A Rogue for All Seasons (Weston Family) (17 page)

“You steal my wits,” he whispered against her ear.

The loss of her sight sharpened Diana’s other senses. She heard the husky catch to Henry’s voice, the rough sounds of their breathing, the heavy drumming of her heart. She savored the faint taste of sugar clinging to his lips, drank the brandy from his breath. She caught the subtle smell of the lavender and rosemary folded away in the linens and the sweet fragrance of the rose water she had dabbed on earlier that evening. Stronger than both, the deliciously masculine scent she had come to associate with Henry wrapped around her. Each time they came together, the scent darkened as the storm built.

Closer and closer, the storm approached. Soon, she wouldn’t be able to outrun those tempestuous clouds. Soon, the storm would break.

It would break.

Diana’s breath caught as Henry scraped his nail over her nipple.

The vase shattered in a burst of blue and white. One of the pieces landed near her hiding place. Diana hugged her knees tighter underneath the desk.

“Thomas! That vase was a wedding gift from the Prince of Wales,” her mother exclaimed.

“And now it’s broken. Just like my trust. Just like our marriage…”

“No,” she whispered. She pushed at Henry’s chest until he removed his hands and backed away, as much as he was able to do so in a space not meant to hold one person, let alone two.

“Di?” Confusion and a tinge of regret colored the syllable.

“I—I shouldn’t…” She swallowed hard. “I have to get back.”

“Of course, you mustn’t keep Sir Stick-in-the-Mud waiting,” he grumbled.

“I wish you wouldn’t call him that. Sir Samuel is—”

“Stickley is a duller-than-dull stick in the mud with atrocious taste in cattle.”

That was true, Diana thought. She’d barely managed to hide her dismay when Sir Samuel had proudly showed off his newly acquired carriage horses, an ugly, mismatched pair of gray nags.

“I’m not marrying the man for his taste in horses,” she said quietly. “I may not be marrying him at all, but he’s my best chance at the moment. This behavior isn’t helping you get your stud, and it could very well hurt my chance at a husband. Sir Samuel is exactly the sort of man I want.
This
—” She gestured between them. “
This
is…”

Wonderful. Terrifying. She took a breath. “This is more than kissing. For both our sakes, we must remember what we stand to lose if we were found us like this.” She wedged herself past Henry and exited into the hall, which was blessedly empty, and closed the door. A downward glance had her hastily rearranging her bodice, but even properly dressed, Diana feared her
im
proper behavior would be all too obvious. She fanned her hot cheeks and smoothed her hands over her hair.

She tried to find her composure as she returned to the party, but her thoughts kept circling to a dark, passion-filled room and a man who threatened her prized control. Henry always made her forget herself, but tonight, he’d also made her remember her past. Even more reason to hurry back to Sir Samuel.

H
ENRY STOOD IN THE DARK
, angry and frustrated, wondering how he’d lost control. Again. Since that first night, he’d been careful not to let things get out of hand, but tonight he’d lived up to Diana’s low expectations and acted every inch the rogue She’d come to her senses, thank God, but what if she hadn’t?

Guilt settled on his shoulders, an unaccustomed, unwanted weight. Whatever she thought, he was no seducer of innocents. She was the granddaughter of a duke, damn it all, and he was a gentleman. A gentleman didn’t fondle a well-bred young lady’s breasts, no matter how tempting, and he didn’t continue reflecting on how they had felt in his hands or how they might taste—

He cut off the thought, swearing as his already uncomfortably tight breeches got a bit tighter. He was fit to burst with wanting her, and all from touching her breast. Touching. Her. Breast. He hadn’t taken her soft flesh in his mouth and tasted her, or sneaked a hand beneath her skirts and found her damp with wanting him, or—

Christ. He passed a shaky hand over his face. Perhaps he should leave town for a short time. He could find a small village inn somewhere with a lusty tavern wench and take her until this damnable lust abated. Diana need never find out. He’d be protecting her, really. She’d challenged him to go without a woman for the length of their courtship and, by God, admitting defeat would be better than the alternative.

If he kept along his current path, he would ruin her. He didn’t have much to start with in the way of brains. What little he had ceased functioning in her presence, likely because all his blood congregated south. Had she not stopped him tonight, he didn’t know if he would have controlled himself. He thought it more likely he would have greedily accepted everything she had to give… and then taken more.

Despite being perilously close to “on the shelf,” Diana was an innocent. She wasn’t, thanks to him, quite
untouched,
but she was a virgin, and a virgin she must remain for her future husband. That was the reason she’d agreed to this courtship. She wanted a husband, a boring country gentleman like that starchy Sir Samuel. If Henry ruined her, or was caught trying, she would still get a husband—him. That would be disastrous.

Well, maybe not
disastrous
. He could imagine himself in worse situations. Hell, maybe he
had
lost his mind. He didn’t want to marry Diana. This desire he felt for her was the result of spending too much time with her and not enough time with other women. Celibacy didn’t suit him.

True, the past two months hadn’t been as challenging as he’d expected, but he’d been busy meeting with investors, teasing Diana, planning improvements for Ravensfield, kissing Diana, considering horses to purchase for the stud, and pretending to court Diana. If he were truthful with himself, he hadn’t needed to pretend. He enjoyed spending time with her. She amused him, challenged him, understood him, believed in him, and brought forth a gentler side of him. A softer side. Maybe even a
better
side.

There had always been more than lust between them. Even before they’d begun their arrangement, she’d made him want to help her wallflower friend. What was the girl’s name? Miss Featherbill? Whatever her name was, he’d wanted to help her dance with Gabriel to please Diana. He’d arranged to have a bouquet of day lilies delivered to Lansdowne House every week because he knew the flowers would make Diana happy. He’d spent more time with her than with any past lover, and his interest in her hadn’t waned.

He sighed. He needed to find her a husband. If he found her a husband, he could think of her as unavailable. He might be a rogue, but he had his morals, and he did not carry on with married women. Yes, he must get her married off and soon.

There was that toad-eating Sir Samuel, but Henry couldn’t like the man. He doubted Stickley had ever broken a rule, or a bone… or a spindly-legged table. Diana didn’t really want to marry an uptight prig like Stickley. She couldn’t. There was too much passion in her. And Stickley didn’t deserve her.

He would never make her laugh. Diana was too self-possessed to laugh easily or often, but Henry knew how to break through her reserve. And how she rewarded him! Her hearty, open laughter wrapped around a man’s insides and coursed through his blood like fine brandy. Stickley wouldn’t know what to do with that rare, precious sound. He wouldn’t be driven, on hearing it, to kiss her breathless.

Diana was already too proper by half. Marriage to Stickley would wither her spirit. She needed someone who would keep her from being too serious. Someone who would coax out the passion she tried so hard to suppress and teach her to revel in those desires. What she needed, Henry decided, was a rogue.

Someone like him.

No, not someone
like
him.

Just him.

Henry leaned back hard against the wooden shelves as he allowed himself to consider the possibility. Him. Diana. Marriage. The words hovered in his mind like dandelion seeds adrift on a gentle current of air. He waited for a fast rush of denial to blow the mad notion away, but none came. Instead, the little bits of fluff drifted down and put out roots. With each one, new pictures grew in his mind. Teasing. Talking. Touching. Laughing. Helping. Engaging in all the libidinous acts allowed between married persons…

“Marriage.” He spoke the word softly, testing out the taste of it. “Married. Married to Diana.” The words were new and strange, but he liked them. He decided to try a variation as an experiment. Who was considered the catch of this Season? He had to think for a moment before he recalled Miss Sibylla Hill, an uncommonly pretty, uncommonly silly girl with a gift for setting his teeth on edge. “Married to— Dear God, I’d rather be hanged,” he muttered. “It might come to that if I had to listen to her day in and day out.”

He realized, somewhat abruptly, that he was talking to himself in someone else’s linen closet… not that the situation would necessarily be less objectionable were he in his own. He squared his shoulders and opened the door, praying that the corridor was empty and he wouldn’t have to come up with an explanation for his presence there.

As it happened, the object of his recent thoughts was exiting the ladies’ retiring room just opposite. He stepped into the hall, just managing to close the closet door before she caught sight of him.

“Mr. Weston!” She giggled. “My goodness! You appeared so very suddenly. Whatever were you doing in—?” She frowned. “Where were you?”

“I—”

No sooner had he opened his mouth to speak than Miss Hill took care to show him she was more than capable of holding up his half of the conversation as well as her own.

“No, I shall not make you say it. You were waiting for me. Oh, it is too wicked of you!” she trilled and rapped his arm with her fan. “You nearly waited too long. I almost gave away the dance I saved for you. You are a devil to keep me in such a state of anticipation. My nerves are too delicate— Oh, I do not mean to scold you. I shall be generous and forgive you.”

She batted long, dark lashes at him as she came close. “My uncle says men prefer generous women. You would need your wife to be very…” She twined both her arms around his, despite the limb not having been proffered, then afforded him a gamin smile. “Very
generous,
would you not say?” She rubbed against his arm, pressing her breasts into him.

Henry regarded her coolly. “You, Miss Hill, are playing a very dangerous game.”

“Oh, you look so cross,” she pouted. “I only wished to…”

“Extend your generosity?” he drawled.

She nodded, clinging even more tightly to his arm.

He wasn’t the least bit tempted. He had no interest in Miss Hill. He wanted Diana, and only Diana. As he accepted his fate, something in him calmed and settled. Diana was right. There was more than kisses between them, and he was through fighting it. She was right, and she was right for him.

His dear Miss Merriwether had best prepare herself because he was changing the rules of their arrangement. Henry didn’t fool himself that getting her to the altar would be easy. Their time together had given him a very clear understanding of Diana’s thoughts about men and marriage. She didn’t think highly of either. She thought even less of rogues.

That explained her preference for Stickley. Diana didn’t think of the deplorably dull baronet as a
man;
she wanted a marriage of convenience that left her invulnerable to any emotional upset. That was what she
thought
she wanted. Diana’s body told Henry that she wanted
him
. He couldn’t promise they would always be in perfect harmony, but he could promise that they would always enjoy making up.

He wouldn’t enjoy what he was about to do, but if seeing Miss Hill in his arms caused Diana even a small fraction of the frustration he incurred on seeing her with Stickley, the price his ears paid would be well worth it.

“Miss Hill, may I escort you back to the ballroom? I trust you will not be so cruel as to deny me a dance.”

She flashed him a brilliant smile, but he would swear she was annoyed with him. They were equals, then. He didn’t have time to play Miss Hill’s games. Keeping a step ahead of Diana presented enough of a challenge for him. Diana might not want a rogue, but she had one all the same, and he wasn’t letting her go.

If he had to fight a little dirty… His mouth curved into a slow, anticipatory smile. He could teach Diana how enjoyable being a little dirty could be.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I told myself I would be content if only I could dance with him, but having done so, I find I want more. Now I tell myself, if he will but call on me, I will be content. How easily we lie to ourselves! I wish you were with me, my dearest Lucy, that you might speak sense to me. Too many dreams cloud my perspective…

—FROM ELIZABETH FOTHERGILL TO HER SISTER LUCINDA