Temptation Incarnate (No Rules for Rogues Book 3) Page 2

  Her family had hushed up her failed elopement, and here she was, chancing setting tongues wagging just because Wroxton had put her back up by teasing her. Why was it that rakes and fortune hunters were so much more attractive than their more solid brethren?

  Or at least they always seemed more attractive to her. Yet another failing, but thankfully one her father had yet to add to his list. He still dismissed her elopement as a youthful folly, believing she’d been led astray, and she’d done her best all these years not to give him any reason to rethink that designation, though quite often the self-imposed bonds of her daily life chaffed.

  The viscount smiled back at her, his eyes positively dancing. Her spine stiffened even as her stomach lurched. He really was ridiculously handsome. And charming; too charming. And he knew it, the devil. He’d made her forget herself, made her forget the retiring persona she’d spent so many years perfecting.

  Eleanor placed both hands on the table and slid the ribbon to him along with her cards, making sure the candlestick blocked the view of the ladies at the next table. Wroxton collected his illicit winnings and deftly shifted the ribbon to his pocket.

  ‘Another hand, Miss Blakely?’ He shuffled the cards expectantly, the sound of the cards flicking against one another distinct amid the din of the party.

  The urge to say yes, to best him, rose within her, sharp and wicked. Over his shoulder she spotted her mother rising from her own table. Thank heavens. She had to get out of here. Now. The room was stiflingly warm and her head was starting to swim. Too much sherry. Too much Wroxton.

  What outrageous thing might he next suggest? What might she might agree to now that the dam of propriety had been breached?

  ‘Not tonight, my lord. My mother appears ready to leave.’

  ‘Until next week then, Miss Blakely.’

  He rose when she did, inclining his head to her. So very proper now, when he’d been anything but for the rest of the evening.

  Chapter Three

  Corinthians, pugilists, and beaux everywhere are in alt. Their messiah is delivered, or so the steady flow of their ranks in the eastwardly direction of their queen would seem to indicate…

  Tête-à-Tête, 18 May 1790

  Mr Perry shot up from the table, the legs of his chair scraping loudly across the wooden floor, drawing a few disapproving glances and at least one sotto voce reprimand. Miss Hardy stepped towards the pianoforte and he trailed after her just as he had the previous week.

  Conway smiled. Tonight it had taken only two hands before the youngsters had run away, which suited him perfectly. It had been all he could do not to boot the two of them from the table immediately. He hadn’t seen Miss Blakely even once in the intervening days. What was it she did with herself during the Season? Surely she must be attending the same routs and ridottos and plays as his mother and sisters, and yet, as he squired them about, Miss Blakely remained entirely elusive.

  He’d kept her ribbon in his pocket the entire time, even when he’d met her brother for a fencing bout at Angelo’s salle. He smiled down at his cards, savouring the illicit thrill of having such an indecorous prize in his possession.

  If she were only a widow. Hell, if she were just some other man’s wife . . . He’d tried not to make a habit of cuckolding his peers, but seducing another man’s wife was in the realm of possibility, whereas seducing Harold Blakely’s spinster sister was not.

  There was a mystery in there somewhere. There had to be. Why wasn’t she married? It made no earthly sense.

  He blew out his breath and tried to keep his thoughts from drifting to her breasts as they rose and fell with every breath, tried not to wonder what her skin would taste like, what it would feel like beneath his bare hands.

  It was not lost upon him that she’d left off her fichu this week, leaving the sweep of her collarbones and the swell of her breasts free for his appreciation. And appreciate them he did.

  Miss Blakely fingered her cards, shifting them against one another as if mentally arranging them. ‘What shall we wager tonight, my lord?’

  ‘A lock of your hair?’

  She met his gaze steadily, lips curling into a smile. ‘Certainly,’ she drew the word out she looked him up and down, studying him intently. ‘A lock of my hair against your cravat pin.’

  Conway raised one brow and nodded his assent. The stakes had just been raised, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. At some point he’d go too far; ask for something she wasn’t willing to give, and he fully admitted he was curious to see what her breaking point would be. What would it take to push his friend’s sister into slapping him, throwing her drink at him, giving him the cut direct? Because that’s what needed to happen. He needed Miss Eleanor Blakely to put him in his place. Firmly.

  Before he made a complete fool of himself.

  The urge to kiss her hovered just beneath his skin, just within his control. He found himself picturing it at the oddest moments: sitting in his family’s box at Drury Lane, lounging in the bath, while drinking at White’s, when lying damp and satiated in his mistress’s bed. Would Miss Blakely say yes if he made that their next wager? What would she suggest as its match?

  He studied her face as she arranged her hand. Her nose was elegant enough now, but she was going to be beaky when she was old as Lady Brooke. She caught him watching her and smiled before raising one brow. ‘Do I have something on my face?’ she asked, fingers brushing across her nose, searching for the imagined imperfection.

  Conway shook his head. ‘I was just thinking how very much you remind me of your brother.’

  Miss Blakely raised her cards as she laughed, hiding her mouth and muffling the sound. ‘You mean Hamish I hope, the beauty of the family, poor boy. For if you mean Harold or John—or God forbid, Jamie—I shall be forced to do you bodily harm.’

  ‘Well,’ Conway leaned forward, examining her in the flickering light of the brace of candles as though she were a statue on display, ‘I was thinking of Harold,’ he grinned as her expression turned to outrage, ‘but only because of the nose.’

  She rubbed her nose again, mouth drawn into a dramatic pout. When he merely grinned back at her, she sighed and reached for the card he’d dealt her. ‘You could at least pretend to be a gentleman and flatter me,’ she said as slid it into place among the others in her hand.

  ‘Would you be mollified by my admitting I’ve ever noticed Hamish’s purported beauty? For really, the Blakely brothers are all made from same mould as far as I can tell.’

  Across the inlaid face of the table Miss Blakely laid down her cards. ‘If only I weren’t from the same mould myself,’ she said with what sounded to him like false cheerfulness. ‘But we’re all peas in a pod, butter patterns of the pater, nose and all.’

  Conway frowned at her cards and cast his own aside. She’d won again. Damn it all.

  He’d been looking forward to seeing how she would manage to hand over one of her curls without alerting her mother. Not to mention the fact that he simply wanted to possess one. A second scandalous memento to tuck into his top bureau drawer; to carry around in his pocket and fondle while thinking inappropriate thoughts.

  ‘Your game, Miss Blakely.’

  She tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a smile. Her elusive dimple appeared, only to vanish as she caught her lower lip between her teeth.

  ‘You needn’t looked so pleased, you little sharp!’ Conway ripped his cravat pin loose and set it on the table, taking care to fuss with the knot to hide the fact that he didn’t restore it. ‘My valet will never forgive me for losing this. I shall be in his black books for weeks.’

  She chuckled softly, a husky, contralto sound that made his groin tighten. ‘You still have the plain gold one you wore last week. And the diamond one I’ve seen you sporting on more than one occasion.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, striving to keep his voice even and light, ‘but Tompkins doesn’t approve of either of those pins.’

  Conway watched his mother’s coach rumble away through patches
of oily yellow light thrown by the street lamps. Once she was gone, he strolled down the street towards his club on St James’s Street, his thoughts turning—as they so often did lately—to the teasing little baggage he’d just left behind at Lady Hardy’s.

  What exactly was he doing?

  It had started innocently enough, but had quickly blossomed into something else. Something wicked. Something he didn’t think he could give up.

  It wasn’t any of the usual things that had caught, and held, his attention. It was the hint of mischief that lurked in her eyes, and the way she worried her lip with her teeth when she was plotting. It was the way she looked at him when he teased her, her lips pressed together disapprovingly, but her eyes smiling. It was little things—easily missed things—that made her sparkle when one observed her closely.

  She participated in their little game with decided enthusiasm, but she clearly didn’t take their flirtation, or him, seriously. She’d agreed to each of the prizes he’d demanded without a hint of embarrassment or any acknowledgement that by willing bestowing something as personal as her hair ribbon or a lock of her hair upon him, they were both stepping well beyond the bounds of propriety.

  Simply put, she displayed no awareness of him as a man, and it was becoming damned irritating.

  The candle guttered in its socket, hissing and popping as the flame danced on the pool of wax. Eleanor snuffed it out between her fingers, leaving only the crackling glow of the fire to illuminate her room. She should have gone to bed long ago, but she wasn’t the least bit sleepy. She’d come home from Lady Hardy’s to find a letter from her brother John waiting for her. After preparing for bed and sending her maid away, she’d broken the wafer and settled in to decipher the scrawled mess of crossed sentences, all the while studiously ignoring the gleam of Wroxton’s coral stick pin where it lay upon her dressing table.

  John and his new wife were drinking in all that Paris had to offer. His letter was full to the brim with affectionate anecdotes and amusing little stories. As it should have been, given the trouble he’d had obtaining his bride. But the slight pang of envy Eleanor felt reading about it left her feeling melancholy even in the face of John’s promise to send her a hat from the queen’s very own milliner. The anticipation should have put her over the moon. Instead, she simply felt deflated.

  A hat. It should have been a decadent treat. Instead, it felt like a teasing glimpse of the life she’d imagined for herself with she’d eloped. The honourable William Grant, youngest son of the Earl of Balquhidder, and her father’s secretary at the time. He’d been a shining figure to fire any girl’s imagination. The idea that he’d desert her when her brother’s caught up with them had simply never occurred to her.

  Liam had proposed and her father had declined to give his permission. The baron had been entirely reasonable in his rejection. They were too young, too unsettled, and too inexperienced to make such a choice. But if they felt the same after she’d made her curtsey to the queen and seen a bit more of the world, he wouldn’t continue to withhold his blessing.

  Which meant her father was putting their marriage off for a year or more. It had seemed an unendurable eternity at seventeen.

  Eleanor set the stiff sheet of foolscap aside and picked up Wroxton’s pin, spinning it slowly between her fingers. The coral had been carved into a small stag’s head, the rack of antlers prominent, the animal’s mouth open as though bellowing out a challenge.

  It wasn’t at all suitable to a woman’s wardrobe, and its design was entirely too distinctive for her to have it refashioned into a lace pin or a hair ornament. Something simpler could have served as a private joke between the two of them, as something she could have taunted him with in public, but she couldn’t deny there was an added thrill to its possession simply because there was no mistaking its origins.

  Chapter Four

  The ladies of London may rest easy, the dangerous London Monster has been apprehended. They may now safely sally forth, an encounter with an overly amorous prince being the most likely unpleasantness they will experience on the streets of Mayfair.

  Tête-à-Tête, 24 June 1790

  Conway held his breath for a moment as Miss Blakely placed her hand in his. They revolved clockwise as the steps of the dance demanded. Heat leaked through the kidskin of their gloves, flashed through him, a direct line from palm to heart to groin. Conway held her gaze as they turned, his whole attention riveted.

  ‘Do you have it?’ he said, pitching his voice not to carry beyond her hearing.

  She turned away from his question, taking her place back in the line of ladies across the chalked floor. Had he finally pushed her too far?

  ‘Do you?’ He circled her, stepping close enough that he brushed her petticoats, the skirt of this coat tangling with them, velvet and silk clinging, like walking through a field of nettles.

  ‘Yes.’ Her skin flushed, a slight rosy glow visible even beneath the cloak of powder she wore. She stepped down the line without glancing back, changing partners for the moment. Conway struggled not to scowl as Miss Blakely revolved with the Duke of Grafton’s youngest son. She laughed and he felt his eye twitch. The sensation intensified as the young lady he was now partnered with tittered and dipped her head, playing the coquette.

  Good Lord, she looked all of twelve. And under all that blue powder her hair had to be red, there was no other possibility when she was freckled like a roan horse. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Miss Blakely dip her head in exactly the same way, flirting with her own partner. He jerked his attention away from her and turned it to the next lady down the line, only to find it was his eldest sister, Alice.

  ‘Your opera singer throw you over? Or did you lose a wager to one of your friends?’ she said.

  ‘Neither, you spiteful little cat. I just can’t abide having children foisted upon me.’

  ‘Who?’ She craned her head about, looking over the dancers. ‘Lady Cecily? She’s turned nineteen. Hardly a child.’

  ‘Perhaps I was misled by her Lilliputian stature?’

  Alice went off in a peal of laughter that drew every eye in the room as she slid down the line to Lord Aubrey. Conway bowed to the next girl and forced his expression into polite disinterest, counting the measures until the dance would return Miss Blakely to him and he could escape this infernal parade.

  By the time she completed the circuit every nerve he had was raw. There was a reason he avoided events like this, but he’d come tonight to collect a debt. Miss Blakely owed him a garter, and this was where she’d promised to produce it.

  He led her down to supper, along a narrow panelled corridor, clogged with guests. Too many perfumes mingled in the close space. Conway swallowed, his head swimming. He held his breath and at last the press of the crowd loosened as they were pushed forward from the hall and into the supper room.

  Miss Blakely clung to his arm. He steadied her and pulled her towards the tables at the edge of the room.

  ‘Don’t you dare faint.’ He pushed her down into a chair. If she fainted at least one of her brothers was sure to decide he was somehow to blame.

  ‘Promise.’ She gave him a quavering smile, colour returning to her cheeks. ‘I just needed some air.’ Her hands roamed over her skirts, smoothing them neatly into place. She balled them up in her lap, but the quiver was still evident.

  ‘Some air and a drink,’ Conway said. ‘Let me fetch some champagne for you.’

  Her gaze locked with his. She took a deep breath and blew it out with a shudder. His cock twitched rudely, heat flashed though him, lodging behind his sternum like the coals of a banked fire. She couldn’t be thinking what that expression implied, but God how that look made him want to drag her out into the garden and peel every stitch off her . . . to explore every hidden bit of flesh.

  Eleanor picked apart a lobster patty with her fork. The sudden rush of awareness had destroyed her appetite. The viscount sat across from her, watching her like a cat poised beside a birdcage, wondering just how much
trouble he’d be in if he slid one paw through the bars . . . .

  And she wanted him to reach for her. That was the problem. Wanted it so badly her legs were shaking with nervous anticipation, and the delicate lobster on her plate tasted like sawdust. She’d emptied two glasses of champagne in short order, and Wroxton had deftly replaced her second empty glass with his full one. She reached for it and took another sip.

  ‘Ready to settle your debt, Miss Blakely?’

  ‘Here?’ Eleanor nearly choked on her champagne.

  ‘We could go for a turn in the garden if you prefer an alfresco setting?’

  Her pulse leapt, blood rushing through her limbs. The viscount rose, tugging on his gloves. ‘Come, a little airing will do you good.’

  Eleanor pulled her own gloves on, kidskin sliding sinuously over skin and bone. She flexed her hand, forcing each finger fully into its sheath with deliberate concentration.

  She studied Wroxton out of the corner of her eye: his wig was immaculate; the silvery-grey of his suit a little plain if one missed the flash of spangles on his waistcoat and the subtle glint of the metallic thread around the buttonholes. What was he after with this extended flirtation? She’d found herself pondering the question more and more as the weeks passed and their wagers grew ever more intimate.

  She was an unlikely target for idle seduction, and an even more unlikely one for serious pursuit. The hidden drawer in her writing desk was stuffed full of Wroxton’s losings: a handkerchief, a snuff box with absolutely indecent scene painted inside the lid, his coral cravat pin, and the pretty little miser purse he normally kept in the capacious pocket of his coat. A pocket into which he’d tucked her hair ribbon, one of her stockings, a fan, and her favourite lace pin over the past few weeks.

  The small terrace was awash with couples, as was the garden below. Brightly coloured lanterns illuminated the long expanse of manicured borders and orderly beds set between high brick walls. Wroxton led her carefully down the steps and along one of the artful gravel paths.