Tempted by a Lady’s Smile (3 page)

“Brandies, then,” Westfield conceded. “You’re—”

“I’m certain,” he interrupted dryly not bothering to turn around.

Muttering under his breath, Westfield’s feet crushed the brush and gravel as he made his way to his Friesian, one of the finest mounts Richard had bred in the course of his career.

Moments later, the other man galloped off and Richard was left with his own thoughts. Of course, he’d have to join the festivities. He’d come here, after all, with the express intention of avoiding his own family’s summer party.

His line pulled and Richard gave his pole a swift and strong jerk backward and up. He pumped and lifted the rod from the water while drawing in the line. The fish at the other end tugged and Richard engaged in a gentle dance, luring the creature forward as it twisted and spiraled at the end of the hook.

Richard carefully withdrew the metal from the trout’s mouth and the slippery creature slid from his fingers. It turned and gyrated upon the earth, seeking escape. He eyed it a moment. How very much alike he was to that creature. Taking pity on it, he bent and rescued the trout. Carrying it to the edge of the shore, he set it in the lake, allowing the fish its freedom. Richard stared after the trout until it disappeared. The world of Polite Society was one Richard had never belonged to. The
ton
had limited interest or uses for a second-born son, just as Richard himself had little desire to be fully immersed in that world, beyond the business connections he might form as a horse breeder.

His friendship, in and of itself, with the future Duke of Somerset was all the more remarkable for it. One gentleman, so wholly born to belong in that world, and the other, embracing any chance to be free of it.

One of the most successful horse breeders in England with a small parcel of land left him by his father, Richard despised rubbing elbows with the peerage of which he was only loosely a member. His infrequent attendance at
ton
events was for no other reason than building his business. It had never been about making a match, but rather about adding clients to his already impressive list.

Richard gathered his belongings and then strode over to his packs. He clicked his tongue twice and his mount trotted over. He reluctantly swung his leg over Warrior’s broad back and then urged him on to the duke’s estate. Yes, at any other moment, in any other time, he would readily say the Duke of Somerset’s summer matchmaking party was the last place he cared to be.

That was until Eloise had broken his heart. Now he cared to be wherever that young woman was not. Even with the peerage.

Leaning over his mount’s withers, he gave him room to stretch his legs and the obedient creature flew. As he put distance between him and the lake, he guided Warrior onward toward the opulent residence. Richard reveled in the clean summer air slapping at his face, embraced the feel of it as it whipped his hair. This was the world he truly belonged to; on the fringe of Society, in the countryside without anyone in his—

A small figure in soft yellow skirts stood transfixed ten paces away, gawking and gaping like that just restored trout from moments ago.

Richard let fly a black curse and quickly pulled on the reins and the young woman stumbled back, tripping over her skirts in her haste to back away. With a loud whinny, Warrior pawed and scratched at the air, before settling onto the earth in a flurry of gravel and dust. Heart pounding, Richard leapt from his mount. What in blazes was the lady doing so far from the estate? And more, what would possess her to step into a galloping horse’s path? Seething fury leant his steps an agitated movement. “Are you hurt, miss?” he bit out, stalking forward.

Coming to a quick stop, Richard towered over the young lady still in repose and he held a hand out. The quality of her satin skirts revealed her to be a guest and he gritted his teeth in annoyance at another empty-brained miss wandering the grounds in search of the ducal heir. What else accounted for her presence here even now with dinner being served in a short while? An altogether different rage gripped him. Years earlier, Westfield had his heart shattered by a grasping woman, the details of that time he no longer spoke of. Now there was an entire household of ladies circling the man like vultures about their prey.

This
particular
vulture stared unblinkingly up at him. A limp, brown tress hung over her eye.

“I asked you whether you were hurt, miss,” he said between tight lips, and in the absence of an immediate reply, gripped her by her arms and settled her on her feet.

She possessed dull, brown hair, equally dull, brown eyes, and a remarkably pale visage, which he’d wager his entire line of horses, was not a product of her near fall, and more his not treating her as a cherished, treasured miss.

Her mouth fell open, and then emotion sparkled within those brown depths, making her eyes…well, not so very uninteresting. “I beg your pardon,” she snapped.

“As you should for stepping out into a man’s riding path at dusk.”

The irises of her eyes disappeared under the narrowing of her stare. “I was most decidedly not apologizing.”

“Of course you weren’t.” He infused a drollness into his tone that brought the lady’s eyebrows shooting up.

She planted her hands on her hips. “What in blazes is
that
supposed to mean?”

As had been his experience with other ladies of quality. They’d vied for a place in his bed, a pleasure he’d forgone for his devotion to Eloise and the hope of more with that particular and uniquely different lady. But never did they apologize and always did they expect the world was their due. Having learned long ago that it was a decidedly dangerous path to travel down in terms of arguing with a woman about the merits of an apology, he inclined his head. “Forgive me, I was unprepared to see a young lady in the middle of the riding path at this late hour.” Unchaperoned. He let that word go unsaid between them.

She peered intently at him as though seeking the veracity of his claim and then some of the tension left her small shoulders. “Forgive me,” she returned, shocking him with that apology. “You are, indeed, correct. I wandered too far from the party and I was seeking someone out. A friend,” she said on a rush when he narrowed his eyes. “A proper friend. Nothing scandalous, at all.” The high-pitched timbre of her voice hinted at an altogether different tale. This mousy miss would hardly be the first lady who’d tried to orchestrate Westfield into a compromising position.

Richard folded his arms at his chest and eyed the chit with renewed wariness. “A friend?” His horse pawed at the earth. Even Warrior knew to be suspicious of this one.

“Yes. A friend.” Tension dripped from the young woman’s frame and she skittered her gaze about before ultimately settling it on Richard’s mount.

He opened his mouth to press the suspicious miss for details when she moved closer to Warrior and scratched the creature between his eyes. Some of the tightness went out of the lady’s shoulders. Warrior whinnied and leaned into that touch. Richard furrowed his brow. Well, mayhap his horse was less discriminatory than he’d thought. “What are you doing?”

The lady followed his stare. “Uh, petting your horse.” She dropped her hand almost reluctantly to her side. “But y-you are correct. I should be…”

He stepped into her path, blocking her escape. At his side, Warrior danced nervously and he stroked his dampened withers until the horse calmed. “Never tell me? You were looking for a particular marquess, whose father would have him wed?” He didn’t know where the desire to bait the young lady came from.

She stiffened, but the crimson blush on her cheeks confirmed his supposition. Of course. Another duke-hunter. “Do not be silly,” she said with a damning weakness. “Wh-why should Lord Westfield be fishing at this hour? Hmm?” The bold chit didn’t allow him a chance to respond. “He wouldn’t. Granted, dusk allows the fish to see
some
of the ultraviolet spectrum, but there is still the matter of the duke’s dinner party.” Richard cocked his head.
Ultraviolet spectrum
? What was she on about? “And I, as a respectable young lady, would hardly be searching for him when he was returning from his outing.” The lady gave a jaunty toss of her nonexistent curls. “N-nor is it your place as the duke’s steward,” Steward? He furrowed his brow. “To corner and chide one of his guests.”

The lady chatted more than a magpie. And if she hadn’t perjured herself with plans to trap his closest friend in the world, why then he’d think there was something endearing in her ability to prattle on. But she did inadvertently reveal her plans for Westfield and, as such, placed herself neatly into the category of graspers, just like every other lady ducal-heir-hunting this week.

“I didn’t mention fishing.”

She ceased blinking and cocked her head.

“Fishing,” he said drolly. “I mentioned nothing about Westfield fishing.”

The young miss in her ruffled yellow skirts opened and closed her mouth several times. “Neither did I. I
merely
said he would not be fishing and he wouldn’t. Not at this hour. Even with the ultraviolet spectrum,” she added once more.

Goodness, for his disgust with all the ladies who’d line themselves here and all but bare their teeth for a chance at the title of duchess, there was something to admire in this one’s temerity and fearlessness. It made an otherwise plain young woman…someone rather, interesting.

The lady brushed that loose, what might or might not have been, curl behind her ear. “Regardless, it is hardly proper for me to stand here discussing Lord Westfield’s whereabouts with you. Or any matter, for that matter.” She wrinkled her nose at that redundancy.

Despite very nearly being thrown from his mount and the annoyance at this lady who, given the chance, would trap his friend, his lips twitched.

She flared her eyes. “Are you laughing at me?”

God, the lady didn’t require a single word from him to fill an entire conversation. He opened his mouth—

“Because I assure you, the duke would not approve of your highhandedness with a young la—” Her words ended on a startled squeak as he closed the slight distance between them and, in one fluid movement, wrapped his arms about her.

*

All the saints in heaven, in all her penchant for finding trouble and recklessness, never in her plans to speak alone with Lord Westfield had the duke’s steward or any other stranger fit into her imaginings of how this moment was to proceed.

Gemma swallowed hard and a thrill of awareness shot through her from the point of the man’s touch. She should revile him. So why did warmth continue to spiral through her? It was an irrational response to this man who was nothing more than a stranger—a towering, dark-haired, broad-shouldered stranger with features too rugged to ever be considered truly beautiful. Giving her head a clearing shake, Gemma sought to put her jumbled senses to rights as the perils of being here alone, in his arms, no less, registered. She shoved against him. “Release me this instant or I shall inform the duke of your highhandedness.” It was a lie. A bald-faced, obvious lie. She knew it and the wryly-grinning man before her knew it. She could no sooner admit to wandering the estates, unchaperoned, and being held in this man’s arms than she could hitch up her skirts and run wild through the duke’s home singing the verse of a bawdy tavern song taught her by her brother. To confess any of this would mean ruin. And yet, despite the anxiety pitting her belly, her body burned with the heat emanating from his muscular frame.

The steward drew her forward, raising her on her feet, so close their lips nearly brushed. “I do not care to be threatened, particularly by one such as you.”

Her heart hammered wildly and she feared it would beat a rhythm right out of her chest. “One such as me?” She prided herself on the steady deliverance of those words.

“A tart-mouthed, prideful, arrogant, young lady.”

His audacious charge rang a gasp from her. Oh, that was quite enough. Convincing herself that warmth had been as imagined as the hint of a smile she’d seen moments ago, Gemma shoved at his chest to no avail. She could no sooner move his broad-muscled frame than she could move the border of the Duke of Somerset’s property. “I am not arrogant.” A young lady who couldn’t bring a single gentleman up to scratch for so much as a waltz didn’t have much pride left to go around where men were concerned and that included the lofty nobles and the callous brutes like this one.

“Are you not?” he whispered. His gaze went to her mouth.

And for the slightest moment, she imagined he would kiss her and perhaps it was curiosity because she was now two and twenty and still never been kissed; not by a gentleman or even a too-bold village boy in her younger years. But a part of her longed to know the taste of him.

He filled his hands with her buttocks, sculpting his hands about them. She gasped.
Push him away, Gemma Reed
.
You are very much in love with Robert and this is the ultimate betrayal.
And yet there was nothing else for it. Gemma was an absolute wanton for she wanted his kiss, anyway.

A slow, triumphant smile curved his lips upward effectively quashing that desire borne of curiosity. She opened her mouth to blister his ears with curses when he kissed her. Gemma stiffened. She’d dreamed her first kiss would be a gentle, chaste and properly placed one by a proper gentleman. This explosion of raw vitality and passion was nothing that she could have imagined, nor anything she could have read of in any of the scandalous novels she’d devoured through the years. He continued worshiping her mouth, slanting his lips over hers again and again as though branding her as his. She moaned and he slipped his tongue inside, tasting her. And she, in turn, reveled in the taste of him. He was brandy and mint…and the faintest hint of cheroots, intoxicating and purely masculine.