by Stacy Reid
“I had planned on reading, my lord. I am familiar with Lady Prescott’s library and there is a particular book of Henry James I am eager to read.”
He smiled, as at last some sort of animation entered her features. “Ah.”
“I suppose you are repulsed by females who engage in intellectual discourse, as Lord Hoyt so thoughtfully enlightened me earlier?” The curve of her lips was sardonic.
“Of course not. A woman who reads has much to recommend her.” He frowned, observing the deep wariness that darkened her gaze.
With a single glance, she dismissed him.
He’d never had a female show such immunity to his physique. He fleetingly wondered if her attractions lay with the same sex. It was not vanity, more an awareness of his own sensuality. “Are you deliberately trying to be elusive?”
“Me?” She blinked at him rapidly, the only sign of her surprise. “On the contrary, I am not interested in your charms. I am actually trying to be rid of you.”
His laughter seemed to bemuse her. “Are all Boston ladies as candid as you are?” he asked, appreciating the forthrightness of speech that had not been wrapped in innuendo or sweet evasiveness.
“Shouldn’t I be? I suppose I must acclimate myself to the idea that honesty is frowned upon,” she retorted, her steady gaze challenging him.
He liked it. And was gratified that his guess as to her hometown had proved correct.
“In that case, Miss Peppiwell…” He downed his drink in a single swallow, sauntered forward and lifted her hand, brushing his lips fleetingly over it. He wished the glove did not separate her skin from his.
She graced him with one of those smiles that did not reach her eyes. “Good evening, sir…Lord Anthony.”
He did not release her hand. Some temptations should not be resisted.
With that thought, he dipped his head and captured her lips. He told himself he only did it to see if she could be rattled, but knew it for a lie. The berry ripeness of her lips had been tantalizing him since he first saw them.
He drew her closer and pillowed her breasts to his chest.
He chuckled against the lips she pressed together so primly, but he was not disappointed, for the contours of those lips were soft and luscious. He lifted his head slowly, and smiled at what he saw. No affront, not even a slap to his cheek for his audacity. Just an aloofness and condescending hauteur as she looked down her nose at him, despite the fact he stood much taller. But behind her studied iciness, he swore he detected a spark of heat, a curl of unwilling want in those amber eyes.
His intrigue deepened. He did not believe he had to look any closer.
It was quite possible he had found his future bride in the ice maiden.
…
The Honorable Lord Anthony Thornton was dangerous. His touch evoked an unbidden need Phillipa did not want.
She held herself perfectly still, blanking her mind. His head dipped, bringing his sensual lips down once more to tease hers. Heat rose within her, but Phillipa buried it under hated memories of the cruel taunts and painful grasping of her nemesis.
Lord Anthony’s lips, however, roamed over her warmly, firm and alluring. She repressed a moan that tried to escape. She could not, would not, give him an inkling of the sharp desire that slashed through her body at his touch.
He caressed her lips with a flick of his tongue, and then his soft chuckle vibrated to the core of her. He lifted his head, his lips quirked, and she fought to maintain an air of casual indifference. The bloody scoundrel! “Are you quite finished, my lord?”
“Indeed. I bid you good night, Miss Peppiwell. It was a pleasure dancing with you. Enjoy your reading.”
“Good evening, Lord Anthony.” She kept her features schooled and her feet rooted to the spot as he sauntered out of the library. She did not think his walk one of arrogance, more of inborn confidence. The library door closed with a snick, and befitting the lack of an audience, she wilted.
A gusty breath expelled from her lungs, and she rotated her shoulders, working the tightness out of them. Her heart still thumped and arousal teased her flesh. She snorted, disgusted with herself. At the first sign of a pretty face, her resolve, hardened by painful experiences, had cracked.
The man unsettled her. She stalked toward the bookshelf with anger in her step. She let her fingers fly with nimble speed over the titles until she found a copy of The Portrait of a Lady. She swallowed and dropped her forehead onto the cool wood of the bookshelf. She was lying to herself, and she hated that. She prided herself on being forthright with her thoughts and actions.
Lord Anthony was certainly not the only attractive man she had encountered since her launch into London society. Lord Orwell, the slimy blackguard, had a pleasant face that hid his vulgar crudity. Then there was Lord Hoyt, the handsome viscount who pursued her relentlessly, more for her fortune than anything else. Yet, Lord Anthony had been the only one to cause her protective wall to tremble.
A ripple in the crowd had alerted her to his presence when he first approached her, and she had assessed him out of curiosity. She’d deduced from the whispers that swept through the room, that he had not been expected to make an appearance. And he was a Thornton, a member of the scandalous house of Calydon. He was one of them—a privileged lord—brother to one of the most powerful dukes in the realm. She supposed that should have told her everything.
It certainly explained his arrogance in kissing her within minutes of their first introduction.
She was used to beautiful men. But she hated that simply from his prowl across the room, she had felt that low tug, that slow pooling of heat between her legs, with an intensity she’d never felt before. He was powerfully built, and even though she was tall in comparison to the dainty beauties of London society, she had felt dwarfed as he loomed over her in their dance.
He seemed darkly delicious, though it confounded her why. After all, his locks were golden, his eyes green, and his face the most stunningly handsome she had ever beheld. She had been greatly relieved to see the scar above his eye, branding him as human, after all, and not some fallen angel. Beauty alone had never attracted her, but he appealed to a degree she found staggering.
The doorknob rattled, and she snapped her head up. She tensed as she waited for someone to intrude. She hated attending these events, but her mother, her dear sister, Payton, and her aunt, the Countess of Merryweather, lived for the social whirl. Phillipa could hardly protest, not wishing to reveal the depth of her dislike for Orwell. Thankfully, the year was drawing to a close, so they only attended a few balls. The majority of the haute monde had already retired to the country.
She hurried to the door and latched it when no one entered, then sauntered to the sofa closest to the fireplace. She threw herself, without any semblance of ladylike decorum, into its depth, smirking at the simple indulgence of not sitting like a priggish miss.
Unbidden, her mind skipped to Lord Anthony. Thoughts of his lips and how good they’d felt on hers had her grinding her teeth. Oh, how she had wanted to sink into the kiss and accept the pleasure that he could give! A swift feeling of shame arose and she ruthlessly buried the heat that tried to flush her cheeks, ensconcing it under the coldness she used to protect herself.
It would be a grave mistake to trust another nobleman.
An unwanted shimmer of excitement pulsed through her, and her heart thumped in dismay at the thought of ever encountering him again. He roused feelings in her that she did not want to indulge in. Her mind shifted to Lord Orwell and her mouth turned down in distaste. The lecherous bastard. For all she knew, Lord Anthony was just like Orwell.
She gave a snort of repugnance as she snapped open James’s masterpiece, refusing to waste another moment thinking about a certain green-eyed lord.
Chapter Two
Two days later, the cold country air stung Anthony’s lungs, but did not prevent him from enjoying his morning ride with the beautiful Lady Jocelyn. He’d stopped off at his newly acquired Baybrook property, as
had become his habit of the last few weeks, on his way to Sherring Cross, his brother, the Duke of Calydon’s ancestral estate. Apparently a letter had arrived for him from their solicitor, which Sebastian wished to discuss.
Anthony had welcomed the distraction. For an endless day and two long nights the intriguing Miss Phillipa Peppiwell had been haunting his thoughts and heating his dreams. He had specifically decided on this morning’s detour…a valiant attempt to put her from his mind.
It wasn’t working.
A gray mare thundered past him. Raven tresses and joyous laughter from Lady Jocelyn rode the wind, charming him with the lady’s fiery, yet pleasing disposition. Unlike a certain ice maiden he could name.
“You are too slow, Lord Anthony,” she said with a chortle. She spun her mare around gracefully and cantered toward him. “I win.”
He banished the image of whiskey eyes and glorious red hair and turned a smile toward Lady Jocelyn. To his mild annoyance, her appearance did not lance arousal through him. Her dark beauty put her among the most stunning women he’d ever seen, yet the most feeling she excited in him was simple appreciation. He was content to look, but not tempted to taste. Especially after his titillating encounter with the coolly sensual Miss Peppiwell.
Lady Jocelyn had appeared out of nowhere, so different from the other young ladies of the haute monde, and he had been captivated by her fiery personality. He’d thought it a pity she had not been presented for her season, for she would have either shocked or charmed society. They had been distantly acquainted for some years, since her family was friendly with Lord Calvert’s brood, whom he visited regularly at their countryseat. However, Anthony’s new property bordered Stonehaven, her father’s estate, and they had become much closer friends over the past several weeks. It was probably a little late to realize he was not drawn to Lady Jocelyn in the way he had hoped. He had been courting her for a couple of weeks now. Riding up from London to his new estate to oversee the renovations, he’d stolen kisses that hadn’t roused him, and had escorted her to country balls and picnics.
She was a whirlwind, her energy and vivacity unrelenting. He knew she wanted marriage for the same reason many of the ladies of society did. Money. Which suited him fine—it was the usual way of things. If only they’d been more attracted, then at least it could possibly grow to love.
She did not, it seemed, hunger for his touch, either. She barely responded to his kisses, her lips pursed primly, no doubt thinking that was all to it. He had shocked himself by not pressing for deeper tastes. He simply hadn’t had the desire.
“What are you thinking about when you gaze so far away?” she asked him.
He chuckled, finding her lack of artifice refreshing. What was it about him and unrefined misses? “Investments,” he answered, since his actual thoughts were inappropriate.
“Indeed?” She gave him a dubious frown. “Is that a potential investment you hold in your hand?”
He glanced at the golden locket dangling from his fingers. Ice settled into his gut and he exhaled, releasing the tension from his body. He didn’t have to decide today. “In a way. It was a gift from my brother, the Duke of Calydon.”
“An unusual gift between brothers.” She leaned over her pommel, reaching for it. He handed it to her, watching her examine its filigree and delicate chain. “It’s very beautiful.”
“It belonged to our mother’s family. It is supposed to be handed down to the wife of the firstborn son in the family.”
She smiled. “What a lovely tradition.”
“As you may know, Calydon refuses to marry, so he gifted it to me to present to my wife.”
Her gray eyes widened, and the surge of hope in her gaze made his gut clench. Her fingers tightened on the locket, and her gaze swept over to her father’s lands. He knew without looking what she saw—fields and tenant houses in desperate need of funding.
Her eyes slashed back to his, before reaching out to hand him back the locket.
“Keep it,” he said on impulse.
“What are you saying?” Lady Jocelyn asked slowly.
“I want you to hold onto it for me.”
“You would trust me with such a family treasure?”
“Why not? Are we not friends?” She gave him a blinding smile, punching him with her beauty.
He tried again to summon a spark of desire for her, and failed. He gritted his teeth in anger. He was thinking she would make him a good companion, but damn it to hell, he should feel something beyond warm affection and appreciation of his wife’s beauty.
He made the decision to return to London the following day. A deep part of him wanted to explore the attraction he felt for the sensual Miss Peppiwell.
He should try to concentrate on the woman in front of him. Lady Jocelyn was a lady, through and through. Her lineage was a noble one. She understood her role in London’s haute monde. She wanted to get married and have children, as befitted her position—he had known it from the minute she greeted him upon their reacquaintance, betraying a look of assessing him as a potential suitor.
In other words, she was the perfect woman to take as wife.
It was a damned shame he had no desire to do so.
Chapter Three
He was a bastard.
A fist slammed into Anthony’s side, sharp and wicked. His body jerked under the power of the punch, and he welcomed the bite of pain. He bobbed and weaved, rolling with graceful speed as he danced around his boxing partner, his brother Sebastian.
Or should he say his half brother?
Anthony felt the crack of leather on flesh and blanked his mind, refusing to allow the fury that powered through him to hold sway. Instead, he moved in to deliver rapid-fire punches at Sebastian. The edge of something dark licked at his insides, trying to fray his control. He held onto it with a cold determination he had not thought himself capable of before now.
“Mayhap, boxing is not the best way to relieve your tension.” The wry murmur of his brother’s voice drew him from the black emotions that wanted to pull him under.
He met Sebastian’s blue gaze and wiped all thoughts from his face. He did not need the concern that he saw shadowing his brother’s eyes. “I am not tense.” He unwrapped his hand, looking at the raw knuckles. They did not wear boxing gloves; their only concession to protecting their flesh was a binding of soft leather.
“Did you not read the letter from Newport?” Sebastian queried.
Newport was Anthony’s solicitor, and the last thing he wanted to talk about was the damn letter he had received from him. Anthony grabbed the towel Sebastian held out and raked it over his skin with a curse. “I did.”
“Then you are tense, brother. Why don’t you go and see Georgina?”
He tried to conjure up images of his former mistress, but he only saw sensual lips and whiskey-colored eyes in a freckled face. He shook his head sharply, not welcoming the reminder of Miss Peppiwell. “I bid Georgina adieu with a few generous gifts.”
Sebastian threw him a startled look. “Why? I thought her experienced enough to suit your tastes.”
“I grew bored.”
“Were you not fond of her?”
Anthony paused, searching for the right words. “The comfort I found in her arms seemed hollow. I grow weary of mindless connections and am thinking of taking a wife.” Seeing Sebastian grimace at the idea of forming a more lasting attachment, he changed the subject. “I am reopening the town house on Grosvenor Square. Care to join me?”
“You know I do not,” Sebastian growled.
They strode from their sparring room down through a massive foyer to the prodigious Calydon library. Anthony closed the door, not willing to face Sebastian’s butler nor the housekeeper’s exclamations at their improper state of undress.
“Do you intend to rusticate here in the country when you now know how imperative it is for you to find a duchess?” Anthony asked, sinking into the single armchair. He assumed a casual pose, legs splayed wide, although he felt anything b
ut. He purposely flattened his voice, burying all trace of pain. He wanted to talk about anything except the letter their father had sent his personal solicitor, along with the family solicitor and God knew who else.
“You know how I feel about acquiring a duchess. You will be my heir, Anthony.” Sebastian poured amber liquid into two glasses and handed one to him.
“I will not!” Anthony’s voice lashed with such vehemence Sebastian paused.
“Anthony—”
“Do not challenge my decision, brother,” he said, accepting the drink.
“It is your right. Not because that bitch splayed—”
“Be careful, Your Grace. The disgust you feel for our mother is understood, but you will not malign her, even if you do not claim her.” He surged to his feet, prowling to the windows overlooking the estate lawns. Restless energy burned through him. “She was unhappy, and I have forgiven her for her transgressions.”
“I have not, and will never forgive her. The position that she placed you and our sister in—If it becomes known, Constance will be shattered. She doted on the old man.”
“And that is why we cannot challenge the claim,” Anthony stated, clearing the hoarseness from his voice. “I have spoken to Mother. I did not ask for justification of her actions, though she offered it with tears aplenty. Her tears I did not want, only the truth. And it seems I am, indeed, the replica of the Viscount Radcliffe. I was blind to not see Constance’s and my resemblance to her lover all these years. So damnably blind.”
Sebastian came to his side, and they stood looking out upon the palatial estate of Sherring Cross. “This is yours as much as it is mine, Anthony. If not by blood, by virtue of the dedication and the wealth you have funneled into the estate to help raise it to the glory that it is today. You should be the rightful heir, to this and to my other estates. If you can never inherit it, I lay the blame directly at her feet.” The bitterness in Sebastian’s voice did not escape Anthony.