Anne smiled weakly. Her odd excitement had just exploded into a flock of butterflies, fluttering in her stomach, her bosom, her throat—everywhere. She watched Mary tame her hair, weaving a few flowers artfully through it.
“There ye go, milady. Ye do look a picture.”
Anne got up so Evie could take her place. Her knees were not quite steady. It would be a wonder if she didn’t tumble down the stairs to land in a heap at Mr. Parker-Roth’s feet. That would make a lovely impression—and send him running away from her as far and as fast as he could go.
Chapter 8
“The girls should be down in a moment,” Clorinda said. “Their maid is just finishing their hair.”
Stephen nodded. He hoped Anne and Evie would be down very soon. He wasn’t certain how much more he could take of Miss Strange. The last five minutes had felt like fifteen. Worse, he could tell she was working up to some topic he was certain to find unpleasant.
He was right.
“The wags call you the King of Hearts,” she said, “and I hear the title is well deserved.” She waggled her graying brows and slapped him on the arm.
He stepped out of reach. “Gossip always distorts its subject far beyond the bounds of truth.”
“Oh, come now, sir. You are a great favorite with the ladies—admit it!”
He was not going to admit anything. “Miss Strange, I fail to see the point of this conversation.” Not that it was actually a conversation, of course. Conversation required at least two willing participants—there was only one here, and it was not he.
Clorinda frowned at him. “The point, sir, is that you are an experienced man of the world, a man who knows his way around the boudoir. Poor Anne is a mouse to your cat. You will gobble her up in one mouthful.”
Damn. He should not be entertaining salacious thoughts while standing in the Earl of Crane’s entry hall with elderly, odd Miss Clorinda Strange, but his rational, proper brain seemed to have lost control of his irrational, lusty nether regions. The thought of gobbling up Anne was wildly appealing.
He was going mad. He’d told Damian and his wife he didn’t lust after Anne, and he’d told the truth. He liked her, yes, but she wasn’t really the sort of woman to stir his animal instincts . . . so why were those instincts stirring? Stirring to the point of an embarrassing display—thank God the flickering candlelight hid as much as it illuminated.
And if Clorinda thought Anne a meek little mouse she did not know her cousin very well. “I am betrothed to Lady Anne, madam. I will not be gobbling”—he coughed, feeling his misguided manhood leaping at the thought of anything dealing with his mouth and Lady Anne’s person—“I am not a threat to your cousin. On the contrary, my duty is to protect her.”
She hit him again, this time with her fan. He stepped back another pace.
“Very nicely said, sir, but you and I both know this betrothal is all a humbug. Astounding that such a skilled flirt as the King of Hearts would be caught stealing a kiss from a dusty old spinster, a woman so firmly on the shelf she’s become part of the woodwork, but I suppose stranger things have happened. It’s very kind of you to try to guard Anne’s reputation.”
“It is not kindness, madam.” His voice rose. How dare the woman call Anne an old spinster? “It is my duty and my pleasure.”
Clorinda snorted. “Pleasure? Come, come, sir. You’ll find your pleasure elsewhere, I don’t doubt.” This time she hit her own hand with her fan, slapping it against her palm, as she appeared to mull the problem over.
Blast it, did she think he was just like so many of the other society men?
Of course she did. She knew him only by his bloody nickname. She didn’t know him at all.
“I would be remiss in my duties if I did not point out what should be obvious, Mr. Parker-Roth. While Anne has far more years in her dish than a normal debutante, this is, in a way, her come-out as much as Evie’s. Not that she’s looking for a handsome, titled husband, of course. That would be ridiculous. But the truth is she has never experienced a London Season, and I worry she’ll be so caught up in the excitement and, well, magic of the balls and whatnot that she’ll lose her good sense. In short, I fear she may be susceptible to your charms.” She snorted. “Well, truly, what woman isn’t?”
Zeus, was he blushing? Surely not.
“However, in the normal course of events, she’d be in no danger of having her heart bruised. She could admire you from afar with the rest of the silly geese and none would be the wiser. But because of this bizarre betrothal, her name will be linked with yours, and she’ll likely spend some time in your company—tonight’s invitation to Lord Kenderly’s is a prime example.”
Clorinda shook her head sadly and sighed. “I am very much afraid dear Anne might be in danger of losing her heart to you, sir. When you call off the betrothal after the Season, it will be a severe blow to her, even though she should know better.”
The anger that had been growing in his gut with each of Clorinda’s words turned to cold rage. He’d admit he was confused. He didn’t know or understand how he felt. But he knew this without question—Anne was not the pitiful figure Clorinda described.
Too many words struggled to be said. He swallowed. He was not going to show his heart, whatever it contained, to this woman, but at least he could state the obvious. “Madam, an honorable man does not break a betrothal.”
“Oh, yes, I know that. Of course, I will prevail upon Anne to end it. Or if she won’t listen to me, she’ll listen to her father. You don’t have to worry you’ll be trapped. I’m only asking you to take care not to injure poor Anne too deeply.”
Stephen pressed his lips together. He’d swear he couldn’t remember ever being so angry. He wanted to shake Clorinda so hard her ugly purple turban tumbled off her head. He wanted—
“Heavens!” Clorinda’s eyes grew wide and her jaw dropped. She was staring up the stairs.
He followed her gaze. There on the landing stood Lady Evie. Celeste had done an excellent job with her gown. It was appropriately virginal, not too plain, but not too fussy, and it highlighted Evie’s ethereal beauty perfectly. He’d wager many a male head would turn when Evie walked into Damian’s ballroom.
He noted all that without thought, taking in the details in one glance. Then his eyes moved on to the cause of Clorinda’s shock.
Heavens indeed—or would that be Heaven? Anne was . . . hell, she was out and out spectacular. The red gown hugged instead of hid her curves—her lovely hips, her narrow waist, her small but tempting breasts. Her hair had been dressed so it appeared to be on the verge of tumbling over her creamy neck and shoulders. She looked like a flame come to life.
He’d been mistaken—he did feel lust for Anne. Pure, hot lust hit him in the gut—well, perhaps not exactly the gut.
He finally turned his attention to Anne’s face. Hmm. Her sweet full lips were drawn into a tight, narrow line; her cheeks glowed with something more than the effects of the gown’s splendid color; and her lovely eyes were full of green fire.
They met his, almost shooting sparks the length of the staircase. His wonderful Anne was furious. He was in for a fight.
He repressed a smile. How fortunate that he loved this kind of battle.
Anne was so angry she could spit. No, she wanted to fly down these stairs and kick the bloody King of Hearts in exactly the place it would hurt him most.
So an honorable man didn’t break a betrothal he didn’t want? So Clorinda or her father would prevail upon her to end it?
So silly, naïve Anne, poor old spinster, might lose her heart to London’s darling?
“I’m sure Mr. Parker-Roth doesn’t want to get out of the betrothal,” Evie whispered. “Cousin Clorinda has no idea what she’s talking about.”
Anne didn’t yet trust herself to speak.
“I think the man looks quite smitten,” Evie said. “You must not regard Clorinda’s remarks.”
“Oh, I don’t.” Anne had finally found her voice. It was tighter than sh
e would have liked, but at least she wasn’t crying. “You go first, Evie. We shouldn’t keep everyone waiting.”
“Yes. All right.” Evie gave her a searching look before she began to descend the stairs.
Poor silly spinster Anne took a sustaining breath, straightened her spine, and lifted her chin. She would not be an object of pity, especially in the damn King of Hearts’s eyes.
She felt rather exposed in this blasted gown, but she would brazen it out. She would force herself not to cringe when people looked at her. She’d managed it ten years ago.
When she’d got home from Baron Gedding’s house party, she’d been certain everyone could immediately discern her fallen state. She’d hidden herself away, laughingly easy to do with Georgiana’s painfully pregnant condition and then with the birth of the twins. No one questioned that she was needed at home; no one expected her to attend assemblies or other social gatherings. She had Evie and the boys to care for.
By the time the household was back on an even keel, she’d managed to construct a public mask she could hide behind. She hadn’t forgotten how to don it. She settled her features into a pleasant, neutral expression and followed Evie down the stairs.
Unfortunately, her old mask hadn’t had to contend with the King of Hearts. The annoying man kept his eyes glued to her, his lips curved into a small, almost feral smile. She felt his look in a most embarrassing section of her body.
She also felt her damn skirts caressing her legs with each step. She held them up slightly, but she couldn’t hold them completely away from her body. She had a shift on, for God’s sake, but Lady Celeste had made it so it might as well be nonexistent for all the help it was providing her at the moment.
By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, her emotions were a roiling mass of anger, shame, and . . . something she couldn’t identify. Mr. Parker-Roth was still watching her in a very hot, intent way. He clearly wanted her. Not for marriage—he hadn’t denied he’d be happy for Clorinda or Papa to make her cry off—but for something.
And what did she want him for?
Her nipples tightened at the thought. Dear God, they weren’t making little tents in her dress, were they? She’d thought this new corset was cut scandalously low. She kept herself from looking down to check only through the strictest willpower while she ordered her wayward thoughts to behave as a proper spinster’s should.
They refused. Perhaps it had something to do with this sinful gown—and Mr. Parker-Roth’s very sinful eyes, so full of temptation—but part of her anger seemed to have been transmuted into some other very odd, very strong, very hot emotion. Something she’d never felt before.
Was this lust?
“Don’t you think that dress is a bit, a bit . . .” Clorinda frowned. “It is definitely not in your usual style.”
Anne flushed, but whether it was from Clorinda’s comment or Mr. Parker-Roth’s eyes or her own growing heat, she couldn’t say. “Thank you, Clorinda. Since my usual style is brown and shapeless, I will take that as a compliment.”
“Anne’s dress is beautiful, Cousin Clorinda.” Evie sounded most indignant on her behalf. “And it looks beautiful on her.”
“It certainly will attract a lot of attention. Are you sure you want that, Anne?” Clorinda’s tone left no doubt that Anne should definitely not want it.
Anne shrugged—and felt the satin slip over her nipples. “I can’t control what the silly ton chooses to look at. I like the dress.” The only attention she wanted was Mr. Parker-Roth’s, and she was getting a lot of it at the moment. He’d taken her hand and was raising it to his lips.
Damn the fashion for wearing gloves. His mouth touched the soft kid on the back of her hand—no kissing the air above for him—but kidskin was not as expert at transferring sensation as bare skin. Still, the pressure of his lips on her hand quite took her breath—and any coherent thought that had managed to form in the puddle that was her brain—away.
She studied his bowed head. What did she want him for? He was hers, in a manner of speaking, until the end of the Season.
Her blush must now be as bright as her dress.
“Anne’s gown is exquisite,” Mr. Parker-Roth said, “though nowhere near as lovely as the lady who wears it.”
Hobbes presented their coats, and Mr. Parker-Roth left her to assist Clorinda, who looked a bit like she’d bitten into a lemon, and Evie.
When he returned to help her, he somehow made the simple task of putting on her cape tantalizing. He stood a little closer to her than quite proper and extended his hands farther, bringing the cloth all the way to her throat instead of merely settling it over her. Then his fingers smoothed the fabric over her shoulders, causing her heart—and another part of her anatomy—to throb.
Her head told her to ignore these hot feelings; her body told her to enjoy them—and look for more.
He put her hand on his arm and covered her fingers with his. His touch felt both protective and possessive.
“Shall we go?” he said, turning to look at Clorinda and Evie. Anne had to swallow a giggle. The other ladies were gaping at him. Evie appeared delighted; Clorinda, incredulous.
“Mr. Parker-Roth,” Clorinda said, “I thought we understood each other.”
Mr. Parker-Roth inclined his head. “I believe I understand you, Miss Strange, but I sincerely doubt you understand me.”
“Well!” Clorinda looked at Anne. “I warn you, miss. Be careful of wolves in sheep’s clothing.”
“Of course, Clorinda,” Anne said, though the way she was feeling at the moment, perhaps Mr. Parker-Roth was the one who should take care.
The man laughed. “No one has ever accused me of resembling a sheep, Miss Strange.”
Clorinda drew in a sharp breath, her nostrils quivering with offended sensibility. “You are impertinent, sir.” She straightened her turban and sniffed. “Come, we should be going. We don’t want to keep Lord and Lady Kenderly waiting.” She turned on her heel and sailed out the door Hobbes was holding open.
Evie gave Anne a significant look—not that Anne could decipher its significance—and followed Clorinda, leaving her alone in the entryway with Hobbes and Mr. Parker-Roth.
She came back to earth with a proverbial thud. What was she thinking? She was furious with Clorinda, but she had to admit her cousin had a point. Much as she might try to play at being a seductress, she was at heart a country mouse—currently with her fingers on a wolf’s arm. If she didn’t take care, she’d be an appetizer for his next meal.
She jerked her hand back. No luck. His grasp was gentle, but unbreakable.
“Will you let me go?” she hissed, trying to free herself again while throwing a furtive glance at Hobbes. The butler was doing an excellent impression of a deaf and dumb doorpost.
The annoying Mr. Parker-Roth smiled. “No,” he said. His smile widened to a grin. “Never.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I . . . You . . .” She wanted to expound on his duplicity in pretending to care for her when they both knew this betrothal was a hoax, but she restrained herself.
“I’m not being ridiculous, Anne. I would be delighted to explain to you in detail”—he treated her to an especially heated look—“here and now how I feel about you, but I don’t believe Clorinda’s patience or Hobbes’s very proper stoicism can survive that conversation.”
She glanced back at Hobbes. The tips of his ears were bright red.
“We will just have to have that discussion later, in a more private setting. Don’t you agree, Hobbes?”
Hobbes’s cheeks bloomed to match his ears, but he smiled and nodded nonetheless. “Indeed, sir. An excellent notion.”
“Hobbes!”
“Now, Lady Anne, don’t be silly,” Hobbes said. “And don’t listen to Miss Strange.”
“See? Hobbes is a very wise man.”
Anne knew her jaw had dropped again. If she kept up this way, she could hire herself out as a fly trap. “But—”
Clorinda’s vo
ice came wafting in from the carriage, “Will you two hurry up? We don’t have all night.”
“Very true.” Mr. Parker-Roth urged her forward. “I’ll bring the ladies home safely, Hobbes.”
“Very good, sir.”
Mr. Parker-Roth waved off the footman as they approached the carriage and offered Anne his own hand to mount the steps. She took it, but stopped when she looked inside the coach. Damn. Now she realized the significance of Evie’s look. The traitor had taken the seat next to Clorinda, leaving the opposite bench—the very narrow bench—free for Anne and Mr. Parker-Roth.
“Have you grown roots, my love?” she heard Mr. Parker-Roth say from behind and then she felt his large male hand on her derriere. His palm, four fingers, and thumb burned straight through to her skin.
“In you go.” He gave her a little push. “Clorinda wishes to be on her way.”
She scrambled over to the far corner, squeezing herself into it to leave Mr. Parker-Roth the lion’s—or, in this case, wolf’s—share of the bench.
It was a wasted effort. Mr. Parker-Roth sat as close as possible to her. Any closer and he’d be sitting in her lap.
“Are you making room for someone else?” she muttered as the carriage lurched into motion.
He leaned even closer. “Pardon?”
She gave him a little nudge with her elbow. “You are crowding me, sir.”
He gave her a lazy smile and placed her fingers on his thigh! She would have snatched them right back, but they were, once again, trapped under the warm weight of his hand.
She’d never touched a man’s thigh before, even Brentwood’s.
There had been very little touching with Brentwood. A brush of hands, a stolen kiss—and then that disastrous morning, when, with barely a greeting and no kiss at all, he’d tossed her skirts up and done that to her. Thank God no one had come upon them.
She wouldn’t think of it. She couldn’t think of it. All her attention was focused on the muscular male thigh under her fingers. It was so hard and warm.
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