“I doubt that. But what has held you back? Have you been waiting to pursue your studies while you saved the money?”
It would be so easy to simply say yes. Perhaps it was the wine that led her to tell him the truth instead.
“I had the money once before, when I lived and taught in Birmingham,” she said. “I was distracted from my goal, however. Then the money was lost, so I had to start over.”
His gaze invaded her own, curious and searching. Then sympathy touched his expression. “You spoke of a qualified reference. Was it qualified due to this distraction affecting your reputation? Were you distracted by a man?”
How had he guessed?
“Did the scoundrel steal the money? Is that how it was lost?”
Her face burned hotly. “The lying rogue took every damned penny.”
“At least you knew for certain what he was. You were not left wondering, or pining.”
“Such good fortune for me. I was able to console myself that I had been a thorough fool, from beginning to end. That was so much better than harboring a few decent memories that might excuse my judgment.”
The kindness that could warm his gaze unexpectedly did so now. “My apologies. Of course you must have been disillusioned and hurt. I should not have attempted to pretend there was a bright side to it.”
She looked down at her plate, battling the revival of the humiliation she had experienced when she indeed knew Nicholas for the scoundrel he was. Disillusioned did not sufficiently describe her emotions that day. She had been unhinged with fury.
“Do not apologize. You were correct. Better to know the truth.”
A silence fell. She kept her gaze downcast and forced the bad memories into the past again.
“You were wrong today, about that kiss,” he said. “It was not inexplicable. Surely you know that.”
She looked up, surprised.
“From my perspective, inexplicable is an apt word,” she said.
“I do not believe you are that ignorant of men, Miss Belvoir. In fact you have just admitted as much. Those bright eyes of yours see most clearly, I think.”
“I am sure that you kiss many women. That you kissed me makes very little sense, though. Hence it is inexplicable. My person is not fashionable. Rather the opposite, in notable ways. Men do not, as a general habit, impulsively kiss me.”
“How stupid of them.” His eyes burned. Goodness, he appeared devilishly handsome.
He lifted the decanter and tipped more wine into her glass. “That kiss was also not nearly as impulsive as I led you to think, either. I have been wanting to kiss you since the first moment I saw you in my chambers a few days ago.”
“If not impulsive, then was it at least rash?” She responded coolly, hiding as best she could how his words affected her.
“Rash? No, I would not describe it as rash.” He pretended heavy thought. “Let me see—not inexplicable, not impulsive, and not rash.” He quirked a naughty smile. “I think we are concluding it was a very good idea, Miss Belvoir.”
“I am not concluding that.”
“I should have kissed you longer, then.”
He captured her with his gaze. He looked at her as if he considered rectifying the mistake then and there. A delicious shiver shook her. She could not look away from the new, sensual light in his eyes.
“You are so free of convention in your plans . . . I am almost inclined to stay in this house tonight,” he said.
“You are remarkably honest. And very wicked.”
“And you, Miss Belvoir? Are you honest enough to admit you did not mind that kiss at all?”
“I am not wicked enough, that is certain.”
“I do not believe you think it is wicked to admit it, or to enjoy it.”
No, she did not. Objectively speaking, when analyzed from a distance, she did not hold with many of the notions society held about these things. She had not been raised by people who conformed by rote.
That was why she had been such easy pickings for Nicholas. Even that experience did not persuade her that the rules of denial always made sense, however.
Right now such philosophical musings did her little good. She balanced on a precarious ledge with this man. One nudge, one encouragement, and she suspected he would not leave the house. By morning she would be seduced. Inevitably.
From the looks of Ives, magnificently.
She found her voice. “My notions about conventions notwithstanding, we would both jeopardize our positions if we indulge in passing passions.”
He gave her a very wicked look indeed. “Ah, you are a master of logic. How inconvenient. So . . . were it not for our ‘positions,’ as you put it, do you think you would enjoy being my lover?”
What a scandalous question. Yet, the daring naughtiness of it was inexplicably thrilling.
“I expect that your lovers find you at least tolerable, and I would too.”
He smiled at her prim tone. “I try to be more than tolerable.”
“How generous of you.”
“If my lovers are honest regarding what gives them pleasure, it is not difficult to be generous.”
“Honest regarding . . . So you discuss these matters? How . . . interesting.”
“I prefer a direct approach. It is mutually beneficial.”
“I am astonished that the ladies of the ton talk about such things at all, let alone directly.”
“I normally do not pursue ladies of the ton. I leave their delicate sensibilities to other men. My brothers, for example.”
“Any lady then. Any woman. Even this conversation is, to me, astonishing in its directness, and I am in no danger of one of your seductions.”
He leaned forward, engaging in the conversation more closely. He rested his hand on the table, so close to her own that she expected him to caress her. “If you are in no danger, it is mostly because I do not believe in seductions. That implies cajoling someone into something they believe they should not do. I prefer negotiations, and we have already begun those. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
She glanced down at the hand a mere inch from her own. She imagined those fingers moving slightly, and meandering on her skin. He was teasing her deliberately. There was nothing hypothetical about that.
“So, then, hypothetically, do you think you would enjoy being my lover, Padua?”
So it was Padua now. The first liberty taken.
“That depends on the direct negotiations, doesn’t it?”
“You are a clever woman. I like that. I assume you are not referring to settlements and property, and the other things mistresses want to discuss.”
“As I see it, those negotiations should come after the first ones.”
“Not only clever, but wise too.”
“I think—I could be wrong, but—I think you are direct for a reason. It would behoove a woman to learn why, before she filled her mind with visions of jewels and a new wardrobe.”
He laughed. “You are indeed a rarity if jewels do not turn your head and take the lead in negotiations. Or perhaps you value them more poorly than other women do.”
“I am neither wise nor clever, and I hope not rare. Only a woman’s intuition guides me. So you tell me, sir. Would I enjoy being your lover? Or are you one of those men with peculiar notions of pleasure?”
Her own directness surprised him. For an instant he looked taken aback. Good.
He recovered in a snap. Of course he did.
“Since you are well read, I will assume you know to what you refer. Honesty I promised, and honesty it will be. I do not think of myself as peculiar. I am not a bishop, that is true. However, I am also not the Marquis de Sade.”
“That is good to know. Within the hypothetical context of our conversation, that is.”
“And you, Padua? Would you object to pleasures of a more adventurous sort?”
It was her turn to be taken aback. She sipped of her wine. The deep red liquid sloshed near her nose. Clearly she had enjoyed the wine too much toni
ght. Look where it had gotten her. Discussing inappropriate topics with a man who was in a very real sense her enemy.
Even worse, she was thoroughly enjoying it.
It was past time to end this.
She set the glass down. She removed her hand from the table. “Since we are playing a game, I will allow that a bishop would no doubt be quite boring. Even to one as lacking in experience as myself. But you were wrong when you said I value jewels poorly. At the moment, in my present situation, I would be foolish not to value them very highly indeed.”
He regarded her closely. She suffered it, wishing his gaze did not excite her. She could not blame the wine for all the heat and tingles.
“You seem to have opened the door to a proposition, Padua.”
“I certainly did not!”
He stood. Her heart pounded so hard she heard it in her ears. He walked over to her. She saw him as if time slowed.
He stood beside her chair. She felt him so completely he might have embraced her. Something in her—some recklessness she’d never known she harbored—wanted him to try it, to vanquish her good sense with one touch. She knew that was all it would take.
“I should leave now, lest I not leave at all.” He lifted her hand, bowed over it, and kissed it. She felt that kiss all through her body. He did not straighten completely afterward, but hovered, looking into her eyes.
“It is hell, not getting what I want, Padua. I normally do, and right now I want you fiercely.” He kissed her lips briefly, then walked away.
CHAPTER 8
Padua did not sleep well that night. Despite the wine, or because of it, she tossed in her luxurious bed. Images intruded repeatedly on her thoughts. Lord Ywain looking dangerous. Lord Ywain looking stern. Ives bowing for a kiss. Ives caressing her. Ives naked . . .
When she finally woke, her view of the prior night had changed severely. What had she been thinking? She had behaved outrageously, and she could not entirely blame the wine. Their conversation no longer appeared merely reckless, but stupid. Goodness, she would have to leave this house at once, so it did not appear she was really opening the door to a proposition.
Her servant came in as soon as she made a sound. The girl handed over a letter, then went about fixing the bed.
The letter came from the man who did not believe in seduction but who managed, with his direct honesty, to be extremely seductive.
Dear Miss Belvoir,
I trust that the servants have made you feel at home. Make free with the house as you wish. Do not rush to leave on my account, nor that of my family, none of whom intend to visit town for some time. When you decide your next destination, I would be grateful if you would write to inform me of the location.
Your servant,
Ives
It sounded as if they would not share dinners in the future. The letter made it clear he would not be visiting the house while she remained there. He offered no apology, however. Perhaps he did not have anything to apologize for.
She opened a wardrobe and removed a clean dress. The servant girl appeared at her side, took it from her, and pulled out other garments. As she stepped away to allow the girl free access, Padua noticed the stack of books on the wardrobe’s floor. She needed to bring those to her father. Not today, however. Today she intended to enjoy this house, as her host had instructed.
“There is breakfast in the morning room,” her girl said. “I sent down word you were awake, so hot food should be there soon.”
Breakfast first, then the library. She would make today a little holiday, and read to her heart’s content. All those words and noble ideas would help her forget she had been imprudent last night. They would block out memories of how her embarrassing behavior had allowed that conversation to take the turns it did.
Before she went down, however, she sat at the lovely inlaid writing desk and found some paper in a drawer. She wrote a quick letter to Jennie, to let her know she had found a refuge for a day or two.
Or maybe three.
* * *
Ives resolved that he would not spend one minute thinking about Miss Belvoir’s Dilemma the next day.
In the morning he visited Jackson’s on Bond Street, where he had arranged for an old friend, Jonathan, Lord Belleterre, baron, to join him for some sparring. Stripped to the waist, fists high, they went at each other. Ives threw himself into the exercise with enthusiasm.
Punch. He’d be damned if he would allow himself to be—punch—distracted again. Any interest in Padua—punch—Belvoir was the result of unaccustomed—punch—abstinence. He had crossed a line—punch—last night that he certainly would never—punch—ever—punch—cross again. He wasn’t a damned schoolboy in need of tutoring on ethics, least of all from Padua herself. As for her father, hell, the questions he had— punch—about that case needed to be resolved before he—punch—found himself compromised in other ways.
Belleterre called a halt. He strolled over to a chair, picked up a towel, and mopped his dark hair. Belleterre’s quickness and natural studied skill stood him in good stead in boxing, and he had achieved renown in the sport. Ives liked to spar with a man who did not require pulling one’s punches.
“Who is she?” Belleterre asked, dropping the towel.
“What are you talking about?”
“You are all force and little skill today. You are showing aggression for its own sake. I think you would be happier hitting a wall.”
“I don’t think I was that bad. You worked up plenty of sweat.”
“As I would if I boxed with an ape. So, who is she?”
Ives helped himself to a towel too. He mopped his head and chest.
“What makes you assume it is a woman?”
“You are giving in to some emotion, and it is not happiness. Since you have not been in court for several weeks, I do not think it is a pleading gone badly or a case lost. That leaves a woman. Are you still angry that your mistress threw you over?”
“She did not throw me over. Nor have I ever been angry about that.”
“Perhaps it is loneliness that irritates you. Something does.”
Nearby, “Gentleman” John Jackson gave a lesson to a young man of university age. Fists and sweat flew. Ives observed them while he admitted to himself that he had been releasing emotion with his fists. Mostly he had punched out anger with himself.
He had come damned close to offering Padua an arrangement at dinner. In the easy intimacy of their conversation, it had not even seemed inappropriate. Rather the wine and warmth led him to consider it a splendid solution to her sudden lack of home or support.
What had he been thinking?
That he wanted to take her upstairs to bed, and that possibly he could.
It was the calculation of a scoundrel. A rake. A man not only with wicked tastes—all men had those—but also with a wicked heart. His worst side had gotten the better of him, because she was lovely and interesting, and, yes, damn it, vulnerable.
“Whoever she is, do not allow her to make you an idiot. Find another if she is not amenable,” Belleterre said. “Remember Mrs. Dantoine? You had a tendre for her once. She has returned to town.”
“Has she now? It has been, what, five years.” He had had more than a tendre for her back then. Lust had almost deranged him. She had chosen another. One with a title and enormous wealth. She had enjoyed carte blanche for several months, then disappeared.
“She will be at Charlene’s salon on Tuesday,” Belleterre mentioned, pacing back into his position. Charlene was his own paramour, who entertained friends every Tuesday evening. “You should come. I am told Mrs. Dantoine has asked after you.”
Ives stood opposite Belleterre and raised his fists. He tried to remember Mrs. Dantoine’s beauty. Small, neat, and blond—his memories got that far. But while he sparred, and tried to picture her face, the mental image that kept forming was of a dark-haired woman with luminous skin and sparkling eyes.
* * *
If one is going to live in a palace, even for
a few days, one wants to show it off. Padua decided to do just that after indulging in several delicious hours in the library. So she wrote Jennie again in the late afternoon, and invited her to visit at Langley House the next day, if she could get away from school.
At twelve o’clock the next day a footman found Padua on the terrace, working up her courage and spirits to make another visit to Newgate. The footman provided a reprieve by informing her a visitor had called. At her instruction, he left and returned with the caller.
Jennie hid her amazement until the footman left them alone. Then her eyes widened. “‘Safe’ hardly describes your situation, Padua. Whose house is this?”
“It belongs to the Duke of Aylesbury.”
Jennie looked over her shoulder, alarmed.
“The family is not here,” Padua explained. “I have been put here as an act of charity for a few days, while I find other accommodations.”
Jennie sat on the bench beside her. Her eyebrows knitted. “Who offered you this charity? Lord Ywain? He is Aylesbury’s brother. It was odd enough he called on you at the school, but if he has now given you a home—”
“It is only for a few days.”
“If you say so.”
“You appear unconvinced.”
“I am sure you know what you are doing. Only . . . do you? Such a man . . . his interest in you does not—”
“Does not make sense? I agree. So you can rest assured he is not interested in me.”
“I intended to say something else.”
“Perhaps you should say it, then.”
Once more Jennie looked over her shoulder. Then she angled her head closer. “His interest in you does not speak of good intentions. There. I have done my duty.”
Padua could hardly defend Ives, considering that dinner. “You sound as if you are familiar with his character. Have you two met?”
Jennie laughed. “I may be a gentleman’s daughter, and related to a baron by marriage, but I never moved in such rarified circles. I do, however, know people who know of him.”
Tall, Dark, and Wicked (Wicked Trilogy) Page 8