A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) (11 page)

Spice and tobacco filled her senses and she shivered.

“Cold?” Alexander asked in that too
-low voice again.

“No,” she snapped. “I’m fine.” Embarrassed by the intimacy of the moment, Francie bit her lip and forced herself to roll over and away from him. She landed on her stomach and pushed into a sitting position. Her gaze settled on Alexander
, his neckcloth slightly askew, his hair ruffled with a stray lock dangling over his left eyebrow, harsh lines bracketing both sides of his mouth.

He studied her with the intensity of a hunter stalking his prey. His silver eyes were gray-black with tiny flecks of gold.
Mesmerizing, entrancing eyes.

“James said you were displeased with George.”

“I was not displeased with George,” he said. “I was displeased with you.”

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. She would not let her control slip. If Mister “High and Mighty” Bishop could manage such calmness, then so could she. “I was unaware George escaped,” she paused, “again.”

Alexander shifted to a sitting position with a deftness belying his size. “One must be aware of one’s responsibilities at all times.”

So now he was implying she wasn’t responsible? Francie dug her nails into her palms. “I
am
responsible at all times, Mr. Bishop!”

He did no more than cock a black eyebrow, but it threw Francie to the edge of proper decorum, where she dangled a moment before pulling herself back up to respectable civility.

“I am responsible at all times,” she repeated in a more subdued manner.

“As is evidenced by your wardrobe ...or lack thereof.” His gaze traveled the length of her pale blue gown, stopping at her stocking
ed feet, which she attempted to hide under the hem of her gown.

“I think shoes are vastly overrated,” she said, tucking the fabric under her toes.

The corner of Alexander’s mouth twitched. “You would.”

She gestured to his clothing. “As is much of your attire. I cannot imagine a neckcloth being comfortable, unless one is inclined to use it as a bandage or a napkin.” She tilted her head to one side and said, “Or both.”

He tapped a finger to his chin and murmured, “An interesting possibility.”

“Quite.”

A dim silence enveloped them, closing out the rest of the world save George’s gentle snoring.

Who would have thought Francie would find this sliver of peace and quiet harmony with Alexander Bishop on the floor of his study? A slight pang of guilt nested in the center of her stomach. Could he say the same about her? Since the day she’d arrived at Drakemoor, claiming the earl as her father, she’d thrown Alexander’s life into turmoil. He’d been the one delegated to escort Francie back to Amberden to fetch Aunt Eleanor, the one whose quiet nights were interrupted with Francie’s feeble attempts on the pianoforte. And he’d been the one who swore he’d deal with Lord Jared Crayton.

She met his gaze and said, “James said you were very angry.”

“Hmmm.” He reached for a fat curl resting just above her elbow.

“So angry, in fact, you threatened to turn George into a rug.”

“James talks too much.” He let her hair fall through his fingers, and then scooped it up again.

“So you’re not going to turn him into a rug?”

“Of course not.” There was that voice. Like a caress.

“I’ll be certain he doesn’t disturb you again.”

“George doesn’t disturb me half as much as you do, Francie.”

She swallowed hard. “Excuse me?” It was much too hot all of a sudden.

“I said
, George doesn’t disturb me half as much as you do.”

Francie looked up to meet his gaze. “I haven’t seen you in days. Not since we returned from Amberden.” How could she have possibly bothered him when she hadn’t seen him?

“And that’s what’s disturbing me,” he said, winding a piece of hair around his hand and pulling her toward him. “It disturbs me very much.”

“Oh.” Her eyes grew wide with understanding. Oh. His spicy cologne filled her senses. Her eyes fluttered shut.

A roaring growl burst the quiet moment as George leapt upon them, a huge mass of muscle and fur, knocking Alexander away from Francie and pinning him to the ground.

“Damn you, George!” Alexander bit out. “Get off of me, you beast. Now!”

The dog whimpered once, lifted his paws from Alexander’s chest, and moved his huge frame to lie by Francie.

Alexander pushed himself up in three quick moves. Anger permeated the room and the man himself.

She heard it in the sound of his rapid, unsteady breathing, saw it in the controlled, jerky movements of his hands as he straightened his jacket and brushed at the tan hair covering his trousers.

Whatever was about to happen before George charged Alexander was over.

Francie couldn’t be angry with George. He was only doing what he’d been trained to do—protect his mistress from danger.

Was
she in danger from Mr. Bishop? She wished she knew.

“Come, George,” Alexander’s deep voice boomed from behind her. “Now!”

Francie watched in amazement as George sat up and, without a backward glance toward his mistress, followed Alexander out of the room.

“Why would you want to invite someone like Bishop to supper?”

Claire Ashcroft heard the annoyance in her father’s voice. Edgar Ashcroft, Earl of Belmont, never associated with anyone lower than a viscount. It was his rule. A person beneath his rank couldn’t possibly have anything interesting to say.

Alexander Bishop fell well below the rank of viscount. He was a commoner.
A captivating, dark, arrogant commoner. And Claire wanted him. Had wanted him since the moment he’d touched her, pulled her into his arms, and carried her to his waiting horse. Never mind the reason for the touch—a gallant rescue—he’d touched her. She remembered still the sizzle of his fingers as they grazed bare flesh. Ah, but he would prove an exquisite lover.

She’d thought he might send his calling card the next day, or certainly, within the next three. Alexander Bishop did neither. The apparent indifference continued, even after their second encounter and another rescue. No man had ever possessed the strength or will to turn away Claire’s advances.
Until Alexander. He became her challenge. Her desire.
Her obsession
.

She smoothed out the folds of her peach day gown, adjusting the lace at the cuffs.
French lace, from Madame Druillard’s, the finest modiste in London. Only the best. It was what her father bred her to expect these past eighteen years. He’d given her everything she’d ever asked for from the time she could point. A pony at five, two horses at thirteen. Silks, satins, rubies, diamonds, and more. So much more.

He’d give her Alexander Bishop, too.

Claire turned to her father and gave him a sweet smile. He never could resist her when she smiled at him and lowered her voice to just above a desperate whisper, as though she’d die if he didn’t grant her request.

“Alexander Bishop has a fine reputation, Father.”

“As what? A stable boy?” He grunted and grabbed his glass of port, his ice-blue eyes narrowing in disgust.

“As a gentleman,” Claire countered. “I’ve had occasion to meet him and was quite impressed.”

“That he managed to string two syllables together?” The earl took a healthy swallow of his drink. “Or that manure didn’t cling to his boots?”

“Father, really!”

The earl’s lips curved in a twisted smile. “The truth is not often a welcome bedfellow.”

Truth
. Claire wondered what her father would say, if, in the name of truth, she divulged her string of lovers, many of whom fell well below the station of baron? If she were to tell him about the cook’s son and the groomsman? And what of her father, the mighty Earl of Belmont, who made weekly visits to a widow half his age? Though he had only a handful of gray hair on an otherwise black head, he was still sixty years of age. Should she confront him with that bit of honesty? She thought not.

No, truth was best left buried somewhere between tarnished honesty and blatant lies.

She’d try another tactic. “Are you saying he is not welcome at Glenhaven?”

The earl rubbed his close-cropped beard and laughed. “That’s my girl.
Always clever. You could’ve been a strategist for the Crown.” He lifted his right hand and motioned in all four directions. “If one ploy doesn’t work, retreat and try a second. Plan B fails, there is always Plan C and even D.”

She hid a smile. “Why
, Father, whatever do you mean?”

“You’re my daughter, Claire. Shrewd and cunning, just like me.” He chuckled. “First you play the role of helpless female and when that doesn’t work, you retreat to indignant diplomat. Should that fail, you no doubt have another option waiting.”

“Demanding compromiser.” She laughed. “There’s usually no need to venture past that.”

“Lucky for me, I think. You drive a hard bargain, girl.”

She walked up to him and pecked him on the cheek. “I learned from my father.”

That seemed to please him. Claire knew by the smile on his face he enjoyed their verbal sparring. Her father was a tough man. Hated by some, feared by most, and he’d never shown a moment’s compassion for his fellow man, whether they be friend or foe.

Fair was fair, and business was business. Personal feelings must be left at the doorstep. If someone was late paying a debt or needed a favor, they may as well spare their vocal chords because Belmont would show them no mercy.

The only exception was Claire. For her, he would do anything.

“I hear there’s a new guest at Drakemoor,” he said, with casual nonchalance.

Straightening, she pinned her gaze on him. He was busy plucking a piece of lint from his jacket, his curly head bent to the task.

“Oh?” She hadn’t heard about any guest.

“A woman.” His icy gaze met hers and he smiled. “Montrose’s bastard.”

“No,” she squealed, her face lighting up. Oh, but she did love a good bit of gossip. “Who is she?”

“Name’s Francie Jordan.”

Francie Jordan
. Jared’s obsession. The woman he’d compared her to, as though anyone could compare to Claire Ashcroft. Curiosity and an unfamiliar feeling that might well be envy crept through Claire’s consciousness. More beautiful than she? Well, she’d see for herself.

“Let’s invite her, too,” she said, already thinking of what she’d wear for the occasion. The royal blue silk matched her eyes, but the pale green satin had a neckline that would hold Alexander Bishop’s attention.

“I don’t think so. She’s a bastard,” her father said, scrunching his nose as though he’d smelled rotten cabbage.

“Father, I want to meet her.” And make
her own comparisons.

The earl cleared his throat and downed the rest of his port. “There is one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“I think she may be your cousin.” Claire almost choked. “My what?”

“Your cousin, but I can’t be certain.” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your mother had an older sister named Eleanor. Quiet, plain, always doting on Catherine. She married her tutor.” He snorted. “I don’t have to tell you what a scandal they created. They lived with us until your mother died. Then they just disappeared. I never cared for either one and was glad to be rid of them.” He grinned and stroked his beard. “Eleanor left behind a tidy little sum of money. Now they’ve turned up at Montrose’s home with a red-haired daughter.” His grin spread across his face. “Eleanor’s hair was black, and her husband’s was brown.”

“Father,” Claire breathed. “What are you saying?”

“The woman cuckolded her husband. I’ll bet Montrose is the father. That’s why they’re back, most likely attempting to convince him to launch his daughter into society.”

Claire made a face. “How crude. Some people have no dignity. Will you acknowledge her?” And then, “Will I have to?”

“Of course not, child. We’ll say nothing. Good manners and proper breeding will prohibit anyone else from mentioning it.” He ran a hand over his face. “Good God. Can you imagine? Illegitimacy linked to the Ashcroft name?”

Claire shuddered. “No, nor do I want to. It’s extremely distasteful.”

“Some people have no respect for title or position.”

“But you do,
Father.” Claire threw him another of her bright smiles. “You understand your responsibility. As do I.”

The earl beamed and Claire touched his shoulder, murmuring, “Now, about the ma
tter of Mr. Bishop and Miss Jordan. When may I invite them to Glenhaven?”

“You’ll give me no peace until I agree.” He let out a sigh and waved his hand. “Go ahead then, send the invitation. Four days hence.”

She threw her arms about his neck and said, “Thank you, Father. Thank you so much.”

“Good God, child,
it’s only a dinner invitation.”

But with careful planning and a little scheming, it will turn into a wedding invitation
. Claire closed her eyes and smiled, thinking of Alexander Bishop’s strong thighs and broad chest.