by Stacy Reid
But Anthony wanted a woman who wasn’t appalled by physical pleasure, and sought it eagerly.
Something he suspected was true of Miss Peppiwell. No, something he knew.
He prowled to the breakfast sideboard, heaping kippers, scrambled eggs, and bacon high on his plate. He poured more brandy into his glass.
“So, tell me more of this young lady,” Sebastian invited.
Ah. So, not restraint. Merely delay.
Anthony shrugged, resigned to the interrogation. The duke was singular-minded when he chose to be. “There is really nothing to tell.”
“You are heading to meet our man of affairs to spy on her. Even I realize the madness in the notion. Don’t tell me there’s nothing behind that.”
“Orwell is dangerous,” Anthony murmured. He was sure of it. The tingle in his gut and the prickle in his nape he’d felt at the rage in Orwell’s features still haunted him.
“Why is it our problem?” Sebastian asked.
“Mine, not ours,” Anthony corrected.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Sebastian growled, moving to pour tea into two cups. “Anything that affects you this deeply, affects me.”
A laugh rumbled from Anthony as he accepted the teacup Sebastian held out to him, saying nothing when his brother firmly removed his glass of brandy.
“She interests me, that is all.”
“I do not think she merely interests you. You deny you plan to make an offer, yet you are concerned enough to put a man on her. And you wish to explore her.”
Anthony grunted. “Fine. I want her, but it is a bit more than that. And I may be contemplating courting her, but not until I am certain we suit.” There. That was a reasonable excuse.
“So, you are not averse to connubial bliss with her. You are obviously attracted to the girl. Why the sudden caution? Not two weeks ago, you said you wished to—”
The studied, smooth blankness of Anthony’s face froze his brother’s words in midsentence.
Fury surged from Sebastian’s eyes. “Do not tell me you will not marry because of what you found out.”
His brother had always been too perceptive by half.
Anthony gave a stiff, mocking bow. “I am a bastard, Your Grace. My sons will bear that stain.”
“Your sons will bear your name proudly. Everything you have will be theirs, and all my unentailed property will be deeded to them.”
Anthony gulped his tea before answering, treading carefully.
“Thank you,” he said evenly, “but I have enough wealth to last several sons and daughters a lifetime. And I am damn proud to know it was acquired by my own efforts and not…his. But the stigma of my birth that would follow my wife, my heirs, and my daughters is undeniable. How could I ask anyone to willingly endure that? What woman would want a bastard for a husband?”
It was the powerful Duke of Calydon who stared haughtily back at him. “If she loves you, she would bloody well endure, and be damn happy to take you.”
The savage intensity of his brother’s exhortation soothed the tension that had been building in Anthony at the topic. It was good to be so well loved and highly valued by the man he admired most in the world.
“My rank and wealth will enable us to defy society’s precepts, if it ever becomes known,” Sebastian assured.
Anthony wondered if his brother really believed that.
“So, you swear you have not bedded this chit?” Sebastian demanded.
“I have not. Even if I wished to… The lady is an ice maiden.” He exhaled slowly. “Or…she would have you believe she is. But, indeed, I touched fire last night.”
“Ah. Enough fire to have you thinking seriously about her, despite the reservations you now feel.”
“I find myself intrigued by her reticence, and the hidden passion that dwells within her. She hides behind a facade of indifference, but I have glimpsed enough innate sensuality within her to hold me spellbound,” Anthony confessed.
“Might it be because she is American, with a different way of expressing herself? Americans are quite a different breed than the silly chits we’ve both been running from for almost a decade.”
He felt Sebastian’s speculative glance, and met his gaze with cool aplomb, knowing what was coming. “Go ahead and ask.”
His brother merely raised his brows. Anthony wondered if he had been mistaken in thinking Sebastian would have asked him how an innocent chit would handle his so-called depraved desires.
Heat sizzled in Anthony’s veins as he remembered Phillipa’s shivers and moans. He doubted he’d ever had any female respond to him with such abandon. She’d tried to bury it, but he had seen it in her face. Had felt it in the wetness clinging to his fingers from a fleeting caress.
He had lost three mistresses because of his passionate nature between the sheets. Apparently, no honorable female would behave the way he’d wanted them to. Though, they had opened their legs to his needs willingly enough for baubles and a roof over their heads. Despite her vehement protests, even Georgina had always writhed in ecstasy at being tied to the bed and spanked, crying for more even when he indulged in his darker sexual desires.
He shook his head in bemusement. Perhaps it was time he found a way to suppress his urgings. If his mistresses had been unable to accommodate his needs, he doubted a respectable wife would be willing to indulge them.
And yet, he thought Phillipa’s sensuality would be able to match him, if anyone could. And he suspected she would be more than willing to try.
But his bastardy was another matter. Any wife of his would have to contend with the likelihood of that public humiliation.
He walked over to the windows, giving his back to Sebastian, each thinking, no doubt, of their different demons.
Anthony despised the sword edge he was balanced on. He kept waiting for the knowledge of his parentage to roar through Society. Sebastian believed they had the social standing to withstand the repercussions. Hell, he believed they could crush it with sheer wealth and power alone. Anthony did not necessarily doubt that. His brother could be a ruthless man, formidable when crossed.
What affected Anthony most, and would savage Constance, was that the man they called father could be capable of such hatred and ugliness against them.
Anthony clenched his fists. The coward had held onto the secret, using death as a way to avoid the fallout, knowing exposing it would exact the cruelest revenge upon his wife, because of how much she loved her children. Now the evil wretch was safely in his grave—a place that Anthony dearly wished he could rip him from, so he could beat the hell out of him and send him back to it himself.
Chapter Seven
Anthony rode Thor through the crisp morning air, inhaling the fresh air into his lungs. He urged the horse faster, its muscles bunched and its gait lengthened as it thundered along the Serpentine path of Hyde Park. After his dawn meeting with Sebastian’s man of affairs in one of the seedier parts of London, he welcomed the clean orderliness of the park.
The meeting had gone remarkably well. It ended with both of them clear on the nature of the tail he wanted on Miss Peppiwell, as well as to the duration. He needed to satisfy his suspicions, and would only remove the guard when the lady revealed the nature of Orwell’s obsession.
The park stood nearly empty, with only a few riders braving the early morning cold. Anthony drew on Thor’s reins as a flash of copper gold caught his attention. A horse cantered slowly across his path, its rider clothed in vibrant blue. Not many young ladies would be out of their beds this early. Pleasure suffused him at this chance encounter with the irresistible Miss Peppiwell.
He had barely slept after Sebastian departed for Sherring Cross. Anthony’s restless hunger for her had kept him awake long into the nights. After drafting his missive to Lady Jocelyn and handing it to his butler to deliver, he’d wasted no time traveling back to London.
The sight of Phillipa made his decision to chase off his restlessness and lack of sleep with a hard ride worthwhile.
&nb
sp; He had been toying with the idea of calling on her, but could not make up his mind without a fuller understanding of his gnawing need, and more important, where he wanted to take it.
Hidden by the branches of an oak tree, he watched her as she cantered closer. The reins dangled loosely in her hand as she sat astride the chestnut with the innate poise of an experienced rider. She rode slowly toward him, a rare smile teasing her lips.
For a moment he imagined the smile was for him. It held something mysterious, a smile that invited a man to sink into shared delights. His fanciful notions were dashed the moment she spotted him. Her smile erased in a blink, replaced by wariness. He chuckled as he recognized the exact moment she decided to canter right past him as if he were unseen. Without giving her the opportunity, he urged his horse forward, blocking her path.
She stared at him, the memory of their last encounter swirling in her leery gaze.
She wore a deep blue jacket with a matching split skirt that allowed her to ride astride. Scandalous! Her high-collared blouse was of the finest silk and the purest white. A jaunty hat perched rakishly atop her glorious red curls. Her riding habit molded her curves and accentuated the supple way she sat her mount. A vivid image of her seated on top of him, riding him with that same slow, sensual grace strangled his breath and shafted heat through his cock.
“It is not every day one sees a young lady in Hyde Park riding astride,” he observed drily. “I must say, Miss Peppiwell, you shock me.” Clearly, he wasn’t.
He was pleased by her tentative smile. It still held mistrust, but at least it was a smile and not a scowl. He wondered if she saw the covert glances and disapproval in the matronly frowns thrown her way. No shade of reticence or embarrassment came from her at their studied disapproval. He admired her for it. He shifted in his seat.
“In Boston, I had the most agreeable gelding. Our home sat on over five hundred acres and when I rode him I felt so free,” she ventured.
“You don’t feel free in Hyde Park?” He gazed at her, curious at the longing he detected in her tone.
“In London? You jest, my lord.”
He glanced around the park at the morning riders. He imagined London to be a great melting pot of poor and rich, slums and grandeur, restrictions and decadence. He supposed it did have its rules, though. Especially for young ladies.
“You are most welcome to visit my estate in Derbyshire anytime you wish,” he invited. He frowned thoughtfully, a bit surprised at his impulsiveness. He had never invited a female to his estate before.
Her gaze turned icy. Had he managed to shock her at last?
His laughter spilled out as he read the censure in her whiskey eyes that seemed intent on inebriating him. The memory of their encounter curled around them, tempting him to drag her from the horse and devour her lips. That would definitely shock her.
He shifted again, his riding breeches growing ever tighter. He wondered if she noticed his particular discomfort.
“My intentions are solely honorable, Phillipa. My brother and I own one of the finest stables in England, with over a thousand acres for your riding pleasure. I invite you to ride at your whim, with a horse that befits your skill and grace.”
Her eyes searched his face intently. In them, he clearly saw her desire to accept. He watched the struggle chase across her face. In the end, the coolness won.
A shame.
“I thank you for such a kind offer, my lord. I will discuss it with my family, and send a note when we are available. They will be much obliged, I’m sure.”
She glanced over her shoulder at a lady who pranced toward them. He was familiar with the Earl of Merryweather’s wife, but only from a distance. He waited calmly as Lady Merryweather dazzled him with a radiant smile upon her approach. He tried not to be blinded by the bright pink habit she wore that was so at odds with her gleaming copper tresses.
He noted the resemblance in the elegance of their carriage and their hair. But there it ended. Lady Merryweather greeted him with a bright smile.
“Lord Anthony, are you acquainted with my aunt, the Countess of Merryweather. Aunt Florence, may I introduce you to the Honorable Lord Anthony Thornton,” Phillipa murmured.
Lady Merryweather’s head bobbed. “Lord Anthony, what a pleasure to meet you.”
He inclined his head to Lady Merryweather, watching the speculation grow in her eyes. He gritted his teeth. He had no doubt that she was hearing church bells in her head. He noted Phillipa’s discomfort, and waited for her to fill the awkward silence.
“Lord Anthony invited me to Derbyshire to view his excellent stables,” Phillipa said.
“The invitation extends to the whole family, of course, Lady Merryweather,” he quickly clarified. He saw Phillipa swallow a smirk.
The radiance of Lady Merryweather’s smile almost blinded him. He cursed inwardly. He wanted no idle speculation. Not until he was firm in his decision to court Phillipa. The rousing sounds of hooves clomping in his direction made him ease Thor around.
Lord Hoyt approached, looking miffed and severely buttoned up. “Lord Anthony,” he greeted with false joviality. His eyes pinched as he saw Phillipa was sitting astride.
Anthony felt bemused at the slight lift of her chin. He felt instinctively as if some sort of expectation pressed in on her from Hoyt.
“Hoyt,” he responded, watching their exchange with interest.
He lifted his brow as Hoyt handed a bouquet of flowers to Phillipa. Red roses. She looked at them, apparently unsure of what to do, then her gaze skated to Anthony.
He allowed his lips to quirk at her lack of enthusiasm. He felt the keen stare of Lady Merryweather as she observed the three of them.
“Thank you, Lord Hoyt.” Phillipa gave him a wooden smile, then buried her nose in the flowers. “They smell divine.”
“Well,” Lady Merryweather burst into the ensuing silence, “Lord Hoyt is invited to break his fast with us this morn. Would you care to join us, as well, Lord Anthony?”
Phillipa’s eyes flared at her aunt’s invitation.
“I regret that I cannot accept,” he said with a slight bow of his head. “But thank you.” Relief filled Phillipa’s eyes at his polite rejection. Or was it disappointment?
It was good to know he rattled her. He only prayed it was in a good way.
He tilted his hat to the small party, spun Thor, and cantered off. He wished he could, but he had other pressing issues, namely arranging to have Lord Orwell put back in his proper place.
He wanted no distractions. The attentions of the delectable Miss Peppiwell would be for him, and him alone.
Whether or not he decided to seek them.
…
The ballroom of Lady Annabel Rogers, Countess of Blade, was brilliantly lit, showcasing the stunning elegance of the room and the ladies dressed in the height of fashion. The rousing strains of a waltz filtered through the air, bringing sweet contentment to Phillipa. Lady Blade’s soiree was a crushing success, and the first time Phillipa had relaxed in weeks.
“It is good to see you smiling.”
Phillipa laughed, twisting to hug her friend effusively. Lady Elisabeth, the oldest of the countess’s daughters, glowed in a soft pink ball gown, her gray eyes sparkling. “Is he here?” Elisabeth’s voice oozed contempt.
Phillipa didn’t need to ask to whom she was referring. “No, I do not see him.”
Elisabeth nodded. “I ensured Mama did not invite him.”
“How did you accomplish that?” she asked worriedly.
Elisabeth’s giggle was infectious. “It was not hard to slip his invitation out of the masses of envelopes Mother placed on the mantel.”
“Oh, you are wicked. But thank you!”
“Do not thank me yet. I ensured she invited Lord Anthony.” She smiled triumphantly.
“Elisabeth!” Phillipa held her breath. “Please say you did not!”
“Oh, don’t look so appalled. I have never heard you speak of any man so glowingly.” Her grin quickly
faded to consternation. “However, in hindsight, Mama may now think I have developed a tendre for him.”
“Oh, Elisabeth.” She griped her friend’s hands and drew her across the crowded floor. She grabbed a glass of champagne from a tray, needing to steady her nerves.
“This is what I mean. You are flushed, and I can see the pulse beating at your throat at the mere mention of him.”
“It is dread,” Phillipa insisted. “Nothing more.”
“No, that is what Lord Orwell inspires in you. I think Lord Anthony makes you feel something else entirely.”
She flinched at the quiet assertion. “How could you do this to me?” She tried to ignore the sense of betrayal that slashed through her veins. She knew Elisabeth meant no harm, but Phillipa found her actions unaccountable.
“Please forgive me.” Elisabeth’s voice rang with sincerity as she tightened her grip on Phillipa’s hand. “I have seen you act so coldly for the past few months and have heard the whispers of you being called the ice maiden. You radiated passion yesterday when you spoke of Lord Anthony.”
“I could have sworn I cursed him,” Phillipa grumbled.
“Yes, but he interests you enough to make you splutter and rail. You unfroze, Phillipa. And he is nothing like Orwell. I would be remiss in my duty as your best friend if I made you think otherwise. Lord Anthony is a gentleman, through and through. Father speaks of him well. And all the maters covet him as a son-in-law!”
She’d thought Elisabeth understood the fear he inspired in her. That he could so easily shatter her resistance, and use her own passion against her. Perhaps ask her to be his mistress.
The fear that she might break down and give her trust to him, only to endure heartache in the end.
After their chance encounter that morning, she could not see him again so soon. She needed time to fortify her walls. She had attended this soiree at Payton’s insistence, in the expectation that few people of her acquaintance would be present. She drew her hand from Elisabeth’s, ignoring the pleading look in her friend’s eyes.