Candice Hern (15 page)

Burnett looked across the room at the two ladies in question. "I can see why you are in such a hurry. She's a stunning woman. Always thought so. Funny how she turned out to be the very woman you sought."

"She is indeed stunning, in every way. And with your help, I intend to have her again, and soon. If Miss Thirkill shows even the smallest sign of irritation with me, I shall have my opening. I depend upon you, old chap, to help her to see what a pompous ass I am."

Burnett grinned, displaying the full force of the boyish charm that had captivated women from Calcutta to Madras. "That should be no trouble at all," he said.

"Hmph. Let us make ourselves more visible."

They stepped from the shadows and began to move about the ballroom. Almost at once, they encountered Lady Emmeline Standish and her mother, Lady Frome. Lady Emmeline had been presented to Thayne by his mother, who was enthusiastic in her assessment of the girl's suitability as a potential bride. He had no objection to the young lady, who had glossy dark curls and a pretty mouth, and who did not seem as diffident as some of the other candidates. He should make an effort to get to know her. His request for a dance later in the evening was accepted.

"Seems a nice girl," Burnett said as they moved on.

"Yes, I like her. She doesn't fawn over me or simper or stammer. Her father's an earl; her mother is the daughter of a marquess — the blood's blue enough to suit even my mother."

Burnett stopped him with a hand to his arm. "That's it! There's your solution."

"What?"

"Miss Thirkill's blood is not blue enough for your exacting standards. Her father is merely a baronet. You wouldn't dream of introducing such an insignificant bloodline into the family."

Thayne's eyebrows rose in interest. "By Jove, it's brilliant. And credible. You have my permission to paint me as the loftiest of highborn snobs."

Burnett snorted. "Oh,
that's
a stretch."

"Remember that statue you wanted?"

"Yes, yes."

"Aha. Here they come. Get ready to exert your best charm."

Beatrice and her niece were walking toward them. Emily was beaming a dazzling smile at the young men who buzzed around her like bees. Thayne caught Beatrice's eye, and desire surged through him with a ferocity that left him breathless.

God, how he wanted her. He tried not to stare, but probably failed. She was clad in a green dress trimmed in gold that clung to her curves in a most provocative way when she moved. Her full bosom was on display, to his delight.

He was hard-pressed not to grin like a fool at the sight of her, but if his plan was going to work, he must retain his aristocratic reserve. And so, with an effort, he kept his lips tight, his face calm and rigid as a mask, his chin high. He turned away from the slow approach of the ladies and pretended to survey the room.

* * *

"There he is, Aunt Beatrice," Emily whispered. "He has seen us. Let us take our time. I do not wish to appear overly eager."

"A wise idea, my dear. It would not do to have people think you are chasing after him."

"I do not chase," Emily said in an indignant tone. "But I have saved a set for him."

Several young gentlemen stopped them and requested dances from Emily. She obliged them all with promises for later in the evening, but gave no one the next dance. Clearly, she wanted her first appearance on the dance floor to be on Lord Thayne's arm. Beatrice glanced at him again, and was pleased that he was no longer watching them approach.

He had donned his best toplofty demeanor, she noted, which came so easily to him. But there was something else, too – a contained energy about Thayne, as if the room, the starched neckcloth, all of Society even, were too small for him.

Had that lordly hauteur she'd once been so concerned about actually been something else altogether? Beatrice sensed a feeling of confinement, a suppressed urge to bust loose and take life by the horns, on his own terms. That was probably why he'd spent so many years traveling in India, to fuel his restless spirit, to stretch the boundaries of his world. Yes, he would do his duty to his title and family, but he did not seem the sort of man to be constrained by that duty. He would reach beyond it somehow, to grab more from life.

It was one of the things she found most attractive about Thayne. He was so different from Somerfield, who'd been so rigid, so thoroughly fixed in his view of the world. He would never in a thousand years have traveled to India. It was too different, too alien, a place that did not conform to the rules he understood.

But a man like Thayne who explored new lands and new people and new ideas appealed to Beatrice. Perhaps it was merely a reaction to her years with Somerfield, but she was drawn to this young man with his strange dichotomy of upright nobility and restless spirit.

And the way he looked at her, with open desire. She had succumbed to that desire in a moment of madness and had subsequently hoped it would be enough to assuage that persistent hunger she'd felt ever since Penelope had pressed that wretched Merry Widows' pact upon them. It might have done, if she had never discovered his identity and been thrust into his company so often. The one wild evening had, in fact. done nothing to silent her body's urges, but had intensified them. She would fight them for now, or at least try to do so until she and Thayne sorted out what to do about Emily.

Beatrice noted with concern that Lord Rochdale had come to hang about on the fringes of Emily's court of admirers. His intense gaze was worrisome at best. She could not believe his intentions were honorable. All the world knew he did not have an principled bone in his body where women were concerned. He caught Beatrice's eye and arched a black brow. She glared at him and he finally moved away. She would have to warn Emily about him. Though he was too old for her, he did have rank and fortune that might appeal to the girl. Or, God forbid, to Ophelia.

For the moment, however, Emily was taking aim in another direction. They had made their way to where Thayne stood, and Emily stopped directly in front of him.

"Lady Somerfield," he said, and sketched a bow. "And Miss Thirkill." He gave a crisp nod in Emily's direction.

"Good evening, Lord Thayne," Beatrice said.

"Is it not a lovely ballroom?" Emily exclaimed, her blue eyes sparkling, her smile brilliant. "I plan to dance every dance. I've already promised several sets, and hope to have them all promised very soon. I hate to sit out a dance, don't you?"

"You remember Mr. Burnett, of course," Thayne said, completely ignoring Emily's not very subtle suggestion that he dance with her.

Mr. Burnett made an elegant bow. "Miss Thirkill, may I be so bold as to reserve one of your remaining sets? I promise not to tread on your toes too often."

"Oh."

Emily looked at Thayne, apparently hoping he would claim the set instead. The marquess, however, affected a demeanor of supreme disinterest and said nothing.

Beatrice gave Emily a discreet poke in the ribs.

"Why, yes," she said, plastering a brittle smile on her face, "I'd be happy to dance with you, Mr. Burnett. As it happens, I have the next set free."

Again, she darted a glance at Thayne, for she had surely been saving her first set for him. But there was nothing she could do about it now.

"Excellent," Burnett said. He smiled broadly and offered his arm. "Shall we dance, Miss Thirkill?"

He led Emily onto the floor, where several lines were forming for the first country dance. Thayne shot Burnett a significant look, and Burnett nodded in response before taking his place in the line. What signal had just passed between them? What were they up to?

"There, see how easy that was?" Thayne said. "Burnett will keep her occupied for a while."

"It is only a dance, my lord," Beatrice said, "not a betrothal."

"You are not to
my lord
me anymore, remember? Anyway, Burnett has promised to fill the girl's head with accounts of the worst aspects of my character."

"Ah, so that is your plan. But what makes you think he can capture her interest, when she has all but ignored him up to now?"

"Because he has the power of love to drive him — he is besotted with the girl — plus the promise of a statue. His primary goal is to convince her that I am not worthy of her attention, that I am too toplofty and will never condescend to court her. Only a baronet's daughter and all that. While he's blackening my name, I have no doubt he will try to woo her for himself. He has always had a way with the ladies. I've known a dozen women or more who've fallen in love with the fellow based on little more from him than a smile."

"He is rather attractive," Beatrice said, "in a lanky, boyish sort of way. And that smile
is
devastating. He quite charmed me with it the first time we met."

"He is meant for your niece, my Artemis, not for you. I want you all to myself. In fact, come with me." He turned to walk back toward the entrance. Surely he did not mean to seduce her here, at another ball.

"You are not to take me into the garden, Thayne. We cannot do that again."

"Not the garden," he said. "But I took time to learn the lay of the land here at Oscott House before you arrived. There's a nice, dark little alcove just around this corner."

Beatrice understood what he meant to happen in that alcove. He was going to kiss her, at the very least. She ought not to allow it. One dance with Mr. Burnett did not relieve them of the problem of Emily, and Beatrice had been determined to resolve that issue before allowing herself to be seduced again by Thayne. Yet here she was, abandoning all her best intentions to accompany him to some dark corner so that he could steal a kiss. Or more. Her desire for the wretched man was too powerful to resist.

Thayne casually strolled toward his destination, not touching Beatrice or even standing close. At least he maintained propriety in public. When the few people wandering about had disappeared into the ballroom, Thayne pulled her into the dark recess beneath the stairs.

He tugged her against his chest, and kissed her.

She resisted at first, instinctively, without thought, as though the wrongness of it was elemental. He felt it, and pulled back, lifting his head and staring down at her with eyes so dark they appeared black.

"Why?" He kept his arms around her, holding her close. Her hands were pressed flat against his chest.

"Because we should not be together."

"Why? And don't tell me it's because of your niece. We have settled that business. She has nothing to do with us."

"I can’t help feeling guilty. You were seen to be her suitor and it feels wrong to be with you. But that is not the only reason."

"Then why?"

"We're wrong for each other. I'm too old for you —"

"Don't be silly. You are
not
too old."

"I am a respectable widow with children — did you know I have two daughters? — and you're the Marquess of Thayne, Society's golden prize, the gleam in every hopeful mother's eye. Everyone knows you are looking for a bride."

"I am not offering matrimony to you, Beatrice."

"I know."

"Is that what you want? An offer of marriage?"

"Good God, no. I have been married. I am done with marriage."

"Then there is no problem, is there? Yes, I will marry before the end of the year, probably to one of the girls in the next room. But in the meantime, there is us. There is this."

And he kissed her again, in slow, succulent bites as though savoring a sweetmeat. This time, just as instinctively as she had closed up and rejected him before, she now opened like a new blossom and welcomed him. Her hands slid up his chest and over his shoulders, finally wrapping around his neck and pulling him down. She opened her mouth and touched her tongue to his. He accepted the invitation and set up a dance between their tongues more lush and exciting than anything happening in the ballroom next door.

She had tried so hard to make this attraction to him wrong, but it felt so right. Her mind spun back to the garden, the darkness, the cool night air, his flesh against hers, and suddenly she knew she had to have him again. Age, be damned. Emily, be damned. Everyone and everything, be damned.

His mouth left hers and trailed lower, over her arched neck and down to the tops of her breasts, pushed up into firm mounds by tight stays. His tongue dipped into the cleft between her breasts, and she let out a little groan.

"Stop, please," she said, though it was truly the last thing she wanted. "Not here. Please. Someone may walk by."

He lifted his head and loosened his arms. He looked down at her with eyes so full of raw desire she felt weak in the knees. "No," he said in a rough whisper, "not here. But somewhere. Yes?"

She studied his face, almost drowning in the depths of his dark eyes. Lord, how she did want him. Could she really do this? Could she put aside all the objections she knew to be reasonable and right and take him as her lover?

"Yes?" he repeated.

"Yes."

And suddenly, his face broke into a wide grin, slightly smug, as if to remind her that he always got what he wanted. He brought one of her hands to his lips, then made a sort of growl. "Blasted gloves." He bent to kiss the end of her nose instead, and it made her giggle.

"You have obsessed me, you know. I think of nothing but you."

"Oh." She smiled at such earnest passion.

"When?" he asked. "How soon? Tonight?"

"No, not tonight. And I have so many obligations as Emily's chaperone. Oh, I cannot begin to imagine how we will manage it."

"There are twenty-four hours in the day, my huntress. Surely we can find one or two for ourselves. Leave it to me. But where? Your house?"

"Oh, dear. No, no, we cannot go there. Emily is staying with me, for one thing, and I have two daughters underfoot as well, not so many years younger than Emily. How am I to teach them propriety if they find me in bed with a man? No, I cannot risk bringing you home."

"And I am staying at my father's house. It is big enough to hide in, as you have seen, but it would be difficult to get you in unnoticed. There are too damned many servants about. I trip over one every time I turn around. And the gossip belowstairs is rampant, and tends to make its way upstairs eventually. And the duchess is everywhere. One never knows when one might run into her."