A sudden thought slid through her mind, jarring her as effectively as a window slamming shut. Would the earl like it? As quickly as the aggravating thought arrived, she banished it with a sharp intake of breath. His preferences did not matter.
“You’re avoiding me.”
She gave a small yelp at the deep voice so close to her ear. Whirling around, she faced the glowering earl. “You frightened me.”
He stepped closer in the corridor, the breadth of his chest pushing at her bodice. Instantly, her breasts tightened. She stepped back hastily, furious with her body’s treacherous reaction to him.
Her body had never felt like this before . . . as though it was its own entity, apart from her. Not even when Mr. Weston kissed her had she felt so . . . had she felt.
A breath shuddered past her lips. A situation that was drastically unfair. She and the earl had not even kissed—nor would they ever—and yet he made her entire body sit up and take notice.
She backed up until she collided with the wall, her hand drifting to her hammering pulse at her throat.
“And how is it that I frighten you?” He was close enough for her to marvel at the darker ring of cobalt rimming the silvery blue of his eyes.
“Because you startled me, my lord. That is what I meant to say. Startle. Not frighten.”
He shook his head, a lock of dark brown hair falling over his brow. “No. That’s not it. I frighten you. Today . . . yesterday,” he growled. “You see me and run in the opposite direction.”
True. She had kept her distance when they scoured the countryside for the perfect tree to grace the grand ballroom for Lady Peregrine’s upcoming Christmas ball. It had taken the better part of two days to find the right tree to satisfy Lady Peregrine. Thankfully, the countess finally spied the massive fir because it had begun to snow in earnest then. It was still snowing. So much so that Lady Peregrine worried if the weather would hamper travel for the guests who had still yet to arrive.
In the shelter of the group and tromping about the countryside, it had not been too difficult to avoid him. She had stayed close to Aurelia and the Duchess of Banbury—that is when the duke wasn’t whisking his wife away to sneak a kiss behind some shrubbery. Such displays were quite unusual to witness. Violet’s parents hardly spent any time together. She had thought that was the standard for most married couples, but the duke and duchess were making her reconsider her view of marriage and all that it could be. Perhaps it could be something wonderful. Perhaps her eyes could shine and she could appear in a state of constant exhilaration like the Duchess of Banbury? She tried to envision a future like that with mild-mannered Mr. Weston.
She tried to imagine him grabbing her around the waist and pulling her behind a tree. She tried and failed.
The earl continued, his handsome expression perplexed, “Have you any idea how difficult it is to woo you when you won’t stand within five feet of me?”
She fought back a smile. “Have you any idea how awkward it is for me to make certain I am never within five feet of you? You’re wasting your time. I cannot marry you.”
“You can,” he countered.
“Very well.” She lifted one shoulder. “I won’t.”
He flattened one hand on the wall beside her head. She followed the long line of his arm. He’d discarded his jacket and she could make out the cut and definition of his bicep and shoulder against the fine lawn of his shirt. Gulping, she looked back at his face, only that was not much better. Her stomach flip-flopped at his intense expression. “I can change your mind. Let me court you. . . .”
She looked rather helplessly around him, trying to decide how best to step past him without touching him. Because touching him would be a bad thing. She knew this deeply, innately. Experience had told her as much, as well. She had touched him in the stable, after all, when she had been splayed over him. No part of her hadn’t touched him then. That memory was still fresh enough to keep her tossing and turning at night.
“No,” she uttered. The single word dropped like a stone between them.
He angled his head, studying her as though she was some species he had never seen before, and she realized she might be the first female to ever refuse him.
“I can be creative,” he murmured softly, his mouth hovering an inch from hers and sending her belly into wild flutters. “I can continue to corner you, stealing moments whenever I can.”
Panic shot down her spine as his gaze flicked from her mouth to her eyes. She could not survive a week of that!
“That’s courting? Hardly romantic, my lord,” she scoffed. “Sounds more like stalking . . . badgering. . . .”
“Call me Will.”
“No.” It wouldn’t be proper and it would confuse her into thinking they were more than they were.
“I’ll call you Violet.”
She shook her head. “Don’t do that.”
He continued like he hadn’t heard her. “Violet,” he spoke her name as though he tasted it. The heat in her face intensified. He smiled then and she felt true danger beneath the seductive curve of his lips. “This Weston fellow? Did he kiss you?”
She blinked. “What an impertinent question!”
“I take that as a yes.”
Heat scored her cheeks. Yes, he had kissed her. She supposed it could be called that. A quick press of his mouth to hers. She had thought it might last longer . . . that his dry and rather chapped lips might move over hers. True, she really didn’t know how it was done. It was her first and only kiss, but she had thought it might be . . . well, it might be . . . more.
Immediately guilt flayed her for such a thought. John was a gentleman. Her thoughts were undeserving of him.
“That’s all right.” The earl nodded once, his eyes at once intense and feral on her face. “It doesn’t matter. Because when we finally do kiss, you’ll forget all about him. I’ll kiss you properly. Or rather, improperly. I’ll show you how it should be between a man and a woman and then you’ll forget what’s-his-name. You’ll only think of me . . . and my mouth. . . .”
Heat washed over her. “You a-arrogant . . .” she stammered, searching for a word foul enough.
“It’s true. We would be good together. Can’t you feel it?” He cocked his head and motioned between them. “It’s not like this with everyone.”
“Oh, here we go again. I’m something extraordinary . . . you and I share something special.” She laughed with a roll of her eyes. “What rot.”
He lifted his hand so suddenly that she flinched. He waved his fingers slightly as though to prove he was harmless. She silently berated herself for being so skittish.
Those fingers landed on a loose lock of her hair along the side of her face. He rubbed the tendrils between his fingers as though testing them out. “Like wheat in morning sun.” Her chest tightened at the almost reverent utterance. “So soft. I’d wager all of you is this soft.”
Her breath caught, mesmerized even though she knew he was doing this on purpose—trying to addle her thoughts and seduce her with his words. He was an expert seducer, she had no doubt. A man like him . . . with his looks and position, he probably need say nothing at all for the ladies to titter and throw themselves in his path.
He leaned closer, his body encroaching until his breath fanned her ear. “Would you like me to show you how it can be? What your Weston can never give you?”
The tightness in her chest became unbearable. So tight she could scarcely breathe. She shook her head fiercely even as she gazed at his well-carved lips, imagining them on her, the pressure, the taste.
Blast him! He was a sorcerer. She would not be one of those debutantes to let him woo her with pretty words. She knew what he wanted and it wasn’t her. Not truly her. This was merely a game to him, and she a conquest. “No. I would not.”
And just like that he stepped back.
She blinked, surprised at his abrupt departure, almost falling forward after him. She was certain he had meant to kiss her.
“I will wait
until you are ready.”
She squared her shoulders, telling herself she was relieved. He would not kiss her. Good. That was very, very good. She was not disappointed. “Then you shall have a long wait.”
“I’m a patient man. You will say the words. If not in speech, then in deed. I’ll await your express invitation.” He motioned between them. “Then this will happen. You. Me. And we shall wed.”
The cheek of the man.
“It will never happen. I leave in a week,” she reminded him. She could hold out that long and resist him.
His mouth curled in that insufferably melting way again. “A lot can happen in a week.” The words were flung down boldly, confidently, but something lurked in the silvery blue of his eyes. Concern that perhaps a week would not be enough?
She stepped around him, confident that she could resist him now that he had just promised not to touch her. She merely had to endure the sight of him, ignore his persuasive words . . . and this attraction she felt whenever near him.
And yet knowing he would not touch her . . . that the curiosity he had piqued in her would never be satisfied left her feeling a little hollow inside.
No more than how hollow you will feel married to a man who wanted you only for your fortune.
With that thought bouncing through her mind, she hastened ahead of him down to dinner.
CHAPTER FIVE
* * *
For the next few days, he plagued her precisely in the manner he had promised. He was around every corner with a flirtatious smile or a clever compliment. One night she even found a bouquet of flowers on her pillow. She had no idea where he had found flowers in the midst of winter, but she knew he had. She knew they were from him.
His behavior had not gone unnoticed. Their mothers watched on, beaming at him with approval. And then their gazes changed when they looked at her. The approval altering to consternation for it was clear she went out of her way to discourage him.
“What’s the matter with you, you daft girl?” Her mother barreled into her chamber one evening. “The earl likes you and you’re treating him like a leper!”
Violet shrugged, meeting her maid’s sympathetic gaze in the mirror. “Unfortunately, I don’t like him.”
Her mother stared for a long moment before groaning and pacing a hard line behind her where she sat at the dressing table. “Violet, you cannot expect to snare a better catch than Merlton. He’s young and handsome—”
“And titled,” she inserted forcefully. “Don’t forget that. That’s all you care about, is it not? Not whether he wants to marry me for me. Simply that you get an earl for a son-in-law.”
Her mother stopped in her tracks to gawk at her. “Leave us,” she announced to the maid, her gaze never leaving Violet.
Josie slipped from the room.
Her mother wasted no time. “You think John Weston wants you for you?” Her lip curled in a sneer.
Violet flinched. “Y-Yes. He doesn’t care one whit for—”
“He cares for nothing as much as advancing himself, rest assured of that. You think he is so much better than Merlton? Then you’re a fool!”
She bit her lip, considering her mother’s words. Mr. Weston had been in her father’s employ a long time. Before her father’s business had even launched into the great success it was today. In that time, he had always been kind to her and shown interest. She had assumed his affection for her had been genuine, but could she be mistaken? Was he like every other fortune hunter?
Her mother pressed on. “In any case, it might be too late. Another heiress just arrived with her family. Apparently Lady Peregrine didn’t place all her hopes on you. They were delayed due to the snow, but even now she is downstairs simpering and working toward winning over your earl.”
Violet stifled another flinch. “He’s not my earl. And the actions of a female I don’t even know hardly concern me. She’s welcome to Merlton.”
Her mother shook her head, her eyes suddenly a little sad. “Tread carefully, Violet. It is now, in these very moments, that you shall decide the course of your life.” With that parting comment, her mother left the room.
The silence of the empty bedchamber swallowed her as she sat alone at the dressing table, her mother’s words reverberating inside her.
Her name was Felicity Little and she was the only child to one of Britain’s largest and most profitable sugar importers. Violet and Miss Little were perhaps of similar wealth—but there the similarity ended. She was tiny with curling, golden hair and enormous china-blue eyes. Her laughter was infectious. Tinkling and occurring with steady frequency, she laughed gaily and talked with confidence and wit. Even Aurelia seemed to like her. Everyone nodded, smiling as she regaled them with a humorous tale of her recent visit to the Spain and how she had ridden a goat up a mountain pass.
Violet wanted to stab the girl’s perfect eyes out.
A totally unprecedented sentiment. Such acrimony wasn’t like her and it shamed her. She didn’t want the earl. She had told him so in no mincing terms. She had confessed as much to her mother. So why did she sit so miserably as the earl hung on Miss Little’s every word? Poking at a bit of potato on her plate, she watched the two of them from across the table with narrowed eyes, her fear quickly dissipating that Merlton would catch her staring. No chance of that. His eyes were only on Miss Little.
Contrary man! He was exactly as she thought. A money-grubbing fortune hunter. She had proven too elusive so he had moved on to the next available heiress. She should be relieved, not angry, to be right in her estimation of him.
Upon finishing dinner, they rose to move to the drawing room. Apparently, Miss Little was an accomplished vocalist. She had agreed to perform Christmas carols for them.
Violet’s eyes suddenly burned as the earl offered Miss Little his arm and led her from the dining room.
“Miss Howard, are you coming?” Viscount Camden gently touched her arm, his eyes kind as they studied her.
Blinking once, she forced a smile up at him and nodded. “Yes, thank you.”
“Shall we?” He offered her his arm. Accepting it, she fixed the smile on her face and allowed him to lead her forward.
Miss Howard—Violet—excused herself early from the drawing room as Miss Little finished singing “Good King Wenceslas,” complaining of an aching head.
Will watched her intently as she moved across the room, studying her pale face and listening as she made her excuses to both their mothers. Aching head, his arse. She was fleeing him. Again. As she had been doing from the very beginning. He released a pent-up breath.
He tracked her as she slipped from the room, silent as a wraith as Miss Little launched into another carol.
“What are you doing?”
At the mild question, he turned to face Max beside him. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been chasing after Miss Howard since you first clapped eyes on her.” He nodded to where Violet had departed. “I thought for certain you were on the verge of declaring yourself, and now you’re suddenly panting after this little Nightingale here.” He nodded toward Miss Little and then chuckled. “Little Nightingale.”
Rolling his eyes at the jest, Will shrugged, not caring to discuss matters of the heart in the midst of his family’s drawing room. He hadn’t given up on Violet. On the contrary, he had simply decided to give her some space for a day or two, and let her consider the loss of his attention. He was wagering that she would miss said attention—that she would miss him—and come to her senses. And perhaps paying attention to Miss Little would make her realize that all the sooner.
“You’re no longer interested in Miss Howard, is that it?” Max rubbed his chin thoughtfully, apparently unwilling to drop the subject. “Good to know. This house party is getting a little tedious. I confess she appeals to me . . . and there is a good deal of mistletoe about. I wouldn’t mind some diversion. A man could lose himself in her eyes. And that voice. . . .”
“Max,” he growled, but his friend continued
as though he hadn’t heard him.
“You know me. I like a female with some curves. Something to hang on to as you plow—”
The rest of Max’s words were lost. Will’s fist shot out to connect with Max’s runaway mouth. The two crashed from their chairs to the floor. The ladies cried out, jumping to their feet. Dec and Mr. Little quickly wedged themselves between him and Max.
Will strained to break free, swiping his arm for one more blow.
“Will, what’s gotten into you, man?” Dec shook him, and it was only then that he realized Max wasn’t struggling for another go at him.
No. Max was grinning, his white teeth a blinding flash in his face as he tentatively touched his bottom lip where a cut bled profusely. “Just as I thought,” he announced.
Will stared, gaping at his friend, realizing that Max had been toying with him, knowing how he would react.
Dec stepped back, watching him carefully should he need to restrain him again. Max marched forward and clapped Will on the shoulder, whispering for his ears alone. “Whatever game you’re playing, you’re going to lose. You’re going to lose her.”
Something heavy sank in his chest at Max’s words. Nodding and realizing he’d made a colossal mistake that just might cost him the only woman he had ever wanted beyond the span of one night, he faced everyone. “My apologies. Just a quarrel among friends.”
“William?” His mother asked, her eyes clouded with worry.
“We’re well now, Mother,” he assured her even though the last thing he felt was well.
Was it possible to feel this way for a woman in so short a span of time? So desperate and heartsick at the thought of losing her.
It could happen, he realized. She could walk out of his life as easily as she had entered it. He swallowed against the sudden thickness in his throat. She could return to America and her Mr. Weston without a backward glance.