As though noticing his regard, she looked at him with eyes of clover green, and he had to take a step back to maintain his balance. The force of her was like nothing he’d ever experienced. Initially, he attributed it to being out of the ballrooms for so long, but he slowly came to realize that it was simply the power of her.
Throughout the Season, he danced with her at every opportunity, strolled with her through gardens and parks, sent her flowers and sweets. She returned to her father’s estate for the winter. Chetwyn returned to his, but he’d been unable to forget her. She was more than a passing fancy.
Then in early spring a soldier delivered a letter from Walter, long after he was gone. The man hadn’t posted it for fear it would become lost on the journey from the Crimea. Walter’s words had shaken Chetwyn to the core. As he lay ill, he must have known that the Grim Reaper was hovering nearby, because he asked Chetwyn to promise to ensure that his betrothed was happy. Chetwyn, numbskull that he was, had thought the only way to ensure Lady Anne’s well-being was to marry her himself, so he’d held his growing feelings for Lady Meredith in check. When the next Season was upon them, he turned his attentions to securing Lady Anne’s happiness while Lady Meredith slipped beyond reach.
He had no right to ask her for forgiveness, no right to ask for a second chance. She had moved on with her life, she had found another. It was time for him to do the same, to stop living in the past, to stop focusing on what might have been—
If he’d not been so insistent on restoring his estates to their former glory.
If he’d not been hoarding his coins for that purpose rather than giving his brother an allowance so he could live the life of a gentleman.
If he hadn’t purchased Walter a commission so he was forced to live the life of a soldier.
If he hadn’t read Walter’s final letter and allowed it to skew his perspective and overwhelm him with remorse.
It mattered little to him now that Walter had once commented that he enjoyed being in the army, had felt he had gained purpose. He had died as a young man, while Chetwyn would no doubt die as an old one. And without Merry at his side.
He downed the contents of his glass, reached for the bottle he’d set beside the chair, and refilled the tumbler. As the room was beginning to spin and his head was feeling dull, he knew he should be abed, where in sleep he would dream of Merry, of her raven hair and green eyes and the way she had once smiled at him as though he could do no wrong. Yet he had managed to do wrong aplenty.
He barely moved when he heard the door open. Slowly shifting his gaze over, he wondered briefly if he’d already fallen asleep, because there she was in a much simpler dress than she’d been wearing earlier. No petticoats. Possibly no corset. It was designed for comfort, not company. It could also be discarded in a flash if a man were to set his mind to removing it. He had imbibed a bit too much because he was already envisioning the joy he would experience in giving all those buttons their freedom.
Her braided hair fell past her hips, her slippers were plain. Nothing about her was intentionally enticing, and yet he was thoroughly beguiled.
She glanced around warily. He held still, waiting for the moment when she would see him. Only she didn’t, and he realized the deep shadows and the angle of the chair hid his presence from her. She swept her gaze around the room once more before returning to the door and closing it with a hushed snick.
He wondered if she was waiting for Litton. Chetwyn thought that if the viscount came through the door, he might very well lose any semblance he had of being a gentleman. He wouldn’t stand for it, watching them behave as lovers. It could be the only reason for this late-night tryst, and dammit all to hell, she appeared to be anticipating it. Her eyes took on a glow, her smile was one of someone doing what she ought not to be caught doing. Dear God, help him, but he wanted to kiss those lips, he wanted to be doing things with them that he ought not to be doing.
She wandered over to the billiards table and scraped her fingers over the baize top as she slowly walked its length. Against the taut cloth, her nails made a faint raspy sound, and it was all he could do not to groan as he imagined her trailing those fingertips over his chest, circling around his nipples, pinching, leaning in—
She stilled, and his thoughts careened to a stop as though she’d heard them. She glanced over her shoulder, and he feared that he had made a sound. He wasn’t quite ready for her to know that he was there. Again, he wondered if she was meeting Litton, if she was going to stretch out on the table for her lover. Would he unravel her hair and spread it across the green? Would he worship her as she deserved to be worshipped?
Chetwyn imagined removing her slippers, kissing her toes, then taking his mouth on a slow, leisurely journey up her calves, over her knees, along her thighs—
Christ! If he carried on with these imaginings, he was going to be unable to stand when Litton showed. If the rumors being bandied about were true, he’d compromised her once in a garden. He wouldn’t hesitate to do so here, long after the stroke of midnight, when most were abed and no one was about to interrupt. Chetwyn flexed the fingers not holding the glass. He rather fancied the idea of introducing his fist to Litton’s nose.
She fairly skipped over to the rack on the wall and selected a cue stick. Mesmerized, he watched as she tested its weight, twirled it between her fingers, and carried it over to the table. She gathered the balls, racked them; then, cue in hand, she leaned over, presenting him with a rather enticing view of her backside. A tiny voice urged him to stay where he was, to enjoy the unexpected gift of her arrival, but it was such a small voice, easily ignored, and he could enjoy her so much more if no distance separated them.
Unable to hold back his anticipation, he unfolded his body and crept over to where she was carefully positioning her cue. When he was near enough to smell her rose fragrance, he leaned in and whispered in a low, sensual drawl, “You’re doing it all wrong.”
With a startled yelp, she flung herself backward, her head smacking soundly into his jaw—
And the world went black.
WITH HER HEART pounding, her entire body quaking, Meredith dropped to her knees, more because of their weakened state than the man sprawled on the floor. Had she killed him? Dear God, her father abhorred scandal, and she couldn’t think of anything that would set tongues to wagging faster than murder. She could envision herself traipsing toward the gallows with her father berating her the entire way for bringing shame upon the family.
“Chetwyn?” She placed her palm against his cheek, felt the stubble prick her tender flesh, and fought not to compare it to the stiff baize over which she trailed her fingers only moments before. She much preferred the warmth of his skin and the bristles that were thicker than she imagined and a shade darker than his hair. He should have appeared unkempt. Instead he looked very, very dangerous, and something that greatly resembled pleasure settled in the pit of her stomach. Why didn’t she ever feel this liquid fire that spread into her limbs when she was in Litton’s presence?
She leaned lower and inhaled Chetwyn’s bergamot fragrance mingled with Scotch. She considered pressing her lips to his, just for a taste. How often—before he had shifted his attentions to Lady Anne—had she longed for a turn about the garden with him that would have resulted in an illicit kiss? It was her shameful secret, her dark fantasy that in a shadowed part of a garden he would cease to be a gentleman, and she would no longer act as a lady. She had wanted so much with him that she hadn’t wanted with other admirers. She wished he hadn’t come here, that his presence wasn’t reminding her of all her silly imaginings. She wanted to marry Litton, to be his wife, his viscountess eventually—after his father passed.
Yet, if she were honest with herself, Chetwyn stirred something deep within her that Litton had yet to reach. And that acknowledgment terrified her. Would she make him happy if her thoughts could stray so easily to another?
As he groaned, Chetwyn opened his eyes wide, blinked, and rubbed his jaw. “You’ve got quit
e the punch,” he muttered.
Now that she saw he was going to be all right, irritation swamped her. “You have a jaw like glass. None of my brothers would have gone down that easily or that hard. It’s a wonder you didn’t shake the foundation of the residence. What the devil were you doing here, sneaking up on me?”
“It’s the gentlemen’s room, so the question, sweetheart, is what are you doing here?”
She settled back on her heels, not quite ready to leave until she saw him firmly on his feet, although a small part of her was wishing she had killed him. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was having difficulty falling asleep. I was looking for the library so I might find a book to read.”
He had the audacity to give her a wolfish grin that did nothing to settle her riotous thoughts. If anything, it only made her want to kiss him all the more. Whatever was wrong with her?
“But once you realized you weren’t in the library, you didn’t leave. I think you purposely came here.”
“Think what you want.” Rising to her feet, she turned to leave.
“Are you meeting someone?” he asked.
She spun back around. “Of course not. I’m a lady. I don’t—”
She abruptly cut off her protest. She had been alone with a gentleman, was alone with one now. She knew she should leave, but the truth was that she had come here to play billiards. She was quite disappointed that she wouldn’t have the opportunity to do so—because of his presence. He did little more than constantly bring disappointment into her life. “I hear that Lord Wexford is quite put out with you.”
He shoved himself to his feet. In the shadowed room, he seemed larger, broader, more devastatingly handsome. “Facing his wrath was well worth the dance.”
“Who do you think he thought he was going to meet?” she asked.
Chetwyn leaned his hip against the table and crossed his arms over his chest. “I haven’t a clue. You seem to know more about the gossip than I. Who do you think?”
She shrugged, wondering why she was prolonging her visit. She had always felt most comfortable with him, even when her thoughts had turned down dark corners where they shouldn’t. Even now she recalled the feel of him behind her, the warmth of his breath on her neck as he’d whispered in her ear. “I don’t know, and I don’t suppose it matters. I should go.”
“Play billiards with me.”
His eyes held a challenge that she knew had little to do with the actual game. He was daring her to stay, to risk being with him. Did he know how much she was drawn to him, how very dangerous he was to her?
“I’ll teach you,” he said.
She angled her chin haughtily. “I already know how to play. Litton taught me. What do I gain if I win?”
“What would you like?”
“For you to leave immediately.”
He furrowed his brow. “The room?”
“The manor, the estate, the shire.” She knew the challenge was now in her gaze, and she could see him considering it, perhaps wondering how truly skilled she was.
“And if I win?” he asked, his voice thrumming with an undercurrent that should have frightened her off. “What do I receive?”
“Our last night here there is to be another ball. A dance. Whichever one you want. I shall let you sign my card first.”
He picked up her cue stick and studied it as though he were trying to determine how it had been made. “A kiss.” He shifted his gaze over to her and captured her as though he’d suddenly wrapped his arms around her. “As soon as I sink my last ball.”
“That would be entirely inappropriate.”
He gave her a devilish grin. “Which is why I want it.”
“You always struck me as quite the gentleman.”
A shadow crossed his features. “Not tonight. I’ve spent too much time contemplating past mistakes. You were one of them, you know. If I had to do it over, I would not have hurt you.”
Not exactly what she wanted to hear. If he had to do it over, she wanted him to kiss her madly, passionately in the garden, to court her properly, to perhaps ask for her hand on bended knee. But he had never declared any feelings for her, so she had little right to be hurt. “You overstate your importance to me. A kiss from you will have no effect upon me, so I accept the challenge.”
His eyes darkened, and she was left with the impression that she’d made a terrible mistake.
“You may break,” he said.
Yes, she thought, she very well might. Her heart, at least. Where he was concerned, it had once been close to shattering. Then she scolded herself. Silly chit, he was talking about the balls.
While he went to the wall to examine the selection of cue sticks, she picked up hers, moved to the end of the table, and began to position herself as Litton had taught her.
“Still not quite right,” Chetwyn said, his voice coming from near enough that she realized he was no longer at the wall.
She didn’t dare give him the satisfaction of glancing over her shoulder to discern exactly where he was, but when she took a deep breath she filled her nostrils with bergamot. Close then, very close indeed. “Oh?”
She was quite pleased that she didn’t squeak like a dormouse. Her nerves were suddenly wrung tight, and she couldn’t decide if she wanted the satisfaction of besting him or the gaining of the knowledge of what his kiss was like. She didn’t know why she was suddenly obsessed with the thought of his mouth on hers. Litton had kissed her, so she knew very well that the pressing of lips left a great deal to be desired. She had always thought there would be heat, but all she’d felt was the cold. Perhaps it was because they had been outside, the evening had been cool, and the arrival of her father and brothers had abruptly ended any stirring of embers.
“Allow me to show you,” Chetwyn said.
She was tempted to ignore him and smack the balls, but better to let him believe she knew not what she was doing so her victory would leave him flummoxed and feeling quite the fool. “All right.”
She began to straighten.
“No, stay as you are.”
She stilled as his arms came around her. Litton certainly hadn’t taken this intimate approach to teaching her. He’d not touched her at all. He merely explained the rules in a serious, endearing manner as though he were preparing to submit them to Hoyle’s to be included in an upcoming edition since the publication had yet to explain how billiards should be played.
As the length of his body nudged against hers, she became acutely aware of the fact that she was wearing little more than her chemise and drawers beneath the dress. After her maid had prepared her for bed and she’d had difficulty finding sleep, she’d wanted to slip into something that she could manage on her own. At home, she would have simply gathered her wrap about her, but one didn’t traipse through a guest’s home in her nightdress, although now she was questioning the wisdom of doing it with so little to separate her from Chetwyn. His warmth seeped through her clothing to heat her flesh. His large hands closed over hers, and she realized how capable they appeared. He possessed strong, thick fingers with blunt-tipped nails. His roughened jaw teased her neck. His hair tickled her temple. She had been correct with her earlier assessment. It was curling with wild abandon, and she ached to slip her fingers through the feathery strands.
“Relax,” he murmured into her ear, and within her slippers her toes curled as though he were giving attention to them.
“I am relaxed.” Liar, liar.
“You’re as stiff as a poker. I’m going to position your hands, your stance.”
“I think you’re wrong. I think they are exactly as they need to be.”
“Not if you wish to beat me.”
Turning her head to the side, she met and held his gaze. “Why would you assist me in giving you a sound thrashing and miss out on your kiss? If you truly wanted it—”
“Oh, I truly want it,” he said in a silken voice. “And I intend to have it.”
Suddenly, one of his hands was cupping her cheek, while h
is fingers plowed through her hair. He somehow managed to twist and bend her slightly so she was cradled in his other arm. He lowered his head, and his mouth plundered. No soft taking this, but an urgency. He ravished with his tongue as though he would die if he didn’t taste her, as though he would cease to exist if he left anything unexplored.
This was exactly what she had imagined kissing him would be like during the months when they had flirted, danced, and strolled about. She had expected heat and passion. She had instinctually known that within him was a smoldering fire that once set ablaze would be difficult to extinguish. Working one hand beneath his waistcoat, she felt the solidness of his muscles beneath the fine linen of his shirt. Wanton that she was, she wanted his coat, waistcoat, and shirt gone. She wanted the feel of his skin against her palms. She wanted to scrape her nails over his bare back.
Guilt slammed into her. She felt none of these things when Litton had kissed her. His had been pleasant, tame, proper. Nothing about Chetwyn was proper at that moment.
His guttural groans reverberated through his chest, vibrated into her. She ran her free hand through his golden locks, felt them wrapping around her fingers as though they intended to hold her captive as easily as his mouth did.
He dragged his lips along her throat, and she found herself arching up toward him, offering him more.
“You haven’t won,” she said breathlessly. They hadn’t even started to play.
Raising his head, he gave her a dark grin. “Oh, but I have.”