by Lavinia Kent
“I do so adore art. Don’t you? It makes us see so much more than ourselves.”
“I’ve never thought about it.” Violet had tried to interest him in art and music, but he’d never taken much notice. He liked his entertainments to be more vigorous—horses, boxing; he didn’t even dislike fishing, but looking at pictures…not the entertainment for a man in the prime of his life. No, there were much better entertainments. He’d had such fun showing Violet how a man liked to be entertained. He could see her, leaning over him, her face flushed, her lips damp and swollen as she leaned forward—
“All you need to do is look at the faces in a painting,” Isabella continued. “They speak without words. When I look at a canvas I can see what they’re thinking, even begin to imagine what their lives were like. Sometimes I can even feel that way about a landscape. I look at it and imagine that I am there—that I can feel the breeze, smell the scents. It reminds me that the world takes place in viewpoints other than my own. Do you see what I mean?”
He didn’t really, but it would be ungracious to say so. He nodded and shifted his hips to the side, nearer the wall, so that he would not shock her with the effects his thoughts of Violet had on his body.
“Come look at this one,” Isabella said, walking ahead. They entered a long gallery, and she stopped in front of a large canvas.
Peter drew closer. It was a picture of one of Summerton’s ancestors and his family. The past earl stood proudly at the center of the canvas, his family arranged around him in adoration. Even the dog in the lower corner seemed to be looking up with worship in its gaze.
Isabella was not to be daunted. “Look at the girl, the oldest daughter, there. Do you see how she looks at her father, but leans the other way? I think she’s eager to be gone. Her eyes are on her father, but I doubt she thinks of him. Do you see the glint there, and the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth? She’s thinking of a lover. What do you think?”
As she spoke, Isabella moved closer to him, and Peter could smell lemons. She must have used them to wash her hair. Violet never smelled of lemons, her scent was more primal. Isabella edged even closer, and he felt the heat of her body. He would have stepped away, but somehow he was sandwiched between her and the wall.
He tried to step to the side, but she moved, blocking him. She was so close the air vibrated with each breath she took.
She rested her cheek against his coat. “I know how the girl must feel, trapped in one place while thinking about another.”
Her hand was planted on his chest, her fingers tangled in the soft folds of his cravat.
His first impulse was to push her away, but she was just a child and he had invited this situation. He was so busy thinking about how to even the score with Violet that he had never even considered the possibility that he might be engaging Isabella’s emotions. He would have to tread carefully.
He took her hand between his own, bent his head, and kissed her fingertips. “I think we had best be getting back. We wouldn’t want to do anything to damage your reputation.”
She gripped his neckwear tightly. “I am sure a moment or two won’t matter. I feel so safe when I am near you.”
“Yes, but—” His further words were cut off as she yanked his cravat, pulling his head down toward hers. He saw the intent in her eyes as they focused on his lips.
He tried to pull back but the damn wall was behind him. She pulled harder. It was either return to the ball with ripped threads of linen wrapped in shreds about his battered neck or give in.
He gave in.
The kiss was not bad. It was soft, sweet, and all woman.
It was one of the worst experiences of his life.
He felt as if Violet stood behind them watching.
The moment Isabella’s hands moved from his cravat to his shoulders he thrust her away. She stood before him, bosom heaving above lowered bodice, one of her breasts staring at him, its rosy tip taunting.
Gads, he had not done that, had he? The lace edging of her dress must have caught on his buttons.
He reached over to pull up her gown and restore them both to dignity. She caught his hand and held it there, her eyes shining.
“Oh, Peter. I am so glad that—”
A cacophony of voices echoed down the hall. He grabbed Isabella and yanked her behind the heavy drapes of the nearest window. The poor dear was so confused she was pushing her dress back down. She started to speak again and he was forced to cover her mouth with his hand. She squirmed hard against him, and it took all his strength and agility to keep her from pushing out against the curtains. She really did not understand the possible repercussions of the situation. Or perhaps she was frightened by his strength. He almost released her in the fear that she felt attacked.
Only the shrill sound of Lady Summerton restrained him.
“Now do let me show you the Rembrandt. I know somebody was asking about it and I did promise a tour after the first waltz. I wish I could remember who it was. Tell me, Langdon, what was the name of that blonde you were speaking with earlier? It might have been her.”
Isabella bit down on his hand, and Peter subdued his curse as comprehension filled him.
Violet leaned back on the settee and admired her suitors. They were magnificent men. Over the past few days as she’d gotten to know them she’d become increasingly impressed.
Struthers had not only inherited money from his uncle, he’d spent years traveling through India helping his uncle increase profits. He’d developed a tolerant view of the world during his travels, not at all the biased outlook she’d found so common in others returning from the East. She found delight in sitting with him in the evening, sipping port and discussing world politics.
He’d also hinted on more than one occasion that the vast knowledge he’d developed in the East fell into more intimate categories. Violet worked to contain a blush as she remembered a book of erotic drawings her last husband had imported from India. They were gorgeous and lush. She wondered if some of the positions drawn were possible.
She could almost feel Peter behind her, lifting her, seating her on his lap, drawing her legs backward around him, her ankles locked—he’d stand then, moving her, rubbing her—
Damn. She shook her head hard and then had to fake a cough as Struthers and Ian turned to stare at her.
Ian was even more beautiful than Peter. She could stare at his long, refined features for hours. His eyes alone were enough to fill her fantasies, so dark a blue as to be black and lashes longer than her own, even when she darkened them. And if eyes were the windows to the soul, then his soul was deep and dazzling.
How different from Peter’s solid brown eyes. Eyes that were not all that extraordinary, in fact they were a rather ordinary brown. Oh, it was a deep, warm brown, and when he stared down at her his glance made her toes curl. That look was all for her. When he stared at her it made her feel the center of the world, that there was nothing else he would rather look at. In his eyes she was more beautiful than a perfect sunset or a radiant gemstone. And she’d felt such power, she’d only to lower her lids and smile for his breath to speed and his eyes to darken in desire.
Blast. She was doing it again.
She was sitting in her own parlor with two interesting and eligible suitors, and all she could think of was Peter. It was definitely time to take another lover.
It might even be more fun with somebody new, somebody who didn’t already know every nook of her body, who didn’t know how to run a single finger up the back of her leg, slowing to draw intricate designs on her ankle, moving again to the back of her knee—
Double blast. If she didn’t stop this then—
“You seem rather distracted, my dear Violet. Are we not entertaining enough for you this evening? Is it time for me to seek my pleasures elsewhere?” Struthers leaned forward in his chair and placed his glass on the table with a decided clink.
Ian reclined further and let his eyes roam over her. “If my good friend Struthers is ready to lo
ok elsewhere, then perhaps it is time for us to become better acquainted? I can assure you that when we are alone you would not be bored in my presence.”
Struthers picked up his glass and took another swallow. He glared at Ian. “Are you going to offer to read to her from your schoolbooks? Or perhaps you have some new toys you’d like to show her? I am not sure that’s the type of entertainment this lady needs.”
“If, and I say if, I had new toys that I wished to share with Violet, I can assure you she would enjoy them.” Ian leaned forward in his chair and brought himself eye-to-eye with Struthers. “Tell me, Struthers, do you never play with toys? If so, I can understand why you worry that you bore women.”
Struthers leaned away from Ian, bringing himself closer to Violet. He reached over and took her hand and brought it to his lips. He laid soft kisses across the back of her hand and then turned it, opening her palm and laying firmer kisses there.
Violet gasped as his tongue darted out and worked its way between her fingers. She tried to pull her hand back, but Struthers held it firm and, with a smile at Ian, drew her index finger into his mouth.
She turned toward him in protest. “Really, that is not—” Her words were cut off when Ian slipped onto the settee beside her and took the opportunity of her turned head to begin tracing faint designs on the side of her neck. He drew a single finger across her collarbones. She shivered with the intimacy of the gesture.
Then, in one sudden movement, she pushed herself to her feet, pulling away from both gentlemen. She turned to face them.
“Really, boys, I have never in my life seen men behave in such a childish manner, not even when I myself was in the nursery. If you cannot comport yourselves in a more seemly fashion, then I suggest you depart and I will find myself more polite entertainment.”
Struthers leaned toward her, letting his eyes maintain their connection although she had broken the physical one. “Perhaps we act like children because you treat us like children. Why else all the games?”
“Games?” Violet was thrown by his comeback and needed a moment to regroup. How had she lost control of the situation?
“I must confess that while my friend Struthers and I may disagree on many issues, I do take his point on this.” Ian stood and moved between her and Struthers.
“You have led us both a merry chase these last days. I can assure that I have rarely left my bed before noon in the past years, but at your request I did—only to find I had unexpected company. When a lady requests the pleasure of my company for a stroll through the parks, I expect it to be a chance to get to know her, not to discuss the merits of the foliage.”
“Yes,” Struthers took up the conversation. “And when I am invited to examine art and discuss the newest sculpture the museum is exhibiting, I do not plan on spending the afternoon trying to decide whether marble or granite makes a better medium. My discussion tends to include more…provocative…elements of the works. And”—he glared at Ian—“I don’t need a chaperone for the outing.”
The two men strained with tension, and Violet was not sure whether it was aimed at her or at each other. The air felt heavy with their scent and the raw masculinity their posturing presented. They were two dogs with a bone, unsure whether to fight or to try to steal the bone and run.
“Gentlemen.” She softened her voice and moved away from them to sit on the bench of the pianoforte, spreading her skirts so there was no available space. “I am sorry if you feel I am being less than honest with you. The truth is that I find pleasure in the company of both of you. I meant no disrespect. Forgive me if I thought only of my own pleasure.”
“Pleasure.” Struthers let the word hang in the air, but did not seek to move closer to her. “Pleasure. If I was assured there was to be pleasure involved, I would not have any complaints.”
“And is the lady’s pleasure not enough for you? Do you not find the enjoyment of your partner rewarding?” Ian took a step closer to Struthers, and again Violet could not mistake the smell of power and competition that flew between them.
She wished Peter were there. He would have disarmed the conflict with a smile and a clever word. And if he hadn’t…The thought of his standing here, ready to fight for her…She closed her eyes and she could almost feel him here…Never before had she realized that masculinity had a scent, musky, smoky, and overpowering, but not without its own allure.
Struthers pushed to his feet, bringing her attention back to the present. He stood facing Ian, his hands curling into fists. “Do you want to say that again?”
“Ian. Struthers. I can assure you this brings me no pleasure, entertainment, or enjoyment.” Violet hoped the quiver in her voice didn’t betray that her words were not fully true. There was something quite exciting at having men almost fight over her, and her thoughts of Peter had only added to her body’s tension. She just wasn’t sure it would be alluring to have them actually exchange blows. She’d never been partial to blood sports.
“Please be seated,” she continued, “and you may each have a turn to tell me what it is you want, to express your desires.”
Something flared in Ian’s eyes, and Violet realized sex might not be the best way to control men who were already straining to break free from civility.
“Sit.” This time it was command and not sensuality that filled her voice.
The men did not move.
“Sit or leave. There is no other option.”
For a second she was afraid that they would not move, but then inch by inch, measuring each other’s movements, they both sat, their glances locked together.
The tension in the room was palpable, and Violet wished she could close her eyes and have them gone. This was supposed to be fun—fun and easy. If she’d wanted difficulty and argument she would have stayed with Peter.
Peter.
She was never scared her carpets would be bloodied when Peter was around. No, if her carpets were stained after one of his visits it would be because—
Damn it. She was here in a room with two bristling hounds and she had to stay focused. “So, gentlemen, what is it that you find unsatisfactory about this situation, and how can we resolve it?”
“Don’t sound a fool.” Struthers was the first to speak. “You know what the problem is.”
“Do you think calling me a fool is going to further you in my affections?” Violet kept her voice cool.
“Struthers is right, if not diplomatic.” Ian leaned toward her, as if realizing for the first time that the object was not to beat Struthers but to win her. His glance moved over her, pausing at all the crucial spots. Without a single word he told her just how desirable he found her and just how ready he was to adore her.
Violet drew in a deep breath. “Then forgive my foolishness, but what is it you want?”
Struthers stood again and walked toward her. He stopped at the moment before his knees brushed her skirts. He leaned forward until she could feel his brandy-scented breath on her cheek. “I want you.” He held his face inches from hers. His glance dropped to her mouth and to her eyes and then back.
She felt the force between them with each sweet breath. “I want you to myself—no little boys as competition. Send him away and let me show you what a man is like.”
“A man is not measured by years, but by action and maturity.” Ian still reclined in his chair across the room, but his gaze had never left her. “I can assure you, my lady, that I am no boy, but with youth comes a certain vigor. Send Struthers away and I will demonstrate why a young lover is preferable.”
“Choose,” they spoke in unison.
He was going home. Peter smiled as his valet signaled that the last bag was packed and that the coach was ready to depart. He walked down the stairs and took his horse’s reins.
He was free. He looked back at the grand house as he swung into the saddle. He’d spent the last two days avoiding Isabella, and with each passing hour he had become more convinced of her manipulations. Every time he looked at her it seemed some dowager
matron was there to witness the act. The single time he gave in to her pressures to walk in the garden, she tripped into a rosebush. Her brother appeared a minute after Peter set her back on her feet. If Masters had arrived seconds earlier, he might have caught Peter with his arms full of wiggling virgin.
There was only was possible conclusion—Isabella Masters was husband hunting and he was the target, or at least one of them. Peter had been staying out of sight in the garden and saw Isabella pull the same trick with Langdon. Either the girl was beyond clumsy or she was indiscriminate in her goal.
He chose the latter.
Isabella wanted a husband and didn’t care who. He wasn’t even sure that she liked either of them. She had the right reply in conversation, but he no longer felt genuine interest. Could there be a fate worse than a bride who didn’t like him?
A week ago he would have said yes, he could think of plenty of worse fates. Now he wasn’t so sure.
So he was going home—not to London, but to Glynewolde, the country home of his childhood. It might belong to his brother now, but Wimberley would not mind, and it was far better than London, where he might run into Violet.
He would have weeks of quiet and peace before he had to face society again—weeks to recover his sense of equilibrium and to decide what to do about a certain redhead he couldn’t keep out of his thoughts.
The carriage rattled into motion, and he eased the horse into a trot. He spared one last look at the house. He wondered how Isabella would react when she realized he’d left before the masquerade that evening.
Poor Langdon.
Violet sat and stared at the two men, frozen. How was she supposed to choose? She didn’t want to choose. Violet swallowed as a deep certainty settled in her belly. She loved the attention. She loved the flirting. But the thought of either of these men in her bed brought only a sense of discomfort.
This was not right.
Her eyes darted from one to the other. Seconds passed as she waited for the words to come to her, the words that would somehow make everything right again.