Accidental Peers 03 - Compromising Willa Page 6

  Bellingham bared his teeth in the approximation of a smile. “Of course.”

  At supper, Hart found himself seated to the marchioness’ right with Willa on his other side. Bellingham sat at the opposite end, next to Cam and far from the object of his desire.

  Willa did not appear surprised to find herself sitting next to Hartwell. Nor did she seem to mind.

  “I find I have the best seat at the table,” he said as they took their places.

  “Are you certain the air won’t be too brisk for you?”

  He grinned. “Why Lady Wilhelmina, in your own Arctic way, I do believe you are flirting with me.”

  “You are our guest,” she answered in smooth tones. “Pray don’t mistake polite discourse for something that it is not.”

  “Ouch.” He touched his heart in dramatic fashion. Sitting next to her, he’d have no need of dessert. She was like a Gunter’s lemon ice—tangy, tart, and delectably frosty.

  She curved those pillowed lips into a smile, a reluctant one, but he still counted that a victory. “Surely you are not so easily wounded, Your Grace.”

  “Actually, as a second son, I have heard far worse. One is not as popular when he is not in line to inherit a dukedom, or at least a vast fortune. As fate would have it, I am now in possession of both.”

  “Clearly modesty is not something you are in possession of.”

  Hart gave a mischievous smile. “Usually a title and deep pockets are sufficient to attract the attention of a lovely creature such as yourself.” He sipped his wine. “Otherwise, I shall have to win you over with my equally deep reservoirs of charm and good looks.”

  Her closed mouth wobbled with laughter until she managed to wrangle it into submission. “I should like to know when you decide to begin employing those qualities.”

  Hart shot her a surprised look. She was teasing him again. Promising. He softened his tone. “Oh, believe me, my lady, I intend to make you well aware of my charms.”

  Red stung the high planes of her cheeks. “Are you a profligate then,” she asked, deliberately setting aside his last words, “who enjoys all of the benefits of a title and none of the responsibilities?”

  He grew serious for a moment. “Not at all. I take the responsibilities that matter quite seriously. The running of my estates, ensuring my tenants are treated fairly and have every opportunity to prosper. And I have my business concerns.”

  “Your sugar trade.” When he nodded, she continued. “Do you sell your sugar directly to coffee houses…and other establishments?”

  “I do not handle the transactions at that level, but, yes, my clerks take care of those matters. Do you have an interest in sugar?”

  She did not meet his gaze. “Not at all. I was merely making conversation. It is unusual for a gentleman to engage in trade.”

  “I enjoy enterprise and have little patience for the ton’s rules on that matter and on many others, as apparently do you.”

  “Me?” Willa said in surprise, moving slightly closer to Hart to allow a footman to remove her soup bowl. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “The color of your dress, for example. Most eligible young ladies wear white and yet you wear pink this evening. And you are certainly quite eligible.” Hart glanced down at her dress, his eyes inadvertently drawn to the enticing swell of her full breasts visible above the neckline. This time even her ears blushed. “I have embarrassed you.”

  She brought her hands up as if to feel the heat on her cheeks. “Nonsense. It is the curse of my pale complexion that any slight change in temperature can easily be seen in my face.”

  He gave her a provocative smile. “Have I managed to warm you up, my lady?”

  “You are beastly to take pleasure in my discomfort.” She smiled ruefully, shaking her head, her gleaming chestnut curls catching the light.

  “You mustn’t blame me.” Her proximity certainly stirred animalistic tendencies in him, especially in the vicinity of his male equipage. “You are an eminently lovely young lady.”

  She actually snorted. “Not quite so young any longer. However, you have the right of it. I find many of society’s dictates trying. If I’m inclined to wear a dress of color, if it is appropriate in its cut, then I should be able to do so without risking the wrath of society.” She sipped her wine, leaving a red drop on her full upper lip. Her pink tongue darted out to lick it away. “Besides, one of the advantages of being practically on the shelf is that fewer people are shocked when I choose to wear a bit of color.”

  “Just a tame pink?” He rolled his eyes over her. “Why not the brightest of reds?”

  She laughed, a delightful raspy sound Hart realized he had not heard before. “I didn’t say I was fearless. I’m hardly as bold as that. I shudder to think of what it would do to Mother.” A mischievous glint touched her eyes. She leaned toward him, inadvertently offering a tantalizing view of full marble-white breasts straining against her bodice. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “But perhaps one day I shall surprise everyone with a gown of the most vivid color possible. Maybe even a scandalous red.”

  Hart’s heart tugged as the smell of roses taunted his senses. He could easily envision her as a scarlet temptress. Even with her icy demeanor, he was already very much tempted.

  …

  Willa watched the duke wave away a number of meat dishes. He declined both the roast beef and walnut ham before accepting the pigeon pie. There were an awful lot of vegetables on his plate: cabbages, leeks, beets, and parsnips. How unusual. Most men of Willa’s acquaintance ate almost nothing but meat.

  Hartwell caught her surveying his food choices. His eyes jumped with a hint of heat. “Would you like a taste of my vegetables? They are most succulent.”

  Willa’s ears burned. The man made food sound naughty. “Do you not enjoy the meat dishes? We could have something else prepared.”

  Hartwell gestured at the array of dishes on the table. There were at least eighteen entrees to choose from. “I could hardly ask for more. I’m afraid my time in India continues to influence my dietary choices.”

  “You did not eat meat in India?”

  Hartwell wiped his mouth and Willa found herself admiring the firm, full curve of his bottom lip. “The Muslims do not eat swine and Hindus forgo the meat of cows.”

  Willa’s ears perked up. “I have read of that. How fascinating.”

  “Yes, Muslims believe swine is unclean and can harbor disease. It is the Hindu belief that cows contain hundreds of deities.”

  Willa’s eyes widened. “They believe cows are God-like?”

  “Do you suppose that is where the expression ‘holy cow’ came from?”

  She’d never heard that expression. “How peculiar and intriguing that some people believe in the sanctity of cows.”

  “So you can understand my reluctance to eat beef while I was there.” He leaned back in his chair. “It seemed somewhat rude. Over time, I simply lost a taste for it.”

  “Remarkable,” Willa said, shaking her head in wonder. “The world is truly full of fascinating people and customs.” She looked around the table, feeling a keen pang of longing. “Someday I hope to see all of it for myself.” She realized Hartwell had stopped eating to fix a dark penetrating gaze on her. She flushed. “I’m sure you think me a silly dreamer.”

  “Not at all.” His eyes shone with an intensity which belied his light tone. She felt the impact of that look deep into her stomach. “I was just thinking of how fortunate a man would be to have you look at him with that same kind of enthusiasm.”

  “Lady Wilhelmina.” The portly older man seated on her other side held up a meat pastry. “Perhaps you can solve the mystery of whether this is pigeon or chicken. I say pigeon but Charles here insists it is chicken.”

  “Why, I believe Cook mixed the two meats for a more flavorful outcome, Mr. Magee.” She had no idea what kind of meat it was yet she turned toward the older man, grateful to get out from under Hartwell’s intense gaze. Out of the corner of her eye, she s
aw the duke turn his attention to Lady Joanna Rawdon, a vivacious widow with black hair and a slender frame who sat opposite him.

  Magee took another bite of his pastry. “Hmmm. Yes, now there’s an intriguing thought.” Willa nodded her head, pretending to listen, while her mind lingered on Hartwell. She remained aware of the duke’s movements when he gave a light laugh or took another drink.

  He looked incredibly appealing in his formal clothes. Impeccable as usual, his breeches, waistcoat, and jacket were all black. His blinding white cravat shone against his jet-black hair, tied neatly back. She wondered how Hartwell would look with his hair down. What would it feel like to run her fingers through those thick black strands? Warmth stirred inside her stomach. Trying to change the direction of her thoughts, she looked away, inadvertently locking eyes with Augustus at the opposite end of the dining table, who did nothing to disguise the fact that he was watching her.

  “Do you plan to eventually accept his suit?”

  She blinked at Hartwell. “I beg your pardon?” She realized he’d followed her gaze down the length of the table.

  “Your earl? Bellingham.”

  She cast him a searing look. “He is not ‘my’ anything, as you well know.”

  “He does not appear at all aware of that. The fop has not taken his eyes off of you throughout the entire meal.”

  If she didn’t know better, she’d think Hartwell was jealous. A burst of pleasure shot through her. “What exactly is between the two of you?”

  “I must say your sister’s betrothal was a surprise,” he said, changing the subject. “A rather interesting development, all things considered. I had not seen an announcement.”

  “There wasn’t one,” Willa answered. “It would be inappropriate since the old earl died so recently. The betrothal and wedding are to be quiet affairs. Race and Adela are keen to marry quickly, but they must wait for the mourning period to end.”

  “I thought his Christian name was Horace.”

  “Race is a nickname we all gave him years ago.” She smiled at the memory. “He was the fastest of runners. Race could outpace anyone, win any challenge.”

  “Race, ah, hence the nickname.”

  He followed Willa’s gaze down the table to where the betrothed couple sat side by side. Race seemed oblivious to all of them. His head tilted toward his smiling future bride as he talked intently to her. Addie’s eyes were riveted on her betrothed. “A proverbial love match?”

  Willa smiled, eyeing the couple. “Oh, yes. They grew up together just as—” Just as she and Augustus had. But Willa stopped herself before saying it out loud. She cleared her throat. “They knew each other growing up and developed an attachment that continues to this day.”

  She felt Hartwell’s inscrutable eyes on her. The intensity of that dark look made Willa uneasy. The duke appeared quiet and distracted as the footmen came to remove the tablecloth to prepare for dessert. Then he turned again to Joanna Rawdon, the lovely widow across the table, and began chatting with her.

  …

  Cam sat back in his chair and took a long drink. The ladies had retired to the salon, leaving the men to their port. “So Bellingham, I hear you’ve taken up quite a bet at White’s.”

  Bellingham raised a glass in salute. “Ten thousand guineas says McPherson beats Abbott in the ring.” The younger brother shifted in his seat, drawing Hartwell’s attention. Horace Manning’s jaw worked. He seemed angry.

  David Selwyn let out a low whistle. “Ten thousand guineas on a boxing match?” He shook his head. “You are either brave or careless, my friend. Perhaps both.”

  “Yes, perhaps both,” mumbled the brother.

  Cam bottomed out his glass. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a more prolific betting man. It’s a fortunate thing you have an earldom to support your gaming habits.”

  Bellingham nodded and proceeded to relieve himself at the table with a chamber pot. Hart averted his eyes with distaste. Englishmen thought the Indians were barbarians, but at least they never pissed where they ate.

  Bellingham tucked his flaccid member back into his breeches while a footman hurried away with the chamber pot. “Indeed, and a very profitable one at that.” He looked pointedly at Hartwell. “Although, of course, I don’t bother myself with the dreary financial details.”

  The man really was an idiot. Hartwell took a long drag on his cheroot, exhaling silvery circles that dissipated into nothingness.

  Afterwards, the men rejoined the women in the salon. The room had grown warmer, so the doors leading to the garden were thrown open, allowing cooler air to circulate. Hart paused by the door. He looked out into the garden, taking in the light cool breeze.

  The widow appeared at his side. She snapped open her fan, peeking over it in a practiced flirtatious manner. Joanna Rawdon was a perky thing, with saucy little breasts on full display. She batted her eyelashes. “Do you see anything you like, Your Grace?”

  She obviously wasn’t referring to anything in the garden. “I am ever appreciative of nature’s bounty,” he said with practiced gallantry.

  Her eyelashes fluttered. “I too appreciate nature’s beauty.”

  “I say, Lady Rawdon, what is your opinion? Was it pigeon or chicken in those delectable pastries?” asked Magee joining them, apparently having been unable to resolve the issue at the supper table. “Perhaps I should have another taste.” From the way the old codger eyed the widow’s breasts, the meat pastries weren’t the only things he wanted to taste.

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Lady Rawdon replied in a bored tone, looking disappointed to have her tête à tête with Hart disturbed. Not that Hart minded. Another time, he might have appreciated what the lady had to offer. This evening, however, his focus remained fastened on a certain lady with luscious curves and a tart little tongue he wouldn’t mind tasting. Where had she gone?

  As if his thoughts had summoned her, Hart felt a light tap on his arm and turned to find Willa smiling up at him, a little flush high on her cheeks. Was she actually batting her eyelashes at him?

  “Your Grace. I find I am a little overheated. Would you be so kind as to accompany me outside?” She offered him her hand.

  The cool princess actively seeking his company? Up until this moment, Willa had treated him with what could best be described as friendly contempt. How much wine had she had at supper? Perhaps there was hope for the frosty female after all.

  “Of course, it would be my pleasure.” Offering his arm, he sketched a quick bow to Magee and Lady Rawdon, and ignored the petulant look the widow threw him. They strolled outside where Willa took a seat on the ledge of the modest fountain that dominated much of the small garden.

  Taking a spot beside her, Hart smiled. “Dare I hope your feelings toward me have warmed?”

  “Beg pardon?” She seemed distracted. Her eyes darted toward the salon’s open doors. “Did you enjoy the meal?”

  The small ray of warmth he’d glimpsed just a moment ago vanished again, her veiled façade firmly back in place. “Yes, though I assume it is your mother, and perhaps Camryn, I should thank for my invitation.”

  She didn’t say anything to that. Hart let his eyes rest on her for a moment, taking in the way the moonlight danced over the defined slopes of her perfect face, down the elegant turn of neck. Desire curled through him.

  The lady seemed aware of the change in him because a luminous smile lit up her face. She focused her full attention on him, leaning toward him, putting her hand on his arm in a daring fashion. She tilted her face upward almost as though inviting a kiss.

  His rod leapt to attention. What the devil? She pursed those full inviting lips of hers. Her luscious pale bosom—almost bursting out of her gown—actually heaved in his direction. Good lord, the woman was a glistening bundle of temptation. Hot lust unfurled deep in his belly. He leaned in, intent on feeling those delectable lips under his own.

  And then she spoke.

  “Oh, Your Grace,” she simmered. Hart frowned. It was not at al
l her usual tone. And she appeared a little too breathless for a woman as sensible as he knew her to be. Her eyes darted toward the salon again where someone rustled in the doorway. Hart turned just in time to make out Bellingham retreating from the threshold.

  Irritation rifled through him, even as disappointment hollowed his belly. Had the lady staged this little show of false affection for Bellingham’s benefit? To what end?

  She pulled back the minute Bellingham disappeared inside, relief etched in the lovely lines of her face. But the game wasn’t quite over yet. She’d practically asked for a kiss and he would make sure she got one.

  He leaned in, slipping his hand around Willa’s waist to ease her toward him. He’d never kissed a gently born innocent before. Assuming, of course, she was still a maiden. Normally, his instinct would be to give her a quick brush on the lips. Instead, he covered her lips with his in a kiss that was both gentle and insistent, intent on giving her a true taste of passion. She gasped against his mouth and his blood boiled at the feel of her hands coming flat against his chest as though she meant to push him away.

  To his satisfaction, she gave up the fight immediately and her body softened into his. Supple, pillowed lips pressed back against his, inviting him to take more. The lavish curves of her body nestled against the hard lines of his, their plush softness enveloping him, the smell of roses searing his man’s flesh. She became even more pliant in his arms, and triumph surged through him when Willa parted her mouth to take him in. As soon as he felt her sensual acquiescence, he forced himself to release her, lest he take her right here in the garden.

  Willa’s eyes flew open. She looked stunned and then immediately disappointed, her body still trembling from his kiss. A baser part of him took dark pleasure in seeing how his touch affected her.

  She blinked. “What was that?”

  He struggled to regulate his harsh breaths. “Such fire you have, beneath that ice.”