mother always prompted him to dance with spinsters and wallflowers, and he was ashamed at what a burden he’ made it out to be.
He found he wanted to help Diana. Again. He was a man who helped himself, but she brought out some nobler impulse in him. That was, admittedly, a little worrisome, but in helping her, he could help himself. Parr needed to be convinced Henry was a respectable gentleman, a family-minded man like his son had been. If Henry was on his very best behavior and he courted a very proper lady like Diana, he thought he could sway Parr in his favor.
Diana would benefit from his attention. She wanted a husband, and if he displayed an interest in her, he felt certain other gentlemen would follow suit. Most importantly, they’d already established there was no risk of either of them falling in love with each other.
“Have you a plan?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon? A plan?”
“You need to find a husband this Season. I wondered whether you had a plan.”
“My plan is no different than it has been any other year: I shall attend as many events as possible in hopes of meeting an eligible man. I can’t say it has worked terribly well for me thus far,” she said drily. “Have you a better idea?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. I have a proposition—an arrangement I believe would benefit us both.” He saw a flash of interest in her eyes, so he pressed on. “You may have noticed that men generally follow each other’s lead. If I begin to court you, others will take notice.”
She stopped in her tracks and turned to face him. “You wish to court me?”
“I wish to pretend to court you.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“You are in need of a bit of popularity. My presence by your side can give you that.”
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What do you get out of this?”
Clever girl. He liked that about her.
“To say that my dear mother is anxious to see me wed is an understatement of epic proportions. I can think of only one way to ensure she won’t spend all Season parading eligible misses before me. I must be engaged in a courtship with someone she likes, and she likes you.”
“I like her as well, but—”
“The only people I wish to court this Season are investors for the racing stud I plan to open. Lord Parr, whose stud I hope to purchase, finds me a bit too, ah, roguish for his taste. Time spent with you can’t help but make me more respectable. When you find the man you want and decide to throw me over, preferably close to the end of the Season, surely Lord Parr will not add to my heartbreak by refusing to sell me the stud. Isn’t it a perfect plan?”
He was quite pleased with himself. Not only had he solved his own problem, he’d solved Diana’s as well, or as close to it as he could get without actually marrying her.
“Madness is what it is, Mr. Weston.” She worried at her bottom lip.
He found himself unaccountably transfixed by that succulent swell of flesh. “Genius is what it is,” he corrected, unable to lift his eyes from her mouth, “and you must call me Henry.” The sudden, unwanted attraction he was experiencing was untenable between Mr. Weston and Miss Merriwether. Between Henry and Diana, it was slightly more palatable.
“Using your Christian name would be improper.”
He laughed. “I could have a great deal of fun teaching you the joys of impropriety.”
“You’re very kind to want to help me, but if you think on it, you will see there’s no way your plan could ever work. We should go inside. My mother will be wondering where I am.”
Henry refused to give up so easily. But if he couldn’t persuade Diana with logic, he would try a different tack.
“You’re right,” he said and began leading her toward the house. “Forgive me. It was a foolish idea. It could never possibly work.”
“Yes, I believe I said that,” she replied cautiously, obviously thrown by his quick capitulation.
“I’d forgotten the most important part of such a courtship,” he explained.
“Which is?”
“Believability.”
Her shoulders hunched as she shrank into herself. “No one would believe you would be interested in me.”
Henry ushered her inside, but instead of heading for the stairs, he took a chance and opened the nearest door. The library. As luck would have it, the room was empty. Well, he’d always had that rogue’s knack for finding empty rooms in strange houses at opportune times. He tugged Diana inside and moved to shut the door.
“Mr. Weston! Have you taken leave of your senses?” Diana’s hand shot out, bracing against the door. She was going to bolt.
He lifted his hand from the door and stepped back a few paces into the room, holding both hands up, palms out. “Wait, Diana—Miss Merriwether,” he corrected himself. “Please, wait. You misunderstood me. I meant that it would be impossible for you to maintain the illusion of interest in me.”
She turned on him, her expression shocked, all thoughts of the door and propriety forgotten. He’d succeeded in removing her mask. How long until she noticed and put it back on?
“Do you take me for a fool, Mr. Weston?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You know very well you are a catch. Most of the women upstairs would give their eyeteeth to have a chance with you.”
“Then I’m sure they could hold up their half of the courtship very well. I could convincingly play the part of a besotted fool. But you…”
She shook her head in disbelief. “You believe your plan wouldn’t work because I couldn’t affect infatuation?”
He nodded, trying to look dejected.
“I could, but no one will believe you’ve taken an interest in me.”
“Why not?”
“B-because you are you, and I am me,” she stammered.
“I see.” He smiled and took a step toward her. “You know, you’re quite pretty when flustered.”
“I am not flustered.”
“You’re not used to compliments, are you?”
“I’m not accustomed to being lied to, no.”
“I’m not lying.” He wasn’t. Though it had escaped his notice all these years, Diana was actually a very pretty girl.
No, not a girl—a woman—and pretty wasn’t the right word. Fresh-faced English roses were pretty. Diana was a lily—tall and slender, pale and elegant. Hers was a quiet beauty, one easily overlooked in the loud glitter of a packed ballroom. Even he, who considered himself a devotee of the fair sex, hadn’t seen her beauty until tonight.
His attention would take the blinders off the gentlemen in their circles, and by the end of the Season, Diana would have suitors aplenty. She would gain every bit as much from his scheme as he would, maybe more. Besides, he didn’t have ingenious ideas very often; he wouldn’t give this one up without a fight.
The kid gloves were coming off.
“It seems we’re at a crossroads,” he said, taking another step closer. “Neither of us believes the other is capable of pretending sufficient attraction for a convincing courtship. We must conduct an experiment.”
“An experiment?”
He moved close enough to reach around her and pushed the door shut. He braced one arm on the wood panel, caging her in. “A kiss.”
“A kiss?” she squeaked. She tried to step away, but the door was at her back.
“Are you always so repetitive?” He’d cornered his prey, and now anticipation lit a fire in his blood.
Her spine stiffened. “Are you always so brazen?” she tossed back, chin lifted in defiance. Her eyes darted to the door handle, and his lips quirked in amusement. He had escaped from an amorous pursuer a time or two, but a woman had never run from him.
This one wouldn’t either.
Just to be certain, he took a step back, giving her a bit of space. He pulled off his gloves and tucked them in his waistcoat pocket. He captured one of her hands in his, interlacing their fingers, and waited to see her reaction. She was watchful, a little wary, but she didn’t try to pull away.
He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I don’t think a kiss is too great a sacrifice to make. If this courtship is going to have any chance at succeeding, we need to be able to convince society of our mutual attraction. If I can make you believe I desire you, then I will have succeeded on my part.”
He leaned in and spoke against her ear. “And if you can convince me that you want me in return, you will have succeeded on yours.”
A tremor ran through her body.
“Shall I kiss you, Diana?”
“I didn’t think rogues asked for permission.”
Henry was unsure whether she meant to question him or challenge him with her words, but issued as they were in a breathy, unwittingly seductive voice, everything in him responded.
“You’re right. Rogues don’t ask for permission. We take what we want.”
“Oh?” Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.
He tensed at the sight of that pink tongue flicking over those luscious, full lips.
“I want to kiss you now.” His words were barely more than a whisper.
She swallowed hard and inclined her head ever so slightly, either giving him permission or signaling her understanding that he would take what he wanted. He didn’t care which. At this point, a kiss between them was as unstoppable as the changing seasons or the turning tide. At this point, their kiss was fate.
The hand holding his turned to a vise as Henry settled his free hand around Diana’s neck. Her body stiffened, eyes squeezing shut, at the first brush of bare flesh against bare flesh. Against his palm, he felt the frantic pulse in her throat.
He feathered his thumb against the rigid line of her jaw, soothing and stroking. As her heartbeat began to slow, he luxuriated in the sensation of skin softer than swansdown beneath his fingertips. After several long moments, she released a shaky breath, inhaled deeply and tilted her head back, waiting for his kiss.
The movement exposed the slender column of Diana’s throat, an expanse of ivory skin patterned with those intriguing freckles. She was so pale, he could see the fine network of veins running beneath the surface of her skin; the faded blue lines mapped the way to her heart. She was fragile, he realized. He needed to be careful, or he might hurt her.
He lowered his head, appreciatively noting that he didn’t need to stoop. He touched his lips to hers gently, almost in greeting, trying to remember the last time he’d kissed such an innocent. He couldn’t recall. As he had no wish to end up caught in the parson’s mousetrap, he deliberately restricted his attentions to widows, actresses, and other women of questionable virtue. He lifted his head, smiling at the realization that the territory of this kiss was as uncharted for him as for her.
Untangling his hand from hers, Henry cupped the back of her head. His hands looked enormous in comparison with the delicacy of her features, and he reminded himself again to be gentle with her. Angling her head back further, he twined his fingers in the silky curls at the base of her neck and pressed a kiss to the base of her throat. She arched her head to the side, and he felt her hum of approval against his lips.
The quiet vibrations passed from her body into his, sending a pleasurable thrill reverberating through him. He pressed lingering kisses up her throat, inhaling the light scents of orange blossoms and soap, and beneath—pure, intoxicating woman. He dragged his mouth along the line of her jaw, letting her feel just the barest touch of teeth. Her breathing, already fitful, became audible. When he flicked his tongue against the velvety patch of flesh hidden behind her ear, she gasped.
That was all the invitation Henry needed. He returned to her mouth, slanted his lips over hers, and began to kiss her in earnest—sweet, slow, and steady. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer, flush against his body. She fit him perfectly, all soft and lithe where he was hard and demanding.
Her mouth surpassed all his expectations. He ran his tongue over the soft fullness
of her bottom lip, then caught it in his teeth and sucked it into his mouth. She tasted of the ratafia served with dessert, mostly sweet but with a hint of spice. Another taste lurked beneath, luring him in deeper—her taste. He wanted more.
Like the rogue she accused him of being, he took it. Taking advantage of her parted lips to deepen the kiss, he eagerly thrust his tongue inside her mouth. Her taste washed over him, dark, wild, and sensual, and an untamed heat rose up in him in response. He was desperate for more of her taste, more of her touch—more of her.
Henry fought to retain some vestiges of control, but he was losing the battle. Unable to help himself, he pressed his body into hers. She shivered in response and clutched at him.
So good.
She felt so good with her body arching into him, pressed to all those places certain to drive a man mad. A primal, male part of his brain bade him to cover her, conquer her… claim her. He wanted to haul her skirts up, unbutton his breeches, and wrap those long, sleek legs of hers around his waist. He would take her right here, the sound of her harsh pants filling his ears like the most glorious music as he surrounded himself, sated himself in her.
When was the last time he’d felt so urgent? Something about her called to him, demanded his response. It was her innocence, he told himself. She was untried, untutored, and that was a novelty for him. The women he played with were well versed in this game.
This wasn’t a game, though, and he couldn’t play with her.
He lost his tenuous grasp on that thought as she began to kiss him back, tentatively at first, and then with increasing daring. A little moan of pleasure rose up in her throat and traveled across their fused mouths into him. It raced through his body, and moved south, straight to his cock.
He skimmed his hand down her back to cup her bottom, fitting her more closely to him. She tore her mouth from his, a breathy cry escaping at the intimate caress, and turned her head to the side. A denial. He’d be damned if he would allow that. He caught her earlobe between his teeth and bit down just hard enough to punish her for the sensual torment his body was undergoing.
Sara Lindsey - [Weston 03] Page 8
