Tempted By His Kiss

by Tracy Anne Warren

  Slowly, he turned back. “Yes, we have a deal. Pray lead the way if you would be so good.” With a sweeping gesture of his arm, he allowed her to pass.

  Like candy from a baby, he mused, as he trailed after her to his book room. Thirty minutes from now he’d be handing her a defeat. And putting an end to any further unwanted bouts of temptation.

  “Checkmate, my lord,” Meg declared in a soft voice nearly an hour and a half later.

  Lord Cade’s forehead gathered into a series of lines. “What! But—”

  “It was your rook, you see. Once I captured that, the next three moves were virtually assured to be mine.”

  As she watched, he scowled harder and stared at the board, running his fingers through his already dishevelled hair. His cravat sat slightly askew around his neck as well, the result of having given the linen several hard tugs during the last few minutes of the match. Until now, his attitude had been one of relaxed overconfidence, nursing his tumbler of whiskey while he monitored the progress of the game with a far too casual eye.

  “I am afraid there is no way out,” she told him. “Although I must say you made a valiant attempt to rescue yourself there at the last.”

  Silence fell, his gaze glued to the board as he studied it for some fleeting avenue of escape. At length he reached out, took up his glass of whiskey and swallowed the contents in a single gulp. Setting the tumbler down with a snap, he met her eyes. “Your game, Miss Amberley. And bravo, you are indeed a masterful player.”

  Warmth poured through her at his praise. “Thank you, my lord.”

  He shrugged. “It is nothing but the truth. Had I known precisely how good you are, I would have paid a great deal more attention to the game from the start.”

  “I rather imagine you would have,” she said in a mild tone.

  He grumbled something unintelligible beneath his breath before recovering his composure. “No chance, I suppose, that I could talk you into a best two-out-of-three on that wager of ours?”

  Her lips tilted upward as she shook her head, forcing herself not to laugh at his expression of resigned chagrin.

  “Very well. Seeing that I am a man of my word, I will honour our agreement.” Reaching for a nearby crystal decanter, he refilled his tumbler. “Since you have now won the right to be entertained each evening, I suggest we have another match tomorrow.”

  Her smile increased. “It will by my pleasure, my lord.”

  “And your downfall,” he stated. “I warn you now I shall not be so easy to defeat next time.”

  “I look forward to the challenge.”

  He huffed low in his throat. “So, where in the world did you learn to play like that?”

  Taking up a pawn, she began to straighten the beautifully carved black and white ivory pieces. “My father taught me. We had a game nearly every night for the past few years, and quite often during his shore leave in the days before that.”

  “Shore leave? Was he a sailor?”

  She sent him a quick glance. “Yes, a career officer in the Royal Navy.”

  A faint pause ensued. “You mentioned at dinner that your parents are both deceased. Was he lost at sea?”

  She moved a black knight to his side of the board. “No. Although a part of me always thought that is how he would die, leading his men and his ship in battle. But he sailed for years without serious incident. He was even in the thick of things at Trafalgar and came through without so much as a scratch. Ironic, that he passed away from something as mundane as a heart seizure.”

  Lines settled anew on Lord Cade’s forehead. “How long ago did he pass?”

  She swallowed, shuffling more pieces around in a clipped, almost automatic fashion. “Five months. As you may have noticed, I am still wearing mourning colours.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Four years last June.” She gazed toward him and forced a weak smile. “Pray do not worry that I shall burst into a messy fit of girlish weeping. I am well used to the circumstances by now.” With all the chess pieces in their proper places, she began centring each one precisely inside its square.

  Lord Cade’s large hand came down and stopped her. She trembled, just as she had at his earlier touch, enjoying the comfort of his strength far more than she knew she ought.

  “No one ever gets used to it,” he said. “I know. I’ve lost people myself, including my own inestimable father when I was barely older than you. You have no need to dissemble with me.”

  She lifted her gaze to his. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Suddenly, as though only then realizing he was holding her hand, he drew away.

  “My lord?” she ventured after a moment.

  “Yes?”

  “Since I have told you a few rather personal details about myself, I was wondering if I might ask the same of you? Excuse my boldness, but how did you injure your leg?” As for the scar on his throat, she didn’t quite have the nerve to inquire about that—not yet, at least.

  He paused and took a drink. “In Portugal, in the war.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize you are a soldier.”

  “I’m not. At least not anymore. A broken femur from a bullet through the thigh has a way of getting a man cashiered out.”

  “You were wounded in battle, then?”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “I was an advanced scout, a reconnaissance officer for Wellesley.”

  “A spy, you mean?”

  His lips twisted. “That isn’t a term we generally prefer to use, but I suppose it’s as good as any.”

  “What happened?”

  “An unfortunate encounter with the French.” A shuttered expression lowered abruptly over his features. “Now, isn’t it time you were retiring?”

  His tone, as well as his words, told her she would get no more from him on that subject tonight. Sliding back her chair, she prepared to rise. Before she did, Cade lifted the whiskey decanter and filled his glass yet again.

  “Do you not think you have had enough, my lord?” she ventured in a gentle voice.

  He gave her a measured stare. “No.” Deliberately, he tossed back the portion in his glass, then reached to pour another.

  “I realize it is none of my business, but—”

  “You’re right,” he interrupted. “It’s not.”

  “I only thought that if you are in pain from your leg, there are other remedies—”

  “What makes you think it’s my leg? Maybe I just like to drink.”

  “Oh, I…I just assumed—”

  “Well, stop assuming and go to bed. You can plague me afresh tomorrow.” He looked away; clearly she was dismissed.

  She held back a sigh, wishing she could rewind the past few minutes and restore their earlier conviviality. Still, she had wanted to know about him, and now she did, at least a little. Although to her frustration, his answers left her even more curious than before. Resigned for now, she stood.

  “As you will, then, my lord. I bid you good-night.”

  He responded with a sound somewhere between a grunt and a growl, then drank another dram from his glass.

  She made her way to the door. Just before she passed through, she glanced back and saw that Cade had transferred his glass to his left hand and was using his right to rub his damaged thigh in a quiet circle, as if he were indeed in pain. In that instant, though, she realized it was far more than his leg that hurt him.

  Resisting the urge to turn back and offer comfort she knew he would refuse, she left the room.

  CHAPTER 4

  The following day Cade very nearly skipped nuncheon with Meg. But after his conscience prodded him several times, he walked across his bedchamber and reached for one of the starched cravats he so rarely wore these days.

  When he’d asked for a neck cloth last night, his batman had been delighted—Knox apparently bored with so little to do. Not like when they’d been on the Continent, making shift as circumstances required. But those times were gone, along with so much else f
rom his former life in the military.

  Blasted thing, he cursed to himself as he ruined one long, linen rectangle and reached for another. If not for his inconvenient houseguest, he could have gone downstairs in shirtsleeves and pantaloons. Then again, if not for Miss Amberley, he wouldn’t have to dress for a meal at all. Nevertheless, a promise was a promise, and she’d won their wager fair and square.

  Of course that doesn’t mean I shall enjoy sharing the meal with her, he reassured himself. Or talking to her, either.

  Yet in spite of his glum prognostications, the meal proved pleasant. As the minutes passed he found himself relaxing, Meg showing herself to be an amusing conversationalist with a knack for light banter. She was careful, he noted, not to bring up any of last night’s uncomfortable queries, and he made sure not to provide ammunition with which to tempt her.

  Dinner that evening went well, too—wretched neck cloth notwithstanding—and then it was once again time for the entertainment portion of his pledge.

  “So, your lordship,” Meg ventured, as Harvey cleared the dessert plates and poured a last round of beverages before withdrawing. “What shall we play tonight? Piquet or speculation perhaps? I’ll grant it’s not quite as lively with only two, but I suspect we can manage nonetheless.”

  Swallowing a mouthful of port, he regarded her over the glass’s edge for a moment before setting it down. “Chess,” he pronounced. “As I recall, you owe me a rematch.”

  Her pink lips rounded in a circle of surprise. “Indeed, you are right. Chess it is, then, my lord.”

  “Don’t look so confident. I shall not let you off lightly tonight, since I’m on to you now.”

  She laughed. “I stand forewarned. Mayhap I should have a draught of spirits to soothe my anxious nerves.”

  “Stick with your tea, Miss Amberley. You’ll need your wits about you.”

  But he was the one who should have followed that bit of advice, finding he required every ounce of his concentration to achieve a defeat. Achieve it he did, however, sliding his queen into place to capture her king nearly two hours later. “Checkmate,” he said in a quiet voice that failed to mask his pleasure.

  “And so it is. Congratulations, your lordship.”

  He nodded and reached for his tumbler, quaffing the whiskey that had been sitting untouched at his elbow for nearly the whole of the match. “You nearly had me,” he admitted. “You’re a clever and engaging adversary.”

  “As are you,” she said, giving him a faint smile as she began straightening the board the way she had the night before. “Of course, I shall now be forced to demand another game, so that I may reclaim my victory. At this rate, we may never have that hand of cards.”

  “Chess suits me fine.”

  “We could have a match after nuncheon tomorrow.”

  He paused. “As I recall, I promised to entertain you in the evenings, not the whole of the day.”

  She hesitated, then shrugged. “As you prefer. Evenings, it is.”

  He watched as she finished arranging the board before leaning back in her chair. With her delicate hands clasped in her lap, she studied the fire.

  “Fine,” he said before he’d even fully formed his next thought. “Tomorrow after nuncheon. We could eat here if you’d like, so we don’t have to delay our play.”

  Her head came up, undisguised delight dancing in her gaze. “What an excellent notion!” she declared. “I’ll ask Cook to make us up something simple. Do you like Welsh rarebit?”

  She looked so young and pretty in that moment, a picture of carefree, guileless joy. An odd sensation formed inside his chest, an unsettling reaction that he ruthlessly pushed away. “Yes,” he said in a gruff tone. “Serve whatever you like. Now, it’s late. You should go.”

  Her gaze went to the mantel clock. “Ah yes, you are right. Well then, I shall bid you a good-night, my lord.”

  Nodding his reply, he poured himself another scotch.

  And so it went for the next few days, she and Lord Cade meeting for meals, conversation, games of chess—and even cards. They proved challenging opponents and surprisingly agreeable companions. The back and forth was exciting, leaving her—and apparently Lord Cade as well—eager for each new encounter.

  What shall we do today? She wondered as she sat in front of her dressing table mirror, tidying her hair in preparation for the midday meal. In spite of being house-bound, she found she didn’t mind the confinement. Lord Cade might be moody and difficult, even infuriating at times. But he was also unexpectedly generous and fair-minded, never begrudging in his praise of her talents, or dismissive of either her intellect or her opinion.

  Many men thought a woman should be pretty and biddable, and that she ought never to dare a comment on anything more complex than which trimmings to buy for her next hat, or the best accompaniments to serve with supper. Yet Lord Cade apparently felt otherwise, encouraging her to speak her mind, even when he held an opposing point of view.

  With him, she was free to say whatever she wished, their conversational forays running the gambit from art and literature to history and philosophy. They even debated politics, Meg pleased to discover a mutual preference for the Whig method of governing. One thing was certain—she was never bored. And she did not believe Lord Cade to be either. He’d certainly appeared to enjoy himself last night.

  She smiled inwardly as she remembered the laughter she’d coaxed out of him with stories about a pair of her father’s more colourful officers and their antics, as well as a few tales of her own life as a navy man’s daughter.

  In those fleeting moments, Cade’s whole face had changed, lines of pain and fatigue melting away beneath the humour. She’d watched as a glimpse of another man emerged—a lighter, more easygoing self, which made her wonder about the person he’d been before he was wounded in the war.

  And then he’d smiled, sending her pulse into a dangerous rhythm, her breath catching as a pair of dimples appeared in his cheeks. She’d wanted to stroke one, reach out and trace a fingertip across the long, beautiful groove. Just the idea turned her all warm and shivery inside, and she’d had to glance away. When she looked again, the old Cade was back, his usual serious expression making her question she’d ever seen anything else.

  She wished she could get him to smile again, smile more, but time, she knew, was growing short. The weather was moderating; the great drifts of snow giving way to sunshine and shovels and horse-drawn ploughs. Another day or two and she would once again be on her way. She should be glad to resume her journey and her life.

  And I will be, she assured herself, when the time comes.

  Leaning forward, she smoothed her hair one last time and straightened the lace fichu at her neck. Noticing the pale cast to her cheeks, she pinched them to add a bit of colour. Abruptly, she fell still.

  Gracious, am I preening? For Cade Byron?

  No, she decided. She was merely trying to look presentable, no more than she would under any circumstance. I like him, nothing more. Cade Byron was a fascinating, dynamic man, to be sure, but she knew there could never be anything between them. Such ideas would only lead to discontent and unhappiness. And Lord knows she’d had enough sorrow in recent years without deliberately courting more. Instead, she would enjoy the remainder of her time with Lord Cade, then travel on. Once she departed, she would forget him, just as, she was sure, he would forget her. With a sigh, she stood and crossed to the door.

  “What would you say to a walk?” Cade suggested after nuncheon was concluded. “Harvey tells me the paths around the house are cleared, and if you’re anything like me, you could do with a bit of fresh air.”

  Meg glanced up in surprise. “Oh, but your leg…are you sure—”

  “My leg is fine,” Caid said. “I’m not a cripple, you know.”

  “No, of course, you are not. I only meant that the ground may be slick in places and—” She broke off, then gave him a deliberate smile to ease the tension. “A walk would be most welcome, thank you. Pray allow me to r
etrieve my cloak and we shall be on our way.”

  When she came down the stairs five minutes later, it was to discover him dressed in a heavy, many-caped black wool greatcoat, a beaver top hat on his head. He held an elegant cane in one gloved hand, the solid gold knob on top fashioned in the shape of a fox. A pair of rich emerald eyes winked out of the metal, their shade reminding her of Lord Cade’s own unique gaze.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She gave a nod, a fluttering sensation curling inside her belly. “Yes.”

  Despite the crisp sunshine and buoyant blue sky, a frosty chill hung in the air as they walked. She shivered and huddled deeper inside her mantle.

  “Cold?” he inquired. “We can go back if you wish.”

  She shook her head and cast him a glance from beneath her bonnet. “I am fine. It’s only that I’m not used to the cold weather. It’s what comes, I suppose, of being acclimated to warmer climes.”

  “What do you mean? I can think of nowhere in England that does not take a chill come winter, not even along the coastline.”

  “True. But until two months ago I was living in Gibraltar, where it’s warm and sunny all year round.”

  He paused and angled his head in obvious surprise. “Were you indeed? Well, having been there myself, I can understand your difficulty adapting to this weather.”

  “So you were in Gibraltar, too. When, might I ask?”

  “Last year, but only for a couple of short weeks while I was awaiting orders.”

  A curious sensation spread through her at the realization that they had both been in such a distant locale at the same time. What would it have been like to have known him then? She wondered.

  “Odd to imagine we might have met there,” he observed, his words mirroring her thoughts. “Still, I suppose the likelihood was never great, despite our being in the same city.”