Too Scandalous to Wed (7 page)

Y
es, he did like it. He liked it very much.

Sebastian slipped the ring over his pinky finger. A perfect fit. “Thank you, Miss Ashby. It was very thoughtful of you.”

He’d never received a gift before. Not like this. Not from a woman. It was usually he who did the gift giving, showering a mistress with jewels to keep her content. But he’d never been the recipient of such a gesture himself.

It was a warm sentiment, to be bestowed with a present. Especially if the gift was from a…friend.

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you, Miss Ashby.”

“Rot, Ravenswood! We are friends, you and I. And friends give gifts without expecting anything in return.”

He looked into her warm brown eyes, so spirited. Such a lovely pair of eyes to match such a lovely soul…

Young Edward bounded up to his aunt Henry then, and stole her away for a game of hoodman blind.

Henrietta flashed him a dazzling smile before she took off with the boy, then fastened the blindfold over her eyes and hunched to tickle and tag the children skipping around her.

Sebastian watched her for a time. He pressed the back of his head against the cool glass window, and let his eyes wander in curiosity over the little hoyden.

She was draped in a woolly frock, a rusty red in hue. The apparel matched the sunset shade of her long locks, twisted in an elegant knot, yet contrasted with the creamy brightness of her soft skin.

Sebastian eyed the naked flesh at her neck, her bust. He pictured his lips tasting the tender skin, his tongue licking the sweet scent of jasmine at her throat…

He slew the salacious thought at once. He was a villain. A jaded wastrel, through and through. It was just like him to think such a wicked thought, to corrupt the innocent Miss Ashby in his mind’s eye.

If only the chit didn’t have such a devastating figure: curves in all the right places. He could resist the allure of her smoky drawl then, the soft touch of her faerie fingers…

“You look smitten.”

Snapped from his reverie, Sebastian snarled at his brother. “Rubbish!”

Peter occupied the abandoned seat next to him, and said, “You have a dreamy look in your eyes.”

The devil he did!

“I’m just tired,” was Sebastian’s curt reply.

But Peter continued with his diagnosis, unperturbed. “A sort of hazy expression across your face.” He gesticulated with his fingers. “I’ve never seen you like this, Seb.”

“There’s nothing the matter with me.”

“Did I say there was anything wrong with you? Having feelings for a woman isn’t a malady, Seb, like some might suggest.”

Sebastian growled, “I’m
not
smitten with Henrietta.”

“Then what do you feel for the girl?”

“Brotherly regard.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Well, I hate to tell you this, Seb, but most men don’t look at their sister like she’s something tasty to eat.”

Sebastian resisted the impulse to crush his brother’s throat. “Henrietta and I are just friends.”

“
Friends?
Are you daft?”

Sebastian glared at his brother. “And why the devil not?”

“You can’t be friends with a beautiful woman. Hell, you can’t be friends with a plain woman! There’s just something about you, Seb. You have a
tendency to rut about with anything in a skirt.”

And since Sebastian
was
having such a devilishly hard time stifling his wicked thoughts about Henrietta, he wanted to throttle his brother all the more for pointing out the wretched truth.

Still, Sebastian wouldn’t admit to the struggle inside him.

“You’re wrong, Peter,” he said firmly. “I
can
be friends with Henrietta. I’m sure of it.”

And he was.

Really.

Later that night, still unsettled by the conflicting sentiments inside him, Sebastian strolled through the quiet household on his way to his bedchamber.

He fiddled with the ring on his finger, twisting it round and round, thinking of Henrietta.

Five months ago, he had abandoned the chit, hoping she’d find herself another mate. Well, she’d not set her cap for another bloke, but she’d also not pestered him with adoring looks or flaunting gestures, either. Instead, she’d offered him friendship.

Sebastian twisted his lips. He didn’t have very many friends. Oh, he’d many partners in debauchery, but none he’d consider friends. He’d certainly no female chums, so he didn’t know what to make of his newfound “friendship” with Henrietta.

And where the devil had the whole idea of friendship come from anyway? Five months ago she’d wanted to snag him as her husband. Now she
wanted to be his friend? Was he to assume she’d given up on the whole idea of being the next Viscountess Ravenswood? Or was the mischievous chit up to something?

He’d no idea. And he couldn’t ask Henrietta outright. She’d only fib if it was a ploy of some kind. One thing was for certain, though. A friend was not supposed to stir the heat in your belly. Peter had been right about that.

Disgruntled, Sebastian turned a corner, passing through an arched entranceway—and smacked right into Henrietta.

Alarmed, he said, “Forgive me, Miss Ashby.”

“Oh, bother that.” She rubbed her nose in the most delightful way. “It was an accident. Think nothing of it, Ravenswood.”

“Did I hurt you?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Not a’tall.”

He cut her a dubious stare. That fragile feminine face crashing into his brute form had to sting, even a little. “You’ve not broken it, have you?”

“Rot!” She sniffed. “I’m stronger than I look.”

He had to admire her spirit. Most women would be reduced to tears right about now. Some might even demand reparation: a diamond necklace, for instance. But not Henrietta. He suspected she wouldn’t carp even if he’d injured her. And that only made her character all the more mystifying.

“Where were you off to in such haste, Miss Ashby?”

“I was looking for…”

“For?”

She looked straight at him. “I was looking for my sisters.”

He quirked a brow. “It’s after midnight. Your sisters are likely in bed. Which is where you should be, Miss Ashby.”

“You’re quite right.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll speak with my sisters in the morning. Good night, Ravenswood.”

“Good night, Miss Ashby.”

She turned to leave, then paused. “Oh dear.”

“What is it?”

She looked back at him, a bright blush dusting her cheeks. “I’m afraid we’re in a terrible fix.”

Was the girl about to faint? Had she bumped into him a little harder than he’d thought?

Sebastian reached for her elbow to steady her. “Miss Ashby, are you unwell?”

“Oh, I’m quite well, but…”

Her lashes flitted upward.

Sebastian followed her gaze—and his heart shuddered at the sight of the mistletoe.

Now where the hell had that come from? Prior to the Yule festivities, he’d made considerable effort to locate all the ghastly foliage in the house so he could avoid it. And that mistletoe had
not
been there before.

“My lord, I do believe I owe you a kiss.”

Blood throbbed in his veins at the sound of her
silky smooth voice. And when she started to chew on her bottom lip in that wanton fashion, blood started to pound in other less savory places, too.

She could
not
kiss him. He was adamant. For eight years he’d stood fast to escape the girl’s kisses. He would not flounder now, give her reason to believe he cared for her in an unbrotherly fashion. It would only break her heart to learn the truth. He was determined not to devastate her.

“But you and I are friends,” she said next, eyes slanted in demure innocence. “And it wouldn’t do a’tall if I kissed you on the lips.”

Sebastian heard the breath rush through his teeth. Rampant relief filled him. Thank heavens the girl had good sense! For he had not the fortitude to resist a pair of plump pink lips, dusted with the scent of jasmine. He was sure about that.

“Instead, Ravenswood, I will kiss you where you’ve never been kissed before.”

His breath hitched.

So much for the girl’s good sense.

It could not be stopped, the fire burning in his belly at her wanton proposal. The rogue within him took an instant liking to the proposition, the more reasonable part of him tossed to the wayside.

Sebastian could do naught but stare, mesmerized, as she reached for his hand.

He bristled, grasping for his wits, about to pull away, when a jarring voice inside him cried:
Devil
take it, Seb,
let
her show you where you’ve never been kissed before!

And upon that blasted reproof, all thoughts of propriety were stomped asunder.

Slowly Henrietta lifted his hand to her lips. Ever gently, she pulled back the cuff of his sleeve, the fabric scraping over his skin, making him shudder.

Mischief twinkled in her bright brown eyes, and she whispered, “I shall kiss you right…here.”

Sebastian closed his eyes, the rogue within him groaning in feral satisfaction.

Warm, wet lips kissed, then sucked at his wrist, the rhythmic movement of her mouth reminding him of other sensual pleasures.

“Henry,” he breathed hoarsely, trembling under her salacious ministrations.

It was an entreaty, her name. A plea to break away from him, for he had not the power to do it himself. And unless the girl abandoned him this instant, she was going to find herself up against the wall—

Sebastian was startled by the sudden surcease. Limbs throbbing in repressed ecstasy, he struggled to regain control of his mind, his breath, his very soul.

“There now,” she whispered warmly, eyes bright with sensuality. “We’ve not broken with tradition.” She smiled. “Good night, Ravenswood.”

She sauntered into the darkness of the corridor, leaving him stranded under the mistletoe in abject chaos, for not only had
he
broken with tradition by allowing the girl to kiss him, but he’d done the one thing he’d vowed never to do: call her by her nickname.

H
enrietta burst into her bedchamber.

Heart still throbbing in her throat, she closed the door and sprinted toward the bed. She buried her face in her pillow and let out a squeal of delight. A bit more composed, she sat up and sighed. But the giddiness inside her refused to be tamped, and she giggled again.

He had called her Henry! It was the sweetest sound she had ever heard, that guttural whisper. Every fine hair on her body had spiked to shivering attention when he’d said her nickname.

And she had kissed him! Not on the lips, but still, she had tasted the heady musk of his skin for the first time—and was utterly intoxicated.

Letting out another dreamy sigh, Henrietta flopped back onto her pillow. Her plan was working splendidly. And at a clipped pace. She could not afford to slow down. She could not give Sebastian
a chance to reflect and realize that something was amiss; that he should leave the house at once.

But she didn’t want to move
too
fast, either, or she might make the man balk and run anyway. It was such a tricky balance to keep.

Yet she needed to be bolder if she wanted to seduce the viscount. She had worked on her friendship with Sebastian, but now she needed to nurture the other part of their relationship, too. She needed to become his lover.

Heart ticking in enthusiasm, Henrietta reached under her pillow and yanked out a black, leather-bound volume: a parting gift from Madam Jacqueline.

And as she opened the book of naughty pictures to a random page, her thoughts turned wily and wicked, as she pondered which of the erotic acts to perform with Sebastian.

Under waning candle glow, she traced her fingers over the sultry images, daydreaming about Sebastian.

She had come to admire the sensuous pictures in the book; she didn’t blush to look at them anymore. Each provocative image illustrated a bond of ecstasy between a couple.

Henrietta longed to know that kind of bliss, to share that kind of intimacy with Sebastian. It was a burning need inside her, to be close with the man she loved.

She flipped the page again, and paused.

A romantic illustration seized her imagination: a couple in silhouette, ensconced in a big, comfy chair by a roaring fire. The woman straddled the man, her flimsy night rail rucked up to her waist. Her loose shift exposed a plump breast, too—and the man in the picture looked very eager to taste it.

It was a titillating image, but also passionate. There was a deep, dark look in the couple’s eyes. Henrietta could
feel
the intense bond between them. She wanted that same kind of rapport with Sebastian, and she started to feel all warm inside just thinking about it.

The door burst open.

Henrietta gasped and slammed the tome closed, shoving it back under her pillow.

Dazed, she gaped at the entourage pouring into her room: four sisters draped in evening wrappers and curling ribbons in their hair.

The women quickly circled the bed like a swarm of angry bees.

Penelope, the eldest of the bunch, stuck her hands on her hips, and said, “Henry, are you having an affair with Ravenswood?”

Body still hot and tingly from staring at sinful poses, Henrietta struggled to gather her wits and bring her erratic heartbeats under control. Heavens, was she having a nightmare?

“Out with it, Henry,” said Roselyn. “Don’t idle in bed.”

“Speak up, Henry,” from Tertia.

“Yes, Henry, do tell us the truth,” insisted Cordelia.

Henrietta wanted to plug her ears with her fingers. Drat! How had her sisters spied the subtle courtship? She had been so careful, acting aloof in public and bolder in private.

Baffled, Henrietta said, “Why do you think I’m having an affair with Ravenswood?”

Penelope narrowed her dark brown eyes. “I’ve just had a little chat with my husband. Peter believes Ravenswood is smitten with you.”

Gripped by a profound urge to hop up and down on the bed, Henrietta swallowed her pleasure instead, and said, “Really?”

A snort from Penelope. “My fool husband thinks it absolutely marvelous that the two of you get married.”

So did Henrietta. So why the devil didn’t her sisters agree?

“I don’t understand,” said Henrietta. “Why don’t you like Ravenswood?”

“We
do
like him.” Roselyn folded her arms across her chest in an imperious manner. “But we like him as Penelope’s brother-in-law,
not
your husband!”

Henrietta was confused, and wondered, “And why would you
dis
like him as my husband?”

Tertia sighed. “Oh Lord, listen to the fool girl.”

“Henry,” said Penelope in reproach, “you must see how inappropriate such a match would be.”

Inappropriate? That she marry a respectable viscount? The man that she loved? Was her sister mad?

“I most certainly do not,” said Henrietta.

“The poor dear.” Cordelia tsked. “She’s lost her wits.”

“I’ve done no such thing.” Henrietta huffed. “I think
you’ve
all lost your wits. I’ve loved Ravenswood for years. Why are you scolding me now?”

“Oh, hush, Henry.” Tertia wagged her finger. “You don’t really love the man. You’re just trapped in a girlhood dream.”

Henrietta humphed in indignation. “Rot!”

Roselyn sighed. “Fine, Henry. Then tell us,
why
do you love Ravenswood?”

Henrietta could think of a hundred reasons; there were so many memories to draw from. The fall harvest for one. She had been seventeen at the time and very anxious to get her hands on a juicy apple after so many months of wanting. She’d been about to clamber up a tree to fetch said apple, when Ravenswood had appeared. He’d offered to scale the gnarled tree in her stead and had climbed to the tips of the branches to obtain the sweetest fruit for her. Her heart still fluttered at the memory.

“Because,” said Henrietta, “he makes my heart—”

“Go pitter patter?” said Tertia.

“Do you get butterflies in your belly?” from Roselyn.

“Or tongue-tied in his company?” said Cordelia.

Henrietta made a moue.

“It’s called infatuation, Henry.” Penelope folded her arms. “It’s not love. Now
are
you having an affair with Ravenswood or not?”

Four piercing stares stabbed her.

Henrietta was stubbornly quiet for a moment, then said, “I’m not.”

Yet!

The sisters liberated a collective sigh of relief.

“Thank goodness,” from Penelope.

“We’ve come just in time,” said Roselyn.

No, you’ve come at the most importune time
, thought Henrietta, and bunched her brow in consternation. “I still don’t understand the sudden disapproval of Ravenswood.”

“There’s nothing sudden about it, m’dear,” said Tertia. “Ravenswood was
always
unsuitable for you. But so long as he didn’t return your affection, there was never the danger of a match being made.”

“Danger? Unsuitable? What rot!” Henrietta clambered to her knees, eyes level with her sister’s. “Ravenswood is a viscount. He is most suitable.”

“We’re not speaking of titles, Henry.” Tertia sniffed in displeasure. “We’re speaking of character.”

“The man is a rogue!” Cordelia blurted out.

Roselyn pinched her. “What Cordelia means is Ravenswood isn’t husband material.”

“He’ll make you unhappy,” said Penelope.

Henrietta glared at all four of her sisters. “I know Ravenswood is considered a rogue, but I’ve every intention of reforming his roguish ways.”

Well, not too much
, thought Henrietta, for she happened to like a bit of the rogue within him. Ravenswood was flirtatious…sensuous. A reputed rake, he enjoyed the company of a lady. That made him a rogue, true. But the man could make her toes curl. Henrietta quite liked the feeling. And so long as the viscount was faithful to her once they married, he could be as “roguish” as he liked.

“Henry!” Roselyn shook her head. “You can’t reform a rogue.”

Now where had Henrietta heard that before?

“Especially a rogue like Ravenswood,” said Tertia.

“Why especially?” Henrietta demanded.

The sisters all looked at one another.

“Ravenswood is handsome, to be sure, and charming,” said Penelope, “but he’s also sinister.”

Henrietta snorted.

“He is,” insisted Roselyn. “The talk about him is scandalous. It’s frightening, too.”

Henrietta bunched her brow. “What talk?”

“There’s talk he’s a member of a notorious club.” Tertia went on to whisper, “One dedicated to vice.”

Henrietta scoffed. “It’s all rubbish, I’m sure.”

But then Henrietta remembered her chat with
Ravenswood the other day. He had confessed he belonged to a club, a “gentlemen’s club.” She was sure it was just like any other club, though, where one smoked and played billiards and such. Although Ravenswood had also mentioned her best friend’s husband, the “Duke of Rogues,” was once a member…

Still, the gossip was drivel. If her dearest chum could marry the “Duke of Rogues,” then surely Henrietta could wed Ravenswood. The club couldn’t be
that
notorious.

It was all just idle gossip, she was sure. The papers were often wrong about such stuff. Madam Jacqueline had been a purported shrew, yet the woman was nothing of the sort. And while it might be fun to listen to scandalous chitchat, Henrietta wasn’t going to choose her mate from the
ton
’s society papers! She knew Ravenswood. He was dashing. Wonderful. He was going to make her very happy.

She just had to convince her sisters of that truth.

“No, really,” Cordelia chimed, “I’ve heard the talk, too, Henry. The club is like a den of sin, unfit for respectable company.”

Henrietta grimaced. “Rot!”

“Henry, it’s true.” Penelope lowered her voice. “Peter often laments about his brother; how he wishes Ravenswood would give up his immoral ways and settle down.”

Henrietta thought “immoral” was a tad too strong a word for a flirt, but she still defended the viscount with a tart: “Ravenswood
will
give up his ‘immoral’ ways and settle down.” She pointed to her chest. “With me.”

Penelope sighed. “Henry, Ravenswood isn’t the man for you. You must give up this foolish childhood fancy!”

Henrietta meshed her lips together in defiance. “I intend to follow my heart, sisters.”

Four sets of arms went across four sets of bosoms.

“Well, Henry, if your heart is in the
wrong
place, then I suppose the duty falls upon us to protect you.”

Henrietta looked at her eldest sister, aghast. “What do you mean?”

But it was Roselyn who enlightened her: “If Ravenswood’s got the fool idea into his head that he can have his way with you, then we’ll just have to convince him otherwise.”

Perish the thought!

“I don’t need protecting from Ravenswood,” was Henrietta’s hasty rebuttal. “He would never hurt me.”

“He
will
hurt you, Henry.” Cordelia offered her a rueful expression. “You don’t know the man a’tall.”

“I’ve known the man for
eight
years!”

“No, Henry, you’ve
dreamed
about the man for
eight years,” said Tertia. “He’s not a knight in shining armor.”

Something bubbled in Henrietta’s throat. A vile lump of pain that was hard to swallow.

Why were her sisters doing this? Petty gossip was no reason to interfere with her contentment.
She
didn’t bother in any of their personal affairs. So why were
they
bothering in hers? And so cruelly at that?

Henrietta sniffed. “Why don’t you want me to be happy?”

It was a smarting pain, to have her own sisters be so determined to quash all her joy.

“That’s just it, my dear,” said Roselyn in a more soothing voice, “we
do
want you to be happy. And Ravenswood will
not
make you happy.”

Henrietta quelled her sorrow to assert, “
Only
Ravenswood will make me happy. He might show the world his roguish side, but
I
know his heart. He’s not a villain, and I won’t listen to any more of this rubbish.”

Penelope sighed again. “Willful girl.”

“Where does she get it from?” wondered Tertia.

“It’s all Papa’s doing,” quipped Roselyn. “He should have taught her to obey.”

“Now she’ll never listen to reason,” said Cordelia.

A nod from Penelope. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to take care of this matter on our own.”

“No,” said Henrietta, panicked.

“We’ll make sure Ravenswood stays far away from her,” agreed Tertia.

“No!”

“He shan’t be allowed to say two words to her,” chimed Cordelia.

“No! No! No!”

Roselyn bobbed her head. “It’s settled then.”

And the four harridans left the room in accord, Henrietta glaring after them, wondering how the devil she was going to get out of this muddle.