Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series (15 page)

In the hall, her sudden appearance surprised three maids and a footman, who were all lingering near the staircase, no doubt listening to the music. Everyone jerked to attention, including her. She tried to think of a request that would explain her exit from the parlor, but she was too afraid of what she might say by accident.

Feeling out of her depth, she merely nodded and proceeded to walk briskly down the hall, as if she’d been sent on a mission of the highest priority.

B
ane wondered if murdering Montwood would alter his agreement with Eve.

It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t be participating in the various activities at the party. He’d commit the murder on his own time. Perhaps invite Montwood on an outing where the lad would have a riding mishap near the edge of the cliffs. Of course, there was always the possibility of a hunting accident. Or drowning . . .

“I hope that wicked grin has to do with our plans for later,” Daniela said, gripping his sleeve and rubbing her breasts against his arm. “Daphne Broadmore claims you’ve learned quite a few tricks from a French countess.”

The vision of Montwood’s lifeless body floating in the murky depths of the pond faded when he looked up from his cup of coffee. His grin faded as well when Montwood began another ribald tune.

Merribeth had not returned. While he was glad he didn’t have to endure watching her adhere so . . . thoroughly to the task he put upon her so, he also didn’t like wondering where she was. He’d assumed she’d merely stepped out into the hall for a breath of fresh air because she’d been unprepared for her flirtations to be so successful.

He could tell she had no idea what a temptation she created.

A quarter hour had passed since then. He made sure to keep an eye on Archer and Montwood. Both were still in the parlor. Only now, he needed to extricate himself without inciting curiosity.

He knew that any random excuse would draw suspicion. However, if he could force Daniela into causing a scene . . . He was ashamed at the idea that came to mind. Or at least, he
should
have been ashamed. And that was enough for him. “I was imagining something much more diverting.”

Her breath escaped her in a laugh, her gaze drifting down to his mouth, where he purposely flicked his tongue over the tip of his canine. “
More
diverting, even than what you did to . . . Daphne?” Her breasts heaved against him, her eyes glittering as if she’d stumbled upon buried treasure.

He nodded. “Though, I must warn you, years of being jaded have twisted my interests. I’ve abandoned the French method. The way I see it, the Corsairs had the right of it—whips, bondage, and a certain amount of force to gain total submission.”

He waited for her to gasp and withdraw. Instead, Daniela wet her lips. Apparently, he had her on the hook.

He tried another tactic. “Of course, I haven’t mastered the art of not leaving marks . . . but I’m sure they’ll heal in time. My previous lover—
not, the widow Broadmore,
though it would be ungentlemanly of me to divulge her identity—is recovering well. At least, that was the last accounting I heard since she removed herself from society. I’m sure she’ll be able to stop wearing veils . . . someday.”

Absorbing this, Daniela swallowed, her face going pale. “She was left with . . . scars?”

“Not too many.” He shrugged. “I’m certain she’ll find another lover who won’t mind them . . . eventually.”

Eyes wide, she took a step back.

He advanced, keeping his voice low. “I’d assumed that by your obvious displays, you were equally jaded. I’d convinced myself that with such a reputation preceding you that your methods of seduction, which offer no real distinction between you and, say, a common chambermaid, were all to hide your true perversions. I thought we were of like mind.”

She swallowed. “We are not.”

“Pity.” He pursed his lips. “At the present time, I’ve no interest in a mild diversion. However, once we’ve returned to town . . .
perhaps
.” After all, he didn’t want to burn a bridge entirely when he didn’t have to. All he needed was an excuse to leave the parlor.

He saw the war within her, one part insulted, the other mortified. The former won the moment, and she narrowed her eyes. The outer edges of her rouged lips turned white. Yet even in her fury, she still didn’t hold a candle to a single arched brow from Miss Wakefield.

“How is this for a
mild
diversion?” She shoved his arm, effectively spilling coffee over his sleeve and waistcoat.

He gave her a smile and a nod. “Thank you, Mrs. Pearce,” he said, meaning it thoroughly.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

S
eeing a faint trace of light glowing beneath the library door, Bane turned the knob. “I knew I would find you in here.”

Startled, Miss Wakefield jumped and nearly dropped the open lamp she held. The taper wobbled, the flame sputtering. Drawing the candle closer, she shielded it behind the cup of her hand.

The flame grew brighter instantly, illuminating her narrowed eyes. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“And you should be thankful it’s only me and not Montwood.” Thinking about what he’d witnessed, his jaw hardened, a muscle ticking when he gritted his teeth.

She scoffed. “
Only
you?”

Even though they both knew he was equally as dangerous, or more so, to her reputation, he didn’t concede the point to her. “After the way you teased and flirted with him, I’d not be surprised to hear him knocking at your bedchamber later, expecting recompense for the state you put him in.”

“Montwood is charming, but anyone who spent more than five minutes with him would know his tastes run to more ample pockets. However, the same cannot be said of your tastes. It seems you prefer feminine endowments that are all flesh and no substance.” Now, she cupped her hand around her ear. “Strange, I wonder if I’ll hear the scratch of the widow Pearce’s fingernails on your door?”

He grinned. “You’re jealous.”

Merribeth bristled. “I would no more be jealous of her than you would be of Montwood.”

“Jealous of Montwood? That over-pandering peacock?” The idea appalled him. He’d never been jealous a day in his life. Though the notion that he could be experiencing it for the first time left him unsettled. As it wasn’t true in the least, he didn’t know why he let it bother him.

“
Jealous
, indeed,” she said with a huff, mirroring his thoughts. With a withering glance, she turned back to study the shelves. “And furthermore, I came in here for the sole purpose of finding a book. I wasn’t running from anything.”

“Or making a hermit of yourself in the midst of a party?”

She exhaled through her nostrils, nearly blowing out the candle. “If that were the case, then I’d give you the blame for infecting me with your tendencies.”

That made him grin. “I would readily take the blame if it were mine,” he said, surprised at how much he liked the idea of having as great an influence on her behavior as she was on his. “Yet we both know you fled the parlor when your attempts at flirtation were successful.”

“Perhaps I’m searching for reading material to better understand the topics of the widow Pearce’s luncheon conversation.”

Her blue eyes sparkled with amusement, as if she doubted his ability to know anything about her in the short time of their acquaintance. After spending days with her occupying his thoughts, he’d catalogued every mannerism, every
tell
, that gave her away.

He also knew the difference in her blushes now, the subtle alterations in color that told him if she was nervous, embarrassed, or
curious
.

At the moment, the soft peach tint to her cheeks and the steadiness of her gaze told him it was the last. The knowledge should have warned him away, for her own good as well as for his, yet the opposite happened. He took another step toward her.

She pretended to return her attention to the shelves. Raven ringlets spilled over her forehead, no doubt, in an effort to conceal her brow, though he couldn’t fathom why. It was one of the things he liked best about her.
One of the things?
There was another sobering thought. If that was only one, then there had to be scores of others.

Her gown was of a simple design, a high-wasted confection in blue silk with cap sleeves. Fine stitches of silver-embroidered ivy followed the neckline down to the enticing handfuls of her breasts. On anyone else, such a gown might be considered plain, but her form needed no enhancement. Her slender body curved in all the right places and made his palms itch with the desire to mold and caress her flesh.

He leaned in to whisper. “The truth of why you fled the parlor is, you’re unsure of yourself and what’s expected of you. You detest being uncertain.”

She turned sharply. “How could you—” She broke off when she noted his close proximity. He feigned innocence, pretending to read the titles with her. “I’m certain no one enjoys the prospect of finding oneself at another’s mercy.” The haughtiness of her tone quickly turned to a husky breath.

His gaze dipped to her mouth. “I don’t know, Miss Wakefield. In my limited experience, being in a darkened study a week ago—at the mercy of a professed thief, mind you—was quite liberating. Seduction can be tiresome work. All that plotting and wooing . . .” He let out an exhausted sigh before a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I must say it was a nice alteration.”

The candle trembled in her hand. “There was no thievery involved, if you recall.”

Oh, he
recalled
. Far too much. Every blessed moment of that night and every moment since. “The becoming blush on your cheeks belies your bold tongue, my dear.” He chuckled and lifted his hand to snare the curl teasing the shell of her ear.

Miss Wakefield’s lips parted, and her eyes closed as if in anticipation for his touch. Then, at the very last moment, she took a step back. Her eyes flashed open, her pupils still wide with desire. “I take back what I’d said before about having no proof of your prowess for flirting. You are quite skilled. My embarrassment and curiosity are constant rivals. It leads me to wonder how you became the man I see before me.”

“The usual manner.” He shrugged absently, letting his hand fall to his side as he propped a shoulder against the bookcase. He enjoyed their play. Again,
far
too much. So it was probably for the best that he allowed her to steer the conversation onto another path.

“Why is it that you do not have a wife and heir and profess to desire neither? It goes against all the lessons young women are taught. We are educated and refined for the purpose of convincing gentlemen that we would not only make good wives but mothers to their children—children who will inherit the title and resume the entire process for generations to come.”

He smiled easily, amused by her effort to unsettle him. “Not all men want the same thing, Miss Wakefield. Some enjoy the freedom of their pursuits.”

“For a time, of course. Some men even enjoy those pursuits after marriage,” she said, undeterred from her topic, even when another blush threatened to undermine the aloof pretense she’d adopted.

“And you wouldn’t mind if your husband continued his own”—he took a step toward her—“
pursuits
after marriage?”

She held her ground and brushed the curls from her forehead. “If I should be lucky enough to find love and respect in my marriage, then I would expect fidelity, of course.”

Her brow was exposed, sending another surge of lust through him. She had no idea how much time he’d spent fantasizing about the tempting arch. How he’d imagined her with her brow arched in a carnal challenge to pleasure her for endless hours.

“
Find
love?” he asked, shifting ever closer. “Do you not already possess it for your Mr. Clairmore?”

At that, her gaze turned wintry. The color of her gown brought out the striations in her irises, inviting him to notice the different hues threaded together, captivating him. “Surely, the answer to that question could be of no interest to you. I am, after all, a marriage-minded woman.”

“More’s the pity.” If only she set her determination on a prize worth winning. Like what? Him? To become his mistress? No. That was no prize. Such a life wasn’t good enough for her and would only lead Venus into heartache. She deserved more than that. More than someone like him.

When she made a move to exit, he reached out and snatched her hand.

“I find this conversation tiresome,” she said, staying a step apart from him, though without any effort to free herself.

He felt his mood slide into darkness, but it did not dissuade his desire for her. Quite the opposite. In fact, knowing that Eve had invited Montwood solely for sake of flirting openly with Merribeth, he suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to bolt the library door and take her against the bookcases. Claim her. Leave his mark on her.

“I came to dictate your second lesson.”

“I do not think—”

“Your smile,” he interrupted and watched her flinch.

“What about it?”

He moved a half step closer. “You cannot hide it.” It would be easy to pull her into his arms, yet somehow he managed restraint. “For every time you do, you’ll owe me one kiss. And not the borrowed kind either. These, I will keep.”

Her soft fragrance rose from the heated flesh of her throat, where he saw a single bead of perspiration make a slow journey downward toward the valley above her collarbone. His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeper. The desire to taste her shuddered through him.

“You ask too much of me.”

“Perhaps.” Bane affected a shrug, all the while feeling the heated rise of his pulse and the weakening of his control. He hadn’t planned this. Then again, he hadn’t retracted the challenge either. In fact, anticipation nearly consumed him. The desire to claim her, to make her his, thundered through his veins—
his soul
—heedless of right or wrong. “You are determined to be successful in your quest, are you not?”

“Of course.” Merribeth lifted her gaze and stared at him intently, as if searching for honorable intentions or promises for the future.

She would never find those things in him.