6
Pride in his self-discipline swelled in Drew’s chest as he strolled into the Wiltshires’ ballroom. He’d avoided Miss Marlow for two weeks. Now was the moment to return.
Lord Wiltshire, The Duke of Arundel, was one of her uncles. Her family would slacken their vigil here and he hoped it would be easier for her to find a moment to escape.
Looking down from the top of the entrance stairs, at one end of the Wiltshires’ ornate ballroom, he scanned the crowd, the ton, England’s elite, in all their shining glory.
If her aunt and uncle knew Drew’s intent, he would not have been sent an invitation, but he’d kept away from her in public since last year, so, to her family, he was simply another name on a list, and every society hostess desired a crush.
He saw her. She was stood close to the foot of the stairs.
‘Lord Andrew Framlington.’ The footman shouted his name, announcing his arrival.
She looked up.
Women always looked when he entered a room, he did not normally care, but this was her. He looked at her. Her eyes… Her expression… Anger. She had missed him. He smiled for her alone. It surprised him when she gave him a self-conscious smile in return.
He let her gaze go and smiled at the room in general to avoid her family noticing the exchange. If they whisked her away to the country to avoid him, his game would be off entirely for this year.
Drew wasted his first hour in the card room. This early in the evening she would be too much in demand to risk slipping away.
The supper bell rang and the music died, then guests surged into the room set aside for refreshments. Drew sauntered in at the back of the crowd, beside a gentleman acquaintance with whom he’d been playing cards; a friend he had picked out for the sole purpose of gaining entry into Miss Marlow’s family group.
If he was going to tempt her, he needed to throw her a little more bait. His companion was an old friend of Drew’s and Pembroke’s, from their days in Paris, during their dissipated grand tour. Days Pembroke preferred to forget. Like Pembroke, Roger Harris had turned prude, and therefore Harris was the perfect camouflage. He would be welcome even if Drew was not.
On cue, Roger called, ‘Pembroke!’
The family were sitting about several tables. Drew ought to be daunted, but daunted was not within him; what he felt was a swell of anticipation, exhilaration. This was a bold move. He was walking a thin line, willing Miss Marlow to notice him while wishing her relatives not to notice anything out of the ordinary.
His quarry sat at a table with her brother, amid some of her uncles and aunts.
‘Roger! I did not know you were in town.’ Pembroke rose and they joined him. ‘Is your wife with you?’
As Pembroke and Roger spoke, Drew looked past them and met Mary’s gaze. For an instant his heart forgot to beat as her pale blue eyes looked directly at him.
He guessed from her expression that she was wondering what to do. Perhaps wondering how she could speak to him.
‘Miriam is in her last month and not faring well…’ Harris babbled on about his family.
Drew nodded at Miss Marlow. A blush stained her pale skin pink.
He swallowed against a dry throat. ‘I shall leave you to talk,’ he said to Roger, then he walked away. His hand lifted, as if in parting. He hoped she was watching; it was a signal.
Drew helped himself to a couple of canapés but did not pick up a plate. He did not intend to spend the supper hour eating. He acknowledged a few acquaintances, avoided several ex-lovers then walked out of the room, glancing at Miss Marlow as he passed.
She was watching. Would she follow?
He strode on across the empty room, only looking back once. Her gaze followed him. He turned, took one step back, smiling and nodding, throwing her a calling card. This is your chance, Mary, darling. He faced away, and walked towards the French doors, deliberately keeping within her view.
There, he opened the door and stepped out into the tepid night air. The terrace, as he’d hoped, was deserted, like the ballroom.
He left the door on its latch, walked to the end of the stone terrace and leaned his buttocks against the top of the balustrade. He could not walk further; she would not find him.
Come on, little beauty, follow.
The dark walls of the house framed the windows and the view into the illuminated ballroom and beyond that to the dining room. From this angle he could see all the way to the table where she was sitting.
He withdrew a slim cigar and a match from the pocket of his evening coat, lifted the cigar to his lips and struck the match on the stone beside his hip, then held the flame to the tip of the cigar and sucked until the cigar caught alight.
At least he had an excuse to be out here if he smoked.
He let the smoke slide out of his mouth.
Miss Marlow smiled at her sister-in-law, the Duchess of Pembroke, nodding at something the other woman said. Then her face turned to someone else across the table, a gentleman, one of her uncles. She laughed. Pembroke spoke to her. She replied. He smiled. Her father approached, stopped, pressed a hand on her shoulder, leaned down and kissed her temple.
Drew took another long draw on the cigar he held between his fingers.
It was as unreal as watching a play at the theatre. Drew did not understand a family like that. They moved in a pack, a pride, like lions, closing in to defend and protect one another whenever the need arose, all the men prowling about their lionesses.
I really ought to be daunted. He was not. Very little dented either his ennui or his ego.
Mary did, though. Which was good. He did not want a wife who would bore him.
He sucked on the cigar again, relishing the flavour of tobacco in his mouth. He knew how to enjoy things. He’d learned to make the most of every little gift life gave him when he was young. He would enjoy making her his.
She stood, smiling at her brother then her father and walked away from the table, weaving a path through the other guests, stopping occasionally to speak.
Drew smiled, sensations dancing a bloody jig in his chest. Had his little fish taken the bait?
Drew’s heart beat a steady elated rhythm. He felt as though he had been dealt the most superb hand of cards, but there was still a risk that if he laid them wrong he’d waste their benefit. There was still a requirement for skill and caution. He must be careful.
When she reached the ballroom, instead of turning towards the open French doors, though, she disappeared through a door at the side of the room near the entrance stairs.
Drew urged her with all his will… Come to me!
But damn it , if she did not, he was not giving up; he would try again.
Drew lifted the cigar to his lips and sucked in the smoke, then looked up to the stars and blew out a circle.
The night was clear, a blanket of very dark blue with thousands of sparkling pinpricks of light. He loved the night. He loved storms. His soul had always turned to the dark and wild. As a lad he’d liked swimming in the dark. Afterwards, he’d lain on the ground, sometimes for hours, looking up at the endless black. Another world.
A small dark shadow flew like a dart in the air over his head. A bat. Now he had spotted one, he saw more. They were after the moths which had been drawn to the light spilling from the windows.
‘What are you doing?’
Her voice captured his senses. He straightened up to standing. His own moth had come to the flame. Her wings would be burned, but, God , he could not believe the exhilaration that coursed through his blood.
Her voice had come from the foot of the steps which descended from the terrace to his right.
He threw the cigar across the balustrade into the flower border below then walked towards her. ‘I am waiting for you.’ He descended the steps, feeling the tug of her presence pull at him as he caught sight of her pale lemon dress a few feet away.
She was six years his junior, but he’d never seen her behave in a girlish way. She had a serene grace, and she was kind, sensible and confident.
His eyes adjusted to the darkness.
‘Tell me where you have been. I have not seen you for days.’ Her eyes sparkled diamond bright as they caught a shaft of moonlight. They challenged him. His game of patience had been a brilliant hand.
‘I have been giving you time to make your choice. Does this mean you have made it?’
A few of her ebony curls had fallen from their pins to lick her jaw and throat. He’d like to place his lips there.
‘What do you mean by this ?’
He’d confused her. Hell, he was confused himself. His mind had become a clutter.
Her hands folded together before her waist.
She was anxious. She should be. He was too. The emotions inside him were an eclectic surprise. Hope. Desire. Need. Admiration. Desperation. Respect. Pride. Until today, he had never admired, respected or felt proud of a woman he intended to share a bed with.
‘This. I mean, you being here. Is this your answer?’ He stepped from the bottom step and stood in front of her, aware his voice sounded too stiff. But it was due to the bewildering turmoil of emotions. He was on unfamiliar ground; he did not know how to speak with a respectable, innocent woman.
‘I do not really know why I am here,’ she said.
Damn it , he needed to forget his anxiety, forget his own fears. He did know how to woo women.
‘Because you want to be with me.’ He stepped closer.
‘I missed you,’ she admitted.
When he lifted a hand, though, she instinctively stepped back.
He smiled. His fingertips brushed her cheek, moving an unruly curl away from her jaw. ‘Do you want a kiss?’ He needed to persuade her to stay and not run again, he needed to persuade her to stay forever and become his wife. The only way he knew how was through sex. He needed her to let him come close.
* * *
Yes, she had come for a kiss. She had been pulled to him, like a compass needle to true north. He might as well have an invisible thread wrapped about her.
Her heart had leapt with excitement when she’d seen him at the top of the stairs. Then he’d signalled to her during supper, and a desperate quivery feeling had tumbled through her stomach. Yes, I long to be kissed.
Lord Framlington pulled that invisible thread as his fingers trailed across her jaw. Then his thumb brushed over her lips and she looked into his eyes, though she could barely see him in the darkness beyond a silhouette. The smell of tobacco carried on his breath.
This is madness. Why did I come? ‘Not here,’ she said as his lips neared hers. ‘Someone might see us.’
She could not see his lips curve into a smile and yet she sensed they did. His fingers opened, and cradled the side of her face as his other hand held her waist. He stepped forward so she had to step back. In a trance she let him back her into the darkness, into the corner where the wall of the house turned. They were deep in the shadows, she could not see him at all, but she could feel his tall frame against her, his strong hand at her waist as his other slid to her nape and drew her mouth to his.
Oh, heavens. Her innards rolled topsy-turvy.
His lips pressed firmly, then touched softly, coaxing her to kiss him back with similar variation. Her arms lifted and settled on his shoulders as she gave herself up to kissing him back. The sensations inside spiralled, swirling down to the point between her legs. It was delicious and wicked, and utterly stupid. But she didn’t care, she didn’t want to be sensible any more. A growling sound escaped from his throat and entered her mouth as his hand slid to her lower back and pulled her firmly against his body. She fitted perfectly, her hip bones pressing to his, her breasts crushed against his chest.
His tongue slid through her parted lips, tentatively, then deeply, then it withdrew again. The tip of her tongue reached to touch his.
She wanted this with a bone-deep longing. His kiss dissolved her. She lifted her hand and ran her fingers through his hair. He pressed her further back, the wall grazed her right shoulder. She hoped it had not torn her dress.
His palms cupped her bottom and pulled her hips more snugly against his. A hard ridge in his trousers pressed against her abdomen. It ought to scare her; it did not. His embrace stayed tender and gentle.
‘God, Mary, you are beautiful,’ he whispered into her mouth. ‘More than I imagined.’
His hand ran over her hip, her waist, up to her ribs where his thumb brushed the lower curve of her bosom.
‘Mary,’ he said her name with a dizzying awe. Then his lips left her mouth. He kissed her jaw and her neck, while his palm settled over her breast, kneading her flesh through her gown.
His teeth nipped her neck. His hand left her breast, slid down and touched between her legs. He stroked inwards over the material of her gown, pressing the warm, moist flesh at the juncture of her thighs, where she craved him. She knew men and women joined there.
She should tell him to stop, but wrapped in the darkness, hidden from view, the danger had become exhilarating.
The strokes were tender, careful, like the touch of his teeth and lips on her neck.
The desire inside her climbed, as if her body were racing towards a peak. Her breath quickened and a sob escaped from her lips. Delicious sensations wove a spell in her blood, then… she flew on a firecracker.
Her fingers clawed on his shoulder and in his hair, clinging, as a whimpering sound left her lips. He silenced her with a kiss. She could not kiss him back, she had no strength. She had exploded and fallen from the sky.
A sound of amusement, half laugh, came from his throat, slipping into her mouth as he drew away.
The sound of the orchestra warming up their instruments broke them apart. The supper hour was over.
The French doors opened, and voices drifted outside. People must be crowding into the ballroom to dance. Some walked out on to the terrace for fresh air.
Her heart pounded. The confusion of fear and bewilderment mingled. She had no idea what had just happened.
The orchestra struck up a melody.
She could not see his face or his eyes but his fingers touched her cheek and his thumb stroked back and forth across her chin.
‘I could make a sound and have someone find us like this,’ he whispered.
‘Is that what you want to do?’ she asked.
She breathed heavily, still disorientated.
He was breathing heavily too.
His thumb touched her lips. She was not afraid, even though she did not really know him.
‘I want you,’ he answered, in a hushed voice. ‘I want you as my wife.’
‘You want my dowry.’
‘I want you and your dowry. I know your brother hates the idea of a man in need of a fortune, but he has one. It is hardly a crime to need to marry wealth, just circumstance. But any of three dozen heiresses could bring me money. I want you, Mary.’
She smiled, knowing the darkness hid it, but his thumb was still on her lips. ‘You could choose a military career and work for your living.’
‘I have no money to buy a commission. But if you would follow the drum, I might sign up.’
‘The clergy then…’
‘Me, a vicar. Are you mad? That would never work.’ A scoffing rumble of amusement growled in his throat.
She chuckled. ‘I must be, I am here with you.’
His thumb and forefinger tilted her chin up. ‘Will you agree to marry me?’
‘I barely know you, and you have an awful reputation.’
This time his amusement erupted as a proper laugh which someone might hear. ‘Guilty as charged, I will not deny it, but those days are in the past. Get to know me, and know one thing for certain, I will marry you.’
‘For money…’
‘Money, yes. I need it. I am not lying to you. But as I said, not only for your fortune.’ His lips brushed hers, weaving enchantment, fogging her mind.
She forced herself to turn her head. ‘And if I had no fortune…’
He did not answer, but he had said he would not lie, and that was the way of life for her class. There were three dozen men in her uncle’s ballroom without expectation of inheritance or the desire to shoot other men on a battlefield, or the inclination to preach. All those men needed to marry for money.
She pushed him away. ‘I must go. I will be missed.’
‘When can I meet you again? Where? Do you ride in the mornings, in Hyde Park? What if I were there at nine, would you come?’
Male voices, engaged in conversation, came out from the ballroom on to the terrace.
‘I don’t know. I must go.’ She left him and ran across the grass to the courtyard entrance she’d come from. She returned via the servants’ door and went to the retiring room to ask the maid to pin up the strands of hair she had pulled loose to be able to excuse herself.
When she returned to the ballroom, he was nowhere to be seen.
Mary found her father, who teased her about the length of time the maid took to fix her hair. She had lied, again. Deceived and disobeyed him. Insanity had claimed her. What had she done?
‘Miss Marlow, will you dance?’
She turned to face Lloyd Montague, one of her usual suitors. She liked him, she liked many of the men, but they had no intrigue. The only man she wanted to dance with was no longer here.
She accepted Lloyd’s arm and let him lead her into a waltz, her heart racing, her blood running thick with the memory of Lord Framlington’s intimate caress.
Would she go tomorrow? She could, if she took a groom.
But it would not be wise. It could only lead to disgrace.