The Laird and the Wanton Widow

Ann Lethbridge

When Kate Anderson heard her young cousin complain about the man she was expected to marry, Kate never imagined it would be Harry Le Clere, Lord Godridge! For one season in Edinburgh, Kate and Harry had shared their first taste of passion—and one mistake tore them apart.

Now, Kate is in a position to teach Harry how to woo her cousin…but Kate doesn’t realize that she is the only woman he ever wanted. And Harry is determined to have her again….

In Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress, my May 2010 novel, Garrick Le Clere, Marquess of Beauworth, expresses great fondness for his cousin and his heir, Harry Le Clere, Earl of Godridge. As Garrick notes, Harry now lives in the highlands of Scotland, but more than once in the past he has come to Garrick’s rescue. And so he does again.

Kate Anderson thinks Harry is also in need of rescue and sets about to see it done. Kate and Harry are a very special couple and The Laird and the Wanton Widow is their story. I do hope you enjoy it.

I love to hear from readers, and you can reach me through my website http://www.annlethbridge.com, where you will also find news about upcoming books.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter One

Ladies’ companions didn’t dance at balls, yet Kate Anderson’s foot insisted on keeping time to the music of a Scottish reel. London ladies and gentlemen didn’t have an ounce of the passion or fire the dance required.

Exquisite in a jonquil gown, the blond Diana Buntin turned in her seat, her blue eyes alight with laughter. “The next time a gentleman asks you to dance, I will insist you say yes.” While her tone was gentle, Kate could see her employer meant every word.

“Sorry,” Kate said, and stilled her foot.

“Where is Denton with my lemonade?” Lizzie Mcrae, Diana’s equally blond and blue-eyed niece, raised up on her toes to see past the crowds gathered at the dance floor. At a quick glance she and Miss Buntin could have been sisters, even though they were related only by marriage. They both had the same fair English beauty and sweet dispositions. Unlike Kate, whose temperament was dictated by her red hair.

“Oh no,” Lizzie said. Her face fell from happiness to misery.

“What is it?” Diana asked. “Who do you see?”

Seated against the wall in the vast Bertwick ballroom, neither she nor Kate could see much beyond the elegantly dressed members of the ton in their immediate vicinity.

“It’s the ogre,” Lizzie said. “Why is he in Town? He’ll spoil everything.”

The ogre was what Lizzie called the elderly bachelor from the adjoining Scottish estate, the man her father wanted her to marry. A surge of anger rose in Kate’s chest to see the child so upset. She longed to give Lizzie’s father a piece of her mind for proposing such a match.

“Oh dear,” Diana said with a wince. “I have a feeling this is my fault.”

At that moment, the crowds parted to reveal an impressively large gentleman with a stern expression on his fair, sun-bronzed face heading in their direction.

Kate’s heart stopped as she took in the furrowed brow above hazel eyes, the set of the square, inflexible jaw, and the crisp waves of light brown hair.

Harry?

Was she seeing things? Her heart pattered the long-forgotten rhythm of a dimly remembered song. The room seemed to fade. All she saw was him, striding toward them with loose-limbed athletic grace.

She wanted to look away, but she sat frozen, turned to stone, her parched gaze drinking in the strong, rugged features that had always reminded her of her beloved Scotland.

The years had broadened his shoulders, strengthened his features, made him look sterner than when she’d known him in Edinburgh. But even though so many years had passed, he was still the handsomest man she’d ever seen.

And now he was here. Coming directly toward them, his gaze intently fixed on Lizzie.

Harry was Lizzie’s ogre? The bubble of joy in her chest burst, her heart felt leaden.

“Your father must have sent him,” Diana exclaimed. “It really is too bad.”

Kate could think of stronger words. She lowered her regard to her gloved hands resting on the dark gray fabric of her skirts. She stilled their tremble, breathed deep to calm the rapid beat of her heart.

Harry. She’d never expected to see him again. Never wanted to, when she realized what a stupid mistake she’d made. Never ever had she even enquired about him, guessing he must have married long ago.

Apparently not.

What would he think when he saw her again? That she was much changed, no doubt. And not for the better.

Good Lord, she was mad to think he’d remember her after all this time. For one season in Edinburgh, they’d lived in each other’s pockets. Less than a season—a month. Then he’d departed for a family celebration promising to return. A few days later, a mutual friend had relayed gossip from a letter she’d received that he’d fallen for a beautiful woman visiting his parents.

She’d been so hurt.

And angry.

So stupidly angry.

“Good evening, Miss Buntin,” he was saying in that deep voice laced with the burr of the Highlands. “Lizzie.” He bowed. “I trust I find you both well?”

Diana fluttered her fan. “Very well, my lord. This is a surprise.”

“Is it?” There was an edge to his voice. Impatience. “Lord Mcrae could not come himself, so he asked me to ascertain the truth of your letters and take whatever action I deemed needful.”

Lizzie gasped. “You wrote to my father, Aunt? What on earth did you say?”

Diana shot Lizzie a warning look. “Nothing to which your father could take exception, I am sure. Lord Godridge, may I introduce you to my companion, Mrs. Anderson?”

Kate held out a hand. “My lord.”

Silence greeted her. He was staring at her. With…shock. And what? Horror? “Mrs. Anderson.” His voice sounded strained as he took her hand.

“Do you two know each other?” Lizzie asked, glancing at them in turn.

Heat fired Kate’s cheeks. “We met many years ago.” She took a deep breath. “Before I was married. It is good to see you again, Lord Godridge.”

Harry was still staring at her as if he had seen a ghost. She understood the feeling. Her skin felt as if it had shrunk and her chest had been banded in iron.

“Did you have a pleasant journey, my lord?” Diana asked in a faint voice.

He seemed to recollect himself, straightening his shoulders and turning back to Lizzie’s aunt. “It rained.”

“Did you see Father before you left, Harry?” Lizzie asked. “Is he well?”

“He is worried,” Harry said. “About you. And his gout is bad.”

The weight of that statement sent Lizzie’s shoulders up to her ears. She smiled stiffly.

Good Lord, he was making a complete mess of this. Was he always so brusque with the girl? No wonder she called him an ogre. Though he certainly wasn’t the octogenarian the young woman had led Kate to expect.

Just at that moment, Lord Denton, a poetically brooding young man with a lock of brown hair flopping on his forehead, wandered up with the glass of lemonade. Kate was surprised he’d remembered the drink. The young poet often went off in a trance. He gave Lizzie a besotted smile along with the glass. “Did I tell you how beautiful you look this evening, Miss Mcrae? Can I compare thee to a summer rose?”

Lizzie giggled. Lizzie didn’t usually giggle at Denton’s nonsense. Indeed she’d been known to give him a sharp setdown if he put her to the blush. But tonight, in the presence of the man her father had chosen, she giggled.

“Shakespeare couldn’t have said it better,” Harry muttered drily.

Didn’t he see that Lizzie was testing him? If he’d just be a little more…well, adoring, he would surely sweep Lizzie off her feet. Denton couldn’t hope to compete with a real man like Harry.

“Do you have business in Town, Lord Godridge?” Diana asked, plying her fan with enough vigor to stir the air around Kate’s cheeks.

“Yes,” Harry said, his hard gaze focusing on Diana. “I’m here to drive Lizzie home. I will call upon you in the morning to make the necessary arrangements.”

“I won’t go,” Lizzie declared.

Oh Harry, Kate thought miserably. A heavy hand on the bridle would not work with this girl, not when she had been courted, flattered and adored by every eligible male in London. If Godridge wanted Lizzie, he was going about it all wrong.

“You cannot take our goddess,” Lord Denton proclaimed. “It will be like removing the sun from the sky.”

Lizzie bestowed him with a dimpling smile of approval.

The boy flushed bright red.

Harry’s left eyebrow shot up. The corners of his lips twitched. “Then London is about to experience a chilly summer.” He turned to Lizzie. “Would you care to dance with me, Lizzie?”

She tossed her head. “All my dances are promised, I’m afraid. And we are engaged all day tomorrow.”

Kate winced.

“The following morning will be fine,” Diana said in a strangled accent.

A muscle worked in his jaw. “Ten o’clock, then, two days hence.” He hesitated, glancing at Kate as if he would like to say more, then he bowed. “I wish you all a pleasant evening.”

Kate watched him stride away, a man whose commanding presence made others give way. In the eight years since she’d seen him, he’d become a confident man, sure of his place in the world. But he looked far from happy.

“Oh dear,” Diana said. “How very awkward.”

“I won’t go,” Lizzie said. “It’s not fair. The Season has barely begun.” She glowered at Harry’s departing broad shoulders. Her expression turned thoughtful. “You are an old friend of his, Mrs. Anderson. Can you not make him see reason? He never listens to me.”

That was clear. He was like a bull let loose in Mr. Wedgwood’s factory and he was about to be hurt by flying shards of china. One thing was certain—if he didn’t walk a little more gently with Elizabeth, the next thirty years or so were going to be hell for them both.

She’d seen it with her parents.

“The sets are forming,” Lord Denton said, holding out his arm. “This is my dance.”

Lizzie sent Kate a pleading look over her shoulder as Denton led her away.

A look hard to resist.

“I am going to murder my brother-in-law,” Diana said grimly. “I wrote to tell him of his daughter’s success, and what does he do? He calls her home.” She pursed her lips. “I must say Godridge is nothing like I expected from Lizzie’s description. I really should visit my brother-in-law one of the these days.” She turned to Kate, her eyes full of curiosity. “You never mentioned you were acquainted with Godridge.”

Acquainted. What an understatement. “He was Le Clere when I knew him. I failed to make the connection.” Because she never could bear to think about Harry and what she’d done.

“He’s a fine-looking man, if rather overbearing,” Diana mused, turning to look at Lizzie.

Kate’s fingers curled into fists.

Dash it, the man reeked of loneliness. He and Lizzie would make a wonderful couple. She should be helping him, not feeling jealous.

She rose to her feet. “Can you manage without me for a moment? I need the withdrawing room.”

Her attention fixed on Lizzie on the dance floor, Diana nodded absently.

Kate squeezed her way through the crowds to the door. No parting of the Red Sea for her. A casual glance and the lofty members of the ton knew exactly how much courtesy to extend. None. Poverty-stricken widow-companions were one step above servants. One very small step.

She drew in a breath and squeezed between an elderly gentleman and a potted plant. No need for bitterness, Kate, she upbraided herself. You made your own bed.

Out in the entrance hall, the noise of the ballroom faded to manageable levels. And there, staring at a portrait on the wall while awaiting his outer raiment, stood Harry. Square jawed, broad shouldered and narrow of hip, he looked gorgeous in his evening clothes. A perfect specimen of manhood.

The breath left her lungs in a rush.

What a fool she’d been to let her temper destroy her one chance for happiness. It would be dreadful if Lizzie did the same.

Why could she not see his true worth? Perhaps because he wasn’t making the effort to engage her affections.

“Lord Godridge,” she said, her voice echoing in the cavernous hall.

He swung around. A flare of something hot lit his eyes. Anger perhaps. Quickly extinguished, replaced by polite formality, she couldn’t be sure. She almost preferred the anger to cool dispassion.

She took a deep breath and marched to his side. “Might I have a word?”

He bowed. “Perhaps you want to introduce me to your husband?” The bitter edge in his voice sliced into her heart.

“My husband died two years ago. As well as being Miss Buntin’s friend, I am also her paid companion.”

A strange expression crossed his face. “A widow.” He swallowed. “My condolences.”

“Thank you.”

The silence between them filled up with unspoken questions. And tension. Her body thrummed with the knowledge of his nearness. Her palms tingled with the desired to touch the hard angle of his jaw.

This was not such a good idea, after all.

“Did you want something of me, Kate?”

The sound of her name on his lips pulled painfully at her heart.

She forced herself to speak coolly. “Is there somewhere we could talk in private?”

Suspicion, or something like it, darkened his gaze. “I’m sure it could be arranged.”

The nearest footman, his face as stolid as boiled oats, opened the door beside him. “The drawing room is unoccupied, sir.”

Harry held out his arm with exquisite politeness. She placed her hand on his sleeve. The lightest touch she could manage without being rude and still heat seared up her arm. Her insides trembled with nerves. The ache in her chest intensified. She wanted to run. She’d only ever run once, with disastrous results.

The footman closed the door behind them.

Then he smiled. The smile she had never forgotten. Open and boyish, with a hint of devilment. The sternness of the ballroom evaporated and it was if they were young again, in the first throes of infatuation, sneaking off for a few minutes alone.

“What can I do for you?”

The words seem to contain a great deal of meaning. Her stomach tightened. Her breathing became shallow and hard to control. So traitorous, when she knew he belonged to Lizzie.

Praying her face didn’t betray her inner turmoil, she smiled calmly. “Rather, let me ask what I can do for you, Lord Godridge?”

His eyes widened. A mischievous smile curved his lips. “Now there’s something a man doesn’t hear every day.”

Oh, Lord, did he think she was propositioning him? Heat rushed to her face. “It’s about Lizzie,” she hurried to say.

His face turned to stone. “Did Lizzie send you to try to cajole me into let her stay in London?”

She took a deep, calming breath. “No.” She swallowed. “I came with advice.”

His brow lowered. “Out with it, Kate. I never knew you to be short of words.”

That was in the old days. Before her marriage. Before she’d learned to be sensible. But somewhere inside her, the old fiery, outspoken Kate still resided. And she had to be kept firmly in her place. She gave him her best kindly widow smile. “You will not engage Lizzie’s affections by treating her like a child. You need to woo her like the young woman she is.”

An eyebrow shot up. “You think…” His mouth flattened. A mouth she’d kissed. A mouth that had smiled a lot in those long-ago days.

She dragged her attention back to his eyes and tried to look calm and collected.

There was curiosity in his gaze and something else she could not quite fathom. If his face hadn’t been set in such stern, uncompromising lines, she might have suspected it was amusement.

“So you think I am going about my courtship all wrong?” he said.

She nodded. Her jaw felt tight and stiff, but she’d started down this path so she would persevere to the end. “I do. Lizzie’s been pampered and worshipped.”

“Spoiled, you mean.”

“A little, perhaps, but she is a sweet child. With the right approach, she would fall into your arms.”

He cocked his head on one side. “Her father wishes her to return home. It is at his directive I am here.”

“If you remove her without her consent, when she is just spreading her wings, just learning to wield her feminine power, she will always resent you.”

He stared at her. “Feminine power?”

“She is all the rage. She has not yet had a chance to tire of it.”

“Ah, the poet fellow.”

Was he jealous? A good sign surely? Then why would it cause her stomach to twist? “You’ve heard of young Denton, then?”

“Her aunt wrote a letter full of him. His madrigals and sonnets. His adoration you might say. And all the other popinjays hanging on her sleeve. Her aunt’s letters are full of them. Her father is terrified she’ll elope with one of the puppies.”

“And you? Do you fear she’d choose one of those young men?”

He turned away, looked up at a portrait above the fireplace. “And if I did, Mrs. Anderson? Would you have a solution?”

She stared at his broad back. What emotion did he hide? The fear another woman would run from him? “She is ripe for falling in love.” Kate recalled her own first foray into the world of the heart. Remembered the pain like a physical thing once more tying her in knots.

“Ah, love.” He turned to face her. Bleakness filled his eyes. “It’s a strong man who can lay his heart out for a woman to tread upon.”

Was he talking about Lizzie, or about someone else? Had she, Kate, broken his heart by running off after he left Edinburgh? She’d believed the worst, only to discover later it had no foundation in truth. Even after all this time, the question haunted her.

What would be the point in asking? It would only stir up old longings and past hurts.

“So you think you can help me woo Lizzie?” he asked. “Tutor me?” Something warmed his voice and his expression. Laughter?

Dash it. Was he mocking her? Reminding her of her failure to capture him all those years ago?

Her temper surged. Hot and swift. “I’m sorry. It was stupid of me to think I could help. I’ll wish you a good evening.” She headed for the door.

Harry couldn’t help but admire the sway of her hips with each short, sharp step, but his ham-fisted teasing had made her angry. She looked more like the hot-tempered girl he remembered than the drab widow he’d seen in the ballroom. He’d hurt her feelings. He’d seen it on her face. He’d always been a clumsy bastard when it came to the fairer sex. Especially Kate, it seemed.

He didn’t want her to go. The thought hit him between the eyes like a mallet and rang in his head. “Don’t leave.”

Hand on the doorknob, she paused but didn’t look back.

He reached her in a couple of strides, placed his palm on the paneling beside her head and heard her soft indrawn gasp at the same moment as he inhaled her perfume. Lavender.

Whenever he smelled lavender, he thought of her, even after all this time.

The elegant line of her neck filled his gaze. His fingertips itched with wanting to touch, to feel the silk of wisps of auburn hair at her nape, to trace the delicate flesh from beneath her ear to the curve of her shoulder.

Hell and damnation. He really was a fool when it came to this woman. She’d already proved she didn’t give a damn about him.

“Release the door, Lord Godridge,” she said in a low voice.

“Mrs. Anderson, please hear me out. I…” What the hell could he say that would make her stay? “You are right. I am not adept at wooing a woman. Poetry does not drip from my tongue.”

She turned to face him. “Not even stolen poetry?” she said, with rueful laughter in her voice.

His body warmed at the sound. It was like settling before the hearth at home. A feeling of comfort and well-being when, as he knew to his cost, Kate was as unpredictable as a cat. She’d almost destroyed him once with her witchy green eyes and flaming curls. And her mercurial temper.

The temper was still there. He’d seen it just now. But she might have changed. And he might have sprouted wings. He’d be better off telling her to go to hell. The same hell he’d been in all these years.

Or he could use the opportunity to get her out of his head for once and for all. Finish up the old business between them. It would be worth being scorched by that temper of hers, to have time in her company and put the past to rest.

“I’m thinking you are right about the girl needing a gentler hand than mine,” he said, cautiously feeling his way. “But I am as I am. I doubt even you could change me.”

“Even me?” Leaning her back against the door, she ran her gaze over him. “If you want Lizzie, you’ll change yourself.”

He was tempted to place his hands each side of that delicate face and plant a kiss on those plump lips. Instead he frowned. “I’m to become a poetry-spouting dandy, then.”

She raised an auburn eyebrow. “If you want to rout your rivals you need a different approach. They are boys, my lord. Green youths who hang on her lips, tussle with each other for her attention. Fall over themselves at every glance. She takes them for granted. Joining their throng will not help you at all.”

And what of her? Did she also have her court of admirers hanging on her every word? His stomach dipped at the thought. “What do you suggest?”

“You need to sweep her off her feet. Dazzle her. Be the romantic hero she sees in her dreams.”

“Blast it, woman, you are talking in riddles.”

She laughed outright. The well-remembered sound wrenched at his gut, yet he grinned back. Couldn’t help himself.

“By all means treat her as if she is more precious than finest glass,” she said. “But you have to capture her attention.”

Was that where he’d gone wrong all those years ago? He frowned.

She must have seen the question on his face because she waved a hand. “Perhaps a practical lesson would help. Let us say you have just walked into the ballroom and I am Lizzie. How would you greet me?”

Feeling more than a little foolish, he took the hand she offered and bowed. “Good evening, Elizabeth.”

She shook her head.

“No?” he said.

“When you take my hand, look into my eyes, see me, hold my gaze, until I see you, then kiss my hand. After which you must say something arresting about the way I look, something fresh. Make me feel beautiful by taking your time. I don’t want to feel like one of your sheep which, once counted, is no longer of importance.”

Was that all she saw? Had he indeed become naught but a country bumpkin? No. He might be a little rusty, but he knew how a woman liked to be treated. He knew how Kate liked to be treated. His blood warmed at the thought. “We will do this again.”

She nodded. “Let us make it more realistic. I will sit in a chair and you approach from the door.

They took their places.

This time he allowed himself to really look at her, at her pale skin dusted with freckles, her green eyes polite but distant as he made his approach.

Never before had she looked at him so coolly. It fired his metal, made him want to shake her out of her aplomb.

“Mrs. Anderson,” he murmured, holding her gaze. “What a pleasure to find you here this evening.”

“Good evening, Lord Godridge.” She held out one small gloved hand and he took it in his. It felt light, fragile in his grasp. “May I say how lovely you look in gray. The candles are quite undone.” He brought her hand to his lips.

A faint trace of color washed her cheeks. “How kind of you.”

“Not kind at all,” he said, aware of his blood stirring at the sight of the blush flowing up to her hairline, and the parting of her full lips. “A simple truth.” He turned her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist. A brush of his lips against the most delicate lavender-perfumed skin, but intoxicating, nonetheless. He wanted to take her in his arms, hold her against his body, feel her sweet curves against his, but he knew better than to push her too far, too fast. “Will you do me the honor of the next dance?”

It delighted him to see how her chest rose and fell as if she was having trouble catching her breath. He planned to steal more than her breath. She was just too irresistible.

“I’m sorry, but all my dances are taken this evening,” she murmured softly.

Bloody hell. Once more she played fast and loose with him. He let her hand go. “Then I will call upon you in the morning, Mrs. Anderson.”

Laughing, and sounding just a little breathless, she wagged a finger at him. “No, no, my lord. You give up far too easily.”

“What do you propose? Do I hang around watching you dance with your other partners with a lovesick look on my face?”

“Watching Lizzie,” she said. “And yes, something like that.”

“I’m a man of action, Mrs. Anderson, not a mooncalf.”

She pressed a finger against her chin. Enchanting. Sensual. Did she know the effect she was having on him? That his arousal was increasing moment by moment under a thoughtful gaze that seemed to see right through to his every thought? Was she playing with him as she had toyed with him all those years ago? Well, she was about to find out he could do a bit of toying of his own. But he would not rush his fences.

“Naturally, you are not going to stand around like a mooncalf,” she said in the long-suffering manner of a governess tried to the end of her patience. “You really are not listening.”

“You don’t understand, Mrs. Anderson,” he murmured. “I much prefer the direct approach.”

“And that would be?”

He reached out and pulled her from her chair, brushed his lips across hers, gently but firmly. He felt her melt against him, and the blood rushed straight to his groin. He stroked her lips with his tongue, tasted their satiny softness. Her gasp of pleasure provided the access he sought. He deepened the kiss and let his hand wander her form, the straight back, the indentation of waist and the swell of her hip.

It wasn’t the first time he’d caressed those curves. But time and distance made the feel of her in his arms all the sweeter. He cupped her soft buttocks and drew hard against him.

She struggled.

His heart pounding, his member straining at the fabric of his breeches, he unwillingly let her go.

Twin spots of color and eyes sparkling with fury made her look magnificent. Like his Kate.

He braced for the stinging slap as he saw her hand move. Instead, she drew herself up to her full height and looked down her nose. “How dare you?”

“Is my technique not to your satisfaction?” Somehow he managed to keep his voice from revealing just how much he wanted to kiss her again. “We were practicing, were we not?”

Her eyes widened. Clearly she didn’t believe him, but what could she say that would not make her look bad. He smothered the urge to grin.

“That, sir, is a betrayal of the worst sort,” she said finally.

“Lizzie and I are not engaged, Mrs. Anderson, and, according to you, we may never be unless I learn how to woo her properly.”

“You woo with romance, not….well, not that.”

He couldn’t remember a time when he had had this much fun. Or felt quite so alive. Not since…well, a very long time. Too long. And yet… “What do you mean by romance?”

“Being her knight in shining armor.” She turned bright red. “Defeating dragons. Whisking her off to Gretna Green under the nose of a disapproving father. Whatever Lizzie finds romantic.”

Could she not tell from his kiss it wasn’t Lizzie on his mind? And would she scorn him for a fool if he said as much? She’d made him look a pretty fool once before, slipping off to England with Anderson the moment his back was turned. A whirlwind courtship they had called it. She wanted to teach him to woo a woman, but she was the only woman he’d ever wanted this badly.

He forced himself to speak quietly, instead of throwing her over his shoulder and marching back to his castle. “What is your suggestion?”

“Not to attack her like a wild beast.” She had a sharp tongue, his Kate. His. The word glowed like the lighthouse off Godridge point. But would it also wink out in the light of day.

Like the last time.

He sighed.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she said. “Lizzie has to want to go with you to Scotland of her own free will. When you see her next, secure a waltz with her at the Willinghams’ ball.”

A ball? He must have looked blank, because she shook her head. “Dash it, don’t tell me you don’t know how to waltz?”

He liked it when she twisted one of the curls peeking out from beneath her cap around her finger. In fact, he’d like to remove that cap and see the luxuriant auburn hair he remembered fall down around her shoulders. And he would, given half a chance.

“Waltzing is the key to winning a woman?” he asked, pretending misery.

“Unless you want stand on the sidelines watching her in the arms of other men it is. Hire yourself a dancing master.”

A wicked idea slipped into his mind. He despised himself for it, but didn’t hesitate. “You must teach me.”

“Me?” She looked horrified. “How could I?”

Good point, but he wasn’t done for yet. “Beauworth has a piano. Meet me at his house tomorrow afternoon.”

“Go alone to the house of a rake?”

“Wear a veil.”

She glanced at the clock on the wall and back to him, her face comically dismayed. “Oh Lord. We’ve been here more than half an hour. I have to go back.”

“I thought you wanted to help me win Lizzie,” he cajoled. Rotten bastard. But he’d enjoyed himself more in this past half hour than he had for months. Perhaps years. During this whole time alone with her he hadn’t once thought about his estate, about the disease killing his sheep. He’d felt almost carefree.

“Well, you won’t win Lizzie by making people talk about us,” she said, almost crossly. Which was interesting.

“Who would ever know?” he asked. “I certainly won’t mention it. I’ve no wish to look like an idiot. Needing a dancing lesson at my age.”

She closed her eyes, clearly battling with her conscience, or the desire he was sure he’d felt in her body when they kissed.

“Come on, Kate. You said you would help me.”

Her green eyes skewered him. Had she guessed his intentions? Was that a smile lurking a hairbreadth from curving her lips? Would she walk away? “Very well,” she said slowly. “I will meet you tomorrow at two in the afternoon. For waltzing lessons.”

He smiled, took her hand and kissed it. He gazed down into her face. “It will seem like days, rather than hours.”

She flushed and snatched her hand back with an uneasy laugh. “You are a quick study, Lord Godridge. I recommend you save your blandishments for Lizzie.”

“Just practicing, Mrs. Anderson,” he said with an innocent face. He bowed. “Until tomorrow.”

She marched off down the hall way with the impatient stride he had always found enchanting.

“I meant every word of it, Kate,” he said softly. But where would it lead? With Kate, how could he be sure?

Arriving back at his cousin’s house after spending the rest of the evening catching up with friends at White’s, Harry hummed a tune under his breath and thought of Kate.

He strolled into the drawing room to find his cousin, Garrick le Clere, Marquess of Beauworth, in his shirtsleeves, cravat discarded, sprawled on the sofa in front of a card table. With his olive skin, a bruise on his chin and raw scraped knuckles clutching a brandy glass, he looked more like a gypsy than a marquess.

A similarly attired but much more English-looking gentleman sat on the other side of the table regarding Harry with sleepy gray eyes. Fair hair hung to his shoulders and the cynical twist to his lips spoke of jaded appetites. “’Tare and hounds, Beauworth, who is this disgustingly cheerful-looking fellow arriving at this time of night.”

“Mon cher cousin,” Beauworth said, the strength of his accent saying he was well into his cups. “Godridge. Comes from Scotland, where they rise before noon and go to bed before midnight. Harry meet Dunstan.”

The Duke of Dunstan. “You were one year above me at Eton,” Harry said, shaking the other man’s hand. Another renowned rake.

The duke nodded. “Thought I recognized you.”

Harry dropped onto the sofa beside his cousin, thoughts of Kate’s luscious curves and kissable lips temporarily forgotten. “How’s the chin?”

“Beauworth touched the bruise and laughed. “Not feeling a thing, mon ami.”

Harry glanced at his half-empty glass. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Do you know what happened?” Dunstan asked lazily. “He won’t tell me. All he’ll say is the other fellow looks worse.”

“Much worse,” Harry said.

Garrick shot him a warning glance.

“He deserved it, Garrick,” Harry said. “How is the boy?”

“Dan? He’s the devil’s spawn according to my butler, who has threatened to resign if he steals one more silver spoon.”

Dunstan groaned. “Let the bastard butler go. He’s done nothing but interrupt us about this lad all evening.”

“And I’m also about to interrupt you, I’m afraid, Duke,” Harry said. “I need a private word with my cousin.”

Dunstan groaned. “I hate families.” He eyed the pile of guineas on his side of the table. “I don’t suppose you want to wager your horse, Beauworth?”

“Non,” Garrick said decisively. “I too have matters to discuss with Harry.”

“Dull dog.” Dunstan unfolded his six feet of lean frame. He shrugged into his black coat and slung his cravat around his neck. “I’ll bid you gentlemen good-day.”

Harry stood up and shook his hand.

Garrick half rose to his feet. “Don’t get up, Beauworth,” Dunstan said. “You might fall over. I’ll see myself out.” He ambled out of the door.

“Shall I see him home?” Harry asked.

Garrick shook his head. “His coachman is waiting around the corner.”

Harry sank back on the sofa and waived off Garrick’s offer of a glass of brandy.

“What will you do with the boy? Dan?” Harry asked.

“Take him to somewhere he won’t be in fear of his life from his old master.”

They’d discovered a man beating the boy senseless on the previous evening. “The lad likes horses, apparently. I’ll take him to Beauworth.”

Harry nodded. “He’s too puny to leave on the streets. You could also probably use a repairing lease in the country.”

Beauworth finished his brandy. “I’m joining the army.”

Harry couldn’t hide his surprise. “What about your responsibilities? Uncle Duncan?”

Garrick huffed out a breath. “I’m going down to Sussex to tell him my decision. I have to go, Harry. You saw what I did to that bully. But for you pulling me off, I might have killed the cochon. The army will put those talents to good use.” He glowered into the dregs in his glass. “With luck I’ll end up a dead hero instead of a murderer at the end of a rope.”

The Le Clere curse. He didn’t have to name it for Harry to know what he meant. Harry had escaped it. So far. “If you’d just keep a grip on your temper…”

Garrick shot him a look of despair mingled with humor. “Right.”

An image of lively green eyes flashed into Harry’s mind and he recalled his purpose for seeking out his cousin. “I have a favor to ask.”

“Anything for you, Harry.”

Harry punched his shoulder. “Hear it first. I want the house to myself tomorrow afternoon.”

Garrick’s bleary gaze sharpened. “I sense intrigue. A woman?”

“Yes. A woman.”

“She is married, non? You seek to hide from her husband.”

“No. She is not married. But she won’t like it if you are around.”

Garrick whistled softly. “I am curious, mon cher cousin.” He grinned at Harry’s glare and raised his hands. “I will be remarked by my absence. I promised to look in at Carlton House tomorrow.”

“Flying high, aren’t you?”

“Marquesses always fly high, as you will discover in due course.”

Harry frowned. “Not going to happen. A Le Clere has never yet died in battle.”

Garrick sobered before his eyes. “It would be better if this one did, mon ami.” He got to his feet. “I’ll see you later. I don’t know who this woman is, but enjoy. It seems we will make a rake of you yet.”

Chapter Two

Kate kept the hood of her cloak pulled close around her face as she knocked on the door of the elegant Mayfair town house. Lord Godridge opened the door. He grinned rather boyishly as she stepped inside. A devilish twinkle lit his eyes. “I had my cousin give the servants the afternoon off. Save any embarrassment.”

“Good idea.” The fluttering in her stomach got worse. After their kiss, she couldn’t quite help wondering if his motives were completely honorable. In fact, she had this strange hopeful feeling.

“This way.” He guided her up the stairs. He took her to a salon on the first floor large enough to hold a good-size ball. A pianoforte sat on the dais beside a harp, but there were no musicians. They really were completely alone.

Her stomach gave a little jolt. Not fear. Excitement.

And yet she still wasn’t sure of his motives.

He took her cloak and laid it over the back of the chair. His gaze ran over her, a long, slow perusal that made her feel hot all over.

“You look lovely this afternoon, Mrs. Anderson.”

She had worn her most practical of gowns, made every attempt to remind him of who she was and why she was here. “Don’t flatter me, my lord. I know very well how I look.”

His lips twitched. “Just practicing, Mrs. Anderson.”

A laugh bubbled in her chest. In the old days, Harry had always made her laugh. “We are here to practice the waltz.”

“I am at your disposal.”

His eyes were laughing again, green points of light dancing amid the brown. A picture of him being completely at her disposal flashed through her mind. A deliciously naughty picture. Her insides quivered. Ah, traitorous body.

This could well end in more than waltzing. She ought to go while she still had a little moral fiber. Unless she was imagining his interest. Trying to believe in feelings that must have died long ago.

If only she hadn’t promised to teach him to waltz.

Best not to think and to get on with her task. “The most important thing about waltzing is holding your partner at the correct distance,” she said briskly. “Take my hand.”

He did. It was a large hand, full of strength. Warmth permeated through her glove and made her heart beat faster.

“Now I put my hand on your shoulder,” she instructed, “And you put your other hand on the middle of my spine. At all times you must not be any closer than this to your partner.”

Naturally athletic, he seemed to have no problem following her instructions. Although they were indeed the regulation distance apart, she could feel the heat of his body down the length of hers. A shocking and titillating sensation.

Aware that she was breathing faster than the act of merely standing still should require, she released his hand and stepped out of his hold.

He tilted his head in question.

She pretended not to notice. “The waltz is danced in steps of three. It is too bad we don’t have any music, but perhaps I can demonstrate.”

Circling around Harry, Kate counted out loud, “One, two, three, one, two, three.”

He watched with narrowed eyes. The intensity of his regard seared her skin. “Stop looking at me like that,” she said.

You told me to watch you.”

“Not like that.”

“Women.” He shook his head, but his grin gave him away. He was toying with her. Teasing her. And damn her, she liked it. She felt young again. Attractive. Reckless.

More like herself than she had for years. Hardly surprising, since she was no dried up old maid. Life still coursed hot in her veins. Too hot.

She twitched the fichu free from her bodice, tossed it over the back of one of the gilt Sheraton chairs lining the walls and fanned her face. “It is warm in here.”

His gaze dropped to her neckline. His shoulders rose and fell as he drew in a deep breath. He tugged at his collar. “Yes, very warm.”

“Do you think you have the steps?” she asked.

He dragged his focus back to her face and she resisted the urge to smile.

“I believe I do.” He held out his hand and brought her into his arms.

“Will you sing? Or shall I?”

“You,” he said.

She started humming. After a couple of bars he swung her into the dance. Fluidly, effortlessly. A suspicion entered her mind and she looked up. His expression was bland. Too bland.

He bent his head. “What do we do when we reach the end?” he murmured in her ear.

A shiver ran down her spine. “We turn,” she gasped.

He smiled. “Like this?”

He swept her around the end of the room, without hesitation, gliding beautifully.

“You lied,” she said, and pulled free of his arms. She put her hands on her hips and glared at him fiercely to disguise the laughter trying to escape, and her desire to leap into his arms and kiss those wonderful lips that had once brought her the promise of a future. “What game are you playing?”

“I was taught never to argue with a lady,” he said by way of an apology, but his eyes were dancing. “And besides, the opportunity to dance with you again was far too tempting.”

She knew what he meant about tempting. It had been years since she’d waltzed. David hadn’t been well enough for dancing and had begged her not to go to balls without him. Pitying his infirmity, she’d stayed home with her needlework and her housekeeping duties while her youth trickled away.

An uncomfortable prickle burned the backs of her eyes. Dash it. She was not going to cry.

“Is something wrong, Kate?” Harry asked, his voice full of gentle concern.

“Not at all,” she said, but heard the thickness in her voice.

He must have heard it too, because he drew close, looking down into her face. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“No,” she said. “I upset myself.” She swiped at her eyes.

He reached out and touched a thumb to her cheek, wiped away an errant tear.

“Damn it, Kate. I meant it only for a bit of fun.”

She laughed a little, a raw, shaky sound. “That makes two of us. You certainly don’t need any lessons from me.”

“I needed the practice.”

A sop to her pride. “I am glad to have been of assistance. Now I really should go.”

“Not yet. You promised to teach me how to woo a woman. Not Lizzie,” he added quickly. “We would never suit. But there’s another lass I’ve been fond of for years.” His Scots brogue had thickened, as if he was struggling with some strong inner emotion. “But I’m no sure I can win her. It seems I’m still in need of a silver tongue.”

She stared at him. A thought wormed her way into her mind. Her heartbeat quickened. Could he possibly mean her? Was that why he’d agreed to take a lesson? Did she dare hope? What if he meant someone else? She certainly wasn’t going to wear her heart on her sleeve. And yet… “What other girl?”

A smile broke on his face. “I’d just as soon not say, since it is a long time since I courted a lass and I’m rough around the edges. I’m looking for guidance.”

She tossed her head. “It’s not like you to be so evasive, Harry.”

“Ah, but you see I’ve changed. Won’t you help me, for old times’ sake?”

She gave him a saucy grin. “All women like poetry. And sonnets.”

He groaned theatrically. “Back to the poetry again. Do you think this would suit?”

He took her hand in his and gazed into her face.

“’If I could write the beauty of your eyes,

And in fresh numbers number all your graces,

The age to come would say ‘This poet lies;

Such heavenly touches ne’er touch’d earthly faces.’”

Spoken low and softly, Shakespeare’s verses touched her heart with a sweet pang. Her body seemed to melt as she stared into his clear hazel eyes.

The room seemed to disappear and all she could see were those beautiful lips speaking tender words and the intensity of his gaze. She swayed toward him, drawn by some invisible power. Then their lips were touching, melding. And she was melting like warm honey inside and glowing from the heat of his lips.

She lifted one hand to his shoulder, her fingertips brushing the fine cloth of his coat, sliding up to his strong column of neck, and tangling with the silk of his hair.

She pulled back to look at his face. The desire in his expression as he looked at her made her want to cry.

He swallowed, the movement disturbing the neatly tied cravat at his throat. “Something like that?” he asked softly.

“I—no. I mean yes. But you should not. We should not.”

“Did I not do it right?” he asked gravely.

“You know you did it right,” she said crossly.

His eyebrows drew together. “But you did not like it.”

“It is not appropriate for you to kiss me. Elizabeth’s aunt pays my wages. Even if you have no intention of marrying her niece, it is underhanded and disloyal.”

“Kissing, you mean?”

“Quite.”

He sighed. “So no more lessons, then.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not half as sorry as I.” He put up a hand before she could answer. “As one last favor, tell me this. What would be the most romantic thing a man can do for a woman besides spout poetry and dance the waltz?”

“A woman wants to know a man would risk all to be with her. I can’t explain it better than that.”

Harry knew exactly what she meant. Because after one taste of Kate’s lips, he knew he would risk all to make her his wife.

But Kate, obviously flustered, had pulled out of his embrace. Did he dare risk losing any chance with her by speaking what was on his mind?

“Is that where I went wrong with you?”

“Oh, Harry, please, must we speak of the past?”

Harry tipped her chin. “Kate,” he said softly. “My dear Kate. I have missed you all these long years.”

“Harry, do not, please, I beg of you. How would it look? People will think I used my position to lure you away from Lizzie.”

“I will never marry Lizzie Mcrae.”

She stared at him silently, as if trying to see the truth in his very soul. “And your purpose for letting me offer to help?”

The doubt in her face was like a knife to his gut. “Damn it, Kate. What do you think? A chance to find out if there was any hope for us. And there is, isn’t there? Don’t deny what I see written on your face and in your eyes.”

“Harry—”

He kissed her. To stop her objections, to close the questioning gaze that made him doubt himself. He kissed her hard. Then as she responded, he gentled his mouth on hers, tenderly wooing her lips and brushing the silken skin of her jaw with the pads of his thumbs. Speaking to her without words.

Trying to hold fast the quicksilver that was Kate. To brand her as his own.

Finally, she relaxed, her arms twining around his neck, her fingers skimming through his hair, and she kissed him back.

Ambrosia could not taste as sweet.

Their lips clung together for what felt like hours and yet sped by in seconds.

He raised his head and looked down into her eyes. “How did it happen, Kate? How did we ever lose each other?”

Kate stared into his eyes, searching for the meaning behind his words. After all these years of convincing herself she’d mistaken the strength of his feelings for her, a way to ease the burden of what she had done, dare she trust what her heart was telling her now?

“Harry I—”

He kissed her quiet, as if he feared what she might say. And she no longer wanted to talk at all. Once more her senses swirled and her body eagerly pressed close to his hard, muscled length, craving his touch, his heat, his ardor.

Such ardor as she’d never known.

His hands roamed her back, hot and heavy despite the layers of muslin and linen. Shivers ran down her spine and settled low in her belly. Her nipples ached for his touch. Her female center fluttered with pleasure when his muscled thigh pressed between hers. She tilted her hips. Pleasure washed through her. And the torture of unfulfilled desire.

She ran her fingers through his hair and gave herself up to the timeless rhythm of her heart, of something deep inside her. Let time roll back to when she had been careless and young and, God help her, in love. With Harry.

Finally he broke the kiss. A rueful smile played across his face. “I never did have control when it came to you, lass.”

She inhaled a deep breath, forcing air into lungs that seemed to have forgotten how to work, grasping for rational thought. “Nor I with you,” she managed, her chest rising and falling as if she’d run up three flights of stairs.

He winced. “Then what happened? Why did you leave Edinburgh? By the time I returned you’d left to be married.”

All the old pain rose up in a tide to swamp her. “Gossip was rife about a certain young lady visiting your home. I lost my temper.” And the joy of her life. “Mr. Anderson saw my distress and offered the comfort of his name. Furious with you, I accepted.”

“Oh, Kate, did you trust me so little?”

“I was young and I was foolish.” When she’d realized what she’d done, when she heard he’d returned to Edinburgh alone, she’d wanted to die. But she couldn’t. Her new husband needed her. And she’d done her duty and paid the price for her fit of jealous rage.

Was still paying the price. But how could they turn back the clock?

“Kate—”

“Harry. Please. Let us just enjoy what we have.” She cupped his jaw in her hand, felt the abrasion of the haze of stubble against her palms and in the faint burn on her cheeks, and inhaled his scent, bay and man. Hunger sharpened. Heat consumed her. “Let us take this moment and make it ours.”

He groaned deep in his chest. “What is it you want?”

“You.” She laughed a little, breathlessly, at the answering flare of heat in his gaze.

He swept her up in his arms.

She shrieked.

“Thank God the servants are gone for the day, or they’d be running to your rescue.”

“In Beauworth’s house? I’d be very much surprised.”

He took the stairs two at a time as if she weighed nothing. While she could hear his heart thudding against her ear, his breathing was easy, controlled. “My cousin doesn’t kidnap respectable widows and carry them off to his bed.”

She laughed. It was strange to her ears, it sounded so light and feminine and, God help her, happy. “And you do?”

He somehow managed to turn the knob on the door to a chamber. A bedroom. “I’m Scottish. A barbarian. Remember?” He dumped her on the bed.

She arched her brows. “As am I.”

He bent over her, took her mouth. One hand covered her breast and the nipple peaked with interest, while her heart beat with excitement.

Her husband had never made her body hum this way. He’d been sweet, and gentle, and slowly dying. She’d nursed him through the last days of his life, never begrudging a moment, because he was a genuinely good man. One of the few she’d met in her life. And she’d used him shamefully.

But Harry was the love of her life. Blood pounded in her veins, reminding her she was not so very old, and not so very respectable if the wicked thoughts in her mind were anything to go by.

Thoughts of seeing Harry naked. And aroused. For her.

What was it Diana had said only a day or so ago? A widow is much less restricted in what she does than a single lady. She’d almost encouraged Kate to take a lover.

Kate swallowed and reached up to unknot his cravat. His eyes crinkled at the corners, dancing with laughter. “That’s my bold Kate.”

His Kate.

But only for today. Just this once.

Then she could go back to reality.

The cravat slid slowly from around his neck in a whisper of muslin against linen. She let it drift to the floor and set about his shirt buttons, surprised at how easily she slipped into the role of siren. Delighting in the expression of pleasure on his face.

She pulled the shirt from the waistband of his pantaloons. “Bend down.”

He leaned over her and she hauled the shirt off over his head. When he emerged from the billowing fabric, he kissed her. A quick buss of approval. Soft moist lips tangling with hers. The sensation, so tantalizing, hit her stomach in a shower of what felt like embers, glowing up from her belly to warm her all the way to her hairline. She drank in the sight of his torso, the light dusting of hair across his chest, the male nipples puckered and tight.

“An expert, I see,” he teased.

Not in the way he was thinking, but it really didn’t matter. Not now. She smiled and worked at the buttons of his falls. He drew in a sharp breath when her knuckles brushed the skin of his stomach, his ribs standing out beneath the beautiful bronzed flesh. Lovely. Bonnie. Braw. The fabric of his falls stretched tight across bulging male flesh, the sight of which made her damp between her thighs in anticipation.

She popped the last button.

His erection sprang free. Dark with desire, jutting from its nest of crisp brown curls.

She licked her lips, but before she had more than a glimpse, he toed off his shoes and bent to peel his pantaloons down a pair of strong thighs and dispose of his stockings.

“Now you, madam,” he murmured in low sensual tones while tweaking free the bow at the neck of her bodice and doing the same to the ties at her waist. In an instant the gown was slipped down her body, under her legs and feet and was tossed aside.

“It seems you have your own expertise,” she said breathlessly, forcing her gaze to remain on his face, much as she wanted to study the rest of him.

He chuckled, a warm sound that soothed and excited at once. “I’ll admit to enough. You learn quite a bit when your cousin is London’s foremost rake.” He ran a finger along the lacy edge of the shift peeking above her front-closing stays, following the contour of the rise of her breasts, promising more. Her skin jumped to life, tingling and burning in the wake of his touch.

A promise she might well enjoy. She licked her bottom lip, tasting his kiss. His eyes tracked the movement. “Have patience, madam. I have more work to do yet.”

Strong fingers made short work of her stay laces while she traced the ripple of corded muscle in his shoulder and upper arm with her fingertips. Satin over steel. Warm, smooth and rock solid. He whipped the linen away, leaving her in naught but her shift.

He paused, looking down her length from beneath eyelids seductively lowered, his stern face softened by passion and desire. “Lovely,” he said.

Praise indeed. She wanted to take it in her stride, wanted to believe he spoke the truth, but she was no longer a girl in her first blush of youth. Mirrors did not lie. They reflected a widow aged twenty-five with ravages of time wrought on her face and her body. She could not stop the edgy laugh or the words. “You are too kind.”

His gaze lifted to her face. “Do you give me the lie, then, oh luscious morsel?”

The words made her want to giggle like a girl, but the heat in his expression made her feel very much a woman. The joy of seeing him again turned into something else, a yearning for her lost youth, a longing to undo what was done, and deep desire for this man on so many levels. A desire to make him happy, to see his brow smooth, his lips and eyes smile, to hear his voice warm.

An ache deep within herself longed to ease his aura of loneliness.

Yet how could she? She was the one who had walked away. She didn’t deserve such happiness. She only had now. Today.

Kate opened her arms to him, raised her face for his kiss and, with a deep sigh, he brushed her mouth with his, licked and teased at her lips until she parted them allowing him entry. He stretched his large body alongside her on the bed, the ropes protesting a little at his weight, the mattress sinking and conspiring to roll her against his warm heat and hard body.

The kiss roughened, his tongue probing deeper. One hand palmed her buttocks and drew her closer; his other hand cradled her nape. His thigh, warm and heavy, trapped her legs, making escape impossible. If she had wanted to escape.

She cupped his cheek with one hand and let the other explore his lovely flesh, the hair on his chest, the tight nipple, the smooth swells and valleys of his sinewed arms, the wide plane of his back, the dip of waist and narrow hip. He was lovely.

And for this brief moment in time, she would imagine he was hers.

He raised his head, slowly, his lips parting from hers with kisses and nibbles and nuzzles that drove her wild. He trailed kisses across her cheek, blew softly in her ear.

Shivers prickled across her shoulders. She gasped.

He nipped her earlobe.

She kneaded his firm buttocks.

“Like that, do you?”

“Mmm,” she managed, and delivered a nip of her own on his neck.

He hissed out a breath.

Another round of shivers hit her, traveling all the way to her core, tightening her inner muscles. She quivered with anticipation.

His tongue traced her ear, her neck, the hollow of her collarbone, the rise of her breast. He kissed the aching swell and his hand left her nape to pet the other breast through her chemise, weighing, measuring, adoring until she wanted to weep at his gentle kindness.

Then his mouth found her hardened nipple and his tongue flicked over it and around. The flutters in her center intensified. It felt so good, she moaned her pleasure.

“This shift has to go,” he murmured against her breast and raised himself up on one elbow, pulling at the hem of her chemise, dragging it upward.

Oh, yes. It had to go.

She helped him take it off, aware of his gaze following the hem upward, taking in every inch of naked flesh slowly revealed, aware of the increasing sensual cast of his lips, aware of the hunger in his low-lidded gaze. Aware that he wanted her.

The fears and doubts fled on a tide of desire. For this short while she would forget the past, not think of the future, but live for this unexpected moment.

She sat up and pulled the wisp of fabric up over her head and flung herself at his broad chest, knocking him off balance onto the pillows. She swung one leg over his narrow hips, felt the heat of his erection against her inner thigh and rained hot kisses on his face, nuzzled into his neck, licking and nipping her way down his chest to his flat male nipples. The springy curls of hair tickled her lips.

His hands fell hot and heavy on her back. They wandered her skin, circling, smoothing, soothing yet encouraging. She grazed his nipple with her tongue and he groaned.

“Ye’ll be the death of me, lass,” he murmured into her hair, but he made no move to hinder or control her exploration.

She suckled.

His hips rose off the bed, lifting her with him as if she weighed no more than a feather pillow. The power in the man awed her all the way to her toes.

“My turn,” he said, and flipped her on her back.

She gazed up into his face. He smiled at her and stroked her cheek with a fingertip. “Now you are in for it, sweet.”

She sighed. “Make it good, Harry.” Make me forget the time lost. The heartbreak.

His eyes softened and there he was, the boy she’d loved all those years ago. Tears burned the backs of her eyes. She blinked them away.

On a soft groan, he dipped his head, kissed her breasts, first one then the other, his hot, wet mouth open, his tongue teasing, and then he suckled. Eyes drifting closed, she flew on a tide of sensation, of delicious pain, heat and aching tightness and deep urgency for something just out of reach.

Thoughts no longer formed. It was all about his lips on skin so alive it hurt. He moved over her, nudging his knee between her thighs and as he settled there, his erection hot against her belly, they fell open, her back arching, inviting him in.

It felt right.

Everything she’d done for these past many years felt as if she’d been merely waiting for this. A marking of time, waiting for Harry.

Such a fool.

Moisture leaked from her eyes—tears of joy? Tears of heartbreak, when she’d never before cried? Not once. Anger, hurt, fury had all been too hot for tears. And later the regret had left her empty.

Warm hands cradled her face. “Ah sweetheart, don’t cry,” he whispered, anguish in his voice. She opened her eyes. His face echoed her sorrow. “Please, don’t cry.”

A shaky laugh rose from her throat, husky, damp sounding. “I’m not.”

He captured a tear at the corner of her eye on his thumb, tasted it. “You are so. We’ll take this no further. I’m not wanting to make you sad.” He made as if to pull away, a flexing of muscle in his arms, a grimace on his face as if it took him great effort.

She grasped his broad forearms, her laugh stronger. “Don’t you dare stop. It’s just…I’d forgotten what it felt like, to feel…wanted. Please, Harry.”

He groaned and pressed home.

The feel of her sweet body clenched around his flesh drove him wild. He wasn’t sure he could….no. He would not lose control. He had yearned for this moment too many years to muck it up like some green youth.

Slowly he withdrew, watching her face, seeking to know what she liked. And there she was. His fierce Scottish lass with fire in her eyes and passion writ large on her beloved face. His Kate.

Her hips rose to meet him, the dark red curls mingling with his of dark brown as he plunged deep into her heat. Glorious sensation ripped through his body.

He lowered his head to taste her sweet breast with their budded peaks and her fingers speared into his hair, urging him on while she moaned her approval.

This she liked.

He found himself smiling. He withdrew slowly, preparing for the next torturous entry he must control.

Her legs came up around his hips, her heels on his buttocks, urging his return. With a long slow stroke he entered her body, slid home deeper than before as she tilted her hips.

Hades, she was tight. And so wonderfully hot.

Her hands roamed his back, his arms, while her expression grew ever more hazy with desire.

“You look so beautiful,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

Her eyes widened, the green depths a mystery. “Oh Harry,” she said.

The sound of his name on her lips was his undoing. He would never let her go. Because she was his and always had been. Nothing and no one would ever come between them again.

The urge to drive into her, to stake his claim overcame reason. He pounded into her body, over and over, watching her pleasure, wanting her to know him and only him.

She met his furious assault with a battering of her own, lifting her hips, grabbing his buttocks, meeting him stroke for stroke, all the while her gaze drank in his face.

Sweat sheened on their bodies, the dark bliss beckoned, and she took everything he had to give.

He angled his hips, looking for the one place inside her that would shatter her and let him find his release.

There. He saw it in her face, a kind of wondering melting. He moved harder, faster. “Please, Kate,” he groaned. “Let go for me, now.”

She cried out. He let go and joined her in shuddering bliss, feeling the pull of her body as wave after wave of rippling tension held her in its grip.

Beautiful. Wondrous. He felt proud. And so bloody happy.

“I love you,” he said.

“Oh, Harry. I was such a fool. I’m sorry.”

He lay twining her silken fiery hair around his fingers. With the afternoon sun slipping through the window turning her skin to gold, a shadow lurked in the room. The future. She’d not said one word about love.

“I have to go,” she whispered, and he was glad to hear the regret in those words, even as they gave him a sense of dread.

“Stay.” He nuzzled her neck and blew in her ear.

She shivered deliciously. “I can’t. We have an engagement for dinner.”

“To hell with dinner. I want to feast on you.”

Her laugh was breathless.

“When will I see you again?” He knew the answer, before it came, from the sadness in her eyes, and she leaned up on one elbow to look at him.

“We mustn’t. It wouldn’t be right. The Mcraes think you are going to offer for Elizabeth. Diana has been good to me. I can’t betray her trust.”

He opened his mouth and she pressed a dainty finger to his lips. “I can’t do it, Harry. She is my friend.”

“What about me? About us.”

Her small hand stroked his jaw. “You’ll be fine.” Her voice caught a little on the words. “You don’t need any help wooing a woman.”

He clearly was not going to change her mind. Nor was he going to act the forlorn lover and throw a tantrum. He was too old for such games and Kate wouldn’t like it.

He grinned up at her. “I am sure there is a lot more you can teach me, lass.”

She laughed. “Incorrigible man. You can manage very well by yourself.”

He let go a long sigh and put his hand to his heart with a comical twist to his lips. He did not want her to know how much her rejection hurt.

“I’ll say no more, then. A gentleman never argues with a lady.” He pushed himself up off the bed. “Let me help you dress.”

Chapter Three

Lizzie huffed out a breath. “Our last ball. It is so unfair. Do I have to dance with him?”

Everyone in the carriage knew she meant Godridge.

“Of course, you do,” Diana said.

“Lord Godridge is here at your father’s request,” Kate said softly from her backward-facing seat. “You can’t hold it against him.”

Lizzie pouted. “Well, I’m not going to marry him.”

“There will be lots of other men to dance with too,” Kate said in heartening tones. “Mr. Denton among them.”

Lizzie sighed, then chuckled. “I’m really not sure I can stand another evening of all that bad poetry.”

A pang struck Kate’s heart. Now was the time for Harry to woo the young woman, even though he’d said he didn’t want her. This was the reason she’d not dared open her heart. And he’d agreed to Kate’s departure so easily, too. Once he’d bedded her. Words of love spoken in passion were not necessarily the truth. Were they?

“Young Viscount Hetherington has been showing a marked interest,” Diana mused.

Lizzie blushed to the roots of her hairline. It might be dim in the carriage, but there was no mistaking that telltale flush.

Kate straightened in her seat. “Lizzie?”

The child waved a hand. “He’s just a friend.”

“All the Hetherington men are remarkably handsome,” Diana said. “I remember his father. No one looked better in velvet breeches….” Her voice tailed off as she realized the other two ladies were staring at her, wide-eyed.

“Well, they didn’t,” she said.

Lizzie and Kate burst out laughing. The ache in Kate’s heart eased. Perhaps she really didn’t need to worry about stealing Harry from under Lizzie’s nose after all. Perhaps she would try to speak with him alone this evening. Tell him the words she’d held back yesterday.

If he still seemed interested.

Doubts. Fears. They plagued her unmercifully. Yet what did she have to lose? Only her heart. Again.

The vehicle lurched as if it had hit a pothole.

Kate grabbed for the hand strap.

The carriage slowed.

Lizzie leaned forward to peer through the window in the door. “Are we there?”

Kate let down the window in the other door. Complete darkness met her eyes. “I don’t think so. We are still on Hampstead Heath.”

“Stand and deliver,” a voice shouted from ahead of them.

“Footpads?” Diana squeaked. “My jewels.”

“How exciting,” Lizzie said.

Open mouthed, Kate stared at her. “Are you mad?”

The door flew open. An enormous fellow with a kerchief covering the lower half of his face stuck his head through the opening.

Diana’s hand went to her pearls. “Don’t harm us. We’ll give you anything you want.”

“Aye,” the big man said with a distinctly Scottish accent. “But one of you must go with me as a hostage.”

Lizzie gave a little scream.

“That would be me,” Kate said, trying not to laugh.

“No!” Lizzie caught at her arm. Using her fan, she struck out at their robber, who easily fielded the blow and took Kate’s outstretched hand. “Out you come, madam.”

“Gitby,” Diana cried. “Do something.”

“Can’t, miss,” Gitby called back. “There’s another of ’em holding a pistol to my head.”

“Never fear, Kate,” Lizzie called, sticking her head out of the window. “Papa will pay whatever ransom they ask.”

“There’ll be no ransom high enough,” the large highwayman said, his eyes glinting in the lamplight.

Kate thought it was the sweetest thing she had ever heard.

He pulled down his mask and planted a swift kiss on her lips.

Lizzie squealed. “Good Lord, he’s kissing her.”

“You wretch,” Kate said, staring into Harry’s hazel eyes, where the gleam of the carriage lights danced.

“Drive on,” the other highwayman yelled at the coachman.

Gitby set his horses in motion. The carriage creaked and lumbered away with Lizzie still hanging out of the window. The horseman turned to follow the coach.

“Beauworth will explain when they arrive,” Harry said, dipping his head for another kiss.

“Stop it,” Kate whispered, not sure whether to laugh or cry, her heart felt so full of something painful and sweet.

“You’ll not get away this time, Kate. ’Tis off to Gretna for you and no arguments.”

He drew off his gloves and cradled her face in his hands. The kiss he delivered was blissfully hard and full of possession. She put her hands on his shoulders and held on for dear life. When finally he let her go to draw breath, she shook her head at him.

“Harry, this is utter madness.”

“Aye.” He put an arm around her waist and walked her back along the road a few steps. “I’m mad for you, Kate.”

She slanted him a shy glance. “And I for you.”

He halted and turned her to face him. The moonlight cast his face into hard relief. His teeth flashed white in a brief smile. “I’ve a confession to make, Kate.”

Her heart thundered. Fear? Hope?

“What?” she whispered.

“I’ve no heart for riding neck or nothing to Scotland with you on my saddlebow. It would be very uncomfortable and my horse wouldn’t like it.”

“Oh,” she said, attempting a grave voice as laughter bubbled in her throat.

He took her hand in his large warm one and kissed it tenderly. “So if you don’t mind, we’ll go by way of my carriage. Inside it. Together.”

Heart full of love, she smiled. “I think that would be best. We’ve some lost time to make up for.”

His smile broadened. “Ah, sweetheart,” he said softly. “But I’ve been taking lessons from a very good teacher.”

“Oh, Harry.”

“Yes, love of my life?”

“I love you so very much.”

He pulled her close. “Those are the very words I’ve been waiting to hear.”

Look for Garrick Le Clere, Marquess of Beauworth’s story in Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress by Ann Lethbridge, on sale now from Harlequin Historical.

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Ann Lethbridge has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet, or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel, it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.

Ann grew up roaming England with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.

Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles.

ISBN: 978-1-4268-5285-5

The Laird and the Wanton Widow

Copyright © 2010 by Michèle Ann Young

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