“Don’t concern yourself, Lady Lintell.” Julian laughed. “For I can see that no one has such a discerning eye as yourself.”
“Oh, my lord, you are too kind.” She preened, her long face bobbing on her long neck.
“As it happens, I have made Miss Hannah’s acquaintance,” Julian said, bringing the conversation back to the topic he wanted to discuss. “Three times.”
“Is that so?” Lady Hammond turned shrewd eyes toward Julian.
“She even promised me the first dance. As I hear the musicians beginning to warm up, I believe it is time I seek my partner. If you’ll excuse me, ladies.” He bowed and left them, though their curious twitters and whispers followed him as he crossed the floor to Miss Hannah.
Lady Lintell was correct about Miss Hannah’s gown. The diaphanous muslin was unadorned, the waistline a little too high, the sleeves too long. Still, it was flattering.
She stood beside Lord Cannon while he spoke to another man leaning on a cane. What was the expression on Miss Hannah’s face? He supposed she meant to be expressionless. Yet he could see beyond that blank face to the defiant angle of her head, her proud shoulders and the intense gaze that pretended to see nothing. Julian recognized nerves as well in the elegant fingers that clutched a small silver reticule.
Then she saw him, her unfathomable silver eyes meeting his. Her mouth set. Ah. He made her nervous. Good.
“Lord Cannon, Miss Hannah.” Julian bowed. “Please excuse me for interrupting your conversation, but I’ve come to claim my partner for the first dance.”
“Are you certain?” Lord Cannon barked. “You could ask another chit. Grace won’t cause a scene.”
“Why would I ask another lady? I’ve already asked Miss Hannah.” Julian cocked his head. What an interesting development. “It would be ungentlemanly if I withdrew my invitation now.”
“She’s damaged goods.” The second old man leaned forward, cracking his cane on the parquet floor as he spoke. “Jilted. Ruined. Compromised.”
The hurt didn’t show on Miss Hannah’s blanked features, but Julian knew she felt it. Her shoulders were nearly up to her ears and if he wasn’t mistaken, she’d stopped breathing.
Temper reared up. He grasped his quizzing glass and brought it to his eye, surveying the cadaverous stranger with disdain. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Lord Stuart Paget.” Lord Paget’s narrowed eyes flicked toward Miss Hannah, then back again. “She has no reputation.”
“She’s an embarrassment,” Lord Cannon added, rocking back on his heels. “It has to be said, my lord.”
“No. It doesn’t. And as long as Miss Hannah is my partner, I suggest you refrain from discussing any such embarrassment.” He wanted to launch his fist into Cannon’s face. “Miss Hannah, the couples will be lining up shortly. Shall we go?” He offered his arm. She stared at it as though it were a coiled snake preparing to strike.
She searched his face. Then, with a deep breath, accepted his arm. They moved away, and Julian heard Cannon and Paget blustering and bristling behind them.
“You don’t have to dance with me. I won’t mind.” Miss Hannah stared straight ahead. “I’ve probably forgotten the steps in any case.” Her cheeks flushed.
“I will mind,” he bit out. Then he realized he was all but dragging her onto the dance floor. Keep it easy, he instructed himself. Flirtation. He waited a beat. “At any rate, if I’m going to compete with Jack Blackbourn, I need to begin consorting with fast women. What kind of smuggler would I be if I consorted with virtuous spinsters?”
She abruptly stopped walking and stared at him. Then she laughed, long and merrily. The delighted sound filled him with a rush of pure lust. The sort that grabbed a man by the throat and refused to let go.
“My lord, you may just compete with our Jack after all.” She glanced at the dancers as they began to line up. A smile flirted with the corners of her mouth. “It seems it’s time to begin the dance, my lord smuggler. I only hope your reputation survives consorting with fast women.”
“If it doesn’t,” he returned as they took their places, “at least this smuggler will keep his lady consort content.” He was rewarded with a faint blush high on her cheekbones.
Whispers rippled through the surrounding crowd as they took their place on the floor. Was it himself or Miss Hannah that set tongues wagging?
The lively violins started a country dance. He and Grace came together, separated, came together again. Her eyes, silver-bright, remained fastened on his.
Woven through the whispers was one clear word: Gracie. She must hear it. How could she not? Yet her face stayed blank, her eyes focused on his. It must have cost her dearly to appear so unaware.
“You haven’t forgotten the steps, fair lady.”
“It’s said dancing will come back to you quickly,” she murmured.
“And does it?” Their hands touched, a fleeting brush of glove on glove that resonated through him.
“If one concentrates.”
“Alas. I’m clearly not distraction enough if you can concentrate so thoroughly on the steps of the dance. I must try harder.” They separated again, then came together once more at the head of the line.
“Not wise, my lord. If I stop concentrating I may tread on your toes.”
“My boots are sturdy.”
“So are my slippers.”
He laughed aloud and spun her down the avenue created by the other dancers until they reached the end and took their places once more.
When the song had ended and the couples dispersed, he smiled at her. “Would you care for a walk on the terrace, Miss Hannah? Or would you prefer I return you to your uncle?”
She cocked her head, as though listening to the whispers. “The terrace, please.”
They exited through ornate glass doors and walked the length of the terrace, away from the crowded rooms of the manor house.
She withdrew her arm when they reached the farthest end and stood at the top of the steps leading down to the gardens. He leaned against the balustrade and took a moment to search the darkness. No sound out of the ordinary. No shadow that didn’t belong.
Satisfied, he turned to look at her. She, too, stared into the darkness. The quiet and serene Miss Hannah with a core of passion. A smuggler and a rebel.
“The moonlight suits you, fair lady.” The silver light slanted over her delicate features, turning them into a beautiful study of light and shadow.
“Oh, moonlight flatters everyone. It’s soft and vague and smooths out rough edges.”
How could such a lovely face show such loneliness? It was her eyes. They seemed lost. Something stirred in him, answering the call of her loneliness. He pushed it away, trying desperately to remember she was only an assignment.
“The night is liberating, is it not?” She tipped her face up to the sky.
“I would have said the night is secretive.”
“It’s both, I suppose.” Looking out to the moon-washed gardens, she continued. “It’s the darkness, I think. In the dark, nothing is quite what it seems. Anything, anyone, could be hiding. The possibilities are endless.”
She seemed lost in the darkness. He waited, feeling like he was balancing on the edge of a knife, and wondered which way she would pull him. She drew a deep breath, held it. When she exhaled, it was as though some long-forgotten need was being given life.
“Let’s walk, my lord. Let’s throw caution to the wind, walk the paths and test the possibilities.” She skipped lightly down the stairs, then looked at him over one slender shoulder.
He could do nothing but follow.
Her gown was a beacon in the dark, floating around her as she guided him down the garden paths. The night was still, without the slightest breeze to stir the leaves, so that it seemed the only living thing was Miss Hannah. Heat lay heavy on the foliage, d
rawing out the heady scents of blooming summer flowers. Their sweet bouquet enveloped him, drew him in.
“What do you think is hiding in the dark, Miss Hannah?” He gestured toward the garden. “What unseen delights await?”
She crouched, then stood again with a thin stalk of late-blooming lavender. She twirled the lavender and studied the quiet gardens. “Perhaps a chivalric knight is waiting to rescue a maiden.”
“With his sword drawn and ready and his charger prancing among the rhododendrons,” he finished, watching the moonlight play over her features. She was a romantic at heart, he realized.
“But perhaps it’s a dashing highwayman, waiting to waylay the guests and steal kisses from beautiful maidens.” She laughed.
“Or perhaps a faerie queen waits for her lover among the blossoms and blooms.” He stepped closer, whispering in her ear. “Every pleasure, any pleasure, may be waiting in the dark.”
She tilted her head to watch him through long gold lashes. One corner of her full mouth rose slowly up, then the other. Lust arrowed through him and wiped all thoughts of his assignment from his mind. Had he seen her smile before? Not like that. The slow half smile was seductive and sultry.
Here was the passionate woman he’d kissed.
“Perhaps a smuggling earl awaits in the dark,” she whispered.
“Ah yes. My second career.” He plucked the lavender from her fingers and held it to his nose, breathed deep. And smelled her. He struggled to focus. “Perhaps I’ll buy my own ship and hire a crew to smuggle goods from France. Then I would truly thrill the local ladies.”
“But you wouldn’t be a smuggler as much as you would be a captain, would you?”
“Ah, not just a captain—a smuggling captain. And if I were a smuggling captain I could sail the seven seas, collecting gold and riches from the far corners of the world.”
“You could, but that wouldn’t thrill the local ladies, would it? If you’re off sailing the seas and collecting gold you wouldn’t be here in Devon to dazzle them with your exploits.” She angled her head, pursed her lips in a playful pout.
“I did promise to keep my consort content, did I not? I must impress her with my fantastic deeds.” He stepped forward so that they were only inches apart and tried to battle back desire. “I’d come to her in the deepest night, when others slept and they were alone. No one to hear. No one to see.”
He saw her breath catch, saw her breasts rise and fall with it.
“What would they do in the night? In the dark?” she whispered.
“They’d feel. There’s no sight in the dark, only texture, sound. Sensation.” He could all but taste her, cool and sweet. He leaned in so that his lips hovered just above hers. “Close your eyes,” he breathed. When she did as he asked, her lashes fluttering down to curtain her eyes, he lost the battle with himself.
__________
GRACE WAITED, ANTICIPATION trapping her breath. He did nothing, only stood there, a hairbreadth from her. Heat radiated from him, mingled with the humid warmth of the air that dampened her skin. What was he doing? Silent, still, blind, she waited.
“The smuggler and his woman would listen to the night around them,” he whispered. His warm lips touched her ear so that she drew a quick, uneven breath. “Tell me what they would hear.”
Her hearing sharpened, focused. She listened, and heard the stirring of the flowers. Just the merest sigh on the air. Had she ever heard that sigh before? Had she ever noticed that the leaves in the trees quivered and rustled, even in the still air?
“The flowers, the plants, whispering in the night. A cricket.” The insect chirped once, twice, the sound a strident call to his mate. “Laughter and voices and music echoing from the house.”
“What would they smell?” His voice was so low she strained to hear. “Tell me what scents float upon the air.”
Breathing deep, Grace took in all the scents of the garden. “Lavender and verbena. The faintest scent of roses. Earth. Summer. Night.”
Over it all, around it all, was the earl. His scent, man and outdoors. His breathing, in and out, rhythmic. His breath fluttered warm over her lips.
Grace tipped up her own mouth. Would he kiss her? He would. He must. Her eyes still closed, her body straining, she waited. Blind anticipation warred with the need to see him. Just when she could bear the awareness no longer, she felt it. The tiniest tickle against her lips. The scent of lavender engulfed her as soft little petals stroked, then trailed across her jaw and down to her collarbone, leaving a line of sensitive skin in its wake.
“I—”
“Hush. Just wait. Just feel.”
The petals traced the neckline of her gown, grazing the soft swell of breast that rose above the muslin. A quiver ran through her, set her muscles trembling. Someone moaned softly. Shocked, Grace realized the sound came from her. She started to flutter her lashes open.
But she was stopped when his mouth finally, finally touched hers. Firm, warm. He touched her nowhere but her lips. Yet still she felt his nearness, his body skimming just beyond hers. She opened for him, couldn’t help but open for him as light poured through her. Rising on her toes, she met his mouth and let need overwhelm her.
When he drew back, her breath was ragged, her heart pumping. For one final moment she kept her eyes closed and savored the brightness within her. Then finally, she opened her eyes and met the intense focus of his gaze. Deep, powerful, his eyes searched her face.
“Alas, fair lady. The night must end for our smuggler and his consort.”
“So it must.” She struggled to focus beyond the rush of blood and pounding of her heart. “And the smuggler must relinquish his plunder.”
“Ah, but that is the beauty of kisses. They cannot be returned and must remain forever with the receiver to be treasured.” He rubbed a thumb over her bottom lip.
“You may keep the kisses, my lord.” Her lips curved under his thumb at his foolishly charming words.
But reality intruded. She looked toward the bright squares of light that marked the windows of Lady Hammond’s manor house. “We should return to the assembly before our absence is noted.”
She hated saying it, hated the dread gathering in her belly, but there was little choice. She accepted his offered arm as they wound through the garden and onto the terrace.
Through the open door, Grace could see Lord Cannon standing near the punch bowl, numerous people ranged around him. Even as she watched the group shifted, changed. Anxiety clutched in her stomach as she saw who remained beside him. Michael Wargell and his stunningly beautiful wife.
Her mind raced as they entered the house and crossed the room. She didn’t know what to say to the man who had irreparably compromised and jilted her. Nor to the wife he chose over her.
“Where did you go?” her uncle demanded as they approached the group.
“We took a turn about the room, then the terrace,” the earl answered glibly. “It’s terribly warm in here, is it not?”
“Lord Langford,” her uncle barked, impatient as always with polite pleasantries. “May I present Mr. Michael Wargell and Mrs. Clotilde Wargell.”
Grace could only stare at the floor. He was here. Worse, she was here. Grace had managed to avoid them for years, even in Cannon Manor where they visited so often. Now the moment had arrived and it was in front of the Earl of Langford. In front of the entire village.
“Lord Langford, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Michael’s voice was unchanged to Grace’s ear. It was smooth and pleasant, the tone polite.
She frowned. His voice didn’t give her the thrill it once had. She stole a quick glance and saw that his face had changed even if his voice had not. Lines fanned out from his eyes and the hair at his temple was gray instead of the same rich black as the rest. Yet he was still handsome. Her heart constricted with a fierce ache.
“Lord Langford.” Clotil
de Wargell’s sugary tone swirled through the hot, scented air. “We’ve only recently returned from London. I found the Season to be such a whirl I could barely keep up. Did you enjoy London?”
The pleasantries began. Fashion, theater, scandal, weather. No one directed a comment to Grace, nor did she join the conversation. She had nothing to contribute, anyway. She’d probably blurt out something ridiculous such as, Why did you jilt me, Michael? But she supposed she didn’t need to ask. The answer was standing before her, in the exquisite form of Clotilde Wargell.
“Oh, Gracie wouldn’t go to London,” Mrs. Wargell said, pulling Grace into the conversation. “She’s too attached to Devon, aren’t you?”
Grace looked up to find Mrs. Wargell’s cunning gold eyes on her.
“Er, yes, I enjoy the countryside.”
“And your gardens, no doubt,” Michael added. His dark eyes were neither warm nor cold when they looked at her. Pain sliced through her at the absolute disinterest in his expression.
“You spend hours out in the gardens, don’t you, Gracie?” Mrs. Wargell shuddered delicately. “I wouldn’t dream of mucking about in the dirt as you do. That’s why we employ gardeners.”
“No need to employ someone when Gracie’s right here,” Lord Cannon countered.
“Cannon Manor’s gardens are singularly impressive,” the Earl of Langford noted. “They must be full of delights, Miss Hannah.”
His blue, blue eyes met hers and sent heat shimmering through her. She ignored it. Michael Wargell stood only feet from her. She needed no other reminder why she should stay away from the earl.
“A lady gardener,” the earl mused. “You have so many hidden talents, Miss Hannah.” A knowing smile flirted with his lips.
“It’s just a garden.” She needed to leave. Soon, before she tumbled deeper into trouble. She looked away, searched for the door. It wasn’t far. The Earl of Langford’s eyes laughed into hers when she looked back, as though he knew she hoped to escape. She flushed.
The Smuggler Wore Silk Page 7