Reckless Need (Heart's Temptation Book 3)

by Scarlett Scott

  She raised a brow at her sermonizing sister now. “I must confess it’s rich to hear you preaching about propriety and avoiding scandal. You created one of the biggest scandals of our century.”

  Cleo wrinkled her nose. “Certainly not the century, and we’ve done away with all that now. Thornton and I are quite respectable and boring.”

  “Respectable and boring,” Tia scoffed. “I daresay those two words shall never be spoken in connection with you.”

  Cleo and her husband Thornton, a respected advisor to Gladstone, had embarked on a wild affair while Cleo had still been married to the Earl of Scarbrough. The resulting scandal had been enough to nearly ruin Thornton, but in the end, Scarbrough’s demise—he’d been drunk and struck down by an omnibus—had enabled Cleo and Thornton to wed. They were deeply in love, and Tia had to admit harboring more than a trifling amount of jealousy at their devoted union. If only her life had not gone so hopelessly awry, perhaps she too would have been happily in love.

  But that hadn’t been meant to be. The love of her life, the Earl of Denbigh, had wed another. And Tia had married the much older, rather cantankerous Baron, who had left her with a handsome widow’s portion when he’d died but little else. He’d certainly never loved her, nor she him.

  “You needn’t be a bear,” Cleo told her, once again interrupting her thoughts. “I’ll leave you here to nurse your ankle for the entirety of the party if you can’t be nice.”

  “I don’t mind limping about,” Tia countered.

  Cleo harrumphed. “Nonsense. My maid shall instruct Bannock on the poultice. She’s got a marvelous head for herbs, and you’ll be right as rain in a trice. I can’t have my sister languishing abed when there’s a party underway, now can I?”

  “I daresay you can’t.” But Tia had to wonder if perhaps it wouldn’t be safer. She didn’t think she could be trusted to be in the duke’s company after what had transpired between them. She hadn’t wanted him to stop. And while she didn’t care for being chastised by her sister, Tia knew Cleo was right. She wouldn’t dare harm Miss Whitney with her own ill-advised actions. The quicker she found a husband for the girl, the better.

  “But heed me well, Tia. You must stay away from the Duke of Devonshire. For your sake and for the sake of Miss Whitney both. I wouldn’t dream of seeing either of you hurt.” Cleo gave her hand a sisterly pat.

  Tia sighed. “You have my word that I shall stay far, far away from the duke. I haven’t the slightest desire to see him again.”

  Liar, accused her inner voice.

  Tia promptly told her inner voice to stubble it.

  Heath knew he should keep his distance from Lady Stokey. And he’d tried. For three whole dreadfully troublesome days. Following her about like a lovesick swain would only leave him looking the fool, with nothing to show for his efforts save a hard cock. And yet in the drawing room after dinner that evening, he found himself going to her side where she was carefully seated on a gilded settee, her ankle propped on a small stool. Her wily charge Miss Whitney was within eyesight but beyond earshot, and her sister had just beat a hasty retreat to her husband’s side, leaving Lady Stokey alone for the moment.

  He bowed to her, thinking she looked exceptionally lovely in a black-and-gold-striped silk-and-velvet evening gown. “Lady Stokey.”

  Her gaze met his, sending an inadvertent jolt through him. “Duke.”

  He thought of how she’d looked in her chamber, her bodice undone, creamy skin on display, and it nearly undid him. She had been so beautiful, and he’d wanted nothing more than to stay with her, open the rest of her buttons, divest her of every inch of her clothing. Make love to her. Damnation, he never should have approached her, but it was too late now. She was looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak.

  “How is your ankle, my lady?” he asked at last.

  “It’s recovering quite nicely, thank you.” She seemed ill at ease, her effortless wit from three days ago nowhere in sight. “Do sit down. You’re hurting my neck, forcing me to gaze up at you.”

  Heath sat next to her on the settee, leaving enough room between them so that her voluminous skirts barely brushed his trousers. The scent of violets teased his nose. The twin diamond stars she wore clipped in her hair twinkled at him. “You’ve received injuries enough of late, I daresay,” he drawled, aware that his conversation was appallingly boring. But he couldn’t seem to think of a single worthwhile thing to utter.

  “It would certainly seem so.” She paused, seeming to consider her next words with care. “I suppose I ought to thank you for your kind assistance the other day.”

  He’d never heard a more grudging attempt at gratitude in his life. “You suppose you ought to? Pray contain your enthusiasm, my lady or else it shall go straight to my head.”

  Her eyes widened. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

  “Nor did you mean to truly thank me,” he returned, suspecting that it wasn’t often that anyone dared to oppose her.

  Her lovely mouth worked for a few moments, and he thought he’d left her speechless. Finally, she found her voice. “I meant to apologize just as surely as you meant to unhook my buttons, Your Grace.”

  Heat slid through him at the reminder of what had almost been. He hadn’t expected her to refer to his lapse of judgment, particularly when they were in mixed company. “I suppose I ought to apologize for my imprudence,” he said, intentionally repeating her phrasing.

  She cast him a sidelong glance. “Do you regret it?”

  A surge of lust crashed over him as surely as waves on a storm-tossed sea. He couldn’t look away from her. “No.”

  Lady Stokey inhaled, her only reaction. But it spoke volumes. “Perhaps you should.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “But we cannot always help what we feel.”

  Her left hand slid from her lap to rest on the cushion of the settee, almost touching his trousers. “And what do you feel, Your Grace?”

  Christ, he didn’t know what he felt. That was the crux of it all. One moment, he’d been engrossed in a volume of poetry on a sunny day, and the next he’d been ensnared. From the instant he’d look up to see her standing before him, whatever it was inside him that had shifted had yet to settle back into place. He feared it wouldn’t.

  The need to touch her again was a fierce ache pulsing within him. But he wasn’t free to be bold with her as he’d done in her chamber, not with so many other revelers lingering about, waiting for the slightest hint of gossip. Instead, he inched closer to her hand, slowly covering it with his. “I could ask you the same,” he said lowly, careful to cast his eyes about the men and women surrounding them. None seemed to be looking their way. He laced his fingers through hers, tightening his hold on her, hiding their entwined hands in the billowing folds of her skirt.

  “You’re being most unfair, Your Grace.”

  “Heath,” he said, wanting to hear his given name from her lovely lips even if he didn’t quite know why.

  “Pardon?”

  She hadn’t removed her touch from his. It pleased him, a reaction that was even more ludicrous than his sitting at her side like a dutiful suitor. Hadn’t he just told himself to keep his distance? Hadn’t he decided to attend Lord and Lady Thornton’s country house party for one purpose, to find a wife? Well, that and the shooting, at any rate. Hadn’t he decided there wasn’t a lady more unsuitable for that position than the woman whose hand he was now holding?

  Yes to all three questions. But none of that slowed him down a bit. “Your Grace sounds so very formal. Call me Heath, if you please,” he told her. He was completely, foolishly dim, he thought. Fit for the madhouse.

  “Heath,” she said softly, considering him with a sidelong glance that drove him wild. “It suits you.”

  He knew then that he had to have her. He could damn well find any wife he wanted. But Lady Stokey stirred feelings in him he’d thought long dead. As a young man, he’d been ruled by his passions. He’d been heedless, careless. He’d been devoted
to his paintings and Bess and little else. Admittedly, he’d thought he’d had all the time in the world to marry the woman he loved. He’d gone abroad to study painting. And then Bess had grown ill. He hadn’t made it back to England in time to see her before she’d died. As he’d watched her coffin sinking into the earth, he’d sworn to himself that he would never again allow his passions to rule him. And he hadn’t, restricting himself in the years since Bess’ death to women who slaked his needs but made him feel absolutely nothing.

  Tia was different, and he knew it down to his bones. She was not the sort of woman it would be easy for a man to forget. But what could the harm be in just one time? One night of desire? He could assuage his desires and then resume his search for a wife. Why not?

  “Why are you suddenly so silent?” she asked, dispelling his tumultuous thoughts.

  He ran this thumb over hers, toying with her smooth nail. “I suppose I’m bemused.”

  “By what?”

  He saw the instant her protective sister spied them together and read the determination on her face as she caught up Miss Whitney and headed in their direction. “By the things you do to me,” he murmured.

  “Good heavens,” she said, her voice sounding thick.

  He slid his touch to her wrist, feeling the rapid beat of her heart there. “I want you, my lady.”

  “Oh dear.” She was breathless now. “You mustn’t.”

  He released her hand as Lady Thornton and Miss Whitney sailed their way. “And unless I’m mistaken, you want me too.”

  “I very much fear I do,” she whispered.

  Tia was shaken. The duke’s words echoed in her mind long after she had doused the gas lamps and ventured to bed. She waited in the darkness for sleep to claim her, but such a respite was not forthcoming. Her entire body was aflame. She didn’t recall ever feeling so aroused, her every sense heightened. The ache that had settled low in her belly, migrating to between her thighs, had not stopped. If anything, it had only been spurred on. Mere thoughts of him, of the way he had kissed her earlier, the way he had opened her bodice, the way he had touched her hand, haunted her. Dear God, the way he had told her that he wanted her. Blatant and bold, as if it were a completely appropriate statement to make to a lady in the midst of a drawing room. As if it hadn’t been a statement that would change everything for her.

  I want you, my lady.

  The sweet, deep voice returned to her, making moisture gather between her thighs. Such simple, stark words had never affected her more. No man had ever been so blunt with her. She’d been wooed and charmed. Men were always eager to ply their charms upon her and win her over. But no man had ever taken the chance to hold her hand before a drawing room of people and tell her exactly what he required of her.

  Passion. Desire. Him claiming her, much the way he had with their kiss.

  Dear God, she had to admit that she wanted him too. She wanted the Duke of Devonshire, as impossible as it seemed. Cleo had warned her away from him. Tia herself had once thought him staid. Dull. She had Miss Whitney to consider. She couldn’t afford to take a lover. Not now.

  But she wanted him. She wanted him, and at five-and-twenty, she had to wonder why she couldn’t have him. She’d had all the dresses she wanted. All the flirtations. All the lovers. Would it be a sin to take one more without anyone being the wiser?

  Tia’s eyes fluttered open, staring at the painted ceiling above her. The moonlight crept in from behind heavy drapes to cast her chamber in an ethereal glow. She could barely discern the figure of Cupid, his ready bow and arrow.

  And then she heard the unmistakable sound of the door closing on the neighboring bedchamber. She sat up in bed as if she’d just been dealt the blow of the arrow promised her. Miss Whitney had been given the chamber alongside Tia’s, which meant that her troublesome charge was once again about the business of causing mayhem.

  Making a sound of exasperation, she threw back the bedclothes and slid from her bed, mindful of her still-sore ankle. The bright shine of the moon enabled her to locate a candle and light it. Hastily, fearing that Miss Whitney would damage her reputation by wandering the house without a chaperone, Tia threw on a dressing gown before grabbing up the candle and hurrying out into the hall.

  Miss Whitney, naturellement, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Drat that girl,” she muttered to herself, wondering which direction she ought to try first. What had Tia been thinking to undertake the onerous task of chaperoning a girl who was hell-bent on sending her to an early grave with her flighty antics? Very likely, she’d been charmed by the waifish girl’s startling beauty and her rebellious nature, so like Tia’s at that age.

  And if Tia had been determined to disappear when she’d been a precocious sixteen-year-old, where would she have gone? The library seemed the obvious answer. Tia had never been the voracious reader her sisters were—indeed, she rather found the act of burying one’s nose in a book to be deadly dull—but as a young lady, hiding in libraries had been an excellent way to avoid her mama’s hawk-like gaze.

  In fine dudgeon by the time she limped her way to the library and caught sight of the illuminated cracks around the closed door, Tia stalked inside with as much circumstance as she could muster given the state of her ankle. Her irritation melted, however, at the sight of a wilted-looking Miss Whitney, whose shoulders were hunched in defeat as she browsed a shelf. She spun about, eyes wide, knowing she’d been caught.

  “Miss Whitney, would you care to explain what you’re doing in the library when you ought to be sleeping safely in your chamber where I left you?” she demanded, though not with as much force as she would have liked. Soft-hearted she may be, but she’d prefer for the girl not to know it.

  The sheen of tears marred Miss Whitney’ cheeks. She blinked and swiped at them with the back of her hand. “I couldn’t sleep, Lady Stokey,” Miss Whitney said, her Virginia drawl laced with a defiance that belied her sadness.

  She suspected that Miss Whitney was suffering from homesickness and grief combined. The girl’s mother had passed away just before her father had brought her to England. But none of that meant she could allow Miss Whitney to continue flouting the rules of polite society. “My dear, I must insist that you either remain in your chamber or seek me out in such a circumstance. While we’re in mixed company at a house party, it simply won’t do for you to be wandering about. Your reputation depends upon it.”

  She knew Miss Whitney had come from a genteel upbringing in Virginia, that she’d been raised in a manner befitting a proper young lady. When her father had brought her to England, her comportment had been a trifle rusty, but her stepmother, Lady Bella, had made short work of that minor flaw. The girl’s failure to comply with propriety was not from ignorance but rather willfulness.

  “What if I don’t care for my reputation?” Miss Whitney asked.

  “You must,” Tia advised, feeling very much like her mother in that moment. Feeling too that perhaps she’d do well to heed her own counsel. “Your virtue is of the utmost importance. Ruin it, and you’ll ruin your chance at making a good match.”

  “Was yours a good match, my lady?” her charge startled her by querying.

  No one had ever been so forthright with her before. Indeed, from anyone else, it would have been considered dreadfully ill-mannered. This plucky American was an odd little creature. Tia folded her hands together at her waist, as if in prayer. “I’m sure it was, my dear.”

  “I reckon that means it wasn’t,” drawled the cheeky thing.

  Tia thought of her marriage to Lord Stokey, a man she had not particularly cared for, and a man who had not particularly cared for her either. It had been a lonely existence. Widowhood, though equally solitary, suited her far better than being a wife ever had. “It was a good match in terms of title and wealth,” she elaborated. “That is all that must be considered.”

  “What of love?”

  Ah, matters of the heart. Tia had been in love once. She hadn’t seen the Earl of Denbigh in ye
ars. She’d taken great care to avoid him. She’d been young and naïve then, easily given to romantic notions she now knew didn’t exist for most. “You’d do well to avoid it at all costs, Miss Whitney. Avoid it as you should avoid sneaking from your chamber without a chaperone.” A chill crept through her then, reminding her that they were both far from their warm beds. “Come now, we need to return to our chambers before we wake someone.”

  “I’m not certain I can sleep,” her charge revealed, an embarrassed thread of honesty in her voice.

  At last, some truth. Tia thought it promising. Perhaps if she could crack the shell the girl had built around herself, her inclination toward mischief would also abate. Miss Whitney was a slight, depressing figure, so Tia closed the distance between them, putting an arm around the girl’s thin shoulders. “When next you can’t sleep, come find me, my dear. I have three sisters, you know, and when we were growing up, I was forever having one of them at my door.”

  “Truly?”

  Tia guided Miss Whitney from the library. “Truly. Sad lot of wretches they were. I’ve always been brave enough to chase the ghosts away.”

  “You’ve never seen my ghosts, my lady,” Miss Whitney said.

  “Perhaps not, but I can assure you I’m brave enough to make anyone’s ghosts flee in terror,” she promised the girl. After all, if there was one thing she could claim besides her looks and her frivolous lifestyle, it was her bravado. It was also the very thing that, more often than not, landed her in trouble.

  Heath had admittedly imbibed too much of Thornton’s deceptively delicious whiskey. That was the reason he was walking, not to his chamber where he belonged for the evening, but in the direction of Lady Stokey’s chamber instead.