One Tempting Proposal

by Christy Carlyle

  He closed the distance in one long stride. Warm man and the aromas of oak moss and bay assaulted her senses. Shock arced through her body. Shock that he affected her, and that she craved any man’s body so near.

  “Is that truly what others call you? It can’t be your name. There’s nothing kittenish about you.”

  She gasped, to breathe him in, to catch her breath, and when he moved his arm, she had the mad notion he might reach up and trace her lips with his fingertip, and then claim her mouth with his, letting her taste his woodsy cologne directly from his skin.

  His gaze locked on her eyes.

  “You’re not a kitten. You prowled that ballroom as sure-­footed as any woman I’ve ever seen. And while you manage to appear disinterested in everyone and everything, I’d wager nothing escapes your notice.”

  He lifted a hand as if to touch her but hesitated.

  She held her breath, drawn taut and tense.

  “You’re much more cat than kitten.” He grinned, the lines between his brows softening, and a glint of satisfaction lighting his gaze. “Yes. Kat suits you far better than Kitty.”

  What a foolish thing to say. It was the height of audacity for him to suggest any name for her.

  He lifted his hand again, and she knew he would touch her. She wanted him to, if only to have the satisfaction of pushing him away. But he didn’t touch her. He licked his lips and reached up to straighten his necktie and smooth down his waistcoat. Stepping back, he nodded and then began to retreat, glancing at her only once more.

  “Good evening, Lady Kat—­” His tongue seemed stalled on her name. Or perhaps he was merely insisting on his new name for her. Kat was all he managed before swiveling on his heel and striding away.

  Kitty gripped the cool marble of the mantel a moment after he stalked away and willed her legs to stop trembling. In the space of ten minutes, the Duke of Wrexford had smashed her composure to bits, and she closed her eyes, struggling to fit the puzzle pieces back together. She grappled for any thought beyond the cloud of frustration and irritation he’d left in his wake. They were familiar emotions, especially after any encounter with her father, but her brief clash with Wrexford left her swaying off-­balance.

  The man had taken her utterly by surprise, and the predictability of men was something she’d come to rely on. Those like Father were driven by power and money. Status and reputation mattered most. Young rogues like Rob Wellesley were lured by a pretty face and women who filled their idle hours with frivolity. And a man who followed a woman into a room without a chaperone was intent on seduction or, at the very least, flirtation.

  But Wrexford wasn’t interested in flirting so much as giving her a set down, and she’d been completely unprepared. The duke wasn’t at all what she’d expected. Hattie had described him as a university don, and Kitty envisioned a stodgy, studious man more keen on equations than titles. No one had warned her he’d be so impressive, with a broad chest and shoulders filling out his evening jacket in ways most men never managed, nor that all the masculine angles of his face aligned in a beautiful whole that stole her breath when she stared too long.

  Kitty returned to the ballroom on wobbly legs and cursed the Duke of Wrexford—­for his arrogance, that knowing grin on his far too sensual mouth, and the scent of something fresh that still tickled her nose, as if he’d brought a bit of the Cambridgeshire countryside with him to London.

  She craved privacy and something to drink, but escaping to the room Mama had set aside for refreshments was out of the question. A long absence from the ballroom would start tongues wagging, and she’d already had her moment of escape. How could she have known it would be spoiled by the one man at the ball who found fault with her?

  It didn’t help that he seemed faultless himself. Aside from his rudeness in teasing her about her name, and the apparent pride he took in throwing etiquette aside as if it had gone out of fashion. Knowing he’d only come into his title recently, and that he’d never planned to be a duke, she’d anticipated a less polished man. But Sebastian, Duke of Wrexford, was tall and elegant, with a square jaw, sharp cheekbones, cool blue eyes, and a mouth that . . . Heaven help her, she’d wanted him to kiss her with that perfectly sculpted mouth, even when he was tilting it at her in derision.

  “There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” Hattie paused between her words, attempting to catch her breath, and her cheeks glowed as if she’d just run across the length of a field. Kitty guessed she and Mr. Treadwell had danced every set since the ball began.

  “It’s this silly dress. I thought Elsie’s stitches had pulled loose again.”

  Hattie didn’t even pretend to believe her hastily fabricated excuse. “I saw Miss Osgood and the others, though I couldn’t hear what they said. They upset you.”

  Everyone knew Hattie was the sweetest Adderly. The fact that she was sharp-­eyed and perceptive tended to be overlooked.

  “Cynth goaded me about Lord Ponsonby. They’ll tire of teasing me about him eventually.”

  “Cynthia Osgood will never tire of tormenting others. She’s been perfecting the skill since we were children.”

  Wrexford’s words about making sport of her guests echoed in Kitty’s mind. Was she truly as snide and unkind as Cynthia Osgood?

  Gazing across the ballroom, past ­couples sailing around the dance floor in the first waltz of the evening, she spied Annabel Benson, an acquaintance and now fellow Woman’s Union member she’d met at a country house party before year’s end. Young and good-­natured, eager for new friendships, she’d reminded Kitty of Hattie. Extending an invitation to her mother’s ball had seemed a simple kindness, but she certainly hadn’t treated the young woman as a friend tonight. She’d taken the easy way, avoiding another skirmish with Cynthia Osgood, when the others snickered at Annabel after Wellesley snubbed her. But it hadn’t prevented a row with Cynth, who’d turned on Kitty, just as she had at their ladies’ tea.

  “She’s unkind. I cannot fathom why she’s such a popular young woman.” Hattie rarely condemned anyone, and Kitty’s skin itched at the realization her sister’s dismissal of Cynth could as easily be applied to her own behavior. “She’s certainly caught Mr. Wellesley’s eye.”

  “Any pretty thing catches Rob’s notice.” Kitty knew him to be an incorrigible flirt.

  The Adderlys and Wellesleys had been connected for years, and Rob Wellesley had attended the same house party where Kitty befriended Miss Benson. Apparently the two had been acquainted since childhood, but Rob was as blind as he was handsome, and Annabel’s infatuation, which was obvious to everyone who saw the two of them together in the same room, remained a mystery to him.

  “Well, he should have a care for how he treats your new friend.”

  The admonition was meant for Wellesley, but Kitty hadn’t treated the girl any better.

  “I should speak with Annabel and make sure all’s well.”

  It wasn’t because of what Wrexford said. If she bucked Papa’s commandments, she certainly wouldn’t change her behavior because of a stranger’s admonition.

  “And you’ve picked just the right moment. The duke has joined them. That young woman with Annabel is his sister, Lady Philippa.”

  Annabel stood side by side with the tall brunette in a blue gown and the broad-­shouldered duke. He stood with his back to the ballroom and the notion of approaching him under the bright light of the gaslight chandeliers set bees buzzing inside her belly.

  Hattie didn’t hesitate another moment before urging Kitty to follow her around the edge of the ballroom and join the trio.

  As soon as they approached, he turned to look at her and Kitty’s skin burned. Her cheek, her neck, everywhere his gaze touched.

  She kept her eyes fixed on Annabel. “Annabel, might I have a word with you, my dear?” Kitty needed to apologize, but to do so under the duke’s unnerving watchfulness was unthinkable.
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  Hattie cleared her throat with feminine delicacy and nudged Kitty’s arm.

  “Your Grace, may I introduce my sister, Lady Katherine?”

  Ah, yes, she’d forgotten the niceties, and the fact that no one knew they’d already made their own awkward introductions privately.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Lady Katherine.” Wrexford hadn’t completely forgotten the niceties, it seemed. He bowed as well as any nobleman born to his title, but Kitty didn’t offer him her hand for the pretense of kissing it. If their tangle in the sitting room taught her anything, it was that the Duke of Wrexford loathed pretense.

  “Everyone calls her Kitty,” Hattie offered.

  His brow winged up. “Do they?”

  Kitty closed her eyes a moment before glaring at her sister. Hattie looked confused, but then merrily carried on with the introductions.

  The duke caught the exchange, and that alluring grin crept over the curve of his mouth.

  “Your Grace, may I introduce your sister to mine? Kitty, this is Lady Philippa, His Grace’s sister.”

  The young woman lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, but her mouth curled into a displeased pucker, as if she’d taken a bite of something sour.

  Wrexford looked down at his sister with one arched eyebrow, though if he intended to correct her, the grin still lingering on his mouth—­why could she focus on nothing but the man’s mouth?—­ruined the effect.

  “My goodness, it’s the first time I’ve heard someone call me that. It sounds shockingly formal. I hope I can live up to it.” Lady Philippa cast a wide, wary gaze up at her brother, and he nodded, offering her a look brimming with such love and encouragement that Kitty found herself, for the first time in her life, wishing she had an older brother.

  “Everyone calls me Pippa. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being called Lady Philippa.”

  Her comment revealed more than a hint of disdain for her honorific. Cynthia Osgood and the other young ladies would no doubt disparage the girl for her lack of delicacy. Titles were more valuable than currency to men like Kitty’s father, and she suspected all the ladies in her circle had been instructed in deportment as she had. Those lessons included admonitions not to be too delighted, or disgusted, with anything, never to appear overly enthusiastic, and to absolutely refrain from bald truth. The refreshing charm of Pippa’s honesty and her lack of feigned exuberance made for a delightful change from the usual ballroom inanity.

  “Would you care to join us in our search for a bit of fresh air, Lady Philippa?”

  Pippa nodded and Kitty turned to the lead the two young women away, relieved for the opportunity to offer Annabel an apology, and even more eager to remove herself from Wrexford’s scrutiny.

  She glanced back to offer him a nod and take her leave, but before she could dip her head, he cut in.

  “Actually, I was just attempting to entreat Miss Benson to dance with me. She insists she is disinclined to dance this evening.”

  That slate gaze of his held her again, though less demanding than in the sitting room. In fact, she imagined a flash of the heat she’d glimpsed when he touched her. Before he’d scolded her and left her trembling like a fool.

  “Would you to join me for the next waltz, Lady Katherine?”

  Kitty swallowed hard. Then once more. She struggled to make her tongue obey. No. She couldn’t dance with him. That would require touching him, that he touch her. She’d already allowed him that liberty once, and he’d dashed off as if the experience horrified him.

  When she took too long to answer, Kitty sensed the weight of their gazes on her, especially Hattie’s, who no doubt expected her to be amenable to Mr. Treadwell’s aristocratic friend.

  “Yes, I will dance with you, Your Grace.”

  Move, go, walk away. Her glued-­to-­the-­floor feet were the least of her problems. Every individual in the circle around Kitty broke into a grin. Even the duke who’d been so eager to castigate her in the sitting room wore a pleased smirk that tilted precariously toward smug.

  She usually made a man work a bit harder to secure a dance with her, and the little group seemed terribly pleased with her acquiescence. As if she’d finally transformed from an obstinate mare into a tame show filly, as compliant and biddable as every daughter of a marquess ought to be.

  But it was only one dance. She hadn’t agreed to marry the man. No matter how much his gaze unsettled her, her determination not to take the bridle her father had been attempting to impose all her life hadn’t wavered. Not even when Wrexford touched her. One dance with the man meant nothing. He was a wealthy duke, practically the brother of the man Hattie wished to marry. Dancing with him would be impossible to avoid. Why not dispense with it now and settle any awkwardness between them? Perhaps it would ease the buzzing in her belly.

  SEB’S GRIN WIDENED as Kitty rushed away, Miss Benson and Pippa falling in behind her in a symphony of swishing satin and taffeta silk. But the mirth ebbed and his face stiffened until he was certain he was grimacing rather than indicating an ounce of the pleasure he felt at the notion of having Lady Katherine in his arms.

  What have I done?

  He’d given into impulse again, as if he’d abandoned ten years of staid studious behavior the minute he crossed the threshold of the Marquess of Clayborne’s front door. Waltzing was nothing he excelled at. He’d danced one waltz in life, and done it very ill. Lord Moreland’s daughter had been incredibly patient as he’d whirled the girl around her father’s ballroom. She’d stifled her winces of pain with the fortitude of a soldier. But no one had missed how the poor thing had hobbled away afterward.

  “Well done, Your Grace. My sister is very particular about who she admits onto her dance card.” Lady Harriet stared at him as if he’d just trounced a dragon. Or a tigress.

  “Yes, well . . .” Seb glanced down at his feet, a chance to glare them into submission and avoid Lady Harriet’s overeager gaze.

  “What’s this I hear? Seb, are you to stand up with Lady Katherine? Well done, indeed.” Ollie added his exuberance as he approached and then turned his attention to Lady Harriet. “Shall we join this set, sweet?”

  Now it was the young lady’s turn to avert her gaze. She blushed, the peach stain setting her skin aglow, and nodded before taking Ollie’s arm and allowing him to lead her back into the fray of dancing ­couples.

  Which left Seb alone to contemplate his foolishness.

  Lady Katherine had stared at him with such indifference after their encounter in the sitting room. As if none of what passed between them had affected her beautiful practiced composure. As if her eyes hadn’t widened and her pulse hadn’t thudded as his had the moment he’d touched her skin. But however much he wanted to know if Katherine Adderly was soft and pliant in his arms, or as sharp and flinty as her green glare, making a fool of both of them wouldn’t help Ollie’s plan to woo her sister.

  He longed for a bit of Pippa’s resourcefulness. As a child she’d had an agile mind, but now, as a young woman, she was absolutely fearsome in her pursuit of skills and knowledge. Pippa assured him one could learn anything by reading a book on the subject and then practicing to the point of proficiency.

  Why hadn’t he at least perused a damned book on dancing?

  Ollie and Lady Harriet swooped past him. The man’s eyes were alight with a contented bliss the likes of which Seb had never seen, and certainly never experienced himself.

  He stretched up, straightening his back, reaching out to align each cuff. He could do this. For Ollie. For old Wrexford and the title he’d left to Seb, one he was still learning to accept as his own. And for Pippa, who deserved a brother who was, if not brilliant at dancing, at least better than a complete ballroom dunderhead.

  Now to wait for the next waltz and ignore the tingle at the center of his palms. One of his palms would soon be pressed against hers, his other nestled in the curve of he
r waist. Would she be warm in his arms? He vowed then and there not to lick his lips when he tasted vanilla in the air around her, and heaven forbid he duck his head to draw in the aroma mingled with the unique scent of her skin.

  He flicked his gaze left and right to ensure none glimpsed whatever ridiculous expression settled on his face while he indulged in lascivious meanderings—­and about the worst-­behaved woman at the ball. Lady Katherine engaged in just the sort of petty gossip and troublemaking he loathed.

  But he’d glimpsed something else beyond her formidable exterior. When he’d found her in that empty room, she’d been crying, and he had no doubt the malicious sneers of her friends had been the cause. Why had they turned on her? Perhaps those who engaged in idle talk about others were most likely to become the victim of it themselves.

  “Don’t let her lead.”

  Seb had been so consumed with thoughts of Lady Katherine that he hadn’t noticed her sister and Ollie return to his side.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Kitty,” Lady Harriet continued in a conspiratorial tone. “Papa says from the moment of her first formal dance, my sister has always tried to lead. You shouldn’t let her.”

  Wonderful. Not only did he need to worry about not treading on the lady’s feet, but he would have to wrestle the reins from her too.

  Chapter Five

  LONDON HAD BEEN flirting with spring for weeks, with warm sunny days followed by rain and cool breezes. The day of the ball brought an onslaught of showers that had her mother fretting about muddy floors and drenched guests, but Kitty welcomed the embrace of dense moist air as she stepped onto the balcony. She needed it to chase away the overheated flush she’d been unable to shake since her encounter with the Duke of Wrexford. Resting her hands on the balustrade at the balcony’s edge, she drew in long drams of fresh air.

  The longer she contemplated it, the more certain she became. She couldn’t dance with the man. Feigned illness or a broken heel would suffice as an excuse. Why should she endure another moment of his self-­righ­teous disdain? He was in her home. And he was a novice at the games involved in a London season. He could look as elegant as he liked in his well-­tailored evening suit and flash that irritatingly lovely grin, but she didn’t miss the little tells of distress—­the pinch of his mouth, the occasional narrowing of his eyes and clenching of his fists—­as he stood along the edge of the ballroom. He looked lost, completely out of his depth. For a man used to dusty lecture halls at Cambridge, the heat and noise and constant movement of a ballroom must seem quite an overwhelming muddle. And whom did he know? Beyond his sister and Mr. Treadwell, was there a single face he recognized among the guests?