Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series (4 page)

She blushed. Too late to recover from her embarrassment, she took the handkerchief and began to blot the dampness from her fingers.

“Now, what were you sneaking in here to try?” he mused, making it obvious with the way he turned his attention to the decanters that he wasn’t looking for her to answer.

From the corner of her eye, she watched him tap the tip of his finger against his lip. She had the sense that he was allowing her a moment to recover. That was, until he slipped his fingertip into his mouth and tasted the remnants of the mixture that had been on her skin. Something inside her tightened in a way that forced her to close her eyes. She blew out a slow exhale.

“Let’s see. . . . Were you after the port?” He made a show of sampling the flavor lingering on his tongue. Lifting one decanter, he inhaled and studied her with a sideways glance, as if he meant to read the answer in her expression.

She schooled her features into a perfectly neutral glower of disapproval.

He shook his head and set it down on the tray. “No. Far too bold and full bodied for a delicate palate.” If he noticed how she bristled at his presumption, he gave nothing away and lifted a second decanter. “Perhaps the scotch? Hmm . . .” He sniffed and made a show of wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Smoky and dry. Most likely, aged in a room of cigar-smoking old men. There isn’t an ounce of adventure in this spirit. And it’s my guess that it was adventure you were after.”

“You know nothing of me,” she said, unable to hold her tongue a moment longer. She’d experienced a symphony of emotions in the past few minutes, but she never quite lost her undertone of anger. She was angry at Mr. Clairmore for betraying her. Angry at Lady Amherst for inviting her. Angry at Eve for putting her in this position. And especially angry at being the source of both speculation and amusement. “Rumors are not always founded in truth, I hope you realize.”

He didn’t look at her but kept to his task of sniffing decanters. His grin, however, spoke volumes.

Suddenly, she felt as if he’d herded her into that outburst solely to hear her admit that, perhaps, she knew nothing of him either. Nothing but rumor.

Touché,
Lord Knightswold
.

“Brandy,” he said after a moment and turned to regard her. His gaze drifted to her mouth, as intimate as a caress. “You have brandy-sipping lips. Supple, with the slightest pout where their color changes from dusky pink to a deeper shade. No doubt, you even prefer coffee over tea.” He
tsked
as if the heat blooming on her cheeks was from his uncovering a shocking preference for coffee instead of from his brazen compliment.

No man had ever said such things to her or about her. She wasn’t sure how to respond. Not knowing bothered her. She was always sure of herself. Even when William had ended their five-year understanding, she’d known precisely what to say.

Yet now, her tongue was mute, and her head was filled with the sound of Knightswold’s voice, as if her brain matter consisted of warm Christmas pudding, deeply spiced and velvety.

While she was thinking, he’d withdrawn a short tulip-shaped glass from the lower cabinet, poured in a splash of liquid amber, and began swirling it with the bowl resting in his hand. “Warming it improves the fragrance. The glass is shaped to better appreciate the subtle nuances.”

Warmed by the heat of his hands.
She had no idea why the thought made her breathless. Perhaps it was because she could still feel the tingles he’d created. Those moonlit pagans were sitting in a drum circle now, waiting for the music to begin, as if they sensed that another performance wasn’t far off.

He lifted the glass, offering it to her, but she kept her hands by her sides. With a chuckle, he set the glass down. “It’s for the best. Our hands were getting
far
too familiar.”

She chose to ignore him and reached for the glass. As he’d done, she slipped the stem between the base of her fingers, resting the bowl in her palm. Tentatively, she swirled the golden liquid and lifted it to her nose. The sharp, fruity fragrance made the glands at the back of her jaw sting, but pleasantly, as if readying her tongue for a delight.

“Crisp, sweet apples,” she said, marveling at this discovery. It hadn’t smelled like this when she’d merely sniffed the decanter.

He smiled like a professor to his pupil. “Take a sip and let it linger on your tongue.”

She didn’t want to blush, but she couldn’t help it. One moment she was fine and the next, she felt those pagans stand at attention. The drum beat in a slow, steady rhythm. A gentleman would not mention her tongue. A gentleman would pretend it didn’t exist for the sake of propriety. Not Lord Knightswold, however. He spoke to her like she imagined men spoke to Eve. Like Mr. Clairmore had spoken of Miss Codington.

Normally, the only conversations she’d shared with men were more mundane talks about the weather or her needlepoint. Yet Lord Knightswold had commented on her tongue, as well as her dusky pink, brandy-sipping lips. While the things he said were shockingly bold, she didn’t mind as much as she professed to. After all, tonight was about being brave and confident.

This could be her last night in society, aside from Eve’s house party at the end of the week. Beyond that—if Eve’s plan didn’t work—she would be a spinster, and no man, well bred or otherwise, would speak to her, except out of censure and speculation. And after tonight, Merribeth had had her fill of speculation.

She would rather endure a dozen more blushes than return to Lady Amherst’s guests.

Merribeth took a sip, letting the liquid slide over her tongue. The first taste was slightly sharp but quickly mellowed to a sweet hint of caramel. The more the brandy lingered, the more the caramel transformed, the flavor deepening to something rich and creamy yet smoky. When she swallowed, the finish was slightly nutty, and she widened her eyes in amazement.

“Astounding!” She smiled, forgetting the gap between her front teeth for a moment. However, she remembered quickly enough when his gaze drifted to her mouth. Out of habit, she lifted her hand to conceal it. “I never realized how complex a spirit could be. The flavors altered several times, each one more intriguing than the last.”

He frowned, his brow lowering to cast his eyes in shadow. “Why did you do that—hide your mouth?”

To society at large, the flaw in her smile put her on the level with Chaucer’s
Wife of Bath
—a woman who could not control her lust. The simple fact that her virtue had never been remotely in jeopardy had never mattered. The
ton
had judged by her appearance.

Her diastema, also known as the Sign of Venus, was considered too vulgar for polite conversation. So of course, Lord Knightswold would take notice. “Though no one has ever mentioned it to me directly”—she stared at him pointedly—“I’ve read
The Canterbury Tales
. I’ve borne the scrutiny.”

“My, you are quite the scandalous creature.” He grinned, brushing the pad of his thumb across his bottom lip in a way that made hers tingle. Likely, he’d done it on purpose to keep her unsettled. “Born with a smile that makes men and women alike think of dimly lit rooms, stolen moments, and endless hours of—”

“Why are you here?” she interrupted, though she was certain he had a dozen or more scandalous exploits to keep him on Lady Amherst’s list indefinitely, thereby taking the focus off of her. She took another sip of brandy.

He watched her closely for a moment and then turned, heading toward the curtained window. “I lost a bet.”

“You?” Merribeth took a longer sip, her breath fogging the glass. She enjoyed the way the nuances of the brandy kept her thoughts occupied.

He offered a negligent shrug. “I thought I would try it in an effort to free myself from monotony.”

With his back to her, she decided to pour another splash into her glass and proceeded to warm it in her hand. “You lost on purpose, for the novelty?”

“Yes, and for the sake of keeping my friends. One cannot win all the time and still keep one’s friends. Besides, I’d been accused of being a rustic. I lost to serve two purposes.”

She laughed at that before she took another drink. This brandy was remarkable. Warming and smooth. She felt relaxed and . . . liquid. No longer rigid and inhibited. “Yet you are here, in a darkened room, where no one is likely to see you or even know you are present.”

He cast a sardonic glance over his shoulder. “You found me.”

“True. Much to my own embarrassment.” She’d fallen right into Eve’s trap. Although, she had to admit, when it came to men, perhaps Eve knew a thing or two.

Or three.

The idea made her giggle.

He turned and tsked at her in mock disapproval, like before. “You are, perhaps, the quickest drunkard I’ve ever witnessed.”

“Hardly.” She snorted. And because the sound was startling, foreign, and downright unmannerly, she giggled again. “I’ve had
barrels
more wine than this.” Wine with dinner, at any rate—which brought to mind the fact that she hadn’t eaten the dinner that evening. She’d been too nervous about attending the play.

“Most likely watered down.”

She nodded absently in agreement. Aunt Sophie
would
water down the wine. Thinking that he might have a point about drinking too much too quickly, she set down the glass and released a little sigh of farewell to her first and possibly
last
taste of brandy.

“Now, give back my handkerchief,” he said, holding out his hand as he returned to her side. “You’re the sort to keep it as a memento. I cannot bear the thought of my handkerchief being worshipped by a forlorn
miss
by moonlight or tucked away with mawkish reverence beneath a pillow.”

The portrait he painted was so laughable that she smiled, heedless of exposing her flaw. “You flatter yourself. Here.” She dropped it into his hand as she swept past him, prepared to leave. “I have no desire to touch it a moment longer. I will leave you to your pretense of sociability.”

“‘Tis no pretense. I have kept good company this evening.”

Either the brandy had gone to her head, impairing her hearing, or he’d actually sounded sincere. She paused, resting her hands on the carved rosewood filigree that edged the top of the sofa. “Much to my own folly. I never should have listened to Lady Eve Sterling. It was her lark that sent me here.”

“Oh? How so?” He feigned believable surprise, but she knew better.

If it weren’t for the brandy, she would have left by now. Merribeth rarely had patience for such games, and she knew his question was part of a game he must have concocted with Eve. “She claimed to have forgotten her reticule and sent me here to fetch it—no doubt wanting me to find you.”

He looked at her as if confused.
But Bane and Eve
must
know each other
, she told herself. Why send her in search of a missing reticule when there was none to be found? Regardless, his company had turned out to be exactly the diversion she’d needed, and she was willing to linger. “I’ve no mind to explain it to you. After all, you were abetting her plot, lying in wait on this very sofa.” She brushed her fingers over the smooth fabric, thinking of him lying there in the dark. “Not that I blame you. Lady Eve is a difficult person to whom to say no. However, I will conceal the truth from her, and we can carry on as if her plan came to fruition. It would hardly have served its purpose anyway.”

He moved toward her, his broad shoulders outlined by the distant torchlight filtering in through the window behind him. “Refresh my memory then. What was I meant to do whilst in her employ?”

She blushed again. Was he going to make her say the words aloud? No gentleman would.

So, of course,
he
would. She decided to get it over with as quickly as possible. “She professed that a kiss from a rake could instill confidence and mend a broken heart.”

He stopped, impeded by the sofa between them. His brow lifted in curiosity. “Have you a broken heart in need of mending?”

The deep murmur of his voice, the heated intensity in his gaze, and quite possibly the brandy all worked against her better sense and sent those tingles dancing again.

Oh, yes,
she thought as she looked up at him.
Yes, Lord Knightswold. Mend my broken heart.

However, her mouth intervened. “I don’t believe so.” She gasped at the realization. “I should, you know. After five years, my heart should be in shreds. Shouldn’t it?”

He turned before she could read his expression and then sat down on the sofa, affording her a view of the top of his head. “I know nothing of broken hearts or their mending.”

“Pity,” she said, distracted by the dark silken locks that accidentally brushed her fingers. “Apparently, neither do I.”

However accidental the touch of his hair had been, now her fingers threaded through the fine strands with untamed curiosity and blatant disregard for propriety.

Lord Knightswold let his head fall back, permitting—perhaps even encouraging—her to continue. She did, without thought to right, wrong, who he was, or who she was supposed to be. Running both hands through his hair, massaging his scalp, she watched his eyes drift closed.

Then, Merribeth Wakefield did something she never intended to do.

She kissed a rake.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

T
he soft press of her lips wasn’t entirely unexpected. She’d been gazing fixedly on his mouth, and a kiss seemed the obvious conclusion. But Bane would have put money against her going through with it. She wasn’t the spontaneous, reckless sort, or else she wouldn’t have waited all these years for her first taste of brandy.

Bane didn’t know her name, anything about her background, or her circumstances. At the moment, it didn’t matter.

Typically, he knew everyone—the result of spending most of his life waiting for another sharp knife to plunge into his back. One could never be too careful.

Yet within moments of their unexpected meeting, he’d gained a sense that she wasn’t like the others. She didn’t have an ulterior motive. None that he discerned, at any rate.

She’d merely found herself caught off guard by his presence and then lingered out of curiosity. He’d made sure of it. He’d wanted to make her curious. Wanted her to linger, which was . . .
odd
for him, although the reason it was odd escaped him at present.