Tempted by the Viscount Page 3

  “St. Alban,” continued the Dowager, a matchmaking gleam in her eye, “your bride is in this room, I can feel it.”

  Jake scanned the cavernous space, surely full to the brim with every member of the ton, and feared she might be right.

  Her eyes narrowed in on an indeterminate figure in the distance. “In fact, I may have the perfect candidate.”

  Dread, pure and unfettered, shot through his veins, turning them to ice. His life just might be slipping out from under him.

  “Now, the Duke of Arundel has agreed to my request,” she stated, again without preamble. Her hands and fingers flitted about in perpetual motion, sliding rings, shuffling bracelets, toying with necklaces, or whatever happened to be movable on her person.

  Jake hesitated. “And what request might that be?”

  “To mentor you in the duties of a viscount, of course. You appear a capable enough young man, but my dear papa was a Viscount St. Alban, and I won’t stand idly by and see the title run into the ground due to ignorance.”

  Jake blinked once but held his peace and the smile that wanted release. He appreciated honesty in all its forms. Besides, he wasn’t obliged to accept or decline the Duke’s mentorship at this moment, although decline he would. If the Duke of Arundel’s financial acumen mirrored that of the late Viscounts St. Alban, he would be better served seeking the advice of strangers on the street.

  “I see, Aunt Lucretia,” he replied at last. “If I’m to call you Aunt, then you must call me Radclyffe, or even Jake will do.”

  Her active fingers froze mid-air, one finger looped through a long strand of pink pearls as if showcasing them to the room. Her sharp gaze held his for one . . . two . . . three seconds before she relented. “You are St. Alban. Better you accept that fact now and get on with it.” Her fingers resumed winding their way around the pearls as if they hadn’t missed a beat. “Now, you must meet the Duke of Arundel. Connections, my dear. One needs them in environs such as these.”

  Jake resisted the urge to search the room for armed assassins, even as he suspected assassination came in subtler forms in environs such as these. “After you . . . Aunt.”

  She threw him a that’s a good boy smile and set off, trusting him to follow in her wake. The density of the crowd pressed in on Jake as the Dowager—he couldn’t think of her as Aunt—guided him, stopping every few feet to introduce him to whomever was unlucky enough to stray into her path, usually yet another lord and his coquettish lady.

  He was well-acquainted with a certain flutter of lashes that intimated a specific sort of interest, which had naught to do with ballrooms and husbands. A young man navigating coastal colonies learned quickly about other men’s wives, and the trouble they could cause.

  “St. Alban!” the Dowager called over her shoulder. “There he is.”

  In the distance, the silver-haired duke from the whiskey cart stood engaged in a discussion with a lady half his age. She was the sort of lady typical of English gatherings: petite, blond, and invariably dull.

  Then his brain caught up with his eyes. The fact of the matter was this: even though she wasn’t his type in the slightest, the lady was remarkably good-looking.

  There were the obvious details, of course: delicate, round face; narrow, pert nose; Cupid’s bow mouth with a plump lower lip. But it was another detail that intrigued him more than her physical perfection.

  When she smiled up at the duke, one top tooth peeked out and slightly overlapped its neighbor, the sole imperfection on her otherwise ideal English face. And, yet, somehow this flaw rendered her face all the more perfect.

  The Dowager slowed her clip and squeezed his forearm, jolting him out of musings both uncharacteristic and discomfiting. The Duke lit up at their approach and stepped forward. While Jake could take the gesture as welcome, he sensed it was less a friendly step and more a defensive one. It was possible the man was protecting the lady with the intriguing, crooked tooth.

  “My lord, Duke of Arundel,” the Dowager intoned formally, “may I introduce Lord St. Alban to you?”

  “Ah,” began the Duke, pinning Jake with his piercing blue eyes, amusement crinkling their corners, “so you’re the latest Viscount St. Alban.”

  “At your service, Your Grace.” He made his bow to the Duke, even as the lady at his side remained captivated by the string quartet some thirty feet away. Viscounts must come two a penny in her world.

  “From what I understand, Lucretia has plans for us.”

  “Oh, Nathaniel,” the Dowager rapped the Duke with her fan, “that is quite enough.”

  Then Jake felt it: her attention locked onto him. His gaze slid toward her. His first impression of her typicality held true, but certain details subverted it.

  Platinum streaked through her hair as if she spent her days beneath the open sky instead of inside the close drawing rooms that a duller shade of blonde would suggest. And her face was unfashionably tanned a few shades darker than her décolletage, doubtless caused by the same source. And speaking of her décolletage . . .

  His mouth went dry. It was the way her dress, a suggestive shade of newly flushed skin, clung to her body.

  His eyes lifted to meet hers, and he detected knowledge there. She knew what he’d been thinking, and she wasn’t at all impressed. Further, he couldn’t help noting a cautious light within those eyes the blue of a Polynesian sky, determined not to give anything of herself away. How ironic, then, that they revealed the opposite.

  Behind her guarded manner he sensed a raw, vulnerable nerve. An unusual quality at a gathering where most people’s sole purpose in attending was to appear as grandiose and invulnerable as possible.

  An urge, immediate and strange, compelled him to protect this woman to whom he’d never spoken a word. He made an automatic movement forward, and she responded with a skittish step backward. A jarring image of predator and prey came to mind, at odds with the protectiveness he felt. A part of him relished the idea of playing shark to her minnow, even as another part understood that it made him a scoundrel.

  The Duke must have noticed the subject of his attention for he neatly side-stepped and gestured toward the lady, whose circumspect gaze never once strayed from Jake. “Lord St. Alban,” said the Duke, “may I present my daughter, Lady Olivia, to you?”

  This was Lady Olivia? The woman the pair of louts had been disparaging at the whiskey cart? And she was the daughter of a duke? This duke?

  From what he could gather, the woman was a walking scandal. Impossible that she was the Dowager’s candidate for his bride.

  He gave himself a mental shake. His bride? Where had that last bit come from? Even so, disappointment, distinct and unmistakable, reared its head and as quickly lay down. He didn’t need a walking scandal for a wife.

  On a step forward, Lady Olivia extended her hand toward him. The instant he touched his fingers to hers, a happening occurred, unexpected and confounding: a tiny shock of electricity sparked between them.

  A startled chirrup escaped her pink lips, and she snatched her hand back, a surprised smile flashing across her mouth. The smile dropped in an instant, as if she remembered that she didn’t smile for strangers.

  Another tug of disappointment pulled at him. Lady Olivia had the sort of smile that reached all the way up to her eyes. A rare sighting in environs such as these, he suspected.

  “Daughter by law, Your Grace,” the Dowager was saying, either unaware of or indifferent to any sparks that might be flying between him and Lady Olivia. “And former at that.”

  Jake’s brows drew together. An entire conversation seemed to be taking place below the surface of the current conversation. And he wasn’t invited.

  Lady Olivia angled her body toward the Duke and placed her silk-gloved hand on his forearm. There was no mistaking the affection the two held for one another. “I shall call
you Father as long as you wish.”

  “Forever, my dear,” he returned, a doting twinkle in his eye. He gestured toward Jake. “St. Alban happens to be my new protégé.”

  “Your protégé?” Lady Olivia asked. She pinned Jake with a glare equal parts confusion and horror. He rather enjoyed the hitch he heard in her voice. “You don’t appear to be the sort of man incapable of managing his own affairs.”

  The Dowager gasped, and the Duke’s bushy silver eyebrows lifted, but Jake took her outburst in stride. “Too often appearances can be deceiving,” he said. “One never knows what sort a man might be. That is, until you’ve known him long enough to take his measure. Wouldn’t you agree, my lady?”

  Lady Olivia’s mouth snapped shut, and a blush crept up her décolletage. She hadn’t missed the double entendre located within his words. He tamped down a swell of satisfaction. For the first time since setting foot on English soil, Jake felt interested, engaged, and alive.

  Even though he wouldn’t be marrying this walking scandal, her restraint made him want to poke and prod her until he’d stripped her of her exquisite control. Lady Olivia was petite and blond, but boring and dull she wasn’t.

  Chapter 3

  Oh, why had she spoken those preposterous words to Lord St. Alban?

  Anyone with eyes could see that, aside from the Duke, he was the most capable man in the room. In all of London, mayhap.

  But her reason for speaking so rudely was clear, if only to her. She needed to put distance between herself and this viscount, who had faced this entire gathering and silently dared them to speak a word crosswise against his daughter. She couldn’t help admiring anyone who stood up to these people. It was a most attractive quality, which was the absolute opposite direction her thoughts should be taking.

  It wouldn’t do for her to admire any man or find him attractive. That part of her life was over. Her future self would enjoy a different sort of life. One that didn’t involve attractive, admirable viscounts.

  She cleared her throat and found the Duke observing her, a speculative cant to his head. “I must bid you all a good night, I’m afraid,” she said. “I have an early morning meeting at the school.”

  “Lady Olivia, about that progressive school,” began the Dowager. Olivia sensed the other woman building up to a scold. “Why must you invite even more scan—”

  “Of course, my dear,” the Duke cut in, effectively shushing the Dowager.

  A determined tilt to her chin, Olivia wouldn’t risk another glance at Lord St. Alban or squirm beneath his steady, serious gaze. It was possible he saw through to her very soul. “Your Grace, this Salon will be declared the crush of the Season.”

  They were the exact, correct words to speak to her hostess, which was yet another reason she should stay far away from Lord St. Alban. The correct words tended to perform a disappearing act in his presence.

  She turned to make her escape when a pair of green bucks, with no more than forty years between them, rushed forward as if the house was on fire. “Duchess!” they cried in unison.

  “Yes? Yes?” The Dowager’s face tensed in alarm. “What is it?”

  Flight arrested by this sudden burst of activity, Olivia paused mid-step. His attention was still fixed upon her. She felt its blue ice down to her bones. How she longed to rid her body of its betraying blush.

  “Duchess Dallie,” began one of the bucks in a studiously measured tone, “we must have dancing tonight.” The youth had imbibed a touch too much champagne punch.

  “Dancing?” The tension in the Dowager’s face released in relief. “My dears, this isn’t a ball.”

  “But it is a ballroom, Duchess,” pointed out the other young buck. “A glorious one.”

  “Its magnificence is unrivaled by any other in London,” added his cohort.

  Olivia suspected the two had been knocking back something a little harder than champagne punch. She risked a quick glance at Lord St. Alban, his serious gaze taking in the frivolous scene. She had a feeling they were all frivolous beings in his eyes.

  Yet his close proximity had her body coiled tighter than a piano string, and she suspected all he would need to do was stroke a single key to make her vibrate and sing out . . .

  She pressed cooling fingers to burning cheeks and inhaled a fortifying breath. She’d rather he not notice, but if he did, he did. She needed air.

  “What sort of bet?” the Dowager inquired, calling Olivia’s attention back to the conversation around her.

  The one young buck nudged the other. “To see if a certain lady will dance with Bletham.”

  A smile, equal parts delight and mischief, teetered about the corners of the Dowager’s lips. “For a dance, you say?” She glanced at the Duke. “I don’t see why not?”

  “A waltz?” one of the bucks pressed, boldness winning the day.

  “Well, we’ve come this far, haven’t we?” the Dowager stated more than asked.

  Before Olivia could blink, the young bucks and the Dowager rushed away to inform the string quartet of their new duties. The Duke hesitated, his gaze finding Olivia’s and holding it. She nodded once, subtly, decisively, and the Duke strolled away in the Dowager’s wake.

  Now, in the midst of an ocean of lords and ladies, she stood alone with Lord St. Alban. She should acknowledge him. After all, he was standing directly in front of her. She possessed enough social acumen to deal with this viscount. He was a mere man, and if she chose, after this night, social protocol allowed that she never had to acknowledge his existence again. Besides, she’d already spoken her good-byes.

  Then it happened: the string quartet struck up the opening notes of a waltz, the crowd raised its voice in a unified cheer, and Lord St. Alban held out his hand to her. “May I have the honor of this dance?”

  She should say no. She needed to say no.

  She couldn’t. Not without inviting more scandal from the odd curious eye that might be observing them. She’d endured enough scandal these last six months to last her a lifetime.

  She stepped a hesitant foot forward and held out her hand, willing herself to look up at him. Most extraordinary were Lord St. Alban’s eyes: arctic blue rimmed in navy. They should be frosty, but they weren’t. They burned with the whitest heat of a blue flame.

  She’d never entertained the idea that one could be incinerated by a waltz. But when he took her hand and her pulse jumped, she suspected that she would be lucky to escape this dance entirely unsinged.

  She steeled herself and asked, “Shall we begin?”

  On a nod, he pulled her toward him and set their bodies into motion. Her gaze remained resolutely fixed over his shoulder in the hope of foiling any attempt at small talk on his part. Her hope was immediately dashed.

  “It is a strange sensation,” he began, “to have your body so completely in hand and, yet, the essence of you so far away.”

  A shocked laugh escaped her. Words like body and essence could make a lady go speechless. They weren’t words used in polite circles, particularly in the way they’d crossed his lips, as if a promise was located somewhere inside.

  Desperate to summon an upright ancestor or two, she said, “You know nothing of my body or my essence.”

  “Would you rather I ask how you find the weather?”

  Yes! she ached to shout at the dratted man. She wanted simple, and he wasn’t having it.

  Further complicating the matter was an unruly desire to have the firm hand piously fixed to the middle of her ribcage slide down and settle on the curve of her hip. A simple contraction of muscle would close the remaining gap between them, and he could . . . what?

  That wouldn’t do. It was possible his words—body, essence—had awakened a dormant desire within her. A desire so long unused she’d thought it entirely disappeared. Her mutinous body yearned to hear su
ch words again.

  “What is your scent, Lady Olivia? I detect lavender and . . . is that sandalwood?” She nodded, and he continued, “In my experience English ladies don’t smell of exotic spice. Rather they smell of—”

  “Stale rosewater?” she finished for him.

  A too-charming look of abashment crossed his features. “My apologies, it was intended as a compliment. You are a most unexpected Englishwoman.”

  A surprising wave of pleasure unbalanced her, and she stumbled over her own feet. His fingers tightened protectively around her waist, holding her steady while she recovered herself. Lord St. Alban wasn’t the sort of man who let a woman fall.

  She gave herself a mental shake and searched for the words that would right this dance before it went completely topsy-turvy on her. “Have you never heard of idle chit-chat, my lord?”

  “I’ve never had much use for it,” he replied, the tilt to his mouth more wry than remorseful.

  “Surely you can locate a middle ground somewhere. Here, let me help. I shall ask you a perfectly innocuous question that pertains to nothing personal in your life, and you will answer in kind.” Oh, why was she doing this? All this talk of the impersonal felt oddly personal. “Is this your first foray into the ton?”

  He nodded. “My newfound duties as viscount have prevented me from enjoying the frivolities of Society until now.”

  “We are nothing if not frivolous, my lord.” That was better, bodies, essences, and scents banished from the conversation. A pang of regret for their loss hadn’t flashed through her. Not at all. She almost believed it.

  Lord St. Alban cocked his head. “Do I detect irony in your tone?”

  “Irony? Careful, you’re skirting the edge of the personal again.” She pointed her gaze over his shoulder. The sooner this dance was done, the better.

  “Could you tell me about the school the Dowager spoke of? It happens that my daughter is in need of a good one.”