A Wicked Way to Win an Earl (10 page)

Alec followed him. Miss Somerset looked appalled when she saw Shepherdson barreling toward them, and she immediately dropped Robyn's arm. Robyn looked disgusted, but he bowed to Miss Somerset and hurried off to intercept
Shepherdson before he was forced to make introductions. Miss Somerset was left standing awkwardly in the garden alone, looking as if she didn't know quite what to do next.

Alec felt an unexpected thrill shoot through him. “Alone again?” he asked, joining her. “Why is it I always seem to find you wandering around by yourself?”

“I was just wondering the same thing. Why do
you
always seem to find me?”

Her tone was civil enough, but she couldn't quite disguise the quick spark of temper in her deep blue eyes. Alec realized with surprise he'd been waiting for that spark. Anticipating it.

“I didn't find you yesterday,” he reminded her softly. “You found me.”

Ah, there it was. That blush. Alec watched it tint her neck with pink and then steal into her cheeks, and his mouth went dry.

“So I did.” She met his eyes and held them.

There was something different about her. The hectic color blooming in her cheeks wasn't simply embarrassment, and her chest rose and fell rapidly as she struggled to suppress some strong emotion. She seemed excited, or angry. She still wasn't flirting with him. Not really. But her whole attention was fixed on him, as if she were studying his every move, assessing his every breath. It was far better than flirtation. It was almost as if she were touching him, or as if he were being consumed by that intense blue gaze.
Les yeux des feu bleu
didn't seem so ridiculous to Alec now. The gaze that turned a man to stone.

Alec felt like he was turning to fire.

“You'll allow me to escort you through the rose garden.” It wasn't a question, but not quite a demand, either. He held out his hand to her.

She didn't take it. She offered him a half smile instead.
“In your case, my lord, the escort may prove riskier than the solitary wandering.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth. That smile was a tease. A torment. He waited, both fascinated and inexplicably angry at the same time. She was going to deny him the other half of that smile. Maybe she was saving all of her smiles and laughter for Robyn.

“Come, Miss Somerset,” he said, dragging his eyes away from her lips. “Don't you like roses?”

She shrugged. “Every lady likes roses, don't they, Lord Carlisle?”

“I haven't the faintest idea what every lady likes. At the moment I'm only concerned with what pleases
you
, and you are not
every lady
.”

The blue eyes narrowed. “No, but then, one lady is very much like another. We're all rather interchangeable, are we not, my lord?”

She was
daring
him. Was that what was different about her? He wasn't sure, but the look in her eyes made Alec's breath stop in his chest. He didn't know what she expected him to do or say, but the dare hung between them like a glove slapped across his cheek.

“No,” he answered at last, opting for the truth. He had to make an effort to keep his voice steady, when every single cell in his body leapt to rise to her challenge. “They're not. Both ladies and roses come in infinite varieties.”

Her eyes widened a bit skeptically at this comment, but the smile that had been banished to one corner of her mouth broke free at last and took full possession of her face. The deep pink lips curved upward. She'd never truly smiled at him before. Not with her mouth and her eyes, as she was now. No. He would have remembered the way his stomach tightened in response.

She accepted his hand then. His fingers closed gently around the tips of hers. “I think, my lord, that you enjoy a
wider variety of ladies than most gentlemen of my acquaintance.”

Alec gazed at her in amazement. Now the cheeky little chit was
teasing
him? It was the last thing he'd expected her to say, and he was startled into a sudden laugh. “Now the word
enjoy
—” he began, leading her back through the French doors and into the garden.

“I'm rather surprised to find the estate has formal gardens at all,” Miss Somerset interrupted quickly, as if she regretted her teasing and was now determined to keep him from teasing back. “The grounds leading down to the lake are in the natural style.”

They were to discuss landscape gardening now, were they? That was safe enough. Much safer than discussing ladies and roses, and the many different ways one night
enjoy
both. Now, that was a topic that could easily be nudged into more titillating territory.

Alec glanced down at her walking beside him. Her head came nearly to his shoulder. If he pulled her close, it would fit under his chin. The sun caressed the golden brown strands and he thought, absurdly, of warm honey.

She was looking up at him expectantly, waiting for his answer. “I had the formal gardens rebuilt last year.” He tried to focus on her conversation instead of the wisps of hair that brushed against her neck or the feel of her fingers resting against his arm. “My father had them torn out when I was young, when Brown's designs were in favor.”

“Was your father a man who admired the natural landscape?”

Alec stiffened. He hated talking about his father. “My father was a man who believed he deserved the best of everything. Getting it was what concerned him. I don't believe admiration ever came into it. I doubt he ever considered whether he admired the landscape or not.”

He was astonished to hear these words leave his mouth.
Christ
. He'd imagined they would make some predictable comments about the beauty of the roses or the fineness of the weather, but instead he'd blurted out that ugly truth as if they were in a confessional, and not a bloody rose garden.

He half expected to find her gaping at him in dismay, but instead she was considering his answer. “And you, my lord?” she asked after a moment. “Did you reinstate the gardens because you admire the formal lines, or because Repton's designs are now the fashion?”

Alec raised one dark eyebrow. He couldn't recall ever being asked to explain himself before, particularly not by a young woman he hardly knew, who was so far beneath his notice. She should be attempting to charm him. At the very least she could pretend to show some of the usual modest confusion he expected when he flattered a woman with his attentions. He was a bloody
earl
, for God's sake, and she was . . . nobody.

But her question was an intriguing one, and worthy of an honest answer. “Are you asking, Miss Somerset, if, like my father, I follow the fashion without any thought or understanding of my own desires?”

She darted a quick glance at him from under cover of her thick lashes. “Yes. I suppose I am.”

Her glance was not so quick that Alec couldn't see the spark of challenge was back in the blue depths of her eyes. He stared at her, mesmerized again by the flash of spirit he saw there. She was goading him, but carefully, in the same way one might try to ride a horse that threatened to throw them at any moment.

She was right to be cautious. She was insignificant, his social inferior. As a guest in his house, she was also under his sole protection. One might even say she was at his mercy. Alec was half-ashamed of the desire that shot through him at the thought.

Yet she was toying with him.
Why?

He didn't realize he'd stopped walking. He took hold of her upper arm and turned her to face him, but resisted the urge to tip her chin up with his finger so she couldn't look away from him. “I'm nothing like my father, Miss Somerset. If I admire something, I know why I admire it. If I desire something, I know why I desire it, and I have it.”

He felt a slight tremor pass through her slim frame, but she continued to hold his eyes. For a brief, charged moment the rose garden, the sky, and even the sun faded away until he was conscious only of his hand, wrapped around her arm, the closeness of her body, her eyes searching his face.

At last she nodded, as if he'd told her what she'd expected to hear. “Never mind the consequences?” Her voice was so soft he had to lean forward to catch her words. “That's just what I thought you'd say, Lord Carlisle.”

With those glittering black eyes holding hers, Delia felt more like a timid gazelle than ever.

“Is it?” he asked. “I'm sorry to be so dull and predictable, Miss Somerset.” His tone was pleasant, but Delia detected a subtle, underlying warning. She'd almost call it a growl. Predators growled. Tigers, for instance.

So, she was back where she'd started. Which was unfortunate, since it rather defeated the purpose of this encounter. Unless . . .

She looked pointedly at the place where he still clasped her arm. He took her meaning at once and removed his hand as if he was astonished to find it there in the first place.

Well, that was interesting. He seemed a bit uncomfortable. Perhaps he imagined she'd collapse into hysterics because he'd taken her arm. Discomfort was a promising sign. She may be able to rely on his gentlemanly instincts after all, deeply buried as they undoubtedly were.

“I beg your pardon.” He ran a hand roughly through his hair.

She'd thought his hair was simply black, but out here in the bright sun she could see it was shot through with shades of rich chestnut and even a strand or two of auburn. It was longer than it should be. The dark waves just brushed the collar of his shirt. It wasn't quite gentlemanly, that hair. And why did the man always seem to be half-clothed? He wore a coat, but it was open, and he'd shed his waistcoat and cravat, as well. The open top of his shirt revealed a strong, tanned throat and a few stray dark, curling hairs.

Oh, dear. She'd gone a bit breathless. Breathless wouldn't do at all—she needed to keep her wits about her. She forced her gaze away from his throat and those fascinating hairs and peeked at his face.

Say something!

“Oh, don't apologize, my lord.” She forced a casual note into her voice. “That is, you're right to beg my pardon for grabbing my arm, but not for being dull or predictable.”

You're neither. You're too thrilling by half. Apologize for that.

“I'm pleased to hear I'm right about something.” A smile tugged at his lips. “Though I believe this is where you're supposed to reassure me I'm neither dull nor predictable.”

Delia stared at him. Was the man a mind reader in addition to possessing a devastating smile? It was unfair that a genuine smile could alter his face so dramatically. She wished he'd offer her the same mocking twist of his lips from this morning, because this new, playful smile scattered her wits like rose petals caught in the wind. Even the dark brown eyes she'd thought so cold yesterday had gone warm and liquid. He didn't look much like a ruthless seducer
now
.

Not that it mattered. Delia tried to suppress the quiver of awareness. She was supposed to focus on his conversation.
What had he just said? Oh, yes! That he'd feel better if she reassured him. What a good idea! That was what one did when one flirted, wasn't it? Reassured. Flattered. Simpered. Batted eyelashes.

“Never, my lord,” she declared, but then stopped, puzzled. He stared skeptically at her, his eyebrows disappearing into the dark waves lying across his forehead.

Drat
. “What I mean,” she hastened to clarify, “is you're neither dull nor predictable.”

She beamed at him.
There. That was very good!

“Such effusive praise, Miss Somerset. You'll mortify me.”

But he didn't look mortified. He looked amused. Delia eyed him uncertainly, trying to think of what to say next. She should be gushing, shouldn't she? A simper wouldn't go amiss, either, but she wasn't sure she knew how to simper. Best to stick to what she knew.

Aha! She had it now. “Surely you're accustomed to effusive praise from young ladies, Lord Carlisle?”

You're actually accustomed to quite a bit more than that from some young ladies, aren't you?

The traitorous thought rang in her head but she sealed her lips closed, determined to sever the connection between her brain and her mouth before any unpleasant truths could escape. After all, she didn't need a brain to flirt, did she?

His low chuckle brushed across her nerve endings like a stroke of velvet. “Yes. I have occasionally been flattered by young ladies.”

That explains your arrogance.
But this didn't seem quite the thing to say, either, so Delia stayed silent and settled for batting her eyelashes at him instead.

His mouth twitched. “But never so
delicately
, or with such touching sincerity.”

Delia bit her lip to hide her smirk.
She was much better at this than she'd thought she'd be!
“Of course, certain young ladies do tend to fawn over wealthy and titled
gentlemen of the
ton
. That's why such gentlemen are so arrogant and intolerable. They take the flattery to be truth.”

Oh, no! For goodness' sake, no!

But it was too late. The words had tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them. Delia's experience with flirting was limited to the gouty old men and married farmers who attended assemblies in Surrey, but even she knew the last thing one should do when flirting with a gentleman was tell the truth.

This was a disaster. How could she excuse herself? She had drawn breath and was hoping for the best when Lord Carlisle threw back his head and gave a shout of genuine laughter. Delia nearly jumped out of her skin, but her astonishment turned to exasperation as he continued to laugh. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited, fuming.

“I wondered how long you'd be able to keep it up,” he gasped at last. The awful man was actually wiping his eyes! “Not very long at all, it seems.”

Delia huffed out an irritated breath. “I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, my lord.”

“Of course you do, Miss Somerset. You were attempting to flirt with me. You're awful at it, you know. I knew you were lying the entire time, even before you blurted out that last part.”

“So you've been laughing at me all the while?”

“You weren't being truthful with me. I simply returned the favor.”

It seemed she couldn't rely on his gentlemanly instincts, after all. “I forgot the
ladies
you keep company with are much more accomplished flirts than I could ever hope to be. My own modest skills must pale in comparison to theirs.”

“They do.” He said it so cheerfully, Delia considered kicking him in the shin. “But don't give up now, Miss Somerset. Why don't you practice some more?” He grinned down at her. “I'll even let you practice on me.”

Delia put her hands on her hips and glared at him. She didn't like that wicked gleam in his eye. Not one bit. “I don't think that's a good idea.”

“Of course it is. Now,” he began, just as if he were a tutor and she a thick-skulled student. “Your mistake is in thinking flirtation is about what you
say
. It isn't. It's about what you
do
.”

Delia gave him a sullen look. “That wasn't my only mistake.” She hated to admit it, but he was far more clever and perceptive than was convenient.

“Well, you got the setting right. A rose garden is an excellent place to conduct a flirtation. You could start by asking the gentleman which is his favorite rose, or by showing him yours.”

“I didn't choose the setting, Lord Carlisle. You did.”

“Yes, well,
I
am very good at flirtation, but in this case, for the sake of discussion, let's assume you lured me out into the rose garden for your own licentious purposes.”

Her licentious purposes? Despite herself, Delia laughed. She couldn't help it. It was so silly, and he looked so much like a naughty little boy. “All right, we'll imagine, for the sake of discussion, I'm the licentious one in this scenario, and I lured you into the rose garden with evil intent.”

She
had
been trying to lure him, but only to find out whether he'd take advantage of a little innocent flirtation on her part. It was what a man bent on seduction would do. Surely
that
didn't make her licentious?

It hadn't worked anyway, so it didn't count.

“Very good. Now, as I said, the rose garden is a perfect setting for a flirtation. It's private, but not so secluded it's improper.”

Delia nodded gravely. “I'm glad to hear we're observing the proprieties, Lord Carlisle. I thought you might insist we move this lesson to a deserted road somewhere.”

She couldn't have explained why she said it—perhaps to
see that smile twitch at the corner of his mouth? Whatever the reason, she couldn't resist.

He looked amazed, but then an appreciative smile took slow possession of his face. “What you saw on that road was
not
a flirtation, Miss Somerset. I shudder to think where you'll end up if you don't know the difference.”

Right where you want me, no doubt.

She'd do well to remember that, but in the meantime she was beginning to enjoy herself. “Please, Lord Carlisle.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Even I know the difference between a flirtation and . . .” She hesitated, trying to find a ladylike way to say it.

“Fornication? You have no idea how relieved I am to hear it. Now, you won't catch the gentleman's attention by flattering him, especially a gentleman who's used to receiving female attentions.”

“And of course they're the only gentlemen worth flirting with.”

“Very good, Miss Somerset.” He grinned like a boy again. “You're an apt pupil so far. Everything you say should be pleasant, of course. That may prove challenging for
you
.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “But true flirtation comes from your body, not your conversation.”

“My body?” Delia swallowed nervously. Surely she shouldn't be discussing her body with Lord Carlisle?

“Yes. You look a little flushed, Miss Somerset. Shall I stop the lesson?” There was an unmistakable flash of challenge in his dark eyes.

“Certainly not.” Delia stubbornly met his gaze. She wasn't going to back down
now
.

“Very well. It starts with your eyes.”

Delia breathed a silent sigh of relief. Eyes. That seemed harmless enough. “Indeed?”

“Yes. That is particularly good advice for you.”

What in the world was that supposed to mean? That she
must rely on her eyes because she had such a sharp tongue? “Why is that, my lord?” she asked, irritated.

“Because your eyes are so unusual, and so extraordinarily beautiful.”

Oh, my
. Delia's breath stopped in her chest. She opened her mouth to reply, but no words emerged. She hadn't been expecting a compliment, especially not one so lovely.

“Speechless, Miss Somerset? It's true, you know.” He laughed softly, but he didn't appear to be amused anymore. “Your eyes could move the most jaded rogue to poetry. Eyes such a dark blue they're nearly indigo. Eyes like glimmering sapphires. Eyes like pools of water, endlessly blue, and endlessly deep.” He drew in a sharp breath and continued almost angrily, as though the words were dragged out of the depths of his body against his will. “Hold a man's eyes with your own, or dart teasing glances at him from under your eyelashes. The poor devil won't even be able to remember his own name.”

Delia was astonished and mesmerized at once. Had he moved closer to her? Or had she taken a step toward him? She waited, breathless and wide-eyed, for him to continue.

“And your mouth,” he said huskily. His eyes dropped to her lips and lingered there. “Your lips. Draw his attention to them. Smile. Laugh.”

For one wild moment Delia thought he was going to touch her mouth, could almost feel his thumb brushing gently across her lips. She parted them just slightly in unconscious invitation, and her tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip.

“Yes,” he hissed softly, the word ending on a near groan. “That's it. Just like that.”

Delia's heart gave a painful thump in her chest. It occurred to her they were very much alone in the rose garden, and somehow what had begun as a jest had turned dangerously intimate. She needed to stop this, to stop him before he said anything else. But she didn't. She couldn't,
not when everything in her strained toward him, both anticipating and dreading what he'd say next.

“Use your hands.” His voice had gone hoarse. “Touch him. Walk just a little too close beside him so your shoulder brushes against his. Put your hand on his arm, or stroke your fingertips against his palm when he takes your hand in his. Light, teasing touches are the most exquisite torment, for they leave a man aching for more.”

His silky, coaxing voice felt like fingertips trailing across her skin, leaving a flush of pink in their wake. His gaze touched her, too, his lids heavy over eyes gone black. An image arose in her mind then, of the woman from the day before, of his hand, slipping into her bodice, seeking and finding her breast. Caressing. The woman had sighed, as if his touch was exquisite torment.