“No,” he said and stepped closer. Even as he reminded himself that it was highly inappropriate for him to be touching her, he put his hand on hers and moved her index finger over the top of the cue. “Hold it like that.”
Her skin was like warm satin. “And make sure the cue stays centered on top of your thumb,” he added, manipulating her hand with his. “Like so. And over your middle finger as well.”
Ian forced himself to pull his hand back, and she tapped the ball with the cue. It hit the red, and both rolled about eighteen inches before coming to a stop. He leaned over the table to retrieve them so she could try again. As he did so, his thigh brushed her hip, a brief, agonizing contact that sent him closer to the edge of reason.
He fought for equilibrium. “Use a bit more force,” he advised as he set the pair of billiard balls in front of her again, “but not so much that you send the ball flying off the table.”
Even as he said those words, he did not understand how he was able to utter them in such a relaxed tone of voice. The shape of her hip was like an indelible brand against his body, burning him, dissolving his wits.
He needed a drink.
“Take a few practice shots.” He walked away to pour himself a glass of port from one of the decanters in Dylan’s liquor cabinet, reminding himself he had known this would happen. When he returned to her side of the room, he kept to the opposite end of the table, but even that was its own special torture, for every time she leaned over, he was given a splendid view of what was out of his reach. Her smile at him every time she managed to make a proper shot was like a touch that reached for him across the table. In a desperate attempt at distraction, he began explaining the basic rules of the game to her.
“So English billiards is a game of points,” she said, when he had finished. She gestured to the table. “If I sink the red ball into the hole without letting my white ball go in with it, I can score three points?”
He nodded, and she leaned over the table. He focused on her face, watching as her dark brows furrowed in concentration. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, took aim, and made her shot.
Her cue ball sent the red one straight toward his corner of the table at a rapid clip, but instead of falling into the pocket, it ricocheted back toward her side of the table. It slowed down and slid right between the bumpers in front of her, stopping at the very edge of the pocket without going in.
“Ma, no!” Lucia leaned over the table, tilted her head, and blew on the ball, sending it that last fraction of an inch into the pocket. It was so outrageous and so in keeping with her nature that Ian burst out laughing.
“At last!” she cried and straightened. “I have at last made you laugh!” she told him, laughing, too. “I began to think perhaps you did not know how.”
He was rather taken aback by that. “Of course I know how to laugh.”
“I have never heard it until this moment, so I did not know. You have a nice laugh. I like it. It is deep and rich, as a man’s laugh should be.”
“Well, thank you.” He gave her a bow. “Does this mean you have changed your opinion of me? Or am I still stuffy?”
She did not answer at once. Instead, she set the cue on the table and walked over to where he stood. When he faced her, she studied him for a long moment as if giving his question the most serious consideration. Then, without a word, she did something wholly unexpected. She reached up with both hands and slid her fingers into his hair, mussing it.
Ian froze at the touch of her hands. Sensuality seemed to radiate from her fingertips straight into his bloodstream, filling his body with all the heat of an Italian summer.
He could not move, he could not breathe, he could only stare at her upturned face as she played with his hair. Her attention was on her task, but his was on the impossible, erotic fantasies flashing through his mind. Fantasies of pulling her down to the floor, of pulling out pins and tumbling her long black hair down around his face, of sliding his hands under her skirts and feeling her soft, hot skin against his palms.
“Not so stuffy now,” she murmured, smiling at her handiwork, but she did not lower her hands. Instead, she continued to toy with his hair, the insides of her wrists brushing against his face, as he stood stock-still and rock-hard on the edge of a cliff.
There was no one here to see him fall off.
The door was closed. It was late. Dylan and Grace were out. The servants were in bed. There was no one to watch his honor crumble into dust. No one to know but her, and she would annihilate a saint’s resolve and revel in his downfall.
Ian was not a saint. The thick heaviness of lust began to overtake him, threatening to make him forget that he was a gentleman. It was what he had always been; he did not know how to be any other way.
Yet, even as he grasped at the honor that had dictated his actions throughout his life, it was like grasping at thin air. For at this moment, he yearned to be someone else, someone wild and reckless—like her, like Dylan, like all the people who did what they pleased and took what they wanted, who enjoyed the pleasures of life and did not care about the consequences.
If only he could be like that. The dark, secret wish that had always been in his soul whispered to him now in time with the thud of his heartbeats. If only…if only…
He bent his head a fraction, inhaling the scent of her hair, feeling the silky texture of her wrists against his face. He stirred, moved even closer, so close that her breasts brushed his chest. The contact sent exquisite pleasure shimmering through his body, tempting him beyond what any man should have to bear, and he bent his head to touch her lips with his. Her mouth opened at once, soft and cherry sweet. Forbidden fruit was the sweetest kind, and hungry for more, he deepened the kiss. If only…
It was a hungry wish, and a futile one.
He grasped her wrists, pulled her hands down, and pushed her firmly away from him. “God,” he ground out, furious with himself for wanting what he could not have, furious with her for evoking it, “you are the most relentless woman alive. Devil take you for a flirt and a tease!”
He turned his back and strode to the desk, where he yanked his evening coat off the back of his chair and put it on, trying not to look at her. If he did, if he caught one glimpse of that gorgeous mouth of hers, his honor and her virtue would both be gone.
His back to her, he straightened his cuffs, smoothed his coat sleeves, and combed his hair back into place with his fingers, striving for order amid the chaos of lust that stormed through his body. “Forgive me,” he said when he felt enough in control to speak again, “but I must go. I am expected at my club.”
Ian turned and strode past her out of the room. He left the house without waiting for his carriage to be called and walked down the sidewalk in the warm July night, drawing in deep breaths of air.
He walked to Brooks’s, intending to drink a glass of port, eat a joint of beef, and read the Times. But even at his club, surrounded by all the trappings of the honorable British gentleman, he still longed for the forbidden fruit; he still hungered for the hot, sweet kisses of an Italian girl.
Chapter 10
If Ian hoped that his club would take his mind off Lucia Valenti, it did not take long for that hope to be dashed. He managed to eat his meal in peace, but he had barely settled himself in his favorite chair of Brooks’s reading room with a copy of the Times and a glass of port before the onslaught began, and Miss Valenti became the bane of his existence yet again.
“Sir Ian?”
He looked up to find Lord Montrose beside his chair. “Montrose,” he greeted without enthusiasm and stood up to give a polite bow. He then immediately sat back down.
“Mind if I join you?” Without waiting for an answer, the other man pulled another chair forward and sat down opposite him. Smoothing his ornate brocade waistcoat, he said, “It is so fortunate that I find you alone, for I have been meaning to talk with you, and this provides me with the perfect opportunity.”
“I was just about to read the Times.” He picked up the newspa
per from the table beside him, but this clear desire to be alone was lost on Montrose.
“Sir Ian, when you first called upon me with the desire to introduce me to Miss Valenti, I was not particularly enthused to make her acquaintance, for though she is a prince’s acknowledged daughter, her illegitimacy places her true social position well below my own. But that day at Lady Kettering’s concert, I became so enamored with her that I have been unable to keep my mind on any other matter. I can think of nothing but her.”
Ian had made an entire career out of saying all the right things, so he resisted the impulse to tell Montrose to bugger off.
“As you may know,” the baron continued, “I have called upon Miss Valenti numerous times and have always found her manner toward me to be most amiable.”
“Miss Valenti is a very amiable young lady,” Ian said, striving to keep his expression impassive, even as he remembered just how amiable Lucia could be. Her luscious kiss was still quite vivid in his mind, despite all his efforts this evening to eradicate the memory.
“She is enchanting.” Montrose’s face lit up with the unmistakable and ridiculous rapture of an infatuated man. “And such an original.”
“She is unique.”
The baron did not appear to notice the terseness of Ian’s tone. “But she is so unpredictable in her moods that I find it impossible to gauge the true depth of her feelings for me.” He leaned forward in his chair with sudden eagerness. “Have I any chance with her, do you think?”
None. She thinks you are a peacock.
The acidic words hovered on the tip of Ian’s tongue, but he did not say them. Instead, he took a sip of port and made a safe, innocuous reply. “It is not my place to give an opinion. For an answer to that, you will have to ask the lady.”
“I intend to. If she is willing to accept me, can I count upon you to present me to her father as your choice?”
“Absolutely,” he said with fervor. “Now, if you will pardon me,” he went on, and rose to his feet, “I must return to my reading. So important for a man in my position to remain au courant, you know.”
“Of course, of course. Thank you, Sir Ian. I appreciate your support.”
The two men bowed to one another, and Montrose wandered off, but Ian had barely opened his newspaper before he was once again interrupted.
“Sir Ian?”
Smothering an oath, he reminded himself that Lord Walford was not a man to be snubbed. The fellow was a viscount, after all. Ian closed his newspaper and stood up. “Good evening,” he greeted with scrupulous politeness. “Out about town this evening, are you, Walford?”
“Yes, yes. Just come in for a drink.”
“I came to read the paper.” Ian sat back down, but like Montrose, Walford was oblivious to hints. He took the seat recently vacated by his rival and began to wax poetic about the charms of Miss Valenti and complain in bewilderment of her capricious Italian temperament.
As Walford rambled on, Ian remembered what Dylan had said about her suitors and how they had been accosting him in Brooks’s. At the time, Ian had thought little of the matter, deeming it nothing more than his brother’s wicked sense of humor at work, but now he understood that Dylan’s words had been the plain, unvarnished truth. Ian wished he’d paid greater heed to what his brother had told him. If he had, he never would have come here tonight. He’d bloody well have gone to some obscure East End pub instead.
“Hard lines,” Walford was saying. “Don’t you think so?”
“Quite,” Ian said, forcing his attention back to the man before him. He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, intertwined his fingers, and pressed his forefingers to his lips in his best diplomatic manner, hoping he appeared the sincere and sympathetic listener, wondering how to get rid of Walford as quickly as possible. “Quite so.”
“But every time I call to pay my respects,” Walford went on, “her beauty and her lively demeanor leave me stunned. My heart leaps in my chest, and I stammer like a schoolboy.”
Ian looked at Walford with pity. The viscount wasn’t a bad sort. He was, in truth, a good, kindly man, no match for a temperamental Italian tornado. If Walford married her, he’d probably die of a heart attack on the wedding night.
“When I am with her,” Walford went on, “I cannot think what to say to make conversation. I would welcome your advice.”
Ian decided to save the poor fellow from an untimely death. With a straight face, he said, “Rose pollination.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes.” He gave a decisive nod. “I believe your discussion with her about your hobby made quite a vivid impression. I should advise you to discuss the topic with her at every possible opportunity.”
“Indeed?” Walford’s face took on a beatific expression, as if he had just been handed heaven. “It is true that at Lady Kettering’s, she seemed quite impressed by my efforts to breed a blue rose.”
“Well, there you are.” Ian stood up, smiling, hoping this conversation was at an end. He held out his hand.
“Thank you, Sir Ian.” Walford grasped his hand and shook it with gratitude, never knowing how close he had come to dying young.
The viscount walked away, and Ian sat back down. He opened his paper and tried to interest himself in the news that the Grand National Consolidated Trades Union was on the verge of collapsing.
“Sir Ian?”
Christ, have mercy.
He looked up. “Haye,” he greeted and rose, feeling like a child’s toy jack-in-the-box. Resigning himself to the inevitable, Ian did not even mention his newspaper. Instead, he folded it and set it aside, then gestured to the chair across from him. “Have a seat?”
“Thank you.”
Ian opened conversation, hoping to postpone another tale of Miss Valenti’s charm, beauty, and fickle heart for at least a few minutes. “I hear your uncle has returned from Paris.”
“Yes. He has seen my youngest sister settled in finishing school there, and he arrived back in town this afternoon, but I have not yet had the opportunity to see him.”
“Give him my best regards.”
“When I call on him tomorrow, I shall.” Haye paused, took a sip of his claret, and said, “I must also tell him that my hopes regarding Miss Valenti are coming to fruition.”
Ian’s throat was suddenly dry, and he reached for his glass. “Really?”
“Yes. With your approval, Miss Valenti shall soon become the Countess of Haye.”
Not a chance, Ian thought, planting a congenial smile firmly in place. She hates your chin.
“You see,” Haye continued, “I have asked for her hand in marriage, and she has accepted me.”
Ian almost dropped his port. “What?”
The earl nodded in complete earnest. “Earlier this evening at Tremore’s water party.”
There had to be some sort of mistake. “Haye, I am all astonishment,” he managed to say. “I saw Miss Valenti earlier this evening when she returned from that party, and she said nothing about this.”
“I am not surprised. I am sure she wished to keep our engagement to herself until I had the opportunity to consult with you. Since you act as the representative of her father’s interests in this matter, I realize I should have made my feelings and intentions known to you before I made them known to her, but sometimes one must seize the moment, as it were. Her beauty, the romance of sunset—”
“Yes, yes,” Ian hastily cut him off. “I understand.”
“Since it was you who first approached me, I think I can safely assume I shall have your endorsement. Though it may not be necessary, I shall obtain her father’s formal consent when he arrives next month. Then we can discuss the arrangements of the wedding, the dowry, and such.”
Ian still did not believe it. Lucia would not have flirted with him over a billiard table or put her hands in his hair or kissed him if she had agreed to marry Haye. Would she?
She might. At that grim acknowledgment, his anger flared. She could play hell with any man,
and this ridiculous parade of her tormented suitors was living proof. Even he was not immune. Two hours ago, the sound of her laughter and the scent of her hair and the taste of her mouth had threatened to destroy any shred of good sense he possessed.
He closed his eyes for a moment, smothering his anger, reminding himself that particular emotion was hardly useful right now. It was imperative that he ascertain the real facts, but before he could begin to do so, another voice intruded on the conversation.
“She cannot have agreed to marry you! It is not possible.”
Both men turned in their seats to find Lord Montrose standing nearby, glowering at Haye from behind a tall, wing chair.
“I saw Miss Valenti only two nights ago at an assembly,” he continued, “and she danced with me three times.” He held up his fingers in an emphatic flourish. “Three! That is proof, I think, that the lady has not yet made up her mind.”
Haye spoke before Ian had the opportunity. “Despite your rudeness in eavesdropping, I shall respond. I assure you, Montrose, the lady has made her choice. She accepted my proposal of marriage only a few hours ago. I know you had an interest in Miss Valenti, but her affections lie elsewhere. With me.”
“I do not believe it.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“If the shoe fits.” Montrose came around from behind the chair.
Haye rose and stepped forward. “By God, you go too far.”
Ian jumped to his feet and moved to stand between the two men. “Gentlemen, please. We are in Brooks’s. Let us remain civil.”
He was ignored.
“Montrose,” Haye said, his face white with anger at the insult he had just been given, “I have the proof of her affection for me in her consent to marry me.”
The baron shook his head. “You must be mistaken.”
“A man cannot mistake a woman’s affection when she boldly gives him a kiss!”
“What?” Both Ian and Montrose said at once.
Haye gave the baron a triumphant smile. “You see? Only the deepest affection could induce a lady to be so forward.”
Guilty Series Page 95