The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) (28 page)

A knock sounded at the door. Before Adaira bid enter, Mother bustled into the room holding her jewel case.

“Chére, you’re as pale as fresh snow at dawn,” Mother said. “Let me apply the tiniest bit of rouge to your cheeks and lips.”

To please her, Adaira suffered through the lengthy
toilette
. Yet, when she stood before the full length mirror, she stared in astonishment. She hardly recognized the elegant woman gazing back at her.

Descending the stairs after her sisters, Adaira spotted Roark speaking with a group near the other stairway. She smiled. Surreptitious glances, batting eyelashes, and covert whispers behind hands and fans greeted her arrival. Her sentiment transformed from happiness to indignation.

Grandmother’s words, long forgotten, came unbidden to Adaira’s mind.

When ye’ve made a mistake, lassie, admit your wrongdoing, and learn from your poor choice, so you dinna do it again. But when others judge ye unfairly, which will happen in yer life, ye hold up yer chin, straighten yer spine, and spit in their eye.

Adaira smiled wryly at that last bit. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, refusing to allow the gossiping or censure to determine who she was or how she would act. She was the victim. She’d been wronged by both Brayan and Godwin. The offenses had been compounded by society’s hypocritical and judgmental attitudes.

She’d heard whispers about the
tête-à-têtes
and dalliances prevalent amongst the
ton
. Cuckolding and adultery behind closed doors, or in garden arbors, was acceptable. But being set upon by nefarious blackguards against one’s will was cause to shun the victim? Preposterous claptrap.

Flipping open her fan, she painted her most dazzling smile on her face and entered the fray. Roark immediately appeared at her side. Despite her misgivings about their betrothal, she sent him a grateful look. He was a powerful ally, a reliable ship in this sea of duplicity she was about to set sail upon.

He bent over her hand, his lips grazing her fingertips before tilting into a rakish smile.

He was simply gorgeous. Her appreciative gaze traveled from his shiny shoes, rested momentarily on his snug breeches, then journeyed upward to his coat and cravat. A happy little thrill shivered through her.

He wore an amethyst stickpin that matched her jewelry. Her breath hitched. Was it a coincidence, or had he donned the jewel on purpose? He would have had to consult with her mother about Adaira’s attire. What a delicious thought.

Diamond and amethyst earrings hung from her ears, and a matching double-rowed necklace encircled her neck. The jewelry belonged to her mother. She’d lent them to Adaira in addition to the delicate amethyst and diamond tiara nestled atop her head.

She inched her gaze over Roark’s strong, square jaw, the chiseled planes of his face, his perfectly styled hair, and at last, his sapphire eyes. Eyes that devoured her.

CHAPTER 29

“God in heaven, that gown—”

Roark’s warm breath caressed Adaira’s ear. His awed voice wreaked havoc on her heart.

His gaze lingered on the generous expanse of soft flesh exposed above her gown. The worst of her wounds were well-hidden beneath the bodice. The one exception her mother had concealed with cosmetics. It could easily be mistaken for a shadow from the lace edging the neckline.

He swallowed. When he lifted his gaze to hers, she recognized the blatant desire shining in his eyes.

“You look exquisite, vixen.”

He wanted her. The knowledge astonished her. Yet, there was no denying the fire in his heated gaze. It thrilled and unnerved her. No, the notion downright terrified her.

To hide her discomfiture, Adaira dropped her gaze to her skirt. She brushed her gloved hands over the fragile lace overskirt. The color of softest heather, the bodice was shot with silver and gold threads. Beaded with pearls and lavender crystals, the gown shimmered in the candlelight.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

The musicians struck a few chords, warming up for the long evening ahead. Roark placed her hand on his arm, possessively resting his atop hers. “Come, let me introduce you to a few of our neighbors and some of my friends before the dancing begins. I hope you’ll reserve every dance for me.”

Our neighbors? He made it sound like they were already wed. The timbre of his voice, low and suggestive, curled her toes in her fancy new slippers.

“Not so hasty, Clarendon. I fully expect my cousin to grant me a dance or two.” Flynn, his eyes shining and lips curled into a charming smile, sidled to their sides. He bowed smartly, winking at Adaira as he took her hand.

“Aye, yer lordship, I’ll be having a dance with me daughter as well.” Father loomed behind Flynn for a moment before Dugall and the Earl of Ramsbury crowded in.

“I mean to share a dance with me brave-hearted sister,” Dugall said.

Roark scowled like an intractable lad who’d been denied a pastry. Adaira hid a smile behind her fan.

Dugall flashed her a white-toothed smile. His mouth widened into a grin. Three calf-eyed damsels blatantly postured a few feet away, attempting to gain his attention. Two matrons sailed to their sides, shooing the girls along while casting disapproving glances over their shoulders.

Dugall boldly winked at the mother-hens.

Adaira quirked a brow. He was fast becoming a man. Extraordinarily handsome, indecently so, the scallywag would leave a trail of broken hearts in his wake.

“Clarendon,” Lord Ramsbury admonished, “you wouldn’t deny me the honor of dancing with Miss Ferguson, would you? You’ll have her to yourself soon enough. You mustn’t be stingy, hoarding her company like treats from the confectionary, as you did at Oxford.”

Covering half his mouth, Lord Ramsbury angled his head near hers, whispering in a sotto voice. “He always had a stash of assorted sweets and was most reluctant to share.”

His dark green eyes twinkled with mirth. He obviously enjoyed goading Roark, like intimate friends often do.

Adaira giggled at the put upon look on Roark’s face. His eyes glittered in a combination of incredulity and irritation at all of her dance requests. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was jealous. Oh, she’d like to believe it was so.

“Of course, I’ll dance with you, my lord. Roark knows it’s bad
ton
to commandeer a partner, even if they are betrothed.”

She smiled, meeting Roark’s eyes. “I wouldn’t want to do anything to cause more whispers.” Sweeping the room with her gaze, she inclined her head. “See, they need no excuse as it is.”

The men looked to where she indicated. Several guests turned away swiftly. Lady Bradford plowed into Lord Bradford, spilling her champagne down the front of his breeches. Furious, he hissed something at her before clomping away, bowlegged. She shot Adaira a sour glare before scampering after her livid husband.

“
Touché
, vixen,” Roark muttered beneath his breath. He gave her hand a squeeze while turning her in the direction of the ballroom. “As your betrothed, I’m still claiming the first dance. No arguing, or I’ll kiss you into silence.”

The strains of a waltz floated by on the overly perfumed air. Speechless, Adaira allowed Roark to guide her onto the floor. One of his hands rested proprietarily against the curve of her ribs. The room glowed from hundreds of candles resting in golden chandeliers and wall sconces.

Would he really kiss her in front of everyone?

Appalling. And wonderfully delicious to contemplate.

She nearly giggled again, imagining the faces of his guests. Oh, that would give them a succulent morsel to bandy about.

“Did you truly hoard sweets?”

Suffering flashed across his face, quickly masked by a lazy smile. “I wasn’t permitted bon bons or anything sweet tasting as a child.”

“None? Whyever not?” Visions of Sorcha’s shortbread, pasties, and clootie dumplings danced in Adaira’s mind.

“My father thought them unnecessary.” Roark lowered his voice to a rasping growl. “‘Indulging in their consumption is a sign of a spineless coward,’” he mimicked.

She searched his face, seeking the deprived little boy buried inside the man. Hurt lay hidden deep within his eyes. Her heart contracted as a surge of anger heated her. “But that’s completely ridiculous. Irrational. Abusive even.”

Roark slanted his head. “An apt description of my sire.”

Adaira tightened the hand resting on his shoulder and felt the faintest ridge of a scar beneath her fingertips.

“Roark?”

He flicked his gaze to hers for a moment before resuming his perusal of the room. “Yes?”

She had no right to ask. But her tongue formed the words even as her mind screeched for her to be silent. “The scars on your back and forehead. How did you come by those?”

He stiffened. Voice hoarse, he said, “You don’t want to know.”

But she already knew. The whip in the study. A ghastly reminder of what he’d been subjected to. “He did that to you? His own son? I’m. . .”

Her voice caught, mere words insufficient to express her sorrow and regret. And outrage.

How Roark must have suffered. Adaira inched closer, and although unseemly, wrapped her arm farther around his back in a comforting embrace. “I’m so sorry.”

He responded by drawing her even nearer, holding her far too close to be acceptable. She didn’t care, as long as it brought him some degree of comfort. He circled her around the floor, keeping excellent time, amazingly light on his feet. She managed a smile for Isobel as Lord Ramsbury twirled by with her in his arms, a rapt expression upon his face.

Another conquest for Isobel, it would appear.

Adaira was very aware of Roark’s hand pressing her against him. The light material of her gown was an insufficient barrier from his warm palm. He moved his thumb up and down her spine in time to the music. Her body reacted as if he were caressing naked flesh. Her breasts grew heavy, her breathing irregular. Unnerving, yet splendid, little quivers tingled in unmentionable areas.

Bending his neck, his mouth brushed her ear. Roark suddenly went rigid. “Blast and d—”

Turning her head, Adaira glanced behind her. She clinched his shoulder and hand, stumbling to a stop. Mrs. Winthrop and Count von Schnitzer stood at the ballroom entrance, a scowling Westbrook beside them.

“I cannot believe after I spoke with Helene today, she has the audacity to put in an appearance tonight,” Roark muttered, urging Adaira back into motion.

Standing stock-still in the middle of the dance floor would garner unsolicited attention in addition to launching unwelcome speculation. A noticeable buzz began circulating the room when he’d entered with Adaira. The hum increased markedly in volume at the appearance of Helene and von Schnitzer.

Westbrook’s face bore an uncharacteristic panicked expression. Roark knew the butler hadn’t admitted Helene. She’d used one of the other unlocked entrances. No doubt the same one she’d used to pay her late night visits to him. Damnation.

Adaira cast the pair a furtive peek. “But didn’t you invite her?”

Roark shook his head. “Actually, no. She assumed she’d attend the events at Cadbury as she always has in the past. After the boating incident, I expressly told her Freidrick was no longer welcome in my home. I didn’t explain the change in our arrangement meant she was no longer welcome as well.”

He presumed the obstinate woman would realize the obvious. Stupidity on his part. Brazenness on hers.

There was no way in hell he was going to divulge to Adaira the details of his conversation with Helene terminating their association. He hadn’t been intimate with her for months. After meeting the tempting armful he now spun about the room, any desire to bed the widow had flown.

Adaira turned her head ever-so-slightly to peek at Helene and von Schnitzer. They’d joined the rest of the dancers whirling around the sanded floor.

“She’s glaring daggers at you. At us,” Adaira murmured.

Roark lifted his focus from her face and met Helene’s hostile glower. “She had a misconception about her position. I rectified that this afternoon.”

And it had been most unpleasant.

The vulgarities spouting from Helene’s mouth would have a hardened trollop blushing. She’d truly thought to lure him into marriage. He’d never remotely entertained the idea and had never given her reason to either. He’d been determined his next wife would be of a different cut than Delia. Helene was too much the seductress to meet that requirement. Adaira might not be an innocent, but she was chaste and modest.

And wholly desirable.

Helene’s threats of retribution concerned him. And that viper of a cousin of hers. . . Slimy curs such as he were capable of innumerable reprehensible things.

“She thought you were going to propose tonight,” Adaira said, no hint of retribution in her voice. She tilted her head, staring at him.

Roark missed a step, but quickly fell back into rhythm. He met her gaze. When she was troubled, the brown of her eyes deepened. They appeared coffee black at the moment.

How did she come by that information? She must have seen the question in his eyes.

She colored adorably, then peeked at him through thick lashes. “I overheard some guests last night, quite by accident, I assure you. It seems others have been anticipating a proposal as well.”

“Indeed?” Roark drawled dryly.

The dance came to an end. He scanned the crowd. Spying Sir Hugh and Lady Ferguson, he maneuvered Adaira in their direction. Roark kept an eye on Helene the entire time. “Adaira, stay close to your family. I don’t trust either Helene or the count. I’m certain no good can result from their attendance.”

He slanted his head in the direction of the disgruntled couple. Lord and Lady Bradford, Lord and Lady Bellingsworth, and several other cronies of Helene’s surrounded her and the count. Most likely squawking like distressed chickens in a henhouse.

Why had he invited any of them? Ah, yes, it was expected and unforgivably rude not to. Ludicrous, hypocritical rules.

Roark bowed to Lady Ferguson, then Isobel and Seonaid in turn as Luxmoore and Yancy dutifully returned the young ladies to their parents.

“Gentlemen,” Roark said, “a word if you please. Sir Hugh, might I speak with you as well?”

Yancy shot a perceptive glance to the group huddled and clucking across the ballroom. “Of course, Clarendon. We’ll meet you on the terrace.”

Sir Hugh patted his wife’s shoulder and winked. “I’m not sure it’s fair leaving ye with three bonnie lasses and a roomful of smitten swains.” Waggling his thick eyebrows, he eyed a pack of young bucks hovering nearby. They darted hopeful glances at the Ferguson trio.

Roark turned and coolly assessed them. One look at his face and the milksops scattered. “Perhaps someone should remain with you.”

Where was Dugall? He was just the thing to dissuade the moon-eyed beaux.

Lady Ferguson smiled, intelligence glimmering in her eyes. She met Roark’s gaze. “No need to worry. We’ll enjoy some lemonade or ratafia and wait for your return.”

She perused the room. “Dugall is about somewhere.”

Discerning woman.

She recognized trouble when it raised its bothersome head. Or, in this case, two heads. Although Lady Ferguson appeared the picture of composure, he was confident she was aware of the tension permeating the room.

Chuckling, Sir Hugh followed Luxmoore and Yancy through a pair of open French windows and onto the terrace paralleling one side of the ballroom.

Lifting Adaira’s hand, Roark insisted, “Promise me you’ll not wander off alone. Not even to the retiring room.” He met four pairs of eyes, noting the wariness reflected in each. “Stay together, please.”

“My lord, I assure you, my daughters won’t leave my sight. Your concern is very much appreciated.” Lady Ferguson sliced a covert glance across the too warm room. “They’re not here anymore.”

Roark casually rotated on his heels, his gaze roving the ballroom. Blast. Where had they got off too?

“Please excuse me.” Bowing once more, he strode to the terrace.

Adaira admired the impressive figure Roark cut as he nodded and smiled to his guests. He never slowed his stride. She scarcely believed it. The same man she’d once disdained as a loathsome trow, had maneuvered his way past her carefully constructed barriers and had begun setting up house in her heart.