As Rich as a Rogue (6 page)

She blinked, and her mouth pursed into a sweet
O
. She smelled of apples and musk, and without even looking, he knew her nipples were tight. She was aroused, and he was painfully hard. Clearly one of them was insane. He for desiring her when she'd been so terrible to him. Or she for hating him and yet allowing herself to remain panting in his arms.

“I am not wayward,” she said, her chin hardened with stubbornness.

“I am not useless.”

She swallowed. She looked at his lips, and he let his gaze drop to her breasts. Plump and pointed. He tightened his grip on her. She didn't even try to escape.

Instead, she met him eye to eye. Her head was canted back, exposing the arch of her neck. His gaze was burning downward at her, and he wanted nothing more than to free himself from his clothing and let her see what she did to him.

“Are you sure?” he pressed.

“What?”

“Sure you would refuse my offer?” Then he leaned down slowly toward her. Their breaths mingled, hers sweet with apple. Did she know he'd chewed mint before seeing her? Could she smell it like he scented her?

He touched his lips to hers. Her breath caught on a gasp, but he did no more. Just held there, his lips slanted across hers where she'd parted to allow him entry. A touch. No more.

And then he bit her. A tiny nip along her bottom lip. She shuddered in reaction. He might have thought she was repulsed if he didn't feel her body surge forward. She checked it as soon as it happened, but he felt it nonetheless.

“You destroyed me, Miss Powel, and I am better for it.”

Then he pulled away. Slowly, because he still worried he'd throw her onto the table and take her, propriety or no. She did nothing but stare at him. Her cheeks were red, her lips even more so, but she said nothing. And when he'd eased two steps back, he straightened his coat. It did nothing to hide his erection to a discerning gaze, but her eyes never left his face. Did she even know to look? Or feel for it? Did she understand what she did to him?

Then with a slow, dazed look, she pressed her fingers to her lips. She held them there, her eyes fluttering. Good God, he realized, he knew exactly what she needed. She needed to be touched, to be caressed, to be worshiped in a very physical way. If he had it right, she was starving for it.

He almost did it. He could give her all the worship she desired, but it would be a fool's game. She was not ready to accept him yet, and he would not go where he wasn't wanted. Even if it was exactly what she most needed.

“I am leaving for a few days,” he said, his voice tight. “I suggest you use that time to your advantage.”

Her eyes blinked and focused on him, but she still said nothing. She gave him nothing but her amber eyes and parted lips.

“With Greenie,” he explained. “But talk to a trainer first.”

She frowned. “A trainer?”

“Horse trainer. Dog trainer. Falconer. Anyone. You're a miserable hand at it, and I consider it gentlemanly to allow you at least a few days to figure out the basics.”

“The basics?”

“Yes,” he said. “It isn't fun to play with someone so miserably outmatched.”

Then he had a choice. It was either flatten her on the table and take what they both wanted from her body or escape before he lost all credibility with himself and her. It was a near thing. He wanted her that badly. But eventually, he forced himself to leave. Or more accurately, he fled all the way to Lincolnshire, because that's what she did to him. Made him insane with want even as she cut him to the quick. It's what she'd done six years ago, but he refused to allow it to happen again.

He wasn't a boy anymore, and when he returned, it would be to fight toe-to-toe with her. And by God, next time he would win, simply because this was the very last time he was leaving before all was settled between them.

Mari stood beside the silent bird and tried to manage in a world gone insane. But first she had to stop her lips from tingling. Her body was recalling in vivid sensual memory the exact way he had touched her. The press of his lips, the heat of his breath, and the startling nip with his teeth. He had kissed her, and she ached with the need for him to do it again.

No, no, no. She couldn't desire Lord Whitly. He was the man who had destroyed her.

But what if she was wrong?

It wasn't possible, but what if…

For years, all she'd heard was Wayward Welsh. It had never occurred to her that
Welsh
was the problem.

She could fight the impression of wayward. Indeed she had been, but there was nothing she could do about Welsh. In truth, she was rather proud of her heritage and had never sought to hide it. Was she truly barred from the best husbands in the land simply because of where she'd been born?

It wasn't possible.

And yet maybe it was.

And maybe she'd been a complete idiot.

She slumped backward against her chair, not even remembering when she'd sat down. And when the bird chirped at her, she blindly fed it some apple.

“Happy day,” she murmured, though those words would now forever mark the day she'd deciphered how much of a fool she'd been. “Sodding day,” the bird squawked.

She jerked, and another apple bit slid out of her fingers. The bird pounced on it, gobbling it down in three quick bites.

“Sodding day,” it cried again.

“No, no, I did not teach you that.”

Mari glared at the thing, but it just cocked its head and waited.

“Sodding day,” it chirped.

“Bloody bird,” she shot back. Then she grabbed her reticule and departed. There was only one woman of her acquaintance who would know the truth of the matter. One woman who would tell her if the problem was wayward or Welsh. One woman—Lady Eleanor—who when finally confronted, answered in two short sentences.

“Of course the problem's Welsh. I thought you knew.”

No, she hadn't. But now that she did, she planned to make a few significant changes to her wardrobe, her attitude, to her whole public persona. If she didn't have to fight the idea she was wayward—

“But it shouldn't make any difference,” said Lady Eleanor, interrupting Mari's excited plans.

Mari jolted. “Of course it does. It means I've been fighting the wrong label.”

“But you still want to marry an influential man. And that means you have to remain circumspect. You need to be an asset to the powerful, not a detriment.”

Oh. Of course.

It took Mari a moment to get over how crushed she felt. Once again, she'd thought to escape her self-imposed prison, but it was not to be. She had to stay the course.

“Thank you, Lady Eleanor. I can see that my thoughts ran away with me.”

“You really should stay away from Lord Whitly. He seems to have a deleterious effect on your wits.”

Mari nodded as she blocked the memory of his kiss from her brain. “I completely agree,” she forced herself to say. “In the future, I shall avoid all contact with him.” Even if it was a kiss. Even if it was a lot of wonderful kisses.

Lady Eleanor beamed. “I knew you were a bright girl.”

* * *

“You're looking eminently respectable this evening.”

Mari was feeling rather old today as she stood languishing at the come-out ball of yet another debutante. Six Seasons was too long for any maiden, and she very much feared that Wayward Welsh was going to give way any moment to Ape Leader. But she had to keep a positive outlook despite her fears. So she turned to Ashley Tucker, Lord Rimbury, and gave her new friend her brightest smile, even though he obviously disagreed with the sameness of her attire.

“Thank you,” she said sweetly. “I'm rewarding myself for a week of completely proper behavior.”

He arched a brow at her bland yellow gown. “That's a reward?”

“It has white dots.”

“Really?” He squinted at her gown. “Damned if I see them.”

“They're very tiny dots.”

“I'd look closer, but I believe at least two of the dowagers would beat me about the ears with their canes.”

“Yes, they probably would.” As usual, she was standing near enough to the older ladies so she could be called to their side at a moment's notice. It was the only way she kept herself from dancing too much.

Meanwhile, she was pleased with the distraction that Lord Rimbury afforded her from feeling too old. “I've had a very productive day. This morning I spoke with a dog trainer, and I have high hopes for teaching Greenie my phrase.”

His smile turned lugubrious, which on him was a very droll look. “Then I congratulate you on your progress, if not your choice of celebration.”

She laughed merrily—but not too loudly—and then turned her attention to the gathering. “I think the dancing will begin soon,” she said. The musicians had pulled out their instruments.

“I would beg for a dance, but I know you prefer to talk.”

Not true. She preferred to dance, but as she was being circumspect, he was one of the few gentlemen with whom she had equal delight in conversation. Therefore, if she had to sit out, then at least she could do it with someone who was entertaining.

“I have reserved your usual spot at the dance just before supper,” she told him, showing him where she had scrawled his name on her card.

“Then I shall be delighted to escort you early to the buffet tables. I hear Mr. Hario sets an excellent table.”

She nodded, knowing this was likely Lord Rimbury's only meal today. It was the other reason she reserved the dance before supper for him. This way she could be sure he had plenty to eat well before the food ran out. Her father had named Lord Rimbury “another damned impoverished nob,” but she rather liked his gloomy sense of humor. He adored giving dire predictions about everyone and everything, and that never failed to make her laugh. And sure enough, a moment later, he was gesturing at a dandy across the room.

“I wager that Baron Pattinson rips the lace off his cuff within the hour.”

“Don't be silly,” Mari countered. “The baron is a fop of the first order. He wouldn't be casual with that lace any more than I would suddenly toss away my favorite fan.”

“Ah, but the baron is trying to attract a new mistress.”

Lord Rimbury also had the best gossip, usually tidbits that rarely reached an unwed lady's ears. “What, here? This is a coming-out ball.”

“I never said the man was smart. Only that as men, we cock up the thing we love most. It's in our nature. And for Baron Pattinson, that means…ah…there it is. Spilled wine on his sleeve.”

Sure enough, the baron was now red-faced with fury at the Corinthian who had been careless with his wine. Unless it was done on purpose.

And as if reading her mind, Lord Rimbury answered her unspoken question. “Deliberate. Definitely.”

“But—”

“Those two have despised each other since the baron married the beauty and the Corinthian got the prune-faced one.” His voice dropped to a depressed register. “It's on account of the baron being worth five times as much, even though he is ridiculous. You ladies are a terrible curse to us men, you know.”

“Well, it's because you always…” She hesitated, wondering if she could actually say it. But the interest in his eyes made her lift her chin. “Because you always cock up when it's most important.”

“Wisely said, Miss Powel.”

“You said it first.”

“I know.” He gave her a mournful face, which made her laugh all the more. After a week of such exchanges, she might have been completely smitten except for one thing. For all his joking, she detected an undercurrent of bitterness. He truly did believe that men always cocked it up and that a woman was always the cause.

A week of this was only mildly irritating. A lifetime of it would be tedious in the extreme. So she enjoyed his company, tried to shine in her patterned gown, and waited for a better choice of husband.

“Peter Norwood, Lord Whitly.”

She looked to the top of the stairs at the announcement. His was the one name she would always react to, for good or ill. And there he was at the top of the stairs, looking larger than life. He was outfitted in a jacket that fitted his wide shoulders to perfection. A snowy-white cravat flashed a large emerald in the center. Narrow waist, long legs, and an arrogant lift to his chin completed the picture of aristocratic perfection. The sight of him made her breath catch. She also found herself pressing her fingers to her lips as she remembered their delicious kiss.

“Don't look so impressed,” murmured Lord Rimbury. “He'll find a way to cock it up.”

“There's nothing to cock up,” she said primly as she whipped her hand from her mouth. It was all she could manage. Apparently her gaze wouldn't leave Lord Whitly as he descended the stairs and greeted their hosts. For such a large man, he moved so fluidly. “He was still wrong in what he said to me, but I may not be as angry as I was before.”

She finally managed to tear her gaze away from Lord Whitly to look at Rimbury. “You said you've known him for years?”

“Since we were boys.”

“And you've remained friends?”

“For the most part.”

“Then there was no woman to destroy your friendship? No harpy who tore you apart?”

She hadn't thought it possible. Suddenly, Lord Rimbury's face drew in tight, and his eyes looked deeply sad. Always he was dramatic in his expression, but never with this quiet dread. “Not yet,” he said softly. “But the evening is still young.”

She meant to ask him to explain, but at that moment the musicians began their first dance. Mr. Hario escorted his daughter Isabelle onto the floor. The girl was dressed in white with deep blue ribbons for accents. It was a perfect come-out gown for a young lady who couldn't stop grinning. This was her night, and Mari smiled to see the delight in the child's face.

“Are there dots on this dress, or did you spill something on it?” a rich voice said. Lord Whitly, of course. His tone was matter-of-fact, almost dismissive, but he had one of those voices that rumbled excitingly on the ear no matter what he said.

“Dots,” she snapped. “It's a pattern.” She hadn't meant to sound quite so shrewish.

“It looks like you spilled milk on it. The dots aren't even regular.”

“That's part of the
pattern
.”

“I think it looks bloody ridiculous. Why wear a pattern that doesn't look like a real pattern, especially since almost no one can see it?”

“Because it's not wayward, you oaf!” Less than one minute in his company, and she was on the verge of screaming. Fortunately for her, Lord Rimbury was standing in earshot and suddenly burst out laughing. And when both she and Lord Whitly looked at him, he shrugged.

“I told you,” he said, still chuckling. “We can't help it.”

“Ash,” Lord Whitly grumbled, “what are you going on about?”

“Peter,” Lord Rimbury returned in exactly the same tone, “whatever possessed you to come to a ball in such a state?”

Lord Whitly looked down at himself. “Is this not the right fashion?” Then he smoothed down his hair. “Have I got it wrong?”

“You look most elegant,” Lord Rimbury said with a grin.

“It's your behavior that is lacking, my lord,” Mari clarified.

At which point the man frowned at her, then his cheeks pinkened. She wouldn't have believed it if she hadn't seen it. He appeared embarrassed, perhaps even ashamed.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, and she could detect no lie in his words. Then he stepped back and executed a handsome bow. “Miss Powel, a pleasure to see you this evening.”

She dropped into a curtsy. “Lord Whitly, I see you have returned to London.”

“Yes.” Then he stood there, staring at her as the conversation lagged. Finally she decided it was incumbent upon her to speak.

“Was your trip successful? You didn't tell me where you were going.”

“Successful?” He reached back, likely to rub a hand over the back of his neck, but was stopped by his clothing. He ended up upsetting his hair instead. “I suppose in a way.”

“Where did you go? You never said.”

“To the family estate in Lincolnshire.” His expression softened. “It's beautiful this time of year. Actually it's beautiful every time of year. I've missed it.”

“India did not compare?”

“To the green fields of Kesteven? Not in the least.”

The set was forming up, and her partner came to her side, bowing perfectly before her, his expression fashionably bored. He acted the proper gentleman, and she found him much less interesting than Lord Whitly. Still, she must keep to the proprieties.

“If you'll excuse me. I believe Mr. Midean has come to claim his dance.”

“Of course.” But then he held out his hand to her arm, stopping her. “But if I may, is there a dance left for me?” He quickly caught her arm and stroked over her glove until he grabbed the dance card attached to her wrist.

“Perhaps it would be better if—” she began, but he was already scrawling his name boldly across two lines. He returned her card to her, releasing her arm much more slowly. His fingers seemed to linger on her glove, and the heat burned through the fabric as if it were parchment. Her lips began to tingle in memory, and she was so distracted by the dual sensations that she didn't at first realize what he had done. But then she forced herself to look away from his eyes and down at the card. “You've claimed two waltzes,” she said.

He nodded, his gaze almost distracted. “I cannot understand why they weren't claimed, but never fear. You shall have a partner now.”

Meaning him, obviously, the dolt. As if she couldn't get a partner without his beneficence. “That's because I don't dance the waltz,” she said firmly.