All's Fair in Love and Seduction (7 page)

She pondered his question a moment too long. He slipped the ribbon from her motionless fingers and proceeded to tie it in a bow. When he was finished, she tipped her head up, her eyes wide watching him. 

Her mouth looked plush and pink and meant to be kissed. His cock stirred urging him to do just that. 

Panic flared briefly in her eyes as he lowered his head. She quickly dropped her head and took two steps back. 

“Thank you,” she said, her voice breathless, her face flushed and not from the heat of the day. He liked that he could do that to her. 

“You want me to kiss you,” he stated, not about to pretend that hadn’t been his intent.

The color on her face deepened, spreading to wash the gentle jut of her collar bones and down to sweep over the expanse of creamy skin exposed by her square-shaped neckline.  “I don’t think that would be a good idea. We are in a public park.”

Derek looked around briefly. “No one is about.” 

She buried her hand in the folds of her skirts and he saw her fingers moving restlessly over the ice blue silk material. 

“What scares you more, Miss Smith, that I won’t stop or that you won’t want me to?” 

Her head jerked sharply up and he saw the truth there in her wide eyes. 

“I would never force myself on a woman.” 

If Lord Creswell had meant to reassure her, she remained anything but. He was correct, she had no fear of him. It was the emotions he stirred in her with so little effort.   

Elizabeth blinked and shook her head in denial. “I never said anything such thing.” 

Lord Creswell smiled. “Then it would seem I have my answer.”

He moved with the swiftness of a snake striking, his gloved hand firmly palming the nape of her neck and tipping her head up for his kiss in one clean motion. His mouth settled on hers gently coaxing, rubbing. Her lips parted instantly, her response as natural as breathing. His tongue plunged into the wet, warm caverns of her mouth with the single-minded purpose to conquer, possess, plunder. 

All tenderness was gone and in its place was greed and the most basic sexual desire. Like a ferocious vortex, she felt it pulling her under buffeted by her needs and her own wants. 

But she couldn’t let this happen, not again. It was this same sort of reckless desire that had women wringing their hands in heartsick despair after the men took their fill and walked away without a glance, promises broken, leaving the women's and left hand bereft of a ring. It had happened to Madeline and if she wasn’t very careful, it would happen to her.

She broke the kiss with the inexorable press of her hands against his shoulders. He allowed her to push him away for it was the only way she could have managed it. For a moment he looked as if he was about to protest. He narrowed his gaze down at her. 

Slowly, as if fearing any sudden movement on his part would cause her to bolt, he caught her arm in his and lifted it up for inspection. Elizabeth had no idea what he was looking for but permitted him to turn it gently in his hand. Her gown had small capped sleeves and her gloves came to her wrist so there was a length of pale flesh to peruse and to touch. 

“So soft,” he whispered, lazily stroking her forearm with his index finger. “Whoever thought something this slim and fragile in appearance would have so much strength,” he mused, his mouth twisted. 

Not yet recovered from the sheer wonder of the kiss, Elizabeth’s arm tingled every place he touched. 

He ran the back of his gloved hand along the now prickled skin of her bicep. “Do you play croquet, Miss Smith?”

She shook her head both in bemusement and response to the question. 

“I will teach you soon. It would be a shame to waste this arm keeping gentlemen at bay.”

He smiled, a banked irony glinting in his beautiful eyes. Lifting her arm, he watched her steadily as he placed a soft kiss on the vulnerable skin just above her glove. Her chest rose on a swift inhale of a startled breath. And then the heat swept in like an invading army making a mockery of all her good intentions

No sane person fell in love in the span of a single day. But she could feel herself taking a headlong plunge into some foreign emotion more heartfelt than a girlhood crush, leaving her vulnerable in a way she’d never been.   

He released her with the same languid speed. He smiled but it wasn’t a smile that reassured a woman intent on retaining her virginity until she was securely wed.  

“Shall we find Lord and Lady Windmere?” He proffered his arm, his expression cryptic, his manners exquisite. 

As Elizabeth took his arm, she had the distinct feeling she’d just relinquished more of herself to him than just her hand.

Chapter Seven

Elizabeth had very little experience with men, and none at all with a man like Lord Creswell.  There was nothing tentative about him, not the vaguest sense of uncertainty in his words or actions. And who would have thought a man could be competent in everything? At least it appeared that way to her. 

Last week, the viscount had taken her to the theatre where he’d shown a more than passing knowledge of Italian. He’d danced with her at three balls, and as she’d come to expect, few men could match his skill on the dance floor. 

Yesterday, and as promised, he taught her to play croquet. His manner of teaching had reduced her will to resist him to ashes, his chest pressing lightly on her back, his hands enclosed over hers as he guided her swing of the mallet. His body was long and muscled. And hard everywhere. 

Had Missy, Charlotte and Catherine not been in attendance, she was certain he would have kissed her. And she no doubt would have kissed him right back. It was a very fortunate thing they’d been chaperoned. 

Today, they were taking afternoon tea in the parlor at Laurel House, something they’d never done before. But the viscount had been busy most of the day, and had only an hour to visit with her since he would be busy again that evening. He would miss escorting her to Lady Summerville’s supper party. 

Lord Creswell helped himself to flaky French pastries from the serving tray. 

“You seem very fond of Miss Foxworth. I believe you’ve danced with her at every ball we’ve attended.” After the words were out of her mouth, Elizabeth furiously wished she could snatch them back and rephrase them so she didn’t sound like a shrewish, jealous witch. 

The viscount watched her, his expression inscrutable as he proceeded to consume the cherry tart. 

To fill the lengthening silence, Elizabeth hastily took a gulp of her tea, nearly burning her tongue in the process. She returned the teacup to the saucer with clatter of porcelain against porcelain.

“I am very fond of Miss Foxworth,” he agreed. “And I am fond of Lady Gertrude and Miss Roswell, both whom I also partner to dance when they are in attendance.”

“I didn’t mean to imply—” 

“Miss Smith, I’m sure you’ve been beautiful all your life. However, most women are not graced with your extraordinary looks and therefore, are often ignored. I am fortunate to be in a position to aid where I can and more often than not, when I dance with my friends, other men will follow. Every woman should enjoy a full dance card at a ball, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Elizabeth nodded mutely for no words could adequately express what she was feeling at that precise moment. 

For the past several weeks, she had been teetering on the precipice of love, but what she’d just heard from the viscount succeeded in nudging her over.

~*~*~

Derek had paid quite a hefty sum for the information he now had in his possession: dates, names, places. He could put a halt to this thing with Miss Smith today if he so desired. The marriage she’d schemed to get would never come to pass. That very fact should have pleased him. 

To his shame, it did not. 

And he blamed her for that. If she hadn’t tried to tread in very same shoes that her sister had worn six years ago, she may have been the one he could see spending the rest of his days with. The woman he could see bearing his children. The woman he could have loved. But she would never be any of those things for she was who she was. 

One would think her misdeeds would stop him from wanting her. Again, to his shame, it did not. And that angered him more than her deceit—this hold she had on him. Well today he was determined to break that hold once and for all. 

Like the prior day, Miss Smith had invited Charlotte Rutherford and one of her ardent suitors, Baron Lawrence Stanfield, to accompany them on their daily outing. Today they were visiting the British Museum. The four stood just inside the entrance of the building. 

“Where shall we go first?” Miss Smith spoke to no one in particular as she surveyed the museum, her eyes round with wonder. 

“Why don’t we start with the King’s Library?” Miss Rutherford suggested when it became apparent neither he nor Lord Stanfield would offer up any themselves. 

Miss Smith looked at him and then at the baron. “If my lords are in agreement?”

Derek jerked his head in a nod. But after the museum, they had a house to see with neither Miss Rutherford nor Stanfield in tow. But that was something Miss Elizabeth Smith didn’t know. At least not yet.    

Just as they began their walk toward the first wing of the building, Cartwright—he recognized his friend’s voice instantly—called out from behind. 

Miss Rutherford froze, inhaled a sharp breath as color leeched from her face. She collected herself a heartbeat later, her shoulders pushed slightly back, her chin raised the barest fraction of an inch. 

His friend wasted no time in making his way to them. They exchanged silent nods upon his approach. To the women he offered a deep bow with the overly polite greeting of, “Miss Smith, Miss Rutherford.” The nod he directed at Stanfield was cold, a tenuous hold on civility. 

“Miss Rutherford, Lady Windmere has received word that Lady Armstrong is about to deliver.  We will be leaving for Devon within the hour. ”

Miss Rutherford eyes rounded in a mixture of concern and excitement. “So soon? Oh, but yes of course.”

“I will escort you home.”

At this, Miss Rutherford sent the baron a concerned look, who appeared impervious to the exchange and the resulting effect. As if Cartwright didn’t pose a threat to Miss Rutherford’s affection. The notion was laughable. 

“Lord Stanfield?” Miss Rutherford prompted. 

“Oh, yes. Cartwright, I will escort Miss Rutherford home.”

“My carriage is close by and I’m on my way there,” Cartwright replied tersely.  

“I will instruct my driver to take you home, Stanfield,” Derek offered. The man certainly wasn’t going to remain with them, not with Miss Rutherford rushing off to be there at the birth of Armstrong’s first child. Stanfield could do nothing else but accept his offer unless he wished to hire a hackney home as they had all come together in Derek’s carriage. 

Stanfield gave a grudging nod and ten minutes later, the trio had departed.

Now blessedly alone with Miss Smith, Derek directed his full attention at her, his elbow crooked. She peered up at him, her eyes uncertain perhaps a little afraid. He suppressed a smile and asked graciously, “Shall we?”

“Di-did you have anything to do with that?” she asked after a pause, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. Elizabeth was quite sure he had. It simply couldn’t be a coincidence. 

His frame shook with laughter, drawing her gaze up to his.

 “Even I could not foresee the precise timing of Lady Armstrong’s child readying itself to enter the world. Really, Miss Smith, you think too much of my abilities. Am I now a mystic? A sightseer?”

Elizabeth understood just how ridiculous she sounded, but she just knew he’d had a hand in this even if she could not say exactly how.  She also knew she was in a heap of trouble. He had that look in his eyes. The same look that had kept her on edge these last two weeks. An unabashed want that mirrored her own.

From their first kiss, she had known this was how it would be between them, that razor sharp awareness and a hunger that grew with every word, every touch and every look exchanged. And now with Charlotte gone, Elizabeth would have to cope on her own. Be strong in spite of herself. Things did not look promising. 

They toured the museum the next several hours, taking in the royal collection of books in the King’s Library. They moved on to see the Rosetta Stone before concluding their visit with the statue of the Great Winged Bull.  He impressed her with his superior knowledge, speaking with great authority on the subject of Egyptian hieroglyphs and various other topics. 

She also discovered his love of reading was as great as her own. At that, some of her anxiety eased,  Lord Creswell conducting himself like a perfect gentleman. He was solicitous in his touch and respectful in his manner, never once stripping her bare with his gaze. 

When they tumbled into the carriage in the early evening, Elizabeth had convinced herself she could trust him to keep his hands—and all parts of him—to himself. 

The waning rays of the sun heralded dusk, shrouding the carriage in darkness. Lord Creswell sat across from her, his figure cast in a shadow of gray and black. Except to ask her if she’d enjoyed the visit, he remained silent. Which wouldn’t have been all that bad had she not known he was watching her. She could feel it. And the same tension she’d fear would derail her efforts came back, humming in the air stronger than before. 

Some minutes later, the barouche came to a halt beside a townhome; a red-brick edifice that soared three stories high. 

“Why have we stopped here?” she asked.
Who lives here?

“It’s a property I’ve just purchased. I thought you’d like to see it, perhaps offer your thoughts. You will be residing here, after all,” came his smooth reply. 

Elizabeth peered out the window and then back at his shadowed face. If she couldn’t see him, she couldn’t read him and therefore wouldn’t know whether to trust him. But a far more dire situation than that was she didn’t trust herself. 

“I would prefer we come back another time.”