The Dangerous Lord (10 page)

The sudden sound of voices intruded on her senses, shattering her dazed enjoyment and reminding her why she mustn't do this. Not here, at least. She tore her lips from his. “Lord St. Clair—”

“Ian,” he commanded, hot need in his gaze.

“Ian, someone's coming,” she warned.

“Let them.” She tried to twist away, but he caught her face between his hands, kissing her again with such force she almost forgot what she'd been protesting. But when she heard a gasp behind them, she roused herself and shoved him hard.

His grip on her went slack. For a long moment, his gaze locked with hers, eyes glittering hungrily in the darkness.
Then his expression grew shuttered and his rapid breathing slowed. He glanced behind her at whoever had caught them.

And a self-satisfied smile spread over his face.

The heat of desire drained out of her at once. Oh, good Lord. She'd been wrong, horribly wrong. His kiss had only been a stratagem. Expert philanderer that he was, he'd made her believe it was more, made her believe he was as wrapped in the spell as she. And all the time, he'd been using seduction to lull her into embarrassing herself publicly!

Shame spread through her, rapidly replaced by fury. The unconscionable wretch! She slapped him, the crack of her hand on his cheek sounding loudly on the balcony. But it didn't wipe the gloating expression from his face.

To think that she'd fallen into his trap—and even enjoyed it! She braced herself and turned to meet their audience.

There stood their hostess, Sara. And with her was the Galleon of Gossip, Lady Brumley herself. Curse him to hell for this!

Trying not to look like a woman who'd wantonly been welcoming a rake's kisses, Felicity forced an expression of surprise to her face, as if she hadn't realized they'd been standing there. “Oh, I beg your pardon. Lord St. Clair and I were having a discussion.”

“I see that.” Lady Brumley smiled like a cat who'd fallen into the cream pot.

“And if you'll excuse us, we wish to continue it,” Ian said behind her. “Privately.”

His bland tone rubbed salt in the wound. She'd thought he felt passion because he'd made
her
feel something. How could she have been so stupid!

“We wish nothing of the sort,” she said with vehemence. “Apparently his lordship doesn't understand the word ‘no.'” Forcing herself to face him, she added, “Good night,
Lord St. Clair. I suggest you keep your hands to yourself in the future.” It was an ineffectual attempt to undo the damage, and she knew it.

“I will if you will,” he mocked, eyes gleaming with triumph.

Pulling together the shredded rags of her self-respect, she fled through the glass doors into the ballroom.

There were people everywhere, and it felt as if they all watched her. Oh, if only the marble floor would open up and swallow her whole! Keeping her eyes averted, she hurried through the ballroom. Her body trembled, and tears stung her eyes.

Fool!
she chastised herself.
Idiot! Ninny!
How could she—who
knew
what sort of man he was—have allowed him to kiss her like that? She wished she could say he'd forced it on her, but she knew better. He'd only needed to caress her to have her swooning in his arms like a foolish schoolgirl.

Long ago, she'd resigned herself to never experiencing passion. The likelihood that she would marry was small, and she'd balked at the thought of indulging her urges any other way. But she'd still had them, those aching feelings deep in her belly, especially when she looked at the sultan painting or saw adoring couples. She'd been primed for Ian's advances long before she'd met him.

Drat him for guessing her weakness so easily!

Mortification dogged her as she threaded her way through the dancing couples. She'd played right into his hands. He'd heard Lady Brumley and Sara approaching, yet he'd deliberately continued to kiss her so he could have his revenge and “soil” her “pristine reputation.” He'd no doubt reveled in her silly acquiescence, congratulating himself on making her accept his touch, nay,
welcome
it!

More tears stung her eyes, and she forced them back, drawing on her anger to keep from dissolving into weeping as she escaped the ballroom's prying eyes. The scoundrel!
So he wanted to ruin her reputation, did he? Well, he'd gone too far. Two could play that game! She would make that arrogant, unfeeling viscount pay for his presumption and his dratted tactics; make him regret he'd ever set foot inside the Taylor home.

Ooh, just wait until she wrote her next column!

T
hunderclouds formed ugly gray bruises across the dawn sky when Ian strode toward the Worthing dining room the morning after the ball. He'd abandoned all thought of sleep hours ago, and now hoped to breakfast alone. Surely no one would be about at this hour, even on a Sunday when the family could be expected to attend services.

But luck wasn't with him. He halted in the dining room entrance, suppressing a groan when he saw Sara glance at him from the far end of the amply laden table. Bloody hell, he should have known better. Of all the people who must be up, it
would
be her. And now she would attempt a discussion of last night's little scene on the balcony.

Last night's disturbing, inexplicable scene.

“Good morning,” she said tersely. “You're quite the early riser, aren't you?”

He chose a seat far enough away to discourage intimacy, but close enough not to appear boorish. “I could say the same about you.” The servant scurried to place a boiled egg before him, and Ian served himself some toast from a platter on the table.

Sara flicked her hand dismissively. “I can never sleep when guests are in the house. I'm always worried about making them comfortable.”

He grunted a response.

That didn't daunt her. “You'd be surprised how many people are around at this time of the morning.” She pushed a sausage about on her plate with her fork. “Miss Taylor, for example, was up quite early.”

He refused to discuss Felicity with Sara. “Is there any coffee?”

“Certainly.” Sara motioned to the servant, who was already rounding the table with a pitcher. Watching Ian closely, Sara added, “She was up and off over an hour ago.”

“Who?” he said, feigning distraction.

“Miss Taylor, of course.”

“Of course,” he repeated dryly. Had he finally succeeded in driving the woman off? The thought didn't sit well with him. “I suppose she had to leave early to reach home before the weather worsened. It looks as if we're in for a devilish day.”

“Home? No, she didn't go home. She merely went into Pickering for a while.”

He ignored the sudden increase of his pulse. Of course Felicity hadn't run off. She never behaved like other women.

Last night, for example. He'd kissed her to make a point, fully expecting her to react in outrage, horror, even disgust, given her ideas about “philandering.” Instead she'd blinked
and gaped at him, looking for all the devil like she'd never been properly kissed.

So what the bloody hell was he supposed to do when a lively, gorgeous creature gazed at him, her lips parted in invitation and her breath a medley of soft, urgent gasps? Ignore it? God Himself couldn't have stopped him from kissing her just then. His second kiss had definitely
not
been to make a point. Unless the point was that he wanted her. Fiercely. Intensely.

And she'd wanted him, too, no matter what she said later. She'd met his kiss with utter compliance: her curving body fluid in his arms…her mouth sweet-scented and yielding…her pert breasts crushed against his chest—

Damn it, memories like these had kept him up half the night. He might have won their skirmish and tarnished her reputation, but thanks to that kiss, the rest of his evening had been one long parade of remembered images and sensations—of verdant eyes shadowed by night, lips pliant beneath his, a waist he could span with his hands, the rustle of satin as she'd let him fold her in his arms.

And her tart comment afterward hadn't left him, either—
Apparently his lordship doesn't understand the word “no
.” Impudent witch. She'd been just as impudent in his dreams after he'd finally fallen asleep. Oh, God, yes—impudent and eager, lying in his bed with her masses of coffee-hued hair tumbled out over the sheets and her body stripped of satin and lace. First she'd taunted him with that bold mouth of hers. Then she'd put it to better use against his lips, his chest…all over his randy body.

He groaned. It had seemed so real, he'd awakened as hard as the house's stone pillars. The woman was a walking invitation to seduction, damn her, and now all he wanted was a chance to bare her body for his eyes and lips and hands.

The hands he now clenched into fists. God, how he desired her. He wanted her begging for his kisses. He wanted
her lying beneath him and writhing in pleasure. He couldn't remember a time when he'd wanted a woman so much. Not even his triumph at giving her a taste of her own medicine could banish that.

“I'm worried about Miss Taylor,” Sara continued, sipping her tea as if the topic of conversation were only of passing interest. “She should have returned by now. She said she was merely going into town to post a letter, but she went by horseback some time ago, and if she stays out much longer, she may find herself caught in the rain.”

An image of Felicity soaked to the skin, wet muslin clinging to every curve, leapt into his mind before he squelched it. And why was she posting a letter? Whom could she be writing? Thoughtfully he cracked his egg and tore off the top half of the shell. Ah, yes, her brothers. Naturally, she was notifying them that she'd arrived safely yesterday.

When he said nothing, Sara added, “I do hope she didn't doze off in the saddle. She told me she didn't sleep well last night.”

Undoubtedly Sara blamed him for Felicity's inability to sleep. Her reproving reformer expression was firmly in place, the one that had driven her pirate husband to mend his ways.

Well, his own ways needed no mending. Pretending not to understand her implication, he dug out the egg's center with a spoon, and said, “It's hard to sleep well in a strange house, no matter how comfortable the arrangements.”

“I don't think it was the house that kept her from sleeping.”

“Oh?” He ate some egg. “Then perhaps Miss Taylor was simply too excited after the ball to sleep. Such a reaction is common in young women.”

“Particularly when they've been insulted.”

He feigned an expression of innocent bewilderment.
“‘Insulted'? Who in their right mind would insult Miss Taylor?”

“You know very well who.” Sara stabbed her sausage so viciously with her fork that it made him uneasy. “She was quite distraught over your treatment of her.”

Guilt trickled into his consciousness. Damn her; he had no reason to feel guilt. He'd done nothing to Felicity she hadn't deserved. “She wasn't mistreated, I assure you.” When Sara opened her mouth to retort, he held up one hand. “This is a personal matter that even your license to meddle doesn't cover, so stay out of it.”

“If you could have seen the way—”

“
Sara
—” he warned.

“You made her cry!” Sara said bluntly. “A stalwart little thing like Miss Taylor. When we found her, she'd been weeping, though she strove very hard to cover the fact.”

He couldn't imagine Felicity crying over anything, and the thought of his kisses driving her to such an extreme was too ludicrous to comprehend. Setting down his spoon, he leaned back and knit his hands over his belly. “Go on; you're clearly determined to talk about this. Out with it. And who is ‘we'?”

“Lady Brumley and I. We went in search of Miss Taylor because her disappearance from the ballroom concerned us.”

“Concerned
you
, perhaps. I doubt Lady Brumley felt anything more than a burning urge to root out more gossip.”

The faintest tinge of color touched Sara's cheeks. “That may be true. All the same, we found Miss Taylor sitting at the writing table in her room, her cheeks damp and her eyes red from copious tears.”

Ian squelched more guilt. Felicity's crying couldn't have been genuine. She must have heard Sara and Lady Brumley coming up the hall and produced crocodile tears to influence them. “The woman is easily wounded indeed if she dissolves into tears merely because a man kisses her.”

Outrage shone in Sara's face. She held his gaze, then made a sharp, deliberate slice through her sausage. His thighs tightened defensively.

“It wasn't just that,” she snapped, “as you well know. I heard the shameful way you implied that she'd encouraged your advances.”

He refused to justify himself on that score. Sara didn't know the whole of it, nor should she.

“And you did something more than kiss her, I think.”

If he had, he sure as hell would have remembered. “What the devil do you mean?”

Sara threw down her fork and knife. “You know what I mean. Taking advantage; putting your hands where they don't belong. That's why she slapped you.”

Ian glowered at her. “She
told
you I did that?”

“She said you'd gone too far. And I saw the way you held her, remember? So I could easily believe you touched her in ways you shouldn't.” Sara rose, working the napkin through her hands in agitation.

He was by turns incensed and impressed. Felicity certainly knew how to turn a situation to her advantage. But he had the facts on his side. “Did she actually say that I took advantage of her, that I touched her in ways I shouldn't?”

Sara wandered to the sideboard and concentrated on arranging the covers on the dishes. “Not exactly. She was shocked to see us, so at first she didn't want to talk at all. But I couldn't leave her alone when she was so distraught. Besides, as her hostess, I felt it my duty to find out what you'd done to distress her. So I asked if…if you'd behaved in any way you shouldn't have—other than kissing her, of course.”

At his muttered curse, she added quickly, “I expected her to say
no
, you understand. But she burst out that she should have known better than to be alone with a man of your
reputation, that she should have stopped you before you went too far.”

Sara faced him and planted her hands on her hips. “Those were her very words—
too far
. She said that it pained her to tell me the true character of my friend, but that you were a scoundrel. She was most specific about that.”

His short bark of laughter garnered him Sara's most indignant stare. “I'm sure she was, though I seriously doubt it pained her to blacken my character to you. She probably delighted in your dismay over my behavior.'”

“I'm not so disloyal to my friends as all that,” Sara protested with a sniff. “It's not as if she invented a tale that I believed without question. Matters have been odd between you two from the moment she arrived. You must confess that your connection to her is curious. You admit going to her house, which we both know had nothing to do with her father's death. As Emily pointed out to me, you hardly knew her father.”

He groaned. He did
not
need Emily and Sara allied with Felicity against him. “Keeping aside my connection with Miss Taylor, you know very well I'd never force myself on a woman, no matter what my previous association with her, and especially not under your roof. We've been friends long enough for you to realize that.”

Her lower lip trembled, but whether with agitation or anger, he couldn't tell. “The Ian I knew when Jordan and I were children would never do such a thing, true.” A hint of sadness filled her voice. “But you aren't the same as you were then. Ever since you returned from the Continent, you've been different—harder, cynical, more of a…a—”

“Scoundrel?” he snapped.

“I was going to say ‘enigma.'” Sara's tone was quiet, thoughtful. “You left England without a word even to Jordan, estranging yourself from all of your family even though your uncle had just suffered the death of his wife. You didn't return until your father died, and then you began
seeking a wife in an utterly ruthless manner.”

She paused as if waiting for an explanation, but he had none to give. There were some things he couldn't discuss, even with his closest friends.

Her lips tightened into a thin line. “And now you seem to feel no qualm about destroying the reputation of a respectable young lady like Miss Taylor—”

“Enough about Miss Taylor!” He shot to his feet. “The woman can take care of herself, I assure you. And despite what she implied to you and that harpy Lady Brumley, she did
not
protest my kisses, nor was she ever in danger of being compromised by me!” Although the next time he saw her, she might well be. It was either compromise her or throttle her within an inch of her life. Both sounded equally appealing at the moment.

“Are you saying she
wanted
your attentions?”

He closed his fists on the back of the chair. “I'm saying she did not protest them.”

“She slapped you, didn't she?”

With difficulty, he repressed a foul oath. “Sara, you must take my word for it that matters between Miss Taylor and me aren't as they appear to be.”

“Then what—”

“I won't discuss this with you any further. It's private. So you might as well stay out of it.” He stalked off toward the entrance of the dining room.

But her voice stopped him. “I can't stay out of it. This is my house, and I won't allow you to toy with a helpless young woman beneath my very nose.”

He rounded on her in amazement. He'd never heard that note of steel in Sara's tone directed toward
him
. Damn, Felicity had played her role most convincingly. “What exactly are you saying, Sara?”