by London Casey
Instead it had settled like a burr under his skin. He’d wanted to hurt her, to force a reaction out of her—an emotional reaction. The very type of reaction that had made him seek to distance himself from her to begin with. Illogical, yes. But knowing how illogical his motivations were hadn’t stopped him. And yet once he had achieved his goal, it had given him no joy.
Then she had slapped him.
His cock turned to iron at the thought of her sparkling eyes and flushed face.
He did not want the kind of connection she needed. So what was he doing?
Treading dangerous waters…
“She’s dark as a Rom.” The affected, lispy voice cut into Jon’s thoughts.
He turned to see Cherry sitting beside him on the settee. Two years had passed since their affaire had burnt itself out. Though they remained friendly enough, the end had been disagreeable. It was the way of their class. Romance among the aristocracy might start out sweetly but it always ended badly. He’d grown up seeing first-hand what marriage between two people of his class meant. Disappointed feelings and expectations. Constant, deceitful manoeuvrings for power and revenge. Polite civility hiding the hatred. He wanted no part of that kind of conflict.
He’d spent his time as an adult pursuing casual liaisons such as the one he’d previously shared with Cherry—frivolous and pretty confections that made life a little sweeter.
Marriage was a business arrangement, not a romantic experience. But ladies always had marriage—along with romance—on their minds.
Something he’d best keep in mind with the lovely Lady Cranfield. She was a duke’s daughter, after all. She would have her pride. He’d better not let his sympathy make him lose his head.
“What are you two prattling about?” he asked.
“We’re talking about Lady Cranfield.”
Cherry’s dark brows drew together. “Whose side-slip is she, anyway? The old Duke of Saxby was fair.”
“Don’t you remember?” Francesca asked. “Her mother was a Spaniard.”
“Was she really?” Cherry said.
“Yes, she was the daughter of a Seville merchant. Brought a fortune to Saxby,” Francesca said.
“Probably more like a Creole from the tropics, if you ask me. Impoverished dukes are always the most indiscriminate breeders. They’ll do anything to fill their depleted coffers.” Cherry’s fan strokes grew more rapid as she met his gaze. “Now, what is that look, Ruel?”
“I am trying to decide if I like you with fangs or if they make you look desperate.”
She pursed her lips, then her eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re soft on her—no, do not try to deny it.”
Jon examined her critically. At thirty-eight, with her sky-blue eyes, chestnut hair and yet flawless milk-white skin, she was still considered an Incomparable, but right now she resembled nothing so much as a reptile. “Jealous, Cherry?”
“And wouldn’t that just please your vanity?” She resumed rapid fanning. “Well, one thing is certain—she’s soft on you. She’s nearly made a spectacle of herself over it.”
“At least she’s showing some emotion,” Francesca said. “She’s so quiet, like a cat. I never know what she’s thinking.”
“You know, William and I were friendly once,” Cherry said, dropping her voice.
“Dear, you’ve been friendly once or twice with so many gentlemen, I lose track.”
The two women laughed for a moment, then Francesca said, “Is it true what they say about red-haired men?”
Cherry tittered. “What do they say?”
“That they are fiery, absolutely insatiable lovers.”
“Will was never lacking in imagination and he had limitless enthusiasm and stamina. But he was never happy with her.” Cherry dropped her voice. “Not in the bedchamber. He said she was so cold she could freeze a man’s prick. Why he ever wed such a crow I never understood.”
Francesca patted Cherry’s hand. “Darling, he married her for her fortune. Everyone knew. After her two abysmal seasons, Saxby was grateful to get her off his hands. Everyone was happy. Even William, believe me.”
Jon let his lips lift in a slight, cruel smile. “Well, well—I never realised what a pair of hissing, snarling cats you two are. Have you even tried to become friendly with her?”
Francesca blinked at him. “To what purpose?”
“She’s the dowager countess of Cranfield, for one thing.”
Cherry grinned and leaned close to Francesca. “Oh, he is smitten,” she pretended to whisper. “What a pair they will make—Hades and his ice queen.”
Cherry was trying to provoke him. In the past, he’d have taken her up on that and given her some delightful punishment for her insolence. But now he hadn’t the taste for her. He turned and gave the current Countess of Cranfield a severe stare.
“Francesca, where is your sense of charity?” He stroked a finger over the brocaded velvet piano seat cover. “She is a widow, childless. Her ducal father is deceased and you told me yourself that she isn’t on friendly terms with the current duke. She could use some familial support.”
“You are saying I need to take her under my wing, like some stray nestling?” She grimaced and affected a small shudder.
His voice hardened. “I am saying you should bestow on her the respect due to the dowager countess of Cranfield.”
“She’s no pathetic kitten. Her jointure could buy and sell Richard and myself thrice over,” Francesca said. “Saxby was very wily about that.”
“So that’s what this is really about? Envy.”
“I simply do not like these merchant’s daughters who have their papas buy their way into our families. Then they act so high and mighty, looking down their noses at us.”
Anne’s laugh echoed melodiously through the chamber. Obliquely, he glanced at her. Her face was flushed, her eyes too bright.
“She’s making a spectacle of herself.”
“You’ve done worse and certainly at a more mature age,” Jon said, putting a hard, warning edge into his voice.
“I know when to break the rules and when to abide by them. Your new, little inamorata apparently doesn’t know how to behave in polite society.”
“Since when have any of us paid deference to the rules of ‘polite society’ when amongst ourselves? Especially here in the country. It is a private indiscretion.”
Cherry looked at him for several moments with her nostrils flaring. “She’s just like that terrible mother of hers. Common blood will out.”
“She’s simply young, inexperienced and shy in company.”
Cherry’s eyes flashed and she turned back to Francesca. “Franny—you should do something.”
“I’ve already warned her she should go to bed and she just stared at me with that superior, frosty stare.”
“She’ll be so embarrassed come morning,” Cherry said in a melodramatic tone.
Jon couldn’t eradicate the image of himself, holding Cherry’s hair away from her face whilst she cast up her accounts in the garden at one of David Kean’s midnight supper parties. He scoffed, loudly.
Cherry raised her eyes to his.
“Let’s just hope she holds her liquor better than you,” he said calmly.
She compressed her lips.
He chuckled softly.
She waved him off dismissively. “I have had enough of your nonsense, Ruel. You really should take charge of the situation, Franny.”
“What would you have me do? Should I create an even larger scene and have her carried off by a footman? I have tried to do my best with that girl but as you say, Cherry, common blood will out.” Francesca sighed. “She doesn’t have the sense to know that she’s doing wrong. She doesn’t understand how to be genteel. She was raised by servants at that Irish farm while her Mama played the light skirt to half of Mayfair.” Francesca shrugged. “But at least she’s showing some emotion. She may catch some gentleman’s eye.”
Jon’s neck prickled as if he could feel Cherry’s gaze cut to him.
; “Perhaps she’s not over Cranfield’s death,” he said coolly, returning his gaze to the two women.
Francesca snorted. “It has been almost a year.”
“His death was horrific and she witnessed it.”
“Told you she was there, did she?” Francesca’s brow wrinkled as if she were in pain. “I have warned her repeatedly not to tell anyone.”
“Isn’t it her choice to tell or not tell?” Jon asked.
“As William’s closest kin, it falls to Richard and myself to try to protect his widow’s reputation. Too many men won’t fancy having a wife who has seen something like that. They’ll think she’s been touched in the head.”
Maybe, in a way, she had. Maybe Anne needed more understanding and sympathy than most widows. She certainly got none from her relations. Aggravation tightened his jaw. “For God’s sake, she’s been living here alone but for the servants since Cranfield died. Didn’t that seem an unnatural choice for such a young lady?”
Francesca rolled her shoulders. “She’s always been such a little country mouse.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Highsmith rise and offer Anne his hand. She cast her gaze to her lap, a small smile curving her sensual mouth. Jon’s hand contracted on his brandy glass. He forced it to relax, then he turned the glass slowly in his fingers, pretending to watch the amber fluid slosh about. Anne was on her feet now, smiling up into Highsmith’s handsome, patrician face.
“She’s too haughty and cold to still be affected,” Francesca said.
He looked up from the glass and fixed her with a penetrating stare. “Didn’t her isolation even once provoke your concern?”
“She’s over-proud. You shall find out, too, should you decide to pursue her.” Cunning crept into Francesca’s eyes. “However, if you are of a mind to marry her for her money, you’d better hurry. There have been many enquiries. My cousin would like to match her son with Anne. No matter what, she won’t remain unwed for long—her wealth is just too juicy a plum.”
“You’d throw her to a viper?” he asked curtly, tapping his glass, once again watching covertly as Anne allowed Highsmith to escort her from the chamber. He levelled his stare back on Francesca. “And what does your husband say about that?”
“You know how Richard is—it’s all up to me. It always is.” Francesca’s shifted her gaze away from his. “You can’t know how I look forward to having her off my hands.”
He stood. “I’ve heard enough.”
She slammed the cover down over the piano keys. “How dare you judge me, Ruel. A man who defied and then turned his back on his own grandfather.”
Disgusted, he left his glass on the piano and walked away, as if to Richard’s study, then he turned and took the long way out to the gardens.
Anne was sitting on a stone bench, laughing in the moonlight. Highsmith was standing looking down at her, his stare riveted on her neckline. Vastly enjoying the view, no doubt.
At his boots crunching on the gravel path, Anne and Highsmith looked up.
“Ruel!” Highsmith called, slurring slightly. “I am glad you came along. I have been wanting to thank you for making me three hundred pounds richer today. That was some smart fencing with Parwick.”
Jon fixed him with an unwavering look. “I think it is time Lady Cranfield went inside.”
Highsmith laughed. “Are you her guardian now?” He grinned and glanced back at Anne. “Love, you didn’t tell me you weren’t of age.”
Jon offered his hand to Anne. “Come now, Lady Cranfield—I shall escort you inside.”
She stared at his hand and compressed her lips, the skin pinching around her nostrils. Then she crossed her arms over her chest.
Highsmith inserted himself between them. “Now, wait a minute. I don’t think you have any call to dictate here.”
“No, he doesn’t.” Anne looked directly at Jon and her eyes flashed defiance.
Oh, he’d take care of that insolence. With pleasure. His blood heated in anticipation. But first he needed to dispatch Highsmith. He turned to the younger man. “She’s not your concern, James.”
Highsmith puffed out his chest. “See here, the lady clearly has a preference for me.”
Annoyed, as if by a gnat, Jon grasped him by the lapels and shoved him back. “You should think carefully about how far you’d like to press your imagined advantage.”
Highsmith paled several shades, then he flicked his hazel eyes to Anne, as if seeking reassurance. Still directing her glare at Jon, she didn’t even notice. Highsmith’s expression fell. Then he readjusted his jacket and straightened his shoulders. “Well, Ruel, I shall press it as far as you choose—y-you are not the only gentleman so handy with a rapier.”
The humour of the situation gripped Jon and he chuckled coldly. “James, you’re drunk and in no shape to contest the matter. I think you should go back inside.”
“You go back inside.” Highsmith pushed at his chest with both hands.
“Hear me, James—if you don’t make yourself scarce, I am going to knock you on your bony arse, hard enough to break it,” Jon said, before giving the puppy a shove, pushing him several feet back. Then he turned to give Anne a steady stare. “Well, my lady?”
“I don’t have a preference for either of you. I was merely overheated and I wanted some air.” She jumped to her feet and attempted to flounce past.
He took her arm. She turned reckless, rebellious eyes up to his.
God, she was gorgeous.
She pulled against his grasp. He took her by both arms and held her firm. “You’re tired and you’ve had too much to drink, Lady Cranfield. You should go to bed.”
“You. Have. No. Say. In anything I do.” Her claret-tinged breath teased him. She renewed her struggles, thrashing wildly in his arms. Her struggles grew weaker and, almost of their own accord, his hands caressed her arms, just beneath her puffed sleeves.
She panted furiously, her face flushed and glowing with a fine sheen of sweat. Sweat that he could smell—a spicy, feminine scent mixed with her rose-lavender perfume. Her eyes looked almost black, mirroring every bit of the hunger pounding through his veins.
Chapter Five
Jon bent down, put his mouth on Anne’s, cupped her cheek with his hand and forced her mouth open to accept his tongue’s hungry thrusts. God, she tasted sweet. All claret and sexual fire.
He’d never met a woman so badly in need of a good, hard fucking. A very hard fucking. It showed in every move, every sideways glance. Why was she making things so difficult? He dropped his other hand to her arse and pressed her ruthlessly to his loins, so she could not mistake his own feelings.
“I don’t believe this.” Highsmith’s voice broke the moment.
Jon lifted his head and laughed, low and ominous. “James, why don’t you go frig yourself or something?”
“L-lady Cranfield, you actually mean to let him order you about and put his hands all over you?” Highsmith said, his voice resonating with stunned outrage. As if it had never occurred to the senseless puppy that the lovely lady might be using him for ulterior purposes.
“Answer him, Lady Cranfield—tell him to go back inside.”
Anne buried her face in Jon’s jacket. God, he was fed up with female theatrics. He wouldn’t allow it this time. He threaded his hand into her carefully arranged spill of curls and pulled her face back.
He looked into those heavily lashed, large, lapis eyes. Eyes a man could lose himself in. Then he saw it—the fear that flickered there. The desperate, silent plea for escape.
Instantly, he understood. She wasn’t Cherry or any of the other spoilt society ladies he’d taken to his bed. She protected herself with that layer of pride and superiority—protected herself so well that she had no one to confide in or lean on—but underneath, she was too soft, too vulnerable. She seemed to trust no one, least of all herself. She wasn’t creating a scene to please her own vanity or taste for drama. She wasn’t acting this way because she wanted to manipulate. She reacted because he
r own feelings were too frightening and powerful for her.
He let her go.
She fled in a rustling of skirts and soft shoes pattering on the garden stones.
On his feet now, Highsmith made to follow her. With exasperated resignation, Jon caught up with him and grabbed the younger man roughly by the back of his collar. “Don’t even think about following her.”
Jon raised his glass to his lips. Even the burn of fine brandy couldn’t warm him. Hours had passed, yet Francesca’s last words still chilled his blood. He stared into the fire. His mind wouldn’t stop spinning possibilities. Francesca’s cousin’s son, for one. A young, handsome man with dark, avaricious eyes and a twist of cruelty to his overripe mouth that any inexperienced young woman might mistake for strength.
He didn’t want to care. He didn’t want to think about her any longer. She wasn’t his problem. She wasn’t his responsibility. He should go to his chamber and instruct Toby to pack his things. Come morning, he would return to London. Once there, he’d visit his mistress and give her a good, hard fucking. Then he’d go out and lose himself in the entertainments of city.
The image of Lady Cranfield’s eyes rose in his mind, flickering with fear. A desperate, silent plea for escape. The image was so vivid, it was as though he were living the moment over.
He wished he’d never met her. Never set eyes on her.
Because he didn’t want to feel the protective tugging in the centre of his chest every time he saw her. Every time he thought of her.
He took another drink, deep and long. Damn it all. He didn’t want to be needed—by anyone. He just wanted to be left alone. However, even if she was not aware of it, he had recognised the light in her eyes. The idealism of a naïve girl who sees what she wishes to see in a man, trying to justify her desires. Trying to turn mere lust into something loftier.
He was no one’s hero.
There were no heroes in this world.
But someone had to help her. Someone also had to show Anne her true nature before her instincts worked to lead her into the hands of a bully.
And he’d seen enough apathy and turning away from responsibility during his time in the Dragoons. Wait… Who said he was responsible for Lady Cranfield? She was no one to him.