by Mary Balogh
He smiled down at his snuffbox. “Shall I take up the habit,” he asked, “and learn to sneeze all over you?”
“You do not like it?” she asked doubtfully. “It was a foolish idea, was it not?”
“I shall wear it next to my heart for the rest of my life,” he said. “I shall treasure it as much as a certain green feather I once won. Thank you, Samantha.”
“Do you want another gift?” she asked. “It is not blue or a green feather and cannot be put in your hands—yet. But I think you will like it.” She was looking at him with luminous eyes.
“What?” He smiled and set his head back against the chair.
“I think …,” she said. “Actually, I am almost sure. I think we are going to have a baby, Hartley.”
He was glad his head was back. He closed his eyes briefly. “Oh, my love,” he said.
“I think it must be so,” she said. “In fact, I feel that it must be so. I want to go home to Highmoor, Hartley. The baby will be born in the new year and I will nurse him or her next spring and summer, and then before you can have ideas to bring me back here to enjoy another silly Season, we will have another and squash the possibility again. That is my plan, anyway.” She was smiling warmly, a little impishly at him. “Do you not think it a wonderful plan?”
He smiled at her and cupped her cheek with his right hand. “I think you are wonderful,” he said. “I cannot grasp this reality yet. I am to be a father? Am I really that clever?”
“Yes, you are,” she said. “Hartley? Do you remember telling me there was more to learn? That you would teach me and that I would teach you?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I do not know what I could possibly teach you,” she said, “but will you help me to learn?” Her eyes were warm, wistful, full of love. “And to teach? I want everything there can be with you. And I want to give you every happiness there is.”
He drew her head down to his shoulder again and nestled his cheek against her head. “Starting tonight, love,” he said. “And continuing through the rest of our lives.”
There was a contented silence for no longer than a few moments.
“What is wrong with this afternoon?” she asked him.
Nothing except a whole bodyful of aching joints and sore muscles and raw flesh. Absolutely nothing whatsoever.
“Nothing that I can think of,” he said. “Your room or mine, my love?”
“Yours,” she said, springing to her feet and reaching down a hand for his. “For a change. Your bed felt deliciously soft last night, Hartley, even though all we did was sleep in it.”
“Well,” he said, hauling himself somehow to his feet and offering her his left arm, “we will certainly have to rectify that little omission before another hour has passed. Never let it be said that all I ever did in my own bed with my wife was sleep with her.”
She chuckled merrily and laid her arm along the top of his, just as if he were about to lead her into a dance.
“This is certainly going to be more enjoyable than shopping,” she said. “Thank heaven I ran into Francis. Oh, by the way, I am to tell you from him that you are the most fortunate man in the world.”
“Amen to that,” he said, opening the door and leading her through to the hall and up the stairs.
“I, of course,” she said, “am the luckiest woman in the whole universe. I am in love with and married to my dearest friend. My special companion.”
Get ready to be entranced by the fourth book in Mary Balogh’s series featuring the extraordinary Huxtable family. Seducing an Angel spotlights brother Stephen, the young earl whose innocent façade hides the determination within.
Seducing an Angel
STEPHEN’S STORY
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STEPHEN was turning as he spoke and did not finish his sentence because he almost collided with someone who was passing close behind him. Sheer instinct caused him to grasp her by the upper arms so that she would not be bowled entirely over.
“I do beg your pardon,” he said, and found himself almost toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye with Lady Paget. “I ought to have been looking where I was going.”
She was in no hurry to step back. Her fan was in her hand—it looked ivory with a fine filigree design across its surface—and she wafted it slowly before her face.
Oh, Lord, her eyes almost matched her gown. He had never seen such green eyes, and they did indeed slant upward ever so slightly at the outer corners. Viewed against the background of her red hair, they were simply stunning. Her eyelashes were thick and darker than her hair—as were her eyebrows. She was wearing some unidentifiable perfume, which was floral but neither overstrong nor oversweet.
“You are pardoned,” she said in such a low-pitched velvet voice that Stephen felt a shiver along his spine.
He had noticed earlier that the ballroom was warm despite the fact that all the windows had been thrown wide. He had not noticed until now that the room was also airless.
Her lips curled into a faint suggestion of a smile, and her eyes remained on his.
He expected her to continue on her way to wherever she had been going. She did not do so. Perhaps because—oh. Perhaps because he was still clutching her arms. He released them with another apology.
“I saw you looking at me earlier,” she said. “I was looking at you, of course, or I would not have noticed. Have we met somewhere before?”
She must know they had not. Unless—
“I saw you in Hyde Park yesterday afternoon,” he said. “Perhaps I look familiar because you saw me there too but do not quite recall doing so. You were dressed in widow’s weeds.”
“How clever of you,” she said. “I thought they made me quite unidentifiable.”
There was amusement in her eyes. He was not sure if it was occasioned by real humor or by a certain inexplicable sort of scorn.
“I do recall,” she said. “I did as soon as I saw you again tonight. How could I have forgotten you? I thought you looked like an angel then, and I think it again tonight.”
“Oh, I say.” Stephen laughed with a mingling of embarrassment and amusement. He seemed particularly inarticulate this evening. “Looks can deceive, I am afraid, ma’am.”
“Yes,” she said, “they can. Perhaps on further acquaintance I will change my mind about you—or would if there were any further acquaintance.”
He wished her bosom were not quite so exposed or that she were not standing quite so close. But he would feel foolish taking a step back now when he ought to have thought to do so as soon as he let go of her arms. He felt it imperative to keep his eyes on her face.
Her lips were full, her mouth on the wide side. It was probably one of the most kissable mouths his eyes had ever dwelled upon. No, it was definitely the most kissable. It was one more feature to add to a beauty that was already perfect.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, stepping back at last so that he could make her a slight bow. “I am Merton, at your service, ma’am.”
“I knew that,” she said. “When one sees an angel, one must waste no time in discovering his identity. I do not need to tell you mine.”
“You are Lady Paget,” he said. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
“Are you?” Her eyelids had drooped half over her eyes, and she was regarding him from beneath them. Her eyes were still amused.
Over her shoulder he could see couples taking their places on the dance floor. The musicians were tuning their instruments.
“Lady Paget,” he said, “would you care to waltz?”
“I would indeed care to,” she said, “if I had a partner.”
And she smiled fully and with such dazzling force that Stephen almost took another step back.
“Shall I try that again?” he said. “Lady Paget, would you care to waltz with me?”
“I would indeed, Lord Merton,” she said. “Wh
y do you think I collided with you?”
Good Lord.
Well, good Lord!
He held out his arm for her hand.
It was a long-fingered hand encased in a white glove. It might never have wielded an axe, Stephen thought. It might never have wielded any weapon with deadly force. But it was very dangerous nonetheless.
She was very dangerous.
The trouble was, he really did not know what his mind meant by telling him that.
He was going to waltz with the notorious Lady Paget—and lead her in to supper afterward.
He would swear his wrist was tingling where her hand rested on his sleeve.
He felt stupidly young and gauche and naive—none of which he was to any marked degree.
The Earl of Merton was taller than Cassandra had thought—half a head or more taller than she. He was broad-shouldered, and his chest and arms were well muscled. There was no need of any padding with his figure. His waist and hips were slender, his legs long and shapely. His eyes were intensely blue and seemed to smile even when his face was in repose. His mouth was wide and good-humored. She had always thought that dark-haired men had a strong advantage when it came to male attractiveness. But this man was golden blond and physically perfect.
He smelled of maleness and something subtle and musky.
He was surely younger than she. He was also—and not at all surprisingly—very popular with the ladies. She had seen how those who were not dancing had followed him wistfully with their eyes during the last two sets—and even a few of those who were dancing. She had seen a few glance his way with growing agitation, as the time to take partners for the waltz grew close. Several, she suspected, had waited until the last possible moment before accepting other, less desirable partners.
There was an air of openness about him, almost of innocence.
Cassandra set one hand on his shoulder and the other in his as his right arm came about her waist and the music began.
She was not responsible for guarding his innocence. She had been quite open with him. She had told him she remembered seeing him yesterday. She had told him she had deliberately discovered his identity and just as deliberately collided with him a short while ago so that he would dance with her. That was warning enough. If he was fool enough after the waltz was over to continue to consort with the notorious Lady Paget—axe murderer, husband killer—then on his own head be the consequences.
She closed her eyes briefly as he spun her into the first twirl of the dance. She gave in to a moment of wistful-ness. How lovely it would be to relax for half an hour and enjoy herself. It seemed to her that her life had been devoid of enjoyment for a long, long time.
But relaxation and enjoyment were luxuries she could not afford.
She looked into Lord Merton’s eyes. They were smiling back at her.
“You waltz well,” he said.
Did she? She had waltzed once in London a number of years ago and a few times at country assemblies. She did not consider herself accomplished in the steps.
“Of course I do,” she said, “when I have a partner who waltzes even better.”
“The youngest of my sisters would be delighted to take the credit,” he said. “She taught me years ago, when I was a boy with two left feet who thought dancing was for girls and wished to be out climbing trees and swimming in streams instead.”
“Your sister was wise,” she said. “She realized that boys grow up into men who understand that waltzing is a necessary prelude to court ship.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Or,” she added, “to seduction.”
His blue eyes met hers, but he said nothing for a moment.
“I am not trying to seduce you, Lady Paget,” he said. “I do beg your pardon if—”
“I do believe,” she said, interrupting him, “you are the perfect gentleman, Lord Merton. I know you are not trying to seduce me. It is the other way around. I am trying to seduce you. And determined to succeed, I may add.”
They danced in silence. It was a lovely, lilting tune that the orchestra played. They twirled about the perimeter of the ballroom with all the other dancers. The gowns of the other ladies were a kaleidoscope of color, the candles in the wall sconces a swirl of light. Behind the sound of the music there were voices raised in conversation and laughter.
She could feel his heat flowing into her hands from his shoulder and palm, radiating into her bosom and stomach and thighs from his body.
“Why?” he asked quietly after some time had elapsed.
She tipped back her head and smiled fully at him.
“Because you are beautiful, Lord Merton,” she said, “and because I have no interest in enticing you into a courtship, as most of the very young ladies here tonight do. I have been married once, and that was quite enough for this lifetime.”
He had not responded to her smile. He gazed at her with intense eyes while they danced. And then his eyes softened and smiled again, and his lips curved attractively upward at the corners.
“I believe, Lady Paget,” he said, “you enjoy being outrageous.”
She lifted her shoulders and held the shrug, knowing that by doing so she was revealing even more of her bosom. He really had been the perfect gentleman so far. His eyes had not strayed below the level of her chin. But he glanced down now and a slight flush reddened his cheeks.
“Are you ready for marriage?” she asked him. “Are you actively seeking a bride? Are you looking forward to settling down and setting up your nursery?”
The music had stopped, and they stood facing each other, waiting for another waltz tune to begin the second dance of the set.
“I am not, ma’am,” he said gravely. “The answer to all your questions is no. Not yet. I am sorry, but—”
“It is as I thought, then,” she said. “How old are you, Lord Merton?”
The music began again, a slightly faster tune this time. He looked suddenly amused.
“I am twenty-five,” he told her.
“I am twenty-eight,” she said. “And for the first time in my life I am free. There is a marvelous freedom in being a widow, Lord Merton. At last I owe no allegiance to any man, whether father or husband. At last I can do what I want with my life, unrestrained by the rules of the very male-dominated society in which we live.”
Perhaps her words would be truer if she were not so utterly destitute. And if three other persons, through no fault of their own, were not so totally dependent upon her. Her boast sounded good anyway. Freedom and independence always sounded good.
He was smiling again.
“I am no threat to you, you see, Lord Merton,” she said. “I would not marry you if you were to approach me on bended knee every day for a year and send me a daily bouquet of two dozen red roses.”
“But you would seduce me,” he said.
“Only if it were necessary,” she said, smiling back at him. “If you were unwilling or hesitant, that is. You are so very beautiful, you see, and if I am to exercise my freedom from all restraints, I would rather share my bed with someone who is perfect than with someone who is not.”
“Then you are doomed, ma’am,” he said, his eyes dancing with merriment. “No man is perfect.”
“And he would be insufferably dull if he were,” she said. “But there are men who are perfectly handsome and perfectly attractive. At least, I suppose their number is plural. I have seen only one such for myself. And perhaps there really are no more than you. Perhaps you are unique.”
He laughed out loud, and for the first time Cassandra was aware that they were the focus of much attention, just as she and the Earl of Sheringford had been during the last set.
She had thought of the Earl of Merton and Mr. Huxtable yesterday as angel and devil. Probably the ton gathered here this evening were seeing him and her in the same way.
“You are outrageous, Lady Paget,” he said. “I believe you must be enjoying yourself enormously. I also believe we ought to concentrate upon the steps of the
dance for a while now.”
“Ah,” she said, lowering her voice, “I perceive that you are afraid. You are afraid that I am serious. Or that I am not. Or perhaps you are simply afraid that I will cleave your skull with an axe one night while it rests asleep upon the pillow beside mine.”
“None of the three, Lady Paget,” he said. “But I am afraid that I will lose my step and crush your toes and utterly disgrace myself if we continue such a conversation. My sister taught me to count my steps as I dance, but I find it impossible to count while at the same time conducting a risqué discussion with a beautiful temptress.”
“Ah,” she said. “Count away, then, Lord Merton.”
He really did not know if she was serious or if she joked, she thought as they danced in silence—as she had intended.
But he was attracted—intrigued and attracted. As she had intended.
Now all she needed to do was persuade him to reserve the final set of the evening with her, and then he would discover which it was—serious or not.
But good fortune was on her side and offered something even better than having to wait. They danced for a long while without talking to each other. She looked at him as the music drew to a close and drew breath to speak, but he spoke first.
“This was the supper dance, Lady Paget,” he said, “which gives me the privilege of taking you into the dining room and seating you beside me—if you will grant it to me, that is. Will you?”
“But of course,” she said, looking at him through her eyelashes. “How else am I to complete my plan to seduce you?”
He smiled and then chuckled softly.
Dark Angel and Lord Carew’s Bride are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.