A Rogue for All Seasons (Weston Family) (16 page)

“You are incorrigible.” She tried to sound disapproving, but the amusement in her eyes gave her away. “Are we truly courting?”

“No, we are pretending to court,” he corrected her, “which is a very good thing. If we were truly courting, I would feel obliged to behave as a gentleman. As we are pretending to court…” He stared at her lush mouth. “As we are pretending to court, and as I am denied other women, I think it only fair for me to kiss you as often as I like.”

“Oh!” She was flustered and flushed, every inch the proper Miss Merriwether. Then, as if by magic, she transformed into Diana. She resolutely met his gaze, the gold flecks in her hazel eyes gleaming with interest. He felt her attention slide down to his lips. “Yes,” she agreed.

“Yes?” he croaked, wondering if he possibly could have heard her correctly.

“I am determined this will be my last Season. I shall be five and twenty come November, and if your plan doesn’t work, yours may be the only kisses I am ever to experience. You are a rogue, but I trust you won’t damage my reputation, if only for fear of winding up alongside me in the parson’s mousetrap. So yes, Mr. Weston, do your best.”

From demure to daring, all in the blink of an eye. Henry was almost reluctant to turn her loose on the men of the
ton
. A tall oak stood alongside the path a few feet ahead. As soon as they reached it, he stopped her, using the thick trunk to shield them from the house.

“If you agree to call me Henry, I’ll do better than my best.” He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, then gently nipped the fleshy bit at the base of her thumb. He had heard the spot called the mount of Venus; the size of the mound indicated whether a person was of a passionate nature.

“Henry!”

She exhaled his name on a shivery breath. Her eyes were unfocused, the pupils wide with arousal. Without taking his gaze from her face, he licked the spot he’d bitten. A shudder rippled through her body.

Unable to resist, he backed her into the tree and demanded her mouth—hard and wet, fast and hot. When he stepped back, he noted with satisfaction that she swayed on her feet. He steadied her and waited for her dazed expression to recede before indicating they should resume their walk.

Yes, Diana Merriwether most definitely possessed a passionate nature, and for the length of time she was his to pleasure, Henry would do better than his best.

He would do his worst.

CHAPTER TEN

You cannot possibly consider this Season the same as previous ones, but why did I not hear the news from you? Instead, I received congratulations that my sister had secured the interest of Henry Weston. I adore you, Diana, but I question this match. Are you well? Also, will you ask Weston his opinion on the proper amount of starch for a cravat?

—FROM ALEXANDER MERRIWETHER TO HIS SISTER DIANA

H
ENRY WAS WRONG
. T
HE NEWSPAPERS
, fearing libel suits, took longer than a week to run the unbelievable story of her courtship. By that time, word had spread to all of London, down to the lowliest ragpicker, and bets were entered into the books at Brooks’s and White’s. And though she did indeed have suitors by the end of a fortnight, she knew exactly what she wanted to do with them…

Nothing pleasant.

They gathered in her drawing room, but it wasn’t as if any of them were there for her. Well, perhaps one of them came for her. Sir Samuel Stickley’s business at home had been quickly resolved and, as he’d promised her mother, he had called at Lansdowne House. He was as amiable as her mother had described, and he hadn’t taken one look at her and run screaming for the hills. Admittedly, he had potential.

But as for the rest… They were merely the fawning courtiers of the golden prince of the
ton
. Wherever he went, they followed. She wished she could blame them, but after so many years spent standing in the shadows, she found herself just as drawn to Henry’s light. He was all levity and good humor, though their morning rides tested the latter.

Just being with him tested her.

“Why is it only at this ungodly hour that a body can ride without trampling someone?” he grumbled as their horses ambled down Rotten Row following an exhilarating race.

“It must be near noon,” she protested.

“I had a late night of it.” He chuckled. “What with Bess’s games, I didn’t seek my bed until five o’ clock this morning. I must remember to rest up before my next visit…”

He kept talking, but she stopped listening. He’d been with a woman all night. Anger rose up, along with hurt and the harsh sting of betrayal. Real or not, their courtship had rules and, after only a fortnight, Henry had broken them without a care. Without a care for her.

Of course, he doesn’t care for you.

Her mare sensed her inattention and jerked the reins out of her hands.

“Have a care, Diana,” Henry admonished. He urged his horse close to hers and leaned down to grab her reins. She refused to look at him as he handed them to her.

He sighed. “I’ve angered you. Come, berate me, and have done with it.”

“How could you?” she whispered.

“How could I what?” He sounded sincerely confused. “I didn’t realize you were truly upset. Diana, please, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Bess
.
”
She nearly choked on the name. “You promised there would be no other women.”

He cursed before leaning close. “I want you to listen carefully to me.” His voice was low and rough. “I spent last evening in the company of Rutland and
his wife,
Elizabeth. She is my cousin through my mother’s family, and His Grace plans to invest in my stud. Bess is nearing her confinement and feeling poorly. Playing piquet until dawn to amuse her was the least I could do.”

“I thought—”

“I know what you thought. You were wrong. Look at me, Diana.”

She obeyed and got lost in those boundless blue eyes.

“You believe I’ll disappoint you,” he continued. “You believe that men are destroyers, not protectors. That’s not the usual way of the world. Trust me to take care of what’s mine and keep you safe. I want to lighten your burdens, sweetheart, not add to them.”

Her heart tripped at the easy endearment, began to fall at what he promised, but she pulled herself back. Henry didn’t understand. Her father had carried her world on his shoulders and he had dropped it. She couldn’t allow another person to hold her happiness, no matter how strong and capable.

She shook her head. “I’m not yours.”

“You are for the length of our courtship.” His blue eyes were serious, searching, and then they crinkled at the corners as that crooked grin came out to play. “When we’re together, I want you to practice setting your cares aside and taking pleasure in the moment. We’re each seeking something out of this courtship, and I’m determined we shall both get what we want. In the meantime, you, my dear Miss Merriwether, are in desperate need of amusement. Fortunately for you, I am extremely qualified to teach you about enjoying life.”

He was.

They set about exploring London like strangers to the city, fiercely determined to experience all the metropolis had to offer. They marveled at the Egyptian mummy at the British Museum. They argued over the merits of the artworks presented in the Royal Academy exhibition at Somerset House. Henry dragged her, along with his younger brother and his nephew, to the Leverian Museum. Diana found the cases of dried insects and deceased animals repulsive, but she found pleasure in the obvious excitement of the boys—all three of them.

Henry made countless introductions as they walked along the best shops on Mount Street and drove in the Park during the fashionable hour. He invited her to Covent Garden, where his brother-in-law had taken a private box for the Season. They went to Vauxhall, chaperoned by his sisters and their husbands, where they passed a glorious April evening. Henry even secured a subscription for Almack’s and danced with her on Wednesday nights under the fierce stares of the Lady Patronesses.

He asked her to dine with his family, an occasion she enjoyed tremendously as laughter and lively conversation dominated the meal. Diana issued a return invitation, and despite the ensuing affair being far more dismal, he seemed content. She suspected that his contentment had everything to do with her grandfather’s French
chef de cuisine
.

He won over her grandmother by virtue of his courtship. Her grandfather only said that Henry’s grandfather had been a good man, and Henry had the look of him—high praise, as the duke rarely said anything to anyone. Her mother remained cool toward Henry, but then, she knew the truth.

Her mother determinedly championed Sir Samuel. He, too, came to dinner. The baronet called on Diana regularly, walked with her in the Park, and danced with her at balls. She thought he would propose by the end of the Season. If he did, she would accept. She liked him well enough, liked the safety he represented.

Diana never felt
safe
with Henry, but her comfort with him had reached a place she had never found outside her mother and brother. Though they had little in common save a mutual love of horses, they never lacked for conversation. He made her laugh with stories about his days at Eton and Oxford. She told him terrifying tales of life under the reign of Her Grace, the Duchess of Lansdowne. They wove dreams of Henry’s future stud, and he held her hand when she ventured to talk about her past. He teased her when she became overly concerned with proprieties, while she appealed to his better nature when he forgot them.

Mostly.

When he forgot propriety with regard to her, she forgot everything but the pleasure she found in his arms. She could have no doubts about his roguish past; he seduced her far too often, and far too easily. In the mix of all the couples dispersing after a dance, he would whisk her out of the ballroom and onto the terrace, or behind a potted palm or a marble column.

Those were hasty, stolen kisses. Just enough so his wild taste clung to her lips, so his wicked scent of masculine skin and approaching storm lingered in her every breath. Those kisses haunted her days, but at night, alone in her bed, she allowed herself to relive his other kisses.

The ones where he hurried her down the hall to a deserted room, an empty alcove—the man had a diabolical knack for locating unoccupied spots. And who but Henry could turn a linen closet into a perfect site for seduction?

“Henry!” She laughed as he pushed her inside the tiny room. “This is a lin—”

His mouth came down on hers as he pulled the door shut, blanketing them in darkness. Her lips parted, welcoming him, as she let the first burst of pent-up desire rush over her. He wrapped his arms around her, clasping her tightly to him—one of his hands splayed across her back, the other indecently lower—as if any distance between their bodies was too much. As if she could go anywhere in the tiny space. As if she wanted to be anywhere else.

She raised a hand to Henry’s jaw as she sucked on his upper lip. She wanted more than the encouraging sound of pleasure she got. Ever so slowly, she lightly traced his upper lip with the tip of her tongue. Diana sensed the need rising in him, but he held still save for the fingers clenching her behind. She let him feel a hint of teeth.

He tensed, groaned, and then, after gently nipping her lower lip in retaliation, he seized control. As he devoured her mouth, he pulled both her arms behind her back and held them there, restraining her wrists in one big hand. She opened her eyes, but she could see nothing in the pitch-blackness.

At his mercy.

She gasped when his other hand molded over her breast. He tightened his hold on her wrists, but he eased back from her mouth, letting her breathe as he dropped soft kisses over her face. She barely noticed them. Her entire being centered on where his palm cupped her. Her breasts felt full and heavy, and her nipples strained against her corset. She arched against him, rubbing restlessly, trying to ease the ache.

Henry slowly made his way back to her mouth as his hand moved higher. He traced his forefinger across the sensitive swell of her breasts. Back and forth, back and forth, Diana floated between the intoxication of his kiss and the rhythmic caress. Distantly, she realized his finger skated progressively lower, easing under neckline of her gown, and then lower still. Sweeping beneath the layers of her corset and shift, he grazed the tip of her breast.

She jolted out of her dreamlike state, the light touch spearing pleasure through her. Henry took her choked cry into his mouth as he pressed her body into the wall of shelves. Her knees buckled as he rubbed over her nipple in slow, deliberate circles. Desire spiraled low in her belly, throbbed between her legs. She clenched her thighs together, too conscious of the emptiness at her core.

Her virginal state didn’t preclude some knowledge of sexual matters. She’d grown up on a stud in the country, and her grandfather collected ancient statues. She ate dinner every night with nude men looking on, though there was a definite difference between cold marble and heated flesh. From what pressed against her, there existed another, er, sizable difference between the statuary and Henry. Her hips jerked at the thought.