Elizabeth Powell (12 page)

By contrast, Penelope fairly glowed with excitement and spoke in an animated manner with everyone. Her glossy black ringlets danced with every movement; it was all he could do to keep from reaching out to twine one of those curls around his finger. Later, he promised himself.

At his other side, Lady Portia chatted with Nigel—rather, she chattered
at
him. Nigel’s dazzling smile showed signs of strain around the edges. Sebastian suspected he would owe his friend a very great debt when this business was over, if Nigel forgave him at all.

When their plates were cleared away and replaced by an assortment of biscuits, cakes, and fruit, Penelope turned to her sister. Whatever she had been about to say died on her lips; she reached out and took Jane’s hand.

“Dearest, you seem unwell,” she said.

The imp’s fingers closed convulsively over her sister’s. “N-no. I am fine.”

“Are you certain? You do look a trifle pale,” Sebastian ventured.

A tenuous smile shaded her mouth. “Yes, thank you, my lord.”

Pen did not seem convinced. “Perhaps you would like to take a brief turn down one of the walks and get some air,” she suggested. “Lord Langley, would you be good enough to escort her?”

Lady Portia waved a dismissive hand. “No need to deprive us of his lordship’s company, Penelope. And I fear Jane cannot appreciate Lord Nigel’s sophistication as I do, so perhaps Mr. Havelock could spare a few moments for her.”

Penelope shook her head. “Mr. Havelock has already offered to show me the ruins of the Gothic temple on the South Walk, Mama.”

In response to this pronouncement, several things happened at once: Lady Portia began an outraged protest; Nigel piped up with “I’ll go”; and Miss Jane grew quite pale.

Did no one else value the girl’s company but her sister? She did not deserve to be treated with such indifference.

His jaw tense, Sebastian set aside his napkin and rose. “Perhaps we might all enjoy a brief promenade before the fireworks begin. Do not fret, Lady Portia—I would not consider depriving you of Nigel’s company. And, as Miss Rutledge has a previous commitment, I happily render my services to your other daughter. Miss Jane, would you do me the honor?”

Jane flicked an uneasy glance at her sister, who made a little gesture of encouragement. Slowly, she
climbed to her feet and accepted his hand. He led her down the Grand Cross Walk, away from her mother’s shrill and strident voice. Paper lanterns lit the paths with a gentle glow; a cool evening breeze set them swaying.

“I should not have come,” she said quietly.

“What, and miss all the excitement?” Sebastian drawled. “I was not certain what would explode first—the fireworks, or your mother.”

She did not smile at this sally. She did not even look at him. “I did not wish to become an obligation to anyone.”

“You are not an obligation,” he assured her.

“I disagree, my lord. I know very well that my presence here is unwanted.”

“Not by me.”

Color flooded her face. “That is very gallant of you, but you should reserve your flattery for my sister.”

“Do you not deserve to be flattered?”

She kept her gaze fixed on the path ahead of them. “Not by a gentleman who intends to marry someone else.”

Sebastian inhaled sharply, as though someone had struck him in the ribs. Of course! He had been a fool not to recognize it earlier—the awkward silences, the lingering glances, the flush that stole into her cheeks when he teased her.

Jane Rutledge was in love with him.

He winced. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He had done nothing to encourage her—or had he? He thought about that afternoon in the garden, about demanding a kiss from her. About riding with her in Hyde Park and sharing some of his most private thoughts. He shook himself. He’d bungled things. Nigel had been right.

He cleared his throat. “Tell me, Miss Jane,” he began, “did you come to London to find a husband as well?”

“Just when I believe myself accustomed to your impertinence, my lord, you find a new way to surprise me,” she replied with a hint of reproof.

“That is, what do you intend to do once your sister marries? Will you remain in Town?”

Her lips thinned. “I think not.”

“May I ask why?”

“I have no reason to stay.”

“None?” He lowered his head toward hers in a conspiratorial fashion. “Is there no gentleman who has captured your fancy?”

She closed her eyes briefly, then raised her chin at a defiant angle. “If there were, my lord, I should hardly confess it to you.”

“You wound me, imp.”

“Please stop calling me that.”

“Why?”

“Because …” She appeared to gather her composure. “Because it makes me uncomfortable.”

“Forgive me.” He looked down at her hand on his arm, at her slender fingers encased in kidskin. It seemed ages ago that he had held that same hand, scratched and muddied, in his own. He exhaled in a slow sigh. “Will you be leaving very soon after the wedding?”

“As soon as possible. My mother may choose to remain for a few weeks—London has always held a particular … delight for her. But I have too much to do at home.”

He chuckled. “What can you possibly have to do in Leicestershire that you cannot do here?”

“A great many things, my lord,” she replied tightly.

“Such as?”

He should not bait her like this, but he found he could not help himself. He enjoyed their back and forth volleys and pointed, witty exchanges. Penelope, though engaging, was not half so clever as her younger sister.

“I must oversee matters at Wellbourne Grange,” she answered.

“Surely that is a job better suited to your mother or to your steward.”

“No. Wellbourne is my inheritance, and therefore my responsibility.”

“Your inheritance? Your father left the stables to you?” he asked, unable to hide his surprise.

“Does that shock you?” she shot back, a challenge evident in her stormy eyes. “It certainly astonished everyone else. It was the talk of the county for months. Penelope received the lion’s share of Papa’s fortune, and I inherited Wellbourne. No one seems to think a woman competent to breed and train horses for the hunt.” She made a moue. “It isn’t ladylike.”

“Somehow, I do not think that would stop you.”

A look of unexpected gratitude lit her face, and she nodded. “It was the most practical solution. Papa had no son, and the estate was not entailed, so he wanted to make sure both Pen and I received an equal portion. I had helped him in the stables for years, and he trusted me to manage it well, so he left Wellbourne to me.”

“I would never question your father’s motives,” he ventured, “but is that not a rather heavy burden to place on so young a lady?”

“No greater than what we have endured already,” she murmured. “I shall manage.”

Sebastian frowned, gripped by a protective desire he
could not explain. “Be reasonable, my dear—you cannot run the stable by yourself. You should find a husband who will do the worrying for you. If you stay in London, I know several gentlemen who would—”

She halted and yanked her arm from his grasp, her countenance pale with anger, her eyes bright and fierce. “So you would find me a husband, my lord?”

Passersby began to regard them with unseemly interest. Sebastian moved to take her arm again, but she backed out of his reach.

He held up his hands. “No need to fly up into the boughs. I am not funning you. I made the offer in earnest.”

“Which makes it all the more insulting. Do you mean to imply that I am not capable of finding a husband, or that I am not attractive enough to snare one on my own?”

Sebastian tamped down a spurt of annoyance. “That is not what I meant.”

Her hands tightened into fists; she held her arms rigidly at her sides. “Thank you for your generous offer of assistance,” she said, biting off each word, “but I assure you it is completely unnecessary. I am already engaged.”

Her words sunk in to his fevered mind. He scowled. “Engaged? To whom?”

“To a neighbor whose lands march with mine.”

“And just when did this occur?”

She flushed. “Before we arrived in London.”

“I see.” He had a sudden vision of a country squire, well fed and bucolic, and the anger he kept restrained roared to life. She had played the innocent, sighing and casting forlorn glances in his direction, when all the while she was engaged to another man. Heat sizzled
through his veins. “Why did you not tell me this from the start?”

“Would it have mattered?” she said bitterly. “You had eyes for no one but my sister.”

“You little hypocrite,” he snapped. “I remember a time when you would have let me kiss you, with your betrothed none the wiser.”

She gasped; all traces of color fled her face.

His lips twisted in a sneer. “If you cared a whit for your honor and dignity, or that of your affianced, you would never have allowed yourself to fall in love with me.”

He did not think it possible, but she turned paler still, her skin so ashen that he feared she might faint. “You are quite right, my lord,” she replied, a catch in her voice. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “How could I have been so stupid?”

Lifting her skirts, she turned on her heel and fled.

A few women in the crowd of bystanders gasped; Sebastian realized that several members of the
ton
had just observed the entire scene. Word would be all over London by morning.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, and took off in pursuit.

It should not have mattered to him that the imp was betrothed, but dammit, it
did
. She had not lied to him, but neither had she told him the truth. He had not felt betrayal like this in years—over five years, to be exact—and he reacted now as he had then. She had hurt him, and he had lashed out at her for no other reason than to salve his wounded pride. And now both of them faced public humiliation.

There was still time to undo the damage. He needed to find her and apologize, then get her back to her mother and explain what had happened before any of
the gossip made its way to Lady Portia. He fervently hoped that Penelope would still want to marry him when this was all over. For the moment, though, he had to find Jane. Vauxhall was no place for a woman alone.

She had run off toward the south along the Grand Cross Walk; Sebastian’s eyes strained to catch a glimpse of a small figure in a white satin gown. There she was, passing the junction with the South Walk. He had to catch her before she went any farther; once she reached the Dark Walk, or the Lover’s Walk as it was known, she was as good as ruined.

His longer stride closed the distance between them very quickly. Just before the intersection with the Dark Walk she looked over her shoulder and saw him; she tried to dart into the trees, but he caught her by the arm and brought her up short.

“Jane, wait,” he gasped, breathing hard.

She tried to pull away. “Let go of me.”

“Not until you listen to what I have to say.”

“You have said quite enough,” she snapped.

Even in the shadows of the trees that lined the walkway he could see the anger and hurt in her face. Her lips trembled, and her breasts rose and fell in rapid rhythm. During her wild flight a few locks of hair had come loose from their pins and tumbled into her eyes. He reached out and brushed them away; she flinched from his touch. He sighed.

“You cannot venture down these paths by yourself,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

“So I see,” she replied a trifle petulantly.

She tugged again at her arm, but he did not loosen his grasp.

The warmth of her body seeped through his gloves. The cool evening breeze ruffled his hair and brought
with it the faint scent of lilac; he remembered holding her shawl, inhaling that same perfume. She smelled of the outdoors, of lilacs and warm skin. He leaned closer and brushed his lips over her hair. A faint moan escaped her.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“I am trying to apologize,” he murmured in reply.

“This … is a most singular apology, my lord.”

“Sebastian.”

She ducked her head.

He tucked a finger beneath her chin and raised it again. Her huge eyes searched his face.

“I want to hear you say my name,” he said.

The tip of her tongue skimmed her lower lip. His mouth went dry.

“Say it,” he cajoled.

“Why are you doing this to me, Sebastian?” she breathed.

A thrill shot through him. The way she said his name, in the barest whisper of sound, tantalized him more than the erotic utterances of any mistress he had ever known.

He ignored her question and focused instead on the lush curves of her mouth. He snaked one arm around her waist, his hand resting at the small of her back, then pulled her to him. She did not resist.

“You are such a fey creature,” he murmured. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then traced its soft, curved outline with the tip of one finger.

She shivered. “Let me go. Please, Sebastian.”

His fingers trailed down the line of her neck, over the soft indentation at the hollow of her throat where her pulse throbbed in an erratic rhythm.

“Not until I collect that kiss,” he heard himself say.

His mouth feathered over hers, teasing, testing, before he claimed it entirely. She moaned and tipped her head back, her body bent like a young willow. His tongue slipped past her parted lips. She tasted of wine and strawberries; he drank her in as a man would water in the desert until every nerve in his body thrummed with awareness.

She whimpered, a tiny sound deep in her throat, and Sebastian raised his lips from hers. Egad. He would never have guessed that so much desire lurked beneath that solemn exterior! She had come alive in his arms, her breasts pressed against him, her hands gripping his lapels for dear life. She had even kissed him back, for God’s sake!

Her kiss, though inexperienced, made his blood burn for more. His contrary little imp possessed more passion in her little finger than her sister could ever hope to have.

Her sister.

His heart stopped mid-beat.

God in heaven, what had he done?

“I say, Langley, which Rutledge girl are you after?” cawed a raucous voice. “Or do you intend to sample the charms of each one before you make your decision?”