Her movement seemed to make something inside of him snap. He moved forward, and in one swift motion, he’d planted his hands on either side of the pianoforte, pinning her in, their bodies so close she could feel the heat emanating from his body, smell the hypnotic scent of his exotic cologne.
Bergamot.
Her knees felt so weak she gripped the edge of the Broadwood to keep from sinking to the floor. White heat shot through her abdomen at his proximity, battling with the innate panic she felt at being trapped.
“Don’t touch me, dear Auntie, unless you want to be burned,” he growled, his lips inches from her ear. Each puff of air against her skin sent a shiver, half excitement, half fear, cascading down her spine.
She drew her head back so she could see his face, determined not to let him know how he affected her. But meeting his eyes was a mistake. They bored into her own, divining her soul, so close she could see the reflection of her face in his black, dilated pupils.
He leaned closer, then closer still, until his lips were the barest hairsbreadth away from her own. His breathing was ragged, and though no part of their bodies touched, she could feel the tautness of his muscles, as if it were taking all of his will to hold his body in check.
Oh God.
He was going to kiss her.
Or worse.
The sound of china tinkling on silver intruded upon her consciousness. She glanced away from Sebastian and saw that the housekeeper was setting the tea service on a table, trying her best not to look in their direction, her cheeks red.
Katherine could feel her pulse racing madly, her breaths coming short and rapid, as she struggled to compose herself. She told herself she wasn’t disappointed.
Sebastian, however, didn’t look disappointed at all. He looked horrified. He drew in a steadying breath and backed away from her, eyes wide, dismay writ in every rigid line of his body.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other, breathless, dazed, as the flustered housekeeper bustled around the room. When they were at last alone again, Sebastian finally unfroze enough to sweep her one precise, polite bow.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, sounding lost. “I think . . . I think I must go,” he finished, straightening. Then he nearly ran out of the room in his haste to get away from her before she could collect her wits enough to respond.
That was definitely disappointing.
Chapter Five
In Which the Dowager Marchioness Absolutely, Positively, and Categorically Does Not Pine Over a Scoundrel
KATHERINE ROSE EARLY, as usual, after a restless night, which was unusual. She’d dreamed about him again. She couldn’t remember a night in the past two weeks when she hadn’t, in fact. Last night he’d had her trapped against the Broadwood, and instead of breaking away, his lips had found their way to her mouth and delivered a scorching kiss. He’d warned her rather melodramatically that his touch would burn her, and it did, even in her dreams. The kiss had gone on and on, until she was drowning in the heat, unable to breathe.
In her dreams, she’d welcomed the wet, satin-smooth texture of his mouth. Imagined it tasted of spirits and cheroots and honey. She’d desired to throw her arms around him and sink into the hard warmth of his body, but every time she tried, his body had slid just beyond her reach, even as his mouth claimed hers. She’d tried and tried, again and again, but she could never quite manage to touch him.
She’d awoken covered in sweat and panting as if she’d run a mile, an odd, tingling sensation low in her belly that she’d rarely felt before.
Desire.
Good Lord. She desired Sebastian Sherbrook. Still.
But on the heels of this discovery was the old shame, pulling her back to her senses, warning her away. She knew men’s true natures all too well. She knew that no good could ever come of exploring this dangerous feeling, especially with a scoundrel like him.
He was right to have warned her that touching him would get her burned, worse than she had been before. He would seduce her, then cast her aside when he was through with her. Just as he had done to the Blanchard chit. And just as Johann had done to her. She would not survive a second time.
She stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror as Polly dressed her hair, at her long nose and sharp chin and the tired look in her eyes. She hated what she saw—a woman who had lost her bloom, if she’d ever had one to lose at all. Even Johann had eventually admitted he’d wanted her fortune, not her. The thought of the exquisite Sebastian actually desiring her was an absurd conceit. Her imagination was once again running wild.
The only reason he’d threatened to kiss her the other day was to scare her off. He despised her. He had told her so himself. He thought she was a cold-blooded schemer who had married for a title and position, which was, alas, not far from the truth. Though her father—and her own foolish actions—had given her little choice in the matter, she had married Manwaring knowing she would have a certain social power as a marchioness. Knowing she would be free of her autocratic father, if nothing else.
The late marquess had been many things, most of them deplorable, but he had agreed to give her his name in return for her immense dowry. No other respectable man would have, but the marquess was as impotent as she was soiled goods, so the state of her virtue had never been questioned. In return, she was the perfect wife in all outward appearances—the only thing that mattered to the marquess. Theirs had been a carefully choreographed ruse.
Now that she was a widow? Well. It was rather the best thing that had ever happened to her. Her marriage portion and grandmother’s inheritance ensured she would never be dependent on anyone ever again. She was quite happy with her comfortable little house on Bruton Street. It was far from the glorious residence she had occupied during her marriage, but that was just how she liked it. She was, at last, free.
Polly, her maid, was staring distastefully at her work, the usual plain chignon. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to do something a bit different today, my lady?” she asked hopefully. “Maybe a bit looser in the front?”
Katherine smiled at her maid. “Not today, thank you, Polly.”
Polly tried unsuccessfully to disguise her pout. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but that’s what you say every day. I just thought that now you were out of mourning . . .” Polly glanced uncertainly at Katherine’s gray gown. “Well, mostly out of mourning,” she corrected, “you might start doing yourself up a bit more. You have lovely hair.”
Katherine did not think her colorless, straight locks were any cause to celebrate. “Thank you, Polly. But I don’t think so. I am not trying to impress anyone.”
“Not even our good doctor?” Polly asked with a much too innocent air.
Katherine’s cheeks suffused with color. She spun around to her maid and tried to make her expression stern. “Polly! You overstep yourself.”
Polly, who had been in Katherine’s service since they were both sixteen years old (her father had replaced all of her attendants after the Incident) and knew her post was quite secure, just quirked her lips in a knowing smile.
Just then, the door of the bedroom jangled open, and a scrappy ball of copper-tinged fur whizzed past them with a terrorized howl and hid under the bed. A moment later, a large, hairy beast of a dog limped into the room with an excited woof and began to snuffle at the dust ruffle, tail wagging furiously.
“Seamus!” Katherine said in as authoritarian a voice as she could muster.
With another woof, the dog abandoned his quarry and swung around, his massive tail knocking several items off of her bedside table, to Polly’s horror. His wolfish face lit up in delight when he spotted Katherine, and he hobbled over and threw his front paw up on her waist.
Katherine didn’t have the heart to push him away and instead rubbed his wooly head until he was growling with delight—and drooling down her skirts. Seamus was an Irish setter she had rescued f
rom a hunter’s trap during her last visit to Briar Hill, her late husband’s Derbyshire estate. He had obviously run wild for some time before his unfortunate meeting with the trap, for he was near to starving and matted with filth when she’d found him. He had lost his left leg, and many had urged Katherine to let one of the lads put the poor beast out of his misery. But she had obstinately nursed him back to health. She had never regretted her decision. He might have only three legs, but he still managed to lead an active and very happy life, tormenting Penny, breaking her porcelain with his rough play, and eating better than most people did.
And he was besotted with Katherine, which was most flattering, even if he was just a dog.
“You’re naughty to chase poor Penny so mercilessly,” she scolded lightly, rubbing behind his ears. “What’s she ever done to you?”
Seamus grinned back at her—if a dog could grin—and flapped his tail against the rug. He held Penny in a high regard, Lord knew why, and he would never hurt the smaller dog. But he delighted in tormenting her, almost as much as he enjoyed licking her gums, which Penny allowed when she thought no one else could see them, as it was, after all, quite a disgusting pastime, even if they were dogs. When Penny was in the company of other people (as she was quite convinced she was a person—and a Very Important Person at that) she expressed total disdain for Seamus, but Katherine knew the truth. Penny adored Seamus almost as much as the setter adored her. Even now Katherine saw Penny’s beady eyes peering out from underneath the bed, watching with intense jealousy as Seamus lavished his affection on her.
Katherine would be getting the cold shoulder from that particular quarter for the rest of the day. Not that she expected anything less. Aside from her clandestine tolerance for Seamus, Penny was, quite frankly, the most ill-mannered, ill-tempered creature Katherine had ever met, always lurking in corners, growling at unsuspecting servants, and pilfering food from the kitchens no matter how hard cook tried to secure it from her greedy paws.
Rather like the Viscount Marlowe, to be quite honest.
Katherine didn’t know where she’d gone wrong with Penny, whom she’d treasured since finding her in an alley near her home last year. She suspected Penny had been orphaned too early in life, and too abused, to ever be a truly happy soul. The pup had been so small she’d fit into the palm of her hand, and so starved there had been naught but skin and bone beneath mangy copper-colored fur. Katherine had cried the minute she’d laid eyes on the creature, which was most unlike her. She had endured far worse in her life to let the sight of a mewling scrap of fur undo her. But something had shaken loose inside of her, and she’d bawled, right in the middle of Bruton Street, for all the world to see.
Penny had been a pampered, beloved pet ever since and had taken full advantage of her position, as evidenced by a fat belly and a tyrant’s dominion over the servant staff. Katherine cherished her, despite her unpleasant disposition and less-than-appealing appearance. Penny had started as a small, unsightly bundle of copper-colored fur with the face of a monkey and a dubious pedigree, and she had grown into a lap-sized, unsightly bundle of copper-colored fur with the face of a monkey and a dubious pedigree. Not that she would deign to sit on anyone’s lap, the stubborn creature. She preferred to languish on Katherine’s finest pieces of furniture by herself, thank you very much. She did not share well.
And she shed—and made wind—as indiscriminately as she growled.
So if Seamus wanted to chase the ill-mannered creature, Katherine wasn’t going to stop him. Lord knew Penny could use the exercise.
She’d never been allowed pets before. Manwaring could not abide them. But as soon as Manwaring had kicked off, she’d begun acquiring them. Her first was a giant pig named Petunia, which she’d stolen from the Honeywells before he could be turned into bacon. Now instead of terrorizing Rylestone Green, the pig was now terrorizing the Briar Hill gardens, digging up the late marquess’s prize roses.
Having pets, she decided, was one of the best luxuries in her life as an independent widow. She planned on having a house full of them. If she could not have children . . .
But she would not think of that. Nothing could change that cold, hard truth.
She spent the morning practicing the pianoforte, Seamus at her feet and Penny languishing upon a nearby divan. She had acquired the latest from Herr Beethoven down on New Bond Street the week before, and was giving it her full attention. She could have happily spent all day at the keyboard, but a few hours had to suffice, since she had several engagements scheduled.
After luncheon, she reluctantly prepared to depart her cozy house to pay a few calls to various ladies who had expressed an interest in contributing to the hospital. Her social rounds these days were primarily for subtle fundraising. Now that she was no longer obliged to play her role as the perfect wife for Manwaring, she could have gladly retired from London’s social whirl entirely. But it was the start of the Little Season, the perfect time to exert her influence as one of society’s most formidable matrons, now that her mourning period was over.
She was rather shameless in her maneuverings, but her quarry seemed more than willing to fall over themselves and do whatever she asked for the chance of gaining entrée into the ton’s most elite circle. In fact, most of her acquaintances were rather in awe of her, which was, of course, ridiculous.
People mistakenly ascribed her reticence and stiffness in society for discernment and haughty confidence, and her few utterances—usually brief, so that she could not embarrass herself, and often acerbic, because she could not help her tongue—were considered gospel.
For once, she was glad of her reputation, however, since it could actually effect some good.
But the afternoon proved even less fun than she had anticipated. She paid calls to three different drawing rooms, and in every one of them, she was forced to sit and listen to the latest gossip, all of which had a certain devilish marquess cast as the lead. If she had hoped to avoid thinking about Sebastian Sherbrook, she was out of luck.
Unsurprisingly, public opinion was decidedly in favor of Sir Oliver. Katherine was obliged to sit and listen as all of her hostesses pounded home the final nail in Sebastian’s coffin by vowing to blackball the marquess from every social register in England and urge their husbands to give him the cut direct. But Katherine detected a note of titillation behind their righteous posturing that made her want to grind her teeth.
Wisely, she kept her mouth shut and tried to change the subject. She couldn’t very well defend Sebastian. She believed him to be guilty, just like everyone else, but she was even more disgusted by the way the gossipmongers fetishized his sins. She didn’t doubt but that many of her acquaintances (bored society fixtures with nothing better to do) looked upon Sebastian’s fall from grace as the most exciting thing to happen to them in years. Their obsession with the scandal was perverse. It was motivated by the same prurient impulses that made it so hard to turn away from the scene of a gruesome carriage accident. One simply could not not look.
She was glad when she could politely leave.
By four o’clock, she was back at her house, changed into a more serviceable gown, and ready to depart for Aldwych. She had promised the doctor that she would meet him there to discuss the hospital’s floundering finances. Renovating the building had cut into their funds more than they had expected, and the demand for their services was high. With word spreading around the impoverished neighborhood surrounding the hospital, more and more women were finding their way to its doorstep, so they needed to sort out their problems before they were overrun.
Dr. Lucas was waiting for her in his office when she arrived at the hospital. He rose from his desk and gave her an elegant bow. His usually sober expression was softened by a grin. After a short exchange of pleasantries, he held up a letter.
“Can you guess what this is, my lady?”
“Good news, by the look of you,” she answered, glad to see
him smiling.
“Stupendous news, actually. Our hospital has just received an anonymous donation.”
That was hardly new, as most of their donations were anonymous, considering the nature of their enterprise. She quirked her brow.
He quirked his back and waved the letter. “For fifteen thousand pounds.”
Katherine’s jaw might have dropped to the floor. “You’re serious?”
“Utterly.”
“But that is . . . that is a fortune. Enough to fund half a dozen hospitals. For years.”
She sat down in the nearest available chair. He did the same, a bemused look on his face.
“But there must be some mistake,” she breathed.
“I have the bank draft right here. Fifteen thousand.”
“Not fifteen hundred? Surely they added one too many naughts.”
“It is written out in the King’s English. Would you like to look?”
“I suppose I had better.”
He passed the draft to her, and she studied the number in disbelief. When she was certain there had been no clerical error, she raised her eyes back to the doctor. She felt quite giddy. “But who would do such a thing?”
The doctor looked thoughtful. “Not a clue. Perhaps it was the Duke of Montford?”
“No. He’s already contributed. Not nearly half as much, I might add. And the duchess would have told me.”
“Perhaps she does not know?” he offered.
She shot him a dry look. “The duchess knows everything.”
“Ah, yes, of course.”
“You have met her.”
“I get your point,” he said with a knowing smile.
She examined the bank draft, searching for clues. Her attention was caught by the signature on the bottom. She caught her breath, her brow furrowing. “But this is my late husband’s solicitor.”
“He must have handled the transfer,” the doctor said, “for one of his clients.”
Virtuous Scoundrel (The Regency Romp Trilogy Book 2) Page 7