A Growing Passion (6 page)

Authors: Emma Wildes

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General

BOOK: A Growing Passion

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It was a perfectly enjoyable evening until the
incident
.

Lady Cecily Francis smiled graciously at the young man escorting her off the floor, accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman with a tray, and excused herself, pleading the need to sit down for a few minutes. Her feet were starting to hurt, as she’d been steadily engaged for every dance.
Besieged
was a more appropriate way to put it, and while she was flattered at all the attention, she was not embracing her first season with a high level of enthusiasm.

Cecily thought the ballroom too crowded, the din of hundreds of conversations much too loud, and the air too close. But, as it had been pointed out to her time and again by well-meaning aunts, cousins, and various other members of the family, including her father, a young woman did not snare a husband by languishing in the country.

She spotted her sister standing and chatting with a group of young ladies and made her way toward them, not a particularly easy task in the milling throng. When she was only a few feet away, a small disaster occurred in the form of a rather foxed gentleman telling a story that included a wide gesture with one arm, which unfortunately jostled Cecily’s elbow and resulted in a slosh of champagne across her chest. The culprit was oblivious, even when she made an inarticulate sound of dismay. This was the first time she’d worn this gown, and blue silk and champagne were not a good mixture. Several droplets trickled between her breasts.

“Allow me.”

Glancing up, she looked into the darkest eyes she had ever seen, belonging to a tall man tugging a linen handkerchief from his coat pocket. She recognized him at once, for all of the
haut ton
was whispering over the arrival of the Jonathan Bourne, the new Earl of Augustine—partly because of his exotic background and partly due to his striking looks.

“Thank you,” she said gratefully, though she was a bit off balance at having the full attention of London’s current most notorious and eligible—no one denied the Bourne fortune—earl.

Except he didn’t hand her the snowy white square. Instead he leaned forward and, in the middle of a fashionable crush in a London ballroom, audaciously wiped away the untimely spill himself.

Startled, Cecily felt the brush of the fine material across her throat and the upper swells of her breasts, the gesture almost an intimate caress. It was as if he’d touched her without the benefit of the thin piece of linen between her damp skin and his long fingers, and she could not help but blush, the heat rising into her cheeks.

“You are welcome.” He tucked the handkerchief away, his expression amused.

A very shocked part of her could not believe he’d just done something so outrageous in front of witnesses, and another wayward part of her was fascinated by the impact of his male beauty. He was sinfully dark, from his sleek ebony hair, currently constrained fashionably in a queue, to those seductive eyes, to his bronze skin. His unusual coloring aside, his bone structure was finely modeled—arched brows, straight nose, slightly square chin . . . and his lower lip a bit fuller, giving his mouth a sensual cast.

He looked foreign, and his accent confirmed it.

The quirk of his smile told her he had a very good idea of his impact on her also––not quite arrogant but certainly full of male self-assurance.

That sort of flagrant masculinity was not an English trait, as if the well-cut coat and fitted breeches were part of a disguise. It didn’t matter that his cravat was perfectly tied and secured with a glittering diamond stickpin, or that his boots were obviously custom-made and polished to a high sheen.

Somehow he still managed to give the impression that he was . . . untamed. Exotic. Perhaps even
uncivilized
despite all the trappings of gentility.

Then he made matters worse by leaning forward, close enough that his breath was warm against her ear. “You have turned a very delicious shade of pink, my lady. But console yourself with the knowledge I would much rather have licked it off, so my handkerchief was actually a polite choice.” He paused at her slight gasp over that audacious comment. Then he executed a formal bow. “Good evening.”

He turned and walked away, past the gaping onlookers as if he didn’t even see them.

In contrast, Cecily was all too conscious of the avid stares, among them her sister’s. Only a few feet away in the small circle of her friends, Eleanor had an expression of scandalized censure on her face.

Surely it was best to act as if the brief moment hadn’t happened? Cecily joined the now silent group. “Such a crush,” she said brightly, but she knew her cheeks were still flame bright.

Eleanor, however, was not quite as willing to ignore what had just happened. “I wasn’t aware you knew Lord Augustine,” she said pointedly. Two years older, Eleanor was in her second season, her first having been marked by her refusal of several offers of marriage, and not exactly a success. Her older sister was a great deal more voluptuous than Cecily, her hair an entirely different shade, though there was a family resemblance. This evening she wore a pretty yellow gown, her dark blond hair twisted into an elegant chignon.

“I
don’t
know him.” Her glass half empty now, Cecily took a gulp.

“He certainly acted in a familiar manner.”

As if that was
her
fault. It was a pity most of her champagne had been splashed on her person, for Cecily could have used some sustenance at this moment.

“He’s from the colonies,” one of her friends said, as if that explained the man’s
outré
behavior. “Everyone is talking about it. He’s very . . . different.”

“So provincial,” another one murmured, languidly moving her fan, her eyes narrowing as she followed his progress through the throng, his height making him easily visible. “So unfashionably dark, as well. Is it true his mother was of mixed blood? I’m told she was half savage and half French. What a combination. Earl Savage is somewhat of a mongrel, is he not?”

If the young lady thought so, she still seemed to watch his tall form move through the crowd with feminine interest.

Cecily noticed she wasn’t the only one. All the females in the ballroom—at least every one she could see—seemed to find the earl quite interesting.

“It’s obvious he’s not English, one merely has to look at him. But for all that, he is intriguingly handsome,” Miss Felicia Hasseleman declared. “And by all accounts quite rich. His questionable heritage aside, he isn’t a bad prospect. But I hear he isn’t interested in marriage. Not a first for him either. I understand he has an illegitimate child and brought her with him from America. He openly acknowledges the little girl but refused to marry her mother.”

That
was
rather shocking.

“Even wealth and an earldom cannot make up for
that
,” Mary Foxmoor, whose father was a baronet and owned about half of Sussex, said with a sniff. “I would never consider a man who forced me to accept his by-blow. It’s . . . distasteful. No, he is not a suitable prospect.”

Ah, that subject again. Cecily couldn’t help but experience a surge of annoyance that overshadowed her embarrassment over what had just happened. They all had a single purpose: to find a man with a title and a fortune. It might be a romantic and idealistic way to look at it, but Cecily wished to choose a husband for reasons other than his bloodlines and wealth.

And, though she would never say so out loud because it would be repeated everywhere, she did have some admiration for him since he didn’t disdain his own flesh and blood and pretend the little girl didn’t exist just because she wasn’t legitimate. Cecily had no idea what the circumstances were that prompted Lord Augustine to decline to play the gentleman and wed the mother of his child, but she knew that many so-called gentlemen sired children on their mistresses and tucked them away on distant estates––or sometimes didn’t even take
that
much responsibility.

“What did he say to you?” Eleanor asked, her gaze openly curious.

There was no help for it. Another rush of warmth infused her cheeks as Cecily recalled his scandalous comment. Worse, a traitorous part of her wondered what it would be like to feel that finely modeled mouth graze her bare skin. . . .

She shook her head in brisk refusal.

“You aren’t going to tell us?” Felicity said indignantly.

“No.” Cecily did her best to look bland. “It was nothing.”

All of them exchanged glances. “You’re
sure
you don’t know Lord Augustine?” Miss Foxmoor asked with skepticism. “He actually whispered in your ear.”

“We’ve never even been introduced,” Cecily said shortly, not willing to admit how unsettled that brief encounter had left her.

“Well,” Eleanor said drily, “I think you’ve met each other now.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emma Wildes
grew up loving books, so turning to writing seemed a natural course. She has been a #1 bestselling author at Fictionwise, a WisRWA winner in historical romance, a Lories winner, a Passionate Plume winner, and a first-place Eppie winner for best erotic historical romance. She lives in rural Indiana with her husband, three children, and a menagerie of pets. You can keep tabs on Emma at
www.emmawildes.com
.

Also by Emma Wildes

Ladies in Waiting
One Whisper Away

The Notorious Bachelors
Our Wicked Mistake

His Sinful Secret

My Lord Scandal

Seducing the Highlander

Lessons from a Scarlet Lady

An Indecent Proposition