by Diana Quincy
“I see.” She nodded to the footman who rushed forward to open the carriage door and put down the step. “Thank you for your frank words, Mr. Milbank. It relieves my mind to know your good care has helped Mr. Ledworth become well enough to rejoin his family.”
He flushed with pride, bidding her farewell, his discomfort with her probing questions vanishing at her flattery. She settled in the carriage where Fanny awaited her.
“Was he there?” Fanny asked.
“Was who there?”
“You know who. The Earl of Randolph.”
“No, of course not.” She had not seen Rand since returning from the country a fortnight ago and was glad of it. She needed time away from him to recover from it all; his lack of devotion and her chagrin that he knew about Vera’s full name. Now he could easily surmise just how desperately she’d tried to follow his battle campaigns. How he must have laughed to know she’d pined for him all those years he’d been gone.
The earl hadn’t made a public appearance in weeks, but Rand remained a topic of great interest in the finest circles. If anything, his absence heightened the enigmatic and eligible new peer’s allure.
“He’s probably holed up with his mistress.” Kat grimaced at the thought. “She looks like she could keep a man busy.”
“Hmmm.”
Kat eyed her maid with suspicion. “What does ‘hmmm’ mean?”
“Not a thing.” Fanny lifted a shoulder. “I am merely your servant. What do I know?”
“But you have an opinion. Come now, Fanny, out with it.”
“I find the earl’s recent behavior to be out of character.”
“How so?”
“The earl is many things, but I never took him for a rakehell.”
“I saw it with my own eyes, as you well know. I thank the Lord every day that I didn’t cry off of my betrothal to Lord Sinclair. You were right about Randolph all along.”
“Hmmm.”
There it was again, the noncommittal noise that suggested Fanny had a definite opinion on the matter. “What is it?” Kat allowed her aggravation to show. “Surely you agree that Lord Sinclair will make a fine husband.”
“Yes, he’ll make you a good husband. But, mark my words, there’s something strange going on with the earl.”
Kat swallowed against the grief expanding in her chest. “Even if that is true, I’ve wasted too much time pining for Edward Stanhope. I must look forward.” It was the only way she’d survive this latest heartbreak. Analyzing and examining his character and motives would only prolong her suffering.
Fanny’s expression softened as if she understood. “Of course, soon you will be the Viscountess Sinclair,” she said, forcing a cheerful note into her voice. “That is something to celebrate.”
“Indeed,” Kat said with a firm nod. Yet, in her stomach, something sank a little further.
…
“What is she doing here?” Laurie asked sharply. His heart skittered at the sight of Elena Márquez-Navarro standing on the threshold of the Campbell’s parlor, looking like an Amazon queen ready to conquer all of London.
A large smile crossed Lexie’s face. “I invited her,” she said, leaving them to go to Elena’s side.
“Whatever for?” he asked, even though Lexie was too far away to hear.
“Both Lexie and Bea admire her greatly,” Kat answered somewhat sourly. “I know Bea thinks the Maid of Malagon is a paragon of progressive womanhood.”
Laurie’s face warmed. “The woman defies all convention.”
“Exactly, that’s what Bea seems to like most about her.”
“I don’t see Randolph with her.” Beside him, Kat seemed to stiffen. Laurie’s heartbeat stuttered. Surely she didn’t suspect his indiscretion with Elena? Casting a quick glance at her, he noted his betrothed appeared pale and on edge. “Are you unwell?”
She blinked up at him and her mask fell into place, just before she hit him with the brilliant smile that always used to distract him. Yet, for some reason, it no longer carried the same potency. Instead, the slow, sensually-confident smile of the Maid of Malagon came to his mind, warming his body. He shoved it away, angry at himself for playing Kat false.
What was the matter with him? He’d landed London’s reigning beauty, the incomparable who’d ruled the ton for five Seasons. Her father had even consented to move the wedding up several months, from just after Easter to late September. They would wed during the little Season, rather than waiting for the spring, doing away with the grand spectacle they’d originally planned for at the height of the Season.
Every eligible man with a title had pursued Kat and most still expressed considerable interest in her charms. Only Randolph showed no overt interest in her, perhaps because he had Elena in his bed. Laurie escorted Kat into dinner and focused his full attention on her, determined to put the aberration of his attraction to Elena out of his mind.
When the ladies withdrew after the meal, leaving the gentlemen to their port and cigars, Laurie grabbed the chance to escape unnoticed. Stepping out onto the terrace, he hurried down the stairs into the small, darkened garden, anxious to avoid anyone who might come out for air.
The smell of cheroot smoke alerted him that he had failed in his quest to be alone. He wondered why the fellow had come outside to smoke his cheroot instead of remaining in the dining room partaking with the other gentlemen. His eyes sharpening in the dark, he watched the glowing tip of the cheroot move toward a full, curved mouth that could belong to no man. “Good Lord! You smoke cheroots, too?”
Elena chuckled on her exhale, the throaty sound firing off all of his nerve endings. “It is why I am hiding in the garden, vizconde, I do not want to shock my hostess.”
“Is there anything you don’t do like a man?”
Dark eyes rested on him as she tilted her chin up to take another pull on the cheroot. “I don’t make love like a man, although I do take my pleasure when I desire it. I suppose that is as a man, vizconde.”
Or a whore. Those were the women who took carnal pleasure as they wanted, not well-born ladies. Yet he no longer thought of her as a strumpet, but rather as someone who did things on her own terms and relished doing so. Like how she savored that cheroot. The same way she’d enjoyed fencing. And making love.
She paused for a leisurely exhale of curling smoke which enveloped her in a gray-tinted haze. “I certainly don’t have the body of a man.”
“Where is Rand?” he asked sharply, trying to eradicate the image of her smooth bottom moving against his groin from his mind.
“Rand has decided to become a recluse, I think. I have not seen him in several days.”
“He does not require you to stay by his side?”
She smiled at that. “It might interest you to know the earl and I are no longer lovers.”
His body reacted to her unexpected announcement with distressing alacrity. Blood raced through his veins in an apparent rush to fill his groin. “Why do you think that would interest me?” he said curtly, barely able to get the words out above the roaring in his brain.
She chuckled again. “Because I think everything about me interests you, vizconde. Especially the idea of making love again.”
Beads of perspiration tickled his upper lip. “I beg to differ, senorita,” he said stiffly. “What passed between us can hardly be described as making love.”
He meant it as an insult to drive her away, but she gave no indication of taking offense. Instead, Elena stubbed the cheroot out against the tree in that unhurried way of hers. Moving to stand in front of him, her languid dark eyes held his captive. “Whatever you call it, vizconde, you would like to do it again, no?”
The scent of cinnamon and jasmine washed over him and he was drowning in her all over again. Like a magnet helpless in the face of an undeniable attraction, he stepped closer to her and dragged her into his arms, his lips slamming down on hers.
Lord, but she knew how to kiss. Her tongue teased his, boldly exploring his mouth, her teeth nipped
and scraped against his lips, sending shivers of pleasure down his spine. The woman kissed as he suspected she did everything else; with a full interest and engagement he hadn’t experienced in a female before.
Sounds of music and muted chatter drifted out to them. Someone had thrown open the terrace doors. He pulled away with great reluctance. The men would have joined the ladies by now. “We should return,” he whispered in a pant against her neck. “It won’t be long before someone notes our absence.”
“Will you come to me later, vizconde?”
The thinking part of him screamed against it. To accept Elena’s invitation would be thoroughly disreputable, not to mention unspeakably disloyal to Kat. Only a true cad would accept. And, besides, he didn’t even know where she lived. But he would find out.
“Yes.”
…
“It’s not the best day for a riding party” —Lexie eyed the gray clouds— “but as I am in excellent company, the weather hardly matters.”
Rand murmured some appropriately gallant response to the chit’s tiresome flirtations. Miss Campbell was clearly out to land herself an earl. She might be a suitable marital candidate if he didn’t find her incessant chattering so damn irritating. After all, he wasn’t looking for love and had no interest in courting any woman except the one he could not have.
Glancing up ahead to where Hobart rode, he noted Toby’s pallor and subdued countenance, yet detected no trace of the madness that had gripped him in the country a fortnight ago. They’d left the city to spend the day in Richmond, where they could enjoy wider expanses of space in which to ride. Keeping an eye on Hobart was the sole reason he’d consented to join this tiresome all-day riding excursion. The last thing he desired was to spend the day in close company with any group that included Kitty and Sinclair.
She hadn’t spared him a glance beyond the polite greetings they’d exchanged this morning. The betrothed couple rode up ahead, Kat talking animatedly with Sinclair, who for once did not have that usual love-struck expression on his face, although Rand couldn’t understand why.
Kitty was at her loveliest today, gleaming with radiance despite the dour weather, in a deep blue riding costume which showed her slender form to extreme advantage. The sapphire blue of her eyes glistened in the outdoor light and those cropped curls, under a jaunty feathered hat, illuminated her delicate facial features. Just looking at her made his chest ache.
More masculine parts of his body responded as well. Normally, he was a man with strong sexual appetites, which he’d routinely satisfied. Yet he hadn’t had a woman since ending carnal relations with Elena. Lately his body only stirred with interest when Kat was in the vicinity, and it was almost as though being with another woman now would somehow be disloyal to her. That ridiculous notion should resolve itself once Kat became Sinclair’s wife. He shoved the image of the viscount rutting over Kat out of his mind before it could fully take root and drive him into an unreasonably jealous furor.
Forcing his eyes away, he let Lexie’s incessant chatter roll over him for a few more minutes before edging his mount closer to Toby’s. “You are quiet today.”
“You should know that I’ve come to a decision.”
“And what is that?”
“I’m going away in a few days’ time.”
“Going away? To where?”
“Doctor Drummond has a clinic in the country.” Toby’s pale determined eyes met his. “He is an expert on matters of nostalgia and believes he can help me with my episodes.”
“In what way?”
“He says there are things one can do.”
Hope shafted through him. “Such as?”
“Keep busy, keep a regular schedule, and take exercise. Perhaps even music.”
“Music?” Something shifted deep in his chest. “How can that be of any help?”
“Drummond believes the appropriate music can soothe the mind.”
Their conversation was interrupted by Fawson, who made some laughing noises about a racing bet to Toby, and before long the two of them galloped off, racing across the wide open space. Rand noticed Miss Campbell heading in his direction and, eager to shed himself of her cloying presence, he gave his mount his head. Content to ride by himself, he cantered across the open field away from the riding party.
He indulged himself by racing across open spaces on his own, slowing when he moved through trees, taking the occasional jump that caught his fancy. After a particularly daunting jump, Rand slid off his mount to give the animal a break. With the horse sampling some nearby grass, he rested on the trunk of a felled tree. His damn shoulder throbbed and he gave it a vigorous rub to help lessen the pain.
The sounds of galloping hooves cut into his peace, growing louder as the animal neared. Someone else had apparently veered off from the crowd since it sounded like a lone rider approached. Instead of slowing, the pounding hooves picked up speed as they neared.
The rider must be heading for the jump he’d just cleared. Pushing to his feet, Rand moved into the clearing to watch, hoping the swell was a seasoned rider because the jump was a treacherous one. His eyes sharpened on the approaching chestnut mare and the feminine, blue-clad figure upon it.
His heart froze. Kitty. Heading straight for calamity. The jump would be risky for anyone riding astride, but she rode sidesaddle, encumbered by the fabric of her riding habit. She whizzed past, heading straight for the jump, not seeming to notice him standing in the trees.
She might well break her neck. The image of Kitty’s broken body lying on the ground gouged his insides. “Kitty, no!” he yelled urgently, just as she sailed upward. Time seemed to slow; it felt like forever before her mare touched down on the other side with Kitty still safely in the saddle. He released a breath of extreme relief, trying to calm the chaotic pounding of his heart.
She turned her mare around in a smooth motion, steering the animal in Rand’s direction. Now that she’d skirted danger, he couldn’t help but admire her excellent form in the saddle. “Are you mad?” she yelled at him when she approached. “I could have been thrown!”
“Exactly.” Fury filled his chest, replacing his sense of relief. “You almost got yourself killed.”
Her blue eyes blazed with anger. “Thanks to you. Bellowing at me like that, startling both me and my animal.”
“What were you thinking to take that jump?”
She slipped off her mare and marched up to him. “What I do, and when I do it, and how I do it” —she poked his chest with her finger to emphasize her point— “is none of your concern.”
He couldn’t believe she was jabbing him in the chest. “Have you taken complete leave of your senses?” He grabbed her hand to stay her annoying assault. “You almost broke your neck.”
“My neck is none of your business any longer.” She tried to snatch her gloved hand away, but he tightened his grip, holding her in place. “Nor should you be concerned about any other part of my person.”
“If you think I am going to sit by and watch you kill yourself, you are sadly mistaken,” he said furiously.
“Why you—” She growled with frustration as she struggled to loosen his grip on her. “Unhand me, you lout.”
“Not until you calm down.” She met his gaze, her eyes glowing with angry defiance. The agitation lit up her face, making her even lovelier. For a moment, neither of them spoke while anger arced through the air. Red bathed her cheeks and her breathing became more apparent beneath the fine pelisse cloth which hid her flesh from him.
The passion of his fury transformed into something else, fueling a furious arousal. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard, forcing open her lips to taste her. She kissed him back with just as much aggression and he could sense the co-mingling of anger and desire each time her tongue stroked his. He widen his lips over hers, devouring her mouth as his blood surged through his veins.
He ached to touch his lips to her neck, but her blasted cravat impeded him. He broke the kiss, his hands going to loosen the neck
cloth. Her hands fumbled into his and for a crushing moment, he thought she intended to deny him. But then her eyes caught and held his, the blue in them catching the light, and she loosened the perfect bow of the soft muslin fabric.
His pulse roared in his ears as she pulled the cravat free, baring a sliver of pale flesh. He pressed his lips against the tender spot. “Your neck is definitely my concern,” he growled, before nipping the spot with his teeth. She moaned and pushed into him and he soothed the spot with his tongue.
He returned to press his lips against hers, to taste her again, as if he could never get enough. He embraced her, running his hands down her back and over the rounded flesh of her bottom. “Every part of your person is most definitely my concern,” he said against her lips, giving the womanly flesh in his hands a firm squeeze.
“Stop talking,” she said in a breathless voice, drawing him back into a hungry kiss, mating with his tongue, their lips and teeth teasing, tasting, and clashing with each other.
He brought his fingers up to her riding jacket and began to unfasten the frogs that held it closed. She helped him, pulling off her jacket while he pushed it down her arms, throwing it to the ground. His seeking hands roamed over the cambric fabric of her habit shirt, with its high collar trimmed with lace.
“Just tear it,” she said between urgent kisses.
He cupped her breasts, giving them a light squeeze while teasing the hardened tips with his thumbs. “You have no idea how much I would like to. But you can’t possibly return with a torn shirt without being irrevocably ruined.”
She tugged at the shirt collar, seeming intent on tearing it herself. “The cravat and jacket will hide any damage to the shirt.”
“Then I am happy to oblige.” He tore the collar of her shirt open to bare the smooth cream of her décolletage and the upper swells of her sweet breasts.
His arousal swelled to the point of pain. He’d never thirsted for a woman as much as he wanted her at this moment. He pressed hungry kisses down the smooth warmth of her neck and across her chest. He tongued the mounds that were still mostly covered by her corset.