One Tempting Proposal Page 8

  “May I speak to you before we go in?” The catch in her voice had him curious, as did the object she clasped in her hands as if she wished to conceal it. “Does he really mean to marry her? From what he’s said, he barely knows Miss Adderly. Ollie is a romantic. We all know that. And he’s had his fair share of sweethearts, but he’s never been set on marrying any of them.”

  Ollie’s infatuation with Lady Harriet had become a favorite topic of conversation at Wrexford House, and Pippa’s recent reserve toward Ollie had warmed enough for her to at least appear happy for him. Until the night of the ball. Whatever had passed between his sister and the contradictory Lady Katherine on the balcony, it soured Pippa on the notion of Ollie marrying into the Adderly family.

  “Have you taken against Lady Harriet because you don’t like her sister?” Bearing grudges was one of his flaws, but it wasn’t in Pippa’s nature to remain angry with anyone. She was usually the first to tamp down her pride and make amends, as Seb thought she’d done with Ollie. Now her irritation with his friend flared again.

  “No, but Ollie’s suggestion that you marry Lady Katherine is absurd. He cannot dictate your future. None of us have the right to ask you for such a sacrifice.” Face flushed with color, she spoke through clenched teeth as she twisted and crumpled the paper in her hands. “Don’t forfeit your happiness for his.”

  He’d been a selfish bastard in the past, especially where Alecia was concerned. He found it curious that Pippa even believed him capable of such a sacrifice.

  “Besides, you’re the family dictator. Not Ollie.” The amusement in her eyes softened the accusation, and it wasn’t one he could deny.

  “Ollie’s mistaken, Pippa.”

  In this instance, Seb doubted sacrifice would be necessary. He’d speak to Clayborne on Ollie’s behalf and offer a settlement to allow the ­couple to start their life together, but Pippa was right. He couldn’t marry Katherine Adderly to suit Oliver’s plans. The woman hadn’t even claimed the waltz he’d offered and snubbed him for the remainder of the ball. He doubted she’d welcome a social call from him, let alone an offer of marriage.

  “I won’t be marrying Lady Katherine.”

  He expected his reassurance to bring his sister a measure of satisfaction, but Pippa twisted her mouth and stared at her lap. “I’m not saying you should remain alone. Perhaps you should be considering marriage.”

  The thought of it held as little appeal now as it had when Ollie suggested it back at Roxbury.

  “You’re being as inscrutable as Ollie says all women are.”

  She thrust the crumpled bit of paper at him. “I’ll never be as confounding as this woman.”

  It was another letter from Alecia. Her slanted scrawl was unmistakable, and the sight of it sickened him, ruining all the pleasure he’d taken in burning the second letter to dust.

  After a long pause he reached for the letter, but his sister drew it back. “Why is she writing to you? She brought you nothing but misery. I fear she’ll only stir up trouble.”

  Given half a chance, she most certainly would. It was the money, of course. After their ugly parting, Alecia hadn’t contacted him in ten years. But now, with his title and newfound wealth, she seemed quite determined to worm her way into his life once again. It had always been about money with Alecia. She’d never understood how he could be content to follow his father into an academic professor and plan a future based on a modest salary. In the end, she’d proven her love had nothing to do with sentiment and everything to do with practicality. She’d rejected him for Lord Naughton, the richest of her many suitors, a pompous earl as blind to her schemes as Seb had been.

  “Let me worry about Lady Naughton.”

  Pippa chewed the edge of her thumbnail a moment before leaning toward him. “I’d rather see you married to Kitty Adderly than attached to that woman again.”

  “And there you go changing your tune again. I do wish you’d make up your mind.” Were his choices limited to those two? One woman who loathed him and another who hadn’t bothered to chance letting him tread on her feet. Clever woman. Beautiful woman. Distracting woman. She’d invaded his thoughts far too often since the Clayborne ball. Whatever his initial disgust at her actions, he’d also witnessed her attempt to redeem them. That peek at her vulnerability when he’d caught her in the sitting room vied with his opinion of the haughty beauty she became the moment others might see. Whatever the lady’s contradictions, she was an undeniably bright spot of luminous skin and cream satin lighting up the corners of his mind.

  “None of us ever liked her.” Pippa jumped at the sound of Ollie’s voice as he joined them.

  “Do come in, Oliver.”

  Ollie ignored the sarcasm in Seb’s tone and positioned himself in front of the fireplace, arms crossed. “Pippa told me about the letter. No idea what you ever saw in Miss Lloyd, but I know you’ve better sense than to let the woman into your life again.”

  He’d kept the worst of it from his family. None of them knew she’d lied about being with child and stoked jealousy in Seb until he’d been prepared to rip the child’s purported sire to pieces. He prayed they’d never know how depraved he’d become, how easily she’d twisted him.

  “I’ve no intention of communicating with Lady Naughton or reading her letters.”

  Seb considered saying more, offering further reassurance. It wouldn’t require exaggeration. There was nothing he desired less than an entanglement with Alecia. But Pippa settled back in her chair with a satisfied sigh, and Ollie nodded sharply as if a promise had been made, and it was sufficient to put him at ease.

  Then in the next moment, he looked anything but tranquil as he thrust a hand into the wave of overlong hair dipping perilously close to his eyebrows. After massaging the back of his neck, he stuffed both hands in his pockets and bowed his head as if utterly forlorn.

  “Enough fidgeting, Ollie. Tell us what’s the matter.” Pippa had never appreciated Ollie’s flair for melodrama.

  “I have a fresh dilemma.” Ollie drew out the suspense, waiting for a long theatrical pause before satisfying their curiosity.

  Seb restrained the impulse to indulge in a Pippa-­style roll of his eyes.

  “Clayborne has refused my request to call on him. Twice. How can I ask for Harriet’s hand in marriage if the man won’t speak to me?”

  Seb opened his hand and lifted it toward Pippa. She stared a moment at the crumpled letter before laying it in his palm.

  He didn’t indulge in destroying this one slowly, cursing his stupidity under his breath as he had with the first and second. This one he simply crushed in his fist before tossing the walnut-­sized mass onto the fire. A tiny spark responded to the fragment of kindling and a flame licked out to consume it.

  With one matter behind him, he could tackle the other.

  “The Marquess of Clayborne has requested I meet with him tomorrow morning.”

  “He did?”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  Seb lifted his hands. “We can discuss it at dinner, but rest assured I will do all I can.” He hadn’t yet divulged details of his plan for a settlement with Ollie, but he’d make his intentions clear to Clayborne.

  He stood and Ollie reached out to shake his hand. “Thank you, Bash.”

  A swell of contentment warmed Seb’s chest. It would be a heady kind of relief to see Ollie settled. His friend’s life had been directionless and unfixed for too long.

  Ollie linked arms with Pippa to lead her into the dining room, but she stopped him and turned back to Seb. “I’m still not sure I understand why Lord Clayborne wishes to see you.”

  Seb frowned. “I suspect he wishes to discuss the prospect of Ollie marrying his daughter. He can’t be unaware they’re enamored after how they carried on at the ball.” He shot a stern glance at Ollie, who smiled brightly enough to deflect any censure.

  Pipp
a twisted her lips in a thoughtful moue. “I think it’s far more likely he wishes to speak to you about marrying his daughter.”

  SEB PACED THE floor of Lord Clayborne’s drawing room. He’d misjudged the walk and arrived early, and nothing about the starkest four walls he’d ever seen in his life put his mind at ease. The Fennicks were given to covering their walls, every bare inch, not just with wallpaper but with art and sketches, even framing some of Grandfather’s blueprints for majestic country houses and civic buildings. When Pippa turned out a fine watercolor, it had taken pride of place next to prized oil paintings by their late mother’s artistic circle of friends.

  The Marquess of Clayborne and his wife clearly didn’t share his parents’ lackadaisical notions regarding decor. Pristine whitewashed furniture seemed to frown on the pale pink of the walls and upholstery. Seb tolerated it for all of five minutes before tugging the bellpull.

  When a maid popped through the door, he gave into the desire to escape the cold room.

  “I’m a bit early for my meeting with Lord Clayborne. Is Lady Katherine at home?”

  Like steel striking flint, speaking her name set off sparks of anticipation that disturbed him as much as the memory of their first clash. He reminded himself to approach softly this time and try to refrain from upbraiding the woman.

  The maid seemed as dubious about leading him to Lady Katherine as he was about the wisdom of seeing her again. She chewed on her lip and scrunched her eyes, assessing him, before relenting.

  “I believe she’s in the conservatory, Your Grace. Right this way.”

  The room was far at the back of the Belgrave Square town house where Seb imagined the kitchens or laundry might be. But the maid took a sharp turn and led him into a room filled with light filtered through panels of frosted glass and dominated by enormous palms and ferns. The plants clogged the space, towering above his head, some branches seeming to strain against the limit of the glass ceiling. Scent assailed him and then lured him—­the damp loam of earth, the fresh sweet scent of greenery and flowers, so many that it was impossible to sort out a single note in the cacophony of aromas.

  And back in the corner amid a collection of glazed pots, shovels, and trowels, Lady Katherine stood at a bench crowded with seed packets and small seedlings in tiny clay pots. She wore a plain brown dress and her hair wasn’t pinned but pulled back, a waterfall of gold waves caught in the knot of a simple blue ribbon. She scrubbed her bare hands together, as if dusting away dirt, but then turned to two small pots and carefully pressed her forefinger into one and then the other, burrowing pockets into the soil. Reaching for a packet, she carefully poured a ­couple of pea-­sized seeds into her palm and rolled them about a minute as if studying the facets of precious gems before carefully dropping them into the holes she’d made.

  Humming as she worked, she turned to one bud that had just begun to reveal the coral shade of its yet hidden flower. She touched the bud, then stroked its dark leaf, cooing encouraging words under her breath.

  Though he stood out of her view, a few long strides would bring her close. He had no wish to disturb her, and yet here among her thriving plants she was as alluring as the lush blooms. Seb’s body tensed as he resisted the wave of desire threatening to wash away his inhibitions and make him do something foolish. Like call out or reach for her. Clenching his fists, he held his ground, but each of her movements fascinated him, every subtle expression of pleasure he could read in her profile drew him.

  She bowed her head to make notations in a journal, and he noticed a patch of dirt on her cheek that he itched to wipe away. He blamed the impulse on a sense of chivalry, insisting to himself that it had nothing to do with satisfying a desire to touch her again. He’d almost convinced himself to do it when she made it worse by tapping the end of her pen on her lower lip and leaving a dusting of soil there too.

  Touching her mouth would be a definite mistake, never mind chivalry.

  A clock chimed the top of the hour somewhere in the house, and Seb struggled to care that he’d be late for his meeting with her father if he continued staring at her. He preferred to stay and watch her work, but she’d likely loathe being observed.

  He began to retreat, stepping carefully so as not to disturb her, but his boot heel scuffed against a tile. Her hummed tune cut off on a dissonant squeak, and he looked back to find her scowling.

  “Who allowed you in here?”

  It was no use blaming a maid for doing her job, but Seb couldn’t resist revisiting their first encounter.

  “Is that the proper etiquette for greeting a visitor? I’ll make a note of it.”

  “Most visitors wait to be invited before pushing in.”

  Seb tried not to smirk. He even considered being contrite, but her green fire glare brought out a terrible streak of defiance.

  “Am I not welcome?”

  “You weren’t invited.” She swiped her hands down her hips, apparently trying to settle her gown or remove the dirt from her hands, but it only drew his attention to how the dress hugged her slim figure.

  He forced his gaze away from her body and studied the fronds of an enormous spiky plant arching over his head. “Does anyone receive an invitation to join you back here?”

  “No.” In a less strident tone, she added, “I come here to be alone.”

  He felt the utter fool. He understood the desire for solitude. When he was wrangling with a vexing mathematical concept, he’d sometimes wander on solitary walks around the Cambridgeshire countryside for miles.

  “I’ve intruded.”

  “You surprised me.” Her tone had softened, but she still watched him warily. “Why are you here, Your Grace? Have you come to chastise me again?”

  Seb ignored her sarcasm and focused on the more interesting question.

  “You enjoy horticulture?”

  She seemed unwilling to let go of her ire, lifting dirty hands to her hips, and then crossing her arms to hide dirt-­stained fingers from his view.

  “Yes, I love plants.” The tentative catch in her voice when she finally answered made Seb swallow hard. It was a moment of honesty, vulnerability, and he wanted more. Then her eyes went wide a moment before she tightened her crossed arms. “But I prefer to work in the conservatory alone. Annie shouldn’t have brought you out here. If you’ll excuse me.”

  She stepped toward him as if to move past, but the space was cluttered with ceiling-­tall potted ferns on one side and wrought iron shelves overflowing with plants on the other. His shoulders spanned the space and she’d have to press in close, nearer than they would have stood if they’d danced the waltz, to get around him.

  “I must go and change, Your Grace.”

  He didn’t wish her to go. Or to change. With tendrils of hair framing her face, eyes brightened by the light filtering through the conservatory windows, and a smudge of dirt on her cheek, she was the most appealing woman he’d ever seen. He knew he should move, allow her to go on her way, but his body fought him. He wanted to draw closer, not move away. He took a step toward her and caught her scent. Not vanilla this time, something brighter, citrus with a sweet tang.

  “What is that scent?”

  “Which one?” She glanced at the red flowers beside her and then up at the hanging blooms above her. He thought they might be wisteria.

  “Yours.”

  She reached up and placed a hand at the base of her throat. Her breathing quickened as he watched her, and his breath sped too.

  He should have retreated when he’d had the chance. When she turned, he feared he’d gone too far and she meant it as a dismissal, but then she reached up and plucked a leaf from an unassuming plant with spiky leaves.

  After crushing the leaf in her palm, she lifted her hand toward him, and the sharp pungent fragrance made his nose itch. It was an overwhelming version of the scent she wore.

  “Aloysia citrodora. Lemon ver
bena.”

  “It’s powerful.” And smells much sweeter on your skin.

  She grinned. “It is. It must be diluted before use as a fragrance, but there’s such a pure clean zest in the raw leaves. Don’t you think?”

  “Speaking of clean, there’s just a bit of . . .”

  He reached out to touch her but hesitated. His skin against hers would be the start of it, and one touch wouldn’t be enough. He already wanted more—­to hear about her plants, read that journal she’d bent over so intently, and taste the skin he was about to caress.

  “Will you always find fault with me?” In the space of his doubt, she reached up to scrub at her own face.

  But she missed the spot and Seb pressed his fingers to her cheek, wiping gently at the smudge, his fingers brushing against hers as the heat of her skin warmed his fingers and wound its way, somehow, all the way to his chest.

  “It’s not a fault. Just a spot of dirt.”

  It disturbed him how it easy it was, how right it felt to touch this woman, when he’d held back from touching anyone for so long.

  “Did you get it all?”

  He swiped his thumb across her cheek. “Here, yes, but there’s more.”

  She spluttered and waved one hand. “Well, go on and get the rest.”

  The last mark was on the edge of her plump lower lip. He lifted his other hand and dabbed with one finger until all he could see was a lush crescent of skin as deep a coral as the bud she’d encouraged to blossom.

  She didn’t flinch away from his touch or turn her eyes down coquettishly. Lady Katherine used their proximity to appraise him, her eyes sharply assessing as she studied his face, roving over every aspect of his countenance but never quite meeting his gaze.

  He’d done his good deed and wiped her face clean, but he still wanted to touch her. He cupped her cheek in one hand and rested the fingers of the other at the edge of her jaw.

  Her voice was low and breathy when she asked him, “Have you got it all?”

  When he dipped his head to nod, he drew closer to her mouth. And that was the greatest mistake of all. With barely a flex of his hands, he could tip her closer, taste the skin that was far softer than he’d imagined. But then there’d be no turning back. Hadn’t he vowed to himself not to be drawn by a pretty face again? Not to lose himself in desire?