In the Night (7 page)

Sometimes it felt as though this person he pretended to be, the person everyone knew him to be, was taking over, pushing the real him out. Other times he was just so bloody tired
of always pretending, of always having his guard up. But his true self was so pathetic, so vulnerable and easily hurt that it was easier to hide behind this charming mask.

But it wasn’t just vulnerability he sought to conceal. There were other things as well—things that weren’t so gentle—things that had hurt or scared the few people who had ever seen them. He kept those locked up tight, so tight that sometimes his head ached with the effort. He’d drink to ease his own suffering if he didn’t think the drink would allow all these things to come to the surface.

Moira Tyndale, Lady Aubourn, knew he was hiding things. He could see it in her eyes. She knew he was just acting. How did she know? What was it about her that made her able to see though him? There was nothing terribly special about her. She was tall, too thin, too sharp and angular. Her features were strong, her gaze far too keen, and yet she pulled him to her just like a siren calling a hapless sailor.

She stood not far away, clad in a gown of muted wine, talking to a small group of chaperones as her vivacious sister danced a lively reel with a young baronet. There was something about the days before Christmas that made people more social, music louder, laughter jollier. Winter in London was not normally brimming with social activity, save for the weeks before and after Christmas. Granted, company was certainly thin compared to the season, but there were still enough women to make dancing appealing and enough gentlemen that it was an option, not an obligation, to ask a female to stand up.

And all evening, not a single gentleman had asked Moira to dance. She didn’t even seem to mind. How could she not mind just standing on the sidelines while her sister garnered all the attention? And what was wrong with these men that they preferred Minerva Banning’s jarring youth to Moira’s subtle maturity?

What was wrong with
him
that he hadn’t asked her to dance? He had wanted nothing else all evening. Several times he had caught her gazing at him, only to glance away when he met her stare. A little skittish she might be, but she certainly wasn’t sly. For a woman who had been married a decade, she seemed to have little practice with the feminine arts. She was awkward when it came to flirting and seemed more apt to flee than to turn on her natural charm when a man approached her.

So why was he approaching her? he wondered as he moved toward her. Probably because he wanted to see if she was as drawn to him as he was to her. It was one thing for her to flirt with him at Octavia and North’s, and another for her to dance with him at a Christmas party, but what would she do if he interrupted her conversation and asked her to go outside with him, even if for just a moment?

The women with her watched as he approached. Perhaps they wondered why he was so intent on them. Perhaps they already suspected that Moira was his target. It hardly mattered to him what they thought. All that mattered was the woman staring at him with a mixture of wariness and excitement in her wide eyes—eyes that weren’t hazel as he originally thought, but layers of gold, blue and green. Fairy eyes.

“Good evening ladies,” he said, not sparing a glance for any of them. His gaze was focused solely on Moira. “Pardon my intrusion. Lady Aubourn. I wonder if I might beg a moment of your time.”

To his relief, she didn’t hesitate. “Of course, Mr. Ryland. Ladies, if you will excuse me.”

He offered her his arm and she took it, following gracefully as he led her toward the terrace doors. Outside it was chilly, the darkness illuminated by the glow of moonlight on snow. There wasn’t much—two or three inches at best, but it was enough to coat the world in a delicate layer of white and
bring beauty to what might otherwise be sparse and barren.

He could not keep her out there long, even though he wanted nothing more than to keep her to himself. She was not dressed for such weather, even though the neckline of her gown was demure and the fabric a heavy velvet.

If he couldn’t have her to himself for long, he would just have to make the most of what brief time he had.

“Lady Aubourn?”

“Yes, Mr. Ryland?” Her eyes were large and reflective in the moonlight, drawing him closer with a magic he was powerless to resist.

“I’m going to collect on that kiss now.”

M
oira had no time to react, no time even to think, before Wynthrope’s lips touched hers.

He took her totally by surprise. Every muscle in her body tensed at his unexpected and exciting possession of her mouth. His lips were soft and warm—far more yielding than she ever would have believed. He tasted sweet and salty, his chin smooth with just a hint of scratch as it brushed hers. The evening air was chilled, frigid even, and the heat of him pulled Moira even further into the delicious wrap of his arms, melting her very bones.

His lips coaxed. Hers parted. Pinpricks of sensation assaulted Moira’s skin as his tongue tasted her. Finally, after all those years of waiting, wondering,
this
was what it was to be well and truly kissed. Other mouths had pressed against hers, but never like this. Never had another man made her want to shove herself against him. Never had she wanted to tangle her fingers in his hair and hold his head
so he couldn’t escape. Never had she wanted more than just a kiss.

For this brief, magical moment, she wanted everything Wynthrope Ryland was willing to give her.

It was he who broke the contact between their mouths. His breathing shallow puffs in the murky light, Wynthrope rested his forehead against hers. The feel of his flesh was almost as delightful as the touch of his lips, and Moira had to resist the urge to rub her head against him like an affectionate cat.

Lightly, his hands rubbed her upper arms, instilling warmth where chill threatened to settle. “Go back inside,” he murmured, his voice husky.

Moira’s heart plummeted. “You did not like it?”

Was that a growl or a groan low in his throat? Whatever the sound was, it sent a shiver down Moira’s spine.

“I liked it too much,” was his reply, his eyes black in the night as he lifted his head. “I will not have you the subject of ballroom gossip.”

Moira glanced around them. She could see no one else on the balcony, but the light from the lamps and the ballroom only extended a few feet on either side of them. They were alone, and she did not want to leave. “There is no one watching.”

“That you know of.” His caution was as endearing as it was annoying. “Right now I am guilty of stealing but a kiss. If you stay here much longer, I will take much more than that, I assure you.”

His words should have sent her scurrying to protect her secrets and Anthony’s memory, but they did not. Instead, his voice conjured a tight, insistent hum low in her abdomen. She pressed her thighs together to ease the ache, but that only made it worse. She might be afraid to give her virginity to this man, but her body wanted it as badly as a flower wants the sun.

When she did not move, he regarded her with a questioning gaze. “For a woman with a reputation of being cool and
proper, you are doing a very good job of playing the temptress, Lady Aubourn.”

A temptress? Her? Surely he was jesting! No, that part of him pressing hard and high against her hip was no jest. He was as aroused by their kiss as she was. How amazing to think that she could affect him so.

She took a step backward, allowing the bracing night to breathe between them. The chill did nothing to ease her torment. It only made her nipples even tighter, the tremor of her spine more acute. “Is this better, Mr. Ryland?”

Bowing his head, he raised his gaze. “I do not know. I cannot seem to decide whether to thank you or kiss you again.”

Heat stung Moira’s cheeks. “Perhaps we should return to the ball.”

“You go. If I return now, we will certainly set the gossips aflutter.”

He meant his erection, of course. Moira supposed she should be shamed by her behavior, and by his reaction to her, but she wasn’t. Nor could she find any reason to doubt or suspect his attraction to her. For now she had to accept that this glorious example of a man wanted to touch and kiss her. What a strange, wrong, and wonderful thought.

Nodding, she backed toward the glass doors, hesitating only as curiosity and insecurity got the better of her. “Will I see you inside?”

There was that self-deprecating, slightly mocking smirk of his. “My dear madam, I plan to be as close as your very shadow.”

Dear heaven. Did he mean that? How could he possibly hope to avoid making fodder for the gossips if he planned to watch her so very closely for the rest of the evening?

Slowly, the full chill of the evening sinking into her bones, Moira returned to the warmth of the ballroom. The chandeliers glared down upon her, the noise assaulted her
ears. So many voices vied for attention over the rousing melody of the orchestra. Perfume assailed her nostrils, along with the scent of cinnamon. Her stomach growled. She should have gone to the supper table earlier. Would anyone notice if she snuck out to the other room where sandwiches and sweetmeats awaited those who liked to nibble throughout the evening?

Unable to resist her insistent stomach any longer, she drifted through the crowd toward the neat little cucumber sandwiches that had her mouth watering in anticipation. No one paid her any attention.

Well,
almost
no one.

“Where have you been?” Minerva demanded, seizing her by the arm. “You are cold.”

Moira dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “I am fine.”

Her sister began babbling about something—Moira wasn’t listening. Her mind was back on the balcony with Wynthrope. She was in his arms again, his lips succulent against her own…

“Moira?”

Blinking, Moira glanced sideways. “What?”

Her sister’s doe eyes widened. “What is the matter with you? You have not heard a word I have said.”

Moira smiled at her tone. Poor Minnie, was she truly concerned or merely worried about what effect Moira’s oddness might have on her own evening? “I am sorry, dearest. I went outside for a breath of air and got a little chilled. It is nothing a little mulled wine wouldn’t cure.”

“Allow me to fetch that for you, Lady Aubourn.”

Whatever warmth Moira’s body was lacking came rushing back at the sound of his voice. It had been little more than minutes since she left him on the balcony, and yet it felt as though she had not seen him for a fortnight, so pleased was she to see him.

She lifted her gaze to his, surprised by her own outward display of calm. “That would be very kind of you, Mr. Ryland. Thank you.”

His smile told her it had nothing to do with kindness. He wanted to do everything he could to put her in his debt. He’d travel to India for silk if she wanted, just so she would owe him something in return. It might be worth asking outrageous things of him just so she would have to eventually pay when he wanted to collect.

Regardless of this
thing
between them, Wynthrope was still a gentleman, as his attention to Minerva proved. “Miss Banning, may I bring you refreshment as well?”

Minnie shook her head, corkscrew curls bobbing near her cheeks. The poor dear looked absolutely flabbergasted. “No, thank you, Mr. Ryland.”

He bowed to them both, flashing Moira another naughty grin that had her blushing like a schoolgirl, and then was swallowed up by the dancers.

Minnie turned to her with a openmouthed stare that was part amazed, part resentful. “How did you do it?”

Moira’s brow puckered. “Do what?”

Her sister scowled at her as though she were a simpleton. “Snare Wynthrope Ryland, that’s what!”

“Lower your voice!” Moira whispered, grabbing her sister’s arm and hauling her closer. “I have not snared anyone.”

Minnie’s full lips thinned. “Hmpf. You cannot lie to me, Moira. That man looked at you as though he wanted to dip you in sugar and have you for dessert. Now how did you manage to achieve what so many other women have not?”

Dip her in sugar? Sticky, but not a distasteful thought. What was it about her that made everyone talk in terms of food? She knew she was no longer fat, quite the opposite. Perhaps she wasn’t as adept at hiding her natural tendency to gluttony as she thought.

“I have not done anything,” she replied. It wasn’t quite a lie. She hadn’t done anything—except kiss him back, but she wasn’t about to tell her sister that.

“Has he kissed you yet?”

“Minerva!” Moira cast a quick glance around them to make certain no one was listening. “That is entirely improper of you and none of your business!”

Her eyes wide, Minnie hid a chuckle behind her hand. All traces of jealousy now seemed to be eaten away by youthful curiosity. “He has! How was it? Is he as delicious as he looks?”

Moira would have cheerfully strangled her sister were it not for the crowd and the trembling in her limbs. How could she be so transparent?

“I am so jealous,” Minnie admitted with a rueful shake of her dark head. “You have snared the attention of the one man I thought of as a challenge.”

Oh, to be young and stupid. “A challenge does not necessarily mean the man is worth the effort, Minnie.”

Her sister arched a thin brow. “Somehow, I do not think you mean Mr. Ryland when you say that. Of course, he hasn’t been a challenge for you, has he? Oh well. Since you have snagged him, I must find someone else to amuse me. What about Sir David?”

“Yorke, the baronet?” Moira gave a little nod. “A very nice young man from a good family. I have never heard a harsh word about him.”

“So he’s boring, you mean.”

“So he is the kind of gentleman who will treat you well. Either that or he’s just been smart enough to never get caught at any mischief.”

The surprised grin Minnie flashed her made Moira smile in return. “Why do you not investigate him for yourself?”

“I think I might.” With a swish of her dark blue skirts, Minnie glided toward the unsuspecting baronet. Poor young man.

“I hope your sister did not leave on my account.”

Moira’s smile became a little guarded as she looked up into eyes so blue they seemed black. If at all possible, he was even more handsome under the glow of the chandeliers than he had been under the silver light of the moon.

“My sister never does anything on any account but her own, but thank you for your concern.”

He tilted his head. “Concern? Hardly. I was just being polite. Frankly I’m glad she’s gone. I do not want to share you.”

She should chastise him for that—it was her sister he was talking about after all—but Moira couldn’t do anything but preen.

“Your mulled wine, my lady.”

She took the delicate crystal cup he offered her. Through the thin silk of her gloves she could feel the warmth of the fragrant drink. The smell of wine and cinnamon filled her head, making her close her eyes in sheer pleasure.

He watched her intently. “You make me envy food whenever we are together, Lady Aubourn.”

“Am I paying more attention to my drink than you, Mr. Ryland?” Was she flirting? That cheeky smile certainly felt like flirting.

He leaned closer. She could smell the warm, spicy scent of his cologne. “Perhaps, but I envy it more for the fact that it will touch your lips many more times than I will this evening.”

Oh! There were those shivers down her spine again. “But no more potently, sir.”
That
was flirting. Odd, she never thought she knew how to flirt. Wynthrope Ryland seemed to draw it naturally from her.

His eyes changed as they stared at her. She knew there was no way they could darken any more, but they seemed to do so anyway. A strange inner light seemed to glow from within him, shining through that unreadable gaze.

How many layers did this man have? Most people were
pretty much as they appeared to be, but not Wynthrope Ryland. He flirted and strutted around like cock of the yard, but that wasn’t him at all. He was just as affected by their game as she was, and he had infinitely more experience with this kind of thing than she.

“I want to kiss you again.”

His voice was so honey-smooth, it made her mouth water. She looked away. “You mustn’t talk like that. Someone might hear you.”

“And you have a reputation to protect.”

Was that mockery in his velvety tone? Raising her gaze, she met his levelly. “I am not accustomed to the attention of gentlemen, Mr. Ryland, but I do know that your flirtation might do me more harm than good if the gossips decide to make an example of me.”

His head tilted to the left as though in contemplation. “By saying I’ve made a mistress out of you, I suppose.”

“That is one thing they might say.”

He seemed amused, but more than a little intrigued. “And what might they say about me?”

She shrugged and sipped her wine. Flavor exploded on her tongue as warmth filled her belly. “Nothing. You are a man.”

“Hardly fair, is it?”

“No.” A smile tugged at her lips despite herself.

A mockingly resigned sigh escaped his lips. “Then I had better do you more good than harm, hadn’t I?”

Was he jesting or serious? It was so difficult to tell sometimes. She searched his face for some kind of indication.

All traces of humor evaporated from his expression. “Do something for me.”

This could be trouble. “What?”

“Take another drink of your wine.”

A strange request, but there was nothing improper about
it. After all, he had fetched the drink for her, it only made sense that he would want her to finish it.

Raising the cup to her lips, she took a sip of the sweet, warm wine. It was cooling, but no less flavorful. Fruity spiciness washed through her mouth and down her throat. She licked her lips to savor every last drop.

Wynthrope’s gaze was fastened on her mouth. When her tongue touched her lip, he closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring slightly with an inhaled breath. She could swear he actually shuddered.

Sensual heat flooded her skin as she remembered his earlier remarks about envying the wine. Moira took another drink to ease the sudden dryness in her mouth.

“I’m finished,” she whispered, amazed at the hoarseness of her voice.

Lazy lids opened, regarding her with thinly veiled want. “Would you like another?”

Yes, she would. Her head was already feeling the effects of the first, and the way he watched her did nothing to clear it.

“Perhaps we might share a glass?” It was the most brazen, suggestive thing she had ever said—mostly because it implied so much more than she could say.