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

  Laughter washed over them, followed by a high, piercing shriek. The distant baying of a dog broke into the silence that followed. Everyone in the garden rushed towards the spot from whence the cry had erupted, gaudy and loud as courtiers playing pall mall. Everyone but Wroxton, who held her firmly in place as others dashed past them in a bright hued swirl of silk.

  With the crowd’s attention firmly elsewhere, the viscount turned her around and led her back towards the house, salmon moving up stream. A few steps more and he pulled her around the stone buttress at the corner of the house and pressed her back against the cold wall, just out of sight of the hordes teaming over the terrace to see what the uproar was. He had one large hand firmly about her waist, his weight behind it, anchoring her in place.

  ‘No doubt the poor girl even now finds herself engaged as penance for protesting some small liberty a bit too lustily.’ He leaned in, shoulder propped against the wall beside her, breath warm on her cheek.

  ‘No doubt.’ Eleanor swallowed, as embarrassed no doubt as the poor girl down in the garden must be as half the ton descended. She shouldn’t want this. She shouldn’t want him. Hadn’t one ill-planned escapade been enough for a lifetime?

  She waited for him kiss her. There could be no other reason for him to have maneuvered her into such a secluded spot. Instead, he knelt, hands skimming down her skirts and legs, and put both hands around her ankle. Strong, sure, those wicked hands slid up her calf. Her lungs seized. She flattened her hands against the rough stone wall behind her, holding herself up as her knees threatened to give way.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Her voice came out with a squeak at the end, the last word almost entirely unintelligible even to her.

  ‘Claiming my prize.’ A finger slid inside the top of her stocking, stroking the sensitive skin at the back of her knee. He fiddled with her garter, fingers circling under it.

  ‘Your prize is in my pocket. Stand up!’ She tried to shake him off, pushing him away with the leg he held. His grip tightened.

  ‘I prefer this one.’

  Conway caught the garter as it fell from her leg. It was too dark to really see anything, but he could imagine more than enough . . .

  His hand pushed up her thigh as though of its own accord. Eleanor caught her breath audibly, but no word of protest or chastisement erupted to spoil the moment. His senses flooded with the scent of warm flesh, with the impulse to possess every inch of her. He placed an open-mouthed kiss on the inside of her thigh, just above her stocking, bit down and sucked, hard. He had every intention of leaving a mark.

  Eleanor made a choking sound that cut off as she gasped for air. What would she do if he lifted her skirts further? If he pushed higher, put his mouth where he wanted to and sucked until she screamed?

  He smiled into the dark and blew across the damp mark he’d left on her skin. He was going to get himself killed, but it just might be worth it. She might be worth it. He was half-tempted to put his plan into action, to cause a glorious public scene from which there could be no retreat. There was something oddly appealing about letting his actions carry him away.

  He kissed her thigh again and slid a hand up until he found her pocket. He could feel the slight weight of her garter inside it. Eleanor slapped his hand away and thrust her own in, yanking the garter she’d brought for him out and shoving it at him. Conway ignored it, concentrating instead on slowly grazing his teeth along her skin, inching upward, easing her thighs apart … Eleanor put her foot to his chest and pushed him back, holding him at a distance. Her stocking began to slither down her exposed leg and the heel of her shoe dug into his chest.

  Conway plucked the proffered garter from her hand, tugged her stocking up, and clasped the garter just about her leg, letting his fingers linger as he did so. When he was done, he leaned back and Eleanor set her foot down, twitching her petticoats decorously into place as she did so.

  ‘I think I’d like another glass of champagne,’ she said, her voice sounded unusually husky and soft. A shiver of pure lust raced down his spine, making him wish they were somewhere far more private than an overcrowded garden in Mayfair.

  Chapter Five

  The scene witnessed by so many at the Devonshire route has resulted in not one, but two duels, and one hears three offers of marriage for the young lady involved. What use a spotless reputation when one has the face of an angel (and a fortune of fifty thousand pounds)?

  Tête-à-Tête, 29 June 1790

  The following week, Conway again demanded one of her curls, but found himself sorely tempted to lose when she countered with a demand to be allowed to drive his phaeton. A real outing. A chance to have her truly all to himself . . . it was irresistible.

  ‘Can you drive, Miss Blakely? Or would this wager perforce include driving lessons?’ Lessons which could take up an entire afternoon . . . maybe even two or three. Hours and hours alone with her.

  ‘Oh, I can drive, my lord. Harold taught me. You needn’t worry I’ll overturn us.’

  Harold. Conway grimaced. There was a thought to extinguish a man’s ardour: vindictive brothers, five of them, not to mention a father who rivalled them in size and ability.

  ‘Well, then.’ He let the action of shuffling the cards pull his thoughts away from vengeful brothers and dawn meetings over dewy grass. ‘Let us see who will have to pay a forfeit this week, shall we?’

  Miss Blakely chewed her lip. A sure sign she held a losing hand. His mother waved from across the room, obviously ready to leave. He nodded to her, but didn’t move to join her immediately. He wasn’t done here. He was about to become the proud owner of a glossy, black ringlet.

  ‘My game, Miss Blakely?’

  She nodded, laying her cards aside with a hint of a blush. That was interesting. Even when she’d lost her garter she hadn’t blushed. Hell, she hadn’t even seemed discomposed when he’d left a love bite on her thigh. In fact, he could have sworn she’d cocked her leg outward, allowing him even better access. That had not been the action of a sheltered, virginal miss, but it would be madness indeed to assume that at nearly thirty she was entirely untouched. There must be some grand disappointment buried in her past. Some stupid fool who’d been lucky enough to win his way closer than Conway had yet managed to do.

  ‘Shall I claim my prize now? Or would you prefer to deliver it later?’

  Her expression turned frosty. ‘I believe I’ll take the second option, my lord. I don’t happen to have any scissors at hand just now.’

  Conway chuckled. It really was too bad the evening was at an end. It was just becoming promising. She stood and began tugging on her gloves.

  ‘What about one last wager?’ he said. ‘A single cut of the cards. If you win, you keep your curl, and I let you drive my greys.’

  ‘And if you win?’ She eyed him speculatively, green eyes inscrutable as a cat’s.

  ‘And if I win . . . well, if I win, Miss Blakely, I get to call you Eleanor here in our little private bubble, and I get to cut that curl myself.’

  She looked at him as though he’d lost his mind, but she shuffled the cards all the same. An inveterate gamester? Perhaps that’s all this was: A scenario of his own invention, one in which the lady simply couldn’t say no.

  ‘Cut,’ she commanded, one hand riding her waist, her posture imperious.

  He turned up the nine of diamonds and showed it to her with a little flourish. Not a face card, but a high card all the same. She wrinkled her nose at him, eyed the deck, and then cut, holding her card out to him without looking. Conway stared at the Knave of Spades, never happier to have lost in his life.

  ‘Well?’ Her slightly breathless question skittered through him.

  ‘You truly promise you shan’t over turn us, Miss Blakely?’

  Chapter Six

  With the election well under way, London is a bit light on company. We trust that someone, somewhere shall soon enliven our days with something more interesting than three of the Blakely sons racing their almost indistinguishable sist
er across Hyde Park as though they were in pursuit of a fox.

  Tête-à-Tête, 29 June 1790

  Eleanor climbed into her mother’s coach and settled onto the cold leather seat. Her mother gave a dramatic shiver and thrust both hands deeply into the swansdown muff in her lap. ‘Now what was that all about, dear?’

  ‘All what, Mamma?’ Eleanor stared out the window into the dark streets. They rolled past a sedan chair with a link boy running before it, torch in hand.

  Her mother shook her head, sending a small shower of hair powder drifting down. ‘You and Viscount Wroxton spend every week playing cards together, thick as thieves. He danced two full sets with you at the Devonshires’ rout, and tonight I see him looking like the cat who’s got into the cream. You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.’

  Eleanor winced. Trust her mother to have caught nearly every detail. ‘All that happened tonight was that the viscount lost a wager, and so tomorrow he has to let me drive his phaeton round the park.’

  ‘Let you what?’ Her mother’s brows shot up.

  ‘Drive his phaeton round the park,’ Eleanor repeated slowly. ‘You know, Mamma, type of sporting vehicle, pulled by two horses—in this case, the most beautiful set of matched greys you ever saw.’

  ‘I know what a phaeton is, Eleanor.’

  ‘I was sure you did,’ Eleanor replied trying not to laugh at her mother’s incredulous expression.

  ‘Letting you drive his horses,’ her mother mused. ‘You don’t think—’

  ‘No,’ Eleanor cut her mother off. ‘No, I don’t.’ She’d been trying not to think at all. Especially not about the feeling of Wroxton’s hands, let alone his mouth, on her skin. She paused, searching for calm. ‘Be reasonable, Mamma. Lord Wroxton will be an earl someday, and I’m—well . . .’

  Reality, true for all that it remained unspoken filled the carriage: Six years on the town, one enormous scandal waiting in the wings, and no longer a virgin. Even were Wroxton to make her an offer of marriage, she couldn’t—in good conscience—accept him. What she’d do if he made her an offer of another sort terrified her. Her ruin would be nothing next to what her brothers would do to the viscount, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to say no.

  Her mother heaved a large, gusty sigh. ‘One mistake, dearest, one little mistake. You needn’t martyr yourself over it. The viscount truly does seem to enjoy your company. He even took you to supper at the Devonshire’s rout. Why not at least attempt to make the most of it?’

  Eleanor felt her cheeks flame. Thank God her mother hadn’t the slightest idea what that supper had consisted of. ‘The viscount is a friend of Harold’s, Mamma. He dances with me because it gives him a break from all the marriage-minded misses snapping at his heels.’

  ‘If you say so, dearest.’ Her mother didn’t sound at all convinced.

  Eleanor struggled to overcome the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Were other people currently speculating on her relationship with Wroxton? No one ever paid the slightest attention to her, but of course the ton paid attention to the viscount’s actions and partners. She should never have danced with him.

  It would be humiliating if the gossips were to pick up where her mother’s thoughts left off. Far too humiliating. It was bad enough to be permanently on the shelf, but to have people saying she’d set her cap at Wroxton would be awful. And when nothing came of it—as nothing would, despite her mother’s opinion—the pitting looks and sly comments would be unbearable.

  Much as she enjoyed the viscount’s company—and as desperately as she wanted to drive those beautiful greys of his—she was going to have to put a stop to their interactions. Starting with not going driving with him on the morrow.

  Eleanor slumped back against the squabs. It was only May, she still had more than a month before she could retreat to Kelburn Tower. God, how stale it was going to be without her weekly wagers . . . without Wroxton.

  Chapter Seven

  It is well within our powers to report that a certain Viscount appears to have lost his mind—and possible his cattle…

  Tête-à-Tête, 30 June 1790

  ‘Wroxton, what kind of simpleton do you take me for? I’m not blind for Heaven’s sake. You’ve been chasing after Eleanor Blakely all season. You’re a sly thing—I’ll give you that—but please, don’t treat me like a widgeon.’

  Conway stared at his mother, eggs dripping from his fork. His father harrumphed from the far end of the table and shook his newspaper as though the motion would magically banish conversation from the breakfast room. His younger sister scrunched up her face at him, thoroughly enjoying his being the one being in the hot seat for a change.

  Conway set his fork down. ‘I have not been courting Miss Blakely, Mother.’

  ‘Well maybe you should.’ The earl’s voice boomed out from behind the wall of The Morning Post. ‘High time you courted somebody who doesn’t make her living on her back.’

  ‘Charles!’ His mother set her tea cup down with enough force that the china rang like a bell. His sister’s eyes welled up with tears of what could only be laughter.

  The paper slowly lowered until the earl’s eyes were just visible below his wild, white brows. ‘I’m just saying; not a boy anymore; past time there was an heir—or three—bouncing around the nursery wing.’

  Conway picked his fork back up and took a large, deliberate, bite. He had not been chasing Eleanor all season, at least not in the way his mother seemed to be implying. And his father—damn him—wasn’t helping matters at all. The countess was clearly dreaming of bridals now. He could almost smell the orange blossoms.

  He was never going to hear the end of this.

  Conway chewed his mouthful of eggs and reached for his coffee. Damnation. His mother was half-right. Lately his amusing flirtation had come to resemble something very like courtship, albeit a rather unorthodox one.

  He’d never been able to picture any of the girls society was forever thrusting at him sitting across from him at the breakfast table day after day after day. But he could clearly picture Eleanor sitting there . . . relating some little thing that had amused her the night before, wearing that smile that intrigued him so.

  She wasn’t the wife he’d imagined—that faceless woman had always been a petite, with an air of frailty about her, someone rather like his mother—but Eleanor had utterly usurped the position, supplanting that imaginary miss to such an extent that he could no longer even remember what other qualities he’d imagined she’d have. He couldn’t picture anything beyond lively green eyes, a wicked smile, and a rather inappropriate sense of humour as necessities. The whole scenario boiled down to one simple fact: he wanted Miss Eleanor Blakely, and as of this morning, he intended to have her.

  It had been all he could do to wait patiently until four o’clock. Eleanor had given no indication that she was expecting a declaration, or that she would welcome one even, but today might change that. And if not? Well, the Season still had more than a month to go, two if her family stayed late and saw it to the very end . . . plenty of time to bring her round to his way of thinking.

  After a good ten minutes of kicking his heels, Eleanor finally arrived. She was wearing a simple saque gown rather than the habit he’d been expecting. He looked her up and down. He’d never imagined Eleanor as unpunctual. She seemed just the sort who was always on time for everything.

  ‘Do you need time to change?’ he said. ‘I’m happy to wait.’

  ‘No.’ She sounded more subdued than he’d ever heard her. ‘I think it would be better if we forgot about the wager. About all the wagers.’ Her hand disappeared into her pocket and came back holding all her winnings.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Conway frowned, watching her closely and trying to make sense of the sudden change in her. Yesterday she’d been mad to drive his horses. Yesterday she’d been happy to see him too. What had happened?

  ‘There’s nothing to understand.’ She shrugged, an inelegant jerk of her shoulders that spoke volumes. She wand
ered towards the fireplace, seemingly at a loss as she confronted the cold grate. ‘I just think that we’ve been making a bit of spectacle of ourselves. I’m going to end up humiliated, and possibly ruined if we continue on as we have been.’ She abandoned his losses on the mantel.

  Conway opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. She was right. And the last thing he wanted was a bride who felt she’d been forced to choose marriage as the lesser of two evils. ‘Would you, perhaps, assent to my driving you around the park? Surely no one could take exception to that?’

  She glanced up at him, eyes wavering behind a sheen of tears. ‘I don’t think so, my lord.’

  Panic mewled in the recesses of his brain. Tears were not something he was prepared for.

  ‘Not even slightly tempted, Miss Blakely?’

  ‘More than slightly, and you know it. You’re not at all stupid.’ She gave him a wavering smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

  Conway smiled back at her, unable to help it. She was still in there, the madcap he’d been sparring with all Season. ‘I’m glad we agree on that much.’

  Obviously, not only his mother had taken note of the amount of time they’d been spending together. Had her mother—or some other busybody—warned her off? Or possibly urged her on? Either way they hadn’t done him any favours.

  ‘What if I were to promise no chance of humiliation or ruin?’

  She eyed him sceptically. ‘I’d say you’d run mad. That’s a promise you’d find it impossible to keep.’

  ‘Only if I meant to parade you about and not marry you.’

  Eleanor goggled at him, visibly incredulous. She went pale and then red. But she wasn’t blushing. No. Unless his ability to read women had suddenly deserted him, he was witnessing his future wife in a rage.