His eyes searched hers, then he looked ahead. “Frances and I broke things off a few months ago.” He frowned. She sensed nothing beyond earnestness when he asked, “Should I have mentioned it?”
She twined her arm more tightly with his and leaned closer to say, “Obviously, I’ve already heard the whispers, and today, I saw the proof. Had I truly been your fiancée, I might have been…concerned.”
He looked genuinely puzzled. “I can’t see why. It’s over and done and firmly in my past.”
“Yours, perhaps. But tell me—who broke the liaison off? You or her?”
He hesitated for several moments, during which they neared and passed another couple going in the opposite direction; Stacie noted he’d wiped his face of all expression before the other couple got close.
Once the others were well past, he replied, “I thought she and I had both decided to end our association.”
“I hear a ‘but.’”
He tipped his head. “I’m only as good as the next man in comprehending what goes on in ladies’ heads. I can’t speak for Frances, but she seemed to accept my suggestion readily—with good grace.”
Stacie could have told him that accepting a situation gracefully when there was no real choice simply demonstrated that Lady Halbertson was intelligent enough not to try to hold him when he didn’t want to be held.
If the implications of the comments she’d overheard at Lady Kilpatrick’s were correct, then Lady Halbertson might have hoped for more from the association. As her ladyship’s presence at Lady Waltham’s attested, she was of sufficiently high birth to aspire to being Frederick’s wife—and she was certainly beautiful enough. Frederick wasn’t just handsome and titled, he was also significantly wealthy, and while that wealth meant nothing to Stacie, wealthy herself, she knew the pursuit of funds played a much larger role in the lives of many others, including—and sometimes especially—those of the haut ton.
Frederick watched the flow of thoughts flit across Stacie’s expressive face; now she’d relaxed completely in his company, she didn’t bother screening her feelings from him, which was proving a great help. Also a source of encouragement; even though their engagement was a sham, she’d taken very real note of Frances and his past relationship with her—that was, he felt, significant. As his faux fiancée, if Stacie had felt nothing at all for him, surely she would have just shrugged aside the issue as irrelevant, at least to her.
He was still debating that conclusion when she abruptly halted.
“Look!” She pointed to a narrow path that wended up the heavily treed rise that overlooked the end of the lake, tracing the line of the path upward to where sections of white columns and a domed roof could be glimpsed between the leafy canopies. “There’s a folly—a Grecian temple—up there.” She tightened her hold on his arm and towed him onto the minor path. “Let’s climb up and take in the view.”
The path was only wide enough for a single person and rose in long flights of stone steps. Frederick gallantly urged Stacie ahead, then had to bear with the intoxicating sight of her silk-clad hips and derriere sifting side to side before his face, which, given the avenue his thoughts were all too ready to go rampaging down, did nothing for his comfort.
They finally reached the folly, which did, indeed, provide an expansive view of the lake. Branches bursting into leaf obscured the view of the path directly below, but the farther reaches of the lake spread before them, with sunlight dancing across the surface set rippling by the light breeze.
Stacie immediately crossed to the edge of the marble floor. Spreading one palm on one of the columns, she stretched up on her toes and peered between the branches, which were sorely in need of pruning.
Frederick followed in more leisurely fashion, his gaze dwelling on a different sight.
“I can’t quite see the house.” Stacie leaned forward.
Her palm slipped on the smooth marble, and she started to tip. “Oh!”
Frederick swooped, looped an arm about her waist, and hauled her back to safety.
Hauled her against himself.
Not safe.
Before he could do more than suck in a breath and tense every muscle he possessed, she wriggled around until she faced him and looked into his eyes. “Thank you.”
Then she stretched up, set her lips to his, and kissed him.
It wasn’t a thank-you peck but a full-blown kiss—lips to lips, alluring pressure, more than a whisper of heat and hunger.
He was far more experienced than she could possibly know; he understood—with a leap of intuition that he knew in his bones was accurate—just why she’d kissed him.
Why she was still kissing him, her lips exploring his, even as his arms slowly tightened around her and, equally slowly, he angled his head.
Then he took over—took charge—and kissed her back. And answered her questions. The ones that had prompted her to act so impulsively—to kiss him and seek answers.
Curiosity was the principal cause, but simple curiosity had been prodded by her meeting with Frances Halbertson into transforming into something more.
Something he wanted and was more than willing to stoke.
Something wildly ingenuous, innocent yet not.
An inquisitive desire, a need to experience, to sensually know.
There was no possible way to answer such demands other than through an actual kiss. She’d given him the opportunity, and he seized it with both hands.
Seized her, one hand at her back holding her flush against him, the other cradling her head as he artfully parted her lips and slid his tongue between and steered them both into deeper waters.
She didn’t resist but followed; he sensed she wasn’t a complete novice—she’d definitely been kissed before—but that only heightened the challenge. He lured her on; their tongues tangled as he traced the contours of her mouth and, with assured arrogance, claimed.
Her hands had, until then, rested splayed against his chest, their warmth and delicate pressure another, subtler goad; now she sent her palms skating upward, feathering over his shoulders, then rising to clamp about his head and hold him. Then she kissed him back.
She opened some door inside her, and passion poured forth. Hungry and greedy and wanting. Desire ignited, hers and his, and what had started as an exploratory kiss turned voracious.
Heat flowed between them. They traded kiss for achingly needy kiss, then dived into the next.
The tide rose, and he couldn’t step away, couldn’t hold back, couldn’t not answer her siren’s call; he fell into the exchange, and she fell with him, and desire and passion reared in a wave and dragged them under.
Through a thickening fog of desire, distant voices reached his ears.
Self-preservation spiked; desperate, he seized its reins and wrenched back from the surging swell of a passion more powerful than any he’d previously known.
He raised his head and looked into Stacie’s face, at her lips, swollen from his kisses.
Her lashes rose, and her eyes—wide and very blue—met his. She blinked, then blinked again, then searched his eyes, his face. He had no idea what she saw there—whether the stunning revelation that had rocked him to his bedrock showed.
His pulse still hammered in his ears. He wanted her, desired her—how much, he hadn’t realized. Until that moment, he hadn’t understood how hungry for a woman he could be.
Still-surging passion kept him anchored where he was; if he moved, toward her or away from her, it might break free.
Stacie couldn’t help but stare; her entire awareness was consumed by what she’d just learned, what she’d just experienced, and most of all, by the feelings that had risen and were still spilling through her—a yearning for more, for an even closer connection with a man… No, with this man. Others had kissed her, and she’d never felt like this, as if she needed so much more—more kisses, more contact, more of him.
It was a shock to realize she’d never felt desire before.
And if this was it, she neede
d more.
But they weren’t actually engaged. They couldn’t, shouldn’t…
The very fact she was thinking along such lines shook her to her core.
Others were nearing, coming up the steps.
He didn’t say anything; neither did she.
What could she say? She had instigated the kiss, and it had happened.
And it had spiraled out of control.
Perhaps she should apologize, but she’d be lying. She wasn’t sorry at all.
Two young ladies preceded two gentlemen into the folly.
Stacie stepped away from Frederick and turned to face the newcomers.
Smoothly, he captured her hand and set it on his sleeve. “Come,” he said, and his voice held its usual even tone. “We should head back to town. We have those two balls to attend this evening.”
A reminder that, notwithstanding the drama of the last minutes, their charade had to go on.
She gripped his arm, signaling her agreement, then, after exchanging politely distant nods with the four who had invaded the folly, she allowed Frederick to guide her back to the steps and followed him down.
The following day—after they’d weathered two horrendous crushes that had been bad enough to have Frederick seriously question how long he could continue his campaign to win Stacie—he called in Green Street to find her in the front hall, preparing to leave the house.
He looked at her. “I came to ask if you would like to go for a drive in the park.” That had been Mary’s suggested activity for this morning—a quiet breather after the two balls last night.
“Oh.” Stacie blinked, then said, “I need to go shopping for gloves.” She waggled her gloved fingers at him. “These have worn too thin.”
He rapidly rejigged his plans. “Where are you headed?”
“My glover’s shop is on the corner of Bruton and Old Bond Streets.”
He smiled. “My curricle’s outside. I’ll drive you there.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “And then?”
He shrugged. “I’ll escort you around, then drive you back here. Who knows? I might buy myself a pair of gloves, too.”
Stacie studied him, then nodded. “Very well.” She took his arm and allowed him to escort her to his curricle and help her up to the seat.
She couldn’t broach any sensitive subject while they were in the open carriage, not with his tiger on the box behind. But they hadn’t yet spoken of the heated moments in Lady Waltham’s folly; during the previous evening—through the balls they’d attended, both of which had been unbearably crowded and packed with many who knew them well and far too many who had been watching them like hawks—a suitably private and appropriate moment hadn’t presented itself. Indeed, their only private moments had been in the shadowed dimness of the carriage as they’d traveled around Mayfair’s streets, and she hadn’t been game to mention that subject in such close and potentially intimate confines.
But she was determined to raise and address the incident and, hopefully, lay it to some sort of rest.
She’d expected to toss and turn last night, but instead, had instantly fallen asleep—and dreamed of that kiss. And of him. Given they weren’t truly engaged and really shouldn’t pursue what had flared between them, that he’d invaded her dreams—the first man ever to do so—seemed particularly unhelpful.
He drove them to Bruton Street. Leaving the curricle in the tiger’s care, they set off along the pavement.
Now was her moment; they might be surrounded by the fashionable, but no one ever listened to comments exchanged by others walking past. “About what occurred in Lady Waltham’s folly.” She shot a glance at his face. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
His expression was, as usual, unreadable, but he dipped his head her way. “No, it wasn’t.” Then, almost as if he couldn’t hold back the words, he added, “But I’m not sorry it did.” He caught her eyes. “Are you?”
She felt compelled to answer truthfully. “No.”
He smiled—a surprisingly sweet and charming smile. “Good.” He looked forward. “In that case, there’s nothing more to be said.”
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected but… As they’d reached the corner of Bruton Street and Old Bond Street and the door to her glover’s shop, she inclined her head in tacit agreement and let the matter drop.
Frederick escorted her into the shop, then ambled in her wake as she looked over the merchandise and the little glover scurried around, showing her this pair and that.
For his part, Frederick was in a good—nay, excellent—mood. The revelations of the previous day had left him even more convinced that his instincts had steered him correctly, yet again, in prompting him to pursue Stacie. Her confession that she wasn’t sorry about that eye-opening outburst of unrestrained passion set the seal on his satisfaction; his campaign was proceeding even better than he’d hoped. They’d cleared a hurdle he hadn’t known how to approach; she as well as he now knew with a certainty that they were compatible in that highly pertinent sphere, in much the same way as they were in others.
Victory was possible, if not yet assured; for today, that was enough.
The balls they’d attended the previous evening, while a shared torture in terms of the crowds, hadn’t otherwise tested them; he and Stacie had fallen into the pattern of easy interaction they’d established over the past week—that of an acknowledged couple. As his goal was to make their supposedly temporary charade permanent, knowing that under pressure, Stacie defaulted to that role—indeed, had sought refuge in it—underscored his belief that he was making real and steady progress.
He’d expected her to say something about the moments in the folly and had waited—on tenterhooks, to some degree—to see what tack she would take. Would she recoil and insist on keeping him at a distance henceforth? He’d been fairly certain she hadn’t succumbed to any missish panic, but given it had been such an unexpectedly intense exchange, he hadn’t felt confident in predicting what tack she might take.
Her straightforward acceptance—that the eruption of passion had occurred, that the connection between them was there—and her admission that she wasn’t sorry to have learned that had been music to his ears.
He waited patiently while she purchased two pairs of gloves, then, feeling in charity with the world, bought a pair for himself. She stuffed her purchases into her reticule, he slipped his pair into his pocket, and they left the little glover smiling.
Stepping onto the pavement, he caught her hand, wound her arm in his, and started them walking down Old Bond Street. When she looked up at him, faint suspicion in her eyes, he smiled easily. “Have you anywhere else you need to visit?”
Somewhat warily, she admitted, “No.”
His smile deepened. “In that case, now we’re here, we might as well be seen doing those things engaged couples do.”
She arched her brows and looked at the shops lining the street ahead. “What did you have in mind?”
He paused as if considering the options before them. “Jewelers,” he announced. “Engaged couples visit jewelers, don’t they?”
“I suppose they do.”
They stopped at two smaller establishments before he opened the door of Aspreys Emporium and ushered her inside.
They gravitated to the jewelry section. A clerk waiting behind the counter saw them and came forward to greet them. Stacie smiled and told the young man, “We’re just looking.”
Frederick caught the clerk’s eyes and, with his head, indicated the cases of more valuable pieces located farther into the shop.
The clerk perked up and looked at Stacie. “Of course, my lady—I rather fancy the pieces that will interest a discerning lady such as yourself will be found in the cases over here.”
Stacie followed the clerk to the cases in question and instantly became absorbed. Frederick hid a grin and watched her, drinking in the delight she didn’t try to hide—even if she thought this was a charade, what woman didn’t enjoy looking at good jewelry? Assure
d that his latest impulsive idea would work, he scanned the contents of the cases himself.
It didn’t take long for him to guess what would appeal to her most. A lovely ruby ring, with a matching bracelet, earrings, and necklace in a delicate gold setting lay displayed on a bed of black velvet toward the rear of the case. Eventually, Stacie’s eyes found the set. He leaned a hip against the case, then bent his head to hers; following her gaze, he suggested, “Why don’t you try them on?”
She turned her head and, at close quarters, met his eyes.
He held her gaze in barely veiled challenge, then lightly raised one shoulder. “Why not?”
The clerk bustled to the rear of the case and opened it. “The ruby parure? An excellent choice, my lady. It will look exceptionally well on you.”
The man wasn’t spouting nonsense; the gems looked utterly perfect on Stacie, as if they’d been created specifically for her.
And she liked them; Frederick could tell by the way her countenance lit as she preened before the oval mirror the clerk fetched. Despite believing this was all for show, she couldn’t resist the rich color of the gems or their fabulous fire. The clerk fussed and insisted she don the entire set, and despite the high neckline of her walking dress, the result was truly stunning. If she wore the set with one of her ball gowns, she would draw every eye—female as well as male.
Frederick took due note that, despite her slender fingers, the ring sat well and wasn’t too loose.
Eventually, with a reluctance she couldn’t hide, Stacie removed the jewels and returned them to the black-velvet-lined case. “Thank you.” She pushed the case toward the clerk. “They are lovely, but we’ll need to consider others before deciding.”
The clerk’s face fell.
Frederick waited until Stacie turned toward the door to catch the clerk’s eye, flip a calling card his way, look pointedly at the case in his hands, and fractionally nod. The man’s eyes widened. Frederick didn’t wait to see more; he trailed Stacie to the door, opened it for her, and followed her outside.
The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3 Page 21