The Laird and the Wanton Widow (3 page)

“Well, you won’t win Lizzie by making people talk about us,” she said, almost crossly. Which was interesting.

“Who would ever know?” he asked. “I certainly won’t mention it. I’ve no wish to look like an idiot. Needing a dancing lesson at my age.”

She closed her eyes, clearly battling with her conscience, or the desire he was sure he’d felt in her body when they kissed.

“Come on, Kate. You said you would help me.”

Her green eyes skewered him. Had she guessed his intentions? Was that a smile lurking a hairbreadth from curving her lips? Would she walk away? “Very well,” she said slowly. “I will meet you tomorrow at two in the afternoon. For waltzing lessons.”

He smiled, took her hand and kissed it. He gazed down into her face. “It will seem like days, rather than hours.”

She flushed and snatched her hand back with an uneasy laugh. “You are a quick study, Lord Godridge. I recommend you save your blandishments for Lizzie.”

“Just practicing, Mrs. Anderson,” he said with an innocent face. He bowed. “Until tomorrow.”

She marched off down the hall way with the impatient stride he had always found enchanting.

“I meant every word of it, Kate,” he said softly. But where would it lead? With Kate, how could he be sure?

Arriving back at his cousin’s house after spending the rest of the evening catching up with friends at White’s, Harry hummed a tune under his breath and thought of Kate.

He strolled into the drawing room to find his cousin, Garrick le Clere, Marquess of Beauworth, in his shirtsleeves, cravat discarded, sprawled on the sofa in front of a card table. With his olive skin, a bruise on his chin and raw scraped knuckles clutching a brandy glass, he looked more like a gypsy than a marquess.

A similarly attired but much more English-looking gentleman sat on the other side of the table regarding Harry with sleepy gray eyes. Fair hair hung to his shoulders and the cynical twist to his lips spoke of jaded appetites. “’Tare and hounds, Beauworth, who is this disgustingly cheerful-looking fellow arriving at this time of night.”

“
Mon cher cousin
,” Beauworth said, the strength of his accent saying he was well into his cups. “Godridge. Comes from Scotland, where they rise before noon and go to bed before midnight. Harry meet Dunstan.”

The Duke of Dunstan. “You were one year above me at Eton,” Harry said, shaking the other man’s hand. Another renowned rake.

The duke nodded. “Thought I recognized you.”

Harry dropped onto the sofa beside his cousin, thoughts of Kate’s luscious curves and kissable lips temporarily forgotten. “How’s the chin?”

“Beauworth touched the bruise and laughed. “Not feeling a thing,
mon ami
.”

Harry glanced at his half-empty glass. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Do you know what happened?” Dunstan asked lazily. “He won’t tell me. All he’ll say is the other fellow looks worse.”

“Much worse,” Harry said.

Garrick shot him a warning glance.

“He deserved it, Garrick,” Harry said. “How is the boy?”

“Dan? He’s the devil’s spawn according to my butler, who has threatened to resign if he steals one more silver spoon.”

Dunstan groaned. “Let the bastard butler go. He’s done nothing but interrupt us about this lad all evening.”

“And I’m also about to interrupt you, I’m afraid, Duke,” Harry said. “I need a private word with my cousin.”

Dunstan groaned. “I hate families.” He eyed the pile of guineas on his side of the table. “I don’t suppose you want to wager your horse, Beauworth?”

“
Non
,” Garrick said decisively. “I too have matters to discuss with Harry.”

“Dull dog.” Dunstan unfolded his six feet of lean frame. He shrugged into his black coat and slung his cravat around his neck. “I’ll bid you gentlemen good-day.”

Harry stood up and shook his hand.

Garrick half rose to his feet. “Don’t get up, Beauworth,” Dunstan said. “You might fall over. I’ll see myself out.” He ambled out of the door.

“Shall I see him home?” Harry asked.

Garrick shook his head. “His coachman is waiting around the corner.”

Harry sank back on the sofa and waived off Garrick’s offer of a glass of brandy.

“What will you do with the boy? Dan?” Harry asked.

“Take him to somewhere he won’t be in fear of his life from his old master.”

They’d discovered a man beating the boy senseless on the previous evening. “The lad likes horses, apparently. I’ll take him to Beauworth.”

Harry nodded. “He’s too puny to leave on the streets. You could also probably use a repairing lease in the country.”

Beauworth finished his brandy. “I’m joining the army.”

Harry couldn’t hide his surprise. “What about your responsibilities? Uncle Duncan?”

Garrick huffed out a breath. “I’m going down to Sussex to tell him my decision. I have to go, Harry. You saw what I did to that bully. But for you pulling me off, I might have killed the
cochon
. The army will put those talents to good use.” He glowered into the dregs in his glass. “With luck I’ll end up a dead hero instead of a murderer at the end of a rope.”

The Le Clere curse. He didn’t have to name it for Harry to know what he meant. Harry had escaped it. So far. “If you’d just keep a grip on your temper…”

Garrick shot him a look of despair mingled with humor. “Right.”

An image of lively green eyes flashed into Harry’s mind and he recalled his purpose for seeking out his cousin. “I have a favor to ask.”

“Anything for you, Harry.”

Harry punched his shoulder. “Hear it first. I want the house to myself tomorrow afternoon.”

Garrick’s bleary gaze sharpened. “I sense intrigue. A woman?”

“Yes. A woman.”

“She is married,
non
? You seek to hide from her husband.”

“No. She is not married. But she won’t like it if you are around.”

Garrick whistled softly. “I am curious,
mon cher cousin
.” He grinned at Harry’s glare and raised his hands. “I will be remarked by my absence. I promised to look in at Carlton House tomorrow.”

“Flying high, aren’t you?”

“Marquesses always fly high, as you will discover in due course.”

Harry frowned. “Not going to happen. A Le Clere has never yet died in battle.”

Garrick sobered before his eyes. “It would be better if this one did,
mon ami
.” He got to his feet. “I’ll see you later. I don’t know who this woman is, but enjoy. It seems we will make a rake of you yet.”

Kate kept the hood of her cloak pulled close around her face as she knocked on the door of the elegant Mayfair town house. Lord Godridge opened the door. He grinned rather boyishly as she stepped inside. A devilish twinkle lit his eyes. “I had my cousin give the servants the afternoon off. Save any embarrassment.”

“Good idea.” The fluttering in her stomach got worse. After their kiss, she couldn’t quite help wondering if his motives were completely honorable. In fact, she had this strange hopeful feeling.

“This way.” He guided her up the stairs. He took her to a salon on the first floor large enough to hold a good-size ball. A pianoforte sat on the dais beside a harp, but there were no musicians. They really were completely alone.

Her stomach gave a little jolt. Not fear. Excitement.

And yet she still wasn’t sure of his motives.

He took her cloak and laid it over the back of the chair. His gaze ran over her, a long, slow perusal that made her feel hot all over.

“You look lovely this afternoon, Mrs. Anderson.”

She had worn her most practical of gowns, made every attempt to remind him of who she was and why she was here. “Don’t flatter me, my lord. I know very well how I look.”

His lips twitched. “Just practicing, Mrs. Anderson.”

A laugh bubbled in her chest. In the old days, Harry had always made her laugh. “We are here to practice the waltz.”

“I am at your disposal.”

His eyes were laughing again, green points of light dancing amid the brown. A picture of him being completely at her disposal flashed through her mind. A deliciously naughty picture. Her insides quivered. Ah, traitorous body.

This could well end in more than waltzing. She ought to go while she still had a little moral fiber. Unless she was imagining his interest. Trying to believe in feelings that must have died long ago.

If only she hadn’t promised to teach him to waltz.

Best not to think and to get on with her task. “The most important thing about waltzing is holding your partner at the correct distance,” she said briskly. “Take my hand.”

He did. It was a large hand, full of strength. Warmth permeated through her glove and made her heart beat faster.

“Now I put my hand on your shoulder,” she instructed, “And you put your other hand on the middle of my spine. At all times you must not be any closer than this to your partner.”

Naturally athletic, he seemed to have no problem following her instructions. Although they were indeed the regulation distance apart, she could feel the heat of his body down the length of hers. A shocking and titillating sensation.

Aware that she was breathing faster than the act of merely standing still should require, she released his hand and stepped out of his hold.

He tilted his head in question.

She pretended not to notice. “The waltz is danced in steps of three. It is too bad we don’t have any music, but perhaps I can demonstrate.”

Circling around Harry, Kate counted out loud, “One, two, three, one, two, three.”

He watched with narrowed eyes. The intensity of his regard seared her skin. “Stop looking at me like that,” she said.

You told me to watch you.”

“Not like that.”

“Women.” He shook his head, but his grin gave him away. He was toying with her. Teasing her. And damn her, she liked it. She felt young again. Attractive. Reckless.

More like herself than she had for years. Hardly surprising, since she was no dried up old maid. Life still coursed hot in her veins. Too hot.

She twitched the fichu free from her bodice, tossed it over the back of one of the gilt Sheraton chairs lining the walls and fanned her face. “It is warm in here.”

His gaze dropped to her neckline. His shoulders rose and fell as he drew in a deep breath. He tugged at his collar. “Yes, very warm.”

“Do you think you have the steps?” she asked.

He dragged his focus back to her face and she resisted the urge to smile.

“I believe I do.” He held out his hand and brought her into his arms.

“Will you sing? Or shall I?”

“You,” he said.

She started humming. After a couple of bars he swung her into the dance. Fluidly, effortlessly. A suspicion entered her mind and she looked up. His expression was bland. Too bland.

He bent his head. “What do we do when we reach the end?” he murmured in her ear.

A shiver ran down her spine. “We turn,” she gasped.

He smiled. “Like this?”

He swept her around the end of the room, without hesitation, gliding beautifully.

“You lied,” she said, and pulled free of his arms. She put her hands on her hips and glared at him fiercely to disguise the laughter trying to escape, and her desire to leap into his arms and kiss those wonderful lips that had once brought her the promise of a future. “What game are you playing?”

“I was taught never to argue with a lady,” he said by way of an apology, but his eyes were dancing. “And besides, the opportunity to dance with you again was far too tempting.”

She knew what he meant about tempting. It had been years since she’d waltzed. David hadn’t been well enough for dancing and had begged her not to go to balls without him. Pitying his infirmity, she’d stayed home with her needlework and her housekeeping duties while her youth trickled away.

An uncomfortable prickle burned the backs of her eyes. Dash it. She was not going to cry.

“Is something wrong, Kate?” Harry asked, his voice full of gentle concern.

“Not at all,” she said, but heard the thickness in her voice.

He must have heard it too, because he drew close, looking down into her face. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“No,” she said. “I upset myself.” She swiped at her eyes.

He reached out and touched a thumb to her cheek, wiped away an errant tear.

“Damn it, Kate. I meant it only for a bit of fun.”

She laughed a little, a raw, shaky sound. “That makes two of us. You certainly don’t need any lessons from me.”

“I needed the practice.”

A sop to her pride. “I am glad to have been of assistance. Now I really should go.”

“Not yet. You promised to teach me how to woo a woman. Not Lizzie,” he added quickly. “We would never suit. But there’s another lass I’ve been fond of for years.” His Scots brogue had thickened, as if he was struggling with some strong inner emotion. “But I’m no sure I can win her. It seems I’m still in need of a silver tongue.”

She stared at him. A thought wormed her way into her mind. Her heartbeat quickened. Could he possibly mean her? Was that why he’d agreed to take a lesson? Did she dare hope? What if he meant someone else? She certainly wasn’t going to wear her heart on her sleeve. And yet… “What other girl?”

A smile broke on his face. “I’d just as soon not say, since it is a long time since I courted a lass and I’m rough around the edges. I’m looking for guidance.”

She tossed her head. “It’s not like you to be so evasive, Harry.”

“Ah, but you see I’ve changed. Won’t you help me, for old times’ sake?”

She gave him a saucy grin. “All women like poetry. And sonnets.”

He groaned theatrically. “Back to the poetry again. Do you think this would suit?”

He took her hand in his and gazed into her face.

Spoken low and softly, Shakespeare’s verses touched her heart with a sweet pang. Her body seemed to melt as she stared into his clear hazel eyes.

The room seemed to disappear and all she could see were those beautiful lips speaking tender words and the intensity of his gaze. She swayed toward him, drawn by some invisible power. Then their lips were touching, melding. And she was melting like warm honey inside and glowing from the heat of his lips.

She lifted one hand to his shoulder, her fingertips brushing the fine cloth of his coat, sliding up to his strong column of neck, and tangling with the silk of his hair.

She pulled back to look at his face. The desire in his expression as he looked at her made her want to cry.

He swallowed, the movement disturbing the neatly tied cravat at his throat. “Something like that?” he asked softly.

“I—no. I mean yes. But you should not. We should not.”

“Did I not do it right?” he asked gravely.

“You know you did it right,” she said crossly.

His eyebrows drew together. “But
you
did not like it.”

“It is not appropriate for you to kiss me. Elizabeth’s aunt pays my wages. Even if you have no intention of marrying her niece, it is underhanded and disloyal.”

“Kissing, you mean?”

“Quite.”

He sighed. “So no more lessons, then.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not half as sorry as I.” He put up a hand before she could answer. “As one last favor, tell me this. What would be the most romantic thing a man can do for a woman besides spout poetry and dance the waltz?”

“A woman wants to know a man would risk all to be with her. I can’t explain it better than that.”

Harry knew exactly what she meant. Because after one taste of Kate’s lips, he knew he would risk all to make her his wife.

But Kate, obviously flustered, had pulled out of his embrace. Did he dare risk losing any chance with her by speaking what was on his mind?

“Is that where I went wrong with you?”

“Oh, Harry, please, must we speak of the past?”

Harry tipped her chin. “Kate,” he said softly. “My dear Kate. I have missed you all these long years.”

“Harry, do not, please, I beg of you. How would it look? People will think I used my position to lure you away from Lizzie.”

“I will never marry Lizzie Mcrae.”

She stared at him silently, as if trying to see the truth in his very soul. “And your purpose for letting me offer to help?”

The doubt in her face was like a knife to his gut. “Damn it, Kate. What do you think? A chance to find out if there was any hope for us. And there is, isn’t there? Don’t deny what I see written on your face and in your eyes.”

“Harry—”

He kissed her. To stop her objections, to close the questioning gaze that made him doubt himself. He kissed her hard. Then as she responded, he gentled his mouth on hers, tenderly wooing her lips and brushing the silken skin of her jaw with the pads of his thumbs. Speaking to her without words.

Trying to hold fast the quicksilver that was Kate. To brand her as his own.

Finally, she relaxed, her arms twining around his neck, her fingers skimming through his hair, and she kissed him back.

Ambrosia could not taste as sweet.

Their lips clung together for what felt like hours and yet sped by in seconds.

He raised his head and looked down into her eyes. “How did it happen, Kate? How did we ever lose each other?”

Kate stared into his eyes, searching for the meaning behind his words. After all these years of convincing herself she’d mistaken the strength of his feelings for her, a way to ease the burden of what she had done, dare she trust what her heart was telling her now?

“Harry I—”

He kissed her quiet, as if he feared what she might say. And she no longer wanted to talk at all. Once more her senses swirled and her body eagerly pressed close to his hard, muscled length, craving his touch, his heat, his ardor.

Such ardor as she’d never known.

His hands roamed her back, hot and heavy despite the layers of muslin and linen. Shivers ran down her spine and settled low in her belly. Her nipples ached for his touch. Her female center fluttered with pleasure when his muscled thigh pressed between hers. She tilted her hips. Pleasure washed through her. And the torture of unfulfilled desire.

She ran her fingers through his hair and gave herself up to the timeless rhythm of her heart, of something deep inside her. Let time roll back to when she had been careless and young and, God help her, in love. With Harry.

Finally he broke the kiss. A rueful smile played across his face. “I never did have control when it came to you, lass.”

She inhaled a deep breath, forcing air into lungs that seemed to have forgotten how to work, grasping for rational thought. “Nor I with you,” she managed, her chest rising and falling as if she’d run up three flights of stairs.

He winced. “Then what happened? Why did you leave Edinburgh? By the time I returned you’d left to be married.”

All the old pain rose up in a tide to swamp her. “Gossip was rife about a certain young lady visiting your home. I lost my temper.” And the joy of her life. “Mr. Anderson saw my distress and offered the comfort of his name. Furious with you, I accepted.”

“Oh, Kate, did you trust me so little?”

“I was young and I was foolish.” When she’d realized what she’d done, when she heard he’d returned to Edinburgh alone, she’d wanted to die. But she couldn’t. Her new husband needed her. And she’d done her duty and paid the price for her fit of jealous rage.

Was still paying the price. But how could they turn back the clock?

“Kate—”

“Harry. Please. Let us just enjoy what we have.” She cupped his jaw in her hand, felt the abrasion of the haze of stubble against her palms and in the faint burn on her cheeks, and inhaled his scent, bay and man. Hunger sharpened. Heat consumed her. “Let us take this moment and make it ours.”

He groaned deep in his chest. “What is it you want?”

“You.” She laughed a little, breathlessly, at the answering flare of heat in his gaze.

He swept her up in his arms.

She shrieked.

“Thank God the servants are gone for the day, or they’d be running to your rescue.”

“In Beauworth’s house? I’d be very much surprised.”

He took the stairs two at a time as if she weighed nothing. While she could hear his heart thudding against her ear, his breathing was easy, controlled. “My cousin doesn’t kidnap respectable widows and carry them off to his bed.”

She laughed. It was strange to her ears, it sounded so light and feminine and, God help her, happy. “And you do?”