Slightly Tempted

by Mary Balogh

  But it amused her to play his game for a while at least. Only Lady Caddick and Rosamond and the officers awaited her once she was returned to her table.

  She had expected something a little more . . . dangerous, perhaps, but the evening was not yet over.

  Even as she thought it, he bent his head closer to hers and spoke for her ears only.

  “The noise of conversation and the press of the crowd are considerable, are they not?” he said, touching his fingers to the back of her hand on his arm. “Perhaps I ought to have exerted myself sufficiently to instruct the agency not to invite everyone and his dog. It would be very pleasant, would it not, to find more space and more room in which to breathe and feel at least the illusion of greater solitude?”

  “I believe, Lord Rosthorn,” she said, slanting him a sidelong glance, “it is said quite correctly that there is safety in numbers.”

  He recoiled as if in deep shock. “You thought I was suggesting something improper?” he asked her. “You have wounded my gentlemanly sensibilities. I merely intended to show you what Monsieur Pepin showed me shortly before the arrival of my guests. It is a remarkably clever something. Do allow me to show you. You will not even for a single moment step beyond the eagle scrutiny of your chaperon.”

  Lady Caddick, Morgan saw at a glance, was in the midst of a crowd of officers, who were all apparently playing merry court to her daughter. It seemed altogether probable that the lady had forgotten Morgan’s very existence.

  “Very well,” she said. “Show me.”

  It had appeared to her until then that the lanterns had been strung in a rough circle about the picnic area. But in a few places, she could see when Lord Rosthorn pointed them out, winding avenues tangent to the circle had been created with more lanterns—places to stroll among the trees without being plunged into total darkness and without risk of becoming lost. Each lighted avenue eventually wound its way back to the main picnic area.

  “Is this not brilliant?” he asked, a mocking gleam in his eyes. “I almost wish that I had taken an active role in the planning of this party so that I could claim credit for it—semiprivate avenues for those who wish to be semiprivate together.”

  Morgan paused when he would have led her into one such avenue.

  “Brilliant indeed,” she agreed. “But I do not need to go any farther. I can see very well from here how cleverly it has all been designed.”

  He laughed softly.

  “You fear I seek to abduct you, chérie?” he asked her. “In full sight of a veritable horde of my own guests? At all points this central area is visible from the avenues, which are not, of course, real avenues but only winding paths through the trees. And you see? Already, even before the dancing begins, other couples have discovered these quieter walks for themselves. Allow me to show you.”

  His French accent had become more pronounced. And he had called her chérie again. He was, she realized, moving on to the next, more dangerous stage of his game. She wondered briefly why he had chosen her. Because she was very, very wealthy, perhaps? Rakes were not notorious for exerting their charms on the very young without some such motive, were they?

  “But you already have,” she assured him, gazing up at him with deliberately large, innocent eyes.

  “Ah,” he said, “you fear that I am a big, bad wolf. My apologies, Lady Morgan Bedwyn. I would not press my attentions upon a young lady who is afraid of me.”

  Well, that did it, of course. Even though she knew very well that she was being jerked like a puppet on a string, she reacted as he expected her to react. She bristled.

  “Afraid?” Her fingers found the fan that was dangling from one wrist, grasped and opened it, and fanned her face vigorously with it. “Afraid of you, Lord Rosthorn? Perhaps you do not understand what it means to be a Bedwyn. We fear no one, I assure you. Lead the way.”

  He grinned at her and she read appreciation in his eyes as they stepped into one of the lantern-lined avenues and were immediately caught up in the illusion of privacy and seclusion.

  “Finally,” he said, “I begin to enjoy the evening in precisely the way I imagined doing from the start.”

  “With me?” She fanned her face again and looked up at him, her expression haughty, even scornful. “You imagined enjoying it with me?”

  “With you, chérie,” he said, his voice low.

  “All this was for me?” she asked him. “This whole evening?”

  “I thought it might amuse you,” he said.

  She stopped walking and closed and dropped her fan to dangle from her wrist again.

  “Why on earth?” she asked him.

  “Why did I believe it would amuse you?” he asked. “Because you are young, chérie, and the very young enjoy picnics and moonlight and music. Is it not so?”

  “I meant,” she said coldly, “why me, Lord Rosthorn? Why do something as lavishly extravagant as this for me when I am a total stranger to you? It was grossly presumptuous of you!”

  “Ah, mais non,” he said, “not quite a stranger. We have been properly presented. We have waltzed together.”

  “But something as elaborate as this on the strength of an introduction and one dance?” she said, waving one arm imperiously in the direction of the picnic area. “I believe, Lord Rosthorn, you have singled me out for dalliance. I believe your intentions are not honorable.”

  “Honorable.” He laughed softly. “I am not about to drop to one knee and beg you to become my countess, if that is what you mean, chérie.” The swaying light of a lantern caught the laughter in his eyes. “But it seemed to me at the Cameron ball that I recognized in you a kindred spirit, one that chafes against the stuffiness of society’s confines and longs for freedom and adventure. Was I wrong?”

  “And any longing for freedom and adventure that I feel must necessarily lead me into dalliance with you, Lord Rosthorn?” she asked him scornfully. “You presume too much.”

  “Do I?” He tipped his head to one side and observed her closely.

  “What did you plan?” she demanded. “You have gone to extraordinary lengths to get me here. Now what are you planning to do with me? Steal a kiss? Seduce me?” She raised her eyebrows. Perversely, she realized that she was enjoying herself enormously. Two could play this game.

  “Seduce?” He slapped a hand to his heart and looked mortally shocked. “Would I bring these hordes of people out here, chérie, including a whole regiment of military gentlemen, I daresay, if my intention was to ravish you almost publicly? I might end my picnic in spectacular fashion by being hanged from one of these trees—or run through by a dozen swords.”

  “But you cannot deny that you planned to steal a kiss?” she asked.

  He leaned a little closer to her.

  “I would quarrel with your use of the past tense,” he told her.

  Being the youngest of the Bedwyns—by far the youngest and female to boot—had always set her at an enormous disadvantage during any family altercation. But if she had learned one tactic well it was that the best defense was frequently offense. And surprise.

  “I suggest, then, Lord Rosthorn,” she said crisply, “that we step out of this avenue, which according to your own admission is visible from every part of the picnic area, and into the forest itself. Or do you wish to be seen to kiss me—or to attempt to do so?”

  He pursed his lips and his eyes danced with merriment. He made her a courtly bow and offered his arm.

  “I wish to see the contrast between the night forest and the picnic area, of course,” she told him as he turned them away from the avenue marked out by lanterns. “Between nature in its raw state and nature with man’s interaction.”

  “Ah,” he said, “so this is merely a nature walk, is it?”

  “I may,” she said with careful disdain, “allow you to kiss me before we return, Lord Rosthorn, or I may not. If I do, it will not be a stolen kiss but one that I grant—or withhold.”

  He threw back his head and laughed outright.

  “
You are not afraid that I will then steal a second and a third, chérie?” he asked her.

  “No.” Already light and sound had receded sufficiently that she could focus upon the forest. She stopped walking and looked up. “I will not allow you to. I probably will not allow even one.”

  “Perhaps no one has mentioned my reputation to you,” he said, stopping too and releasing her arm in order to lean back nonchalantly against a tree trunk. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Perhaps I am dangerous, chérie. Perhaps you should be afraid of me.”

  “How foolishly you speak,” she told him. “If you meant me any real harm, you would keep very quiet about your unsavory past and hope that I had not heard of it elsewhere.” Though she had to admit to herself that standing as he was and where he was—in the dark forest with no one else close by except her—he really did look very dangerous indeed.

  He chuckled.

  “What is to be tonight’s particular topic of nature study?” he asked her, his voice lazy and teasing.

  Actually, it really was lovely to be away from the crowds and the worst of the noise. The night sky was still bright with starlight and scored with the high branches of the trees. She would punish him by pretending that there was no danger at all, that she had invited him out here simply for companionship.

  “Have you ever considered,” she asked him, “how fortunate we are to have been gifted with so many contrasts?” She turned around in a complete circle and then closed her eyes and breathed in deeply so that she would not ignore the smells.

  “Male and female?” he said. “Near and far? Up and down?”

  She turned her head to look at him with interest though of course she could no longer see him clearly at all. If she had asked that question of Rosamond or Captain Gordon or a dozen other of her acquaintances, she would have drawn nothing but blank stares.

  “Light and shade, sound and silence, company and solitude,” she said.

  “Sacred and profane, large and small, war and peace,” he added. “Beauty and ugliness.”

  “Oh, no,” she protested. “There is no contrast there. Everything that is ugly to us is doubtless beautiful to someone or something else. The slimiest slug is probably beautiful to another slug. A storm, which brings rain and chill to someone intent upon a pleasure outing, is beautiful to a farmer who has been anxiously watching his parched crops.”

  “And what looks large or small to us will look quite different from the perspective of an elephant or an ant,” he added. “Opposites are merely two sides of the same coin—one cannot exist without the other.”

  “Precisely.” She stepped closer to him. “So contrasts are inextricably linked. They are only a way for us to process information, to understand, to appreciate. Past and future, for example. There are no such things really, are there? There is only now. But if there were not those contrasting perceptions, we would not be able to organize our lives or our thoughts. We would be overwhelmed by everything happening at once and a thousand decisions having to be made all at the same moment.”

  “We would be dying as we were born.” He chuckled suddenly. “This is why we stepped into the forest?”

  “Dalliance was your idea,” she reminded him. “Mine was to escape the tedium of a grand squeeze of a social event for a short while.”

  “I am slain,” he said, slapping one hand over his heart again. “All this was arranged for your delight, ma chère, and it is tedious?”

  “Not at all.” She stepped a little closer again. “It is magical, a feast for the senses. But it is only now, when I can also be aware of the darkness and silence and peace of the forest that I can fully appreciate the lights and the gaiety and the laughter. Having a picnic here, Lord Rosthorn, was an inspired idea, and I thank you for it.” She smiled very brightly and very deliberately at him.

  Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness. He was smiling lazily back at her.

  “You are an enchantress,” he said. “You have turned the tables on me, have you not, Lady Morgan Bedwyn? You have played me at my own game and talked philosophy at me when I would have been talking dalliance. You have even provoked me into talking philosophy back at you. But I am not so easily diverted from my baser instincts. I really must steal a kiss from you. And since you have bravely claimed that I will not be allowed to steal a second or a third, I had better make the most of the initial theft.”

  For the first time she felt a little frisson of fear. Though perhaps fear was not quite the word since she did not believe he would really grab her and seduce her against her will. They were also still close enough to the picnic area that screams would surely bring other people running.

  What she felt was a quickening of her breath and a weakening of her knees and a realization that she had stepped far too close to him for comfort. And an understanding that it was not, of course, fear that she felt at all.

  It was desire.

  She wanted him to kiss her.

  Consequently, she almost took a step back. She almost turned and hurried away. For she had played with fire and was likely to get burned after all. More, she was close to showing him how easily she could be dallied with, how easy a prey she was to a practiced rake.

  Annoyance came to her rescue—as well as her Bedwyn pride. How ridiculous! He was but an idle rake when all was said and done.

  She took another step forward and tipped back her head.

  “Oh, you will steal nothing,” she said, her tone cool, her voice admirably steady. “I came out here fully intending to be kissed. You have not been clever at all, Lord Rosthorn, only mildly diverting. Kiss me.”

  For a few moments he did not move. He lounged against the tree, his arms still crossed, and regarded her with obvious amusement. She raised her eyebrows and gazed back. And then he uncrossed his arms, pushed himself away from the tree, and cupped her face in his hands.

  She expected something aggressive, something fierce, something forceful and masterly. Something, quite frankly, that would be earth-shattering. But his lips, when they touched hers, were warm, soft, slightly parted, and feather-light. If for the first moment she was disappointed, however, she soon changed her mind. While her lips remained still, his moved. He brushed them softly over her own, licked them lightly with his tongue, nipped gently on the lower one with his teeth, and then curled his tongue behind her lips to stroke over the moist, sensitive flesh within. The warmth of his breath caressed her cheek.

  The effects of the kiss, she discovered, were not confined to the area of her lips. The whole cavity of her mouth ached, and then her throat and her breasts and her abdomen and her inner thighs. By the time he lifted his head away, she understood how even a single kiss could be a dangerous thing. She could feel his body heat from her eyebrows to her toes. She was shockingly aware of his maleness.

  He dropped his hands to his sides.

  “Very nice, chérie,” he said. “Very nice indeed. One could only wish that Belgian forests came equipped with mattresses and that chaperons—even ones as lax as yours appears to be—came with no sense of time at all. But we must, alas, be returning to my guests and the safety of numbers.”

  He offered her his arm with a courtly bow.

  And so, Morgan thought, giving him a hard look before taking his arm, he had perhaps won this round of hostilities after all. For of course, he had not kissed her properly, not as one imagined a rake would kiss, not—surely—as he had intended to kiss her.

  He had toyed with her instead.

  He was a wily foe. She wondered if he would now have tired of the game and would be content to forget her existence after this evening while he went in pursuit of other prey.

  Wulfric and Aunt Rochester would have an apoplexy apiece if they could see her now, she thought suddenly. And with good reason. She had taken on the challenge of outfoxing an experienced rake who for some unknown reason had marked her as his newest victim. And she was really not sure which of them had won.

  Perhaps it was a stalemate.

 
CHAPTER IV

  A SIGNIFICANT NUMBER OF HIS GUESTS NOTED their return to the main picnic area, Gervase observed, and the direction from which he had come. The same people would have noted his circulating among them earlier with the same lady. They would remember how long he had been with her at an entertainment where even husbands and wives were not expected to remain in each other’s company for long.

  By tomorrow—or even later this evening—they would have remarked on their observations to others who had perhaps not noticed. He and Lady Morgan Bedwyn would be an item within a very short while, he did not doubt.

  As he had planned.

  The trouble was that he found himself rather liking her. She was not by any means a simpering chit. And she had backbone. She had played him very well at his own game, and he still had not decided if she had won or not. He had, of course, intended to kiss her far more lasciviously than he had.

  He had decided instead to throw her off balance.

  But here she was walking at his side, looking cool and ever so slightly bored and oozing aristocratic hauteur from every pore. He might have resented her cool demeanor if he had not been almost sure that he had ruffled her somewhat.

  “Alas,” he said with a great sigh, “there is one duty I could not avoid no matter how hard I attempted to run and hide from Monsieur Pepin. I must announce the beginning of the dancing, and I must lead off the first set with the lady of my choice—or the first lady who will consent to dance it with me. And let me see now—I ought to know since Pepin showed me the program and suggested that I commit it to memory. Yes, yes, the first set is to be a waltz. You must dance it with me, chérie. You really must. You waltz well, and I can be sure of not shaming myself before all my guests by treading on your toes. Will you dance it with me?”