by Julia Quinn
“The Earl of Renminster?” Letitia said, her entire face colored by disbelief. “Renminster? Good heavens, sister, he’s rich, he’s handsome, and he’s an earl. Why on earth would you refuse his invitation?”
“Letitia,” Susannah said, “he’s Clive’s brother.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“He didn’t like me when I was being courted by Clive, and I don’t see how he has suddenly revised that opinion now.”
“Then why is he courting you?” Letitia demanded.
“He’s not courting me.”
“He’s trying to.”
“He’s not try—oh, devil take it,” Susannah broke off, thoroughly annoyed with the conversation by this point. “Why would you think he wanted to court me?”
Letitia took a bite of her muffin and said rather matter-offactly, “Lady Whistledown said so.”
“Hang Lady Whistledown!” Susannah exploded.
Letitia drew back in horror, gasping as if Susannah had committed a mortal sin. “I can’t believe you said that.”
“What has Lady Whistledown ever done to earn my undying admiration and devotion?” Susannah wanted to know.
“I adore Lady Whistledown,” Letitia said with a sniff, “and I will not tolerate slander against her in my presence.”
Susannah could do nothing but stare at the deranged spirit she was certain had overtaken her normally sensible sister’s body.
“Lady Whistledown,” Letitia continued, her eyes flashing, “treated you rather nicely throughout that entire awful episode with Clive last summer. In fact, she might have been the only Londoner to do so. For that, if for nothing else, I will never disparage her.”
Susannah’s lips parted, her breath going still in her throat. “Thank you, Letitia,” she finally said, her low voice catching on her sister’s name.
Letitia just shrugged, clearly not wanting to get into a sentimental conversation. “It’s nothing,” she said, her breezy voice belied by her slight sniffle. “But I think you should accept the earl’s offer all the same. If for no other reason than to restore your popularity. If one dance with him can make you acceptable again, think what an entire skating party will do. We’ll be mobbed by gentleman callers.”
Susannah sighed, truly torn. She had enjoyed her conversation with the earl at the theater. But she’d grown less trusting since Clive had jilted her last summer. And she didn’t want to be the subject of unpleasant gossip again, which would certainly arise the minute the earl decided to pay attention to some other young lady.
“I can’t,” she said to Letitia, standing up so suddenly that her chair nearly toppled over. “I just can’t.”
Her regrets were sent to the earl not one hour later.
Precisely sixty minutes after Susannah watched her footman depart with her note for the earl, declining his invitation, the Ballisters’ butler found her in her bedchamber and informed her that the earl himself had arrived and was waiting for her downstairs.
Susannah gasped, dropping the book she’d been trying to read all morning. It landed on her toe.
“Ow!” she blurted out.
“Are you hurt, Miss Ballister?” the butler asked politely.
Susannah shook her head even though her toe was throbbing. Stupid book. She hadn’t been able to read more than three paragraphs in an hour. Every time she looked down at the pages, the words swam and blurred until all she could see was the earl’s face.
And now he was there.
Was he trying to torture her?
Yes, Susannah thought, with no small measure of melodrama, he probably was.
“Shall I inform him that you will see him in a moment?” the butler inquired.
Susannah nodded. She was certainly in no position to refuse an audience with the Earl of Renminster, especially in her own home. A quick glance in her mirror told her that her hair wasn’t too terribly mussed after sitting on her bed for an hour, and so with heart pounding, she made her way downstairs.
When she walked into the sitting room, the earl was standing by the window, his posture proud and perfect as always. “Miss Ballister,” he said, turning to face her, “how lovely to see you.”
“Er, thank you,” she said.
“I received your note.”
“Yes,” she said, swallowing nervously as she lowered herself into a chair, “I surmised as much.”
“I was disappointed.”
Her eyes flew to his. His tone was quiet, serious, and there was something in it that hinted of even deeper emotions. “I’m sorry,” she said, speaking slowly, trying to measure her words before she actually said them aloud. “I never meant to hurt your feelings.”
He began to walk toward her, but his movements were slow, almost predatory. “Didn’t you?” he murmured.
“No.” She answered quickly, for it was the truth. “Of course not.”
“Then why,” he asked, settling into the chair nearest to hers, “did you refuse?”
She couldn’t tell him the truth—that she didn’t want to be the girl who was dropped by two Mann-Formsbys. If the earl began to accompany her to skating parties and the like, the only way it would appear as if he hadn’t dropped her would be if he actually married her. And Susannah didn’t want him to think she was dangling for an offer of marriage.
Good heavens, what could be more embarrassing than that?
“No good reason, then?” the earl said, one side of his mouth tipping up as his eyes never left her face.
“I’m not a good skater,” Susannah blurted out, the lie the only thing she could think of on such short notice.
“Is that all?” he asked, dismissing her protest with nothing more than a quirk of his lips. “Have no fear, I shall support you.”
Susannah gulped. Did that mean hands at the waist as they slid across the ice? If so, then her lie might just turn out to be the truth, because she was not at all certain that she could remain balanced and on her feet with the earl standing so close.
“I…ah…”
“Excellent,” he declared, rising to his feet. “Then it is settled. We shall be a pair at the skating party. Stand now, if you will, and I shall give you your first lesson.”
He didn’t offer her much choice in the matter, taking her hand and tugging her upward. Susannah glanced toward the door, which she noticed was not nearly as far open as she’d left it when she entered.
Letitia.
The sneaky little matchmaker. She was going to have to have a stern talk with her sister once Renminster finally left. Letitia might wake up with her hair all chopped off yet.
And speaking of Renminster, what was he about? Expert skater that she was, Susannah knew very well that there was nothing to be taught about the sport unless one was actually on skates. She stood anyway, half out of curiosity, half because his relentless tug at her hand left her little choice.
“The secret to skating,” he said (somewhat pompously, in her opinion), “is in the knees.”
She batted her lashes. She’d always thought women who batted their lashes looked a bit dim, and since she was trying to appear as if she hadn’t a clue about what she was doing, she thought it might be an effective touch. “The knees, you say?” she asked.
“Indeed,” he replied. “The bending of them.”
“The bending of the knees,” she echoed. “Imagine that.”
If he caught the sarcasm under her façade of innocence, he made no indication. “Indeed,” he said again, making her wonder if perhaps it weren’t his favorite word. “If you try to keep your knees straight, you will never keep your balance.”
“Like this?” Susannah asked, bending her knees far too deeply.
“No, no, Miss Ballister,” he said, demonstrating the maneuver himself. “Rather like this.”
He looked uncommonly silly pretending to skate in the middle of the drawing room, but Susannah managed to keep her smile well hidden. Truly, moments like this were not to be wasted.
“I don’t understand,” s
he said.
David’s brows came together in frustration. “Come over here,” he said, moving to the side of the room where there was no furniture.
Susannah followed.
“Like this,” he said, trying to move across the polished wood floors as if he were on skates.
“It doesn’t seem terribly…smooth,” she said, her face the perfect picture of innocence.
David eyed her suspiciously. She looked almost too angelic standing there watching him make a fool of himself. His shoes hadn’t a scuff on them, of course, and they didn’t slide at all on the floor.
“Why don’t you try it again?” she asked, smiling rather like the Mona Lisa.
“Why don’t you try it?” he countered.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” she said, blushing modestly. Except—he frowned—she wasn’t blushing. She was just tilting her head slightly to the side in a bashful manner that should have been accompanied by a blush.
“Learning by doing,” he said, determined to get her skating if it killed him. “It’s the only way.” If he was going to make a fool of himself, heaven take it, so was she.
She cocked her head slightly, looking as if she were considering the notion, then she just smiled and said, “No, thank you.”
He moved to her side. “I insist,” he murmured, purposefully stepping just a little bit closer to her than was proper.
Her lips parted in surprise and awareness. Good. He wanted her to want him, even if she didn’t understand what that meant.
Moving so that he was slightly behind her, he placed his hands at her waist. “Try it this way,” he said softly, his lips scandalously close to her ear.
“My—my lord,” she whispered. Her tone suggested that she’d tried to shriek the words, but that she lacked the energy, or perhaps the conviction.
It was, of course, completely improper, but as he planned to marry her, he didn’t really see the problem.
Besides, he was rather enjoying seducing her. Even though—no, especially because—she didn’t even realize it was happening.
“Like this,” he said, his voice dropping nearly to a whisper. He exerted a bit of pressure on her waist, designed to force her to move forward as if they were skating as partners. But of course she stumbled, since her shoes didn’t slide on the floor, either. And when she stumbled, he stumbled.
Much to his eternal dismay, however, they somehow managed to remain on their feet, and did not end up in a tangled pile on the floor. Which had been, of course, his intention.
Susannah expertly extricated herself from his grasp, leaving him to wonder if she’d had to practice the same maneuvers with Clive.
By the time he even realized that his jaw was clenched, he nearly had to pry it apart with his fingers.
“Is something wrong, my lord?” Susannah asked.
“Nothing at all,” he ground out. “Why should you think so?”
“You look a little”—she blinked several times as she considered his face—“angry.”
“Not at all,” he said smoothly, forcing all thoughts of Clive and Susannah and Clive-and-Susannah from his mind. “But we should try the skating again.” Perhaps this time he’d manage to orchestrate a tumble.
She stepped away, bright girl that she was. “I think it’s time for tea,” she said, her tone somehow sweet and resolute at the same time.
If that tone hadn’t so obviously meant that he wasn’t going to get what he wanted—namely, his body rather closely aligned against hers, preferably on the floor—he might have admired it. It was a talent, that—getting exactly what one wanted without ever having to remove a smile from one’s face.
“Do you care for tea?” she asked.
“Of course,” he lied. He detested tea, much as that had always vexed his mother, who felt it to be one’s patriotic duty to drink the appalling beverage. But without tea, he’d have little excuse to linger.
But then her brows drew together, and she looked straight at him and said, “You hate tea.”
“You remember,” he commented, somewhat impressed.
“You lied,” she pointed out.
“Perhaps I hoped to remain in your company,” he said, gazing down at her rather as if she were a chocolate pastry.
He hated tea, but chocolate—now that was another story.
She stepped to the side. “Why?”
“Why, indeed,” he murmured. “That’s a good question.”
She took another step to the side, but the sofa blocked her path.
He smiled.
Susannah smiled back, or at least she tried to. “I can have something else brought for you to drink.”
He appeared to consider that for a moment, then he said, “No, I think it’s time I departed.”
Susannah nearly gasped at the knot of disappointment forming in her chest. When had her ire at his highhandedness turned into desire for his presence? And what was his game? First he made silly excuses to put his hands on her person, then he out-and-out lied to prolong his visit, and now, suddenly, he wanted to leave?
He was toying with her. And the worst part was—some little part of her was enjoying it.
He took a step toward the door. “I shall see you on Thursday, then?”
“Thursday?” she echoed.
“The skating party,” he reminded her. “I believe I said I would come for you thirty minutes prior.”
“But I never agreed to go,” she blurted out.
“Didn’t you?” He smiled blandly. “I could have sworn you did.”
Susannah feared that she was wading into treacherous waters, but she just couldn’t stop the stubborn devil that had clearly taken over her mind. “No,” she said, “I didn’t.”
In under a second, he’d moved back to her side, and was standing close…very close. So close that the breath rushed from her body, replaced by something sweeter, something more dangerous.
Something utterly forbidden and divine.
“I think you will,” he said softly, touching his fingers to her chin.
“My lord,” she whispered, stunned by his nearness.
“David,” he said.
“David,” she repeated, too mesmerized by the green fire in his eyes to say anything else. But something about it felt right. She had never uttered his name, never even thought of him as anything but Clive’s brother or Renminster, or even just the earl. But now, somehow, he was David, and when she looked into his eyes, so near to hers, she saw something new.
She saw the man. Not the title, not the fortune.
The man.
He took her hand, raised it to his lips. “Until Thursday, then,” he murmured, his kiss brushing her skin with aching tenderness.
She nodded, because she could do nothing else.
Frozen in place, she watched mutely as he stepped away and walked toward the door.
But then, as he reached his hand toward the knob—but in that split second before he actually touched it—he stopped. He stopped, and he turned, and while she was standing there staring at him, he said, more to himself than to her, “No, no, that will never do.”
He required only three long steps to reach her side. In a movement that was as startling as it was fluidly sensuous, he gathered her against him. His lips found hers, and he kissed her.
He kissed her until she thought she might faint from the desire.
He kissed her until she thought she might pass out from the lack of air.
He kissed her until she couldn’t think of anything but him, could see nothing but his face in her mind, and wanted nothing but the taste of him on her lips…forever.
And then, with the same suddenness that had brought him to her side, he stepped away.
“Thursday?” he asked softly.
She nodded, one of her hands touching her lips.
He smiled. Slowly, with hunger. “I will look forward to it,” he murmured.
“As will I,” she whispered, although not until he was gone. “As will I.”
Chapter 4
Good heavens, but This Author could not even begin to count the number of people sprawled most inelegantly upon the snow and ice during Lord and Lady Moreland’s skating party yesterday afternoon.
It seems the ton is not quite as proficient at the art and sport of ice skating as they would like to believe.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 4 FEBRUARY 1814
According to his pocket watch, which David knew to be perfectly accurate, it was precisely forty-six minutes past noon, and David knew quite well that the day was Thursday and the date was February the third, the year eighteen hundred and fourteen.
And at precisely that moment—at precisely 12:46 on Thursday, 3 February 1814, David Mann-Formsby, Earl of Renminster, realized three incontrovertible truths.
The first was, if one were going to be precise about it, probably closer to opinion than fact. And that was that the skating party was a disaster. Lord and Lady Moreland had instructed their poor, shivering servants to push carts about the ice with sandwiches and Madeira, which might have been a charming touch, except that none of the servants had the least bit of a clue as to how to maneuver on the ice, which, where it wasn’t slippery, was treacherously bumpy due to the wind’s constant sweep during the freezing process.
As a result, a flock of rather nasty-looking pigeons had congregated near the pier to gorge themselves on the sandwiches that had spilled from an overturned cart, and the poor hapless footman who’d been forced to push the cart was now sitting on the shore, pressing handkerchiefs up to his face where the pigeons had pecked him until he’d fled the scene.
The second truth that David realized was even less palatable. And that was that Lord and Lady Moreland had decided to host the party for the express purpose of finding a wife for their dimwit son Donald, and they’d decided that Susannah would do as well as any. To that end, they’d snatched her from his side and forced her into conversation with Donald for a full ten minutes before Susannah had managed an escape. (At which point they’d moved on to Lady Caroline Starling, but David decided that that simply couldn’t be his problem, and Caroline would have to figure out how to extricate herself.)