by Amy Sandas
The description fit the boy Roman had once known and counted a friend. “What of your parents?”
“They both died just after James left university. As soon as he could, James sent me to live with our elderly aunt in London.” Her voice dropped a notch. “For schooling and decorum, he claimed. But I knew it was so he could have the freedom to roam the country estate without a child underfoot requiring attention.”
Though her words were neutral, the pain of her brother’s rejection was apparent in the tone of her voice. The woman was far too expressive. He’d noticed it back in the study as well, how her emotions shone through her eyes and colored her speech. No wonder the ton found her an easy target. She had no armor built up against them.
She sighed deeply and offered a smile. “I didn’t mind, really. I have much more independence than I would have been allowed under James’s supervision. I like London and Aunt Bethany is...sweet,” she stated in an overly bright tone as she glanced toward a woman of elderly years who was nodding off in a corner chair amidst the other aged chaperones.
“Hmm,” Roman acknowledged. The girl could call it independence or whatever she wanted, but he saw the truth of it. She was lonely and, considering her natural vitality, probably bored. No wonder she wanted to make the most of her time in society. “So where is your Lord Westcott?”
She blinked up at him. “Why?”
“If you expect to make him jealous, we’re going to have to make sure he sees us.”
Pink entered her cheeks. “Of course.”
Roman lowered his brows. “Did you forget the purpose of this dance?”
She shook her head. “No, not at all.”
As he led her through a series of wide turns around the perimeter of the dance floor, she rose up on her toes to scan the crowds. The tip of her tongue touched briefly to her upper lip and Roman had to forcefully resist the desire to pull her more fully against him.
“I don’t...No, wait. Yes, there he is, talking with the two men by that large potted fern.”
Roman glanced in the direction she indicated to see a trio of very proper young gentlemen, postures faultless, gloves spotless, hair swept just right from their foreheads. Dull, arrogant, perfect.
One of the men—a slim, fair-haired fellow—glanced up as they passed.
Miss Dellacourt gasped and her hand tightened its grip on his. “Oh my God, he saw us.”
“That is the point,” Roman replied dryly. “Now, look at me, Miss Dellacourt. We don’t want anyone to suspect this dance is just a show.”
The sweet, untutored girl did exactly as he instructed, her large eyes softening as they gazed into his. There was a reason Roman had never had the desire to seduce an innocent. Their blind trust was simply too unnerving. He preferred women as jaded as he was.
No false expectations. No harm done when the night was over.
But in holding Miss Dellacourt—feeling the warmth of her body beneath his palm, hearing the swiftness of her breath flowing from her parted lips—Roman experienced the most unrepentant yearning to taste the innocence he knew could not be his.
It was disturbing.
They were circling back toward the spot where they’d seen Lord Westcott and his elegant cronies. Roman glanced over her head and noticed that the young men were still chatting quietly, but her fair-haired gentleman glanced up as they neared, his gaze falling on Miss Dellacourt as though he’d been waiting for her to reappear.
It seemed the lord was already quite aware of the girl’s presence. If Roman were to hazard a guess, the man had had his eye on her for some time.
So why the hell hadn’t he approached her?
“Why Westcott?”
His question seemed to surprise her as she blinked and glanced covertly toward the gentleman in question, who quickly redirected his gaze back to his friends.
“He smiled at me once,” she finally replied.
Anger flared under his skin. Had the girl truly been treated so shabbily that a smile could earn such high regard?
He’d always hated the way some people could be singled out for ridicule by their peers. And he could not for the life of him understand why Miss Dellacourt had fallen into that role. From what he’d been able to ascertain in a very short time, she was intelligent, determined, and beautiful in a way that was unique to her alone.
She brought her gaze back to his and smiled in pure enjoyment as they continued through the graceful turns of the waltz.
Roman felt something unhinge inside him, like a sudden, sharp pull followed by a swift release.
It might have been the way her eyes softened in her obvious pleasure of the dance, the inherent sensuality in how her movements mirrored his so perfectly, her subtle female scent drifting from her skin, her innocence, optimism, passion...or any number of things.
Ultimately, it didn’t matter. He’d warned her about enlisting his aid. He’d told her he was the wrong man for the task.
But he had been unable to resist the broken look in her eyes as she’d stood alone in the ballroom. No more than he could now resist the urge to take the moment a bit further.
Knowing he shouldn’t—that it risked the very thing he’d warned her about—Roman drew her closer as he made the next turn. Not so much as to cause instant scandal, but enough to feel the sudden tensing in her frame.
She drew in a silent gasp at the unexpected proximity, causing her breasts to lift deliciously under Roman’s heated gaze.
Such an artless reaction. What would it take to elicit a throaty moan? Could he make her shiver?
Lowering his head beside hers, he whispered in a low, husky breath that stirred the fine wisps of hair curling against the side of her neck, “What would you like me to do for the benefit of your precious Westcott? Shall I murmur words of seduction to bring a blush to your cheeks?”
Her warm breath fanned against the side of his throat and her fingers fluttered in his, but she did not reply.
She was so receptive. Her body had become perfectly attuned to his as they’d waltzed and he could feel her awareness reaching out to him.
Wanting to feel just a bit more, he smoothed his palm down her back to the narrowest bend of her spine just above the swell of her buttocks as he drew her another inch closer. “Shall I touch you in a too-familiar manner?”
A soft sound slid from her lips before she sucked in a breath and held it, as though she waited in anticipation of what he’d do next.
But he couldn’t do what he wanted to do—take those lips for his own. He couldn’t tug at the neckline of her bodice to free the full, creamy globes of her breasts. And he sure as hell couldn’t lift her skirts and bury himself in her softness as his body suddenly ached to do.
This was not the right place. And he was not the right man.
His stomach clenched tight, but his lips moved gently against the shell of her ear as he whispered, “No turning back now. I hope it was worth it.”
Then he swirled her off the floor and, in a few steps, had her deposited beside her great-aunt, who continued to snore softly despite the sudden stir their arrival created. With a final dark glance at the innocent and intrepid Miss Dellacourt, Roman strode back into the crowd.
* * *
He kept an eye on her for the next few hours, albeit from a significant distance.
The results of the dance shouldn’t have mattered to him one way or the other, but considering his less-than-gentlemanly behavior, he decided he’d better make sure his attention didn’t result in the ruination he’d warned her of.
It had taken less than five minutes after he left her with her chaperone before some young buck approached her for a dance. Her expression was full of surprise and gratitude as she accepted.
She gave these people far too much power over her.
As the night went on, a few more gentlemen stepped up to request her company on the dance floor and for walks to the refreshment table.
Though Westcott had yet to approach her, considering how often the ma
n followed her with his gaze, it appeared only a matter of time before he would.
By the time Roman went in search of Melbourne and Vittori, they had already gone off in pursuit of more personal pleasures. On another night, Roman would have found a willing female to take back to his bed.
But not tonight.
His thoughts were too consumed by one female in particular. A woman who would likely be shocked to discover she had taken center stage in his sexual fantasies.
Sitting alone in his darkened bedroom, Roman couldn’t stop himself from imagining the shape and suppleness of Miss Dellacourt’s body without the conforming lines of her rigid corset. He tortured himself with visions of her pale breasts overflowing his hands, her creamy thighs parting as he delved between them to taste her innocence on his tongue, and her full, round arse bouncing against him as he took her from behind.
The haute ton was fickle and selfish and certainly didn’t deserve her, but he was damn sure she didn’t deserve the dissolute craving she’d unknowingly inspired in him.
He refused to bring himself relief from the heightened sexual hunger roaring through his blood. It was nearly dawn before he managed to get any sleep.
Chapter Four
The next day was warm and sunny.
Many of the guests had departed for London or their own country estates that morning. Less than twenty family members and close friends of the bride and groom remained in attendance for the rest of the weekend. A variety of activities had been arranged to keep the extended guests occupied, and the main event for today was a country walk to the ruins of an ancient fort tucked into the wilderness of the estate.
Haylie was optimistic as she descended the stone steps to the gravel courtyard in front of the manor. The beauty of the day and the lovely evening she’d had the night before—she’d received no less than four offers to dance in addition to Granville’s—suggested things might have finally turned around for her.
More than a dozen people had gathered outside for the excursion. Gentlemen—dressed in trousers and dark-colored coats—chatted cheerfully with the ladies, who were all lovely in their walking dresses and wide-brimmed bonnets.
A quick scan revealed that the marquess was not in attendance and she figured he had taken the first opportunity to head back to the diversions of London.
She ignored the strange tug of disappointment at his absence and took another sweeping scan of the guests in search of an elegant gentleman with pale hair and a winsome smile. She saw Westcott with his usual group of male friends off to one side. She waited to see if he would turn to look her way, but he never did, and after a bit, her stare started to feel awkward.
She shifted her gaze just in time to catch sight of Miss Brighton-Smith’s knowing smirk before the other lady turned away.
Wonderful.
Before Haylie could worry too much about what new insult Miss Brighton-Smith might be conjuring up, a signal was given for the procession to begin.
Haylie was content to fall to the back of the group as they left the manicured estate grounds and made their way alongside a tumbling creek before crossing a short footbridge to the other side. There, the landscape opened to rolling hills dotted with jutting boulders and wildflowers that sweetened the summer wind.
The dozen or so other guests drifted into smaller groups or separated into pairs throughout the walk, leaving Haylie to trail behind by herself. It was something that typically would have bothered her. But her heart was brimming with hope and she refused to let that feeling go.
After a while, the path took them into an ancient forest with beautifully gnarled old trees and moss-covered stones where the air grew heavy and damp without the direct warmth of the sun. They finally emerged from the forest to see a hill rising in the distance with a crumbling stone structure on top outlined dramatically against the uncommonly blue sky. Haylie turned to remark how breathtaking the sight was but there was no one to whom she could make such an observation.
She almost allowed a rush of loneliness then but caught herself.
She couldn’t expect the world to change overnight. If she wanted things to be different, she had to continue doing whatever she could to make it so.
Some of the guests chose not to make the ascent up the hill to the fortress ruins and instead made their way to a lovely patch of grass that had been set up for a light picnic, where footmen were waiting with hampers of refreshments. The more adventurous members of the party were already making their way to the ruins and though they were some distance ahead of Haylie, she picked up her skirts and started after them.
She hadn’t come along on this walk to end up sitting on the corner of a picnic blanket all by herself. Besides, Westcott was amongst the guests continuing up the hill. She couldn’t very well gain his notice if she was nowhere near him.
The ruins of what had once been a grand and well-fortified overlook had been reduced by time and neglect to a partially standing shell of its original existence surrounded by crumbling heaps of stone. The most impressive of the remaining structures included a large round-walled base of what had once been a lookout tower complete with arrow slits. Extending from the tower was a two-tiered wall with arched windows overlooking the landscape beyond.
As Haylie made it to the center of the ruins, she saw that the upper walkway of the standing wall was accessible via a partially eroded stairway containing a rather significant gap where the steps had completely fallen way. A sturdy stepladder had been placed in the gap and two tall footmen stood on either side, ready to assist the guests who wished to take in the views from the upper level. A handful of adventurers had already ascended to the walkway above, Wescott included.
Haylie had never been a person to take unnecessary risks. But something in her had changed during her conversation with the marquess in the study. Some risks were necessary and if she wished to capitalize on the opportunity Granville had provided the night before, this appeared to be one of them.
Glancing up at the walkway above, she noted that the others were already out of sight. If she planned to join them, it needed to be now.
With a deep breath and a smile, she approached the ancient staircase. It was butted up against a stone wall on one side but was completely open to the ground on the other. Keeping one hand on the wall, she carefully placed one foot after the other on the uneven steps covered by pebbles and moss.
The gap was far wider than she thought it to be from the ground. Though the stepladder took up the space between, it was still a bit of a leap. When she hesitated, one of the young footmen gave her an encouraging nod. “Just two big steps, miss, and you’ll be on the other side.”
The sound of laughter being carried on the wind from above reminded her of what she would be missing if she backed away now. With a rush of courage and determination, she kept her gaze trained upward. Doing her best to ignore the seven-or eight-foot drop, she clutched tightly to the footman’s hand as she crossed the precarious gap.
It wasn’t so bad once it was behind her.
The remaining steps were worn but sturdy. And then she stepped onto the upper walkway and her breath was swept from her lungs, in part by the sudden gust of wind that pulled at her bonnet but also because the view from the top was very stunning indeed with wild and rustic moorlands spread out in a wide arc of greens and greys and browns.
Westcott stood with two other gentlemen and two ladies, pointing through one of the large open-arched windows to some feature in the distant landscape. They were all clustered in a tight little group. The wind whipping around them at the elevated height made it impossible to hear what they were saying, but Haylie suspected it was all quite clever and entertaining.
She should be brave and just walk right up and join them, but old habits had a hard time dying apparently, because her feet kept moving until she walked right past them.
Trying not to be disappointed in her sudden social cowardice, she continued to the farthest point of the ruins, where the walkway turned a corner towar
d a platform that notched outward. It appeared to be an archer’s perch perhaps, but the protective wall that likely would have contained an arrow slit had fallen away. Only a short half-wall remained between Haylie and very long fall.
She embraced the rush of fear.
If she couldn’t be brave amongst the people whose approval she so desperately wanted, she at least had to be brave here as she stood on that ledge all by herself.
No longer in direct view of the others, Haylie took a deep breath and angled her gaze outward over the landscape. Tall grasses waved with the force of a gathering wind, making the hills and vales appear to be far more dynamic than their earthy colors would suggest at first glance. Extending her gaze, she noted a far line of trees suggesting another ancient forest similar to the one they had passed through on their way to the ruins.
Haylie’s breath caught sight of something along the edge of the forest.
It was a man on horseback riding full out as he crouched low over his horse’s neck, urging the magnificent animal to the limit of its abilities. Even at the significant distance, Haylie found herself awed by the power and grace of man and animal moving in elegant concert. They were too far away for her to identify the rider, but there was no doubt as to his skill and command in the saddle.
What must it feel like to ride so fast and with such confidence?
She’d never been much of a horsewoman herself, but she imagined the freedom one must experience while flying across the landscape at such a reckless speed. It must feel like nothing could catch you, not your fears or uncertainties. All that plagued you would be left in the dust far behind. Inconsequential.
What she wouldn’t give to possess that kind of resolve and daring.
In a rush, she recalled her dance with the marquess the night before—how excitement had swirled with uncertainty and hope when he’d taken her in his arms on the ballroom floor. She remembered what it had felt like to surrender to his subtle, masterful direction only to experience a sense of wonderous liberation. With a shiver, she recalled the bright flash of sensation she felt when his palm had pressed wide and firm to her back as he’d pulled her close. Her skin tingled as she remembered the sultry murmur of his wicked words. She’d been stunned by his rakish maneuver. And for a few intense moments, she’d been utterly seduced.