Turning onto the landing, she started down a long corridor that would take her to her bedchamber. When she arrived at her destination, she reached inside her reticule for the key, finding it just as a hand snaked its way around her waist. Immediately, she found herself restrained and pushed up against the door to her room.
Opening her mouth, she began to protest, but was stopped by a hard and searing brandy-flavored kiss. Her mind reeled. Somewhere in her subconscious, she’d hoped that Woodford might surprise her like this. She longed for him to do so. Desperately so.
As it turned out, she felt nothing but complete indifference toward the kiss she was now subjected to. It failed to stir her, because the man kissing her was not Woodford. It was Scarsdale.
Placing her hands against his solid chest, Chloe pushed at him while trying to turn her face away.
“Come on,” she heard him say. “Let’s put aside our differences, Chloe. It will be good between us.”
“No,” she whispered. “I have no interest in acquiring a lover. Nor do I wish to marry you. Friendship—that’s all I ever wanted. You know this.”
He pulled back a little and met her gaze in the darkness, black eyes twinkling. “I beg to differ,” he murmured. “You clearly have Woodford in your sights.”
“That’s not true!”
He snorted. “If you truly believe that, then you’re lying to yourself, because I daresay I would do anything for you to look at me the way you look at him.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you,” he said. “Isn’t that obvious?”
“Certainly not,” she told him, pushing him back some more. “Such emotion would not have prompted you to say the things you said in the conservatory.”
“I admit that I was angered by your lack of reciprocation.” He leaned toward her. “But I’m hoping we can put that behind us and that I might still be able to persuade you to reconsider my offer of marriage. It still stands.”
“As honored as I am by your consideration, my answer remains the same,” she said. “I cannot marry you.”
He seemed to hold himself in check, and Chloe held her breath, fearing that he might do something rash. Instead, he brought up his hand and cupped her cheek. “You are the loveliest lady in England,” he whispered. “I’ll always want you and I won’t stop trying to make you mine.” Releasing her, he stepped away completely. “We’re not done with each other, you and I, and if Woodford knows what’s good for him, he’ll keep his distance.”
Her stomach contracted as she watched him walk away. His threat had been clear and somehow, she’d have to find a way to deal with it. Turning back toward the door to her room, her gaze drifted toward another corridor leading away from the one that she was in. Standing there at the junction, was Woodford, his arms crossed as he stared stiffly in her direction. Chloe’s heart thumped. She took a step toward him, uncertain of how much he’d seen of her interaction with Scarsdale. On the heels of their argument, Woodford would likely draw the worst conclusion possible. Somehow she had to explain the situation for what it was. But before she could manage a single word, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving her completely alone in the darkness.
Chapter 13
When James got out of bed the following morning, it was not after a night of restful sleep. In fact, he’d scarcely slept at all, his mind completely occupied by Lady Newbury, the things she’d said and the sight of her kissing Scarsdale of all people. Hot jealousy had poured through him, urging him to challenge Scarsdale to a duel. James was confident that he could take him, for he’d done so before and therefore knew that the earl was not very proficient.
But with no claim of his own to Lady Newbury, what would be the point? He’d made her no promises and knew that he would accomplish nothing by acting on his jealousy other than embarrassing himself. But Scarsdale? Hands clenched, James decided it might be time for a reprieve from Lady Newbury. First, he would have his breakfast, and then he would continue his search for the Political Journal. Alone. If he could just find the bloody entrance to the attic he was confident his mood would change for the better.
But when he entered the Arabian salon, ideally located in a part of the house that might provide for a spiral staircase in one corner, he was met by Lady Dewfield who was looking particularly beautiful dressed in a light blue gown, her dark curls framing her heart-shaped face. She was reclining on a chaise longue while a woman, whom James presumed must be her maid, read to her from a book of poetry.
Spotting James, Lady Dewfield raised her hand to stop the reading. “That will be all for now, Anna. Thank you,” she said, her lips stretching into a wide smile. They were much too red for James’s liking—vulgar almost—although he decided not to judge her too harshly on that point alone since she had been nothing but pleasant toward him the night before. But since it was clear to him that she and Lady Newbury didn’t get along and, keeping her reputation in mind, he chose to remain guarded, just in case.
“Lady Dewfield,” James said, greeting her with a slight bow as Anna hurried from the room.
“Lord Woodford,” the widow replied in a breathy voice. “Will you join me?”
For a moment he just stood there, undecided. A moment passed, and then he nodded. “I’d be honored.” Crossing to a nearby chair, he took a seat.
Lady Dewfield studied him. “Perhaps you’d care for a brandy, my lord?”
James nodded. “I’d welcome one. Thank you.”
She chuckled lightly, but the sound was not as pretty as Lady Newbury’s laughter. Instead, there was a flatness to it that made it sound disingenuous. “I thought you might,” she said, rising. Crossing to the door, she closed it until it remained only slightly ajar. “You look strained. Did you not sleep well last night?”
“No,” he told her truthfully.
Standing at the sideboard, she looked over her shoulder at him, a playful smile tugging at her lips. Returning her attention to the carafe she held in her hand, she poured a large measure, then turned toward him and began her approach, hips swaying in a manner that was no doubt meant to entice. “I hope you’re not still concerned about Lady Newbury’s faux-pas, Lord Woodford.”
Reaching his side, she paused, her body inappropriately close to his. Holding the glass to his lips, she forced him to partake of her offering in a far too intimate manner. Everything inside him revolted as he tilted his head backward and drank. What the hell was he doing with this woman? He didn’t want her, had no desire to even contemplate the prospect of sharing a bed with her, and yet he found himself in her company because of what he’d seen last night. It was laughable. Immature. Completely out of character for him.
Gripping the armrests, he started to rise, intending to make his escape, but Lady Dewfield must have sensed his sudden change of heart, for she was suddenly right before him, kneeling at his feet with the brandy glass still in her hand. Her fingers trailed across his knee. James almost leapt from his seat. “What the . . . what are you doing?” he asked.
“Whatever you want,” she purred.
Good God, the woman was far too forward.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, unable to stand the pout of her mouth or the touch of her hand for a moment longer. Brushing her aside, he prepared to stand, just as the door to the room swung open, revealing none other than Lady Newbury, her eyes widening as she took in the scene before her.
Chloe froze, her hand on the door handle as her brain acknowledged that Woodford was indeed sitting in a chair with Lady Dewfield kneeling before him on the floor, the widow’s fingers resting upon his knee while he leaned toward her. “I beg your pardon,” was the first utterance that came to mind, and then, as anger crashed over her, “although in all fairness I do believe you ought to be begging me pardon for subjecting me to such an intimate scene.” The more Chloe considered it, the more furious she became, not only with Woodford and Lady Dewfield, but with hersel
f as well. One stupid meaningless kiss with Scarsdale last night—a kiss she hadn’t even instigated or wanted—and now this.
At least Woodford had the good grace to look highly uncomfortable as he rose to his feet. The same could not be said for Lady Dewfield who appeared far too smug for Chloe’s liking.
“We are all adults here, Lady Newbury,” Lady Dewfield said with a slight shrug as she rose lithely to her feet and placed the glass that she was holding on a small table next to Woodford’s chair. “He is a handsome man and I am a widow. Nobody would fault either one of us for getting carried away.”
Chloe’s back stiffened. “I suppose you would say the same of my late husband?” She hated herself for bringing it up. It made her feel vulnerable—as if Lady Dewfield was being allowed the right to see how deeply her affair with Newbury had wounded her.
Lady Dewfield shrugged. “I wasn’t the only one. You know that. Your husband, Lady Newbury, was a formidable lover, and you were not enough for him. It’s time you came to terms with that.”
Chloe swallowed away the angry retort that tempted. She would not take Lady Dewfield’s bait—would not lower herself to her level. “Yes,” she said, refusing to look at Woodford even as she sensed his eyes burning into her, touching her very soul and quickening her heartbeat. She was feeling short of breath. “Perhaps I should thank you instead for satisfying his needs.”
Smiling maliciously, Lady Dewfield came toward her slowly, and Chloe fought the urge to back away, facing her nemesis instead with all the courage she possessed. “It would be a fitting start,” Lady Dewfield said. Halting in front of Chloe, she cast a look in Woodford’s direction. “Poor Lady Newbury,” she murmured, “you never were able to keep your men in your bed.”
It was probably a stroke of luck that Lady Dewfield chose to take her leave at that moment or Chloe might very well have placed her hands around the harridan’s slender neck and tried to strangle her. Or so she told herself as she struggled with the wave of emotions rolling through her. And to think that she’d been desperately searching for Woodford all day so she could explain herself properly to him—that she’d feared his censure—only to find him like this, in the process of attaching himself to Lady Dewfield. It was beyond acceptable. “Why?” she asked him, regaining her composure.
Raising his head, he met her gaze, sharp and unyielding. “Do you really need to ask?”
She shook her head. “Of all the women in the world.”
“Forgive me, but I did not know that she and . . . Forgive me.”
Chloe drew a breath. “I cannot believe that you were tempted by her. Don’t you see? She’s only using you to vex me.”
His head jerked up, eyes blazing with carefully controlled anger. “And what if she is? What reason would I have to consider your sensibilities? You’ve said we’re not friends, that there is nothing between us, and yet you wish to keep me to yourself. Rather selfish of you, wouldn’t you say?”
Chloe backed up a step, but rather than retreat through the door as she’d intended, she missed the opening, her back flattening against the wall behind her. “I’m sorry,” she said, distressed by how it must seem to him.
“As far as I can tell, Lady Dewfield seems rather capable. I’m sure that she and I can come to an understanding.”
The cold detachment with which he spoke caught Chloe off guard. “Is this because of what happened yesterday?” she asked him carefully. She’d known at the time that he’d been angry with her, but she hadn’t imagined that it might lead to a deliberate attempt on his part to seek out another woman just to spite her.
“You tell me,” he told her bitterly. “You were the one . . .” He paused, his dark tumultuous eyes boring into her. “Never mind. It is not my place to comment. After all, you and I owe each other nothing. Do we, Lady Newbury?”
Chloe swallowed. He sounded jealous, but surely that couldn’t be true. Her mind whirled with possibilities. Last night she’d thought his anger at seeing her with Scarsdale had stemmed from Woodford’s dislike of the man, her confession of Scarsdale’s ill-treatment of her and the possibility that Scarsdale might be an Elector. Considering his reluctance to marry, it hadn’t occurred to her that Woodford might feel any sort of possessiveness toward her. The idea that he might, thrilled her unlike anything else. “I can only imagine what you must think of me,” she said, desperate to regain his high regard.
He frowned. “Can you?”
She raised her chin. “It isn’t difficult, all things considered.” When he said nothing in response, she felt the need to fill the silence between them and so she continued. “I said some regrettable things last night and then, upon returning to my bedchamber, Scarsdale surprised me. I was unprepared for his advances, though I don’t suppose I should have been since he’d made his intentions plain to me several days earlier. Forgive me, Woodford, but I have never engaged in a liaison before and I—”
“Until last night,” he pointed out, cutting her off.
“No,” she told him bluntly, “until you.”
Silence descended upon them like rain, freezing them in place. Chloe knew she was dangerously close to revealing more than she should about her feelings for Woodford. Why was she even explaining herself to him? Because you like him. Because if your life had been different, you would have wanted more than friendship from him. Because in spite of your better judgment, you still do.
He winced. Shook his head. “If you think that you can simply exchange my embrace for his, then you don’t know me at all.”
Chloe stared at him, unsure of how to make things right between them. “What do you want from me, Woodford?”
His posture straightened with self-assurance while his eyes darkened to inky-black pools that held her hostage and weakened her knees. “I’m just asking you to be honest.”
Reaching for the doorjamb, Chloe held herself steady as she met Woodford’s glower. “Then allow me to explain. First of all, I did not embrace him.” His eyes narrowed, forcing an unexpected shiver down her spine. Still, she stiffened her back and soldiered on. “Second of all, I did not kiss Scarsdale. For your information he kissed me! And third of all, how dare you act like a jealous husband when you took no issue with replacing me with Lady Dewfield at the first available opportunity?”
Oh hell! Who was sounding jealous now?
Once again, it would seem that she’d said too much. She tried to stay calm, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
He blinked, hesitated, but then relaxed, the rigidity leaving his shoulders though his expression remained inscrutable. Eventually he nodded. “You make an excellent point,” he said. “I have no right to judge you. After all, you and I are not emotionally attached, are we?”
His comment shook her, and she suddenly knew how deeply she’d wounded him, for he had just succeeded in reciprocating the feeling. A knot formed in her chest, regret settling upon her shoulders.
“But just as I have no right to judge you,” he continued, “you have no right to judge me.” The knot tightened. “If I wish to engage in a brief liaison with a woman who’s willing, I see no reason why you should try and stop me.”
“Not even when you know that her eagerness to pursue you stems from a fixation she has with me? She wants to hurt me by taking that which she presumes to be mine.” Although she’d never understood it, Chloe knew that it was true.
His eyes sharpened. “In that case, she’ll be sorely disappointed, for I am not yours, am I, Lady Newbury?”
Chloe sucked in a breath, released it slowly and shook her head. “No,” she whispered, her courage finally failing her in the face of his ire.
“Now that we understand each other, I ask that you’ll excuse me, for I have work to do and you have kept me from it long enough.”
“But we agreed to work together.”
Pausing, he held her gaze for a long moment before saying, “Y
ou may consider our agreement void. I certainly intend to do so. Good day.” Nodding stiffly, he strode past her, exiting the salon while Chloe struggled against the tremendous feeling of loss that swamped her.
“Are you all right?”
Surprised by the sound of her mother’s voice coming from behind her, Chloe turned and attempted a smile, though it felt awfully wobbly upon her lips. “Oh, Mama,” she said as her mother’s knowing gaze took in her daughter’s appearance, “I fear I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“Come,” Lady Oakland said. “Let’s have a seat on the sofa and you can tell me all about it, if you wish.”
Nodding, Chloe crossed to the sofa with leaden feet and sank down onto the striped silk. Her mother lowered herself next to her, but said nothing, clearly waiting for her daughter to offer an explanation.
“My husband was such an awful man, Mama,” Chloe found herself saying. “He completely discouraged me from ever opening my heart to anyone else—of allowing myself to get hurt again. How can I risk placing my trust in another man? How can I be sure that I’ll choose more wisely and that I won’t just get hurt again?”
“Do you wish for me to answer that question?” Lady Oakland asked softly.
“I . . . no, I suppose not.” Twisting the fabric of her gown, she eyed her mother carefully. “I know that you and Papa discouraged me from spending time with Scarsdale and you were right to do so. I—”
“You’ve been hurt very badly, my love. We don’t begrudge you that, though we did wish to caution you about keeping Scarsdale’s company. I realize that you must have felt the need for male affirmation in the wake of your marriage, but to form an attachment with a close friend of the man who treated you so poorly, might not have been your wisest decision. That said, your father and I love you, Chloe, and we will always do our best to stand by you.”
Forcing back the tears that threatened, Chloe nodded. “Thank you, Mama.” She took a quivering breath. “Just look at me now. I’ve worked so hard for so long, trying to rise above it all—of not showing how badly my marriage has affected me—yet here I am, practically reduced to tears because of a man I’ve no reason to feel any emotion toward.”
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