A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle

by Catherine Gayle

  Oh, blast. She didn’t want to encourage the man, but how could she decline with Cousin Henrietta looking on expectantly as she was? Perhaps the baron would have more to discuss tomorrow than the soggy weather, though. She could hope.

  But then again, perhaps he would not. Drat.

  There was no graceful way she could envision to refuse, however, and Jane had already displayed quite enough social blunders and gaffes for her first evening in society.

  She did her best to school her features into placidity. “Of course, Lord Pottinger. I’ll look forward to your arrival.” Then she prayed God wouldn’t smote her down for such a tiny little lie.

  Sophie grabbed hold of Jane’s arm as soon as Pottinger strode away from them. Somehow, he bore an even wider smile than he had before leaving her. Jane wondered how such a feat could be possible before she brushed the thought aside. There would be ample time tomorrow while the baron was visiting to debate the finer intricacies of the insufferably kind man’s inordinately large mouth.

  Sophie tugged impatiently on her arm, commanding her attention. “Jane, do please pay attention. We only have a moment!”

  “I’m sorry. What did you say?” Double drat. Hopefully Sophie wouldn’t misinterpret her inattention to having developed any sort of tendre for the gratingly correct Lord Pottinger.

  “I said that the next dance is a waltz. And it is the dinner dance. And in case you’ve forgotten, this is the dance you promised to Lord Utley. If you don’t find some way to back out of this dance, you’ll be forced to eat your supper with him. You need to pretend to turn your ankle or some other such infirmity. Goodness, you simply can’t waltz with the man. And you absolutely can’t allow him to escort you to supper. Your poor reputation will never survive this—not on your come-out.”

  “Oh, fiddlesticks. Supper and a dance with the man won’t hurt anyone, least of all me.” At least, she hoped not. “And what do you mean by ‘my poor reputation,’ precisely?” Gracious, had word already spread about all of the mistakes she was making? What a bind. But honestly, wouldn’t it be worse to lie to the man?

  “Your reputation? Er...well, since it is your debut, and you are virtually my age, there’s been a good deal of gossip passing around about you from before the moment you stepped foot inside Turnsley Hall.”

  Drat, drat, drat.

  “The gossip has been intensified by the rather large sum my imbecile of a brother has supposedly promised as your dowry. I haven’t heard it from him for myself, but Sybil Pullbrook and Oriana Mollineaux suggested he’s offering forty thousand pounds!”

  Jane’s jaw fell as low as the hem of her gown. “He is not. That’s absurd.” Surely he couldn’t be so keen to be rid of her that he would go to such lengths as that. She was only a vicar’s daughter, for goodness’s sake.

  A new thought struck Jane just then.

  “Oh, dear.” The blood rushed from her head and Jane reached out a hand for somewhere to sit. “The gossips must be saying I’ve been ruined. Why else would he settle such an amount upon me?”

  Sophie pulled her onto a cushioned bench and held tight to her hand, offering the small bit of consolation she could give. She said nothing.

  Perhaps Jane could work such a rumor in her own favor though. Then maybe she could avoid marriage altogether. Trying to keep the hope from sounding through in her voice, she asked, “Do you think most eligible gentlemen would turn away from rumors like those?” The corners of her mouth were inching their way upward into a damning smile. Jane struggled to contain it, but feared she was failing miserably. The absolute last thing she needed was for Sophie, or anyone for that matter, to discover she was trying not to end up married.

  Sophie squeezed her hand and drew Jane’s attention across the ballroom at where the duke was surrounded, yet again, by a largish group of gentlemen—all of whom were staring back across at them. A single auburn curl bounced against Sophie’s shoulder as she turned her gaze to another corner of the room, where Lord Utley could be found striding purposefully toward them, his eyes locked on Jane.

  “I’m afraid, my dear, that Peter’s offer is having quite the opposite effect. It seems you’re one of the few ladies in the room that every gentleman here wishes to meet.” Sophie locked her shrewd gaze on Jane, surely discovering the dread in her eyes alongside a healthy dose of disappointment. “But the question I have burning to be answered is why does that scare you? Don’t you want to marry? I’d think that would ease your worries, but it seems to be having the opposite effect.” Sophie’s eyes narrowed. “Quite peculiar, indeed,” she murmured.

  There was no time, however, for Jane to respond, as Lord Utley was quickly approaching them. Thank God. Blast it, couldn’t she conceal anything from Sophie? Apparently not.

  She pasted the brightest smile she could manage upon her face and hoped she wouldn’t cause herself any more blunders or set-backs. Utley bowed to her and took her hand in his own, sending a course of shudders running across her spine.

  “Miss Matthews, I believe this is my dance. I’ve been looking forward to this moment for the whole of the evening…” His fingers were cold, even through her gloves, and the way he trailed off left her feeling something had been left unsaid. The look in his eye was one she couldn’t quite place, but it left her thoroughly unsettled.

  Hopefully he wouldn’t discover how uneasy she was at his proximity.

  “Thank you, my lord. Shall we move to the dance floor then?” Looking over her shoulder, she caught Sophie’s eye to signal she was fine and there was no reason to worry. Since another gentleman had already arrived to fetch her friend, they couldn’t speak.

  As Lord Utley deftly moved Jane through the throng of dancers, he placed a hand against her waist. His fingers curled toward her in a manner that gave her pause. Goodness, the man was indiscreet. She tried to maneuver herself into a position that would give her some distance from him without drawing his attention to her activity. She failed, however. Quite miserably, actually. His grip tightened and her entire side drew up against him. His heat radiated against her, and a sick roiling of dread built in her stomach.

  Just before they came to a stop on the dance floor, Jane caught Somerton staring at her, his fury boring through her skin. On a second, more cautious inspection, she tried to decipher whether his rage was directed toward herself or toward her choice of dance partner—or perhaps toward them both. She couldn’t really make it out, though, other than the fact he was furious enough to cause someone bodily harm, if the shade spreading over his ears was any indication. Drat.

  But he had sent Utley to his mother to obtain an introduction, hadn’t he? Blast the man. Sorting out His Grace’s expectations would be the death of her, so she might as well just not bother trying.

  She pushed all thoughts of the duke from her mind, or at least made an attempt to do so, and flashed Lord Utley a smile. She hoped it came across as rather sunny, but she feared it might look more like she had swallowed spoiled fish.

  Utley drew her startlingly close to his sharp, angular body—too close even for a waltz. Such audacity! As he took her hand in his own and placed her other atop his shoulder, he leered down into her eyes with what could be mistaken for nothing other than lascivious intent. His other hand slid into place against her waist and pulled her even closer than before. “So lovely,” he whispered close to her ear. His breath itched against her skin and sent a clammy prickle down her spine.

  She could smell him—a sickening, sweet scent, unfamiliar and unpleasant, and altogether unsettling.

  Blessedly, the music started before any more time passed, and he swept her across the floor, gliding along with the rise and fall of the steps. His eyes never left hers.

  She prayed he could not feel her trembling, but when had she ever been known for such fortune? The candlelight swirled around, blurring in the fading background. The perfume of the flowers in the hall became strangling to her lungs. His arms felt like a vise about her, trapping her.

  “Miss Matt
hews, are you all right?” His voice slithered across her, too smooth, bereft of any true concern or empathy. “Can I assist you in any way?” He slowed their movements and maneuvered them toward the outer edges of the dance floor, close to one of the open sets of double-doors leading out to the veranda and gardens.

  Jane needed air. She needed...something. Perhaps it would be a good idea step outside so she could breathe a bit more freely. Oh, dear. Going out alone with Utley—with no chaperone—couldn’t possibly her best course of action, but otherwise she might have a fainting spell. Certainly not what she had envisioned for her first ball of the Season. Double drat, and why could she not think clearly, when it was quite possibly the most imperative time in all her life to know exactly what she should and shouldn’t do?

  Before she answered him, he repositioned her closer the doors outside, almost leading her through them before she could gather her wits about her and decide what to do. “You must forgive my impertinence, ma’am, but I believe some fresh air will do you some good. I fear you’re unwell.” He slipped an arm about her waist to support her and virtually dragged her outside.

  Her legs were moving beneath her, but she had seemingly lost all control over them.

  Lord Utley directed her toward a bench and pressed her until she sat. “There you are, Miss Matthews. Take some air. You’ll feel better in no time.” He sat next to her, again closer than her comfort allowed. Her trembling subsided, but still, her skin crawled like thousands of tiny fingers were sliding over it at his proximity. “Your color is starting to return.” His voice was merely a whisper. Then he trailed a finger along her cheek, brushing a stray wisp of hair back from her face.

  Drat, drat, drat. How had she gotten herself into such a scrape? The man was entirely too close to her and touching her in a most inappropriate manner.

  She squirmed away from his arm that was draped across the back of the bench, almost touching her shoulders and causing goose flesh to rise all over. “My lord, you’ve been most kind to see to my comforts. Thank you.” She said all of this with as much emphatic force as she could muster, so as not to leave anything in doubt.

  With her faculties about her yet again, Jane started to rise—only to have him grasp her arm and pull her down next to him.

  She flashed a scowl at him. “I do believe we should return to the ballroom, sir, as my chaperone will be anxious if she cannot find me.”

  But he didn’t release her. His fingers trailed up her gloved arm, up to the bare skin above the gloves, up still further to her shoulder to wander over her neck, leaving her a shuddering, convulsing mess as she fought to keep the roiling contents of her stomach under control.

  “You are quite lovely, you know.” His voice sliced through her like a sword, leaving the impression that he thought anything but what his words implied.

  Jane ought to have listened to Sophie. She should have heeded her friend’s instincts about this man and rejected him out of hand. Failing that, she ought to have found a way—any way—to stay out of his grasp.

  Blast her naiveté.

  Jane’s eyes darted about the garden, hoping to land on another couple out for a bit of air, or a random gentleman strolling about alone who might act as her champion against this leering blackguard. But no one else was near. She looked back to the main house. Her voice would never carry far enough, not with all the hubbub of the revelries inside. No one would be able to hear her distress, should she cry out.

  “We are quite alone, my dear.” Utley’s fingers continued to trail lazy paths along any stretch of bare skin they encountered. “But you must have realized why I brought you outside. Surely you recognize your own value, Miss Matthews. Of course, one might believe you to be beneath my touch—” he chuckled, looking at his fingers slithering over her skin— “but I can look beyond the unfortunate circumstance of your low birth when faced with your—ample—assets.” His gaze slid to her bosom and held there.

  She felt ill. Fully, truly ill. She’d walked blindly and willingly into a blasted catastrophe, and now she couldn’t see a way out. Jane pressed her eyes closed and said a prayer for clear thought, willing her heartbeat to calm to a dull roar. “Oh, goodness. I believe I hear my chaperone calling to me.” She extricated herself from his touch and pushed further along the bench, trying to put some distance between them. “You must excuse me, my lord, but I’m sure you wouldn’t wish to detain me and risk the consequences. Her Grace would be most displeased.” She stood and managed two steps before he roughly took her arm from behind, stopping her dead in her tracks.

  “And we mustn’t displease the dowager, must we?” His low voice sounded just above her ear and his grip tightened on her arm until it hurt. “If I’m not mistaken, however, her intention is to find you a husband. We could ensure such a match tonight, if you would cooperate with me.”

  Jane shook violently and her breath came out in short, desperate bursts.

  His hands moved over her upper arms, holding them close to her sides, drawing her bottom against his thighs, where his protrusion pressed against her. “Of course, you’ve already performed your part rather well. I intended to coerce you to join me for a stroll outside where I could then seduce you, but no coercion was necessary. You played into my hands better than I’d planned.”

  Utley’s strong arms forced her to turn and face him. Outrage warred with panic as she looked up into his eyes, hard and unyielding. The corners of his mouth turned up in a menacing grin before he lowered his head and claimed her lips in a painful, humiliating kiss.

  One of his hands held her head captive to his assault while the other grasped her bottom firmly, pinching, prodding, and otherwise forcing her to move her hips closer to his frame until his eagerness pressed firm and hot against her stomach.

  Once the shock dissipated, Jane pushed with all her strength against his chest and broke free from his kiss. Breathing heavily, she reached a hand up to slap him across the face, but held herself back. She had to think clearly. Striking him might have unintended consequences. “How dare you,” she uttered. Then she backed away from him, inching toward the ballroom and safety.

  Before she reached the doorway, Utley smirked and rubbed his chin almost as though she had struck him instead of holding herself back. “Quite easily, in fact,” he called out to her, then turned in the opposite direction.

  Of all the ill-advised things she had done in her life, this must top the list. Blast. And now she’d have to return to the ballroom alone. Perhaps she could slip inside unnoticed if she were very careful. If not, there was bound to be more gossip. It would be bad enough for her if anyone had noticed her leaving with the scoundrel.

  Oh, who was she trying to fool? Doubtless, Cousin Henrietta would be watching for her, since she was supposed to be dancing with Utley. Already, Jane had proven to be the center of the rumor mill’s focus for the evening, and it was still early.

  She’d be lucky indeed if every eye in the ballroom didn’t turn to see her in her shame.

  How on earth could she get out of this newest scrape?

  Jane frantically pored over various scenarios she could present to the dowager to convince her nothing untoward had occurred while she’d been outside with Utley, all the while scrambling through the winding pathways of the garden as the scents of blossoming gardenias and foxgloves wafted over her. Lost in thought, she didn’t see the towering man standing directly in her way until she ran headlong into him, her nose bumping rather unnaturally against his well-toned chest.

  For just a moment, she pinched her eyes closed and willed her breathing to calm. Then she slowly looked up, inching her eyes across his perfectly starched, white cravat and the snug black overcoat emphasizing firm muscles straining to be set free, hoping to discover anyone there—anyone at all, even Lord Utley again—other than the Duke of Somerton.

  Her eyes traveled over his face, the smooth shaven square jaw, the furious scowl, and his hard eyes (eyes that were curiously multi-colored—how was it possible for one to b
e more green and the other to be more blue?) which glared down at her.

  And of course, it was none other than the duke himself standing before, looking ready to rip her limb from limb.

  Drat.

  ~ * ~

  Devil take it. Peter couldn’t decide who he ought to kill first.

  He could start with the minx standing before him with eyes filled with a fascinating mix of fury, fear, and just a hint of shame.

  He could strangle his mother for having introduced Miss Matthews to Utley in the first place, when she knew full well the man was a scoundrel of unequaled measure. It was bad enough that she’d instigated the entire charade by pushing Peter to take a new bride and by sponsoring her damned cousin for the Season.

  If he were to do what he really knew, deep down, that he should do, he could follow Utley, the bloody bastard, to wherever he had wandered off to in the dark of the gardens and rip his head from his body. Not only had the bastard dared to dance with a decent, respectable young lady, in a decent, respectable ballroom, before legions of decent, respectable people, but he also had the audacity to take that very same young lady from the ballroom and away from the protective eyes of her chaperone and the rest of the ton. Not to mention his own eyes, but they were rather beside the point.

  The lecher obviously was planning to do God-knew-what in order to ruin the blasted woman on her very first night out. Which shouldn’t surprise Peter. He might have hoped Utley would someday change, but the bastard was clearly beyond hope.

  And Miss Matthews had been bloody stupid to agree to any of it in the first place. Clearly, she hadn’t been paying attention to the instruction his mother had given her or she would never have agreed to dance with the bastard, let alone leave the safety of the public eye to go somewhere alone with him.