Irresistible

by ROBARDS, KAREN

  Revealing that she was at all acquainted with Hugh would be fatal, Claire realized with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, because it would lead to inevitable questions about when and where they had met, and then, she feared, somewhere in the tangled web of attempted deception the truth would inevitably come out. The thought made her shudder. She could hardly manage to stay on her feet, much less maintain so huge a lie. Grimly Claire fought to get herself under control. Deliberately she tried to relax the tense muscles of her shoulders, her back, her arms. Her heart was slowing down on its own, its wild pounding decreasing gradually to a more regular beat. She was able to breathe again more or less normally, she discovered as she tried.

  What she could not seem to do was keep her eyes from Hugh’s face.

  She had thought he was lost to her forever. And now, here he was, standing before her in the flesh. The question was: Was that a good thing—or a bad one?

  “You did know David had married?” Lady George, her attention restored to them, asked Hugh, and Claire forced herself to look at her mother-in-law instead. Lady George was far more keen-eyed than Aunt Augusta, and, with her loyalty firmly on the side of her son, far more of a danger to her, Claire knew. Thank goodness she had been distracted for those few moments and thus missed what Claire was certain had been a kaleidoscope of wildly shifting emotions chasing each other across her face.

  The idea of her mother-in-law discovering exactly how well she knew Hugh made Claire feel ill. The scandal would be so horrible; she couldn’t bear thinking about it. And Lady George would cry it from the rafters, if she somehow got wind of it. Her mother-in-law had never particularly liked her, she knew. David—what would David do? He didn’t care for her anymore, if he ever had, nor she for him, but she was his wife.

  Dear God in heaven, how had she ever gotten caught up in such a coil? And how was she ever going to get out of it without touching off the kind of scandal that would keep the ton gossiping for years?

  “I found out only recently.”

  Hugh was no longer looking at her, Claire discovered. He was focused on Lady George, carrying on, from what she had heard of it over the pounding of her blood in her ears, a perfectly normal conversation. His expression revealed nothing but the polite level of interest the subject demanded. If she had not known better, she would have believed that he was in the most mundane of situations.

  But she did know better. He had to be as shocked at their encounter as she was. He was simply more skilled at concealing it. Of course, he was a spy. Spies were good at that kind of thing. Perfectly normal females like herself were not.

  Then the significance of the words I found out only recently sank in, and Claire realized that Hugh had in all likelihood discovered that his cousin David was married when she herself had told him of it—along with the rest of her life story while she had lain snuggled in his arms in that never-to-be-forgotten bunk on the Nadine. She had certainly mentioned David’s name more than once, along with a number of telling details about their lives.

  No wonder he had finally taken her word as to her identity. Every syllable that had fallen from her lips must have confirmed it for him.

  He had known precisely who she was from that moment on. Claire began to focus on the sheer perfidy of the man, and her temper bubbled to simmering life. Her heart began to beat faster again, and her fingers curled into impotent claws at her sides. He had known who she was—and he had not said anything. Remembering how she had begged him to lie with her made her cheeks heat along with her temper. If she hadn’t been so certain that she was never going to see him again, that they would have only that one night together and then he would vanish from her life forever, she would never have been so bold.

  Certainly, if she had known he was her husband’s cousin, the head of the family she had married into, the owner of Hayleigh Castle and Richmond House and all the other myriad properties that David and Lady George treated as their own—in other words, if she had known he was the Duke of Richmond—she would never, ever, in a thousand lifetimes, have behaved as she had done!

  She had lain with him. Been naked in his arms. Permitted him to touch her, and kiss her, and perform the most intimate—she shuddered to remember just how intimate—of acts upon her person. She had allowed him to give her the ultimate joy, and had cried out his name to the heavens as she experienced it.

  He had let her. He had known who she was, and he had let her.

  If looks could kill, the shaft she fired at him from her eyes at that point should have slain him on the spot. His eyes widened a little as her message went home, but before he could respond, if indeed he intended to respond, they were interrupted.

  “There you are, Lady Claire! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” The speaker was Lord Alfred Dalrymple. A tall, thin man resplendent in a magnificent purple coat and striped waistcoat that quite put the ladies’ gowns to shame, he had been on the town forever and was one of the most persistent of Claire’s cicisbei. In his early thirties, he was a veritable pink of the ton and a confirmed bachelor who tended to attach himself to married women for protection from the countless mothers of marriageable daughters who pursued him for the simple reason that Lord Alfred was said to be worth some twenty thousand pounds a year.

  “Your servant, Lady Salcombe, Lady George.” He executed a pair of elegant legs in the direction of those ladies before smiling at Claire. “Lady Claire, it’s my dance, I believe. Never tell me you had forgotten?”

  Indeed, she had. Now that he reminded her, she recalled that he had indeed asked her for the first waltz during the call he and his great friend Mr. Calvert had paid them the afternoon before. With her senses attuned to the music again, she could hear the musicians striking up. Before, she had heard little over the pounding of her heart.

  “Ah, you had forgotten. I can see it on your face. Oh, faithless one, how you wound me.” Placing a hand over his heart, Lord Alfred tried to look pathetic.

  Ordinarily such badinage, which was his stock in trade, made Claire laugh, and reply in kind. Tonight the most she could manage was a rather forced smile. But in any case he was no longer looking at her. He was looking at Hugh, who was standing just beyond her with a lurking grin curving the corners of his mouth, and surprise was suddenly writ large on his face.

  “By God, is that you, Richmond?”

  “It is indeed. How are you, Alfie? And what the devil are you doing in a purple coat, of all the ghastly hues?”

  “It’s all the crack, I assure you.” Lord Alfred looked down at himself defensively, then looked up at Hugh and laughed. “Fie on you, what would you know? You’ve been out of the country for—what? A dozen years?”

  “Something of that nature,” Hugh admitted. The two men, grinning at each other, shook hands.

  “We were at Eton together, you know.” Lord Alfred made this observation to the trio of women, two of whom were watching with smiling complacency and the third of whom—Claire—still felt so decidedly stunned that she was having trouble taking in anything new, then turned his attention back to Hugh. His voice took on an eager tone. “Does Dev know you’re back? Or Con-naught? They’re married now, you know, poor fools. Set up their nurseries, the both of them. Lord, the dusts we used to kick up! Then you . . .” He broke off, looked suddenly self-conscious, and turned what he had been going to say into a cough.

  “Then I ran off with a woman old enough to be my mother, killed her husband in a duel when he came after us, and had to flee to the Continent as a result,” Hugh finished for him dryly. “Don’t try to wrap my sordid past up in clean linen. I’m sure it’ll be the talk of the town again as soon as word gets out that I’ve come home.”

  “It’s been so long, I’m sure it’s all forgotten,” Lady George murmured in an excusing tone, while Aunt Augusta nodded agreement and Claire looked at Hugh with widening eyes. Though he seemed as familiar to her as her own face in the mirror, she realized that, in truth, she knew nothing about him. Nothing except the way he kiss
ed, the way his hands felt on her body, the way he . . .

  “I fear you’ve shocked my new cousin with your tales of my scandalous doings, Alfie. Perhaps I should take your dance, and try to convince her that I’m really not the monster you make me out to be.” Hugh looked at Claire, and to her horror proffered his arm. “Will you accept me as a poor substitute for my loose-lipped friend, Lady Claire? I am really quite harmless, believe me.”

  “Oh, well, seeing as it’s you, I’ll stand aside. But just this once, mind.”

  With Lord Alfred relinquishing his claim with a bow, and Lady George and Aunt Augusta both watching indulgently, Claire could think of nothing to do but tuck her hand in the crook of Hugh’s elbow.

  Once again the room started to spin. Claire took a firm grip on herself. She must just hold on for a little while more, until she could get out of this thrice-cursed ballroom and away from the dozens of prying eyes. Then she could collapse. Then. Not now.

  “I’m sure you are,” she said, for the benefit of their audience, and with a smile plastered so firmly on her face that it made her jaw ache, she allowed herself to be led onto the dance floor.

  The waltz had already begun. Hugh clasped her hand, slid an arm around her waist, and swung her into the rhythm of the dance. She could feel the heat of his fingers through her glove, feel the brush of his knees against her own, feel the strength of his arm behind her back as he held her at the prescribed distance, which, since he was her partner, suddenly seemed far too close. Smiling with all the genuineness of a porcelain doll, she stared steadfastly at his neck, not daring to lift her eyes to his face until she was sure she had her expression—and her temper—firmly in hand. Her gold lace skirts brushed his black-clad legs with every movement of the dance. His wide chest in its pristine white shirt and waistcoat was only inches from the tips of her breasts, which, despite her best efforts at keeping all her erotic memories of him at bay, seemed to be swelling toward him. She was sure that, looking down, he had a most interesting view of the semibared white mounds and the deep cleavage between them. Her chest was rising and falling faster than even the exertions of the dance could account for, Claire realized with dismay. But hopefully he would not notice that—or the pulse that she could feel beating in time with her skipping heart just below the surface of the white skin of her throat. Claire was instantly, acutely aware of all these details, even as she willed herself not to be, willed herself to stay as detached from what was happening, as detached from him, as if she were in truth dancing with a man who was no more than the just-met stranger they were both pretending he was.

  The music was intoxicating, a haunting, romantic invitation to lose oneself in the dance. The scent of flowers combined with the ladies’ perfume to sweeten the air. The candles overhead cast a soft glow over the assembled company, and flickered like hundreds upon hundreds of fireflies as they were reflected in the mirrors that lined the sides of the room. All around them couples swayed and twirled in a vast, swirling ballet. Claire got a glimpse of Beth, looking radiant as she laughed up into the face of her partner, before a movement of the dance swept her out of sight again. Then someone stepped on the trailing hem of her gown and she stumbled a little, clutching at Hugh’s shoulder for balance as she scooped her skirt higher out of harm’s way. Even as Hugh’s arm tightened reflexively around her, she made the mistake of looking up at him. As she met those cool gray eyes, all thoughts of her surroundings faded away.

  She had forgotten how tall he was, she realized. Forgotten how broad his shoulders were. Forgotten the steely strength of his muscles, and the sensuousness of his mouth, and how easy it was to see the shadow of what would be the morning’s beard darkening his lean cheeks even when he was freshly shaved, as he was tonight.

  Then she realized that she had forgotten other things as well. Like how to breathe.

  As she let herself acknowledge that the man holding her was Hugh, really, truly Hugh, her heart skipped a beat. Then she remembered all that he had withheld from her and how he had lied, and the anger already coursing through her veins took on a sudden searing heat.

  “You cad,” she said.

  “Careful, your smile is slipping.”

  There was a teasing glint in his eyes, but she thought she saw tenderness for her there as well. Perversely, that only served to feed her anger. His tenderness, she felt, was no longer to be trusted. He was no longer to be trusted. She had told him everything about herself, given him everything she had to give, while he had taken and taken and taken and said nothing.

  But this crowded ballroom was not the place to air her grievances. Her focus must be on keeping her composure, and keeping their secret. Everything else—like calling him the lying dog he was—could wait.

  She stretched her lips into that ghastly-feeling smile again.

  “Did you really,” she asked, far too politely, “run off with a married woman and kill her husband in a duel?”

  “I was nineteen and foolish,” he replied with a shrug, “and her husband would have killed me if he could. I just happened to be the better shot. In any case, he deserved it. He had been beating her.”

  “And what became of this lady?”

  “I have no idea. She ditched me for a better prospect as soon as I rid her of her husband.” A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Thus teaching me a valuable lesson that I find instructive to this day.”

  “And what lesson is that?”

  “Women are the very devil.” That sounded heartfelt, but there was a twinkle in his eyes as his gaze met hers.

  Claire couldn’t help herself. For the briefest of moments her smile slipped again and she glared at him. He laughed, seeming suddenly very carefree, far more carefree than he had any right to be under the circumstances, and swung her around in a movement of the dance with rather more vigor than was called for. To her annoyance, she was forced to cling even more tightly to his broad shoulder. Which was what he had intended, she guessed. Gritting her teeth against all she wanted to say to him, she recollected their audience and once again pinned on that blatantly false smile.

  They reached the far side of the room. A welcome breath of cool air was blowing through the long windows that someone had finally opened to help cool the overheated dancers. The gauzy undercurtains that had been pulled back to lie in tandem with the heavy velvet drapes fluttered like pale moths in the breeze. Beyond the windows, there were couples strolling on the terrace. Flaming torches in ornate iron holders had been set at intervals of a few feet along the low stone parapet. Beyond the torches, in the just-beginning-to-bud gardens, all was darkness.

  “I think this conversation needs to be continued in private.” He looked down at her with a lurking grin. “Before your face freezes in that terrifying smile.”

  At that, the smile slipped dangerously before she caught herself. Even as she kept it in place, she looked daggers at him. He laughed, a low, genuinely amused sound that under any other circumstances she would have found absolutely charming. Before she quite realized what he would be about, he whirled her through the window and across the terrace. Then, grabbing her hand so that there was no possibility of escape, he pulled her after him down the shallow stone steps into the moonlit garden.

  25

  “Did you miss me, puss?”

  The question, uttered with a sideways smile as Hugh tucked her hand securely under his arm and led her down a brick-paved path that twisted out of sight of the terrace, was absolutely the wrong thing to say. Claire had vowed that she would confine herself to polite conversation for the duration of the ball. There was no reason, after all, to even open herself up to the possibility of creating what could easily, if she gave free rein to how she really felt, be a very ugly public scene. But for him to ask if she had missed him—which of course she had, madly, a fact that was infuriating enough in itself under the circumstances and that she now never meant to admit to anyone even under pain of death—and call her puss to boot was the verbal equivalent of waving a red flag in fro
nt of an already infuriated bull.

  “Why, no,” she said with studied disinterest, her chin in the air. “I’ve been very busy since we last met, you see. Why?” And here she glanced up at him with a little trill of amused laughter. “Did you hope that I would?”

  “Don’t lie.” His smile widened, causing his eyes to narrow and the lines bracketing his mouth to deepen charmingly. “You missed me.”

  He sounded so certain of it that, even as the last remnants of her smile died, Claire’s eyes began to snap. She stopped walking to glare at him, luxuriating in the freedom to do so without restraint, and pulled her hand from his arm with something of a jerk. From where they were standing, in the lee of a tall, just budding lilac, she could see couples on the terrace backlit against the ballroom. It was a safe bet that more were wandering the garden’s shadowy paths. But no one was near; she and Hugh were, to all intents and purposes, alone. Still, she kept her voice carefully low.