“I do, my lord.”
She gave a small gasp when he gripped her hand a bit too tightly. It was time he let her know that he had no intention of being maneuvered, either by her or by Katherine—who would definitely pay later for her malice.
“You needn’t have gone to so much trouble, Miss St. Clair,” he said softly as he swung her into the pattern of the waltz. “I would have been glad to play your game as long as it’s done by my rules.”
“Then it would be your game, my lord,” she replied, unperturbed, her arm held stiffly to keep him at a proper distance. “My rules are more negotiable.”
Lemon verbena was a faint, teasing fragrance that radiated upward as he held her lightly, his hand pressed against her upper back. Christ, the gown revealed every sleek line and curve of her body. It wasn’t a dress, it was a proposition. His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Do your rules include seduction, Miss St. Clair?”
Her head tilted as she looked up at him. Lamplight glittered on the rich lustre of rubies nestled in the curls piled artfully atop her head.
“A presumptuous question, my lord.”
“I prefer to think it astute. You’ve set a trap for someone tonight.”
“Have I? Perhaps you’re right. But if so, why would I be so foolish as to confide in you?”
Celia St. Clair turned gracefully in the steps of the dance, a movement that brought her even closer, the swoosh of her skirts a crimson and gold complement to her cool blond beauty. Her flowery fragrance was delicate and arousing. He was tempted to scoop her into his arms and carry her from the ballroom to the nearest bed.
As her lashes lifted and she tilted her head to gaze up into his eyes, temptation coalesced into firm resolve. She played a game with the wrong man. Someone should have warned her.
The lilting melody of a waltz caressed the air as he steered her smoothly toward an alcove at the far end of the wide ballroom. If she noticed she made no protest.
The music ended briefly just as they reached a curtained recess half-hidden by potted palms behind serving tables for the use of footmen—a private nook once the doors closed.
She gave him a startled glance when he swept her into the shadowed corner and shut the doors. “Sir! This is—”
“Now,” he said softly, cutting off her protest, “I’ll acquaint you with my rules. I think you must already be familiar with a few of them.” His arms shot out to imprison her when she tried to leave, trapping her with his hands against the wall, his body a hard force leaning against her. “Ladies who tempt men with fluttering lashes and scarlet gowns are either foolish, or not ladies. I can’t decide which you are, foolish with your big cat eyes and ingenuous chatter, or available as that dress suggests so eloquently. Which is it?”
“I—you are too forward, sir!”
“Oh, no, this is what you wanted, isn’t it? With your knowing glances and simpering sighs. It’s all been a ruse. I don’t know what your goal is, but I assure you that if it’s only an idle flirtation, I’m not in the mood. I take this sort of thing seriously, Miss St. Clair, so don’t tease the tiger unless you’re willing to risk the full consequences.”
Her chin tilted, mouth thinning into a taut line as her eyes glinted with anger. “You give yourself far too much credit, my lord! Do you think you’re so irresistible that all women must pursue you?”
“No, but by God I know when a woman makes herself available, and you’ve done everything but leap naked into my bed.”
“Your imagination is vivid, but quite mistaken. Let me go before I scream.”
“Scream. It will bring attention to the fact that you’ve been compromised. I imagine your cousin will be delighted by the scandal, while it won’t affect my already tarnished reputation. So do that, Miss St. Clair, scream and bring the entire room running to your aid.”
“You—you bastard!”
His lips curled into a sardonic smile. “Ah, that’s better. Now I see the real person instead of this mirage you’ve tried so hard to keep intact.”
Celia tried to twist free but he dropped his hands to her shoulders, fingers digging into bare skin to hold her. “Ah, no, it’s time to give you what you’ve been so prettily asking for, I think—or at least a preview of future interludes.”
Oh, he sounded so…so harsh! Her heart pounded fiercely as his mouth came down over hers with brutal force. His hand cupped behind her neck to hold her head still for his kiss though she offered no struggle. This kiss was different than the last. This was more like an invasion, an assault on her senses that was overpowering.
There was no gentleness in him as he held her pinned against the length of his body, his kiss savage and thorough and almost frightening. His tongue was in her mouth, a heated intrusion that left her lightheaded, with a pounding pulse loud in her ears.
The wall was unyielding behind her, his hard body a relentless pressure against her chest, belly and thighs. Oh God, his hand had moved to her breast, shaping it in his palm, fingers stroking in sly circles beneath the braided edge of her bodice, a riveting sensation that shot bolts of fire through her entire body.
What was he…? Oh, it was insane, but a strange heat seared her skin, quivered inside her, the stroke of his tongue in her mouth coaxing a response despite her intention of remaining coy and detached. How could she be detached when he did that with his hand, on so intimate a place!
Rolling her nipple between his thumb and finger, he seemed to know how it made her feel, how that awful and delicious throb ignited in her belly and between her thighs, for he deepened his kiss until she truly felt faint this time, as if the floor was dipping away from her and the entire world had faded into a heated mist. She was clutching at him, both hands somehow tangled in the front of his elegant evening coat, clinging to him as if she could no longer stand.
“Christ…Celia,” he muttered thickly, the words sounding almost like a groan.
Suddenly his head bent and he was kissing her breast, his tongue tracing erotic patterns over the sensitive peak as she shuddered and clung to him and made little whimpering sounds in the back of her throat.
She gave a halfhearted protest, though it sounded muffled and more like a moan. His arms were so strong, insistent, and she closed her eyes and yielded to the intensity that raged inside her, a tight, burning knot that spread fire through her entire body.
Celia arched against him, seeking an elusive release from the torment, far too conscious of the pressure of his long, hard-muscled legs against hers, of the abrasion of his elegant evening jacket against her bare breasts.
Everything had disappeared around her, the shadowed alcove, the filtered strains of a waltz, the laughter and conversation of hundreds of guests beyond the flimsy wall disappearing as if never in existence. All that was real was the pulse, like a heartbeat, that urged her to lean into him, to allow him to take these indecent liberties.
Celia didn’t know what would have happened had he not suddenly pulled away, leaving her feeling strangely bruised and aching inside, bereft.
As if through a fog she heard him say, “As much as I’d like to continue this, it’s neither the time nor place.”
He stepped back, his hands on her shoulders again, a steady pressure to hold her. “Fix your dress. For God’s sake, don’t look at me like that,” he said more harshly when she didn’t move, shocking her into response.
She jerked at her bodice to cover her breasts, her face flaming. “If you do not like how I’m looking at you, my lord, that can be easily remedied.”
Wrenching away from him, she almost ran out of the alcove, pausing behind the screen of palms to wipe her mouth and rearrange her bodice, her fingers trembling so badly it was difficult.
Damn him! He had so effortlessly unraveled her plans, sweeping them away with no trouble at all. And he had shown her how foolish she’d been to think she could control him.
Celia managed to compose herself, and was glad for her years of training under the nuns at St. Mary’s, for she betr
ayed no sign of turmoil when Northington appeared at her elbow, his voice a low command.
“For God’s sake, behave as though nothing is wrong, then no one will notice. I’ll escort you to your cousin.”
“That’s the least you can do,” she returned coolly. Oh, it wasn’t so difficult if she concentrated on anything but him. She was aware of the crowd as they passed through women garbed in diamonds, rubies and sapphires, aware of the interested glances from men in knee breeches and dark evening coats such as Northington wore.
“Don’t play with fire, Miss St. Clair,” he said just before they reached Jacqueline, “unless you know how to keep from being burned.”
Turning toward him, she smiled, and saw his eyes narrow. “Your warning is appreciated, but as you can see, I’m not even singed, my lord.”
An appreciative smile curled his mouth. “Ever the surprise with you, I see. Perhaps I misjudged you.”
“Oh, no. I think your judgment is astute.”
“You do like taking risks, then. We’ll see how you fare when the stakes are much higher.”
“Is that a challenge, my lord Northington?”
“Think of it as—an invitation.”
They had reached Jacqueline and Carolyn, and with a sardonic bow, Northington presented her to her cousin and murmured his gratitude for the dance.
Lady Leverton fixed him with a rather cool eye as she said, “Your impetuous conduct has disappointed several of the gentlemen present tonight, Lord Northington. By claiming the first dance with Miss St. Clair, you have dashed numerous hopes.”
“Have I? My apologies, Lady Leverton. As you can see, I have returned her to you in excellent condition.”
“As you found her,” was the tart reply, and Colter’s brow rose.
“Her reputation is intact, my lady. She merely felt a bit faint and I revived her.”
Colter took Celia’s hand, lifted it to his lips and murmured in French, “Until we meet again,” then left them.
“Are you all right?” Jacqueline leaned close to murmur in her ear, and Celia nodded.
“Yes. Though I do think,” she replied with a shaky smile, “that he is definitely dangerous.”
12
Celia looked shaken, Jacqueline thought, though she behaved as if all were perfectly tranquil. She drank cups of champagne punch, danced with knights, barons and even an earl, laughed and flirted and seemed not to notice that Lord Northington had not returned.
It had not escaped her notice that Northington and Celia had disappeared for a short length of time, however, nor that Celia was definitely flustered when she returned. It was so like the viscount to do such a thing, and she worried that Celia—so young and innocent, for all that she seemed capable of handling herself well—would find him too experienced to be seduced into a marriage proposal.
She suppressed a light shiver. Northington wasn’t very much like his father had been—a terrible man, the new earl, with no scruples at all. At least the viscount had a sense of decency. Should she tell Celia about the earl and Léonie, how he had pursued her so intently many years before? Oh, the man then known as Lord Northington had been absolutely furious when Léonie wed her American and left London.
She had spurned his advances and he’d sworn vengeance on her, but thankfully, she had escaped him unscathed. It had been rumored that then viscount Northington could be quite cruel, and oh, she had been so glad Léonie left England before he could exact his retaliation on her for her refusal of him.
But really, what had he expected? Everyone whispered of his excesses, his depravities and membership in that terrible club where men treated women with such awful indifference. Jules had told her of it—a wicked group of men dedicated to appeasing perverted sexual desires with willing—and unwilling—women. Yet all that was gone now, she thought, for there had been no mention of it in so very long a time.
And now perhaps it would be vindication of a sort if Léonie’s daughter did wed Northington, for after all, he was not the dissolute rake that his father had been, regardless of the gossip. Even Jules thought highly of him, despite their political differences, and Jules was rarely wrong about a person.
Ah, it was so difficult to know what to do. But at the moment Celia was enjoying herself, and if the viscount was immune to her charm, he was practically the only man there who was. Men buzzed around Celia in her scarlet gown as if bees around a lovely flower, fetching more champagne punch and asking her to dance, promising to leave their cards the very next morning.
Yes, she was a success again tonight, and her lack of a dowry seemed not to matter when it came to men willing to fall at her feet and promise undying devotion.
Practicality dictated that few of them would actually make an offer, for most needed a profitable alliance to increase family lands or wealth, yet Jacqueline thought with a great deal of satisfaction that her petite cousine would make a very good match indeed before this Season ended. There would be no need to worry about presenting her in the spring!
Just like my Caro, she thought fondly as she turned her gaze toward her daughter, who was dancing primly with her betrothed, a rather plain but very good-hearted young man with impeccable antecedents and an excellent future. Lord Melwyn was destined to be influential one day, she was certain of it. With Carolyn at his side, he would lack for nothing. Certainly the ample dowry she brought would be quite beneficial.
What, I wonder, Jacqueline mused, would Jules say if I wished to set aside at least a small portion to offer with Celia? A woman shouldn’t ever feel deficient, as if she brought nothing to the marriage but her beauty, for there would always be a niggling worry that her husband had wed beneath him. She knew that feeling well enough. Always, she had worried that Jules regretted not marrying a wealthy bride, and it had taken years to finally believe that he truly loved her.
It would be so wonderful to know Celia had the same assurance.
“But here you are again,” she said as Celia’s partner returned her, both of them flushed and smiling from the lively contredanse that had just ended. “And not a moment too soon. We are to go into supper.”
“I am not at all hungry,” Celia said a little breathlessly as a cup was pressed into her hand. “But I think I have drank too much champagne tonight!”
“My dear, are you unwell?”
Jacqueline leaned close and put a hand on her arm, and Celia realized belatedly that she gripped her crystal glass so tightly the stem had cracked. She managed a light laugh.
“Exhausted, but quite well.”
Maneuvering her away from the overattentive ears of those near them, Jacqueline murmured, “Whatever did Lord Northington say to you tonight?”
“Why do you think he said something?”
“I know he said something, but what? You look…you look almost angry.”
“Oh, I am just weary from all the dancing. Why ever would you think I’m angry?”
“No one has such a fierce expression unless they are, my dear, and it seems that Northington has left without claiming another dance with you. Oh.” She drew back a little to peer into Celia’s face. “Did you perhaps make him angry?”
“How would I know? It would be most difficult to distinguish his moods if I cared to dwell on them.” She drained the last of her punch, a less potent drink than the champagne. “I find him quite irritating.”
“Most men are irritating. That has nothing to do with being eligible. Northington will be earl one day. He is still young and handsome and has a title. While his father may have an unsavory reputation, that is all in the past. And really, it hardly matters what the father is, as long as the son is his own man.”
“But is he? Is Lord Northington his own man? He seems as brutal as the father.”
“Oh my child, so much gossip is based on false facts, it is difficult to say what is true and what is untrue. But my Jules holds the viscount in high regard so I cannot think he is so very wicked after all.”
“I begin to think that there must be s
omething more to life than catching a husband.” Celia managed a light tone though she was unsettled and on edge, uncertain what to do next. Nothing had gone as she envisioned, for Northington was not at all malleable, or even predictable.
Jacqueline shook her head. “Only after the wedding, my little cabbage. Then life begins. Until then, it is a time of preparation. I am surprised that Léonie did not instruct you more fully, but then, you were still so young when she died.”
“Yes.” Celia inhaled sharply. She needed no reminders of her mother tonight; Northington had provided far too many reservations that would haunt her when she lay awake later. It had been years since she’d slept an entire night through without waking several times, sometimes to lie awake for hours staring at a dark ceiling, watching the fire die down and reliving old nightmares while plotting new ones.
“You have a restless spirit,” Sister Berthilde had told her once, after finding her wandering the halls of the home a few hours before daybreak.
The good sister’s recommendation had been to ease the night with earnest prayer, but Celia had never found that successful. She’d tried. Some nights she’d knelt beside her bed so long that her knees were sore and bruised the next day. Nothing had ever eased her restless spirit. Until justice was served, nothing ever would.
Now Jacqueline said, “Your dress certainly intrigued Northington, though I thought him a bit—well, brazen.”
“Yes, he was. He has earned his reputation as a rake, it seems. It’s not idle gossip at all.”
“You must be cautious, Celia, or you’ll give him the impression that you’re wanton.”
“Yes, it seems I have.” She gave a little laugh at Jacqueline’s expression of dismay. “Oh, I’ve no intention of allowing him too many liberties, but with a man like the viscount, subtlety has no effect.”
Jacqueline’s fan fluttered briskly. “He doesn’t seem to be the kind of man to be teased, petite. I urge you to caution—Oh God, here comes Sir John to dance with you again, I suspect. I believe he has quite a thing for you, but keep in mind, he is an intimate of Northington’s and anything you say might be repeated—”
A Reckless Encounter Page 11