“I’m looking forward to the evening’s entertainment, my lord,” she said. “I understand your daughters are quite the accomplished musicians.”
He chuckled lightly. Taking her elbow, he guided her to a seat at the front of the room, even farther away from the other guests, who milled about the opposite side of the room near the refreshment table. “Lies, all. Fortunately, they have their mother’s beauty, so their musical talents shan’t be their only lure in attracting a husband.”
Graciela smiled, not bothering to voice her opinion that he would do well to cultivate other things in his daughters and not rely on their beauty to snare husbands. If her late husband had admired more than her face, he might not have been so disappointed in her as a wife. But it wasn’t her place. She was trying to let this man woo her, not run him off. “Your girls are lovely.”
“So is your daughter. Much like her mother. I’m sorry she can’t be here tonight.”
“She is enjoying the country right now with her sister. She is quite the horsewoman. She enjoys the open space to ride. She will be here for the season.”
“Perhaps we can bring the girls together then. She’s close in age to my Dorothea, is she not?”
Graciela nodded, her gaze drifting to the youngest of his three daughters, sitting at the pianoforte. “I believe so.”
“Splendid. We’ve much in common, Your Grace.” He sank into a chair beside her.
She nodded, although other than raising a daughter, in his case multiple daughters, she wasn’t sure what those commonalities might be. She didn’t really know much about him. Instead of disagreeing, she said, “Indeed, we do.” She held his kind gaze a trifle long. It was as forward as she could manage. She’d once known how to flirt, but that skill had grown cold some time ago. It was no longer within her repertoire to be coquettish.
“It’s regrettable that we did not reach this realization sooner, Your Grace.” His eyes grew heavy lidded as he uttered this. “We’ve wasted precious time. Time we might have spent about more pleasurable tasks.”
The husky pitch of his voice shouldn’t make her skin crawl. She knew this, and yet she longed for a bath where she might wash her skin clean of his gaze.
She forced a smile, telling herself this was simply new to her. She wasn’t accustomed to exchanging seductive repartee.
He cast a quick look about and then leaned slightly closer. “It is right for us to come together, Graciela.”
She started at his use of her name. She had not invited him to do so, and yet coming here, she supposed, indirectly, she had.
He watched her, assessing, gauging her reaction. This would be the moment when she could put an end to this familiarity once and for all, thereby quashing any intimacy between them before it officially began.
She held silent.
His hand inched toward hers atop her lap and lightly grazed the pinkie finger of her hand. It was the subtlest of actions, but that was Lord Needling. Subtle. Not at all confident or aggressive. Not at all the type of man to haul a woman onto his lap and kiss her like she were the last bit of food on earth and he a man starved.
Lord Needling was ever polite. He would probably make polite love to her. Begging your pardon, may I do this? And may I put this here, Your Grace?
She lifted her fingers to her mouth to smother a giggle. Heavens, she was one breath away from hysteria.
A polite gentleman to make polite love to her was the safest choice—and that thought jarred her. She had decided to add excitement to her life. A safe, dull lover was in direct opposition of that. The notion of taking Lord Needling to her bed shouldn’t fill her with apathy. Her purpose had been to put an end to the blur of days leading to her demise. She would not end up like Evangeline, dead too soon with only regrets to carry into the hereafter.
She brought her focus back to Lord Needling, searching, hoping for some evidence, some sign, that he was the right choice and she would not live to regret him.
Just then Forsythia, Lord Needling’s eldest daughter, called out in excitable tones from the other side of the room, “Lord Strickland! You came! You came! How delightful!” She hopped in place, clapping her hands like a girl much younger than her eighteen years.
Graciela’s heart galloped loose in her chest as she followed the girl’s gaze to Lord Strickland. He stepped into the room, smiling as the girl barreled toward him with all the eagerness of a charging elephant.
Her mind raced, trying to grapple with what the sight of him here signified. Then the truth came to her. His presence could mean only one thing. He was here to pay court. Lord Needling’s daughters must be on Colin’s grandmother’s list of bridal candidates.
She closed her eyes in a long agonizing blink. He was here to court Forsythia and Graciela was considering Lord Needling for a lover.
Could this situation be any more excruciating?
“Forsythia.” Lord Needling sighed. “Eighteen but she is still very much a child. An exuberant child.”
“She’s beautiful,” Graciela said softly, admiring the girl.
“Indeed, she is. And an heiress, so she needn’t be overly eager.” Judgment laced his voice as he frowned at his still-bouncing daughter. “She’ll have her pick of suitors this season.”
And yet the best candidate stood before her now.
Lord Strickland had yet to see her and she was free to study his handsome profile. He bowed over Forsythia’s hand. They made an attractive couple. She with her fair hair and he with his dark head of hair and silvery blue eyes. They would make exceptionally beautiful babies. A pang pierced her heart.
“She’ll be a lucky girl if the suitor she snares is Lord Strickland.” Once the words were out, she regretted them. What was she doing recommending Strickland?
And why shouldn’t she? She had no claim to him. She needn’t be selfish and try to keep him from an ideal match.
“Is that so?” Lord Needling considered him with fresh eyes. “She pestered me to invite him this evening. It seems he is much favored with all the young ladies.”
Of course he was.
“He’s a gentleman,” she said, the words unbearably tight in her throat. And it wasn’t only young ladies who favored him.
“Hm. His line is an old one. His grandmother ruled Almack’s in her day.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully as though weighing Strickland’s worth. “I suppose I could do worse for a son-in-law.”
“Indeed.” She nodded stiffly, hating that she should agree, but it was true.
“Pardon me, would you, my dear?” Lord Needling asked. “I should greet him.”
“Of course.”
He covered her hand with his and held it there, his eyes searching hers, as fervent as a puppy eager to please. “Don’t move, Your Grace. I should like to sit with you during the musicale.”
She fought to swallow against the sudden lump in her throat, her fingers shifting slightly beneath the foreign weight of his hand.
In that instant, she felt Colin’s gaze. It landed on her, as palpable as a touch . . . a fiery brand that sent searing shivers across her skin. She held her breath and schooled her features into blankness as she allowed her gaze to find him.
As suspected, he was staring directly at her, his bright blue eyes wide with an emotion she could not quite identify
He blinked, the sight of her here clearly startling him. His gaze drifted from her to Lord Needling sitting beside her. His mouth pressed into a flat line. His gaze dropped to where their hands touched and his expression turned to hard stone.
Heat crept over her face. She slipped her hand out from under Lord Needling’s, suddenly guilty and self-conscious—even though she ought not to feel that way. Being here, with Lord Needling, made much more sense than visiting Sodom. This was by far the more appropriate scenario. It was entirely within propriety for a woman her age—a widow of ten years—to be seen in public with a gentleman friend.
She watched Colin closely, waiting for him to give her a nod of greeting, for his
stony expression to crack with a smile. It never happened.
With a blink, he turned his complete attention to Forsythia, dismissing her. His smile returned in full force for Forsythia. He even tossed back his head and laughed at something the girl said. Her stomach churned as she observed the handsome pair.
Lord Needling joined them and the gentlemen exchanged pleasantries. Colin didn’t glance her way again.
She stuffed her hurt way deep down. She didn’t have a right to such an emotion. There was nothing between them. That much had been made clear. She didn’t have a right to even think of him as Colin. He was Lord Strickland, friend to her stepson, and nothing more to her. If she said it enough times, surely it would start to sink in.
He dipped his head closer to Forsythia as they conversed, his dark hair brushing the girl’s golden tresses. Forsythia grazed her hand along his arm. They looked the perfect couple.
As they should.
A handsome young nobleman. A beautiful heiress of noble blood—English blood. They were meant for each other. He shouldn’t waste a moment looking her way. Graciela was nothing. Always an outsider. Nowhere near the first blush of youth. A woman of advanced years incapable of giving him any of the things he required in life.
“Your Grace?” Needling’s voice drew her attention back to him. She sat up a little straighter and looked at him. Here was a man she could be with and delight in the joining. “Shall we sit together?” he inquired.
She fixed a smile on her face . . . the same one she had learned to wear years ago when it became clear to her that the kind of marriage she had always wanted, one of love and happiness, was never to be hers. “That would be lovely,” she replied.
What in bloody hell was she doing here?
Scratch that. One glance at Lord Needling’s hungry gaze crawling all over her body and he knew precisely what she was doing here.
She was actually acting on her words.
If I’ve an itch that needs rubbing, I’ll find someone other than you to rub it.
He had not taken her seriously when she tossed those heated words at his head outside of Sodom. Now he knew that was because he didn’t want to, but he should have realized she meant them. If she had been bold enough to step foot inside Sodom, then this would not be such a leap for her.
Staring at her, a rose in this garden of lilies, he felt his heart pound in his chest. As more people arrived, he worked carefully to mask his face so that he revealed none of the turmoil churning through him. He kept her in his line of vision as Needling’s daughters warmed up on their instruments, shifting so that he could spy on her through bodies and over the heads of guests.
He had thought tonight would be uneventful. A polite gathering at the home of one of Grandmother’s favored candidates. A girl he might wish to pursue, but the distraction of Ela here was too much. He couldn’t even think about Forsythia. The significance of Ela’s presence was a bitter draught that threatened to choke him.
She was entertaining the notion of that dull prig as a lover. He inhaled a deep breath.
This realization ran as a litany through his head.
Hell, no.
Perhaps she was not merely entertaining the notion. Perhaps she had already taken him to her bed. Jealously of the likes he had never felt sank deep into him, seeping past muscle and sinew and striking bone. Air hissed silently past his teeth.
His hands clenched around the edge of the small plate that had been forced into his hands by the eager Forsythia with the instructions that he must eat every bit of Cook’s apple tart because it was the tastiest thing in creation.
Staring across the room at Ela, her profile lovely and gentle in repose as she listened to whatever drivel Needling was spouting to get into her knickers, he knew this to be false.
Ela was the tastiest thing in creation. Her lips chased through his dreams. Her warm skin. The fullness of her body rocking against him. He told himself it was simply because she was forbidden and yet he had been granted a brief taste. The reality of her couldn’t be nearly as sweet as he imagined. All of this made sense, but it didn’t matter. She was a fever in his blood and there was only one way to purge her.
He set the plate down lest he snap it in half, his hand slightly trembling. He didn’t know which urge was stronger. The one to grab Ela and shake her until her good sense returned . . . or the one demanding he haul her into his arms and finish what they started at Sodom. He stifled a groan. Very well. He knew which urge was stronger.
He knew what he wanted. Knew what they had to do.
Fuck each other senseless until he had exorcised her from his thoughts.
Previous to Sodom, this would have been an unconscionable thought. Out of respect for his friend and respect for her, he’d never seriously considered the idea of bedding her, much less bedding her with the intention to ultimately cast her aside. He’d never thought she could be agreeable to such a thing with him.
But that night at Sodom had changed everything. That kiss . . . the words that passed between them. They couldn’t be undone. She was in search of a lover. Why not him? He offered her discretion. More than any other gentleman. And he knew she was not immune to him.
“Can you believe she’s here?” He overheard Mrs. Pottingham whisper to the lady at her side, whose name he did not know. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed the lady stuffing the famed apple tartlets into her mouth. She spoke around a mouthful, crumbs spewing in the air. “Look at the way she is throwing herself at my brother. Shameful!”
Oh, he’d been looking but he saw quite the opposite. Lord Needling wasn’t paying attention to anyone other than the duchess. He listed to the side, making certain that his body was in direct contact with hers. Graciela was either unaware or amenable to the proximity. The fool woman. Did she not understand people were taking note? That he was watching? Clearly she didn’t care.
“Duchess or not, she’s a light-skirt, I say,” Mrs. Pottingham remarked, her voice a fraction above a whisper now. “My brother would do well to steer clear of a woman like that.”
He turned and leveled her a cold glare where she stood on the opposite side of the refreshment table.
The lady froze, another tart halfway to her lips, her gaze trained hesitantly on him. The other lady, her companion, looked wide-eyed between the two of them.
“In my experience, a light-skirt is on a higher rung than a commonplace gabster.”
Mrs. Pottingham gaped, revealing a mouthful of half-chewed food. Her companion covered her own mouth with a napkin to muffle her snickers, whilst Mrs. Pottingham turned several shades of red.
“Well!” With a huff, she plopped several more tartlets on her plate, whirled around and marched away, her friend following on her heels.
Idly, he realized it was probably unwise to set himself at odds with the relation of a girl he was considering for matrimony.
Despite the encounter, the more reasonable side of himself knew the activities of one widow did not overly matter in Society. There were much greater scandals.
Ela was no blushing debutante or married lady. She was free to dally where she chose and despite the nattering of one busybody, if she and Needling had an affair, it would hardly cause a ripple.
The butler called for everyone to take their seats. The performance was to begin. The wave of guests began moving toward the array of chairs.
There was no need for him to feel so protective of her. No need for him to move away from the table and take his seat directly behind where Ela sat beside Lord Needling, where he had a perfect view of the couple.
Chapter 8
It was torture.
The girls’ musical ability was less than passable. Every time Forsythia would slip up on the keys, she would giggle and cast an adorable look Lord Strickland’s way that seemed to promise she was good at other things. Or perhaps those were merely Graciela’s unkind thoughts. She couldn’t see Colin’s face and she didn’t dare turn to glimpse behind her. It was enough that she felt him the
re, his presence radiating heat she was certain only affected her.
When they stopped for an intermission, she was the first to her feet.
Lord Needling rose, looking concerned.
“If you’ll excuse me.”
He nodded, too gentlemanly to pry as to her destination. As she passed through the room, she was careful not to seek out Colin with her eyes. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing him looking moon-eyed at that child, Forsythia.
At the door, she asked a maid to direct her to the ladies’ retiring room. Several ladies were already walking down the corridor, heading that way, including Mrs. Pottingham. Deciding she did not want to stomach that particular lady’s glares or stilted conversation, she slowed her pace and ducked down an intersecting corridor, hoping to find a quiet room where she might have a moment’s respite to gather her composure.
Voices traveled on the air. More people were coming. Determined that no one spot her and drag her back to the party, she opened a random door. Peering inside, she saw the room was mostly dark, the hearth cold. A feeble ribbon of moonlight spilled into the room from the French doors, allowing her to make out pieces of furniture draped in cloth. This room wasn’t in active use, then. No one would find her in here. She should not be disturbed.
Satisfied, she stepped within the chilly interior and closed the door after her.
She was alone.
Graciela strolled deeper into the room, her gloved hands coming up to chafe at her arms, attempting to rub the gooseflesh away. She was wondering how much longer she could tolerate the frigid room when she heard the door open behind her.
She spun around, her heart loud in her ears as the door snicked shut. He had followed her. Colin stood here, his tall frame leaning back against its length for an extended moment.
Her chest lifted on a breath. Her slippered feet carried her back, farther into the room. She rounded a chair and placed her hands on the back of it as though needing the support.
She moistened her lips. “You shouldn’t be here.” Her voice rang tinny on the air. They could not be discovered together here like this, alone in a darkened room. She pointed an imperious finger. “Go.”