Every Scandalous Secret (8 page)

He slid it beneath his thigh, then shrugged out of his black evening coat. His shirt was light gray in the shadows, his waistcoat striped black and red. To her surprise, he turned and lay back on the sofa, crossing his legs at the ankle atop the far armrest.

He smoothed his hands along the fabric of the sofa. “When you
supposedly
posed for that painting, did you lie on something as exquisite as this, Susanna? What did it feel like against your bare skin?”

She pushed away the images his words evoked, knowing that they were too dangerous so late at night, with no one about.

“Show me how you posed,” he said, not smiling, though the usual spark of amusement still touched his eyes. “I believe I should lift my arms—”

“I am surprised you dare tease me,” she interrupted. “You know nothing about me or what I’ve done—”

“But I want to hear every detail.”

It was one thing to play a game with him, another to take too many risks that would damage her reputation. She gripped his arm and tried to draw him upright. Suddenly he grasped her by the upper arms, pulling her off her feet until she sprawled across his chest, her knees brushing the carpeted floor.

She gaped at him, their faces so close she could feel his warmth—or was that the warmth of his torso, pressed against hers clear down to her waist? She could actually sense the quickened thump of his heart against her ribs and knew that her pulse pounded an answering rhythm.

She felt all hot and tingling and
aware;
she was so very aware of an ache in her breasts, a trembling in her limbs, and how her mouth seemed parched because her lips were parted with her frantic breathing. Without thinking, she licked them, and saw an answering flare of interest in his narrowed eyes.

“Ah, you know just what to do to a man, Susanna,” he murmured.

He pulled her closer while she tried to lean away. “Mr. Wade, I only know that you need to release me. This is—”

He lifted his head to kiss her. She had only a brief impression of soft, warm lips, a moment to think,
A man is kissing me!
before common sense had her turning her head away.

“Mr. Wade!”

“Leo,” he murmured.

She gasped as he nuzzled behind her ear, then began a trail of kisses down her neck. His lips were softer than she’d imagined, moist, tempting.

“How is this seduction if I’m resisting?” she demanded, hearing the tremble in her voice.

He dropped his head back against the pillows and looked up at her. “Truly? You’re resisting?”

“Yes, although you may be unused to the reaction.”

When he released her arms, she rose to her feet and pulled her sketchbook out from under him.

With his usual smooth grace, he sat up and swung his legs to the floor, then patted his thighs. “Perhaps if you sit down in my lap, we can discuss our differences.”

Shaking her head at his daring, she made for the door at a brisk pace.

“Coward,” he called after her.

His laughter lingered in her mind until she reached her bedroom. Though she was still trembling at the unaccustomed sensations—and resolved to be more wary of her own reactions toward him—she felt a sense of triumph. He had thought such crude methods would work on her—and now he knew he was mistaken. Perhaps he would give up and return to London.

But she didn’t want him to.

Chapter 6

T
he next day, as the men began an early-morning outing through the fog-dotted lanes of the estate, Leo managed to ride beside his host even as he fought the dull tension of a headache from another restless night’s sleep.

He mentioned the Roman remains, surprised he was bringing them up, especially after he’d tried to convince Susanna his interest was only momentary. But he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about them afterward. Bramfield didn’t know much, only that his ancestors had always known about the wall although someone had only found the mosaic in his father’s time.

“Have you let other archaeology societies have a crack at them,” Leo asked, “since the Hertfordshire group is preoccupied?”

Bramfield’s horse danced sideways as several other horses raced past with their riders and out into a pasture. “They’ve looked but are deferring to the local society. Right now they’re focused on St. Albans, where there is much more for them to do. They asked for my promise that they could work here eventually, and I gave it. No harm, eh? But if you’re interested, I own a book written about the work they’re doing nearby, and they included some sketches of my antiquities. I’ll find it for you.”

“That’s not necess—”

“No trouble at all, Wade. Not too many men have an interest, but it’s our past.”

Bramfield sounded like Susanna. Leo kept his mouth shut, not knowing why he’d opened it in the first place. The Roman remains had made him feel . . . uneasy, and he didn’t like it. He hoped simply mentioning it to Bramfield would get the thoughts out of his mind, but now his host believed him intrigued.

He was only interested in one thing here—and she was proving more of a challenge than he’d thought.

As he rode along, the faint mist coating his hat and shoulders, he found himself remembering the evening sketching lesson. He’d been inspired to hold on to her sketchbook, and been rewarded when she’d returned. He’d barely kissed her, hadn’t even parted her lips. It should have made him laugh, his urgency to kiss a bluestocking like Susanna. But he wasn’t laughing—he could still smell the lemon scent of her hair, feel the soft roundness of her breasts. And the way he’d fumbled the seduction! He should be more bothered at his own ineptitude, but he wasn’t. Susanna was too different, nothing like the other women he’d seduced. His normal methods simply didn’t work.

And she’d been just as affected, he remembered with satisfaction. He wanted to taste her, and his urgency had nothing to do with a painting.

It was . . . altogether strange.

But she wasn’t so affected that she lingered with him—no, she’d fled from him and her passion as fast as she could. That was telling. She desired him, but she didn’t want to.

A
fter an early-morning walk—and pleasantly, Caroline had accompanied Susanna—the mist had turned to a steady rain, and the house party retreated indoors. As all the ladies gathered in the drawing room to write letters or read before luncheon, Susanna went off to the library. The men were changing after their morning ride—surely some of them might stop in the library for a rainy day’s entertainment. And she would be waiting for them, writing her own letters.

She chose a desk near a window, for the overcast sky still let in enough light. After making herself comfortable in a leather chair, she began with her mother, who would want to know every detail of the guest list, the food, and the entertainment. Susanna obliged her like a good daughter.

With Elizabeth, Susanna could only be circumspect, in case one of their mothers asked to read it. She used some of the details of the house party, and asked subtle questions about who was still in London, and was anyone paying close attention to her. Rebecca’s was an easier letter to write since she was visiting their aunt in the Lake District. Great-Aunt Rianette would hardly demand to read her niece’s letter—her eyesight was bad enough that Rebecca might be asked to read aloud, and she could pick and choose what to say. Susanna was just about to quiz Rebecca about the Earl of Parkhurst’s pursuit when she heard steps in the corridor.

She tried not to tense with excitement—more than one servant had walked past in the time she’d been there. But these were confident, masculine footfalls. Removing her spectacles, she made certain she wasn’t hunched over the letter, that her head was gently tilted, that her expression was pleasant but not too intent—

And then Mr. Wade paused in the doorway and grinned at her.

She relaxed back in the chair. “Can you not leave me alone for even part of a day?” And what man would enter when he saw her already speaking with Mr. Wade?

He walked toward her, and she found herself watching the way his arms swung, the confidence in his step—but this was how she looked at the world, she reminded herself. She’d always been curious about how things moved, how she could capture that with her pen or brush.

Like she captured lips, she thought, staring at his.

“You ladies are the ones who set the deadline,” Mr. Wade chided, sitting on the edge of the desk, his hip close to her arm.

She deliberately remained where she was. “You have a month. Surely that gives me time to breathe.”

“Ah, but is that by weeks? That means only twenty-eight days, and eight of them are already gone.” He leaned over her. “Winning matters, Susanna. You want to win, after all.”

“But not for the sake of winning, or for money.”

“You have your prize; I have mine.” His smile faded a bit as he leisurely studied her face. “You didn’t give me a chance to talk with you last night after the dance.”

“You didn’t have talking on your mind,” she whispered, glancing at the open doorway.

“True, but I’m talking now. When you weren’t dancing, I thought you looked pensive, and now here you are, writing letters. Whom do you miss so much, Susanna? It’s only been a few days since you left London.”

He took the letter she was working on. Grabbing at it would only tear it. “Once again, I’m asking you to return to me what’s mine,” she said patiently. “That is private correspondence with my sister.”

He lowered the letter to rest across his thigh. “So you miss her? I don’t know her well at all. I do believe she did not socialize much until the last few years.”

“She was ill much of her life.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. That must have been difficult for you.”

“For me?” she echoed in disbelief. “I’m not the one who almost died.”

“But when one child is ill, surely parents fear that others will succumb as well. Overprotectiveness would be understood.”

“Speaking from experience?”

He smiled. “No, my mother let me do anything I wanted.”

“I assumed that from your spoiled behavior.”

“Did your mother watch over you even more closely because of your sister?”

He wasn’t going to leave; she could see that now. She preferred not to be seen alone with him by a possible scholarly suitor. Rising to her feet, she gathered her papers and started to step around him. He took her elbow.

“I called you a coward last night,” he said quietly. “And here you are, even in the light of day, retreating. I’m beginning to think I hold such an attraction for you that you fear losing control.”

She met his gaze thoughtfully. “You may think I forget the wager, but I don’t. I don’t need to answer your questions, Mr. Wade.”

“Leo,” he said again.

“I cannot address you so familiarly. Please release my arm.”

“If I do so, will you tell me about your sister and cousin and this bond you share? There are not many who would risk their own reputations for another.”

“You believe the worst of people, Mr. Wade.”

“In exchange, I’ll tell you about my friendship with Julian and Peter.”

She hesitated, then could see the growing triumph in his gaze. If she might learn something that could help Rebecca and Elizabeth thwart the other two men, how could she refuse?

“I have you now,” he said, letting go of her arm. “Go ahead, sit back down.”

She did as he asked. Much as he was charming, she knew she could steer this conversation the way she wanted to.

“So if I answer questions, you answer questions,” she said.

“Agreed. And since I asked first, you have to answer first. Tell me about your relationship with your sister.”

“She is seven years younger than I. Naturally, I felt protective, especially when she began to take ill.” Briefly, she looked toward the window, adding in a strained voice, “You have no idea what it feels like to watch a child strain to breathe, to wonder if she’ll live to see the morning when you promised her you’d read to her again.” She glanced at him, almost embarrassed by such a display of emotion.

He wasn’t smiling now but nodded with understanding. “I know something of such helplessness, if only because I watched my brother suffer agonizing headaches before he went blind. But that’s not the same as wondering if death is hovering that night.”

Keeping her lips pressed together, she nodded, admitting reluctantly, “But this makes you understand my love for my sister.”

“Men don’t admit to love each other,” he said, lightening his voice. “We offer admiration and respect.”

She almost smiled at anyone offering him such but couldn’t be so cruel. “So you admire and respect your brother?”

“Of course I do.”

“No envy? There are many who would feel thus.”

He shook his head. “The family title is in far better hands with Simon. He cares about each of us—even our mother—and makes our lives easier where he can.”

With an allowance? she wondered, but would never ask. “He takes care of your sister, too. I have met her. She is . . . quite unlike you.”

He grinned. “I believe you think that a compliment.”

She grinned back. “Isn’t it?”

“Not according to our mother.” He seemed to regret the words, for his smile faded a bit, and he looked away.

She said nothing, amused to find herself hoping he’d continue, telling herself she was only curious because he’d made himself her opponent.

“You’ve said your mother allowed you free rein,” she said at last. “But not your sister?”

“Georgiana is not like me or Simon. There is a . . . reserve to her, a fragileness. It took her a long time to maneuver among the shoals of Society. I did not help matters.”

“You mean your reputation?”

“No, it started long before that. Once Simon was gone, I turned all of my pranks on Georgie.”

Susanna winced.

“She was such an easy target.”

She arched a brow.

“Do not believe I did anything terribly unkind,” he insisted. “She hated spiders, and I made sure they found her. Little-boy pranks.”

“And yet pranks turned into concern for her happiness.”

He shrugged as if a discussion of feelings made him uncomfortable. He was like all men in that way. Yet . . . not all men cared about their siblings as he obviously did.

“I’ve always liked your sister,” Susanna said.

He smiled. “Why am I not surprised?”

“I hear she is engaged.”

His smile broadened. “She is, to a neighbor of ours who consorted with Simon and me and treated Georgie like his own sister. And when that stopped, no one was more surprised than I.”

She found herself sharing laughter.

“So you, too, spent much of your childhood indoors amusing your sister,” he said.

“An accurate deduction, Mr. Wade. Should I spell ‘deduction’ for you?” she asked sweetly.

Other men would take offense, but not he. He flashed his dimples at her. “No need. Your closeness to your sister is obvious, especially with what you do for each other. But your cousin?”

“Elizabeth is closer to my sister in age, more proper than either of us—and more popular, as well, being the daughter of a duke. She has always borne scandal well, as you must certainly know, since you love gossip.”

“She has come under the knife of scandal?” he asked, frowning. “Before this painting?”

“No, but all of our parents have.”

“How?”

“Now, now, Mr. Wade, the fact that you don’t know such juicy details amazes me—and is not my concern. I promised to tell you of my sister and cousin, not our parents. Elizabeth had her childhood rebellions, but she matured into a wise and lovely lady.”

“Before you mixed her up in this painting—according to you, that is.”

“No longer believing that I’m the model?” she asked. “Even better.”

He sank deeper into the wingback chair, crossing his legs leisurely before him. He was not a man given to proper etiquette, but then she knew that.

“But why would each of you say you were the model?” Mr. Wade asked, studying her closely.

“Because we swore a vow to protect each other,” she said simply. “It’s very simple, really. When we thought my brother dead—surely you’ve heard of my brother’s miraculous return from India?”

“I have,” he said.

“Well, when we thought he was dead, I felt . . . even more protective toward Rebecca and Elizabeth. We’d all been devastated by the tragedy. Family was important, and we only had each other, so we each swore we’d defend the others, no matter what.”