The Tempestuous Debutante: Book 4 in the Cotillion Ball Series (Crimson Romance) (18 page)

Parr raised an eyebrow. “You mean, we’re to be partners?” At her nod, he continued, “And you don’t object to working with someone you hate?” Again, he couldn’t control the anger in his voice.

She had the grace to be uncomfortable. “I said that in the heat of the moment, Parr, and because my dress was ruined. I don’t hate you. It’s only fair and right that you share in some of the profits. It was your design ideas that make them work, after all.”

Parr grinned. “In Ireland, a deal’s not a deal unless we shake on it.”

“I’m learning more about business every day. A handshake it is, then.” She reached a hand over the stall railing to him. He spit in his hand and extended it toward her. Shock registered on her face, and she wrinkled her nose, making him grin even wider. “Why did you do that?”

“It’s tradition. You need to do the same.”

She pulled her hand back, as if afraid to touch him. Then she returned his grin, spit into her own hand, and extended it towards him again.

Even with the comingling of their spit, sparks emanated from their contact. At least in Parr’s body. Or maybe it was because of the spit, since it reminded him of the last time they’d shared fluids. He focused on her lush lower lip, and leaned forward. He was a hair’s breadth away. Her pink tongue darted out, wetting that lip in a nervous gesture. And then she closed her eyes. Against him.

He caught himself and pulled away.

• • •

Jasmine was mesmerized, studying Parr as he dipped his head, and his lips, closer to hers. She could feel his breath on her cheek, and smelled his combination of hay, soap, and aftershave. Her skin tingled in anticipation of his touch. She closed her eyes, waiting for his kiss.

Which never happened. When she opened her eyes again, he was back over at his horse. The horse dropped his head, and took Parr’s hair between his teeth in a playful gesture.

Ah, I’d been thinking about doing the same thing.
She stood beside the stall for a stunned moment more, until she realized he wasn’t going to return to her side.

“Well, that’s all I had to say to the likes of you.” She turned quickly on her heel and took a step, momentarily losing her footing. There was something spilled on the floor that made her footsteps falter. She didn’t want to take the time to study what it was, she just wanted out of the stable. Her face burned and she had never been so mortified in her entire life.

She stopped outside the stable doors to examine her slipper. Good, just water, from the looks of it. At least she wouldn’t carry the scent of horse manure into the house again. Just the manly odor of Parr. Why could she not control herself around him? She was eager for his kiss to ignite her senses again. My God, she practically begged for it. She wanted to jump over the stall fence and tumble with him to the hay-covered floor. Just his mere glance created an ache in her loins. She clutched her stomach and whimpered as she closed her eyes again.

Wiping a hand across her cheek, the cheek that had been warmed by Parr’s breath, she was surprised to find a bit of dampness. She stamped her foot in frustration and let out a small groan. No, she absolutely would not shed even one tear for that awful man in the stable. Nor would she give him another thought. Alistair was her future, and even though their first kiss was not anything to write to Heather about, it was adequate. The fact that he had wealth and a title more than compensated for the lack of sexual spark between them. Things were moving along in the right direction with him. She had one more week until the despised Lydia Smith returned. She had to get Alistair to propose in the next few days.

Smoothing her dress and hair, she began to formulate her plans. Amanda Phillips was holding a birthday dance in two days — just a small affair, a perfect setting from which to extract an offer of marriage. She hoped the marriage proposal would be hers, and not Amanda’s. After all, Amanda had all season to wind Blake Morgan around her little finger. Jasmine had only five more days. The clock was ticking, as her mother had warned her.

She raised her head and studied the house. It had been on the property when Alistair bought this large parcel of land. It was a two-story Greek Revival house constructed from local fieldstones, which had weathered to a soft gray color. White shutters and a matching cornice molding around the door complemented the stones. But the house had been added on to willy-nilly since the original structure was built, and had taken on a misshapen unwieldiness. When Jasmine moved in, she’d see to setting it right, inside and out.

And she would be moving in. Jasmine could read men well enough and she could tell that Alistair was beginning to develop feelings for her. If not scorchingly hot sexual feelings, he at least was thinking about the advantages a well-bred woman such as herself brought to the table. Yes, the birthday dance would be a most appropriate time for him to announce his intentions towards her. Maybe he and Papa were discussing the engagement right this very moment as Alistair asked her father for his permission to marry her! Parr be damned! She hurried across the clearing between the stable and the house, thinking she’d cement things at dinner, and maybe steal a few private minutes with Alistair while her father enjoyed his after-dinner pipe. She began to plan her outfit for the dance as she let herself into the house.

• • •

Alistair picked up the tumbler of brandy and clinked glasses with George Fitzpatrick before taking a sip of the pungent liquor. “I’m pleased that we can ground our relationship in a personal as well as a professional way, George.”

“Well, I do have a few reservations. Your age difference, for one thing. Forgive me, Alistair, for bringing this up, but you are nearly twice my daughter’s age. As a father, I have to consider if someone closer to her own age would be more suitable. And you do still have the challenge of getting my willful daughter to agree to marry you, so it’s not a done deal yet. When do you plan to propose?”

“I can understand your hesitation regarding our age difference. But you have to know that, if I should die first, I’ll be certain Jasmine is well taken care of, along with any children we may have. I thought I’d offer her my hand as we’re dancing at this infernal birthday party of her friend, in a few nights. We could all come back here afterwards for a nightcap and a celebratory toast. What do you think?”

“That sounds good to me. Lord knows, after punch and birthday cake, I’ll need a stiff drink. Do you want some time alone with her tonight? Shall I take my time finishing my pipe after dinner?”

Alistair smiled as he took a drink. “I don’t think that will be necessary. I can read women and I’m quite certain Jasmine will agree to marry me. She won’t need to be persuaded. Where is she, anyway?”

“She said something about going out to see the colt in the stable, but that was some time ago. She should be back so we can eat dinner.”

Alistair did not reply, but he thought about who or what could possibly be detaining Jasmine. He didn’t think it was the colt. He wondered if the age difference between himself and Jasmine would end up being a huge problem, if he went ahead with this marriage idea. Especially if Parr was just across the way.

Alistair was no fool. He’d seen the way Parr’s eyes lit up when he spoke of Jasmine. Had Alistair ever been that way about any woman, even his wife? Granted, Lydia Smith got his heart pumping, but did she make him stupid with desire? He highly doubted it. He was aware of Parr’s feelings about Miss Fitzpatrick, but did she return his ardor? And if not now, would she look upon him differently once Alistair’s hair went gray and he became bald? He’d need to give this serious thought.

He took a breath when Jasmine let herself in and walked quickly down the hall. Raking a glance over her face, he could discern no physical evidence that she had been kissed by Parr again. This time, at least. If he married her, though, and kept Parr on in his quarters in the stable, would he look upon her with suspicion every time she came in? Christ, he hoped not. The last thing he wanted, now that he’d found Parr, was to place a wedge between their friendship because of a woman.

He rose from his chair and went to her side, leaning down to kiss her lightly on the lips. No, he was certain she hadn’t been kissed this evening. He let out a breath and offered her his arm to lead her to the dining room.

Life had been going full-tilt since Jasmine dined with Alistair and her father at Alistair’s ranch. On the ride back to their brownstone in the city a few nights ago, her father had dropped very broad hints that Alistair was about to offer her a proposal of marriage. She’d inhaled the scent of his pipe tobacco as she pondered his words. The thought excited her, since she’d proved once again that she could accomplish whatever she set her mind to. Her mother would be so proud. But there was no joy mingled with her excitement. She admitted that life with Alistair would be pleasant at best, but never heart-pounding. Not at all similar to what it would be with Parr.

Damn, there he was again, creeping into her mind when she’d shooed him away time after time. Had he used some of his famous Irish magic on her to keep him foremost in her thoughts? Or was it because every time she caught Colleen’s brogue or someone called her name, it reminded her of being once again in the stable, listening to Parr refer to her as his cailín?

She shook her head, to banish Parr from her mind, and to replace him with thoughts of her soon-to-be intended. Wouldn’t the ladies be impressed at the first ball of the season, when she was escorted to the proceedings by her fiancé, the Viscount of Foxborough?

She glanced up from the worktable and surveyed her surroundings. Satisfied with the way things at the shop were proceeding, she turned her attention to the dress she was remaking to wear at tonight’s birthday party for Amanda. Since this was to be her betrothal gown, she wanted it to be spectacular. Colleen had sewn the last few embellishments on it this morning and they now closed the curtain to the fitting room so Jasmine could be laced into it. Colleen pulled the bodice tight before she stepped back to get the full effect of the dress.

“Lordy me, lass, but this is the most beautiful creation you’ve come up with yet.”

“It is lovely, isn’t it?” Jasmine ran her hand over the rows of glass beads that Colleen had meticulously sewn onto the bodice. She shook out the skirt over the padding which created the slight bustle and turned sideways in the mirror, enjoying the swish of the lush fabric as she moved.

“I want to check it over from all angles, Colleen, so you might as well get back to work on Eliza Logan’s gown.”

“Aye, I do need to get going on that dress, if she’s to have it in time for her new show. If you’re sure you’re all right here … ”

“Yes, yes, go on with you. I’ll call out when I want you to unlace me.”

Since merely looking at the fabric chosen for Eliza’s gown brought Parr’s eyes into her mind again, she had no desire to oversee Colleen’s work on the dress. What she needed to do was to make certain hers was perfection. For Alistair.

She stood in front of the cheval mirror and stared at her image with a critical eye. She pinched her cheeks to bring color into them and ran her fingers down the gown. She brushed her hair from off her shoulders. The pale peach shade of the dress’s fabric was close to her own skin color, presenting the illusion that she was nude. She smiled at her scandalous thoughts. That image would suit nicely. But if one were to examine the dress more closely, they would begin to notice the details. The entire bodice was overlaid with lace, to which were sewn thousands of peach-colored glass beads, which caught the light, shooting off sparks as she turned this way and that. She spent several minutes turning back and forth, to make certain the light caught the beads regardless of her stance.

The bodice was dramatically cut into a deep V in the back, laced together with a band of silk ribbon a shade darker than the dress. A slight bustle took shape from the matching V shape at her hips. She adjusted the shoulders of the dress so they were almost off the shoulder and peered into the mirror again. Yes, slightly off the shoulder would do. The beads were sewn side-by-side for an inch and a half width around the cuff of the sleeve and around the edges of the bodice, adding a considerable weight to the fabric.

What would happen if the weight of her sleeve somehow pulled the bodice from her shoulder? She gave a slight shrug and one side fell from her shoulders. Her bosom threatened to emerge from the confines of the dress. Yes, this would do nicely. Perhaps in a quiet, private moment, once Alistair had offered his hand, she would shrug from the chill on the balcony, for his view only. She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking about a man’s hands on her exposed bosom. He would run his fingers over the swell of breast, reveling in her petal-soft skin, marveling at how high and tight her globes of flesh were. Then he would lower his mouth to take in the pale pink nipple and set her core on fire. He would raise his head and stare deeply into her eyes before he captured her mouth in a show of possession. Their gazes would lock for a long second before he …

Damnation! Why was she imagining locking gazes with a pair of ice-blue eyes instead of Alistair’s ordinary blue ones?

Tears threatened, blurring the image in the mirror. She blinked them away. No, absolutely not. Regardless of how many times she had to tell herself, Jasmine Fitzpatrick would not shed a tear for that blasted man, nor would she waste any more of her precious time thinking about a mere stable boy. Especially when there was a viscount to enthrall this very evening with her lovely gown. Yes, at the end of this evening, she would be engaged to one of the plums of New York society this year. And he was all hers. Just what she and her mother wanted.

• • •

Alistair dressed slowly and carefully for this evening’s event. He untied his cravat once again and started over. Even though he had hired a new valet, James, to take care of his clothing and to help him get dressed, he was not happy with the way his cravat was tied. But it had nothing to do with James’s abilities. It was the fault of the blasted cravat. It made his neck disappear. Such an idiotic article of clothing, anyway. He glanced in the mirror, and yanked on the cravat again.