Sara Lindsey - [Weston 03]

by A Rogue for All Seasons

  Thomas’s eyes narrowed. “Are you foxed, Mr. Weston?”

  The young man let out a loud sigh. “Not anymore. I must remedy that.”

  Thomas bit the inside of his cheek, reminding himself all young men of Weston’s class were spoiled and took their privileged lives for granted. He dealt with men like this all the time.

  “I’ll be frank with you. I find no fault in your taste for horseflesh, but your reputation leaves much to be desired. You’re not the sort of man I want around my daughter.”

  “Is that so?” Weston regarded him with languid insolence. “I think that’s her decision.”

  Thomas noted the tightly clenched fists at the younger man’s side. Everything else in his body proclaimed him relaxed and carefree, but those hands gave him away.

  “You say you saw my Penelope race?”

  Weston frowned at the abrupt change of subject, but he nodded.

  “I’ll give her to you if you agree to stay away from Diana.”

  Surprise gave way to anger on Weston’s face. He curtly shook his head and turned on his heel.

  “Weston, wait!”

  The young man halted, then turned back to face him. “I don’t believe we have anything more to say to one another.”

  “On the cont—”

  Weston took a menacing step toward him. “Before you insult me again, sir, I warn you that I’m in a foul temper.” His voice was low and furious. “The only thing keeping my fist from rearranging your face is that the resulting talk would upset Diana, and she’s been hurt enough. So much, in fact, that she would rather shroud herself in propriety and consign herself to a loveless marriage than risk being hurt again.”

  Thomas began to see the young man in a new, much more favorable light. “You care for her.” He didn’t say love, though given Weston’s miserable state, there could be little doubt the man was very much in love. But if Weston hadn’t yet come to that realization, Thomas didn’t want to scare him off. Henry Weston might be the answer to his prayers.

  “Yes.” Anguish filled the solitary word.

  “I misjudged you,” Thomas admitted, “and I’m sorry for it. If you truly care for Diana, you have my blessing, though it’s not worth much. Diana has refused to let me give her a dowry, but I’d like you to have Penelope. I put her to my Zephyr recently. She’ll give you champions.”

  “Mr. Merriwether—”

  “Starting a stud isn’t easy going. No one knows that better than I do. I would ask, though, that you bring Diana to see me after you wed. There are things that need to be said between us.”

  “If you’re willing to sell Penelope, I’ll see if I can meet your price, but I would no more accept your bribe in this than I would when you offered it to keep my distance. That’s of little consequence, however, as Diana has no wish to marry me.”

  The weight that had eased slightly from Thomas’s shoulders slammed back down again. “I had to try,” he said sadly. “A word of advice, and then I won’t bother you further. Diana was a mischievous child, always running about and hiding places. She changed after...” Christ, how could it still be so hard to say the words after all these years? “After her mother and I separated. I’ve watched her through the years, and even from a distance, I can see the difference. She keeps herself apart.”

  “Perhaps your daughter is not as different as you believe,” Weston said. “She’s still very proficient at running and hiding.”

  Thomas raised his brows at the level of frustration he heard in the man’s voice. Linnet had written to him to ascertain Weston’s intentions, and the young man appeared to love his daughter. Weston could be the saving of him… of his family. Thomas wouldn’t allow the boy to be as stupidly stubborn as he himself had once been. He needed to give him one final piece of encouragement.

  “I told you that, as a girl, Diana liked to hide, but her favorite part of the game was when someone found her. You’re the first person to find her in a long while. She’s been hiding for so long, she’s scared to do anything else. If you care for my daughter, then for both your sakes, fight to keep her. Regrets are the very devil to live with.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  By the time I finish and post this, you will have seen reports about the shocking attempt on our sovereign’s life at Drury Lane. None of the family attended that night; you know how my mother feels about Cibber. The royal family stayed through the play, but in the midst of such turmoil, I cannot believe anyone found much humor in the farce playing out…

  —FROM THE COUNTESS OF DUNSTON TO HER AUNT THE DOWAGER MARCHIONESS OF SHELDON

  WHILE HENRY WOULD HAVE BEEN quite happy to accept advice of an equine nature from Mr. Merriwether, whose accomplishments in that vein he greatly admired, he had little trouble dismissing the man’s romantic counsel. Given the sorry state of the other man’s amatory affairs, Henry considered doing the opposite of what Mr. Merriwether suggested and letting Diana alone. He’d nearly convinced himself to do just that before the encounter at Tattersall’s, but he found he couldn’t stay away.

  That explained his presence at the Countess of Langley’s soiree, an event certain to be dull, ten days after Diana had made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him. He’d tried calling at Lansdowne House, but Diana wouldn’t see him, which left him no choice but to seek her elsewhere.

  He wasn’t spying, Henry told himself, leaning against the wall as he surveyed the scene before him. He’d received an invitation. There was a chance, albeit a small one, he would have attended even if Diana hadn’t been there. He was a social creature, a man of town. He liked balls, damn it.

  He hadn’t commanded his valet to cozen up to one of the Lansdowne House maids to learn which events the family was planning to attend. That would be unscrupulous and a touch desperate, which was why he had only suggested the scheme and left Jasper to decide whether to implement it. There were other ways for the man to come by the information if he so chose.

  Spying sounded so devious. Henry was… protecting Diana. He still hoped Stickley would prove to be an unsavory, unsuitable character, but his initial inquiries had met with little success. The baronet had no wife or light-skirt stashed away, he hadn’t fought a duel, and his finances weren’t in disarray, any of which would have exceedingly pleased Henry. Sir Samuel’s worst quality was having execrable taste in horseflesh and, having apprised Diana of this grievous shortcoming once before, Henry knew that wouldn’t dissuade her from marrying the man.

  Henry couldn’t force her to marry him, not that she’d ever given him the chance to propose. No, he couldn’t force her, but if someone found them in a compromising situation, she’d have to marry him. He dismissed the idea as soon as it occurred to him, since Diana would never forgive him, or herself, for the resulting scandal.

  He just needed to make sure she was happy. And he needed to ascertain that Stickley was worthy of her. If she was truly content and Stickley was all he appeared, Henry would consider letting her go. Short of trussing her up and abducting her—a delightful idea he allowed himself to dwell on for far, far too long—what else he could do?

  But even after a week of—very well, damn it, he was spying on her, and even after a week, he couldn’t be certain how she felt. Her mask of polite reserve was firmly in place, revealing nothing of her true feelings.

  Then, last night at the Tiverthorne rout, her mask had finally slipped. He’d sneaked up beside her at the supper buffet and selected a strawberry tart. Their eyes had met, and in that brief second before she glanced away and pretended not to see him, he’d glimpsed so many conflicting emotions, he couldn’t begin to guess which was strongest. But happiness wasn’t among them.

  If Diana had been happy, he might have found the strength to leave her in peace. As he had not, he’d followed her again. Tonight, she would see him.

  Henry glowered as a flushed Diana finished a dance with Lord Brantley, whom Henry fully intended to trounce the next time they were in the ring at Jackson’s. If Henry was a rogue, Brantley
was an out-and-out rakehell. The devil only knew what the bastard had been saying to put the color in Diana’s cheeks. The man had no interest in her, or any other marriageable female, apart from goading Henry, in which he was succeeding admirably.

  Brantley knew it, too. He shot Henry a mocking smile as he returned Diana to her mother, who was deep in conversation with Stickley. Henry’s blood heated at the sight of the baronet. Diana whispered something in Lady Linnet’s ear before heading in what he assumed was the direction of the ladies’ retiring room. She would be more than a moment in returning, Henry decided, as he slipped through the crowd. Fortunately, he’d become very good at following her.

  WITHOUT LOOKING, DIANA KNEW Henry followed her as she made her way upstairs. They’d played at this for months, and even if her mind understood the game was up, the rest of her hadn’t caught on. She knew what would happen if he got her alone, and her body thrilled in anticipation.

  She stopped in front of the retiring room, and he came up close behind her. “I took myself on a tour earlier,” he said. “Three doors down on the right is a small dressing closet. We may speak now,” he said, “or if you wish to refresh yourself first, we may speak after.”

  “And if I do not wish to speak to you at all?” she asked breathlessly.

  “That is not an option.” He walked past her and disappeared into the room he had described.

  Diana hesitated a moment, then followed him. He was right; they needed to speak. She hated the way things had ended between them. She’d gone over their argument a hundred times during the past week of sleepless nights. She’d thought of what she could have said differently, of what she might have told him if Sir Samuel hadn’t arrived, but she couldn’t change the past. Now they could part as… as friends.

  After checking that no one was around to see, Diana pushed open the door to the dressing closet and darted inside. The room was larger than the linen closet, but not by much. Moonlight poured in through the sole window, illuminating what little there was to see: a small desk and a chair, a high chest of drawers, and a low bench beneath the window.

  And Henry.

  In his shirtsleeves.

  His coat and gloves lay discarded on the bench. Her heart fluttered. Without his coat, he seemed bigger somehow. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly gone dry. “You’ve made yourself very much at home,” she observed.

  “I didn’t know how long you would make me wait. This room wasn’t designed with ventilation in mind, and opening the window might draw notice from outside.”

  “What do you want?” she asked as he stepped around her to lock the door.

  “You know what I want.” The husky timbre of his voice wrapped around her like a caress, but there a slight edge to his tone that almost sounded like… need?

  Impossible, she told herself.

  Henry wanted her, but he didn’t need her. And she didn’t want him to. Need was a dangerous emotion that bordered too closely on other feelings. She shook her head slightly, trying to banish the unwanted thought.

  His hands were at her waist, drawing her back against him. The scent of summer storms and male musk surrounded her as he wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder. “Do you wish me to tell you?” His warm breath against her cheek sent a shiver rippling through her.

  “Well?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Diana struggled to remember what he’d asked.

  “I asked if you wished me to tell you what I wanted, but I think you know.” He pressed a chaste kiss to the side of her neck.

  A little sigh of longing escaped her. “I don’t—”

  “You do,” he insisted. “Because you want me, too.”

  Yes, she wanted him. He tempted her to throw caution and propriety to the wind, but people often wanted things that weren’t good for them. She wanted Henry, but he wasn’t what she needed. She was old enough, had seen enough, to know the difference. She just had trouble remembering that whenever he was near.

  He raised a hand and settled it over one of her breasts. As if he’d ordered the response, her nipples tightened to stiff points.

  “Don’t,” she pleaded.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t make me want you.” Her voice caught as her throat tightened with emotion.

  “What would you have me do?” A humorless laugh escaped him. “I can’t help wanting. I want you to burn as I burn. I want you to lie awake at night thinking of me. If you sleep, I want you to dream of me. I want you to tell me that you can’t stand the sight of me dancing with another woman. I want to know this last week has been as miserable for you as it has been for me. Why did you refuse to see me when I called?”

  Shaken, Diana twisted out of his arms and turned to face him. The heated desire flaring in his eyes burned through to the dark places in her heart. The parts that had worried no man would ever truly desire her.

  “I didn’t think we needed to say anything more.”

  “You didn’t think—” he muttered. “I do nothing but think about you. You are driving me mad. All day long, you are in my thoughts. I dream about you at night. I can’t concentrate on anything for wondering what you’re doing, who you’re with…whether you’re happy. Are you happy? I need to know, Di.”

  “I—” She swallowed. “I am as happy as you are, I imagine. You have your stud, and Sir Samuel has intimated that he wishes to speak with my grandfather.”

  “He’s going to ask for your hand,” he said expressionlessly.

  “Yes, I imagine he will.”

  “After spending close to a week in his near constant company, do you still plan to accept? Or dare I hope you’ve come to your senses?”

  She glared at him. “The only time I take leave of my senses is when I’m with you.”

  “Good,” he growled, and then his arms were around her and his mouth was on hers in a carnal, desperate kiss. She understood and kissed him back with all the passion and wildness that had built inside her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and tightened her fingers in his hair, holding him as if something was about to tear him from her.

  She knew something would. Whatever was between them couldn’t last. He would remember that this was all an act, and she was Diana Merriwether, a near-spinster in her seventh Season. Each kiss between them was a stolen treasure, a moment in time that should never have happened, and she hoarded them greedily. She knew she should push him away, but instead she clung to him, trying to impress every detail on her senses so she would be able to relive the experience in years to come.

  They were both breathing heavily when he lifted his head. She didn’t protest as he carried her across the room to the bench beneath window. He sat down, settling her sideways on his lap. Diana spared a moment of distress for the bench, which didn’t look like it could support Henry, let alone the pair of them, but they didn’t go crashing to the floor, so she turned to a more pressing matter.

  Through the layers of her skirts, she encountered the undeniable evidence of Henry’s interest. She tensed, uncertain whether she ought to leap off his lap or act oblivious to the hard length beneath her backside. While she debated, he tightened one of his arms around her waist and brought the other up to her face.

  With more gentleness than should have been possible for a man of his size, Henry traced the sweep of her forehead, the line of her nose, the curve of her cheek… When his fingers feathered over her lips, she surrendered to the urge to taste. She flicked her tongue over his skin, exulting in the way his whole body stiffened in response.

  “God, Diana,” he groaned.

  She combed her fingers through his hair, then ran her hand down the strong column of his neck. She slowly smoothed her palm along the path to his shoulder, memorizing each magnificent inch of him. Through the fine linen, she felt every inch of hot skin over strong muscle. She wanted to touch him without his shirt and waistcoat in the way. Her palms itched to smooth over the solid breadth of his bare chest.

  “Do you feel what you do to
me?”

  “It is, ah, rather hard to miss,” she remarked.

  His laughter, strained and hungry, pulled at her insides. “Not just that. I have missed you. Kissing you. Holding you. Talking with you. I’ve even missed being scolded by you.”

  “I have missed you, too,” she admitted.

  “I want you.” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the spot just below her ear. “And you want me.”

  She inhaled sharply as he caught her earlobe beneath his teeth. Tugged. “Yes,” she agreed.

  She’d been wrong, she thought. Their last kiss hadn’t been desperate. This was a desperate kiss. This was a fierce, wet, heart-pounding, toe-curling, get-close-as-you-can-and-then-get-closer kiss. This was more than a kiss.

  She felt his hand at the hem of her skirts and tensed. Henry lifted his head. “I have to touch you.” The words were part plea, part apology. “Don’t push me away, Di. I swear not to go too far, but I need you now.” She didn’t have time to examine his words because he was taking her again. Tasting her. Touching her. And she was losing the will to push him away.

  “Stop worrying,” he murmured against her lips.

  “How?” She jumped as his fingers brushed her ankle.

  “Right here, right now, you are only allowed to feel.” As he spoke, his hand moved along her calf and over her knee, drawing the skirts of her dress and petticoat up.

  “What if that—” Her breath hitched as he passed her garter and toyed with the edge of her stocking. “What if that’s what concerns me?”

  His hand stopped its ascent. Diana shivered as his thumb brushed back and forth over the sensitive skin on her inner thigh.

  He nipped her lower lip. “You don’t like to let anyone close, do you, Di?”

  How could he say that given their current position? He was close. So close to where she ached. Where she needed him—

  She shook her head. No, where she wanted him. She could want him, but she couldn’t need him. She couldn’t need anyone.