by Stacy Reid
“I went to the retiring room, Mama. All is well,” she rasped, still unsettled.
Several gentlemen had claimed spots on her dance card, and she eagerly accepted the distraction. She threw herself into enjoying the ball, dancing the quadrille and the cotillion several times. And yet, she kept an unwilling watch for Lord Anthony, and this greatly angered her.
An emerald waistcoat that glittered under the light of the chandelier drew her gaze. At last he entered the ballroom, unruffled as if he had not taken great liberties with her. His slow prowl across the room toward Lady Galveston had heat pooling low in Phillipa’s body. The roll of his hips and the power in his limbs had her imagination soaring.
What is wrong with me? Never before had she reacted to a man so.
She trembled as Lord Hoyt swept her into a quadrille. She danced almost mechanically, her mind swirling. What if Lord Anthony made a similar offer to Orwell’s because she had not controlled her unruly desires? Dread clouded her thoughts until she feared panic would snare her.
“What do you say, my dear?”
She forced herself to meet Lord Hoyt’s gaze. He had the most expectant look on his face, and his eyes glowed with happiness. She could not fathom what he had been talking about. She gave him a blank smile, to which he gave an approving grin. She must have passed muster to some concern of his.
“My dear, may I speak with your father tomorrow?” Lord Hoyt’s words finally broke through her fog.
Speak with my father? Phillipa’s muddled mind tried to understand what he spoke of. He looked so eager, his boyish smile making him more handsome. She assessed him as he waited for her answer. Hoyt did not rouse any feelings of lust in her. Orwell had not either, but she had once thought she could possibly be intimate with him.
This inappropriate, raging need to feel a lover’s caress and the force of his hips upon her, had only been brought on by Lord Anthony’s touch. She felt flushed from her head to toes. Probably her papa had been correct in his assumptions; she was indeed a harlot.
“No need to blush, my dear,” Hoyt murmured solicitously. “My mother understands the tendre we have formed. I know it is soon, but I am sure your father will welcome my suit.”
She stared at him, nonplussed. Surely, this was a jest. “Lord Hoyt.”
His hands tightened on her waist as he swung her around with unusual grace for someone so stocky. “Please call me Vincent, my love.”
She gave him a weak smile, reluctant to crush the earnestness on his face. She enjoyed his company immensely. But she did not want him to develop affections for her. She had been careful to not allow him any kisses at all, but he still was determined to move their relationship further. Rumors were whispered of his impoverished estate and she was an heiress. She had drawn swift conclusions about his interest. Yet, he seemed so genuine a person. “My lord, I do not think it wise to call on my father tomorrow.”
“Any man would consider himself fortunate to win your hand, Miss Peppiwell.”
“Why?” she questioned bluntly, irritated by the way he clipped her name. Anthony’s soft drawl of her name was smooth and sensual. She turned her mind from such thoughts and focused on Hoyt. He seemed flummoxed, and she took pity on him. She smiled, hoping to temper the acerbity that had been in her question.
“You are kind enough to dance with young bucks that trip over their own feet. You engage in discourse with the servants when you believe no one is looking. You are patient where others would be short. I also think you make people feel beautiful.”
His murmured praise had her gaping.
She forced a smile to her lips, stunned at his charitable thoughts of her. Her heart stalled at the look that flashed in his eyes. It was need. Yet she knew the minute she confided her secret to him, he would turn on her, just as Orwell had done. Hoyt was too honorable, too much of a conservative gentleman to consider taking an impure bride. “Please accept when I say I do think your company enjoyable. I am just not ready for marriage.” She knew she chose her words poorly by the relief that shone in his pale eyes.
“Say no more, my love. I will wait a few more weeks.”
She hesitated to be clearer—that she had no intention of placing herself under the restraint of a husband. She nodded, not looking forward to the day when she must be more forthright. Her aunt was correct; she needed to be more careful in how she danced and conversed with a man.
The quadrille ended and she murmured her excuses, powering through the crowd. She needed fresh air. The walls pressed in, and the need for escape chafed inside her.
Outside, the air wafted over her skin and she shivered, welcoming its cold bite.
She swallowed nervously as her eyes scanned the crowded balcony. She searched for Lord Anthony, if only to prove to herself she was not drawn to him. The minute she spied him, her heart raced and desire teased at her body. Surreptitiously, she watched him for endless minutes. To be truthful, she was charmed by the man. Not by any witty banter he’d exchanged with her, but the fact that a man of his reputation and stature danced willingly with the wallflowers and conversed with the hawkish matrons of the society. She had not expected him to mingle and laugh so freely, as if their encounter in the garden had left him totally unaffected.
She swallowed tightly as she remembered his hands skimming so hotly between her legs. He had touched her with such boldness. The memory seeped through her composure and her heart clamored that she had allowed him such intimate exploration. She desperately tried to shore up her resolve.
Oh, God, she had to speak with her closest friend, Lady Elisabeth. Phillipa had found Lady Elisabeth one of the few people she could trust, and she gave it to her unreservedly. She would pay her a visit without delay.
“Phillipa?”
She spun around to see her sister, Payton, approach, looking flushed and slightly tousled. She was so opposite to Phillipa in appearance people tended to be flummoxed when they realized they were sisters. Payton had their father’s looks—dark and exotic auburn hair, dark eyes, sun-kissed skin that was freckle-free, and so many curves her corset did little to tame her figure.
Phillipa glanced behind her sister to see the Honorable Lord Jensen St. John, as he emerged from the garden’s edge, trying not to look in their direction. She drew Payton to her, subtly fixing her mussed hair. Scarlet flags blazed on Payton’s cheeks and Phillipa looked sternly at her. Clearly, St. John had been less than honorable in the garden.
“I know you are already halfway in love with him, Payton. He has been courting you for three months now. But be very careful of the liberties you accord him,” she scolded, unable to endure the thought of Payton being callously used. She was an innocent, and wholly ignorant of the vile ways men could behave. Especially so-called gentlemen.
“Oh, Phillipa, he has asked me!” Joyous laughter spilled from her sister, warming her with its infectiousness.
She returned her exuberant hug, laughing, too. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. He will call tomorrow to speak with Papa. Hopefully now Aunt Florence and Mama will be less adamant that you marry.” Payton winked conspiratorially.
Phillipa laughed again, looping her arm through her sister’s as they walked into the ballroom. “Tell me all, Payton—except the part that has your lips swollen and your hair mussed.”
They walked into the crowded room, and she immersed herself in her sister’s happiness, grateful to leave her thoughts behind. She already feared Lord Anthony would become troublesome. She needed one night of basking in someone else’s joy before accepting the doom she had so willingly heaped upon her own head.
Chapter Six
A volcano lay under Miss Peppiwell’s cool surface. Anthony had seen it, experienced it, last night. The ice had cracked and what peeked from under it, he’d not expected. Her eyes had glittered with ire, and her cheeks had flushed so becomingly at the audacity of his intimate touch. But there had also been raging hunger, one that had spiked an uncontrollable need inside of him. He could imagine wha
t she would look like in the throes of passion, his cock sinking into the tight heat of her, encouraging her to take all of him.
God, he wanted her.
He had not intended for their kiss to traverse the path it had taken, but the readiness she had responded with roused and enthralled him. Her wet heat at his intimate caresses had only drawn him more. He’d watched the expressions chase across her face in rapid flicks of emotion—anger, bemusement, desire, then embarrassment. She had been clearly mortified by her vivid response.
He found her incredibly enticing.
Despite his enchantment, he had no bloody reason to push her so hard and so soon. Lord, the look on her face when he’d released her from their intimate embrace. Her confusion and humiliation had made him feel like a complete heel. It had been a while since he’d been so relaxed and free with a young lady. That was the only excuse he could think of for his ungentlemanly pursuit. No matter how hot or fast her body had accepted his advances, he should have been more mindful of her sensibilities.
He frowned, hands in his trouser pockets, staring out the window at the newest crumbling estate that was now his. Why was he so drawn to her? Her beauty was frigid, so unlike the women he was normally attracted to. And yet, she possessed a sensuality that shimmered beneath the chill, like a desert mirage.
But it was more than her beauty and sensuality that attracted him. He was curious about her. Such a bundle of contradictions, she was.
What had placed such icy reserve in her eyes? Why did Orwell pursue her?
A fork of lightning speared through the sky, startling the horses being led to the stables by his groom. He pulled himself from his musings. He had been too immersed in understanding the confounding Miss Peppiwell.
Dozens of gardeners, workmen, and tradesmen worked tirelessly to restore the massive Palladian manor house he stood in. He had found it several months ago during one of his visits to Lord Calvert’s estate in Hampshire, and had taken steps to purchase it. Something about the lonely beauty of the place had struck a chord inside him.
The huge structure held over two hundred rooms. The mass of weeds and vines that had choked the lawns had already been cleared, but the manor itself had a long way to go.
His brother’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “This is a solid investment.”
Anthony had been so deep in thought he’d not heard Sebastian enter. He glanced at him, noting the approval glowing in his brother’s eyes. “Yes. I’ve always thought this area the best place in Hampshire to acquire property.”
Sebastian strode into the breakfast room, arching a brow at the glass in Anthony’s hand; then went straight to the sideboard laden with scrambled eggs, bacons, sausages, kippers, muffins, toasted bread, sweet cakes, and several pots of tea.
“How did you convince Hutchinson to sell?” he asked around a mouthful of bacon after he’d seated himself at the table.
Anthony shrugged. “He had a price, and I found it.”
“It is impressive, the work that has been accomplished in a month. The only issue is your staff. Your butler is an ornery cuss,” Sebastian grumbled.
“I have no idea where Mother found him. I gave her full rein in hiring for the estate.”
Coolness chased his brother’s features at the mention of their mother. He did not deign to acknowledge Anthony’s mention of her.
“I gave Constance leave to decorate as she wished as well,” Anthony added.
“I noticed the dragon motifs embroidered into the drapes. I must confess I am pleasantly surprised by its beauty.”
Anthony laughed. “She insists that dragons are our coat of arms. I fear we regaled her with too much ancient dragon lore, growing up.”
Sebastian nodded with a grin. Anthony took in his windswept hair and the carefree way he appeared. It was a rare day when he looked so relaxed. Sebastian needed a steady woman, a mistress, given his views on marriage. A willing female body would go far to soothe the edginess the duke displayed more days than not. However, Anthony did not broach the topic, knowing how Sebastian felt about mistresses. The scar that flayed his left cheek was reminder enough of why he categorically refused to acquire another. It must be a dilemma—eschewing both temporary and permanent liaisons. Anthony did not know how he managed.
Cobalt-blue eyes met Anthony’s. “I’m returning to Norfolk. Care to join me?”
Norfolk was where the Calydon ducal estate and his brother’s home, Sherring Cross, lay.
“No, I have business to take care of in town.” He frowned at the reminder. “What do you know of Lord Orwell?”
Sebastian’s brows rose. “Not much. His father died while he was away at Eton, so he inherited the earldom quite young. But instead of squandering his inheritance like most young bucks, Orwell managed to grow it. He takes part in several ventures that we have also invested in. Why do you ask?”
Anthony hesitated for a moment; then confessed, “He is pursuing a young lady I am interested in.”
“It is not like you to squabble over a mistress. Let the lady choose,” Sebastian said mildly.
Anthony snorted, swallowing his drink in a gulp. He rolled the glass between his fingers. “I am referring to a young lady.” He glanced at Sebastian, now frozen with a mouthful of eggs, and chuckled at his stunned expression. “I fail to see why you are so shocked, Your Grace.”
“I have never seen you show a marked interest in any young society miss before. You have been blathering about marrying lately, but I did not realize someone had caught your attention.”
Anthony hadn’t spoken to him of Lady Jocelyn. A good thing. His brother would scold him for his behavior, which bordered on unchivalrous. He must absolutely remember to send her a note tonight, before he left for London. He couldn’t make himself call on her in person. He would feel too guilty over the disappointment in her eyes. He consoled himself that her distress would be strictly over losing his fortune, not Anthony himself.
He came back to the present, and Miss Peppiwell. “She is an American heiress, new to our shores these six months past.”
“And Lord Orwell courts her. But you are interested in making her an offer?”
Anthony contemplated his brother’s words, his eyes gazing unseeing out to where the gardeners were working furiously to clear brambles and thistles from the eastern side of the property. He studied the expanse of his estate with emotional detachment, and tried to do the same with Phillipa. He poured himself another drink and sipped his brandy before answering, carefully composing his thoughts.
“Under the circumstances, I do not plan to offer for anyone until I have given my tenuous social position more thorough consideration.”
Sebastian scowled and started to comment, but Anthony cut him off.
“And no, Orwell doesn’t court her. He hounds and presses himself upon her at every opportunity. I have seen her at more than one ball, and he is always there watching her. If he is not watching, then he is touching her aggressively.” Anthony’s voice grew terse. “You should have seen his face when she fled into the gardens, escaping his lecherous advances. His rage was almost tangible.”
“So, he is not a jilted suitor?”
“I have asked the lady, but she is closemouthed. Yet, I am concerned.”
Sebastian put down his fork to study him. “What are you going to do?”
“Your man of affairs, Hawke. I’d like him to put a tail on her.”
“Are you afflicted?” Sebastian snapped, his mouth parting in shock.
“I am worried about her. And it would be from a discreet distance.” Anthony swirled the liquid in his glass before swallowing its entire contents. He grimaced at the burn going down.
“Very well. I’ll see what I can do.” Sebastian rose from his chair and strode to stand beside Anthony at the windows. They stood in comfortable silence overlooking the mysterious beauty of his land. “How long will it take for full restoration of the estate to be completed?”
Anthony glanced sideways at his brother. He knew
it was not what Sebastian wished to probe, and he was grateful for his restraint. “Three months, give or take. Thankfully, I will escape the sawing and banging for the most part. I return tonight to London.”
“Why not retire with me to Sherring Cross?”
Anthony made a face. “I do not want to look upon the countenance of the old man any more than I must.”
“I will gladly remove the paintings.”
“I find I am also curious to explore Miss Peppiwell.”
Sebastian chuckled. “Miss Peppiwell, is it?” He then narrowed his eyes. “Explore? I thought you said she’s a young miss?”
“She is. Nineteen or twenty, I wager.”
“Then, what makes you think she will be open to your explorations? And is it wise, considering you don’t plan to offer for her? I never thought of you as a despoiler of virgins, Anthony.”
Anthony ignored the severe disapproval in his brother’s admonition. Desire lanced through him instead as he remembered the hunger in her response—her moans and gasps, and the tightness that had clasped his finger. He could imagine how she would squeeze his cock.
However, he also wanted to know her beyond her bedding responses. “I assure you, I’ve no intention of ruining her. Merely…testing the waters.”
She interested him. Considerably. What he intended to do with that interest was another matter, which he needed to carefully contemplate before acting to land himself in trouble he did not want and she did not need.
Sebastian’s gaze drilled into him. “You told me Georgina broke down and cried at what she labeled the ‘depraved desires’ you made her feel. A young, sheltered chit would surely run screaming from your brand of exploration.”
Anthony grunted. Georgina, his former mistress, was a widow and more than open to a man’s advances. The first night he had taken her, she had orgasmed until she lay limp, unable to twitch. He had been somewhat shocked on his next visit at the recriminations she’d heaped on his head. The lady had claimed not to enjoy the wanton desires he so clearly made her feel. With less than a month together, he’d moved swiftly to dissolve their attachment, impervious to her tears and pleading. Apparently, she’d enjoyed him more than she wanted to admit to herself.