Desire in the Sun (2 page)

“…say you’ll be mine!”

Despite her lack of attention, Mr. Calvert was still making declarations of undying love, and kissing her hand with the devotion of a puppy. The tart response that hovered on the tip of her tongue had to be suppressed in favor of the polite phrases fashioned for such situations. She certainly could not tell him that, with his high-pitched voice and curly hair, he reminded her of nothing so much as a large-sized version of Hercules!

At least not unless he continued his slavering over her hand past the point where she could bear it.

“Pray release my hand, Mr. Calvert. I cannot marry you.” There was the slightest edge to her voice. Her free hand was itching to box his ears. But she would hold off just a little longer, and perhaps Mr. Calvert would see reason before she had to blot her copybook so thoroughly. It would be nice if she could escape from this encounter with Mr. Calvert’s image of her as a spun-sugar princess intact. But if his mouth crawled much farther up her arm …

Mr. Calvert, carried away by an onslaught of passion and apparently afflicted with deafness besides, began pressing kisses on each of her fingers. Tugging ineffectually at her hand again, Lilah cast despairing eyes around the shadowy verandah to assure herself that the ridiculous scene was unobserved.

An outdoor party had been given by her great-aunt in her honor that afternoon. As night had fallen the company had moved indoors for the dance party that was the traditional finish to such an entertainment. Music and merriment drifted through the open windows onto the verandah and beyond, over the green velvet lawns and carefully cultivated rose gardens. Couples strolled through those gardens, but they were mere murmuring voices in the distance, too far away to cause Lilah any embarrassment. Besides, they were too caught up in their own concerns to spare a thought for what might or might not be happening on the verandah, which except for herself and Mr. Calvert was presently deserted.

Light as well as music spilled out of the long windows, making the corner of the porch where she was trapped seem even darker in contrast. It was July, and the night was warm. The tuneless chirping of cicadas and the scent of the honeysuckle growing around the porch joined with the music and laughter to form a ridiculously romantic backdrop to her predicament. Earlier
in the evening she had danced every dance with scarcely a pause in between. At the last break in the music, she had been feeling more than a little dewy (a lady would never sweat!). So she had succumbed to Mr. Calvert’s urging that they go outside and sit in the swing to catch their breath. And in the swing she was sitting still, while he knelt before her on the well-swept boards of the wide verandah that wrapped around three sides of the white-columned house, pressing kisses to her hand while she all but gave up on finding a polite way to repulse him. It was becoming increasingly clear that he was not going to release her hand without drastic action on her part.

“Oh, Lilah, if you will but consent to wed me you will make me the happiest of men!” Mr. Calvert, passion inspiring him to an act of uncharacteristic daring, actually went so far as to touch his tongue to her palm. Shocked, Lilah jerked hard at her hand, the slight frown on her face transforming into a full-blown scowl. Beside her, Hercules, disturbed by her sudden movement, raised his head. His disgruntled bug eyes moved from her face to Mr. Calvert’s. His glare settled on Mr. Calvert, and he gave vent to a low growl.

“Hush, Hercules!” Lilah snapped, exasperated, then turned her attention back to Mr. Calvert. “No, I will not marry you, so give me back my hand!” she hissed, her patience exhausted at last. Mr. Calvert looked up. His brown eyes that were almost identical to Hercules’ glazed with ardor as they met hers.

“This shyness of yours is most becoming. I would not like my wife to be overly bold,” were the vexing words that followed. Apparently blind to the expression on her face, he raised her hand to his mouth and pressed his tongue to her palm again. The provocation was too great. Temper flaming, Lilah lifted her dainty slippered foot, placed it squarely in the center of Mr. Calvert’s thin chest, and shoved as hard as she could while at the
same time pulling on her hand. The effect was not quite what she had intended. True, Mr. Calvert released her hand and fell over backward—but so did she! The force of her push flipped the swing. Before she knew what was happening she was tumbling backwards off the rail-less verandah, too shocked to manage more than a hoarse cry as she came crashing down on one of the flower-laden honeysuckles that edged the porch. The shock of the impact surprised an unladylike oath from her. Hercules, thrown out of the swing with her, landed on the ground nearby with an indignant yelp.

“Lilah! Oh, dear lord!” Mr. Calvert’s horrified gasp was almost as shrill as Hercules’ yelp.

For a long moment Lilah lay sprawled across the broken bush, stunned into silence. Sharp little branches poked her skin, but already she felt that more damage had been done to her dignity than to her person. Her temper, already lit, blazed out of control. The horrible certainty of how ridiculous she must appear, lying facedown and spread-eagled across the crushed bush, her skirts twisted anyhow around her legs, baring, she shuddered to think, how much of her person, was less than balm for her sense of outrage.

Hercules’ frenzied yapping warned her of Mr. Calvert’s approach and unavoidable witness to her dishabille. Lilah wriggled wildly as she sought to escape the bush, but the branches had snagged on her gown and she found herself thoroughly caught. If she tried to rise she would rip her dress, with who knew what disastrous consequences to her modesty. She worked feverishly at disentangling a branch that had attached itself to her bodice.

“Pray allow me to assist you. …”

The laughter that he was doing a lamentable job of suppressing distorted his voice. His obvious amusement acted on her anger like alcohol on a fire. Her bottom was up in the air, while her head dangled only a few
inches from the ground. She was trapped—trapped!—with her thrashing legs in their garters and white cotton stockings bared to his view. Brown earth littered with a shower of broken twigs and blossoms was all she could see—except for a growing tide of red! She was so angry she could have cheerfully killed the giggling fool! She reached around and tried without success to find the hem of her skirt and jerk it down to the level of decency. To her horror, she felt his hand do what hers could not. His knuckles actually brushed the backs of her thighs!

“Take your hand off me, you blackguard! How dare you touch me! How dare you laugh! This is all your fault, you spineless ninny, and I take leave to tell you that I wouldn’t wed you if … ! Stop laughing, damn you! Stop laughing, do you hear?”

The uninhibited male chuckles, increasing in volume in response to her tirade (or the ridiculous picture she made flapping around as she tried to extricate herself from the bush!) maddened Lilah past the point of caring about anything except revenge. Thrusting herself up to the accompaniment of a loud ripping sound, Lilah came off that bush like a ball out of a cannon and launched a very unladylike but richly deserved roundhouse punch at the cause of her discomfiture. Just inches before the blow landed, her fist was caught in an iron grip. To Lilah’s horror she found that the gentleman who had had the gall to pull down her skirt, whose eyes still twinkled at her even as his hold prevented her from breaking his nose, was not Mr. Calvert at all. Instead he was a complete and total stranger who was laughing at her with the greenest eyes she had ever seen.

II

“O
h!” she said, completely nonplussed. To put the crowning touch on her discomfiture, a rosy blush swept to her hairline.

The stranger grinned down at her. His teeth were white and faintly uneven, and a piratical mustache slashed the swarthy face above them. His hair, secured in a tail at the nape, was black and thick and softly curling. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dazzlingly handsome despite the maddening grin. He was dressed for travel in a dun-colored, many-caped riding coat that hung open over a pristine white shirt with an elegantly tied cravat and snug buff breeches. From the riding crop in the hand that was not occupied in holding hers, she surmised that he had just arrived, and had been on his way to the house from the stables when he had witnessed her humiliation.

“You there! Unhand that lady! Unhand her, I say!” Mr. Calvert, having found his own feet and rushed by way of the steps to assist Lilah, was clearly miffed to find himself no longer needed. He came around the corner in an anxious rush, only to stop short, staring, before coming on again, bristling with protective zeal. Hercules, apparently emboldened by Mr. Calvert’s advent, let loose with another volley of yaps and made a
darting rush at the stranger’s dusty boot, only to abandon the attack a good two feet short of its target,

“Oh, be quiet, do!” Lilah snapped, ostensibly to Hercules though her eyes included Mr. Calvert in the admonition. The stranger’s grin broadened. The black slashes of his eyebrows lifted slightly as they took in the size and style of the boy advancing on him. But he spared Mr. Calvert no more than a glance before his eyes returned to Lilah.

“I applaud you on your good sense, ma’am. I wouldn’t have him either.” The confidential note in his voice brought a quivering smile to her lips.

“Why you … you … !” Mr. Calvert spluttered, his fists clenching at his sides. He stalked over to hover near Lilah’s right shoulder, glaring at the stranger all the while. “What business do you have commenting on a private—very private!—matter? Who the devil are you, anyway?”

The stranger inclined his head politely. “Jocelyn San Pietro, entirely at your service, sir. But my friends call me Joss.” His eyes slid back to rest on Lilah’s face as he said this last, and she realized that he was blatantly flirting with her. Despite her lingering embarrassment, the very outrageousness of his conduct appealed to her. All the men she had known so far in her life had treated her most deferentially, as if she were a glittering prize to be won. This fellow with his handsome face and bold grin was not at all intimidated by her, and she found that she liked him for it. But he was still holding her hand, and that was beyond the bounds of what was permissible. She tugged discreetly. He looked down with a fleeting expression of regret, but let her go.

“How do you do, Mr. San Pietro? I am Lilah Remy. And this is Michael Calvert.” Lilah turned a commanding eye on Mr. Calvert, who sulkily inclined his head.

“I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Remy.” The formal phrase took on a whole new aspect
when accompanied by a meaningful glance from those bold green eyes. He completely ignored Mr. Calvert, who bristled. To her surprise Lilah felt herself growing pleasantly flustered. Ordinarily she was totally in command of herself when talking to gentlemen. After all, she had been much courted and admired for as long as she could remember. But this man was something beyond her ken. At the realization she felt a tingling little sense of excitement spring to life inside her.

“What is your business at Boxhill? You can’t have been invited to the party,” Mr. Calvert said sharply, his eyes narrowing as they moved between the other man and Lilah. “It was for close friends and neighbors only. And I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“Are you the new owner of Boxhill?” Mr. San Pietro inquired with a well-feigned expression of surprise. Mr. Calvert, glowering, shook his head. “Ah, then I have not come in vain. My business is with George Barton, and none other,”

“Perhaps I could take you to him? He is my uncle-well, really his wife is my great-aunt,” Lilah said.

“Indeed?” Mr. San Pietro’s smile was charming. “Perhaps you can take me to him—later. For the moment, I am quite happy to let my business wait.”

“Lilah, you know nothing about this man! You have no business talking to him! You haven’t even been properly introduced! He could be anyone—a bounder! He could even intend Mr. Barton some sort of harm!”

Mr. Calvert’s furious whisper caused Lilah to turn angry eyes on him. But Mr. San Pietro, obviously overhearing as he could hardly fail to, forestalled her. The charming grin vanished, and a sudden aura of power seemed to emanate from him as he fixed Mr. Calvert with hard eyes,

“Watch yourself, stripling, or you’ll soon be sitting on your backside again.” There was cool warning in the eyes that rested on Mr. Calvert’s face. Looking from one
to the other, Lilah suddenly became aware of the marked contrasts between the men. Jocelyn San Pietro stood a good inch or two over six feet. Broad-shouldered and well-muscled, he was nearly half again the size of the tall but reed-thin Mr. Calvert, and had the look of a man well able to take care of himself in the face of difficulties, Mr. Calvert looked to be exactly what he was, the pampered scion of a prominent family who had never turned his hand to a day’s work in his life. Mr. San Pietro had to be nearly thirty. Mr. Calvert could not yet lay claim to twenty. In any sort of physical confrontation between them, Lilah had not the tiniest doubt of who would be the loser. Mr. Calvert, apparently coming to that same conclusion himself, was silent, though he glowered at his rival with fierce resentment.