An Invitation to Seduction (8 page)

She wanted to cheer Lady Anne’s sentiments.
Mind your own business, Weddington
, she thought, yet even as she thought it, she was left with the distinct impression that perhaps he was.

The Royal Italian Opera had at one time been known as the Covent Garden Theatre. Kitty sat beside Lady Anne at the front of the balcony box while Weddington sat directly behind Kitty. She was acutely aware of each breath he took. The tangy lemony scent that was such a part of him, and had enveloped her in the coach, continued to wrap around her in the balcony.

As the curtains opened, Lady Anne leaned forward slightly and placed a tiny pair of silver binoculars to her eyes. Kitty had not brought hers, but they were truly not needed. The duke’s box was close enough to the stage that every performer and set scenery was clearly visible, the details remarkably viewed. Even her father never acquired seats so perfectly located for the optimum enjoyment of the performance.

Her mastery of Italian had come at an early age, along with French. Her father’s success had allowed her to move in circles that she knew few ladies did, and she’d been determined to make the most of the opportunities he provided and always to make him proud. She’d applied herself to her studies with the same fervor she applied herself to all things. So for her, the opera was an experience she truly appreciated and relished, and as she became caught up in the performance, her awareness of Weddington gradually began to recede.

Until his warm breath fluttered against the nape of her neck.

“Hold still,” he murmured so quietly as to almost be unheard, his lips so close as to almost be felt. “Your maid failed to properly secure a button.”

With his gloved finger, he slowly stroked her spine from the base of her skull to the top of her shoulders. Down and up. A small circle. Down. A tiny circle. Up. Over and over. So incredibly leisurely. So incredibly sen
suously. The warmth of his flesh seeped through the cloth that separated his skin from hers. She was aware of the slow turning of his hand, the pressing of his palm against the side of her neck, his knuckles coming to rest beneath her chin, the tip of his finger taking an unhurried journey along her collarbone until it dipped into the hollow at her throat.

She breathed shallowly, swallowed hard, certain he could feel the movement of her throat against his finger.

Heat swirled around her, through her until it settled in the most unexpected of places: at the apex between her thighs. It was all she could do not to shift within her chair, not to seek the pressure that her body instinctively cried out for.

As though he had all the time in the world, as though the curtain would never be drawn closed and the performance would never end, he trailed his finger back up along her collarbone, then up the side of her neck, tucking his finger against the sensitive spot right behind her ear. She was conscious of her breasts swelling against the fabric of her gown, her nipples hardening, and she wondered how so simple a touch could feel as though it caressed every sensitive inch of her body.

Biting back a moan, she fought to ignore his attentions, but it was not a battle she had any chance of winning. Her vision blurred and darkened, and she realized that her eyelids had fluttered closed. Then his thumb joined the game, stroking her earlobe, outlining the delicate shell of her ear. She thought in her weakening state that she might simply slip off the padded velvet cushion of the chair. How did he manage to so thoroughly distract her with so simple a maneuver?

His hand slipped around back, and she felt movement indicating that he was at long last slipping the errant button through its loop.

“There,” he whispered, his lips skimming against her ear. “All has been put to rights.”

His withdrawal was hard felt, almost brutal with the longing it left in its wake. She shivered, not from cold, but rather from her detestable desire to abandon her chair, climb onto his lap, and beg him to find more buttons that needed his remarkable attention.

Richard settled uncomfortably in his chair, his swollen manhood aching almost as much as his lower back. He’d been a damned fool to taunt her, because in so doing, he taunted himself. One touch was not nearly enough, but then he knew if he touched her for each star in the infinite heavens he would still be far from satisfied, would still not consider it enough.

By God, he’d even been wearing gloves, snug ones at that. It was as though his fingertips remembered the silkiness of her skin from the moments he’d held her, touched her, and caressed her by the sea. He longed to trail his lips over the same path that his finger had just taken, but Anne would likely notice. He knew he’d taken a chance that her absorption in the performance would prevent her from noticing little else. The result had been worth the risk, but he dared not go any further, because his own restraint was likely to break, and he might give in to the temptation to lift her out of the chair and onto his lap.

His touch had affected Kitty as well. He’d felt it in the tiny shimmers noticeable beneath his hand, her quiet swallowing, the stillness of her breathing. He was incredibly aware of every aspect of her being.

Did Farthingham heat her up as Richard did? Would she be as quick to flare under Richard’s ministrations if Farthingham did ignite her so? Or did her quick, sharp reaction indicate her body was in want of pleasure? Did Far
thingham grant her gratification, or did he withhold it?

And what could Richard do about it, if anything? Her loyalty to Farthingham was commendable, and caused him to admire her all the more. She would stick with Farthingham through thick and thin, in spite of the fact that he might not be the right man for her, because she believed in Farthingham, believed in them as a couple.

She’d made her bed and was determined to lie in it, even if it was rumpled and unkempt.

He’d witnessed Farthingham kissing her cheek and her forehead, taking her hand. And yet, Richard had not taken notice of her heating up as she seemed to whenever he touched her—even with something as innocent as a gloved finger. Although his intentions had been anything but innocent. He’d purposely sought to unsettle her, to make her wonder what it might be like to experience his touch in its entirety. He’d only given her a hint of what he had to offer, and, in the offering, he’d caused his own suffering.

He shifted in his chair, grateful that it was only his back that nagged at him. He’d resurrected an old injury when he’d made his mad dash for the tennis ball and subsequently landed inelegantly on the ground. It was the reason that tonight he sported a walking stick: to help relieve some of the pain he suffered when he walked.

The injury usually flared only in the cold and the damp or when he didn’t take care to hold it at bay, when he was exhausted. Anne had expressed concern at his intention to play lawn tennis because she was well aware that it took little to make the muscles in his back revolt. He should have heeded her concern, but he was determined to win what Kitty was so reluctant to give.

He couldn’t reconcile his fascination with her. If he set his mind to it, he could have any woman in all of England, probably any woman in all of America. While he
might not possess the angelic face that Farthingham did, Richard thought his features were not too disagreeable. He possessed five prestigious titles, wealth, five grand estates, two residences in London—one to become the dower house once he took a wife—yachts, carriages, a fine stable of horses, the list of his possessions was endless, required five managers working tirelessly to keep track of everything. A woman married to him would never want for a single item.

So why did the woman sitting in front of him not cast Farthingham aside and rush into Richard’s arms after Richard had made it undeniably clear that he would welcome her there? Was it possible that she did indeed love Farthingham? Was love so powerful, so important that it mattered more than all the material possessions and advantages that Richard could provide?

And if he added love to all he had to offer?

He shook his head. While he believed in love, it was not an emotion he had any interest in experiencing firsthand. Oh, he loved his mother, he loved Anne, and he had loved his father. But a woman to whom he was not related?

Never. Love of that sort robbed one of control. Anne was a perfect example, spouting off about some commoner and realizing all she would give up if she took this man as a husband.

Or perhaps she recognized that Richard would see that she did not do without, that he would give her an ample dowry and lift her husband up rather than letting him drag her down.

Once again, he shifted in his chair. He should have postponed this outing, given his back time to recover. Swimming helped. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps the buoyancy took all the weight off his body, cocooned
him. He thought being cocooned by Miss Robertson might help as well. He imagined her delicate hands rubbing linseed oil over his back, taking the time to massage each muscle, to leave no bit of flesh untouched. Yes, he rather enjoyed the image those thoughts conjured up.

And with the image, more than his back began to ache again.

Incredible. He was no novice when it came to women, and yet he could not recall reacting so quickly nor so intensely to ponderings about even one female who had ever caught his fancy. He had but to let a solitary thought of Kitty flit through his mind, and his body was ready to give chase. For a man of his years, he should behave with a bit more decorum.

He’d brought Anne to the opera so Kitty would be more at ease around him. He’d also spoken true. He had no wish to tarnish her reputation—particularly if he were to succeed in convincing her that he was the one she should marry and not Farthingham. He wanted his duchess to be above reproach, free of scandal.

Several eyebrows had of course been raised when he’d walked in with Kitty at his side. To the right ears he’d delivered a few words of explanation—he’d brought her as a favor to Farthingham, who’d had an unexpected engagement. By the next afternoon all of London would know he’d not brought Kitty without Farthingham’s knowledge, consent, and blessing. Not that it was truly anyone’s business except his and Farthingham’s.

But he was too familiar with the damage that unkind rumors could cause. He’d suffered through enough of them when his father had died. It hadn’t been bad enough that the doctors had doubted whether or not Richard would survive and if he did, whether he would ever again walk without a limp. Oh, no. Gossipmongers had a field
day, upsetting his mother no end, speculating as to what had really happened between him and his father out on the sea.

He turned his attention back to Kitty. He’d much rather contemplate her than his past. He thought he could spend all night simply watching her. He wondered what he could offer Farthingham that would make him consider giving her up.

D
uring the journey home, Kitty stared at her gloved hands, stared out the window, stared at the shadows inside, doing all she could to avoid looking at Weddington. She’d thought she was aware of him before. Now it was as though he actually inhabited her skin. She was aware each time he shifted on the seat, each time he released the tiniest of sighs, each movement of his hands, and the intensity with which he continually watched her.

She considered taking him to task for the liberties he’d exhibited when he’d touched her, but she simply wanted to forget it had happened. Although she thought it unlikely that she ever would. It was as though he’d branded a circle around her throat, a velvet collar that drew her to him.

These feelings, these sensations were completely wrong, went against all of her upbringing. She’d worked diligently to bury the faintest hint that they existed, and all it took from Weddington was a light touch, a gentle caress, and she was burning with forbidden desires and lacked the wherewithal to squelch the flames.

She longed for Farthingham’s comforting embrace, a place to hide away from the sensations and lurid thoughts that tormented her. She felt incredibly on edge, and feared the slightest touch from Weddington would catapult her into an arena she had no wish to enter.

“Did you not enjoy the opera, Miss Robertson?” Weddington asked.

Startled by his voice, she fought to regain control of her emotions. He’d unsettled her earlier, and she had no wish for him to know it. “I enjoyed it very much, Your Grace, thank you.”

“Anne and I attend performances quite often. You are more than welcome to join us at any time.”

She gave up the battle of not looking at him. “I appreciate your generosity, but honestly, I spent much of tonight thinking of Lord Farthingham and missing him.”

“Bring him along next time, then.”

His offer surprised her. Did he think Farthingham wouldn’t notice Weddington’s finger trailing along her neck, beneath the laced, raised collar of her gown?

“I’ll let him know you’ve extended an invitation.”

“It would be jolly good fun having Lord Farthingham along,” Lady Anne said. “I always enjoy his company.”

“I think he’s gifted at ensuring everyone around him has fun,” Kitty admitted. “He has a way of putting people at ease. I’ve always felt very comfortable around him.”

“You strike me as a woman who would prefer risk over comfort,” Weddington said.

“I’ll admit that in my youth I possessed a streak of wildness. I’ve worked very hard to tame it.”

“A pity. I prefer a woman who has a bit of wildness in her nature.”

“Gentlemen might prefer her, but they do not marry her.”

“You say that as though you speak from experience,” he said.

The familiar pain and loathing burned her stomach. “I know a woman who was once extremely wild. She paid a high price for her actions.”

“So you have taken your lessons from her mistakes?”

“Yes.”

“And are you happy with your choices?”

“Very much so. And a good deal happier than you, I would think.” Rather pleased with that volley, she turned her attention back to the window.

“Upon what do you make your assessment regarding my happiness?” he asked.

“You seldom smile, and I’ve only once heard you laugh.”

“She has you there, Richard. You are quite glum at times,” Lady Anne said.

“Thank you, dear sister. I’ll keep that in mind the next time you request a new gown.”

Kitty was surprised to note that his voice still carried no offense, but genuine affection. She wondered if Lady Anne could ever truly garner his wrath.

“I thought you believed a woman should speak her mind,” Lady Anne said.

“Most certainly, that is my belief—as long as her mind is of the same persuasion as mine.”

Kitty snapped to attention at his ridiculous remark. “You can’t be serious.”

“Did you not just say that I was
always
serious?”

Was that a hint of teasing in his voice? How she wished the coach contained enough light that she’d be able to look in his eyes and determine if he was indeed mocking her. The notion of his teasing was so contrary to what she knew of him…she didn’t want to consider that he
might possess a lighter side. To her he was and would always be dark and dangerous, a man who tempted her with feelings best left unfound.

As the coach rocked to a stop, Kitty couldn’t have been more grateful with the timing and the fact that the journey had come to an end. She turned to the woman sitting beside her. “Lady Anne, I thoroughly enjoyed your company. Thank you so much for making it an unforgettable evening.”

“You’re most welcome, Miss Robertson. And I do hope you’ll accept Richard’s invitation to join us another time. Truly, neither of us will object to Lord Farthingham coming along.”

“Thank you. I do hope to see you again.”

She twisted slightly and before she could offer her thanks to Weddington, he said, “I’ll see you to the door.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“I must insist.”

Of course. He was a man determined to have his way in all matters. As if on cue, the door opened, the steps dropped down, and the footman extended a gloved hand inside.

Kitty made her way out of the coach and waited impatiently while the duke did the same. As they walked toward the door, she was acutely aware of the tapping of his walking stick and the tread of his feet, one obviously heavier and more labored than the other. At the opera house, the slowness of his movements had irritated her because she’d thought he’d purposely prolonged their reaching his box so that everyone would take notice of her accompanying him.

But now no reason remained for him to lag behind, nothing his slowness would accomplish. She faced him, and in the dim light cast by the gas lamps illuminating the front of the house, she saw a hardness to the set of his
mouth, a tautness at the corners of his eyes, and a stiffness to the way he held his body. He was not moving with the fluid motions that had characterized him that afternoon nor on the rocks where she’d first sighted him.

“Are you in pain?” she suddenly surprised herself by asking.

Surprised him as well if the astonished expression on his face was any indication.

“My back is troubling me, but I thought I was disguising my discomfort quite well,” he said.

“You were…you are.” She shook her head. “I was rude to ask. Forgive me.”

“I would forgive you anything, Miss Robertson.”

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Speak to me as though I mean more to you than I ever could.”

“If you think that, then you fail to realize the full extent of my esteemed regard for you.”

“I intend to marry Lord Farthingham.”

“The best intentions sometimes go astray.”

“Is that hope or warning in your voice?” she asked.

The tightness at his mouth eased, and he smiled. “A little of both, I should think. I am not a man who gives up easily when he wants something.”

“I think you want me because you cannot have me. Forbidden fruit is perceived as being much sweeter.”

He took a step closer, his smile fading. “What do you know of forbidden fruit?”

What she knew of it, she had no wish to discuss, so she decided to ignore the question and distract him with a warning. “Your sister can see you from the coach.”

“So she can.” He tucked a gloved finger up beneath her chin. “I could make you happy.”

“I love Lord Farthingham. He makes me happy.”

“I would make you happier.”

Laughing lightly, she stepped back, freeing her chin from his claim to it. “You are too arrogant.”

“Only if my claims are proven false.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were in pain?” she asked, determined to change the course of his thoughts.

“Would you have offered to rub where I ache?”

“No, but we could have postponed our night at the opera until you were feeling better.”

“The discomfort is tolerable. Not spending the evening with you wasn’t.”

She shook her head, amazed that he had the ability to turn everything to his advantage. It was past time to take her leave. “Thank you, Your Grace, for the evening.”

“What? Will you not describe it as you did for Anne? Enjoyable? Memorable? Unforgettable?”

“Where you’re concerned—irritating, bothersome, infuriating—might be more appropriate. This evening you took liberties to which you had no right.” There. She’d said it. It was out in the open.

“I didn’t notice you objecting.”

“What recourse did I have except to endure it? Slap your hand and draw Lady Anne’s attention to where you’d placed it?”

The scoundrel had the audacity to hitch up one corner of his mouth in the semblance of a smile. “Endure it? Miss Robertson, I strongly believe you relished it.”

The crack of her palm hitting his cheek echoed between them, as tears stung her eyes because she had indeed savored every caress. “I don’t like you, Your Grace. I don’t like you at all.”

Spinning on her heel, she shoved open the door and escaped inside before she could humiliate herself further.

The astonished butler snapped to attention immediately. “Miss Robertson—”

“Please, send my maid up so she can help me prepare for bed and instruct her to bring a bottle of my father’s finest whiskey.”

She admired the man for not showing surprise at her request. She trudged up the stairs, each step harder to climb than the one before it. She wished she’d never taken a walk along the seashore, wished she’d never spotted Poseidon.

She endured Nancy’s help in undressing and preparing for bed only because removing her gown and undergarments was impossible to accomplish alone. Why couldn’t women have clothing that was constructed as simply as a man’s?

She avoided her reflection in the mirror while Nancy combed out and plaited her hair. Why couldn’t women wear their hair as short as a man’s? Not that she really had any desire to chop off her hair, but at times when she was anxious for solitude, it was an inconvenience she’d prefer not to be bothered with.

After Nancy left, Kitty poured the whiskey into a large glass and went to sit in her favorite chair beside the window. Downing the whiskey as though it were water, she coughed, relishing the burning to her throat, the watering of her eyes. Whiskey was her secret sin—if she did not count encounters with Weddington. She suspected her father knew of her drinking, but he’d never confronted her when a bottle disappeared. But sometimes indulging simply seemed the quickest way to obtain oblivion.

Tonight, however, rather than dull her senses, it seemed to sharpen them. Closing her eyes, she trailed her finger along her collarbone. She could still feel Weddington’s touch as though he’d left behind a part of himself.

Damn him, damn him, damn him for making her want to experience his caress again. And damn her own traitorous body for wishing he were there now to inflame the fires still burning within her.

She awoke in hell. Her head pounded with the erratic rhythm of a drummer who’d yet to learn a consistent cadence. A dry fuzziness tickled her mouth as though she’d swallowed a cat’s tail. Her eyes ached, her temples throbbed, and her stomach roiled.

A heavy price to pay for deciding each tear shed should be followed with a drop of whiskey. She didn’t even want to contemplate how she’d explain the missing bottle to her parents should they deign to ask her about it. Her father kept inventory of his liquor the way she kept inventory of her jewelry. Hopefully, he’d overlook the short count as he had in the past when she’d sneaked a bottle.

She cringed as the pounding in her head grew in intensity and loudness.

“Miss Robertson?”

She squinted into the darkness. “What?”

Her voice sounded like the mating call of a bullfrog, not the delicate soft voice of a lady.
Oh, dear God, spare me
. She’d reverted to her origins. The saloonkeeper’s granddaughter. She thought she might be ill.

She was a snob…exactly as Weddington appeared to be, spouting all his nonsense about commoners. She detested having anything in common with that man.

The door squeaked open, and her skull threatened to split in two at the sound.

“Oh, Miss Robertson, they are the loveliest!”

She heard a thump, and then the awful rasp of draperies being drawn aside, and the unforgiving sunlight crashing against her eyes. With a moan, she threw the covers over her head and buried herself deep within the feather mattress. With any luck she could hide here forever.

“Miss Robertson, you are the luckiest of ladies. Will you not at least read Lord Farthingham’s note?”

She moved the blanket down until she could peer over the thick coverlet. “What?”

“The flowers, miss.”

Kitty became aware then of the subtle fragrance wafting toward her: a lovely blend of orchids and roses. She opened her eyes farther and saw Nancy holding a missive toward her. And beyond Nancy was a vase in which had been arranged the most beautiful and abundant collection of flowers Kitty had ever seen.

Her headache forgotten, she forced herself to sit up. “Are they from Lord Farthingham?”

“We assumed so, miss.”

She thought the brightness of her smile might make her jaw ache. No doubt he’d missed her last night as much as she’d missed him. She took the note from Nancy, unfolded it…and her headache returned in full force. Not from Farthingham.

“Whatever’s wrong, miss?” Nancy asked.

Kitty shook her head, regretting the movement as soon as she began it. “They aren’t a gift from Farthingham. They’re an apology from Weddington.”

“All of them?”

Kitty scoffed. “No, only the roses. I’ve no earthly
idea who the orchids are from.” She scowled. “Of course,
all
of them are from the duke. Why would you think otherwise?”