My Fair Temptress (13 page)

The other kisses had been things done
to
her. This was so different. Nothing about this kiss frightened or amused her. He pressed his lips to hers, but softly, as if seeking a response as tart and interesting as their dialogue. She answered him in the same spirit, skating her lips along his because…because she wanted to answer his challenge.

For this kiss was a challenge between two worthy opponents, a salute after one battle and before another. She kept her hands folded comfortably in her lap, and kept her attention on maintaining perfect relaxation in every muscle of her body, as if that proved that she could kiss, yet remain apart. Only their lips meshed; no other part of their bodies touched, and she experienced a kind of triumph when he slid his arm behind her shoulders, because that meant she had remained aloof while he surrendered to her allure.

Or did it? His lips seemed no more desperate or insistent than before, and she realized his move simply upped the stakes. He challenged her to keep her composure while he touched her.

Very well. She drew back, smiled into his eyes, and slid her hands up his arms to his shoulders.

At her tactic, his eyes narrowed.

Still smiling, she leaned in and kissed him again. With a slight thrill of enthusiasm, she identified that which made him such a worthy opponent. Beneath the clean scent of soap and fresh linens, a subtle scent clung to him. Not perfume, but rather it seemed his skin and hair were imbued with the fragrance of him. He had wonderful lips, plush as velvet, well shaped, yet skilled at imparting wordless compliments that brought a warmth to her skin. And, most important, with her eyes closed, she didn’t have to look upon his garments.

When the last consideration popped into her head, she smiled against his lips, an openmouthed smile, and some imp of mischief led her to touch her tongue to his lower lip. Just a touch. Just a tease.

And his surprise brought a puff of his breath into her mouth. It was heady, like good wine, and intimate, like…she didn’t know like what. Nothing she had ever done compared to this. There was nothing in her lesson journal about this. She had to improvise…but she was the best. She would improvise.

She found herself kneading his shoulders, her fingertips sinking into the muscle beneath his jacket.

She didn’t remember the last time she had been so close to another human being. So close that she could inhale his warmth, revel in his closeness. This should have felt forbidden; instead it felt right. It felt lovely. It felt…amazing. Parts of her stirred, parts she had never before realized were alive.

He glowed with life, and it was that glow that attracted her, pulled her in. Her arms glided around his neck, and she slid close—or he did—close enough that her breasts almost touched his chest. Barely touched his chest. The contact caused her nipples to pucker into buds so tight they ached.

At the age of fourteen, when her father had sent her to visit the Lake District with an eye to giving her a sophisticated polish, she had stood on top of a peak, felt the wind on her face, viewed the sweep, the power of the mountains and the horizon.

Sitting here, against him, she again sipped that grandeur, breathed that fresh and glorious air that lifted her on the wings of…of life.

His fingers traced the cords of her neck, the thrust of her jaw, the height of her cheekbones. They slipped between their lips, breaking the kiss, yet extending it as he investigated the contours of her mouth, pressing and caressing like a man enamored. With her eyes closed, she let him caress the curves of her ears, the arch of her brows. To a woman who missed her mother’s touch, whose father had been distant and critical, who had only a younger sister’s love and had been denied that for four years, this exploration was a bounty of rapture, a feast of pleasure. It was sensation and glory. He burnished her lips with his touch.

Then he kissed her again.

She kissed him back. She welcomed the warm blade of his tongue into the cavern of her mouth and tasted him with a kind of amazement. Every part of her, her skin, her breast, her belly, her heart—expanded with pleasure.

He pulled her close. So close. Hard against him. His arms enclosed her at shoulder and waist. His palms moved along her spine and at the base of her neck. They matched from hip to shoulder. The heat of him seared her with desire and burned away pretense.

She wanted, just once, to be the
femme fatale
who drove a man wild. Who drove Huntington mad.

She twisted her fingers in his hair and kissed him again, one last, deep and glorious mating of mouth to mouth.

When she was finished, he unhurriedly drew away from her. Her eyes opened, dazed with the bliss of giving a man such lavish pleasure. She looked into his eyes, into the glorious pure color of temptation, and wondered if she should kiss him again and halt the words that trembled to be spoken.

But she didn’t. She couldn’t. That would be beyond a single moment of indulgence. That would be stupidity.

His hands fell away. He cleared his throat, and with husky emphasis, he said, “We should not do that again.”

“Of course not.” Her voice squeaked. She moderated her tone. “I don’t exactly know what got into us.”

“Nothing more than the spirit of competition, I believe.” His words denied his passion, but his hot gaze told a different story.

“Whatever it was we wanted to prove, we have proved.” From somewhere in the shaken depths of her soul, she dredged up a smile.

“Absolutely.” He eased away with a grimace of discomfort. “You should not think this is any indication of disrespect on my part. I hold you in the highest esteem, and admire you for every reason.”

“I thank you for your assurance.” With vague surprise, she realized that she never for a moment doubted his respect. “When one sits with a man on a sofa, one works very hard at attraction, and the whole lesson seemed to have developed into a competition between us, and we were egging each other on until we ended up…doing…things which…” She ran out of words.

He took up the thought. “It was almost a dare. An unspoken dare to see which of us was best. And I would say…what would you say?”

“Oh.” A blush burned its way from her chest to her forehead. “I would say it was a draw.”

“Exactly what I would say.”

“Now our curiosity is out of the way, and we can go on and—” And what? Her mind went blank.

“And flirt,” he said firmly. “These are, after all, flirting lessons, and it was the success of the lesson that carried us away.”

“Exactly.”

“You teach marvelously well.”

She inclined her head, realized strands of her hair had once more slipped free of their pins. “And you learn very quickly.”

“I’m naturally a quick study.” He straightened the crumpled linen of his cravat.

“At this rate, you’ll be ready for the party your father intends to give.” She managed not to reach up and assist him. “A tea.”

“You’ll attend, of course.” He sounded as autocratic as his father.

“I’ll discreetly slip in and observe, but as I explained to your father, I can’t pretend to be a guest. I’m not respectable.” That aggravated her, too. She had been respectable once, until Lord Freshfield had destroyed her life.

And why did that suddenly bother her? Before she’d come to Nevett’s town house, she’d considered the matter a bitter lesson learned by a foolish girl, one that Caroline had resigned herself to paying the price. Now, all of a sudden, it seemed so unfair!

The memory of Nicolette’s words came back to her.
You were young…. You were inexperienced. What happened was not your fault—but you and you alone have suffered…. If it were me, I would be angry.

It was as if Nicolette had given Caroline permission to be angry. Which didn’t make sense. Caroline wasn’t angry. She wasn’t.

Things were looking up. Why should she brood about a past she couldn’t change? She didn’t understand the change in herself. She didn’t understand it at all.

“We’ll see about that,” he said crisply.

Recalled to the conversation, Caroline asked, “About what? Oh, the tea. No, I won’t be attending.” While she pinned up her hair, she wondered at her annoyance at the thought of sharing him.

To her relief, he didn’t argue. “What is the next lesson?”

“If the weather is good, we shall walk in the garden, pretend it is the zoological gardens, and flirt among the animals. If it’s dreary, we’ll practice playing cards and the many ways of flirtation at the card table. Or we can play instruments and sing. Or we’ll practice indoor games like charades. As your governess”—she experienced the need to remind him of their roles—“I have a full schedule planned for you.”

“So we’ll do this again tomorrow.”

“Most assuredly—although not the kissing.”

“No.” He sighed as if regretting the stipulation. “Not the kissing.”

In her room, Caroline took her lesson journal, opened it, and stared at the words she’d written with such hope and care.

Taking up her pen, she dipped it into the ink and added below:

Then she nibbled on the tip of the pen, and added:

“C
aroline, you have to come at once.” Nicolette wrung her hands. “It’s a disaster.”

Caroline put aside her needlework and rose. “But the guests arrived not ten minutes ago. What’s happened?” Her eyes narrowed. “What has
he
done?”

“The young ladies immediately started skirting wide circles around Jude.” Catching Caroline’s hand, Nicolette dragged her out of the library. “Come and see. He’s boring everyone to death, and Nevett will have a fit!”

Caroline hurried behind Nicolette toward the great drawing room. She had planned to allow thirty minutes before she slipped in to listen and observe. Thirty minutes, she reasoned, would give the participants time to settle into their roles and Huntington time to work his magic on some poor, unsuspecting young lady. Using the skills he had exhibited in the past week, Huntington would be well on his way to at least one flirtation, and perhaps two or three. Caroline had been mentally counting her money—and ignoring any regrets. A single kiss between her and Huntington exchanged almost a week ago was no reason to imagine anything more could happen between them. After all, they had thus far resisted the temptation to taste the forbidden fruits again, although at night when the lights were out and all was quiet, Caroline worried that he would try to kiss her again…and she would yield.

“Listen to him,” Nicolette commanded.

If Caroline and Huntington had been alone, Caroline wasn’t sure she would have been able to resist Huntington. As he said, their kiss had been a natural outgrowth of their flirting, and every day since, he’d improved his techniques. It didn’t help that they had the same sense of humor. When they argued, and they
did
argue, they did so with wit and logic. They made Nicolette laugh and Nevett occasionally poked his head in the door to observe, so he said, but mostly he stayed and laughed, too.

Caroline experienced a deep satisfaction in her pupil’s progress—a progress that had apparently been temporary.

Standing outside the open door, Caroline heard the murmurs of a dozen conversations and the music of piano and harp, yet she picked out Huntington’s voice at once. She thought—she feared—she would recognize his voice anywhere.

He was saying, “
I
predict that the newest French fashions will sweep London, and
I
shall be at the forefront of the revolution. A second French revolution, and in England! It will be named after
moi
. Ha ha!”

Peeking around the corner, she saw a party like so many others she’d attended: ladies and gentlemen of all ages sat or stood in the great drawing room, conversed, flirted, or gossiped.

By virtue of his costume and his mannerisms, Huntington made himself conspicuous. He spoke to a debutante seated beside him on a sofa. She must be in her second Season, or even her third, for she wore the arch expression that lifted the eyebrows and gave the illusion nothing worried her, when in fact she must perpetually fear she would be left on the shelf to become someone’s maiden aunt.

And Huntington, oh dear, Huntington did the annoying handkerchief flip in her face—and his white handkerchief had a large JD embroidered in black thread on every corner.

Unfortunately for Caroline’s peace of mind, she no longer winced at the sight of his clothing, for first and foremost she saw the man who wore them—and that troubled her.

More worrisome was her reaction to the kiss. She wanted to taste Huntington again, and for more reasons than inconvenient desire. An emotion she didn’t recognize bubbled within her, a sort of savage satisfaction that she’d done exactly what she’d been accused of. She’d kissed a man in improper circumstances. She had lusted. She had tasted. She had enjoyed.

And she felt no regret. None at all.

“You must admit,” Huntington was saying, “my ensemble is extraordinarily handsome and goes marvelously well with my teeth.”

“His teeth!” Nicolette hissed at Caroline.

“I heard him.” Caroline wished she hadn’t.

“My teeth are extraordinarily straight and white, don’t you agree, Lady Amanda?”

“Extraordinarily.” The poor girl smiled gamely at him and stared as if she were fascinated.

“I find a liberal amount of toothpowder applied with my finger is the secret.” He inspected her own bright white teeth. “You should consider trying it.”

Caroline’s eyes widened in horror.

Lady Amanda’s smile vanished. Standing, she flounced away.

“He’s awful,” Nicolette moaned. “I tell you, he was raised better than that!”

Everything Caroline had heard about him concurred. She’d made a point of inquiring of the servants what he’d been like as a child. She asked Harry to see if he could ferret out any gossip about the middle son of the Durant family. Everything pointed to a normal, even austere gentleman of sober tastes. “I wonder what happened?” Caroline mused.

“France happened,” Nicolette declared heatedly. “France and Italy and Moricadia and Morocco and all those dreadful countries have given him airs.”

“Has he been behaving like this at every gathering he attends?” Caroline, fascinated and appalled, watched him. Indeed, it looked as though almost everyone in the room observed him, unable to tear their gazes away from the spectacle of Lord Huntington making a jackass of himself.

“I don’t know. We’ve been in mourning. I haven’t attended any events. But this explains Jude’s inability to attract a mate.” Nicolette faced her. “You have to come in. You can make him behave. You
have
to make him behave.”

Huntington’s behavior might be a ploy to make Caroline attend the tea—she well remembered his intention to get her here—but that didn’t explain his reputation as a crashing bore, nor did it explain those clothes.

As if she followed Caroline’s thoughts, Nicolette said, “His clothing! What possessed him to wear that costume? The debutantes could overlook his prosing on and on, they’re used to that from the gentlemen, but combined with that…”

“I’m at a loss.” Caroline wondered if he’d gone to special lengths to be outrageous at this tea, or if that was his idea of appropriate afternoon dress.

He wore a white shirt, a black cravat, a quilted aqua waistcoat, and a short black cape. The outfit would be acceptable, if eccentric, but he had also donned striped trousers—aqua-and-white-striped trousers in a pattern that seemed to move when one stared at it. And to finish off his ensemble, one white boot had an aqua tassel swinging from the front; the other was plain. He was a symphony of bad taste, and in his behavior and his clothing, Caroline saw her chance of success slipping away.

“Very well. I’ll go in.” Caroline brushed at imaginary wrinkles on her new gown and steeled herself for this, her debut into society after years of retreat. When she thought about entering that room filled with gentlemen who, four years ago, had courted her, ladies who had been shocked by her downfall, and debutantes to whom her story had been a cautionary tale, she cringed inside. But she didn’t complain; if humiliation was the price she paid to win her freedom, then she would suffer humiliation.

The agony of that emotion wouldn’t last. The cash would.

As she walked into the gathering arm in arm with the duchess of Nevett, she reflected this humiliation was undoubtedly ameliorated by the sheer weight of Nicolette’s noble title.

The murmur of conversation and the notes of the piano and harp died away. The gentlemen got to their feet. The young ladies glanced between the two arrivals as if uncertain. The older ladies looked alternately affronted or amazed.

Fixing a smile on her lips, Caroline took care to breathe slowly. She looked over the group without meeting anyone’s eye.

Then one face stood out from the crowd. A grin broke across Turgoose’s amiable face, and he left his place by the piano to come forward and bow. “Your Grace, what a marvelous surprise. You’ve brought us Miss Ritter!” He spoke clearly and calmly, as if about a pleasant but unsurprising event. “Miss Ritter, I’ve so looked forward to seeing you again.”

“And I you, Mr. Turgoose.” She was aware what an incongruous couple they made. Even with heels on his boots, he wasn’t quite her height, and in his own way he was as much of a dandy as Huntington. Yet she would never forget his kindness four years ago. Nor did she underestimate his courage in greeting her now, for although she had taken care not to actually look at anyone, she had seen the birdlike black eyes of his mother fixed on her. Goose would be taken to task for his championship of Caroline.

The buzz of conversation started again, a little lower this time as the guests tried to discern why Caroline was there and what their proper reaction should be.

Huntington swooped in, his short cape fluttering behind him. “Goose always has the eye for the handsomest lady in the room.”

The piano and the harp started playing again, sharply and quickly. Huntington had just made sure every female there eyed Caroline with disfavor, and her cool smile contained an edge she hoped he recognized. “A sincere compliment is a lady’s finest friend, my lord, and while I doubt not your sincerity, I must ask—is your opinion of beauty to be trusted?” She heard a small gasp from a plain young woman seated stiffly between two young men.

Both young men, Caroline noted, wore cravats of brilliant hues.

Nicolette moved to rescue the conversation. “Or perhaps it is his sincerity that’s at fault. For often he’s told me
I’m
the handsomest lady in London.”

Goose chuckled. “Right enough. Huntington’s a ramshackle sort of fraud.”

“Exactly.” The accented voice came from behind Caroline. “Lord Huntington cannot be trusted with his compliments. Miss Ritter, depend upon me for the truth.”

She turned to see an older gentleman. His shock of white-blond hair sprang in abundance around his thin, aristocratic face and in the middle of his forehead his hairline formed a point. His bow was courtly, European in flavor, and with a shock, she recognized him. “Comte de Guignard, my rescuer in the park.” She lavished a smile on him. After all, it wasn’t his fault she hadn’t really needed rescuing. He had been as gallant as a dream. “Or one of my rescuers. Where is Monsieur Bouchard?”

“I am here.” Monsieur Bouchard stepped forward, a man so overburdened by his mustache that it looked as though the weight of it had dragged the hair off his head. When she’d met him in the park, he’d been smoking a fat brown cigar, and he had smelled of the smoke. Although the cigar was gone, he reeked. He made an abrupt bow, and she thought he must come from a common background, more common even than her own, for his social graces seemed tacked on, learned late in life and not at all a part of his personality. “You are recovered.”

“I am. Thank you both for being so chivalrous to a lady you didn’t know.” She spoke to them, but she directed the message at the hovering Lord Huntington. “Your kindness lit a warmth in my heart.”

Comte de Guignard was in the prime of life; in other words, at that delicate age where men realized they were no longer the youngest and strongest males in the pack, and they always made fools of themselves over younger women. Caroline had seen it occur time and again; she smiled, she spoke, she teased, and the gentlemen became infatuated. She never intended for it to happen; she simply pandered to their vanity and their disappearing youth, and suddenly they fell in love with her.

Now she saw it occur again. At her words, Comte de Guignard straightened his already straight spine, pulled back his muscled shoulders, and jutted his chin. “It was a pleasure I’ve dwelled on, hoping to renew our social contact, but alas, although I looked, I saw you nowhere.”

“Yes. Speaking of contact, Miss Ritter, I see you’ve furthered your friendship with Lord Huntington.” Monsieur Bouchard’s eyes flicked between her and Huntington. It sounded like a statement, but it was a question, and rather an authoritative one.

Obviously, Monsieur Bouchard didn’t fall in love as easily as Comte de Guignard, and his query brought all the assembly straining to hear her answer.

But Caroline didn’t have to—didn’t want to—explain her connection with Huntington, so she used her smile with a hint of reserve. “I have.” She glanced around the small gathering, and with humor in her tone, said, “He improves on acquaintance.”

“Miss Ritter is a friend of mine,” Nicolette said easily. “We had lost track of each other, and I was delighted to find her again. I’m sure you’ll frequently see us together. In fact, she’s staying with us.”

Caroline saw the news travel from one ear to another until it had reached the far edges of the drawing room. She wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that it hopped out the window and flew through the streets of London like some kind of gossip bird that squawked like a town crier.
Miss Ritter is the guest of the duke of Nevett and his wife, and their son visits frequently.

As she’d feared, this arrangement held all the hallmarks of disaster. She had to move quickly to establish her presence was not of a romantic nature. Unless one could call one extremely glorious kiss romantic—which she did not.

“Like all English ladies, Miss Ritter appreciates my social graces and the advice I can give her about the ways of the Continent.” Huntington preened like a peacock.

Ah. Her chance came at once. “I beg you, my lord, don’t put words in my mouth. I can speak for myself, and while Comte de Guignard and Monsieur Bouchard bring a Continental flare to our gathering”—Caroline extended a gracious hand to Comte de Guignard—“it’s the English ladies who make the gathering bloom.”

“You are wise. It is indeed the captivating ladies who brought us to England.” Comte de Guignard took her hand and bowed over it, then bowed again, a flawless, elegant bow that included all the company. “And their kindness to visitors that keeps us on your shores.”

A spattering of applause proved they had the attention of the nearby company, and provided unexpected approval to Caroline.

“Well said, Comte de Guignard,” Nicolette said. “We’re enchanted to have you and Monsieur Bouchard with us today.”

“Ecstatic!” Huntington flapped his handkerchief like an overenthusiastic spaniel.