by Alyssa Drake
“Good manners must always be observed Mr. Reid,” agreed Wilhelmina. She placed her empty cup on the silver tray of a passing servant.
Dismay crossed Sam’s face as Wilhelmina lightly grasped Mr. Reid’s offered arm. Sam’s heart hammered at the thought of being left alone with Lord Westwood. This reaction concerned her greatly. Even in a crowded room, his close proximity caused her brain to malfunction.
“Wilhelmina.” Her voice cracked unnaturally. “I must insist, as your chaperone...”
Sam’s voice faltered as she floundered for the words to complete her nonsensical argument. Three pairs of eyes stared–each with some degree of bewilderment–at her obvious discomfort. She wondered if they realized how much Lord Westwood affected her.
“Sam, I doubt Mr. Reid will try to ravish me on the dance floor,” laughed Wilhelmina, allowing him to lead her among the swaying couples.
“It is not that brother I am concerned about,” muttered Sam to their retreating backs.
“Does that mean you are worried about me?” a velvety voice whispered in her ear.
Sam spun to confront the voice with a resounding “No,” but the word died on her lips. She stared at his jacket, unable to meet his blazing stare. Mentally, she berated herself. She could speak to a man–this man–without fawning over his charming smile and deep, rumbling voice. She could look into his eyes without fear of drowning. Sam looked up, past his chin, past his full lips, and her knees gave way. His hand flew to grab her elbow, sending warm shivers through her skin.
“I am fine,” she murmured, partially dazed. “The heat of the ballroom must be bothering me.”
“Of course,” he agreed amiably, his hand still holding her arm. “Would you like to move closer to an open window?”
“Yes, thank you,” Sam nodded. She felt her strength gather as they walked side by side. No longer captivated by his mesmerizing eyes, Sam felt silly. She blamed her over-reaction on nerves.
“I am used to the cool air of country living,” Sam explained unconvincingly.
“Of course,” replied Lord Westwood, his lips twitching.
Sam took a deep breath and turned, stopping near a window. “Thank you.”
“What have I done to earn your gratitude?” He arched an eyebrow.
“You did not tell Wilhelmina about our first meeting.”
“You do remember,” confirmed Lord Westwood softly.
Sam nodded. “Wilhelmina witnesses my every social failure. It is exhausting to be continually compared to someone so perfect.”
“Mrs. Hastings is not perfect,” answered Lord Westwood. His quiet insult barely reached Sam’s ears.
She scoffed. “Apparently, you do not spend much time in society.”
“I try to avoid it.”
“We have that in common.” Sam’s eyes landed on Wilhelmina and Mr. Reid as they twirled past. Wilhelmina waved merrily, her face split into a wide grin.
“May I ask you one question?” Lord Westwood gazed at her with a peculiar expression.
“Certainly,” answered Sam, tearing her eyes away from Wilhelmina’s glee.
“What were you concentrating on with such intensity when I threatened to tell the story of our first meeting?”
Sam glanced down, a red tinge crawling up the back of her neck, indicating the balcony with a slight jerk of her head. “Whether or not I could make it over the railing before Wilhelmina realized I was missing.”
“What did you intend to do once you climbed over the balcony?” asked Lord Westwood.
“I was planning to shimmy down the column, using the ivy as a rope.” Sam lifted her head, a tiny smile pulling at her lips. “She would never catch me once I reached the drive.”
Lord Westwood struggled to keep his face neutral. “Do you think about escaping ballrooms often?”
“More often than I would care to admit.”
“I suppose, as a gentleman, I would have to attempt to prevent you from injuring yourself even if that caused a public scene.” Lord Westwood clasped his hands behind his back, casting his eyes upward with a dramatic sigh.
“Dragged away from the balcony in full view of society by Lord Westwood—that would definitely be one more mark against me,” murmured Sam ruefully, shaking her head sadly.
“I believe I am the one with the mark,” grinned Lord Westwood.
Sam glared at him, annoyed by his playful demeanor. “What are your designs on my future?”
“Miss Hastings, this is neither the time nor the place for such a serious conversation.”
“Mr. Reid,” Sam growled, reverting to the name she used during her youth, her eyes flashing.
“Lord Westwood,” he interrupted gently.
“Pardon me.”
“Lord Westwood, remember, I was titled.”
Sam rolled her eyes at the admonishment. “Lord Westwood,” she said, ridiculously emphasizing the words.
“Yes?” He inclined his head and smiled.
“Since it is my life, I would appreciate it if everyone would stop treating me like a child and allow me to make my own decisions.” Sam stamped her foot for emphasis.
His lips curved slightly; apparently, he was losing the battle to keep his face expressionless. “You are quite right.”
“Thank you.” Folding her arms, Sam nodded her head once.
“You are definitely not a child.” The words rolled over her skin, caressing, burning, their hidden meaning igniting a long-forgotten feeling.
“Nor am I easily seduced by a charming rake,” she spat, trying to ignore the fluttering in her stomach. Her thoughts danced erratically, like flames flickering in a grate.
“No, I suppose your brother taught you a few things about avoiding men or ‘rakes’ as you so kindly put it.” He touched his hand to his forehead and inclined his head in a sharp bow.
“I know all about you,” retorted Sam, her eyes narrowing. “Your reputation is soiled enough, I would never even consider you a worthy match.”
“Miss Hastings,” Lord Westwood leaned closer, his warm breath tickling her ear. “Never issue a delicious challenge to such a notorious rake as I.”
“Edward told me about your wicked, seductive exploits too,” she began again forcefully, fighting the fire threatening to burn her from the inside.
“Were you intrigued?” His mouth moved closer to her ear, purring and threatening unknown pleasures. He touched her chin with his fingertips, tilting her head up toward him, his green eyes blazed. “Would you like to be seduced?”
“No.” The word, barely audible, tumbled from her mouth. “No, I would not.”
He smiled, his lips promising worlds of wonder and ecstasy. “I think you would, Miss Hastings. I think you would enjoy it immensely. I know I would.”
“Well, I am not you,” replied Sam haughtily.
“Quite right, and as your guardian, I would never allow you to marry such a notorious rake as myself, to quote your eloquent words.” Lord Westwood leaned back, dissolving the intimacy immediately, leaving Sam with a cold, empty feeling. The sounds of the ballroom whirled around her head, whipping into a deafening cacophony. Her legs trembled.
Did he say her guardian?
“My what?” shouted Sam, shock radiated from her core. Edward would never approve of such an immoral custodian, especially one with as appalling a reputation as Lord Westwood. How could Edward betray her to such a heathen?
A group of young ladies standing near the window glanced at Sam when she raised her voice. They quickly looked away again after Sam glared pointedly at the cluster of curious girls. A beautiful young lady, swathed in a pale lemon gown that accented her lithe figure, leaned in toward the other girls and began whispering in earnest. Periodically, one of the other women in the circle would glance up at Sam and giggle.
Sam shook her head; she detested this gossipy society. She sent a second filthy look in the direction of the little group of ladies, and they moved away slightly, still gathered tightly around the girl in the yel
low dress. Sam chewed her tongue.
Would Wilhelmina’s ire be worth sharing a few impolite words with the eavesdropping socialites?
“Your guardian,” Lord Westwood repeated calmly, interrupting her internal struggle. “I promised your brother before he left on his ill-fated journey, I would watch out for your well-being.”
“Edward would never entrust me to you,” sputtered Sam.
Lord Westwood ignored Sam’s outburst. “And I swore I would approve of the suitor you wed, should something happen to him.”
“You will do no such thing,” Sam bellowed, not caring about the nearby huddle of busybodies.
“Dance with me,” commanded Lord Westwood, disrupting her imminent tirade.
Sam paused, her mouth half open, confused by the sudden change of subject. This man repeatedly knocked her off balance.
“Pardon me?”
“Dance with me, people are beginning to stare at us.” Without waiting for another word, Lord Westwood grasped Sam’s elbow again and dragged her among the swaying couples. Sam swore Mr. Reid winked as she passed behind Wilhelmina. Lord Westwood bowed low to her; she scowled at him.
“Your manners need some improvement,” Lord Westwood chuckled as he swept her into the dance. “We may need to work on that before I can garner you a proposal.”
Sam glared at him. “Now may I yell at you?”
Lord Westwood smiled pleasantly. “Absolutely.”
Chapter Six
He did not listen. Benjamin knew Miss Hastings yelled words, sometimes screamed words, but the only sound he heard was the loud thrumming of his heart. It beat so loudly, he feared she might hear it over her tirade. How it was possible the little girl he still pictured had grown into such a vivacious, rather beautiful, albeit opinionated woman? No wonder Edward hid her in the country. Already the gentleman wolves–suitors, most of them unsuitable–were beginning to circle. Gentile tongued devils. He glared at them, tightened his grip on Miss Hasting’s waist and spun her deftly into the center of the room. She never missed a step, whirling at the last moment to complete the turn. His grateful feet were never in danger.
Edward’s little sister did not much resemble her brother, except for their shared eye and hair color. Whereas Edward looked like a mirror image of Mr. Hastings, Miss Hastings had grown into a lovely tribute to her mother’s beauty. However, Miss Hasting’s spunky demeanor did not match Benjamin’s gentle memory of Mrs. Hastings. That particular trait seemed to be solely Miss Hastings’.
Benjamin’s mind began to wander, preoccupied with the intriguing way her lips formed around the words which continued to pour uninhibited from her tongue. Her ire flushed her cheeks. Much prettier, he reflected, than the pale color most ladies favored. He thought of other things he could do that would cause her to blush this delightful shade of pink. His eyes flicked to her mouth, still moving incessantly. Benjamin ached to taste her sweet lips, plump and innocent, just out of his reach. He wanted to cover her mouth with his, to tickle the corners with his tongue, and to make her moan his name with complete abandon.
“Lord Westwood,” she demanded, breaking through his wayward thoughts.
“Yes,” he answered. Not quite the way he imagined her calling his name.
“Lord Westwood,” persisted Miss Hastings. “You are not listening to me.”
“My dear, Miss Hastings,” he replied as he gestured around them. “Of course, I am listening to you. The whole ballroom is listening to you.”
She glanced around, suddenly shy. The beautiful pink color traveled down her neck, past her bodice. He wanted to trace the path with his lips, certain it would lead straight to her center. For the second time that evening, he felt the discomforting tightness begging for release.
He realized what he needed was a cold bath and a night with a woman, any woman, except the one currently standing directly in front of him. Just as long as she had reddish tinges in her curls and glittering sapphire eyes, he added silently, picturing how soft her skin might look bathed in flickering candlelight while she lay shivering beneath him. No, he reprimanded himself sternly, not him, he was her guardian… beneath some other man. The thought made him want to put his fist through a wall. A dark expression crossed his face.
“My Lord,” Miss Hastings asked with concern. “Is anything wrong?”
Benjamin stared at her blankly as the fantasy faded around him, replaced by the intrusion of the crowded ballroom. Realizing she had addressed him, he forced himself to focus. Taking a deep breath, his features softened dramatically as his displeasure ebbed.
“Not at all,” he stated politely after regaining control. “I was thinking about which suitors I might approve.”
Miss Hastings rolled her eyes. “I have just finished explaining to you I am perfectly capable of choosing a suitable husband.”
“Really,” Benjamin murmured, his eyes flickering over the young men roving hungrily on the sidelines. “I do not think you know the first thing about men.”
“I do,” insisted Miss Hastings. She stopped dancing to place her hands firmly on her hips. The childish pose brought a smile to Benjamin’s lips.
“Let me show you how much you do not know. Shall we retire to the terrace? It is such a lovely night.” Without waiting for a response, he grasped her wrist lightly and tugged her toward the open glass doors. Miss Hastings followed reluctantly.
The balcony, bathed in light from the ballroom, provided shadowy corners for couples seeking a little more privacy. It was into one of these dim corners that Benjamin pulled Miss Hastings, pushing her back against the ivy-covered bricks. Both his hands rested on the greenery, sufficiently trapping Miss Hastings between his body and the wall. He inhaled her scent, sweet like honeysuckle.
He moved closer, the heat from her body licked flames onto his skin. Their breath intermingled, caressing two pairs of lips before escaping into the star-spattered sky. His hips slid nearer, pressing into her with his unreleased desire. One finger tipped her chin until she was forced to stare into his eyes. The other hand moved behind her head, clasping her neck, and drawing her closer.
“This,” he rumbled softly, their lips separated by mere centimeters, “is how a potential suitor might behave. Can you handle this?”
“Yes,” she answered defiantly, her voice wavering. She placed her hands on his vest as if she were planning to shove him away. However, she did not exert any pressure, nor did she move them; her hands remained splayed across his broad chest.
“And this?” He inched closer, his lips brushing hers in the barest of kisses.
“Yes,” Miss Hastings managed to squeak out.
Benjamin kissed her again, lightly at first, then with increasing urgency. He deepened the kiss, his body pressed against the full length of her. His hands slid down her back, wrapping around her waist and pulling her flush. His lips nibbled the corners of her mouth, his tongue pushing urgently past her lips, tasting her sweet breath.
“Mmmm,” her protest died under his assault. Attempting to mirror his actions, she kissed him back, not as forcefully but with the same passion and intensity he felt. He wanted more of her. He wanted to take her right here, on the balcony, in full view of every guest in attendance. He needed to claim her as his—forever.
Edward’s disappointed face swam into his mind. Reason washed over him, dousing him in an icy bath. Reluctantly, he pulled away, acutely aware of another couple entering the terrace. This was not the circumstances Edward had in mind when he appointed Benjamin to act as Miss Hasting’s guardian. Although Edward had taught her some questionable things as well, Benjamin thought wryly, his finger brushing over the scar on his left hand. He was certain this particular lesson was not on Edward’s approved curriculum.
Miss Hastings looked faint, the fire behind her eyes dying like embers. Suddenly conscious of their ill-concealed location, she glanced around, pressing back into the shadowy bricks. She quickly lowered her hands, fussing over her dress, smoothing invisible wrinkles nervously. Benjamin
blocked her body from meddling eyes to allow her a few extra moments of privacy.
“That,” he said languidly, trying to slow his own breathing, “is how a possible suitor would act.”
“That,” she replied, her eyebrow arched so sharply, he felt it would slice him, “is how a cad would act.”
Benjamin threw back his head and laughed. Considering how soundly she had been kissed, Miss Hastings lost no time in regaining her powers of speech. Her severe tongue flung a torrid of insults. Her current outburst grew much more animated than the last. People on the terrace began to investigate the disturbance.
“Be quiet, or I’ll kiss you again,” he threatened in a low voice.
Miss Hasting’s delightful mouth dropped open in surprise. “You wouldn’t dare.” she gasped,
“Of course, I would.” Benjamin wiggled his eyebrows. “I am the World’s Most Wicked Rake as you so sweetly dubbed me.” He exaggerated a bow, tipping an imaginary hat, making a grand sweeping gesture with his arm.
“I said notorious,” mumbled Miss Hastings, staring at her shoes.
“Why yes you did, Miss Hastings,” he agreed jovially. “Edward found the situation entirely too amusing. He could not wait to share the details of your fine estimation with our friends. I had to bribe him for silence.”
“I was ten,” answered Miss Hastings petulantly, peeking up at him. “You reminded me of the villain in a book I was reading.”
“I recall that afternoon very well,” chuckled Benjamin. “It was shortly after your lake accident. You came dashing down the stairs, swinging that foil like you were going to take my head off.”
“I would have too if Edward had not warned you,” Miss Hastings’ laughed. The delightful sound wrapped around him.
Benjamin deliberately rubbed his finger over a faint scar on his left hand, a small smile pulling on his lips. “You did leave me with a tiny memento of your good opinion of me though.”
“It was just a little cut, you only bled for a couple of minutes,” Miss Hastings replied timidly as if waiting for him to chastise her.
Amused, Benjamin cocked his head to the side, reminiscing on the afternoon. “What exactly did you yell before you attacked me?”