by Stacy Reid
Anthony rested his elbows on the balcony railing, a cynical smile twisting his lips. He watched Lord Hoyt twirling Miss Phillipa Peppiwell with vigor around the ballroom floor. Hoyt’s massive frame moved with unusual grace, and his face had a look of a man in love. His dance partner looked resplendent, sheathed in a voluminous yellow satin gown that enhanced her frame exquisitely. Her expression bore the same cool look of indifference he recalled from their meeting at Lady Calvert’s ball.
Anthony forced his gaze from her and scanned the crowd, watching Constance with discreet protectiveness. She was dancing with Earl Fullerton, whose mother kept a more obvious watch on the couple. Anthony’s own mother, Lady Radcliffe, was lounging idly by the refreshment table. She was a powerful matriarch in her own right, more from being the dowager duchess of Calydon than from the title she currently held as Viscountess Radcliffe.
Bitterness shuttered Anthony’s gaze as his mother laughed, glowing in her social power. A power she had no notion might crumble instantly. The familiar feeling of rage tightened his gut, and he knew he needed an outlet in the warm, willing body of a woman to drive back the darkness that edged him.
His gaze swung to Lady Wilkinson, knowing her statuesque, voluptuous figure was his for the taking. His lips quirked in a jaded smile as he met her gaze across the room. The smile she returned was of pure, heated invitation, despite her husband’s presence as he conversed behind her.
Distaste filled Anthony. The swell of her bosom did not entice and the sly way in which she wetted her lips left him cold. He doubted he could ever again lie with a married woman, their fickleness now abhorrent in a whole new way. Adulterous liaisons were the norm among the haute monde, but he found himself weary of it all.
And yet, he fleetingly wondered if he did the right thing in dismissing Georgina. He could be ensconced in her arms within the hour, driving deep into her, finding the release that would give him brief respite.
A flicker in his periphery had his gaze homing in on Miss Peppiwell. The vibrant red of her hair was unmistakable as she darted between two young ladies, making for the periphery of the immense room. He arched his brow as she peeked out from behind a large potted plant, glancing about surreptitiously. He scanned the crowd and found Lord Orwell. A salubrious smile curled the man’s lips as he spied her. She scampered away, dashing out through a side door and stopped. She straightened from behind the door, pivoted, and dashed across into the billiards room.
Anthony chuckled at her antics, moving along the mezzanine balcony to keep her in his sight. The billiards room door did not lock from the inside. After kicking it in frustration, she opened it and peeked back out into the hall. From where he stood, he saw the predatory anticipation on Orwell’s face through the windows that adorned the upper half of the walls. She spotted Orwell and closed the door, none too gently.
Ah, where was the ice maiden now? This was more like it.
Anticipating her next move, Anthony considered briefly, then hastened to position himself appropriately.
Sure enough, she rushed to the outside windows, slid one up, and swung a foot over, flashing delicately shaped ankles in the process. How she managed, all corseted up and with that huge bustle, he couldn’t fathom. She slithered over the sill, ran up the narrow steps—and ran smack into Anthony. He swept her through the outside doors, pulling her hastily down the terrace steps.
“My lord!”
He ignored her furious whisper and drew her toward the edge of the garden that was cloaked in shadow. He turned to her, gazing over her face with intense curiosity.
She took several rapid breaths before she drew herself up and finally spoke. “You have rescued me again, my lord.”
“Ah, so this was not your way of enticing me into a clandestine affair?” he asked, his tone silky smooth.
“Certainly not.” Her voice could not have sounded more bitingly cold.
He reached forward and pressed a finger against her lips to halt further speech. Her lips parted, and the moistness against his finger sparked a flare of arousal through his veins.
“He comes, be silent,” he whispered low in the dark.
He watched as Orwell trotted down the stairs toward them. His gaze scanned the dark recesses of the garden, and the blinding fury that chased his features had disgust stealing deep in Anthony’s gut. After a few tense seconds Orwell departed, his walk rigid with rage.
Anthony’s blood ran cold. “Why does he hound you so?” he asked, though the answer seemed fairly obvious. The bigger question was what made Orwell think he could get away with it, when the lady clearly did not welcome his attentions.
“He pursues me for dances incessantly.”
“You fled Lord Hoyt’s embrace, ducked through the hallway, sneaked into the billiards room, and actually climbed through a window, all to avoid dancing with Lord Orwell?” he queried blandly.
Orwell’s palpable rage was hardly over a slighted waltz. She was lying.
“Yes. Thank you for the assistance, my lord, even though quite unwarranted.” She sounded anything but grateful as she made to leave.
He halted her, capturing her chin in his hand with firm intent.
“Lord Anthony!”
He tilted her face toward the dim lamplight, scrutinizing her shuttered expression.
“My lord, you take liberties I have not granted you.”
Her frigid beauty illuminated in the faint light struck him. His interest in her was of a wholly carnal nature, he reminded himself. He felt no guilt at the thought, as he did not subscribe to the notion that seduction was solely a gentleman’s domain. He believed in mutual pleasure, and respected that each party willingly indulged.
Yet, he hesitated, attempting to relinquish the urge to taste her lips. He had a certain obligation to Lady Jocelyn, after all.
Or did he?
Admittedly, he’d entered into that…situation…before discovering he was a bastard. Lady Jocelyn would no doubt run screaming from him when she found out. And he didn’t blame her.
He resolved to write to her immediately and relieve her of any obligation to him. He’d have to word his dismissal of her carefully, but firmly. Take all the blame on himself, although he would stop short of full disclosure. No need for that.
But Phillipa… She was a different matter. She’d intrigued him the other night, to the point of considering taking her as his bride. And she did the same now. In fact, more so than ever. And honestly, Phillipa didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who would care that he was born on the wrong side of the blanket. Her acid remarks about the strictures of society had hinted strongly at that.
Anthony wished to find his pleasure, with her lips beckoning him so. Unfortunately, the woman he wished to woo, to ravish, and possibly to wed, stood before him, indifferent to his charms and completely immune to his touch.
Hell.
She trembled slightly, and his gaze sharpened. Because of him? Perhaps she was not so indifferent, after all.
Or were her trembles just residual from Lord Orwell’s pursuit of her? That possibility, and recalling the vicious sneer on the man’s face, unsettled him. “Do you need protection from Lord Orwell?”
Shock flared in her eyes, which she quickly doused. “Protection?”
“Yes.” They’d already been through this at Lady Calvert’s ball. She knew the power he wielded.
She hesitated for a long moment, then said, “If I needed such assistance…at what price would it be offered?”
“There is none,” Anthony assured her.
She regarded him with thinly veiled disbelief. “Your offer is generous, my lord, but unnecessary.” Her lips curved in a cool smile that belied her flattering words. “Your concern for my person is deeply appreciated. You have only just met me, yet your kind, gentlemanly nature—”
Her teeth snapped together as his amused laugh cut her off. He sobered, delighted by the expressions that chased across her face. Affront, annoyance, and then chilly smoothness once more. He would
banish the ice maiden yet.
“Orwell is reputed to be a sneaky bastard,” he said. “I would willingly offer protection to anyone, should they become entangled with him. My offer stands indefinitely, Miss Peppiwell.”
“And you insist you are making your offer as a gentleman, with nothing asked of me?” Her disdainful gaze said she expected he did it for anything but gentlemanly consideration.
“I require nothing in return, Miss Peppiwell,” he assured her. He did not need to understand what drove Orwell. The man’s rage when she’d slipped away from him was enough to have warnings clanging in Anthony’s head. “If my own sister were involved in some folly, I’d hope someone would be kind enough to render her assistance without stipulations,” he said, hoping she would unbend and confide, nonetheless.
Miss Peppiwell stared at him incredulously, in clear disbelief. He wondered what had caused such a young woman to become so cynical.
“I thank you again for your generous offer, but I require no such assistance. I bid you good evening, my lord.”
She started to leave and he grasped her arm. Unable to resist the lure of her, he leaned in, dipped his head, and skimmed his lips over hers. He felt, surely, a statue had more animation. He deepened the kiss, searching for a response. She remained cold, her golden eyes strangely luminous in the dark. He lifted his head and gazed into her upturned face.
He found it uncommon that she had not reacted at all. She neither returned his kiss, nor slapped him in feminine outrage. And yet, there was that simmering heat he sensed, just below the surface of her chilly facade. A part of him was darkly curious as to how far he could push before she reacted. Before it crumbled and she threw herself into his arms.
Or perhaps he was merely fantasizing.
“I wonder what makes you tick, Miss Peppiwell,” he mused.
A quicksilver of something flared in her gaze—a fraction of widening, a quiver of interest—then she went as cold as a wintery night. And he knew then, with certainty. It was all for show, a carefully contrived shield. To protect her from what?
“Not you, my lord,” she retorted. “Now please remove your hands from my person.” She wrenched away from him—and twisted her ankle in her haste. She cried out in pain.
“Be still.” The sharp lash of his voice made her pause.
A gasp escaped her as he lifted and carried her deeper into the shadows, to the garden bench. He set her down gently and dropped to one knee, raising her foot in his hand.
“What are you doing?” she demanded in a shaky voice.
“I am determining if you sprained your ankle with your foolish impulse to flee.”
“My impulse was not foolish,” she snapped. “You kissed me without consent.”
She made a small growl in her throat when he did not choose to respond. He found the sound utterly arousing. He lifted his eyes to hers. “Forgive me. I will not do so again without your permission.”
Surprise chased her features. She frowned and then bobbed her head twice. He disliked that the wariness remained, and he ensured he was gentle as he examined her.
He probed her ankle with efficiency and she winced only once. “Does it hurt here?”
“No, the pain has already eased.”
He nodded, distracted by the silky feel of her stocking-clad calf. He stroked her ankle with his fingertips, and he knew he did not imagine the hitch in her breathing. He lifted his head, curious to see what he would find. Stark desire. The bald hunger in her gaze shook him. She leaned forward and his hands clenched reflexively on her ankle. She hesitated, swallowing, and he watched the struggle, anticipation eating his gut. His mouth went dry when her tongue darted out and wetted her bottom lip.
Never had he wanted to ignore a female’s wish so badly and press his lips to hers. But he would be damned if he would kiss her again without her at least making the first move. Even if it killed him.
…
The heat of Lord Anthony’s hands burned through Phillipa’s stockings, and she desperately wished he would release her. He was the devil himself. She’d been so tempted to tip up on her toes and lick his lips. The desire had been so visceral that she reacted without thought, and now she might have to endure a sprained ankle for the rest of the year.
On second thought, it might be a blessing in disguise, preventing her from further outings.
Moonlight spilled down the steps into the garden and his dark blond head shone under the silver beams. She had not had a chance to look at him closely tonight, unaware that he was present at the ball until he aided her flight from Lord Orwell.
Lord Anthony’s black frock coat fitted his broad shoulders well—exquisitely, she decided. He wore a dark green waistcoat that perfectly matched his eyes. He was thoughtful, and devilishly handsome, and she needed to resist his advancements on all levels.
His gaze came up, catching her unguarded assessment. His lips curved with sensual intent and her heart jerked. She shivered in reaction, and it halted his slow raise from his crouch, like a predator sensing weakness.
Holding her gaze, he dipped his hands under her skirt, his grip lightly circling above her ankle. A blistering need to feel his arms around her surged through her, and her heart slammed against her rib cage. She sat rooted to the bench, disbelieving what she allowed. She had never permitted any of her suitors to touch even her bare hands after the promise she’d made herself.
She smoothed her features, drawing upon all her resolve to not betray her thoughts or feelings. “Are you quite through?” She doubted her voice had ever been colder.
His chuckle rolled over her, gifting promises of heated delights. She swallowed, wetting her lips that had gone dry. He homed in on her mouth and his hands tightened on her ankle.
“Unhand me, my lord.”
“Anthony.” His soft drawl was pure temptation as he slowly released her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I trust we have gone beyond formality, Phillipa.”
She almost moaned at how he said her name. As though he tasted it on his tongue, like a fine wine before swallowing.
“I must examine you thoroughly. Will you permit me to continue?” The teasing in his voice charmed her.
She nodded mutely, wondering if she was insane. She shuddered, her body throbbing under the sensual onslaught his finger evoked as they trailed up her leg to her shin, pressing and probing. Her eyes clashed with his, and she could not suppress the heat that rose in her cheeks, lighting them on fire. “I have no broken bones, my lord. You may now unhand me.”
His laugh was soft and rich. “What will make you react, Phillipa?”
She knew he was testing her, but she sat rooted. Her every sense was attuned to the fingers that skimmed ever closer to the heat of her. She could not move, enthralled by the spell he wove. Need twisted through her veins and her resistance weakened.
Her blood thrummed as she felt enslaved by the spell he created even without kissing her, and by the wicked gleam in his emerald eyes.
“Tell me to kiss you.” His quiet demand had her pulse spiking further.
She blinked in surprise at his hopeful look, her gaze falling to his sensual lips. “I— My lord… I— Kiss me.” Shock traveled through her as the words spilled from her lips in unfettered need. Her heart begun to clamor, sending a dizzying rush of desire coursing through her veins. Before she could even think to retract her offer, he moved forward, capturing her lips. Anthony’s kiss stole her resistance and the scorching heat of his mouth obliterated the last of her icy barrier as he began to devour her. Her lips parted in a soft moan of complete surrender, and his tongue slipped into the depths of her mouth.
Speech fled, and her mind churned with arousal. His fingers leisurely skimmed farther yet up her stocking-clad legs, where he hooked his finger in her garter, pulling at it teasingly. Hunger spiked to the core of her, and she trembled. She had never felt such fire from a mere touch. He slipped his fingers under her bloomers, tugging at the fine linen that protected the c
ore of her from his touch. A deep weakness invaded her limbs. She withdrew her lips from his, panting.
His roguish mouth captured her lips again and a moan of want escaped her as pleasure swamped her. He shifted his hand and the slit of her drawers parted. She mewled against his lips, trembling as he ran his fingers through her damp curls. His tongue thrust past her lips, dancing with hers in a shockingly provocative duel. She gasped as he gently eased a finger into her. Her legs instinctively widened, accepting the lightning that slammed inside her. She purred against his lips as he teased her so deliciously.
“You feel like silk,” he growled.
His voice was the catalyst she needed to save herself from his sensual spell. Horror slashed through her and she wrenched away, scrambling backward on the stone bench. She pressed her hands against her flushed cheeks, desperately hoping to cool them down. She could not believe she had allowed such intimacy. He must think her a wanton harlot!
She surged to her feet, wet and aching between her legs. Fear sank into her that she had allowed such actions. It mattered not that several times since their encounter at Lady Calvert’s ball she had thought about that audacious kiss he’d stolen. She knew very well that nothing good could ever come from trusting a lord. Certainly not in this way.
He was a scoundrel, and she had fallen prey to his caresses, a touch that even now she wanted to sink back into. She inhaled shakily, resisting the need.
It was her damnable adventurous spirit that continually tempted her with wickedness. She knew firsthand the perilous consequences of indulging in such folly. So why did her traitorous body persist?
“You, sir, are a blackguard.” Her voice came out shakier than she intended.
“And you have the sweetest lips I have ever tasted.”
She froze as desire surged through her. She spun, hastily fleeing back to the ball.
Slipping discreetly into the mansion from one of several balcony doors, she desperately wanted to avoid Orwell, but knew she might actually be safer in the ballroom where he was. She could easily resist Orwell, but Anthony’s touch aroused need.
“My dear, where have you been?” Her mother fluttered toward her, looking askance. “Lord Hoyt said you went for fresh air. He waited patiently, but now he has danced twice with Maryann Potter!”