Trouble at the Wedding (20 page)

It was not only what he said, but the contempt with which he said it, that made her feel slightly sick. “I was barely twenty-one when I married, and because of the marriage settlement, I had a very generous income, so I was always off spending it. Evie and I had quarreled—well, I quarreled, she cried, I left. The story of our lives. I was so immature, and so damned stupid. I went off to the South of France with some friends, and I'd been gone a month when I got the telegram from Sylvia. I hadn't even known she was pregnant when I left. If she'd told me, or later, if she'd written, I'd have . . . oh hell.” He sighed, leaning back to stare at the ceiling. “What does it matter now?”

She waited a moment, but she couldn't stop herself from asking more questions. “Is that why you won't ever marry again? Because your marriage was so awful and your wife died?”

“No.” His face was hard, uncompromising, filled with self-condemnation. “Because there are no second chances.”

Before she could reply, he spoke again. “Do you play cards?”

She blinked at the abrupt change of subject. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, do you play cards?” He gathered the deck from the table, and as he did, she watched all the self-loathing in his face slide behind the mask of a devil-may-care expression and a charming smile.

It took her a moment to answer. “My daddy was called Black Jack Wheaton for a reason. He taught me to play cards when I was a little girl, though Mama was spittin' mad when she found out. She never did cotton much to cards, probably because she got tired of watching Daddy gamble money away.”

“And what about you?” He fanned out the deck across the table. “Are you like your mother or your father?”

“Why?” She tilted her head, smiling a little. “You tryin' to do some gamblin' with me because you didn't get to go to the gaming clubs tonight?”

“Well, you're a damned sight prettier than the men I gamble with. Besides, I like deep stakes play, and you've got money you can afford to lose.”

Despite the compliment, she gave him an indignant look. “Pretty arrogant of you to assume I would lose it! I think you're the one who'd lose,” she added with a sniff. “And you definitely can't afford it.”

“There's only one way to find out.” He again gathered the cards and began to shuffle, flipping the edge of the stack to divide the deck in half, pulling the halves apart, then bringing them back together in a fluttering arch between his palms, just as her father used to do. It was the shuffle of a man who'd played a lot of cards. He didn't even watch his hands as he did it. Instead, he looked at her, still smiling a little, and Annabel felt the warm, deep pull of his attraction, just as she had the first day they'd ever met and every day since. She could feel herself sliding down a very slippery slope here, right smack-dab into trouble.

“As for what I can afford . . .” He paused, his hands suddenly still. His black lashes lowered to the deep neckline of her gown, then back up to her face. “There are things to wager other than money.”

He was flirting with her to deflect from what they'd been talking about: how bad a husband he'd been. But reminding herself of that didn't stop what she felt. Her body didn't seem to care that he'd been a bad husband.

She reached for a stack of chips, working to recover her poise. “I prefer money, thank you.”

That made him laugh, although she didn't know if the reason was her prim reply, or the fact that she was blushing as she said it. “I usually prefer money, too, but for you, Annabel, I'd make an exception.”

Desperate, she leaned over the table and grabbed the deck of cards out of his hands. “Poker or blackjack?”

“Poker, if you're dealing. My odds are better. Besides, I like to watch you blush. I mean bluff,” he corrected at once.

Annabel struggled for composure, but it was hard when she knew she actually was blushing. And not just her face—she could feel that flush of heat flooding through her whole body, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Even worse, he knew it, too. He was fully aware of his effect on women. Hell, he'd just out-and-out admitted he'd married his wife for money, and here she was, going all moon-eyed over him like Lady Edith. And she knew she had to be the biggest fool from the state of Mississippi if she let him get away with it. But oh my, my, he could look at a girl.

“What's the limit?” she asked, feeling compelled to say something, fiddling with the stack of chips before her.

“Let's keep it simple, shall we? High hand wins the bet. If you win, I shall dance one waltz with Lady Edith at the Marquess of Kayne's May Day Ball. That ought to ensure her success for the entire season. Since I am a duke, I might as well find some useful purpose for my title. Helping debutantes toward social success,” he added in a wry voice, “seems to be my main occupation these days.”

Annabel could feel herself softening more with every word, sliding a little farther down that slippery slope. “But what if I lose?” she whispered.

“Ah. If you lose . . .” He paused, his gaze lowering to her mouth, and the warmth inside her deepened and spread. “If you lose,” he resumed, returning his gaze to her face, “you agree to teach me what you know about Wall Street.”

Disappointment pierced her. So stupid to think he'd been about to say, “a kiss,” and even more stupid to want him to kiss her and to be disappointed when he didn't.

She took a deep breath, desperate, trying to force her disappointment away. “Why do you want to know about Wall Street?”

“I've been making enough off gambling to support myself, but now that I'm the duke, that can't continue. I have to find another way to earn a living and support Scarborough Park. The only way I can think of is investments and funds. That requires capital, of course, but—”

“Is that why you agreed to Uncle Arthur's idea? So you would have money to invest?”

“Yes. That plan is off the table now, obviously, and although being one of your trustees provides me with a bit of steady income, it isn't enough. Scarborough Park requires triple what you are paying me just to break even. Besides, that income from you will only last the next five years, less if you marry before then.”

“But how shall you find the capital you need?”

“The other estates are mortgaged, and will have to be sold to pay the debts against them, with—I hope—a bit left over. I'm also selling everything of value within the estate—jewels, paintings, furnishings.”

“Oh no!” she cried, dismayed. “Those things have probably been in your family for hundreds of years. It would be a shame to sell them!”

“It's my only choice. But I know nothing about money—how to invest it, I mean. But you do. Your uncle told me you have become a very shrewd woman of business, and I want you to advise me where I should put my capital.”

“Why don't you ask Uncle Arthur for help? He's a lot better at it than I am, and everything I know I learned from him. Why come to me?”

A wry smile curved his mouth. “Your uncle is not exactly in the frame of mind to help me these days. And besides, you're a good deal prettier than he is.” The smile widened a bit. “I told you the first day we met, I like pretty women.”

Don't be a fool, Annabel.

“That doesn't surprise me,” she answered, her tart reply completely at odds with the sweet, lush warmth she felt inside. “Poker, you said?”

Before he could even nod a reply, she was dealing the cards, face-up since it was just high hand takes all. And when the cards were dealt, she had an ace, and he had a pair of deuces.

“Look at that,” he murmured, meeting her gaze across the table, still smiling. “I won.”

Her stomach dipped, a weightless, nervous sensation she tried to ignore. “I reckon you did.”

“Tomorrow night?” he suggested and gestured to their surroundings. “Same time, same place?”

“Meet alone? After everyone's in bed? Is that necessary?”

“Probably not.” He grinned. “But it's much more fun.”

She felt a flare of excitement, the same sort of excitement she used to feel when Billy John would ask her to meet him down by Goose Creek.

“And besides,” he added before she could think of a reply, “don't you still want to know about the rules of British matrimony? That's not the sort of thing we can discuss in front of your family. It would be terribly inappropriate.”

This whole crazy idea was inappropriate. She licked her dry lips, not the least bit fooled by his paltry rationale. She knew just what was really going on in his mind because it was going on in hers, too. And British matrimony had nothing to do with it.

“Tomorrow night, then.” She set down the deck of cards and practically ran for the door, trying to tell herself the only reason she was doing this was that she couldn't renege on a bet. But that was a lie. She was meeting him tomorrow night because she wanted to.

Chapter Thirteen

C
hristian knew he was playing with fire. He was supposed to be salvaging Annabel's reputation, but what he was really doing was seducing her. He might have felt some guilt about that, if the idea of seducing Annabel wasn't so damned tantalizing.

As it was, by the time of their rendezvous, any inconvenient whispers of his conscience that might have risen up to ruin the moment had been successfully quashed, and by the time she arrived, he was in the midst of a very erotic fantasy involving her and him and the library hearth rug.

Even if Christian had any inclination to curb such wayward, unguardianlike thoughts, the sight of her would have put paid to them. The evening gown she wore might have been considered sedate, with its long sleeves and dark green velvet fabric, except that the scandalously low-cut bodice displayed the full, luscious shape of her breasts perfectly.

Yes, he thought as he stood up to greet her, his gaze lingering on the shadowy crevice between her breasts, he was definitely playing with fire. His body was growing hotter by the moment.

Something of what he felt must have shown in his expression because she stopped just a few feet inside the door, a blush rising in her cheeks. Her lips parted as if she intended to say something, but then she closed her mouth again without a word and looked down. When he followed her gaze, he noticed the sheet of notepaper in her hands.

“This was a mistake,” she said, and moved as if to turn and depart. “I shouldn't have agreed to this.”

“Wait.” Cursing his perfectly honed poker face for choosing such a damned inconvenient time to desert him, all he could think of was finding a way to make her stay. Thankfully, she paused again, and he stepped forward, closing the distance between them.

She wasn't looking at him, and he decided the best thing to do was make innocuous conversation and act as if what he felt was not painfully obvious. “What is this?” he asked, touching the top of the page she held in her hands.

“A list of American companies that you might want to look into for . . . for . . .” Her voice trailed off, and he took a step closer.

The paper crinkled as her fingers tightened around it. “Here,” she said, and shoved it at his chest. “You wanted my advice on investments. Here it is.”

If he took it, she'd leave. “Would you like a drink?” he asked instead, and stepped away, turning toward the liquor cabinet.

“That's probably not a good idea,” she said behind him, but there was a hint of humor in her voice. “Last time I had a drink with you, my whole future got turned upside down.”

“At least it's not Mississippi moonshine,” he answered as he pulled a bottle of Madeira and a pair of cordial glasses from the interior of the cabinet. “So you're probably safe.”

That last part was a lie, and he suspected they both knew it, but thankfully, she didn't argue the point, and when he brought her a filled glass of Madeira, she took it.

“Shall we sit down?” he asked, gesturing to the nearby sofa of black leather.

She moved to the seat he indicated, and he followed her, settling beside her, far enough away that they were not touching, and when she didn't jump back up, his hopes rose another notch.

She held the paper toward him again, but instead of taking it, he simply leaned closer. “What do the asterisks signify?” he asked, pointing to one of several such markings on the page.

“Those are what we call blue-chip stocks.”

“Blue-chip? What, like the blue chips in poker?”

“Yes.” She glanced at him, smiling a little. “I knew you'd probably like that term. Just like blue chips are the highest chips in poker, blue-chip stocks are the most stable, most valuable stocks.”

“You've only marked about half of these as blue-chip stocks,” he remarked, trying for the moment to keep his mind on the discussion. “Shouldn't one always purchase stocks that are safe and valuable?”

“Not always. The safest investments don't usually pay very high dividends. They don't have to. A riskier stock can sometimes make you more money, so you want to balance the blue chips you own with a few more speculative investments. Companies just starting out always need capital and they raise it by promising investors a higher dividend percentage per share.”

“Like Hiram Burke's transatlantic telephone company,” he murmured.

“How did you hear about that?” she asked. “The shares haven't even been offered yet.”

“My sister is a fountain of gossip. I hear things. Since you know about this company, what is your opinion of it?”

“Uncle Arthur and I think it's a good idea. Some company is going to make telephones work across the ocean, and if anybody can do it, it's Hiram Burke. We bought fifteen percent. I'd have put that company on this list, but I don't know when Mr. Burke will offer the shares.”

“He won't be offering them,” Christian said wryly. “At least, not to me.”

“Why not you?”

He considered whether to tell her, but after a moment, he shrugged, took a drink, and said, “My understanding is that Hiram's daughter covets a duchess's coronet, but I, alas, am not coveting a wife, so Hiram and I could not come to terms.”

“I see.”

He gestured to the page, deciding it was best to deflect from the subject of matrimony, since it probably wasn't wise for a man seducing a woman to underscore his adamant opposition to that particular institution. “You recommend quite a few railway companies. Why so many?”

He heard her take a deep breath. “American railway companies are almost always a good investment,” she explained.

He paused, easing a bit closer to her, close enough to breathe in the scent of her skin, and the desire he'd been trying to curb flared up again. This time, he didn't try to hold it back. “Why?” he asked, coming closer, his breath stirring the tendril of hair in front of her ear.

“They . . .” She stirred in agitation even though he wasn't touching her. “They're stable,” she went on, her voice a breathless rush that gave him hope. “They pay gen . . . generous dividends.”

“What about British railways?” He was so close now, almost close enough to kiss her cheek. “Do you have something against the British?”

“Those are probably just as good. I should—” She stopped, sucking in a startled gasp as his lips brushed her cheek. “I should go,” she whispered, but she didn't move.

Her skin was like velvet. Had it felt like this that night in the Turkish bath? It must have. He pressed a kiss along her cheek to the corner of her lips, but that move was too much for her.

“I have to leave.” Shoving the list onto his lap, she jumped up, and Christian felt a sudden, crazy jolt of desperation. He rose as well, and the list fluttered to the floor as his arms came up around her. She turned toward him, but before she could protest this entrapment, he captured her lips with his.

She made a muffled sound against his mouth—of protest or accord, he didn't know, but he didn't want to know, because her lips were so warm and so soft that pleasure cascaded through his body.

The first time he'd kissed her, he'd been drunk, but this time, there was no alcohol to dull his senses, and the touch of her mouth awakened in him every sensation a man could feel.

The hairs at the back of her neck brushed his fingertips, and her cheeks were soft against his palms. He could hear the swish of silk, feel her leg move against his, smell the delicate orange blossom fragrance of her French perfume. It was an intoxicating mix, more intoxicating than alcohol could ever be.

His body was as enthralled as his senses, for his heart pounded in his chest, his pulses raced, and lust coursed through him like a tidal flood. He felt as if he was drowning in sensation.

He tore his mouth from hers, but not to stop. Instead, he sucked in a deep breath of air, tilted his head the other way, and kissed her again. This time, he parted her lips with his, and his tongue entered her mouth. She stirred, and he felt her hands flatten against his shoulders. Though she wasn't pushing him away, in the vague recesses of his mind, he knew it was his cue to stop. He ought to, he knew, but his need was more powerful than either his good sense or his gallantry, and besides, being her trustee was absurd, unworkable, impossible. He'd known that all along. A trustee had to be trustworthy, and he'd never been a trustworthy chap.

As if to prove it, he slid one hand down between her upraised arms to cup her breast, embracing the full, generous shape even through the layers of fabric.

This time, she was the one who broke the kiss, turning her face away. “We can't do this,” she panted, the heel of her hand pushing his shoulder. “We can't.”

He knew that, but the sight before him was too tempting to resist. He bent his head to trail kisses along her throat, over her collarbone, and down to the plump curve of her breast. He turned his hand, sliding his fingertips under the edge of her neckline, shoving his hand beneath silk and satin and nainsook to cup her breast fully in his palm.

She gave a startled gasp at the contact, and suddenly, she was pushing against him with enough force to penetrate even his dazed senses. “Stop, Christian,” she ordered, her breath coming in quick gasps as her hand shoved his away. “You have to stop.”

He did, tearing himself away and stepping back even as every nerve and cell of his body protested this unthinkable act. He watched her eyes open to stare at him, her dismay obvious. Her dress was wrinkled, the skirt twisted sideways. Her hair was mussed; several locks had come loose to tumble around her face and shoulders. One fell across her breast. He stared at it, heat curling in his groin.

“Cryin' all night,” she whispered, sounding miserable instead of glad, her voice bringing his gaze back to her face. He stared at her lips, swollen by his kisses, and he watched her press her fingertips to them with a little moan. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“More of the same?” he murmured, moving toward her.

She flattened a palm against his chest to keep him at bay. “This can't happen again.”

“But it will,” he pointed out. “Given the arrangement we have, it's inevitable.”

“No, it's not. Not as long as we make sure we're never alone together.”

He kept perfectly still, fighting the urge to take her in his arms again. “Do you really think that will work?”

“It has to.”

“Why?”

She took a deep breath and looked straight into his eyes. “Because you're no good for me, Christian.” With that, she stepped around him and ran for the door. “You're no good for me.”

She was right, of course. Because of him, all her hopes and dreams had already gone awry. Because of him, everything she'd ever wanted was now at risk. Now, he had to make up for what he'd done by playing the role assigned to him. He owed her that, and his own desires be damned.

Christian sank into his chair and rubbed a hand over his face. Acting the part of the dutiful, protective guardian was proving to be even harder than he'd thought it would be, perhaps the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life.

D
uring the two weeks that followed, Annabel tried not to think about what had happened in the library. Every time she remembered Christian's mouth on hers, the feel of his strong arms holding her close, or his hands caressing her, she shoved those memories right back out of her mind quick as she could.

Thankfully, Lady Sylvia provided her with many distractions—shopping in New Bond Street, motoring around Hyde Park, paying calls on the ladies of the
ton
, having tea at the Savoy, and attending the opera at Covent Garden. Though the setting was different, these activities were just what she and Jennie Carter had always longed for while sitting side by side in the wallflower chairs at charity balls or huddled with the other outsiders at the far end of Newport's Polo Field.

She made several new friends, striking up an especially friendly acquaintance with Lady Edith's older sister, Isabel, who, upon being introduced, had laughingly deemed them “Annabel and Isabel, the two belles of the season,” declared her tea gown “simply smashing” and begged her for fashion advice. A shopping excursion the following day cemented their acquaintance into friendship.

During that fortnight, Annabel began to feel as if she was finally living the life she'd once only been able to dream about, and it was every bit as enjoyable as she'd always imagined. There was, however, one fly in the ointment.

Annabel slanted a look down the long dining table at Kayne House to the fly in question. He wasn't hard to find. As a duke, Christian was the man of highest rank present this evening, which meant he was at the opposite end of the long dining table from her, seated at the right hand of their hostess, Lady Kayne. That put him directly in her line of vision every time she glanced toward her dinner companion, which was often, since Mr. Wilbur was not only a passionate birdwatcher and amateur zoologist, he was also a garrulous talker who required an attentive listener. Nor were the table decorations of any help to her, for though the gleaming silver, flowers, and candles made a tall and elaborate display, they could not obscure Christian's face from her view.

During the past two weeks they had donned the façade she had engineered, the façade of ward and guardian, wealthy heiress and conscientious trustee, making every effort to demonstrate to the world that nothing improper had ever existed between them. It was an easy role for her to play during the day, when he was off conducting his own business and she was off paying calls on her new circle of acquaintances or shopping with Sylvia. But in the evenings, whenever she was in the same room with him, memories of the hot kisses they'd shared came roaring back, arousing her, confusing her, and making the fiction much harder to sustain.

Christian, she couldn't help noticing, didn't seem to share her discomfiture when they were together, and though she ought to be relieved by his superb acting skills, she wasn't. She was actually a bit chagrined that he seemed able to play his part perfectly, while she felt as transparent as glass.