And Then She Fell (Cynster 19 Cynster Sisters Duo #1) (10 page)

Gently.

Reining in the nearly overwhelming urge to taste her more definitely, to part her lips and claim her mouth—and go far too far—he fought and succeeded, because it was so desperately important that he did, in keeping the kiss light, in spinning it out into a fantasy of the most delicately exquisite sensation.

He knew exactly what he was doing, what he was aiming for, a seduction of an entirely different sort—at least for a wolf like him.

Never had he set himself to tempt with such a light touch, with the merest brush of his lips, a pressure so light it tantalized with near-crystal fragility.

He peeked from beneath his lashes; her eyes were shut—she seemed captured by the kiss, captive to the sensation. As he’d wanted her to be.

Henrietta couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think, either, and for once didn’t care. Thinking wasn’t important; feeling—absorbing the sensations engendered by his kiss—was. She’d been kissed before, several times, yet those experiences had been nothing like this. Nowhere near as compelling as this.

Even though this kiss—James’s “young lady” kiss—was as insubstantial as a fairy tale.

It was all about promise, and hope, and what might be.

The touch of his lips on hers . . . made them tingle. Made her nerves fizz delicately, like fine bubbles rising in the best champagne, with a species of anticipation. She was intensely aware of him, of his body and his strength, all around her and so close, yet not quite touching . . . except for his lips. His wicked, pliant, distracting lips.

Slowly, smoothly, he lifted his head.

Lips parting, barely breathing, she looked up at him.

His eyes—those pools of melted chocolate—looked utterly innocent. They slowly passed over her face, lingered for a moment on her still tingling lips, then he raised his gaze to her eyes. Arched a brow. “Well? Will that pass muster, or . . . ?”

She dragged in a huge breath and stepped back, out of the circle of his arms. Sought—bludgeoned her brains—for some suitable response. All she could come up with was a crisp nod and a breathless “You’ll do.”

Turning, she started down the walk, grateful her legs consented to carry her. She couldn’t think about the kiss—about whether he’d been in earnest, or merely using his supposed pursuit of young ladies as an excuse—now. As he fell in beside her, she lengthened her stride. “We need to reach the house before the others do.”

“Ah—of course. We don’t want Lady Jersey, of all people, to start speculating on what might have detained us.”

“No. We don’t.” Belatedly registering the quiet laughter in his voice, she shot him a glance as, entirely relaxed, he paced alongside her. “That’s a truly evil prospect to raise.”

He chuckled. “I know.” Looking ahead, he smiled.

H
enrietta was sitting before her dressing table that evening, watching in the mirror as Hannah curled and pinned her hair, when there was a tap on the door and Mary looked in. Spotting Henrietta, Mary entered and shut the door, then crossed to stand to one side of Hannah.

Mary’s gaze swept over Henrietta and fixed on the necklace fastened about her throat. Satisfaction bloomed in Mary’s eyes. “Good. You’re still wearing it.”

“Hmm.”

At the noncommittal reply, Mary’s gaze rose to fix on Henrietta’s face. Henrietta avoided meeting her sister’s eyes—which promptly narrowed.

“Is it working?” Mary asked.

Henrietta wished she could lie, but this was Mary, who was not simply her bossiest sister but also the most acute. Attempting to lie to Mary never worked well. Henrietta opted for caution instead. “Possibly.”

“
Yes
! Wonderful!” Fists waving, Mary danced a little jig, then tipped her head back and said to the ceiling, “Thank you, Lady!”

Henrietta snorted.

Which brought Mary’s attention swooping back to her. “So who is it?”

“I’m not telling.”

Mary straightened. Folding her arms, she stared at Henrietta’s reflection. Eyes narrowing, Mary tapped a finger to her lips . . . then stopped. “James Glossup. That’s who it is—he’s your hero, isn’t he?”

Finally meeting Mary’s eyes, taking in her little sister’s triumphant expression, Henrietta narrowed her eyes direfully. “Under no circumstances will you
dare
say a word—not to anyone!”

Mary positively beamed.

Henrietta dragged in a breath, and remembered the one thing she held that would compel Mary’s silence. “If you want to get your hands on the necklace in the right way, as soon as maybe, then you will make absolutely certain not one word of your
unconfirmed
speculation
passes your lips.”

Mary’s smile widened, but she held up a hand and promptly said, “I do so promise—word of a Cynster.”

“Humph!” Henrietta wanted to turn around to better study Mary, but Hannah was still working on her hair.

Mary, meanwhile, was still dancing—literally—with delight. She swirled in a complete circle, then headed for the door. “You have no idea how happy you’ve made me, Henrietta dear. And you may rest easy—I won’t blab a word, and will do nothing at all to get in your way. Well—of course, I won’t. I want that necklace in my hands—in the right way—as soon as may be.”

Pausing with her hand on the doorknob, Mary glanced back, and, eyes alight, added, “I just can’t wait.”

Ignoring Hannah’s efforts, Henrietta swung around, but Mary had already whisked out of the door. As it shut behind her, Henrietta sighed. “Do you have any idea,” she said, speaking to Hannah, “what—or rather who—that was all about? Who she’s got her eye on that she’s so eager to have this necklace?”

“No, miss. Not a clue.” Hannah paused, then asked, “But is it true? That Mr. Glossup is the one for you?”

Henrietta swiveled back and, in the mirror, caught Hannah’s wide-eyed gaze. “It might be. But you, too, will breathe not a word.”

“Not even half a word, miss.” Her face showing almost as much excitement as Mary’s, Hannah waved the curling iron. “Now do sit still, miss, and let me get this done.”

T
he exchange with Mary had brought home to Henrietta that she had, indeed, started to believe. Started to hope.

Hope, she was discovering, was a very awkward feeling.

Descending the steps into Lady Hollingworth’s ballroom, she saw James slipping through the crowd, making his way to the foot of the stairs to meet her—and she told her unruly heart to behave. Yes, he looked his usual polished, debonair self, every inch the wolf of the ton he so often claimed to be, and while he might be that . . . this afternoon, he’d been something else.

He’d been the gentleman who’d kissed her with such reverent delicacy that she still felt giddy whenever she recalled the moment.

They’d spent the drive back from Osterley Park discussing the various people they’d met there, but that had merely been a convenient smoke screen, one both of them had readily supported as a way to avoid having to deal immediately with what that deliciously simple kiss had revealed.

Had meant.

Truth be told, she still wasn’t sure what it had meant, only that it had meant something. That the moment had marked a change, a shift in their interaction.

Exactly to what she wasn’t sure, but as she looked down into James’s face, upturned, his gaze locked on her as she descended the last steps, she knew very well what her heart was hoping.

“Good evening.” With passable aplomb, she offered her hand.

He grasped it and bowed, then, straightening, brazenly raised her hand to his lips; meeting her eyes, he touched his lips to her knuckles.

Even though she was wearing gloves, she still had to suppress a shiver. The pressure of his lips on the back of her hand evoked the phantom sensation of those same lips pressed to hers. . . .

He’d been studying her eyes; now he smiled and drew her nearer. Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, he steered her into the crowd. “Not quite as big a crush as last night, thank heaven.”

“No.” She glanced about.

Unsure of just what tack they would be taking, she was about to point out another young lady he might wish to meet and consider—if he was still considering other young ladies—when he said, “I believe the musicians are about to start a waltz. Ah, yes, there they are.” Lifting her hand from his sleeve, he met her eyes and smiled—in an unshielded way she was beginning to realize he reserved just for her—then he drew her on. “Come along, my dear Matchbreaker. I want to waltz with you.”

Finding herself stupidly smiling in reply, she opened her lips to make a token protest.

He saw, and twirled her—onto the floor and into his arms. “And no—don’t start. I have no intention of wasting my time waltzing with other young ladies tonight.” His gaze trapped hers, and he lowered his voice. “So you may as well save your breath.” Then he whirled her into the dance.

James devoted himself to keeping her breathless and giddy, an activity that confirmed two things. One, that he could, if he put his mind to it, achieve such an outcome, and two, that he enjoyed doing it. Henrietta Cynster breathless and giddy was a sight that warmed his heart. Literally.

Which, he supposed, said more than enough.

But he wasn’t yet ready to think more on that, on what she made him feel. On what he had felt when he’d kissed her so lightly in the walk at Osterley Park.

He was still coming to terms with that.

But she seemed as pleased as he to simply take tonight as they found it. There were enough guests crowding her ladyship’s ballroom for them to keep to themselves without anyone truly noticing. The gossipmongers and the grandes dames tended to watch the sweet young things, or those for some reason in the limelight. At twenty-nine, Henrietta was long past the age when matrons kept a watchful eye on whom she was consorting with, and as for him, he’d never featured as a pawn in their matrimonial games.

So they had all the evening to laugh, and share anecdotes, and drown in each other’s eyes. Had hours to spend discovering this and that, the minutiae of each other’s characters that made them what they were, that made them themselves and fixed the other’s attention.

That focused them, each on the other, to the exclusion of all else.

They waltzed again, and the ephemeral connection between them burgeoned and grew stronger.

On one level, he recognized it; on another, he didn’t.

Familiar, yet not; known, yet unknown. Expected on the one hand, yet so much more . . . that summed up his reaction to her.

A reaction that escalated from curiosity to desire, and then to wanting.

They chanced a third waltz, but even that was not enough. He could see the same calculation in her eyes.

She glanced around, then met his gaze. “It’s dreadfully stuffy—shall we stroll on the terrace?”

Where it was quieter and they stood an excellent chance of finding themselves alone.

He looked over the heads, saw the doors to the terrace standing open. “An excellent idea.” He offered his arm. “Let’s.”

He steered her through the crowd of chattering guests. They’d reached the terrace door and were just about to step through when a young lady in a magenta gown appeared in a rush beside them.

“Miss Cynster.” The young lady met Henrietta’s eyes, then inclined her head to James before addressing Henrietta. “I’m Miss Fotherby—we met at Lady Hamilton’s at-home a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, yes.” Henrietta lightly clasped Miss Fotherby’s proffered fingers. “I remember.” She introduced James, adding, “Miss Fotherby is Lady Martin’s niece.”

James bowed and Miss Fotherby curtsied, then, rising, spoke to them both. “I wonder if I might have a private word with you.” She gestured to the terrace. “Outside might be best.”

James met Henrietta’s eyes, saw them widen slightly.

Miss Fotherby glanced back at the crowd, then looked at Henrietta, then at him. “Please,” she said, and stepped over the threshold.

Mystified, James waved Henrietta before him, and followed.

They found Miss Fotherby, hands clasped nervously before her, waiting for them a little way from the door. She swung away as they neared. As Miss Fotherby was shorter than Henrietta, Henrietta went to one side and James to the other; flanking Miss Fotherby, they strolled deeper into the shadows further along the terrace.

“I hope you’ll understand my reasons for approaching you like this,
but
. . .” Miss Fotherby paused to draw in a tight breath. “I have to marry. I live with my mother and stepfather, but for various reasons I wish to leave my stepfather’s roof. My aunt has been all that is kind, and she’s sponsoring me into the ton, as you know. I’m twenty-five, so finding a husband isn’t all that easy. I have a decent dowry, but . . .” She paused to draw in another breath, then, fingers twisting, went on, “I’ve had one offer, and while everyone else is thrilled and I’ve been advised by many to accept, I simply don’t trust the gentleman involved.”

They’d reached the end of the terrace. Placing a hand on the balustrade, Miss Fotherby swung to face them. She focused on Henrietta. “And no, I’m not here to ask you to vet him. I know well enough not to trust a man such as he. However”—she transferred her gaze to James—“I have heard, Mr. Glossup, of your need for a wife. I realize that you are looking over candidates and would like to ask that you put my name on your list for consideration.”

She glanced at Henrietta and smiled faintly. “Miss Cynster, I’m sure, will know how to learn all you might wish to know about me.” Raising her head, Miss Fotherby met Henrietta’s gaze. “I’ve heard that all Cynsters marry for love, but in my case . . . I know I’ll be happier taking the other tack.”

Turning to James, she met his eyes. “I distrust gentlemen who vow love too readily, Mr. Glossup, and infinitely prefer you and your honesty in approaching the matter as you have.” She inclined her head, then simply said, “Please do consider me for your position.” Her gaze traveling along the terrace to fix on the open ballroom door, she hesitated, then added, “And, if at all possible, I would appreciate some indication of your thoughts in the next several days.”

With that, she nodded to Henrietta, then walked swiftly back up the terrace, leaving James and Henrietta staring after her.