One Tempting Proposal (9 page)

For how little she knew of him, nothing about the man was as clear as his lack of artifice.

If she hoped to engage him in a scheme to lie to everyone, she'd have to tell him the unvarnished truth. Lay it out plain, unadorned with any gilding, unsweetened, and to such an honest man, perhaps unpalatable.

“Let's tell them we plan to marry.”

His brows shot up, and his grimace faltered. Then his whole body went momentarily slack before he took a breath and stalked toward her.

“Pardon?”

“You wish to see Hattie and Mr. Treadwell married, as I do, but Father insists on my marriage first.” Kitty sucked in a breath. “He will arrange a match for me if I do not accept a proposal this season, so why not allow him to believe we'll marry?”

“Allow him to believe? You mean lie? You want me to join you in a scheme to deceive your father?”

“And the rest of them. Our friends and social circles. Your family and mine. My sisters couldn't keep a secret to save their lives. I don't know about yours.”

He looked up at the tree above their heads as if making a detailed study of the canopy of white and pink blooms.

Along the expanse of his throat, muscles rippled and moved, as if he was swallowing down each word that came to mind. Stifling angry words, she suspected. When he finally lowered his gaze and met hers, hope fluttered up on fragile wings in her chest. She read no denial in his eyes. He studied her face as she'd studied his in the conservatory, tracing each feature.

He shook his head. “I can't do it. I won't lie to my family or take part in your scheme. Fennicks aren't the scheming sort.”

If he was obliquely saying the Adderlys
were
the scheming sort, she couldn't deny it.

Of course he wouldn't agree to a false engagement. She should have known. Only a fool would ask a plain-­speaking man to lie.

The fragile wings shattered and hope crashed down, a sickening wreckage at the bottom of her stomach.

Kitty staggered forward, forcing him to back away, and started toward Clayborne House. The stony Hyde Park path caught at her feet like piles of sand and her damnable skirts made every step an effort. She couldn't manage a graceful glide or even a poised gait. If she made it back home without collapsing under the weight of her own failure, she'd count it a victory.

What would she tell Hattie? What could she say to convince her father to relent and allow her sister to marry the man she loved?

There were few enough happy marriages in the world. Why put a stop to a match with so much potential to achieve it?

“Lady Katherine—­”

She stopped midstep, nearly toppling into the gentleman in front of her, and whirled on the duke.

“I do wish you'd call me Kitty.” If nothing else, why could he not abide that simple request? It was her turn to be indignant and she bested his earlier glare as he approached.

He had his hands behind his back, and his head lowered, as if he could compress his breadth and height and seem less formidable. If he'd bothered wearing a hat, it would be in his hands.

“Let me consider the matter. I'll give you my answer at Lady Stamford's ball.”

“And claim your waltz?”

The lines around his eyes softened. “You do owe me one.”

“And you'll call me Kitty?”

He stretched up to his full height and crossed his arms again, not with the tension of anger, but as if pondering a weighty question. He tilted his head and thrust out his lower lip.

“What about Kat? I prefer it to Lady Katherine. May I call you Kat?”

When she clashed with her father, a pressure often built in her chest, burning up into her throat until she recognized it as a scream, desperate to escape. A cry of frustration, anger, powerlessness.

A tickle danced in her throat now, and she did long to cry out. In frustration, yes, but another emotion was there too. One that made no sense at all.

Anticipation.

She wouldn't give the Duke of Wrexford the right to rename her. Not when he'd conceded her nothing.

“No. You must call me Kitty, like everyone else. No one calls me Kat.”

After the temerity of attempting to give her a new name, the man had the audacity to look bemused by her refusal. His amusement was of the brazen sort, causing his eyes to glitter and his distracting mouth to tip, emphasizing the perfect sculpted squareness of his jaw. Amusement seemed a natural state for the duke, effortless, in noticeable contrast to the way he seemed to restrain his reactions in the conservatory.

What if he didn't hold back?

That flutter tickled up Kitty's throat again and spread along her neck before she swallowed against it. She wanted to see him unrestrained, pouring out all the banked emotion reflected in his gaze.

“I shall look forward to our waltz and your answer at Lady Stamford's ball. Good day, Your Grace.”

 

Chapter Nine

S
EB COUNTED AS
he scanned the ballroom, letting the numbers settle his nerves and bring order to the chaos in his mind. He judged the room smaller than the Adderly's, though Lady Stamford's ballroom glowed brighter, with eight gaslight chandeliers, sixteen gas wall sconces, four arranged an equal distance apart on each wall, and two elaborate candelabrum blazing with long fresh candles. The room didn't allow for hiding at the edges or the anonymity of blending in with the crush. It was a room to be seen in, an elegant fishbowl where you could look your fill and be gazed upon in return.

He'd never longed for a shadowy corner more in his life. If he could find Lady Katherine, discharge his debt of dancing a waltz with her, and give his final refusal to lie to both of their families, he'd steal away early.

“I always knew white tie would suit you.” Seb's aunt, Augusta, Countess of Stamford, swept toward him, trailing a rippling train of ruffled lavender silk in her wake.

Seb and his sister had only visited their father's brother, Uncle Edward, the Earl of Stamford, and his wife Augusta a few times as children, but there was no mistaking Lady Stamford. On each visit to their uncle's grand home in Wiltshire, her wit and irreverence made a lasting impression. Beautiful, intelligent, and wellborn, she was the most poised woman Seb had ever met.

At least until he'd seen Katherine Adderly glide across her father's ballroom.

“Does it? Then it must look better on the outside than it feels from the inside.”

“You have your father's dry sense of humor, I see. A trait he and his brother shared. Have you any idea how many years it took to realize when Ned was teasing me?”

“Mother said the same of our father.” Seb knew his mother and aunt had carried on a long-­standing correspondence. Despite how rarely the families visited, the two women had formed a bond of friendship around their shared interest in women's suffrage, art, and literature.

“I do miss Rosamund.” A mournful quality in her tone made Seb's throat burn.

Their father's death had been sudden, a heart attack when he'd still seemed vibrant and full of life. But their mother's death two years later had come after months of a debilitating ailment the doctors struggled to explain. One physician diagnosed acute ennui, and Pippa still insisted their mother died of a broken heart. It had broken all of their hearts to watch their brilliant and talented mother waste away.

“We all do.”

“Of course you do, my dear. I'm glad to see you looking so well. Rosamund and Reginald would be proud of how you've taken on your cousin's title.”

“Do you think so?” Seb doubted they'd be proud. His parents valued achievement, not titles bestowed because of an accident of birth or the lack of an heir on the correct branch of the family tree. Helping others through charitable good works or improving oneself through study—­those were the achievements his parents valued above all others. If there was any benefit to his title, it would be the opportunity to help others. He felt the weight of his tenants' expectations, and he would make the needed improvements to the estate. But first he had to address Ollie's expectations and see the young man settled. His parents, who'd all but adopted Ollie after he'd lost his own parents, would wish it as much as Seb did.

“I know it, my boy. Enjoy yourself at the ball, Sebastian. There are several young ladies quite eager to make your acquaintance.” She leaned in close and her rosewater scent reminded him of his mother. “Though I hear you owe Lady Katherine Adderly the first waltz.”

A waltz and an answer.

He was ready for the waltz after studying the dance and its triple meter time signature and box-­stepping pattern. Six steps repeated time and again. How difficult could it be? As to the answer he'd give Lady Katherine, the lady wouldn't be pleased. He should never have wavered. It was out of the question. Unthinkable. He'd never allow himself to be a woman's pawn again. And yet . . . it unsettled him how much he dreaded disappointing her. Or perhaps it was the notion of disappointing Ollie's plans that rankled most.

“Gossip seems to travel at breakneck speed in London.”

“Isn't it wonderful?” Lady Stamford reached up to pat his cheek, a maternal gesture that warmed him. “And look, there's Lady Kitty. Such a lovely creature. I suspect you could win her if you set your prodigious mind to it, Sebastian.”

Unfortunately, Kat provoked in him every emotion he'd prefer to stifle, and she clouded his mind. Nothing he knew of math or science would help him decipher the woman.

“You'd better move quickly and claim your waltz before Lord Ponsonby monopolizes her dance card.”

Seb followed the direction of his aunt's gaze, and a rogue surge of pleasure swept through him. Kat glittered near the ballroom's entrance, the glow of her luminous skin set off by a deep sapphire gown, but he couldn't see nearly enough of her. Several men gathered around and one broad gray-­haired hulk of a man stood far too close, leaning in, clearly eager to capture her attention.

“Who is Ponsonby?” Overbearing, irritating, and rude would be Seb's quick measure of the man, at least from across the room.

Even after flipping through
Burke's Peerage
and numbing his mind with row upon row of names and titles and lists of lineages, Seb had no real grasp—­nor a care—­for who was who among the aristocrats crowding fashionable events of the season.

His aunt flicked her fan a few times as if contemplating how best to answer.

“Ponsonby is an earl, well connected, both politically and financially, and has a fine estate in Surrey. His age is the only barrier. He's Lady Clayborne's second favorite.”

“Second favorite what?” She made him sound like a pet.

“Potential suitor for her eldest daughter.”

Searing heat, like hot oil in his veins, replaced the ticking pulse of irritation he'd felt all evening. He recognized the sting of jealousy and fought the urge to walk away—­from the unrelenting brightness of the room, from the sight of Lady Katherine being fawned over by a ridiculous suitor, and from his irrational desire to be the only man in the room to capture her attention.

He wasn't needed here. The woman appeared overwhelmed with suitors. Apparently, the Ponsonby sod wasn't even the favorite of her many admirers.

“Who's the first favorite?”

His aunt tittered and snapped her fan shut. “Silly boy. You, of course.”

Seb needed a drink, something with a smoky burn to wash down the bitter flavor in his mouth. Favorite suitor? He'd competed for a woman's attention once in his life and been shot for his efforts. Alecia had played men for fools, and Seb suspected she'd ranked their worth too—­favorite, least favorite, not so appealing after all. Surely they'd all believed they were the woman's only love.

If he ever courted another woman, it wouldn't be like the last time. There'd be no room for games, no feigning and lies.

But his resolve not to play the game of suitors and false seduction didn't stop him from loathing how Lord Ponsonby hovered over Lady Katherine, the way the man found any excuse to touch her, repeatedly reaching out to pat her arm or hand. And Kat allowed it, simpering at the man as if she relished every moment in his company.

At least the first damned waltz is mine.

Lady Stamford patted his arm before leaving him alone at the edge of the ballroom. As she strode away, he caught Kat's gaze. She turned toward him and began to approach without even a word to Lord Ponsonby. Seb was far too satisfied by the sight.

With each step she took in his direction, he felt a bit of the fire of envy cool in his veins.

“Your Grace, the waltz comes next. I hope you haven't forgotten me.”

“How could I? I've been looking forward to our dance.” Now, with her near, he could admit to himself that it was the only aspect of the evening he'd anticipated. He'd happily never stuff himself into an evening suit again, but he'd looked forward to dancing with Kat, and touching her again.

Seb drew near her, as close as Ponsonby had stood, and her sweet floral essence made his breath catch and stumble.

“A new scent.”

Her eyes widened and she blinked as if she found the candles and gaslight as difficult to bear as he did.

“You've yet to teach me about any of your flowers, so I can't identify it. Which is it tonight?” He needed to know. Seb wasn't certain why it mattered, but it did.

“I-­it's not just one. I asked my perfumer to mix essence of gardenia and . . .” She narrowed her gaze, assessing him. “Do you really want to know what scent I'm wearing?”

“I do.”

“Gardenia and essence of violet leaf, with a hint of jasmine.”

He could see her in the conservatory tending to each of her plants, and he wished they were alone in that humid green space, rather than exposed and observed here in his aunt's ballroom.

“Is this one of them?” A white flower with a bit of glossy dark leaf clung artfully to a knot of pinned waves gathered near her nape.

He couldn't resist reaching up to touch the flower's petal. She jolted at the movement, rearing back, and his finger grazed her cheek. He didn't regret it a bit, especially when his touch sparked a ruddy heat in her cheeks.

A few dancers from the previous set left the ballroom for air or refreshment, and Seb led Kat to a spot near the center of the floor.

She seemed to struggle to meet his gaze when he reached for her, settling one hand at the delicious curve of her waist and clasping her gloved hand in his other. He'd seen images of ­couples dancing the waltz in the books he'd studied, but none of the etchings and drawings conveyed a tenth of the pleasure of holding a perfumed woman so near. The edge of her bodice brushed his lapels, her blue velvet skirts tangled against his legs, and even before the music began, he knew his hands would hold her scent long after he stopped touching her.

“Have you danced the waltz many times, Your Grace?”

“Only once before.”

“Truly?”

“We never spent much time dancing at university.”

One and two, three. Four and five, six.
Seb counted silently as he led Kat through the dance, but when the gaslight caught the gilded freckles in her eyes and she licked her lips before glancing up at him, he forgot to count. He forgot the box pattern and numbers around it, forgot everything beyond the enjoyment of holding her in his arms. He memorized the dip of her waist, the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her gown, and the intense pleasure of moving his body in rhythm with hers.

If this was dancing, whatever he'd done before had been something else entirely.

“You dance well for a man who claims this is his second waltz.”

“It
is
my second waltz.”

“Yes, of course. Fennicks never lie.”

“I believe I said we don't scheme, but we do value honesty too.”

“So you won't do it?” The hopelessness in her tone made his chest ache, as if he'd gathered the pleasure of dancing with her there, and it was all draining away.

“No, Kat. I won't deceive our families, not even for Ollie's sake.”

All her softness turned to tension as her body went rigid in his arms. Then it was over. The musicians played the final notes of the waltz and dancers stopped to clap a moment before gentlemen led their partners from the dance floor. Seb released Kat reluctantly, though she seemed eager to be away from him.

“My name is Kitty,” she said brusquely before dipping her head once. “Thank you for the waltz, Your Grace.”

Seb reached for her, but she'd already turned her back on him and hurried toward her sister, who stood with Ollie on the other side of the ballroom. Seb knew Ollie would be attending the ball, but he'd yet to speak to him. Despite Kat's obvious lack of interest in continuing their conversation, Seb approached the group. Before he could reach them, Ollie broke away and urged Seb out of the ballroom toward the refreshment room.

One glance and it was clear that his friend was overwrought.

“You spoke to Lord Clayborne?”

“Good evening to you too, Oliver.”

“Seb, will the man give his consent or won't he?”

Tipping back a glass of champagne did little to settle the thickness in Seb's throat. He'd already disappointed Kat, and nothing he had to say would please Ollie.

“He seemed gratified by my mention of a settlement.”

“Then he'll consent?”

“You know he wishes to see his eldest daughter married first.”

Ollie's wide-­eyed expectant stare swept away the last bits of contentment he'd felt while holding Kat in his arms, and Seb sensed the return of the same gnawing irritation which had hounded him at the start of the evening.

“I won't marry the woman to suit her father, her sister, or you. The Claybornes want me for a title, without a care for their daughter's preference. I'm barely acquainted with Lady Katherine—­”

“You seemed quite snug when you waltzed with her.”

“She's a beautiful woman. Dancing with her is no burden. But I suspect there's a bit more to marriage than a few turns around a ballroom.”

Ollie bristled at his answer, spun on his heel, and stalked from the room.

Seb followed his friend and found him pacing, marching in a tight rectangle back and forth across the polished floor. When Ollie's temper flared, it usually burned out quickly, and Seb couldn't blame him for his frustration. Clayborne's dictate about his daughters seemed to be making everyone miserable.

Seb waited. If he was patient, Ollie's pacing might wear him out enough to speak with more logic than emotion.

Finally Ollie turned, fists clenched, body tense. “We've waited long enough. If Clayborne won't give his consent tonight, Hattie and I plan to elope.”