Never Entice an Earl (17 page)

“Daphne,” he urged. “Let me lead you to a chair.”

“No, please.” She sank against him, but just as quickly pushed away. “I’m not dizzy.
I did not faint. Nothing like that! I—I simply lost my balance. It’s these mules.
They are new and the soles polished, and we are on marble. I slipped. I’m so sorry
to have concerned everyone, but you are all…overreacting.” She forced a laugh, her
cheeks burning.

“You didn’t eat breakfast,” the earl scolded in a quiet voice.

Lady Harwick touched her face, as if to gauge her temperature. “You always get faint
when you don’t eat.”

“No, Mother, that’s me,” Clarissa said from behind her. “I get faint when I don’t
eat.” She bestowed a smile on the gentleman beside her. “I’m delicate like that, you
see. But my dear older sister could go days without eating and would still be as strong
as an ox.”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t go to the tower?” Havering said quietly. “It’s quite the strenuous
climb.”

“She said she is well,” her sister said.

“I am well.”

“I do, at times, have that effect on the ladies,” said Cormack, grinning. All the
gentlemen laughed.

“You had nothing to do with it, I assure you,” Daphne snapped. “And I am going to
the Monument, if I have to go alone.”

Her mother shot her a sharp glance. “Gentlemen, please watch her today on the stairs.”

They all assured her, in a rumbling of voices, that they would.

Daphne twisted away from them. “Please, let’s just forget about it and begin our afternoon.”
Somehow, in trying to avoid Cormack, she came face-to-face with him.

“Well…Miss Bevington.” A small smile lifted one corner of his lips. “Before you arrived,
we were acquainting ourselves with…ah…the gentlemen.” He glanced over his shoulder.

“Yes, the gentlemen,” repeated Havering, with a too-bright smile.

Everyone else—her mother and sister and grandfather and Havering—all looked at her
with expressions of thinly veiled dismay, which she ignored, preferring instead to
greet her companions for the afternoon.

“Sir Tarte,” she said. “How happy I am that you could accept my invitation.”

She extended a hand to George, Sir Tarte, whom she’d known for forever and a day.
An excellent conversationalist and dancer, he was also quite the dandy, but not the
ridiculous sort—at least she didn’t think so. His striped scarlet-and-gold coat, ruffled
cravat, and bright green leather shoes that boasted three-inch heels looked very fine…on
him. She could always depend on him to make her laugh until she cried, and they always
had a wonderful time in each other’s company.

“I’m thrilled to have received your invitation, darling girl.” With one hand raised
behind him, high in the air, he bent over her hand and pressed a kiss to her glove,
before glancing up from under a perfect tumble of blond curls. “Mother, as you can
imagine, is beside herself with joy.”

His mother—a close friend of Lady Harwick’s—had never been reticent in expressing
her hope that one of the Bevington girls would marry her son. But of course, just
as Clarissa had, Daphne had invited not one but three gentlemen with whom to share
the afternoon.

She avoided Cormack, who stood just two feet away, his arms crossed over his chest,
watching with rapt interest, and searched out the next.

“Bamble, I see you over there,” she called. “Come say hello to me.”

Lord Bamble sat on the bench in the corner, chewing his thumbnail and staring into
a well-worn book. At hearing his name, the dark-haired, dark-eyed young man started
and looked about, a flush rising to his pale cheeks. For as long as she’d known him,
which was since they’d been about nine, he always seemed to have a book in hand. He
stood and thrust the slender volume into his pocket, and rushed forward. “Miss Bevington,
I was so very surprised to receive your invitation.”

“Surprised!” She beamed up at him. “Bamble, you are always so charmingly modest.”

She could think of no one more sincere or gentle among her circle of acquaintances,
and his shabby appearance, inspired by intellectual distraction rather than lack of
appropriate funds, only added to the endearing nature of his character.

He blushed an even deeper shade. “Thank you for saying so.”

And it really didn’t matter so much that he hadn’t noticed at all when she’d nearly
fallen and come running like the others. In fact, perhaps she liked him better because
of it.

At that moment, a shoulder eclipsed Bamble, and Neville Sheridan’s deeply tanned face
came into view.

“Oh, and me. Don’t forget me.” He laughed, his eyes crinkling around the edges, and
beamed at Daphne. He clapped Bamble on the back, as if they were old friends, because
Captain Sheridan of the Royal Navy did seem to be old friends with every member of
the
ton
, and their servants, and every person he met on the streets.

She smiled. “How could I forget you, Captain Sheridan? Perhaps you are last in this
moment, but never least.”

Though older than Tarte and Bamble by at least two decades, the captain cut a dashing
figure and exuded confidence in every action and word. On those rare occasions when
he was in London and not sailing off to some obscure corner of the world, he could
be found at the carriage races, horse auctions, or pugilism matches (or so Daphne
had heard), entertaining anyone who would listen with his stories of high-seas adventure.

She then briefly greeted the three gentlemen her sister had invited, all of them young
and distinguished fellows she recognized from the blur of parties they’d attended
since the onset of the season. As for Cormack, from that moment on she intended to
ignore him.
Completely.
To her, he did not exist!

She stole one quick glance, but she immediately diverted her gaze, so he wouldn’t
see, only to slide another look—

He smiled at her, lips pursed as if fighting a smile, but discreetly looked away.

Her blood surged and her cheeks went hot. He had never looked more handsome than today.
His cheeks bore the faintest bit of shadow, which only made him look dangerous. She
wanted to touch his face. She wanted to slap his face. He’d been betrothed all along!
Why, if his fiancée only knew what he’d been up to.

She marched straight past him. “Havering, come with me, won’t you? Lord Raikes can
escort Clarissa and her company.” She twined her arm through Fox’s and led him toward
the door.

“Whatever pleases you,” he answered indulgently.

Her mother called after them, “Please return no later than four. We’ve the gala tonight.”

Fox raised his hat in acknowledgement. “Yes, my lady.”

A gentleman passed them, coming up the walk just then. Mr. Birch! Tall, and wearing
a top hat, he nodded graciously and continued to the door. Daphne turned to see her
mother greet him, bright-cheeked and wide-eyed.

Oh, but Cormack eclipsed her view of them. Daphne cast what she hoped was a searing
glance at him, but he wasn’t even looking at her. Instead, he gave his full attention
to Clarissa while she chattered up at him, already attached to his elbow.

Daphne had never felt so angry or betrayed, but—his poor fiancée! In truth, Cormack
was no better than Rackmorton, visiting bagnios and pretending to be a well-mannered
gallant by the light of day. Who was to say that he wouldn’t have visited the Blue
Swan that night with or without a quest for vengeance? Now, given the benefit of retrospect,
she could clearly see that she had been the one to assign heroic qualities to him.
Obviously she’d been wrong.

Inside the carriage, Daphne arranged her skirts so that the fine muslin wouldn’t crush,
and she exhaled in relief, grateful to be away from Cormack, if only for a short time
in which she could devote her full attention to her friends.

A man she assumed was Fox took the seat beside her. Only then she recognized the muscled
thigh beside hers as belonging to someone else. Not Fox’s, but Cormack’s.

O
h!” she exclaimed, peering up into gray eyes smoldering with sensuality and mischief
and even, perhaps, a glint of anger, which only heightened the tension between them.

“How foolish I am,” Cormack drawled, turning his head to address the other three gentlemen.
He sat with his hat on his knee, and his leather gloves draped across one thigh. “Somehow
I’ve managed to climb into the wrong carriage—”

Fox hovered in the doorway, the toe of one boot already inside. He laughed and waved
a hand. “No trouble. I’ll join Clarissa’s group.”

“Wait, Havering…no!” Daphne called, but he disappeared and the door shut. With Cormack
staring down at her, she slowly eased back into her place trying not to look as discomposed
as she felt.

“Get out,” she hissed.

“I will not.” He murmured near her cheek, peering past her toward the window. “Look,
the other carriage has already left. Now most especially, I can’t shirk my duty and
leave you alone unsupervised with your
suitors
, any one of whom could secretly be a black-hearted libertine bent on taking your
virtue.”

“The only libertine in the carriage is you.”

For a long moment, he studied the other three gentlemen in the carriage. Grinning,
he leaned even closer. “I’m quite certain you’re right.”

With a jerk, the vehicle began its movement and traveled out onto the street. Cormack
sat beside her, immense and magnetic, his long legs bent at the knees. The fabric
of her skirt being so delicate, she felt the sinewy hardness of his leg where his
thigh touched hers. Her body reacted, as if hungry for him. Her mouth went dry, and
her breasts felt as if they’d swelled to twice their normal size, crushing against
her stays. Even the rhythm of the carriage as it traveled over the street pavers added
a sensual thrill to a moment she couldn’t claim to understand.

“Let’s all get to know one another better, shall we?” Cormack said smoothly, like
a medieval torturer, eager to inflict his particular version of pain.

“We all know each other quite well,” Daphne snapped, annoyed that Cormack sounded
so at ease while she felt like jumping out of her skin, all because of his uninvited
presence. She bestowed a gracious smile on the three other gentlemen, one intended
to dazzle—only Bamble didn’t see, because he was already peeking into his book. “I’ve
known each of these fine gentlemen for years.”

Whereas she’d spent only a few extended moments in time with Cormack. And yet despite
that truth, Daphne couldn’t deny the feeling of intimacy between them, even here under
these awkward circumstances. His every glance teasingly said,
Stop being so ridiculous. I know you.
And she feared he did. Her body and her soul seemed to recognize this. It took all
her effort to resist the temptation of easing against his solid warmth, and to deny
herself the pleasure of twining her arm through his.

“Well, I haven’t, and I’m always eager to make new acquaintances.” With a shift of
his legs, he aligned his boot alongside her slipper, a scandalous liberty that no
one in the carriage seemed to notice. She exhaled softly, and jerked her foot away.

Sir Tarte leaned forward, resting both hands on the pommel of his walking stick. His
eyes glowed with interest at the stranger in their midst. “I heard you say you were
at the musicale last night, Lord Raikes? Yes! I thought I recognized you, but I’ve
never met you before. Tell us, how are you acquainted with Miss Bevington?”

Daphne turned her face to stare out the window at the London street passing by, an
attempt to conceal the magnitude of anxiety racing through her. Would he embarrass
her in front of her companions, by revealing some detail about her forbidden venture
into the Blue Swan? Before, she would have thought never. But this morning she’d discovered
she didn’t really know him at all. Her heart raced at the possibility.

“Hmmm. How did we meet?” The silk-over-steel tone of his voice
teased
her, and implied the most wicked threats.

Oh, she couldn’t bear it. She turned to Cormack, eyes wide and alarmed.

“By complete chance in the park.” Cormack flashed a smile at her, one that stunned
her to her core with a pleasure so perfect and pure, she wanted to cry from it. “It
was all very improper, without the necessary introductions, necessitated by an escaped
parasol, tumbling across the grass.”

She exhaled, relieved and, yes—begrudgingly grateful. Cormack nodded, as if to say,
What did you expect?

Improper, yes. Everything between them was improper, including the way she felt now,
with her heart racing and wanting to reach out and touch him, even with the knowledge
that he belonged to someone else. She hated him for making her feel this way.

“Sail caught wind and got away from you, did it?” chuckled the captain. “Happens to
the best of us.”

“Indeed,” answered Daphne.

“How very heroic of you,” exuded Sir Tarte, his gaze warm with admiration.

“It was only a parasol,” Daphne muttered, perplexed by the fervency of Tarte’s response.

Captain Sheridan peered over Bamble’s shoulder, to the book he held. “A naval adventure?
Why, Bamble, are you interested in naval history?”

His lordship half closed the book, and answered, “It was my greatest wish to serve
His Majesty on the seas. Indeed, the physicians say ocean climes are best for my convulsive
asthma, but you see I’ve a very inconvenient fear of drowning. I can barely suffer
taking a bath.”

“My!” exclaimed Tarte, with a mortified chuckle. “How peculiar.”

“And
confining
,” added Cormack.

Daphne sighed.

“It’s true.” Bamble nodded, looking faintly morose. “So any shipboard adventures for
me must come from the pages of a novel.”

Captain Sheridan grinned at Bamble. “I served with the fellow who wrote that book.”
His grin widened. “I’m told he based the heroic character, Captain Laramore, on myself.”

“You don’t say,” Bamble said. He shifted in his seat, his eyes widening. “That scene,
with the pirates dressed as Bahamian strumpets—”

“All true,” Sheridan said. “In fact, there’s even more to that story, that I…er, can’t
share in the presence of a lady.” He glanced pointedly toward Daphne. “But there are
many stories I can tell.”

The conversation went on until at last the carriage trundled to a stop and the footman
opened the door.

Bamble, Tarte, and the captain all exited, leaving her momentarily with Cormack.

He turned to her suddenly, and said, “Bloody hell, Daphne, these aren’t suitors. I
don’t know what they are, or what you were thinking when you invited them.”

Outraged, she answered, “Who are you to say what I need?”

“You need a
man
.”

She scowled at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Truly? You don’t know? All right, then, just watch.”

He climbed out to join the rest, and stood to the side as the captain assisted her
down.

“Thank you, Captain Sheridan,” Daphne said.

In the distance, with the tower behind her, Clarissa waved. “We’ll see you upstairs,
on the observation gallery.”

Daphne smiled. Now that she’d escaped Cormack in close confines, she was determined
to enjoy herself, or at least appear as if she were doing so. Bamble stood on the
pavement just a few feet away, his book still clasped in his hand. Moving toward him,
she extended a hand. “Dearest Bamble, will you see me up?”

“Me?” Peering up at the towering façade, his face paled. “Oh heavens, no. Three hundred
and eleven steps? I’m afraid my asthma precludes such exertion, as well as my outright
terror of heights.” He let out a shrill chuckle. “I shall wait for you here at the
bottom, and you can tell me all about it.”

Cormack turned to her and mouthed the words,
What a surprise!

Her face grew heated. How dare he! But he dared even more, passing close beside her
to growl, “One down. Two to go.”

Daphne did her best not to reveal her exasperation. “There is a bench just over there
where you can…read.” She looked to Captain Sheridan and, with renewed enthusiasm,
announced, “As for myself, I can’t wait to see the view of the city from such a height.
Captain?”

The captain came to stand beside Lord Bamble, nodded, and raised a hand. “Do forgive
me the delay, dear, but I’ll join you all in just a moment.” His expression flushed,
he sidled closer to the gentleman who stood beside him. “So, Bamble, what I was going
to tell you about those strumpets—”

A glance to Cormack found him winking ridiculously, and holding up two fingers.

Daphne swallowed her dismay. Her suitors were not behaving as suitors at all. Not
that she had wanted them to, but she hadn’t expected them to ignore her and find each
other so fascinating. Abandoned by Lord Bamble and Captain Sheridan, she sought out
her only remaining hope, Sir Tarte, whom she knew with a certainty would not disappoint
her.

But Tarte wasn’t even looking at her. Instead he looked toward the sky, worry knitting
his brow. “Say, Raikes, just look at the clouds.”

Cormack glanced above. “There may be rain.”

Tarte’s gloved hand fluttered over the ruffles at his throat, and then up to his hair.
“I do believe I’ll retrieve an umbrella from the carriage.” The footman, anticipating
his need, handed one to him.

“Well, then. Let us begin our climb.” Cormack’s eyes pierced into hers, as if issuing
a private challenge.

Sir Tarte came from behind to lower a gloved hand onto his shoulder. “What do you
say, Raikes? Last one to the top buys pineapple ices afterward at Berkley Square?”

Why had she never seen it before? In his heeled shoes, skinny trousers, and superfluous
cravat, Sir Tarte did indeed appear the ridiculous dandy. Next to Cormack, tall and
elegant in his simple, but perfectly bespoke dark coat and fawn breeches, Tarte looked
like a clown.

“I accept your wager,” said the earl. “Prepare to pay.”

“I’m already assured of losing this particular contest.” Tarte chuckled. “Oh, to be
blessed with such athleticism. Such muscular legs. And those shoulders! Say, are you
a member of one of the pugilism clubs?”

“No, but I’ve considered joining. Which, in your opinion, is the best?”

Daphne’s temper flared. Obviously they’d all forgotten her, finding each other infinitely
more interesting. She ought to climb back into the carriage and order the driver to
return her immediately to Hamilton Place—only, they likely wouldn’t even notice!

“Miss Bevington,” Cormack called after her.

“What?” she answered sharply, glaring in his direction.

“Go on ahead without us. We’ll follow just behind, and rejoin you before you can count
one, two—”

She clasped her hands onto her ears, but she still heard him say, “—
three
!”

With the sound of his laughter in her ears, Daphne spun on her heel and flounced to
the stairs.

As Sir Tarte blah-blah-blahed in his ear, Cormack watched her go. The chit had the
most mesmerizing swing to her skirts, one that awakened every male hunger inside him.
As a combustive heat built in his chest, sparking and churning more ferociously the
farther she moved away from him, he felt more certain than ever that Daphne Bevington
would be the death of him—or at least his ruination. Now that she was clearly very
angry with him, he wanted nothing more than to remind her of the attraction between
them.

Out of politeness, he allowed Tarte to climb the stairs first, but the man’s absurd
shoes slowed him down so that he wobbled side to side, and had to reach for either
the railing or the wall to steady himself.

Ahead of them, Daphne ascended the spiral staircase. Light filtered through narrow
window openings just enough to provide him with glimpses of her golden hair and her
pale shoulders. Her skirts were fashioned of some gauzy, delicate cloth, and sometimes,
the perfect slant of sunshine revealed the outline of her legs and the mesmerizing
shape of her buttocks.

Tarte let out an exclamation, half falling up the stairs.

“Sorry there, Sir Tarte, I didn’t mean to run you down.”

“It’s not your fault, I stopped suddenly.” Tarte looked up, his face red, and sweat
shining on his brow. “It seems I’ve turned my ankle.”

“What a shame.” Cormack caught the umbrella in his hand. “Try to make your way back
to the carriage. I’ll ensure Miss Bevington comes to no harm.”

He hastened his pace, at one turn catching a glimpse of Daphne’s pale face as she
peered over her shoulder, and the next, only a tantalizing flash of her skirt. At
last, he broke free onto the observation platform, which lay wide and square around
the circular tower. The scene that awaited him at the top of the stairs momentarily
stunned him. He had seen beautiful mountain scenery in Bengal, but he had never, in
his life, stood suspended so high in the sky as now. The view of the city from this
vantage point took his breath away—almost as much as Daphne Bevington did, each time
he looked into her blue eyes.

“It’s something else, isn’t it?” said a voice beside him. “This view.”

Cormack turned his head to find Mr. Kincraig standing beside him. Every muscle, every
molecule went on guard.

“Indeed it is,” he answered.

“Do you know I used to be scared of heights when I was young? I didn’t even like to
climb trees.”

“What a shame.” He scrutinized the man’s features, searching for any similarities
to Michael’s. He perceived none, but the boy was so young, and his appearance still
that of a babe’s.

“Life has a way of changing people, though, doesn’t it?” Mr. Kincraig leaned against
the railing, looking out over the city like a pirate on the bow of his ship. “Can’t
say I’m afraid of anything anymore.”

“So you are Miss Bevington’s cousin?”

He shrugged. “So some say.”

“What an odd thing
to
say.”