Cavendish Brothers 02 - To Enchant an Icy Earl (4 page)

Tongue and teeth and lips slithered
over her neck, then up higher to suckle and nibble on the lobe of
her ear. She felt like she was floating from the assault on her
senses, like she’d lost the tiny sliver of reality she’d been
grasping and would never find it again, so she wrapped her arms
behind his neck and held on for dear life.

When his tongue flicked out and slid
against the flesh just behind her ear, her world felt as though it
had shattered, splintered, broken into thousands of tiny pieces
that, when put back together again, would form something new and
exciting and different.

Calista let out a moan, low and
ragged. He pressed against her, driving her back against the wall
while he continued to ravish her with his mouth. An ache settled in
her most private areas, something she couldn’t explain. She didn’t
want to explain it. She just wanted to relieve it. Pushing up on
her tiptoes, Calista slid the length of her body against him,
reveling in the raw power that dripped from his every
pore.

Then Lord Fordingham abruptly pulled
away from her, holding her out at arm’s length while she tried to
settle her mind on what was happening. She was gasping for breath,
trembling and tingling and filled with an unknown heat—and he was
calm and cool again, as distant and unfathomable as he’d seemed
earlier from across the room.

Pressing her eyes closed, she willed
her head to stop spinning long enough that she could sort out what
had just happened.

She was a wanton. There could be no
other explanation for what she’d just allowed. Yet, for some
reason, she didn’t regret it in the least.

What would Miranda say if she could
see her now?

“
Can you stand on your
own?” he asked dryly.

Somehow, she doubted those would be
the first words from Miranda’s mouth upon witnessing such a
thing.

His tone was aloof. Inaccessible. One
would never know he’d just been involved in an illicit, passionate
embrace. What an odd question for him to ask. Since her trembles
had yet to subside and she didn’t yet trust her voice, Calista
merely nodded.

He dropped his hands and took two
steps away from her, as though placing distance between them
couldn’t happen quickly enough. Only then did she understand why he
would have asked her if she could stand. The floor seemed to spin
before coming back into focus, and she reached out a hand to steady
herself along the wall.

“
Straighten yourself,” he
commanded brusquely. Before the words had even fully left his lips,
he was smoothing his hands over his coat, his cravat, making
certain no one would ever be able to tell what he’d been
doing.

What
they’d
been doing.

Calista looked down at her gown. It
was a bit mussed, but nothing too disastrous. She tugged at her
bodice and skirts, pulling the fabric back into its appropriate
position. When she thought she was settled properly, she looked up
to find Lord Fordingham scowling at her.

“
Your hair,” he said
quietly with an unfeeling shake of his head.

Oh. Yes. He’d had his hands fisted in
her hair, holding her captive while he did as he would. Surely he’d
ruined the arrangement Nettie had spent so much time in
perfecting.

With hasty movements, Calista
resituated her hair as well as she could without the aid of a
mirror or a maid. When she finished, he gave her a cursory glance
and a curt nod.

Before she knew what was happening,
Lord Fordingham had taken her hand, tucked it firmly in the crook
of his arm again, and was leading her back into the drawing room
filled with people…including her family.

She ought to stop him. She ought to
beg him not to tell Louisa or Miranda or Penelope, and especially
not Devlin, anything that had happened. She ought to apologize for
behaving in such a manner and promise it would never happen
again.

But she did none of those
things.

Calista walked alongside Lord
Fordingham, ignoring the whispers and gawking glances of those they
passed by, all the way until he stopped before her brother and
sister-in-law.

“
Marston,” he said
impassively and with no preamble. “You should be aware that I am
courting Miss Bartlett. She will be attending supper at Fordingham
House tomorrow. My brother and his wife will be present to
chaperone.”

Devlin’s jaw twitched, yet there was a
decided glint of satisfaction in his eye. Louisa, however, looked
horrified, with a hint of panic in the pinched, whitened set of her
lips.

The realization that Fordingham was
yet again doing as she’d asked of him had not fully settled on
Calista’s mind when he made his next pronouncement.

“
I’ll be asking for her
hand within the week. Draw up the marriage contract.”

Fordingham could not remember the last
time he felt so damnably impatient.

But then again, impatient wasn’t quite
the proper term for what was coursing through his veins and causing
him to repeatedly pace the full length of the dining room at
Fordingham House. It was a restless energy, to be sure, but there
was something more. Something deeper, and by a vast degree,
something less familiar.

Nervousness, possibly, however
unlikely the thought of a bout of nerves attacking him may seem to
be.

Yes. As grim as the thought of it was,
nervousness seemed to be the very term which fit his present state
far better than anything else he could imagine. Devil take
it.

Even more perplexing than this simple
realization was the additional reality that his nerves had nothing
whatsoever to do with the conversation he would have with Wesley.
The difficulty of their meeting had already been managed when
Wesley had agreed to join him for supper.

Likewise, Fordingham couldn’t ever
imagine feeling a bout of nerves over anything to do with Mrs.
Cavendish, so meek and mild as the lady was, so he brushed that
laughable thought aside as fast as it came to him.

The only possible source for his
current disquietude was the impending meeting with Calista
Bartlett.

He didn’t quite know what he ought to
do to counter the queer sensation. Pacing clearly wasn’t aiding
him, but what other options were there to relieve the quivering,
jittery agitation that had settled in his gut and seemed unlikely
to find a new home any time in the next century or two?

Finally he sat, though sitting left
him with his feet still attempting to move despite the lack of
anything for them to accomplish with their activity. The sound of
his boots shuffling against the Parquetry was more disconcerting
even than the monotonous rhythm created by his pacing. It did,
however, provide him the opportunity to think about the last time
he’d felt such a sensation.

Fordingham spent long moments wracking
his mind, searching for a recollection that seemed at least
similar. The only things which came to mind were those moments when
he knew Father was coming to his chamber with a switch for some
supposed misdeed or another. But truly, that had been more a sense
of fear, hadn’t it? Or at least it ought to have been.

He couldn’t imagine why he
would feel
fear
about Miss Bartlett’s attendance at supper…and yet, now that
he thought about it, fear was certainly present. It had twisted and
contorted itself in line with the nerves, and then tightened his
chest to the point he was uncertain when he would ever be able to
take another true, full breath again.

How truly odd.

Before he had the opportunity to
wheedle this realization to death within his mind, the doors to the
dining room were thrown open. Fordingham shot to his
feet.

“
Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish and
Miss Bartlett, my lord.” The greying butler—good lord, what was the
man’s name?—stood to the side with posture as erect and unyielding
as Fordingham’s so often was as they entered.

Wesley came in first, giving
Fordingham a curt nod, his lips twisting downward in an expression
that had become altogether too familiar upon his face. When he
moved to the side, his wife entered with Miss Bartlett by her
side.

Fordingham tried—truly, he did—to
formulate some sort of greeting. But his words were lost on his
tongue at the sight of Miss Bartlett before him. Tonight she wore a
lovely deep blue gown of velvet, a shade more akin to the sea
surrounding England or like a field of irises he’d seen once upon a
time. Where had he seen them? He couldn’t quite recall. The shade
left her eyes twinkling in the light of the candles, though, making
it next to impossible for him to remove his gaze for even the
briefest of moments.

A grumbling sort of sound came from
Wesley, and Fordingham finally succeeded in turning his gaze away
from Miss Bartlett, despite the lovely blush that had come upon her
as her gaze moved shyly to the floor.

“
Welcome to Fordingham
House,” he spluttered, fully aghast that anyone could have such an
effect upon him. “Please. Come in. Sit.” He let out a thankful
breath when his footmen came forward and guided the ladies to their
positions at his table, assisting them in gaining their
seats.

“
Thank you,” Miss Bartlett
murmured as she sat.

She, too, seemed to be having
difficulty in looking away from Fordingham. If he must suffer this
affliction, he took some small comfort in the fact that he was not
alone in his torment.

Once they were all seated, his footmen
served the first course and filled their glasses with sherry, and
then moved to stand against the walls until such time as a glass
needed refilling or a plate needed clearing.

So they ate. Indeed, they ate in near
silence, with the only sounds being those of silver clinking
against china or chair scraping ever so slightly against
Parquet.

This wasn’t right. Fordingham knew
that as the host of the evening he ought to initiate a conversation
of sorts. Miss Bartlett would grow bored and never wish to return
if he did not provide her with better entertainment than this. And
how in God’s name would he convince her to marry him if she could
not even enjoy a meal in his presence?

Surely, at some point in his life,
he’d been able to make pleasant conversation with a lady. Hadn’t
he? A quick jaunt through his memories yielded no such results,
however. Fordingham swallowed his bite of quail, dabbed at his
mouth with a pristine linen napkin, and then turned to Miss
Bartlett with the first thing that came to mind.

“
Tell me how you have
enjoyed the Little Season thus far, Miss Bartlett.” A dull
conversation starter, to be sure. But at least it ought to be
safe.

She flushed again, which delighted him
to no end. “It’s been quite a surprise, actually.”

That was something he could readily
and easily believe, given the surprise he’d encountered in her. He
tried to smile, but the muscles in his face seemed disinclined to
cooperate. He really must practice it more often. “Do go on,” he
said with a slight wave of his hand.

“
My brother hoped to find
husbands for my sisters and me,” she said, with a bit of a wistful
grin settling over her features. It lit her eyes remarkably, and
somehow darkened them at the same time until they were nearly the
shade of the sky at midnight. How utterly fascinating. “I sincerely
doubt he intended to secure himself a match before that happened.
And my sisters and I have enjoyed being social again, since we were
in mourning during the Season and couldn’t come to
Town.”

For whatever reason, the joy that had
been in her expression fled with her last statement. Fordingham
almost itched for it to return.

He knew of the previous Marston’s
passing, and also the death of the presumed heir just prior to the
occurrence. Surely, speaking of her father and eldest brother must
still be painful for her. Redirecting Miss Bartlett’s line of
thought onto something happier was of paramount
importance.

Settling his wine glass on the table,
he again tried to smile at her. “Your brother’s new bride—Lady
Marston—tell me about her.”

“
Beelzebub’s breeches,”
Wesley muttered more than loud enough for both of the ladies
present to hear him.