Sally MacKenzie Bundle (118 page)

He stepped to the other side of a ficus tree to avoid a very intent-looking mama and her debutante daughter.

He should not be avoiding them—he should be speaking to them and to all the other ladies in the room. He should not be concentrating on Standen’s daughter. Alex was right—life would be much simpler if he could find a pleasant woman without a history linked to his blasted father.

Yes, he liked Lady Oxbury’s niece’s appearance—Zounds, how he liked her appearance! He was growing shockingly enthusiastic just thinking of her appearance…but he hadn’t met her. She might smell of garlic or have a voice as shrill as a fishmonger’s wife.

He forced himself to look around the ballroom. There were plenty of matrimonial candidates present. They all had two eyes, a nose, a mouth, a quantity of hair arranged in ringlets and curls. Not one made his…ahem…heart leap.

He was as bad as a hound that had caught the scent of a fox. Lady Oxbury’s niece was all he could think about.

If only she weren’t the Earl of Standen’s daughter. Or if only her father were a reasonable man. Did Standen actually blame him for Lady Harriet’s death? Impossible. Many women died in childbirth. Hadn’t Standen’s wife died trying to birth the man’s stillborn heir?

And surely Standen didn’t hold him accountable for his father’s actions? People might think he looked like Luke Wilton, but no one had ever blamed him for causing his parents’ elopement.

He snorted. He could have caused it, he supposed, but he’d always been given to understand he’d yet to be conceived when the young couple had made their dash for the border—though they’d certainly not wasted any time in seeing to his creation.

Or did Standen simply consider him bad seed from bad seed?

Anger coursed through his gut. The bloody fool. If anyone had a right to bear a grudge, it was him—but he didn’t blame Standen for his father’s death. He didn’t blame anyone, though if there were guilt to be apportioned, he’d lay some on the doorstep of Lord Wordham, his mother’s father. If the man hadn’t tried to force his daughter to wed Standen, the whole sorry train of events would not have been put in motion.

He relaxed his jaw, unclenching his teeth. Lord Wordham was dead; it was useless to expend any more anger on him.

He would just have to persuade Standen he was the perfect husband for his daughter. He should be able to do it—he’d lived his entire life proving to the world he was nothing like Luke Wilton.

He allowed himself another glance at his watch. Where could the ladies have gone? There was still no sign of them. He might have to concede defeat for tonight. But he would search for them again at the next gathering. He looked forward to it—and that in itself was something to celebrate. He hadn’t looked forward to anything since his grandparents’ damn carriage accident.

He closed his eyes briefly. He was definitely doing better. He’d finally accepted the fact Grandda and Grandmamma were gone. He’d accepted that he was now baron and needed to attend to those duties—all those duties.

He smiled. And tonight he’d made the next step. He no longer just accepted the need for a wife and heir, he looked forward to winning the wife and getting the heir.

Another debutante and marriage-minded mama were heading his way. He should talk to them; dance with the girl…

He couldn’t. He stepped out the door to the garden.

Where was Grace? Kate scanned the ballroom. Music spilled over her and, despite her need to find her niece, Kate’s heart lifted. She used to love to dance. She watched the couples gliding around the room, waltzing. It was scandalous, men and women touching each other like that. Completely scandalous.

What if the waltz had been danced when she’d had her come-out? What would it have been like to have waltzed with Alex all those years ago?

Regret darkened her heart like the sooty London air. She saw him still standing by the palms. He was looking at her…

She looked away. She had to find Grace. She couldn’t think about Alex and the past.

She couldn’t think about anything else.

She was still beautiful.

Alex took another gulp of champagne. He much appreciated Alvord’s verdant decorating scheme. This vase of flowers, for example, was very strategically placed among the potted palms. His skin-tight breeches left nothing to the imagination, making painfully clear to any casual observer exactly where
his
imagination had strayed.

Painfully clear, yes—with the emphasis on pain. He had to think of something other than Kate. There was little hope he could ease this ache tonight.

But if he could—

It was very,
very
fortunate the floral arrangement before him was a splendidly bushy collection of vegetation.

He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, but that didn’t stop the memories. Twenty-three years ago, at a ball given by the previous Duke of Alvord, he’d asked Kate to marry him. He’d known who she was, yet he’d still let himself fall in love with her. He grimaced. Could he have been any more mutton-headed?

No. It was not possible—unless he surpassed himself tonight.

He looked at Kate again. She was standing alone by the windows to the terrace now, fanning herself. Standen’s daughter had vanished.

Tsk, tsk, Kate. You need to be more vigilant. You know what can happen in the duke’s garden.

Madness. He’d taken Kate into Alvord’s garden all those years ago and had asked her to marry him. It had been the only spontaneous, daring thing he’d ever done in his life. She’d said yes, even though, as he learned later, she was already engaged to Oxbury.

And then he had kissed her. It had been a rather chaste kiss. She’d been a virgin, after all, and he, not much more than one.

He smiled slightly. God, how that kiss had haunted him. It had been awkward and short, barely more than a brushing of lips, but full of longing and possibilities. A promise of future passion—a promise sadly unfulfilled. The next morning when he’d called to ask for Kate’s hand, Standen had let him know in no uncertain terms that hell would freeze over before a Wilton would marry a Belmont. Kate had already been packed off to the country.

He hadn’t seen her since—until tonight.

She was a widow now. Perhaps she missed male companionship…

He took another swallow of champagne. He could use some liquid courage.

He’d swear she hadn’t changed at all. She still looked as fragile, as sylphlike, as she had that first Season.

Would she go with him into the garden? Would she let him kiss her again? But this time the kiss he gave her wouldn’t be in the least bit chaste—it would be wet and hot and carnal.

He downed the rest of his champagne, hid the glass in the greenery, and stepped out of the palm fronds. It was time to put his hopes to the test.

Kate looked at the window. The candlelight and dancing couples were reflected splendidly, but as for the terrace outside…She couldn’t see a thing unless she stuck her nose to the glass and cupped her hands around her eyes to block the light from the ballroom.

She should go find Grace. The girl must be out on the terrace—she was nowhere to be found in the ballroom.

How could Grace ignore Kate’s pointed warnings? Didn’t she understand the danger? Yes, she was significantly older than most debutantes, but this
was
her first London Season. It would not be hard for her to put a foot wrong, especially as she seemed to think her age and size exempted her from society’s rules.

Kate knew all too well what could happen in the Duke of Alvord’s garden.

Dear heaven. Just the thought of the garden brought so many memories flooding back. Memories and…sensations.

She plied her fan vigorously. She should stop trying to delude herself. She hadn’t gone out looking for Grace because she hoped by staying in the ballroom Alex might approach her. She was being terribly irresponsible. And pitiful.

Her stays were much too tight. She would listen to Marie from now on and forget her silly notions of appearing youthful. She tried to draw a deeper breath.

She’d like to escape the crush herself—and the decidedly stuffy air, she thought, wrinkling her nose. She’d like to go into the garden with Alex—

No! Not with—most certainly not.

Dear God, would this evening never end? She was so hot and uncomfortable—and everyone was talking about her. Oh, Prudence had been very friendly, but there had been a touch of pity in her old friend’s eyes. And why not? Prudence had a house full of children and Kate had…nothing.

She glanced around the room—and saw Alex.

She whipped her eyes away and pretended to look out the window again. Would he ask her to dance or, worse, stroll in the garden?

She moved her fan faster.

He must have had innumerable conquests these twenty-three years while she’d been busy being a good wife—well, a wife—to her husband—her much older husband.

Oh God, he was coming her way.

She should join the other chaperones. There was safety in numbers. She glanced at the knot of older women. They were darting looks at her and Alex and whispering behind their fans.

No, she wouldn’t join the chaperones.

She watched Alex’s reflection. He was coming closer…

She moistened her lips. Her stomach shivered. Her heart, even her—She blushed and fanned more vigorously still. Tendrils of hair flew about her face.

Even the secret place between her legs, the place Oxbury had entered frequently in the early days of their marriage when there was still hope she could bear him an heir and not so frequently later—not at all in the last months when he’d been so sick—even that place shivered.

It was as if she’d been asleep all these years and now she was waking.

“Lady Oxbury?”

He was standing right behind her. She turned slowly to face him. She stared at his white waistcoat. Her mouth was as dry as dust. She couldn’t speak.

“Lady Oxbury, are you all right?”

She tried to breathe, but the damn stays were too confining. “I…” She managed to raise her eyes from his chest to his lips.

His mouth was firm, serious, his lips narrow…

Did she remember how they felt? She would swear that she did. Their light, brief touch, brushing over her mouth, had ignited a fire that had smoldered for twenty-three years.

She met his eyes—

Ahh. Heat flared in those blue depths. His gaze was so intent.

She moistened her lips again.

The embers of that old fire were bursting back into life. The conflagration would incinerate her if she were not careful.

Did she want to be careful?

Was she a moth, flying to her death, or a phoenix, reborn by flame?

“Come with me into the garden, Kate.” His voice, low, full of promise, melted any whisper of resistance her conscience might muster.

That wasn’t all it melted. Her lips, her breasts, ached for his touch; the secret place throbbed, wept for him.

Heat swept up her cheeks. She had been faithful to Oxbury all the years they were wed and the long year since his death. Was she a light skirt, then, to so easily consider going into the garden with this man?

No. This was not any man—this was Alex.

Moth or phoenix, suicide or rebirth, it didn’t much matter. She was going out into the garden with Alex, even if she had to drag him into the bushes herself.

Chapter 3

The terrace was markedly cooler, quieter—and darker. The ballroom candles cast only very small circles of light from the door and windows. There were lanterns, yes, but they seemed to create more shadows than they dispelled—if the murmurings Grace heard were any indication, a number of couples were delighted to take advantage of the dim light.

She should go back inside. Now that she considered the matter, she realized it would be rather awkward to try to initiate a discussion with the baron out here. They had never been introduced, after all. Lord Dawson probably had no idea who she was.

She flushed, remembering how he’d looked at her when she’d stood on the ballroom landing. His eyes had seared a path straight to her soul, if her soul was located—

Oh! The place low in her…well, that place throbbed again. It could not be her soul—it was far too physical.

“Pardon me, but are you going out, miss?”

“What? Oh, er…” She was blocking the door, wasn’t she? A short, balding man wished to get through—a short, balding man who was now drooling on her bodice.

She stepped back quickly and caught her heel in her hem.

“Ack!” She flung out her hands to recover her balance, but it was hopeless. She was going down. She would indeed end in an ignominious heap, but at least not in the middle of the ballroom—“Oh!”

A pair of strong arms caught her and hauled her up against a rock-hard chest.

“Are you all right?” The voice was warm, deep, concerned—but with a hint of laughter.

“Ah.” She blinked up at her rescuer—Lord Dawson, of course. “Er.”

She couldn’t form a coherent sentence—she couldn’t think. She’d never been so close to a man before. A host of sensations overwhelmed her: the hard strength of Lord Dawson’s arms holding her as if she weighed nothing; the rough texture of his coat against her cheek; the clean scent of his linen and…him.

She felt small. She had
never
felt small. Even as a child, she’d towered over the other girls and most of the boys. The feeling was completely disorienting.

She concentrated on Lord Dawson’s face, but that didn’t help. If anything, such a close inspection caused her heart to pound harder and her poor brain to drift further into its stupor.

He
did
have a slight cleft in his chin. And a dimple in his cheek. And long, dark lashes framing his eyes…

His teeth were white and even in the shadows. Was he laughing at her? It wouldn’t be odd if he were. She was gaping up at him like a complete ninny.

“
Are
you all right?” The laughter was more pronounced, but there was a different undertone now. The heat was back in his eyes.

“Has she swooned, Dawson? Should I send someone for help?”

“I don’t believe that will be necessary, Delton.”