TemptedByHisKiss (11 page)

“He’s an inventor, too,” Mallory offered, keeping her voice lowered, as if knowing better than to disturb Drake.

“Indeed,” Jack said, his lips twisting in obvious amusement. “You may have noticed the strange, greenish tint to his hands—copper bath to aid in the conductivity of electricity, I am given to understand. At least he didn’t come out on the bad end of this particular experiment, seeing he’s nearly blown himself up more times than I can count.”

“Do not speak of that,” interjected the dowager. “Your brother knows better than to blow himself up, and if he comes into my house again with his eyebrows gone, more shall end up missing from him than a bit of hair.”

As though he suddenly realized he was the topic of conversation, Drake’s head came up. “What’s that?” he asked, pencil still poised over the paper. “Are you talking about explosives? There’s been some very interesting work in that field lately. Exciting stuff that uses derivatives of gunpowder.”

“There shall be no talk of gunpowder, either,” the duchess decreed in regal tones. “Mallory, perhaps you could entertain us all with a song?”

Mallory’s aquamarine eyes twinkled, but she managed to retain a serious cast to her expression. “Yes, Mama.”

“Unless Margaret would care to do so instead,” the dowager suggested. “Do you play, dear?”

“Not well, Your Grace…I mean, Ava. My mother attempted to teach me, but I am afraid it did not take.”

“Ah,” the dowager said with polite acceptance.

“I sing, however,” Meg said. “I am told I possess some small talent in that regard. Mayhap Lady Mallory might accompany me, if you would like to hear me sing.”

The older woman smiled. “Excellent! Yes, of course, we would all like to hear.”

Realizing she had been caught in a trap of her own making, Meg rose to her feet and crossed to the pianoforte.

“What shall I play?” Mallory asked, before going on to offer a trio of possible selections.

Meg chose the one whose words she knew best, then waited as the other young woman arranged the sheet music on the stand and took a seat at the pianoforte.

Nerves simmered in Meg’s stomach, her fingers abruptly cold as she prepared herself to perform. She
didn’t know why she was anxious, since in the past she’d often sung at social gatherings. Yet at those affairs, she’d had no one to impress, no one who would think less of her if she stumbled in some small way.

Not that the Byrons were haughty or unkind. Quite the contrary, since they had welcomed her in with an unhesitating friendliness and a generosity that was frankly surprising, especially given their elevated noble rank. Perhaps therein lay the reason for her apprehension, she thought now. For despite the fact that her very presence here was based on a lie, she quite absurdly wanted them to like her. She longed for them to draw her into their loving, close-knit family, even if she knew her time among them would be fleeting. She’d been so alone since Papa died. So alone until she’d met Cade…

Her gaze collided with his forest green eyes, the pull almost electric, as she stood next to the pianoforte. A moment later, his sister played the opening notes of the song with a practiced flourish.

Automatically, Meg drew a deep breath and opened her mouth to sing. Her voice quavered at first, sounding thin and faintly uncertain even to her own ears. Then Cade’s lips turned up in an encouraging smile and the tension flowed from her muscles.

From that moment on, the melody flowed outward in an easy cadence, soaring up from her diaphragm to flood the room with lilting song. Confidence filled her, along with a sensation of pleasure. She sang, all the while looking at Cade, her gaze fixed steadily upon his own.

Then the last notes were struck—piano and voice alike blending in a harmonious crescendo that lingered in the room long after their end.

Silence fell, then applause broke out.

“Bravo!” called Jack.

“Wonderful!” declared Drake.

Even the duke clapped with genuine pleasure, as the dowager, Mallory, and little Esme added their approval.

Yet it was Cade whose esteem she truly craved, she realized. Cade, whose opinion was suddenly the only one that mattered.

“Beautiful,” he said. “Well done, Meg. Not even the finest of song birds could compare.”

Warmth spread through her, an odd shifting sensation forming deep in her center that she couldn’t clearly identify nor wholly understand.

“But now if you will all excuse me,” he went on, “I fear I must find my bed. It has been a long day and I am in need of rest.” He lifted a hand to stifle a yawn.

She blinked, the warmth vanishing as suddenly as it had come, the spell under which she’d been held shattering like a fragile glass vase.

Silly, she thought. It was naught but a song.

“Yes, it is time Esme sought her slumber as well,” said the dowager as she rose to her feet. “Come along, sweetheart, or your governess will be giving us both a scold.”

“But Mama!” the girl protested. “I am still drawing. Please, may I have ten minutes more?”

“If I give you ten minutes, you shall soon be wanting twenty. No, you’ve stayed up well past your usual bedtime as it is. You may take your sketches with you upstairs, however. Now, be a good girl and say your good-nights.”

“Yes, Mama.” Esme jumped to her feet and ran to give hugs and kisses to her siblings, who all smiled and teased her with obvious affection.

Meg noticed the extra long embrace the girl gave Cade, her thin arms winding around his neck as they exchanged a few quiet words. It was obvious that Esme had missed her older brother a great deal during his absence, and was happy to have him home.

Then Esme turned to her. “Here, this is for you,” the girl said, holding out one of the pages on which she’d been drawing.

“Oh, I…well, thank you.” Meg reached out and took the sketch between her fingers.

Gazing down, her eyes widened. Instead of the typical childish scribble she’d expected, she discovered two well-rendered figures. The style was a bit loose, and still immature with a tendency to distort the proportions. Even so, it was refined enough to have captured remarkably accurate likenesses of her and Cade seated side by side on the sofa. Esme might only be nine years of age, but already she was an exceptional artist, better than many adults would ever hope to be.

“This is…extraordinary,” Meg said.

“It’s you and Cade,” the girl offered, clutching a small fist against her yellow wool skirt. “Do you like it?”

“I most certainly do. How could I not? You’ve drawn Cade and me so perfectly. It’s beautiful.”

The girl’s oval features came alive with a pleased smile. “Good night, Miss Amberley. I’m glad you’re going to be my sister.”

At a sudden loss for what she knew would never be, Meg settled on the only honest reply she could offer. “Sweet dreams, Esme.”

Flashing another smile, the girl turned and hurried to her mother’s side, the pair of them making their way from the room.

The others stood and began to do the same. As Meg moved to follow, she felt a light touch on her shoulder, and glanced up to find Edward Byron towering at her side.

“It’s a good likeness,” he remarked, nodding at the drawing.

“Um…yes, your sister is very talented, Your Grace.”

“That she is.

She looked across at Cade, who stood waiting near the door.

“Your secret is safe with me, you know,” the duke murmured in a low voice as they strolled forward. “Cade and I spoke earlier about your situation.”

Her gaze flew to the duke’s. “Did you?”

“Yes. And although I cannot say I entirely approve, I do understand. I must warn you, however, to take care.”

She stiffened. “Oh? In what way?”

“In guarding your heart, Miss Amberley. You seem like an amiable young woman, and I would not want you to end up hurt.”

The starch eased out of her spine. “My thanks for your concern, Your Grace, but I shall be fine.”

“As you say. Well then, I bid you a good evening.”

Reaching Cade’s side, she gazed up into his inquiring green eyes and felt her pulse beat double. Walking with him as they made their way to their separate bedchambers, she wondered if she had just told the duke yet another lie.

“O
h, how adorable. She’ll take that one as well,” Meg heard the Dowager Duchess of Clybourne declare a week later as they stood in consultation with London’s most fashionable mantua maker. “In the palest of pink, I believe. Or maybe the stripe?” She paused, tapping a finger against her chin. “Oh, let’s do both, what do you say? Yes, yes, a pink and white stripe for the walking dress, and an evening gown in the shell peony. Oh, they will be exquisite with Margaret’s fair coloring.”

“I agree entirely, Your Grace,” said Madame Morelle. “And the pale blue ball gown we discussed will make her eyes sparkle like stars. She will be the envy of every young lady in London.”

The two older women smiled conspiratorially while Meg stood mute, having been ejected from all but the most minor decision making over the past twenty minutes.

Twisting her fingers together, she stared at the yard upon yard of stunning fabrics laid out for display—silks and satins, sarcenets, velvets, muslins, and more in a virtual rainbow of hues, patterns, and textures. Beside the material lay laces and ribbons, buttons and feathers, everything a well-dressed lady could possibly hope to use to trim a gown. Rows of fashion babies sat on shelves to display the latest dress designs, while books of water-color and pencil sketches added still more possibilities.

From Meg’s perspective, the dowager seemed to have ordered literally dozens of dresses, so many she had long since lost count of them all. At first she’d tried to voice her opinions and objections, attempting to interject a bit of sensible economy into the conversation. But the dowager and the dressmaker soon shunted her aside and went on as they thought best. Meanwhile, she was rushed away to the back of the shop to have her measurements taken by an assistant.

It was not that she had any objection to the gowns themselves—they were all exquisite, done in a style sure to flatter her figure and complexion. What troubled her was the sheer quantity of clothing the duchess was ordering.

How shall I ever hope to pay for it all? she fretted.

“And oh yes,” she heard the dowager say. “She must have at least half a dozen riding habits. Let us look at fabrics again.”

A knot twisted in her chest as she wrung her hands. Papa had left her a comfortable dowry, but at this rate there would be nothing left, certainly not enough to tempt a prospective bridegroom.

Turning her head, she glanced at Cade, who sat at his ease on a nearby divan. He had escorted them to
the shop, then withdrawn to read a book and sip the glass of Madeira that Madame Morelle had procured for him upon their arrival. As for Mallory, who had come with them as well, she was proving of absolutely no use against her mother, the girl having disappeared with a trio of gowns she was considering having altered.

“I believe you are right. Let us make it an even dozen…” the duchess declared.

“Cade,” Meg hissed as she hurried across to him. “You must put a stop to this.”

He glanced up, peering at her over his half-moon spectacles. “Put a stop to what?”

“All this shopping. Your mother is ordering far too many gowns for me.”

He raised a single dark eyebrow. “And you find that distressing?”

“Of course I do.”

One corner of his mouth turned up. “How curious. I believe you must be the only lady of my acquaintance whom I have ever heard complain about buying new clothes.”

“If I am the only one to complain,” she said, sinking down next to him, “it is because I am the first bearing the brunt of the cost.” She hung her head, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Cade, I cannot afford these gowns. You must speak to your mother and explain.”

His green eyes widened. “Well, no wonder you are alarmed.” Reaching out, he patted her hand. “Do not worry. All the bills will be sent to me. You won’t have to pay for a thing.”

“Sent to
you
! But I cannot allow you to pay—”

“Of course you can, and you will. Despite being a second son, I am quite wealthy in my own right. I assure you, the expense will not be a problem.”

She worried a thumb over a piece of black trim on her sleeve. “The expense is not the issue. Allowing you to buy clothes for me is highly improper.”

“I fail to see why. You are my affianced.”

“
No, I am not,
in case you have forgotten,” she said, careful to keep her voice low. “I cannot permit it.”

His jaw tightened with a familiar stubbornness. “And I cannot permit you to be inadequately clothed for the Season. Consider the gowns a present for your future marriage.”

“But Cade—”

“But Meg…” he replied with gentle mockery before his tone grew serious once again. “I will not be gainsaid in this. Let Mama choose whatever she considers necessary and appropriate for you to wear. As for you, stop worrying and enjoy yourself. And should a particular gown take your fancy, buy it, I shall not complain of the cost.”

She made a small huff of protest, then realized the futility of it. I suppose he is right, she thought, knowing that a proper wardrobe was essential for attending the kind of ton parties to which she was already starting to receive invitations. The same held true for the diamond engagement ring he had given her—the gemstone a necessary part of their charade, even if wearing it felt like a mark of deceit. Nevertheless, the honorable part of her balked at the notion of accepting money from Cade, even in the form of clothing. Yet what choice did she have, given the relative smallness of her own pocketbook?

“Very well,” she sighed. “I accept, and thank you for your kind generosity. However, there is one item on which I insist bearing the cost myself.”

“Oh? And what might that be?” he drawled.

“My wedding gown. I absolutely refuse to allow you to pay for that.”

His eyes glittered, a sharp edge springing to life deep within. “On that score,” he murmured, “we are in complete accord, since I have no wish to purchase a dress made for the express purpose of joining you forever to another man.”

Her lips parted on an unsteady inhale, confusion twining inside her.

“Just as I trust I will not be paying for your wedding night trousseau?”

At such a suggestion, she found she couldn’t breathe at all. Her gaze locked with his, the room shifting as she lost herself in the rich forest green of his eyes. For a long moment he stared back, his own lips parting on a silent exhale.

Before she knew what he meant to do, he bent and captured her mouth, taking her with a slow, gentle kiss that made her eyelids flutter closed and her mind spin in a dizzying circle. His scent clouded her brain even further, his taste sweet and rich with a lingering tang of the wine he’d been drinking. Then as abruptly as the kiss had begun, it ended.

Her eyes flew wide. “Oh! Wh-Why did you do that?”

“I…um…” He flicked a sideways glance across the room. “…was just keeping up appearances.” Leaning down, he set his mouth close to her ear. “We are supposed to be madly in love, remember? No harm giving them a little show.”

A show?
Turning her head, she saw that he was right. They had attracted an audience, Cade’s mother and the mantua maker regarding them with a pair of indulgent smiles before quickly looking away. Meg’s skin flushed all the way to her roots, her shoulders drooping at the realization that his kiss had meant nothing. He had only been playacting.

“Yes, of course,” she said, striving to sound as if she’d been in on his plan all along.

“By this time tomorrow,” he volunteered, “the tale of how we were caught kissing in Madame Morelle’s shop will be all over Town. Particularly since Madame has never been known for her discretion. But it’s all to the good. Society will have no doubt of our devotion.”

She nodded, suddenly desperate to be away from him. “I just realized that I have been neglecting your sister. She must be in need of assistance with her choices by now. So, if you will pardon me, your lordship, I shall attend her.”

Cade stood, gripping his cane hard as he watched her hurry across the room, her dark skirts swaying around her slender hips before she disappeared behind a curtain that led to the fitting rooms beyond.

Resuming his seat, he picked up his book and leafed to the correct page. But as he tried to focus on the words, his thoughts drifted away; the taste of her lips still fresh against his own, the sensory pleasure of their kiss warming his blood even now.

What in the hell was I thinking? he berated himself. Despite his convenient explanation to Meg, he’d had no intention of kissing her—not for show or for any other reason. But there she’d been, sitting next to him looking so pretty and earnest as she shared her concerns over the
cost of the gowns his mother was selecting. Everything had been fine—in fact, he’d been rather amused by her prideful worrying—until she mentioned the probable need for a wedding dress.

In the blink of an eye his humor had turned, irritation boiling up inside him along with other dark emotions he had no business feeling. And then he’d been kissing her, without a thought for their surroundings or the consequences of the act.

Thank God he’d come up with a reasonable excuse for his lapse. As for why he’d had the lapse in the first place…well, he supposed it was no more than her proximity and the fact that she was a very desirable woman. That was all the kiss had been, he assured himself—a physical act of no real importance. He decided not to dwell on it. Just as he refused to dwell upon the memory of the night she’d lain in his arms and his bed.

I will escort her to the balls and parties, dote upon her like an attentive fiancé, and see to it she is well received in Society. And when we are not in public, I will act like her brother.

Yes, that should serve, though perhaps not entirely, since he supposed Mama and Mallory might find something amiss if he treated Meg with no deeper regard than he did his siblings. He would treat her as…a friend. Yes, a friend with whom he shared a unique secret.

After all, is that not what we are already? Friends?

Two weeks later, on a fine evening in late March, Meg alighted from the Duke of Clybourne’s resplendent chaise-and-four. Taking Cade’s arm, she let him lead her up the steps of the Berkeley Square town house where she was to attend her very first ton ball. Accompany
ing them was the duke, the dowager duchess, and Lady Mallory, who was buzzing with barely suppressed excitement. As soon as their party entered the main foyer, several liveried footman came forward to take their outer garments.

Meg handed over her pelisse, then brushed her fingertips over her gown, to make sure the dress was straight. Rows of embroidered leaves graced the hem and rounded half sleeves of the garment’s sheer white tulle overskirt. The material beneath was fashioned from a length of cornflower blue silk that was gathered under the bust with a darker blue ribbon before falling in a light, frothy glide to the floor. Matching blue silk slippers graced her feet, the shoes just one more part of the massive wardrobe that had been delivered to the duke’s Grosvenor Square address only a few days earlier.

With their small group ready, they proceeded up another grand staircase to the ballroom—the atmosphere alive with a profusion of noise and color; the scent of beeswax, perfume, and floor polish drifting on the air.

Never in her life had Meg seen so many elegantly dressed people crowded into so confined a space. It was not that the house was small, rather the guest list was too large.

“What an unspeakable crush,” the dowager murmured as they threaded their way farther inside. “No doubt Lady Raybold’s reason for holding her entertainment before the Season actually begins. Fewer parties mean more people.”

“I only hope my come-out ball will be half so well-attended,” Mallory said. “I cannot believe it is next week.” Reaching for Meg’s gloved hand, she gave her
palm an anxious squeeze. “I’m just so glad we shall be sharing the evening together.”

Meg sent her a smile. “You are sure you do not mind? After all, it is your special day. I am not at all averse to stepping aside.”

“Don’t you dare! I’ll need you there to distract people from hearing my knees knock together when we’re standing in the receiving line.”

Meg laughed and Mallory joined her, the dowager and the men smiling.

“Besides,” Mallory continued. “My come-out has to be easier than my presentation to the Queen. I could hardly move in my court dress with that immense train and those ostrich feathers bobbing in my hair. I was sure I would stumble and make a fool of myself right in front of Her Majesty.”

“You did splendidly, dear,” the duchess said. “Queen Charlotte remarked that you seemed a very sweet child, high praise indeed from her.”

“Thank you, Mama. And thank you ever so much for letting me join you tonight.”

Ava smiled. “It would have been cruel otherwise, leaving you home by yourself. I suppose I might have insisted you wait for your ball, but since you’ve already been presented to Her Majesty, I can’t see the harm. Anyway, next week is the real start to the Season, and you are certain to make a tremendous splash.”

“And Meg, too,” Mallory added.

“Yes. And Margaret, too,” the duchess agreed with a happy expression.

“I want the evening to be for us both,” Mallory continued, giving Meg’s hand another squeeze. “Our first official introduction into Society at large.”

Meg smiled, touched by her generosity and kindness. Strictly speaking, she supposed that Mallory’s come-out ball would be her own official introduction. However, from what she’d experienced over the past several days, Society had already been busy making her acquaintance.

Ever since the notice of her and Cade’s engagement appeared in the
Morning Post
, the Clybourne House door knocker had barely stopped sounding. Every day a fresh round of visitors called, each new group seemingly bolder and more inquisitive than the last, all of them eager to be introduced to the future Lady Cade Byron.

Thankfully, Cade made a point of joining her for these visits, taking a seat next to her so he could deflect any questions that grew too personal or intrusive. He had a deft way about him, she’d observed, relying upon a combination of natural charm, humor, and, in extreme cases, a glare that would have sent the devil himself scurrying for cover.