Tempted By His Kiss

by Tracy Anne Warren

  “From her reaction,” his mother observed in a gentle tone, “I have the feeling they are things best not said at all—at least not until after the two of you are wed.”

  Across the room the duke quirked a brow, but said nothing as he drank his brandy.

  Smooth as a skipping stone, Cade gave an unrepentant smile and raised Meg’s hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss against its back before releasing her. Her skin burned where his lips had been, the sensation only adding to her difficulties as she fought to regain her composure. After his revelation about his brother’s knowledge of the situation between them, she desperately wanted to question him further, but realized she would be forced to wait.

  “Still can’t quite fathom it,” remarked Lord John, more familiarly known as Jack—the third son, and younger than Cade by nearly two years. “Our Cade engaged to be married. Somehow, I always figured Ned would be the first to tie the knot, leaving the rest of us a few more years of freedom.”

  “Don’t let me stop you, Jack,” the duke commented. “You may take a bride any time you like, with no regard to my matrimonial state.”

  “You know deuced well I have no interest in being caught inside the parson’s mousetrap.” Jack remarked. “Pray take no offense, Miss Amberley. I have nothing against marriage in the general sense, only in regard to myself. Obviously, Cade has managed to find himself a true gem of a girl. He is a lucky man.”

  “Thank you, your lordship,” she replied. “And I take no offense, especially given the fact that you are merely expressing an opinion that seems to be almost universally held by the male sex. At least the officers of my acquaintance certainly did. I always noticed that they liked to dance attendance on the ladies well enough, but suggest marriage, and they turned white and wobbly as a blancmange.”

  Jack laughed, showing straight teeth and dimples that she knew must set women’s hearts afluttering wherever he went. Like all the Byron men, he was devastatingly handsome, with dark hair, jewel-toned eyes, a strong jaw, and lips that must surely have been designed by the angels themselves.

  Yet as unmistakably attractive as he might be, his looks and flirtatious manners didn’t have the power to sway her. Odd as some might surely find the idea, she preferred Cade’s more reserved manners and taciturn demeanour. She even liked his caustic remarks—especially when she wasn’t on the receiving end of them.

  As for his other brother, Drake, she’d been trying to take his measure all evening; the man was cheerful and attentive one moment, then silent and distant the next.

  Casting a brief glance across to where he sat in a chair near the fireplace, she watched as he drew out a small writing pad, his tawny brows furrowed as he scribbled furiously upon it. He didn’t pause, the pencil moving over the page as if he were afraid he might forget a thought before he managed to transfer it into writing.

  “He’s solving equations,” Cade murmured, having apparently noticed her curiosity. “Drake is a mathematician. Theoretical stuff that I’ll never be able to understand. He’s always consulting with some set of great minds or other.”

  “He’s an inventor, too,” Mallory offered, keeping her voice lowered, as if knowing better than to disturb Drake.

  “Indeed,” Jack said, his lips twisting in obvious amusement. “You may have noticed the strange, greenish tint to his hands—copper bath to aid in the conductivity of electricity, I am given to understand. At least he didn’t come out on the bad end of this particular experiment, seeing he’s nearly blown himself up more times than I can count.”

  “Do not speak of that,” interjected the dowager. “Your brother knows better than to blow himself up, and if he comes into my house again with his eyebrows gone, more shall end up missing from him than a bit of hair.”

  As though he suddenly realized he was the topic of conversation, Drake’s head came up. “What’s that?” he asked, pencil still poised over the paper. “Are you talking about explosives? There’s been some very interesting work in that field lately. Exciting stuff that uses derivatives of gunpowder.”

  “There shall be no talk of gunpowder, either,” the duchess decreed in regal tones. “Mallory, perhaps you could entertain us all with a song?”

  Mallory’s aquamarine eyes twinkled, but she managed to retain a serious cast to her expression. “Yes, Mama.”

  “Unless Margaret would care to do so instead,” the dowager suggested. “Do you play, dear?”

  “Not well, Your Grace…I mean, Ava. My mother attempted to teach me, but I am afraid it did not take.”

  “Ah,” the dowager said with polite acceptance.

  “I sing, however,” Meg said. “I am told I possess some small talent in that regard. Mayhap Lady Mallory might accompany me, if you would like to hear me sing.”

  The older woman smiled. “Excellent! Yes, of course, we would all like to hear.”

  Realizing she had been caught in a trap of her own making, Meg rose to her feet and crossed to the pianoforte.

  “What shall I play?” Mallory asked, before going on to offer a trio of possible selections.

  Meg chose the one whose words she knew best, then waited as the other young woman arranged the sheet music on the stand and took a seat at the pianoforte.

  Nerves simmered in Meg’s stomach, her fingers abruptly cold as she prepared herself to perform. She didn’t know why she was anxious, since in the past she’d often sung at social gatherings. Yet at those affairs, she’d had no one to impress, no one who would think less of her if she stumbled in some small way.

  Not that the Byrons were haughty or unkind. Quite the contrary, since they had welcomed her in with an unhesitating friendliness and a generosity that was frankly surprising, especially given their elevated noble rank. Perhaps therein lay the reason for her apprehension, she thought now. For despite the fact that her very presence here was based on a lie, she quite absurdly wanted them to like her. She longed for them to draw her into their loving, close-knit family, even if she knew her time among them would be fleeting. She’d been so alone since Papa died. So alone until she’d met Cade…

  Her gaze collided with his forest green eyes, the pull almost electric, as she stood next to the pianoforte. A moment later, his sister played the opening notes of the song with a practiced flourish.

  Automatically, Meg drew a deep breath and opened her mouth to sing. Her voice quavered at first, sounding thin and faintly uncertain even to her own ears. Then Cade’s lips turned up in an encouraging smile and the tension flowed from her muscles.

  From that moment on, the melody flowed outward in an easy cadence, soaring up from her diaphragm to flood the room with lilting song. Confidence filled her, along with a sensation of pleasure. She sang, all the while looking at Cade, her gaze fixed steadily upon his own.

  Then the last notes were struck—piano and voice alike blending in a harmonious crescendo that lingered in the room long after their end.

  Silence fell, then applause broke out.

  “Bravo!” called Jack.

  “Wonderful!” declared Drake.

  Even the duke clapped with genuine pleasure, as the dowager, Mallory, and little Esme added their approval.

  Yet it was Cade whose esteem she truly craved, she realized. Cade, whose opinion was suddenly the only one that mattered.

  “Beautiful,” he said. “Well done, Meg. Not even the finest of song birds could compare.”

  Warmth spread through her, an odd shifting sensation forming deep in her centre that she couldn’t clearly identify nor wholly understand.

  “But now if you will all excuse me,” he went on, “I fear I must find my bed. It has been a long day and I am in need of rest.” He lifted a hand to stifle a yawn.

  She blinked, the warmth vanishing as suddenly as it had come, the spell under which she’d been held shattering like a fragile glass vase.

  Silly, she thought. It was naught but a song.

  “Yes, it is time Esme sought her slumber as well,” said the dowager as she rose to her f
eet. “Come along, sweetheart, or your governess will be giving us both a scold.”

  “But Mama!” the girl protested. “I am still drawing. Please, may I have ten minutes more?”

  “If I give you ten minutes, you shall soon be wanting twenty. No, you’ve stayed up well past your usual bedtime as it is. You may take your sketches with you upstairs, however. Now, be a good girl and say your good-nights.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Esme jumped to her feet and ran to give hugs and kisses to her siblings, who all smiled and teased her with obvious affection.

  Meg noticed the extra-long embrace the girl gave Cade, her thin arms winding around his neck as they exchanged a few quiet words. It was obvious that Esme had missed her older brother a great deal during his absence, and was happy to have him home.

  Then Esme turned to her. “Here, this is for you,” the girl said, holding out one of the pages on which she’d been drawing.

  “Oh, I…well, thank you.” Meg reached out and took the sketch between her fingers.

  Gazing down, her eyes widened. Instead of the typical childish scribble she’d expected, she discovered two well-rendered figures. The style was a bit loose, and still immature with a tendency to distort the proportions. Even so, it was refined enough to have captured remarkably accurate likenesses of her and Cade seated side by side on the sofa. Esme might only be nine years of age, but already she was an exceptional artist, better than many adults would ever hope to be.

  “This is…extraordinary,” Meg said.

  “It’s you and Cade,” the girl offered, clutching a small fist against her yellow wool skirt. “Do you like it?”

  “I most certainly do. How could I not? You’ve drawn Cade and me so perfectly. It’s beautiful.”

  The girl’s oval features came alive with a pleased smile. “Good night, Miss Amberley. I’m glad you’re going to be my sister.”

  At a sudden loss for what she knew would never be, Meg settled on the only honest reply she could offer. “Sweet dreams, Esme.”

  Flashing another smile, the girl turned and hurried to her mother’s side, the pair of them making their way from the room.

  The others stood and began to do the same. As Meg moved to follow, she felt a light touch on her shoulder, and glanced up to find Edward Byron towering at her side.

  “It’s a good likeness,” he remarked, nodding at the drawing.

  “Um…yes, your sister is very talented, Your Grace.”

  “That she is.

  She looked across at Cade, who stood waiting near the door.

  “Your secret is safe with me, you know,” the duke murmured in a low voice as they strolled forward. “Cade and I spoke earlier about your situation.”

  Her gaze flew to the duke’s. “Did you?”

  “Yes. And although I cannot say I entirely approve, I do understand. I must warn you, however, to take care.”

  She stiffened. “Oh? In what way?”

  “In guarding your heart, Miss Amberley. You seem like an amiable young woman, and I would not want you to end up hurt.”

  The starch eased out of her spine. “My thanks for your concern, Your Grace, but I shall be fine.”

  “As you say. Well then, I bid you a good evening.”

  Reaching Cade’s side, she gazed up into his inquiring green eyes and felt her pulse beat double. Walking with him as they made their way to their separate bedchambers, she wondered if she had just told the duke yet another lie.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Oh, how adorable. She’ll take that one as well,” Meg heard the Dowager Duchess of Clybourne declare a week later as they stood in consultation with London’s most fashionable mantua maker. “In the palest of pink, I believe. Or maybe the stripe?” She paused, tapping a finger against her chin. “Oh, let’s do both, what do you say? Yes, yes, a pink and white stripe for the walking dress, and an evening gown in the shell peony. Oh, they will be exquisite with Margaret’s fair colouring.”

  “I agree entirely, Your Grace,” said Madame Morelle. “And the pale blue ball gown we discussed will make her eyes sparkle like stars. She will be the envy of every young lady in London.”

  The two older women smiled conspiratorially while Meg stood mute, having been ejected from all but the most minor decision making over the past twenty minutes.

  Twisting her fingers together, she stared at the yard upon yard of stunning fabrics laid out for display—silks and satins, sarcenets, velvets, muslins, and more in a virtual rainbow of hues, patterns, and textures. Beside the material lay laces and ribbons, buttons and feathers, everything a well-dressed lady could possibly hope to use to trim a gown. Rows of fashion babies sat on shelves to display the latest dress designs, while books of water-colour and pencil sketches added still more possibilities.

  From Meg’s perspective, the dowager seemed to have ordered literally dozens of dresses, so many she had long since lost count of them all. At first she’d tried to voice her opinions and objections, attempting to interject a bit of sensible economy into the conversation. But the dowager and the dressmaker soon shunted her aside and went on as they thought best. Meanwhile, she was rushed away to the back of the shop to have her measurements taken by an assistant.

  It was not that she had any objection to the gowns themselves—they were all exquisite, done in a style sure to flatter her figure and complexion. What troubled her was the sheer quantity of clothing the duchess was ordering.

  How shall I ever hope to pay for it all? She fretted.

  “And oh yes,” she heard the dowager say. “She must have at least half a dozen riding habits. Let us look at fabrics again.”

  A knot twisted in her chest as she wrung her hands. Papa had left her a comfortable dowry, but at this rate there would be nothing left, certainly not enough to tempt a prospective bridegroom.

  Turning her head, she glanced at Cade, who sat at his ease on a nearby divan. He had escorted them to the shop, then withdrawn to read a book and sip the glass of Madeira that Madame Morelle had procured for him upon their arrival. As for Mallory, who had come with them as well, she was proving of absolutely no use against her mother, the girl having disappeared with a trio of gowns she was considering having altered.

  “I believe you are right. Let us make it an even dozen…” the duchess declared.

  “Cade,” Meg hissed as she hurried across to him. “You must put a stop to this.”

  He glanced up, peering at her over his half-moon spectacles. “Put a stop to what?”

  “All this shopping. Your mother is ordering far too many gowns for me.”

  He raised a single dark eyebrow. “And you find that distressing?”

  “Of course I do.”

  One corner of his mouth turned up. “How curious. I believe you must be the only lady of my acquaintance whom I have ever heard complain about buying new clothes.”

  “If I am the only one to complain,” she said, sinking down next to him, “it is because I am the first bearing the brunt of the cost.” She hung her head, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Cade, I cannot afford these gowns. You must speak to your mother and explain.”

  His green eyes widened. “Well, no wonder you are alarmed.” Reaching out, he patted her hand. “Do not worry. All the bills will be sent to me. You won’t have to pay for a thing.”

  “Sent to you! But I cannot allow you to pay—”

  “Of course you can, and you will. Despite being a second son, I am quite wealthy in my own right. I assure you, the expense will not be a problem.”

  She worried a thumb over a piece of black trim on her sleeve. “The expense is not the issue. Allowing you to buy clothes for me is highly improper.”

  “I fail to see why. You are my affianced.”

  “No, I am not, in case you have forgotten,” she said, careful to keep her voice low. “I cannot permit it.”

  His jaw tightened with a familiar stubbornness. “And I cannot permit you to be inadequately clothed for the Season. Consider the gowns a present for your fut
ure marriage.”

  “But Cade—”

  “But Meg…” he replied with gentle mockery before his tone grew serious once again. “I will not be gainsaid in this. Let Mama choose whatever she considers necessary and appropriate for you to wear. As for you, stop worrying and enjoy yourself. And should a particular gown take your fancy, buy it, I shall not complain of the cost.”

  She made a small huff of protest, then realized the futility of it. I suppose he is right, she thought, knowing that a proper wardrobe was essential for attending the kind of ton parties to which she was already starting to receive invitations. The same held true for the diamond engagement ring he had given her—the gemstone a necessary part of their charade, even if wearing it felt like a mark of deceit. Nevertheless, the honourable part of her balked at the notion of accepting money from Cade, even in the form of clothing. Yet what choice did she have, given the relative smallness of her own pocketbook?

  “Very well,” she sighed. “I accept, and thank you for your kind generosity. However, there is one item on which I insist bearing the cost myself.”

  “Oh? And what might that be?” he drawled.

  “My wedding gown. I absolutely refuse to allow you to pay for that.”

  His eyes glittered, a sharp edge springing to life deep within. “On that score,” he murmured, “we are in complete accord, since I have no wish to purchase a dress made for the express purpose of joining you forever to another man.”

  Her lips parted on an unsteady inhale, confusion twining inside her.

  “Just as I trust I will not be paying for your wedding night trousseau?”

  At such a suggestion, she found she couldn’t breathe at all. Her gaze locked with his, the room shifting as she lost herself in the rich forest green of his eyes. For a long moment he stared back, his own lips parting on a silent exhale.

  Before she knew what he meant to do, he bent and captured her mouth, taking her with a slow, gentle kiss that made her eyelids flutter closed and her mind spin in a dizzying circle. His scent clouded her brain even further, his taste sweet and rich with a lingering tang of the wine he’d been drinking. Then as abruptly as the kiss had begun, it ended.