The Wedding Affair (13 page)

“I wonder if you’re worth it.” His gaze slid slowly over her. “Are you up to the job?”

“Do you want my honest assessment? Making twelve bridesmaids believe you’re so besotted you can’t possibly have eyes for one of them isn’t my problem at all. It’s yours. I need only stand still and look somewhat decorative. All the convincing will be on your side.”

“Your disarming frankness makes me less inclined to pay your price.”

“It’s entirely up to you, of course.” Olivia’s breath felt shallow. What was she doing, anyway, arguing against the most rewarding bargain she’d ever been offered? Was she mad? “It was your idea to pretend to court me, instead of having the simple little affair I suggested.”

He said very deliberately, “Oh, not
instead of.
I meant,
in addition to
.”

Olivia’s breath rasped in her throat. His voice sounded hot and dangerous. She forced herself to laugh. “Touché, sir.”

“The truth is, Lady Reyne, I don’t pay my mistresses. To keep my mother from matching me up with an empty-headed schoolgirl—
that’s
worth a pension. But don’t think for a moment I’m rejecting your initial offer. I’m only adding my own set of terms to what you proposed.”

She felt the heat of his gaze washing over her, and her insides went liquid. How could he have such an effect when he wasn’t even touching her?

“I’ll have your answer now.” His voice curved like warm velvet against her skin. “Shall we seal our bargain with a kiss?”

Olivia finally managed a full breath. “Only if you provide earnest money.”

“You don’t trust my word?” He shrugged. “I don’t have a diamond bracelet—or an annuity—on my person, I’m afraid. The ladies who draw my eye tend not to lose interest in me so quickly that I must woo them with gifts in advance.”

“How nice for you. But you’re in for a rude shock where I’m concerned.”

He smiled slowly. “So we do have a bargain.”

Without taking his gaze off her face, he unfastened the gold and sapphire stickpin nestled in the folds of his neckcloth. He folded her fingers around the warm metal. Then he raised her hand to his lips.

His mouth was warm against her skin, moving slowly over the back of her hand, his fingers cupping hers. Intimate as the gesture was, Olivia was relieved. She’d thought for a moment he meant to do more. But a mere kiss on the hand—even though it was her bare hand, and even though heat rippled up her arm—
that
she could stand.

He pulled her closer, lifting her hands to rest them on his shoulders and then wrapping one arm around her while his other hand came to rest under her chin. His fingertips splayed across her throat, each pad barely touching, yet sensation arced through her. She tipped her head back in an instinctive attempt to avoid the contact and looked directly into his eyes.

She saw satisfaction in his gaze and knew she’d acted exactly as he’d expected. “Such a cooperative little mistress you’re going to be,” he whispered, and his lips came down on hers.

His mouth was warm, mobile, and gentle—asking rather than taking, exploring rather than plundering. He kissed her so thoroughly that she forgot how to breathe. Her world narrowed until the only thing that still existed was sensation—the smooth wool of his coat under her hands, the tiny rasp of beard against her cheek, the scent of his soap, a tangy taste as the tip of his tongue teased her lips open, the coolness of air moving against her breasts, and then the gentle tug of his mouth against her nipple as he bent to sample and explore… How had he opened the bodice of her gown without her noticing?

“You said a kiss,” she protested.

He raised his head and smiled. “That’s a valuable sapphire you’re holding. I intend to get my money’s worth.” His voice was husky, trailing across her ears as gently as his mouth had caressed her breast. He pulled her closer and kissed her again, more possessively this time. His thumb gently circled the peak of her nipple until she arched against him, pushing her breast against the warm smoothness of his palm.

“Tonight,” he whispered against her lips. “I will come to you tonight.”

***

The vicar’s call on the duchess had been a short one, and Her Grace had apparently opted not to include Lady Daphne after all—for as Kate came down the stairs, Mr. Blakely was being shown to the front door. Before she could even think of dodging into a side room to avoid him, his sonorous voice rang out across the breadth of Halstead’s entrance hall. “Miss Blakely, a moment if you please.”

Kate weighed the possibilities. If he was aiming to lecture her, it would be better to hold this conversation in private. But if he intended to renew his courtship, then the last thing she wanted just now was to be alone with him.

She compromised by taking him into the reception room nearest the entrance but pointedly leaving the door open. The chamber was tiny; the furniture was the uncomfortable sort chosen to discourage casual callers from lingering; and the air felt chilly even in the middle of August—though perhaps that was more a matter of disuse than of actual temperature.

Kate ignored the straight-backed wooden chairs and stopped in the center of the room, her hands folded demurely, waiting to see what was on the vicar’s mind. Mr. Blakely looked at her even more closely than he had the previous afternoon in Olivia’s garden, as if he was truly seeing her as a person for the first time.

Then he smiled broadly. “Miss Blakely, I had no idea you were so closely connected to the premier family in the district. To be on such terms with the duchess that she relies on you… I must say, however, perhaps there is such a thing as too much discretion in these matters. Your modesty is admirable, of course, not wishing to put yourself forward or seem to boast of who you know. But not to have even hinted to me of your connection, when you must have known how crucial such a bond can be to the pastor of a flock—”

From the corner of her eye, Kate caught a glimpse of movement in the doorway.

Andrew Carlisle stood there. “So sorry. Since the door was open, I thought the room was empty.”

“The vicar was just leaving,” Kate said.

“I thought perhaps he might be,” Andrew agreed. “Let me walk you out, sir.”

He was gone barely a minute. Kate had folded her hands on the back of a chair and was deciding how long she must wait before she could safely duck away when Andrew returned.

“Please accept my condolences on your loss,” he said. “Your father was a brilliant man.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your sympathy.”

The silence drew out. “I’ve missed you, Kate.”

“It’s Miss Blakely to you, Mr. Carlisle.”

“Only in public,” he said softly. “What has happened to you? You can’t mean to marry the vicar.”

“Why on earth shouldn’t I? It would be a perfectly good match. He’s a godly man.”

“And he’s so aware of his state of grace, too. You have changed, Kate, if you truly find someone like Mr. Blakely a tempting prospect as a lifetime partner. Or is it not the man but his situation that attracts you? Is security so important to you now?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“None, I suppose—except that we were friends.”

“Were we?” Kate wet her lips. “You liked to tell me stories. That is true. I recall you plotting to venture up the Amazon by canoe. Did your dreams come to nothing?”

Andrew smiled. “There are many kinds of adventure, Kate. That one was probably the most crackbrained of my many schemes, but I am flattered you remember them still. Do you recollect all the others as clearly? And have you wondered sometimes which of those dreams I might be pursuing?”

Kate was speechless. The sheer conceit of the man, to think she’d had nothing better to do on any given day than to contemplate where in the world he might be! “The only thing I wonder,” she said tartly, “is why no cannibal ever boiled you in your own impertinence. Since none has, the obvious conclusion is that you have never come face to face with one!”

In the silence that followed, the Duke of Somervale looked around the half-open door of the reception room. “Andrew, I might have guessed it would be you here annoying Miss Blakely. You always were quite good at it.”

Andrew laughed. “I was starting to wonder if you had done a bunk altogether, Simon.”

“Couldn’t figure out how to get by with it,” the duke admitted. “Now stop bothering Miss Blakely and come do the pretty with me. We might find you an heiress among the bridesmaids, you know.”

Of course, what the duke was really saying, Kate thought, was,
Stop wasting your time on Miss Blakely…

And that was quite all right with her.

There are many kinds of adventure…
She wondered precisely what Andrew Carlisle had meant. Not, of course, that she intended to ask.

***

After her bath, Penelope pressed one of the housemaids into service to assist her into her simple dinner gown. Anyone could do up buttons, after all. But Maggie was utterly useless at arranging hair, so Penelope was putting the finishing touches on a very simple twist when the earl came into her bedroom. When he silently appeared over her shoulder in the dressing table mirror, her hand slipped and she stabbed her scalp with a hairpin.

He looked surprised to see her almost ready to go down. “Dinner will not be served for nigh on an hour, ma’am.”

He had called her by her name earlier, Penelope thought wistfully. Now the coldness had returned. She steadied her fingers and pushed the hairpin into place. “With the house so busy, I thought it best not to wait till the last moment.”

“One of the other ladies’ maids would be happy to assist you. You need only make a request.”

“I don’t like to ask,” Penelope admitted. “Each of them has duties aplenty already, and Maggie has been quite helpful.”

His expression softened a little. “You dislike being a trouble to anyone, don’t you?”

The little maid stopped fluttering about the room gathering up Penelope’s discarded clothing and bobbed a curtsey. “No trouble at all, my lord. I’m that pleased to help.”

Slowly, the earl’s gaze slipped away from Penelope to rest on the maid and then on the hip bath that stood beside the fireplace. “Indeed? I wonder—Maggie, is it?—if you would go and order me a bath. The tub looks very inviting.”

Maggie dropped the pile of intimate belongings squarely in the center of the carpet, obviously without giving a thought to the mess. “I’ll order hot water this minute, my lord, and send a footman to move the tub into your bedroom.”

The earl stretched. “No need. It’s fine there.” He stripped off his coat.

Penelope felt her insides shimmer as she remembered seeing his bare chest this afternoon, and she told herself she was very glad she’d decided to hurry through her toilette rather than watch his performance again.

All that warm, smooth skin… Even the memory left her feeling dazed. She wondered if the hairs on his chest were coarse or soft, and whether those well-defined muscles were as hard as they looked.

A wiry lock of her hair sprang loose and tumbled down her neck. Penelope fiddled with another hairpin and tried not to watch in the mirror as the earl slowly unwound his neckcloth and laid it aside. She wondered if every woman within range was susceptible to losing her mind as the earl undressed; the maid had seemed no more immune than Penelope herself, the way she’d hared off to take care of his request.

Trying to keep her gaze off her husband, Penelope looked instead at the small heap of clothing on the floor. A silk stocking trailed out of the pile, and a lace-edged chemise spilled across the Aubusson carpet. They were intimate items that, under other circumstances, she would have been embarrassed to have on display. But he seemed to pay no notice. As if there was nothing new to him about seeing a woman’s undergarments trailing across a bedroom floor…

No doubt he
was
used to the sight, and perhaps that helped to explain why he had chosen not to share her bed. If he had a mistress…

The idea had occurred to her before, of course, but for the first time she allowed herself to dwell on what that woman would be like. She would be tiny, beautiful, witty, and accomplished—all the things Penelope wasn’t. And her hair would fall naturally into glossy ringlets, not the wiry, uncontrollable mass that Penelope had to deal with.

“You wear no jewels this evening?”

“It would be foolishly showy to add gems to the simple styles I can manage myself. Like adding sweet icing to a loaf of coarse black bread and pretending it is cake.”

She knew she sounded cranky, but she couldn’t stop herself from picturing the sort of woman he would take as a mistress. One who would look delicious draped in diamonds…

She stabbed viciously at the back of her head with the hairpin. “This thing will not stay in.” She supposed pretending a snit was a great deal better than taking the chance he might guess something closer to the truth.

He came up behind her. He was still wearing his shirt, though the front gaped open to display a tantalizing wedge of warm, smooth chest. His fingertips skimmed her shoulder blade just where the edge of her bodice met skin and then trailed up the back of her neck, scooping up the wayward lock of hair along the way. Gently he tucked the ends into the twist and smoothed the palm of his hand from her nape to her crown. Then he took the pin from her suddenly numb hand and anchored his work in place.