The Scandal Before Christmas (5 page)

She had been entirely, lividly still, her eyes pinned to his as he spoke. She had seemed almost … interesting.

Or perhaps she was merely interested. Or just being polite.

Whichever it was, it was gone now, the spark, snubbed out just as quickly as it had this afternoon, when he had inadvertently—no, he had done it quite deliberately, though he had not done it on purpose—insulted her beyond all bounds of propriety. But propriety and following of rules had never been his strong suit. Not while growing up under the exacting and dictatorial hand of his father, and not during his formative years in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, learning the hard way to acquit himself in the honorable and proficient execution of his duty.

But in the navy he had had friends—friends who had looked after him and showed him the way to get things done, even if it occasionally meant bending the rules. Friends who stood by him. Friends who had shared his good luck.

And what he needed to do was make Miss Anne Lesley his friend, and get her alone again so she might talk to him as she had on the beach—as if she did not hate him.

Ian refilled his glass with claret from the dusty bottle at his elbow—purloined from his father’s expensively overstocked cellars—and let Mrs. Lesley have her noisy way with the rest of the conversation. “How often do your parents, the Viscount and Viscountess Rainesford, come to visit you here? Or are you quite at home in Ciren Castle? I understand it’s a very large estate…”

Ian shut his ears to her ceaseless drone, and concentrated on that glimpse of whatever it was—intelligence, defiance, curiosity—he had seen in Anne Lesley. His intended bride—and despite their monstrously bad start, he reckoned he still had a chance with her—was smart. He had not imagined her quick-wittedness when she had exerted herself on his behalf.

Of course, it wouldn’t do to have her so enthralled with him she wanted to wander the world with him. Bugger up his career quite badly, a wife aboard would. On the other hand, if she were content to wait at home, and listen with breathless attention to his
colorful
stories, that would be another thing entirely.

And she really wasn’t as ordinary as he had originally thought. There was something about her—he was not yet quite sure what—that was intriguing. Her eyes
were
too brown, her nose too long, and her mouth too wide to conform to any accustomed standards of beauty. But there was something else, some glint of something wise and warm in the golden depths of those eyes. And there was something elegant in the length of her nose, which made her something of a silent, dark swan among the more conventionally plumed beauties. And what was more, there was something desperately solemn in her countenance, that made him want to exert himself to ease the grim line of her mouth, and make her smile.

And really, what choice did he have but to make the best of it? Even if he did bolt off to London, there was no guarantee he could find something—someone—better. Pinky was right—a wren in the hand was worth more than the possibility of an empty bush.

He made himself consider her afresh. Her skin, though it seemed pale, appeared smooth and even enough. And for another thing, now that he looked closely, he found her figure—at least the small portion of it he could discern across the top of the table—quite unobjectionable. She was tallish, but fine-boned. Though her clothing was rather nondescript—plain brown wool, buttoned up to the collar, and entirely unadorned—the high-waisted garment fit well through her shoulders. And, oh, yes, there at the top of her bodice resided the lovely evidence that she was in fact a young woman. The sweetly rounded swells of her breasts might just about fill his palms, if he—

God’s balls.

Dining room. Claret. Smile and nod politely, and keep eyes well away from bodices, and all thoughts of the corset that must be pushing her small but perfectly formed breasts up, presenting them for his perusal and enjoyment.

Devil take him. So much for indifference.

Ian shifted restlessly in his chair. He was sure he could find more mitigating faults, if he but looked for them again.

Her dark hair was parted severely down the center, as was the current fashion, but instead of dangling ringlets, it was pulled back and severely knotted at her nape, each and every strand kept scrupulously in place. The severity of the hairstyle, and the dark, unappealing color of her hair did little to set off her high cheekbones and firm chin, making her appear a bit grim and angular.

That was it, concentrate on grim and angular, and forget about the appeal of her lovely breasts. She was rather slight, and perhaps too tall—side by side at the table, she was a full head taller than her mother. Yet, out on the beach, the girl’s head hadn’t reached any higher than his collar. Of course her unassuming, fadeaway air probably made her seem smaller. But perhaps once he got her alone, and got her angry, he would see that spark. Perhaps, if he took matters literally in hand, and simply backed her up against a wall, and filled—

No. He would not think about walls, or bending over chairs, or spreading upon dining room tables, though it was nearly impossible not to think of such things when all he was meant to be doing was deciding if he liked the girl enough to get her with child. But judging from the growing state of his own arousal, he liked her bloody well enough, indeed.

“Cap’n?” Pinky—tricked up in an old blue bosun’s coat that he evidently thought suitable to the grandness of the occasion—was at his elbow, bending to speak in close confidence, as he presented Ian with a plate of fruit.

Ian snagged a tangerine orange. “What is it?” Devil take him if they’d run out of claret.

“I was thinking as maybe how it might be a lovely time to show the maidy round the house? While I bring the colonel and his missus some port and chocolate. The music room, cap’n? Per’aps the maidy plays? We could sore use some music round here.”

For all of Pinky’s lack of subtlety, it was an excellent suggestion, just as the old tar’s prompting to follow the wren down to the beach had been. One that would give him time alone with her.

“Miss Lesley,” Ian said as amiably as possible once he had finished both his callow ogling and his fruit. “Would you care to take a tour of the house?” An informal tour would be an unobjectionable activity that would occupy them away from her parents for a decent interval, and give him another chance to charm her into agreeing to the marriage.

“Oh, goodness, no,” Mrs. Lesley objected. “It’s far too late for that. Anne will need her rest, and want to retire, I’m quite sure.”

To Ian’s eyes, Anne did not look ready to retire. Anne looked ready to advance. Anne looked, in fact, as if other people making decisions for her might be kindling the fire of that magnificent, contained rage he was so curious about.

“Nonsense.” Ian skated a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece—it was not yet nine o’clock. “It’s early yet.” He rose, and simply reached out and took his would-be bride’s hand, and he walked her toward the door. “We’ll leave you to your sherry.”

“See if you can get more than two words out of her,” the colonel mouthed as they passed.

Ian saw Anne color deeply—a hot flush streaked up the side of her neck, and she turned her face to the floor in mortification. Or perhaps in that subtle, restrained anger that so intrigued him. Ian found himself eager to find out.

“Well, you have your marching orders, Miss Lesley,” he said for her ears alone as he ushered her out the door of the dining room. “You are hereby required to contribute more than two words as you inspect the premises. Or perhaps you might defer them until some later time. Perhaps in the morning, on another walk, when we march resolutely toward the village of St. Helens.”

His teasing had goaded her into looking at him then, giving him a glimpse of heat firing in the depths of her eye. “As you wish, lieutenant.”

The words were quiet, but hot.

“Four already. But I shan’t let you off that lightly. And you did promise not to call me lieutenant.”

“I never did.”

She was so resolutely battened down, he could feel his own sail shaking loose to run before the wind. “Ian,” he insisted, just as determined as she. But he was determined to find out what made the quiet, serious Miss Lesley tick. So far, her pleasure was limited to walking.

“Sir—”

“Ian. Give it a try.” He gave her his best, most winning smile—the one that made barmaids forget to charge him for his beer, and offer up other delights instead.

And it was working. She was having trouble keeping her determined look in order—she had to keep pursing her lips. “I—”

“Almost. Almost. But you didn’t say ‘sir,’ so I shan’t object any more this evening. This way.” He walked her all the way up the central corridor to the other side of the house, to begin the tour in the small front parlor that Ian had come to think of as the music room. There was a pianoforte and a harp that had come with the house, but they were never used. Well, just that once by the corps de ballet—a lovely “performance” involving a picturesque shedding of clothing that had preceded the memorable dinner the night he had moved into the house. Ian was half afraid there might still be a silken shift left carelessly about, draped over the harp perhaps, but thanks to the able Totts, there were no echoes of evenings past.

“Do you play, Miss Lesley?”

“Yes.” Her voice was hushed, and almost reverent. “I had no idea you would have— May I play on it sometimes? When you’re not here?” The words came in a quiet rush, as if she didn’t know quite what to do with them in her mouth.

He did—use them to charm and ease her along. “Excellent. Of course you may play it. Anytime you like.”

She was trailing her fingers along the keys in a lingering, loving caress—the first hint of physicality or sensuality he had seen.

“Why not now? I’d love to hear you play.” He flung himself into one of the large armchairs in the corner and prepared himself to be surprised.

But she didn’t oblige him. She snatched her fingers back as if they had been burned. “Oh, no. I couldn’t.”

“Why not? You must do as you please.”

She looked at him as if the idea were as foreign and farfetched as a South Seas island.

“Truly, Anne. If we marry it will be
your
pianoforte—I don’t play. It will be your house, to do with as you please.”

But even this piece of generosity—and he thought it enormously generous of himself to give his marvelously comfortable house, that he had paid for with his own prize monies and made into such a comfortable haven, over to her without a sigh—could not produce a smile. Her solemn gravity lightened not a whit. In fact, she looked dangerously close to tears.

“Is this how you always get your way?” Her eyes were wide and luminous, and her voice, quiet and ravaged. “By charming everyone into doing your bidding by giving them their heart’s desire?”

Ian had forgotten what it was to feel pity. He couldn’t afford such a costly emotion in his professional like. But his heart ached for her, this girl whose expectation of life were so low that he could have so easily and unthinkingly provided her with her heart’s desire.

But he had no idea how to stem the tears. He could only tease.

“Yes.” He rose, and went to her, and took the hand she had raised to cover her mouth. And provided her with his most cajoling smile. “Exactly. I should very much like to give you your heart’s desire. And I have already got you to do my bidding. That’s fifty-odd words already, by my count.”

It worked.

“Fifty-two.” She tried to make her whisper tart, to pull away and hide behind the shield of her solemnity, but she could not hide the luminous sweetness of her first watery smile.

He felt his lips stretch into an answering grin. “Oh, Miss Lesley. I really ought to warn you, I’m desperately fond of impertinence. And pert intelligence most especially. If you get any more pert, I think I might just have to kiss you.”

Chapter Six

Anne felt a slow spreading panic—like the strange, suspended lethargy of a dream, where she tried and tried to run but could not manage to move—creep upon her. Even her breath felt heavy and mired in indecision. It was not like her, this indecision, this not knowing what to think. Inaction she was accustomed to—bottling up her reactions and wants—but indecision, never.

“Why would you want to do that?” It was an idiot’s question—a nonsensical placeholder until she could adequately order her wits, and use that pert intelligence he was teasing her about.

And he
was
teasing. He must be with his strong hands, and his slow smiles, and his soft, crinkled blue eyes as inviting as a warm bath.

“Because you are letting me.” His answer was low and languorous, and he watched her steadily, his eyes open and his attention settled singly upon her. By slow increments, he lowered his head toward hers. So, so slowly, as if it were some sort of test of patience she did not know how to pass.

So she held herself still and watched him approach, until she could no longer meet his eyes. Because she had to look at his mouth—his laughing, teasing, open mouth—as his lips continued to descend toward hers. And then, because she did not know what to do, other than try to hold herself entirely still, she turned awkwardly with him when he ducked, and then angled his head so his lips might finally reach hers.

But they did. He was kissing her.

His lips were softer than she expected, and harder all at the same time. Firmer, she supposed, not knowing how one was supposed to describe a man’s lips. But she thought his were like raspberries—pliant velvet with the barest hint of prickle.

He brushed his lips across hers, once, twice, back and forth, testing her out before he settled more properly upon her. The whiskers just lurking beneath his clean shaven chin roughed gently against her skin, and she felt everything—every part of her body and every inch of her skin—come to startled, prickling awareness,

His lips plucked at her gently, imploringly, begging for her attention as he had done on the beach. But he had all of her attention, all of her alertness, all of her astonished hope. But her astonishment soon faded, leaving in its empty path awakened curiosity.