Lords of Desire (39 page)

“I don’t quite see the humor in the situation,” he muttered.

“I’m only laughing at my own ineptitude. But must we always quarrel?” she asked, shaking her head. “We’re nearly family, you and I. Some sort of cousin-in-law, I suppose, if such a relation exists. Would it be so very wrong for you to call me Christobel? Miss Christobel, perhaps, if it felt more comfortable?”

John shifted uneasily in his seat, taking a sip of brandy to avoid replying. Christobel remained at his feet, looking up at him hopefully. Her skin was flushed a delicious shade of pink, the sooty lashes above her green eyes fluttering prettily as she awaited his reply.

Devil take it, how lovely she was. How he longed to call her by her Christian name; how he wanted that intimacy.

But damn it, the rational part of him must prevail. She did not desire such intimacy with him, of all people. No matter his money, his success, nothing could give him the breeding that she was born to, that his cousin Jasper was born to. She thought him uneducated, uncultured, uncouth—

“Mr. Leyden?” Christobel asked, peering up at him with drawn brows. “You must let me see your hand.”

“Go on, then,” he grunted, giving himself up to her ministrations.

He ordered himself to ignore the feel of her bare fingers against his; to ignore the way his skin warmed to her touch; to ignore the fact that his cock swelled and pressed painfully against his trousers—proof that he was every bit as coarse, as base as she believed him to be.Bloody hell.

It was no use; the battle was lost. In one swift motion, he reached for Christobel’s wrist and dragged her into his lap.

CHAPTER 4

Mr. Leyden’s mouth muffled her gasp of surprise, his lips hard and unyielding against hers. For a moment she thought to scream; instead, she pressed her fists against his chest, trying to push him away. As if fueled by her protests, his tongue sought entrance to her mouth, dancing along her lower lip—teasing, testing.

She could have bit him then. Should have. It was no less than he deserved, the brute.

Instead, she yielded. God help her, but her lips parted and her own tongue met his, warm and alive. Next thing she knew she was kissing him back, as roughly and thoroughly as he was kissing her. A soft moan escaped her lips and his grasp on her wrist tightened in reply.

For a fleeting moment she thought he might be punishing her, yet she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel anything but the warmth that spread through her body, making her heart beat a wild rhythm, her limbs suddenly weak.

And then shedid bite him, just a nip on his lower lip. A low growl tore from his throat and his body tensed beneath hers, but he did not push her away. Instead his kiss deepened, his body straining against hers, her breasts now pressed flat against his coat.

Her nipples had stiffened, her undergarments abrading them, the sensation both wicked and welcome. Beneath her, she felt his arousal, hard and firm, pressing against her bottom.

I should stop this,her mind screamed in protest. Now, before it was too late, before—

Mr. Leyden abruptly released her wrist and struggled to stand, nearly toppling her over in the process. “Good God, I—”

“No,” she choked out, humiliated beyond belief. “Don’t…don’t say anything. Please.”

Not till she got her wits back—not till she could think clearly and rationally.

“Devil take it, your wrist,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Shaking her head in confusion, she glanced down at the wrist he’d held captive just moments before. The marks his fingers had left behind were faintly visible on her skin.

“It’s…it’s nothing,” she stammered.

He raked a hand through his hair, a muscle in his jaw throbbing as he did so. She’d never before seen him so discomposed, so thoroughly vexed. “You must forgive me,” he said, his voice wavering slightly. “Damn it all, I’ve no excuse—”

“Please, Mr. Leyden. I…I must go.” Without waiting for his reply, she turned and fled from the library, her vision blurred by the unexpected nuisance of tears.

Christobel stepped into the drawing room and found Edith standing by the window, gazing out on the lawn below.

“Have all your guests arrived?” Christobel asked. She’d been out in the garden sitting by the pond, listening to the steady procession of carriages and the occasional motorcar in the drive.

“They have. Everyone is settling into their rooms at present, but I expect them all to assemble outside before the hour is out. I thought we’d enjoy some lawn games before tea.”

“That sounds like great fun.”

Edith looked toward the hall with a frown. “Have you by any chance seen Mr. Leyden today? I vow, I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the man since Wednesday. Odd, isn’t it?”

Christobel felt the heat rise in her cheeks. He was avoiding her, hiding from her, and she knew exactly why.That damnable kiss. Meant to punish and humiliate her, and it had done exactly that. How could she ever forgive herself for succumbing to it, for kissing him back the way she had?

She’d thought of nothing else since that day in the library, her mind reduced to a muddled, confounded mess. Even Edith had commented once or twice that Christobel had seemed distracted, and how on earth could she answer that charge?

Why, it’s just that John Leyden kissed me, you see. A hard, punishing kiss that I somehow enjoyed. He despises me, and yet…and yet he was clearly aroused. So was I, if truth be told.

Never in a million years could she speak such words to her sister!

“Miss Bartlett does not usually participate in lawn games,” Edith continued on, “and I was hoping Mr. Leyden might escort her on a stroll about the gardens, instead. Oh, there’s Jasper now! I must go ask him if he’s seen him. Go and change into your tennis costume, won’t you? That lovely striped flannel one; it’ll do nicely.” Edith hurried off without waiting for Christobel’s reply.

It turned out Miss Bartlettdid play lawn tennis. Quite badly, Christobel decided as she stood across the net from the woman, waiting patiently for her serve. As much as Christobel would have liked to claim exhaustion and quit the match, that would mean rejoining Sir Edmund there on the patio, and she’d already had enough of the man’s attentions. Not that he was disagreeable; in fact, he was quite jolly. Too jolly, perhaps.

And the way he looked at her…well, it was as if he were judging livestock at the county fair.

At last, Miss Bartlett took her serve. The ball flew through the air, over Christobel’s head and beyond the hedgerow behind her. A resoundingthunk could be heard in the distance as the ball hit a structure, likely her sister’s greenhouse.

“I’m hopeless!” Miss Bartlett cried out, laughing at her own ineptitude with a good grace that Christobel admired greatly. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I retire to the patio for some lemonade, Miss Smyth. I’m sure you can find a more worthy opponent.”

“I’ve had quite enough of the game myself,” Christobel called out cheerily, reaching up to adjust her cap. “Just let me fetch the ball and I’ll join you.”

Dropping her racquet to the lawn, she headed off in search of the errant ball, poking around the bushes surrounding the greenhouse with no luck. The door was slightly ajar, so she hurried inside, inhaling the sweet, heady fragrance. She closed the door to peer behind it, then began to search the floor beneath the many pots and trellises. Wherever could it have gone?

“Looking for this?” a voice called out, startling her so badly that she bumped her head on a clay pot that held a lemon tree.

“Oh! Good heavens, I think I’ve cracked my skull.” Christobel straightened, rubbing her head as she looked about for the voice’s owner.

Mr. Leyden stood scowling near a potted jasmine, the tennis ball clutched in one hand.

She couldn’t help but sigh in exasperation. “Pray tell, Mr. Leyden, do you always skulk about, hoping to frighten me half to death? Whatever are you doing, hiding in here? Edith has been looking for you all afternoon.”

“Which is precisely why I’m here,” he answered. “Are you injured?” He closed the distance that separated them in several long strides.

“It’s nothing mortal, I assure you.”

He only nodded in reply, his eyes cool and guarded—an entirely different man from the one who’d pulled her into his lap and kissed her with a fierce cruelty. He showed no remorse, nor any desire to repeat such behavior.

At the very least, he should beg her forgiveness. She was a lady, after all, and…She let the thought trail off. She did not wish for an apology, not really. Instead, she wished for a hint of longing, of yearning in his eyes; for some indication that the kiss had affected him the same way it had affected her.

Yet there was nothing in his countenance to suggest such a thing. Tamping down her humiliation, she boldly met his gaze. “You’re meant to be entertaining Miss Bartlett, you know. Have you made her acquaintance yet?”

“Briefly.”

“Well, then, you must satisfy my curiosity,” she said, endeavoring to keep her voice light and teasing. She would play the part of coquette, and play it well. “Is it Miss Bartlett you’re hiding from, or is it me?”

“And you must satisfy mine, Miss Smyth,” he countered. “Was there no servant to be spared to look for this”—he held up the ball—“or were you, too, hoping to escape your sister’s meddling?”

“Oh!” Christobel gasped in outrage.

“No? Jasper tells me that Edith was particularly looking forward to introducing you to Sir Edmund Blake. A fine catch, Jasper called him.”

Christobel reached for the ball with a sigh of defeat, wondering just why shehad come after it. They had an entire basket of balls, after all. There was nothing special about this one. “It would seem we’re both victims of Edith’s matchmaking efforts,” she said with a shrug. “I have not yet formed an opinion of Sir Edmund, though Miss Bartlett does seem quite pleasant, does she not? Perhaps there’s some merit to—”

“I do not need your sister’s assistance where women are concerned.”

“Oh? Well, then. Is there a particular lady with whom you—”

“No,” he interrupted, but said no more.

“Pray, forgive me,” Christobel said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

A moment of uncomfortable silence ensued, and yet neither made to leave.

“I’m somewhat acquainted with Sir Edmund Blake,” Mr. Leyden said at last. “He is a gentleman, and one with whom I can find no fault. Perhaps you will find his company more pleasant than mine.”

“Like you, I do not require my sister’s assistance in matters of the heart,” Christobel said. “Besides, if Iwere hanging out for a husband, I certainly wouldn’t be looking for one in these parts.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” he said, his voice suddenly cold.

Heat flooded Christobel’s cheeks, and she instantly regretted her candor.Time to change the subject, and quickly. “Tell me, how is your hand? Has the bruising gone down?”

John reached for his injured hand, absently massaging the still-sore knuckles that were now an odd shade of greenish-yellow. “It no longer pains me,” he lied.

“I…I hope the liniment helped,” she continued on, her cheeks deepening to scarlet. No doubt she was thinking of the liberties he’d taken while she’d seen to his hand—that thoughtless, reckless kiss that had haunted him, taunting him endlessly with the memory.

Her warm body atop his, her breasts pressed against his coat; her soft, sweet mouth, more delicious than he’d ever imagined.

What a bloody, damnable fool I am.“Miss Symth,” he began, rubbing his cheek with the palm of one hand, “I fear I proved myself to be exactly what you thought of me.

Unmannered, un—”

“Please don’t,” she interrupted, dropping her gaze to her feet. “We mustn’t speak of it.”

“To the contrary, we must. You must allow me to apologize, though I’ve no excuse for my behavior.” How he longed to reach for her chin, to tip her face up to meet his gaze.

How he wished himself more a gentleman, so he wouldn’t be in this predicament. How he wished himself less a gentleman, so that he might have done more than just kiss her.

Damn it all.“I can assure you, Miss Smyth, that it will never happen again.”

In light of his apology, she only looked annoyed. Disappointed, perhaps.

“Didn’t I give you permission to call me Christobel, Cousin John?” she snapped.

“Really, is your memory so very faulty—”

“Miss Smyth?” a male voice called out. “Wherever has she gone to?” It was Sir Edmund, of course, searching for Christobel in a proprietary fashion though he’d only made her acquaintance that very day.

Christobel whirled toward the closed door of the greenhouse, fluttering the hem of her skirt. He watched as indecision played across her features, her brow drawn in thought. At any moment, he fully expected her to hurry toward the door and dash out into the sunshine, calling gaily to her new suitor while he shrunk back in the shadows.

Instead, she did something wholly and completely unexpected—she put a finger to her lips, her eyes dancing merrily. “Shh,” she whispered.

Grasping his sleeve, she silently pulled him back against the wall, behind the door. She stood beside him, so close that he could feel her warmth, smell the lilac scent of her hair, the spicy scent of her perfume.

The door opened, squealing loudly on its hinges. “Miss Smyth?” the tenacious Sir Edmund called out. He peered inside, standing mere inches from where they cowered.

“Are you in here, Miss Smyth? Hullo?”

The door opened a fraction more, and Christobel pressed against John. He felt the fluttering of her heart, felt his own pounding relentlessly against his ribs as she buried her face in his coat. Her hands were seemingly everywhere, one clutching his arm, the other pressing the blasted tennis ball into his groin, mere inches from his far-too-eager cock.

His own hands were trapped against the small of her back, resting against the belt that cinched her tiny waist. All he could think about was taking her, right there on the dusty floor, Sir Edmund be damned.

What in God’s name was she doing, taking such a risk as this? If they were discovered, alone and unchaperoned, hiding behind a door…

He held his breath as the door creaked shut. The sound of Sir Edmund’s footsteps grew fainter, then mercifully disappeared altogether.