“Ah, love.” He turned to face her. Bleakness filled his eyes. “It’s a strong man who can lay his heart out for a woman to tread upon.”
Was he talking about Lizzie, or about someone else? Had she, Kate, broken his heart by running off after he left Edinburgh? She’d believed the worst, only to discover later it had no foundation in truth. Even after all this time, the question haunted her.
What would be the point in asking? It would only stir up old longings and past hurts.
“So you think you can help me woo Lizzie?” he asked. “Tutor me?” Something warmed his voice and his expression. Laughter?
Dash it. Was he mocking her? Reminding her of her failure to capture him all those years ago?
Her temper surged. Hot and swift. “I’m sorry. It was stupid of me to think I could help. I’ll wish you a good evening.” She headed for the door.
Harry couldn’t help but admire the sway of her hips with each short, sharp step, but his ham-fisted teasing had made her angry. She looked more like the hot-tempered girl he remembered than the drab widow he’d seen in the ballroom. He’d hurt her feelings. He’d seen it on her face. He’d always been a clumsy bastard when it came to the fairer sex. Especially Kate, it seemed.
He didn’t want her to go. The thought hit him between the eyes like a mallet and rang in his head. “Don’t leave.”
Hand on the doorknob, she paused but didn’t look back.
He reached her in a couple of strides, placed his palm on the paneling beside her head and heard her soft indrawn gasp at the same moment as he inhaled her perfume. Lavender.
Whenever he smelled lavender, he thought of her, even after all this time.
The elegant line of her neck filled his gaze. His fingertips itched with wanting to touch, to feel the silk of wisps of auburn hair at her nape, to trace the delicate flesh from beneath her ear to the curve of her shoulder.
Hell and damnation. He really was a fool when it came to this woman. She’d already proved she didn’t give a damn about him.
“Release the door, Lord Godridge,” she said in a low voice.
“Mrs. Anderson, please hear me out. I…” What the hell could he say that would make her stay? “You are right. I am not adept at wooing a woman. Poetry does not drip from my tongue.”
She turned to face him. “Not even stolen poetry?” she said, with rueful laughter in her voice.
His body warmed at the sound. It was like settling before the hearth at home. A feeling of comfort and well-being when, as he knew to his cost, Kate was as unpredictable as a cat. She’d almost destroyed him once with her witchy green eyes and flaming curls. And her mercurial temper.
The temper was still there. He’d seen it just now. But she might have changed. And he might have sprouted wings. He’d be better off telling her to go to hell. The same hell he’d been in all these years.
Or he could use the opportunity to get her out of his head for once and for all. Finish up the old business between them. It would be worth being scorched by that temper of hers, to have time in her company and put the past to rest.
“I’m thinking you are right about the girl needing a gentler hand than mine,” he said, cautiously feeling his way. “But I am as I am. I doubt even you could change me.”
“Even me?” Leaning her back against the door, she ran her gaze over him. “If you want Lizzie, you’ll change yourself.”
He was tempted to place his hands each side of that delicate face and plant a kiss on those plump lips. Instead he frowned. “I’m to become a poetry-spouting dandy, then.”
She raised an auburn eyebrow. “If you want to rout your rivals you need a different approach. They are boys, my lord. Green youths who hang on her lips, tussle with each other for her attention. Fall over themselves at every glance. She takes them for granted. Joining their throng will not help you at all.”
And what of her? Did she also have her court of admirers hanging on her every word? His stomach dipped at the thought. “What do you suggest?”
“You need to sweep her off her feet. Dazzle her. Be the romantic hero she sees in her dreams.”
“Blast it, woman, you are talking in riddles.”
She laughed outright. The well-remembered sound wrenched at his gut, yet he grinned back. Couldn’t help himself.
“By all means treat her as if she is more precious than finest glass,” she said. “But you have to capture her attention.”
Was that where he’d gone wrong all those years ago? He frowned.
She must have seen the question on his face because she waved a hand. “Perhaps a practical lesson would help. Let us say you have just walked into the ballroom and I am Lizzie. How would you greet me?”
Feeling more than a little foolish, he took the hand she offered and bowed. “Good evening, Elizabeth.”
She shook her head.
“No?” he said.
“When you take my hand, look into my eyes, see me, hold my gaze, until I see you, then kiss my hand. After which you must say something arresting about the way I look, something fresh. Make me feel beautiful by taking your time. I don’t want to feel like one of your sheep which, once counted, is no longer of importance.”
Was that all she saw? Had he indeed become naught but a country bumpkin? No. He might be a little rusty, but he knew how a woman liked to be treated. He knew how Kate liked to be treated. His blood warmed at the thought. “We will do this again.”
She nodded. “Let us make it more realistic. I will sit in a chair and you approach from the door.
They took their places.
This time he allowed himself to really look at her, at her pale skin dusted with freckles, her green eyes polite but distant as he made his approach.
Never before had she looked at him so coolly. It fired his metal, made him want to shake her out of her aplomb.
“Mrs. Anderson,” he murmured, holding her gaze. “What a pleasure to find you here this evening.”
“Good evening, Lord Godridge.” She held out one small gloved hand and he took it in his. It felt light, fragile in his grasp. “May I say how lovely you look in gray. The candles are quite undone.” He brought her hand to his lips.
A faint trace of color washed her cheeks. “How kind of you.”
“Not kind at all,” he said, aware of his blood stirring at the sight of the blush flowing up to her hairline, and the parting of her full lips. “A simple truth.” He turned her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist. A brush of his lips against the most delicate lavender-perfumed skin, but intoxicating, nonetheless. He wanted to take her in his arms, hold her against his body, feel her sweet curves against his, but he knew better than to push her too far, too fast. “Will you do me the honor of the next dance?”
It delighted him to see how her chest rose and fell as if she was having trouble catching her breath. He planned to steal more than her breath. She was just too irresistible.
“I’m sorry, but all my dances are taken this evening,” she murmured softly.
Bloody hell. Once more she played fast and loose with him. He let her hand go. “Then I will call upon you in the morning, Mrs. Anderson.”
Laughing, and sounding just a little breathless, she wagged a finger at him. “No, no, my lord. You give up far too easily.”
“What do you propose? Do I hang around watching you dance with your other partners with a lovesick look on my face?”
“Watching Lizzie,” she said. “And yes, something like that.”
“I’m a man of action, Mrs. Anderson, not a mooncalf.”
She pressed a finger against her chin. Enchanting. Sensual. Did she know the effect she was having on him? That his arousal was increasing moment by moment under a thoughtful gaze that seemed to see right through to his every thought? Was she playing with him as she had toyed with him all those years ago? Well, she was about to find out he could do a bit of toying of his own. But he would not rush his fences.
“Naturally, you are not going to stand around
like a mooncalf,” she said in the long-suffering manner of a governess tried to the end of her patience. “You really are not listening.”
“You don’t understand, Mrs. Anderson,” he murmured. “I much prefer the direct approach.”
“And that would be?”
He reached out and pulled her from her chair, brushed his lips across hers, gently but firmly. He felt her melt against him, and the blood rushed straight to his groin. He stroked her lips with his tongue, tasted their satiny softness. Her gasp of pleasure provided the access he sought. He deepened the kiss and let his hand wander her form, the straight back, the indentation of waist and the swell of her hip.
It wasn’t the first time he’d caressed those curves. But time and distance made the feel of her in his arms all the sweeter. He cupped her soft buttocks and drew hard against him.
She struggled.
His heart pounding, his member straining at the fabric of his breeches, he unwillingly let her go.
Twin spots of color and eyes sparkling with fury made her look magnificent. Like his Kate.
He braced for the stinging slap as he saw her hand move. Instead, she drew herself up to her full height and looked down her nose. “How dare you?”
“Is my technique not to your satisfaction?” Somehow he managed to keep his voice from revealing just how much he wanted to kiss her again. “We were practicing, were we not?”
Her eyes widened. Clearly she didn’t believe him, but what could she say that would not make her look bad. He smothered the urge to grin.
“That, sir, is a betrayal of the worst sort,” she said finally.
“Lizzie and I are not engaged, Mrs. Anderson, and, according to you, we may never be unless I learn how to woo her properly.”
“You woo with romance, not….well, not that.”
He couldn’t remember a time when he had had this much fun. Or felt quite so alive. Not since…well, a very long time. Too long. And yet… “What do you mean by romance?”
“Being her knight in shining armor.” She turned bright red. “Defeating dragons. Whisking her off to Gretna Green under the nose of a disapproving father. Whatever Lizzie finds romantic.”
Could she not tell from his kiss it wasn’t Lizzie on his mind? And would she scorn him for a fool if he said as much? She’d made him look a pretty fool once before, slipping off to England with Anderson the moment his back was turned. A whirlwind courtship they had called it. She wanted to teach him to woo a woman, but she was the only woman he’d ever wanted this badly.
He forced himself to speak quietly, instead of throwing her over his shoulder and marching back to his castle. “What is your suggestion?”
“Not to attack her like a wild beast.” She had a sharp tongue, his Kate. His. The word glowed like the lighthouse off Godridge point. But would it also wink out in the light of day.
Like the last time.
He sighed.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she said. “Lizzie has to want to go with you to Scotland of her own free will. When you see her next, secure a waltz with her at the Willinghams’ ball.”
A ball? He must have looked blank, because she shook her head. “Dash it, don’t tell me you don’t know how to waltz?”
He liked it when she twisted one of the curls peeking out from beneath her cap around her finger. In fact, he’d like to remove that cap and see the luxuriant auburn hair he remembered fall down around her shoulders. And he would, given half a chance.
“Waltzing is the key to winning a woman?” he asked, pretending misery.
“Unless you want stand on the sidelines watching her in the arms of other men it is. Hire yourself a dancing master.”
A wicked idea slipped into his mind. He despised himself for it, but didn’t hesitate. “You must teach me.”
“Me?” She looked horrified. “How could I?”
Good point, but he wasn’t done for yet. “Beauworth has a piano. Meet me at his house tomorrow afternoon.”
“Go alone to the house of a rake?”
“Wear a veil.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall and back to him, her face comically dismayed. “Oh Lord. We’ve been here more than half an hour. I have to go back.”
“I thought you wanted to help me win Lizzie,” he cajoled. Rotten bastard. But he’d enjoyed himself more in this past half hour than he had for months. Perhaps years. During this whole time alone with her he hadn’t once thought about his estate, about the disease killing his sheep. He’d felt almost carefree.
“Well, you won’t win Lizzie by making people talk about us,” she said, almost crossly. Which was interesting.
“Who would ever know?” he asked. “I certainly won’t mention it. I’ve no wish to look like an idiot. Needing a dancing lesson at my age.”
She closed her eyes, clearly battling with her conscience, or the desire he was sure he’d felt in her body when they kissed.
“Come on, Kate. You said you would help me.”
Her green eyes skewered him. Had she guessed his intentions? Was that a smile lurking a hairbreadth from curving her lips? Would she walk away? “Very well,” she said slowly. “I will meet you tomorrow at two in the afternoon. For waltzing lessons.”
He smiled, took her hand and kissed it. He gazed down into her face. “It will seem like days, rather than hours.”
She flushed and snatched her hand back with an uneasy laugh. “You are a quick study, Lord Godridge. I recommend you save your blandishments for Lizzie.”
“Just practicing, Mrs. Anderson,” he said with an innocent face. He bowed. “Until tomorrow.”
She marched off down the hall way with the impatient stride he had always found enchanting.
“I meant every word of it, Kate,” he said softly. But where would it lead? With Kate, how could he be sure?
Arriving back at his cousin’s house after spending the rest of the evening catching up with friends at White’s, Harry hummed a tune under his breath and thought of Kate.
He strolled into the drawing room to find his cousin, Garrick le Clere, Marquess of Beauworth, in his shirtsleeves, cravat discarded, sprawled on the sofa in front of a card table. With his olive skin, a bruise on his chin and raw scraped knuckles clutching a brandy glass, he looked more like a gypsy than a marquess.
A similarly attired but much more English-looking gentleman sat on the other side of the table regarding Harry with sleepy gray eyes. Fair hair hung to his shoulders and the cynical twist to his lips spoke of jaded appetites. “’Tare and hounds, Beauworth, who is this disgustingly cheerful-looking fellow arriving at this time of night.”
“Mon cher cousin,” Beauworth said, the strength of his accent saying he was well into his cups. “Godridge. Comes from Scotland, where they rise before noon and go to bed before midnight. Harry meet Dunstan.”
The Duke of Dunstan. “You were one year above me at Eton,” Harry said, shaking the other man’s hand. Another renowned rake.
The duke nodded. “Thought I recognized you.”
Harry dropped onto the sofa beside his cousin, thoughts of Kate’s luscious curves and kissable lips temporarily forgotten. “How’s the chin?”
“Beauworth touched the bruise and laughed. “Not feeling a thing, mon ami.”
Harry glanced at his half-empty glass. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Do you know what happened?” Dunstan asked lazily. “He won’t tell me. All he’ll say is the other fellow looks worse.”
“Much worse,” Harry said.
Garrick shot him a warning glance.
“He deserved it, Garrick,” Harry said. “How is the boy?”
“Dan? He’s the devil’s spawn according to my butler, who has threatened to resign if he steals one more silver spoon.”
Dunstan groaned. “Let the bastard butler go. He’s done nothing but interrupt us about this lad all evening.”
“And I’m also about to interrupt you, I’m afraid, Duke,” Harry said. “I need a private word
with my cousin.”
Dunstan groaned. “I hate families.” He eyed the pile of guineas on his side of the table. “I don’t suppose you want to wager your horse, Beauworth?”
“Non,” Garrick said decisively. “I too have matters to discuss with Harry.”
“Dull dog.” Dunstan unfolded his six feet of lean frame. He shrugged into his black coat and slung his cravat around his neck. “I’ll bid you gentlemen good-day.”
Harry stood up and shook his hand.
Garrick half rose to his feet. “Don’t get up, Beauworth,” Dunstan said. “You might fall over. I’ll see myself out.” He ambled out of the door.
“Shall I see him home?” Harry asked.
Garrick shook his head. “His coachman is waiting around the corner.”
Harry sank back on the sofa and waived off Garrick’s offer of a glass of brandy.
“What will you do with the boy? Dan?” Harry asked.
“Take him to somewhere he won’t be in fear of his life from his old master.”
They’d discovered a man beating the boy senseless on the previous evening. “The lad likes horses, apparently. I’ll take him to Beauworth.”
Harry nodded. “He’s too puny to leave on the streets. You could also probably use a repairing lease in the country.”
Beauworth finished his brandy. “I’m joining the army.”
Harry couldn’t hide his surprise. “What about your responsibilities? Uncle Duncan?”
Garrick huffed out a breath. “I’m going down to Sussex to tell him my decision. I have to go, Harry. You saw what I did to that bully. But for you pulling me off, I might have killed the cochon. The army will put those talents to good use.” He glowered into the dregs in his glass. “With luck I’ll end up a dead hero instead of a murderer at the end of a rope.”
The Le Clere curse. He didn’t have to name it for Harry to know what he meant. Harry had escaped it. So far. “If you’d just keep a grip on your temper…”
Garrick shot him a look of despair mingled with humor. “Right.”
An image of lively green eyes flashed into Harry’s mind and he recalled his purpose for seeking out his cousin. “I have a favor to ask.”
The Laird and the Wanton Widow Page 2