In The Prince's Bed (11 page)

How far might this sudden honesty of hers extend? “You mean, when you marry your dull poet?”

“How did you… that is, what—”

“I understand that Sir Sydney is quite wealthy.”

“Oh. Yes, he is.” Then irritation flared in her face. “But that’s not why I’m marrying him.”

“Of course not, Miss Marry-well,” he teased.

“Very funny,” she snapped. “But I don’t care about his money, because I—”

When she stopped short, he stared at her. Would she actually tell him of her inheritance? He probably shouldn’t let her. If she admitted to expecting a fortune, his one advantage would be gone. “It’s all right—I know you’re not the mercenary sort.”

She looked relieved. “Certainly not.”

“So why
are
you marryingSydney? Because he’s one of those ‘decent’ men you so admire?”

“Not only that. We’ve been friends all our lives. And I care for him a great deal.”

“But you’re not in love with him.”

Shifting her gaze to the road ahead, she stammered, “W-Well, I… yes, I suppose I love him. Of course I love him.”

He seized on her discomfort. “You don’t sound too certain.”

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A sigh escaped her lips. “To be honest, I don’t know if I believe in love.”

“Really? That surprises me.”

“Why, because I’m a woman?” she said defensively.

“Because you enjoy romantic nonsense like poetry.”

She shrugged. “Good poetry soothes me and takes my mind off my troubles. But I’m not foolish enough to think that life is like a poem.”

“Good for you.” Relief coursed through him. Matters would go much easier for him if she already understood and accepted life’s realities. “All women should go into marriage with your attitude, realizing that it’s an alliance made for practical reasons and not the romantic dream the poets make of it.”

She eyed him thoughtfully. “I’d like to think it’s somewhere in the middle—not a dream, but not some practical ‘alliance’ either. I should hope one would have a genuine liking for one’s partner.”

“And physical attraction, too.” He shot her a searching glance. “Or doesn’t that fit into your scheme?”

She averted her gaze. “Physical attraction can lead one astray. My mother married my father because of it. Her parents wanted her to marrySydney’s wealthy father, but she eloped with his scapegrace best friend instead. Which turned out to be disastrous.” Her hands tightened on her reins. “A sensible woman should rely only on her… rational parts when choosing a husband.”

Certainly a sensible woman should marry for more than the prestige of a title, which was all Alec could offer. Good thing she didn’t know that. “SoSydney’s money and respectable position are enough for you, Miss Marry-well.”

“Stop calling me that.” A tiny frown knit her freckled brow. “I told you, Sydney and I are friends. He’ll make me a good companion. I understand him, and he understands me.”

“Does he? Is that why you had to ask him to kiss you? Why he sat and sulked last night while another man flirted with you?”

She glared at him. “I thought you didn’t want to talk aboutSydneywhen you and I were together.”

True. But the way she held him in such high esteem needled Alec. He couldn’t figure out why. It certainly wasn’t jealousy. So why did he bring up the subject at every turn, like a child picking at a scab until it bled?

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t want to talk aboutSydney, anyway. I want to talk about you. How did you learn to ride so magnificently?”

By God, she was like a dog with a bone. Wondering how to put her off, he jerked his gaze back to the road. Then he spotted a sign swinging on a building up ahead and relaxed.

“Discussion of my riding will have to wait, sweetheart.” He gestured to the sign that readfreeman assembly rooms. “We’re here.”

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Pave the way for your seduction with

illicit touches.

—Anonymous,
A Rake’s Rhetorick

Katherine followed Alec’s gaze. They had indeed arrived.

But how strange that he would not discuss his riding. Most men loved to boast of their superior skills. By now, they would have thrice retold the story of how they’d rescued the fair damsel. Either Alec was inordinately modest… or he was hiding something. But what? And why? He was amazingly reticent about his years abroad—surely that wasn’t typical of world travelers. Unless, of course, most of his time abroad had been spent doing things no decent Englishwoman should know about. She colored. That was probably it.

Alec leaped easily from his mare and tied it off before helping her dismount. But when her feet touched the ground, and he didn’t immediately release her, all her curiosity about his years abroad vanished. His warm hands on her waist stopped her breath in her throat, especially when he then fixed his gaze on her mouth with dark intent.

Lord preserve her. Did he mean to claim his kiss here, in the street? She held her breath. Then his hands dropped away, and he offered her his arm. She took it, her heart thundering in her ears. She was glad he hadn’t kissed her—yes, glad. What wanton would allow a man to kiss her in public? And someone might see and tellSydney, incensing him enough to break with her. No, it wouldn’t have been wise.

As they entered, a smartly dressed young woman thrust programs at them that read “A Gathering of New Poets” and directed them to a large room adjoining the foyer. When they slipped inside and every eye turned their way, Katherine smiled weakly. Alec ignored them as he led her along the back of the crowded room, his hand resting intimately on the small of her back. At leastSydneyhadn’t looked up to see them enter so rudely. He was reading over his poems, oblivious to the voice that droned from the podium.

As soon as they settled into the back row, the only one still empty, Alec bent his head to whisper, “Do these things usually draw so many people?”

“IfSydneyis reading, they do.” She added with a little burst of pride, “
Gentleman’s Magazine
recently
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lauded him as ‘the new Wordsworth,’ you know.”

“I must have missed that astounding news.”

A bookish young man in front of them turned around to glare at Alec. With a roll of his eyes, Alec leaned back against the hard bench and removed his riding gloves. Then he busied himself with looking through the program, shifting position on the uncomfortable oak every few seconds. She bit back a smile. Poor man, he would never make it through the whole reading. This must be awfully dull for a man of action. She expected to find most of it dull herself. The other poets paled next toSydney

, and he’d only agreed to participate because one of them was his closest friend. In fact, Julian Wainscot, the Baron Napier, sat next toSydneylooking unusually cheery. Generally he was a peevish sort, at least whenever she was around. But now he seemed to bask in the glow of the audience’s attention. Then the slender fellow caught sight of her, and his face fell. She smiled at him anyway, but Alec leaned over to complain that her “preciousSydney” was last on the program, and she was forced to answer. When she returned her gaze to Lord Napier, he was nudgingSydney. AsSydneyspotted her, a sunny smile broke over his face… until he saw who was with her. Though she smiled back, his pleasure rapidly turned into a sullen frown.

Meanwhile, Lord Napier looked smug. Curse that wretch. He probably agreed with Lady Lovelace that Katherine wasn’t good enough for his best friend. Too bad. No matter what Lord Napier or Lady Lovelace thought of her, she meant to marrySydney.

Alec’s rumbling voice broke through her thoughts. “A gathering of poets,” he murmured as he brandished the program before her. “Is that like a herd of horses? Or better yet, a gaggle of geese?”

“Shh,” Katherine whispered.

The doe-eyed Lord Napier was coming to the podium, and she wanted to hear him. With a self-important air, he cleared his throat. “The title of my poem is ‘The Discus Match.’ ”

As he began to read, she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. All this gushing over an athletic event—how silly. But what else could one expect from a man who oiled his whiskers and dithered over the starch in his cravats? He ought to learn from Sydney, who wrote about important things like love and history and tragedy. But Lord Napier had never been deep.

He intoned:

His sinewed arm draws back to throw.

The discus gleams, a moon on high,

And when it flies forth to slice the air,

The crowd doth give a matchless sigh.

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From beside her, Alec asked, “Exactly what constitutes a matchless sigh? How quickly the breath leaves the lips? How loud it sounds? Or is it a certain musical quality in the exhalation—”

“Hush,” she whispered, struggling not to smile. “People are staring.”

Actually, no one was staring butSydney. Chastened by his frown, she sat up straight and tried to look impressed. Thankfully, Lord Napier’s poem was as brief as his mind was frivolous. Even better, Alec stayed quiet through the rest of it and the next two poems.

Then the worst poet of the lot took the podium. In a quavering voice that Katherine knew was meant to signify deep emotion, he launched into a poem so gushingly awful that evenSydneywinced. Alec bent close to whisper, “Didn’t ‘thee’ and ‘thine’ go out of fashion with the Renaissance?”

“You forget that poets pay no attention to fashion,” she whispered back. When Alec’s eyes gleamed at her, she regretted encouraging his nonsense. Forcing her gaze back to the stage, she added, “But he’s really not so bad.”

Alec snorted, but at least he said nothing more. Until the fifteenth verse, when the poet read:

Thou lovely temptress, beautiful and wise,

Thou turneth my reluctance into ashes

I gaze into the embers of your eyes…

“And pray they don’t ignite your pretty lashes,” Alec finished under his breath. She couldn’t help it—she laughed. Out loud, drawing every eye her way. With a blush, she shrank into her seat and hissed at Alec, “Do be quiet, for goodness sake.”

But it was too late to close that Pandora’s box. Now that he’d discovered how much his witticisms amused her, Alec lobbed them at her with appalling regularity. Soon she was weak from holding back her laughter, sure that she would perish of repressed hilarity.

“Remind me never to let that man near my horse,” Alec whispered as a particularly dreadful poet finished. “If he orders ‘my noble steed’ Beleza to ‘peregrinate along the Elysian plain’ with her ‘fortuitous fetlocks shimmering’ and her ‘mane aglow,’ she might just trample him underfoot. She hates it when her mane glows and her fetlocks shimmer—all the other horses poke fun. And exactly what pace
is

‘peregrinate’? Something between a trot and a canter, I suppose—”

“Stop it, I beg you,” she hissed, futilely trying to restrain her giggles. “When this is over, I’m going to kill you.”

Alec shot her a devilish grin. “Would that be with the ‘trenchant sword of Damocles’ or the ’impenitent smoke of Vesuvius’s wrath‘?”

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“The linen handkerchief of Merivale. I shall strangle you with it.” She glanced at the dais. “Now hush—they’re introducingSydney. Try not to be rude when he reads, will you?”

“Me, rude?” Alec retorted. “What’s ‘rude’ is the arrant nonsense these idiots call poetry. And if your Sydney—”

She reached over and pinched his bare hand as hard as she could.

“Ow!” He scowled at her.

“Don’t say another word, or I swear I’ll turn your hand black-and-blue before this is over.”

When she started to draw her hand back, he caught it in his. “I’ll be quiet… but only if you let me hold on to this.” His gaze hot on her, he enfolded her gloved hand in his large naked one, then drew it to rest scandalously on his thigh. His well-hewn, buckskin-clad, and exceedingly warm thigh. Her breath caught somewhere in the vicinity of her lungs. Lord preserve her… he should not… she should not…

She cast a furtive glance around, but no one paid attention to them. Since they were alone in their row, their hands were hidden from anyone’s view. The very idea stopped her heart. Private. Secret. Forbidden. Why must that hold such an allure? Guiltily, she glanced to the podium, whereSydneywas arranging his sheets of paper.

Never mind. She didn’t want anything to ruinSydney’s presentation, and if that meant letting Alec hold her hand, she would sacrifice. It had nothing to do with this cursed fluttering in her chest. Or the breathless anticipation of wondering what Alec would do with her hand. Sydneycleared his throat at the podium, and only then did she realize she’d been watching Alec’s hand, caught up in the wildly exciting sensation of having her flesh sandwiched between the hard muscle of his thigh and his heated fingers. She forced herself to turn her attention toSydney, to smile at him, to
pay
attention
.

Sydneywas to read two poems, one about the Fall of Troy and one listed only as “title to be announced.” He began theTroypoem by explaining which version of the tale he’d relied on. That’s when Alec’s hand moved on hers. At first he contented himself with skimming his bare thumb along the contours of her gloved one, but that didn’t satisfy him for long. Shifting their joined hands so that hers lay atop his, he began to drag her glove off with his other hand.

“No!” she hissed under her breath.

“Yes.” He smiled, the way Boney must have smiled when he chose the first prime bit ofPrussiato conquer.

She tried to jerk her hand free, but he held on to it.

When she glared at him, he added in a whisper, “It’s only fair, sweetheart. You took away my other source of entertainment.” He tipped his head toward the dais. “Of course, if you want me to return to
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commenting on the verse…”