One Tempting Proposal

by Christy Carlyle

  “Let me watch awhile.”

  Ollie cast him an amused expression before striding off toward his young lady.

  The group of three young women welcomed Lady Katherine with smiles and kisses and, from the appreciative way they all glanced down at the intricate beading of her gown, praise for her dressmaker’s creation. The eldest Adderly daughter accepted their accolades with a grin and several nods before the quartet drew closer to each other, flicked their wrists, and began whispering behind the painted silk of their fans.

  Seb noticed their attentions turn outward and their gazes alight on an individual just long enough to laugh and whisper at their expense before moving on to the next object of ridicule. Most ­people seemed oblivious to their attentions. The musicians had begun to play and ­couples were beginning to pair off and ready themselves for the first dance.

  He scanned the room for Pippa and found her conversing with a pretty chestnut-­haired young woman against the far wall. The two interacted as if they were old friends, smiling and laughing as they chatted, completely caught up in whatever topic they’d lit upon.

  Oliver had secured the first dance with Lady Harriet, and even Lord Clayborne seemed pleased, the firm set of his mouth softening a bit at the sight of a ­couple so clearly enamored with each other.

  Those who weren’t dancing turned their attention to those who were, ­couples moving with grace and precision in a series of complex steps that reminded Seb just how unprepared he was for a ball.

  The eagerness in Pippa’s expression drew a deep sigh from low in his chest. Her tapping toes and moving feet, a mimicking echo of the ladies on the dance floor, signaled her desire to dance, yet she’d never had a chance to learn the intricate steps. Seb couldn’t abide the notion of Lady Katherine and her group tittering at Pippa behind their fans if she took to the dance floor and faltered.

  The young woman at Pippa’s side reached for her arm and whispered close to her ear before both young ladies turned their attention to a lanky bronze-­haired buck striding the length of the ballroom as if he was master of Clayborne House. The gent carried himself with too much confidence, managing to make his black suit and stark white tie, a variation of which all the male guests wore, look better suited to him than anyone else in the room.

  Seb rolled his shoulders, pressing against the restraint of his own evening attire. The tailor had stitched the jacket so close, it fit like a second skin. Even if he’d been so inclined, the garment would never yield enough for him to swagger like the gadabout drawing all the ladies’ attention.

  He was just the sort Seb imagined Pippa putting in his place, and his chest deflated on a relieved exhale when she dismissed the man with a single glance. Her companion, on the other hand, bit her lip as a poppy-­red flush crept up her cheeks. The lady darted her gaze toward the musicians, the dancers, back to Pippa, all in an obvious effort not to gape at the young man, but after every momentary glance away, she’d turn back, drinking him in, naked admiration writ in every aspect of her face.

  As the man approached them, Seb found himself hopeful for Pippa’s new acquaintance. A young woman so infatuated with a man surely merited a bit of his attention. But as the gent drew near, and the ladies’ eyes widened, he didn’t turn a single glance their way before sauntering toward Lady Katherine and her gang of gossips.

  After bowing and smiling—­an irritatingly drawn-­out show of white above his square jaw—­he took one of the young lady’s hands and led her toward the dance floor. Lady Katherine seemed to pout, her bow-­shaped mouth bowing out further, while two of her friends turned toward Pippa and her disappointed companion and began snickering. One even had the gall to point. And this time their derision was felt in full measure. Pippa’s new friend turned away, lower lip quivering, and his sister turned her back too, drawing close to the distraught young woman, no doubt consoling her as best she could.

  Fisting his hands, Seb fought the heartburn sear of anger. It didn’t match the provocation and he recognized it for what it was. An echo from the past, a vein of ire buried deep and meant for another woman who smiled one moment and mistreated others the next.

  Whatever his ballroom failings, he couldn’t stand by and watch. Tension twisted a vice between his shoulder blades and he was gritting his teeth so forcefully, he feared those around him would soon hear the crunch.

  He strode forward to ask Pippa’s companion to dance, if only to distract the young woman. With any luck, his lack of skill as a dance partner wouldn’t cause her more embarrassment.

  Ollie stopped him midstride.

  “Who is that man, Ollie?” Seb narrowed his gaze at the young man dancing past with one of Lady Katherine’s cohorts in his arms.

  “Wellesley. Robert Wellesley, a family friend of the Adderlys. Why?”

  “He seems to leave disappointed women in his wake. Excuse me.”

  Continuing toward Pippa, Seb saw rebellion break out among Lady Katherine and her ladies, and he suspected the tall smirking peacock was the cause. He watched as Wellesley returned his dance partner to the quartet and the four women slowly drew apart from each other, their faces twisted in frowns of anger and irritation. Surprisingly, most of the wrath seemed to be directed at their leader.

  Seb drew close enough to hear their exchange.

  A dark-­haired young lady asked, “Who is she and why did you invite her?”

  “Yes, and how dare she look so forlorn that Wellesley won’t dance with her?”

  “Her name is Annabel Benson, and she’s not the only lady disappointed to find Mr. Wellesley’s name missing from her dance card.” Lady Katherine addressed the group, an eyebrow arched knowingly.

  “And who’s the tall forbidding girl in that awful blue dress?”

  Turning as one, they gazed across at where his sister stood clad in the new blue gown he’d watched her smooth down a dozen times to alleviate her nervousness during their carriage ride to the ball.

  Seb knew little of women’s gowns, but Pippa’s seemed every bit as elaborate and fashionable as those the other ladies wore. He considered declaring as much to Lady Katherine and her cronies, but Pippa would never forgive him for making a fuss about her clothes or drawing attention to her at all. As it was, she’d spent every moment since they’d arrived clinging to the ballroom’s wall.

  Lady Katherine and her friends were forced to move as breathless ­couples stepped off the dance floor.

  Seb could no longer hear the women’s exchanges but their expressions indicated continued discord. After another moment of listening to whatever condemnations her companions offered, Lady Katherine withdrew from the group and strode away.

  She moved with the same lithe elegance with which she’d entered the room, and if not for the patch of pink marring her cheek, none could have guessed at her distress.

  He gave into impulse and followed her, skirting the edge of the ballroom’s perimeter, his heels clicking on marble as he entered a darkened hall. When he glimpsed the train of her gown slip through a doorway, he stretched his long legs into a deeper stride to catch up before she locked herself away.

  Pausing at the threshold of the door she’d left ajar, Seb sucked in a deep breath, expanding the confines of his evening jacket to ease tension in his neck and shoulders. He waited, closing his eyes and drawing in another long inhale, striving to tamp down his irritation. Turning back would be the prudent path. He didn’t need a guide to aristocratic behavior to tell him a duke shouldn’t chase women into empty rooms to chastise their rude behavior.

  Yet there was the rub. Who would ever tell a marquess’s daughter and her coterie of lady critics to treat others respectfully? Even his sister, who’d done nothing but keep to the ballroom’s edges, had found herself in their crosshairs.

  One more shallow breath and he took a step toward the threshold. Vanilla. He tasted its sweetness on his tongue. Her scent. The simple flavor didn
’t suit Lady Katherine, and yet as he peered through the doorway at the expanse of her pale shoulders and the corn silk strand of hair that snaked down her back, somehow escaped from her perfect coiffure, he could easily imagine the skin at her nape tasting of vanilla.

  Despite the seemingly endless stretch of years since he’d touched a woman, he knew that swath of skin on her neck would be smooth, warm to the touch. A tender spot, vulnerable. Few men would ever be allowed to caress her there.

  He flexed his fingers as he stepped past the threshold, moving quietly, still doubting with every step whether he should confront her at all.

  She stood before the unlit fireplace, shoulders curved in, hands gathered in front of her, and he noticed too late that her body trembled and she emitted an unmistakable whimper.

  When she whirled on him, Seb reared back at the sight of a glistening tear caught in the fan of lashes beneath her eye.

  Good God. Tearful women were his Achilles’ heel. Pippa’s rare tears reduced him to mush.

  He cleared his throat and bounced on his heels. “Lady Katherine, I—­”

  “We haven’t been introduced. Don’t you know you shouldn’t speak to a lady until you’ve been introduced?” She turned back toward the fireplace and peered at him over her shoulder a moment before executing an elegant swivel that drew the skirt of her dress around in a flash of sparkling beads bobbing on a river of satin. There were no tears now, not a single vestige of distress, just a snappish bite in her tone.

  “I’m not terribly fond of rules.” Seb knew the basics of etiquette, but he was much more interested in the laws of mathematics. Surely here on the cusp of the next century, the silly list of dos and do nots could be discarded now and then.

  “I’ll introduce myself now,” he offered, stepping toward her as he spoke.

  “No.” She lifted a hand to halt his progress. “I know who you are. You’re the Duke of Wrexford, and you’ve been a nobleman for less than a month.” She jutted her chin and threw the words at him as an accusation, a reminder that he was a novice in this world of balls and etiquette, regardless of the accident of inheritance that had given him a dukedom.

  Her haughty tone kindled the irritation he’d felt in the ballroom back into a hot spark. “Yes, and you’ve been a noble lady all your life, yet you laugh at your guests for sport.”

  She crumbled for a fraction of a second, a slight frown marring her brow, and then lifted her chin even higher. If the lady raised her head any farther, she’d tip over.

  Her discomfort did not please him. Winning the point brought no victorious thrill.

  “You’re right, my lady. I do lack social graces.” Seb took another step and far too much pleasure in the way her eyes widened a fraction as she straightened her back, holding her ground.

  “Not to mention finesse.” She lowered her chin, though her back remained ramrod straight.

  “Perhaps you could teach me.” He’d meant to infuse his tone with sarcasm, but the words came out low, catching in his throat. More petition than scold.

  “Surely you didn’t follow me into this room to learn etiquette.” Despite her stiff posture, her tone softened to a lower pitch. A disarmingly warm, almost jovial sound that made Seb duck his head and work to steady his breathing. Her vanilla scent enveloped him now, its potency multiplied by the warmth of her body.

  “Tell me. Why did I follow you?” He still wasn’t sure of the answer himself, and her certainty stoked his irritation. Yet the instant he asked the question, she seemed less sure—­of herself, of him, and of whatever had brought them to this moment, alone together in a dimly lit room.

  “To charm me?” Her question made him grin. She was a beautiful woman, but when she faltered and let her perfect façade slip, she was enticing. What had Ollie called her? Difficult to snare. This woman was a snare.

  When he didn’t reply, she frowned, and the temporary flaw in her too perfectly arranged face made her more beautiful, more human, a woman whose hair he could imagine mussing in passion, whose clothes he could envision disheveling in a desperate race to uncover more of her radiant skin.

  Lifting her hands to her hips, she demanded, “Go on, then, Wrexford. Charm me.”

  Despite the hint of a smile curving her mouth, the tone of command in her voice sank into his gut like a lead spike. He’d been free from a woman’s dictates for ten years. All the denial and solitude had been nothing to knowing his choices were his own. Yet her challenge pushed him the final long stride toward her. The confidence she exuded, her vibrancy, compelled him near her, but even her potent allure did not blot out the memory of her pettiness in the ballroom.

  He’d followed her into this room to chasten her. Hadn’t he?

  “Do men often try to charm you?” He was close enough to feel her breath against his chin, to see the lighter flecks of burnished gold in her eyes, to spot the tawny beauty mark at the right edge of her upper lip.

  “Yes.” She released the word instantly, a hiss of heat against his skin.

  He swallowed down an ache in his throat, but the soreness traveled, burning in his chest, tightening his body.

  “Do they touch you?” He reached out, gripping her arm lightly above her elbow.

  “Only if I let them.”

  He’d gone beyond simply breaking the rules of etiquette now. Beyond logic and reason. Her skin was warm and smooth, and touching her was a mistake. But it was heady one, as if he was a green boy touching a woman for the first time, a reckless man taking the first step on a grand adventure.

  She felt it too. Her eyes went limpid, brighter, the black center growing larger and the lower crescent of green glowing like absinthe lit by candlelight.

  Her lips parted and he lowered his head.

  When he moved, she jolted, fluttering her lashes and then glaring up at him, her marble perfection slid neatly back in place.

  The chill in her gaze tempered his arousal, but he couldn’t stop touching her.

  “I did not follow you into this room to charm you.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head. “I came to tell you . . .” What? That she was the most contradictory woman he’d ever met? Beautiful enough to snare any man, and yet thorny the moment he approached. Despite her distasteful behavior in the ballroom, she’d done what no woman had in ten years—­driven him to take action, made him ache after a decade of denial.

  “No one in that ballroom wishes to be the object of your ridicule, Lady Katherine.”

  “Perhaps some of them deserve it.” She trailed her gaze down his body and back up again in one sweeping glance, leaving no doubt she thought him one of the deserving sort.

  “Not from their hostess.”

  “My mother is this evening’s hostess.”

  “Ah, so she invites them, and you snicker at them behind their backs?”

  She narrowed her eyes and drew in a breath so deep her pale shoulders lifted.

  “No lady wishes to be chastised by a stranger in her own home.” After tugging her arm from his grasp, she took two quick steps, backing away from him.

  Her reprimand found its mark and Seb clenched his fists, ignoring the tingling sensation in the fingers of his left hand, the warmth from her body captured against the flesh of his palm. Speaking of strangers, what the hell was he doing verbally sparring with a woman he barely knew while leaving his sister on her own in a ballroom full of ­people she didn’t know?

  He’d been a fool to follow her, a madman to touch her. And he wished to regret every moment near her more than he did.

  “Forgive me, Lady Katherine.” Seb wasn’t certain whether he needed forgiveness, or she did, for being so damned confounding, for making him ache. He nodded, ducking his head without quite bowing—­that seemed a bit much—­and turned to return to the ballroom and find Pippa.

  “Wait, Your Grace, if you please.”

/>   Chapter Four

  HE WOULD LEAVE. The duke was already two steps away from the threshold, and there was a firm, decided solidity in the line of his back. The man seemed quite finished with her and their strange encounter. Then he shocked Kitty by halting midstride and spearing her with a glance over the wide span of his shoulder.

  Those eyes of his were a nuisance.

  “Perhaps we can dispense with a bit of formality, Your Grace.” She paired the words with one of the simpering smiles she’d perfected over the years. It wouldn’t do to make an enemy of the man. “Please, call me Kitty.”

  Many called her by the diminutive. There was no true intimacy in what she offered, but he wouldn’t know that. Gifting the concession drew ­people in and tended to soften them toward her.

  He turned fully and snapped his head up, his inscrutable gaze tangling with hers. His eyes widened, but irritation still furrowed lines between his brows.

  “Kitty?”

  Ignoring his incredulous tone, Kitty lifted a hand to her elbow and pulled her white evening glove snug on her right arm. She brushed a fingertip across the spot where he’d touched her. Held her. As if he had any right to do so.

  “That’s what my friends call me. So you must do so too.” She pasted on a grin and turned her chin down at the precise angle to allow her eyes to tilt up at him flirtatiously.

  He’d succumb like all the others, and she would choose what he called her and when he touched her, if she ever allowed him to touch her again.

  Then he stalked toward her, and her sense of control faltered. A tremor skittered across her skin, but she refused to retreat. She stood firm, only reaching up to twine her long strand of pearls through her fingers, twisting the gems tight to cover her pulse where it flickered wildly at the base of her throat.

  He tipped his head and studied her in a slow agonizing perusal. “No, I think not.”

  “No?” With him standing close, his rich verdant scent scrambling her wits, she wasn’t certain what he refused.

  Her name. He was denying the invitation to call her Kitty. No, that wasn’t the way of it. Men didn’t refuse her. She refused them.