The Truth About Lord Stoneville (10 page)

He went still. “Practice?”

“In kissing, of course. Since I clearly have much to learn about it before I marry Nathan, I figured no one could show me the proper way to do it as well as you. Especially after your sister touted Lord Rockton’s talent with women.”

The muscle that ticked in his jaw told her she had struck a nerve. “And did I perform as advertised?”

“No one in life can ever match fiction. Surely even you know that.”

“Yes,” he said coldly. “I believe I do.”

“But it was still a valuable lesson, and for that I thank you.” She meant that: he’d taught her not to take him too seriously. Not if she wanted to leave with her virtue intact.

He’d made it clear that he had no desire to marry, and despite her uncertainty about Nathan, she wasn’t ready to give up on her betrothed, either. So she must tread very, very lightly around his lordship from now on.

“I think we should rejoin the others, don’t you?” she said.

“You go on,” he ground out. “I’ll be along in a moment.”

Grateful for the reprieve, she fled.

Only after she’d reached the dining room did she remember that he’d never answered her question about his anger at his grandmother.

Chapter Nine

Oliver watched Maria hurry into the house, her round bottom swinging in a way that did nothing to quell his arousal. If she did stay beyond tonight, he’d have to get her some clothes that didn’t make him long to lay her down and—

Damn her hide. His kiss generally had women leaping into his bed, and she’d regarded it merely as “practice” for marriage to her dull fiancé! Though apparently she found
him
equally dull.

No one in life can ever match fiction.

Impudent chit. Now he’d have to read one of Minerva’s blasted books to find out what the devil she’d been writing about him.

Meanwhile, his cock was as hard as the tiles beneath his feet, with no hope of relief anytime soon. He had to pretend to be the doting fiancé until Gran gave in, and Gran was already suspicious of the scheme. She would never take it seriously if he rode off to London to visit the stews whenever the fetching Maria aroused him. So he was stuck.

Unless I seduce Maria.

His blood roared in his veins anew. It would serve the chit right if he did.
She
was the one who’d asked him to kiss her again.
She
was the one who’d opened her warm, tender mouth beneath his and made him burn and yearn.

He stiffened. Burn, yes. But yearn? He yearned for no woman. They were only playmates to while away the time until . . .

Until what?

In a flash, the future stretched before him. Years of drinking himself into oblivion to get through the nights. Years of keeping women in his bed and out of his life so they wouldn’t muck around in his thoughts as women were wont to do.

What choice did he have? He wasn’t well suited to marriage, and any woman with an ounce of sense would know it. He was a ne’er-do-well and a bounder.

You’re behaving exactly like your father . . .

Except that Father wouldn’t have balked at a flirtation with the likes of Maria Butterfield. Shortly after he’d secured the family estate with Mother’s money, he’d returned to living like a bachelor, and none too discreetly.

It had humiliated Mother. Oliver had watched as she became more brittle, more jealous, more hurt with each instance of infidelity, until at the last they’d lived in two armed camps, their children stuck squarely between them.

Picking up the goblet, Oliver stared grimly into his reflection in its golden surface.
That
was the one difference between him and Father—having felt the effects of such an arrangement as a child, he wasn’t keen to inflict them on anyone else. As far as he was concerned, marriage and children meant fidelity.

And since he had his father’s appetites, he refused to bring some woman into his life. Not for Gran or anyone, and certainly not to secure the family dynasty and Halstead Hall. That’s what Father should have done. At least he wouldn’t have ruined Mother’s life and the lives of his children.

So Gran was mad if she thought Oliver would follow in his father’s footsteps in that respect. He was
not
going to marry some innocent chit just to please Gran. Which meant he’d best not think of seducing Miss Butterfield. If anything would shatter his plans to remain a bachelor, that would.

Especially since she had this uncanny and very dangerous ability to see beneath his defenses.
There you go again. Making a joke to avoid talking about what makes you uncomfortable.
Not even his friends had guessed that his outrageous remarks and flirtations were meant to hide how much he envied their easy contentment.

That must be why Maria tempted him so. She teased him with the promise of happiness. No matter how much he told himself it was elusive, that if she knew the truth about him she would shun him, he still buzzed after her like a bee to nectar. Her combination of innocence and curiosity, of determination and vulnerability, utterly bewitched him.

Then there was the fact that she’d turned down Gran’s money. What woman did that? She’d had the chance to thumb her nose at him and walk out, but she hadn’t. Instead, she’d let him kiss her.

He sucked in a ragged breath. Kissing her had been like tasting a forbidden fruit—the respectable woman. It had proved more intoxicating than any kiss he’d shared with a more experienced woman. Especially after she’d asked him to show her how. He’d not expected to find so much satisfaction in teaching her.

Imagine what it would be like to teach her other pleasures, other caresses. He could do that without being caught in any snare, couldn’t he? He needn’t seduce her to take advantage of her wish to “practice.” Pleasuring women was his forte, after all. And the thought of watching her in the throes of passion, her body quivering with need, her sweet mouth begging him for more, made something tighten in his chest. He wanted to be the one to give her what she craved, the one to watch those blue eyes darken with desire as she found release in his arms, to hear her say his name in that throaty voice . . .

With a groan, he forced the thought of it from his mind. It was madness to consider it. He still didn’t even know if she would stay beyond tonight. And if she did, he’d be a fool to risk scaring her off.

No, he’d better forget their kiss had ever happened. And he wasn’t going to do that if he lingered out here, where it had taken place.

Determinedly he strode for the door. It was long past time he should rejoin the others, anyway. God only knows what Maria, or worse yet, Freddy, was telling them in there.

But when he entered the dining room, he found it empty except for Minerva, who seemed to be waiting for him.

He stopped short. “Where is everyone?”

“Jarret and Gabe went to the card room to have cigars and port. Gran went to bed. Miss Butterfield said she was tired, too, and insisted that her cousin retire as well, so Celia took them up to their rooms.”

The quick stab of disappointment in his chest made him scowl. He was behaving like a fool. “Well, then. I suppose I’ll join the other chaps.”

As he headed for the door, Minerva rose. “Oliver, wait.”

“Yes?”

She came toward him, a frown darkening her brow. “What do you intend to do with Miss Butterfield?”

Strip her bare and kiss every inch of that lush, delectable body.

He bit back an oath. Hadn’t he just decided he couldn’t? “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said, praying his sister couldn’t read his thoughts.

“It’s just that she seems to be a very nice, respectable woman, for all your hinting that she is not. I don’t know where she got that ghastly gown, but—”

“Actually, that’s my fault. She was wearing mourning for her father when I encountered her, and I couldn’t have Gran asking why she was going against propriety by getting engaged to me while in mourning. So I . . . er . . . acquired a gown for her at the brothel.”

“Because you wanted to portray her as a fallen woman,” Minerva said with a measure of disapproval.

He bristled. “You asked me to handle this, so that’s what I’m doing. If you don’t like my methods, you can damned well come up with your own.”

She cast him an assessing glance. “But I’m not the only one to question your methods, am I? I gather that Miss Butterfield took issue with them as well.”

He snorted. “That’s putting it mildly.”

His saucebox of a sister broke into a grin. “Ooh, what did she do while you were in that room alone? Do tell!”

“Not a chance. I don’t need her teaching you any new tricks.”

“You’re no fun at all,” she complained. “Well, I’m sure you deserved whatever she did. And that’s my point: I rather like her. So it doesn’t seem fair for her to be put in a situation where she could be—”

“Ruined by a scoundrel like me,” he finished for her.

“Compromised,” she corrected. “I know that you wouldn’t deliberately ruin a respectable woman. But you must admit you have a talent for making women fall in love with you, and then breaking their hearts.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, I don’t
make
women do anything.” He set the goblet down hard on the table. “They just don’t listen when I say I’m not interested in marriage.”

“All the same, I’d hate to see Miss Butterfield harmed by her association with you, when she’s being so kind as to help us with Gran. It was one thing when I thought you were going to hire someone who would understand the nature of the situation. But Miss Butterfield is unmarried and probably as susceptible to your flirtations as any other young lady. If she should misunderstand your intentions—”

“She won’t,” he broke in. “Nor does she have any romantic interest in me.” Except as “practice,” he thought sourly. “She has a real fiancé.”

A startled expression crossed her face. “You’re bamming me.”

“I’m not. The Nathan she mentioned isn’t her cousin. He’s engaged to her, and he’s gone missing somewhere in England. In exchange for her help with Gran, I’m hiring a runner to look for him. So you needn’t worry about my breaking her heart or any of that rot. This is a business arrangement, nothing more.”

His sister’s eyes gleamed with interest. “Is it, indeed?”

He forced himself to meet her gaze steadily. “Of course it is. Surely you didn’t think I would actually marry the chit.”

“To be honest, I’m never sure what you might do.”

“Well, I’m not marrying some sweet-faced innocent. But Gran clearly believes I would, which is why this might work. Gran has already tried paying Maria off to abandon the engagement.”

An odd look crossed Minerva’s face. “That doesn’t sound like Gran.”

“Why not?” He eyed his sister askance. “She always uses her money to get what she wants.”

“But what she wants is to see us married. You, in particular.”

“She wants to see us married
well.
It’s not the same.”

Minerva shrugged. “If you say so.” She gave an exaggerated yawn. “I think I’ll retire, too. It’s been a long day.”

As she turned for the door, he called out, “If I wanted to read one of your books, would you lend me a copy?”

With a chuckle, Minerva faced him again. “Curious to know what I said about Rockton?”

“What do you expect?” he said sullenly. “You made me out to be a villain.”

“For three books now. You never wanted to read them before.”

He shrugged off her curiosity. “I’ve been busy, that’s all.”

“Ah.”

When she said nothing more, he snapped, “Can you lend me one or not?”

“I’ll take one to your room after I leave here.” She hesitated, then softened her tone. “I know we all joke about it, Oliver, but the truth is . . . well, Rockton isn’t you, no matter what Jarret and Gabe claim. As with Foxmoor and Kirkwood, there are a few similarities, nothing more. I named him after you because I thought it might make you laugh.” Her eyes twinkled. “And you do so adore being thought a wicked scoundrel.”

“I
am
a wicked scoundrel,” he drawled, “in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Whatever you say.” She turned for the door again. “But you really must get that poor woman some clothes. She can’t keep wearing that dreadful gown.”

“I know. I don’t suppose she could wear some of yours?”

Minerva laughed. “Since I’m half a foot taller and not as buxom as her, that would be difficult. And Celia is far thinner than she.” She mused a moment. “It will cost a fortune to dress her properly. Perhaps if you ask Gran—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then your only choice is the secondhand shops. The clothes will be outdated, but she’s American. Everyone expects them to dress in older fashions.”

“Excellent idea, thanks. I’ll take care of it when we go into town tomorrow.”

“You might want to visit a carpenter, too. The servants’ stairs badly need repair, now that we’re in residence again. Someone is sure to fall right through if it isn’t done soon.”

“I know. Ramsden mentioned it a week ago. I already told him to hire that fellow over in Richmond who repaired the pantry floor.”

“And did our steward also tell you that the tenant farmers want to meet with you about the spring planting?”

“He wrote me about it, yes. I’ll do it this week.”

“Also, the windows in the drawing room—”

“Already taken care of, Minerva.” He eyed her closely. “Since when do you care what happens to the house?”

“Since when do
you
?” she countered.

A scowl knit his brow. “Since I found myself forced to live here again.” When her gaze turned speculative, he added bitterly, “But don’t think it means anything. I merely don’t like drafts, or servants falling and breaking their ankles, making them incapable of serving me.”

“I understand completely.” Her gaze held a decided glint of mischief. “You
are,
after all, an unrepentant and thoroughly irresponsible rogue.”

“Something it would behoove you not to forget,” he growled, unnerved by her refusal to take him seriously.