Never Kiss a Notorious Marquess

by Renee Ann Miller

  As if he experienced it as well, he erased the gap between them. His legs brushed against her skirts.

  If he knew what she’d done—that she was C. M. Smith—he’d detest her. “We should go back inside.”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  Yet she didn’t move, nor did he.

  His fingers slid farther up her bare arm, leaving a trail of gooseflesh. She pressed the fingernails of her free hand into the thin lace of her gloves, into the skin of her palm, hoping the pain would break the intimate spell cast over her before she did something impetuous. Again. This wasn’t wise. Really, it wasn’t. She should step away.

  He lowered his head. Their breaths tangled. The erratic thump, thump, thump in her chest intensified. The warm flat of his palm moved up her back to pull her tighter to him. Dark anticipation coiled deep within her.

  “Caroline, you should know better than to step into a garden with me.” His words held the promise of both sin and pleasure.

  She unclenched her hand, slid it around his nape, and dipped her fingertips into his thick hair. He was right. This was foolish. Yet, she tipped her face up.

  His lips brushed against hers.

  “Forgive me,” he said, setting his forehead to hers. “I . . .” A fast-moving noise thumping against the flagstones halted his words. He mumbled a curse. A wicked word she’d only heard her cousin Edward use.

  Startled, she followed his gaze through the evergreen to the bench.

  The dowager was gone.

  Grasping Caroline’s hand in his, Huntington tugged her back to the path. The old woman was charging toward the house with a speed that defied any frailty. “Grandmother,” he barked.

  The matriarch uttered an invective, more shocking than her grandson’s. She swung about and coughed. The sound clearly forced. “I need to go inside. The air is cool and my lungs are not what they used to be.”

  Huntington made a gruff noise. A clear indication he believed his grandmother suffered from nothing more than her desire to manipulate. He opened his mouth, but the appearance of Lady Randall and Lord Hanover stepping through the open French doors halted what Caroline presumed would be a seething diatribe. He released Caroline’s hand.

  She suddenly felt cold and alone. How foolish.

  “Ah, there you are, James,” Lady Randall said, offering his lordship a bright smile that looked as forced as Lady Huntington’s cough had sounded.

  “Yes, sorry we were absent so long,” he replied.

  “Indeed,” the dowager added. “Huntington was most eager to examine a lovely pink bud in the garden.”

  Caroline’s face heated as the old woman’s gaze pinned her. The matriarch’s words held a double meaning, and by the scowl on Lady Randall’s visage, she understood the entendre, as well.

  Lord Hanover seemed less astute, for he said, “I love the sweet essence of buds just before they spread their petals.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you do, Horace,” the dowager said to Hanover, taking his free arm, forcing them to turn and head back into the house.

  Huntington offered Caroline his arm but said not a word as they followed them. She studied his unfathomable face.

  An hour later, after Lady Pendleton had regaled them with Chopin on the piano, everyone decided they should depart for the Burrows’ ball.

  Lady Alstead pressed her fingers to her temple and announced she felt a headache coming on and wouldn’t attend. Caroline noticed the way Huntington’s lips twitched as if he were privy to a private joke.

  The dowager set a hand to her bosom. “I must remain home, as well. I’m a bit under the weather myself.”

  Huntington took his grandmother’s gnarled fingers in his. “If you are unwell, perhaps I should stay and summon Dr. Trimble.”

  “No, I won’t hear of it. I heard you promise Miss Lawrence a waltz. You must go.”

  A waltz? Caroline bit her tongue. His lordship had made no such promise! Lady Huntington was like a tenacious hound dog after a hare. Now, if Huntington didn’t dance with her, everyone who’d overheard the conversation would think it odd.

  Lady Alstead set a hand on Caroline’s arm and leaned conspiratorially close. “You could always feign a headache, as I have done, so you don’t have to dance with him.”

  The snide comment caused genuine anger to course through Caroline. “Lady Alstead, I would be most honored to dance with Lord Huntington. In fact, I look forward to it.” As soon as Caroline spoke the words, she realized they were true. She wanted to experience dancing in his arms, his powerful body close to hers, as he guided her across the floor.

  “Miss Lawrence, perhaps you are unaware of his past. Of his wife’s unfortunate . . . accident. The woman is dead. You would be wise not to encourage his attention.”

  Caroline’s spine stiffened. “My lady, I’m sure he had nothing to do with the tragedy that befell his late wife.”

  Lady Alstead leaned even closer. “Did you not read C. M. Smith’s article in the London Reformer? Even the journalist thinks him guilty.”

  An oppressive weight settled on Caroline’s shoulders. God, she was responsible for this woman’s vehemence; her column added fuel to a simmering fire.

  “My lady, the journalist is a fool.” Caroline motioned to Lord Alstead, now chatting with Huntington. “Will you take the word of C. M. Smith over the good opinion of your husband? I’m sure such a sagacious and knowledgeable gentleman as Lord Alstead wouldn’t engage Lord Huntington so freely in conversation if he believed the marquess unworthy. If your husband holds him in high regard, I can do no less.” Caroline theatrically placed the tips of her fingers to her lips. “Oh my, could it be you don’t think your husband’s opinion as astute as C. M. Smith’s?”

  The vicious gossip’s mouth opened, then closed abruptly, causing her jowls to sway. Surely the woman would not disparage her husband’s integrity or judgment. “No, Alstead is shrewd in these matters. Perhaps I have been hasty.”

  “Perhaps?” Caroline asked, arching a brow.

  “Ah, no. No, I’m sure I have.”

  * * *

  As Anthony guided Caroline around the Burrows’ dance floor to the strains of Strauss’s “Little Doves Waltz,” she fixed her gaze on Huntington. The marquess was conversing with several other gentlemen. Lady Randall, the sole woman in the group, stood close to him. The woman obviously wished to be more than friends with Huntington.

  Anthony cleared his throat. “You know he had a mistress. Fathered a bucketful of illegitimate children.”

  Caroline nearly tripped over her own two feet. Anthony’s strong hands steadied her, keeping her from gracelessly landing with her legs in the air and her skirts about her waist.

  “Who?” she asked, her heart beating double time.

  “Why, Johann Strauss, the composer of this lovely tune. Whom else did you think I meant?” He grinned mischievously.

  She resisted the urge to stomp on Anthony’s toes. The rascal misled her on purpose. He realized something had transpired between her and Huntington. Anthony might favor acting the popinjay, but he was nothing of the kind.

  “I guess that harridan, otherwise known as my grandmother, explained it is James she wants you to wed?”

  “Yes, you wretch, you should have told me.”

  He lifted one shoulder. “I figured it best James informed you. So, dearest Caroline, are you to become my sister?”

  What would it be like to be married to Huntington? To be part of his family? To raise children with him? She tossed the silly questions aside, and briefly turned her face away from Anthony’s brown eyes. Eyes so similar to his brother’s, with their thick lashes. “No, Lord Huntington and I will not marry.”

  “Ah, what a shame.” They followed the current of other dancers, and when they moved before the group Huntington stood with, Anthony pulled her closer. Improperly so. Huntington’s dark gaze tracked them.

  “Anthony,” she chastised.

  The scoundrel’s guffaw drew the attention of several other dancers.
“Are you positive you’re not going to be my new sister?”

  “Of course. Your brother has no interest in me. Or I him.” Perhaps that wasn’t completely true. There was something that connected them. Lust. Desire. Whatever one wished to call it, but surely nothing deeper. Huntington didn’t wish to marry. He’d said it quite clearly in the garden, and neither did she.

  “Really?” Anthony said. “That ferocious expression on James’s face when I pulled you tighter was rather telling, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “He doesn’t want you to make a spectacle. Which will happen if you hold me so close again.”

  “Has my brother ever told you how lovely you look with your cheeks all flushed? I can only imagine how enchanting you must look when kissed.”

  A wave of heat traveled up her neck. Warmth seared her face. Even her ears burned. “Anthony, if you say one more word, I shall abandon you on this dance floor.”

  “Ah, but that would create a scene.”

  “Yes, but it will be you they scrutinize. They’ll assume, and rightly so, you whispered something improper.”

  “In truth, Caroline, I like my roguish reputation. It keeps the matchmaking mamas at bay, since I am only a second son. If I held the title they wouldn’t care.” He winked and, once again, pulled her inappropriately close as they danced past his brother.

  Huntington’s eyes narrowed.

  Lady Randall smiled.

  Caroline stepped on Anthony’s toes.

  He grimaced.

  “I shall trip you next time,” she said.

  “I thought you were going to walk away.”

  “There is no need. The music is nearly done.”

  “Sad, but true,” Anthony said.

  A minute later, the orchestra’s last notes drifted to an end, and Anthony, limping slightly, led her to where Anne and Charles stood. He inclined his head. “I thank you for the dance, Miss Lawrence. It was most informative.”

  Anthony was unconscionable. Anne, who was still under the impression it was Anthony whom Lady Huntington wished Caroline to wed, smiled at Anthony as he walked away. “You must admit, Caro, he is charming. Perhaps you could reform him?”

  “Reform him? He’s—” Her voice ceased in her throat. Mr. Reed, otherwise known as toe-crushing Mr. Reed, approached. The man’s cheeks were flushed, a testament to the exertion he’d put forth while stomping all over his last partner’s feet.

  He stepped before her and gave a low, formal bow. “Miss Lawrence, would you do me the honor of being my partner for this waltz?”

  Instinctually, her toes curled up in her shoes as self-preservation took hold of the digits. There was no avoiding it. If she refused, she’d not only upset him, she would garner his mother’s wrath.

  “Yes, I’d be honored, Mr. Re—”

  “Miss Lawrence,” a firm voice interrupted, “I believe this is our dance.”

  Before she even faced him, she knew who it was. Knew his voice, his scent, the way her body reacted when he stood close.

  Heart fluttering, she turned.

  Huntington’s face reflected seriousness, yet a mischievous glint lightened his dark eyes. He surveyed Mr. Reed briefly. “Miss Lawrence, don’t tell me you’ve accepted two offers for this dance.” He tsked before he pinned the younger gentleman with a hard stare. “Mr. Reed, I’ve not had the honor of dancing with Miss Lawrence. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Mr. Reed’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “B-by all means, my lord, you must partner with Miss Lawrence.”

  Huntington’s intensity lightened. “Well, thank you, my good man.” He offered Caroline his arm and led her to the dance floor. “I remember how he abused your feet the last time you danced with him, not to mention your gown. So I intervened.”

  “Oh, you were being chivalrous and took pity on me?” She wished he’d asked her to dance because he wanted to. How silly. Really, she didn’t care as long as her feet were saved.

  One corner of his mouth hitched up. “Didn’t I promise you a waltz?”

  “Your grandmother is creative.”

  “How kind you are, Caroline. My grandmother is nothing short of overbearing, manipulative, and cantankerous.” Clasping her hand in his, he set his palm on her back, below her shoulder.

  This close, his warmth and scent prickled her senses.

  The music picked up tempo, and with precision he drew her into the swirl of dancers, moving about in tandem.

  And for a moment, just a moment, she thought she floated on air.

  Chapter Eighteen

  James resisted the urge to pull Caroline closer. They waltzed in perfect unison, as if they’d done so a thousand times before. How long had it been since he’d danced? Since the desire to do so overwhelmed him? Watching Anthony whirling Caroline around the dance floor had caused an unsettling pain in James’s chest. It still ached deep below his breastbone, in a place too close to his heart.

  The little enchantress in his arms lifted her lashes and peered at him. Her green eyes caught the light from the chandeliers and sparkled like gems. She was lovely. Dancing with her strained his senses and brought about long-forgotten emotions.

  God help him. He desired her. Her nearness made him contemplate doing something reckless. Something beyond reproach.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” she said as they reached the end of the room and veered left with the flow of other dancers moving over the parquet floor.

  He nearly laughed aloud. “Sometimes one’s thoughts shouldn’t be revealed.”

  The corners of her lips tipped up. “Ah, you guard a secret, my lord. Perhaps a shilling would sway you to confess?”

  This time a low laugh did escape his lips. “Do you think my secrets come so cheap, Caroline? Though I might contemplate revealing them for the return of my riding boots.”

  Her cheeks grew pink.

  “Did I ever thank you for lending them to me?”

  “Lending them?” He pulled her a fraction closer and whispered, “You’re fortunate I didn’t find you right after you absconded with them. I might have set you over my knee.”

  The pupils of her eyes grew round. “You wouldn’t have dared.”

  He grinned. No, he wouldn’t have. He didn’t even spank Georgie. In retrospect, he grasped that his anger had more to do with her disappearance than anything else.

  “I was desperate to return home. My cousins were to arrive shortly and if they had, and found me gone . . .”

  He comprehended her reasons. He also understood their physical intimacy prompted her desire to leave Essex. She’d anticipated they would never meet again. But here they were, and what they’d experienced in the country—that magnetic pull—still tugged at them.

  “So, I take it neither your father nor cousins are aware of your visit to the country?”

  She gave a small shake of her head. “Thankfully no. Might I ask, my lord, why you were at the suffragist rally?”

  “I thought perhaps some rascal would disrupt Miss Walker’s speech.”

  “So, are you in favor of women’s equality?”

  “I would like to think that Nina will have choices in her life . . . ones not controlled by a man. Though I doubt Nina thinks of little else but being swept off her feet.”

  A radiant smile spread across Caroline’s face as if he’d handed her the stars. Surely, she didn’t think all men as set as her father. Once again, he fought the urge to pull her scandalously close.

  “You’re doing it again,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Looking rather fearsome. If I promise a footman will deliver your boots first thing in the morning, will you divulge what’s causing such a formidable scowl? Are you upset your grandmother forced this dance on you?”

  Caroline still didn’t realize no one forced his actions. He’d learned long ago not to relinquish his will to others as he’d done when he agreed to marry Henrietta. He took a deep breath. The scent of roses drifted off her heated skin. “No one forces me to do anything. If I
had not wanted to dance with you, I wouldn’t have.”

  The edge of her white teeth snagged her lower lip a second before her tongue skimmed the surface. Lurid thoughts of that pink tongue trailing a path over his skin flooded his mind. Someone should horsewhip him. He knew that besides their encounter, she was innocent. She was young and curious and had acted impetuously, nothing more.

  He needed to return her to her cousins before he let his baser thoughts tempt him to ask her to visit the garden with him. Foolish to do so. He surveyed the crowd. “Where are Mr. and Mrs. Wallace?”

  “I don’t see them. Perhaps they are in the refreshment room.”

  A movement caught James’s attention. Mr. Reed and his partner, a pretty blonde, approached at a speed which defied the beat of the music. Setting his hand tighter to Caroline’s back, James tried to shift her out of the man’s reckless, whirling path.

  Not fast enough. The young buck slammed into Caroline, sending her nearly tumbling to the floor. James’s hands slipped to her waist to steady her.

  “I beg your forgiveness, Miss Lawrence,” a winded Mr. Reed said, continuing past them, all but dragging his frazzled partner with him.

  “Are you hurt?” James resisted the urge to run his hands over her body to confirm she wasn’t injured.

  She shook her head and offered a weak smile. “No, I assure you, I’m fine.” She took a tentative step and winced.

  Curse Reed. The man should be flogged. “You are hurt. Brace yourself on my arm. Yes, like that. Can you make it to the edge of the room?”

  Caroline nodded, and leaning her weight on him, hobbled off the dance floor to where the crush of people thinned.

  James searched the crowd. Dash it all, where were her cousins?

  Beyond a pillared archway he spied a door. “Come this way.”

  Her lovely face reflected pain with each tentative step.

  He swung the door open and ushered her inside the dim room and closed the door softly behind them.

  After the glaring chandeliers of the ballroom, it took a moment for James’s eyes to adjust to only moonlight streaming through two tall windows on the far side. A red velvet sofa stood at a ninety-degree angle to a fireplace. He swept Caroline up and cradled her in his arms.