Love With a Scandalous Lord (13 page)

“Hypocritical. Cruel. Unmerciful.”

Devil take it! She could easily be describing Quentin. Rhys had been the scapegoat for far too many of his brother’s actions. By God, not with her. Not with her.

He’d wrapped his hand around her upper arm before he’d realized what he was about. Her eyes widened, her nostrils flared, and those damned lips parted. His body reacted as though she’d suddenly fallen onto a bed of silk.

He wanted to crush her to him, not in anger, but in passion. If he were a wise man, he would allow her to return home alone, or he’d find someone else to escort her.

Apparently wisdom did not run in his family.

“I believe a lesson is in order.”

“I don’t want you teaching me anything. Unhand me,” she said in a low voice.

He did so, but only because his fingers were in danger of brushing against the side of her breast. And what would happen to his control then?

“Please, join me at the inn,” he said in as level a voice as he could muster, hoping to give away none of the confusion swirling through him. Was this not the lady who had asked him to teach her? The lady who sat with him in his father’s bedchamber until the wee hours of the morning?

She gave a brief nod. “Very well. Don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me.”

He arched a brow. “May we at least sit at the same table?”

“I suppose.”

“Very good.”

Although in truth, he thought his words bespoke of an overly optimistic view for their time together.

Lydia couldn’t believe she’d allowed Rhys to browbeat her into joining him for tea. Although
browbeat
was a bit harsh. He’d seemed as gentlemanly as her stepfather while he’d spoken to her.

It was the shiver that had cascaded through her body when he’d grabbed her arm that had caused her to lash out at him. She didn’t want to find herself drawn to this man who could so abuse animals.

Abusing animals was only a step away from abusing people. What did she know about him, really?

He’d been raised alongside her stepfather. Yet he hadn’t. They’d never allowed her stepfather to forget who he was or more importantly,
what
he was.

Now she was having afternoon tea with a man who jumbled up her emotions. Why did he have to be so devastatingly handsome, sitting at a table near the back of the inn, where the sunlight eased through a window and washed over him?

He was upholding the conditions she’d placed on joining him. He wasn’t touching her or talking to her. He was, however, managing to communicate with her. And she wasn’t altogether certain how she felt about that.

Warm, tingly, flustered, short of breath.

His intense gray gaze had not left her since they’d sat. It stayed on her while he sipped his tea and ignored the cream-filled pastry slathered in chocolate that the serving girl had placed before him. Lydia had gobbled down hers as though she were at a watermelon-eating contest back home.

“What?” she finally snapped.

A glimmer of a smile touched his eyes. “I was wondering if you might like to feast upon my pastry as well.”

She shifted in her chair, her eyes darting to the thick chocolate on his plate. She didn’t know why the chocolate here tasted so much better, creamier, and richer. It was impossible to resist.

“It’s unladylike to eat two.”

“It’s unladylike to wolf it down without catching a breath between bites.”

The heat of embarrassment scalded her skin, boiled
her simmering temper. She tossed her napkin on the table. “I’m going home.”

Lunging partway across the table, he grabbed her wrist. She froze, glaring at him.

“Please, don’t go,” he pleaded quietly. “That was uncalled for and rude. Boorish. Impolite. I was being an ill-mannered lout.” A corner of his mouth quirked up. “You may, of course, feel free to stop my self-flagellation at any time.”

“Why would I when I think you deserve it?”

“For teasing you about your enthusiastic response to the chocolate?” He shook his head slightly. “I don’t think so. There is more at stake here, and I can’t figure out what. Most women would have been grateful to have been rescued from a brute such as Bower. You seem to resent my intrusion.”

“Not your intrusion. You.”

Slowly unfurling his fingers from her wrist, he straightened. “I see.”

The wounded look in his eyes almost brought tears to hers. Was that his ploy? To seem cruel, and then appear hurt? Yet so often he’d been kind.

“I saw your horses,” she blurted.

Deep furrows creased his brow. “My horses? Of course you saw them. I assume you rode one into the village.”

“The ones in the paddock behind the stables.”

“Ah,
those
horses.”

“Mr. Sims told me that you don’t allow anyone else to ride them. They’ve been horribly abused.”

“Indeed they have been, but not by my hand.”

“Then whose?”

“Quentin’s.”

Lydia felt the force of that one word like a physical
blow. The tightening of the muscles in Rhys’s jaw, the hardening of his eyes, the firm set of his mouth told her that more than resenting his brother, he resented that she’d assumed the worst of Rhys.

The anger she’d been holding against him flowed out like the water of a lake through a busted dam. Relief rushed in.

“I’m sorry. Mr. Sims—”

“Is not one to speak ill of the dead. No one, by God, is willing to speak ill of the dead. Almost makes me anticipate my death.”

Reaching across the table, she wrapped her hand around his clenched fist where it rested beside his teacup. “I should have realized it wasn’t you who’d taken a whip to those horses.”

“And why, pray tell, should you have realized that?”

A thousand answers rushed through her mind. Instinct? Attraction? No, it went beyond that. It was an indefinable something that resided in her very core so that when she looked at him or gazed into his eyes, she felt as though she’d discovered the better part of herself in him.

“I can’t explain it,” she finally confessed. “I just should have known.”

She withdrew her hand and eased back onto the chair. “Why didn’t you stop Quentin as you did Mr. Bower?”

“Two reasons. The first is that it is most difficult to alter the behavior and actions of any man when he outranks you, because he is held in higher esteem by the nature of his birth.”

“And the second,” she prodded, when it seemed he would not continue.

“I had not been to Harrington in years. I was unaware Quentin had begun to reveal his cruelties so fla
grantly. Yet even so, some are still blind to his faults.”

Her heart wrenched. “Your mother.”

“Quite so.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have suspected the worse. I should have asked you—”

“Let it go, Lydia.”

Her name rolled off his tongue, reminding her of something thick and warm to hold the chill at bay on a wintry night. Why did he have this effect on her? Why did he make her want to rise to her feet and settle onto his lap? Wrap her arms around his neck and bring her mouth to his?

He did have the most luscious mouth she’d ever seen. He pressed his thumb against his parted full lips. She watched, mesmerized, while his tongue stroked the underside of his thumb. Once. Twice. Three times. And she imagined placing her own thumb there, allowing him to dampen her skin.

His eyes glittered with mischievousness, as though he knew the trail down which her wayward thoughts were headed. Then he leaned toward her, and his thumb caressed the corner of her mouth, making her lips yearn for more, her pulse to race.

“The next time you take me to task,” he said in a low, sensuous voice, “I suggest you do so without having a bit of chocolate teasing me at the corner of your mouth.”

She jerked back as though he’d slapped her. Humiliation swamped her. She snatched up her napkin and wiped her mouth.

“Too late. I’ve already taken care of it.”

She watched in amazement, while he returned his thumb briefly to his mouth, and she wondered if he tasted her as much as he tasted the chocolate.

“You should have said something.” Her chastisement lost its impact when spoken with a squeaky voice.

“You are quite right. But I was too distracted wondering how the flavor of your skin would enhance the enjoyment of the chocolate.”

And based on the taste he’d just received, Rhys knew that it enhanced it a great deal.

Confound it!
What was he doing speaking to her in this manner? Why, when he was around her, did he seem incapable of controlling his thoughts, his tongue, or his body?

She was staring at him with wide, curious eyes as though he’d yanked her from her home and dumped her into a foreign land. Quite likely, she often did feel that way. Traipsing about the countryside on her own? Getting into a brawl with a man twice her size? What was he to do with her?

Certainly not what he wanted to do, what he craved doing. He had to put them both on an even keel. He swapped his pastry laden plate with her empty one.

“Finish off my pastry,” he ordered.

“After you’ve insulted me twice—”

“No insult,” he rushed to assure her. “Mere teasing on both counts.” And unavoidable temptation.

She lifted her fork and peered at him through half lowered lashes. “Don’t you like chocolate?”

“I prefer to taste where it’s been.”

He could not have spoken truer words, and he considered that biting off his tongue might be appropriate. He could see her running his words through her mind as though she were trying to determine how he could enjoy where chocolate had been. Unfortunately, he’d never be able to demonstrate for her exactly how he preferred to have his dessert.

“Do you want me to scrape off the chocolate so you can have the pastry back?”

He laughed. She was such an innocent delight.

He shook his head. “No, you finish it off. I rather enjoy watching the pleasure you take in eating sweets.”

“I do have a weakness for chocolate,” she admitted as she scooped up her first bite.

Unfortunately, he was beginning to fear he had a
weakness
for
her
. He relished every moment spent with her and wanted one more. One more conversation, one more smile, one more touch…one more kiss.

He wanted what he knew he did not deserve.

L
ydia stepped out of the inn and glanced down the main street that ran through the center of the village. Bower’s wagon was gone, but she could see where he’d left a good portion of his furniture. Simply because Rhys had insisted.

Her family, her stepfather was influential in Fortune. She knew beyond any doubt he could have stopped Bower from making his horse carry such a heavy load. But he wouldn’t have been able to accomplish the same results as effortlessly as Rhys had. Had her stepfather punched the man, the man would have no doubt fought back.

As much as she understood about the intricacies of the aristocracy, she was amazed to witness the power Rhys wielded simply because of his birth. His title. He’d only held his position for a few months. Yet people kowtowed to him, as though he’d worn the cloak of a marquess his entire life.

She was quite simply amazed.

She darted a glance at him. Tugging on his gloves, he gazed around the village and nodded in acknowledgment to those who caught his eye. Life here was incredibly different. Certainly in Fortune, everyone acknowledged one another, but she sensed equality there. Her family was well-off, no two ways about it. But people didn’t bow to them as they practically did to Rhys.

“The silversmith should be finished with his task by now,” Rhys said. “Where shall we meet?”

“I could go with you,” she offered.

He seemed to hesitate, and she wondered briefly if he was embarrassed to be seen with her in public. Hidden away in the corner of an inn was one thing, but to walk brazenly through town might be considered quite another.

He angled his head slightly and held out his arm. “If you wish.”

“Do you wish?”

His gray eyes warmed as he gave her the barest hint of a smile. “Indeed I do.”

Smiling brightly, she placed her hand on his arm. “Lead the way, my lord.”

She was acutely aware he kept his steps short, slow, leisurely. He did not have the loose-jointed walk of a cowboy, yet he had a powerful grace to his stride that mesmerized her.

“Was there something in particular you were looking for when you came to the village?” he asked.

She shook her head. “It just appeared quaint from a distance, so I wanted to have a closer look.”

“Your brother didn’t share your interest?”

She laughed lightly. “He lacks the maturity to appre
ciate what an incredible opportunity we have to experience something so unlike what we have at home.”

“Do you not have villages?” he inquired.

“Not like this. We don’t have thatched roofs and flower boxes at the windows. We have square buildings with false storefronts. Hot, dusty streets. Fortune has grown and flourished, but it’s more like a child still struggling to understand itself. This village seems comfortable with its place in the world.”

“You’re quite the philosopher.”

“Are you mocking me, sir?”

His eyes warmed. “No, Lydia. I am intrigued by you.”

He stepped toward an entry. “Here we are.”

Before he could open the door, it was opened for him. A wizened gentleman wearing spectacles, with thick lenses that made his eyes appear huge, ushered them inside. “My lord, I have the watch all ready for you.”

“Very good, Mr. Crump.”

Lydia couldn’t help but be curious about the watch, especially since he’d given one to Colton. While Mr. Crump scurried across the store and eased behind a glass counter, Lydia followed Rhys until he was standing before the silversmith.

Mr. Crump brought out a silver watch, resting on blue velvet. On its circular cover had been carved the same image that was on Colton’s watch.

She watched as Rhys slowly trailed his gloved finger over the etching. “Very nice, Mr. Crump. Please wrap it carefully, and I’ll take it with me.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“You’re replacing the watch you gave Colton,” she speculated softly.

“Not exactly. I simply discovered I was in need of
one similar to the first.”

“Because you don’t want your mother to know what you did.”

He looked uncomfortable, avoided her eyes. “It’s a rather long story, but has nothing to do with my mother.”

She considered prying further, but as it was, he made her feel as though she was intruding where she had no business. Turning away, she browsed through the little shop, while Rhys finished dealing with Mr. Crump. Perhaps she should have waited outside.

Being around Rhys was too confusing. At times, she thought he had an interest in her. Mostly, however, she felt as though she was nothing more than a pain in his backside.

Riding alongside Rhys, Lydia fought to keep her attention focused on the scenery, but her gaze constantly betrayed her and wandered back to Rhys. Unlike Colton, who had complained about the odd English saddle, Rhys seemed completely at home in it. Powerfully elegant.

How he could be both powerful and elegant seemed contradictory, and yet he was. He was exactly what she’d told her brother Johnny she was searching for in a man. His presence had dominated the village. Something about his persona implied he’d never cower before anyone.

How difficult it must have been for him to grow up in the shadow of a brother who did not deserve to cast one.

“I don’t understand how your mother could prefer Quentin over you. I’ve only been here a short time and already I’m well aware he was not a nice man.”

“He was quite good at manipulating people, skilled at hiding his true self.”

“How could he hide what he did to those horses?”

He shifted his attention to her, and she felt the full weight of his gaze. “I imagine he found some way to justify his treatment of the animals. He no doubt told anyone who would listen that they were disobedient.”

She shuddered. “Thank goodness he had no children.” She tried to recall what else she knew of Quentin. “Was he married?”

“For a time.” He pointed across the land. “If you’ve no objection to a bit of rougher riding, the scenery is much more pleasant if we cut across the estate.”

“I’m used to rough riding,” she assured him, delighted by the thought of a challenge.

Something primal flashed in his eyes, and she had the feeling he’d read something more into her statement, something not entirely innocent.

He urged his horse off the main road and into a canter. She easily followed, quickly catching up with him. She wasn’t fond of the sidesaddle. At home, she would have worn a split skirt and ridden astride. When she’d packed her trunk, she’d assumed a riding habit would be more appropriate here. She had to admit that she did feel more like a lady, although a secret part of her wouldn’t have minded challenging him to a race. But she wasn’t quite used to the saddle and didn’t want to risk losing.

She enjoyed the subtle rolling of the land. The dark green countryside, the abundance of trees. The graceful sweep of the blue sky. The same sky she looked at while she worked in the fields. Strange, how it suddenly seemed much more beautiful when she wasn’t toiling beneath it.

He brought his horse to a halt near crumbling pillars of stone nearly lost within the foliage. She wouldn’t have even noticed them if he hadn’t directed her toward them.

“What is this place?” Lydia asked.

“The remnants of a forgotten castle.”

“It can’t be forgotten if you remember it,” she said.

“I suppose not.”

She waited while Rhys dismounted and walked over to her. Raising his arms, he placed his strong hands around her waist. Resting her hands on his broad shoulders, she held her breath while he slowly lowered her to the ground, his gaze locked on hers.

Warmth swirled through her. She was aware of her bodice rasping lightly against his shirt, her skirt brushing his trousers, the toes of her shoes touching his. Aware that she now looked up at him where before she’d looked down, and in the looking, she was drawn into the gray of his tempestuous eyes.

Desire rolled over his face the way storm clouds billowed across the land, darkening as they sought to release all they’d gathered. He wanted her. She was certain of it. She trembled with the knowledge that she desired him as well.

Several young men had given their attention to her, yet she’d never known such awareness, as though an invisible rope had been lassoed around them and was bringing them closer together.

Abruptly he released her. She didn’t know if it was because the sensations threatened to overwhelm him as they did her—or if he was upset that he experienced them at all. She squelched her disappointment and followed him as he strode away from her.

He came to an area she was certain had once been
the base of a wall. He stood there gazing at what nature had mostly reclaimed.

“I thought castles had moats,” she said, awed by the history she sensed in the place. Hundreds of years might have passed since this place had fallen.

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Not all of them. Certainly not this one. At least I’ve been unable to find any evidence of it. Once when I was much younger, I thought I’d found a secret passage that might lead me to the dungeons. But it was nothing more than a badger hole.”

“So you came here to explore,” she said.

He turned, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned against the edge of the remaining wall. “I came here to think.”

“And is that the reason you’re here now? To think?”

“I am not sure why I came. I felt a need to share this place with you when I have shared it with no one before.”

She glanced around. “I think it’s beautiful. But sad as well.”

“You have a romantic bent. I fear it will make your heart easier to break.”

“You flatter me by worrying about my heart at all.”

He grinned. “Are you quoting from your books now?”

“I’m trying to improve my wit. I can hold my own in a conversation about cattle or crops or the weather. I’m not exactly sure what the gentlemen here want to talk about.”

“Indeed there is a talent to successfully carrying on a meaningful conversation about nothing. I suppose I should provide you with a list of appropriate topics.”

“I’d be very grateful if you did.”

“Is it so very different in Texas?” he asked quietly.

“Yes. I can’t explain all the differences. Some are subtle.”

“Do you really ride over the countryside by yourself?”

She nodded. “Sometimes. Sometimes I ride with a man.”

He shifted his stance as though she’d piqued his attention. “Indeed?”

She smiled warmly. “Our rules are different. We don’t bother with chaperones. I’ve gone on picnics with young men in the area, and my parents were nowhere to be seen. Your society seems to expect everyone to misbehave while mine expects them to behave.”

“Interesting commentary on our differing worlds.”

She’d been looking into his eyes, unaware he’d moved as close as he had, close enough that she smelled the lemony fragrance that graced his skin, along with the masculine scent that hovered beneath. Close enough that she felt the heat of his body through his clothes.

He cupped her chin, his thumb stroking the corner of her mouth. “You don’t kiss like a woman who has
behaved
.”

He lowered his mouth to hers. Her eyes slid closed, and it was as if every nerve ending in her body unfurled. How could a kiss touch her in so many different places?

He was right. She was no stranger to men’s advances, and yet no kiss she’d received before his made her feel limp, as though her bones were simply melting
away. His arm came around her back, pressing her closer against him. Gripping his shoulders, she angled her head to give him easier access, to announce her acquiescence to his questing tongue.

He responded with a guttural groan, totally barbaric, completely in tune with their surroundings. Ancient and primal. A beast whose tether had been loosed.

Rhys wanted her as he’d never wanted any woman. Here on the ground, beneath the trees, against the crumbling wall. She still tasted of chocolate, as his tongue plundered and his mouth ravished.

He skimmed his hand along her ribs until he felt the weight of her breast filling his palm. Heavenly perfection.

He’d brought her here simply because they’d been close to reaching their destination of Harrington, and he wanted more time with her. Alone. Without others about. Without the pall of death to steal her smiles and the joy from her eyes.

She was at once an innocent and a temptress whom he had not the strength or desire to resist. Her beauty, blossoming from deep within her, had the power to cause ships to sail and knights to crusade.

A distant part of his mind cautioned him that he could not claim her as he wanted. To possess her would be to ruin her; to ruin her would be to destroy her. He’d destroyed once before. He could not risk doing it again, even though his body ached with need and his heart cried out for deliverance.

Breathing heavily, he tore his mouth from hers and turned away. “You are a witch, to tempt me as you do.”

“And you are a coward, to push me away as you do.”

Startled by her comment, he jerked around and stared at her.

“I’m not as innocent as you think,” she insisted, her breathing as labored as his. Her mouth still carried the dew of his kiss. Her half-lowered eyes belonged in a bedchamber.

He raked his gaze over her. “Tell me you are not a virgin, and I will take you here and now.”

She looked away.

Reaching out, he cupped her chin and turned her attention back to him. “You
are
as innocent as I think. Even if you were not, Lydia, you would not want the likes of me. I betrayed my brother, betrayed my family. Be grateful I have no wish to betray either Grayson or you.”

“They betrayed you,” she said.

He shook his head sadly. “They turned away from me, but only because I gave them sufficient reason to do so.”

“What did you do?”

He considered telling her all, but he had no desire to see her look at him with revulsion. So he ignored her question about his past and concentrated on the present, on his need to leave her as innocent as he’d found her.

“Grayson trusts me to be a complete gentleman where you are concerned.” He stroked his thumb over her lower lip. “I have no intention of disappointing him. He was a far better brother to me than Quentin ever was.”