by Connie Lane
He had, he admitted, taken her for granted, and that meant he had never noticed how clear her skin was or how her eyes shone with exactly the kind of intelligence he’d just told her he found so admirable. He hadn’t noticed her figure much, either—at least no more than any man would notice a woman who was neither too old or too young or too close a relation to pay any attention to at all. But now that he looked, he realized that Madame Brenard must have been as hard at work on Willie’s gown as she had been at fashioning suitable clothing for the other women in the household.
Though the dress would never grace a fashion plate, its simple lines, high waist and delightfully scooped neckline brought out the best of Willie’s figure and its dark color made her hair, in contrast, look as bright as flame. With a sensation that felt a bit as if a hand had been inserted into his gut to twist it tight, Nick realized what he’d thought that first day he’d set eyes on Willie. She had all the right curves in all the right places. And now he saw that all her right places looked to be as delectable as any of the right places he’d ever been placed rightly enough to see.
“La, sir!”
The sound of Willie’s voice snapped Nick out of his thoughts and he found himself grateful for the fact.
“I see you do quite live up to your reputation, m’lord,” she said, sounding as practiced as every marriage-minded girl he’d ever met. “You are not above flattering a woman both to make her feel welcome in your home and to turn her head.”
“Except I wasn’t. Flattering, that is. Simply telling the truth.” One hand behind his back, Nick reached for Willie’s right hand and at the same time he bowed over it, he brushed her fingers with his lips.
For what seemed too long a time and not nearly long enough, Willie stood as still as he knew Miss Markham would not. Miss Markham, he would wager, would take the opportunity to preen like a peahen and glance at the other women in the room just to make sure they noticed that the Viscount Somerton was paying her special court.
Willie’s hand was small and well shaped, her fingers short and tapered. Her skin was not nearly as soft as that of the impures he was used to being so close to, yet there was something about the work-roughened touch that sent a singular sizzle through Nick.
Perhaps Willie felt it too. When he tightened his hold, she pulled her hand back to her side. “Miss Markham will be wearing gloves, of course,” she said, looking up into Nick’s eyes. She was Willie again and not some pampered wet goose with more social-climbing skills than brains. A restive smile came and went over her face.
“She’ll giggle nicely, if I am not mistaken, and then she is bound to look around for her mother to be sure she’s done the right thing. She will get Mama’s approval and once she has it, she will wait for you to say—”
“That your eyes are as soft as April clouds and your smile bright enough to make the sun hide in shame.”
“You are too bad, m’lord.”
Was it Nick’s imagination, or did Willie look relieved to think they were back to playing their game?
As if she held an imaginary fan, she tapped his arm. “You will make me so giddy, I will not be able to eat a bite at dinner, m’lord.”
“We’ll cancel dinner.”
“But sir…” As if they were in the crowded salon of Somerton House, she glanced around. “You have other guests and—”
“We’ll toss the guests into the street.” The more Nick thought about it, the better the idea sounded. One careful step at a time, he closed the gap between them, until he was close enough to look down into Willie’s eyes. “We’ll have Mr. Finch bring us a bottle of wine and we’ll bar the doors and close the curtains and—”
“Gads, m’lord!” As if she knew enough about Devonna Markham to know that she’d spent her life being instructed in exactly how to deal with men who were too forward for their own good but too well-connected to be put aside, she backed away a step and gave him a practiced, coquette’s smile. “We are hardly acquainted and yet you tease so! Certainly what you mean to speak of is how fine the weather has been these last few days.” She gave him a pointed look. “Or perhaps you might mention the excitement of Princess Charlotte’s upcoming marriage to Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg Saalfeld. Like the rest of the ton, I cannot help but think you must be keen with anticipation.”
“Keen with anticipation, yes. But not about Princess Charlotte.” Nick again stepped nearer. “It’s not too late to extinguish the candles and pretend we are not at home.”
“You are standing too close, m’lord.”
It was not some callow miss who looked up at him with an expression he could not fully read, not some cast-in-stone Miss Markham who ran her tongue over her lips as if they were suddenly dry. And she was suddenly nervous. It was Willie, and the realization should have been enough to bring Nick to his senses. For reasons he could barely understand and never explain, it only served to make him more determined.
“I am thinking that I’m not nearly as close as I’d like to be.” Nick voice dipped along with the look he skimmed over Willie’s freckle-dotted shoulders. He brushed it along her collarbone and across the hollow at the base of her throat. He skimmed it over where the swell of her breasts peeked ever so demurely over the neckline of her gown. There was a warm, soft shadow between her breasts and he imagined how smooth her skin must be there. And how it might taste.
“Miss Markham will be frightfully unnerved should you speak to her so shamelessly.” Willie’s voice carried an edge of nervous laughter.
“But you are not.” Nick raised his gaze to her eyes.
“Of course not.” She forced a smile that lasted no longer than the bump of Nick’s heart against his ribs. “We are playacting, after all, and there is no sincerity in the things you say.”
“And if there was?”
The question hung in the air between them like the scent of the yellow roses in a vase set upon a nearby table. Heady. Tantalizing. Compelling.
Before Willie could answer—and before Nick could decide what he wanted her answer to be—they heard the sounds of a carriage out front.
Something very like relief washed over Willie’s expression and she backed away and glanced toward the front window. “It is sure to be your cousin, Lynnette,” she said, her voice breathy. She moved quickly toward the stairway. “She is back from Bath, you know, and I asked her to arrive early so that she might be here to greet your guests. It was kind of her to agree to act as your hostess tonight.”
“Kind. Yes.” Away from the magnetic pull of Willie’s smile, Nick felt more his old self again and instantly determined that he had never been all that satisfied with that person. Reluctant to break whatever fragile bond he had established with Willie and just as sure that if he did not let it go he would lose both her trust and her friendship, he caught the gaze that had been so sure and steady before and now refused to meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry. I think, perhaps, that I’ve made you uncomfortable. It was not my intention.”
“Of course not.” She gave him a gracious nod. “We are all on edge and I, perhaps, overreacted. After all, it is not every night that something so momentous happens at Somerton House.”
“No, it isn’t.”
She was talking about the dinner party.
Nick was not.
The front door opened and Lynnette—all dark hair and ringlets and girlish laughter—sailed into the entryway like a ship headed into port.
“I must greet your dear cousin,” Willie said and before Nick could make a move to offer her his arm and accompany her, she hurried down the steps.
Nick was not a man who believed in luck. But watching Willie go, he breathed a sigh of relief. Without the fortunate and well-timed arrival of Lynnette, he was sure he knew exactly what would have happened.
He had nearly kissed Willie Culpepper.
And the devil of it was, he couldn’t quite decide if that was a bad thing.
Or a very good thing indeed.
9
; “I say! Did you see the look on the old man’s face?” Arthur Hexam could barely control himself. His plump body settled comfortably on the settee in Nick’s library, his head thrown back against the pillows and a glass of claret in one hand, he laughed so hard, he nearly choked on the bite of biscuit he was chewing. He popped the rest of the biscuit into his mouth so that he might pound his chest with one hand and even when he caught his breath, he kept on laughing. “I thought ol’ Jack Markham would have apoplexy right there at your table!”
“That would have capped off the evening nicely.” Nick doubted if Latimer, Palliston, or Hexam noticed the sarcasm in his voice; they were all laughing so hard. He tossed back the last of the claret in his own glass but even when he swallowed and felt the slow, familiar burn of the spirits in his throat, he couldn’t quite bring himself to join in the merriment.
There wasn’t anything funny about the way the evening had gone.
The thought sat upon his shoulders like a January chill and though his first inclination was to reach for more claret to melt it, Nick set down his glass. No amount of spirits was going to make him feel better about the fact that he’d been tempted to overstep the bounds of propriety—not to mention sanity—and kiss Willie.
Just as no amount of claret would dull the fact that he still wanted to kiss her.
More than he wanted his next breath.
He caught himself just as he was about to sigh and glanced around. Fortunately, his friends were too busy recounting the events that had unfolded at the dinner table to notice that he was brooding. It was, perhaps, the only consolation in what had turned into the social disaster of this—or any other—Season. That, and the fact that things had gone so badly at the dinner party, it had nearly made him forget what happened with Willie.
Except for the incident of Jem being distracted by a stray dog and leaving his post at precisely the moment Devonna Markham and her parents alighted from their carriage and a second, more disturbing, occurrence when the Duchess of Amberly noticed that her diamond bracelet was missing only moments after Mr. Finch had served her an orangeat, the evening had started out well enough.
The bracelet was soon found on the floor near where the duchess had been standing (but only after Nick saw Willie out in the passageway having a quiet but firm talk with Mr. Finch), and conversation was as lively as it can be in a group of both men and women. His duties as host kept Nick busy and he was grateful for that much. The more he had to do, the less he had time to deal with the memories that tickled his imagination—memories of Willie’s voice and Willie’s laughter and the way Willie’s eyes sparkled in the light of the chandelier. Though it served much the same purpose, he was less grateful for the obvious and quite terrifying realization that Devonna Markham took an instant and rather intense liking to him.
Even that might not have been enough to ruin the evening.
But then it was time for dinner.
There were too many guests for Mr. Finch to serve by himself and though some of the other men of the staff did their best to help, there was a time between the second course and the third when the dishes weren’t whisked from the table nearly quickly enough. Extra help was in order.
Unfortunately, it arrived in the form of Flossie.
Jack Markham, Devonna’s father, was deep into the telling of a story when Flossie entered the room. He was a big man, he was loud, and he was impossible to miss.
“Godamercy!” Flossie blurted out the moment she saw the man. “If it ain’t Jackie Markham. Well, don’t you look a sight different, sir. What, with your clothes on and all!”
Just as it had then, mortification raced through Nick and he scraped a hand through his hair. “Damn, but Jack’s face was red,” he said.
“Jack’s face?” Latimer finished the claret in his glass and got up to pour himself another. “As red as his face was, you should have seen his good wife’s. She went as pale as porridge.”
“And Miss Markham herself…” Before Hexam could get it, Palliston snatched up the last biscuit on the plate set on a nearby table. “She was muddled, right enough. At least for the first few moments. And then the truth dawned—”
“And she was as spitting outraged as her dear mother!” Smiling, Hexam ran a finger around the perimeter of the plate, picking up the last biscuit crumbs and licking them off his finger. “What a predicament, eh? They couldn’t up and leave because even though Jack pretended he’d never seen Flossie and didn’t know what she was talking about, that would have been as much as admitting his guilt. That gimlet-faced wife of his couldn’t wait until the meal was over so they could make their excuses and fly out of here.”
Halfway toward taking up the seat he’d vacated, Latimer stopped and held up one hand to silence their laughter. “We are surely being insensitive,” he reminded them and the somber expression on his face embarrassed them all into silence. “There are more important things to consider here than our amusement, gentlemen. We must surely convey our deepest regrets…” Latimer’s mouth twitched into a smile. “To poor Somerton here…” His smile turned into a grin. “Who surely through this incident has lost a lady who was most taken by him and would have made him a most worthy…” His grin grew to a chuckle. “A most worthy…” He laughed too hard to say another word.
And it was just as well. Because he knew they would have it no other way, Nick joined in the fun with as much enthusiasm as he was able to muster. Which was little enthusiasm, indeed. “No regrets necessary,” he told them. “Miss Markham was…”
“Trying much too hard?” Hexam suggested.
“She shouldn’t have to be. Not with an income like she has. No.” Nick thought about it for a moment. “Those are not the words I would use. What I meant to say, of course, is that Miss Markham is—”
“As ordinary as apples,” Latimer suggested.
“And chatty enough to set a man’s teeth on edge.” Palliston shivered.
“And quite obviously…” Hexam set down his glass so that he might clutch both his hands to his heart. “Desperately head over heels in love with Somerton!”
“Laugh if you will,” Nick told his friends. “I find no amusement in the thing. Not only was Miss Markham too tall for my liking, she was also, as Palliston was so wise to point out, far too garrulous. Which is not necessarily a bad thing in a woman except on those occasions when she has nothing of any interest to say. Which, in case you didn’t notice, certainly applies to Devonna Markham. It is no wonder the girl hasn’t found a husband. She must scare them off by the dozens with her endless prattling. Besides…” He did not usually send his friends home this early in the night, but it had been a far too eventful dinner party and he was drained. Nick stood, effectively announcing that it was time to end the evening. “Miss Markham is simply not my type.”
It was an honest enough admission. Which didn’t explain why his friends met it with smiles.
“Somerton is getting pensive.” Latimer clapped Nick on the shoulder and headed for the door. “There was a time when the only type that concerned him was the female type.”
“Perhaps he is ready to get buckled.” Following Latimer, Palliston shook his head sadly. “Otherwise he would not be so concerned with matching to the right personality.”
“Which makes a man wonder, of course…” As if there might be more biscuits hiding beneath it, Hexam lifted the plate. Disappointed in his search, he shrugged and set it back down. “Tell us, Somerton…which type of woman is your type?”
It was the last thing Nick wanted to think about. Especially when the memories of his encounter with Willie were still so fresh and vivid enough to make his body tighten in response. He was saved from answering altogether when there was a knock at the door.
Latimer was standing the closest and he opened the door to reveal Willie standing in the passageway outside.
“Excuse me, m’lord.”
One look at Willie and Nick realized he wasn’t the only one having a long night. Earlier, her hair had been pulled
back into a neat chignon. Now, it looked as if two cats had been fighting atop her head. A flaming red curl hung in her eyes. Another few dangled from the knot of hair at the back of her head. Earlier, her clothing was pressed, brushed and clean. Now, there was a streak of some sort of dark gravy across the front of the white apron Willie wore over her gown. Her face was pale and she refused to meet Nick’s eyes. “I’m sorry to bother you, of course, but—”
“No bother at all!” While Latimer held the door open wider so that she might enter, Hexam was not nearly so patient a man. He reached for Willie’s arm and tugged her into the room.
“The biscuits,” Hexam said, apparently thinking the subject far too important to wait a moment longer. “Somerton says there’s a new cook. You must ask him about the biscuits.”
Willie was apparently expecting a different sort of reception. She glanced at Nick as if to gauge his reaction, and seeing that he was not inclined to interrupt his friends, she addressed Hexam. “They are called kaju badam. The recipe is from India. I thought it would be something a little different and that the guests might enjoy them, but of course…” She didn’t need to add that after the fiasco in the dining room, Nick’s guests had followed the Markhams’ suit and had left as soon as possible after dinner, long before they could enjoy the kaju badam or any of the other sweets that had been laid out for their pleasure. “I made the biscuits.”
“Madame, you are a goddess!” Palliston bowed in Willie’s direction. “They are quite delicious and—”
“If you have more…” Hexam stepped between Palliston and Willie.
“There are many more in the kitchen.” Automatically, she made a move toward the door. “I could get—”