The Taste of Temptation

by Julia Kelly

  “And therein lies the challenge,” said Moira. Instinct told her that Miss Burkett hadn’t mentioned him just because he’d annoyed her. There was something else there.

  “Meddler,” Flora mumbled. “Now tell me, who else do you have in mind?”

  Chapter Six

  COULD JILTED JENNY’S SCANDALOUS FUNDS BE RUNNING OUT?

  £1,000 SETTLEMENT MAY BE ENTIRELY GONE!

  —THISTLE & TITTLE

  Moray might pride himself on the quality of his clothes, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to tear off his dinner jacket and unbutton the uncomfortable, highly starched shirt that was de rigueur the moment he got back to his office. On a normal night, he never would’ve left his desk at this hour, but this night wasn’t normal. Instead of working, he was standing in the middle of Mrs. Sullivan’s drawing room, trying to shake off the feeling of being choked by his own wardrobe as he waited for dinner to be announced.

  He’d been surprised to receive the lady’s invitation. He’d attended several of Mrs. Sullivan’s monthly salons, and he’d be forever grateful that she was the woman who’d engineered Ina and Gavin’s marriage. Whenever he’d encountered the matchmaker at a party or eaten with her when some friend or another had invited a prominent writer to dinner, he’d found her charming, but never before had the formidable lady addressed a dinner invitation to him.

  He smiled as his hostess approached and lifted her proffered hand to his lips.

  “Good evening, Mr. Moray,” she said.

  “Thank you for the invitation. You’ve saved me from a ham sandwich eaten at my desk while looking over the stack of articles that never dwindles.”

  She laughed. “Your articles must be like my correspondence—a constant plague that never seems to go away no matter how long you work at it each day.”

  “If only the news would stop for a few days, I might catch up,” he said.

  Her eyes flicked to something over his shoulder. He turned to find two ladies and a man walking through the open double doors of the drawing room. A slow grin spread across his face as he saw Caroline flanked by her brother and his wife.

  Perfect.

  “I’m given to understand that you’ve already met the Burkett family, including Miss Burkett, who’s recently joined us from London,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

  “I have had that pleasure, although I must confess that Miss Burkett didn’t seem particularly pleased to learn my occupation,” he said.

  “No, I can’t imagine she was. I’ll trust you’ll be kind to my guest tonight, Mr. Moray.”

  He knew the moment Caroline realized he was there. Her eyes lit on him and her lovely pink lips parted a fraction. Even from across the room he could see her clench her gloved fists and press them hard against her sides.

  “If Miss Burkett gives me the chance, I’ll be the very picture of gentlemanly regard,” he said, “but she doesn’t look happy to see me.”

  “I’m sure she isn’t,” said Mrs. Sullivan, amusement dancing in her eyes.

  The woman was up to something, he was certain of it, but before he could press her she said, “I should greet the Burketts. If you’ll excuse me.” But then she stopped. “I nearly neglected to mention, you’ll be taking Miss Burkett to the table, and she’ll be seated to your right. Fergus should be announcing dinner any moment now.”

  Mrs. Sullivan was not halfway across the room when the butler appeared through a second set of doors and droned in a stentorian voice, “Dinner is served.”

  So that had been Mrs. Sullivan’s plan. Seat Miss Burkett next to him and . . . He wasn’t sure what the matchmaker expected to come of it. Certainly not the beginning of an understanding between Miss Burkett and himself. Disregarding the fact that the lady loathed him, he had little to offer. His wealth was new and dripping with the taint of trade, not to mention journalism—still a ragged profession—and his family was, as far as society was concerned, a mystery. He made it a point to never speak of the days before the Tattler and Lothian had grown into the newspapers that they were.

  He was a self-made man, having sprung fully formed from the chaos of commerce. It was generally accepted that, with nothing more than raw ambition and a head for business, Moray had built himself a little empire. Tonight that man would take Caroline Burkett, a lady, in to dinner.

  He schooled his face into the picture of solemnity and approached Caroline. “Miss Burkett,” he said, sweeping into a low bow, “I’m to have the honor of escorting you to the table tonight.”

  Judging from her expression, she couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d tried to hand her an eel. “Surely there’s been a mistake.”

  “There’s been no error. Mrs. Sullivan is quite the considerate hostess and told me herself.” He looked around as gentlemen tucked ladies’ hands into their elbows and began to progress to the dining room in strict order of precedence. Given that he was nothing more than a businessman and she was an unmarried, untitled lady, they’d be one of the last couples to leave the drawing room. “If you have any doubts, we could wait until it’s our turn and you find that there’s no one else to hand you in.”

  “Unbelievable,” Caroline muttered through clenched teeth.

  “Is everything all right, my dear?” asked Caroline’s sister-in-law, who’d just taken up the arm of a sharp-witted surgeon who taught at the University of Edinburgh.

  Caroline glared at Moray’s hand but shook her head. “Of course. I shall be delighted to be escorted by Mr. Moray.”

  Her sister-in-law looked very doubtful of that.

  Caroline’s hand was stiff when she placed it in the crook of his elbow. He would’ve patted it if he hadn’t thought she might take his whole arm off.

  “I promise it won’t be as bad as all that,” he said.

  “I know this will shock you, Mr. Moray, but if I never saw another reporter in my life I’d die a happy woman.”

  “Ah, but I’m not a reporter.”

  She shot him a look. “You employ reporters and tell them what to do. That’s far worse.”

  He grinned. “I have to say, some days I agree with you. Reporters can be a pesky bunch.”

  One turn of her elegant neck and she leveled him with a look so icy it was a wonder he didn’t freeze on the spot. “While I understand that tradition and good manners require me to walk in with you, Mr. Moray, nothing compels us to speak to one another. I’d prefer silence.”

  He shook his head. “That is a shame, for I’m looking forward to several hours of pleasant conversation and good company.”

  Her nose scrunched. “Several hours?”

  “I also have the privilege of sitting next to you,” he said.

  She blanched. “What?”

  “Oh yes,” he said, starting to enjoy himself. “Just because you’re in Scotland you can’t imagine that there would be any fewer courses than you have in London. Soup, fish, fowl—”

  “I’m familiar with the courses traditionally served at a dinner party, Mr. Moray. This is far from my first,” she said impatiently. “My only hope is that Mrs. Sullivan keeps her table à la russe so I might stand the chance of dropping a cutlet straight in your lap when the footman comes around with the dish.”

  He laughed, covering her hand and leaning into her without thinking. She stiffened again, but he didn’t miss the split second when her body was soft and her head tilted just a little toward him, almost as though she were a lover sharing a secret amusement. He caught the scent of her hair—rosemary and juniper, so unlike that of most ladies with their oils of violet or lavender. All at once he was aware of the weight of her skirts against his leg and the softness of her touch. He wanted to know what that delicate hand would feel like roaming freely up his arm and over his chest. What it would be like for her to dance her fingers down his stomach and circle his shaft, bold as she was when she flung insults back at him. He nearly groaned at the thought of her mouth closing over him as he lost himself between her pretty lips.

  He swallowed hard and bre
athed quickly through his nose. Any more of this and he’d embarrass himself before the white linen–covered table could hide his arousal.

  She hated him, but didn’t that make it all the more challenging? All the more fun?

  That was what he sought in his bed. Fun. Desiring anything deeper was just a ruse. His parents had taught him that. He thought for years that they were happy until one day he realized everything he’d known—everything they’d ever told him—had been lie upon lie that could be peeled back to reveal the very worst of all. He wanted no part in that.

  And then there was the complicating matter at hand. He wanted Caroline as a story. Needed it. If she thought that the theater would be his only attempt at convincing her, she was sorely mistaken. He was determined to break her down until she told him everything she’d never uttered to another person before. He wanted to know exactly how it had felt when Weatherly had left her, and what she’d thought when she’d first testified in the lawsuit. How sweet had the victory of winning been, and did she regret any of it?

  The insatiable need to know everything had been a part of him since childhood. Knowledge and the dissemination of it had changed his life, allowing him to rise from his humble beginnings, the son of a shopkeeper and a seamstress—both formerly of service—and transform himself. He’d fought, scraped, and struggled his way through his apprenticeship at a Glasgow printmakers’ shop, where he’d learned everything, until he was a partner there. Then, taking what little money he had, he’d set his sights on Edinburgh and on the nearly bankrupt travesty that was the New Town Tattler. He’d told the salacious stories no one else would, and after that publication was turning a profit, he’d bought the Lothian Herald-Times, a once-venerable paper that had suffered from incompetence and neglect. He’d transformed it in short order into one of the jewels of Scottish journalism. Some people might criticize him and the unsavory nosiness of his profession, but it was the reason he was pulling out a chair for a beautiful woman at the table of one of the most revered hostesses in the city. He wouldn’t apologize for that.

  There was still an empty seat to Caroline’s right when a pair of footmen began to serve a turtle soup. When Mrs. Sullivan picked up her spoon with no mention of waiting for the latecomer, they all followed suit, but Moray paused, watching Caroline out of the corner of his eye. She dipped her spoon into her soup, scooping the liquid away from her before lifting it to her mouth. Her eyes fluttered closed as the broth hit her lips. The faintest moan of pleasure sounded in her throat, and his own constricted.

  He watched her, transfixed, as she ate a few more spoonfuls before shooting him a quizzical look.

  “Is the soup not to your taste?” she asked.

  He jerked to attention, nearly dropping his spoon in the broth. “I see a great deal at the table that’s to my taste.”

  It was a line even a hack could improve on, but if she caught the innuendo she didn’t react to it.

  “A gentleman would know that not eating delays the progression of dishes at a dinner party and puts the hostess out,” she said.

  It was a shot directly at his vulnerabilities, yet she couldn’t know just how ungentlemanly he was. No one knew.

  “Are you criticizing the speed with which I eat now, Miss Burkett?” he asked, a little gruffly, before taking a sip of soup.

  “If it irks you, I will,” she said sweetly.

  “Why don’t you like me?” he asked. “It can’t be just because of my profession.”

  “Why not? I’ve been hounded enough by journalists that I should think it perfectly acceptable if I wish never to speak to one again.”

  “And yet we keep meeting.”

  She gave a soft snort that he liked all the more because it wasn’t ladylike or in the least what he expected from her. “I wouldn’t say we keep meeting. We’ve only been in each other’s presence twice, and both times you’ve contrived to be where I am.”

  “Not tonight,” he said. “It’s pure chance that we happen to be dining at the same table.”

  Her brow crinkled. “You didn’t request an invitation?”

  He shook his head. “And neither did I ask to take you into dinner or to be seated next to you. I’m afraid that’s all our hostess’s doing.”

  They both looked down the table to where Mrs. Sullivan was making conversation with an engineer who was working on the proposed Forth Rail Bridge at Queensferry. The engineer, Moray noted, was one of three bachelors in attendance, including himself. The matchmaker was either hoping to ensure there were enough partners for dancing or displaying some of the city’s most eligible men in hopes of finding some woman a husband. He wanted no part of either scenario.

  “But I told her . . .” Caroline murmured.

  “What?”

  Her bare shoulders tensed. “Nothing.”

  “Are you disappointed I didn’t wheedle my way in?” he asked.

  She tossed her head and reached for her glass. “Hardly.”

  He sat back. “I think you are. I think you secretly relish the attention.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you knew anything about what it was like,” she said sharply.

  “Then tell me,” he said softly, the fierceness of her hiss pulling him in. “Make me understand.”

  Her hand trembled as she took a sip of wine. “I’m not a fool. When my mother filed the lawsuit, I knew it would be covered in the papers, but I never could’ve anticipated how much attention it would receive.

  “At first the reporters were just in court, but then some enterprising man got it into his head to follow my mother and me in our cab home one day. The next morning, I opened the door and there were two reporters on the front steps. I was so flustered that I stammered out something about the day’s proceedings.” She took a deep breath. “I can’t even remember what it was now, but it made it into a morning paper’s late edition. When I returned home that evening, the reporters were eight deep.”

  He nodded but kept his mouth shut. He’d always found it best to encourage his subjects to weave their own stories without interjection. They either found silence unbearable and rushed to fill it or became lost in the ramble of their own tale and revealed something they hadn’t intended to.

  “At one point I counted twenty-two reporters outside the house. Twenty-two,” she said in disgust. “We had to start burning our rubbish immediately or they’d go through it looking for bits of correspondence. When I’d walk out the door, they’d shout questions—even on days when there were no proceedings. I could be on my way to shop for a new ribbon for a hat, and all I’d hear was a barrage of questions about the man who’d cast me off for another woman. Some of the worst of them pushed and crowded. I was so frightened that sometimes I didn’t think I’d make it out of the scrum of them.”

  There was a slow-burning intensity in those last words. He knew it well, because it was what had fueled him for so long. It had been pure, roiling anger over his past, his upbringing, all the things he didn’t know until it was too late for him not to be scarred by them.

  “Why am I telling you this?” she asked.

  “Because you want to.”

  She paused a long moment as though weighing his answer as a possibility. “No, I absolutely do not.”

  “Just one last question, Miss Burkett, and I’ll leave you to your soup if you like,” he said.

  She sighed. “We both know that’s a lie, but you’ll do it whether I grant you permission or not.”

  “Did you love him?” he asked. It didn’t matter—not really—yet he wanted very much to know.

  She arched a brow, but her eyes couldn’t hide her sadness. “Do you know, you’re the first person to ask me that? Ever.”

  Pure protective instinct roared up in him at the sight of the fierce hurt she cloaked herself in. He knew what his profession was and he made no illusions that it was all truth and goodness. There were ugly sides to it too. Sides he didn’t like. And while he would’ve assigned a reporter to her courtroom and staked someone outsi
de her house to see who was coming and going, he never would’ve wanted to make a woman frightened to leave her own home. To hear her tell it, the London papers had gone far beyond the bounds of what was acceptable.

  “Did you love him?” he asked again.

  “Do you still want me to sell my story to the Lothian?” she asked.

  “Or the Tattler,” he said. “I’m not picky.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Why are you so fixated on me? I’m no one.”

  “The public is still fascinated by you. And wouldn’t you rather control your own story? You can tell it to me however you like. Just let me have it first, before anyone else.”

  She leaned over to him until mere inches separated them. If they hadn’t been at a dinner party in front of fourteen other people and she hadn’t made a perfectly convincing case as to why she hated him, he might have thought about closing the gap and kissing her. Just to see what it was like. Just to see what she would do.

  Instead, he sat back and waited.

  Her tongue darted out, and she licked her lips. Then she smiled, slowly and seductively, and, in a voice low enough that only he could hear, said, “Mr. Moray, rest assured that I’ll never sell to you or anyone else.”

  A footman’s discreet cough broke the tension between Caroline and Moray, and she leaned back to allow the servant to clear her soup plate. She didn’t know why she’d told him what she had. It hadn’t been her intention to reveal her lingering hatred for the reporters who’d plagued her for months. Neither had she wanted to tell him about her fear of running the gauntlet daily to get through the surging, shouting mass of men armed with their notebooks and pencils. And yet she had.

  Moray unsettled her. That was the only explanation for it. He set her on edge, and yet she told him secrets. She pushed him away, and yet she wanted to draw him closer to her. He was a study in contradictions, and that made him all the more infuriating.