Fascination -and- Charmed (30 page)

Could she be a gentle girl with an artist’s soul inside a body led astray by unruly passion?

He touched the back of his hand where her tears had fallen.

Arran got up from the writing table in his sitting room. The fire had been made up whilst he worked in the gallery. McWallop doubled as his valet and saw to all personal comforts. An unusual arrangement, but one that suited Arran’s need for complete privacy. The fewer intruders into his world, the better. Anyway, McWallop had been with the family for years and he’d learned to anticipate his master’s wishes almost before Arran thought of them himself.

Playing host to the Cuthberts and silly Blanche Wren had exasperated him. If there hadn’t been a need for some public record of his intention to marry Grace, he would never have suffered such nonsense. God, the servants had eyed him as if he were a phantom materialized at his own table by a devil’s spell. Some of them really had never seen him before and must have believed the piffle about his having two heads, or whatever.

A kettle stood ready to be boiled on the hob for the green tea he’d learned to relish on the continent in ‘15. He’d been working behind the scenes, honing his skills as a diplomat for England as she formed an alliance with Austria, Prussia, and Russia. An Austrian princess with a liking for things from the East had introduced him to Japanese tea, drunk very late at night—between athletically strenuous sessions on her embroidered Chinese pillows. The tea, she had huskily informed him, was
most
restorative. And so it was. The princess had also liked rare eastern oils, sultry, aromatic oils that made her ample white body as slippery as a lithe, snowy seal—but much warmer.

Arran sat the kettle on the hob to boil and took the lid off the dark blue Sevres pot that was his favorite.

Princess Annalisse had been very athletic indeed. He recalled her intriguing ability to sit impaled upon him, her knees spread like a nicely plump frog, whilst she excited his belly with her oiled breasts and reached back to squeeze his ballocks at the same time.

The princess had been his last female adventure before Isabel, who, although not at all athletic, had made up in imagination for what she lacked in muscle.

But that had not been his reason for marrying her.

Straightening, Arran stared down into the leaping flames. He’d thought himself in love with Isabel, and her gift to him in return had been to teach him that love did not exist.

Little Miss Grace Wren was something entirely different again. She was an odd mixture of bone-deep sensuality and ... and achingly naive simplicity.

She had the power to move him.

Steam began to rise from the kettle spout. Arran poured water over tea leaves but stopped with the pot only half-filled.

If she had the power to move him, and if he thought for an instant that her innocence was real, then how could he be so certain that she was nothing other than a conniving opportunist?

In the distant and ugly Delilah room she would be lying awake.

How did he know?

He
knew.

Should he go to her—simply to talk? He could test her. Only in simple ways, such as to ascertain her fondness for children. And in so doing it might be possible to make a smoother path into this sham of a marriage.

Arran wanted to see her.

No.
No, he would never allow himself to again become vulnerable to a woman.

What could it hurt to go to her?

He finished making the tea and paced across the room, waiting for the leaves to steep.

There could be more to marriage than passion. His mother had died young, but his father had frequently spoken of her as that which had made his spirit whole.

Had he made it too difficult for Grace to tell him she’d decided to abandon entering into a bogus marriage? Could it be that she did feel something for him?

The answers weren’t really relevant, although if she should carry any kindness toward him, the months ahead would be made the more pleasant.

Pleasant.
Hell’s teeth, he didn’t want
pleasant.
He wanted heirs and he wanted a warm—no, a hot, willing partner in the making of those heirs.

“Damn it to
hell!
”
Grabbing up the evening coat he’d tossed on a couch, he left the room.

Cursing under his breath, Arran made his way from Revelation through the warren of corridors and stairways that eventually took him to the wing he sought. Even if he were seen here, there could not be too much idle chatter since he was merely visiting his fiancée.

“Repeat what you said.” He spoke aloud. “You
do
remember what you said? About having intended to tell me—when you thought I was Niall—that you would not marry the marquess after all?” Then he would ask the most important question of all: “Why had you decided to tell me that?”

And therein lay the solution to his dilemma. Should he try to trust her, or should he continue to take the safe route and merely use her?

At the corner that would take him to the Delilah room, he paused. He hadn’t been here since the night ... not since then. Isabel had insisted she wanted that particular room, even though it was so far distant from his. The arrangement had been devilish difficult, particularly since she had declared that she detested Revelation and could not possibly spend nights there. He’d made more journeys across the castle to this wing than he would ever be able to remember.

He did not wish to remember any of them, especially the last one.

Arran turned the corner and collided with a hurrying figure in violet-striped white muslin.

“Oh!” Melony Pincham pressed a hand over her heart and clutched at him for support. “Oh, my lord! You have quite undone me.”

An interesting prospect, Arran decided whilst considering why the tempting jade was abroad at this time of night and in this particular wing, where he knew she could not possibly be housed.

“Pray, forgive me, Mrs. Pincham. I did not hear you coming.”

“Please call me Melony.” Her auburn hair had slipped free of its pins to hang in luxurious abandon about her pale shoulders. “Mrs. Pincham sounds so very formal, and I don’t think we are likely to remain so, do you?”

He raised his chin and looked down at her. “Possibly not.”

“I know we shall not. My lord, I am glad we have made this unexpected encounter. I was just with Grace, and I left wondering how I should approach you.”

“You were with Grace?”

“Yes indeed. I could not sleep and decided to walk about. My feet brought me here and I saw light beneath her door. I have frequently been told that I have an extraordinary ability to
know
when I am needed. That must be what led me to Grace tonight. But we should not speak here. If she were to hear us and know you were here, the awful stress of it might make her positively ill.”

Arran made to go around her. “Grace is feeling ill? How so?”

“Stay,” she told him, grabbing his hand. “She is not ill in that way, not ill in body. Please, come with me and we shall find somewhere private to talk.”

“I shall go to her.”

“That would be most unwise.”

“Thank you for your concern. Now, if you will excuse me.”

“If you go to Grace now, we shall all rue your decision.”

Arran looked directly into the woman’s large, glistening violet eyes. “What ... Don’t toy with me, madam. Make yourself plain.”

Releasing his hand, she slipped back in the direction from which he’d come. Reluctantly Arran followed and saw her trip rapidly along until she turned another corner. By the time he’d followed that far, she was running up a staircase toward the Adam Tower.

“Mrs. Pincham,” Arran whispered loudly.
“Let us not continue this mystery.”

He gained her side, but she did not halt until she reached a suite of rooms he remembered from the long-ago days of house parties at Kirkcaldy.

She looked in each direction before opening a door and beckoning for him to follow her inside. “Hush,” she told him. “And call me Melony or I shall not speak to you at all.” Her smile was pure coquette.

Straightening his cuffs, Arran advanced.

“There.” She shut them inside a room
decorated in shades of yellow in which the fire had burned low and where the light from guttering candles wavered over the walls. “We shall be completely private here.” With a triumphant smile, she turned the key in the lock.

“What is all this about Grace?” He remained not far from the door.

“In good time. Kindly be at ease by the fire. Do you care for chocolate?”

“I detest chocolate.”

“How unfortunate. There is something so comforting about hot chocolate when one is troubled. It always puts me in mind of nursery days when I was—”

“
Grace.
She is the only reason I am here, Mrs. Pincham.”

“Melony. I insist, or we shall simply end this conversation.”

“Melony.”

“There! Perfect! I have never particularly cared for my name, but when you say it, I find it has a most pleasing sound. Most pleasing. Sit down.”

“I prefer to stand.”

Melony turned and looked up at him over her shoulder. “But I like to sit.” She dropped to a low stool close to the fire and arranged her skirts—skirts that he realized for the first time were all but transparent. “If you insist upon standing over me like an elegant giant, I shall probably snap my neck. But at least come closer where I can see you properly.”

Arran strolled to stand beside her. “Can you see me now?”

“A little better.”

She tilted her head and openly studied that part of him most likely to betray any response to her femininity.

“The hour draws late, madam.”

“Melony.”

“Melony,” he said. How shallow and foolish women such as this could be. She did not guess how perilously close he was to losing his temper.

“Are you ...” Slowly her eyes traveled up to meet his. “Are you as tired as I, my lord?”

“Possibly.”

“Then why not allow me to help you rest?”

“Good night to you, Melony.” He made to turn away. “Perhaps we shall meet again before you leave Kirkcaldy—which will be soon, I presume?”

Her hand snaked out and she grasped a handful of his shirt where his waistcoat hung open. “You don’t want me to leave. You are a lonely man, and I would like to help you become less lonely.”

“I was on my way to visit my
fiancée.
If you’ll excuse me?”

“She doesn’t want to see you.” Melony dropped her hand and turned from him.

“Explain yourself.” Not that whatever she said mattered. The woman’s motives for approaching him were perfectly clear.

“I would rather not. Please accept what I’ve told you.”

“Accept and then help make the rest of the night more interesting for you?” he asked. “Is that what you had in mind?”

Her bare shoulders rose. From his vantage point over her, he had an almost unimpeded view of her breasts. More than ample, round and tipped with dark pink nipples that were already budded.

Arran stirred, took a deep breath, but did not look away. “Answer me, Melony. Did I arrive before you in time to present a possible entertainment on a night when you didn’t wish to sleep alone?”

“I prefer not to lie. Yes, my lord, you did.”

He raised his brows. “I cannot fault your honesty.”

“Lying to you would be pointless. A man such as you is not seduced by flattery and falsehood.”

“A pretty speech. Explain what you meant about Grace.”

She crossed her arms and plucked aimlessly at gauzy little sleeves. “I ... No, I cannot. Please leave me.”

Arran narrowed his eyes. “What manner of game is this?”

“One I should not have begun. I should simply have told you Grace was exhausted and had fallen asleep, then allowed her to find a way to tell you herself.”

“Tell me
what?
”

Melony slowly lifted her face. Her small mouth trembled and turned down. “Very well, but you will be angry, and I fear I shall be the one to bear that anger.”

“You have nothing to fear from me,” he told her shortly.

She toyed with the sleeves, and they slipped farther down her arms. “Very well. I tried to persuade her that she should attempt to make the best of your arrangement. She told me something about having made up a story to convince you that she cares for you after all.”

Arran tugged his loose cravat from his neck. “Go on.”

“She said you did not believe her. Grace is angry because you are a hard man who does not, mm, play the game.”

“What game would that be?” he asked evenly.

“I’ve said too much. She is resigned to the marriage and to bearing your children. Then she intends to continue in the manner to which you both agreed at the beginning. She will find a suitable ...” Melony contrived to draw her bodice almost down to her elbows. “She will find a way to amuse herself. I think we both know that she is a woman of considerable ... shall we say, considerable energy?”

“Shall we?” His gaze slipped downward. Grace had told this woman everything that had passed between them; of that, he was now certain.

“She described your meetings.” Her breasts were completely revealed, a fact they both knew. “You were not pleased to discover that Grace intended to marry for position and wealth, and afterward to find her pleasure elsewhere.”

“What man would be pleased with such a discovery?”

Her pointed tongue slid over her lips. “Perhaps you should have accepted her story about having decided she wanted you—you, the man she thought you were at the first meetings. Her descriptions of your encounters sounded ...
satisfying.
People of a certain station in life are accustomed to
compromise,
are they not, my lord?”

“As you say.”

“Then surely you should not be averse to more of what you have already enjoyed with Grace—for as long as it pleases you—before the two of you turn to other diversions?”

“She told you that was what she proposed?”

“I hope I have not made things more complicated for you and Grace.”

When he did not respond, she stood, gathering her dress to her bosom and pretending to be flustered. “I have managed this badly. Grace asked me to be her friend, and I agreed. Now I have made things more difficult for her—for both of you.”