The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series)

by Collette Cameron

  She gave him a cynical smile and shrugged again. “You forget, my lord, I have a stallion that becomes crazed with the need to copulate. He doesn’t give a rat’s whisker about the mare he’s mating. She’s a means to an end. Humans are little better in my observation, at least the males of the species.”

  By God, she’d compared him to her rutting stallion. Roark almost touched his jaw to make sure it wasn’t sagging open. Ire stung at her rejection, albeit he had to admit, she wasn’t wholly off her mark.

  He rubbed his forehead. “Adaira, the contract is signed. While I understand your reluctance, and had hoped for a bit more enthusiasm, rest assured, I fully intend to see this marriage through. I’ll announce our betrothal at the ball tonight.”

  She stared at him for a lengthy, disquieting moment. A bluish tint ringed her eyes. Her slightly creased forehead hinted she struggled with her thoughts. Or perhaps, like him, she battled an unyielding headache. Her expression softened, and she breathed out a slow breath.

  “You’re a fool, then. It’s not necessary. Nonetheless, I won’t defy my father. I’ve caused him and my mother enough heartache. I hoped you had more sense than to be pressed into a marriage.”

  Adaira’s gaze shifted past his shoulder. She gasped. Her face turned ashen.

  Whirling around, Roark glimpsed two women hurrying away from the French windows.

  Helene and Lady Bradford.

  “Bloody hell!” Roark stormed to the door.

  Adaira fled the study after seeing Mrs. Winthrop’s infuriated face glowering through the gap in the door. She’d heard every word. Adaira sprinted up the stairs, desperate to reach the sanctuary of her chamber.

  Using her headache as an excuse to beg off, she hoped to be spared the ordeal of attending the ball tonight. She hastened into her bedchamber to find Seonaid and Isobel already present and beginning preparations. A new ball gown, admittedly the loveliest creation Adaira ever laid eyes on, lay across the bed.

  Babbling and giggling nonstop, her delighted sisters flitted around the room, like a pair of colorful, inebriated butterflies.

  Afraid to touch the delicate fabric of the gown, Adaira pointed at it. “Where did this gown come from?”

  Seonaid lifted a pair of pearl beaded lavender slippers and an elaborately painted fan. “Oh, the first of Yvette’s purchases were delivered. She sent Mother a note saying she and Ewan would be arriving in a few days. His business took longer than expected.”

  “But a new ball gown, for me? How. . .?” Adaira dared to finger the delicate embedded lace overskirt’s hem.

  “We, Yvette, Mother, Seonaid, and me, planned it as a surprise,” Isobel said, beaming.

  Tears pricked Adaira’s eyelids. They’d gone to such trouble to make her feel special and to show how much they loved her. Lord, she was grateful for her family, especially right now, when her world was fraying at the seams.

  Swooping in for a hug, Isobel bussed Adaira’s cheek. “And you’ve such wonderful news! Seonaid and I were returning from a walk about the greens when we heard word of your betrothal to Lord Clarendon.”

  Blinking back her tears, Adaira stared. Gads, if they knew, then every other soul within five miles was aware as well. To be made a marriage offer solely to salvage her reputation was pathetic. The humiliation stung. She’d hoped to have a bit of time to adjust to the situation before others’ tongues began wagging.

  Normally composed and quiet, Seonaid giggled, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Just think, our sister, the Countess Clarendon. Oh, Addy, everyone was whispering about your good fortune.”

  Good fortune? Yes, she supposed everyone would see it that way.

  Everyone, but her.

  Adaira wandered to a table placed before the balcony window. A pitcher of water, glasses, fruit, and some sweets were arranged neatly atop it. Pouring a glass of water, she took a long sip. “Well then, there’s no need to announce it tonight, is there? And thus, there’s no need for me to attend the ball.”

  “But, Addy, you must. It would be a grievous insult to his lordship if you didn’t.” Seonaid’s voice trembled with shock. Her uncertain brown gaze sought Isobel’s.

  Adaira grimaced. She cast her sisters each a glance. “You do know the circumstances, don’t you? His offer was born of pity and honor, to save my reputation. Not that there’s any chance of repairing something so wretchedly tarnished.”

  She flopped into an armchair, resting her head in her hand, her elbow braced on the chair’s arm. After kicking off her slippers, she tucked her feet beneath her bottom. “Hardly cause for celebration, to my way of thinking.”

  Isobel and Seonaid exchanged worried glances. As one they descended on her. Seonaid knelt on the floor before Adaira, and Isobel leaned on the chair’s other arm.

  “Dearest, you cannot mean to refuse him?” Isobel brushed a loose curl off Adaira’s cheek, before curving an arm around her shoulders. “That would make everything so much worse. Completely disastrous.”

  Seonaid laid her head on Adaira’s lap and peeked at her sideways. “It’s true, Addy. We heard. . .” She stopped, offering a timid smile. “Never mind. You’ve no choice. It’s a brilliant match. He seems like such a nice man, and he’s very fine-looking.”

  She propped her chin on Adaira’s knee. “You have to admit he’s devilishly attractive, Addy.”

  Seonaid nudged Adaira’s knee. “Admit it. You think he’s handsome,” she teased in a singsong voice. “I’ve seen you looking at him.”

  Adaira relaxed into the chair, resting her head against the plush back. She patted Seonaid’s shoulder while holding Isobel’s hand. “Yes, he’s sinfully handsome. Happy?” Adaira closed her eyes and sighed. “But, the truth is, he doesn’t want me. He didn’t choose me.”

  The tears she’d held at bay trickled dual paths down her cheeks. “I. . .” She couldn’t tell them about Godwin. “I thought never to marry, that’s all.”

  Truth be known, she was terrified of intimacy with a man. She couldn’t explain her fear to her sisters, or anyone else for that matter. It was one thing to share passionate kisses, but the rest? A tremor shook her. She’d no doubt, Roark would expect that. And often.

  A knock sounded at the door. Before Adaira bid enter, Mother bustled into the room holding her jewel case.

  “Chére, you’re as pale as fresh snow at dawn,” Mother said. “Let me apply the tiniest bit of rouge to your cheeks and lips.”

  To please her, Adaira suffered through the lengthy toilette. Yet, when she stood before the full length mirror, she stared in astonishment. She hardly recognized the elegant woman gazing back at her.

  Descending the stairs after her sisters, Adaira spotted Roark speaking with a group near the other stairway. She smiled. Surreptitious glances, batting eyelashes, and covert whispers behind hands and fans greeted her arrival. Her sentiment transformed from happiness to indignation.

  Grandmother’s words, long forgotten, came unbidden to Adaira’s mind.

  When ye’ve made a mistake, lassie, admit your wrongdoing, and learn from your poor choice, so you dinna do it again. But when others judge ye unfairly, which will happen in yer life, ye hold up yer chin, straighten yer spine, and spit in their eye.

  Adaira smiled wryly at that last bit. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, refusing to allow the gossiping or censure to determine who she was or how she would act. She was the victim. She’d been wronged by both Brayan and Godwin. The offenses had been compounded by society’s hypocritical and judgmental attitudes.

  She’d heard whispers about the tête-à-têtes and dalliances prevalent amongst the ton. Cuckolding and adultery behind closed doors, or in garden arbors, was acceptable. But being set upon by nefarious blackguards against one’s will was cause to shun the victim? Preposterous claptrap.

  Flipping open he
r fan, she painted her most dazzling smile on her face and entered the fray. Roark immediately appeared at her side. Despite her misgivings about their betrothal, she sent him a grateful look. He was a powerful ally, a reliable ship in this sea of duplicity she was about to set sail upon.

  He bent over her hand, his lips grazing her fingertips before tilting into a rakish smile.

  He was simply gorgeous. Her appreciative gaze traveled from his shiny shoes, rested momentarily on his snug breeches, then journeyed upward to his coat and cravat. A happy little thrill shivered through her.

  He wore an amethyst stickpin that matched her jewelry. Her breath hitched. Was it a coincidence, or had he donned the jewel on purpose? He would have had to consult with her mother about Adaira’s attire. What a delicious thought.

  Diamond and amethyst earrings hung from her ears, and a matching double-rowed necklace encircled her neck. The jewelry belonged to her mother. She’d lent them to Adaira in addition to the delicate amethyst and diamond tiara nestled atop her head.

  She inched her gaze over Roark’s strong, square jaw, the chiseled planes of his face, his perfectly styled hair, and at last, his sapphire eyes. Eyes that devoured her.

  CHAPTER 29

  “God in heaven, that gown—”

  Roark’s warm breath caressed Adaira’s ear. His awed voice wreaked havoc on her heart.

  His gaze lingered on the generous expanse of soft flesh exposed above her gown. The worst of her wounds were well-hidden beneath the bodice. The one exception her mother had concealed with cosmetics. It could easily be mistaken for a shadow from the lace edging the neckline.

  He swallowed. When he lifted his gaze to hers, she recognized the blatant desire shining in his eyes.

  “You look exquisite, vixen.”

  He wanted her. The knowledge astonished her. Yet, there was no denying the fire in his heated gaze. It thrilled and unnerved her. No, the notion downright terrified her.

  To hide her discomfiture, Adaira dropped her gaze to her skirt. She brushed her gloved hands over the fragile lace overskirt. The color of softest heather, the bodice was shot with silver and gold threads. Beaded with pearls and lavender crystals, the gown shimmered in the candlelight.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  The musicians struck a few chords, warming up for the long evening ahead. Roark placed her hand on his arm, possessively resting his atop hers. “Come, let me introduce you to a few of our neighbors and some of my friends before the dancing begins. I hope you’ll reserve every dance for me.”

  Our neighbors? He made it sound like they were already wed. The timbre of his voice, low and suggestive, curled her toes in her fancy new slippers.

  “Not so hasty, Clarendon. I fully expect my cousin to grant me a dance or two.” Flynn, his eyes shining and lips curled into a charming smile, sidled to their sides. He bowed smartly, winking at Adaira as he took her hand.

  “Aye, yer lordship, I’ll be having a dance with me daughter as well.” Father loomed behind Flynn for a moment before Dugall and the Earl of Ramsbury crowded in.

  “I mean to share a dance with me brave-hearted sister,” Dugall said.

  Roark scowled like an intractable lad who’d been denied a pastry. Adaira hid a smile behind her fan.

  Dugall flashed her a white-toothed smile. His mouth widened into a grin. Three calf-eyed damsels blatantly postured a few feet away, attempting to gain his attention. Two matrons sailed to their sides, shooing the girls along while casting disapproving glances over their shoulders.

  Dugall boldly winked at the mother-hens.

  Adaira quirked a brow. He was fast becoming a man. Extraordinarily handsome, indecently so, the scallywag would leave a trail of broken hearts in his wake.

  “Clarendon,” Lord Ramsbury admonished, “you wouldn’t deny me the honor of dancing with Miss Ferguson, would you? You’ll have her to yourself soon enough. You mustn’t be stingy, hoarding her company like treats from the confectionary, as you did at Oxford.”

  Covering half his mouth, Lord Ramsbury angled his head near hers, whispering in a sotto voice. “He always had a stash of assorted sweets and was most reluctant to share.”

  His dark green eyes twinkled with mirth. He obviously enjoyed goading Roark, like intimate friends often do.

  Adaira giggled at the put upon look on Roark’s face. His eyes glittered in a combination of incredulity and irritation at all of her dance requests. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was jealous. Oh, she’d like to believe it was so.

  “Of course, I’ll dance with you, my lord. Roark knows it’s bad ton to commandeer a partner, even if they are betrothed.”

  She smiled, meeting Roark’s eyes. “I wouldn’t want to do anything to cause more whispers.” Sweeping the room with her gaze, she inclined her head. “See, they need no excuse as it is.”

  The men looked to where she indicated. Several guests turned away swiftly. Lady Bradford plowed into Lord Bradford, spilling her champagne down the front of his breeches. Furious, he hissed something at her before clomping away, bowlegged. She shot Adaira a sour glare before scampering after her livid husband.

  “Touché, vixen,” Roark muttered beneath his breath. He gave her hand a squeeze while turning her in the direction of the ballroom. “As your betrothed, I’m still claiming the first dance. No arguing, or I’ll kiss you into silence.”

  The strains of a waltz floated by on the overly perfumed air. Speechless, Adaira allowed Roark to guide her onto the floor. One of his hands rested proprietarily against the curve of her ribs. The room glowed from hundreds of candles resting in golden chandeliers and wall sconces.

  Would he really kiss her in front of everyone?

  Appalling. And wonderfully delicious to contemplate.

  She nearly giggled again, imagining the faces of his guests. Oh, that would give them a succulent morsel to bandy about.

  “Did you truly hoard sweets?”

  Suffering flashed across his face, quickly masked by a lazy smile. “I wasn’t permitted bon bons or anything sweet tasting as a child.”

  “None? Whyever not?” Visions of Sorcha’s shortbread, pasties, and clootie dumplings danced in Adaira’s mind.

  “My father thought them unnecessary.” Roark lowered his voice to a rasping growl. “‘Indulging in their consumption is a sign of a spineless coward,’” he mimicked.

  She searched his face, seeking the deprived little boy buried inside the man. Hurt lay hidden deep within his eyes. Her heart contracted as a surge of anger heated her. “But that’s completely ridiculous. Irrational. Abusive even.”

  Roark slanted his head. “An apt description of my sire.”

  Adaira tightened the hand resting on his shoulder and felt the faintest ridge of a scar beneath her fingertips.

  “Roark?”

  He flicked his gaze to hers for a moment before resuming his perusal of the room. “Yes?”

  She had no right to ask. But her tongue formed the words even as her mind screeched for her to be silent. “The scars on your back and forehead. How did you come by those?”

  He stiffened. Voice hoarse, he said, “You don’t want to know.”

  But she already knew. The whip in the study. A ghastly reminder of what he’d been subjected to. “He did that to you? His own son? I’m. . .”

  Her voice caught, mere words insufficient to express her sorrow and regret. And outrage.

  How Roark must have suffered. Adaira inched closer, and although unseemly, wrapped her arm farther around his back in a comforting embrace. “I’m so sorry.”

  He responded by drawing her even nearer, holding her far too close to be acceptable. She didn’t care, as long as it brought him some degree of comfort. He circled her around the floor, keeping excellent time, amazingly light on his feet. She manag
ed a smile for Isobel as Lord Ramsbury twirled by with her in his arms, a rapt expression upon his face.

  Another conquest for Isobel, it would appear.

  Adaira was very aware of Roark’s hand pressing her against him. The light material of her gown was an insufficient barrier from his warm palm. He moved his thumb up and down her spine in time to the music. Her body reacted as if he were caressing naked flesh. Her breasts grew heavy, her breathing irregular. Unnerving, yet splendid, little quivers tingled in unmentionable areas.

  Bending his neck, his mouth brushed her ear. Roark suddenly went rigid. “Blast and d—”