An Extraordinary Flirtation (15 page)

Cara shrugged. “It is a hunter’s strategy to block all the earths while the fox is going about her business. Paul wants Norwood’s property. It marches next to his.”

Nick knew damned well that property wasn’t all Anderley wanted. Easy enough to recognize a dog-in-the-manger attitude when he was experiencing one himself. “And what do you want?”

She didn’t want him to stop touching her, for one thing. “Freedom, I suppose. Paul seems to think that sheer persistence will eventually wear me down.”

Nick had been about to untie her garter. Now he paused. Did Cara think that he also sought to wear her down? If so, it was unworthy. Wasn’t it? His hand slid back down to her ankle, and then to her toes.

He had lost interest, Cara thought glumly. As Norwood used to do. It was true, then: she was too old for an
affaire.
Her companion, however, was not. The man looked positively pagan in the firelight. Any damsel threatened by this bold marauder would immediately immolate herself upon his chest.

Of course Nicky was destined to have an
amour,
as he had said himself. Or
amours.
Countless numbers of them, no doubt. Cara couldn’t bear the thought.

If older now, she was surely also wiser than she once had been. Cara wrapped herself in dignity. “You don’t have to try and pretend to want me, Nicky. It is very kind of you, but I know I am no longer in your style.”

Pretend
to want her? She thought he had to force himself? Could Cara not know how magnificent she was?

Nick felt like throttling someone. Norwood might have been a likely candidate, but he had already stuck his spoon in the wall. “What
is
my style?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” Cara folded her fingers together in her lap to keep from grabbing his hand and plopping it back down on her knee. “But I would think she should be young, at least.”

Unaware that Zoe had inspired her elders with an acute awareness of their mortality, Nick regarded Cara with astonishment. “My love, you are an idiot,” he said, and got up to tend the fire.

Her feet felt chilled without his warmth. Cara tucked them beneath her chair. Indeed, all of her felt chilled, despite the nearness of the fire. If only she might wrap Nicky around her like a warm blanket. His shirt strained over the muscles of his back as he knelt on the hearth. Her hand itched to stroke down his back, across his hips, his—Um. She licked her lips.

Nick glanced up and caught her wistful look. His own expression was unreadable. “What do you want, Cara?” he repeated quietly.

She didn’t want to fall in love again, to feel that slow sweet stirring of the blood. She especially didn’t want to fall in love with the scoundrel who had broken her heart the first time. Her pulse skittered. “In general? Or just now.”

He moved toward her, as handsome and powerful and as irresistible as sin. “I’ll settle for just now.”

Cara was more of a Loversall than anyone, save Nicky, had ever realized. Even as her head begged her for caution, her heart urged the opposite. She whispered, “If you betray me again, I swear I’ll cut out your heart.” And then he was kneeling before her, and she was reaching out for him; and his arms were warm around her body, and his lips against her throat.

It was a lovely London morning. Or if not precisely lovely, because the day was overcast and gray, still an especially fine specimen of a morning, with the Creator in His heaven, and all well with the world. Perhaps that also was a bit of an overstatement, considering the seemingly endless difficulties with the French and the equally unfriendly affairs of the Prince and Princess of Wales, but Lord Mannering refused to relinquish his good mood. Regardless of gray days and ongoing hostilities, he was in a splendid frame of mind.

He rode astride his great black horse through the city streets. The air was thick with the smell of animal dung and sea-coal smoke, noisy with the clatter of hooves and wheels, the shouts of street sellers with their baskets and barrows: orange girls and milkmaids, chairmen and chimney sweeps; purveyors of fresh hot tea and gingerbread and steak-and-kidney pies. Nick observed an altercation between a traveling chair repairman and the driver of a charcoal car with a benevolent smile.

Few members of the
ton
were out and about so early. Nick was banking that one member in particular hadn’t yet packed up her belongings and set out for the Cotswolds. Not that it was all
that
early, but he hadn’t managed to get out of bed as early as he’d meant to. He doubted that Cara had either, since it had been quite late when she’d finally gone home.

Ah, sweet Cara. She was as wonderfully passionate as he remembered her. And as contrary, he made no doubt. If only he could whisk her off to some secluded castle, and make love to her there for months, or years, until he determined the nature of her fears, and set them finally to rest.

He inhaled deeply, and coughed, and wished that the Creator in his heaven might be inspired to do something about the quality of London’s air
.
Thusly ruminating, Lord Mannering arrived in Brook Street, and tossed his reins to a groom. Ah yes, it was a fine morning, if not lovely. He mounted the front steps.

Widdle opened the door. It was still sufficiently early that the daily deluge of posies and invitations and impassioned pleas of eternal devotion hadn’t yet begun to arrive. However, the butler was ever on the alert lest some member of the household creep home in the wee hours of the morning, or a certain squire appear on the doorstep with an underhanded suggestion, and a bribe.

No bribe was forthcoming from this gentleman, however. He merely extended a visiting card and inquired if any of the family were yet astir. Widdle, who knew perfectly well that all the members of the family had arisen—the master, mistress, and lady were in the breakfast room, while the demoiselle was engaged in a game of hide-and-seek with the dog—accepted the card delicately between his thumb and index finger and said that he would ascertain.

The marquess was not accustomed to being left cooling his heels like a common tradesman who should more properly have gone to the servants’ door. However, on this loveliest of mornings, he overlooked the snub. He strolled around the hallway, inspected its scant furnishings, which included a porcelain vase, a pair of uncomfortable-looking Egyptian chairs, a carved umbrella stand, and a handsome wooden staircase with barley-sugar-twisted balusters.

Alas, poor Nicky. Instead of basking—and yes, he had been basking, which should not be held against him, for he had waited a long time for the events of the previous night—he should perhaps instead have been contemplating hubris; or the fate of a gentleman named Icarus who donned wax wings and flew too close to the sun; or his Creator’s tendency to give, and then take away; for of all the members of the household, it was Zoe who found him standing in the hallway, contemplating the porcelain urn.

Lord Mannering was lost in thought. Thoughts of her, of course; why else would the marquess have come here, and at such an unfashionable hour? If he didn’t look like he was languishing, at least he looked like a man who had made up his mind. “Hello!” she said. He started. “Have you come to see me, then?”

Discourage her, Nick told himself. But gently, so she didn’t fly into the boughs. “No, I have come to speak with your father. But it is always a pleasure to see you, Miss Loversall.”

“La! So formal!” Zoe moved closer. “It is entirely unnecessary for you to speak to Beau—indeed I wish you wouldn’t! And if you had
truly
wished to see me, you should have gone to Mrs. Yarrow’s musical party last night. Baron Fitzrichard’s cousin played the harp very prettily. The baron was wearing a blue cravat. I’d never seen anything like it.” She giggled. “I don’t think anyone else had either, from the way that people stared.”

Nick wished that he had brought the baron with him on this visit, blue cravat or no. He suspected that he’d made a grave mistake in coming unchaperoned to this house, as well as in mentioning the purpose of his visit. “I fear you’ve misunderstood,” he said, as he backed away.

Zoe had misunderstood nothing. The man was besotted with her, was he not? Although perhaps she did fail to understand why so experienced a seducer failed to make an assault on her virtue when they found themselves so fortuitously alone. Indeed, he seemed to be retreating even as she advanced. “You said I was the most beautiful damsel in England, and that you awaited my pleasure, and that I’m yours to command.” She dimpled. “You also said that you’d slay a dragon for me, but we needn’t go that far!”

He’d said a great deal of nonsense, reflected Nick, as he edged toward the door. The blasted chit trailed after him as if he were a magnet, and she were iron. “That’s the sort of nonsense one says when one is flattering a young woman. I also said you were a hardened flirt, if you’ll recall.”

Zoe trod close upon his heels, or toes, since he was progressing backward and she was not. She was changing her mind about the marquess never being dull. He was being dull right now. Perhaps he was not as manly as she’d thought. Or perhaps he was feeling his great age, which was very inconvenient of him, for this was the perfect moment to embark upon their
affaire de coeur,
and if to do so in the hallway of her papa’s house was not what she had anticipated, it gave the business a certain cachet.

“I’m a flirt, I admit it!” she said, as she deftly placed herself between the marquess and his only means of escape. “But I’ve also tumbled violently in love, just as you said I would, with
you!
You needn’t get down on your knees if it is too painful because of your rheumatism; I quite understand. But in case you hadn’t noticed, ‘tis the perfect moment for you to ravish me, because we are quite alone.”

Of course Nick had noticed they were alone. He deplored the circumstance. “I’m not going to ravish you, in this hallway or anywhere else.” He moved sideways toward the stair.

A pity. Zoe had decided that to be ravished in the hallway of her papa’s house would have been quite worthy of a Loversall. “So be it, if you’re determined to be a gentleman about the thing. Not that I know why you should be when I don’t wish you to, but we may talk about that another time.” She summoned forth a blush. “You may kiss me now.”

Nick had backed up as far as he could against the stairway. The carved banister dug into his back. “I don’t want to kiss you.”

Closer she drew, ever closer, narrowing the gap, a curly-headed moppet straight from the nether regions, with eyelashes atwitch and pretty lips aquiver and hands extended to clamp on to him. “Silly man!” she cooed. “Of course you do. Come now, there’s no need to pretend.”

There was nothing for it. He was going to have to do her physical damage. Nick had never hit a female in his life, but this one was inspiring him with a nigh irresistible urge to lay a stern hand on her backside.

Fate intervened, in the form of Daisy, who had grown tired of searching for Zoe in the drawing room and was eager to resume their romp. Upon finding her playmate in conversation with a stranger, the setter woofed and wagged her tail. Aware by now of the dog’s customary behavior with newcomers, Zoe counted to five and then put herself smack in Daisy’s path. Daisy jumped up, and knocked Zoe into Nick, and Nick onto the stairs. Nick yelped as his head connected with the banister and his back with a sharp step. Zoe shrieked prettily. Thinking this a much more interesting game than hide-and-seek, Daisy leapt upon them both.

Nick groaned and opened his eyes to find himself nose-to-nose with a tail-wagging, drooling setter, and Zoe sprawled atop him, and a sharp breath-stealing pain shooting up his spine. He wondered if he had broken it. “Let me up,” he said, and put his hands on Zoe ‘s waist to move her away from him, or tried to; the setter’s enthusiastic participation made it hard to get a grip.

Zoe had no intention of moving. She had the marquess exactly where she wanted him, and she meant for him to go nowhere else until he’d ravished her a little bit. “Have you damaged yourself?” she murmured, solicitously.

If he was damaged, which seemed likely in light of the agonizing ache that had settled in his lower back, Nick certainly had not done it to himself. “Kindly remove yourself from my person,” he snapped, and gave Zoe a shove. Instead of complying, she flung her arms around his neck, and hitched herself further up on his body, and pressed her lips to his.

Nick was horrified to be assaulted thus by a young lady—the term “lady” being debatable—and even more so when she tried to plunge her tongue into his mouth. Clearly the chit had been practicing. Heaven only knew where that tongue had been. “Stop that!” he said, through clenched teeth, and tried to turn his head away, a feat made nigh impossible by the dog sitting on his shoulder. Every time he moved, a flame of pain shot up his spine.

Zoe clutched the marquess in her grip like an ardent octopus, and pondered her next move. She had expected such an experienced gentleman to show a tad more polish than he had thus far done. Could his worldly reputation be a sham?

Perhaps he feared to offend her maidenly sensibilities. Perhaps instead of struggling to free himself he was writhing in the throes of ardor. “You can do better than that!” she said, and licked his nose.

“I don’t want to do better!” snarled Nick, still through gritted teeth, lest she attack him again with her blasted tongue. “Will you please get
off?”

No one thwarted Zoe with impunity. If Lord Mannering didn’t want her now, he would. She clutched his ears and kissed him again, and then for good measure grabbed one of his hands and thrust it into the bosom of her dress. “Feel my heart! It is fluttering against my chest like the wings of an imprisoned bird struggling to be free!”

Nick couldn’t help but feel Zoe ‘s heart beating, and her breast, which was very nice, but didn’t interest him in the least because it was attached to her. He tried to free his hand, but couldn’t, due to the combined squirming weight of both Zoe and the dog, which had decided this was a good moment in which to bathe his face.