Kathryn Smith (3 page)

“You are welcome,” he murmured.

This
was his real voice. She knew from the shiver rippling down her spine. Low and soft and dark—like snuggling beneath an ermine-lined blanket on a winter’s night. She flushed—not just from her reaction to him, but from his words as well. There was no excuse for rudeness, not when he had saved her from certain injury.

“Thank you.” Her eyes downcast, Moira placed the flats of her hands against his shoulders and pushed firmly. “You may let me go now.”

“Not yet, my lady.”

Not yet? Whatever did he mean, not yet? Lifting her chin, she vowed to ask him that very question, but the minute she looked up, she realized what he meant.

They were standing beneath the very mistletoe she had managed to hang just before she fell.

Horrified, Moira dropped her gaze to his. He was smiling that cool, sure, crooked smile.

“Will you kiss me, Lady Aubourn? Or shall I kiss you?”

J
ust one kiss. That was all Wynthrope wanted. Just one kiss and he’d let her go.

He didn’t know why he wanted to kiss her so badly, only that he did. She was so delicate, but not fragile, he suspected. Her eyes were huge, her nose straight and sharp. Her brows were sharp, her chin was sharp. The only softness was her mouth—the gentle slope of her top lip giving way to a much fuller bottom one. And her skin…it was as fair and clear as he imagined it would be.

She could have slapped him—many women would have for being so bold, but not the viscountess. She just stood there, surprisingly soft against him, her hands braced against his shoulders. She had stopped shoving. She was trembling.

Trembling
. Christ, when was the last time a woman had trembled in his company? It wasn’t because she was frightened—he knew that simply by the light in her wide hazel eyes. She was wary of him, yes, and perhaps a little intimidated, but
she wasn’t afraid. Nor did she seem terribly bothered by whatever it was she saw inside him, and she must have seen something inside him because he could feel her looking, even in the most secret regions of his soul.

Her long, thin fingers flexed against the wool of his coat. “This is truly unkind of you, Mr. Ryland.”

“Unkind? Do you find me cruel?” As cruel as the tightening in his trousers? As cruel as being denied the promise suggested by her supple form?

“Is it not cruel to torment me as you are?” Her normally low voice was even lower, slightly hoarse. “You should not play such games.”

So she thought she was tormented, did she? She did not know the meaning of the word. Neither had he until this moment. “What I find cruel, Lady Aubourn, is that you will not allow me to kiss you, no matter how much I wish you would.”

Her eyes widened at that. Perhaps she had thought he was teasing at first. Perhaps she hadn’t realized that he wasn’t merely flirting with her, but she had to know now. How innocent did a woman—a once-married woman at that—have to be to not realize when a man was sincere in his attraction? And he was attracted. He had thought of little but her since their encounter the night before. She was an intriguing slip of a woman, and he wanted to know her better.

And he meant “know” in the Biblical sense.

“Is this punishment?” she asked, obviously piqued. “Are you trying to exact retribution for my behavior last night? You needn’t bother, I assure you I have already berated myself enough for both of us.”

Wynthrope scowled. “What kind of nonsense is that? I want to kiss you, woman, not chastise you. Or do you find me so repulsive a kiss would seem like punishment?” Now
he was the one spouting nonsense. He might not be as tall as his brother Devlin, or as well built as North, or as handsome as Brahm, but he knew he was not displeasing to a large portion of the opposite gender.

He also knew that if Lady Aubourn found him that distasteful she would have slapped him by now and demanded that he release her.

“Repulsive?” She stared at him in disbelief. “Surely you cannot be that stupid.”

What else could he do but laugh? It had a bit of a rusty, dry sound to it, and it felt odd as it worked its way up his throat, but it wasn’t an unpleasant experience. He was still chuckling when his gaze locked with hers once more. The laughter died; his smile faded.

She was staring at him with such awe that he was instantly contrite. His heart, nasty little fig that it was, twisted at the sheer wonder in her eyes. All this for a little laughter, a bit of a smile? His laughter was rare, but did it deserve such a reception?

Apparently Lady Aubourn thought so.

If he had wanted to kiss her five minutes ago, he was dying to do so now.

Her lips parted. Was it an invitation, or was she about to speak? Whatever it was, he was doomed not to know.

“Moira?” Octavia’s voice drifted from the corridor. “Are you all right? I heard a noise.”

His sister-in-law had rotten timing. Had Octavia been watching from some secret spot, waiting for just the right moment to save her friend from his lecherous clutches? Or was fate simply toying with him again as it liked to do?

The gaze he bestowed on his viscountess was rueful at best. “Denied again. You owe me, my lady.”

“Please.” She pushed against his shoulders as the noise of Octavia’s approach grew louder. “Let me go.”

Reluctantly he did as she commanded, careful to put a suitable amount of space between them as he did so. “Sooner or later I intend to collect.” Then, with one last glance up at the mistletoe, he flashed her a slight smile. “Perhaps tonight.”

“Wynthrope.” His sister-in-law’s voice was as warm as a summer’s breeze as she flitted into the room. Not as husky as the viscountess’s, and thankfully not at all as arousing. “It is about time you arrived.”

He faced her with a humorous but slightly mocking smile, not offended by her tone. “You did not specify a time in the note you sent.”

Octavia’s expression was one of gentle amusement. “I assumed you would arrive at a decent hour.”

“I do not even get out of bed at a decent hour.”

“Well, I am glad Moira had someone to keep her company while I was gone.”

He glanced at the viscountess out of the corner of his eye. Was she as suspicious as he was of Octavia’s intentions? His sister-in-law rarely requested his attendance before dinner. Perhaps Octavia wouldn’t try to keep him away from the viscountess at all. Perhaps just the opposite. She looked the very picture of innocence. That in itself was reason enough to distrust her. She was just as good a liar as North, but Wynthrope was better.

“Lady Aubourn is very charming company.” He tilted his head. “Now, I assume you called me here for a reason?”

“Oh yes.” Her reaction seemed a bit more natural now. “I need you to teach me how to tie the mathematical cravat. Your brother wants to wear that style this evening.”

North rolled his eyes. “Why does he not simply hire a valet?”

Octavia looked at him as though the answer was obvious. “He does not want one.”

Ah yes. How could he be so daft? “Why hire a valet when he has me.”

His sister-in-law grinned. “Exactly.”

“Fine. I will show you.” There was no point in denying her—he couldn’t even if he wanted to. He would never deny her or North anything, no matter how small.

“Thank you.” Octavia turned to her guest. “Moira, you will excuse us, will you not?”

The viscountess nodded. In fact she looked rather pleased to be rid of him, the intriguing little baggage.

Wynthrope bowed to her. “I look forward to continuing our conversation tonight, Lady Aubourn.”

That
stole the satisfaction from her face, but she couldn’t very well snub him in front of Octavia without admitting their little encounter. Somehow he didn’t think the lovely viscountess wanted his sister-in-law to know anything that happened between them. Not yet, at any rate. Eventually she would tell—women always did.

“Until tonight then, Mr. Ryland,” she replied politely with a slight dip of her head.

He smiled, his blood thrumming with anticipation. It had been far too long since he’d felt so challenged. “Until tonight.”

Tonight she would not escape him so easily.

“He did
what
?”

Sitting on her bed in her dressing gown, Moira sipped at a cup of sweet, hot tea and offered a sugar biscuit to her dear friend Nathaniel, who lounged across the coverlet like a long, lazy cat.

He shook his head at the plate, and she took it away, stealing another biscuit for herself first. She was going to have to skip dinner. “He said he wanted to kiss me.”

The memory of Wynthrope Ryland’s words and the dark
ness of his compelling blue eyes twisted her stomach in knots even as it growled for more biscuit.

“And you did not let him?” Nathaniel’s fresh, youthful-looking face wore an expression of horrified disbelief. “Have I taught you nothing?”

Moira smiled sweetly. “Nothing at all.”

Lying across the foot of her bed as he was, Nathaniel Caylan was all rumpled elegance and uncaring grace in dark blue and buff. No wonder Anthony had adored him so; Nathaniel was the perfect mix of boy and man. His blue eyes sparkled with a lust for life, even though the
love
of his life had been dead for nigh on two years. His cheeks glowed with health, even though his usual pattern was to stay up all night and sleep most of the day. It was late afternoon, and Moira was fresh from the bath, taking some time to relax before getting ready for the party at Octavia’s. Nathaniel had just gotten out of bed an hour ago.

“Wynthrope Ryland is one of
the
most attractive men society has to offer.” Nathaniel took a sip of tea. “Any woman—or man—would be mad to refuse him.”

Moira chuckled. Her friend was always saying such outrageous things. She was so used to it that he had to be very wicked to surprise her. “Then you had better cart me off to Bedlam, because I refused him.”

Pale brows waggled suggestively. “There is still tonight.”

Shame on him for throwing Ryland’s words back at her. She had just gotten her heart slowed to its normal pace, and now it tripped foolishly once more.

How could she allow herself such a reaction? Surely she was old enough now not to harbor girlish notions where men were concerned. Wynthrope Ryland would be no more interested in her than Tony had been—although for different reasons. Tony would have loved her if he had been capable of it. He had loved her as much as he could, given the circum
stances, but he had taken the time to get to know her. Anyone could win the heart of another if given enough time. She truly believed that. Perhaps she might even woo Wynthrope Ryland if given the time, but this interest he showed in her had no time behind it. It was new, too new for her to trust in it. In the past such attention generally meant that someone had made a wager about her, or that they were wanting to use her to get close to one of her sisters.

Everyone who came near her had an agenda of his own—even dear Tony had approached her out of his own interests. It seemed her own interests would be met as well, and they were, for a time.

“Tonight I wager Mr. Ryland will have found someone else to flirt with.” She dunked her last biscuit in her tea before popping the entire thing in her mouth. “He will ignore me once more.”

Nathaniel brushed a smattering of crumbs from his coat with a careless wave of his hand. “And if he does not?”

“Then I will ask him what exactly it is he is up to.” Too bad she didn’t feel as brave as she sounded. She would stay true to her word, however. She had been made to feel foolish one too many times in the past to allow it to happen again.

“And what if he says he wants you?” her friend demanded, regarding her with more severity than Moira was accustomed to from him. “What if the only thing he is guilty of is wanting to be with you?”

Flushing, Moira shook her head. “He does not want me.” He probably wanted Minnie, despite his blatant dismissal of her younger sister. He could be playing difficult to entice the younger woman—Lord knew her sister had talked of little else since the incident. One minute Minerva hated Wynthrope Ryland, the next she was determined to have him.

“Whyever not?”

“Because he just does not.” It was just that simple.

A dog with a bone, he would not let go. “Yes, but how do you know?”

The answer tore free of her with a nasty snap. “Because no one ever wants me!”

Oh dear. That was more than she wanted to reveal. Poor Nathaniel, he looked so horrified. He really needn’t put so much upon himself. It wasn’t as though he was the pathetic one of the two of them.

“My dear Moira.” She flinched at the sympathy in his tone, pulling her hand away as he tried to take it in his own. “How can someone so wonderful think so little of herself as you do?”

She smiled sardonically. “It is surprisingly easy.”

“Yes, I do not doubt that it is.” Nathaniel shot her a pointed stare. “Well, it stops tonight.”

Moira chuckled. As though she could undo a lifetime of self-doubt in one evening.

“Tonight you are not allowed to be so disparaging toward yourself. Tonight, if Wynthrope Ryland or any other man approaches you, you will believe that it is because he is intelligent to see just what a catch you are.”

“Oh will I?” Why should she believe that when it had never been true in the past? For heaven’s sake, men had made sport of her! And all because she was so “unapproachable” and “immune” to seduction. How those descriptions had hurt. She was neither of those things, nor any of the other words they had used to describe her. She simply had no idea what to do when it came to men, and didn’t want to embarrass herself.

Or reveal her secret and lose the life she had made for herself. She would rather die a virgin than return to her parents.

“Yes, you will believe any man who approaches you does so because he cannot deny your charms. Now finish your tea and let us begin preparing for the evening.”

Moira stared at him in disbelief. “But it is hours yet before the party!” Was she that unpresentable that she needed almost a full five hours to prepare?

“Exactly. We must begin if I am going to make you see what a goddess you are by eight.”

A goddess.

Good Lord, Nathaniel hadn’t been kidding.

“What have you done to me?”

Standing before her looking glass, Moira stared at her reflection with fascinated horror. Was this truly she? Yes, she could see the lips move as she spoke. It was she—and yet, it did not
look
like herself.

“I did not do a thing,” Nathaniel quipped, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I simply told your maid what to do. Delightful girl. Very talented.”

Moira’s gaze slipped from his smiling face back to her mirror.

Where had all that hair come from, so artfully styled and curled atop her head? Those dark arched brows were thinner than she remembered, and her eyes seemed all the bigger for it. Her nose and chin had been powdered, eliminating the shine and giving her skin a shimmery glow. Nathaniel had insisted that the powder extend down her throat and chest, so that the flesh just above the neckline of her gown gleamed in the lamplight.