Heart’s Temptation Books 1–3

by Scott, Scarlett

  “Gretna Green marriages have been obsolete for over twenty years,” Thornton scoffed.

  “Tell that to le pauvre Lucy. I don’t think the unfortunate girl ever heard.”

  “Cleo!” Tia was growing impatient with their hesitation. “Thornton, you utter scoundrel, let my sister be!”

  “Tia, do be quiet,” Cleo instructed, unable to resist dropping another kiss on his beautiful mouth.

  “Let me come to you tonight,” he murmured, catching her lower lip between his teeth and giving it a gentle tug.

  Their arguments and the weighty cares of the world around them somehow fell away whenever his mouth was on hers. “Yes,” she agreed, breathless.

  “Cleo!”

  “Very well.” Cleo tore herself from Thornton and, holding the ragged ends of her once grand morning bodice together, she crossed the library to the door. “Tia, are you alone?”

  “Of course, you ninny! Not for long, I dare say. Do let me in. Darling, you don’t know what you’re about!”

  “Do cease being so exclamatory,” she returned, popping open the door a bit. Her sister’s pretty, worried face stared back at her. “We can avoid scandal if you will only cease drawing attention to us.”

  “Us?” Tia frowned. “I knew he was in there. Thornton!”

  “Hush,” Cleo ordered in a low tone. “And find me the nearest servants’ stair.” She had noted, much to her dismay, that none appeared to be accessible from the library.

  Tia’s mouth opened in shock. “Cleo? You haven’t…”

  “Servants’ stair.” With that, she closed the door in her sister’s face.

  Chapter Twelve

  As it happened, Tia was extraordinarily assiduous in locating a servants’ stair and shepherding Cleo into it without being seen. Their covert operation was very nearly thwarted by the dowager marchioness, who Thornton was able to distract at a crucial moment by appearing in the hall and complimenting her dress before she could notice Cleo skulking into obscurity.

  Thornton spent the formal luncheon trying to ignore his mother, who was seated between Ford and Jesse and, as such, was thoroughly consternated. The insulting questions she peppered her surrounding company with were legion, chief among them, “Do you know how many Americans are infiltrating our society these days?”

  To which Jesse replied, “Not nearly enough by my calculations, ma’am.”

  Thornton, meanwhile, did his best to ignore her, which didn’t require much effort since Cleo was seated next to him. She wore a silver gown with jet bead overlay and she looked fey and gorgeous, like a parcel he dearly longed to unwrap. He thought of how he’d made rude love to her in the library as if she were no better than a Lucy. Damn it all, he should never have spent himself inside her. He should have at least acted with caution in that regard if no other, but he had been so swept up in the moment he hadn’t had a care.

  And then he thought of how she’d tasted so sweet, of how beautiful and perfect her pale breasts had been in his hands, how delicious and hard her nipples had been in his mouth. Uncomfortable in his trousers, he shifted and in so doing, afforded himself a delectable view down her daring décolletage.

  He groaned before he could stifle it, then feigned a cough to cover up his misstep. Christ. Whatever evil she wrought on him, it was thorough and complete. The saint had too quickly become an unrepentant sinner. It shouldn’t have been so easy for him to want to discard everything for which he had worked for the last seven years. Asserting himself in the political sphere had been no easy feat. Much of his youth had been spent in politicking, strategizing, speech writing and analyzing his political enemy. He’d been unimpeachable in his integrity, impeccable in his honesty, sterling in reputation. The few affairs he’d conducted had been discreet and civilized. He’d never cared for the dramatics of opera singers or the theatrics of actresses. Instead, he had taken his pleasure with older women, often widows of diplomats or fellow peers. Never had he thought to abandon everything for a woman.

  Until today, when the words had spilled from his lips as if from a mewling babe. He was rendered helpless in her presence, hopeless to defend himself against the onslaught of her beauty. He loved her still, loved her more than he had as an untried youth. She had suffered deeply for his defection at a time when he should have stood by her and made right by her. Instead, he had allowed pride to rule. Now he rued the day he had ever allowed Scarbrough to interlope and steal the woman he loved.

  Love. The word made him queasy. It made him swallow his trout with difficulty. It made him want to gallop hell for leather back to London and lock himself inside his study to pore over reports from Ireland and from the East End of London and from India.

  Cleo laughed, the crystalline sound skittering down his spine like her fingernails raking his back. He hardened even more, then forced himself to recite the Lord’s Prayer to tamp down his rampant arousal. It would not do to be sporting an erection at the luncheon table with his hostess and all the company to witness the mortifying event.

  “I’m sure it’s improving to be in company with your civilized neighbors across the Atlantic,” the dowager was condescending to Jesse.

  “Mother,” Bella objected with quiet dignity, clearly embarrassed. It hadn’t escaped Thornton’s notice that his sister seemed to turn a suspicious shade of pink and smile more than proper in the company of his older and infinitely unsuitable-for-her friend.

  “I hope you don’t take umbrage, Mr. Whitney,” Thornton’s mother said with a startling lack of sincerity. She took a delicate sip of her lemonade. “I only mean to say that it is a wonderful opportunity for Americans to join us here and experience important society. From what I understand, little civility at all exists in your country. Why, are you not still at war with one another or some such?”

  Jesse offered a pained smile. “Our war has been at an end for fifteen years, ma’am.”

  “Just so,” the dowager intoned with a great sense of her own importance, “and yet to see a country still struggling after so long. It is a shame, is it not, Your Grace?”

  This last question she addressed to the Duke of Claridge, who wore the expression of a man who had swallowed something whole and feared choking. “I’m sure the Americans are well off, my lady, despite whatever ill may have once befallen them. They are a resourceful lot, are you not, Mr. Whitney?”

  “We consider ourselves to be so.” Jesse smiled at Bella across the table.

  Thornton’s eyes narrowed. He’d have to keep a closer watch on his sister and his friend, damn it all. Something was afoot.

  “Do tell us more about the Wild West, Mr. Whitney,” Bella requested.

  Thornton scowled at his sister. “I should think that an inappropriate topic for the table, Bella.”

  Jesse sent him a speculative look. The dowager appeared pleased. She beamed at him. “I’m sure you’re right, my lord. Let us talk about something more pleasant, shall we? I had the most delightful epistle from Miss Cuthbert today.”

  Oh dear Christ. He felt Cleo stiffen at his side and reached beneath the table linens to give her hand a reassuring squeeze. Her fingers tightened on his. Outwardly, her lovely face showed no expression save the slightest drawing at the corners of her rosebud mouth. He longed to escape the stodgy boredom of the luncheon and make love to her again. Being so near to her and yet in the presence of the rest of the company created the worst sort of torture.

  “She writes from the Lake District,” the dowager continued, “and begs that I remember her to you fondly.”

  He did not miss or mistake the smug glance she sent in Cleo’s direction. That his mother would speak openly of private correspondence was an indication of her dudgeon. She made no secret of her distaste for Cleo or of her desire for him to wed Miss Cuthbert.

  “I do adore the Lake District, do you not, dear Bella?” His mother produced a rare smile. “Thornton, Bella and I are on to Windermere following the conclusion of this lovely week. Aren’t we, Thornton?”

  They h
ad planned no such trip and she well knew it. She merely sought to manipulate him into putting himself in close proximity to Miss Cuthbert and her father. He refused to allow it.

  “Unfortunately, I have some pressing interests in London that will take me back up to the city,” he told her smoothly.

  The dowager’s eyes glinted with a panther’s keen determination. “I dare say we shall discuss it later.” She turned her wrath on Cleo. “Tell us, Lady Scarbrough, how is your husband faring? I’m certain he writes you often with all sorts of bon mots.”

  Cleo tipped her chin up. “I’m afraid his lordship has not written recently, my lady. He has many interests that keep him quite occupied.”

  Brave girl, he congratulated her silently.

  “Indeed?” The dowager was not so easily swayed. “I had no idea, I confess it. What interests, do share?”

  Cleo kept a polite smile pinned to her lips. “Hunting, of course. Grouse and snipe.”

  The pun was not lost on Thornton. He had to cover his mouth to hide his chuckle and noted Claridge and Jesse doing the same. Bella merely frowned at Cleo, ill disguising her dislike. Apparently, his mother did not notice, for she had no retort, merely a soft harrumph at having her attempt at upsetting Cleo so neatly thwarted. Thankfully, she went back to mincing her trout into infinitesimal pieces she only pretended to consume.

  “Nicely done,” he murmured sotto voce. Their fingers remained interlaced in her lap and out of view.

  “Thank you,” she whispered back, allowing her unassailable mask to drop for a moment to reveal the vulnerability hiding beneath.

  His mother the shark had affected her, it would seem. He could not avoid her any longer. The matter of her attacks—subtle and couched in politeness though they were—could not go unanswered. He decided to seek her out following the conclusion of the meal. Cleo did not deserve to be maligned. Christ knew she’d suffered enough as it was, thinking he’d betrayed her, losing their babe on her own, shackling herself to a man who posed as her savior when he was truly her damnation. And so much of it his own fault, despite what she’d said. Thornton would always own his complicity in the sorry state of their lives. He could not whitewash their past, but he could do his damnedest to protect her now.

  “I believe you were on the cusp of telling us about your Wild West, Mr. Whitney,” Bella reminded Jesse with an air that was far too flirtatious for Thornton’s liking.

  Dear God, when had bookish Bella become a coquette? She’d never even shown an interest in a man before, as far as he knew. Why, he still recalled having tea parties in the nursery with her and that ratty doll she’d always secreted under her arm until their mother had it removed to the dustbin. Bella had cried for a fortnight straight. Its name had been Miss Muffin, of all things. And now, suddenly here she was, wearing a sophisticated pale pink gown, coiffure elaborately styled and as dignified as any of the grand ladies seated around the table. He saw her for the first time as his friend must see her, a beautiful woman in her own right, shy yet blessed with a sharp mind.

  He wasn’t sure he liked it. In fact, he altogether hated it. But most of all, he hated the expression on Jesse’s face as he regaled the table—Bella in particular—with stories of Buffalo Bill. Nor did he particularly appreciate the way Bella’s entire face brightened, her blue eyes sparkling. A spear of dread shot through him.

  Cleo noticed the direction of his troubled gaze and the bent of his equally turbulent thoughts. “She is a woman grown,” she said in hushed tones.

  “That’s what I fear,” he muttered, looking back to Cleo. How was it possible for her to read him so bloody well, to know his mind as well as he did?

  She’d reappeared back in his life with the abruptness of a thunderbolt from the sky and a similarly shocking effect on his senses. His carefully constructed world was about to be torn asunder. Very likely, he would lose his standing in society. He would definitely lose the career he had worked so assertively to achieve. But none of that mattered just now in this moment.

  What did matter was her. She meant everything to him, he realized and she always had. He’d spent seven years running from the damage she’d done his heart by throwing him over for Scarbrough, seven years devoting himself to the Liberal cause and subduing the mad passion of his youth. His political aspirations—whatever they had once been—were in tatters. After all, as a marquis he could always maintain his position in the House of Lords. Regardless, he would possess an ability to sway public policy. The die was cast. He would no longer run from Cleo, nor did he give a damn who knew how he felt for her.

  Arranging a private audience with his mother at a house party would have been no easy thing had it not been for the accommodating and gracious Lady Cosgrove, who was eager to assist Thornton in his purpose. She offered the circumspect use of her yellow salon and sent a maid with afternoon tea. He had an inkling that Lady C. knew what the interview was about. It seemed as if she championed his cause, though neither he nor the august lady broached the topic.

  Thornton waited for his mother to take a few sips of her tea and chatter about the appalling state of Margot Chilton’s garish afternoon dress and Lady Grimsby’s wilted peacock feathers.

  “It is difficult indeed in these times to surround one’s self with worthy company at society events,” his mother added. “Everybody who was ever anybody is quite going to the dogs. Why, look at the dreadful number of vulgar Americans invading our shores, clamoring for our titles. The Peerage is going to ruins, I tell you, Alex dearest, which is why it is so important for Bella to marry well.

  “You won’t allow your unsavory American friend to court her, I hope? He is twice her age and drinks to excess. Hollins has it on good authority that he’s been making ill use of some of the household staff. A lowly unpacking maid, if you’ll believe it. Hollins tells me he smokes nearly twenty cigarettes in a single day and if the conversation he offered today at luncheon was any indication, he places himself amongst gamblers, blackguards, and swindlers. America is no place for any daughter of mine. Why, it was only during their revolution not so very long ago that they beheaded the highest of their social betters. I should fear for my poor darling’s life.”

  When she stopped for breath and a supporting sip of tea, he sighed. “Mother, you confuse the French Revolution with the American.”

  “Nonsense,” she scoffed. “The French are forever having revolutions. The Americans had just the one.”

  “Quite so, but all were allowed to keep their heads in place. Unless, of course, they were lost in the heart of battle.”

  The dowager frowned. “I’m sure you’re having me on, Alex. Have I raised you so poorly that you will condescend to your own mother, who bore you for ten grueling months?”

  “Nine, I should think,” he corrected out of sheer habit.

  “You were a burden.” She sipped at her tea. “Pray do not be a burden to me now, Alex. My heart is weak, Dr. Walmsey says so and I must avoid upset at all costs. Bad enough I should worry for Bella being taken away to a heathenish land by a loathsome American.”

  Weak heart his arse. Strange she’d never mentioned it before in one of her tedious epistles. “How should I be a burden on you, mother, when I support your every whim?”

  She set her teacup on its saucer with a disjointed clatter. “I do not have whims, Alexander. I have needs. Have I ever burdened you unduly?”

  “Yes,” he answered truthfully, “though I dare say it is your due as a mother who carried me in her womb for ten grueling months. Let us be honest. I have requested this audience because it is time for a pax between yourself and Lady Scarbrough.”

  “Do not, I beseech you, speak to me of that dreadful woman,” she spat.

  “You will cease all attempts to insult her through innuendo and otherwise,” he ordered. “Lady Scarbrough has done nothing to provoke your wrath and does not deserve to suffer the lashings your merciless tongue can deal.”

  The dowager gasped. “You dare to defend her to me?”

/>   “I care for her very deeply.”

  “You care for Miss Cuthbert.” Her hands flailed like unsettled butterflies.

  “I intend to dissolve any obligations I may have with Honoria.” He did his best to remain cool and reserved, to keep the power of his emotions leashed.

  “You cannot! I refuse to allow you to make such a terrible mistake.”

  “Mother, I am the head of this family.”

  Her thin mouth tightened, her steel-gray eyes snapping with indignation. She drew herself up to her full seated height with such affront that her lace cap was knocked askew. “And as such, it is your duty to keep us from shame. Your sister has yet to marry.”

  “It is not my intention to bring shame upon the de Vere name, but neither is it my intention to marry a woman for whom I feel no tender emotion.”

  His mother wrung her hands together now, her dismay evident. “What does she hold over you?”

  He stiffened. “Of whom do you speak?”

  “Lady Scarbrough,” she gritted. “Who else? What power does that jade wield that she can make you cry off a perfect alliance?”

  “This is my decision, not the countess’s.”

  “I should never have mentioned Miss Cuthbert to her. I see that now. She has beat me at my own game,” his mother said with a bitter tinge to her voice.

  “There need be no games played. My decision is final. I will not marry Miss Cuthbert and you will treat Lady Scarbrough with the respect a lady of her stature deserves.”

  “You think she does not play a game with you?” she scoffed. “Everyone knows she’s been desperate for a scandal. Hollins tells me Lady Scarbrough intends to make the earl sue her for divorce and she means to use you to do it.”

  Even if he believed Cleo capable of such deception, he had asked her to divorce her husband himself and she had rejected the suggestion as the impossibility it was. That was all the proof he needed of Cleo’s true intentions. “To hell with what Hollins tells you. There will be no divorce,” he said curtly. “Scarbrough won’t give up his tight grip on Cleo’s purse.”