His I’m sorry broke through her denial. She stopped shaking her head and looked up to meet his gaze. Thomas had never apologized, and he’d done far worse to her. And Thomas had never looked at her as Lord Lindsay did. As if she wasn’t just appealing to behold, but a fascinating woman.
She was far less interesting than other young ladies in attendance, who’d been acquiring accomplishments from the cradle, yet this man seemed to wish to know her. Not just for a heated tumble, but more. What she thought of Jane Eyre, what mattered to her, what she felt and desired.
Then again, perhaps it was simply the way his thick sable lashes intensified the molten pewter of his eyes. Had she learned nothing at all? After years of self-reproach, was she fool enough to be drawn in by a man’s pretty words and handsome face again?
“Will you forgive me, Felicity?”
Propriety dictated she chastise him for using her given name, but he said it with such care, as if he enjoyed every syllable. She’d failed often enough at propriety not to worry about such a small misstep now.
Lord Lindsay looked forlorn as he waited for her response, silently beseeching with a tenderness in his eyes that melted her insides.
“You were the only lady with whom I wished to dance this evening, and I have proof I thought of you before the ball.” He reached into his inner jacket pocket as he spoke, extracting a small square object and holding it out to her.
“I cannot accept a gift from you, my lord.”
“Nonsense. It’s a trifle.”
She took a step forward to grasp the edge of his offering and then retreated. In the moonlight, she could see it was a book, the tiniest little tome she’d ever beheld. Small enough to cradle in the palm of her hand.
“A collection by Edgar Allan Poe. He’s an American, quite lyrical and dark.” He pointed toward the tiny leather-bound volume. “I’ve found it’s the perfect size for concealment during a ball or endless dinner party. I thought to offer it to you this evening if you were in need of reading material.”
Teetering between trusting him and protecting her heart, Felicity found herself on the cusp of forgiveness. The man drew her. And now she held a piece of him in the palm of her hand. A trifle he’d called it, and yet he must have known nothing would soften her like the gift of a book.
Something in his gaze called to her, a sense that he had painful secrets too and wished to share them. But only with her.
Then, as if to remind her how ridiculous notions like that had led to heartbreak once before, the sound of Thomas’s voice echoed in the depths of the walled garden below the terrace. When she turned her head toward the sound of Thomas’s voice, Lord Lindsay peered out into the garden too.
Soon Thomas and Lady Louisa emerged from the foliage, arm in arm, whispering excitedly with each other.
Felicity instinctively withdrew toward the doors leading into the ballroom, and Lord Lindsay moved with her. Right in front of her, as if to block her from Thomas’s view. He was so near she could feel warmth emanating from his body, smell his spicy cologne.
As she studied the broad expanse of his shoulders, the waves of his bronze hair, she marveled at his interest in her. No man had so much as given her a second glance in four years. She’d come to believe all her passion had been used up. Wasted on a faithless man.
But Lord Lindsay had dredged up the last ember. Every time the man was near, he ignited reactions she’d expected to forfeit for the rest of her days. Her feelings for Thomas had built gradually over a long acquaintance, but the viscount had sparked her interest from their first encounter. Denying it and chastising herself changed nothing. She wanted him as she’d never desired any man. It was wrong and would lead to nothing. She must continue to deny it, for Amy’s sake, most of all. But here in the dark, with the firm line of his back sheltering her and his rich scent making her ache for a taste of his skin, she could admit it to herself.
Thomas lifted his head to gaze at the balcony, and suddenly Felicity wasn’t afraid he might spot her standing on the terrace with a notorious rogue as much as she feared becoming the old maid he’d accused her of being.
“Come closer.” Her chest constricted in apprehension the moment she rasped out the throaty command.
Lord Lindsay turned quickly and approached. He reached for her, allowing her no time to take back her words.
His fingers were surprisingly gentle as he eased her hand into his, and their palms fit together as if they’d been molded for the moment. The heat of his body chased away the cold, and she’d been chilled for so long. She’d begun to doubt ever experiencing the warmth of a man’s embrace again. When he drew near, his chest brushed against hers and she gripped the crisp lapel of his evening suit to pull him closer.
“You’re shivering.” He unbuttoned his suit jacket and lifted the edges to wrap her bare arms in the fabric. “Let me warm you up.”
“I’m not cold.” Her voice was too breathy, her pulse fluttering in her veins too wildly. She didn’t want him to stop holding her, and yet it was him, his voice low and husky, his scent surrounding her, the muscular plane of his body against hers that made her shiver.
He glanced back to where Thomas and Lady Louisa had been. Felicity couldn’t see past the sharp edge of his shoulder, and didn’t know if Thomas still watched them or not. Whatever she’d hoped to accomplish by allowing Thomas to see her with Lord Lindsay, it seemed much less important than the intimate moment between them.
“Did he upset you? Kenniston? I saw him speaking to you.” He tilted his head and studied her eyes, whatever he could see of them in the moonlight. “Did he break your heart?”
“A long time ago.”
“Rotter.” He growled the word.
“I thought you were the rotter.” Wasn’t that what she’d followed him onto the terrace to tell him?
Her question made him smile, not the wide Cheshire grin he’d offered to the ladies in the ballroom, but a soft, sensual curve of his mouth. She reached a finger up to trace the swell of his lower lip. How could a man’s lips be so plush? He held still for her caress, and then lowered his head to join their mouths. Breath tangling with hers, he stilled and waited for her to respond. Opening her lips to him and urging him to deepen their kiss felt as right as being in his arms. He tasted of spice, embraced her protectively, held her as if she was precious.
He was too tender, too tempting. One melting kiss and she was on the precipice again, ready to fall. In danger of losing her heart.
No. Another fall would break her. Behind Felicity, the hum of music reverberated through the windows. The musicians had started playing again. Dancing would have resumed, and she’d failed to check on Amy. What am I doing?
“Still think I’m a rotter?” Lord Lindsay whispered as he stroked the backs of his fingers down her cheek.
“I think you might be the devil himself.” Stepping away from him was difficult. Not physically. She retreated, and he released her immediately. But leaving his embrace meant losing his heat, and giving up the pleasure of his nearness. “I have to get back to my cousin.”
She’d almost made a clean escape, getting so far as grasping the handle of the French doors, before he spoke.
“Are we to go back to pretending?”
“Pretending?” Felicity dared not look back at him. If she gazed into his eyes, all the regret-induced good sense that had nearly taken her into the ballroom would be swept away.
“That I have an interest in any other woman in that room, and that you have no desires in life beyond serving as chaperone to your cousin.”
“Yes.” Felicity pressed a hand to her middle where her corset pushed, where her chest felt empty and hollow. She’d been pretending for four years. Feigning propriety, guarding the secret of her heartbreak.
He stepped toward her, standing just at her back. Close, far too close. She feared he’d touch her. Almost as much as she wanted him to.
“And our kiss, Felicity? Should we pretend that never happened too?”
“Yes.” One look back and she wished for nothing more than to be wrapped in his arms again. To allow him to do more than kiss her. But, like him, she no longer put much faith in wishes. After all, she wasn’t one of those glowing debutantes in the ballroom, with blue blood in her veins and her whole life ahead of her.
And he wasn’t a man who kept his promises.
“Let’s keep our distance from each other for the remainder of the party, Lord Lindsay.” She nodded to seal her declaration and one of the little rosebuds she’d pinned in her hair tumbled onto the terrace before she could catch it.
Somehow, Felicity forced her legs into motion and reentered the ballroom. In time, she’d force herself to forget their kiss too.
Then again, maybe she wouldn’t. Perhaps she’d keep this memory tucked away, secret and precious. If she finally accepted her fate as an old maid, Alexander’s might be the last passionate kiss she ever received.
CHAPTER SIX
Apparently when Felicity requested that they keep their distance from one another, what she truly meant was that she intended to avoid him for the remainder of the house party.
What Alex expected by distance was that she’d sit at the opposite end of the table from him at dinner or on the far edge of the blanket at one of his aunt’s interminable picnic luncheons. But Miss Beckett was absent when he was dragged into a game of croquet with several gentlemen and young ladies, including Miss Huntingdon. So too did she manage to avoid a deadly boring game of charades. Over the course of two days, she’d either skipped her morning meal or been able to enter and exit the breakfast room without him catching sight of her. And she’d begged off dinner too, preferring to take a tray in her room.
His aunt seemed more than happy to take over the duty of chaperoning Miss Huntingdon. She was forever whispering in the girl’s ear. After which Amelia would either straighten her back or fuss with her hair or hold her chin at an odd angle. Aunt Georgianna helped the girl fill her dance card too, reserving the best partners for her own daughter, and always managing to find a spot for Alex on the young lady’s list.
He suspected Miss Huntingdon missed Felicity’s presence as much as he did.
And he did miss her. Noted her absence with an intense hollow ache in his chest, as if some piece of him was missing. Odd that, to so keenly feel the absence of a woman he’d known for only a few days, had spoken to for perhaps an hour in the space of a week, if one assembled all the minutes. Yet those minutes mattered more to him than the thousands of others he’d wasted each week of his life. For two days, he’d been turning them over like precious gems, examining every facet. He treasured his encounters with Felicity and had retained one tangible souvenir, a delicate rosebud he kept tucked away in his waistcoat pocket.
“I’ve become pathetic,” he announced to his empty bed chamber.
Two days was quite enough time to be patient. Too much time by an impatient man’s standards. Alex stood and straightened his necktie, when he’d prefer to have the thing off altogether. He patted his waistcoat pocket and considered leaving the evidence of his preoccupation with Felicity in his room.
Nonsense. He wanted less pretending between him and Miss Beckett, not more.
Felicity wasn’t difficult to find. He sensed her like metal knows the nearness of a magnet. In a household filled with people, she’d become the only one who mattered.
Alex opened the library door as quietly as he could manage when his body fizzed with anticipation. Every piece of furniture stood empty, but a fire burned in the grate to chase away the autumn chill, and a thick green drape was pulled across to cover most of the bay window. Only the toes of her slippered feet were peeking out from behind the fabric.
Now that she was close enough to touch, his tongue went thick and useless in his mouth. Words he’d imagined saying fled, and his only certainty was that he wished to kiss her again. Since she’d avoided him for two days, he suspected confessing as much wouldn’t be the best approach.
He took one step, then another, determined to see her, even if his tongue remained glued to the roof of his mouth. Two days of patience was definitely his limit.
“Utter scoundrel!” A book flew out from behind the curtained window seat and landed at his feet with a resounding thwack.
He’d been called far worse in his life, but this time he knew the accusation wasn’t his to own. Felicity couldn’t see him from behind her concealed nook, but he suspected she’d just read a particular chapter of Jane Eyre, in which a great secret of the story is revealed and the hero is shown to be less than honest.
A moment later she emerged, shoving drapery aside and sliding her feet to the floor. He tried not to gawk when her gown bunched above her knee, exposing a long, slender stockinged leg.
“You’ve discovered Mr. Rochester’s secret, I take it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She seemed more irritated that he hadn’t reveal the twist in Miss Brontë’s story than that he’d sought her out when she’d asked for distance.
Pleasure rippled through him at the simple act of speaking with her and having her gaze on his. He felt the empty spot in his chest begin to fill. Unfortunately, his bliss-soaked brain couldn’t manage an answer to her question, and he ended up grinning at her mutely like a love-sopped fool.
“Isn’t there a single man left in England who tells a woman the truth?” She emitted a little growl of frustration and planted a hand on each hip.
Alex bent to scoop up her discarded book, dusted it off, and held it out to her. “Keep reading. It gets better.”
“Honestly?” She crossed her arms, refusing to take the book. “I can’t imagine how the situation could improve.”
“Improve? I suppose that depends on one’s perspective, but the rest of the tale is worth reading. Trust me.” He meant for her to take his word about the book, but he wanted her believe in him too. Though he could never claim to be the most honorable man in England, he was willing to tell Felicity whatever she required to earn her trust.
When she reached out to retrieve the book, he clasped her hand. Like an unexpected gift, she let him hold her, and he took advantage, stroking the silky skin on the back of her hand. He entwined his fingers with hers, and then pressed the book against her palm. “You’ll be sure to tell me what you think when you’re finished?”
“I’m not sure I’ll continue reading it.” After taking the book, she pulled away from him and strode toward the fire. At first he thought she might throw the novel on the flames, but she placed it gently on top of the mantle before reaching her palms out to warm them.
“You don’t believe in happy endings?” The realization struck him as he watched her rub her hands before the fire. Something to do with Lord Kenniston, he imagined. Never mind the fictional Mr. Rochester. What had the baron done to Felicity?
“Not anymore.”
“What happened?” He wanted her to turn so he could see her face. Whatever she revealed, whether she trusted him enough to tell him anything, his only wish was to offer comfort. Not judgment. And perhaps to prove to her that not all men were utter scoundrels.
Felicity stood silent so long, he doubted her inclination to tell him the tale, but finally she turned and swiped at a tear that had just begun cascading down her cheek. The sight of it clenched at his gut, and he took a step toward her.
“She trusted him and he turned out to be a liar.” The book. She was still referring to characters in a novel, but he cared only about her story.
“And you? Did Lord Kenniston mislead you?”
“I was foolish, but yes. I suppose he did. He loved me one day and barely acknowledged my existence the next.”
Alex could see the admission was hard for her, but he found it almost impossible to believe. How could any man forget this woman so easily?
“He inherited a title, you see.” She drew in a sharp inhale and tipped her chin up as if to hold off the tears he could see glistening in her eyes.
As a man who’d just inherited a ti
tle himself, Alex had a notion of the sort of pressure that might have been exerted on Kenniston to make a good match. From the man’s behavior at the house party, it was clear that he’d set his cap at Louisa. Snagging the hand of an earl’s daughter would be a coup for any baron.
“Not all gentlemen who inherit titles are deceivers.”
“One who had would say that, wouldn’t he?” No anger colored her tone. There was light in her eyes again, and her mouth twitched up at the edges as if she was resisting a grin.
“Ask me anything, and I vow you’ll have the truth from me.”
“Why did you seek me out today?”
Cutting right to the heart of the matter. Why wasn’t he surprised that was her way?
“Two days seemed long enough.” After wasting time steadying his stance and clasping his hands behind his back, Alex confessed, “I missed you, Felicity.”
Her eyes widened as her mouth softened into a wry grin. “That’s preposterous. You don’t know anything about me, Lord Lindsay. How could you miss me?”
“Won’t you call me Alex? And you’re wrong. I know a good deal about you.” He took a step toward her, praying she wouldn’t bolt. When she didn’t, he risked another step and then one more, until he was close enough to touch her, to smell her vanilla scent. “I know that you love your cousin and wish to protect her. I know that you have a tantalizing dimple right there.” Lifting his hand, he traced the spot where a divot appeared when she grinned, as she had a moment before. “I know that you protect your heart because you gave it once, and he didn’t deserve it.”
When she tilted her head, pressing her cheek against his hand, Alex drew closer.
“I know that when you kiss me, all the rest falls away.” Raising his other hand, he cupped her face. He ached to take her lips again but had to know she wanted the intimacy as he did. Desperately. Completely. “I know that kissing you once is not enough.”
Felicity bit her lip and lowered her eyes. Alex sensed her conflict, between the possibility of pleasure and all the rules of proper behavior she’d no doubt been taught. Night had sheltered their kiss on the terrace, but here, in the light of day, he was asking for more. For her to admit to him, and to herself, that she wanted him. Damn the consequences. The longer she hesitated, the deeper the ache in the center of his chest.
Never Tempt a Rogue: A Rogues' Rulebook Novella Page 5