“What are you doing?” she demanded in a panicked voice.
He glared at her, true hellfire in his eyes. “I had the utmost respect for your mother. She was kind and spirited. She was my godmother, and I mourned for her. How dare you suggest otherwise?”
He sounded truly furious—and sincere.
And yet … “Did you not declare in the garden last night it was a ‘fortuitous boon’ that our betrothal fell apart?” Her voice cracked. Were those tears filling her eyes? “How else could it be ‘fortuitous’ unless my mother died, terminating the negotiations?”
His glare darkened. “What is this really about, Fiona?”
“I … I …” She choked. Quickly, she gathered her composure before any talebearing onlookers took heed. “The Masquerade Reception at Kensington Palace? I would love to attend, Blackstone!”
He growled, “Fiona …”
After she kicked her horse’s flanks, she skirted around the viscount, evading him, and cantered down the lane, tamping the unpleasant sentiments he’d stirred.
~ * ~
“What are you doing, Lady Fiona?”
She glanced at Blackstone in his black feather mask with golden beads and almost floundered at the steamy expression in his eyes: eyes the lightest blue, they were almost grey. And like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, he mingled with the gentry, ravishing their ladies.
Why the thought of him ravishing her wasn’t alarming was alarming.
Blackstone stood in the middle of the dance floor while she waltzed around him with her partner. Since her public excursions with the infamous viscount, the ton had altered their opinions of her. Her dance card was always filled. Gentlemen danced with her at close proximity instead of at arms length. Gads, the popularity was refreshing.
After all, if the notorious Blackstone was interested in her, then she must be a prize worthy of chase, and the rumors about her spoiled nature had clearly been exaggerated.
“I’m enjoying myself, Blackstone, with my charming partner, Lord Weed.”
“Lord Wheaton,” he corrected in a timid fashion, withering under the viscount’s glare.
Fiona smiled. Soon the ton would come to admire her ever more, requesting, nay begging, her presence at their soirees, and then she’d publicly sever all ties with Blackstone. If she’d “captured” the heart of London’s greatest rake, then quashed it, no one would ever pity her again.
“Yes,” he returned in a tight vein. “I can see you’re having a smashing time.”
In one fell swoop, Blackstone took her partner’s place and without a fumble resumed the waltz, forcing poor Lord Weed to the sideline.
Men dueling over her? What a welcome change of circumstances!
“You look quite … bold, Lady Fiona.”
His gaze caressed the length of her scarlet gown in unapologetic sensuality, and she shuddered at the dangerous sensation.
“Thank you, my lord.” She peeked at him through the fringe of her red feathered mask. “And you look rather … wolfish.”
He narrowed those rapacious eyes on her.
“We never finished our conversation in Hyde Park, my lady.”
She stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“About your mother, Fiona, and our almost betrothal.”
At the pang in her breast, she tensed and swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “It was many years ago. Let’s not spoil the evening by digging up the past.”
“You have spoiled my evenings for the last fortnight, Lady Fiona. After all, you have me firmly by the bullocks. We will settle this tonight.”
He sounded far too earnest, even dangersome, and the sorrow she’d been repressing for so long threatened to make its ugly appearance at the ball, right in front of the royal court. She would not let her own damn feelings ruin her!
“I have nothing more to say about my mother.”
His voice softened, a husky sound. “I remember you never shed a tear for her at the funeral.”
“Because I’m a spoiled brat, of course.”
“Are you really so unfeeling?”
“I am,” she said in a brusque vein. “And you’re right, Blackstone. I didn’t shed a tear for her at the funeral or on the day she died or on any other day for that matter.”
He looked at her, bemused. “I find that impossible to believe, Fiona. You adored Lady Wakehurst.”
An unbidden memory flashed through her mind:
“They’re at it again,” groused Michael, the future Viscount Blackstone.
It had just stopped raining, the garden dewy and a bit overturned. He kicked a stray stone, sending it rollicking across the lane.
Fiona glanced over at her mama and Lady Blackstone, having tea and scones on the terrace, both verily giddy as they planned their children’s nuptials.
“It’s all they ever talk about,” affirmed Fiona with a frown. “You know, I don’t think I want to marry you.”
“Any why not?” he demanded, peevish.
She smiled inward. She most enjoyed ruffling the popinjay’s feathers. She wasn’t sure why, but it always made her happy.
“I think I could marry a prince,” she said in a haughty air.
“Well, I could marry a princess.”
She snorted. “A princess would never marry a lowly viscount.”
Fiona shrieked as Michael pushed her arm, sending her straight into a puddle of mud. She sat in the dirty water, dazed, her pretty pink dress ruined.
Michael winced the moment he’d shoved her. “I’m sorry, Fiona. I didn’t mean it.” He extended his hand. “Here. Let me help you up.”
She took the offered hand—and yanked him into the mud beside her.
Michael landed face first into the muck, sputtering, “You spoiled, rotten—”
She curtailed his rampage with a peal of laughter. “An eye for an eye.”
She giggled so hard, her belly ached, and it wasn’t long before Michael chuckled, as well.
By the time they’d returned to the terrace, sopping messes, Lady Blackstone had dropped her teacup; the porcelain clattering against the saucer.
“Good gracious, children, whatever happened to the two of you?”
But Mama covered her mouth, not in horror, but to supress her amusement. At last, she couldn’t contain herself and released a musical laugh that always filled Fiona’s heart with joy.
“Well, aren’t you both like two pees in a pod?” said the duchess. “I knew you were meant to be together forever. Now head inside and wash up for luncheon.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the urchins chimed.
As they headed toward the house, the duchess winked at her daughter.
Fiona secretly smiled.
“I adore her, aye.” Her voice cracked. “I held her hand as she took her last breath, felt the joints in her slender fingers fall limp, cold. I did not wail. I did not eat. I did not sleep. I did not speak for days.”
“Fiona—”
“No,” she clipped, eyes brimming with tears. “I was a duke’s daughter, and I would uphold my deportment. A stiff upper lip, and all, as was expected of a girl of my station.”
“Horseshit.”
His rawness gouged the still raw wounds on her heart, and she trembled with an ever-growing storm in her breast.
“You were broken, Fiona.”
Still broken, she thought, tamping the grief in her belly.
“Papa was so afraid he might lose me, too, that he ordered the staff to smile at all times. I was to be entertained, complimented. Papa even surprised me every day with a new toy or dress or book or pet or jewel, just to make me happy. Its been that way ever since.”
“I’m sorry, Fiona.”
“For what?” She sniffed. “It’s not your fault my mother contracted scarlet fever.”
“I’m sorry for what I said in the garden.”
She bristled at the reminder of his scathing remarks. “Why? I am a spoiled brat.”
“No, you’re not,” he returned in a gentle manner
. “And I regret ever thinking it; I should have known better.”
She disliked the genuine tone of his voice, the tenderness in his gaze; it made it deuced hard to resent the man.
“What are you doing, Blackstone? Are you trying to cajole me so you can rescue your ‘royal jewels’? I will not bend.”
He twirled her off the dance floor and whisked her into the secluded royal garden.
“You are victorious, Fiona. I concede the point of this ruse. The ton thinks I’m besotted with you. Denounce me—us—and let us put this unfortunate affair in the past.”
He was right; there was no reason to prolong the charade. She was the toast of the Town. Or would be soon. Blackstone had apologized. And she believed him sincere.
She should bring the ordeal to a close before it escalated any further, and yet … “I’m still not satisfied, Blackstone.”
“What more do you want?”
“There is still one more thing I would like you to do for me.”
His nostrils flared. “What?”
“Bring me to my knees.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“According to gossip, you can bring a woman to her knees with just a kiss.”
“And why would you want me to do that?”
In a hushed tone, she admitted, “Because I’ve never been kissed before.”
He scrutinized her before retorting, “My talents are highly overrated, I assure you. A man likes a reputation with the ladies, Fiona; it elevates him in the eyes of his competitors—but it’s just gossip.”
She gazed at his sinfully lush mouth. “You’re lying.”
“Damnation, woman! I will not kiss you.”
“If you want me to release you from our ‘affair,’ you had better hope the rumors are true. I want one kiss, my lord, to bring me to my knees. I will set you free, then.”
He glared at her with an aggressive, almost predatory stare—but she had suffered too much loneliness to be affected by such a warning look, and she glared at him with equal determination. She would have a moment of oneness with another soul, she vowed. If he truly wanted to make amends, he owed her that, at least.
“Very well,” he relented, removing his mask.
He then grabbed her by the arm and escorted her from the garden.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, her voice rising in pitch. “I don’t want to be seen alone with you; we’d both be trapped, then.”
“I didn’t attain my reputation by flaunting it in public, Fiona. I know how to seduce a woman without anyone the wiser.”
At the word “seduce,” she shivered—violently.
“Then where are you taking me, Blackstone?”
“To my bedroom.”
~ * ~
When Fiona had asked, mayhap demanded, Blackstone kiss her, she’d assumed it would happen another day; that they would both agree upon a date and time, and she’d have an opportunity to gather her wits and prepare for the moment. Why she’d assumed such a carnal request would proceed in a contractual manner fathomed her now as she stood fixed in the middle of the viscount’s luxurious bedroom.
“Care to cry off, my lady?”
He’d sensed her misgiving, the knave, but she would not relinquish the chance to taste true passion at least once in her lonely life. I’ll take the winter from your lips, she reflected upon the master bard’s imagery. And she would have that summer of warmth, of sensual affection.
She unfastened the silk stays of her mask and laid the headpiece across the bed before turning to confront him.
“Not at all, my lord.”
His adam’s apple bobbed. Was he as nervous as her? Or disappointed she’d not cried off, forcing him to go through with the kiss?
She stiffened at the unsavory thought. He might not find her attractive. She was already privy to his displeasure about kissing her a’tall. Perhaps it had nothing to do with her having him by the “bullocks” as he’d so crudely commented. Perhaps he just considered her an uncomely frog.
“Do you find me attractive, Blackstone?”
“Wine?”
He popped a cork and poured two glasses, handing her one.
She took the glass, the wine swishing in her haste. “Blackstone?”
“Michael,” he corrected her. “If we’re going to do this, Fiona, it would help if we were on more intimate terms.”
“Michael,” she whispered, for she hadn’t used his given name since they were children, and her heart jumped at the appellation; it was intimate, indeed. “It has occurred to me that the kiss will be rather bland if you dislike me.”
“I don’t need to like you to desire you.”
“Y—you desire me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you dislike me?”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
The irritating man!
He clinked her glass, then downed the wine. If he needed to be foxed to kiss her, he truly must dislike her, she reasoned, and she was unprepared for the cramp in her breast; it sucked the air right from her lungs.
She set her glass aside, the wine untouched. “I’ve made a mistake.”
“Are you crying off?”
“If I must.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want a kiss, Michael.”
At the queasiness in her belly, she pressed her hand over her midriff. She loathed exposing herself, being vulnerable, even with a man she had known her entire life, and after inhaling a fortifying breath, she resumed, “I want a kiss to put every romantic poet to shame.”
“Interesting.” He quirked a sable brow. “I don’t think I’ve ever put a romantic poet to shame. Is that a challenge?”
“No.” She sighed. “Perhaps I’ve been naïve, even foolish, but if you do not want the same, I will not drop to my knees; my knees won’t even buckle.”
“Now that is a challenge, Fiona.”
“Is it always a game to you?”
“Yes … But perhaps I’m tired of playing games.”
“What do you mean?”
There was a kindle in the viscount’s gaze. “Perhaps I, too, would like to know a kiss that puts ever romantic poet to shame.”
She took in an uneven breath. “Then kiss me.”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way.”
“Why not?” she demanded, scrunching her face in misgiving. He was being much too cavalier. Was he toying with her? Surely, he could buss her lips and be done with it?
He also set his glass aside and stepped toward her. Her breath faltered as he lifted his hand, caressing her cheek, her throat … then trailing an expert finger over the tops of her breasts, evoking prickling gooseflesh across her skin.
“We must dance first.”
“Dance?” she rasped, lost in reverie.
“Lilt and sway. Twirl and dip. And when our hearts throb and our blood burns, then we kiss.”
“And how do we ‘dance’?”
“Take off your gown.”
She backpaddled, snapping from her daydream. “I beg your pardon? I will not take off my clothes. I’m not a harlot!”
“You needn’t remove every garment, just your dress … it would help set my blood on fire.”
She glared at him, uncertain. “Is this a trick to see my drawers?”
He chuckled, a titillating sound. “I’ve seen many drawers, Fiona. It’s not the drawers that entice me … it’s you—in the undergarment. Here. I’ll show you.”
He divested his coat and vest, then unravelled his cravat and shirt stays.
“What are you doing, Michael?”
“Making your heart throb.”
When he pulled the shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor, she gasped. He had a broad chest of knotted muscles, dark and unruly tufts of hair on his pectorals … and nipples puckering in the slowly blistering room.
Her own nipples tightened, even throbbed, at the mesmerizing sight of him. She warmed. Her breathing grew swift and shallow. And sh
e understood his meaning about a “dance.”
She turned around. “Will you unfasten the hooks of my gown?”
“With pleasure.”
And he meant it; she could detect it in the tautness of his voice, in the almost unsteady movements of his fingers as he loosened the hooks and eyes of her frock. And knowing that a renowned seducer trembled touching her, set her heart thumping ever harder.
When he reached the last clasp, he tugged at the straps of her short-sleeved gown and slipped them off her shoulders.
She shuddered as his knuckles grazed the lengths of her arms, her toes curling. He cupped her hips and pushed the dress to the floor.
In the midst of a cloud of tulle and taffeta and satin, Fiona found comfort in the barrier—but Michael lifted her from the pool of fabric and pressed her against his strapping chest. No barrier. No protection.
“Now,” he said in a ragged whisper. “Set my blood on fire.”
“How?”
Eyes so dark and intent, he thumbed the swell of her cheek. “Touch me.”
She was rooted to the spot. Blood rippled through her veins. Touch him? “Where?”
“Wherever you want, Fiona.”
She was strapped for words. He had given her permission, nay, he’d bade her to set his blood alight with a sensuous touch, but she had never touched a man.
For a moment she quivered with apprehension, indecisiveness, but then Michael scooped her stiff fingers and rested them across the centre of his chest, right over his beating heart.
“Start here,” came his gravelly voice.
She stared at her palm blanketing his breast for several seconds before she had the wherewithal to move her fingers, raking the rough curls of his hair. The sensation tickled her fingertips. And as she brushed her hand over his pectoral muscles, his flesh heated beneath her lazy touch.
The fire in his eyes burned brighter, too, encouraging her exploration of him even further, and with long-supressed desire, she traced the contours of his sculped form.
“You’re beautiful,” she praised.
She had only ever seen a man’s body at the museum: the marble sculptures from Greece and Rome. But Michael put those athletic figures to shame. Perhaps it was the warmth of his skin. Or mayhap his flushed color. But his realness, his response to her every stroke, however slight or feathery, made him magnificent, and she blushed at the intimacy of the quiet moment they shared.
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