The cloying air was beginning to make his head ache, not to mention the god-awful screech of the violins tuning in a distant corner. If he were to survive the night, he needed fresh air.
And perhaps a healthy dose of arsenic.
Lady Bianca was in a glorious fury as she stood in the corner of Lady Beauvaille’s ballroom.
Again.
It was so glorious, indeed, that none but the very dense or very desperate had possessed the courage to even smile in her grim direction.
How dare her father, she had brooded with a great deal of self-pity.
It was surely horrid enough that he had devoted the afternoon to ruthlessly breaking her heart and laying waste to her future. One would think that even the most dastardly of sires would be satisfied with such a feat.
To insist that she attend this tedious gathering while she was still in shock went beyond the pale. She needed time to compose her shattered nerves. A few days to accept the unacceptable.
For the first time in her young existence, however, she had discovered that neither her tantrums nor her tears had made the least impression upon her father.
Indeed, when she had adamantly proclaimed nothing could halt her from spending the evening alone in her chambers, the Duke had brutally threatened to toss her over his shoulder and haul her to the Beauvailles’s ball, in her unmentionables if necessary.
It was enough to make the most docile maiden smolder in frustration.
And Bianca had never been mistaken for docile.
Unfortunately, for all her desire to stomp and pout and toss about breakable objects, she could do no more than endure her aggravation in stoic silence. God knew there would be enough gossip when it was discovered her father had turned Stephen away. She would not add to the fodder by behaving as an ill-tempered shrew.
At least not in public.
Once in private, however, well…that was an entirely different matter, she acknowledged as her father nonchalantly moved to her side.
“I must admit, my dear, you appear delightfully tragic standing alone in this corner,” her father murmured in low tones. “Quite the Joan of Arc, in fact. However, playing the martyr is hardly the best means of attracting a prospective husband.”
Bianca snapped open her fan as she glared at the hapless guests twirling about the ballroom.
“Luckily for me I have no interest in prospective husbands. You have seen to that.”
She thought she heard a muffled sigh, but when her father spoke there was nothing but sardonic amusement in his voice.
“Ah, so you intend to remain a heartbroken spinster. No doubt you’ll live with your brother as he struggles to keep the estate from falling into shambles and become one of those bitter old aunts that frightens away all the children?”
Bianca stiffened, battling back the ghastly image her father had painted.
Egads…it did not even bear considering.
The fan fluttered until her curls bounced in the breeze. “What does it matter to you?”
“Beyond my intense dislike for a sulky child, there is the undeniable fact that you could ease the burdens that currently plague us.” There was a strategic pause. “It seems I shall have to take matters into my own hands.”
With mounting unease, Bianca shot her father a suspicious glare. “And what does that mean?
“If you do not choose a husband, I will.”
The blunt statement was as shocking as if he had slapped her in the face. Perhaps more so. For a moment Bianca struggled to simply catch her breath.
“You must be jesting.”
“Not at all. A wealthy husband would no doubt be generous to his newest family members. Especially if you are wise enough to please him.”
“No.” She gave a shake of her head. “You cannot force me to—”
“I believe we have already established that as your father, I can force you into almost anything, including marriage.” He smoothly overrode her furious words, blithely lifting his quizzing glass as he turned to regard the passing crowd. “Let me see…. What of Lord Stackhouse? He is old enough to endure your tempers with patience and rich enough to keep you in style.”
The fan dropped from her fingers in horror. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Not at all.”
“For heaven’s sake, he is ancient enough to be my grandfather. Not to mention the fact that he smells of cabbage.”
Unperturbed, the Duke shifted his attention to a lumpy baronet with a florid countenance and unsteady gait.
“Very well. What of Sir Hewitt? He is only a few years older than you and has inherited a tidy fortune.”
“He is also an incurable drunk and stupid beyond bearing.”
“Which only means he would be easily swayed by a beautiful young maiden.”
Blankly wondering if her father was as bosky as the baronet, she glared at him in disbelief.
“You wish me to produce a herd of beef-witted offspring who are overly fond of the bottle?”
“Perhaps not,” he reluctantly conceded. “Hmm…there are not so many eligible bachelors as one would wish. Lord Carlfield is rumored to be on the dun, and Mr. Summers has already managed to bury three wives. Not at all seemly.”
She nearly gagged, all too aware of the rumors that Summers was queerly attached to sickly females.
“I would rather toss myself from the nearest cliff.”
“Ah, well, I fear the pickings are dismally slim. But never fear—there is still Lady Talford’s soiree.”
Grinding her teeth until she feared they might crack, Bianca clenched her hands at her sides.
“Surely, you must have overlooked the gentleman in the corner? He appears to possess a heartbeat, which seems to be your only prerequisite for my husband.”
Her father glanced toward the decidedly large gentleman who stood in the distant shadows. Astonishingly, he seemed to stiffen in horror.
“Lord Harrington? Absolutely not.”
Bianca was instantly intrigued. If her father disapproved of the man, then she was certain to desire a closer acquaintance.
At the moment nothing would please her more than to tweak the Duke’s arrogant nose.
“Why? Is he wed?”
“No.”
“Are his pockets too shallow to haul us out of the hatches?”
“His fortune is more than respectable.”
Bianca gave a lift of her brows. “A heartbeat and a fortune? What more could you possibly demand?”
“He is the Peasant Earl.”
It took a long moment before Bianca at last placed the contemptuous title with the newest member of society.
A member that had been greeted with a decidedly cold shoulder by most of the ton.
“Lord Bidwell’s acquaintance?” she murmured.
His nose flared in disapproval. “A most peculiar connection, I must say. I had no notion Biddles possessed a taste for trumped-up farmers.”
Bianca frowned in bewilderment. For all his faults, her father had never been a prig. Powerful, assertive, and arrogant…but never a prig.
“I have never known you to condemn a man for having worked with his hands, Father. Were you not the one to claim that one loyal tenant was worth a dozen mincing dandies?”
“For my estate, not for my daughter,” the Duke retorted in haughty tones. “And I will expect you to take care to avoid any unnecessary introductions, Bianca. There is no telling but that he might very well be toadish enough to presume he would be free to call upon you.”
“Indeed,” Bianca murmured, her gaze returning to the Peasant Earl.
Oddly, she found herself fascinated. There were few members of society she was not familiar with. Overall the ton was a small and exclusive membership, rarely changing or admitting new members.
And never a stranger such as the Peasant Earl, she acknowledged, gripped by an unfamiliar sensation as her gaze ran boldly over the intruder.
He was larger than most gentlemen of the ton. Perhaps not ta
ller, but broader through the shoulders, with heavy muscles that rippled with a fluid ease. Muscles that ensured there was no need for padding…anywhere, she noted with pure feminine appreciation. Nor for any of the lace and baubles that many dandies used to distract from narrow chests or weak chins.
Ornamentation would only distract from the raw male perfection.
Her heart gave an odd hitch as her gaze inched higher, encountering the countenance that was startlingly bronzed.
He was not traditionally handsome, she concluded. There was nothing elegant or pretty in the fierce Roman nose or prominent cheekbones and full lips. They were brash and bold and unrelentingly male. But combined with the heavily lashed hazel eyes they formed a compelling beauty that was nicely framed by thick chestnut locks that brushed his collar and tumbled onto his brow.
All in all he was a gentleman who would command attention no matter where he might be.
And best of all, the sort of gentleman who would not allow himself to be intimidated by anyone.
Not even a duke.
Bianca felt a smile curve her lips.
Perhaps sensing the direction of her rebellious thoughts, her father regarded her with a gathering frown.
“Bianca, what are you about?”
With perfect timing, the mysterious gentleman detached himself from the shadows and strolled toward the nearby French doors and onto the terrace.
Tossing her father a defiant smile, Bianca was swiftly following in his path.
“I have decided that I wish to discover more of this Peasant Earl.”
“Absolutely not,” her father growled, remaining doggedly upon her heels. “Bianca, I forbid you.”
She did not miss a step. “If he possesses the funds that you claim he does, then I have no need for your approval, Father.”
“Bianca…” The Duke halted at the French doors even as Bianca swept determinedly forward, not halting until she was standing directly before the startled Earl.
She felt a moment of trepidation as she glanced up the long distance into the starkly male countenance. Something warned her that this man was like no other that she had encountered. But, still seething with a mixture of pain and frustrated rage, she ignored the tiny bells of warning.
For the moment all that mattered was punishing her father.
“My lord, we have not been properly introduced, but I wished to…” Her nerve briefly faltered.
The chestnut brows arched as the Earl of Harrington regarded her with a quizzical smile. “Yes?”
“Bianca, return to me this moment,” her father commanded, for all the world as if she were his faithful hound.
That was precisely all that was needed to goad Bianca beyond the point of reason.
Without further ado, she stepped indecently close to the gentleman before audaciously smiling into his hazel eyes.
“I wish you to know that you are soon to be my husband.”
There was a strangled groan from behind Bianca as her father fled in either fury or horror.
Or more likely a combination of both.
A flare of satisfaction at having bested the Duke at his own game raced through her.
Later she would excuse her behavior as that of a madwoman. A stark raving lunatic. At the moment, however, she was too enwrapped with her childish need to strike out to care.
A smug smile had just begun to curve her lips when, without warning, strong arms lashed about her waist and hauled her against a granite-hard chest.
Startled, she opened her lips to protest the shocking treatment. A breath too late as her words were smothered by a pair of warm, wickedly talented lips.
The kiss seared through her body.
Her toes curled, and the protest died a swift death.
Oh…my.
CHAPTER THREE
Edward shuddered in pleasure as he gathered the slender female form even closer to his stirring body.
He did not need Biddles’s strictures to realize he was not behaving in a gentlemanly manner. Hell, he was not even skirting close to gentlemanly manners.
Even a country oaf like himself knew that one did not haul unknown maidens off their feet and kiss them senseless.
Thankfully, he possessed no interest in being a gentleman, mannerly or not, at the moment. Not when it was perfectly obvious that society ladies were determined to view him as no more than some ridiculous sport.
First had been Lady Beauvaille and her obnoxious groping. And now this chit.
He could only presume that London females considered it a grand jest to trifle with the peasants.
Oddly, the notion had not troubled him with the older matron. At least not beyond sheer annoyance. But there was no mistaking a hint of wounded pride at the antics of the young and beautiful woman in his arms.
Dammit all. He had been enchanted by her raven-haired beauty. Even at a distance. And while he had known such a female was well beyond his touch, it had not lessened his artistic appreciation.
To now realize she considered him as no more than a source of amusement was enough to bring out any man’s more barbaric nature.
Perfectly understandable.
Just as understandable as the sharp desire that urged him to nibble at the soft, satin lips until they hesitantly parted to offer him entry into the warm heat of her mouth.
Sweet Christ, but she was a tasty morsel, he acknowledged, his hands sliding over the curve of her hips. Perhaps she was rather slender, but there was nothing lacking in the gentle curves that pressed against him.
And nothing lacking in the way she arched closer, her hands clutching his coat in a manner certain to bring the wrath of his valet down upon Edward’s head.
What had begun as a punishment for the teasing minx was swiftly becoming a far more interesting game.
Taking care not to startle his prey, he nipped at her full lower lip, gently sucking it into his mouth as she gave a strangled moan. With his boldness readily rewarded, he outlined her mouth with the tip of his tongue, savoring her taste as a connoisseur might savor a fine vintage.
“Such sweetness,” he murmured. “You are surely meant to bring a man to his knees.”
“Sir…” What might have been the beginning of a protest ended in a soft sigh as Edward swept his lips along the line of her jaw to nuzzle a tender spot just beneath her ear. “Oh.”
Edward smiled as delightful licks of flame raced through his blood.
Who could have suspected that when he had reluctantly forced himself to attend Lady Beauvaille’s ball he would tumble into such a delightful encounter? He could only hope every social gathering provided such wicked entertainment.
As he stroked his tongue over the warmth of her skin, his fingers tightened upon the curve of her hips.
She fit against him perfectly. The soft swell of her breasts, the long length of her legs, and the narrow waist that hovered tantalizingly close to his rising erection.
And that scent…warm honeysuckle.
It was enough to enflame any poor gentleman.
Tracing a path of kisses down the arch of her neck, Edward lingered as she gave a sudden shiver of excitement.
Ah, she liked that.
Nearly as much as he did.
Brushing his lips over the sensitive pulse, Edward choked back a groan. No woman should feel so wonderful in his arms. Not when he was in no position to bring a satisfying conclusion to the unexpected encounter.
Bloody hell. He was hard and aching and wishing they were anywhere but upon a terrace where anyone might happen upon them.
Her head tilted backward, and Edward urgently shifted to scatter delicate kisses down the plunging line of her bodice.
God bless the latest fashion, he silently applauded.
There was an ample-enough amount of exposed bosom to please any man.
Taking care to inspect every silken inch, Edward was tasting of the sweet valley between her breasts when the woman gave a shuddering moan and pressed her hands against his chest.
�
�Please,” she whispered. “You must halt.”
Thwarted in his desire to continue his exploration of her half-bared breasts, Edward contented himself with nuzzling the lobe of her ear.
“Not yet.”
There was another breathless shiver. “My lord.”
His tongue lightly traced the curve of her ear. “If we are soon to be wed, muirnin, then I wish to assure myself that we are utterly compatible. It would be unfortunate to tie the knot and discover we could not…complete the deal, so to speak.”
“Oh,” she breathed, briefly leaning close before she was reluctantly wrestling herself from his lingering grasp. “No. No. There will be no…completing of deals. And most certainly not on a terrace in the midst of a ball.”
Edward was struck by an odd sense of loss as she stepped backward.
Well, perhaps not so odd, he conceded as he gazed down at the flushed features and flashing midnight eyes.
By gad, she was a bewitching minx.
One who would make any gentleman long to capture her interest.
And one who was quite likely out to make him appear a buffoon, a cynical voice whispered in the back of his mind.
Fiercely squashing the renegade flare of fascination that was clouding his senses, Edward leaned forward to scoop her off her feet and cradled her against his chest.
“You are right, of course.” Ignoring her gasp of shock, he easily crossed the terrace and moved down the stairs to the vast garden beyond. “Such a wicked pastime demands privacy.”
She frowned as she instinctively clutched at his arms. “Good God, are you mad?”
“Only during the full moon.” He cast her a faint smile. “Do not fear. My valet is trained to tie me to my bed, and I rarely foam at the mouth for more than a few hours. In a few years you will barely notice my lunacy.”
“Barely…notice?”
“Oh, and I suppose you should know that I tend to gnaw on the furniture and insist on sleeping in the stables, but I assure you that it has been years since I was afflicted with fleas.”
She gave a choked sound. “Are you attempting to be amusing?”
He paused in the shadows of a large gazebo to stab her with a sharp gaze. “Would you rather I put you over my knee and paddle you as you deserve?”
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