Fanning the Flame (26 page)

Chapter Eighteen

Garth Dutton surveyed the crowd in the Duke of Chester's lavish ballroom, his gaze skimming over the Season's crop of eligible young ladies available in the marriage mart. All evening he had been dodging hopeful mothers and their cloying offspring. Modesty aside, he knew he was considered a very good catch.

Garth lifted a glass of champagne off a passing silver tray and took a drink. A year ago, he would have refused to attend this sort of affair. He wasn't in the market for a wife—he didn't have time for one. But lately he'd grown restless, bored somehow with his bachelor existence. On top of that, six months ago, his uncle Frederick had died, leaving him in line for the Schofield barony, and his grandfather had been prodding him to marry.

They expected him to choose a woman without peer, a lady of flawless background and exceptional breeding. Though his grandfather was only a baron, the title had been passed down for hundreds of years. Garth's mother never failed to remind him that the Schofield title was one of the most respected in England.

Garth wondered what Eleanor Dutton would say if she knew the only woman who interested him was immersed in scandal up to her pretty little ears. Margaret Hawthorne's brother might be an earl, but in the past few years, he had managed to blacken the family name with one intrigue after another, and the latest—Blackwood's involvement with a woman believed to have been old Fenwick's mistress, a woman accused of murder—still titillated wagging tongues.

Knowing he shouldn't, that even considering such a match would raise the eyebrows of every Dutton in England and might well get him disinherited, Garth scanned the dance floor in search of her. He knew she was there. He had seen her earlier in company with her aunt, Lady Sophia Hawthorne, surrounded by her usual crush of simpering admirers.

He spotted her beneath a crystal chandelier on the far edge of the dance floor, laughing and flirting, sparkling more than the shimmering lights above her head, one of the most sought after young women in the room, though her family name was far from sterling. At first glance, Maggie appeared to be having a very good time, and yet he wondered . . . .

His gaze met hers a little too boldly. He let her know he watched her, let her see a little of the heat she stirred inside him every time he saw her. Faint color crept into her cheeks, replacing an expression of insouciance, and inwardly he smiled, satisfied that he could unsettle her a little, as she very definitely unsettled him.

Garth started walking toward her.

Maggie tried to ignore the tall, remarkably handsome blond man who strode toward her. But there was something about Garth Dutton that refused to be ignored. The men who crowded around her parted like stalks of wheat in the wind, allowing him to enter their circle.

"Lady Margaret . . ." He made a very formal bow over her hand, his green eyes glinting with challenge. "I believe this is our dance."

It wasn't, of course. He knew it as well as she. She could embarrass him and refuse. Or she could ignore Randall Wiggs, the overblown dandy strolling over to claim her, and do what she really wished to do.

Why not?
She flashed Garth Dutton an equally challenging smile and accepted the arm he offered. "Yes, I believe it is." He covered her gloved hand where it rested on his sleeve and led her straight past Randall Wiggs, who sputtered with indignation and pointed toward her dance card. Garth flashed him a look meant to cool his ardor and simply kept on walking.

"I would have preferred a waltz," Garth said, once they reached the floor, "but you hardly need any more raised eyebrows than you are getting already."

The reminder of the whispers drifting her way all evening did nothing to lighten Maggie's mood.

Her chin inched up. "If you're so concerned with your reputation, perhaps you'd be better off dancing with someone else."

Garth's mouth faintly curved. "That isn't possible. You see, I don't want to dance with anyone else."

Why that pleased her so inordinately Maggie couldn't say. Smiling, she gave Garth Dutton her hand and let him guide her in the first steps of the dance. He was graceful for a man his size and she thought that he was actually enjoying the rhythm and steps of the dance, making it more fun for her. As the music came to an end, he leaned toward her.

"It's warm in here. Perhaps you'd enjoy a breath of air."

She cast him a conspiratorial glance. "Yes, perhaps I would." They slipped out the door leading onto the terrace. Maggie gasped in surprise as he drew her into the shadows and straight into his arms.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Nothing yet. It's what I'm going to do that you should be worrying about." Then he bent his head and kissed her.

Maggie's whole body tensed. She knew she should struggle. It was the ladylike, the proper thing to do, and just for an instant she did. Then the hands that shoved against his chest slid up around his neck and she started kissing him back.

Garth groaned and deepened the kiss, turning it hot and wild. The taste of him, the feel of his mouth and tongue, was sensuous and drugging. It was a kiss that turned her legs to jelly and her stomach to butter. The sort of kiss she had always dreamed of and she didn't want it to end.

Maggie felt a shudder move through him just before he pulled away.

"I was afraid of that," he said, his hands still settled around her waist. In the light of the torches, eyes the color of emeralds gleamed with a hunger he didn't try to hide.

"Afraid of what?" she asked, hoping he wouldn't notice that she trembled.

"That once I tasted you, I would have to have you."

She stepped away from him then, frightened for the first time. "I-I have to go in."

"Yes, you do. It wouldn't do either of us any good to be discovered out here in the dark together."

And especially bad for her. Rumor and innuendo had swirled around her family ever since Adam's broken betrothal to Caroline Harding. Robert Hawthorne's name had also been dragged through the mud. Then came Maria Barrett and her unfounded accusations against Adam's character. Now her brother's involvement with Jillian Whitney blackened the family name once more.

Maggie had never really cared. But now she had met Garth Dutton, whose family sat at the opposite end of the spectrum, one of the oldest and most respected in England.

Which made the two of them a highly unsuitable match.

As she walked back into the ballroom, Maggie felt an unexpected rush of despair. It was ridiculous, she told herself. Why should she care what Garth Dutton's family thought of her? If she wanted a suitor, she could choose from a dozen different men.

Still, as she passed among the crush of people in the ballroom, her gaze wandered back to the attractive blond man whose head appeared in the doorway leading in from the terrace.

Maggie forced a too-bright smile and stepped back into her own personal circle of men.

The following day, seated at a cozy corner table in an intimate cafe in the Strand called A La Mode, Jillian was forced to listen to Adam's unwanted offer again. It was the first time in weeks that she had been out in a social situation, but with the news of Colin Norton's arrest, Adam felt it was safe.

"You know why I brought you here?" he said, reaching across the white linen tablecloth to clasp her hand. "It's time to think of the future. Let me take care of you."

Jillian stiffened. Insanely, she had hoped that perhaps he had brought her here to tell her that he understood her feelings and that he was willing to help her find the employment she so desperately needed.

"You know the way I feel. If you're truly concerned with my welfare, you'll help me find a way to support myself. Surely for a man with your connections that wouldn't be too difficult a task."

"It isn't a matter of how difficult it is. It's simply a matter of doing what is best."

The argument had escalated. In the end, they wound up leaving the restaurant before the meal was finished, both of their tempers heated. It was obvious the earl believed becoming her protector was the answer to her troubles. Jillian vastly disagreed. They returned to the town house, both of them angry, Jillian telling him she intended to accept the money his sister had offered to lend her and find a place of her own. Perhaps the Duke of Rathmore would help her find a position, she said.

Adam was furious, angry with his sister for offering to give her the money and with the duke and duchess for the unspeakable crime of offering their aid.

Supper was a strained affair. Adam's mood was dark and surly. He drank several glasses of wine then turned to brandy. When Jillian tried to retire upstairs, he commanded that she join him in the drawing room. She thought of pleading a headache, but she could see he wouldn't tolerate any excuse.

Back rigid, she followed him down the hall and walked past him into an intimate salon at the rear of the town house. The blue velvet draperies were drawn, the brass lamps turned low, and a small fire burned in the hearth. Adam closed the door and turned to face her, his arms crossed over his chest. Even in a temper, his face all sharp angles and dark, angry lines, he was so handsome her heart felt as if it might stop beating.

He crossed the room to the fire, began to pace back and forth in front of it, the muscles in his shoulders bunching beneath his dove-gray tailcoat when he turned. He paused for a moment, splaying his long legs, clasping his hands behind his back. Midnight eyes locked on her face, pinning her where she stood near the arm of the sofa.

Something shifted in his features and they seemed to harden with determination. His gaze remained on her face as he unbuttoned his coat and tossed it over a chair, removed his waistcoat, unwound his neckcloth and tossed it away, then he started striding toward her. If she hadn't known him so well, she might have been afraid.

As it was, the dangerous look he wore simply made him more attractive. Jillian stiffened as he caught her shoulders, dragged her into his arms, and very thoroughly kissed her. She tried to pull away, determined to resist, but his mouth warmed hers with a sullen, angry heat and her pulse began pounding in her ears.

She turned her face away. "I won't let you do this."

Adam nibbled the corners of her mouth. "Won't you?"

"No, I—" He cut off her protest with a ravenous kiss and desire flooded into her core. She knew what he was doing, knew that he was using his body to seduce her to his will, and yet she felt powerless to stop him. She wanted him to touch her, make love to her, wanted the hot, demanding kisses that turned her body to liquid fire.

"I've tried to be patient," he said softly, kissing the side of her neck. "I've talked till I'm out of breath and still I can't make you see. I've had enough of talking. I think it's time I showed you what I can give you—what I can make you feel." Another hard, plundering kiss followed that made her knees feel weak.

When his tongue found its way into her mouth, heat enveloped her, fogging her brain until she felt dizzy. Her skin tingled and her stomach quivered.

Adam kissed her as if he couldn't get enough, taking her deeply with his tongue, capturing her face between his hands, kissing her first one way and then another. She felt his hands unbuttoning the back of her rose silk gown, shoving the small puffed sleeves off her shoulders, along with the straps of her chemise. The soft silk and fine lawn slid into a puddle at her feet, leaving her in garters and stockings and dainty rose kid slippers.

Hot need tightened in her belly. Fire seemed to bubble in her blood. "No," she said weakly, more of a plea than a protest.

Adam cupped her bare breast, caressed it, molded it in his hand. "You told me once that you gave yourself to me because you wanted to know what it was like to make love." He gently pinched her nipple, making it swell and distend. "I've only begun to show you. Tonight, I'm going to teach you more." He was completely clothed and fully erect. Somehow being naked in front of him aroused her like nothing else before.

"Teach me," she whispered, the words coming out against her will. Dear God, she knew she should stop him but she wanted this, wanted him to be the man to show her. With every touch, every caress, he was bending her more and more to his will, but Jillian no longer cared.

He kissed her again, even more deeply, cupping her breasts, his elegant, skillful hands sending little shivers of heat over her skin. His mouth moved along her neck and down to her breasts. He sucked her nipple between his teeth, bit down on the hardened tip, and flames leapt into her stomach.

Jillian whimpered. She felt his fingers smoothing over her stomach, burning a path to the place between her legs. He stroked her there even as he kissed her again, and Jillian whispered his name.

"Turn around," he said softly, his voice so deep and rough it sounded like a growl.

"Wh-what?" She wasn't sure she heard him correctly with her heart thundering so madly in her ears.

"You want to learn. Let me show you." His hands circled her waist and he turned her toward the arm of the sofa. She could feel his hardness pressing against her bottom as he bit the lobe of her ear, the back of her neck, then gently bent her over. "Part your legs for me."

She complied with his rough demand, opening for him, wanting the pleasure to continue. She felt greedy with need, hot and wet and on fire.