He winced. Still chasing after his approval it would seem.
He nodded at a widow, garbed from head to foot in starched bombazine, whose name he couldn’t recall. She prattled on, sharing some anecdote about his father.
He gulped down the last of his champagne, wishing for something stronger.
“Oh, it’s splendid having you home safely, my lord. We’re all praying for the safe return of your brother.”
“You’re too kind,” he murmured.
“Nonsense. Lord McDowell is loved by all. We can’t lose him, too.”
“I am sure he will return safely.”
Suddenly he caught a glimpse of hair as pale as moonbeams. It was there for a second and then gone, lost amid dancing figures and fluttering love knots.
He set his glass down. “If you’ll pardon me,” he murmured, not even hearing the widow’s response as he walked along the perimeter of the dance floor, stalking only one female.
He saw nothing else, acknowledged no one, nor the stares he was getting as he chased after another glimpse of the hair that could belong to only one. Suddenly bodies parted and there was a break in the crowd.
And there she was.
Fetching in a white gown trimmed in pink and gold ribbon. The waltz faded to a close and she stepped free of her partner’s arms.
Jamie inched along, watching as the pair glided together from the dance floor. Her partner settled her hand in the crook of his arm much too intimately in Jamie’s opinion. She glowed, her face flushed and her dark eyes gleaming like polished onyx.
A foul taste coated his mouth as the fair-haired man at her side closed his hand over hers in the crook of her arm. Who was he? Had she already moved on, found a suitor to deliver on the passion she sought? Apparently his actions hadn’t frightened her from her selfish quest, after all. A growl rose up in his throat as he watched them move toward the balcony door.
“Lord Winningham, so delighted you could attend our little fête this evening.”
He turned his gaze to the baroness, detecting the barest hint of scorn in her gaze. No one else would note it, but he did. Although all politeness, he detected the chilly reserve in her blue eyes. She’d never cared for him. Of course not. She was a friend to Paget and probably knew every wretched thing he had ever done or said.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he returned, performing a quick bow over her hand and donning an affable smile.
“Indeed.” Her smile deepened but still did not quite reach her eyes.
He could not help himself; his gaze slid to the balcony doors just as Paget and the stranger reached them.
“Have you made the acquaintance of Mr. Bromley yet? Such a delightful man.”
He shot her a quick glance, seeing she had followed his gaze to the departing pair.
“No, I have not had the pleasure.”
“Mr. Bromley attended school with my dear Sir John.”
There was something in her voice that snared his attention. A certain wistfulness. He looked at her again. Even though Paget and the gentleman in question had vanished outdoors, the baroness still stared after them, a vaguely cunning look on her face.
Watching her closely, he murmured, “Unfortunate he does not live in closer proximity.”
She looked back at him. “He’s close enough. Relationships have been forged with greater distances as a hurdle.”
And with that, he knew. She was matchmaking Paget with this Bromley fellow. He inhaled deeply, his chest tightening uncomfortably.
From all appearances, Paget had no intention on waiting for Owen. She had made up her mind. She was actively searching for her passionate romance. Anger simmered in his veins. Apparently she had found her first candidate in Bromley.
He clung to his smile and murmured, “I understand completely. And so would my brother, Lord McDowell.” He let his gaze settle on her pointedly. “He would agree with you that relationships can stand the test of any distance. And time.”
Faint color spotted her cheeks. It gratified him to see that she was not without conscience. She might not care for him, but he knew she cared about his brother. She should consider Owen as she was thrusting Paget into the arms of other men. His hand curled at his side at the mere notion.
“Indeed,” she muttered. Looking over her shoulder, she feigned an expression of distraction . . . as though suddenly seeing something that required her attention. “If you’ll pardon me, my lord.”
“Of course.” He wasted little time watching her weave through the crowd. He cut a line straight for the balcony doors, intent on locating Paget and putting a stop to her budding romance with Bromley. For Owen. He owed it to Owen.
It had nothing to do with the hot surge of possession that rose up inside him at the thought of Paget in the arms of another man.
CHAPTER SIX
* * *
Several guests milled along the stretch of balcony, reassuring Paget that a stroll with her dancing partner was not unseemly. Flushed from dancing, Paget didn’t even mind the chill.
“You dance like an angel, Miss Ellsworth.”
Paget stifled a snort at the compliment. An exaggeration to say the least, but she was flattered nonetheless. Jamie would never bother to praise her with such a falsehood. He wasn’t the sort to issue empty praise. At least he wouldn’t waste his breath doing so to her. On the other hand, perhaps a lady he was courting . . .
Blast! Must he her thoughts turn to him at every turn?
She slid her companion a glance beneath her lashes as he led her down the steps toward the burbling fountain. A self-proclaimed outdoorsman, Bromley was handsome and ruddy-faced from long hours outside. Only a few inches taller than herself, he was stocky and solid enough to make her feel feminine beside him despite his lack of height.
They circled the fountain, her hand snug in the crook of his arm. “You’re not cold?” he inquired. “I could fetch your cloak for you.”
She shook her head. “Thank you, no. The dancing left me quite warm.”
He nodded agreeably. “Dancing can be exerting, as well as diverting. An excellent recreation.”
She nodded, too, wondering if they should move on to the topic of weather next. She bit the inside of her cheek and reprimanded herself to give him a chance. He could simply be nervous and not merely boring. She needed to be more amenable. Every other male in the vicinity considered her unavailable. He was the first gentleman whom she had not known all her life who actually appeared interested in her.
Fewer people mingled around the fountain, so close to the spray of the water. Paget and Bromley rounded the backside of it, well out of sight of any guests.
“I confess to apprehension when the baroness insisted that we meet.”
Paget laughed lightly. “She is not known for her subtly.”
“In this case, I am only glad at her enthusiasm.”
Her gaze flicked to his lips. Nice enough, she supposed. She wondered if they possessed the power to reduce her to a quivering state of desire as Jamie’s mouth had done.
Devil it! There she went again, consumed with thoughts of him, comparing the first gentleman she met to him.
He turned and caught her staring so intently at him. She knew modesty should dictate that she look away . . . for her to behave as a demure vicar’s daughter ought to in the company of a gentleman she only just met. And yet she couldn’t do that. She was too curious. Too determined to see if what had transpired with her and Jamie had truly been a singular event.
His look turned speculative as he held her gaze.
Clearing his throat, he turned away for a moment, scanning the area around them, confirming that they were in fact alone.
Satisfied, he inched ever closer. “Miss Ellsworth,” he murmured. “Is it rash of me to say how propitious I find our meeting this evening?”
She smiled, trying to ignore her frisson of unease as the front of his jacket brushed against her. How would she know if what she experienced with Jamie was a truly singular occurrence i
f she did not . . . practice with other gentlemen?
He reached a hand to her cheek and brushed back a loose tendril of hair. “I owe a debt to our hostess.”
His eyes were close now, and she could see, even in the dim shadows, that they were quite brown. Dull and lightless.
She was suddenly filled with the certainty that he was going to kiss her. His face inched closer, moving slowly, testing her willingness, giving her plenty of time to pull away. But why should she do that? She had begun this.
Except now, kissing this man, this stranger—on the heel of Jamie’s kiss—struck her as thoroughly distasteful. Drat the man! He was ruining matters even when he was not present to do so.
She flattened a hand on Mr. Bromley’s chest, ready to push him away, when a deep voice cut through the evening.
“Ah, there you are.”
Mr. Bromley jumped and took a hasty step back.
Her face flushed guiltily, imagining how they must look. Her gaze swung to the new arrival and her stomach sank. She should have known that voice. It haunted her thoughts since his return.
Mr. Bromley blinked, stiffening. “Begging your pardon—”
“Lord Winningham,” she murmured, her voice breathless.
Mr. Bromley relaxed at the sound of Jamie’s title and smoothed a hand along the nonexistent wrinkles marring the front of his jacket, suddenly mindful of his appearance. He took an even wider step from her, putting a respectable distance between them.
“You must be Mr. Bromley. One of the ladies . . .” He tapped his chin looking insincerely apologetic. “Sorry. I’ve forgotten her name. Been gone too long, I fear. She asked me to fetch you.”
Forgot her name indeed! Paget would wager that there was no such lady in need of Mr. Bromley. Her gaze narrowed on Jamie.
“I suppose I best return inside. Miss Ellsworth?” Mr. Bromley looked at her uncertainly, regretfully.
“I’ll see her back,” Jamie volunteered.
Bromley nodded and executed a quick bow before hurrying away.
“That was dreadful of you,” she charged as soon as they were alone.
“I did what needed to be done to save you from yourself.”
“I was not aware that I was in need of saving.”
“Come. You did not think to toss Owen aside for that?” He waved a hand in the direction Mr. Bromley had taken.
She lifted her nose. “Mr. Bromley is a gentleman.”
“A gentleman.” He snorted. “I thought you were looking for passion. You’ll hardly find it with the likes of him. You could do better.”
“Forgive me if I don’t trust your advice, my lord.”
He shrugged. “I simply can’t see that prig giving you a taste of what you so obviously crave.”
Her cheeks burned. “You make it sound so terribly vulgar.”
His eyes peered at her, dark in the shadows of the garden. “Have you forgotten what transpired between us? I haven’t. I know what burns inside you.” He stepped closer, his voice lowering to a husky pitch. “I tasted it for myself.” He motioned behind him. “When it comes to what you’re looking for, you won’t find it in any of the gentlemen in that ballroom.”
Her breath caught. “You’re saying you are not like them then?” She meant to trap him into admitting he was not a gentleman.
“I am not,” he rejoined, not appearing to care at the admission. “Not in the least.” His gaze crawled over her face. “If I were a gentleman I wouldn’t still be here with you.” His hand lifted to her face. She waited, the air trapped tightly in her chest. “I would have fled as soon as I broke up your little rendezvous with Bromley. But I’m still here. Near you. Touching you.”
His fingers landed on her mouth then, tracing their contours, lightly grazing the sensitive flesh. His voice continued, rolling through her like honey. “Feeling this mouth. Remembering your taste.”
She sighed against his fingers. If he meant to torment her, he was succeeding. Her heart beat as fierce as a rabbit’s beneath her breastbone.
“Please,” she begged.
“Please what?” he demanded, his voice hard for all its softness.
“Kiss me again.”
It was as though he’d been waiting for just that invitation. He hauled her into his arms and claimed her mouth.
Tongue tangling with hers, his fingers slid into her hair, scattering the pins. She didn’t even let herself care how she would repair her simple coiffure. There was only his mouth. On hers. His body against hers.
A lick of heat curled low in her belly, tightening and twisting until she grew wet between the legs. His hands slid lower, his fingers digging into her back.
She moaned into his mouth, hating the clothing barring them from each other. She wanted to go back to that day with him in the rain and feel his hands on her naked flesh. His mouth on her bared breasts. She wanted that and more. She wanted all their clothes gone until they were nothing but skin on skin.
Pressing herself against him, she wound her arms around his neck, marveling at the insistent ache throbbing at her core.
Her fingers wove through his hair, luxuriating in the softness, in her freedom to touch him as he touched her.
His hands slid down to her derrière. She felt boneless, ready to melt. Her fingers clutched his jacket as if that was all that kept her from sliding to the ground. Their lips clung, drinking, tasting, devouring each other. With a growl, he wrenched his lips from hers, dragging his mouth down the column of her throat, sucking, nipping at the cords along her neck. Her head fell back, granting him greater access.
His hold tightened, his breath firing against her throat. She opened her eyes to see his gleaming at her in the gloom of the garden, as though lit from within. She tugged him by the head, bringing his lips back to hers.
Dimly, in the back of her mind that was not overrun with sensation, she heard voices growing louder. The tread of footsteps on the path registered too late. Almost simultaneously she heard a sharp gasp.
She shoved at Jamie’s chest and jerked back a stumbling step.
Her horrified gaze moved from his face to scan the garden. She spotted them immediately. Her eyes closed in a long, anguished blink. Of all people, Mrs. Willoughby and Miss Manchester were the worst. The widow and her spinster sister weren’t simply gossips. They lived vicariously through the lives of others. Everything must be discussed again and again for the full effect, even when the news was weeks old.
The ladies clung to each other, squeezing each other’s hands as if they stood witness to some terrible debacle and not a mere kiss. Their mouths sagged, heightening their resemblance to each other.
“Mrs. Willoughby, Miss Manchester,” she greeted with enough cheer to make her wince.
“Miss Ellsworth,” Mrs. Willoughby cried in a voice full of affront and, if Paget’s ears were not mistaken, a healthy dose of glee.
“Oh, forgive us . . .” Paget glanced at Jamie. His expression was impassive. She frowned, hoping he would say something, do something.
She looked helplessly back to the sisters, telling herself that this wasn’t as damaging as she first feared. A single kiss wasn’t ruinous. It was not as though they had seen her with her dress pulled down and Jamie lavishing his mouth on her breasts. That would have been ruinous. Not this . . . surely . . . not . . .
“Lord Winningham and I were simply sharing a brief, friendly kiss . . . to welcome him home . . .” Her cheeks heated at her outrageous words. She did not need to see their incredulous expressions to know just how very lame that excuse rang.
There had been nothing innocent about their kiss. Staring at the women, she knew they did not for one moment consider it an innocent peck either. They knew it for exactly what it had been . . . a passionate, hungry kiss.
“Indeed,” Mrs. Willoughby said haughtily. “That is some welcome home kiss. I cannot even imagine how you shall greet Lord McDowell upon his return.”
Miss Manchester tittered. “Let us hope there are no prying eyes to that
auspicious event.”
The reminder of Owen made her face burn. Of course, they believed her to be a faithless harlot . . . kissing his older brother whilst he fought for their country legions away.
She wanted to stamp her foot in frustration. She did not belong to Owen. She was a free woman . . . entitled to kiss whom she chose.
“Well, pardon us, we have no wish to intrude further.” Miss Manchester nodded to each of them and tugged on her sister’s arm, pulling her back down the path toward the house.
Once they were out of sight, she whirled on Jamie. “A great deal of help you were!” she charged.
He shrugged. “What could I say? There was no erasing what they witnessed.”
“Brilliant! Now every tongue will be wagging that I kissed you . . . Owen’s brother!” She groaned, waving her arms wildly.
He nodded grimly. “I’ll speak with your father tomorrow.”
She stilled, dropping her arms at her sides. “Whatever for?”
He sighed heavily. “Do I need to say it? There is but one recourse here.”
She shook her head blankly, utterly befuddled.
He pointed in the direction Miss Manchester and Mrs. Willoughby fled. “Those two biddies are at this very moment regaling all who will listen with the news that I have thoroughly compromised you.”
She jerked back as though slapped. “Compromised? I would not go so far as to say that—”
“No? Even now wagers are being made on how long until it becomes evident you are ‘increasing.’ ”
She gasped. “Of all the vulgar—”
“ ’Tis the truth. You are compromised, Paget. There is only one thing left for us to do.”
“Marriage?” She choked the word out as if it were the foulest of epithets.
He nodded, his mouth pulling in a tight frown. Clearly, he was no more thrilled at the prospect than she.
She stared at his impassive face, searching for some sign that he was hesitant on the matter. He was quite serious. “What of Owen? I thought I was to wait for Owen? You seemed quite adamant on that point.”