A Woman Scorned (7 page)

Cole Amherst looked her straight in the eyes. “And do you always get what you insist upon, Lady Mercer?”

Jonet paced back and forth for a moment, then turned to him again. Her hand simply itched to slap him for his arrogance. But that would not do. “You have been listening, I daresay, to the rumor mill, have you not?” she said in carefully measured tones. “You have no doubt heard things about me.”

The captain’s golden eyes dropped halfway closed, as if he were perfectly at ease. “If you insist upon airing such contemptible gossip, Lady Mercer, then yes, you do seem to have made something of a reputation for yourself.” The husky drawl of his voice was suggestively smooth, like the finest cognac. It made one think of warm wool and wood smoke. And the scent of a man.

She should have been angry, but instead, Jonet found herself wondering what Captain Cole Amherst smelled like beneath his dashing regimentals.
Perhaps she should simply seduce him and find out
. Perhaps she could offer him something that James could not, and move their little game to an altogether different playing field.

She should have found such thoughts appalling, but she did not. Jonet ascribed that fact to sheer desperation, praying it was nothing more perilous—such as true attraction. But from the look of him, it would be no great sacrifice to seduce Cole Amherst, save for the fact that it would be another black mark on her soul. But Jonet was long past counting, when she had so much at stake.

She looked at him again and saw that his eyes were no longer heavy but keen and quietly watchful. It felt as though Amherst could see right through the wall of her charade and into her heart. Could he? Could he even, heaven forbid, sense the inexplicable attraction she felt for him? That capricious piquing of her desire, those shards of sweet memory, which had caught her unaware, then melted through her with a hungry need? Almost absently, Jonet gave herself a little shake. Dear heaven, she often felt alone, but when had she become so pathetically lonely?

“Lady Mercer?” Amherst’s deep, smoky voice cut into her unease. “Believe it or not, some of us do not live a life of indolence. If I can be of service, might we get on with it?”

“Get—
get on
with it?” She dropped into her chair.

He nodded curtly. “Yes, if you please. And if you have no interest in my assistance, I must take myself home now, for I have other plans for the evening.”

His mood increasingly sullen, Cole studied the woman seated across from him. He was beginning to think that for once in his narrow-minded life, his uncle had been even-handed in his judgement of another human being. Lady Mercer was something of a hellcat. She reminded him of a cat, too; long and sleek, with motions so sinuous they could not possibly have been bestowed by the Divine Creator. Indeed, it was entirely possible that she was the slut James had called her.

She obviously took pleasure in teasing and tormenting men. Certainly, she was tormenting him. Lady Mercer’s pale, slender hand rested casually upon the arm of her chair, but the rhythmic motion of her fingertips as they caressed the leather, absently rubbing back and forth across the brass studwork, was wildly entrancing. It was a sensual, hypnotic, and very feline motion. Ruthlessly, Cole pulled his eyes from her hand, taking some measure of satisfaction in his ability to do so. Circumspectly, he took in the unrelieved black of her gown, which was plain to the point of severity and provided the perfect foil for her flawless ivory skin. From a single strand of jet beads, a cross hung suspended between breasts that were high and rounded.

Her hair was dressed in a fashion that perfectly suited her delicate face, yet the arrangement was unfashionably soft and loose, silently inviting a man to slide his fingers through it, to pull out all the pins and let it tumble to her waist. Cole swallowed hard and jerked himself back to reality. For pity’s sake, there was really nothing all that extraordinary about the woman’s hair. Indeed, she was dressed with all propriety. Four months into her widowhood, Lady Mercer’s attire still gave every indication that she deeply mourned the loss of the man who, were the gossips to be believed, had been nothing but an inconvenience.

Cole found it strange that he now remembered every detail of how she had looked on her wedding day, which had occurred but a few short months before his own. Lady Jonet Cameron she had been at that time. Uncle James had insisted that the entire family be present at the auspicious occasion of the marquis’s second nuptials. Even Cole, a distant relation, had not escaped his uncle’s edict. And so he had reluctantly set aside his research, left his offices in Cambridge, and gone down to London for the festivities, only to spend the better part of the day hanging back from the crowd as best he could. And still, he remembered her.

At eighteen, Lady Jonet had been little more than a thin, almost frail girl, swathed in expensive wedding finery. Cole recalled with perfect clarity the profound sorrow he had felt for her, a lovely young woman he had not known at all. He had thought it a miracle that she had made it down the aisle of St. James’s, so visible had been her trembling.

Later, when good taste had required that he offer the bride his congratulations, Cole remembered leaning near her in the crush of the wedding breakfast to whisper some inane compliment, and feeling her slender body shudder against him. He remembered, too, his own shiver of sensual awareness, and the heated shame which had followed. He had kissed her and moved on, leaving her trembling with fear, and himself with selfish lust. Oh, yes. He had never forgotten that strange sensation, though he had never felt it since.

At the time, he had been unable to imagine a worse fate for a sheltered Scottish miss than a marriage to the annoyingly superior Lord Mercer, who was more than twice his young bride’s age. Apparently, he need not have worried. By all accounts, Lady Mercer had given as good as she had gotten. And she had been quick about it, too. After the wedding, Mercer had hidden his new wife away at his seat in Norfolk until Jonet had done her duty and given him the treasured heir his first wife had been unable to provide.

Immediately thereafter, his lordship had gone back to town, and Lady Mercer, so far as Cole could tell, had gone where she damned well pleased. And that had been, for the most part, home to Scotland, where she had catered to her sickly mother and conspired to make trouble with her wily fox of a father, or so Uncle James had often grumbled.

Cole had been a scholar. He had understood little—and cared even less—about the intricacies of noble marriages and the complexities of their titles, particularly the strange Scottish ones. He certainly had not understood that Lady Jonet was an heiress. His Uncle James had complained vehemently about the liberal settlements which the wily Kildermore had negotiated on his daughter’s behalf, many of which became effective upon the birth of her first son.

And then, Lord Kildermore had died, and in James’s definition, matters had gone from bad to worse. Jonet Rowland was a peer, with more titles hanging off her name than Cole had neckcloths, and apparently she was none too meek about it. James had made it plain that he found it disgraceful that his brother’s wife should go about so boldly in society, making friends with whomever she pleased, and acting with such an unbecoming degree of independence.

Lord Mercer, it had seemed, had still had the whip hand on his wife. But just barely. The marquis had wed her no doubt thinking that the comely lass had not a clever thought in her pretty little head. Well, Mercer had been wrong on that score. Even at this moment, it was apparent to Cole that Lady Mercer was busy planning her next move. The smile she shone upon him was blindingly gracious, almost sweet. “You are hired,” she announced flatly.

As Cole searched his rather extensive vocabulary for a more civil way of saying
No way in hell am I working for you
, Lady Mercer rose gracefully from her seat to ring the bell.

“As I am sure you are aware, the terms of your employment, as well as the salary, were set forth in my advertisement,” she said briskly. “You shall have a half-day off per week, during which time you will no doubt wish to call upon your Uncle James.” She then set her head at an angle and stood haughtily in her lusterless black, assessing him much as a bright-eyed raven might study an unsuspecting worm. “Mr. Donaldson will show you to your chambers, Captain Amherst,” she said in a tone of finality. “Your things will be brought up as soon as may be.”

Cole rose to his feet and stood in the center of her drawing room, his hands clasped very tightly behind his back. For reasons he barely understood, he bit back his tart refusal. When he spoke, he schooled his words to be crisp, almost brutally courteous. “Let us understand one another, Lady Mercer. I am not your servant. I do not require a salary.
If
I am to assist your children, I shall teach Monday through Friday, and the occasional half-day on Saturday. I have no things ‘to be brought up.’ I do not plan to take up residence here.”

Jonet suppressed a gasp. Her anger chased fast after confusion, with unbridled lust hot on their heels.
Good heavens, this Captain Amherst was a hard man to understand
. She felt her already racing pulse ratchet up another notch. Terror had been her constant companion for so long she had almost grown accustomed to it. Now, in the space of five minutes, it seemed as if the rest of her emotions had been set loose like a pack of ill-trained hounds.

Only a severe twitch in Amherst’s chiseled jaw belied his temper, but unless Jonet missed her guess, it was a fierce one indeed. It had never occurred to her that he might prefer to reside elsewhere, and Jonet knew that she ought to be inordinately relieved that he would not be sleeping under her roof. Instead, she was quite vexed. “My advertisement stipulated that the tutor would be expected to live in,” she insisted, her voice a little more querulous than she intended.

Captain Amherst spoke again in his same carefully modulated tones. “With all respect, my lady, I have not come in answer to your advertisement. I have come at my uncle’s behest. Moreover, I have come to teach, not to nursemaid.”

“Oh, I daresay I know why James sent you here, Captain Amherst,” she snapped, swishing across the room as boldly as she dared. “What I begin to wonder is whether you do.”

Crossing her arms over her chest to keep her hands from visibly shaking, she turned her back to him and stared out the window. In her agitation, Jonet had given no thought to how rude such a gesture might appear. Amherst, however, seemed to have grasped it rather quickly. Almost at once, she was shocked to feel the heat of his hand high on her arm, burning through the fabric of her gown. She whipped around to face him, a cruel reprimand dying on her lips.

Amherst’s face was so close she could see the insolent curve of his mouth and the shadow of a surprisingly dark beard beneath his skin. He was so tall she could feel the warmth of his breath stir across her forehead. Like a heavy shadow falling, the man loomed over her. Jonet could smell him now, his angry heat edged with nothing but clean male sweat and a hint of soap as he pressed his fingers into her upper arm. His hands were powerful, and a little rough.

A deep tremble ran through her, but whether it was outright fear or perverse lust, Jonet could not have said. One was as bad as the other. Amherst leaned another inch nearer. His lush, carnal mouth now looked tight and mean. “If I am as dangerous as you seem to believe, Lady Mercer,” he said in a soft, lethal undertone, “perhaps you ought not turn your back whilst I’m in the room. Moreover, if your children require instruction in drawing room deportment—and from what I have seen, I daresay they may—then I shall cheerfully add it to their curriculum.”

Jonet refused to back down. “Why, Captain,” she softly retorted, staring straight into his eyes, “you are standing so close, one might imagine you are trying to seduce me.” To her undying mortification, she realized that she burned to kiss that hard, uncompromising mouth until it softened and molded to her own. For a moment, Amherst’s dark lashes lowered, and a hungry expression passed over his face.

Almost at once, his fingers dug ruthlessly into her skin. And then, he shoved her roughly away. “Make no mistake, madam,” he growled, his eyes flashing sparks of gold. “When I try to seduce a woman, she is well aware of it. And I do it under my own roof. On my own time.”

Before she could gasp at the insult, Amherst’s powerful stride had carried him halfway across the room, and he had snatched up his leather folio in one of his long, capable hands.

“And just where do you think you are going?” Jonet asked with as much dignity as she could muster. She still stood by the window, rubbing her bruised arm.

Amherst turned from the door to glare at her. “To find your butler, ma’am, who seems a good deal more reasonable than you. If I am going to spend my time squabbling with children, I should prefer it to be those whom I am intended to teach.”

At that very moment, however, the door swung inward to reveal Donaldson, a tea tray balanced neatly on one hand. A round-faced, elderly woman stood behind him in the hallway, tufts of white hair springing from beneath her starched white cap. The butler stared back and forth between them inquiringly.

“Oh, thank heaven you are here, Nanna!” Jonet said irritably, looking past Donaldson and his tray. “Take this
gentleman
—Captain Amherst—to the schoolroom, if you please. And stay near him at all times.” Nails digging into her palms, Jonet narrowed her gaze as Amherst strode from the room. Obviously aware of the strain inside the drawing room, Donaldson pushed shut the door and looked at her expectantly.

Jonet jerked her head toward the closed door. “Charlie, send someone round to Bow Street with a message for Pearson,” she ordered, trying to steady her voice. “I am persuaded that we must learn all there is to know about Captain Cole Amherst. I want to know where he is from. Where he has been. Where he gets his shirts starched. Where he sleeps, and—” she paused for a heartbeat—“with whom.”

“Of course, milady. And for the nonce, shall I set a footman on him?”