One Tempting Proposal (4 page)

Whatever his ballroom failings, he couldn't stand by and watch. Tension twisted a vice between his shoulder blades and he was gritting his teeth so forcefully, he feared those around him would soon hear the crunch.

He strode forward to ask Pippa's companion to dance, if only to distract the young woman. With any luck, his lack of skill as a dance partner wouldn't cause her more embarrassment.

Ollie stopped him midstride.

“Who is that man, Ollie?” Seb narrowed his gaze at the young man dancing past with one of Lady Katherine's cohorts in his arms.

“Wellesley. Robert Wellesley, a family friend of the Adderlys. Why?”

“He seems to leave disappointed women in his wake. Excuse me.”

Continuing toward Pippa, Seb saw rebellion break out among Lady Katherine and her ladies, and he suspected the tall smirking peacock was the cause. He watched as Wellesley returned his dance partner to the quartet and the four women slowly drew apart from each other, their faces twisted in frowns of anger and irritation. Surprisingly, most of the wrath seemed to be directed at their leader.

Seb drew close enough to hear their exchange.

A dark-­haired young lady asked, “Who is she and why did you invite her?”

“Yes, and how dare she look so forlorn that Wellesley won't dance with her?”

“Her name is Annabel Benson, and she's not the only lady disappointed to find Mr. Wellesley's name missing from her dance card.” Lady Katherine addressed the group, an eyebrow arched knowingly.

“And who's the tall forbidding girl in that awful blue dress?”

Turning as one, they gazed across at where his sister stood clad in the new blue gown he'd watched her smooth down a dozen times to alleviate her nervousness during their carriage ride to the ball.

Seb knew little of women's gowns, but Pippa's seemed every bit as elaborate and fashionable as those the other ladies wore. He considered declaring as much to Lady Katherine and her cronies, but Pippa would never forgive him for making a fuss about her clothes or drawing attention to her at all. As it was, she'd spent every moment since they'd arrived clinging to the ballroom's wall.

Lady Katherine and her friends were forced to move as breathless ­couples stepped off the dance floor.

Seb could no longer hear the women's exchanges but their expressions indicated continued discord. After another moment of listening to whatever condemnations her companions offered, Lady Katherine withdrew from the group and strode away.

She moved with the same lithe elegance with which she'd entered the room, and if not for the patch of pink marring her cheek, none could have guessed at her distress.

He gave into impulse and followed her, skirting the edge of the ballroom's perimeter, his heels clicking on marble as he entered a darkened hall. When he glimpsed the train of her gown slip through a doorway, he stretched his long legs into a deeper stride to catch up before she locked herself away.

Pausing at the threshold of the door she'd left ajar, Seb sucked in a deep breath, expanding the confines of his evening jacket to ease tension in his neck and shoulders. He waited, closing his eyes and drawing in another long inhale, striving to tamp down his irritation. Turning back would be the prudent path. He didn't need a guide to aristocratic behavior to tell him a duke shouldn't chase women into empty rooms to chastise their rude behavior.

Yet there was the rub. Who would ever tell a marquess's daughter and her coterie of lady critics to treat others respectfully? Even his sister, who'd done nothing but keep to the ballroom's edges, had found herself in their crosshairs.

One more shallow breath and he took a step toward the threshold. Vanilla. He tasted its sweetness on his tongue. Her scent. The simple flavor didn't suit Lady Katherine, and yet as he peered through the doorway at the expanse of her pale shoulders and the corn silk strand of hair that snaked down her back, somehow escaped from her perfect coiffure, he could easily imagine the skin at her nape tasting of vanilla.

Despite the seemingly endless stretch of years since he'd touched a woman, he knew that swath of skin on her neck would be smooth, warm to the touch. A tender spot, vulnerable. Few men would ever be allowed to caress her there.

He flexed his fingers as he stepped past the threshold, moving quietly, still doubting with every step whether he should confront her at all.

She stood before the unlit fireplace, shoulders curved in, hands gathered in front of her, and he noticed too late that her body trembled and she emitted an unmistakable whimper.

When she whirled on him, Seb reared back at the sight of a glistening tear caught in the fan of lashes beneath her eye.

Good God.
Tearful women were his Achilles' heel. Pippa's rare tears reduced him to mush.

He cleared his throat and bounced on his heels. “Lady Katherine, I—­”

“We haven't been introduced. Don't you know you shouldn't speak to a lady until you've been introduced?” She turned back toward the fireplace and peered at him over her shoulder a moment before executing an elegant swivel that drew the skirt of her dress around in a flash of sparkling beads bobbing on a river of satin. There were no tears now, not a single vestige of distress, just a snappish bite in her tone.

“I'm not terribly fond of rules.” Seb knew the basics of etiquette, but he was much more interested in the laws of mathematics. Surely here on the cusp of the next century, the silly list of
dos
and
do nots
could be discarded now and then.

“I'll introduce myself now,” he offered, stepping toward her as he spoke.

“No.” She lifted a hand to halt his progress. “I know who you are. You're the Duke of Wrexford, and you've been a nobleman for less than a month.” She jutted her chin and threw the words at him as an accusation, a reminder that he was a novice in this world of balls and etiquette, regardless of the accident of inheritance that had given him a dukedom.

Her haughty tone kindled the irritation he'd felt in the ballroom back into a hot spark. “Yes, and you've been a noble lady all your life, yet you laugh at your guests for sport.”

She crumbled for a fraction of a second, a slight frown marring her brow, and then lifted her chin even higher. If the lady raised her head any farther, she'd tip over.

Her discomfort did not please him. Winning the point brought no victorious thrill.

“You're right, my lady. I do lack social graces.” Seb took another step and far too much pleasure in the way her eyes widened a fraction as she straightened her back, holding her ground.

“Not to mention finesse.” She lowered her chin, though her back remained ramrod straight.

“Perhaps you could teach me.” He'd meant to infuse his tone with sarcasm, but the words came out low, catching in his throat. More petition than scold.

“Surely you didn't follow me into this room to learn etiquette.” Despite her stiff posture, her tone softened to a lower pitch. A disarmingly warm, almost jovial sound that made Seb duck his head and work to steady his breathing. Her vanilla scent enveloped him now, its potency multiplied by the warmth of her body.

“Tell me. Why did I follow you?” He still wasn't sure of the answer himself, and her certainty stoked his irritation. Yet the instant he asked the question, she seemed less sure—­of herself, of him, and of whatever had brought them to this moment, alone together in a dimly lit room.

“To charm me?” Her question made him grin. She was a beautiful woman, but when she faltered and let her perfect façade slip, she was enticing. What had Ollie called her?
Difficult to snare.
This woman
was
a snare.

When he didn't reply, she frowned, and the temporary flaw in her too perfectly arranged face made her more beautiful, more human, a woman whose hair he could imagine mussing in passion, whose clothes he could envision disheveling in a desperate race to uncover more of her radiant skin.

Lifting her hands to her hips, she demanded, “Go on, then, Wrexford. Charm me.”

Despite the hint of a smile curving her mouth, the tone of command in her voice sank into his gut like a lead spike. He'd been free from a woman's dictates for ten years. All the denial and solitude had been nothing to knowing his choices were his own. Yet her challenge pushed him the final long stride toward her. The confidence she exuded, her vibrancy, compelled him near her, but even her potent allure did not blot out the memory of her pettiness in the ballroom.

He'd followed her into this room to chasten her. Hadn't he?

“Do men often try to charm you?” He was close enough to feel her breath against his chin, to see the lighter flecks of burnished gold in her eyes, to spot the tawny beauty mark at the right edge of her upper lip.

“Yes.” She released the word instantly, a hiss of heat against his skin.

He swallowed down an ache in his throat, but the soreness traveled, burning in his chest, tightening his body.

“Do they touch you?” He reached out, gripping her arm lightly above her elbow.

“Only if I let them.”

He'd gone beyond simply breaking the rules of etiquette now. Beyond logic and reason. Her skin was warm and smooth, and touching her was a mistake. But it was heady one, as if he was a green boy touching a woman for the first time, a reckless man taking the first step on a grand adventure.

She felt it too. Her eyes went limpid, brighter, the black center growing larger and the lower crescent of green glowing like absinthe lit by candlelight.

Her lips parted and he lowered his head.

When he moved, she jolted, fluttering her lashes and then glaring up at him, her marble perfection slid neatly back in place.

The chill in her gaze tempered his arousal, but he couldn't stop touching her.

“I did not follow you into this room to charm you.”

“No?”

He shook his head. “I came to tell you . . .” What? That she was the most contradictory woman he'd ever met? Beautiful enough to snare any man, and yet thorny the moment he approached. Despite her distasteful behavior in the ballroom, she'd done what no woman had in ten years—­driven him to take action, made him ache after a decade of denial.

“No one in that ballroom wishes to be the object of your ridicule, Lady Katherine.”

“Perhaps some of them deserve it.” She trailed her gaze down his body and back up again in one sweeping glance, leaving no doubt she thought him one of the deserving sort.

“Not from their hostess.”

“My mother is this evening's hostess.”

“Ah, so she invites them, and you snicker at them behind their backs?”

She narrowed her eyes and drew in a breath so deep her pale shoulders lifted.

“No lady wishes to be chastised by a stranger in her own home.” After tugging her arm from his grasp, she took two quick steps, backing away from him.

Her reprimand found its mark and Seb clenched his fists, ignoring the tingling sensation in the fingers of his left hand, the warmth from her body captured against the flesh of his palm. Speaking of strangers, what the hell was he doing verbally sparring with a woman he barely knew while leaving his sister on her own in a ballroom full of ­people she didn't know?

He'd been a fool to follow her, a madman to touch her. And he wished to regret every moment near her more than he did.

“Forgive me, Lady Katherine.” Seb wasn't certain whether he needed forgiveness, or she did, for being so damned confounding, for making him ache. He nodded, ducking his head without quite bowing—­that seemed a bit much—­and turned to return to the ballroom and find Pippa.

“Wait, Your Grace, if you please.”

 

Chapter Four

H
E WOULD LEAVE.
The duke was already two steps away from the threshold, and there was a firm, decided solidity in the line of his back. The man seemed quite finished with her and their strange encounter. Then he shocked Kitty by halting midstride and spearing her with a glance over the wide span of his shoulder.

Those eyes of his were a nuisance.

“Perhaps we can dispense with a bit of formality, Your Grace.” She paired the words with one of the simpering smiles she'd perfected over the years. It wouldn't do to make an enemy of the man. “Please, call me Kitty.”

Many called her by the diminutive. There was no true intimacy in what she offered, but he wouldn't know that. Gifting the concession drew ­people in and tended to soften them toward her.

He turned fully and snapped his head up, his inscrutable gaze tangling with hers. His eyes widened, but irritation still furrowed lines between his brows.

“Kitty?”

Ignoring his incredulous tone, Kitty lifted a hand to her elbow and pulled her white evening glove snug on her right arm. She brushed a fingertip across the spot where he'd touched her. Held her. As if he had any right to do so.

“That's what my friends call me. So you must do so too.” She pasted on a grin and turned her chin down at the precise angle to allow her eyes to tilt up at him flirtatiously.

He'd succumb like all the others, and
she
would choose what he called her and when he touched her,
if
she ever allowed him to touch her again.

Then he stalked toward her, and her sense of control faltered. A tremor skittered across her skin, but she refused to retreat. She stood firm, only reaching up to twine her long strand of pearls through her fingers, twisting the gems tight to cover her pulse where it flickered wildly at the base of her throat.

He tipped his head and studied her in a slow agonizing perusal. “No, I think not.”

“No?” With him standing close, his rich verdant scent scrambling her wits, she wasn't certain what he refused.

Her name. He was denying the invitation to call her Kitty. No, that wasn't the way of it. Men didn't refuse her. She refused them.

He closed the distance in one long stride. Warm man and the aromas of oak moss and bay assaulted her senses. Shock arced through her body. Shock that he affected her, and that she craved any man's body so near.

“Is that truly what others call you? It can't be your name. There's nothing kittenish about you.”

She gasped, to breathe him in, to catch her breath, and when he moved his arm, she had the mad notion he might reach up and trace her lips with his fingertip, and then claim her mouth with his, letting her taste his woodsy cologne directly from his skin.

His gaze locked on her eyes.

“You're not a kitten. You prowled that ballroom as sure-­footed as any woman I've ever seen. And while you manage to appear disinterested in everyone and everything, I'd wager nothing escapes your notice.”

He lifted a hand as if to touch her but hesitated.

She held her breath, drawn taut and tense.

“You're much more cat than kitten.” He grinned, the lines between his brows softening, and a glint of satisfaction lighting his gaze. “Yes. Kat suits you far better than Kitty.”

What a foolish thing to say. It was the height of audacity for him to suggest any name for her.

He lifted his hand again, and she knew he would touch her. She wanted him to, if only to have the satisfaction of pushing him away. But he didn't touch her. He licked his lips and reached up to straighten his necktie and smooth down his waistcoat. Stepping back, he nodded and then began to retreat, glancing at her only once more.

“Good evening, Lady Kat—­” His tongue seemed stalled on her name. Or perhaps he was merely insisting on his new name for her.
Kat
was all he managed before swiveling on his heel and striding away.

Kitty gripped the cool marble of the mantel a moment after he stalked away and willed her legs to stop trembling. In the space of ten minutes, the Duke of Wrexford had smashed her composure to bits, and she closed her eyes, struggling to fit the puzzle pieces back together. She grappled for any thought beyond the cloud of frustration and irritation he'd left in his wake. They were familiar emotions, especially after any encounter with her father, but her brief clash with Wrexford left her swaying off-­balance.

The man had taken her utterly by surprise, and the predictability of men was something she'd come to rely on. Those like Father were driven by power and money. Status and reputation mattered most. Young rogues like Rob Wellesley were lured by a pretty face and women who filled their idle hours with frivolity. And a man who followed a woman into a room without a chaperone was intent on seduction or, at the very least, flirtation.

But Wrexford wasn't interested in flirting so much as giving her a set down, and she'd been completely unprepared. The duke wasn't at all what she'd expected. Hattie had described him as a university don, and Kitty envisioned a stodgy, studious man more keen on equations than titles. No one had warned her he'd be so impressive, with a broad chest and shoulders filling out his evening jacket in ways most men never managed, nor that all the masculine angles of his face aligned in a beautiful whole that stole her breath when she stared too long.

Kitty returned to the ballroom on wobbly legs and cursed the Duke of Wrexford—­for his arrogance, that knowing grin on his far too sensual mouth, and the scent of something fresh that still tickled her nose, as if he'd brought a bit of the Cambridgeshire countryside with him to London.

She craved privacy and something to drink, but escaping to the room Mama had set aside for refreshments was out of the question. A long absence from the ballroom would start tongues wagging, and she'd already had her moment of escape. How could she have known it would be spoiled by the one man at the ball who found fault with her?

It didn't help that he seemed faultless himself. Aside from his rudeness in teasing her about her name, and the apparent pride he took in throwing etiquette aside as if it had gone out of fashion. Knowing he'd only come into his title recently, and that he'd never planned to be a duke, she'd anticipated a less polished man. But Sebastian, Duke of Wrexford, was tall and elegant, with a square jaw, sharp cheekbones, cool blue eyes, and a mouth that . . . Heaven help her, she'd wanted him to kiss her with that perfectly sculpted mouth, even when he was tilting it at her in derision.

“There you are. I've been looking for you everywhere.” Hattie paused between her words, attempting to catch her breath, and her cheeks glowed as if she'd just run across the length of a field. Kitty guessed she and Mr. Treadwell had danced every set since the ball began.

“It's this silly dress. I thought Elsie's stitches had pulled loose again.”

Hattie didn't even pretend to believe her hastily fabricated excuse. “I saw Miss Osgood and the others, though I couldn't hear what they said. They upset you.”

Everyone knew Hattie was the sweetest Adderly. The fact that she was sharp-­eyed and perceptive tended to be overlooked.

“Cynth goaded me about Lord Ponsonby. They'll tire of teasing me about him eventually.”

“Cynthia Osgood will never tire of tormenting others. She's been perfecting the skill since we were children.”

Wrexford's words about making sport of her guests echoed in Kitty's mind. Was she truly as snide and unkind as Cynthia Osgood?

Gazing across the ballroom, past ­couples sailing around the dance floor in the first waltz of the evening, she spied Annabel Benson, an acquaintance and now fellow Woman's Union member she'd met at a country house party before year's end. Young and good-­natured, eager for new friendships, she'd reminded Kitty of Hattie. Extending an invitation to her mother's ball had seemed a simple kindness, but she certainly hadn't treated the young woman as a friend tonight. She'd taken the easy way, avoiding another skirmish with Cynthia Osgood, when the others snickered at Annabel after Wellesley snubbed her. But it hadn't prevented a row with Cynth, who'd turned on Kitty, just as she had at their ladies' tea.

“She's unkind. I cannot fathom why she's such a popular young woman.” Hattie rarely condemned anyone, and Kitty's skin itched at the realization her sister's dismissal of Cynth could as easily be applied to her own behavior. “She's certainly caught Mr. Wellesley's eye.”

“Any pretty thing catches Rob's notice.” Kitty knew him to be an incorrigible flirt.

The Adderlys and Wellesleys had been connected for years, and Rob Wellesley had attended the same house party where Kitty befriended Miss Benson. Apparently the two had been acquainted since childhood, but Rob was as blind as he was handsome, and Annabel's infatuation, which was obvious to everyone who saw the two of them together in the same room, remained a mystery to him.

“Well, he should have a care for how he treats your new friend.”

The admonition was meant for Wellesley, but Kitty hadn't treated the girl any better.

“I should speak with Annabel and make sure all's well.”

It wasn't because of what Wrexford said. If she bucked Papa's commandments, she certainly wouldn't change her behavior because of a stranger's admonition.

“And you've picked just the right moment. The duke has joined them. That young woman with Annabel is his sister, Lady Philippa.”

Annabel stood side by side with the tall brunette in a blue gown and the broad-­shouldered duke. He stood with his back to the ballroom and the notion of approaching him under the bright light of the gaslight chandeliers set bees buzzing inside her belly.

Hattie didn't hesitate another moment before urging Kitty to follow her around the edge of the ballroom and join the trio.

As soon as they approached, he turned to look at her and Kitty's skin burned. Her cheek, her neck, everywhere his gaze touched.

She kept her eyes fixed on Annabel. “Annabel, might I have a word with you, my dear?” Kitty needed to apologize, but to do so under the duke's unnerving watchfulness was unthinkable.

Hattie cleared her throat with feminine delicacy and nudged Kitty's arm.

“Your Grace, may I introduce my sister, Lady Katherine?”

Ah, yes, she'd forgotten the niceties, and the fact that no one knew they'd already made their own awkward introductions privately.

“Pleasure to meet you, Lady Katherine.” Wrexford hadn't completely forgotten the niceties, it seemed. He bowed as well as any nobleman born to his title, but Kitty didn't offer him her hand for the pretense of kissing it. If their tangle in the sitting room taught her anything, it was that the Duke of Wrexford loathed pretense.

“Everyone calls her Kitty,” Hattie offered.

His brow winged up. “Do they?”

Kitty closed her eyes a moment before glaring at her sister. Hattie looked confused, but then merrily carried on with the introductions.

The duke caught the exchange, and that alluring grin crept over the curve of his mouth.

“Your Grace, may I introduce your sister to mine? Kitty, this is Lady Philippa, His Grace's sister.”

The young woman lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, but her mouth curled into a displeased pucker, as if she'd taken a bite of something sour.

Wrexford looked down at his sister with one arched eyebrow, though if he intended to correct her, the grin still lingering on his mouth—­why could she focus on nothing but the man's mouth?—­ruined the effect.

“My goodness, it's the first time I've heard someone call me that. It sounds shockingly formal. I hope I can live up to it.” Lady Philippa cast a wide, wary gaze up at her brother, and he nodded, offering her a look brimming with such love and encouragement that Kitty found herself, for the first time in her life, wishing she had an older brother.

“Everyone calls me Pippa. I don't think I'll ever get used to being called Lady Philippa.”

Her comment revealed more than a hint of disdain for her honorific. Cynthia Osgood and the other young ladies would no doubt disparage the girl for her lack of delicacy. Titles were more valuable than currency to men like Kitty's father, and she suspected all the ladies in her circle had been instructed in deportment as she had. Those lessons included admonitions not to be too delighted, or disgusted, with anything, never to appear overly enthusiastic, and to absolutely refrain from bald truth. The refreshing charm of Pippa's honesty and her lack of feigned exuberance made for a delightful change from the usual ballroom inanity.

“Would you care to join us in our search for a bit of fresh air, Lady Philippa?”

Pippa nodded and Kitty turned to the lead the two young women away, relieved for the opportunity to offer Annabel an apology, and even more eager to remove herself from Wrexford's scrutiny.

She glanced back to offer him a nod and take her leave, but before she could dip her head, he cut in.

“Actually, I was just attempting to entreat Miss Benson to dance with me. She insists she is disinclined to dance this evening.”

That slate gaze of his held her again, though less demanding than in the sitting room. In fact, she imagined a flash of the heat she'd glimpsed when he touched her. Before he'd scolded her and left her trembling like a fool.

“Would you to join me for the next waltz, Lady Katherine?”

Kitty swallowed hard. Then once more. She struggled to make her tongue obey.
No.
She couldn't dance with him. That would require touching him, that he touch her. She'd already allowed him that liberty once, and he'd dashed off as if the experience horrified him.

When she took too long to answer, Kitty sensed the weight of their gazes on her, especially Hattie's, who no doubt expected her to be amenable to Mr. Treadwell's aristocratic friend.