Happily Bedded Bliss: The Rakes of Cavendish Square (7 page)

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you in love with this man and trying to conceal your feelings from me?”

Gabriel waited, studying her for telltale signs of heartache over the would-be lover who had run off and left her in the lurch. If that was the reason for her reluctance to accept Gabriel as a husband, then everything made far more sense; everything, that is, except her decision to draw him by the lake.

Or did she have a naughty streak that she couldn’t quite keep tamed and it had gotten out of hand yesterday?

He knew all about naughty streaks.

Esme tipped her head to one side, her eyes a clear, guileless blue. “I’m not trying to conceal anything, Lord Northcote. Lord Eversley was a friend, or so I imagined, and now he is gone.”

“You haven’t answered my question.” Gabriel took a step closer. “Do you love him?”

“No. I love no man.” Her fine dark brows drew downward in thought. “Well, except for my brothers and uncles and nephews and several male cousins; them I love a very great deal. I am quite fond of several of the servants as well. But if you are asking if I am romantically inclined toward any particular gentleman, then my answer is ‘not at present,’ not that it is any of your concern.”

He moved another step toward her, putting her within arms’ reach. “If I am to be your husband, then who you love is most definitely my concern. As for romantic interests, there will be none, now or in the future, is that understood? I will not tolerate affairs or flirtations with other men from my wife.”

A small silence fell.

Something sparked in her gaze. “And may I expect the same of you, should I decide to accept your
proposal? Which you have never actually made me, might I add.”

His lips twitched, leaving him unable to decide if he should be annoyed or amused. She had a spirit and forthrightness that he could not help but admire.

“You are quite correct, Lady Esme. Everyone would already have us married and yet I have never officially sought your hand. Under the circumstances, I suppose I thought the exercise moot. However, let us abide by the formalities, by all means. That way there can be no mistaking either of our intentions. Would you prefer that I drop down onto one knee or remain standing?”

“Do whichever you like, Lord Northcote, since I can tell you will follow your own preferences regardless of mine. Before you decide, however, please be so good as to reply to my earlier question.”

“And if I choose not to?” he said, making no effort to act as though he didn’t remember what she’d asked.

“Then I will take your lack of response as a no and assume that you plan to continue your lascivious ways.”

“And what would a little slip of a girl like you know about my lascivious ways?”

“Enough to have heard several rather indecent rumors about you during my time in London. Debutantes have ears, you know, even if they might not always understand everything they hear.”

A smile broke across Gabriel’s face before he tossed back his head and laughed, his chest moving with a kind of honest good humor the likes of which he had not experienced in a very long time.

It felt good. Almost too good.

Far too quickly, he sobered, gazing into her vibrant eyes, which reminded him of warm, rain-shadowed summer skies. “You are unexpected, Lady Esme, I will give you that. Most unexpected.”

“And your answer?”

He said nothing as he considered what she asked. Was he ready to give up his life of loose women and wild debauchery? He’d spent years sampling all that
the fairer sex had to offer; would he now be content to confine himself to just a single woman? Admittedly, Esme Byron was exquisite and tempted him as none had for some time. He could already imagine what it would be like to kiss those lush lips and touch that pretty white skin of hers. As for how she would taste, well, he expected she would be every bit as succulent as the finest Château Margaux in his wine cellar.

So was he going to trade away his freedom for a chance to partake of her?

“Very well, if it means that much to you, I shall cleave to you and you alone,” he said, his statement coming as a surprise to them both. “But be warned of the promises you make in return. I shall expect you to abide by them all, with no exceptions whatsoever.”

She swallowed but did not look away.

Reaching out, he took her hand and lowered himself to one knee. He met her eyes. “Lady Esme Byron, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Long seconds ticked past before she gave a single jerky nod. “Yes, I will.”

E
sme stared, a part of her not quite able to believe that she had just agreed to marry a complete stranger.

Well, not complete, complete,
she reminded herself, since she had seen him in his birthday suit, so she at least knew what she was getting there.

Her body tingled to recall.

But as for the man himself, she knew next to nothing about him except for his devilish reputation and sharp-tongued, cynical turn of phrase. For as much as she’d just gone toe-to-toe with him—six bold, fiercely independent older brothers had taught her never to back down from a fight—he still set her ashiver.

Whether in a good way or bad, though, she hadn’t yet decided.

And then he was back on both feet, towering above her so that she was viscerally aware exactly how much larger he was; the top of her head came only to his shoulder. Determined to show no vulnerability, she tipped back her head and looked him right in the eye.

What she saw there made her quietly gasp. His gaze was focused on her parted lips, the undisguised hunger she saw there too forceful to mistake, even for a green girl like her.

Slowly, he smiled. “I’ll have to give you a ring later. When I came for holiday here in Gloucester, I wasn’t expecting that I might become engaged.”

“No, nor was I.”

His smile widened.

She saw that he had nice, even white teeth; only a single cuspid was slightly out of place. It did not detract from his appeal in the least.

He moved fractionally closer. As he did, she noticed that her hand was still held inside his. She tugged lightly to free herself.

He didn’t let go.

“Lord Northcote.”

“Lady Esme,” he said, the faintest trace of mocking amusement in his voice.

“You may release me now.”

“Oh, I will. After we’ve sealed our bargain.”

“What do you mean by that? I’ve already consented to marry you.”

“Indeed, but aren’t you the least bit curious to see if we’re compatible?”

An electrical charge, rather like one of her brother Drake’s experiments, surged through her as Northcote wrapped his free arm around her waist and tugged her to him.

“But we’ve only just met,” she said hurriedly. “I do not even know your full name.”

She pressed her palm to his chest to hold him off—his extremely male, remarkably solid chest, which felt every inch as firm as it had looked when she’d drawn him.

“The family name is Landsdowne and I am Gabriel.”

“Oh. Like the archangel,” she said without thinking.

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Exactly. Although I’ve more often been likened to Lucifer, the angel who was cast down to earth. My uncle once suggested I petition Parliament to have my name officially changed so everyone would know me for the devil I am.”

Esme gazed up at him, unsure whether or not he was joking. Then before she could consider further, it was too late, his mouth lowering to capture hers.

She’d been kissed only one other time, and that by a cousin the summer after she’d turned sixteen. But comparing that quick, sloppy mashing of lips with the easy, sophisticated heat of Lord Northcote’s touch was like comparing a light spring rain to a raging summer storm, complete with wind, claps of thunder and lightning bolts.

He didn’t overpower, exploring her mouth with confident thoroughness, as if they had all the time in the world. Gradually, he increased the intensity, his mouth sliding this way and that, angling his head to find the perfect fit. Then, before she had any idea what he truly wanted, he coaxed her lips to part so he could slide his tongue inside. He dipped and sipped, licked and pressed, teasing her in ways that made her thoughts turn to ash. Her fingers opened and closed spasmodically against the fine wool of his coat, and she rocked up onto her toes to get more.

He chuckled low in his throat as he slowly eased away, leaving her momentarily confused and bereft, her body keenly aware of the abrupt loss of pleasure.

His eyes gleamed like gold coins. “You taste every bit as sweet as you look, my dear.” He skimmed the back of one finger over her cheek. “Maybe this bargain we’re making won’t be such a bad one after all.”

His words brought her suddenly back to the present, to her surroundings, which, to her mortification, she seemed to have entirely forgotten. He’d had her so enthralled, she suspected the earth could literally have opened up beneath her feet and, so long as he’d kept kissing her, she would never have noticed.

Dear Lord, he really is Lucifer and I’m in over my head.

For a few frantic seconds, she considered taking it all back. It wasn’t too late, not yet. No announcement had been made to her family. No promises given that could not be undone. All she needed to do was tell Lord Northcote that she’d changed her mind and would not
be marrying him after all. He would understand, would he not? Likely he would even be relieved.

And yet she could not be sure how he might react.

She was used to handling wild, unpredictable creatures, used to gentling, even taming them. But Gabriel Landsdowne was an entirely unknown quantity; a force unto himself, he was unique and without equal in her experience.

If she proceeded with this marriage, what would happen once he had her in his grasp? Would she have any hope of counterbalancing the forcefulness of his personality? Or would he overwhelm her, take what he wanted, then toss away whatever might remain?

She was still weighing that particular quandary when the doors opened again and her brothers walked inside. She nearly went to Edward, nearly hurried into his arms to tell him she would face ruin rather than give herself into the keeping of Gabriel Landsdowne.

But then she glanced up and met Gabriel’s eyes, saw the jaded cynicism, the lurking self-derision, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking and expected her to reject him.

And suddenly she could not do it.

Something about him called to her, like one of her wounded beasts, and she could not turn him away. She needed his name and protection in order to keep from being cast out of Society. But strangely, she realized, he just might need her even more.

•   •   •

“Just five minutes more and Mrs. Benson will be finished—won’t you, Mrs. Benson?” Mallory told Esme from where she sat in a chair in Esme’s bedchamber.

The modiste, who’d made a hurried journey from Bath, mumbled something around a mouthful of straight pins and kept moving at a steady, though efficient pace, as she worked to properly fit the voluminous white gown to Esme’s small frame. Her two assistants hovered in the background, ready to lend a hand as needed.

Esme shot her sister a reproachful look, her arms held out at her sides like a living scarecrow. “That’s what you said ten minutes ago.”

“Good fashion takes time.” Mallory gave her an encouraging smile. “Don’t you want to look pretty on your wedding day?”

“Not if it means being tortured to death,” Esme said. “No offense meant, Mrs. Benson.”

“None taken, my lady.” The modiste removed a last pin from her mouth, stuck it into the material, then accepted a pair of scissors from one of her helpers in order to do a little judicious snipping. “If you would just turn half a step to the left, I’ll finish this side panel; then you can lower your arms.”

“See? You’re nearly done.” Mallory smiled again.

It was a good thing Esme couldn’t reach any handy projectiles or she might have been tempted to lob something in her sister’s direction. A hairbrush would have done nicely, or perhaps the rather ugly blue vase on the fireplace mantel that one of her aunts had given her a few years ago and that she’d always wanted an excuse to break.

Usually she and Mallory got along like two green peas in a pod, but ever since her engagement to Northcote, Mallory had behaved in the most alarmingly cheerful manner—one that didn’t fool Esme for a moment. It was as if Mallory hoped that by putting on a happy face she could convince herself, and all the rest of the family, that Esme’s impending nuptials weren’t the hasty marriage of necessity that they were.

She knew Mallory was just trying to make the best of a bad situation, but it was starting to set her teeth on edge.

“Mallory, that will do,” Ava Byron murmured in a low voice. “Your sister is under enough strain as it is, and your remarks don’t seem to be helping matters.”

“What do you mean?” Mallory looked surprised. “I’m only being encouraging, Mama. Fittings have never been Esme’s favorite and I’m just trying to buoy
her up a bit. Esme knows the last thing I would ever want to do is upset her. Don’t you, sweetheart?”

Esme met her sister’s expectant gaze and felt instantly contrite. “Of course. Yes.”

She mustered a smile.

Mallory smiled back and nodded, reassured. “Despite the gown’s age, I think it’s going to work out splendidly, do you not all agree?”

Sebastianne, Meg, Thalia and Grace sat in nearby chairs. Two dogs and four cats, who had even less interest in fittings than Esme, lay slumbering around the large room as well.

The ladies gave murmurs of agreement.

“It was a brilliant stroke on Thalia’s part to think of using Mama’s old wedding gown, seeing as there isn’t time to send to London for a new gown,” Meg said.

“More practical than brilliant, but thank you for approving the notion.” Thalia drew a needle and violet-colored thread through the piece of embroidery on her lap. “It’s what comes from years of frugal living and the need to refurbish old clothing so it looks new again.”

Sebastianne nodded. “Yes, it’s amazing what inventive solutions one can come up with in moments of need.”

“You sound like Drake,” Mallory teased.

“Or does he sometimes sound like me?” Sebastianne’s mouth turned up at the corners. “My husband may be one of the smartest people on the planet, but that doesn’t mean he knows everything there is to know. I’ve taught him a thing or two since we’ve been married.”

“Now, if only you could manage to get him to pay attention at dinner parties rather than drifting off into his own universe,” Mallory remarked.

Sebastianne gave a Gallic shrug. “I said
teach
, not perform miracles.”

They all laughed. All of them, that is, except Esme and the seamstress.

“You may lower your arms now, my lady,” Mrs. Benson said.

“Thank the Lord,” Esme murmured under her breath.

“Now, if you will just climb up onto this box so I can do the hem.”

With skepticism, Esme eyed the small wooden step that Mrs. Benson’s assistant slid into place before her. Sighing inwardly, she did as instructed.

“Oh, you’re right about the dress.” Grace tilted her head with its glorious crown of red hair, so she could view the gown from a different angle. “By the time Mrs. Benson is finished, no one will realize that the style originally dates back to the 1770s.”

Thalia smiled at her new mother-in-law. “It was most generous of you to volunteer your wedding gown. Many women would quail to have their dress altered in such dramatic fashion.”

“For a chance to see my darling Esme wear my wedding dress,” Ava said, “it is worth any number of alterations. I am simply pleased to find it in such excellent condition after all these years.”

All eyes turned for a moment to appreciate the ivory satin sacque dress with its large, heavy skirts, which would once have been draped over a wooden pannier frame, lace-trimmed elbow-length sleeves and a shoulder-to-floor back pleat. Tiny gold flowers were embroidered all over the material, lending the gown a regal cast.

At just that moment, Mrs. Benson cut away several bits of lace from the sleeves and removed a trio of decorative, though now fashionably unnecessary, bows from the stomacher.

Ava drew in a bracing inhalation, clearly fighting not to cringe at the sight of the scissors snip-snipping. “The dress was only gathering dust in its box in the attics. It is exciting to see it out and being given new life again. Besides, it’s not as though I’m ever going to have the occasion to need a wedding gown again.”

None of them said anything, suddenly reminded of Ava’s brief engagement a few years earlier. For those few short weeks, she’d been happier than any of them could remember, as giddily in love as a schoolgirl, when Lord Saxon had abruptly called off the wedding. None of them knew all the details, but rumors had swirled that Saxon had lost his fortune due to bad investments and had gone abroad. Ava hadn’t once mentioned his name since then, and everyone in the family was careful not to do so either.

“You oughtn’t say that,” Grace told her softly. “You never know when the right gentleman might appear and sweep you off your feet.”

The dowager duchess smiled wryly. “You are a true romantic, child, and very sweet to think that some gentleman might be interested in a widow of my advanced years.”

“You make it sound as if you are in your dotage, which you most clearly are not, Mama,” Mallory said. “You’re a beautiful, vibrant woman and were you ever to take notice of any of them, I know of several eligible gentlemen who would be delighted to pay you court.”

“Indeed,” Meg agreed, “just before we left London, Lord Podmoor was rhapsodizing to me about all your exceptional qualities and saying what an utterly charming woman he thinks you.”

Ava looked amused. “How very gratifying to hear. Then again, Euphestis Podmoor has always been a fawning toady of the worst variety. I once heard someone say that he would tell a sow dressed up in an orange bonnet how attractive she was and that the color quite flattered her skin.”

A flutter of gasps sounded around the room, followed by a couple of snickers.

“Besides,” Ava continued, unfazed, “I could never countenance a flirtation with a man named either Euphestis or Podmoor, let alone consider marriage to him. Only imagine the dreadful nicknames that might result. Fezzie, for instance, or worse yet, Poddy.”

“There’s always Euphie,” Thalia chimed with a grin.

“Or what about Po-Po?” Grace rested a dramatic hand against her chest. “Oh, my darling Po-Po, how I long to be held in your arms.”

Fresh gales erupted, everyone laughing, even Mrs. Benson and her assistants, who grinned as they continued their work.