Between the Devil and Ian Eversea (13 page)

He almost sighed.

This posed a bit of a dilemma, as within days of meeting her the men of Sussex had decided they wouldn’t dream of depriving Miss Danforth of any whim.

The gentleman currently holding the musket turned to her.

“It’s a very heavy gun,” he apologized, as if he’d forged it himself and should have anticipated her need to shoot it.

“I’m sturdier than I look.”

This brought a rustle of chuckles and the choked, helpless words, “Like gossamer,” from somebody.

Ian rolled his eyes.

“Very well,” the man said. “It’s a bit unusual, but as you’re a guest, perhaps we can make an exception for Miss Danforth . . . Captain Eversea? What say you? May we have a ruling?”

All the men in the crowd were nodding encouragingly.

Ian was torn between genuine concern that she would sneeze or topple beneath the weight of the musket and shoot someone in the crowd, and he was more or less fond of, or at least used to, everyone in that crowd, and wanting to see what would happen when she fired that thing.

Because he had a hunch about Miss Danforth.

“Nobody move, nobody say a word when she pulls the trigger, are we clear? I want no undue distractions. I want everyone to hold as still as they possibly can. Pretend it’s the aftermath of Pompeii and you’ll never move again. Are we clear?”

Heads bobbed up and down.

And then they dutifully froze.

After all, the truly undue distraction, Miss Danforth, would be the one holding the musket.

“Allow me.” Ian took the musket from the previous shooter, who promptly froze into position. “Now, allow me to show you how to hold it, Miss Danforth.”

She cleared her throat. “Oh. Good idea.”

Suddenly Miss Danforth was blushing again. She untied the ribbons of her bonnet slowly, carefully, and something about that motion—the undoing of a ribbon, a sort of ceremonial undressing—again touched soft little carnal fingers to the back of his neck.

What the devil was it about her? There was just . . . something innately sensual about the girl. He remembered watching her emerge from the woods, her bonnet bobbing behind her, and wondered if this seeming innocent might have come by her sensuality by taking a secret lover. But no; everything else about her was virginal.

He realized he was staring, and she was staring back at him, her bonnet now dangling from her fingers. She lowered it gently to her feet.

He gave himself a shake.

“Very well, Miss Danforth. You heft the musket up to your shoulder just . . . so . . .”

He stood behind her, and heft it up just so. Her hands went up and expertly closed around the weapon.

He was close enough now to feel the heat from her body. She radiated warmth like a little sun. Close enough to see the little arc of pale nape, and the scattering of fine golden hairs there. The temptation was to brush a finger over them, or to apply a slow, hot kiss on that little secret strip of skin. He knew from experience it was a splendid way to get nipples to go erect.

He realized he hadn’t moved in some time, mesmerized, in a bit of a reverie, and it might have been seconds or hours. He looked up. Everyone was still frozen in place. But some incredulous glares were aimed his way.

He cleared his throat.

“You hold it like this . . .” he said, then realized he’d already said that.

Ian braced himself as a good portion of the crowd tensed and bristled and stirred.

“I wager she shmells like rainbowsh,” someone near him surmised on a murmur. Someone who had been at his flask all morning, from the sound of it.

She didn’t. She smelled faintly of something floral, perhaps lavender, but he was no expert on flowers. The sweetness and tang of fine milled soap rose from her warmed skin. It was as if suddenly someone had flung open a door onto a sylvan meadow. He could feel a sort of delicious torpor stealing in, as if he could easily melt into her. Surely the temptation to close his arms around her and pull her into his body was nothing more than a reflex. That was what one
did
when women were just this close, after all.

When a beautiful woman was this close.

A beautiful woman who smelled like a meadow.

So he made sure she had it hoisted correctly and then stepped back abruptly and lifted his arms in the air, as though held at gunpoint or as if she were a hot stove, so the crowd wouldn’t rush him with pitchforks and torches.

Interestingly, that musket nestled into her arms like a long lost pet.

Ian had a hunch they were looking at a ringer.

He folded his arms over his chest.

“Now, this thing has a bit of a recoil, Miss Danforth.”

“I’ve been watching, thank you,” she said primly. “I think I may be prepared.”

The crowd obeyed their orders.

The silence was, in fact, so taut, Ian thought he could have bounced a guinea from it.

And just when it seemed no one could hold their breath any longer, she pulled the trigger.

She flew backward into Ian as the apple exploded.

He levered her upright. He felt his fingers linger on her shoulder blades. They were delicate, and there was another moment where her fragility caught him by surprise. That rogue surge of protectiveness swept in again. And swept out.

Such a joyous roar arose you would have thought she’d negotiated armistice after a long and bloody war.

She stood holding the musket, still aiming it, wearing a look of grim satisfaction, but, interestingly, not surprise.

She smiled modestly.

“A fluke, surely,” she insisted demurely, again and again, as all the men surged forth to congratulate her. “Beginner’s luck, of a certainty. Americans. We’re born knowing how to shoot things, I suppose. All those bears and wolves and Indians from which we need to defend ourselves.”

“I’ll defend you, Miss Danforth!” came a voice from the crowd.

“I would
never
be afraid if I were protected by an army comprised of the men of Pennyroyal Green and Greater Sussex. I’ve never known such gallant, thoughtful men.”

For God’s
sake
. Surely at least Seamus Duggan, who was Irish, would recognize blarney for what it was.

And yet they all seemed like hounds, pushing their snouts into her hand for more strokes every time she said such things.

She was no beginner, he’d wager. At shooting, or at creating a mythology for himself, or at getting men to eat out of her hand.

Wallflower, his
eye
.

He
ought to know. He conducted his own seductions with the finesse of a fine conductor.

“Well done, Miss Danforth,” he said quite cynically.

She turned her gaze upon him. He felt himself brace against the impact of it, which surprised him. He blinked. There were times he forgot—or would like to forget—just how very pretty she was. He was accustomed to beauty. But hers was stealthy; his body reacted to it before his mind could dismiss it.

And for a moment he could have sworn he might have blushed.

It made him strangely angry; he felt tricked, somehow. He did not want to find a woman he distrusted so thoroughly appealing.

To his surprise, scarlet rushed into
her
cheeks again.

“Thank you, Captain Eversea. The compliment means a good deal coming from you.”

“Does it?” he said so abruptly, so ironically, she blinked. “Why?”

One never knew whether she meant what she said.

She apparently had no answer for that—she stared wide-eyed up at him as if her wits had abandoned her, or as if he’d caught her in the midst of some heinous act. And that flush migrated into her tawny cheeks and spread down her collarbone, and he watched its progress.

And for a moment he found himself simply staring back, as if he’d been given an opportunity to observe a rare wild creature.

Their mutual stare was interrupted by two men chuffing over, ferrying the trophy between them.

“We’ve all between us decided you deserve the trophy this year, Miss Danforth.”

“Oh, my goodness! Surely I don’t warrant the trophy for shooting one little apple!”

“It would be our pleasure. What say you, Captain Eversea?”

Miss Danforth stared up at him, and her white teeth sank into her bottom lip.

He could have sworn she was holding her breath.

“Miss Danforth may have the trophy.”

The trophy came nearly up to her hip.

And there was no shortage of volunteers to haul it back to the house for her.

Chapter 13

T
HE ENTIRE MARKSMANSHIP COMPETITION
crowd migrated to Eversea House, thrown open for the purposes of a party, and happy villagers and competitors milled over the lawn—admittedly, some did more staggering than milling—as well as in and out of the larger parlor, and a long table had been dragged out to the green, covered with a cloth, and piled with an assortment of little cakes and fruit. Ned Hawthorne had been persuaded to part with a few kegs of his light and dark for a price ruthlessly haggled by Mrs. deWitt. An impromptu orchestra of sorts was recruited—really, two fiddles and an accordion. Dancing commenced on the lawn.

I
AN WANDERED INTO
the house and paused on the periphery of the parlor, studying the scene before him.

He gave a short laugh. The light loved Tansy. He would have sworn it deliberately sought her out like any other lovesick swain, and bathed her in glow. It could, of course, be the other way around. She in all likelihood had a stage diva’s knack for finding the best light in any given room. Regardless, it was easy to imagine her as the lamp in a room and all the young men as moths, circulating, moving in closer at their peril. Each of them secretly soldiers in the game of love, plotting strategies.

They hadn’t a prayer. Titania Danforth was Napoleon.

She could possibly even outshoot Napoleon.

She held court on a settee, accepting a plate of cakes and a glass of ratafia from one swain, smiling up at another. Like the sun, the rays of her attention seemed to effortlessly include all of them while leaving each both convinced and uncertain whether he was her favorite. Or whether she had one.

It might have been more amusing—he might have admired the sheer mastery and showmanship—if one of the men circulating hadn’t been Lord Landsdowne. Granted, Landsdowne wasn’t quite as obvious as the younger men about it. But then, he wouldn’t be. Ian watched him, as he’d watched him the other night, and recognized the look on his face. Not rapt, per se. But a certain inscrutable thoughtfulness. He was a patient man. Older. Wealthy. Titled. Utterly confident, quite solid. He’d courted Olivia in patient, persistent, inventive ways that kept her intrigued, and had lured his notoriously capricious sister into something close to an understanding. And that was by no means an unimpressive feat, given that no man in three years had come near to anything of the sort.

And the trouble was, he’d seen that look on Landsdowne’s face when he’d looked at Olivia.

And when he thought of Olivia—his proud, difficult, brilliant, charming, beautiful sister—the idea of her sustaining yet another blow to her heart made him suck in his breath, as if he was sustaining that blow right now.

A cluster of women were arrayed opposite. One of them was Olivia, and she was pretending not to notice. And yet he was somehow certain she was suffering.

Suddenly Colin was next to him, a seed cake in one hand and a glass of something that looked like the Pig & Thistle’s dark in the other.

He followed the line of Ian’s gaze.

“So . . . what do you think of our Miss Danforth?”

“She’s horrible.” Ian presented the word absently, with a sort of reverent hush.

Colin’s head jerked around to stare at him. “What on . . . Did you sustain a blow to the head? How on earth did you draw
that
conclusion?”

“It all began when she didn’t blink at all when I said the word tits. And you just did, and you’re a jaded roué. Or were, before you were married.”

“Insults and blinking aside . . . I’m struggling to imagine the context in which one would say ‘tits’ to Miss Danforth.”

“She dared me.” Ian said this on an awestruck hush. “That . . . that . . .
wench
actually led me right to it. Or rather, she led me into saying ‘Titsy,’ but the difference is the same.”

Colin was examining him thoughtfully, with concern, as though searching for signs of fever.

“Assuming this is true,” he said, “and I’ll allow that it’s a trifle unusual, given her wealth and background and youth, and so forth . . . you didn’t have to take that dare, now, did you?”

Ian launched an incredulous eyebrow.
How long have you known me?
“Furthermore she goes about collecting hearts as blithely as if she’s picking blueberries, Colin. Without thought to the consequence.”

“Hmm. Now, who does that remind me of?”

“She smokes and drinks! Hard liquor!” Ian insisted wildly.

Colin snorted. “I’m starting to think
you’ve
been smoking and drinking hard liquor.”

Ian hesitated, and then presented his coup de grace on a hoarse whisper: “I think she may even have a secret
lover
.”

It was quite an accusation, and he knew it.

This drew Colin up to his full height. He fixed his brother with a hard, searching stare. For one wild instant Ian wondered if he was about to be called out.

Then Colin’s face cleared as if he’d clearly reached a conclusion.

“How long has it been since
you’ve
taken a lover? A good week or so? No wonder you’re losing your mind.”

Excellent sarcasm.

“I’m telling you, Colin, she’s Beelzebub in a bonnet. Satan in Satin.”

“The devil in damask?”

“Precisely,”
Ian agreed fervently. Deliberately ignoring Colin’s irony.

“Ian . . .” Colin’s tone was placating. “I wonder if this isn’t all wishful thinking on your part, because you know the duke will murder you sooner or later and Genevieve would never forgive you if you . . . shall we say . . . went near the girl. Or through her window, to be more specific.”

“For God’s sake, Colin, I’m not
mad
. You know me. I’ve never lost my mind over a woman in my life, and I see them all quite clearly, thank you very much. I’m only telling you the conclusions I’ve drawn upon observation. Just watch her.”

As Colin was a good brother, he humored Ian and did just that.

“For heaven’s sake, Ian . . . I mean . . . just look at her.” His voice went a trifle drifty over the last three words.

Ian turned very, very slowly and glared at Colin. “And?” he said tightly.

“Ian . . . her eyes are so . . . may I tell you something?”

“Go on,” Ian said sourly.

“You know I love Madeleine with all my heart. She
is
my heart. I would die for her, etcetera. I’ve never been happier.”

“Very well.”

“When I get to Heaven?”

“The ‘when’ presumes rather a lot.”

“I think the color of the skies in Heaven are precisely the same shade as Miss Danforth’s.”

Ian stared at him. “Et tu?” he said sadly at last. “Et tu, Colin?”

He flung himself back against the wall and banged his head against it, slowly, rhythmically. Similar to the rhythm of a drum playing a man to the gallows.

“Have a drink, Ian, or have a woman. Surely you’ve one or two on the dangle. Just keep away from
that
one, if she troubles you so. How difficult can it be?”

Sage advice delivered, Colin gave him a thump on the back and peered out toward the garden. “Croquet!” he said happily. “What a splendid idea. Come out to the garden with me and Madeleine. I know hitting something with a mallet will make you feel better.”

Ian shot him a weary, wry look. “In a moment.”

“Suit yourself.”

He watched Colin aim for Madeleine, who was sitting across the room in conversation with Marcus’s wife, the way a man in a desert headed for an oasis. But then he always aimed for Madeleine that way.

“
A
FINE PAINTING
I think you’ll enjoy hangs in just the other room, and I’ve long wished to get a look at it. Would you care to accompany me? I’d be honored to hear your opinion.”

Sergeant Sutton was dashing, though much of it had to do with the uniform, she was certain. And it was something about the uniform, something about the word “Sergeant” in front of his name, something about his gray eyes, that reminded her a bit of her brother. A bit. But she liked the look of him. He wasn’t Ian Eversea handsome, of course—honestly, who was?—but he was handsome enough, and
certainly
considerably friendlier. They’d chatted quite easily about a number of things, and it was this easiness she found a balm after Ian Eversea’s eyes on her—judging, searching, and . . . something else had been in his eyes, something darker and more confusing and a bit knowing. Something both thrilling and frightening.

Then again, there was something about being utterly unwilling to let any dare—and this felt a bit like that—go unaccepted.

So she followed Sergeant Sutton down the hallway—quite a ways, it seeemed—until they paused at a painting.

It was a painting of a horse. It struck her as unremarkable, though in all likelihood a fine one, if she had to guess, but she wasn’t a student of art. She was fond of horses, and this one was lovely, but then again she couldn’t think of a single reason why the Everseas might hang a homely horse on the wall.

“It’s an excellent rendering,” she decided to say. “It looks very much like a horse.”

He didn’t say anything. It had suddenly gotten very quiet. So quiet she could hear Sergeant Sutton breathing unnaturally loudly.

“Miss Danforth . . . as you’ve no doubt concluded yourself, we have a spiritual accord.”

This was startling information.

“Have we?” she said cautiously.

“Oh yes. Believe me. I have a sense for these things. I realized it when we both admired the painting. And do you know what must necessarily become of spiritual accords?”

Having never knowingly experienced a spiritual accord, Tansy answered truthfully, “No.”

“They must find release in, shall we say, physical expression.”

“Must they?” Damnation. She shot a surreptitious glance over her shoulder, to see if anyone was in the vicinity. Not a soul. She could no longer even hear the voices of the revelers. Blast.

She took a step backward. The click of her heel echoed ominously on the marble, as if to emphasize just how alone the two of them were.

“Oh yes. It is nature’s law. And you’re not a scofflaw, are you?” he teased.

“Not as of yet, I don’t believe,” she said cautiously. “Although if it’s nature’s
law
, as you say, I feel a little lawlessness coming on now.”

“Oh, we can fight our desires all we wish, but nature always wins. Nature knows what’s best. And why shouldn’t we give it a little assistance? I
feel
that we should.”

“
Our
desires, Sergeant Sutton?” He’d stepped closer. She stepped back. “I
feel
you should have used a different preposition.”

He laughed at that.

She took another step back. Another step or two and she would be able to make a reasonably graceful escape without lifting her skirts in her hands and running for it.

But that’s when he reached out a hand and closed it around her wrist, brought her hand up to his mouth and pressed a hot kiss into her palm.

“Did you feel that down to your toes, Miss Danforth?”

“Truthfully, I felt it more in the pit of my stomach.”

“That’s excitement,” he reassured her.

“That’s revulsion,” she corrected, and pulled back on her wrist.

He held fast. “It takes a moment for the effect to take hold. Sometimes it takes more than one kiss to get the job done.”

He used her own arm as a lever to pull her closer, and even though she dug in her heels, her slippers slid across the marble as if she were on skis. The dark little caverns of his nostrils loomed and time seemed to slow as the dark maw slowly opened in preparation to latch over hers. The stench of cheap tobacco smoke permeating his coat stunned her senses, and she was just about to spit on him when—

“Unhand her.”

The voice was lazy. Offhand. Quiet.

But something about it stood all the hair on the back of her neck on end.

She’d never heard anything more menacing in her life.

Sergeant Sutton dropped her arm as if it were a snake and spun around.

“Captain Eversea!”

Ian Eversea was indeed standing there, towering, his posture gracefully indolent. But his face was granite, apart from the faint curve of a very unpleasant smile.

Tansy reclaimed her wrist jealously and rubbed at it.

She wondered if she could get away with kicking Sutton now that his attention was diverted. She eyed the back of his trousers.

Ian Eversea took her in with a glance, ascertaining that nothing more than her dignity was hurt, and warned her against violence with the slightest shake of his head.

And he said nothing to her.

“ ‘Physical accord’? ‘Spiritual accord’?” His voice was still nearly a drawl, as if he couldn’t be bothered to raise it over a toad like Sutton. But his scorn made each word crack like a whip. “I have never heard such a steaming load of shite. Get out of here, Sutton. Go. Before I make it impossible for you to move. And if you ever bother Miss Danforth again, I will make certain she’s the last female you ever bother.”

Sutton’s jaw was tense. A swallow moved in his throat.