Swept Away By a Kiss (25 page)

“Tiresome modesty,” Steven said upon an exaggerated yawn. “I, for one, won’t prevaricate. You would win your pony, Fenton, for I don’t believe I ever bested my lord before today. It was remarkably good sport, but I shan’t attempt it again. Too taxing by far, don’t you know.” He rose, glancing at the Earl of March. “Hope you don’t mind me usurping your privilege, God-
père
. The ladies await.”

The earl nodded and stood. The others followed, stubbing cigars and gulping final mouthfuls of port before leaving the dining chamber. As they strolled along the sconce-lit corridor to the drawing room, Alistair fell in beside Steven.

“All is prepared,” Alistair said. A pair of gentlemen passed them, and he waited before continuing in a hushed voice. “I made the offer, and he seems agreeable to it. I expect a positive outcome to our plans.”

Steven glanced aside. Alistair’s coat was open, his fingers tucked into the tiny waistcoat pockets. He held his chin tight to his chest.

“Are you quite certain? Today’s display of martial enthusiasm does not inspire confidence that our friend is sincerely on board with us.”

The color waned from Alistair’s hollow cheeks. “He tried to kill you, didn’t he? And to make it look like an accident.”

“Indeed he did,” Steven drawled, watching his companion’s reaction. “It is fortunate that he did not manage it, as then you would be obliged to complete our task alone, wouldn’t you?”

“What are you saying?” Alistair’s white face turned red as his head snapped up. “Do you think I would wish for that monster to injure you? And I suppose you think I would sacrifice Aunt Margaret and Uncle Robert as well?”

“I haven’t a notion as to what you can mean, my dear Alistair. I merely lamented a would-have-been. I have a proclivity for drama, don’t you know.”

“I would not want them harmed.” Alistair’s voice was stiff.

“I have every confidence in your loyalty to my godparents.”

“And to you? Do you trust me, Steven?” He paused at the open drawing room doors, a staying hand upon Steven’s sleeve. Steven glanced at the fingers wrapped around his coat sleeve, then at his old friend’s face.

“As I trust my own heart.” He shrugged out of the man’s hold and crossed the threshold. “Ah, Godmother, you outdid yourself with dinner tonight. A fine, delicate aspic, the rémoulade positively delighted, and the ducklings . . . like butter upon the tongue. Absolutely succulent, weren’t they, Alistair?”

“You know I don’t have anything to do with the aspic and ducklings, Steven. You are a scamp.” The Countess of March laughed as Steven kissed her hands, then dropped them abruptly.

“Ah, then another deserves my caresses,” he exclaimed. “I must go and make love to Cook instead. Or should my object be your housekeeper? Perhaps both. Do not wait for me. I expect I will be some time below stairs.” He turned to make for the door.

A slender hand halted him.

“My lord, you must remain upon two accounts.” Miss Sinclaire’s heart-shaped face tilted toward his, her lips parted to reveal the glistening edges of perfect teeth.

He bowed. “I am all ears, ma’am.”

“In the first case, if you depart now, we will suffer so greatly from losing your company that you will owe us recompense.”

Steven chuckled, nearly amused by the coquette’s effrontery. But not quite.

“I do not relish the weight of such a debt upon my shoulders, it is true,” he replied.

Her appreciative gaze slipped across his coat, lingering. “A pity,” she murmured.

He could bed the girl. She declared her willingness with every batted lash and whispered sigh. Her figure was ripe and her eagerness especially appealing. He had no doubt that indulging himself with this young beauty would bring him momentary relief.

But she was not what Steven wanted. Not now. Not ever. What he wanted carried a price he was unwilling to pay. Merely knowing his desire remained alive and safe must suffice.

Across the chamber, Valerie’s face remained averted. She hadn’t looked at him since he entered. Whenever she trained her gaze upon him he felt it like a brand, like the hot iron once pressed into his skin. Each time she glanced his way, the heat of her gaze rocked him, setting his blood afire.

Now he only felt the cold.

That cold made him seek her out, speak to her, tease her despite his resolution not to. But with each encounter, indifference and disdain grew harder to pretend. For only the second time in his life of masquerades, his façade was slipping—with the woman who had stripped it once before. Briefly, but completely.

He lifted the golden-haired beauty’s hand beneath his lips. “And the second account, ma’am?”

“We begged Lord Michaels, but he will not reveal to us the origin of your astounding maneuver today, the one that decided your bout with Lord Hannsley.”

Steven released the girl as though reluctantly, clasping his hands behind him.

“Ah, yes. Well, I cannot say that I recall it.” His voice trailed off.

“I told them you would not give it up, Ashford,” Michaels said laughingly. “A gentleman never reveals the source of a
botta segreta
.”

“Muscovy?” Steven considered as though he had not heard. “No, no. That amiable Turkish prison guard, perhaps? Hm.” He looked up. “Yes, that’s it. A Bedouin chap taught me that little trick. Ah, what an adventure. White sand as far as the eye could see, curdled milk for breakfast, roasted goat for dinner, and the fellow had the most astounding number of wives—”

“Oh, no, my lord!” Miss Pierce giggled.

Steven turned a grin upon the girl as he moved toward the tea table. A quick glance told him Valerie’s attention remained locked against his idiocy. All the better.

“I advise you not to listen to a word my godson utters, Miss Pierce,” Lady March cautioned as she poured tea. “He invents all his stories to shock and amaze.”

Steven perched upon an ottoman at her feet. “Ah, Godmother, how you do spread blight upon my merriment.”

The burning began then, searing beneath his skin like living coals. His hand remained steady upon his cup as he lifted it to his lips. Ever in control, no matter what the price, as he long ago conditioned himself.

“Was she always such a damp spirit when we were children, Alistair?” he quipped, his throat dry despite the strong brew.

“I do not recall her ever being anything but kind and generous,” Alistair said. “And indulgent. Especially to you.”

Valerie’s sharp attention shifted to Alistair, then returned to him. This time Steven could not resist the sweet temptation. He lifted his head. Their gazes sought, met, and melded. He allowed her ocean eyes to hold him, awareness shimmering in their depths.

“Yes, rather too indulgent, I suppose,” he murmured, and turned to Lady March. “Godmother, I fault you for spoiling me outrageously. Such lush liberality can only result in depravity.”

“My dearest boy, I could not have known that at the time, could I? Now, Alistair, you have the cards already, I see. Perhaps you will begin a game?”

“No chicken stakes tonight, Flemming.” Fenton complained as several guests moved to sit around a table. Steven took another sip of tea and the cold invaded him.

Chapter 24

W
hen dawn crept through Valerie’s bedchamber draperies, her eyes were already open. They had barely closed all night. Her mind was too busy, her body too agitated.

At least she had not dreamed. She had, however, come up with a plan. She would entice him into serious conversation with hints of what she had learned from Lord Hannsley and Mr. Flemming’s conversation. Then, as payment for hearing everything she knew, she would demand that he treat her with respect, and tell her the truth.

Valerie wrinkled her nose. Not a perfect plan by any means. But it was a start, and it did not require seducing anyone, certainly a change from her usual method of getting her way with men.

In the woods, he had taunted her about that method.

She was determined to show him how wrong he was about her. She simply must find him alone again. Her lips creased into a smile. Determination felt good, fresh and uncluttered. With renewed purpose, she pushed away the bedclothes, pressed cucumber slices to the puffy circles beneath her eyes, and went down to breakfast.

At the dining room door, she stopped short. Near the end of the long table the Viscount of Ashford sat in indolent solitude, a journal in his hands and a cup of coffee at his elbow. He looked up. After a pause, he inclined his head in greeting.

Valerie drew in a shaky breath.

“Good morning, my lady!”

She swung around to the voice at the other end of the chamber. Standing by the sidebar laden with breakfast foods, Lord Bramfield smiled wide. He held a plate of fish, eggs, and muffins, and a pair of serving tongs.

Releasing her pent breath, Valerie went toward him. “Good morning, my lord.”

“Did the sun waken you as it did me? It seems brighter today,” he continued, clearly not requiring a response. “These fellows”—he gestured toward the footmen standing to either side of the buffet—“say it is already less frigid out than yesterday.”

“Perhaps Lady Cassandra’s plan for a sledding expedition will come about.” Valerie glanced at the breakfast display, but her appetite had fled. The back of her neck felt warm.

Frustration chafed at her as Timothy piled another rasher of bacon atop his food. Being thwarted now in her desire to talk with Ashford was unendurable.

“Before other activities begin, we must take a ride over to the lake,” Timothy said, gesturing her to the table. “I thought to go right after breakfast. I would enjoy your company very much.” Honest, affectionate entreaty brightened his blue eyes. He always looked at her that way, except when she had taken him to the gallery, briefly pulling him into her life of game playing and wickedness.

Slowly she nodded. “I would like that.”

“What do you say, Ashford?” Timothy said pleasantly. “Care to join us for a ride?”

The viscount folded his journal and stood.

“Delighted to be asked, Bramfield.” He tucked the paper beneath his arm. “But I will allow you to enjoy this lovely lady’s company exclusively.” He moved toward the door. “If given the same opportunity, after all, I certainly would not have asked you to come along.” He grinned, a mischievous curve of his lips that set Valerie’s heartbeat flying. Then he sketched them a quick bow, and left.

“He’s a pretty mannered fellow, isn’t he?” Timothy said, chuckling.

Valerie dragged her gaze from the door, but she did not reply.

Returning to her bedchamber a few hours later to change out of her riding habit, she heard a thump as she opened the door. A woman whirled around to face her.

“Oh, Lady Valerie! How do you do?” Lady March’s companion dropped a curtsy. She was well beyond the first flush of youth, with dark hair pulled back in a chignon and a fine though subdued gown.

“Miss—”

“Amelia Brown, my lady.”

“Of course, Miss Brown.” Valerie laid down her hat and approached the woman. “Has something happened to my maid?”

“Oh, no, I do not believe so,” Miss Brown said with extraordinary composure for an intruder.

“I am relieved to hear it. But then how is it that I have the pleasure of your visit?”

“Gracious me, you must think me a scatter wit. I was—”

The woman’s words froze as Valerie’s gaze fell upon the Bible, cracked open on the floor beside the bed table, pages crumpled beneath. Valerie bent and picked up the book, and set it again on the nightstand.

“How singular. I thought I left this on the table. Perhaps Mabel knocked it off when she straightened the bed this morning.”

“It was my fault, my lady,” Miss Brown said quickly. “I came searching for a brooch Lady March lost. She thought perhaps she dropped it when she came here to see you several days ago.”

“Have you had any success in finding it?”

“Unfortunately, no. Your maid is out—”

“Yes, I sent her to the village upon an errand.”

“When I found you weren’t here, I took the liberty of entering in search of the brooch. Then I saw the Bible, and could not help but glance at it. I neglected my prayers this morning, you see. Lady March is resting, so I thought . . .” She barely faltered as she lied. “I was so startled when you entered that I dropped it. I hope it has not suffered in the fall.”