A Wicked Way to Win an Earl (15 page)

Alec frowned. He thought of his prospective bride, who waited for him in the drawing room while he chased this infuriating, irresistible woman all over the garden. He thought of his own mother, who'd been sacrificed to a miserable marriage. He thought of all he'd done and all he'd continue to do to keep Robyn away from the woman who stood before him. Was he sacrificing Robyn's happiness?

No. She was wrong. She couldn't understand the obligations he had to his family and the Sutherland name. For one moment Alec bitterly envied her the simplicity of her life. Her freedom.

He held her eyes and slowly shook his head. “It's not as simple as you make it sound. Aristocrats or not, we all act out of a desire to protect our family.” His voice dropped to a husky drawl. “Here you are, wandering around the garden
searching for Lily to protect her from the attentions of a lascivious lord.” He tipped her face up to his with a finger under her chin. “This part of the garden is dark and remote, and you're alone. I can't decide if you're daring or merely foolish, for you must have known I would search until I found you.”

He trailed the tip of his finger down her chin to her neck, stopping at the pulse that beat in the base of her throat. “I'll have a word with Archie about Lily,” he murmured, riveted by the faint flush that rose in her cheeks at his touch. “Despite his ardor, Archie is harmless.”

“What about you, Alec?” She took a deep breath, and when she spoke again, her voice was low and breathy, challenging. “Are you harmless?”

She'd never called him Alec before. “Not to you.” He caught a loose tendril of her golden brown hair and rubbed the long, soft strands between his fingers.

They stood for what felt to Alec like an eternity. They might have been two motionless statues adorning this quiet corner of the garden, but for their breathing, which deepened and quickened as moment after moment slipped by and neither of them was able to look away.

Alec let the strands of her hair slip through his fingers and laid his palm against her face. His middle finger pressed behind her ear to test the wild fluttering of her pulse. He tensed when she gasped softly, the sound profoundly erotic in the otherwise silent garden.

“So soft, like warm silk.” He lightly traced her jaw.

He took another step toward her, close enough to feel the silk skirts of her gown brush against his thighs. Her deep blue eyes grew huge in her face, but she didn't back away from him.

“Tell me to stop, Delia,” he whispered urgently, his voice both a command and a plea. “No,” he growled when she dropped her eyes. “Look at me.” He captured her face in
both hands and tilted it up to his so she had no choice but to
see
him. “You shouldn't play with a man like me,” he managed to whisper, just before his lips descended and crushed hers beneath them.

God, she was sweet—so soft and sweet.
She's innocent
. But the frantic words in his mind were no match for the wild desire flooding through him, catching him in its relentless undertow. He took her mouth roughly, starved for her. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, seeking an opportunity to surge inside.

She opened to him with a soft cry that went straight to his groin. Alec groaned when her shy tongue met his urgent thrusts, and then he was lost inside the hot honey of her mouth. His lips slid over hers, teaching her, coaxing her until her tongue stroked eagerly against his, wet and slick and devastating.

He couldn't get enough of her mouth, her skin. He wanted to bury himself inside her until he drowned in an ocean of warmth and rose-colored silk. In some dim recess of his mind Alec knew he was losing control.
It's just a kiss
. He'd kissed many, many women.

But not like this—
never
like this. The soft strokes of her tongue against his made him wild. My God, what was she doing to him?

Be gentle.

Alec took a deep breath, pulled the night air into his lungs, and forced himself to slow, to calm. His restraint was rewarded when she melted against him with a breathy sigh. She wound her arms around his neck and he felt her fingers slide into his hair. Her palm brushed the back of his neck and Alec was sure he'd go mad from the caress, because it wasn't enough.

He trailed his fingers from her neck down to her throat while he nipped lightly at her bottom lip and made teasing, shallow forays into her mouth with his tongue. She made a
strangled, impatient sound and tightened her fingers in his hair to pull his head down, seeking a firmer contact with his lips.

“Hush,” he whispered, soothing her.

His fingers lingered at the base of her neck to stroke the soft skin there. He smiled triumphantly against her lips when he felt the frantic beat of her pulse and heard her quickened breathing. He slid his other hand down to her waist, hot against the silk of her gown, and stroked her there, urging her body against his.

She was so warm. Everywhere he touched her she was warm and breathless and
alive.
Every stroke of his fingers against her skin, every touch of his tongue, made her sigh and gasp. She shivered with pleasure and he shivered with her, astonished at the depth of her passion.

He followed the path of his fingers with his lips, trailing hot kisses along her neck. He stopped briefly to lick the sensitive skin behind her ear, then moved down her throat to taste her fluttering pulse. He moved lower, then lower still. With one shaking finger he traced the narrow band of lace at her neckline, let his finger stroke just inside the fabric, against her hot skin.

“So beautiful,” he murmured. “So lovely, sweet.” He dragged his other hand up her rib cage, slippery against the silk. She strained toward him, and his hand was inches from cupping her breast.

She wore a low-cut gown—had she thought of him when she chose it? Had she known the swells of her perfect white breasts would make his mouth dry with want? Had that been her intention? A sliver of sanity stabbed into his passion-fogged brain. It would be a clever move, to render him helpless with desire. He couldn't play the game if he was on his knees.

Or had she chosen the gown for Robyn?

Christ—what was he doing?

Alec groaned in defeat and grasped Delia's shoulders to push her gently away from him. He ran one shaking hand through his hair. When he spoke, his voice was harsh from frustration. “Go back to the pavilion.” Fury surged through him at sending her straight back to Robyn, but he had no choice. He had to get away from her
now
. If he looked into her eyes or at her kiss-swollen lips any longer, he'd take her back into his arms, and they would both be lost.

She didn't reply. It was as if she hadn't heard him. She raised shaking hands to her face as though they weren't a part of her body, and her cheeks flooded red with shame. Before he could utter another word, she brushed past him and fled down the garden path.

He gazed after her, watching the rose-colored silk disappear into an ocean of dark green.

“Hand me the brush, Delia. I'll do it myself.” Lily held out her hand impatiently, frowning at Delia in the mirror.

Delia laid the brush in Lily's palm. “I told you, Lily. You need Hyacinth. I have no talent with hair.” She collapsed on top of the bed, avoiding her sister's eyes. “I can brush it out for you, and then we can just tie it with the green ribbon. It will look very nice.”

Lily tilted her head this way and that, examining the effect in the mirror. “Very well,” she replied at length, sighing. “It's just that I rather hoped for a little more than
very nice
this evening. This isn't a country dance in Surrey, you know.”

Delia rose and joined Lily at the vanity, and for a second they both gazed at their two similar reflections in the mirror. “I know, dear, but you always look beautiful, no matter how we dress your hair.” Delia tried to smile.

“What shall we do with yours?” Lily ran the brush
through Delia's hair, which still hung in loose waves down her back.

“Oh, the same as always, I suppose,” Delia replied, without interest. She turned to the wardrobe to sift halfheartedly through the slim selection of dinner gowns. The blue would do, but Lily was right. It
would
be wonderful to have a special gown to wear. She thought of the delicious green figured silk gown Lady Lisette had worn the day she'd arrived. She'd looked like a butterfly in it. A fretful, petulant butterfly, to be sure, but a butterfly nonetheless.

Alec hadn't been able to take his eyes off her.

Delia pulled the blue gown out of the wardrobe with a little more force than necessary and laid it on the bed, then stood back and regarded it with a small frown.

Lily pulled her long braid over one shoulder and ran the brush through the wavy ends, regarding her sister in the mirror with narrowed eyes. “You look pale, Delia. Have you been sleeping well?”

Oh, certainly. She'd been sleeping splendidly, like a veritable babe in arms. A kitten in a silk-lined basket. A fuzzy baby chick still nested in its egg. A bear during winter hibernation. Up until three days ago, that was, when Alec Sutherland had kissed her. Not just once, but over and over again. Now she wasn't sleeping. She was lying in her bed, remembering the way her lips opened helplessly under his, and how his hot tongue had slipped into her mouth. How her body had leapt to quivering, burning life under his touch. When she did sleep, it was fitfully, and she dreamed of his fingers brushing lightly across her bodice and the tops of her breasts. When she awoke, she was breathless and panting, aching for him.

Once again, if he meant to seduce her, he'd had ample opportunity. So then why had he stopped? He'd pushed her away almost desperately, as if he couldn't trust himself not
to touch her again. She'd been afraid to look at him, afraid she'd see triumph or smug satisfaction on his face, but when she'd managed at last to raise her eyes to his, he'd looked . . . nearly
wild
. He'd wanted her. She knew it—her every instinct screamed it. Yet he'd touched her so gently, and murmured to her so tenderly. He hadn't seemed at all like a man in the midst of a calculated seduction.

But then, what did she know about such things? Perhaps this was what seducers did. Made you dream about them. Made you ache for them. It hadn't occurred to her when she began this madness that he could
make
her want him like this. But he had, and it had shaken her. She hadn't been toying with him that night in the garden. She wanted him as much as he wanted her, and it was this more than anything that haunted her when she awoke in the night.

Perhaps Alec had been shaken, too, for he hadn't approached her or spoken to her since those disastrous, exquisite moments in the garden. He hadn't left Lady Lisette's side over the past few days. He'd walked with her, their two dark heads close together as if they shared some delicious secret. He'd escorted her through the gardens and down to the lake. He'd taken her into dinner every night. His intentions toward her couldn't be any clearer. He was the model of an eager suitor. Delia could almost believe he'd forgotten the game entirely, forgotten the passionate kisses in the garden. But every moment of every day since, he watched her with such heated intensity she thought his eyes would singe holes in her clothes. Those hot, dark eyes followed her everywhere.

Lily laid the brush down on the dressing table and walked over to the bed. They stood together and stared down at the blue gown. “A dark blue satin trim would look nice with it, I think. Fashionable, too. If we stare long enough, do you think it will sprout Brussels lace?”

“No, I don't,” Delia snapped, “so there's no point standing here waiting for a miracle.”

Lily turned to look at her sister with wide, bewildered eyes. “Delia, I know something is bothering you—” she began, but she was interrupted by a brisk knock on the door. Lily hurried over and opened it, then stood back in amazement as a small troop of maids crossed the threshold. Ellie and Charlotte followed, issuing orders as they sailed into the room.

“I think Miss Somerset's hair first, Bridget.” Eleanor moved forward to give Delia a quick kiss on the cheek. “Is this your gown for the evening?” she asked, spying the blue dress laid out on the bed. She ran a practiced eye over it. “Lovely color.” She tapped her finger against her chin. “It will suit you nicely, Delia.”

Eleanor turned to the waiting maid. “Some silk flowers and ribbons twisted in Miss Somerset's hair, Bridget, but first, can you fetch that dark blue satin ribbon I had? We can add some trim here.” She pointed to the neckline of the gown. “Here, as well.” She indicated the bodice. “Miss Somerset has such a lovely bosom,” she added with a naughty grin. “Charlotte? What do you think about your ice pink silk for Lily?”

Delia and Lily stood openmouthed as the maids scurried into action. The pink gown was produced and gratefully accepted. Hair was curled and piled high. Ribbons, silk flowers, and satin trim flew from hand to hand. By the time Delia and Lily were laced into their gowns, flowers, ribbons, and scraps of fabric littered the floor.

“You spoke too soon, Delia.” Lily studied her reflection in the mirror with satisfaction. “Never underestimate the possibility of a miracle.”

*   *   *

It would be a bloody miracle if he survived this evening.

Alec surveyed the modest gathering. It was mostly neighbors from the surrounding estates and a few close friends
who'd arrived early from London in anticipation of the ball. The evening seemed to be progressing much as he might expect. Archie was flirting with Mrs. Ashton. Lady Lisette and her mother were deeply engaged in a conversation with Lord and Lady Barrow, which suited Alec's purposes perfectly. He didn't want Lisette underfoot just now.

Alec was impeccably dressed in severe black evening attire. He stood next to the fireplace, a snifter of brandy in his hand, looking every inch the elegant lord of the manor.

He was ready to explode.

He hadn't spoken to Delia in three days, not since his disgraceful loss of control in the garden. He hadn't touched her again, either, but he could still feel her warm, silky skin under his fingertips and taste the sweet honey of her mouth on his lips. It was as if his body had sprouted nerve endings he never knew he had, for the sole purpose of remembering what it felt like to touch and taste
her
. He couldn't trust himself with her. He realized that now. But every moment he didn't spend with her was another moment Robyn would. The past few days had proved that.

Alec resisted the urge to tear at the tight cravat at his neck and glanced across the room. Robyn greeted a few friends and returned a few coquettish glances, but he was restless and distracted. His eyes kept darting toward the door. Alec watched Robyn's restless pacing and took a deep swallow of brandy. His brother looked about as relaxed as a stallion ready to be taken to stud. With every day that passed, Robyn grew more enamored of Delia.

She had to leave the house party. At once.

A ripple of subdued excitement passed through the room. Alec turned toward the door, and at once he forgot about Robyn, his brandy, and his tight cravat. Delia had entered, her arm linked with Eleanor's. Charlotte followed behind with Lily. The energy in the room changed subtly, the way
it does when a captivating guest arrives. Heads turned. Alec saw more than one male gaze linger.

Delia's hair was piled high. Tiny dark blue silk flowers peeked out from among the thick wavy tendrils. Long curls escaped and brushed her smooth white shoulders. Her pale blue gown was not lavishly trimmed. It was not in the first stare of fashion, either, and compared to some of the other gowns in the room, the neckline was almost prudish. She wore no gems at all—only a small length of blue ribbon around her white throat. It was almost laughably quaint, but it made no difference. Alec drank her in greedily. He couldn't tear his gaze away from her.

“Delia!” Robyn crossed the room to Delia's side with an eagerness that drew the attention of the other guests. Alec stiffened as Robyn raised one of Delia's white-gloved hands to his lips.

He started across the room toward them. It had to be done, and it was best done quickly. “Good evening, Miss Somerset.” Alec bowed. His formal tone sliced through the intimacy. “You look very well this evening,” he said, perfunctorily enough.

Delia curtsied and touched one hand self-consciously to the ribbon at her neck. “Good evening, my lord. Thank you.”

“Mother asked you to escort her into dinner this evening, Robyn,” Alec said, turning to his brother. “I believe she hopes to avoid the attentions of Major Lytton.” He gestured across the room to his mother, who was speaking to an elderly gray-haired gentleman in uniform.

“Of course.” Robyn paused to raise Delia's hand slowly to his lips once more, then bowed and walked across the room to offer his arm to his mother.

“May I take you in, Miss Somerset?” Alec offered her his arm.

She looked up at him in surprise, but after a brief
hesitation she accepted his arm, just as he'd known she would. She was far too gracious and well-bred to refuse his escort. They entered the dining room, where Alec seated her at the head of the table, then deliberately took his seat across from her. There was no seat to her right.

How would she react when she realized Major Lytton, who was seated to her left, was as deaf as a post?

Delia raised puzzled blue eyes to his and then glanced around. Lady Cecil and Lady Lisette were seated farther down the table near the countess, and both of them were glaring daggers at her. Delia's face flushed with embarrassment. She dropped her gaze to the napkin in her lap and kept it there as the soup course was served.

Alec did his best to ignore the way his chest tightened at her expression. He signaled to the footman, who stepped forward and filled their wineglasses. “Do any of your acquaintances in Surrey hunt, Miss Somerset? The major is an enthusiastic huntsman.”

“I'm afraid not.” She still wasn't looking at him. “I don't care for hunting, my lord.”

Major Lytton sprang into life. “What, a hunt?” he shouted. “Capital, Carlisle. Capital! I predict excellent sport this winter!”

Delia jumped, startled; then her eyes narrowed on Alec. A tempest had begun to gather in those blue depths. Oddly, Alec was relieved. He could tolerate her anger, but not that look of hurt betrayal.

The footman placed soup tureens in front of them. “You
do
ride?” he asked her, managing to sound just a little dubious.

Delia had been about to sample the consommé, but she put down her soup spoon with a sharp metallic click. “Do you imagine I never learned to ride, my lord?” she asked. “Of course, in Surrey we have no Hyde Park, so perhaps you think there is no reason for ladies in the country to learn
to ride at all? There is no Rotten Row. No parade of aristocrats in shiny curricles and fashionable gowns. No fine horses. No opportunity to see and be seen. Oh!” she added, as if she'd just understood him. “Perhaps that's what you mean by
hunting
?”

“Hunting in Hyde Park?” the major yelled, going red in the face. “On Rotten Row? Oh no, my dear. Dangerous, that. Someone could get hurt.” He looked at Delia reproachfully.

“Quite right, Major.” Alec ignored Delia's outburst, as if he'd also gone deaf. “Quite right.” He took a sip of his wine. “Did you bring your riding habit to Kent?” he asked, returning his attention to Delia, who looked as if she'd lost her appetite.

“Yes, of course.” She sounded a bit deflated. “I'd hoped to ride through the grounds. They're too large to see on foot.”

“Are you a competent rider, Miss Somerset?”

“Competent!” Major Lytton shouted indignantly before Delia could reply. “My dear Carlisle, every man in Her Majesty's service can ride.”

“Of course, Major. Forgive me. Miss Somerset?”