How to Entice an Enchantress

by Karen Hawkins

  He had to fight not to return that smile. There was something about her—perhaps the intelligence in her fine gray-blue eyes, or the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, or the pert way she tilted her head to one side when she looked at him, as if she were focused on him and no one else. Her cheeky twinkle was damnably taking, and he had to fight to remember why he was upset. “Don’t pretend you thought about that when you made this ridiculous wager. Somehow, forcing these two women to be polite to me stroked your vanity.”

  “I will admit to feeling a certain satisfaction when I triumphed, yes.”

  “That is why you made the wager, not because of me.”

  “Certainly not because of any pity you seem to mistakenly believe I felt.”

  “You, madam, are trouble. You need a keeper. Someone who will monitor those high spirits of yours and keep them in check.”

  “My spirits don’t need checking, nor do I need a keeper.” Dahlia looked at him through her lashes, noting that he looked less angry now, but far more perplexed. “I wouldn’t mind having a partner, though.”

  “A partner in crime?”

  “Among other things, yes.” Something glimmered in his dark eyes.

  She met his gaze evenly. “The wager was made to soothe my pride. I’ve known you longer than anyone here, and I will not tolerate fools who would mock one of my friends.”

  “You made an error with this challenge.”

  “I know. I lost my temper. It won’t happen again.”

  “That’s not enough. Before we leave this room, you will admit you are not my keeper. Nor my champion.”

  “No? Then just what am I?” The heat of his gaze sent a tremor of awareness through her and suddenly, she wished they weren’t standing two steps apart.

  “This is what you are.” He reached out and pulled her back into his arms and kissed her.

  The kiss made their previous ones look meek. Those kisses had explored and surprised, but this kiss raged; it devoured and consumed. It took everything she had and gave her more than she could withstand. He molded her to him, holding her against him so that she felt the hard plane of his chest, the ripple of his muscles as lifted her from her feet. His hands never stopped roaming over her, exploring her curves and waist, finding the fullness of her bottom.

  She wiggled against him, holding him closer, accepting and giving at the same time as he plundered her mouth over and over—

  “Where are they?” came the duchess’s voice from the hallway.

  Dahlia broke the kiss, her gaze locked with Kirk’s. Passion had darkened his eyes, his lips damp from their kiss. The air about them shimmered with unspoken passion.

  “We can’t leave them alone; there will be a scandal! Someone must find them.”

  With a heartfelt grimace, Kirk lowered Dahlia to her feet, but instead of releasing her, he merely rested his forehead against hers. The only noise in the room was of their breathing, still harsh and desperate. Dahlia could only be glad that he was as affected as her.

  “They will find us.” She couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice.

  “This time.” He cupped her face between his warm hands and kissed her nose. “We are not done with this. Not by a long shot.” He dropped his hands from her face, picked up his cane from where he’d discarded it, and limped toward the long windows.

  She followed. “Kirk, what are you—”

  “I’m saving your reputation.” He threw a window open and swung his leg over the casement, smiling as he rested half in and half out of the room. “Now we are even. You’ve ‘saved’ me from vicious gossips, so I’ve done the same. Return to the others.”

  “Dinner will be served soon and you will be missed.”

  “I’m ordering a tray for my room. I’ve had enough stares for one night.”

  She nodded, an odd ache in her chest. “Fine, but before you go . . . Kirk, your kiss. Was this another session?”

  He paused a moment. When he spoke, his voice was deeper than usual. “No. That kiss was for me.”

  Their gazes locked and she found that she couldn’t breathe. “Kirk, I—”

  The duchess’s voice could be heard closer to the door now. “I shall look here.”

  Kirk frowned. “Go, Dahlia. And if anyone says a bad word of me, for the love of God, let them.”

  “But what if—”

  But he was gone. She stared through the empty window as the blackness of the evening swallowing him from sight.

  Dahlia sighed and closed the window, pausing to touch her tender lips. What an embrace. Even now, she burned from it head to toe, an odd ache in the pit of her stomach. Every time he touched her, this feeling returned, and each time it was stronger. And oddly, when she was in the throes of passion, she wished it to never end. It’s as if I’m starving for his kisses, which is ridiculous, for I rarely think of such things.

  As soon as she had the thought, she realized it was a lie. She thought about Kirk—and his kisses—often. Even in her sleep, which was her most private time of all. But why am I doing that? He’s the same man he’s always been—rude, demanding, impulsive. I know it, and yet something has changed. Or perhaps it’s someone. Could it be me?

  The duchess’s voice raised again, this time outside the door. Dahlia turned away from the window just as the door opened and the duchess appeared, Lady Charlotte and the pugs following. The duchess’s sharp blue gaze flickered over Dahlia, and then past her to the window, but the older woman never said another word about it. Instead, she and Lady Charlotte exclaimed over finding her alone. Dahlia told them that Kirk had yelled at her and then stomped away, a plausible enough story given his temper when they’d left the others.

  Her grace and Lady Charlotte accepted Dahlia’s story, but neither was happy, and all of the way back to the dining room, they chided her for allowing Kirk to make a scene.

  Dahlia didn’t hear a word they said, for try as she might, her thoughts were lost in a kiss.

  Thirteen

  From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe

  Even the most novice of matchmakers knows that a relationship that develops too quickly, and burns with too high a flame, will soon die out. After Lord Kirk nearly caused a scandal two days ago by dragging poor Dahlia from the dining hall in such a forceful manner, and then abandoning her in such an obviously well-kissed state, Charlotte and I decided that their relationship needs a day or two to cool. To that end, we’ve taken great care to ensure that Miss Balfour hasn’t had a moment alone.

  Neither Miss Balfour nor Lord Kirk has appreciated our efforts, for they’ve stabbed us with a number of dark glances, but we will not budge until tomorrow. Then, and only then, will we allow them to resume their flirtation.

  All in all, things seem to be progressing well, although I cannot help wishing that Lord Kirk would gain more address. He is much improved in manners, but he is still painfully abrupt, and on occasion says the most outrageous things. While aware that Dahlia is fond of Lord Kirk, Charlotte and I fear he doesn’t have the address to raise romantic feelings in the breast of one who longs for such overtures.

  It is a difficult case indeed.

  * * *

  Kirk walked down the hallway to his bedchamber, his mood as dark as the dimly lit castle corridor. For two days, he’d tried his damnedest to find a way to speak to Dahlia alone and had yet to succeed. Their assignation in the library had been canceled because when he’d arrived at the appointed time, he’d discovered her grace had taken up residence with a bevy of elderly men, all discussing the benefits of hunting for land-management purposes. He’d been forced to send a note to Dahlia explaining why they couldn’t meet. He’d promised to find another meeting place, but that hadn’t proven as easy of a task as he’d thought. Every time he thought he’d found a secluded corner, one or another of the duchess’s guests—and oddly enough, sometimes the duchess herself—appeared as if summoned. It was frustrating, to say the least.

  He and Dahlia had much to discuss,
and the sooner the better. Of course, a discussion wasn’t truly their purpose in meeting. They had kisses to practice, damn it! He fairly burned for her since their last meeting, but every time he’d seen her, she’d been surrounded by a bevy of other people. Thus it was that over the past two days he’d been unable to secure even a second where they could have an honest conversation, much less share an embrace.

  With no other strategy left, he’d been forced to extreme measures, even rising early to intercept her before her morning walk, a stratagem that had failed when he’d found a maid lingering in the corridor through which Dahlia usually walked. He’d been reduced to wandering close to her at various gatherings hoping the crowd about her might thin—but to no avail. She was never alone.

  Frustrated, he’d poured himself into his valet’s proscribed therapy. Every morning since he and MacCreedy had agreed to it, Kirk had devoted one to two hours to the excruciating exercise required, which was much more physical and infinitely more painful than Kirk had expected. But if it helped, it would be worth every iota of pain and sweat.

  This morning, returning from his exercise, drenched in sweat and gritting his teeth against the deep ache in his leg, he’d caught sight across the courtyard of Dahlia entering the castle, her face flushed from her walk, dew clinging to her cloak and glistening like diamonds. He’d called to her, but she’d been too far away to hear and had soon disappeared from sight. Bitterly disappointed, he’d limped back to his room, growling at anyone who dared hail him along the way.

  He was certain Dahlia wished for them to meet as much as he did. There were times when their gazes would meet across the duchess’s salon or dining table and Kirk could see something in the velvety depths of her eyes—was it desire? That’s what he felt, and plenty of it, too. Since their last kiss, he’d been unable to think of anything but her soft lips and generous curves, and their unplanned separation had whetted his already significant appetite for her company.

  And so, his determination to see her alone grew. Last night, he’d even sat through an impromptu dance that had sprung up after dinner in the hopes of gaining a few words with her. The dance had been organized by the duchess, who declared that seeing young people dancing was her greatest joy. Under the best of circumstances Kirk hated watching people dance, but it had been pure torture seeing Dahlia breathless and laughing as she whirled about the floor with her partners. There was nothing he could do about it except pretend he didn’t give a damn, and wait. To his utter frustration, the second the music ended, admirers surrounded her and he was cut out once more. He’d toyed briefly with following his natural instincts and storming through the herd of fribbles and sweeping Dahlia away, but he knew that if he wished their time alone to last more than a few seconds, stealth would be necessary.

  Today had been just as bad, although there had been a moment when he’d dared hope that his luck had turned for the better. Just ten minutes ago, Dahlia had been alone at the pianoforte that had been moved into the Blue Salon for this evening’s reading and performances. Most of the other guests had already left to change for dinner, so only a few souls were about. Kirk had hurried toward her, but just as he was within calling distance, he was waylaid by Lady Charlotte, who wished his opinion on—of all things—the order of the readings planned after tonight’s dinner.

  He didn’t give a damn about tonight’s reading, but Lady Charlotte had been insistent and by the time he’d managed to untangle himself, Dahlia had been claimed by the duchess, who had whisked her from the room.

  As the duchess closed the door, she’d glanced over her shoulder and he’d caught the triumph in her eyes. And it was then that he’d realized that both Lady Charlotte and her grace were protecting Dahlia from him.

  He would not tolerate it. Tonight, come hell or high water, he’d find Dahlia alone, even if he had to break every damn rule society posed, and irk his own godmother, as well.

  Still, he’d felt oddly betrayed by the duchess’s interference. She was supposed to be helping him, damn it. Grumpy as hell, he was now heading to his bedchamber, alone and unsatisfied in every possible way. As he turned the corner, his leg twisted slightly. Hot, searing pain stabbed his calf and he gasped, dropping the cane to grab his leg with both hands. As MacCreedy had instructed, he kneaded the pained area, sweat breaking out on his brow. Bloody hell. MacCreedy had better know what he’s doing, for I’ll be damned if I’ll live with this agony for the rest of my life.

  Slowly, slowly, the agonizing sensation subsided to a low, hot ache. Teeth gritted, he slowly straightened and tried to regain his breath. MacCreedy had assured him that these painful muscle seizures were proof that the muscle and scar tissue were being stretched back to their correct lengths, but they were so agonizing, it was damn near impossible to view them as positive.

  Scowling, his breathing still labored, Kirk retrieved his cane and slowly continued down the hallway. When he came within sight of his door, a noise behind him made him look over his shoulder. The gray-snouted roly-poly pug that had interrupted his kiss with Dahlia in the library days ago trotted up the hallway, his tongue half out of his mouth.

  Kirk leaned upon his cane. “What do you want?”

  The dog’s twirled tail wagged and he looked at Kirk’s bedchamber door.

  “No. How do you know that’s my room?”

  The dog sneezed.

  He eyed the chubby dog. “Someone should put you on a reducing diet. It’s unseemly.”

  The dog dropped heavily onto its back haunches, its tongue lolling out one side, not in the least put out by such a truthful observation. He looked at the door again, his expression hopeful.

  “I said no and I meant it.” Kirk shook his head at the size of the dog’s stomach “There’s no excuse for that. I’ve seen you begging for lamb at the table. Just last night the duchess gave you enough for four dogs your size, and you gobbled up every bit. I daresay you threw it all up on her carpet later in the evening.”

  The fat pug’s graying muzzle parted in a wide, panting grin.

  “Rejoin your mistress. I don’t like dogs.”

  The pug wagged his tail harder, as if he thought Kirk a liar.

  “Good God, I don’t know who is sillier: you for wanting to come into my bedchamber as if an exalted guest, or me for talking to you. Off with you! Trundle back downstairs, where your cohorts and mistress await.” With that, Kirk entered his bedchamber and shut the door behind him.

  MacCreedy was just putting away a stack of neatly starched cravats. “Ah, me lor’. I was just getting ready to put oot yer evenin’ clothes.”

  “Ask for a tray to be sent to my room. I have decided to join the company after dinner, after that damned reading is over.” He no longer held out any hope of getting a private word with Dahlia while the duchess and Lady Charlotte were in the room.

  “What reading is that, me lor’?”

  “Lady Charlotte and her grace are attempting to organize guests to perform after dinner.”

  “Tha’ sounds like a pleasant way to spend an evening.”

  “Not for me. In a moment of utter weakness, I foolishly agreed to read a poem. So I shall avoid the entire affair and send a note to her grace that I won’t be joining them.”

  The valet bowed. “I shall tell her grace ye’ve a headache.”

  “Why would you tell her that?”

  “Ye have to give a reason fer refusin’ to go to dinner, me lor’. ’Tis only polite.”

  “Politeness can go to hell. It’s a bother and rarely gets one what one wants.” Kirk dropped into a chair and let his cane fall against the footrest.

  “Och, ye seem a bit miffed, me lor’. Ye’ve been miffed fer two days now, and I’m beginnin’ to wonder if ’tis a permanent condition.”

  Kirk wished his knee didn’t hurt, for he’d like nothing better than to kick the footstool. He contented himself with a short “It’s Miss Balfour.”

  “Ah, the object o’ yer affections.”

  “Yes, or as I’ve come to thi
nk of her, ‘the woman who should be spanked.’ ”

  “Mind if I ask why ye’ve been thinkin’ such a thing aboot Miss Balfour?”

  Kirk scowled. “Several days ago, she challenged some of the ladies of the house party to a duel.”

  MacCreedy lifted his brows. “Pardon me, me lor’, but did you say a duel?”

  “Yes. Her weapon of choice was a battledore paddle.” Kirk dropped his head back against the high cushions of the chair and looked at his valet. “And you can stop pretending you didn’t know about the match, for I’m sure it was discussed as much belowstairs as it was abovestairs.”

  “I may ha’ heard some’at of it earlier.” When Kirk raised his brows, MacCreedy added, “But ’twas obvious ye dinna wish to talk aboot it, so I dinna bring it oop.”

  “I still don’t. It’s a colossal embarrassment. Thanks to that damned battledore duel, which every person in the castle apparently attended, I’m now treated as an object of pity.”

  “Sure ’tis no’ so bad as tha’.”

  “Just this morning, two gentlemen—gentlemen, MacCreedy—got into a tussle over which would hold the breakfast room door for me.”

  The valet winced.

  “Exactly. I yanked the door from their hands and ordered them in before me. And that’s just one example. Everyone is suddenly anxious to accommodate me, as if I were an invalid. Except Miss Balfour. She can’t seem to find ten minutes to spare for a conversation.” And his godmother, who’d suddenly switched sides in this battle and was now working for the enemy.

  The valet placed a dark blue silk waistcoat with the coat on the bed. “Do ye know wha’ I think ye need, me lor’?”

  “A battledore paddle to use on Miss Balfour’s bottom?”

  “I was thinkin’ ye needed a wee dram.” The valet nodded to where a tray sat upon a small table beside the fire, a crystal decanter catching the light of the flames. “I had it brought up, thinkin’ ye may need a bit to soften oot the day.”

  “Good God, yes. Pour me a heavy one, please.”

  The valet smiled and soon brought a drink to Kirk, who was rubbing his leg. “Had another seize oop, did ye?”