Seduction Wears Sapphires

by Renee Bernard

  He raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Really? You trust my judgment?”

  “It’s hard to argue with a man who has such a complete understanding of every woman under the age of one hundred.” Caroline shook her head. “Besides, I feel compelled to show you that I’m capable of doing more than being contrary.”

  This time, she wasn’t sure what to make of the change in his eyes; his stare was so provocative and stirring that Caroline forgot to breathe for a few seconds. It was a singular sensation to slip within the space of a heartbeat inside the searing cocoon of his attention.

  Ashe hadn’t moved any closer, but the carriage felt so much smaller as she was suddenly aware of his physical presence. In a rush, the color of the skin at his throat and the male lines and textures of his impossibly handsome face sent a wave of heat across her skin and down her spine, filling a pool between her hips. It was like having hot sand emptied into her stomach, a pleasant, tortuous tingle that made her thoughts scatter.

  “I don’t think you’re aware of all of your capabilities, Miss Townsend,” Ashe said, “and that makes your trust an extraordinary gift.”

  “I . . .” Caroline swallowed hard. “Anyone’s trust . . . is a gift.”

  “I shall strive not to lose yours, Miss Townsend.” As he spoke, the spell was broken, as if he’d deliberately pulled back the sensual power he wielded to release her. The carriage began to slow, and the world asserted itself again.

  Chapter

  5

  The following evening brought a different challenge for Ashe. Friends of his family, the Bedfords were less intimidating and expected to be more welcoming, but a dinner party meant his chaperone would have to navigate the delicate rules and etiquette of careful conversation. Lady Fitzgerald was a dragon, to be sure, but Caroline might miss the protective wrap of the old woman’s claws.

  In what he imagined was one of her better dresses, Miss Townsend hadn’t disappointed his dismal expectations in a dark green poplin that promised to make sure every other woman at the party would outshine her. Lady Fitzgerald’s admonitions to outfit Caroline hadn’t fallen on deaf ears, but there hadn’t been time to breech the topic—much less drag the girl to a shop and see to the grueling business.

  The greater hindrance was that he’d been avoiding Miss Caroline Townsend like the plague since he’d nearly ravished her on the carriage ride home. The girl had no idea how close she’d come to having her skirts pushed up and those creamy thighs spread wide for him. Just the thought of pressing her back against the cushioned seats and riding her until she screamed in release was enough to make him require another cold bath.

  Endless daydreams about his sleepwalking houseguest, and Ashe had endured no less than two cold baths in almost as many days. The physical exhaustion of his engagement with Rutherford at the sports club had been a welcome relief, and Michael had expressed some surprise when Ashe had requested that they meet more often over the next few weeks.

  Ashe was determined to leave nothing to chance. He would happily allow Rutherford to pummel him on a daily basis if it kept him from forfeiting Bellewood to a leech like Winston Yardley. Yardley was exactly the kind of man who would think nothing of squatting like a toad on a dying relative’s doorstep—only to enjoy the spoils and reach across a coffin to demand his share. He’d insinuated himself into multiple households, becoming mysteriously “indispensable” before his patron or patroness’s demise. As far as Ashe was concerned, he was an angel of death and deserving of nothing so much as an icy shove out of the path of humanity.

  Defeating Yardley was motivation enough, but now he had a new spur to drive him forward. If I can salvage my pride by not letting this impossible girl turn me into a raving lunatic before this is all over, I’ll count myself a very fortunate man.

  Michael, as usual, had been quick to lecture him about the importance of not drawing too much attention this Season, wary of the quiet of the East India Company after their last efforts to flush out the Jaded’s members had failed so miserably. The Company wanted nothing more than to get their hands on the source of the Jaded’s wealth and uncover the rest of the treasure that they’d left behind after filling their pockets in the raja’s treasure room; but the Jaded’s anonymity wasn’t making it easy. Rutherford was completely unaware of Ashe’s predicament and was simply reissuing a warning he’d given each of them with regular frequency since their group’s return to England. But Ashe refused to live his life ready to jump at every shadow.

  He’d calmly told Rutherford, “I’ve earned my death, like any man. But for once, I can promise you, unless an assassin is in collusion with my grandfather to kill me by depriving me of all my usual entertainments, I am safe this Season.”

  Most of the others had agreed that Galen’s dangerous tangle with assassins over a year ago had probably been the worst of it, and since then, things had seemed to calm until it was Michael alone who remained convinced that they should always be on guard.

  Hell, an attempted kidnapping or assassination might be a nice distraction, come to think of it! But I don’t think my luck is going to hold for—

  “I didn’t think Americans bothered with anyone’s society but their own,” Caroline’s dinner partner announced, the staunch old man giving the table a firm thump to underline his opinions and interrupting Ashe’s reverie. “Especially since your country is far too immature to have developed much of a social sense, I would say, to even know the basic rules.”

  Poor Caroline! Mrs. Bedford has unintentionally seated you next to the world’s grumpiest and openly hostile American hater in Great Britain, Colonel Rupert Stevenson—and I’d guess right about now, that pluck is about as thin a shield as the crystal on this table.

  But the voice that answered Colonel Stevenson was clear and steady, the flat lilt of her accent all the more striking because of it. “Ah, but didn’t we begin as Englishmen, sharing a common history? And can’t the younger cousin wish to emulate their more dashing older relative—even if it is a bit naughty to try to fit into someone else’s shoes after you’ve stepped on their toes?”

  Colonel Stevenson’s bluster lost a good deal of its momentum. “Dashing, you say? I’m not sure, but I think you just likened the entire matter to a waltz!”

  “Why not?”

  He shook his head, a slow smile breaking up the craggy ice of his features. “Better I should ask how it is possible to bring dancing slippers into such a conversation!”

  “Well”—she tilted her head to one side, as if contemplating a puzzle—“I’d say when you have two partners who think to take the lead, it’s inevitable that someone’s toes will get bruised. But if, as you say, the younger of the pair hasn’t learned all the nuances of the steps, then it would be the more experienced dancer who would be expected to be more cautious and try not to wound his fair cousin—isn’t that right?”

  “That would be the rule on the dance floor, but . . .”

  “There must be some affection left between the two countries, Colonel Stevenson,” she asserted.

  “And what makes you say that?”

  “Neither party is refusing the next dance.”

  And then it happened. Instead of throttling her or throwing down his fork, the old misogynist began to laugh at her audacious argument, practically infatuated.

  “How is it, Miss Townsend, that you appear to be a woman with great humility, yet hold your own like a duchess? And when I think to dislike you for cheeky pride, you disarm me with the turns of a clever mind that would befit a man better than your soft frame!”

  “You ask as if I am in charge of some great scheme, Colonel Stevenson. I assure you I meant only to attempt not to bore you to tears. I fear I am an embarrassment to my guardian when I behave too well.”

  The colonel threw back his head, laughing wholeheartedly in a contagious show of good humor. The entire table brightened at the exchange, even if they hadn’t exactly heard what had amused the dour old man—except for Ashe, who pretended that his soup bo
wl was too fascinating to allow for distraction.

  Seated at his right, Mrs. Lowery leaned forward, her delightful cleavage highlighted by the candlelight. “Your young American charge has quite a way with words, Mr. Blackwell.”

  “Do you think so?” Ashe pretended indifference.

  “I take it you are not so . . .” She leaned in another inch, her voice lowering seductively. “Charmed with her ways as the colonel?”

  He openly reassessed the “charms” Mrs. Lowery was pressing in his direction, the low décolletage of her evening gown leaving little to the imagination, smiling at the overt game of flirtation. Never underestimate a married woman. . . .

  “I hadn’t given her charms any notice,” he answered, his voice lowering to match hers as if in confession. “I prefer women with more polish and with a bit of experience to match their beauty.”

  Mrs. Lowery almost purred. “I thought as much! You didn’t strike me as the sort of man to bother with a pony when there are thoroughbreds aplenty eager for a ride.”

  Ah, the joys of a bold married woman. . . .

  “Why, Mrs. Lowery! I didn’t realize you were a woman who enjoyed the hunt.” He deliberately let his eyes drop to the creamy mounds now inches away from his arm. “I confess, I rarely pass up an opportunity to sit in the saddle.”

  Mrs. Lowery beamed, and Ashe felt the familiar heat in his spine begin to increase at the prospect of a harmless romp. What scandal here, if the lady was willing and discreet?

  “Your reputation as a skilled hunter precedes you, Mr. Blackwell.” Mrs. Lowery lifted her glass for a ladylike sip of wine that only highlighted the plump curves of her lips. “I, for one, am pleased to think I might have the chance to see for myself if it is well earned.”

  Ashe lifted his own glass, discreetly glancing about to make sure that their heated exchange wasn’t drawing any undue attention. But the other dinner guests all seemed enthralled in their own conversations, and their host, Mr. Bedford, was expounding at length from his position at the opposite end of the table on the social ramifications of a machine that could make envelopes.

  And to think I thought the evening was going to hold no entertainment.

  Ashe returned his full attention back to Mrs. Lowery. She was a classic English beauty, golden curls and heavy-lidded blue eyes, though a bit too mature to be mistaken for the porcelain doll that fashion upheld as a standard to be imitated. But Ashe had never preferred dolls.

  His tastes demanded something far more alive and distracting.

  Before he could voice a reply to Mrs. Lowery’s challenge, Mr. Bedford stood to release his guests, either to port and cigars in the library or to entertain themselves in the drawing room with music and cards. “I trust you to find your own pleasures!” he announced grandly, with a cheerful wave.

  Ashe bit the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing as his chaperone was almost immediately drawn off by the colonel toward the drawing room for what promised to be the driest lesson on whist any human being had ever submitted to. She gave Ashe a subtle look, pleading for rescue, but he pretended to notice nothing of her dilemma and instead waved happily as if in blessing. Ah, the delights of civilized company, Miss Townsend! Just try not to slip into a coma!

  “Would you care to join me for a bit of fresh air, Mr. Blackwell?” Mrs. Lowery invited him. “I understood you weren’t much of a smoker.”

  “So true,” he said. “It is one bad habit I have failed to acquire, and if given the alternative of an evening stroll, how can I refuse?”

  She stood, turning to make sure he could admire more of her elegant figure as she left her chair. “You couldn’t, Mr. Blackwell. Not without forfeiting a hard-won reputation as a gentleman.”

  He stood with her, offering her his arm as they made their way toward the open doors onto the balcony that ran the length of the back of Bedford’s town home. He escorted her out into the colder night air and out toward the rail as if to assess the garden below.

  “So, tell me, Mr. Blackwell, do all American heiresses dress like servants or is your ward unique?”

  “Did you really wish to discuss Miss Townsend, Mrs. Lowery?” He leaned in closer, subtly pressing her up against the balcony railing in a shadowed corner. “If so, I’m going to be terribly disappointed.”

  “Oh, no! Was there”—she pursed her lips an inviting pout—“another topic you preferred?”

  “I thought you were interested in the hunt.”

  “I am. But to sample your skills as a hunter, does that mean I need to run away?” She batted her eyes, but the imitation of a wary coquette was too clumsy, and Ashe found some of his ardor cooling.

  “How fast can you run?” he asked, reaching up to rearrange one golden blonde curl so that it would lightly caress her collarbone. It was an old trick, this touching without touching, but the little gasp it elicited helped to remind him how much he enjoyed the game.

  She tipped her face up toward his, clearly not inclined to flee. “In these slippers? This gown? I shall have to forfeit before the race is even begun, sir.”

  “I like a woman who knows how to yield gracefully.” Ashe bent over to claim a kiss, a rote conquest, but he wasn’t complaining. It’s been too long, damn it.

  “Ahem.” A voice behind the pair interrupted his plans to taste Mrs. Lowery’s lips. “How lucky to find you here, Mr. Blackwell!”

  He stepped back from the lady with a grimace and turned slowly around to face his current nemesis. “Yes, indeed. How lucky!” he answered, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

  A miffed snort from behind him revealed that Mrs. Lowery was equally displeased at the interruption. “Luck has nothing to do with it, if you ask me.”

  “It seems I have no head for whist, Mr. Blackwell,” Caroline went on cheerfully, ignoring the dispositions of her audience. “Perhaps you could take my place at the table and avert catastrophe.”

  Ashe almost groaned. “I’m in no mood for games.”

  “Really?” she asked, the barb at the end of the innocent question impossible to miss. “I was sure you thought of yourself as something of an expert.”

  Mrs. Lowery stepped out from behind him. “I’m sure Mrs. Bedford would be only too happy to guide you, my dear. Why don’t you return to the drawing room and inquire?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Lowery! I didn’t see you there!” Caroline’s mock surprise was almost comical, and Ashe had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling—before reminding himself that the entire scene was hardly a laughing matter. “I believe Mr. Saunders was just looking for you! Shall I tell him I found you? I’m sure he’ll be ever so pleased!”

  Mrs. Lowery’s sharp intake of breath spoke volumes.

  The huntress had more than one horse in contention—and this could get ugly very quickly if Saunders catches on. The terrier had teeth!

  “No, I’ll . . . join him in the drawing room. If you’ll excuse me.” She curtsied, the crisp speed of it betraying her agitation, before she left them alone without a backward glance.

  Caroline crossed her arms as she watched the woman retreat and then looked back to him, an unapologetic expression on her face. “Well?”

  “Well, nothing, Miss Townsend. I’ll be damned if we’re going to have this conversation now.” Ashe stepped forward, holding out his arm. A thread of anger began to weave its way into his tone, spurred by the embarrassment of being schooled in front of a woman. “I’ll escort you back so that you can make your apologies and claim to have a headache precipitating our early departure.”

  “I do not have a headache, Mr. Blackwell.”

  “No, you are a headache, Miss Townsend, but in any case, you will do as you’re told or I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you out kicking and screaming if need be.” He lifted his arm one inch, daring her to defy him. “Well?”

  He thought for a fleeting moment that she would try to rebel, but she withered slightly under his fiery glare and meekly took his arm.

  “I should warn you that I
am a terrible liar, Mr. Blackwell.”

  “Then say nothing and leave it to me.” He began to lead her back inside. “If you keep your eyes on the floor, they’ll assume you’re miserable.”

  “I don’t see why I’m the one being ushered out like a child to be punished. It’s not as if I’m the one who was—”

  “Not. Here.” Ashe increased his pace, determined to hold his own until they were safely away. And then he was going to make sure they reviewed the rules of guardian and ward!

  The escape was swift and easier than he’d anticipated as he made his excuses and hurried a mortified Caroline out of the Bedfords’ home and down to the waiting carriage.

  Once they’d pulled away from the drive, Ashe made his displeasure clear. “A young woman who is posing as a man’s ward shouldn’t just walk up and imperiously order him about!”

  “Rude and boorish men who are in need of a chaperone shouldn’t openly play the part of the fool and expect not to get a pinch.” Caroline smoothed out the soft gray silk of her skirts a little too forcefully to hide her ire. “A married woman! What in the world possessed you?”

  “Flirtation is hardly criminal, and in my experience, a woman’s marital status has nothing to do with her delight in the practice,” he said, openly unconcerned. “Or her age, for that matter.”

  “If the measurement for prohibiting a thing is its criminality, Mr. Blackwell, then you’ve set the bar extremely low for yourself!” she bit back, unafraid.

  His hands fisted against his thighs, and Caroline steeled herself for battle.

  “Miss Townsend, you overstep!” he growled.

  “By asking you to consider how horrifying it would have been if it truly had been Mr. Saunders who had discovered you? Or even the Bedfords? By inquiring what witty excuse you’d have given them for dallying with that woman on a dark, cold balcony when every other respectable guest was accounted for inside?”