Heart's Temptation Series Box Set: Books 1-3: A Steamy Historical Romance Collection (Heart's Temptation Box Set)

by Scarlett Scott

  And being any woman’s husband was the very last role he wanted to play. Ever. After Lavinia, the entrapment had never called to him. He supposed he owed her his thanks for that much, if nothing else.

  He was careful to remain only polite when he responded to his dinner partner. “I’m sure I’m the one who is honored, my lady.”

  He could swear he’d heard an unladylike snort from Lady Bella’s side of the table, but when he cast her a discreet glance, she was focusing upon her mother, the dowager marchioness. He supposed he was mistaken. Certainly, he’d do best to pretend as if she weren’t seated so near and keep his eyes trained on the handsome setting before him.

  The last of the dinner party was seated at table, and Lord Cosgrove gave a booming pronouncement to officially begin the dinner. As the soup course went ’round, the dowager disrupted the peaceful silence.

  “Lady Boniface, how charming to find you here.” The expression of sour distaste on her lined visage belied her words. She looked as if she’d swallowed a forkful of spoiled mackerel.

  Lady Boniface bestowed a pained smile upon the dowager. “Thank you, and I must say the same of course. I shall count myself doubly fortunate this evening to be surrounded by such fine company.”

  “Indeed.” The dowager sniffed and sent a disparaging look in Jesse’s direction. “I must, however, confess I’m not accustomed to the liberal nature of assemblages these days. In my day, things were far more judicious, you know.”

  Jesse had long ago grown accustomed to the dowager’s marked dislike of him. Far from allowing her barbs to cause him irritation, he found them entertaining. She was a lady who fancied herself a great wit but was in fact the opposite. She had an equal penchant for melodrama and mispronouncing words.

  “I fear I misunderstand you, my lady,” Lady Boniface offered in a hesitant tone. It was clear she neither wished to do injury to Jesse nor upset the august dowager.

  The dowager resembled a determined bird of prey in her widow’s weeds and lace cap. “You’ve heard me quite right.”

  “Indeed,” Lady Boniface offered weakly, “perhaps I have.”

  Jesse pitied the woman and decided to offer her a respite. “Let us avoid such strenuous subjects this evening, my dear ladies. Isn’t there anything light to which we can commend our minds, Lady Bella?”

  His question at last earned him her stare, and this time it teemed with lively irritation. Twin pats of color appeared on her otherwise perfectly pale cheeks. Christ, she was beautiful.

  “Perhaps we could discuss poetry, Mr. Whitney,” she suggested. “Do you care to honor us with a verse or two?”

  The clever minx. She’d adroitly deflected attention back to him. “Why, I would be delighted,” he said, enjoying the brief expression of disappointment on her lovely features. She’d thought to outwit him. “A lady friend of mine recently spoke to me of a poem by Matthew Arnold and it has been with me ever since. ‘Ah, love, let us be true to one another! For the world, which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new, hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light.’”

  She was shocked he had so quickly committed the verses to memory, he could see. But the truth of it was, the poem had for some time been a favorite of his as well, albeit for different reasons. He’d been surprised when she’d shared her admiration for it with him. He hardly expected a woman of her youth to be the possessor of the serious thoughts that apparently hid in her sharp mind.

  “How exquisite, Mr. Whitney,” Lady Boniface purred first. “You have such an agreeable voice that I swear I could listen to you recite poetry all day long although I’ve never been a great lover of the art.”

  “I’m afraid I have difficulty comprehending the words,” the dowager interjected. “Forgive me, Mr. Whitney, but you Americans certainly have a troublesome treatment of vowels.”

  He flashed a wry smile. “I apologize for the rudeness of my speech.”

  “I’ve always thought the American accent most pleasing to the ears,” Lady Bella offered, frowning, though he couldn’t discern if her grimness of expression was for her mother or for him. Perhaps both.

  “I’m sure you haven’t,” the dowager dismissed.

  “Indeed, but I’m quite sure I have, Maman,” Bella countered in a firm tone.

  Her gaze met his. He went rigid as a walking stick beneath the table. He was an ass, truly. Lusting after his best friend’s innocent sister was bound to earn him a place in hell if all the other disreputable acts of his lifetime hadn’t already. Thank God Thornton was a few seats down the table.

  “Lady Bella, I am most humbled by your championing,” he offered, his admiration for her evident in his voice. Her daring warmed him. He could hardly believe she crossed swords with her dragon of a mother for him before everyone, and judging from the dubious expression on her face, neither could the dowager.

  That fine lady was not amused. If her eyes had been equipped with daggers, they would have been slicing his neck. He grinned at her, enjoying himself at her expense. He was well aware that only the fortune he’d earned in New York real estate provided him entrée into the closely guarded ranks of English society. Of course, being friends with the Marquis of Thornton certainly didn’t hurt his credentials.

  “I’m sure you’re very welcome,” murmured Bella. The look she sent him was, he had no doubt, reserved for those she disliked most. Her upturned nose spoke volumes. “Pray think nothing of it, Mr. Whitney. There are any number of Americans such as yourself on our shores. I daresay I’ve met a goodly number, given my brother’s propensity for touring.”

  He harbored a suspicion he was the only American Thornton had ever brought home, but the gentleman in him refused to allow him to point that out. “Indeed,” he said simply, allowing his disbelieving tone to do the work for him.

  Damn, but she was unbearably lovely. After casting her glance around to, he presumed, ascertain how closely she was being watched, she dared to send him a grin and wink.

  He grinned right back, thinking with a bit of foreboding that very likely he was venturing into deep waters. If he knew what was best, he’d set sail in the opposite direction. But the hell of it was that he didn’t want to.

  Lady Boniface was perhaps feeling jilted in their conversation, for she chose that moment to reenter it. “I do so love a good aspic, don’t you, Mr. Whitney?”

  The mere thought of jellied meat made his stomach upend. “I’m afraid I cannot share your enthusiasm,” he said honestly. “Aspics are one of your exceptional English customs I have been slow to take to.”

  The duchess sniffed and looked at him down her little beak of a nose as if his dislike of aspics rendered him beyond social redemption. “Aspics are one of the finest treasures of English cuisine.”

  He was somehow able to maintain a serious expression. Good Christ, if this was the dinner conversation he’d be forced to endure, he hoped the soup course was also the last one. “So I’m told.” He decided to attempt another change of topic. “Lady Bella, what book did you ultimately choose for your edification, if I may ask?”

  “Book?” The dowager raised an imperious brow. “My daughter does not particularly care for reading, Mr. Whittlesby. She is well-versed in the arts of dance, needlework, and watercolors, as all proper ladies should be.”

  “Nonsense,” he scoffed before he could think better of it, choosing to ignore her deliberate mispronunciation of his surname. “I’ve rarely seen Lady Bella without a book.”

  The dowager flushed. “I’m sure you haven’t seen her terribly often.”

  “We crossed paths earlier,” Lady Bella admitted quietly, “in Lord Cosgrove’s library. I was in search of a volume to distract me.”

  Her mother frowned but said nothing more, apparently thinking better of leading the conversation into even more dangerous territory. Lady Boniface once more entangled him in unwanted niceties. He spent the remainder of the dinner surreptitiously studying Bella. He had to admit that he wanted her ver
y badly.

  But trifling with one’s friend’s sister just wouldn’t do. He’d do best to keep his distance for the remainder of the party. If he could.

  Bella decided a turn in the gardens was in order. At least, that was the demure plan she conveyed to the dowager in her effort to escape the august lady’s censorious gaze. Although she’d acquired the requisite accomplishments in finishing school, there was one skill above drawing and embroidery at which she excelled.

  Duping her mother.

  As she walked deeper into the elaborate gardens of Wilton House, book secured in a very useful little pocket she’d sewn into her walking dress, she didn’t feel a bit guilty. After all, she was taking a turn in the garden. And then she was going to find a quiet spot to read for the duration of the afternoon. In her estimation, there was no part of the day more monotonous than teatime. Bella would far prefer to hide away and read a good book any day.

  Thoughts firmly entrenched in what was about to happen in The Eustace Diamonds, she rounded a corner and promptly crashed into a masculine chest.

  “Good heavens, I apologize,” she blurted, looking up only to realize that, much to her dismay, she’d smashed into Mr. Whitney.

  “Lady Bella.” He grinned and she realized his large hands were on her elbows, steadying her. “Please think nothing of it. I’m afraid I wasn’t paying proper attention to the path ahead of me.”

  She felt faint. Why did it have to be him? She was ever making an utter imbecile of herself in his presence. Little wonder he saw her as a younger sister. She was awkward. A goose in the presence of swans.

  “I fear I must own my lack of grace,” she said, trying to ignore the heat of him through the layers of her dress and wrap.

  “To the contrary. I’m the oaf who ran into you.” His dimple appeared. “Perhaps we shall put it down to being an American. Your mother would certainly concur.”

  Bella winced. “I apologize on her behalf. She can be quite the curmudgeon.”

  Jesse laughed. “She doesn’t prefer my troublesome treatment of vowels.”

  Her wince turned into a grimace. “Unfortunately, I have no power over her uncanny ability to insult nearly everyone in her presence.” Suddenly, the time of day occurred to her. The male members of the house party had left shortly after breakfast to indulge in a favorite country house activity, shooting. “I confess I’m startled to find you here. Do you not favor the hunt?”

  His grin disappeared and he released her elbows at last. “I’m afraid not.”

  She felt him distancing himself from her. Clearly, something was amiss. She wanted to dig, discover what lay beneath his cool exterior, but was half fearful of what she would find. “It is an exceedingly English pursuit, I suppose,” she commented, unsure of what, if anything, to say.

  “Shooting makes me ill at ease,” he surprised her by confiding.

  It was difficult to imagine a man as strong and capable as he would have any qualms about firearms. “Is it because of the war?” she asked before thinking better of it.

  His gaze grew shuttered. “I don’t like to speak of the war.”

  More fool she for thinking he might trust her with his demons. “Of course.” She inclined her head. “Pray forgive me my familiarity. If you’ll excuse me, I shall continue my walk.”

  When she skirted around him, he startled her by once again gripping her elbow. “Wait, Lady Bella.”

  She turned to him in askance.

  His complexion had paled and his jaw was set in a firm line. “I didn’t mean to be discourteous. It’s only that the war was a very long time ago.”

  Conscience pricked at her. She had no wish to pry, and yet she did. “You needn’t explain yourself to me, Mr. Whitney. I understand the mere knowing of secrets does not necessitate the sharing of them.”

  A semblance of his former grin returned. “Then you are a rarity among the fairer sex.”

  She strove to match his levity, despite wondering just how much he’d suffered during the awful carnage she’d only read about. Had he been wounded? Had he wounded others, perhaps even killed? She shook the unwelcome notion from her mind. “What, sir? You have scads of ladies begging to be told your innermost thoughts and devils?”

  He drew her closer to him. Her hem brushed his trousers. She could smell him. If she raised her hand a scant few inches, she could run it gently over his freshly shorn cheek. She rather liked that he didn’t favor whiskers like so many English gentlemen did. Her eyes dropped to his mouth, wanting to feel it upon hers. What would it be like to be kissed?

  Jesse’s expression grew solemn. “And would you be jealous if I said I did?”

  She nearly lost the ability to speak. Was he flirting with her? Again? He had her at sixes and sevens. “Should I be?”

  “Ah, of course not.” He guided her arm until it linked through his. “May I join your walk?”

  He wasn’t giving her much choice, but she didn’t truly mind. Spending time with him was intoxicating. Not even escaping inside her books could compare. “You may indeed,” she allowed, matching his slow, steady steps as they began wending about the garden.

  “I’m surprised to find you here and not in the library,” he commented lightly. “It is rare to see you sans book.”

  “If you must know the truth, I’ve a book in my pocket just now,” she confessed. “I was thinking very hard on what shall happen next in The Eustace Diamonds when I collided with you.”

  “I take it Trollope is a favorite of yours? If I recall properly, you were reading Trollope in the library the first time we met.”

  He remembered. She nearly tripped over her own feet. Bella shot him a glance. “You do have a habit of remembering the oddest details.”

  “It’s not every day one meets a lady with a proclivity for sitting on her spectacles.” He sent her a sideways look. “Whatever became of your spectacles, my dear? They didn’t meet a bloody end beneath a bustle, did they?”

  She laughed at his daring for reminding her of how she’d clumsily attempted to hide them under her bottom that long-ago day. “Maman refuses to allow me to wear them in company, so I’m relegated to wearing them in my chamber.” Unless she could sneak away to a quiet library where she didn’t fear her mother would find her, of course.

  Somehow, the mere mentioning of her chamber brought a level of intimacy to the conversation that had her flushing. She looked away, studying a statue of a classical god. The gardens here were rather magnificent, she had to admit. She’d heard Lord Cosgrove employed some forty staff beneath his head gardener.

  “Contrary to your mother’s opinion, I think your spectacles become you,” he said lowly. “It’s a shame of the worst order that if I want to ever see you wearing them again I shall have to sneak into your chamber.”

  Though said in jest, his words sent warmth pervading her body. Her stomach felt quite queer. “I’m afraid that would be rather indecent of you, Mr. Whitney.”

  “I’m rather an indecent fellow.” He placed a hand over hers on his arm. “Let that be a warning to you. Never trust me.”

  He had a true knack for bringing out the minx in her. She stopped walking, forcing him to do the same. She turned to face him fully, searching his face. “Am I in danger now, then?”

  He looked down at her—truly, he had an impressive height and cut quite a masculine figure with his strong muscles and lean legs—and the need to swoon came upon her. He was more than every romantic hero she’d read about in books. He was real. He was beautiful. And, with the sun shimmering around them in the quiet square of garden at Wilton House, he was hers.

  Or was he? He had yet to answer. Before her better judgment forced her to reconsider, she reached up to cup his cheek. She had eschewed gloves, and his skin was vibrant, warm and just a bit scratchy beneath her fingers. The silence between them was heavy and full of so many things neither was willing to say. She may have been unschooled in the ways of men, but even she could feel the passion simmering. No man had ever looked at her in t
he way Mr. Whitney now was, as if he wanted to consume her.

  “Well, Mr. Whitney?” she asked, unable to help herself. She never wanted this moment to end. The day, the greenery, the scent of early autumn about them, the man. They were all riveting. Better than a book. It was her Mr. Whitney, the man she’d longed after for years, looking at her as if she were a woman, as if she were more than a younger sister. “Am I in danger?”

  Her fingers wandered from his jaw to his mouth, so manly yet firm. His breath was warm as it fanned against her skin. His eyes fastened upon hers. “Yes,” he said simply, and then she was in his arms.

  Perhaps she had played with the proverbial fire but now she didn’t care. He crushed her against him, her breasts to his hard chest, her skirts smashed against his legs. Her corset cut into her sides from the force of his embrace, but she scarcely felt it. If this was danger, she wanted more of it.

  As though he’d heard her utter the sentiment aloud, he obliged her by caressing her wasp silhouette with his hands. Even beneath the stiff boning and layers, his touch sent her heart madly tripping. But nothing could have prepared her for his mouth on hers.

  Her first kiss.

  His lips molded hers, gently at first, but then with greater ardency. She didn’t know where to place her hands, how to move her mouth. She was still, relishing the moment, yet frozen in her untried innocence. She was terrified. What if she did something wrong? Good heavens.

  He must have sensed her apprehension, for he pulled away. His face was still very close to hers. She could make out tiny flecks of green in his blue eyes. He was likely disappointed. She wanted to disappear.

  “I’m sorry,” she hurried to explain, “I have never before…that is to say, I’m not entirely certain of what I ought to be doing.”

  The admission was nearly as horrifying as being kissed by the man she’d wanted for so long and being rendered incapable of movement. His hands tightened on her waist. He pressed his lips to hers again. “Bella,” he whispered, his accent like honey rolling over her senses, “you’ve never been kissed?”