A Rogue for All Seasons (Weston Family) (45 page)

She kept her eyes glued to the plate in her hands. He took it from her and set it aside, then placed a finger under her chin, raising her head until he could look into her eyes.

“My God, you’re
jealous
,” he said incredulously. She swung her head away but made no attempt to deny it. James cupped his hand around her cheek, turning her face back to his, and felt wetness on the silky, soft flesh pressed to his palm. He watched a single tear trickle down her pale cheek, then another and another, turning her lashes into dark golden spikes.

“Sweetheart,” he pleaded, though he hadn’t a clue what he was pleading for. Direction, he supposed. And he had learned from past experience that uttering an endearment was the safest way to break the silence in situations like these. Of course, he had never been in this particular position before, and he hoped never to be in it again. It was damned uncomfortable!

Bloody hell. Isabella had always dogged his heels when she was younger, but he’d had no idea she fancied him in that way. She looked miserable and defeated, so unlike her usual sunny self, and it killed him to be the cause of it. He slung his arm around her shoulders, hugging her close. She burrowed her face into his shoulder, soaking his jacket with her tears.

“Don’t cry, Izzie,” James begged. “Please, don’t cry.”

“I-it’s j-just that you were s-smiling and laughing with her, and I just w-wished so badly that I was older and could wear a beautiful gown and be the one dancing with you.” The words were muffled as they poured out against the soft, black wool of his coat. He murmured nonsense into her hair, soothing her as he would an upset child, but it only made her cry harder.

“Hush, now.” James cupped her face in his hands and wiped her tears away. “I am not nearly so good a dancer as to be worth all this fuss.”

The small smile she gave him made James feel like the king of England—utterly grand and slightly mad. As James stared into her watery eyes, for a moment, it seemed as if he saw his soul gazing back at him; the thought terrified him, and he pulled his hands away as if burned.

“Someday,” he said gruffly, “when you’re older and have that beautiful dress, there will be so many men wanting to dance with you, you’ll wonder why you wanted to dance with
me
.”

“That is
not
true!” Isabella protested fervently. “I will want to dance with you for the rest of my life. Only you. I know it. I
know
, and I won’t change my mind. I
won’t
.”

“You
will
,” James insisted.

“Never.” She sniffed and shook her head mutinously. “I lo—”

“I hope you are not so foolish as to think yourself in love with me.”

She flinched at his tone.

He hated that he was hurting her, but it was best to end this infatuation now. “What you feel for me isn’t love—affection, admiration even, but not love. And if you’re smart, you will save your love for some lucky man who deserves it and will love you back. I am not capable of love.”

“But surely, when you were younger…”

“That was a long time ago. I have had some years, and no small amount of help from my grandsire, in which to conquer that weakness.”

Isabella shot to her feet. “Love is
not
a weakness—”

“For God’s sake, lower your voice.” He stood and looked down at her. “So young and innocent,” he murmured. “Izzie, I hope you will never find love to be a weakness.” His voice was weary and bleak. “But I promise you it can be.”

She shook her head mutinously and jabbed a finger at his chest. “And I promise you I will still want that dance.”

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TEMPTING THE MARQUESS

While Olivia Weston loves matchmaking and romantic novels, she intends to make a suitable match. But first she wants an adventure, and when given the opportunity to visit a reclusive widower living in a haunted castle, Livvy can’t possibly resist.

After his wife’s death, Jason Traherne, Marquess of Sheldon, shut his heart to everyone but his son, and until now he has succeeded in maintaining his distance. But there’s something about Livvy—her unique blend of sweetness and sensuality—that tempts him beyond all reason.

Though there’s nothing suitable about the feelings he inspires in her, Livvy can’t help falling for the marquess. But can she persuade him to let go of the past and risk his heart again?

Praise for
Tempting the Marquess

“As decadent and delicious as a hot fudge sundae—indulge yourself!”

—
NYT
Bestselling Author Christina Dodd

“Lindsey demonstrates a deft hand with historical romance.”

—Bette-Lee Fox,
Library Journal

“Lindsey’s Weston series is an enchanting and entertaining read. … The characters are endearing, their romance steamy and their battle of wits will keep readers engaged until the last kiss.”

—Maria Ferrer,
RT Book Reviews

Excerpt:

A
S SHE STOOD IN THE
medieval entry hall of Castle Arlyss, there were three things about which Olivia was absolutely certain. One, the Marquess of Sheldon was far too attractive for his own good… or for the good of any female in close proximity to him. And her proximity to him was escalating with every purposeful step he took in her direction.

Two, judging by his scowl—and Livvy felt certain that scowl was directed at
her
, not at her aunt or her cousin—the man did not want her in his home for another moment, let alone for the remainder of the holiday season.

Which brought Olivia to her third certainty, which was that she should never have come.

This had been a mistake.

She had absolutely no business being there.

None at all.

Then again, she had never been very good at minding her own business.

“Hello, Katherine. Charlotte.” The marquess gave each a sharp nod before settling his gaze on Livvy. He briefly took in her appearance before turning to the harried-looking butler. “No, I don’t suppose she is a maidservant. More’s the pity, for we’re in short supply.”

Apparently Aunt Kate had not been jesting about her stepson’s indifferent manners.

The marquess braced his hands on his hips and focused his attention once more on Olivia. “Who the devil are you and what are you doing here?” he demanded. The hostile words hung suspended in the air for a moment before being swallowed up by the heavy tapestries blanketing the impenetrable stone walls.

It was, for all intents and purposes, a simple, albeit rather rude question, and yet Olivia did not know quite how to respond. She couldn’t imagine he’d be pleased if she answered truthfully, but starting their acquaintance with lies seemed impolitic.

Thankfully her aunt saved her from having to answer.

“Jason! I do not know where you have forgot your manners, but you will promptly find them and greet us with at least a modicum of civility.”

A sardonic smile twitched at one corner of Lord Sheldon’s mouth as he sketched a bow. “Forgive me. You are most welcome to Castle Arlyss,” he drawled as he came forward and took her aunt’s hands, then pressed a kiss to the cheek she presented. “A pleasure as always, my lady.”

Aunt Kate chuckled, a low, husky sound, which attracted men like moths to a flame. Livvy had once tried to make her laugh sound like her aunt’s, but she had ended up with a sore, scratchy throat and difficulty speaking for a few days after her attempt.

“I know you don’t mean a word of it, but we are glad to be here all the same. Now, permit me to introduce my—”

She broke off as Charlotte wriggled free of her mother’s restraining hand and launched herself at her brother with a happy cry. The marquess stooped to embrace her, his expression momentarily softening. The rest of him stiffened in contrast, clearly ill at ease with this display of emotion. He patted her back clumsily before setting her apart from him.

“I’m not certain this is the same girl who visited last Christmas.” He looked her up and down. “This girl is far too grown up to be Charlotte.”

“It’s me! It’s me!” Charlotte bounced with excitement. “This is Queen Anne. You can call her Queenie.” She thrust the doll in the marquess’s face, or as near as she could reach, which was more in the realm of his midsection.

Lord Sheldon gingerly accepted the proffered offering and held the doll at arm’s length, turning it first this way, then that. He appeared to be giving the doll a very thorough inspection, but it was Livvy, not Queenie, who was the recipient of that intense scrutiny. The heat of his gaze burned her as it swept over her body.

Her spine stiffened. Let him look. She might not be the Great Beauty her older sister was, but she had long since come to terms with that and had decided she was at least passing fair. And while the marquess stared so boldly at her, she would take the opportunity to study him.

At once her fingers itched to sketch him, first the strong, hard line of his jaw, then the broad sweep of his forehead and the inky slashes of his eyebrows above equally dark eyes. She wanted to capture the slightly flattened ridge near the base of his nose, the faint hollows beneath his high cheekbones, and the gentle wave in his black hair. The planes and angles of his face were an artist’s dream—no single feature was perfect in and of itself, except perhaps his lips, which could have been sculpted by the great Michelangelo—but everything worked in absolute harmony.

Livvy was no stranger to handsome men. Her older brother, Henry, was quite good-looking, though she would never tell him so, and her brother-in-law, the Earl of Dunston, was another splendid specimen of masculinity. The marquess put them both to shame. There was a swirling, smoldering undercurrent in the air around him that spoke of tightly leashed emotions—a mighty tempest held in check by a will forged of iron.

He was nothing like what she had expected. Her mind had conjured the image of a man so worn down by years of embittered grief that all that remained was a fragile, brittle shell. She could see nothing weak about Lord Sheldon. The marquess radiated strength from the proud set of his broad shoulders to the muscular thighs bulging beneath his tight-fitting riding breeches. Not that she, a young lady of good breeding, would do anything as improper as express an interest in the marquess’s inexpressibles. She quickly looked up lest she be caught but, from the hint of a smile lurking about his mouth, she feared she was too late.

“Delightful,” he drawled, catching Olivia’s gaze as he handed the doll back to Charlotte.

His dark eyes smoldered in blatant masculine appreciation. Livvy’s cheeks flamed despite the icy draughts that always seemed to plague old castles.

Aunt Kate reached out a hand to her daughter. “Come, Charlotte, leave your brother be a moment so I may introduce him to—”

“Mama-promised-I-could-have-a-great-Danish-dog-like-you-have.” Charlotte spoke the words in a rush, determined to get them out before she was reprimanded for interrupting.

Sure enough, she had just eked out the last word when Aunt Kate began to scold. “Promise or no, you will not be getting a dog, great Danish or otherwise, unless you display the requisite maturity to care for the creature.”