A Wicked Way to Win an Earl (12 page)

She seemed very young, standing in the moonlight, gazing at him with wide eyes. She
was
young, she'd recently lost both parents, and despite the dangerous game she was playing, she was an innocent. His jaw went tight and a surge of shame dampened the desire raging inside him.

She was brave. Exceptionally so. Surely you must see that, Alec?

His mother's voice echoed in his head. He'd scoffed at her words at the time. She'd been speaking of Millicent Chase, but the same could be said of the young woman trembling before him. Where did an inexperienced little chit from Surrey get the courage to challenge an
earl
? She had no family, no wealth, and no social standing. No protection, even, except what he was willing to afford her as a guest in his house. And she was toying with him. Engaging in a contest of wills, as if she believed she had a prayer of winning it.

It was almost laughable, except Alec didn't find it amusing. He found it fascinating, and painfully arousing. He was riveted by her.

But there was something else, too. He recognized, deep in his gut, that if he kissed her now, it was, somehow, like moving his king across the chessboard to take her queen. God help him, but he wasn't yet ready for the game to end, even if it meant winning it.

It was this more than anything that made him release her hand and step away from her, away from the temptation of her parted pink lips and sweetly curved body. “It grows late, Miss Somerset.” He stepped to the side and inclined his head toward the house. “You should retire now.”

She hesitated long enough for Alec to notice the amazement on her face, but then she passed by him without a word. It took all his control to keep from wrapping his arm around her waist to pull her back against him.

“Delia?” he murmured as soon as she was safely out of reach.

She froze. Waited.

“Sweet dreams.”

She did dream, of cream-colored roses and knowing black eyes. A long, damp finger dragging lightly across the center of her palm. A voice, whispering.

Don't you like roses? If I desire something, I have it. Sweet dreams, Delia.

She dreamed of exquisite torture.

“Delia?”

She half opened one eye.

“Delia! Why would you hide something so important from me?” The voice was close to her ear, and a determined hand shook her shoulder. Delia opened the eye all the way and groaned. Lily stood by the side of the bed, looking at her with an injured air.

“You never used to keep secrets from me,” Lily accused, putting her hands on her hips.

“Wha—” Delia croaked. She forced the other eye open and rolled over onto her back. “What secret?”

Which secret?

Lily rolled her eyes. “That Robyn Sutherland is courting you!”

Delia stared at Lily, her mouth dropping open. “He is?”

Now
she was awake.

Lily let out a long-suffering sigh. “Well, perhaps he's not courting you yet, but he grows more besotted by the day. Look what he sent you this morning.” Lily gestured triumphantly to the table by the door.

Delia shot up to a sitting position in the bed. The little table was dwarfed by a huge bouquet of cream-colored roses, their delicate golden centers aglow in the late-morning light coming through the window.

“I—I—” Delia stuttered. Was she still dreaming?

“Let's see what the card says.” Lily riffled carefully through the delicate blooms.

It wasn't a dream. It was a nightmare. Delia closed her eyes and prayed desperately.

Please don't let there be a card. Please . . .

“There's no card,” Lily said, disappointed.

Thank God.
Delia cast her eyes heavenward.
I promise to be good for the rest of the house party.

“My goodness, Delia. Here we are just arrived and already Robyn has sent you flowers!” Lily smiled with delight. “It's quite romantic.”

Good God. What a mess.
Delia resisted the urge to pull the covers over her head. “Lily, Robyn isn't courting me. What a ridiculous notion! He must have noticed me admiring the roses, and he sent them to be kind.”

No need to clarify who
he
was, or explain that kindness had nothing to do with it.

“Oh, it's very kind indeed,” Lily agreed with a smirk.

“Lily,” Delia began in a warning tone. “Promise me you won't discuss this with anyone else, especially not Ellie and Charlotte. Promise me, Lily.”

“Oh, all right. I promise. Now you'd better get dressed.
You've already missed breakfast and you'll miss luncheon if you don't hurry. It's not like you to sleep so late. Are you well?”

No.
“Yes, very well. You look rested this morning,” she added after a moment, noting the color in Lily's cheeks and her clear, bright eyes. “I think Kent agrees with you.”

Lily smoothed her hands down her pristine skirts. “Yes. I feel well, and I have an enormous appetite this afternoon, so I won't wait for you to dress, but will see you at luncheon.” She hurried toward the door that connected her room to Delia's. “Stop worrying, Delia,” she said before she disappeared into her own room.

Stop worrying.
If only it were that easy.

Delia crawled out from underneath the warm cocoon of blankets and lowered her feet to the floor, pausing when her bare toes brushed against the edge of her sketchbook. She'd thrown it on the floor last night in a fit of temper. Now she was tempted to kick it the rest of the way under the bed. Let a maid find it and turn it over to Lord Carlisle after she was safely returned to Surrey.

Blasted thing
. Delia snatched it up and ripped the offensive page from the book. She stared at it. Nothing less than fear of its discovery could have tempted her from her room last night, not after the afternoon encounter with Lord Carlisle in the rose garden. But leave her room she had, and now Lord Carlisle haunted her dreams
and
her reality.

If he did intend to seduce her, he'd had ample opportunity to attempt it last night. She closed her eyes and remembered the trail of fire his finger had left against her palm. Her cheeks flooded with heat. Instead, he'd sent her back to her room as untouched and unkissed as she'd left it.

Which was just as it should be, of course. She wasn't in the least disappointed.

But if a wicked rake doesn't kiss a young lady when they're alone in a moonlit rose garden, mightn't it mean he
doesn't intend to? She thought there were rules about such things. They might even be written down somewhere. If not, then they should be.
A Treatise on Rakes
, written for Susceptible Young Ladies, by a Lady of Distinction.

Not that
she
was susceptible to Lord Carlisle's charms, of course. Still, what was he playing at? She wouldn't put it past him to tease her to amuse himself. She doubted he'd abandoned his dastardly plot to seduce her, but one thing was certain. A caress with one finger and a few dozen roses did not add up to a wicked seduction.

She considered destroying the sketch, but at the last minute she slipped it under her pillow instead, then washed her face and dressed simply in a pale pink day gown. It was the perfect dress for fading into the background, and that was what she intended to do until Lord Carlisle moved another piece across the chessboard.

She made her way down the stairs and into the breakfast room. The doors that led onto the terrace had been left open to catch the afternoon light and the fresh breeze. Ah, that was better. Delia stepped outside and turned her face up to the sun, relaxing a bit for the first time since she'd woken up to find Lily hovering over her.

“Good afternoon, Miss Somerset.”

Delia froze. Lord Carlisle sat at the table, his long fingers wrapped around a cup and his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He looked the picture of relaxed ease, but he pinned her with his dark eyes and tracked her every move as she hesitantly approached the table.

He was alone. Worse, he looked devastating this afternoon. He wore an exquisitely tailored dark green morning coat that emphasized his wide shoulders, and snug buff-colored breeches that seemed to cling for dear life to his muscular thighs. His hair was damp, as if he'd just bathed. Delia had to shake her head to dislodge the tantalizing image of that long, lean body reclined in a warm bath.

Oh, why did he have to be so handsome? Drat it. And where in the world was Lily?

“Tell me,” he said, his tone pleasant. “Did you have sweet dreams? I know I did.”

“I didn't—” She cleared her throat. “I didn't dream of anything.” Her denial sounded a bit too emphatic.

“Ah. Pity.” A sensual smile drifted across his lips. “I had very vivid dreams myself, and when I awoke, I found I had a powerful desire for honey.”

Delia gaped at him, her face heating again at his suggestive tone. He may have let her escape untouched last night, but this morning he looked very much like a man bent on seduction. “Honey?” She slipped into a seat several spaces away from his. Perhaps it would help if she put the table between them.

But he abandoned his place at the table in favor of the chair across from hers. “Yes. I dreamed of something smooth and sweet on my tongue.” He leaned back in his chair and grinned cockily, obviously gratified by her deepening blush.

Delia would have preferred not to hear him say the word
tongue
just then. “I'm not sure why you'd bother to tell
me
, my lord,” she said, trying to gather her wits. “I suggest you have a word with your cook.”

He chuckled. “Perhaps I will.” There was a brief pause while he studied her face and she avoided looking at his. “The roses I sent you this morning are from the hothouse. I thought you might enjoy the chance to see them in full bloom. Do you like them?”

Yes, because they're your favorite, and I wouldn't have expected them to be.

“Don't all young ladies like roses?” Much to her dismay, her voice emerged as a breathy whisper.

“We've established you're not like most young ladies.” He frowned a bit, as if that puzzled him, then searched her
face, as if he could find the answer to the mystery there. “Surprising, like the honey in the center of the petals.”

Delia felt her heart begin to pound in her chest, but she was excused from having to answer by Robyn, who stumbled onto the terrace at that moment, looking as if he wasn't sure how he'd gotten there.

“Good morning.” Robyn dropped into a chair across the table from his brother. “My, Alec, don't you look smug this morning. I suppose that's no different from every other morning, though.”

“Good
afternoon
, Robyn. It's always a pleasure to see you before teatime.”

Robyn glowered at this, but his face altered completely when he turned his attention to Delia. “How sweet you look today, Delia.” He gave her a slow smile and raised her hand to his lips.

“Good afternoon, Robyn.” She looked up to return his smile but faltered in confusion when she caught the murderous look on Lord Carlisle's face. His entire body had gone rigid and his long fingers were wrapped so tightly around the delicate porcelain cup, Delia was afraid it would shatter in his hand.

What in God's name was the matter?

Lily and Charlotte followed Robyn onto the terrace just then, however, and Lord Carlisle's expression went blank, as if he'd pulled the shutters closed on a window.

“Where have you been, Lily?” Delia hissed when Lily settled into the chair next to hers.

Lily looked at her in surprise. “I ran to fetch Charlotte. She didn't care for her hat, so we went back to change it, and then I remembered I wanted to bring my hat . . .” She trailed off with a shrug.

“You don't need your sister's escort at Bellwood, Miss Somerset,” Lord Carlisle drawled. “I hope you feel free to
wander the house alone anytime you wish. And the gardens.”

His eyes drifted slowly from her flushed face to where her hand rested on the table next to her plate. He didn't touch her, but his dark gaze scorched her skin, as surely as if he'd run a finger across her palm. Her eyes darted to his face, and her breath caught in her throat at the heat smoldering there. She knew he was thinking of how he'd touched her last night. “Especially the gardens,” he murmured.

Delia stared at him, helpless against the stark desire she saw in his eyes. His fingers flexed, and for one awful, wonderful moment, she thought he'd touch her.

But the spell was broken by Eleanor, who approached the table and dropped into the chair next to Lily's. “Another fine day.” She gazed up at the sky and sighed. “What a shame. One does feel compelled to do something active when the weather is fine, and I feel quite lazy today.”

“We could sit on the terrace and laugh at the guests as they arrive,” Charlotte suggested. “That would require very little effort, and it could be quite entertaining.”

“I'm for that.” Robyn slouched farther down in his chair. “I'm destroyed this morning.” He ran a careful hand through his hair. “Good God—I think even my hair hurts. Where did you run off to last night, Delia? I looked for you after dinner, but you'd disappeared.”

Lord Carlisle grinned at her, one eyebrow raised as if he dared her to tell Robyn how she'd ended her evening. “I thought I saw Miss Somerset admiring the roses last night.”

Delia scowled at him, then turned back to Robyn. “Well, I—that is, I decided to retire early.”

“But not
too
early,” Lord Carlisle interrupted. “Isn't that right, Miss Somerset?”

“Not early enough,” Delia snapped, but she regretted her sharp tone when Lily turned to stare at her, shocked at her
rudeness. Now it was Delia's turn to sink down in her chair. She lowered her eyes to her cup of coffee, determined not to notice Lord Carlisle's teasing.

“Then it's your fault I feel so awful this morning, Delia,” Robyn said, missing the exchange entirely. “I spent the evening with Shepherdson and he was on a tear last night. If you'd been there,” he said with a wink, “I'm sure I would have behaved myself.”

Ellie snorted. “Doubtful.”

“Yes, Robyn,” Alec said, shaking his head. “I think Miss Somerset's presence could tempt a man to all kinds of mischief.”

He grinned widely at her. Delia raised an eyebrow at him but refrained from blurting out the first thought that came to mind—her presence last night hadn't tempted
him
to mischief.

Which was just as it should be, of course. She wasn't in the
least
disappointed.

He did seem bent on mischief this morning. Delia frowned, suddenly thankful she hadn't destroyed her sketch. He must have some fiendish reason to single her out for such torment. The sketch was a handy reminder that Lord Carlisle wasn't to be trusted. No matter how ludicrously handsome he was.