The Heir and the Spare (3 page)

He lowered his mouth to hers.

At first their lips just touched, frozen in the moment. Her lips were the softest he had ever known. His hand moved to her cheek, caressing it. He nibbled the delicate corners of her mouth, on her lower lip. He urged her to open to him, and when he felt her tremble slightly under his touch, he delved deeper.

Emilia had thought she knew all about kisses from reading about them. When she felt a spark as their lips touched, she conceded that perhaps there was more to it. When he cupped his hand around her cheek, she softened, and when her lips parted of their own volition and he entered, setting off hot thrills that hummed through every part of her, she surrendered. She knew nothing about kisses. But being shown a fool had never been so exquisite.

Devon could tell it was her first kiss. He felt a thrill of pride, and then a stab of panic.
Go slow. Be gentle. You are the first. Make this magical for her.
So he moved slowly, really tasting her—the faint sweetness of a glass of champagne drunk earlier in the evening, perhaps. Something intoxicating. He pulled back, slightly, sucking on that sweet lower lip that had trembled a moment before. Suddenly, he realized that he had never really cared about kisses; they had always been the prelude to something else. But this— this kiss was all he could have of her. Something tightened around his heart, but he ignored it.

And then she arched to him, demanding more. And just to be clear that she wanted him, her gloved hands reached up, pulling him closer. He wanted to feel her bare fingers, her small female hands upon his hot skin, no fabric between them. Since when had he been tormented by the desire to see and feel a woman’s bare hands? Other parts of her, certainly. She moaned, just then, opening up and pulling him closer for more. She certainly was as fiery as her red hair. And he couldn’t, simply could not, be gentle anymore.

Emilia felt him return to her, deeper and with more force. It wasn’t a violent force; she knew that instinctively, just as she knew instinctively that it was the same passion she was feeling. And if it wasn’t passion, it was certainly madness to be kissing this devilishly handsome stranger and scoundrel when anyone could walk in at any second. But she couldn’t make herself stop. Around and around their tongues tangled, explored, tasted. She could not get enough air to breathe; she was light-headed. She was thankful she was lying down and he was too far away. Though she felt hot, she didn’t want him to stop, or pull away, but rather come closer. Somehow, though it made no sense, but yet made perfect sense, she knew she had to feel more of him to extinguish this heat that threatened to consume her.

And then he laughed.

Suddenly, the heat of desire she was feeling was replaced with a deep flush of panic and mortification; she felt like she did when she was about to fall. He had laughed at her! Scoundrel. She immediately pulled back. “What is so funny?”

“This is just perfect,” he murmured.

“Oh,” she murmured.
Oh.

He moved his hands lower, his fingertips tracing the line of her cheek, lingering on the soft hollow of her throat. They stopped kissing for a moment and rested cheek to cheek and just breathed each other’s breath. Each time he moved his hand lower, her breath came in a short gasp. He was giving her a chance to say no, to tell him to stop.

If he stops, I will die,
Emilia thought. He was going so slowly, and it was pure torture. But it was also how she was able to feel each little touch a thousand times, until . . . until . . . oh God.

Devon didn’t intend to take it this far, but he could not stop himself. He cupped one hand around her perfect breast, cursing those damnable layers of fabric that separated them. His kiss elicited a soft sigh that he knew spoke of being beyond pleased. She had no idea.

This is perfect, Emilia thought. This is amazing. It was wonderful and wicked and she couldn’t quite muster up any sort of regret.

“Oh,” she murmured, “now I know what you did to earn your reputation.”

He froze—not because he had once again been mistaken for his twin, which of course was his own doing. But because he had been on the verge of ruining this girl. Just like his brother: Shut the door. Take what you want. Get rid of the girl.

But the door was open, and now that his sense was returning to him, he heard footsteps in the hall. He looked down at her. Lips swollen with his kisses. Eyes wide with apprehension, for she heard the footsteps, too.

She was beautiful. Pure. An innocent. And he had tarnished her just a bit. Part of him demanded that he stay, that he marry this girl whose name he didn’t even know. But he didn’t deserve her, and she certainly deserved better than him.

He saw his chance for escape in the doors that led to the conservatory. He took it. And he had never hated himself more.

The following morning began like every other since Emilia had arrived in London one month ago. She was the first one at the breakfast table, reading the latest installment of the Darcy Darlington mystery series in
London Weekly
magazine and enjoying a cup of tea while waiting for her aunt to join her. She nibbled idly at some toast, squinting at the words in an effort to see them better, but completely unable to focus. It seemed every sentence she read reminded her of last night.

Her first kiss! She could just feel herself blushing at the recollection. She had read about kisses and the young ladies who had swooned and fainted at the hero’s touch. She scoffed and dismissed it as nonsense. After all, how could two mouths pressed together elicit so much feeling? But now she understood. Oh, did she ever! She hadn’t swooned or fainted, but lud, she had no idea kisses were so amazing and magical. That there was more to it than a meeting of lips; that kisses made you feel hot all over, even in places that weren’t being touched; that they made you forget the pain in your ankle and everything else in the whole world.

Reminded of her ankle, she gingerly moved it back and forth. The pain had subsided greatly, and this morning she walked with only the slightest limp. She felt slightly embarrassed at having fallen in front of what had seemed like all of London, but if she hadn’t fallen, she might not have had that kiss.

Thinking she ought not relive passionate encounters at the breakfast table, she returned to the story. But once again, her mind wandered. Above the mantel there was a portrait of her aunt and her late mother when they had been near Emilia’s age. Both women had the same dark blue eyes. Emilia had the same dark red hair as her mother, while her aunt’s hair was a soft blonde and her features were more angular. Emilia had been seven years old when her mother had died, but she knew it was her mother’s wish that Emilia would come to London to have her season. And here she was. And after just one night, she had half fallen in love.

“Good morning, dear. How is your ankle?” her aunt asked as she entered the breakfast room, dressed in a turquoise-colored gown with a black ribbon sash.

“It’s much better, thank you.”

“You look as if you did not sleep well.” Her aunt eyed Emilia in a manner that suggested she could read minds. Either that, or those hours Emilia had spent tossing and turning and reliving that kiss in her mind were apparent on her face.

“I slept well,” Emilia lied. “And you?”

“Perfectly well. I hope you managed to find some enjoyment last evening, in spite of your injury. Did you meet anyone you fancied?”

Oh my God, did she know?
No, it was a perfectly natural question for a chaperone to ask the morning following a ball. Emilia thought of naming one of the countless men she had met.

“Not really, no,” Emilia replied. To describe Phillip as interesting was an understatement. Fascinating and thrilling, yes. A man she could imagine marrying, yes. Not that she wanted to reveal any of this to her aunt.

“Perfectly understandable. It is still early in the season yet. Groves! Where are my newspapers?” Lady Palmerston said loudly. The butler hurried in with a bundle of papers on a silver tray. Emilia smiled at the now familiar habit of her aunt’s—reading every single gossip column every day. Knowing better than to bother interrupting, Emilia once again turned back to her own reading.

“Oh, excellent!” Lady Palmerston exclaimed, pressing her hands together.

“What?” Emilia asked, looking up at her aunt’s smiling face.

“Lord Chesterfield and Miss Harriet Humphry have announced their engagement. What an absolute upset! Up until just yesterday he was courting Lady Beaufort. Poor girl is probably finding out she is jilted this very moment.”

“Why is that excellent?” Emilia asked, feeling a stab of sympathy for Lady Beaufort, whom she had never met.

“Because everyone will be talking about it, and thus no one will be talking about your moment with that cad Lord Huntley.”

“Oh.” A bubble of panic rose in Emilia’s throat. They had not been caught last night. After he had dashed out, the footsteps had paused for a moment before entering the library. And it had only been her aunt and a doctor, and neither seemed to suspect that she had just been kissing the biggest rake in town.

“Of course it was clear that you had tripped, and naturally, he would have caught you being right there. He just didn’t release you as quickly as he ought to have done.”

“You promised to tell me what he had done to deserve his reputation, Aunt.”

“I did no such thing,” she replied, taking a sip of tea.

“I know. But perhaps you could just tell me anyway.”

“Very well. I never did see the point of withholding information,” her aunt said, taking a long sip of tea before setting the cup down in the saucer. “You see, there are rakes and then there are absolute scoundrels. Lord Huntley is the latter. A rake keeps company with actresses and opera singers and is a tremendous flirt. An absolute scoundrel is worse. I have it on good authority that Phillip has ruined four girls. He should have only ruined one, and then married her. But the first one was the seventh daughter of a baron, and therefore fairly inconsequential. Rumor has it that he paid a sum of money to hush up the affair. Found her beneath him as a wife, but quite nice beneath him as a fling. She is now rusticating in the country.” Lady Palmerston paused for breath and a sip of tea. While she obviously enjoyed sharing such a salacious tale, the warning was unmistakable.

“Then there was the time he was caught with the daughter of a viscount, Althorp, I believe. Ruined in the garden during her coming-out ball! He refused to marry her and departed for the continent. No one knows what has become of that poor girl. It was in Italy that he was caught trying to elope with the daughter of the ambassador.”

Emilia felt a sinking, awful sensation in her stomach. She had not only kissed this man, who showed so little respect for women, but she had liked it.

“But those are just rumors, right? It may not all be true,” Emilia said hopefully.

“You are too smart to be such a fool. I haven’t even gotten to his most scandalous affair. All I shall say is that it is common wisdom that the Duke of Grafton’s heir is not actually his son, but Lord Huntley’s.”

“But there must be some decency in him,” Emilia protested. After all, if he were such a debaucher of young women, wouldn’t he have taken more than a kiss from her when he had the chance?

“I’m sure you are the only one interested in finding it.”

“Who
is that redhead staring at me?” Phillip, Lord Huntley, asked with the slightest nod of his head in her direction. Lately, it had only been wives with wandering eyes who would dare to look at him so directly. He was well aware that all debutantes received stern lectures on the likes of him—or rather, him in particular. They always averted their gaze around him, as if he could ruin them with just his eyes. The thought amused him, though he did not reveal it in his expression.

“Miss Emilia Highhart. American. Huge fortune, if the rumors are true,” Parkhurst answered promptly.

“But why is she staring at me?” Phillip continued, catching her eye. Her cheeks reddened, like her hair, and she looked away.

“Don’t you remember what happened at the Carrington Ball the other night?” Parkhurst asked, sounding slightly uncertain, perhaps even nervous.

“I don’t even remember being at the Carrington Ball the other night,” Phillip responded. “What happened?”

“I don’t know, I don’t remember either. But I read about it. It was in the papers. I can’t believe no one told you, since everyone knows you don’t read the papers yourself.”

“Get to the point, Parkhurst. What the hell happened?” Phillip practically growled in frustration.

“Apparently, she fell right into your arms while walking down the stairs, and you, being you of course, caught her and held on to her for far longer than any witnesses deemed necessary.” That was all? Damn, it was nothing. Of course, the gossiping vultures of the ton would think that worth commenting on. But really, he could have done far worse.

“Good to know my reflexes are still adequate after so much drink,” Phillip joked, in relief, until an unsettling thought returned. “I swear I don’t recall even attending that ball. What did we do that night, Parkhurst?”

“The last thing I remember is having this really pretty young thing on my lap at that party given by Mrs. Bradford. She was blonde, I think. And I remember she and I were sharing a bottle of champagne. And her breasts, my God . . .” Parkhurst’s voice trailed off, and his words were replaced with a stupid grin. “What on earth was her name? I would really like to see her again.”

“Parkhurst. Focus.”

“Right. We went to a party at Mrs. Bradford’s house. It seems we got tired of it and stopped by the Carrington Ball for a spot of amusement. We must have been deep in our cups to think that would be amusing.”

“Indeed,” Phillip stated. The social whirl had long ago ceased to amuse him. He wondered if it ever had. No wonder he drank so much. “Are you as bored as I am, Parkhurst?”