Kathryn Smith (13 page)

Quickly, awkwardly, Moira followed him into a sitting position. “It is not that I do not want to—”

He silenced her with a finger to her lips. “When I make love to you, I do not want there to be any hesitation on your part. It will happen because you tell me not to stop.”

Moira bowed her head. How embarrassing this all was. “I’m sorry.”

The same finger that had touched her lips now raised her chin. His gaze was gentle, even understanding, with no hint of mockery. “Seduction is like a chess game, Moira. All the pieces have to be in place for the king to stake his claim.”

She smiled at his analogy. “A king now, are you?”

He returned her smile, along with a soft brush of his lips against her own. “Of course, and you, my black queen, are a prize I am prepared to wait to win.”

Moira stared at him, her eyes wide. He was prepared to wait. Prepared to give her time. In the meantime, did that mean he was going to take every opportunity to make his winning move? To strip away all her defenses until she had no recourse but to surrender? Yes, that was exactly what he meant. God help her, but she needn’t have worried about his turning away from her, she should be worried about what would happen when he discovered she had given him the ultimate prize a woman could give a man.

She had a feeling Wynthrope Ryland held on to what he thought was his, and that was even more frightening than the idea of him walking away.

C
hristmas Eve came as crisp and perfect as it ought. The night was dark and quiet for London. Houses looked warm and cozy with lamps burning in windows. Stars were bright in the sky, and despite the lack of snow, the air was cold enough to turn one’s breath to visible wisps of vapor. There was something about Christmas that made the night seem more inviting, and one’s heart fuller.

“Minnie, do stop fidgeting. You look fine.”

The younger woman pulled a face as the carriage gently swayed back and forth as it rolled ever forward over the bare cobblestones. “Perhaps you can be satisfied with that, but I want to look better than ‘fine.’”

Moira’s brows arched, but the expression went unnoticed by her sister. Of course Minnie wouldn’t notice, the girl was too wrapped up in herself, as she should be. She was young and on her way to a Christmas Eve party that a young man—a new young man—she had her eye on was also going to attend.

But Moira was also on her way to a party where a man she had her eye on was going to be, and she resented the implication that she looked merely “fine” as well. Her hair alone had taken her maid more than two hours to style, shape, and pin, and if she tilted her head it felt as though the whole thing might fall off. Her eyebrows had been shaped, her lips lightly tinted with color. Her jewelry consisted of a yellow diamond choker and dangling earrings that Anthony had bought her on their fifth anniversary. Her gown was new, and of a rich, shimmering golden-green silk that seemed to change color depending on the light. Her gloves and slippers had been dyed to coordinate, but not quite match, as Moira’s modiste, Madame Villeneuve, had been adamant that the dress stand out.

Moira didn’t care if the gown stood out. She cared only for Wynthrope Ryland’s reaction to her in it.

Over the course of the last week and a half, he had become something of a regular fixture at her house. He had been by four evenings out of the ten for dinner and a game of chess, which he always won, even though she made it as difficult for him as she could. Sometimes he demanded her kisses in return, other times he asked her questions about her life, about her house—things she wouldn’t normally expect him to care about, like whether she kept her valuables in a safe place, given the fact that she and Minerva were alone in the house.

His questions bothered her—not because she found them intrusive, but because they were so often personal. It reminded her of her idea that a person could make anyone fall in love with him, if only the other person were given the time to get to know him. Wynthrope Ryland was certainly getting to know her. Was he starting to love her as well? God knew she was trying to guard her own heart from just that same thing, because not only had he learned a lot about her over the course of their developing relationship, but she had learned a lot about him as well.

Such as the fact that he and North were best friends as well as brothers, and that while he claimed to dislike his eldest brother Brahm, he still seemed to desperately want his approval. Mostly she learned that for all his wit and caustic talk, he was a very vulnerable man, reluctant to offer his real self for anyone to see because he was afraid of being rejected. It was this vulnerability that drew her in, because she rather liked the softer side of him. She preferred his genuine smiles to the practiced smirks, and she preferred his teasing and his laughter to his droll remarks and sarcastic humor. He came across as little more than a dandy, and there was so much more to him than that. He was intelligent, and he liked to discuss things other people ridiculed her for. They discussed the existence of God, the religions of other cultures, mythology, and so many other topics that she wondered about. Never once did he scoff at her. In fact, he had many ideas and questions of his own, so that most of their time was spent talking about, even debating, the world outside their own.

Oddly enough, the more time they spent talking, the more often she wished he would kiss her, and the less time she spent worrying about where kissing might lead. In fact, she wanted the kissing to lead to something more, but Wynthrope was careful that it didn’t. She knew he wanted her too, but he seemed to be holding back, and she knew why: he was waiting for her to let him know she was ready. When the time came for them to make love, he wanted her to be completely aware that it was her idea—and that his seduction of her was complete.

The realization sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine.

She was still not certain she could trust him with her secret, but she was beginning to lean in that direction. Wynthrope was many things, but she could not imagine him
betraying her in such a manner. He was not the kind of man to use others for his own personal gain.

“Are you coming?”

Jerked out of her thoughts by the sound of her sister’s voice, Moira looked up. Minnie was poised near the open door of the carriage, both she and a footman watching Moira expectantly.

Good heavens, they had arrived and she hadn’t even noticed! Mumbling an apology, Moira followed her sister out of their carriage, assisted to the ground by the expressionless footman.

Tonight’s party was at Wynter Lane, the Palladian-style London home of the Marquess of Wynter and his wife, Princess Varya. Just last year the marquess’s sister, Blythe, had married the youngest Ryland brother, Devlin. Moira suspected her invitation to the festivities was owed mostly to Wynthrope—or possibly Octavia, as men weren’t naturally given to such considerations.

Still, it was an honor to be invited to what was essentially a family gathering. Outside of the Rylands, Miles and Varya Christian had invited only a few other close acquaintances and Moira. She was extremely grateful for the courtesy, as she and Minnie would have no doubt spent the evening at home alone.

Inside the house, their outerwear was taken by the butler, who smiled and wished them both a pleasant evening before handing their clothing off to a footman and then escorting them to the party.

Minnie’s eyes were wide as they drifted through the great hall. Indeed, Moira found it hard not to stare herself. She was used to luxury and elegance, but Wynter Lane was opulent beyond her imaginings, and just saved from being gaudy. She supposed much of it could be owed to Varya, who was Russian and no doubt used to excessive grandeur.

They were shown to the music room. The walls between it and another room had been opened up to allow room for refreshments and dancing if the guests so desired. It was lovely. Lamps burned throughout the rooms, bathing everything in a soft, warm glow. Men wore the usual evening attire of black and white, while the women were a veritable rainbow of colors.

Princess Varya was dressed in a gown of rich forest green that enhanced her impressive bosom. Her thick black hair was piled high on her head in a style that must have taken almost the entire day to perfect. Diamonds glittered in her hair, from her ears, and around her neck. It was so very obvious she was royalty, and Moira was struck by the sight of her.

She came to them with a bright smile on her lovely face, her blue eyes shining. “Lady Aubourn, Miss Banning. How delightful that you could join us!” Her accent wasn’t heavy, but just rich enough that she sounded terribly exotic to Moira’s English ears.

Returning the smile in what she hoped was a relaxed fashion, Moira curtsied. “Thank you for the invitation, Your Highness.”

Varya waved a gloved hand. “Pish. None of that. You are a friend of Octavia, and therefore a friend of mine. I will presume to call you Moira and you will call me Varya and we will ignore the silly rules society likes to put upon us.”

Moira could only stare for a moment. Good gracious, the princess had made short work of the niceties of becoming acquainted! Perhaps she might have found such a quality overwhelming in another woman, but somehow Varya managed to put her quite at ease. This was a woman Moira could like very much indeed.

After extending the same warm friendliness to Minerva, Varya took Moira by the arm and led her toward a group in the center of the room. Minerva went off to talk to some of
the younger people, most of whom she already knew, and one of which was this young man she had been talking much about as of late. Moira was just relieved the boy was closer to her age, and not out of her sphere like Wynthrope.

Speaking of that very devil, he was part of the group Moira joined. He was deep in conversation with a giant of a man and didn’t seem to notice her right away, although Moira thought she caught him glance at her out of the corner of his eye.

He was dressed like the other gentlemen, in stark black and white, but somehow he seemed to make the uniform his own. His lean frame made him seem relaxed and easy in his clothing, rather than stiff and restricted like some of the others. His cravat was tied in an intricate knot and his shirt points were high, but not too much so.

A redhead of amazonian proportions joined Wynthrope and the other man. Good heavens! The woman was almost as tall as Wynthrope! Only an inch or two separated them. This must be his sister-in-law Blythe, who was also Lord Wynter’s sister. That meant the giant was his younger brother Devlin. She should have known. Out of all the men present, only the Rylands and one or two others were wearing trousers instead of the usual evening wear of breeches and stockings. These brothers were not the kind of men ruled by fashion and societal preferences.

Varya introduced her to many of the guests, including Blythe, whom Moira found a little intimidating at first, but soon warmed up to. It was very difficult not to like someone so very open and friendly. Blythe in turn introduced Moira to her husband, Devlin. Moira tried not to stare as she offered him her hand. She was a tall woman herself, but this man was at least a whole foot taller than she was! He was a perfect match for the statuesque Blythe, but Moira wouldn’t want a man this big at all. She much preferred Wynthrope who, though tall, was nowhere near as intimidating.

In fact, she didn’t find Wynthrope physically intimidating at all. Physically exciting, yes, and perhaps emotionally intimidating, but his size and stature didn’t make her uneasy at all. If anything, his build made her wonder what he looked like beneath all those neat, perfectly pressed layers. Certainly then she might find his nakedness a little unnerving.

He was watching her, smirking that infuriating smirk that told her he knew exactly what she was thinking. “Good evening, Moira.”

If anyone arched a brow at his use of her Christian name, Moira didn’t notice. All she heard was the challenge in his voice. He was deliberately allowing these people to know that they were intimate acquaintances, no doubt to unsettle her.

Or perhaps to lay claim.

“Wynthrope.”

“You are in exceedingly good looks this evening.”

Was he suggesting that she wasn’t normally in good looks? No, he thought she had gone through all this effort for his benefit. Well, he was right, blast him, but she wasn’t about to admit to it.

“As are you,” she replied with false innocence. “I wonder whose toilette took longer, mine or yours?”

Blythe and Devlin laughed, their amusement as robust as they themselves. Even Wynthrope chuckled, revealing the startling white of his teeth as he did so. He grinned at her, his eyes bright with appreciation and humor.

“Mine, no doubt,” he replied. “Such natural loveliness as yours requires little ornament.”

Oh. What a lovely response. The brute no doubt knew she would be lost for a reply. “Those are very pretty words, sir. Thank you.”

“My brother is very good with words,” Devlin commented somewhat dryly. “I have seen him do more damage than a bayonet with that tongue of his.”

Wynthrope shot his brother a sardonic look. “Oh yes, but I’d much rather use it to bestow pleasure than pain.”

Moira flushed right to the roots of her hair. Even Blythe looked somewhat shocked by his brazenness. Devlin, however, merely shook his head. “Perhaps if you followed that canon you would be married by now.”

Wynthrope shook his head with a wry smile. “Bayonet. Cannon. Marriage. It always come back to war with you, doesn’t it?”

Rolling her eyes, Blythe laid her hand on Moira’s arm. “This could go on a while, Moira. Why don’t you and I go talk to Octavia and Varya?”

Moira would never admit it, but she was loath to leave Wynthrope’s presence. With him she felt relatively safe and secure. With these other people, she didn’t know what to say and was nervous about making a fool of herself. Still, she allowed the taller woman to lead her away and soon found herself laughing and carrying on as though she had known these women for years.

Sometime later, her grumbling stomach drove her to the refreshment table. Unable to fight the hunger any longer, she loaded a plate with tiny cucumber sandwiches, her favorite. Turning so that her back was to most of the party going on in the other room, she began stuffing the sandwiches into her mouth.

Oh! They were so good!

“Will you share or do you intend to eat them all?”

Turning to face him, Moira flushed as she swallowed a large bite. The plate was still half full. “I have not eaten since this morning—”

Wynthrope smiled faintly as he folded his arms across his chest. “No need to justify yourself, Moira. I like a woman with healthy appetites.”

Oh dear. That raised all sorts of delicious thoughts and
questions. And some not so delicious. “Is this more of your campaign to have me gain weight?”

Either he missed the sharpness of her tone or he was willfully ignoring it. “You do what you feel comfortable doing, but I wouldn’t mind having a bit more of you to hold on to, no.”

Her cheeks warmed even more. “You say the most devilish things.”

“You think that was devilish?” His amusement was palpable. “My initial urge was to tell you that the softer the woman, the sweeter the coming.”

Moira burned right to the tip of her ears. “My God.”

He nipped a sandwich off her plate and took a smug bite. “So if you want to devour this whole plate and come back for more, I will support you wholeheartedly.”

She raised her gaze to his, even though she knew eye contact would just make the tingle in her stomach worse. “Why do you talk to me like this?”