Kathryn Smith (6 page)

Regardless of all the efforts she had made and the headaches they had given her, her life with Tony had been a good one, and she missed his smiling face. She missed his laughter and his wicked wit. Most of all she missed how he made her comfortable with herself. Tony never asked her to be anything but exactly what she was. She never felt as though she had to impress him.

She wanted to impress Wynthrope Ryland, and the knowledge both annoyed and frightened her. How did one set
about impressing such a man? And why should she want his good opinion? Had he done anything to deserve hers? No, save for wanting to make her “better acquaintance.” Wasn’t that reason enough for her to want to make the experience pleasant for him? How often in her life did a plain woman garner the attention of such a man?

Still, she didn’t think so little of herself that she was prepared to throw herself at Wynthrope Ryland’s feet. Nor was she prepared to be anything but herself in her efforts to win his approval. It didn’t matter how lovely he looked, or how deliciously smooth his voice was, if he could not like her for who and what she was, then he would not like her at all.

Perhaps, upon closer examination, she would not like him either. Perhaps a pretty face and charming manner were all he had to recommend him.

And perhaps she could eat an entire chocolate cake and not gain an ounce.

After breakfast, Moira summoned her maid and the carriage and went shopping. It would be Christmas soon and there were still one or two things she needed to purchase. She also needed to get out of the house by herself for a while, even though it was cold and looking as though it might snow. Since Anthony’s death she had become accustomed to having all the time to herself she could ever want—or sometimes not want, as was often the case. Having Minnie in the house was both a treat and a torture.

Several hours later, after she had finished her shopping, and satisfied that the snow would not start for some time yet, Moira continued on to Covent Garden to visit Octavia. Only Octavia and her husband, North, could get away with living in such an unfashionable area of London. Between the two of them they had enough charisma to enable them to do almost anything, and society would think them charming.
They were the perfect example of how two people could come together to form a single entity. Not just lovers, they were incredibly good friends, and they loved each other more than they loved life itself.

Naturally, Moira hated them. Unfortunately, she liked them so much that they were impossible to dislike for long.

“Moira! You are just in time,” Octavia greeted her in the foyer. She was all grace and refinement in a stylish day gown of dark peach sarcenet, her coppery gold hair twisted into a neat coronet.

“In time for what?” Moira inquired with a smile as the massive butler, Johnson, relieved her of her outerwear.

“Mrs. Bunting has been experimenting with different recipes for our Christmas cake. You must come try some and advise me as to which one to pick.”

Cake? Oh God, it was a good thing she hadn’t had much for breakfast. “I have never heard of Christmas cake before. Is this a family tradition?”

They strolled together down the corridor, their arms linked. There was something so warm and bright about this house that made it feel like a home. It smelled of lemons and baking, and bustled with the activity of busy, contented servants. Whenever Moira visited, her mood lifted to the point where all she wanted to do was smile. It was love. Love made this little corner of Covent Garden a special place.

“You could say that,” Octavia replied with a sly smile. “When North and I were children, his mother would have Mrs. Bunting make us a special cake for Christmas. It was the only way she could keep us in some semblance of decent behavior—with the promise of cake. It was North’s idea to have Mrs. Bunting make one this year to celebrate our first Christmas as husband and wife.”

Good heavens, North Sheffield-Ryland was certainly pos
sessed of a romantic nature. Were the other Ryland brothers of a similar disposition?

Somehow, she could not imagine Wynthrope making such a sweet gesture. At the same time he struck her as the kind of man who would do anything for someone he loved—even sacrifice himself. That was very romantic in itself, if not perhaps melodramatic in theory.

Octavia led her to the parlor where a lively fire burned in the hearth, crackling in warm invitation. The room was decorated in rich, sumptuous colors and comfortable furniture, and standing at one end of it, not far from the fire, were two men—North Sheffield-Ryland and his brother Wynthrope.

Speak of the devil
. Moira stared at him, committing to memory the straightness of his spine beneath his dark blue coat, how dark his hair was in the fading daylight, how graceful and careless he seemed. Even his profile bespoke a blasé arrogance, and yet…She sensed there was much more to him than a fine coat and a sometimes caustic wit. At the party he had spoken to her bluntly, with less assurance than she was accustomed to seeing him show.

The tone of his voice when he told her he wanted to get to know her better had almost stopped her heart. A thin thread of uncertainty had colored his voice, made her realize that whatever his motives, he was at least sincere in his quest. The only question was how far was she willing to go to indulge him. Dare she risk exposure for what might prove nothing more than fleeting pleasure? Was the company of Wynthrope Ryland worth the consequences she might have to pay?

He chose that moment to look up, his gaze colliding with hers. It was nothing more than a flicker, but for a second, she thought that he looked happier to see her than anyone else in memory.

Yes, perhaps he would be worth whatever consequences were attached to him.

After Moira greeted both North and his brother, Octavia offered her a slice of the cakes.

“Just small slices,” Moira told her friend as she lifted a silver handled knife. Yes indeed, it was good that she’d eaten sparingly at breakfast. There had to be at least six cakes on the tray! If they were as rich as they looked, she was going to have to miss luncheon and possibly supper.

“Small slices will not do justice to Mrs. Bunting’s mastery, Lady Aubourn.”

That butterscotch voice sent a tremor of delight down Moira’s spine. The sound of him speaking was more delicious than any confection Mrs. Bunting could ever conceive. Did the man have any idea how delectable his voice was?

She met his gaze with good humor. “But large slices, Mr. Ryland, will not do justice to my waistline.”

His scrutinizing gaze drifted slowly along the length of her. Any other man, and she might have felt soiled by such an appraisal. All Wynthrope’s appraisal made her feel was hot. Very hot.

Finally his gaze reached hers. Moira’s temperature rose another notch at the warmth she saw in his eyes. “A larger waist only means there is more for a man to hold on to, my lady.”

Moira flushed right to the roots of her hair.

“Wyn!” Octavia brandished an icing-covered blade at her brother-in-law. “You forget yourself.”

Wynthrope didn’t seem the least bit affected by her words, but he bowed to Moira all the same. “My apologies, Lady Aubourn. I meant no disrespect, quite the opposite.”

Oh, Moira knew exactly what he meant. He was watching her with barely veiled predatory interest. Perhaps his brother and Octavia were ignorant, but Moira knew without doubt that Wynthrope had meant to shock her. He might be able to play the gentleman, but he wasn’t, not underneath his care
fully crafted façade. In fact, she’d be willing to bet he wasn’t what he pretended to be at all.

Such knowledge served to make him even more attractive. Dangerously attractive. Did she follow his lead and be brazen right back, or did she retreat as she so desperately wanted to?

“Do not trouble yourself, Mr. Ryland. I took no offense.” She would not let him see how deeply he affected her—she couldn’t, not if she wanted to maintain some kind of control within their budding relationship. Her entire life had been built on control. She would not allow a man to change that.

Again he raised that mocking brow, staring at her with dark eyes that glinted with challenge. Dear God, what was she doing entering into any kind of relationship with this man? He was too much for her. He would be too much for any woman who wished to retain some semblance of self. Wynthrope Ryland was a maelstrom of a man, drawing women into his path and whirling them around until they were too dizzy and free to care what he did next.

Just once it might be thrilling to experience such a sensation, but it was much too frightening to entertain this early in their game.

Game
. Odd that she should think of whatever they were doing as a game, but she supposed it was. Each of them wanted to set the rules and each of them was determined to be the less vulnerable.

Octavia passed her a plate. On it were slices of each cake—all of them thicker than Moira would have cut for herself.

Well, there was nothing saying she had to eat all of it. With Wynthrope watching her, it was amazing she could eat at all.

He turned to his sister-in-law with his empty plate of
fered. “I will have some more of the chocolate please, Vie.”

“
More
?” The redhead’s face lit with surprise. “You’ve eaten half the cake already!”

He shrugged, seemingly unaffected by her teasing. “It is good cake.”

As she slid another slice of velvety dark cake onto his plate, Octavia turned to Moira with an amused, questioning gaze. “I reckon men do not pay the same attention to their figures as we women do, Moira.”

“We are simply not as obsessed with our appearances,” North spoke, his own empty plate on a table beside him. “Is that not true, Wyn?”

His brother cut a bite of cake with his fork. “Quite right. However, you are even less concerned than most of us, brother.” He smiled at Moira as he lifted his fork to his mouth. “Will this little indulgence damage my appearance, do you think, Lady Aubourn?”

Moira flushed once more. “Why? Do you plan on rubbing your face in it, Mr. Ryland?”

He laughed at that—they all did.

“Serves you right for asking such a bold question,” Octavia chastised, but she shot Moira an amused glance. “It seems that Moira’s wit is as quick as yours, Wynthrope.”

Wynthrope licked a bit of icing from his fork. Moira shivered. Oh, to be that fork.

“It is not my wit that is quick, my dear sister, but rather my tongue.” He smiled sweetly at Octavia, but when his sister-in-law’s attention shifted to her husband, Wynthrope turned his cobalt gaze to Moira, and what she saw there made her bones turn to custard.

Good God, had he read her mind when she envied his fork? It certainly seemed so.

He set his plate aside, his cake unfinished, and closed the
distance between them. Moira watched him approach, her heart tripping in her throat. Her fingers gripped her plate to stop from trembling.

“Is the fire too much for you, Lady Aubourn?” he asked softly, politely.

“No, I am fine, Mr. Ryland. Thank you.” How serene she sounded!

“I ask because you look a little overheated. You are flushed.”

Moira’s gaze flashed to his. Her heart thumped. “You are impertinent, I think, Mr. Ryland.” And she liked it.

His sculpted lips curved to the right. “No doubt you are right, but you have just reminded me of something, my lady.”

Dare she ask? “Oh, what is that?”

He leaned closer, as though he was about to impart something of a secretive nature. “You still owe me a kiss, and if you insist on looking at me as though you would like to cover me in chocolate icing, you had better be ready for me to collect.”

Moira’s lips parted, but no sound came out. She could only stand there and stare at him, burning from head to toe.

A slight flush crept up his cheeks as his gaze settled on her mouth. “Good Lord, woman,” he murmured. “You make
me
wish I was covered in icing.”

And then he was gone, taking his leave of them in a matter of minutes. After he left, Moira stood there, holding her plate, staring at the slivers of cake lying there. Wynthrope Ryland wanted her.
Her
. How could this be? And what did it say about her that she enjoyed the wicked things he said, the way he looked at her, as though…as though he wanted to
eat
her? Just the memory of his gaze sent pinpricks of sensation flooding the surface of her skin. Yes, he was a dangerous, bad, naughty man.

God help her, she more than liked it. She
craved
it.

“Octavia,” she said, holding out her plate to her friend. “Do you think I might have a little more of the chocolate?”

He should be thinking about Daniels, but instead his head was filled with thoughts of Moira Tyndale. The hours that had passed since the cake incident had not diminished his want, but intensified it. He had known she was at the party the minute he walked in, even though he hadn’t been able to see her.

The woman drew him in as though his will was no longer his own. He couldn’t help but flirt with her, make an idiot of himself. He would do anything to have her—anything. It was an awful feeling, knowing he was so desperate for a woman that he would reveal weaknesses to her.

But his past was something he would never admit, not to Moira Tyndale, not to anyone. Even North did not know the extent of things he had done, the shame he held so close. His brothers did not know the things he held inside, the fears he kept hidden from the world, save in the darkest hours of the night, when his entire life seemed to close in around him, crushing him. To give voice to such things would be the greatest humiliation he could ever face. He could not imagine ever making himself so very vulnerable to another person—he could barely do it within himself.

He was the kind of man who made himself wanted by others. Society matrons loved to have him at their gatherings, gentlemen liked to talk or play cards with him. Women found him charming and men found him amiable, but none of them
knew
him. He could stand in the middle of a crowded ballroom, such as the one he was in now, surrounded by people, and be totally alone.