London, England
Early August 1809
India Byron raised a glass of champagne punch to her lips, then choked when she caught sight of a tawny-haired young man standing in the drawing-room doorway, scanning the crowd.
How did he get in here? she thought in alarm.
It was bad enough her older brother, Spence, had brought the simpleton home for the summer along with a gaggle of first-years from Oxford. But now to find him in London at a family wedding—to which he quite clearly had not been invited—well, it was really beyond the pale.
She knew without conceit that he was here because of her. Ever since their introduction at her father’s country estate last month, he’d been mooning over her—making calves’ eyes and penning dozens of truly dreadful poems written in her honor. One more ode to my “dewy emerald eyes,” she thought, and I’ll surely be sick!
Taking a few steps back, she maneuvered herself so she was half-hidden behind a pair of her cousins, Jack and Drake—both men too deep in conversation to notice her skulking.
The next time I see Spence, she vowed, he’s a dead man!
Swallowing a hasty draught of punch to help bolster her nerves, she set the champagne flute down on the nearest table and glanced around for a convenient avenue of escape. Across the room, another cousin, Cade Byron, and his new wife, Meg, were holding court—the bride and groom both glowing with happiness, as they accepted the well-wishes of family and friends alike. But India didn’t have time to celebrate. At that moment, she needed to save herself.
Spying an open set of French doors that led to the terrace and garden beyond, she hurried toward them. As she did, she glanced back and gasped when she saw a pair of familiar mooning hazel eyes turn her way. Breaking into a run, she wondered how she was going to elude him.
Mercy help me, I’m bored, Quentin Marlowe, 8th Duke of Weybridge, thought, as he drained the last of his champagne. Twirling the now-empty glass between his fingers, he leaned a shoulder against a foliage-covered garden arbor and gazed across the lawn toward Clybourne House.
Actually, he would rather be drinking brandy, but he supposed eleven thirty in the morning was too early for hard liquor—even for him. Brandy or not, he knew the spirits would do nothing to relieve his present ennui. Not that his friend Cade’s wedding wasn’t a splendid affair—since it was—but at its heart, a reception was still just a reception. And over the course of his two-and-thirty years, he’d attended far too many weddings and wedding receptions to see this one as anything new.
Lately it seemed as if nothing was new.
London was invariably the same. Each spring, the Season came and went with its usual round of parties, amusements, and the annual crop of perky debutantes, all desperately searching for a husband.
Then late summer would arrive, and it was off to the country for hunting, riding, and social gatherings that would last through the autumn.
The holidays descended next, along with family and friends come to revel over cups of wassail and bicker over their differences.
Then winter set in—cold, oppressive and dreary.
Finally, spring returned and the whole cycle would begin again. Just thinking about it made him sigh.
That’s the problem, he mused. Nothing surprises me anymore. It’s all just a tedious bore.
Suddenly, a flash of white caught his eye as a young woman with fair skin and lustrous sable hair hurried from the house. Her slippered feet flew as she ran, her gaze darting right, then left, then back.
Pretty little thing, he mused. Gorgeous, actually. Quite likely a Byron, he guessed, especially given the multitude of them in attendance today. And young—probably not much more than eighteen, if he didn’t miss the mark. Obviously, she was fleeing from something—or more likely someone—since it seemed probable she was being pursued by one of the other guests. A lover’s game perhaps?
Shrugging, he glanced away.
He was contemplating whether or not to indulge in one of the cheroots in his lapel pocket, when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of her racing down the terrace steps and across the yard. Her pale skirts swirled around her legs, displaying her trim ankles in a most enticing way, as she moved deeper into the garden. Suddenly she lifted her head and met his gaze, espying him where he stood in the partial concealment of the leafy arbor.
Slowing, she glanced again toward the house, hesitating as though she were weighing her options. Apparently, having made up her mind, she continued on in his direction, coming to a halt barely an inch away from him.
“Quick!” she declared in a breathless voice. “Kiss me!”
One eyebrow winged skyward. “I beg your pardon?”
“No time for pardons,” she admonished. “He’s nearly upon us. Just do it. Kiss me!”
“He isn’t a jealous husband, is he?” he asked with lazy amusement. “Or a lover brandishing a pistol?”
Now that really would liven up the festivities, he thought.
“No,” she said. “He’s just a besotted idiot who doesn’t know when to go away. Hurry while there’s still time. Kiss me. Please!”
Quentin looked down at her lovely heart-shaped face and into the depths of her beseeching green eyes. His gaze roamed lower, tracing across the adorable sweep of her nose, the refined curves of her cheekbones, then over her full, rosy lips which were parted in rapt anticipation.
Despite his better judgment, he was intrigued. Even more, he had a sudden craving to find out if her mouth tasted as ripe and delicious as it looked.
“Well,” he drawled, warming to the possibilities. “Who am I to deny a lady?”
Taking her in his arms, he pressed his lips to hers.
The spark was instantaneous; a jolt of pleasure so intense it blazed through him like a rippling summer heat, saturating his blood and sinking deep into his vitals. As for her mouth, she tasted like honey and wine, with a lightness that made him think of pure springwater. Wanting a deeper draught to quench his sudden thirst, he traced his tongue along her lower lip and urged her mouth to open.
She gave an answering sigh of delight and began to respond. But just as quickly, she pressed her palms to his chest and broke away. She didn’t draw back very far, however—their faces remaining close. “Is he still there?” she whispered.
He who?
For a moment, Quentin didn’t understand the question. Then memory returned. Glancing up, he surveyed the garden. “Brown hair? Lanky build? Wounded expression like a puppy that just got kicked?”
She gave a faint nod.
“Then yes, he’s still there. Shall we continue, since he doesn’t look sure yet whether to stay or go?”
She paused, her eyes wide and slightly bemused. He wondered if she was about to refuse, when she nodded and slid her arms around his shoulders. “Yes. Kiss me again.”
With a smile, he bent to do as she commanded.
Sensing her distraction over the other man, he kept their kiss brief this time. Light, playful, and undemanding. She relaxed, growing increasingly more confident and pliant inside his embrace.
Leaving his lips against hers so they were barely brushing, he flicked another glance upward. “Now he looks like a furious, wounded puppy,” he murmured. “Mad enough to chew off his own tail. Sure you aren’t trying to make him jealous?”
Her sweet breath puffed against his mouth. “No! I just want him gone since he’s been plaguing me this past month entire. Truly, I have tried to be nice, but he just will not take the hint.”
He gave her another plucking, lingering kiss. “Don’t look now, but I think your wish has been granted. He’s turned around and is walking back to the house—or should I say stomping back. Ah, there, he’s gone inside.”
“Thank heavens,” India declared, tension flowing from her in voluble waves that reached all the way to her toes.
For a moment she considered looking over her shoulder to verify that Peter, “the Pest,” was truly gone, but she didn’t want to take the chance of ruining her good fortune. Instead she gazed up into the face of the stranger, who still held her within his arms.
Arresting was the best way to describe him, she decided, since he wasn’t handsome in the conventional sense. His nose was too long and hawkish for one, his chin too square. His bone structure looked chiseled, as though it had been hewn from a rough block of granite. Contrarily, his lips were elegant, capable of being seductive or stern, she was sure, depending upon his whim. As for his eyes, they were dark—the color of freshly brewed coffee—with a pair of formidable brows that arched like raven’s wings above his penetrating gaze.
His most remarkable feature, by far though, was his hair. Thick and soft with a stubborn hint of wave, his close-cropped locks were so dark a brown as to appear black. But the true surprise lay at his temples, where twin streaks of silver gleamed as though painted there by a master’s hand.
Her fingers tingled with the need to touch, to glide through those pale strands and see if they were as luxurious as they promised to be. Instead, she left her hands where they rested on the wide expanse of his large male shoulders—her body nestled against his long, powerful frame.
“Lately, I’ve come to realize how the poor fox must feel during hunting season, “she remarked, trying to steer her thoughts back to her recent escape from her unwanted admirer’s attentions, rather than dwelling on the overwhelming sensuality of the man in whose arms she stood.
“That bad, hmm?” he asked.
“Worse.” She paused. “I suppose you think I’m cruel?”
His dark gaze turned gentle. “Not at all. Sometimes stronger deterrents than words are required.”
“Exactly. And I have you to thank. I am greatly in your debt.”
“No need. Believe me, the past few minutes have been my express pleasure.”
Her pulse gave a dangerous thump. “Yes, well, now that he is gone, I suppose I ought to be returning inside.”
“I wouldn’t go just yet,” he warned. “Not until he’s had time to call for his carriage.”
Tiny lines formed over the bridge of her nose. “Oh, mayhap you’re right. Still, you should probably release me, now that Peter is gone.”
He stroked a hand over her back in a way that made her want to purr like a cat. “All the more reason to keep you right where you are. I kissed you for his sake. Now, I want a kiss of my own. After all, you did make mention of being in my debt.”
“Yes, but you said there was no need for gratitude—”
His teeth flashed in a wicked grin, his arms tightening as he turned her more fully into the concealing shade of the arbor. “I changed my mind.”
Then, before she could draw another breath, his lips claimed hers again.
Delight burst like fireworks through her veins, the sensation of his touch every bit as shocking and thrilling as the first time she’d felt it.
When she’d asked him to kiss her, she’d assumed their embrace would be quick and to the point. He’d give her a simple, ordinary kiss that would last just long enough to discourage her unwanted suitor. Then she would thank him and be on her way back to the reception. No harm. No fuss.
But nothing of the sort had occurred.
Like a sky crackling with electricity just before a storm, a sizzle had gone through her body the instant his mouth touched hers. Her nerve endings had come alive, senses inundated with one glorious rush of pleasure after another.
Somehow she’d found the strength to break that initial embrace—and the second one as well—keeping enough of her wits about her to remember the reason she was in his arms at all. But this time she knew she was in trouble.
He was a complete stranger, and yet she was comfortable with him in ways that made no sense. His faintest touch left her vulnerable and unsure, but still she knew instinctively that she’d found a safe harbor in his arms.
Nevertheless, being alone with him was insane and foolhardy. She was only eighteen, not even officially out, yet here she was breaking every one of Society’s most sacred rules. Letting him help her get rid of Peter was one thing. Letting him kiss her senseless was quite another!
Push him away, she told herself. Say no while you still can.
But already it was too late, a heated shudder rippling over her skin like a fever, as he intensified their kiss. Slanting his mouth over hers, he claimed her, using a subtle pressure that made her gasp.
The moment her lips parted, his tongue came inside to glide in hot, wet, satiny circles that reduced her mind to mush. She whimpered as he feasted on her, the flavor of his kiss as intoxicating as the most potent liquor, and as effervescent as the finest French champagne.
Tightening her arms around his shoulders, she held on as he ravished her mouth, yielding to his smallest command, reveling in his possession. Responding to his tutelage, she followed his lead as he slowly, patiently taught her the finer points of kissing. He was the first man to ever really kiss her—since she supposed a couple of childish pecks under the mistletoe didn’t count. And given his obvious skills, she realized just how much more she had to learn.
A long minute later, he slid his hands low and cupped her bottom to press her more fully against him. She startled, growing momentarily tense in his embrace. He did as well, his muscles tightening, even as his hold on her relaxed.
With a groan, he wrenched himself away. His eyes were dark and lambent as they met her own, his eyelids heavy with clear passion. “My thanks for the kiss, dear girl,” he rasped on a husky tone. “I can safely say that you and I are more than even now.”
Abruptly, sanity came rushing back, along with a cascade of heat that crept into her face. Smiling, he stroked the edge of a finger over one hot cheek, his skin cool against her burning flesh.
“You’re as sweet as you are pretty. Run on now before I give your cousins real cause to come after me with a shotgun.”
She swayed on her feet, not sure whether to go or fling herself back into his arms.
Whirling, she sprinted away, forcing herself not to look around to catch one last glimpse of him.
Quentin rested a fist against one of the wooden slats that formed the arbor and watched her flee.
The instant he let her go, he wanted her back, his body protesting the decision to release her. But despite his less-than-savory reputation when it came to women, he wasn’t in the habit of ravishing innocent young ladies, however tempting they might be.
Damn and blast, I wanted her though, he thought, knowing he’d be trapped in the arbor until the most pressing evidence of his arousal cooled. Even then, it would be wise to take his leave. If he returned to the reception and saw her there, who knows what impulses might arise to tempt him—and her—again.
She might be young and inexperienced, but she was passionate—wildly so—the sensation of her fresh, untutored kisses still burning on his lips. Whatever man earned the right to take her to his bed would be a lucky fellow indeed. But such pleasure would only be granted at the expense of a wedding ring—and that was a price he was most unwilling to pay.
No, despite her natural charm and vivacity, he was better off forgetting her. He’d worked the trick numerous times before with other women—the delicious Miss Byron would be no different.
Even so, as he reached into his coat pocket to extract the cheroot he’d earlier planned to smoke, he couldn’t help but be struck by one salient fact.
I’m not the least bit bored anymore.
I’ve laid out yer favorite white muslin gown with the little green scribbly-things all over it,” her maid informed India two weeks later, as she walked out of the bathing chamber into the well-appointed guest room where she would be staying.
India laughed. “Those are Grecian keys, not scribbly-things,” she teased. Crossing to the bed, she removed her dressing gown, then reached for the fresh linen shift lying across the cheery yellow counterpane.
“Well, they looks like scribbly-things to me,” her maid replied. “I’ve set out yer green slippers as well. The rest I’ve yet to unpack and press. A great lot of bother all this traveling to and fro is if ye asks me, just fer a few days’ visit. But I expect ye’ll have a fine time all the same.”
“As will you. Dorset is always delightful in August. I hear there are bathing machines in Lyme Regis, which is only a few miles distant.”
The servant gave a snort. “Bathing machines. Drowning traps is more like. And indecent to boot with the ladies stripped down to their unmentionables.” She bustled across to the open wardrobe to hang a gown. “But I do like a sea breeze, I confess. Here now, enough of such talk. Let me get you dressed and ready so you can join the others. Surely they’re all near arrived by now.”
India herself had arrived only a couple hours ago, having made the journey from London with her aunt Ava—the Dowager Duchess of Clybourne—and cousin Mallory. From the start, she’d been excited about the invitation to attend the Pettigrews’ country party. But now that she was here, she was even more grateful and determined to enjoy herself—hoping the respite would be just what she needed to clear the memories of a certain dark-haired gentleman from her mind.
Each night she dreamed of him—her stranger from the garden—his gravelly voice murmuring in her ear, his kisses sweeping her away into realms of forbidden pleasure where only the two of them dwelled.
But such phantasms were just that—fantasies that were best forgotten, as was the man himself. He’d helped her get rid of Peter, whom she hadn’t seen since the day of the reception. And now she needed to set her stranger aside as well.
Forcing him from her thoughts, she turned and let her maid assist her into her gown.
Twenty minutes later, she went downstairs. She found herself alone, however, the hour apparently too early yet for the others to have left the sanctuary of their own bedchambers.
Deciding to explore a bit, she wandered along the spacious corridors and elegantly furnished rooms, stopping every once in a while to admire a particularly attractive piece of artwork or an interesting architectural element. Eventually she found the library. Strolling inside, she began perusing the books on the shelves.
She’d just taken down a volume of poetry by Wordsworth, when she heard muffled footfalls on the carpet behind her. Eager for the company, she turned with an expectant smile, but her good humor plummeted at sight of the rangy young man who had entered the room. The book she held fell to the floor with a thump.
“Here, allow me to get that for you,” declared an overly earnest voice she’d hoped never to hear again. Her lips tightened as she watched Peter—the Pest—Harte hurry forward to retrieve the book.
Before he could do so, however, she dipped down and snatched up the volume. “No need,” she announced. “I have it.”
He stopped and rocked back on his heels, an injured expression on his long, almost cherubic countenance. “You ought to have let me do that for you, Miss Byron. That’s what gentlemen are for. To aid a lady in her hour of need.”
Willpower and good manners were all that kept her from rolling her eyes. Hour of need, really!
“Well, lucky me,” she said. “Disaster has been averted.”
He gave her a happy smile, the faintly mocking quality of her retort having apparently escaped him.
Good heavens, I have to get away and get away now! she thought.
“I’m sorry, but my cousin is waiting for me above stairs,” she said on a quick improvisation. “I was just going to take this…this book to her. I must go immediately.”
“May I say you’re looking splendid,” he declared, as though she hadn’t spoken at all. “Do you know it’s been two weeks since last we met?”
Yes, I know. Two wonderful, glorious weeks.
“How I’ve missed you, Miss Byron. I have been bereft without sight of your exquisite beauty. Truly, you are a rare pearl among a vast sea of female oysters.”
Female oysters?
“Inspired by such thoughts, I have written a poem to express my feelings.”
“No, no poems!” she stated, holding up a hand. “This book, you see.” She waved the volume in the air. “I really have no time to spare in its urgent delivery.”
His round chin jutted forward, clearly annoyed that his quest was being met with resistance. “But surely you can remain a bit longer.”
“I am sorry, I cannot.” She moved to depart.
He stepped forward and blocked her path. “But I must be permitted to speak. I shall read only the opening few stanzas. You will see—” He began reaching into his pocket.
“No! Don’t!” she stated. “Do not read that poem.”
For a long moment, he stood silent, then slowly lowered his hand to his side. “Very well, if that is what you wish. Though I must tell you that it’s one of my best,” he said in a clearly petulant voice. “Even so, I insist you hear me out in plain language, since you deny me the right to express my emotions in verse.”
He paced a few steps, then stopped. “Although I am loath to say, I’ve been deuced upset—pardon my language—ever since that day at the reception.” He crossed his arms over his slender chest, his high forehead wrinkling with irritation. “I was most shocked…wounded, and yes, appalled by your brazen behavior. Yet in spite of your…indiscretion, I have decided to forgive you.”
Her mouth fell open. “What!”
“Which is why I am here.”
She frowned as a sudden thought occurred. “Now that you mention it, how is it that you are here? I didn’t think you were even acquainted with the Pettigrews.”
A sheepish look came over this face. “I’m not, but my aunt is, and I wrangled an invitation through her. Auntie Ethel is a bosom friend of Lady Pettigrew’s, don’t you know.”
No, I didn’t, she bemoaned silently. If I had, I would never have come.
“When I told my aunt of my intention to marry you,” he continued, “she was most obliging on my behalf.”
Air whooshed out of her lungs. “You told her what?”
“Now, don’t ruffle up so, my love. All will be well, you will see.”
Her fingers squeezed so hard against the book she held that her knuckles turned white. “I am not your love, and you had no right to discuss such matters with your aunt, especially since we are not engaged.”
Ruddy color crept into his fair cheeks. “I didn’t say we were. Only that I hoped we would be soon.”
She trembled, outraged frustration churning through her like a bad case of dyspepsia. “Mr. Harte—”
“Peter,” he interjected on an optimistic note.
“Mr. Harte. I have tried to be understanding and patient over these last weeks. Believe me, I am sensible of the honor of your proposal and have no wish to injure your feelings. However, I must tell you that your suit is not welcome.”
For a moment, he hung his head, shoulders slumping in dejection. “You are only being modest—”
“I assure you, I am not. My recent indiscretion, as you called it, certainly ought to have proven that much to you. Now, I bid you good day and hope this is the end of the matter.” Clutching the volume of poetry to her chest, she started toward the door.
“No,” he said.
She halted, turning back. “Pardon?”
His thin shoulders drew straight, his voice gaining volume and strength. “I said no. You are too important to me to simply give up. I refuse to cede the field of romantic conquest without a fight. Providence has placed us here together in this house for the next week—time that will allow me to woo you and prove that I am worthy of your love.”
Horrified shock rippled over her skin, a sick lump dropping to the bottom of her stomach like a wad of old biscuit dough.
“Yes,” he continued, renewed confidence ringing in his tone. “I will demonstrate my affection and win you to my side. By week’s end, you will have forgotten all about that fellow you were kissing in the garden and want only my kisses.”
“Believe me, I shall not.”
“What was his name anyway? That man,” he asked, practically spitting out the last word.
This cannot be happening, she thought in near panic. “His name is not important. And you are wrong about the other,” she declared. “The man you saw, he…he…” Yes? Think quick! “He is practically my betrothed,” she stated.
“What!”
“Yes,” she went on, scrambling wildly to come up with her next excuse. “He is a friend of the family, and I’ve known him for years. We met again earlier this summer on a visit…b-before you arrived at the house…and he has been mad for me ever since. I expect him to make an offer at any moment.”
His tawny brows drew close, the bridge of his aquiline nose wrinkling in consternation. “Spence didn’t say anything about your being courted by someone else.”
“Of course, he didn’t. I am not yet out, so nothing official can be said at present. And Spencer was away from the house at the time, so even he doesn’t know. But this man…he is very serious about me and very jealous. So you see why you must end this futile pursuit. I belong to someone else.”
There! she thought. Surely that will send him on his way.
His lower lip quivered, large hands clenched at his sides. “Well, you don’t belong to him yet, and I have this week to prove the superiority of my affection. Anyway, if he’s so in love with you, where is he? This almost betrothed of yours?”
She gripped the book more tightly, wishing she could use it to whack Peter over the head. Instead, she forced herself to think fast again. “He…um…he is delayed by business. But he’ll be here. I’m just not sure when.”
Never was when, but in the meantime, maybe she could use the threat of her stranger’s arrival to hold the Pest at bay. She only hoped her stalling tactics would work. Otherwise, she didn’t like to contemplate the days ahead.
“I need to take this book upstairs, if you’ll recall,” she said.
He gave a sharp, almost pugnacious nod, then thrust his hands into his pockets.
Turning, she hurried to the door. Walking at a clip, she moved down the hall and into the corridor beyond. She turned one corner, then another, head down as she searched for the main staircase. She had nearly reached it, or so she hoped, when she rounded another corner and barreled straight into something. Or rather someone.
“Oh, good heavens!” she said, as the man with whom she’d collided reached out to steady her. Tipping back her head to issue an apology, she met a pair of warm, coffee brown eyes.
Eyes she’d seen only last night in her dreams.
She drew in a sharp breath, the compelling magnetism of his dark, distinctive features and vital personality even more powerful than she recalled—and even more appealing.
His lips curved into a slow smile. “Well, hello again,” he drawled. “I must say, you and I seem to meet in the most unconventional of ways.”
Her heart pounded in her chest. “You’re here,” she marveled.
His smile widened. “I am indeed. Were you expecting me?”
“No,” she said, recovering a measure of her equilibrium. “But I am incredibly glad to see you. We need to talk.”
Surprised again, Quentin thought, as he let the incomparable Miss Byron lead him into a nearby drawing room.
And to think I very nearly decided not to come.
He’d accepted the Pettigrews’ invitation to their country party ages ago, but after receiving a rather cryptic note from his friend Jack Byron last week—informing him that he would not be able to attend as planned—Quentin had considered sending his regrets.
But now he was pleased he hadn’t—sensing the boredom that had been creeping back upon him lately melt away like a clump of snow dropped onto a blazing hearth. He could almost feel the sizzle.
What is she up to this time? he wondered. In spite of the loud peal of several internal warning bells, he knew he had to find out.
He watched as she crossed to a window that overlooked the sprawling green lawn beyond. Stopping, she laid the book she was holding on a nearby chair before turning around. “It would seem I am in need of your assistance again,” she stated, glancing up to meet his gaze.
He strode forward, halting less than a foot away from her. “More kisses, is it?” he said, unable to resist the urge to tease her a bit. He forced back a grin, as a telltale wash of pink stained her cheeks.
“No.” She gave him a look of reproach, followed by another that seemed curiously chagrined. “This time I need you to pretend to be wildly enamored of me and on the verge of proposing marriage.”
His jaw grew slack. Recovering quickly, he gave her a long stare. “Might you care to repeat that?”
“Only if you are hard of hearing, which I can tell you are not. Truly, I apologize in advance for springing this on you so abruptly, but I haven’t much time.”
“You never do,” he remarked with a sardonic twist.
She ignored his comment, and continued, “You see, he’s back!”
“Who is back?”
“Peter Harte. The simpleton who was trailing me at the reception.”
“The wounded puppy, you mean?”
She nodded. “Precisely. He procured an invitation from Lady Pettigrew to attend this party for the sole purpose of seeking me out again. Only minutes ago, he cornered me in the library to say he has forgiven me for kissing you that day in the garden and that he plans to win me away from you.”
“And he believes I am pursuing you because of our kiss?”
Her skin glowed with fresh color. “Well, in part. And also because I may have told him we are very nearly engaged.”
He raised a brow. “Good Lord!”
“Also, you’ve known my immediate family for years,” she said, as she continued reciting her litany of deceits. “And when the two of us met again earlier this summer at my father’s house, the sparks flew.”
She isn’t far wrong about that, he mused. Every time we meet, sparks do fly. Although right now, he was trying to decide which emotion had the upper hand—irritation or amusement. “Anything else we did together that I should know about?”
Her lovely full lips drew tight in concentration. “Not that I can think of.”
“How reassuring.”
Their gazes met, her green eyes beseeching once more. “Oh, do please forgive me. I never meant to involve you, but he simply would not take no for an answer. What else was I to do?”
He could think of several options but decided to keep his mouth shut for the time being. Honestly, he’d never met a more impetuous minx, nor one so brazen. Why then, do I find her so delightful?
“I realize it’s asking a great deal,” she said, laying a hand on his sleeve. “But couldn’t you court me for a little while? Just until Peter goes away again. I expect once he sees us together, he’ll storm off like he did before, and that will be the end of the matter.”
And if it isn’t? Quentin considered. Was he willing to spend the next week dancing attendance on her? Devoting his time and risking comment over his supposed pursuit of a girl who was barely out of the schoolroom? Then again, he’d never cared much for other people’s opinions, so why should he start now?
Of course, he could do the easy, straightforward thing and have a chat with the encroaching puppy. He had no doubt a few well-chosen words would convince Peter Harte to leave Miss Byron alone. And if that still wasn’t sufficient, he knew that Lord Pettigrew would be only too happy to kick him out at Quentin’s request.
But where will that leave me for the week?
He’d barely arrived, and already he was feeling vastly entertained by her antics. When he considered the situation, he realized he rather fancied the notion of spending the next week in mock pursuit of the irrepressible Miss Byron. Her suggestion promised to provide a game that was both lively and delicious—as well as the opportunity to flirt with her as much as he wished.
So why not indulge?
There was his earlier vow to keep his distance from her, he admitted, but he could handle himself. Their encounter this week would amount to no more than an innocent, casual dalliance. Once over, the two of them would part with smiles and fond recollections—neither the worse for the experience.
“So,” she asked with a sweetly expectant murmur. “Will you help me?”
“Given all you’ve told me, my dear girl, how can I possibly refuse?”
Her eyes brightened, sparkling with delight as she let out a happy little laugh. The sound went straight through him, leaving in its wake a sudden craving to hear it once again.
He was just about to make the attempt, when another young woman walked into the room. A young woman he knew quite well.
“Quentin!” Lady Mallory Byron exclaimed, her lovely features lighting with undisguised pleasure. “You’ve arrived. Oh, it’s so good to see you. Come here this instant and give me a hug.”
So his name is Quentin, India thought. A t least I know that much now.
She watched him go to her cousin, her chest tightening in a strangely uncomfortable way, as he enveloped Mallory in a warm, heartfelt embrace. Moments later she relaxed, however, when it became apparent that his and Mallory’s affection went no deeper than that of platonic friends.
Clearly, the two of them were comfortable with each other, but in a manner that reminded her of the way Mallory behaved around her brothers. Fleetingly, she considered the Banbury tale she’d told about his having been a longtime friend of her own branch of the family. If that were actually true, might the two of them now share the same kind of casual relationship he enjoyed with her cousin?
As soon as the thought crossed her mind though, she dismissed it, knowing she was far too aware of him as a man ever to be able to see him in such a light—not even if she had known him since infancy.
“So you’ve both met, I see,” Mallory said, separating from Quentin before motioning India forward to join them. “Was it just now?”
India was trying to decide how to answer, when he stepped into the breach.
“Actually, Miss Byron and I have not been formally introduced,” he said. “Perhaps you would care to do the honors.”
“Oh, of course. It would be my pleasure, “Mallory said, her eyes brightening. “Your Grace, allow me to present Miss India Byron. India is my first cousin from Uncle Charles’ side of the family, if you didn’t know. India, this inestimable gentleman is Quentin Marlowe, His Grace, the Duke of Weybridge.”
“Weybridge!” India said without thinking. “You’re Weybridge?”
He raised one dark brow. “Indeed. Have you some prior knowledge of me?” Other than our secret pact and the torrid kisses we shared in the garden of your cousins’ London town house, his gaze seemed to say.
She swallowed. “No, none really. Only what is said in the Society pages.”
Which, as it happened, was a very great deal indeed. Even as sheltered as she was, she’d read enough about him to fill a book—and a very naughty one at that. His exploits with sword and pistols were legendary, as were his impressive skills at driving horses and playing cards. He was even better known for his liaisons with women—worldly, experienced beauties, who were reported on occasion to swoon at his mere entrance into a room. No wonder she’d melted at his first touch—and his second and third.
Warmth spread through her body, making her wish she’d brought her fan. To think I’ve been consorting with “Devil Weybridge” himself.
His eyes narrowed, his countenance taking on a sardonic cast. “So, you read the Society pages, do you?”
She shifted her feet. “Well, there isn’t a great deal else to do in the country, Your Grace.”
His features didn’t soften. “And your mother approves of you filling your head full of scandal broth and tawdry gossip?”
Her gaze darted to Mallory, who was looking on with amazed curiosity. She would find no help there, she realized. Straightening her shoulders, she continued. “Actually, Mama and I read the papers together every morning over breakfast. The Society pages are her very favorite.”
His lips tightened.
“Oh, but I am sure what is printed about you is nothing but half-truths and lies,” she rushed to assure.
“What those publications claim to be news is mainly a collection of half-truths and lies.” His warm brown eyes met hers, something shifting deep in his gaze. “But in my case, you’d be wise to believe every word.”
Then he winked.
Surprise leapt through her, together with the sudden realization that he’d only been teasing her.
While she visibly recovered, he began to laugh. “This gathering may prove memorable yet. Come, Miss Byron, let me procure a libation for you.” He offered his arm. “You will excuse us, will you not, Lady Mallory?”
Mallory blinked, looking from one to the other of them for a long moment. “Of course. In fact, I see Mama and Major Hargreaves have arrived and are talking across the way. I believe I shall join them.”
Only after Mallory left did India notice how many other guests were now assembled in the room. She’d been so engrossed in her conversation with Quentin that she hadn’t even been aware of their entrance. Among their number stood Peter Harte, who was glaring across at her and Quentin with a disapproving frown.
What would Peter think when he learned his competition was none other than Devil Weybridge himself? Considering Quentin’s reputation, she hoped Peter would decide he was beaten before he’d even begun.
Cheered by the thought, she took Quentin’s arm.
“India, hmm?” he said, as they crossed the room together. “It’s a lovely name, but if you don’t mind my saying, a rather unusual one as well.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. And it would be unusual, except for the fact that I’ve always believed it demonstrates a marked lack of originality on my parents’ part.”
“How so?”
“Because my father was stationed with the military in India at the time of my birth, and it’s where I was born. I’ve always been grateful he wasn’t assigned to a post in Egypt or Gibraltar, or just think of the name I’d have now.”
He laughed, his deep brown eyes twinkling with undisguised humor. “The prospect does give one pause. Although I must say you would have made a very pretty Gibraltara, or Egyptia perhaps?”
“Please, don’t even jest,” she said with a mock shudder. “The thought is too dreadful to contemplate. Believe me, I like India just fine.”
Their gazes met. “I like India, too,” he said in a serious tone. “In fact, the more I know of her, the more I am finding to admire.”
Her heart pounded, the smile sliding from her mouth as she lost herself in his beautiful eyes.
“I’ve brought you a lemonade, Miss Byron,” interrupted a defiant, young male voice. “I thought you looked a bit warm and in need of refreshment.”
Turning her head, she saw Peter Harte hovering close by. “Mr. Harte,” she said.
“Here”—he thrust the glass toward her—“this is for you.”
Seeing no other option, she accepted the beverage.
The moment she did, Quentin reached out and gently removed it from her hand, setting it onto a nearby tray. “Miss Byron doesn’t care for lemonade. She told me she is more in the mood for tea.”
Peter bristled, thrusting out his chin. “And who are you to decide what Miss Byron does and does not like?”
“The gentleman she has chosen to procure refreshments for her this evening.” Using a look only a duke could carry off, Quentin stared down his nose with bored hauteur. “And you are, sir?”
Peter shifted, clearly discomfited. “Peter Harte, Esquire.”
“Ah,” Quentin replied. “Come, my dear India. Let us get that tea for you.”
Recovering herself, she moved to obey.
“And who are you, sir?” Peter demanded, obviously not about to be put off.
Quentin stopped and turned back. “I am Weybridge. Anything else you should like to know?”
Wheels turned almost visibly inside Peter’s brain as he pondered the import of Quentin’s reply. His eyes widened as comprehension dawned. Mouth agape, he stared.
“I thought not,” Quentin said.
Turning again, he led her away.
“That was amazing,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen him rendered speechless.”
“It was one way of handling him. We’ll see how long it lasts.”
“Surely, that will do the trick, and he will cease this futile pursuit.”
“Perhaps. For now though, my dear, you have some tea to drink.”
Peter Harte stared at them through dinner and cards that evening, then again through breakfast the following morning—his relentless hazel gaze so intrusive it nearly put India off her eggs and buttered toast.
For his part, Quentin took it all in stride, seeming to find humor in the other man’s fulminating glances when he wasn’t otherwise occupied lavishing attention on her.
And lavish attention he did, turning the full force of his magnetic personality her way like the warmth of a brilliant sun. When she’d asked him to pretend to court her, she hadn’t realized exactly what that might entail. Yet she could marshal no complaint, quite unable to resist his sophisticated charm and scintillating conversation, regardless of how out of her depth it occasionally left her feeling.
She had to admit to a sensation of relief, however, when Lady Pettigrew announced shortly after breakfast that the gentlemen would be taking to the fields to hunt wildfowl. She was sorry Quentin would be away, but under the circumstances it was worth the loss, since she would be spared Peter’s petulant stares and glares for an entire afternoon. And so with smiles and waves, she and the other ladies saw the men off, remaining behind to indulge in archery and watercolor painting.
Nearly three hours later, India was adding a flourish of vermilion to her watercolor paper when she heard the unmistakable sounds of barking dogs and male voices.
“Home already, are they?” declared Lady Pettigrew. “I wonder if they had any luck? Usually they’re out far longer than this.”
Over the rise they came. As the group drew nearer, hunting rifles bent open over their elbows, it became apparent that a mishap had befallen the party.
Or rather one of the party.
Resembling a drenched cat and looking every inch as miserable, Peter Harte was soaked through. His hair was plastered to his head like a monk’s cap, while his once-fashionable country attire clung to his lanky frame in a most uncomfortable manner. To make matters worse, he was stained brown as a nut, doused in a slick gleam of mud that coated him from head to toe.
Laying down her brush, India stood, along with a few of the other ladies.
The Ossley sisters—a pair of young women, who looked so much alike she was never quite sure which one she was addressing—hurried toward the men. The two of them made noises of sympathy, clucking and cooing over Peter, even as they made certain not to get too close for fear of staining their gowns with a stray fleck of mud.
“Stars above. What in the world happened to you, Mr. Harte?” Aunt Ava asked from her seat next to Lady Pettigrew.
A few of the men chuckled under their breaths at the question, obviously amused by whatever it was that had happened.
“He landed himself in the bog, that’s what,” Lord Pettigrew answered, when Peter did not speak up. “He and Weybridge were competing for the most birds taken, and were tied at six each, when Harte had to try bagging one more. Didn’t listen when I told him not to wander off to the east, but he went regardless. Not three minutes later, he was plunged up to his neck in weeds and muck.”
“Dear me,” Lady Pettigrew said.
Dear me indeed, India thought, lifting a hand to cover a smile.
“If not for Weybridge and the rather ingenious use of some fallen tree branches, Harte would probably still be stuck in the quagmire. We were talking about sending for a pair of oxen and a pulley when the duke saved the day.”
The men laughed—all of them except Quentin, who remained straight-faced and silent. As for Peter, his cheeks turned pink as a boiled lobster under his coating of grime.
India almost felt sorry for him since she knew exactly why he’d been so determined to take that last bird. He’d wanted to return the valiant warrior and show off for her. Instead, he’d only made a spectacle of himself—and a filthy one at that.
“At least we came away with an excellent brace of birds,” Lord Pettigrew continued, turning to address his wife. “Tell Cook to add duck and partridge to tomorrow night’s repast. There should be plenty for all. Now come along, Harte, before that muck dries so hard you need a bootjack to scrape it off.”
With a muffled curse, Peter turned and stalked away. The Misses Ossley followed, skipping along next to him, while they peppered him with a barrage of sympathetic remarks. Unfortunately, Peter didn’t seem to appreciate their comments in the least.
Lord Pettigrew and the other men soon followed. As they did, Quentin strolled up to India, leaning close so their words could not be overheard. “Harte is nothing if not entertaining.”
“And determined,” she replied. “It must have been quite a sight watching him fall into that bog.”
“And even more of one getting him out.” Quentin grinned, showing his teeth in an irresistible smile that had India smiling back.
Sweeping him with a glance, she noticed streaks of mud on his coat, sleeves, and boots. “Perhaps I ought not mention the fact, Your Grace, but it appears you have carried back a trace of the bog on you as well.”
He shrugged. “Nothing a hot bath and a change of attire won’t rectify.”
An image of him stripped to the skin and stepping into a bath caused her blood to flow faster. She could only imagine how breathtaking he would look without so much as a stitch of clothing on his body.
Quentin arched a brow, his eyes glinting. “Sixpence for your thoughts.”
She glanced away, grateful her cheeks were already flushed pink from the hot August sun. “My thoughts are nothing special. I was only wondering how much longer before nuncheon is served.”
“Liar,” he said, a low laugh rumbling from his chest. “Save me a seat at the table, hmm? Until then, pray enjoy your watercolor painting. That’s quite a nice start you’ve made.”
Pleasure slid through her. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
With another light chuckle, he made her a bow, then sauntered away.
She watched until he disappeared, certain that painting would be the farthest thing from her mind.
“Allow me to turn the pages for you, Miss Byron,” Peter Harte declared as India took a seat in front of the pianoforte after dinner that evening.
She held back a sigh as she arranged the skirts of her ivory silk gown. “How kind of you to offer, but this tune is a familiar one. I shall do quite well on my own.”
“Nonetheless, I wouldn’t feel right leaving you to manage by yourself. I am certain you will find my services of great use.”
I am sure I shall not, she thought.
But he had already taken up a position behind her left shoulder, and short of leaping up and pushing him away, she saw little recourse but to accept his offer with silent grace.
After opening the musical score on the stand, she took a moment to glance across the guest-filled drawing room. Her gaze went unerringly to Quentin, finding him seated on the other side of the room next to Mallory and Major Hargreaves. Her cousin’s dark head was bent close to the major’s guinea gold one, the two of them deep in conversation.
Quentin, however, was looking straight at her. Deciding to take advantage of the opportunity, she shot him a clear “rescue me” look.
To her consternation, he merely shrugged and smiled.
Responding before she thought, she stuck her tongue out at him—praying afterward that no one else had seen.
His grin stretched wide, chest moving in a silent laugh, as he relaxed back in his chair. From all appearances he looked ready to enjoy the coming entertainment, having apparently decided to abandon her for the time being.
Forcing her gaze away, she stared for a moment at her skirt.
“He’ll never come up to scratch, you know.”
“What?” Her gaze shot to Peter’s.
“Weybridge,” he said in a low voice. “He isn’t the marrying kind, despite what he may have convinced you to believe. You would be far better off accepting my marriage proposal.”
“We’ve had this discussion before, Mr. Harte. Many times before. Now, everyone is waiting for me to begin.”
And they were, gazes turning her way in anticipation of her performance. Suddenly, she was grateful she’d chosen a song she had often played before; otherwise, she would surely have made a fool of herself.
As it was, she bobbled the first flourish of notes before she settled into the rhythm.
“Aren’t you glad now that I’m here to help?” Peter murmured, clearly unaware of his implied insult to her playing.
She didn’t answer, concentrating on getting through the piece—and then getting rid of Peter. She shot another glance at Quentin. Their gazes met again, his dark eyes warm with obvious enjoyment.
Is Peter right that Quentin isn’t the marrying kind?
Very likely, she decided, given everything she knew about him. But what did it matter since he wasn’t actually courting her. They were only passing a brief span of time together, then they would part, possibly forever.
Staring hard at the music, she realized she was nearly at the end of the last stanza on that sheet. “The page, Mr. Harte,” she chastened in an uncharacteristically impatient tone. “Are you following the notes?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” But it was obvious he had not been, fumbling with the paper as he leaned over to turn the score a few beats too late.
Luckily, her playing was almost automatic by then, giving her confidence that she would be able to finish the song and not disgrace herself too badly in the attempt.
Finally, she played the final chord, smiling with relief that the performance was through.
Her fellow house guests broke into appreciative applauses.
“Bravo!” Peter called in a loud voice, beating his hands together with an excess of enthusiasm. “Excellent! Outstanding!”
She climbed to her feet. “Thank you,” she said in a quiet voice. “But my playing was nothing more than adequate. Pray do not give it more credit than it deserves.”
“But I’m not. It was wonderful! Perfection itself. As are you, lovely, unassuming Miss Byron.”
She stared at him, suddenly alarmed by the notion that he and others might think she was being deliberately self-effacing in order to elicit his praise. She cringed at the very idea.
“Your beauty, your talent, your grace knows no rival,” he continued, his voice carrying across the room. “You are like a goddess brought down to earth.”
“Mr. Harte, enough. Please,” she whispered, wanting to flee from him but knowing it would only draw more attention their way.
He waved his arms in a fulsome arc. “But why should I cease when I speak only the truth? You are too modest, that is all. Too modest to know the full extent of your own brilliance. Do you know, I think I feel a verse coming upon me.”
No, anything but that!
She was about to hurry away, when Quentin appeared at her side.
“Miss Byron,” he said in a low tone, as he reached out to take her arm. “I believe you promised to join me for a cup of tea and a sweetmeat. I have a spot on the settee all picked out.”
Peter puffed out his chest. “I say. The lady and I were having a conversation, you know.”
“Yes, you were having a conversation, but it is now at an end. In case you weren’t aware, Miss Ossley is waiting to entertain us all, and you are keeping her from doing so.”
“Oh, I…well, no, I didn’t realize,” Peter sputtered.
“Miss Ossley.” Quentin motioned to the girl.
She walked forward, together with her sister, the pair of them moving into place at the pianoforte. One sat while the other whispered something in her ear. The pair of them giggled.
“Mr. Harte,” one of the girls called. “Would you turn the pages for us like you did Miss Byron? We would be ever so grateful.” They whispered something to each other again, then released another round of giggles.
Peter frowned, his irritation clear. But manners dictated he could do nothing but accept. Mumbling something inaudible under his breath, he went to do as he was bade.
“And so, you escape once again,” Quentin murmured in India’s ear, as he drew her away.
“Yes, though you certainly took your time about it,” she said, releasing a pent-up sigh of relief. “Actually, I oughtn’t even speak to you after your desertion.”
He flashed her an inquiring look. “And what would you have had me do? Battle him for the right to stand next to you while you performed? I don’t believe either of us would have benefited from that kind of scene. I do apologize, though, for not reaching you a minute sooner. Had I been quicker, I could have spared you and the rest of us his public soliloquy. Forgive me. Please.”
The starch came out of her shoulders. “You are forgiven. But don’t leave me again. I expect you to stick close by my side for the remainder of the party.”
He bent nearer, his warm breath whispering against her ear. “I can think of nowhere else I would rather be than close to you.”
Her heart knocked hard beneath her breast.
“Here we are,” he declared, arriving in front of a small couch upholstered in burgundy damask. “I thought this settee would give us a chance to talk without being overheard.”
She stared at the settee, noticing that the narrow piece of furniture was made to seat two—only two and rather snugly at that. Her mouth grew dry, breath suddenly thin inside her lungs.
Unable to form the necessary words, she nodded and let him seat her, then himself. His large frame filled the space, one powerful thigh lolling a hairbreadth from her own.
Glancing around, she looked to see if anyone else was watching them, but no one was. Despite being in a drawing room with more than two dozen people, the corner felt amazingly private. Amazingly intimate. Vaguely, she became aware of one of the Ossley sisters launching into a painfully slow rendition of a Mozart adagio.
“I asked one of the footmen to bring us tea and something sweet. You like marchpane, do you not?”
“Y-yes.”
And truthfully, she did like marchpane, though at present she suspected she might have been willing to agree to nearly anything he asked.
Glancing up, she lost herself for a moment in the rich brown depths of his eyes. He is magnificent, she thought, wishing as she had once before that she could reach up and thread her fingers through his luxurious black hair and the silvery wings that feathered out from his temples.
“You do play well,” he said.
“What?” Her brows drew together, needing a moment to adjust to the sudden change in conversation.
“I greatly enjoyed your performance on the pianoforte. Although, as you said yourself, it was not without fault.”
“A gentleman would not point out such things.”
“A gentleman like Harte, you mean? We haven’t been acquainted long, but I know you well enough to tell that you don’t care for false flattery.”
She toyed with a piece of ribbon on her dress. “You are right, I do not.”
“Then you will believe me, when I say you play well, and that I would never turn down an opportunity to hear you perform.”
She met his gaze again and smiled. “And I would never refuse to do so, were you my audience, Your Grace.”
“Quentin,” he said in a throaty tone. “In private you must always call me Quentin.”
I do already, she thought, in my mind and my heart.
A footman approached just then, making her realize she’d forgotten there were other people in the room.
“Oh, here is our tea,” she said with forced cheer. “And the comfits, as you promised. They look delicious.”
Quentin leaned nearer. “But not as delicious as you.”
She shivered, her arm pressing against his side.
“Nevertheless,” he said, pulling slightly away again. “I shall have to content myself with these. Let us indulge, India. I fear we shall need the sustenance with yet another Miss Ossley waiting to entertain us.”
She blinked, then laughed. Taking a piece of marchpane from the plate, she bit in and let the sugary almond confection melt against her tongue.
I was about to give up on you,” Quentin called three mornings later—the hour so early, a faint dawn mist swirled like smoke over the damp grass.
Turning from where he’d been waiting near a small copse of trees, he watched her hurry down the stone steps at the front of the house. As she moved, the skirts of her simple blue day dress billowed around her in a most becoming way, revealing brief, tempting glimpses of her calves and the sturdy brown, kidskin half boots covering her feet.
At least she’s dressed appropriately for an outing, he thought, shifting the pair of fishing rods and the tackle basket in his hand.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, drawing to a halt at his side. “I’m not used to waking up while it’s still night outside.” She raised a hand to cover the yawn that caught her, moisture brimming in her eyes.
“The fish bite best when it’s early. If you’d rather go back to bed, there’s still time to hurry inside again without anyone being the wiser.”
She shook her head. “Oh no, not after overhearing Peter tell Lady Pettigrew last night that he plans to remain at home with the ladies today. If he’s staying with the women, then I’m going with the men! Besides, after I told Mallory that I was sneaking out with you, she decided to come along as well.”
“She’s already gone down to the stream. I saw her with Hargreaves and a couple of the others not ten minutes past. We’re the last of the group, I believe.”
“Then let us go too before it gets light enough for Peter to look out his window and see us.”
Quentin nodded, knowing he wouldn’t be surprised if Harte did exactly that.
Despite his original agreement to help free India from Harte’s unwanted attentions, he hadn’t initially realized just how persistent, nor how annoying “Peter the Pest” could be.
But over the course of the past few days, Quentin had received a firsthand education on the subject. Rather than cause Harte to withdraw in defeat, Quentin’s attentions toward India only seemed to inflame him, goading Harte to compete against him with the determination of a knight questing after a grail. Not only was Harte interested in wresting India from his supposed grasp, he wanted to beat Quentin at any activity in which the two of them were engaged.
Quentin had in no way actively sought the rivalry, but neither had he backed down from it. To date, the two of them had faced off over everything from whist to cricket, charades and crambo to horseback riding and golf. Then, of course, there was the infamous hunting expedition. Even now, Harte received an occasional jibe from one of the other men over his memorable, murky swim in the bog.
At first, Quentin had been amused by the young man’s efforts to compete against him, especially considering that Harte never managed to win any of their encounters. He’d tried to be tolerant as well, attributing Harte’s obsessiveness to youthful excess and a lack of experience. But lately he simply found him tedious and a bit pathetic.
No wonder poor India was at her wits’ end. Harte wouldn’t take no for an answer, not even when the truth was plain for all to see. Everyone in attendance knew that India Byron wasn’t romantically interested in Peter Harte. The man needed to accept reality and move on.
Yet despite all the bother, Quentin couldn’t complain about the time he was spending with India. Each day with her was a new adventure. Every hour an exciting delight. Witty, intelligent, and filled with a zest for life, she made him feel young and alive in ways he’d forgotten he could be. She made him realize there were myriad pleasures to be had, if one only took the time to look.
And look he did, not only at the world as she showed it to him, but at her as well. Despite his resolve to take matters between them no farther than a bit of harmless flirting, he found himself wanting more. Wanting her. Desiring her with a need that seemed to deepen by the day. So far, he’d held his longing in check, refusing to give in to the desire that burned inside him like a barely banked fire.
If she weren’t such an innocent, he would have taken her already. He knew she was far from immune to him and that he would have no difficulty acquiring an invitation to her bed. But she
was innocent. Which meant he would have to leave her sexual awakening to the man who would one day become her husband, whoever he might be.
Scowling at the thought, he forced himself back to the topic at hand. “You’re right,” he said. “No time to dawdle. We have fish to catch. You have been fishing before, have you not?”
“Of course. With my brothers. But I fear I must warn you that I can’t bear baiting the hook. You’ll have to do it for me.”
He smiled. “Too squeamish?”
“No. I feel sorry for the worms. Imagine being skewered, then fed to a fish. Poor things.” She shuddered.
Laughing, he held out a hand.
After a moment, she took it, and together they set out after the others.
“I think I’ve got one!” India declared nearly two hours later as she stood with her boots braced in the soft, grass-covered bank that overlooked the gently eddying stream.
She and Quentin were alone, the pair of them having walked some distance upstream from the others in order to find a calm spot where the fish were likely to be hungry and plentiful. Apparently, their strategy was working, since he’d already caught a lovely trout not more than fifteen minutes ago, and now she had a bite as well.
Tightening her grip on her fishing rod, she pulled back on the line and worked to reel in her catch. The lancewood pole bobbed sharply, confirming her suspicion that she had a lively one. The pliable wood quivered, the line growing taut as the fish struggled to escape.
“Keep at it,” Quentin encouraged from where he stood several feet to her left. “Don’t let him snag you up on a rock and break away.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Quentin secure his own fishing rod. Then she had no more time to watch him, since she was far too busy reeling in her line to pay attention to anything else—not even another enjoyable perusal of Quentin Marlowe’s striking physique.
Having dressed with sport in mind, he wore a fawn waistcoat and breeches with a pair of knee-high black Hessians on his feet. And although he’d arrived wearing a coat, he’d stripped that off an hour earlier after seeking her permission to do so. As he’d told her, the sleeves were far too confining for fishing and the material far too warm for the rising August temperatures.
“Must be a big one,” he remarked, as he drew up beside her.
Moments later, the fish popped out of the water, wriggling wildly on the hook. She fought to maintain the upper hand.
Quentin moved past her and steadied his feet on a rock along the edge of the stream, before leaning forward to grab the line and secure her catch. “What a beauty!” he called, holding the dripping fish aloft. “Two pounds if I don’t miss my guess. We certainly won’t be going back emptyhanded.”
She smiled, pleased by her success. “I wish my brothers were here to see. They’d be green as chive cheese.”
“Competitive, are they?”
“Horribly. Especially when it comes to sport. I’ve long ago washed my hands of their wagers and wrangling. Still a fish like this deserves some recognition, do you not think?”
“Indeed, it does. If you’d like I could frank a letter to each of them, providing a detailed description and an ink rendering of your catch. Or maybe an advertisement in the
She laughed at his good-natured teasing, watching as he went to the creel he’d brought and laid the fish inside next to his own catch.
“Following on your earlier remark about cheese,” he ventured. “What would you say to a small repast?”
“You brought food?”
“I most certainly did. No respectable angler ever comes out without something to eat.”
Her stomach rumbled in approval of the idea. “Then I’d say you’re brilliant, that’s what. I’ve been famished for ages, but assumed we’d have to wait to return to the house.”
“Nothing of the sort. Let’s dip our hands clean in the stream, then we shall dine in style. Or at least on that big rock over there. I believe it looks wide enough to share.”
Glancing across, she studied the large chunk of granite and agreed, noting that it was about the size of Lady Pettigrew’s settee without the upholstery.
Minutes later found them seated next to each other, her feet dangling a couple inches above the ground. He handed her a handkerchief with a wedge of cheddar and a hunk of crisp, yeasty bread nestled inside. The rich, salty aromas made her mouth water.
Unable to wait an instant longer, she dived into the simple meal, finding it heavenly. “Umm, delicious,” she pronounced after a first swallow.
He ate a bite of the serving he’d prepared for himself, then nodded in agreement. “Just right on a fine summer morning.”
They fell silent for a brief time, while they both enjoyed the meal, comfortable and relaxed with each other. She felt as though they’d shared moments like this a hundred times before. And yet in truth they were still strangers, their acquaintance numbered by mere days.
But still it feels like more, she thought. It feels like eternity. I’m being silly, she told herself, shaking off the sensation.
In two days more, the country party would end, and she and Quentin would return to their usual lives and activities. She realized she didn’t know what those were for him. Suddenly, she wanted to hear everything about him before it was too late to ask.
“Tell me about your estate,” she said, breaking off a small bite of bread without eating it.
He glanced over at her. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything. Everything. I only know that it is located in Herefordshire near the Welsh border and that you have over five hundred tenants and a hundred servants to see to the Keep.”
His mouth curved into a wide smile. “You already seem well acquainted with the subject. Gossip pages again?”
“They’re very informative, as I’ve told you. Nevertheless, they only present facts without any real substance or detail. What’s it like there in the winter, for instance?”
“Cold, as I believe winter generally is.”
She shot him a look. “Don’t be flippant, Your Grace.”
“Quentin,” he corrected in a warm drawl.
“Don’t be flippant,
Quentin. You know what I mean. Do you take sleigh rides or skate on a pond? How do you pass the holidays? Do you have lots of family?”
His expression sobered. “Two brothers, but they are often away. When my parents were alive, we all used to celebrate Christmas at Weybridge Keep, but those days are long since past. Now, I generally stay in London. What of you?”
“Oh, we always go to Braebourne to Cousin Edward’s estate. The family wouldn’t think to do otherwise.”
“I am sure it’s delightful.”
“It is. You should—”
He raised a brow. “I should what?”
She had been ready to say, “you should come,” but then realized the implications of such an invitation. What would he think of her wanting to see him again? Especially since she’d just been asking questions about his estate? Would he wonder if she suddenly had designs upon him? Had hopes of marrying him?
But of course I don’t, she admonished. Quentin was dashing and seductive and entirely capable of winning the hand of any woman he chose. But the idea of a serious attachment between them was absurd. His courting of her was only make-believe, after all.
Yet what if it wasn’t? What if he really was pursuing me and truly wanted me for his wife?
A potent longing tightened like a vise around her heart, leaving her with an unexpected awareness that such a wish was exactly what she wanted. Quite intensely, in fact. Lowering her gaze, she stared hard at her toes and struggled to collect her tattered emotions.
“What is it I should do?” he inquired again, his words returning her to their conversation.
She searched for an answer, forcing a smile. “Do? Why see if there’s anything left in that basket. I’m still hungry.”
He chuckled. “I believe there’s an orange.”
“Perfect.”
I only hope I can choke it down, along with my foolish dreams.
Sitting quietly, she let him peel and section the fruit, then pass her a serving. Thanking him, she forced herself to eat a slice.
Juice squirted in a crazy arch as she bit in, a few droplets sliding down her cheek. She raised a hand to wipe them away, but he stopped her.
“Here,” he said. “Allow me.”
Her eyelids fluttered slightly, her pulse thudding in her throat as she held still. Using the edge of his handkerchief, he leaned close and pressed the fine linen against her damp skin.
“All done?” she asked with an odd quaver in her voice.
“Not quite,” he said. “I think I may have missed a spot.”
She glanced up and into his eyes. A tingle sizzled down her spine at the acute need she saw in his gaze. Need for her.
Then his mouth was on her skin, his tongue gliding over the spot where the orange juice had been. “Sweet,” he murmured. “So very sweet.”
Her toes curled, and her eyelids fell closed, her breath catching on a harsh inhale.
Nuzzling her cheek, he pressed a series of lingering kisses against her flesh in a seemingly random pattern that led slowly to her mouth. Her senses spun in crazy circles, his touch everything she remembered and more. She still had dreams of him, but those paled in comparison to the reality of his touch, her memories no more than weak facsimiles of real passion and ardent need. A sigh escaped her, a ragged snippet of sound that verged on a moan. Enthralled, she waited for his kiss, yearned for his possession.
Finally, his mouth met hers, plundering with a leisurely thoroughness that made her ache. Dark, sultry, and delectable, she couldn’t get enough, her desire heightened by the power of not just her need, but her emotions. He was everything she wanted. Everything she craved. Everything she…loved?
Yes—she sighed in her mind—I do love him.
Leaning closer, she kissed him back, pleasure tossing her like a feather adrift in a tempest. He reached up and cupped the back of her head, angling his mouth over hers to deepen their embrace. But a few moments later, he paused, his mouth growing still against her own.
Suddenly, he pulled away.
Before she had time to recover, he was on his feet. “Forgive me, India,” he said in a gruff tone. “I acted before I thought and had no right to take advantage.”
“But you were—”
“I was wrong. We’re here alone, and I gave in to temptation. Believe me though, it won’t happen again.”
Won’t it? she thought in abject disappointment, her spirits deflating like the bubbles in a glass of old champagne.
“I should check my line,” he said. “I left the hook in the water and might have a bite by now.”
Is he talking about fishing? Now? It would seem he was, she realized, watching as he strode down the bank to the stream, then leaned over to take up his fishing rod.
All the bright light faded from the day, despite the fact that the actual sun continued to blaze as strongly as ever overhead. And though it was August, with heat rippling in the air, a chill crept upon her like a bitter winter wind.
Cold and bereft, she stood, but didn’t move forward, realizing she no longer felt certain of anything.
Chapter Six
Walking next to Lady Pettigrew, with her aunt on the other side, India cast an idle glance around. The vista was stunning, but she took little notice of it, scarcely looking at either the majestic ocean waves crashing in the distance or at the ruins of the fifteenth-century monastery that rose over the landscape in jagged columns of weatherbeaten gray stone. Normally she would have been brimming with interest and excitement over the outing, but today she was having a hard time working up the necessary enthusiasm. Nevertheless, she forced herself to smile.
“Yes, it’s quite lovely,” she agreed. Tipping her parasol slightly to one side, she glanced around in a furtive search for Quentin.
Although she’d ridden here with him in his curricle, he’d lost no time excusing himself soon after their arrival. Having escorted her to her aunt, he stayed just long enough to exchange a few pleasantries, then bowed and left to assist some of the men, who were busy setting up for a game of cricket.
On the surface, everything between them was fine, his attentions to her as marked as before. But underneath nothing was the same. The easy, flirtatious friendship they’d shared at the start had vanished in the aftermath of their kiss by the stream. She wanted to draw him closer but couldn’t find a way. While he seemed determined to maintain a kind of invisible barrier between them—a circumstance that let her know exactly how relieved he would be to leave her behind when the party ended tomorrow.
Sighting him several yards away, she couldn’t help but stare.
How splendid he looks, she thought. His bold, darkly arresting features and natural strength cast every other man around him into the shade. But there was more to Quentin than just a pleasing face and physique—there was the dynamic inner man as well. As she now knew, he was intelligent and charming, worldly, with a self-effacing sense of humor and a surprising appreciation of the absurd. To some he might appear cynical, even jaded, but underneath he possessed a gentle compassion and a generous heart. She only wished he wanted to share that heart with her.
Her fingers clenched around the wooden parasol handle she held, longing rising inside her in a now-familiar ache. With a sigh, she turned away.
“Is everything all right, dear?” Aunt Ava murmured in a soothing voice. “You seem a bit blue-deviled today. I’m not used to seeing you without your usual, jolly smile.”
She gazed at the older woman, a part of her wanting badly to confide. Instead, she forced a happier expression onto her face. “Only a bit wistful over thoughts of home. I have not seen my little sisters in more than a month’s time, and as much as I am enjoying myself here, I shall be glad to be back among everything and everyone familiar.”
“Well, of course you shall. Although, might I venture to wonder if mayhap there is another reason as well?” Her aunt’s shrewd gaze drifted away, settling for a brief, but pointed, moment on Quentin. She raised an inquiring brow.
India glanced away. “No, it’s nothing like that…nothing serious that is. Nor do I wish it to be.”
Liar.
Aunt Ava gave her a kindly smile. “It’s just as well, I suppose. He is a good man and an excellent friend to my sons, but he’s complicated. Despite his title, I suspect only the very deepest love will ever induce him to marry. And that love will need to be returned in even greater measure by his bride. So it is good that what’s between you is nothing serious. You are young yet, India. You have time.”
But I have no time, she thought with a sudden bleakness. Since he has already stolen my heart.
To her relief, everyone’s attention was soon called by Lady Pettigrew informing her guests that their picnic luncheon was served.
The rest of the afternoon passed at a leisurely pace—the food delicious, the games entertaining, the ruins providing an intriguing tableau on which to climb and comment. India spent little time with Quentin, passing much of her day with Mallory and the Misses Ossley, as they sat on lawn blankets chatting and cheering their chosen men on to victory in the cricket match.
Hours later, she stood, brushing off her skirts, as everyone readied themselves to depart. She sensed a man approach and glanced up. Her shoulders drooped when she saw it wasn’t Quentin. “Oh, hallo, Mr. Harte.”
“Miss Byron.” He sent her a toothy smile. “May I say you’re looking as lovely as a newly opened rose today.”
She said nothing.
Apparently taking her silence as encouragement, he tugged at his coat sleeves and straightened to his full height. “I was wondering…that is I hoped I might persuade you to drive back with me. This is our last outing together for a while, after all.”
Drive back with him? Absolutely not.
But then her gaze drifted toward Quentin, watching him laugh at some remark made by Philipa Stockton—a very attractive, very widowed, female guest.
Does he want her?
She frowned, not at all liking the direction of her thoughts. Emotions churning, she found herself suddenly anxious to depart. “Yes, all right. You may see me home.”
“I assumed you wouldn’t—” he began. “What did you say?”
She looked at his astonished face. “I said yes. I am ready to depart whenever you are.”
“Then let us away immediately!” Grinning from ear to ear, he offered her his arm.
But she didn’t appear upset, nor was she turning back to send him a “help me” look. In fact, she wasn’t sending him any looks at all.
He shouldn’t be surprised by her reproof, he supposed, not given his lack of attention toward her today. But ever since that kiss by the stream, he’d known he needed to put some distance between them.
He hadn’t even meant to kiss her, it had just happened. And once he’d tasted her lips again, he’d been lost. Tearing himself away from her had been a wrenching experience, one he’d found nearly impossible to manage. But manage he had.
Yes, he wanted her—so badly he ached. But where would it lead? She might fascinate him now, but what of later? Surely his interest would fade. No, he decided, it was best to make a clean break while it could still be done. Which is why he forced himself not to stride across the grounds after her, especially when he saw Harte hand her up into his curricle.
Let them go, he told himself. Let her go. It’s best for us both.
Twenty minutes later, India gazed around at the passing countryside, aware she didn’t recognize anything about her surroundings. “Mr. Harte, are you certain this is the way to the Pettigrews’? I don’t recall following this path earlier today.”
He tossed her a quick glance, then looked ahead again. “Well now, that’s because it isn’t. I decided to take a detour. But not to worry, I’ll have you back soon enough.”
“A detour, but—”
“There’s a stretch of land just ahead with a superlative view of the ocean. Glorious cliffs. I thought you might enjoy seeing them.”
“I would have appreciated it more had you thought to advise me of your plan before we set out.” Her mouth tightened, deeply regretting her impulsive decision to let him drive her home. “As beautiful as the view may be,” she continued, “I don’t think we have time to tarry. My aunt is expecting me and will wonder where I am.”
“We’ll only be a little late. Nothing to cause concern.”
“Still—”
“Here we are.” With a quiet command to his horse, he brought the curricle to a stop. After securing the reins around the brake, he leaned back and took a dramatic breath of the salt-scented air. “Ah, isn’t this spectacular?”
She couldn’t help but agree. The rugged cliffs formed a majestic curve that hugged the grassy green landscape, while below lay a narrow strip of toast-colored sand beach. Beyond stretched the ocean, shimmering blue as far as the eye could see. Yet, lovely as the view might be, the landscape was empty, the only sign of human habitation a small cottage perched on a similar jut of land some miles in the distance.
“It is breathtaking, however—”
Before she could finish her comment, he vaulted from the carriage and hurried around to her side. “Come,” he entreated, stretching up a hand. “Let us walk a few yards.”
“Mr. Harte—”
“Five minutes. Surely you can spare five minutes?”
She strolled next to him, the sea breeze ruffling her pale yellow muslin skirts.
“Have I told you how beautiful you are?” he said.
“On innumerable occasions.”
“Then let this be another. You are as radiant—”
“
Please, Mr. Harte—”
“Peter,” he implored, turning his earnest gaze on her. “I so wish you would call me Peter.”
“Mr. Harte, while I thank you for your kind words, I have no need of flattery.”
“Perhaps not, but you are worthy regardless, in spite of your unwise preference for Weybridge.” He slowed to kick at a feathery tuft of grass. “Although I could not help but notice a slight cooling between the two of you lately. Have you quarreled?”
She glanced toward her slippers. “Not at all.”
“Is it because he’s leaving tomorrow without making you an offer?”
“His intentions remain as fixed as ever.”
And they do, she thought, since he’s never intended to marry me.
“He ought to have secured your hand, if he means to do so. He’s too arrogant by half, you know.”
“He’s a duke. All dukes are arrogant. It’s in their nature.”
“Still, he doesn’t deserve you.”
She continued their walk, hoping the five minutes was nearly over.
He kicked more grass. After another few feet, he stopped and turned to face her, catching hold of her hand before she could prevent it. “Miss Byron,” he said. “I know you have not favored my suit in the past, but my feelings for you remain as strong as ever.”
Oh, heavens, surely not again!
“I love you with a passion for the ages,” he continued. “From the very depths of my bones and the heart of my marrow…”
Heart of his marrow? Where does he come up with such folderol?
“…As Romeo loved Juliet. As Tristan loved Isolde. As Paris loved Helen…”
She held her tongue, struck by the irony that all the love affairs he mentioned had tragic ends.
“You must give me some right to hope,” he went on. “Some sign that you may yet return my love with affection of your own. If you want me to change, I’ll change. If it’s riches you desire, I will obtain them for you. Whatever you want, you have only to say, and it will be yours.”
Gazing into his pleading eyes, she felt her chest tighten. Even now, she believed he was in the grip of an intense, but fleeting, infatuation that would end the moment she was out of his sight for more than a few days. But what if she was wrong? What if she was underestimating the strength of his emotions?
If he feels even a glimmer of what I feel for Quentin, then he has my profound sympathy and understanding.
“Mr. Harte—”
“Peter.”
She exhaled a slow breath. “Peter. I wish I could tell you what you want to hear. I wish I could return your affection. How much easier everything would be if I could. But I am afraid I do not love you, and no amount of time or persuasion will change my mind. I am sorry. Truly I am.”
His face hardened, anger flashing in his gaze. “I don’t want your pity. I want your love. And if you won’t give it to me, I’ll take it. I’ll make you love me one way or another.”
Without warning, he hauled her into his arms and kissed her, grinding his lips against hers with a force that made her stomach roil. Twisting in his grip, she fought for freedom.
“Stop!” she panted, turning her head to evade him.
But he followed, smearing his wet mouth over hers in several clumsy forays. Increasing the pressure of his kiss, he tried to force his tongue into her mouth. Without thinking, she raised a hand and slapped him, cuffing him hard across the face and ear.
He reared back, an ugly red mark staining his skin.
“I said stop!” she yelled, breaking free with a fierce shove. “How dare you touch me. Don’t you
ever do something like that again.”
“But India—”
“Don’t! Do not speak my name. In fact, don’t ever speak to me again. I have tried to be considerate, putting up with you these past weeks, but I’ve had all I can take. Leave me alone, do you hear? Leave me alone, or I shall tell my father what you’ve done. And I shall tell Spence as well. He won’t like it. He might even demand satisfaction, and I know he’s twice the swordsman you are.”
His cheeks burned, a sullen expression turning his eyes dark and mean. “Leave you alone? Fine, then, I shall. I wash my hands of you, Miss Byron. You are on your own.” Spinning on his heels, he stalked to the carriage and leapt inside.
She followed, wondering how she was going to endure the ride home. But she needn’t have worried, since seconds later he gave the reins a sharp flick and set his horse in motion.
“Wait!” she called, incredulous that he was abandoning her. She took several running steps after the departing vehicle, but it was already too late. The curricle sped faster, racing away into the distance.
Why that vile little worm, she thought, fury bubbling through her like acid. She stood for a long moment, trembling despite the warmth of the day. Gazing at her surroundings, she wondered where she was.
Miles and miles from the Pettigrews’, that’s where.
What’s more, she had no means of transportation and no way of obtaining any, since her pin money was inside her reticule. The reticule she’d left in his carriage.
What am I to do now?
Surveying the empty fields ahead, she realized there was only one choice. Walk. And hope someone came along to aid her. Or that Peter changed his mind and returned for her. But somehow, she knew he wouldn’t.
With a sigh of resignation, she set out. She hadn’t gone far when she noticed a bank of fat gray clouds rolling in overhead, the wind whipping harder at her skirts.
Oh, wonderful. Rain. Can this day possibly get any better?
Chapter Seven
“
She who?” Harte said in apparent confusion—an act Quentin didn’t believe for an instant.
“You know exactly who. Miss Byron.”
The younger man shrugged, his gazing darting sideways. “How should I know? Haven’t seen her lately.”
He leaned closer, using his greater height in a way he knew to be intimidating. “Lately or since the picnic? I watched you hand her into your carriage, but no one has seen her since.”
After the outing, Quentin had driven straight back to the Pettigrews’. While the other guests continued to arrive, he’d gone upstairs to his bedchamber to change his clothes. On his return downstairs, he’d seen Harte, but not India. At the time, he assumed she’d already retired to her room to nap and relax before dinner like many of the other ladies, and thought nothing of her absence.
But as the minutes continued to tick past, he began to wonder.
And worry.
Perhaps it was some sixth sense, but his gut told him something wasn’t right. Having learned long ago always to trust his instincts, he went back upstairs and knocked on her door. Her maid answered, informing him that Miss India hadn’t yet returned. Even more deeply concerned, he’d set out in search of Harte.
“So,” he now insisted. “Where is India? You did bring her home, did you not?”
A muscle twitched in Harte’s cheek. “Of course I brought her home. I’m sure she’s around here somewhere. Probably off gabbing with one of the other girls. You know how females are. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m on my way to the drawing room for a libation.”
When Harte started to move around him, he grabbed his arm and pushed him back against the wall. “You’re lying. I can see it on your ferrety little face. Out with it, or so help me I’ll make sure you’re drinking your meals through a straw for the next several weeks.”
Harte’s eyes rounded, the heightened color in his face draining to white. “I…I…”
A sick sensation twisted inside Quentin’s vitals, his grip on Harte’s arm tightening so much the other man let out a yelp of pain. “You what? What have you done with her? If you’ve hurt her I’ll—”
“No, no, of course I didn’t hurt her. What do you take me for? I would never injure Miss Byron.”
Relief swept through him. “Well, then, let’s have it. And I want the truth this time.”
“I…I…left her.”
He scowled. “What do you mean,
left her?”
“We had a quarrel…and well…in the heat of the moment, I drove off. B-but I’m sure she’ll find her way back,” Harte rushed to assure. “She’s pr-probably found a ride with a farmer or tradesman and is walking through the door even as we speak.”
Quentin stared, wondering if Harte was daft or just stupid?
Has he any idea of the potential danger he’s placed her in?
The younger man let out a fresh yelp, as Quentin’s grip tightened another inch. “You mean you abandoned her? That she’s out there alone somewhere right now, while you were about to have drinks and dinner with the rest of the guests? Why you insufferable toad. You’re beneath contempt. While I can still stand to look at you, tell me everything that happened today between you and India, and don’t leave out so much as a single detail.”
Harte gulped and began his recitation. By the time he was done, the sick sensation had blossomed once again inside Quentin’s gut. His hands fisted, terrified to know that India was alone and lost in unfamiliar country, miles away from the nearest town. The thought of what could happen to her, especially if she were to be set upon by highwaymen or other unsavory types…well, he didn’t want to contemplate the possibilities.
With a hard shove, he pushed Harte away.
The other man curled against the wall, gingerly rubbing his bruised arm.
“You’re not to say a word of this to anyone, do you hear?” he told him in a menacing tone. “Well, do you?”
Harte nodded.
“You’re to pack your bags and clear out now. I don’t care what excuse you use so long as neither my name nor Miss Byron’s is included. Then I want you gone.”
Harte straightened in clear surprise. “W-what do you mean, gone?”
“Out! Right now. You won’t even have time for that libation you were craving. Or at least, you won’t if you have any sense, since I expect to find you gone long before my return. If I see so much as your shadow when I get back, well, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
Beads of nervous sweat gleamed on Harte’s brow, as he nodded for a second time. “All right, I’ll go.”
“Good.” He took a couple steps away, then swung around again. “Oh, and Harte.”
The man glanced up. “What?”
“This.” Using his fisted knuckles, he punched him square in the face.
“
Ow!” Harte cried, reeling away as he raised a hand to cover his cheek. “What’d you do that for?”
“That was for India. I thought she deserved a measure of retribution after everything you’ve put her through. Now, get out of my sight before I decide to take my own pound of flesh.”
Harte’s hazel eyes goggled—or at least one of them did, since the other was busy swelling shut and turning the color of a squashed blackberry. With a whimper, he wheeled around and fled down the hall.
Quentin didn’t remain long enough to watch him further, turning instead on his boot heel to go find India.
India stopped and took off her slipper, then turned it over to shake out a pebble. As she did, a fierce gust of wind rose up, slamming her so hard it nearly ripped the silken shoe out of her hand. Managing somehow to hold on, she quickly slid her foot into the slipper once more and retied the ribbons, her skirts whirling in a frenzied dance around her ankles.
Straightening, she took a moment to survey the fields of windblown grass and the empty road ahead. With a sigh, she started forward again. But with every step, her chest grew tighter, burgeoning alarm threatening to squeeze the breath from her lungs.
She’d been walking for nearly an hour and hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of another person. Besides the occasional bird and rabbit, the only animals she’d encountered were a few sheep on a distant hill, but no farmstead or farmer. Worse yet, she was irretrievably lost.
Initially, she’d followed the marks left by Peter’s carriage, but far too soon those faded away, leaving her unsure which direction to go. After another quarter mile, she was well and truly lost, having no idea whether she was walking toward the Pettigrews’ or away.
Perhaps she should have stopped at that point and waited for someone to find her. But what if no one did? Because as much as she told herself not to worry, she couldn’t help but fear nightfall, wondering what she would do if she was still out here alone when the sun sank from the sky for the day.
And so she’d continued on.
Luckily, it was summer, so there was still plenty of light. Or rather, there would have been plenty of light were it not for the increasingly angry band of storm clouds gathering overhead. She kept expecting the rain to start, but so far it had held off. Judging by the rapidly blackening sky, though, she knew her reprieve couldn’t last too much longer.
Five minutes later she was still walking, her bonnet-covered head lowered against the wind, when she heard a rumbling sound coming up behind her—a noise that sounded distinctly like carriage wheels.
Turning around, her heart quickened with relief when she saw a curricle. She raised an arm to signal the driver, but to her dawning joy she realized she had no need. The vehicle slowed, its large male occupant reassuringly familiar.
Quentin! He’s come for me!
Drawing his horses to a stop, he secured the reins; the leather carriage hood he’d pulled up against the weather shaking in the wind. “India. Thank God,” he said, jumping out of the vehicle and coming to her side. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”
He opened his arms, and she went into them without a moment’s hesitation, reveling in his warmth and strength as her fears dissolved like so much pixie dust. “How did you know?”
“Where to find you, you mean? It was Harte. When I noticed you were missing, he and I had a talk.”
So Quentin realized I was gone and came looking. Pleasure spread through her at the knowledge. “He told you what he did?”
“Not without a bit of persuasion, but I wrung the truth from him soon enough. Although I have to say you’re a fair distance from where he said he left you. A good thing I decided to drive east a couple extra miles, or else I might have been searching for you half the night.”
She trembled, a grateful lump forming in her throat to know he wouldn’t have given up looking for her no matter how long it took.
“Come, though,” he said.” We can talk later. Right now, we need to be on our way back before this storm decides to let loose.”
As though prompted by his words, a cluster of fat raindrops splattered to the ground, another one landing in a wet plop against her cheek. As the water slid over her skin, a second cluster of drops fell in an abrupt staccato.
Three seconds later, the sky split wide and turned everything as wet as a sea.
Together they raced for the carriage, Quentin tossing her up onto the seat as quickly as he could before climbing in after her. With rain pelting them in a fury, he set the horses in motion. The curricle’s hood provided some measure of protection, but not enough to keep them dry. Especially not with the wind blowing the rain toward them rather than away.
Thunder crashed in an earsplitting boom, making the horses shy in fright. Quentin kept them steady, but not without a great deal of effort and skilled control. “We need to find shelter,” he shouted over the storm, as he continued to urge the team forward.
Only there was no shelter—or at least not the sort that came by way of a barn or house.
India hung on, gripping the edge of the seat as he steered the curricle off the road toward a large stand of old-growth trees. Towering fifty feet tall or more, the oaks’ thick limbs formed a massive canopy of heavy branches and interwoven green leaves.
Driving beneath, he turned the team and the carriage so that both were protected from the brunt of the wind. Now buffered, the rain lessened to a steady patter, a hush descending around them despite the continuing storm. Thunder boomed again but from a greater distance this time.
“We’ll wait until the worst is over,” he said, taking off his hat and giving it a shake. “These summer squalls flare up fast and pass through just as quickly. Twenty minutes or so, and it’ll likely be nothing more than an annoying drizzle.” Quentin paused for a few seconds. “You’re freezing,” he observed with husky concern. “Here, let’s get you warm before you take your death.” Shifting on the seat, he took off his long surtout of lightweight wool. “Come here,” he said, urging her to him.
She nodded and wrapped her arms around herself as a shiver made gooseflesh rise on her damp skin. Her dress was damp as well, the thin muslin that had been so comfortable earlier in the day, now cold and clinging.
“But I’ll get you wet.”
“Don’t be foolish.” Reaching out, he tugged her closer, fitting her against his chest as he swept his coat over them both.
Blissful warmth flowed through her, his male scent and the sensation of his firm-muscled body as intoxicating as a tumbler of hot mulled wine. Closing her eyes, she burrowed nearer, her shivers easing instantly.
“That pretty bonnet of yours needs to come off,” he said. “It’s poking me in the cheek.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Let me—”
“No, let me,” he hushed, his fingers going to the ribbon under her chin to pull it loose. Her bonnet soon joined his hat on the empty space beside her, then she forgot all about such matters, as he settled her comfortably against him again.
“Better?” she asked.
“Perfect.”
Quiet descended, the muffled roar of the storm and the rustling leaves providing the only sound.
“Quentin?” she ventured after a time.
“Hmm?”
“I…well…thank you. Thank you for coming after me,” she said. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t found me. I was so lost and alone, and I would have been caught in this dreadful storm. With night coming on I—”
“You would have managed somehow,” he interrupted in a gentle voice. “You’re a very resilient young woman. But I’m sorry for everything you’ve gone through today. I should never have let you leave with Harte this afternoon. When I saw you climb into his carriage, I ought to have stopped it immediately and insisted I be the one to drive you back.”
“I didn’t realize you’d noticed since you were busy talking to that widow,” she said, a glimmer of her earlier jealousy returning.
“What widow?”
“The one with the fluttery blue eyes and the big…” She paused, searching for an acceptable term. “Bodice.”
His mouth turned up in amusement. “Bodice, hmm? I have to admit I didn’t pay much attention to either her eyes or her…bodice. I was too busy watching you at the time.”
“Were you?”
He nodded, shifting slightly so she could meet his gaze, his irises a rich, luminous brown that gleamed even in the storm-darkened light. “I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I spend a great deal of time watching you. So much so lately that I find myself in a fair way to becoming bewitched. There’s just something about you, India, that has a way of casting a spell over a man.”
Casting a spell? she thought. What does he mean? Might he have feelings for me, after all? Her heart careened into a mad zigzagging rhythm, slowing only when she realized he might simply mean that he desired her.
And if that was all, then what?
“I told your aunt I was coming to look for you,” he said, stroking her arm with a gentle, gliding touch that was no doubt meant to be soothing.
It wasn’t.
A rash of tingles broke out all over her skin, waves of hot and cold assailing her like alternating tides.
“She was greatly alarmed to know what had occurred,” he continued, “but agreed it would be best to let me recover you rather than alert the entire household to the situation. She’s putting out the story that you took a bit too much sun at the picnic and decided to spend the evening in your room. So you needn’t worry for your reputation. It’s safe.”
“But what of you? Won’t you be missed at dinner?”
“I told Lord Pettigrew I had urgent business. Which, as it happens, I did. I just didn’t mention that you were my business this evening.”
“Then no one but Aunt Ava knows we’re here together?” Her pulse hurried faster.
He shook his head. “No one else except Harte, and he left tonight as well.”
“He did? But why?” she asked, surprise further diverting her attention.
“Because I persuaded him that remaining wouldn’t be conducive to his continued good health. Of course, the black eye I gave him didn’t hurt in reinforcing his decision to leave.”
Her mouth fell open. “You gave him a black eye?”
“For abandoning you today? I most certainly did. Considering the shameful way he treated you, he should count himself lucky not to have come away with far worse.”
Warmth of another kind spread through her. Not only had Quentin worried and searched for her, he’d also exacted a measure of retribution on her behalf. Perhaps it was unworthy of her to applaud such violence, but she was glad he’d stood up for her honor. Her very own knight—without any need for the shining armor.
She stroked an idle hand across his chest, pausing to toy with one of the gold buttons on his jacket. “I realize we haven’t known each other long—scarcely three weeks, and not even that if you don’t count our first meeting—”
“How could I not count our first meeting?” he drawled in a throaty tone. “It was one of the most memorable of my life.”
And mine, she thought, powerful memories sweeping through her. Memories of their first glance. Their first touch. Their first kiss.
“I know it’s too soon,” she went on, tracing the pattern on his silk waistcoat. “But I have a deep regard for you. Actually, it’s more than regard—much, much more. Quentin, I think…no, I’m quite certain that I lo—”
“Don’t,” he murmured, laying his fingers over her mouth. “Don’t say it.”
“But why?” she said, freeing her lips from beneath his touch. “Why, when it’s true?”
“Because it isn’t true. This week has been a place out of time, and whatever you think you’re feeling isn’t real. Once you return home to your usual life, you’ll see I’m right. You’ll realize everything we’ve done, everything we’ve felt, is little more than a fantasy.”
“But it’s not.”
“India—”
“No. You’re wrong. How can you say this isn’t real?” Lifting her hand, she trailed her fingers across his cheek. “Can you not feel this?”
She brushed her thumb over his lower lip.
“Or this?” She kissed his chin before feathering more kisses along the faintly bristled edge of his jaw. “How is this not real?”
“Don’t,” he whispered, his eyelids dropping low. “Stop this before we both do something we’ll regret.”
“But I won’t regret a thing,” she told him, threading her fingers into the silvery strands of hair that grew in among the black. “I can’t.” Sliding her fingers deeper, she cupped his head and tugged him closer. “Not when I love you.”
He groaned, and she felt a shudder go through him. Then, with the force of the storm still raging around them, he captured her lips beneath his own.
Pleasure assailed her—hot, heady, and instantaneous. Surrendering without so much as a hint of caution, she wound her arms around his neck and pressed her mouth more fully against his.
With her lips parted, she invited him in, eager to claim and be claimed, in any way he desired. Closing her eyes, she followed his command, letting him draw her deeper into a world of sultry heat and indescribable bliss. A moan hummed low in her throat, then another when he reached up and covered one of her breasts with his palm.
Her body throbbed, shivery tremors racing in riotous arcs across her skin. Her nipples drew into taut peaks beneath the damp material of her gown, every new touch of his fingers leaving her in a welter of anticipation for the next. She whimpered, unprepared for the yawning need that poured through her. Using slow, measured strokes and leisurely circles, he caressed her flesh in ways that left her flushed and half-mad with desire.
Their kiss turned frenzied, an ardent joining that drove the very air from her lungs. Growing bolder, she intensified their embrace, turning their kisses into an unspoken challenge to see who could bring the other the greater pleasure.
Point to Quentin, she thought on a gasp as he caught her lower lip between his teeth to worry the tender flesh in a gentle but incredibly erotic way. Releasing her lip, he soothed the abused spot with a warm, wet stroke of his tongue before taking her mouth again in a kiss that was both dark and enthralling.
She shuddered, her head lolling back as he scattered kisses across her cheeks and chin and throat. Apparently unsatisfied at having her still seated next to him, he drew her up and across his lap. Cradling her close, he plundered her mouth again.
Distantly, she sensed him unfastening the buttons on the back of her gown, then tugging open the laces of her stays. Without warning, cool air wafted over her exposed breasts, her bare nipples tightening in a way that was almost painful. But then she had no more time to think, helpless to do anything but feel, as he bent and pressed his open mouth to her breasts—first one, then the other, savoring her as though he’d been invited to a feast.
Heat engulfed her like a fiery explosion, each draw of his lips, every devilish swirl of his tongue making her writhe with the most profound delight. And yet she ached, the place between her legs growing damp in the most amazing and disturbing manner. She shifted her legs, restless and craving more.
An enervating quiver chased over her body as he tongued one sensitive tip and suckled even more fervently at her flesh. Her senses spun, her nerve endings burning to the point where she feared she might actually turn to flame. Then his hand slipped under her skirts to introduce her to an entirely new level of torment.
Gliding slowly upward, he trailed his fingers along her calf and knee, pausing for brief moments along the way to draw tantalizing circles on her with the flat of his hand. She trembled when he reached her thigh. Catching her lip between her teeth, she waited in rapt suspense as he stroked her flesh.
A gasp burst from her throat, when she felt him slide his palm behind her to caress the bare curve of her bottom. He played there for several long moments, fondling her with a kind of possessive intimacy that was as shocking as it was intense.
Pleasure surged like a rising tide, a raw quiver crashing through her body, as his hand moved again and settled against her nether curls. Continuing to suckle deeply at her breast, he parted her most tender flesh and slid his fingers along her slick core.
She bucked at the sensation, undone by both his touch and her own sizzling need. A keening moan sang from her mouth, her surrender complete, as he opened her wider and sank a single finger deep inside.
Slowly, he raised his head. “Open your eyes.”
Her lids stayed shut, breath soughing audibly from her parted lips. “I–I c-can’t.”
“Open your eyes, India.”
Somehow she found the strength to look at him this time. “W-why?”
“Because,” he intoned in a near growl. “I want to see you. I want to watch you reach your peak.”
Her peak? What does he mean?
Then he began stroking her, gliding deep inside to massage her willing flesh. He used the rest of his fingers on her as well, painting her with her own moisture until she thought she might go insane.
She gazed at him, staring half-delirious into his beautiful dark eyes.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, as he increased his stroke, rubbing her in a way that drew wild little pants from her lips.
Just when she thought she could take no more, he thrust a second finger into her and sent her hurtling over some invisible edge.
She wailed, her entire body convulsing, as the most-astonishing pleasure poured through her, rapture that bathed her in what felt like a dazzling golden light. She hung on, giddy and weak and utterly in love. She could do this with Quentin forever. Anywhere, anytime, he wished.
Suddenly he was kissing her, taking her mouth in ravenous draughts that left her no time to recover. Not that she wanted to, quite the opposite.
Removing his hand from between her legs, he shifted her, sliding her up and over him so she straddled his hips. His hand went between them, working to open the buttons on his falls.
But even as he did, he suddenly stopped, his entire frame growing rigid. Breaking off their kiss, he turned his head away and sucked in a harsh breath. “Bloody hell,” he cursed.
She frowned. “Quentin?”
Cursing again, he closed his eyes for a long moment, then ever so gently lifted her so that she was sitting beside him again. “I can’t,” he said between clenched teeth.
“Can’t what?”
“Take you, that’s what.” He paused and gulped down a deep breath. “The rain appears to have lessened. Let’s get you dressed, so we can be on our way again.”
He knew he should offer for her. After the liberties he’d just enjoyed, she had every reason to expect a marriage proposal. But despite her protestations of love, she was young—too young to really know her own mind.
She hadn’t even had a London Season. Hadn’t yet been able to test her wings and take her pick of men. Did he have the right to step in and claim her before she knew who she was and what she wanted?
The barbarian inside him said
And what of me?
What of him?
I’m infatuated, that’s all. Once she returned home, and he wasn’t in her company for long hours each day, her allure would fade. Lovely, effervescent, and delightful as India Byron might be, she would quickly become no more important to him than any other woman. And when they next met, they would do so as ordinary acquaintances—albeit ones who had shared an intense, though brief, passion.
Watching the now-lazily-falling rain, he forced down a sigh. Shifting his glance, he saw that she was once again properly attired. Even her bonnet was back on her head, with the ribbon tied in a pretty bow beneath her chin. Reaching for his surtout, he draped the woolen garment over her.
“But haven’t you need of your coat?” she protested in a soft voice. Her luminous green eyes met his, the impact of her gaze seeming to reach into his soul.
Lust. Nothing more than lust, he told himself.
“I won’t have you taking a chill,” he said, his words sounding gruff, even to his own ears.
Giving the reins a sharp snap, he maneuvered the carriage back onto the road and set out for the Pettigrews’.
With darkness having fallen, India followed Quentin inside through a servants’ entrance at the rear of the house. Careful to be quiet, the two of them made their way up another back staircase, then down the corridor toward their rooms. Luckily, they didn’t encounter anyone along the way. All the guests were downstairs eating dinner, while the servants were busy seeing to their needs.
Reaching the door to her bedchamber, she stopped, then gazed up at Quentin.
“I’ll send word to your aunt that we have returned,” he said. “I’m sure she’ll be along to look in on you as soon as she can. In the meantime, have your maid bring you something to eat. You must be famished by now.”
Actually, food was the farthest thing from her mind, her body still aglow from their passionate encounter in his carriage. He’d been so silent on the journey back, though. Was it because of his frustration at having to put such an abrupt halt to their lovemaking?
Were it not for his restraint, she would have surrendered her virginity to him, and gladly. Maybe she should have told him that then. Mayhap she ought to tell him that now. As brazen as it might sound aloud, she wanted him to be her first.
Her only.
She was trying to find the words when he reached out and caught her hand inside his own.
“I want you to know that what happened between us this evening was my doing and mine alone,” he said. “You are to assume none of the responsibility, do you understand? You’re lovely, India. Sweet and delightful and innocent in every way.”
“But I’m not,” she said, recalling how she’d coaxed him to kiss her and the wanton manner in which she’d responded to his every touch. “N-not innocent, that is.”
He smiled. “But you are, my dear girl. And that’s how I want you to stay.”
“But—”
“Go to your room, eat your dinner, and get some sleep. Everything will seem clearer in the morning.”
She thrust out her lower lip. “You make me sound like a child.”
A rueful laugh rolled from his throat before his gaze darkened with a sensuality she was quickly coming to recognize. “Never fear. I’m well aware you’re a woman. A wonderful, mesmerizing woman, who will continue to grow more beautiful and enchanting with each passing day.”
Lifting her hand, he closed his eyes and pressed his lips against her palm for a long moment. “Sleep well, India. Dream of sweet thoughts and cherished wishes.”
She trembled, wanting to throw her arms around him and hold him close. Instead, she forced herself to remain still, as he released her hand and took a few steps back. “Good night,” she said.
“Good night.” With a last look, he turned and strode away.
Setting a hand on the door handle to her bedchamber, she stood for a long moment before finally going inside.
She awakened early the next morning and rose from bed, anxious to dress quickly and go downstairs. She wanted to find Quentin so they could talk before everyone else joined them for breakfast. Otherwise, she knew she would be compelled to wait for an opportunity to speak with him alone—and risk missing the chance entirely.
Practically running, she flew down the staircase and into the main hall. One of the Pettigrews’ liveried footmen watched her come to a gliding halt, her slippers skating lightly over the polished marble floor.
“Excuse me, but could you tell me if any of the guests have come downstairs yet?”
“One or two,” the young man said with an encouraging smile. “Who are ye looking for, Miss?”
“The Duke of Weybridge. He’s tall and dark with very brown eyes.”
“I know ’im. But I’m afraid you’ve missed him.”
“What do you mean? Missed him?” she asked, an odd clenching sensation flexing beneath her breasts.
“He left not long after first light. Helped him out m’self with his luggage and such.”
“Are you quite sure it was His Grace?”
“Can’t miss the silver in that hair o’his. Aye, I’m sure it was him.”
A buzzing rang in her ears, and she swayed.
“Here now, Miss, are ye awright?” He reached a hand toward her, as if concerned she might fall.
She drew away, collecting herself enough to meet his concerned gaze. “Yes. I am quite well.”
Only she wasn’t. Quentin was gone.
Chapter Eight
Dragging herself out of her reverie, India stared at her seven-year-old sister, who was seated across from her on the schoolroom floor. “What?”
“It’s your turn,” Poppy Byron said with a measure of exasperation. “We’re playing spillikins, remember?”
“Oh, yes, of course. I wasn’t attending as I should. My apologies.”
The younger girl’s dark brows drew together. “You haven’t been attending a lot of things lately,” she muttered under her breath.
“What is that supposed to mean? And yes, I heard you.”
Poppy glanced up. “Sorry. It’s just that you haven’t seemed yourself the last few weeks. Ever since you came back from that visit with Aunt Ava, you’ve been…”
“Yes? What have I been?”
“Sad. You never laugh anymore. Not like you used to. Why don’t you laugh anymore, India?”
Lowering her gaze, she stared at the jumbled mass of wooden jackstraws scattered over the broad oak flooring. “I laugh when someone says something funny,” she defended. Reaching toward a spillikin with a painted blue tip, she lifted one away. “And I’m not sad.”
But she was sad, and they both knew it, no matter how hard she tried to conceal her feelings.
In the nearly three months since she’d returned home from the Pettigrews’, she’d been melancholy.
At first, she’d tried to pretend nothing was wrong, going out of her way to be sunny and cheerful, as she threw herself into the usual round of family activities with an almost frightening zeal. Yet inwardly she was miserable, only allowing her real feelings to escape at night, when she was certain she was alone.
The first week after Quentin left, her emotions ran the gambit from anger to despair. One moment she would be furious, berating him for his callousness and the shabby manner in which he had used her, then departed—recalling that he hadn’t even given her the courtesy of a note.
But in the next breath, she would be sunk in misery, telling herself the fault was her own for being careless enough to fall in love with him. Suppose he
had written her a note, or had even stayed to tell her good-bye. What might he have said that wouldn’t have crushed her just as much as his leaving? How could words have possibly softened the agonizing blow of knowing he did not love her in return?
He’d said what they shared was nothing more than a fantasy. But for her, every moment, every emotion, was as real as the moon and as radiant as the stars.
Finally, her tears had dried, and in their wake, she’d taken a vow to forget him—as he no doubt had already forgotten her. But as the days moved past, and her life resumed its natural course, her devotion for him did not fade. If anything, her love strengthened. Try as she might, she could not free herself from her memories of their days together—thoughts of him embedded deep into her bones, her love for him inextricably entwined around her soul.
Forcing a smile, she looked across at her sister. “I just have a great deal on my mind these days, that’s all.”
“Like going to London in the spring?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“I wish
I could go to London for the Season,” Poppy said with a wistful sigh.
“That day shall come soon enough. Pray do not be so impatient.”
I certainly wish I didn’t have to go, since I shall be expected to seek out a husband—a man who will not be Quentin Marlowe.
And what if she saw him there? How would she bear such an encounter?
She was just about to reach for a new spillikin stick when two pairs of slippered feet came stamping through the doorway. Her sisters—Anna and Janey—raced in, sliding to an abrupt, skirt-swinging halt.
“India, India, you shall never guess!” twelve-year-old Janey declared, breathless from her apparently mad dash up the stairs.
India met her gaze. “Never guess what?”
“That we have a visitor and you are to come downstairs immediately.”
Her lips tightened on a repressed sigh. “What sort of visitor? Has the squire called again?”
“No,” stated Anna, in the exaggeratedly calm voice she had taken to using since turning fifteen last month. “The visitor is a gentleman, and Mama says you are to put on your best frock and join them as soon as may be.”
“A gentleman? What’s his name?”
“Well, we do not know, nor what he looks like, since he arrived before we had a chance to see,” Anna continued. “But he is closeted with Papa in his study at this very minute.”
India scowled at that bit of news.
“You don’t suppose he’s here to propose to you?” Janey said on a giggle. “Oh, heavens, what if it’s one of those fellows Spence brought home last summer? Maybe the one with the chuckleheaded expression who followed you around spouting poetry wherever he went.”
Peter Harte!
India felt her eyes widen with alarm. Good Lord, surely he didn’t have the temerity to come seeking her father’s permission to ask for her hand? Not after he’d been so thoroughly dismissed the last time they’d met? Then again, Peter Harte never had been one to take no for an answer.
Well, she thought rising to her feet, he’s going to learn his lesson once and for all. She would go downstairs all right and see to it he was sent packing!
Storming from the room, she headed for the stairs.
Her sisters followed. Down one flight they went, to the second floor, like ducks in a row.
“What about your gown?” Anna called when India didn’t turn in the direction of her bedchamber.
Her dress was an old, comfortable moss green kersey-mere she’d worn dozens of times, eminently suitable for afternoons at home. “My attire is perfectly fine.”
Perfectly fine for the likes of Peter Harte, that is.
She continued on down the next flight of stairs, her sisters at her heels. When they reached the main floor, she stopped and turned. “You had all best stay here. Mama won’t approve if we all go in.”
“Of course not,” Anna said, cloaking herself in a mantle of dignity. “I shall take the girls into the music room.”
“Where you can try listening through the wall,” India observed with a knowing look.
“Exactly!” Janey piped.
India couldn’t help but grin. “Do not let Mama catch you.”
But as she walked toward her father’s study, her smile fell away, her affront returning full force.
She met her mother in front of the closed study doors.
“There you are,” her mother said in a quiet voice, her gaze sweeping down. “What is that you have on? Did the girls not tell you to change your gown?”
“I can go back up if you like—”
“No, no there’s no time. He’s been in with your father for fifteen minutes now as it is. I can’t imagine they have much more to discuss.”
Fifteen minutes? What could Peter the Pest have had to talk to her father about for fifteen minutes?
“Go on. Go in,” her mother encouraged with a wide smile, her blue eyes twinkling with anticipation.
Does Mama approve his suit? She’d never thought her mother much cared for Peter, nor that her father had a good opinion of him either, come to think. But maybe a formal declaration made all the difference.
Well, I shall put a stop to his overtures. Now and for good!
Giving a brief knock, she opened the door and stepped inside.
The room was large, with her father’s desk positioned so that he faced anyone who entered. A pair of upholstered armchairs was set in front of it, their high backs angled in a way that concealed the occupants.
Without making any real attempt to identify the visitor—of whom all she could make out was a pair of booted feet—she marched up to her father. “Papa, I understand you wish to see me?”
Gazing her way, he smiled and stood. “Ah, India. Good, you are here. We have a guest who has come all this way for a visit. He informs me he is acquainted with you.”
“Well, yes, of course, he is. But there has been some mistake and whatever he has told you, I trust you will disregard it.”
Her father’s thick salt-and-pepper brows rose on his forehead. “What’s that now?”
“This gentleman is here under an erroneous assumption. And I would have you ask him to—”
“Ask me to what?” remarked a well-remembered voice.
From out of the chair he rose, large and dark and so exceptionally magnificent that for a moment she forgot how to draw her next breath. Her lips parted. “
Quentin.”
She stared, her senses alive as she drank in the sight of his beloved face. Then abruptly she remembered herself and the fact that they were not alone. “I m-mean, Your Grace. How do you do?” Lowering her gaze to the carpet, she sank into a deep curtsy.
Quentin returned the gesture with a bow. “Miss Byron. A pleasure as always.”
A silence fell, her father looking between them, as he crossed his arms over his stocky chest. “So, what is this you were saying, India?”
Her gaze darted his way, as she inwardly kicked herself for her impetuous assumptions. “N-nothing. Nothing of any import, that is. Pray forget I spoke.”
A slight smile turned up the corners of Quentin’s mouth. Apparently choosing to withhold comment, however, he laid a hand on the back of his chair instead.
“Yes, well, if that’s the case, then let’s move along,” her father stated. “His Grace and I were just discussing agriculture.”
Agriculture!
“It would seem your father takes a lively interest in the latest cultivation methods for turnips,” Quentin observed in an even tone.
“A good cash crop, turnips. Beneficial for both man and beast,” her father asserted in a speech she had heard him make many times before. “But I daresay that’s not what brought Weybridge to our doorstep.” He cleared his throat. “It seems the duke would like a word with you, India, and I have agreed that he may have it.”
Her heart hammered in her chest.
Casting speculative glances between her and Quentin again, her father came around from behind his desk. “Your mother said something about rounding up a tray of tea and sandwiches. I think I’ll just go see how she’s coming with those.”
Sending her a reassuring smile, her father left, closing the double doors at his back.
The ticking of the clock that stood in the far corner of the room seemed to increase its volume, together with that of a bird warbling a tune from its perch on a branch outside one of the windows.
Folding her hands in front of her, she waited, more awkward in Quentin’s presence than she could ever remember being. But then perhaps that was because she couldn’t decide whether she ought to run out of the room or run instead into his arms.
Of course if she did that, she might also find herself begging, and she still possessed enough pride to forgo such a pitiable display. Possible, too, was the chance that her parents were wrong and that Quentin wished to speak to her for a completely different reason than they assumed. Although what that reason might be, she couldn’t imagine. Unless he was here to apologize for leaving without a word that day.
Something inside her shriveled at the notion.
“How have you been, India?” he asked in a rich, mellow tone that made her quiver deep inside.
Been? she thought. Desolate. That’s how I’ve been.
Instead, she sent him what she hoped was a carefree smile. “Quite well. Excellent, in fact.”
His gaze sought hers, a deep glint in his coffee-hued eyes that she couldn’t quite interpret. “You look wonderful. Even more beautiful than I remember.”
She buried a hand against her skirt. “And what of you, Your Grace? How have you been these past months?”
“Less than good, actually.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, lines creasing her forehead in sudden concern. “You haven’t been ill, have you?”
“No, not physically ill. Not unless you consider unhappiness a disease. Because if that’s the case, then you might say I’m in a very bad way indeed.”
She stared, her pulse thudding harder in her veins.
“I thought I was doing the right thing when I left you in August,” he continued. “I told myself it was for both of our good, and that a clean break was exactly what we needed. Once parted, we’d count ourselves lucky over our easy escape. After all, who bases their lives on little more than a week’s acquaintance? What kind of foundation would it provide for a relationship?”
He pulled in a ragged breath. “Since then, I’ve come to realize that I made the biggest mistake of my life. No matter how I’ve tried, I can’t get you out of my mind or my heart. You haunt me, India, and without you, I’m scarcely fit for anything.”
Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a ring. The brilliant square-cut emerald winked like a cat’s eye in the milky afternoon light.
Her heart did a flip, not quite able to believe all the things he was saying.
“I suppose I’m a selfish bastard to claim you before you’ve even had a chance to step out in the world and spread your wings,” he went on. “But I cannot do without you. I love you, and I’ve come to understand that it’s not the length of time that matters but the depth of the devotion. Seven days or seventy years, it won’t change how I feel. Tell me it’s not too late, sweetheart. Tell me you still hold the same regard for me that you did all those months ago. Marry me, India Byron, and make me a happy man.”
A full-body shiver went through her, emotions pouring over her with such force that she feared she might burst apart. Suddenly, her earlier question repeated in her head, and all at once she knew exactly where to run.
Taking three huge steps, she sprinted forward, then launched herself into his arms. He caught her safely, clutching her against his strong chest, as she wrapped her arms around him.
Her lips went to his. Or maybe his went to hers, the two of them kissing with a wild, ravenous joy. Closing her eyes, she let the rapture soar within her, knowing she would never find anything more perfect than the beauty of his touch. Kissing him harder, she felt all the past weeks’ misery fall away.
At length, he broke their kiss, a bit winded as he met her gaze. “So, do I take it that’s a yes?”
“Of course it’s a yes!” she retorted. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! Did I say it enough? One time for each day we were together at the Pettigrews’?”
“I believe you managed. And you still love me, in spite of the way I left?”
“I shouldn’t,” she told him with a mildly reproving look. “You were cruel, you know.”
He grew solemn. “I know, and I’m sorry. From now on, I’ll do everything in my power to make it up to you.”
“Well, I won’t stop you, if you insist. But right now, I’m just too happy to stay angry. I’ve been so miserable. You’ll never know just how much.”
“If you’ve been anything like me, I do,” he said with complete sincerity.
“Swear you’ll never leave me again.”
“I swear and gladly.”
He kissed her once more, neither of them coming up for air for quite some while.
“Are you sure?” he murmured against her lips.
“About what?” she asked on a dreamy sigh, almost delirious with pleasure.
“The engagement. We can postpone it if you want. The delay will probably kill me, but we can wait to make the announcement until after you’ve had your Season. So long as I know it’ll be my ring on your finger, I shall willingly suffer any deprivation on your behalf.”
“I most certainly am not postponing the engagement or the wedding!” she stated with a firm shake of her head. “We shall spend the Season together where I can enjoy the delights of London as your bride. Besides, I’ll make a much bigger splash that way. Society will find the new Duchess of Weybridge far more impressive than plain Miss Byron.” She flashed him a saucy grin.
He grinned back. “Believe me, darling, there’s nothing plain about you. There never was, and there never shall be.”
“Oh, I just remembered,” she said. “Where is my ring?”
For a moment, he looked nonplussed. “I believe in all excitement, I dropped it. Here, let me look.”
Releasing her, he stepped back, while she did the same. The emerald sparkled where it lay on the carpet.
Bending, Quentin picked it up. “Shall we try this again?”
Trembling with happiness, she held out her hand.
He smiled, his dark eyes aglow with love. “Will you marry me, India?”
“Yes, Quentin. I will.” She watched, beaming as he slid the gold-and-gemstone circlet onto her finger.
“I’ll never take it off,” she said with a husky catch of emotion in her voice.
“And I shall never let you.”
Drawing her back into his arms, he captured her mouth for a long, lingering kiss. Her senses swam, giddy with bliss. When he cupped her breast in his palm, she arched into his touch, then reached up to thread her fingers into his hair. Slanting her mouth against his, she let him take her flying, tingling from head to toe and drunk with delight.
At length, he drew away. “Hmm, we’d better stop while I still have the strength,” he groaned, his words heavy with repressed desire. “Speaking of which, is there any other way out of here besides the door?”
“Just the windows. Why?”
“Because I’m sure your father is about to name his seconds, we’ve been in here so long. If I didn’t already want to marry you, I’d have to do so now just for propriety’s sake.”
She gave a little snort. “You’d find some other way. You’re a very persuasive sort of man, Your Grace. I have no doubt Mama and the girls will be wrapped firmly around your finger by the end of the evening.”
“Perhaps. But there’s only one woman I care to have wrapped around my finger, and that’s you.”
“You’re in luck then, since I’m wrapped tight, and shall stay that way. Now and forever, my love.”
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