Never Kiss a Notorious Marquess

by Renee Ann Miller

  “Really, I can walk. I’m already feeling much improved.”

  He ignored her protestations. He’d not allow her to limp about. He laid her down on the sofa, turned up the oil lamp on an adjacent table, and motioned to her hem as he sat next to her legs. “May I examine your injury?”

  She nodded.

  He inched the material upward, above her cream-colored slippers, exposing the turn of her ankles, sheer white silk stockings, and her shapely legs.

  “Were did that clodpoll hurt you?”

  “Though he stepped on my right ankle, it is the back of my leg which feels knotted.”

  “Here?” He slid his palm up the curve of her calf.

  She made a noise. “Does even the pressure of my hand cause discomfort?”

  “No. I . . .” Her face flushed. She lowered her lashes, causing crescent shadows to fall across her cheeks.

  Hell, what was wrong with him? He touched her as if he had the right to do so. “I’m terribly sorry. I’ll go find your cousins while you wait here.”

  She clasped his hand. “No, please don’t. Anne shall make a fuss, and it’s really nothing. In a few minutes, I’m sure I’ll feel fine.”

  “Very well, but if you’re not better shortly, I see no alternative. A doctor might need to be summoned.” He peered at her small, cold fingers grasping his. The room, closed off from the oppressive heat of the ballroom, held the cold night air. He shrugged off his formal evening coat and draped the garment over her shoulders.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “James,” he corrected. He’d fought the urge to ask her to call him by his first name, knowing the sound of it on her lips would shatter the last vestige of his restraint. He lifted her long hair out from under the collar of his coat. The wavy, golden-tipped tresses teased at his fingers like the softest silk. He wanted to wrap the shimmering strands about his hands.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  Of course, something was wrong. The warmth of her body tempted him. Her floral scent filled his nose. He leaned close and ran a finger over the exposed skin at her collarbone.

  Her green eyes widened.

  Blister it, did he have no self-control?

  Apparently not. He framed her face with his hands and touched his mouth to hers. Unlike her fingers, her lips were warm. He drew his tongue over the seam, wanting to taste, to feel, to explore the texture within.

  Her lips parted. But before he could claim what he desired, her tongue slipped into his mouth. Good Lord, he’d never had a woman do that to him. Her innocent exploration, the little noises she uttered, made him hard. She started to pull away, but he cupped the back of her head and followed her retreating tongue into the rich texture of her mouth. As he’d feared, it wasn’t enough. He slid his open mouth over her neck. The sharp edge of his teeth scraped against the tender skin before he nipped at the soft flesh of her earlobe.

  Did she comprehend there was so much more they could experience? A great deal more than what they’d done in the summerhouse? They’d only grazed the edge of possibilities their bodies might unravel together.

  “Caroline, I want to . . .” God, help him. Was he about to beg? Had this little green-eyed siren reduced him to such a mindless state of desire?

  “Yes?” She entwined her hands about his neck and brushed her lips to his.

  Uttering an almost primal growl, he slanted his mouth over hers and deepened the kiss. He touched the tiny sleeves which draped off her shoulders, mere scraps of fabric that covered little of her luscious skin. The sight of her in this gown had raised his hackles; now he blessed the modiste’s creativeness.

  He swept the cloth downward, set his lips to the satin skin of her shoulder, and reached for the closures that lined the back of her gown. One by one, he slipped the buttons free until the fabric draped, exposing her lifted, corseted breasts. He slipped his finger under the lacy edge of her chemise to rasp against the already pebbled tip of one perfect breast.

  Her breathing hitched. She tugged his shirt from the waistband of his trousers.

  Capturing her hands, he held her gaze. Her pupils were large, darkening the color of her lovely eyes. Did she realize what a dangerous game they played? “Caroline?”

  She slid her delicate hand up his chest.

  His muscles quivered.

  “Yes.” The sultry intonation of her voice made his heart skip a beat. Not to mention what her touch did to his already engorged manhood. Her fingers slipped free the top button of his waistcoat.

  “Wait, love.” He steadied her hands and stood. He needed to lock the door. He wasn’t normally reckless, but with her, he seemed incapable of acting with discretion. She’d be ruined if anyone found them here, like this.

  He was halfway to the door when someone rapped on the wooden surface. The brass handle turned. The hinges gave an ominous creak as the door swung inward.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Caroline?” Anne Wallace peeked her head around the edge of the door and stepped fully into the room.

  “Damnation,” James mumbled under his breath.

  The woman gave a nervous smile as her gaze drifted over his disheveled clothing. “Oh, Lord Huntington, forgive my intrusion. Lady Randall led me to believe my cousin was in here.”

  Rustling silk filled the sudden silence.

  Her gaze swept past him to where Caroline sat on the sofa tugging her bodice back into place. The color drained from Anne Wallace’s face. With a hand on her bosom, she swayed like a lawn pin about to topple. Her fingers clutched the jamb of the open door. “Oh, goodness!”

  James took the last few steps and grasped her arm. “Are you going to faint, madam?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then I think it best you step inside, lest someone walks by.” Gently, he drew her into the room and closed the door. He clicked the lock into place. Something he should have done before allowing his desire to take over his brain.

  Anne Wallace shrugged off his hold and stormed to the sofa. “How could you do this, Caro?” the woman spat, her fingers clenched at her sides. “Uncle Randolph shall never forgive me. He will send me back to Cornwall and not invite me to London again. I’ll have to contend with Charles’s mother throughout the year. How utterly thoughtless of you.”

  Caroline’s cheeks turned crimson. She reached behind her to attempt to fasten her buttons. “Anne. I hurt my ankle.”

  Like a petulant child, Mrs. Wallace stomped her foot. “Your ankle? Pish! Since when is an ankle underneath one’s bodice?”

  So much for the woman’s shock. She acted more concerned for herself than Caroline’s reputation. James tempered his agitation. “Mrs. Wallace, that’s enough.”

  As if recalling he stood in the room, she spun around. Her eyes were massive brown spheres in her wan face. Her shoulders sagged, and she wrapped her arms about herself—the fire in her apparently extinguished by his cool regard.

  He moved to the sofa, picked up his evening coat and slipped it on. Gently, he brushed Caroline’s fingers away from the buttons. “Let me.”

  Anne Wallace stood staring at the floor, as if waiting for the devil’s anger to be cast upon her.

  Did she think he’d shift the blame onto her? Not live up to his misconduct? He knew he’d gone too far the moment he’d unclasped the first button on Caroline’s gown. Known it before Leticia had maliciously sent Mrs. Wallace to this room. Caroline and he seemed incapable of propriety when together. Incapable of holding their lust at bay.

  He fastened his coat and tugged his cuffs into place. “Mrs. Wallace, when Randolph Lawrence returns I shall call upon him and ask for Miss Lawrence’s hand.”

  “What?” Caroline’s gaze snapped to him.

  Crouching before the sofa, he enfolded her small hands in his. They were once again cold, and he rubbed the blood back into them. “Caroline,” he whispered, “there is no alternative. We have been caught alone with your gown halfway off. I must offer for you.”

  She shook he
r head, the movement a bit frantic. “I don’t wish to marry.”

  A blade through his heart might have caused less pain than her words. Did she mean she didn’t wish to marry or she didn’t wish to marry him? A moment ago, she’d seemed immune to the gossip swirling about him—unaware of C. M. Smith’s latest article, which painted him a heinous villain. But now . . . “You’ll be ruined if anyone speaks of this.”

  “Anne won’t say a word. She does not want to incur my father’s wrath. And though this isn’t Anne’s fault, she is quite right, my father will vent his spleen on both Anne and me. I swear what happened here shall never leave this room. You need not offer for me.”

  He should feel relieved. Should be rejoicing. He’d escaped the parson’s noose, yet . . . He gripped her hands tighter. “Are you certain?”

  Now paler than her cousin, she nodded. “Yes, I thank you, but your offer is not necessary.”

  The blade twisted deeper. Did she still believe the rumor that he’d murdered his wife? Believe him unworthy of anything more than an illicit affair? Releasing her fingers, he stood. “Mrs. Wallace, Miss Lawrence informs me you’ll be most discreet with regard to what you’ve witnessed.”

  “Yes, of course, my lord. I shall not mention this to anyone.” She twisted her hands. “But what of Lady Randall? Do you think she knew both you and Caroline were in here?”

  Of course, she knew. What had she hoped to gain? He appreciated Leticia’s assistance at his grandmother’s dinner party, but neither of them were bound to each other. Leticia had danced several times with Lord Tandleman. She’d even slipped outside with the man and returned looking a bit disheveled. Had she hoped to make James jealous? He wasn’t.

  “I’ll talk to Lady Randall.” He gave a curt bow of his head. “Ladies.” He should say more to Caroline, but what was left to say? By God, he’d offered to marry her, and she’d refused.

  He stepped back into the ballroom.

  Leticia stood with a group of men, holding court like the Queen herself. Yet her attention was not on those who surrounded her. No, she stared straight at him. She lifted one of her slender brows.

  Ignoring Leticia’s entourage, he stepped beside her and clasped her elbow. “Excuse us, gentlemen. Lady Randall and I need to have a chat.”

  “Do we?” she said, her voice all sweetness.

  A nerve in his jaw beat a steady rhythm. “Yes. Now.”

  “Huntington, how are you?” Julien Caruthers extended his hand.

  Did Caruthers sense James’s barely leashed restraint? The man had nothing to fear. Though he wanted to shake Leticia senseless, he’d never acted violently against a woman and wasn’t about to start.

  He forced a congenial smile and shook his hand. “Well, and you?”

  “We’re going to play cards in a bit,” Caruthers said. “Can we count on you to round up the number? Your brother is going to join us.”

  What was Anthony about? Did his brother think himself experienced enough to play with Caruthers and his cohorts, who were skilled sharpers? Men who’d taken more than one poor bloke’s inheritance during a round of high-stakes cards.

  Would Anthony walk away when his luck ran dry, or would he be as foolish as their father? James needed to stay and ensure his brother didn’t lose everything he possessed.

  “Caruthers, I’ll meet you in the card room after Lady Randall and I have our chat.”

  The man winked. “See you in a bit.”

  He nodded and led Leticia to the perimeter of the ballroom. Caroline and her cousins were making their way to the arched doorway which led to the stairs. So, they were leaving.

  Caroline’s green eyes locked with his, then she hastily looked away.

  “James,” Leticia hissed. “What’s this about?”

  Ducking behind several potted ferns, he swung her about to face him. “Tell me, Leticia, what did you hope to gain by sending Anne Wallace into that room?”

  “Room? What room? Oh my!” Leticia set her fingers to her lips and gasped, her feigned shock as worthy as any skilled thespian’s. “Don’t tell me you were in there with Miss Lawrence? I’m so sorry, James. Really, dear, I am. Mrs. Wallace was a bit distressed when she couldn’t find her charge. I’d seen the girl enter the room. I didn’t know she wasn’t alone.”

  Liar. If she’d seen Caroline enter, Leticia knew with whom. Was she jealous? He’d made no commitment to her since returning to London.

  She set her hand to his chest. “Darling, really, if you wish to dally with Miss Lawrence it is no concern of mine, but do be careful. If anyone else besides her cousin had seen you, the girl would be ruined unless you married her. And I know you’ve no intention of marrying again.”

  She was right. He’d never thought he would wed again. His marriage had been a disaster. He’d tried to make Henrietta content. But, by God, her lack of trust in him, her continued accusations of infidelity, followed by her own infidelity, had made the marriage unbearable until only anger lived between them.

  But Caroline was nothing like Henrietta. His wife would never have tucked Georgie into his bed or tried to soothe the child’s nighttime fears over the supposed monster under his bed. Henrietta wouldn’t have cared. She’d never even held Georgie’s hand, let alone conversed with him. She’d thought his nanny’s care sufficient. Only Nina had garnered his wife’s attention, but that was because his sister had idolized Henrietta’s clothes and beauty.

  He fought the urge to rake his hand through his hair. What difference did it make? Caroline didn’t want him. She’d made herself abundantly clear. He released Leticia’s arm. “I believed us friends. Perhaps I was mistaken. If you’ll excuse me. I’m expected in the card room.”

  * * *

  Tick, tick, tick. Caroline’s gaze shifted from the blank paper set before her on the desk to the rosewood clock perched on the mantel in her bedchamber. She wished to write another scathing letter to the editor of the London Reformer, denouncing Hinklesmith for publishing the article she’d asked him to withdraw. Since the column’s publication a week ago, she’d already penned one angry letter.

  A useless task that didn’t allay her guilt. The damage was done.

  With a sigh, she set her pen on the blotter and propped her chin in her palm. The day after the Burrows’ ball she’d sent James his boots. She’d not received a response, and she hadn’t seen him in a week. He’d not attended the Nottinghams’ musical or the Fentons’ gathering.

  Her mind drifted back to when he’d held her hands and spoken of marriage. For a brief moment, she’d contemplated accepting him. But a proposal was a promise of love and commitment. Not one of honor and recompense. Not forced from one’s lips, but spoken from one’s heart.

  She’d been a fool to consider it, for not even ten minutes after his proposal, she’d spotted him smiling at Lord Caruthers and Lady Randall. Obviously, his jovial expression reflected his relief. He’d been set free. Lady Randall was also grinning like a fishmonger’s cat. Then they’d ducked behind several potted plants. He’d said he would talk to the woman. Ha! Talk indeed. Caroline could imagine the type of talking they’d engaged in.

  What did she care? A marriage between James and her wouldn’t work. She could never confide in him—tell him she was C. M. Smith. Not after her last article. Impossible. He’d despise her. With an impatient sound, she wadded the paper into a tight ball and tossed the parchment into the rubbish pail.

  A tap sounded on the bedchamber door. “Caro, might I come in?” Anne asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Her cousin entered the room wearing a small blue hat with a yellow faux bird perched on the brim. Anne smoothed a hand down the front of her sun-colored dress. “You’re not ready?”

  “For?”

  Anne sighed. “Dear, you promised me yesterday we’d take a carriage ride through Hyde Park.” Anne turned in a slow circle, displaying her attire. “I’m wearing my new gown from Madam Clair’s shop.”

  Though a ride held no appeal, perhaps the fres
h air would do her good. Caroline walked over to the armoire, pulled out a navy shawl, and wrapped it about her shoulders. “I’m ready.”

  Her cousin blinked. “Dressed like that? Goodness, you look less than fashionable garbed in such a drab gray dress and old shawl. You look like a shop girl. If you are to attract a suitor, you must put more care into your attire.”

  “I’m not interested in marrying a man who only sees me as an adornment to parade about.”

  A puzzled expression settled over her cousin’s face.

  “Anne, don’t you understand? If I marry, I want a gentleman who respects me.”

  “If?” Anne repeated. “There is no if about it. What else would you do? Become a spinster?”

  Useless to explain her desire to be a journalist to her cousin. “Yes, if I don’t find someone suitable.”

  “Your father will never allow that.”

  She feared Anne was right. “Well, if I must marry, I want a man who wishes to converse with me. Not talk to me like I’m a brainless twit.” So far, she’d met only one man who didn’t patronize her as if she didn’t have a thought in her head.

  “Yes, of course, dear,” Anne said as if already bored with the conversation. “Now, why don’t you put on your pretty lavender gown and matching bonnet?”

  Caroline pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders. “If you wish me to accompany you, I’m ready. Now.”

  Anne wrinkled her nose. “Suit yourself, but you shall not draw the regard of anyone, dressed like that.”

  * * *

  Georgie jumped up from the carriage seat and pointed at a squirrel foraging for food. “A squirrel, James. That’s five for me and only four for you.”

  “Indeed,” James replied. With the roof of the landau lowered, they drove through Hyde Park. Nina had begged him to do so after they’d left the British Museum. Their second outing there in the last week. Now he and Georgie were engaged in a contest to see who could name the most species of wildlife as they made their way through the park.