One Tempting Proposal (10 page)

Grasping Ollie's lapels, Seb drew him close. “Are you mad? You'll bring scandal to Lady Harriet, to her entire family, not to mention the damage to your own reputation.”

When Ollie's eyes flashed with fear, Seb released fistfuls of his friend's jacket, smoothing down the garment with the swipe of his hands.

“Do you truly wish to begin your career under a cloud?”

Ollie returned to his rigid stance and tipped his square jaw up. “I wish to marry Hattie. That's all that matters.”

The boy served as a mirror. Seb looked into the face of the love-­sopped fool he'd once been. He might have said the same words. If he hadn't, he'd certainly believed his love for Alecia and his desire to marry her were all that mattered. He clung to that truth with more fervency and fire than he believed in mathematics or a single God in heaven, more than he loved his family or even himself. The woman had nearly led him to his death, and there was a time when he would have walked into it willingly, just to please her.

“Trust me. It's not all that matters.”

But Ollie was already shaking his head, his ears as clogged, his mind as set, and his devotion as tenacious as Seb's had once been.

“Let me to speak once more to Clayborne before you do anything rash. Agreed?”

Ollie wouldn't look at him. He glared at the wall to his left, jaw clenched, but he dipped his head once in agreement.

Seb took a deep breath and swiveled on his heel. Clayborne would give his consent. He had to. But he doubted he'd convince the man alone. Perhaps he'd listen to his firstborn. Lady Katherine wouldn't wish for the ­couple's elopement any more than Seb did. She'd understand the damage a scandal might do.

Striding back to the ballroom to find Kat, he'd just passed the refreshment room door when a woman called to him.

“Your Grace?”

The faint voice emanated from inside the room, and Seb stepped back toward the threshold. His legs turned leaden and stiff, shock fixing his body in place.

Alecia stood just beyond the half-­open door, black hair and pale eyes glistening in the wash of light from the ballroom.
No.
He shook his head in denial as Ollie had done moments before.
No.
If he refused her letters, he sure as hell wouldn't allow himself to be ambushed at a bloody ball.

She wore the same look of entreaty he'd seen a hundred times before—­an innocence that hid cunning, a helplessness that covered her competence.

“I must speak with you, Sebastian.” She hissed over the S's in his name as she always had and a sickening shiver slid down his back.

“We have nothing to say to each other, Lady Naughton.”

Lord Naughton stood near the back of the room, chortling with another gentleman, seemingly oblivious to his wife. She moved toward Seb as if she meant to follow him.

He held up a hand to stop her. “No, Alecia. It's over. Long over.”

He wanted nothing from her, and he'd give her nothing of himself. She was a ghost, a reminder of his past, and finally, after years of pain and grief, he wanted to live in the here and now.

Stalking into the ballroom, he scanned the crowd for Kat. Ponsonby stood near, as if imparting some secret that required him to whisper.

Seb needed to speak to her, and he wanted her alone. That desire propelled him across the ballroom in a direct line, pressing between ­couples, pushing dancers out of the way.

Kat's eyes widened as he approached, but she didn't resist when he reached out to grasp her hand and tug her along beside him. She called a parting “Excuse me, my lord” back to Lord Ponsonby, all sweet civility, and then whispered to Seb in a far chillier tone.

“When most gentlemen wish for a second dance, they ask.”

“We're not going to dance.”

He led her onto the balcony, down its stairs, and into his aunt's garden. Forward movement and heat seeping into his muscles eased his tangled thoughts, and Kat's hand in his, clasped as tightly as he held onto her, was an unexpected balm.

By the time they reached the far edge of the garden, both of them were breathless, their exhalations puffing out to cloud the night air.

“I take it you have something you wish to say to me, Your Grace.”

He still hadn't released her. She was warm and smelled heavenly, and the grip of her hand grounded him. Here and now. That's what mattered. Not the past. The past was a broken place of mistakes and regret.

The April evening had turned chilly and Seb finally let her go to remove his evening jacket and settle it over her bare shoulders.

She pulled the lapels together across her chest.

“Is it to be a long discussion, then?”

Seb reached up to lift the coat's collar to cover more of her exposed skin, but he found himself touching her instead, stroking the soft warm column of her neck and then resting his hand at the base of her throat, savoring the feel of her speeding pulse against his palm. His heartbeat echoed in his ears, as wild and rapid as Kat's, and the longer he touched her, the more the sounds merged, until he could almost believe their hearts had begun to beat as one.

He shook his head. That sort of romantic drivel led only to misery.

But he couldn't bring himself to stop touching her. And he couldn't deny he wanted more. Leaning down, desperate to know if her flavor was as sweet as her scent, he pressed his mouth to her forehead.

“Your Grace?” she whispered, the heat of her breath searing the skin above his necktie.

He pulled back and lifted his hands from her, remembering who he was, who she was. He was a master at guarding his heart and avoiding intimate moments. She was the woman who'd thrown over multiple suitors during each of her seasons.

“We must speak to your father.”

Even in the semidarkness, he could see her green eyes grow large. “You've changed your mind?”

Excitement hitched her voice up two octaves, and Seb wished he'd changed his mind, that he wouldn't have to disappoint her, or her sister and Ollie. If he hadn't wasted all his reckless choices in youth, he might allow himself a bit of freedom now. But controlling his emotions, regimenting his behavior, clinging to logic and order—­that had seen him through the darkest days of his life. Control had been his salvation, and he was loathe to let it go.

“No. But Ollie tells me that he and Lady Harriet—­”

“Plan to elope.”

“You knew?”

“She just told me when you walked off with Mr. Treadwell, and I fear they're quite determined.”

He jumped when she touched his arm, her exploring fingers jolting his senses, until each press, each stroke along his collar and then up to the edge of his jaw, made him ache for more. She caressed his cheek as he'd touched hers in the conservatory before sliding her hand down to his shoulder, gripping him as if to brace herself.

“Won't you reconsider my suggestion, Your Grace?”

When she lifted onto her toes and swayed toward him, a flash of reason told him to push her away, to guard against her feminine assault. But the thought had all the power of a wisp of smoke and dissolved just as quickly when he reached to steady her and found how well she fit in the crook of his arms.

He'd been a fool to drag her onto the balcony and touch her like a man without an ounce of self-­control.

“If you're going to let me hold you this close, you should call me Sebastian.”

“If we're to be engaged, you should call me Kitty.”

He hadn't agreed to the engagement and still loathed the notion of a scheme. And yet . . . he couldn't deny the practicality of it. It would forestall Ollie's ridiculous plan to elope, satisfy the Claybornes and allow the ­couple to marry, and, best of all, it would keep all the young misses eager to make his acquaintance—­as his aunt had so disturbingly put it—­at bay.

“I'm afraid you'll always be Kat to me. Never Kitty.”

“Very well. Is that your only condition?”

His skin burned feverish. He loathed lies. Hated pretense. And yet he loathed nothing about holding Kat in his arms. With her velvet-­clad curves pressed against him and her thighs brushing his own, he found himself tempted to agree to her subterfuge. Almost.

“I have two more.”

“Go on.”

“We end it as soon as we're able.” If holding her melted his resolve this thoroughly, what sort of wreck would he be after weeks in her company? “You can jilt me if you like. However you wish to do it. And we tell my sister the truth of what we're doing and why. Pippa's far too clever not to see through a falsehood.”

“Agreed, Your Grace.”

He caught the flash of white as she smiled and moonlight glinted off the curve of her cheeks. Pleasing her stirred an echo of pleasure in him, and it disturbed him how much he wanted to see her smile again, wanted to bring her pleasure, and not just for a moment.

Lifting a hand to caress her cheek, Seb drew Kat in close, dipped his head, and took her mouth in a quick mingling of chilled flesh and warm breath.

One delectable touch of her lips was electric and terrifying. In their too brief kiss, he tasted bliss, and all the havoc a woman could wreak on a man's heart. But the delectable buzz of sensation didn't bow him or buckle his knees. It simply made him yearn for more.

“Didn't we agree you'd call me Sebastian?”

Hearing his name on Kat's lips seemed as essential as aiding Ollie and sussing out each of her unique scents. It wasn't logical. Reason played no part in it, but he needed to hear her say his name.

“Sebastian?”

Seb gripped Kat tighter in his arms. It wasn't her lilting whisper he heard.

Alecia stood at the bottom of the balcony stairs calling out into the darkness. It was unlikely she could make them out at the far end of the garden, but she must have seen him dragging Kat onto the balcony.

“Who is it?” Kat peeked around his shoulder.

“It's Lady Naughton. She's—­”

“I know who she is.” She had a terrible habit of finishing his sentences.

“Do you?” Could she truly know his history with the woman? The thought of it sickened him, and then another notion teased at his mind. What if the two women had connived this very moment to shame him or force him into a more elaborate scheme?

Kat tugged his lapel. “Of course. I know who everyone is.”

Momentarily relieved, Seb released a pent-­up breath as Kat continued. “She's an earl's wife, though she comes into London society rarely. I wonder why your aunt invited her this evening.”

Seb wondered the same, though finding a way to avoid Alecia and get Kat safely inside seemed a more urgent concern.

“More interestingly, why is she calling for you?”

“I've no idea, nor any wish to inquire,” he whispered while tucking them further into the shadow of a towering shrub. Alecia could keep her letters, her secrets, and her lies.

Kat pulled away. “We shouldn't be hiding. She can be the first to hear our good news.”

Before Seb could stop her, Kat stepped out and proceeded up the moonlit path as she called to Alecia.

“Lady Naughton, good evening. I take it you're looking for Wrexford. He's here, but I do hope you'll keep our secret. We haven't yet spoken to my father, but His Grace has just asked me to be his wife.”

 

Chapter Ten

S
HE LOVED
HIM.
Or at the very least Lady Naughton knew the duke beyond a polite acquaintance. It wasn't just the way her dark brows arched high and her body stiffened at Kitty's pronouncement. Something in the way she bit her lip to stop it trembling and wrung her hands before turning toward the ballroom implied more.

Kitty peered back at the man still lingering in the shadows, the man she'd just declared to be her fiancé, the man who'd just stolen her breath with his kiss. He did not look pleased, and she didn't need discernment to know the blaze in his gunmetal eyes had nothing to do with desire.

He'd agreed to a feigned engagement and she could not allow him a moment to change his mind. Why not begin spreading the news immediately? With any luck, Lady Naughton wouldn't be able to keep it to herself and rumor would ignite the ballroom like a spark amid dry kindling.

“At least now you cannot renege on our agreement.”

Wrexford stepped onto the path and glanced at the spot where Lady Naughton had stood. A muscle ticked at the edge of his square clean-­shaven jaw.

“I had no intention of doing so.” He enunciated each word, sharpening every consonant, his deep voice cool and precise.

All the warmth between them had fled, but Kitty couldn't regret it. She needed her wits about her, and the man's nearness turned her thoughts thick and sluggish.

Now was the time to plan their next steps. Father might not be pleased to hear of Wrexford's proposal after the fact, but he'd certainly welcome the man into the family. Convincing him to allow Hattie and Mr. Treadwell to marry first would take a bit of maneuvering, but Kitty already pondered several ways to accomplish the feat. She had the story of her romance with the duke to shape too. Among the lessons she'd learned from observing her father's political maneuvering was that gossip, in order to be truly effective, must be carefully managed.

“You'll need to trust me, Kat.”

Sebastian reached for her, but she sidestepped out of his grasp.

“Do liars often trust each other, Your Grace?”

She'd been unable to avoid his embrace during the waltz, and she'd used their nearness here in the darkness for persuasion. But that was quite enough touching for one night. The man's hands had a terrible unsettling power over her. He didn't brush or lightly graze her skin. He stroked her, caressed her, as if he wished to give her pleasure rather than take his own. He almost made her want to believe the fib they were going to tell everyone—­that he admired her, that he wanted her for his own.

To prove their false romance, she'd let him hold her hand or lock arms with him during a stroll in the park. But those moments would be of her choosing. She would dictate the when and where.

Tonight she'd been remiss and allowed him too much liberty.

Striking out too quickly for her to retreat, he clasped her hand.

“I'm not a liar by nature, my lady. This ruse is for Ollie's benefit, and your sister's.” Loosening his hold, he snaked his hand up higher, stroking her arm, cupping her elbow in his palm and drawing her in close.

“But yes, liars that we are, we'll have to trust each other. Can you not see that you risk your reputation with this scheme?”

She didn't expect his concern. They each sought their own benefit, if not for themselves than for those they loved. He couldn't imagine her an innocent miss. She
had
suggested the arrangement, after all.

After watching her father work his machinations and Mama's subtle steering for as long as she could remember, getting others to join her games or nudging them in the right direction was as much a skill as tending to plants in the conservatory. No one looked out for her well-­being or considered her wishes. If she'd abided by her father's demands, she would have been married off during her first season.

“Let me worry about my reputation.” The poor man seemed to have no notion that a favorable match, even a feigned one, could only improve her image as an unmarried lady determined to remain stubbornly on the shelf.

“Very well. Shall we go in?”

He didn't even wish to touch her anymore. After releasing her arm, he straightened his tie and jerked his jacket lapels into perfect symmetry, as if their interlude had ruffled him and he wanted to put himself back in order.

Kitty thought he might leave her standing in the cold night air and go on his own to face whatever gossip might have begun to spread among Lady Stamford's guests. But he was too much of a gentleman for that. Lifting a hand toward the balcony, he gestured for her to precede him back into the ballroom.

“Have you been acquainted with her long?” The mystery of his connection with Lady Naughton hovered at the back Kitty's mind like a persistent bee, and it buzzed more fiercely the longer she attempted to ignore it.

“Who?” But he knew exactly who she meant. His gaze, which had followed her since their waltz, suddenly locked on the towering rhododendron to his right.

“You don't wish to tell me.” Which only served to stoke her curiosity. Had they been friends? Lovers? For a man with a reputation for being an academic unconcerned with titles and society, he seemed to possess a plethora of noble connections.

“Were you lovers?”

Turning to face her, he took a step closer, too near to avoid noticing his scent and the way his breath warmed her skin wherever it gusted.

“What are we to be to each other, Kat?”

“I don't—­” A simple question and yet the moment she began to answer, rational thought scattered like colored tiles tumbling in a kaleidoscope. If all went well, they'd be bound by family ties for the rest of their lives. But he didn't speak of some far-­off future. His eyes had gone wider, his tone taut and tense. He spoke of immediacy. This handful of days when they'd feign romance and love, and Kitty knew nothing of either. She'd spent all her life avoiding both.

“Friends? Or merely players in a temporary scheme?” He dipped his head and then lifted it. “Your hesitation tells me we're the latter. So let's keep our secrets to ourselves.”

The duke stepped back and glanced again at the spot where Lady Naughton had stood watching them. He reached around her as if he meant to embrace her, but she realized he merely intended to herd her back toward the balcony.

“We should return to the ball, and I must speak to your father, preferably before the gossips do.”

“He'll be in the cardroom and won't appreciate being disturbed. Best to speak to him tomorrow.” Her father rarely danced anymore, but he took his card games seriously. He never lost, though he was more interested in the leverage he could wield over the men he bested rather than any winnings he might receive.

Kat let the duke lead her to the balcony stairs, turning at the top to stop him so that she could slip off his evening coat. His jaw ticked again when he took it from her hands and settled it on his shoulders.

She could still smell his clean masculine scent on her skin and imagined his jacket now smelled like her gardenia-­jasmine perfume. The notion that they'd imprinted their scents on one another shook her nearly as effectively as his touch.

Glancing at her, eyes hooded and expression inscrutable, Sebastian started toward the balcony door.

“She's one of your secrets, then?” The words came before she could stop them. He was to be her fiancé for the next few weeks. Their names would be linked in every scandal rag and dance on the tongue of every whisperer in the city. Didn't she deserve to know of an entanglement that might complicate their plan?

He didn't turn or acknowledge her question, but he froze in place, his back stiff, hands fisted.

Kat waited several beats and then started past him. He could stand out in the cold all night if he wished it. Without the warmth of his coat, her skin had turned to gooseflesh. But he caught her, lifting his arm to hold her back, not touching her, thank goodness, but indicating she should stop.

“If you truly wish to know my secrets, then I want to know yours. Every mistake, every regret, all the secret parts of your history you'd prefer to keep from judgment and scrutiny.”

He held his breath, waiting for her answer.

She inhaled sharply, a sound of fear. He didn't want that. But nor did he wish to lay his soul bare for the woman. Her changing scent confused him as much as the many sides of her character. She was one moment the simpering debutante, the next a dedicated horticulturist, and now a master schemer. She was a tantalizingly snarled riddle of a woman, but sorting out her secrets would mean revealing his own. And that didn't interest him at all.

“Not so appealing, is it, Kat?”

Refusing to look at him, she stared straight ahead, shoulders back, chin up high, all the lines of her face limned by the moonglow. He almost wished he was willing to let her see inside, to let her learn of all his failings and fears, just so that he could glimpse the woman beyond her flawless façade.

Her refusal to answer brought as much relief as disappointment.

“No, I don't think so either, my lady. Let's see this plan through to its end. We'll see Oliver and Harriet married and put the rest behind us. No more questions about my past, and I won't ask any about yours.”

She glanced down at his arm where he held it up, not quite touching her chest. “Very well, Your Grace.” Looping her arm under his, she grasped it lightly as a lady might take a gentleman's arm during a promenade in the park.

Seb let himself breathe again, deeply, drawing in long drams of frosty air. The garden was overflowing with shrubs and blooming flowers, but he could only detect Kat's scent on the breeze.

“You should dance with me again,” she commanded.

“I didn't step on your toes too much during our waltz?” Whether it was the chill in the air or her arm clasped in his, he felt lighter than he had all evening. The notion of reentering the ballroom and facing Alecia held no appeal, but the prospect of dancing with Kat again lured him. He fought his tendency to analyze, to worry over what a danger she might prove to be to his peace of mind. He would allow himself to enjoy a dance with her and avoid sifting the black thoughts Alecia stirred.

­“People should see us dancing together again. At least once more, perhaps twice. Even if your Lady Naughton says nothing, we'll set tongues wagging about our budding romance.” Kat's tone had gone flat, her voice low and bereft of its usual lilt. Focus, determination—­she would be all about the game now. He'd set the rules and would have to abide by them.

He loosened his hold on her arm, touching her now as lightly as she held onto him.

“Ready?”

“Of course.”

The noise and heat of the room attacked his senses and he blinked against the brightness until his eyes adjusted. He expected stares, whispers, perhaps even words of congratulations, but the glances of dancers skimmed over him, past Kat, and onto the others in the room. They seemed to be attracting no more attention than any other ­couple. Only one man kept his gaze fixed in their direction—­the one his aunt had identified as Lord Ponsonby.

Seb scanned the room for the one woman he hoped never to see again. Several dark-­haired ladies moved in the steps of a lively dance and a few gathered on the ballroom's edges, but none possessed frost blue eyes. He didn't see Lord Naughton's towering frame among the crowd either, though it was most likely he could be found wherever they were serving drink. Or perhaps in the cardroom with Lord Clayborne.

“I haven't had a chance to speak to our hostess yet this evening. I'll return before the next dance.” Kat unlatched her arm from his and strode away, leaving him as exposed and out of place as the moment he'd entered the ballroom.

Securing an uncrowded corner, he darted his gaze from one feminine face to another. They were all strangers. None of them were Alecia, and that brought a rush of relief. The shock of seeing her had chilled his blood, like one of those doomed characters from the ghost stories Pippa loved to read. Most shocking of all, he hadn't burned with the loathing he'd expected. She was smaller than he remembered, almost fragile, somehow diminished. Not the temptress and ruiner of men he'd once known her to be. But he'd still wanted nothing more than to get away from her. Whatever time had done to alter her, there'd never be a place for her in his life again.

Years ago, she'd been so persuasive. If she'd turned her energies to something other than attainting a title and a rich husband, she might have been a leader, a reformer, a woman who inspired others to action. She'd certainly inspired him to act, leading him to a clearing in the woods on the far side of the River Cam to confront the man who'd purportedly ruined her. Poor Charles Page had been told an equal and opposite lie, expecting to save her from Seb's clutches. Seeing them together, the man hadn't bothered with questions before taking aim at Seb and firing his pistol. Luckily, he'd been a very bad shot.

One glimpse of Alecia brought it all back, and in that moment, Kat had seemed the antidote. A moment alone with her, a private moment away from the light and heat and noise was all he'd wanted. And then she'd touched him. Or he'd touched her. He couldn't recall the order of it. But their bodies connected as they had during the waltz. For a moment in the garden, she'd been his alone. No lords or eligible gentlemen could leer or lean on her.

Just one bloody fool who let a few whiffs of her gardenia scent scramble his senses and melt his resolve.

How had a moment in the shrubbery turned a lie into a solution? Why had he agreed to feign a betrothal with the woman when he'd never been able to pull off a real engagement with any success at all?

A few weeks of courting her only to allow her to jilt him. That sounded like a prescription for pure misery.

At least he had practice at it.

What the hell have I done?