Heart’s Temptation Books 1–3

by Scott, Scarlett

  “Lord Ravenscroft is traveling in our direction,” she answered, seizing upon the excuse. After all, he was heading their way in a determined saunter, even if she had only just now taken notice.

  Helen sighed. “He is a rather fascinating man for all that he has a dubious reputation.”

  “Dubious! The man is notorious,” Tia corrected.

  “No one cares with a face that handsome,” Helen offered.

  “True,” Cleo agreed, watching the object of their conversation. No doubt about it, Ravenscroft was beautiful in a rare, masculine sense of the word. If only she had been partnered with him instead of Thornton. If only he made her pulse pound and her breath catch.

  Ravenscroft reached them and bowed. He smelled of decadent French cologne. “Ladies, I trust you are enjoying our hostess’s fine display of theater.”

  “Indeed we are,” Cleo answered, proffering her hand. The earl placed a lingering kiss upon it before turning to Tia and Helen. “What of you, my lord?”

  “Other than the fact Juliet is old enough to be my mother, the play is delightful.” He gave her a wicked grin.

  Tia gave him a playful tap on the arm with her fan. “You do the lady grave insult, my lord. She is not so ancient, as you, I think.”

  “You think me ancient, dear lady? I’m wounded.” He held a hand over his heart. “Truly, Juliet is old enough to be my dam.”

  His assessment earned a shocked laugh from the sisters. “You compare yourself to a dog, Ravenscroft?” Helen interposed, sounding amused.

  “Fitting, don’t you think?” he returned.

  “The more salient question,” Cleo couldn’t help adding, “is why you are so certain of Juliet’s age.”

  “Ah.” His grin deepened. “While it is a subject not fit for the ears of ladies, I confess to having had a certain association with the lovely Juliet some years back.”

  “Lord Ravenscroft, you are scandalous,” Helen pronounced, but far from shocked, her tone was delighted. She even sent the notorious lord a coy smile.

  Oh dear. The formidable Lady Helen Harrington was never coy. She didn’t play at romantic games with men. Indeed, she was too busy being formidable to manage the effort. She suffered fools most ungraciously.

  “I should think scandalous preferable to boring any day, Lady Helen,” Ravenscroft parried with a wink before making an impolite gesture to impending company. “Speaking of boring…”

  Thornton and the American appeared then, within earshot for Ravenscroft’s cheeky introduction. Thornton’s face was set in grim lines. He made no secret of his dislike for Ravenscroft. The American, on the other hand, seemed utterly at ease in that insufferable way only a people hailing from such a vast continent have.

  Thornton bowed to Cleo, his gaze impersonal. “Countess, good evening. Lady Stokey, Lady Helen. May I present to each of you my good friend, Mr. Jesse Whitney?”

  Introductions went around, with an awkward pause as Thornton attempted to ignore Ravenscroft. The earl appeared unaffected as, with a mild tone, he performed his own. Which in turn only nettled Thornton more.

  Cleo decided it would be terribly fun to ignore Thornton herself. She offered Mr. Whitney a smile that was a trifle too warm for an initial meeting and gave him her hand. “Mr. Whitney, we’ve heard such a great deal about you. It’s my greatest pleasure to at last make your acquaintance.”

  Mr. Whitney inclined his head, dropping a respectful kiss on her hand. “The pleasure is mine, Lady Scarbrough.”

  He was dashing, the American. Perfectly polite as well, which was rare in her experience. Quite a few American heiresses had made their tittering way across the Atlantic in hopes of marrying into the peerage, without much to recommend them save their fortunes.

  “Tell me, what brings you to our glorious shores?” she asked, moving a bit closer to Mr. Whitney and forcing Tia to take a step away from him.

  Mr. Whitney grinned, producing an appealing dimple in his right cheek. “Business interests primarily.”

  “Business,” she repeated. Americans adored industry. The English found it appalling. Truly, she knew very little of business matters, being possessed of one of the last remaining English fortunes. Of course, John was doing his best to run the coffers dry. By the time she reached her dotage, she’d likely have to hire herself out as a charwoman.

  His grin deepened. “Have I lost my charm already?”

  “Naturally not,” she said in a teasing tone. “Your charm is too great to be so easily tarnished by a tawdry involvement in business.”

  That earned her an appreciative laugh from Mr. Whitney and a scowl from Thornton. How delicious. She adjusted her stance to turn her body more fully toward her quarry.

  “You are the first woman I’ve met here with a sense of humor,” Mr. Whitney confided. “While your women are lovely as magnolias, they tend to be just as fragile.”

  “That’s our Cleo,” Tia interrupted, never one to be brushed aside for long, “sturdy as a carriage horse. Why, there isn’t a single thing about our dear girl that is fragile, is there Helen?”

  Cleo shot darts at Tia with her eyes. In wisdom, Helen chose to change the subject and after just a few sentences, Cleo’s attempt at seducing Mr. Whitney was dashed. Drat. Needling Thornton brought her such satisfaction. Even if she did have to admit that it wasn’t Mr. Whitney she wanted to spend hours kissing but rather his insufferable friend Thornton. Their conversation grew tepid and polite to do penance for Ravenscroft’s inappropriate comments, Thornton’s animosity and Cleo’s blatant but brief flirting.

  In short order, the intercession was at an end and Lady C. was loudly directing her milling guests back to their seats for the remainder of the play. Tia grabbed Mr. Whitney’s arm nearly before he offered it, Helen partnered with Lord Ravenscroft and Cleo was left with Thornton. She took his arm.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you had a tendre for Jesse,” he murmured for her ears alone.

  She cast him an arch look. “Do you know better?”

  “Of course.” A smile tugged at the corners of his lips for the first time that evening. His charming, dratted dimple made a rare appearance.

  “And how would you know better, my lord, when you know so very little about me in the first place?”

  “If you will but think on it, you shall realize I know quite a lot about you these days.”

  “You’re an arrogant cad, my lord,” she admonished him, not entirely meaning it, much to her chagrin. She still yearned for his touch anyway.

  “So you have told me before, Countess.”

  “So I will tell you again before this fortnight is through, I predict.”

  “Are you a fortune teller, my dear?” He sounded unconcerned, blithe almost.

  “No, merely cursed by Fortune’s wheel to be continually plagued by you.”

  “Pray, don’t work yourself into a temper on my account, Lady Scarbrough.” Thornton clucked his tongue. “It makes your nostrils flare.”

  She huffed. Now he stooped to examining her as if she were a prize mare? “I wouldn’t work myself into anything on your account, Lord Thornton. Indeed, I rarely think of you at all.”

  “Indeed.” He chuckled and it was apparent from his tone he didn’t believe her.

  Cleo sought to discomfit him. “Have you learned your lines yet?”

  The left corner of his sensual lips curved upward in a half-smile. “No. I’ve been at it all afternoon and can’t recall a word after Bruges.”

  “Brabant,” she corrected.

  “Er, yes. Just so.” He leaned into her closer than propriety dictated. She caught his masculine scent, so much richer and earthier than Ravenscroft’s cologne. “Perhaps you would like to practice later this evening?”

  The man knew no bounds. She should be outraged at his improper suggestion. In truth, it piqued her interest. She was fast turning into a Messalina, in thought if not in deed. Thank heavens unlike that infamous historical figure, Cleo didn’t have a husband such as Emp
eror Claudius to have her executed.

  “I’m shocked at your insolence,” she lied in her haughtiest tones, knowing it for the best that she not encourage him. There could be no future in such an affaire, only the risk of too much heartache. She had already lived through more than enough of that at his hands, thank you.

  “But I rather think you like it,” he said lowly, before bowing and leaving her safe—and dejected—at her seat.

  Cleo didn’t hear a word spoken by either the lovelorn Juliet or her beau Romeo for the remainder of the play. Her mind was quite preoccupied with unsettling possibilities. Delicious possibilities. Oh dear. There was that naughty word of Thornton’s again, a perfect adjective for her current predicament. Delicious.

  Chapter Five

  When Thornton retired that evening after some late fine-champagne and cigarettes with Jesse and a few others in the company, he discovered a curious note. It had been placed on the writing desk by the window and caught his eye at once. The flowery script on the envelope appeared unnaturally large, as though the writer had taken great pains to seem impressive with monstrous letters. As he picked it up, the scent of lavender reached him.

  Cleo. No, she was not the naïve, sweet-tempered girl he remembered. But in her place was a fiery goddess with the tongue of a shrew. Closeting himself with her had been a mistake. Touching her had been tantamount to eating the forbidden apple. Already, he wanted her like mad, as he had never wanted another before or since her.

  Pursuing her would be folly indeed at a house party where everyone knew everyone’s business and his mother haunted the drawing room. An affaire could well have negative implications for his political ambitions. There was his betrothed-to-be, Miss Cuthbert, to consider as well. Untoward gossip would almost certainly reach her ears.

  And yet, he tore open the envelope anyway.

  “My dearest Thornton,” he read aloud. “We’ve much to discuss. Perhaps a private audience, away from the ever-open ears of our company is in order? If you should call, my door will be open. Midnight. Yours, C.”

  Oh hell. He was as hard as he’d been yesterday with his hand up her luscious leg. What did she want from him? He started undoing his necktie but then thought better of it. If he went to Cleo’s chamber, he couldn’t very well appear in a robe only. That would be presumptuous, an insult. Not that he intended to go, mind you.

  Thornton raked a finger under his collar and studied the letter. No, he wouldn’t take her offer. As a reckless youth led by his prick and little else, he would have gone. Whatever strangeness attracted them—the pull of the unattainable or the dark thrill of discovery—it had passed. It surely would pass after this godforsaken fortnight of temptation.

  God, he regretted their damnable past. If he could but forget, perhaps he could focus on the important aspects of his life once more. His fist closed on the pretty note, crumpling it until it was unrecognizable. Still, the words remained sealed within his hand as surely as his mind, taunting him. With a grunt, he tossed the wad into the grate. A low fire begun by a servant before his arrival licked the note with flame. In less than half a minute, all traces of it dissipated to fine ash.

  Lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of tobacco. Cursing, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it to the nearest chair. He had no wish for the company of his manservant and decided not to ring for him. No doubt Oliver would read his foul mood like a book.

  Thornton shucked off his shirt. This had all the makings of a long, sleepless night. Stupid though it was, he wished to hell Cleo hadn’t stopped him yesterday and that his sister hadn’t interrupted them earlier. Damn Scarbrough for popping up in Cleo’s conscience and ruining their interlude. If she had waited but fifteen minutes more, her scruples would have been too bloody late and his shaft wouldn’t now be such a painful reminder of what could have been. Of course, he couldn’t truly blame the innocent Bella for her interruption. She may have an inkling of the nature of his feelings for Cleo, but she hardly knew how he would be demonstrating them up against the damn window. Still, as Oliver would say, that didn’t mean he wasn’t hard enough to hang a coal bucket from his knob. It had always been the way of things between them, he recalled with a rueful grimace, from the first.

  The first time Thornton saw Lady Cleopatra Harrington, he was sipping flat champagne at a dreadful country dance his mother had forced him to attend. “You must take the place of your father,” she’d urged, “now our mourning is over. It is your duty to assert your presence even in the country.”

  His mother had been correct so he’d done the pretty. He was fresh out of Oxford, new in his position as the head of his family only a year after his father’s death and—well he knew—a green lad. But even he knew his father’s Buckinghamshire estate was in a shambles. The old marquis had been the worst sort of gambler, a poor one. As a result, Thornton, his mother and his younger sister bordered dangerously on utter penury. It was his duty to see them and Marleigh Manor through it and part of that duty was keeping up appearances.

  He was considerably bored with toadying country squires and puffed-up baronets and their daughters eager to secure the title of marchioness. After a discreet consultation of his watch, he reckoned he would remain for only another quarter hour before escorting his mother home. It was as he tucked his timepiece back into his waistcoat that he saw her.

  She stood with another young lady as fair as she was dark, laughing on the outskirts of the dancers, so lovely he wondered for a moment if he’d drunk too much bad champagne. Glossy black curls framed her round face, woven through with a bit of gold chain. Her dress was unremarkable save for the way its pale yellow silk hugged her luscious figure.

  Determined to win himself an introduction, he turned to the awkward and, if he were honest, dull squire at his side. “Squire Dunston, are you familiar with the exquisite ladies just over there?”

  Dunston followed his gaze, keen to assist. “That would be Lady Helen in the blue dress and Lady Cleopatra in yellow, daughters to the Earl of Northcote.”

  What luck. Northcote’s lands bordered Thornton’s own. He vaguely recalled visiting the family as a boy and had a fleeting impression of girls with braids and dolls and a fat black cat.

  “Perhaps you might introduce me?” he suggested, eyes still on her. Cleopatra. The name suited her. She possessed the kind of dangerous beauty that could eat a man alive.

  “Of course, my lord.” Dunston led the short distance to the still chatting sisters. “Please accept my most humble apologies for the intrusion, my ladies,” he intoned with a formal air. “May I introduce the Marquis of Thornton? Lord Thornton, the Lady Helen and the Lady Cleopatra.”

  Lady Helen shook his hand, taking him by surprise. She was a handsome woman rather than classically beautiful, taller than her sister, with freckles dotting her nose. She made no attempt to powder them, unlike most ladies of his acquaintance.

  “My lady.” He bowed.

  She offered him a genuine smile. “It is a pleasure.”

  “Lady Cleopatra.” He bowed again, noting that her eyes were a most unusual, bewitching shade of green.

  She extended her dainty hand, watching him with a frank gaze. “Lord Thornton.” Her lips were pink and full, meant to be kissed. Even the upturned tip of her nose charmed him.

  If he held her hand longer than necessary or forgot about the presence of Dunston and Lady Helen, it could hardly be helped. She was more than lovely, he realized. Lady Cleopatra was perhaps more alluring than her namesake. She quite took his breath.

  “We are neighbors, I believe.” He knew it was inane conversation, but he’d found his tongue at last.

  “Indeed, are we?” A lovely smile curved her mouth. “I had not realized. That is to say, I knew, of course, that an estate bordered father’s and that estate was held by the Marquis of Thornton. I merely didn’t realize it belonged to you.”

  He found her fluster endearing. “That is interesting, my lady, since I recall a number of visits to your
holdings in my younger years.”

  “Your younger years? Are you so very old, then?” Her face flushed. “I didn’t mean to imply that you look ancient, only that you don’t appear…old.” She bit her lip.

  Thornton grinned. “Do you doubt me?”

  “No.” She sputtered, flushed, foundered for words.

  He took pity on her then. “There was a remarkably fat black cat, girls with braids and dolls and I feel quite secure in the recollection that I tossed one of those dolls into the Poseidon fountain. It was the god of the sea, was it not?”

  “Clementine was not fat,” she huffed, adorably indignant. “She was merely plump in a delightfully feline way. She made an extraordinary pillow, though I dare say waking up with cat fur in one’s mouth isn’t always the thing. It was Helen’s doll you tossed into the fountain, so I shall forgive you that and yes to Poseidon, a frightfully angry looking guardian of the family fountain if you ask me.”

  He laughed, couldn’t help himself—the girl was infectious—and she giggled with him. A waltz struck up in the background. “Would you care to dance, Lady Cleopatra?”

  Her green eyes lit. “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  And just like that, he was thoroughly, hopelessly, smitten.

  To hell with it. Jolted back to the present, he stalked across the chamber and yanked open the wardrobe. There was something between them. There had been something between them seven years before and it was still there, simmering beneath the surface of every innocuous gaze and polite word. It had been prodding him in the gut the previous evening as she showered her coquette’s charms on Claridge. It was kicking him in the arse now.

  He slapped on a fresh shirt. It would definitely kick him in the arse on the morrow. His good sense had fled him. There was no earthly reason why he should be buttoning up a fresh shirt at a quarter ’til midnight with the intent of seeking out Cleopatra. Thornton snapped up a new coat and shrugged into it. No earthly reason at all save one.

  Cleo was washing away her troubles, the hazard of her run-ins with Thornton. Bridget had drawn a hot bath for her in the chamber’s luxurious contemporary bathroom. Lavender floated on the sweet-scented water. The tub itself was no hip bath as most country homes still had, but full-sized and deep, with running water ready at the tap. Wilton House had only the best of modern conveniences. Cleo, accustomed to the dank, gas light-less country seat of Scarbrough, was always impressed with the amenities when here. Of course, John spent money on women, not houses.