Once Upon a Highland Summer (38 page)

“David, my mother has agreed to allow me to waltz this evening,” she said, leaning into his shoulder, brushing against him in the most unsisterly way she could manage in her parents’ ballroom.

He patted her hand and smiled vacantly at her. “I don’t know how to waltz, Jules.”

Her heart sank to her ankles.

“Then perhaps—” But she didn’t have a suggestion. She folded her tongue behind her teeth and turned to smile at the next guest. Her heart stopped dead in her chest.

“Thomas Merritt,” he said in a dark voice, as if they’d never met. He bowed over her hand, his grip warm through her glove, his eyes never leaving hers, filled with a mischievous, knowing, intimate stare. The heat in that look set her heart beating again, very fast. He smiled, a slow, dangerous grin, and his gaze roamed over her.
His
appreciation was perfectly obvious. Her heart climbed higher still, and lodged in her throat, making speech impossible. A lock of dark hair fell over his brow, and she clenched her fist against the urge to brush it back. He did so himself in a polished gesture as he stepped away.

He was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Her imagination hadn’t played her false. He was just as she remembered him from their brief encounter. She let her eyes linger on the lean length of his legs, the breadth of his shoulders under the black wool of his evening coat as he walked away. She dared to guess that
he
waltzed . . . among other things.

He glanced back and caught her looking. She felt heat rise over her cheeks, and she made a small sound of dismay as he grinned at her again.

“Pardon?” David asked, glancing down at her.

“Nothing,” she managed. She snatched another glass of champagne from a passing footman and took a long restorative sip. The bubbles were almost as thrilling as Mr. Merritt’s wicked smile.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye. He did not go into the card room or join the other guests. Instead, he leaned against the wall insouciantly, in her line of sight, and watched her. She felt her composure slip. Suddenly her gown felt too tight, too low-cut, and the room too warm.

She sent him a scathing glance, meant to discourage such behavior, squelch it utterly, but he had the audacity to wink at her. It made her stomach wobble and her knees weak. She plied her fan, hid behind it.

Had he come to reclaim his handkerchief? It was upstairs, hidden in her drawer.

“Stand up straight,” her mother whispered. Julia stiffened, but with more annoyance than grace as the waltz began and David disappeared into the card room, arm in arm with Lord Dallen.

“D’you suppose they’ll take a house together by the sea for the summer?” he quipped, and she turned to find Thomas Merritt beside her, watching David and Dallen go. He was so tall she had to look up to meet his eyes. “May I have this dance?” He extended his hand as if he was already sure of her acquiescence.

A thrill rushed through her. There was something about this man that warned her to say no, to run for the safety of her mother’s side, but she was a grown woman. Surely the tingle low in her belly at the look in his eyes proved that well enough.

“Thank you.” She took his hand and let him lead her out.

He waltzed smoothly. “You look beautiful, by the way,” he said, as if he knew she’d craved the compliment, exactly the way she’d needed a protector in the park. Did he intend to make a habit of rescuing her?

“Thank you,” she said again. She was acutely aware of the heat of his hand on her waist, searing through the layers of silk and lace. He made a perfectly proper touch feel intimate, as if they were alone. She felt a tingle of something unexpected course through her as his eyes dropped to the slopes of her breasts and lingered before he met her eyes again.

She
felt
beautiful.

“Does His Grace realize just how lucky he is? I wondered that the other day when we met.”

“Of course he does,” she said tartly, and felt her skin heat. How bold that sounded.

“You’re blushing, but you shouldn’t. A woman should be aware of her worth.” His gaze flicked over her jewels. “Beyond the value of her jewelry, of course. I’d be willing to wager you’ve been betrothed for a very long time, or it’s an arranged match, perhaps, since he already behaves like you are an old married couple, bored by familiarity.”

“We have known each other since—forever,” she said breathlessly. Why did every word out of her mouth make her sound like a ninny?

He quirked an eyebrow upward. “Forever is a long time. I suppose when someone looks constantly at a familiar object, no matter how lovely it is, they cease to see its beauty.”

Exactly so. David would always see her as the child he’d grown up with. She imagined their wedding night, how awkward that was going to be. She stumbled.

Mr. Merritt caught her, lifted her, twirled her through the air and took the next step before he set her back on her feet. For an instant her breasts were pressed to his chest, her heart pounding against the hard muscles under his shirt. His hand spread wide on her waist, supporting her, and his thumb brushed the underside of her breast. Another rescue.

She swallowed a gulp of heady surprise.

“You look flushed, my lady. Perhaps some air?” he asked, glancing toward the French doors that led to the terrace.

She looked out into the velvet darkness of the late spring evening. She should refuse. It was against all the rules she’d been taught. But she was an adult, almost a married woman, and she nodded and let him waltz her out onto the terrace.

“Would you care for some champagne?” he asked, and stepped inside to beckon to a passing footman. He took two glasses and brought one to her.

She watched the bubbles dance in the light that spilled from the ballroom.

“Shall we drink to your happiness?”

“I am happy.”

“Oh, I didn’t doubt it for a moment,” he drawled in a tone that suggested he doubted it very much indeed.

“David is simply—” She hesitated. What? Kind, titled, stiff? Her grandmother’s nickname for him came to mind. Dull Duke David.

“Oh, I know. He is handsome, rich, and safe.”

“Safe?” She met the mischievous glitter of his eyes in the shadows. He laughed.

“Interesting you chose that word out of the three.”

“Well, of course he’s the other two things as well—and more. I suppose he’s safe, too. Who would harm him?”

He tilted his head. “I meant he’s a safe choice of husband. Not likely to do anything unexpected or in the least shocking.” He sipped his champagne. She watched his throat work above the edge of his cravat, his skin dark against the white linen.

Dull Duke David, she thought again, and pushed the idea away. “Such as?” she said, made bold by the wine.

He studied her for a moment, reached to caress her cheek, then ran his thumb over her lower lip. “Such as waltzing you away into the garden to steal a kiss, which I have wanted to do since I met you in Hyde Park. But then, I’d bet that even his kisses are safe. Do they set you on fire?”

“I—” She began a tart response that it was none of his affair how David kissed her, but she had no idea. He had only ever offered dry pecks on her cheek or forehead. His lips were always cool. She stared at Thomas Merritt’s well-shaped mouth. She’d wondered what it might be like to kiss him too. In fact, the idea had occupied her thoughts far more than it should have over the past two days.

He held up his champagne and stared into the amber depths. “A woman should feel like there are stars coursing through her blood when a man kisses her properly. Even if it is the simplest brush of his lips on hers, she should feel it in every inch of her body.” He stepped closer, leaned in. “Is that how His Grace’s kisses make you feel? Breathless, hot, desired?”

Could a kiss really feel like that? Suddenly she wanted to kiss a man who could never, ever resemble a brother.

Or her fiancé.

She lifted her face to his, stood on tiptoe, her mouth watering. “Show me,” she said.

He didn’t need a second invitation. He took her glass, set it on the edge of the balcony, cupped her face in his hands and lowered his mouth to hers. His lips were warm. She could taste the champagne on his breath, smell the soap he used, the scent of his own skin. A thrill of pure excitement ran through her, curling her toes. She tightened her fingers on his arms.

He didn’t pull back. His lips shaped to fit hers, moved over her mouth expertly.

Oh my.

Her hands crept up to touch his face, to draw him closer. With a sigh, she kissed him back.

He licked the seam of her lips, and she drew back in surprise. He merely shifted his attention, laid a dozen kisses along her jaw, down her throat, blazing a trail of fire. She tipped her head, gave him access, permission. Above her the stars did indeed glitter.

He put his hands on her waist, spanning it, and drew her closer. She slid her arms around his neck, pressed against the warm length of his body. He nibbled a particularly delicate spot under her ear. “Oh,” she sighed, shivering. Her eyes drifted shut but she could still see the stars.

He captured her mouth again, nipped at her lips until she drew a breath and opened. He tangled his tongue with hers. He tasted of champagne. She moved closer still, marveling at the way her hips fitted to his, how her curves perfectly accommodated his angles. His heat radiated through her clothes. More. She wanted more. She pressed her tongue against his, experimenting. He gave a soft groan, and his hands slid up her back to cup her neck and tilt her backward, deepening the kiss.

Oh, she did indeed feel breathless, hot, and desired!

Something tickled at her brain, the tiny part that could still think. She should step back, move away, go inside, but she could not stop kissing him. How had she ever lived without kisses? She hadn’t even known such sensations existed. It was like the first sip of champagne, the heady tang of summer berries purloined from the garden, the sweetness of honey and wine and cake all in one. Surely this was what her grandmother had meant when she told her romantic stories, whispered them in her ear so her mother couldn’t hear, of kisses such as this, bestowed on a princess in a tower by a lover who dared to climb the vines to her bower.

He pulled away, and cool evening air rushed in like sanity. Julia opened her eyes and stared at him. He was staring back, just out of reach, his face in shadow, breathing hard as if he’d been running.

“I think we’d better stop.” His voice was an octave lower than it had been. It vibrated over every aroused inch of her flesh. Good sense returned like a dash of cold water. She should be ashamed—scarcely a dozen feet away, her guests were dancing, drinking, celebrating her betrothal to another man.

Dull Duke David.

She didn’t know what to say. Her lips still tingled, and despite the chill of the spring evening, her body burned.

“I’ll go back inside. You’d better slip in later,” he murmured, looking over his shoulder now, scanning the crowd for curious eyes, worrying far too late if anyone might have seen them. David could call him out and shoot him for the liberties he’d taken. Would he shoot her too?

He was far too busy playing cards.

Mr. Merritt bowed, backed away. The light hit him, illuminated the copper lights in his dark hair, the silhouette of his lean body—the body that only moments earlier had been pressed against hers—then he stepped inside with a single regretful glance at her and was gone.

She put a hand to her lips, swollen and soft.

She needed a mirror.

She needed a cold bath.

Julia picked up her skirts and hurried along the terrace to the French doors that led into the library. She slipped inside and leaned on the cool glass for a moment. The room was dark and empty. Light from the street spilled through the windows, painting long golden rectangles on the floor.

Her heart slowed. The library was a place of sobriety and decorum. Somewhere beyond the double oak doors the party continued. She could hear laughter, voices, and music. She crossed to the mirror but could not see anything in the darkness. Was she different now? Disheveled? Did she look wanton? She smoothed a careful hand over her hair, checked for loose curls, touched her swollen lips, felt the tingle on her cheeks where his rougher skin had grazed her.

Of course she was different. She’d been different the moment she met Thomas Merritt, and now—

She perched on the edge of one of the armchairs that smelled of cigars and her father’s hair oil. With nervous fingers, she tucked back a strand of hair. In a moment she would have to walk back into the ballroom, and act as if nothing had happened, but her heart was beating against her ribs like a caged bird.

She jumped to her feet when the door opened.

The light from the hall raced across the room, blinded her for a moment. Was it her mother, looking for her, or David, perhaps? Would they be able to tell what she’d been doing in the dark garden with the handsome stranger? Guilt tightened her gut even as resolve stiffened her spine. She had received many lectures in this particular room, standing on the carpet before her father’s desk. She clasped her hands behind her back, as she always did, ready to face the consequences, whatever they might be.

T
homas Merritt stepped into the silence of Lord Carrindale’s library and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. He had come to the lavish betrothal ball for one reason, and it wasn’t to wish the couple happy.

He had no idea when he met Julia Leighton in the park that she was Carrindale’s daughter. She’d been a lovely, distraught lady in need. He should have walked away, but he couldn’t. Not when he saw the tears in her eyes. When Fiona Barry had said Julia’s name, mentioned the betrothal ball, the very ball he had every intention of attending anonymously, he should have taken it as a warning.

From that moment, things had gone awry. For one thing, the countess was not wearing the magnificent tiara he’d come to steal, which meant it was most likely still in the safe. And for another thing . . . He glanced up at the shadowed portrait of the grim-faced Earl of Carrindale and grinned.