Clearly Mama wasn’t the only one who could turn a situation to her advantage. But at least Uncle Noah was pushing Vanessa toward Sheridan and not toward Lord Lisbourne.
When Sheridan focused his gorgeous green eyes on Vanessa, she pasted a flirtatious smile to her face. “Nonsense, Uncle. I already know his opinion.”
Sheridan’s expression didn’t change one whit. It exhibited a perfect blend of boredom and nonchalance. “Oh? And what might that be?”
“That the shenanigans of Felix and his friends are ridiculous. That you don’t consider such frivolity entertaining in the least.”
“If you say so.” He shrugged. “Honestly, I have no opinion whatsoever.”
It was the sort of thing he always said. “Ah, but you must admit that when you do, it’s contrary to everyone else’s. Why, I once heard you tell the Secretary of War that Napoleon was a masterful strategist who would win against us if we didn’t recognize it and act accordingly.”
“That wasn’t an opinion; it was the truth.” He stared her down. “Just because the man is our enemy doesn’t mean we should assume he’s stupid. Greater men than our Secretary of War have made that mistake, to their detriment.”
The words piqued her uncle’s curiosity. “Forgive me, Duke, but are you familiar with military strategy?”
“My father trained me from an early age to follow in his footsteps in Britain’s diplomatic service, a profession which requires knowing strategies of all kinds. So yes, Sir Noah, I do know quite a bit.”
Mama turned up her nose at the very idea. “I’m sure your late father was relieved when you became his heir to the dukedom instead. What a fortuitous event that was.”
Sheridan shifted his attention to Vanessa’s mother. “I doubt Father would have called the death of his brother fortuitous.” As if realizing Mama might take offense at his blunt speech, he softened his words. “Personally, I’d have preferred a post abroad over inheriting the dukedom, but that wasn’t meant to be.”
Vanessa wasn’t sure she believed him. He didn’t sound convincing. Perhaps he was trying to convince himself? Then again, watching his every word and bowing to the needs of England over his own would probably come naturally to him, given his reticence.
As if Mama wondered about it herself, she lifted an eyebrow. “You would have been happy to live outside of England as some low envoy all of your life?”
“I wasn’t born in England, Lady Eustace. So if I’d had the chance to live the remainder of my days in Prussia, for example, I would have been perfectly content.”
“With all your family here?” Vanessa asked, genuinely curious now. “Wouldn’t you miss them?”
His gaze swung to her. “Of course. But if I were still in the diplomatic service, it would be because my uncle was still alive and my parents and Gwyn were still in Prussia.”
“Still, wouldn’t you miss your brothers?” Vanessa said. She would miss Grey terribly if he were abroad, and he was merely her cousin.
“Until the past year, I hadn’t been around them for a very long time.” A small frown knit his brow. “I was used to that. I was only a child when Grey left, Heywood got his commission when I was seventeen, and Thorn departed when I was nineteen. I spent nine years without them all.” His fraught tone belied the nonchalant words.
“But surely you would have missed entertainments like this or hunting house parties or our glittering balls,” Mama said.
Uncle Noah shook his head. “They have those in Prussia, too, eh, Duke?”
“But not peopled by Englishmen,” her mother persisted. “And those Prussians are not to be trusted.”
Vanessa stifled a groan. “Do forgive my mother. She finds all foreigners suspect.”
Sheridan ignored Vanessa’s commentary. “I will confess, Lady Eustace, that the house parties in Berlin paled to those my mother always describes from her youth in England. Prussian house parties were orderly events, with every activity scheduled. Whereas my mother says that her first husband’s parties at Carymont were madcap and not the least scheduled. Everyone had differing plans for activities, and no one consulted with anyone else concerning those plans.”
“Exactly,” Mama said, brightening. “That’s how they were indeed. We did as we pleased in those days. None of this ‘Oh, the young gentlemen must be appeased’ nonsense. We enjoyed ourselves however we could.”
“I suppose that left time for guests to roam Carymont and explore,” Sheridan said.
“And have assignations,” Uncle Noah added, slyly.
Mama swatted her brother with her reticule. “No one was having assignations, Noah. I was newly married and not about to risk my marriage for any man. And my husband wasn’t even there.” She glanced at Vanessa and colored. “Not that he would have done such a thing either.”
It was all Vanessa could do not to roll her eyes. How could Mama think Vanessa hadn’t noticed Papa’s many payments to ladies through the years? Vanessa had done the books for him from the time she was old enough to know what an account ledger was. Papa had been woefully bad at managing money. “The gathering at Carymont,” Vanessa mused aloud. “What was the occasion or was it just a typical house party?”
Her mother sighed. “We were supposed to be there to celebrate Grey’s christening. Instead—”
“Grey’s father died,” Sheridan said bluntly.
Vanessa groaned. She’d had no idea or she would never have brought it up. But her parents hadn’t revealed any details about the death of Grey’s father except to mention that Grey had been a mere infant at the time.
Uncle Noah’s gaze shot to Mama. “That was when it happened?”
“It was indeed.” Sheridan focused on Mama. “I wonder how the guests felt about that, Lady Eustace. It must have lowered their spirits dramatically.”
Mama waved her hand in the air. “Oh, let’s not talk about it. It’s . . . too awful and sad. Besides, the next act is about to begin.”
Sure enough, the orchestra began to play a more dramatic piece. Uncle Noah took his seat but Sheridan continued to lounge against the balustrade.
“Would you like a lemon drop, Your Grace?” Vanessa asked as she drew one out of her reticule, hoping to keep him there.
“Thank you, but no,” Sheridan drawled, flashing her the faintest of smiles. “I gave up sweets for Lent.”
When she and Uncle Noah chuckled, Vanessa’s mother frowned. “Lent was several months ago.”
Mama had never had much of a sense of humor.
“Exactly, Sister.” Uncle Noah smiled at Vanessa. “But I’ll take one of those lemon drops.” He snatched the comfit right out of Vanessa’s hand.
Then a boy took the stage and began a comic introduction to the second act, which effectively ended all conversation.
Looking frustrated—for no reason that Vanessa could tell—Sheridan pushed away from the balustrade, unwittingly drawing her attention to his fine physique. The man had the best-crafted calves she’d ever seen, not to mention a chest as broad as a pugilist’s and clearly capable of any test of strength. As if that weren’t enough to tempt a young lady, his hair . . . Oh, she must not even think of those glorious ash-brown curls. It made her want to run her fingers through them, a possibility that clearly escaped him, since he ignored Vanessa completely while twice more bending to whisper something to her mother, as if to renew their conversation.
Like a balloon deflating, she felt the air go out of her happiness. He was here to visit—to talk with—Mama, given that even after he took his seat behind her mother, he leaned forward to exchange remarks with her. Vanessa couldn’t understand why, but the point was he wasn’t here to be with her.
What must she do to get him to converse with her? Or notice her? If she couldn’t think of anything to pry him from Mama, she’d have to give up the foolish dream of marrying him and instead find some other safe, reliable, and preferably young man to wed.
Using Mama’s polemoscope, Vanessa surveyed the boxes nearby, racking her brain for
something to say to Sheridan that might get his attention. Then she spotted Mr. Juncker.
Her mother and Sheridan were still murmuring, so she shushed them. “My favorite part is coming up,” she said sotto voce. “And I shall miss it for all your whispering.”
Sheridan and Mama fell silent. Vanessa waited, wondering if Sheridan would take the bait.
“You have a favorite part?” Sheridan finally asked, under his breath.
Her heart pounded. It was working, although she dearly wished she didn’t need the goad of Mr. Juncker to get Sheridan to speak to her. “Not just one, of course.” She turned in her seat so she could talk to Sheridan. “Mr. Juncker is such a brilliant writer that I have three or four favorite scenes in each play. That’s to be expected.”
“I would have thought you enjoyed the costumes most,” he said in a brittle undertone, “given your passion for fashion.”
To keep from losing her temper at him more visibly, she returned to watching the stage. Her “passion for fashion” indeed. Once again, he saw her as only a frivolous ninny. “And I would have thought you enjoyed the wit most,” she said archly. “But perhaps you need someone to explain it to you.”
Sheridan gave a low laugh that rumbled around in her body for a bit, making her feel all soft and mushy inside.
Then he whispered, “Is that your polite way of saying you think me witless, Miss Pryde?”
“Oh, was I polite? That was unintentional.”
Perhaps she should just face the fact that Sheridan had no romantic interest in her. No matter what she did, she would always be someone for him to tease and then ignore. He would clearly never see her as a woman capable of being his wife. Why, even when he’d danced with her at balls, it had been out of a sense of duty to his oldest half brother. If dancing hadn’t changed his perception of her, what else was there?
On the stage, a young man was trying to steal a kiss from the lady destined to be his true love, and that sparked a wild notion. A kiss. That was it! Vanessa’s pulse began to race. She had to get Sheridan to kiss her. Kisses could be magical. Well, none that she’d ever experienced had been so, but clearly she just hadn’t found the right person to kiss. Why else would kisses punctuate the crowning moments in comedies, the lovely parts of ballads, and even the thrilling verses of poetry?
But how on earth could she get Sheridan to kiss her when he didn’t see her as the enticing enchantress she wanted to be to him?
Idly she picked up the polemoscope. As if to add insult to injury, Mr. Juncker appeared in the aperture. Even as she watched, Mr. Juncker rose, clearly meaning to leave his box.
That gave her an idea. Sheridan already thought her enamored of Mr. Juncker. She could still use that. But first she had to convince Sheridan to leave the box with her. And her view of another box gave her the perfect excuse.
Vanessa leaned back to whisper in his ear, “I’ve spotted a friend of mine in a box down the way. I simply must go speak to her. Will you accompany me?”
He eyed her askance. “What about your favorite scene?”
“It just finished,” she said hastily. “Besides, it looks as if my friend might be leaving, and I haven’t seen her in months.”
“Why don’t you ask your uncle to go with you?”
“You mean the uncle who is presently emitting a loud snore?”
Sheridan looked at Uncle Noah and grimaced.
“You can remain here,” she added. “I’ll just go by myself.” She rose, praying that Mama didn’t try to stop her, and that the overprotective Saint Sheridan followed her. When he did, she released a long breath.
Once they were in the now-empty corridor, Sheridan muttered, “Who is this special friend of yours, anyway?”
She kept slightly ahead of him. “Miss Younger.”
“Never heard of her,” he said, clearly skeptical.
“That means nothing. First of all, you rarely go into society unless your family forces you to. Second, you avoid me whenever possible, so you wouldn’t necessarily have encountered her. Third—”
“Wait, wait, stop.” He grabbed her by the arm to stay her. “What do you mean, I avoid you? That implies an active dislike.”
“Call it what you will, but you must admit you go out of your way to keep from chancing upon me.” She stared at him, daring him to deny it.
“I don’t—I haven’t—” For a moment, he looked flustered. It was encouraging to think she could fluster him. Then he smoothed his features into the usual stern expression he used only with her. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that one.”
“Hmm.” She continued down the corridor. “In any case, you would never have met her because she hasn’t even had a coming out.”
“So how did she get to be friends with you? You had your coming out a while ago. If your friend is of an age to come out, then she must be aptly named indeed, since she’d have to be a good six or seven years younger than you.”
“How clever of you to make such an obvious play on words with my friend’s name.” She peered down the corridor and slowed her steps. Where in blazes was Mr. Juncker?
“I’m clever enough to know that a name like Younger is clearly fictitious.”
“Why would I create a fictitious—” She halted so suddenly, he tread on her train. Not that she cared. Now was her chance. Pivoting toward him, she said, “Quick. Kiss me.”
“What?”
“Kiss me!” When he merely arched one eyebrow, she muttered, “Oh, never mind. I’ll do it myself.” And gripping his shoulders, she pulled herself up on tiptoe to press her lips to his.
He jerked back and glanced down the corridor to see what she’d seen—Mr. Juncker headed toward them. Then with a frown Sheridan pushed her against the wall and kissed her back.
Except that his kiss was perfunctory, the kiss of a man forced to do something he ought, not something he wanted. He let it go on in a most unsatisfying manner until Mr. Juncker had slid past them with a murmured, “Beg your pardon.”
Only then did Sheridan release her. That’s when it dawned on her what he’d been doing: once again protecting her, treating her like a . . . a silly schoolgirl. Making sure that Mr. Juncker didn’t see her being kissed, while at the same time not really kissing her at all.
Anger took over, and she shoved him. Hard.
He stumbled back a step. “What the hell was that for?”
“For . . . For . . .” Well, she could hardly tell him the truth, or he’d guess how she felt about him. “You know precisely what it was for.”
“Kissing you?”
“If you can call it that.” No, she couldn’t complain of that to him, or he’d guess he was the real target of her affections. So her only choice was to continue mooning after Mr. Juncker, no matter how much she hated that. She peered in the direction the playwright had gone. “You didn’t let him see me kissing you.”
He pinned her with a hard look. “Are you trying to destroy your reputation, Vanessa?”
“No, indeed.” He’d missed the point. She lifted her chin and lied for all she was worth, “I’m trying to make Mr. Juncker jealous. But if he doesn’t know I was the one being kissed—”
“Hardly the one being kissed,” Sheridan grumbled. “You were the one kissing me.”
“He wouldn’t have realized that.” She tilted her head. “And if you had let him witness the incident, I might have secured him.”
“Secured him?” Sheridan glared at her. “That man will never marry you. So do you really want to sacrifice your reputation to a fellow who has no interest in establishing a respectable connection with you?”
She gazed down the corridor after Mr. Juncker. “How do you know he wouldn’t establish a respectable connection? Or do you simply think me too silly to attract an eligible suitor?”
Sheridan blinked. “It has nothing to do with you. He’s a rogue, and rogues don’t marry.”
“Thorn did.”
“My half brother had other reasons for doing so.” Sheridan’s fa
ce clouded over. “But Juncker has no such reasons—no heir he must sire and no estate requiring a rich dowry. He also has any number of unsavory females eager to share his bed, so why would he marry?”
“I have no idea, and neither do you. What would you know about rogues? You aren’t one in the least. So you can’t possibly understa—”
Sheridan kissed her again. Only this time it wasn’t perfunctory or false. This time he gave her the sort of kiss a man would give a woman he truly desired.
Vanessa’s head spun as his mouth seduced and supped, by turns rough and tender, making her knees wobbly. He braced his hands on either side of her shoulders and leaned into her, his hard body covering her soft one as if trying to subdue her. Except that she was more than happy to be subdued by him.
Heavens, but he certainly knew how to kiss.
She caught him by the waist, needing to hang on as he catapulted her far beyond their surroundings and into the clouds. In the chilly theater, his body shed warmth like a sun heating a meadow, and he smelled of sun, too, and leather, and some spicy cologne.
Then he parted her lips and delved inside her mouth with his tongue. Good Lord in paradise, what was he doing? What an exquisite sensation, one she’d never experienced. Her arms crept around his waist—she wanted him even closer.
And when his response was to groan and press into her, she exulted in it. The very weight of him turned her to jelly as the kiss went on and on. . . .
He did care. At last.
Chapter Three
Sheridan knew he was making a mistake. He shouldn’t be touching her, let alone kissing her. But their first two pecks on the lips had whetted his appetite for a real kiss. To make her think twice about Juncker and his damned roguish ways. To show her that every man had needs and that trying to tempt a fellow like Juncker into expressing them was asking for trouble.
Kissing her was asking for trouble. God save him, he was sailing in uncharted waters, an adventurer heading for foreign climes. Her lips were soft and her body warm, yielding to his. She tasted like lemon drops and sunshine, and the more he thrust his tongue inside her mouth, the more he ached to have it inside other places. Sheer insanity. Especially since she wasn’t exactly stopping him. And why?
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