instinct on his part to slide his other arm about her waist, drawing her hard and sure against him.
She thought that he would kiss her, but instead he held her close, his mouth against her hair, the warmth of his hands a shocking, heated seduction through the thin satin of her dress. Deb’s cheek was against his shoulder and the mingled scent of sandalwood and his skin made her head swim. She could hear the beat of his heart beneath her ear. She felt warm and safe and protected, yet alive in every part of her being. In some strange way it felt even more intimate than his kiss and such affinity shook her deeply. She looked up helplessly into his face, felt his arms tighten about her and saw the intense desire darken his eyes. She fought the devastatingly strong urge to hold him close and never let go. This was madness.
Deborah freed herself from his arms and moved away from him, as though mere physical distance could break the hold he had on her.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, with a superficial brightness that suggested they had been conversing on the weather or the state of the roads. ‘I must go and mend my skirt.’
She made her way, a little blindly, to the ladies’ withdrawing room and found herself standing before the mirror, leaning on the top of the chest of drawers as though for support.
She stood there, trembling, staring at her reflection and wondering what was the matter with her.
Richard Kestrel had held her in his arms and she had taken both pleasure and consolation in the experience. In that moment she had felt cherished and loved as well as desired. She had known that Richard wanted her. The touch of his hands on her body had conveyed the depth of his need. Yet he had not kissed her, but had held her with tenderness as well as desire. It had been frighteningly tempting to give herself up to the embrace. No doubt if common sense had not reasserted itself, she would still be clasped in his arms, oblivious to the world, for all to see.
Deb tucked a wayward curl behind her ear and noted that her hand was still shaking. She knew it was the force of her thoughts that raised this nervousness in her. For this was no mere attraction to a handsome man. What she felt for Richard Kestrel was far more insidious. He stirred longings in her that were buried very deep and had been denied for a very long time. He had awoken a need for the physical bond that she had expected from marriage but had never found, and he had stirred in her a longing for an emotional closeness that she had never experienced.
Deb folded her arms as though to protect herself from the coldness within. Until that moment she had not realised how vulnerable she was. For three years she had lived retired and imagined that she could spend the rest of her life in such a manner. And then Richard Kestrel had appeared and had made her face up to the folly of that particular belief.
So now she had a stark choice. She could abandon the precepts and principles that had governed her life so far in order to seek the delights of a love affair. She had no doubt that to become Richard Kestrel’s mistress would be to experience a heady bliss, a dream of physical fulfilment. Yet she was afraid, afraid that the emotional intimacy she craved would still elude her and ever more terrified that she would want too much and end up being hurt more deeply than she ever had been by Neil Stratton.
Deb stared hopelessly at her reflection. She was afraid of marriage and yet she longed for the solace of true love. She ached for physical satisfaction and yet she could not imagine it without tenderness. She rejected the advances of a rake and yet she ardently desired for him to make love to her. She was a mass of contradictions and, that being the case, she must play safe. She had no choice after all. She must protect herself against Lord Richard Kestrel and the perilous attraction she felt for him. She must enforce her decision with iron determination. She must not see him again.
Richard Kestrel walked slowly into the ballroom. He saw Olivia Marney watching his progress with her eyebrows raised like perfect half-moons. No doubt she had already seen Deb erupt through the door that led to the conservatory and had drawn her own conclusions. She met Richard’s eyes quizzically but with no censure. Richard smiled at her. He liked Olivia and thought Ross to be a complete fool when it came to the matter of his wife. Not that Richard was tempted to play Ross false. Olivia was lovely, but she lacked Deborah’s passionate flame.
He took a glass of wine from a passing servant and stood with his shoulders propped against the doorway, waiting for Deb to return. He did not flatter himself that she would rejoin him. Very likely she would cut him dead. Very likely he deserved it. He had pushed her to act on her attraction to him, had prompted her to take it further by word and by deed. He had held her in a scandalously close embrace in a public place where anyone might have seen them. He had felt the softening in her body as it responded to him and the weakening of her defences. And now…He wanted to take Deb home and make love to her and instead he had to stand here and pretend to a cool interest in the proceedings at the ball.
Lily Benedict was smiling at him, but he did not cross the room to join her. He knew that there were plenty of women who would be more openly receptive to his advances than Deborah Stratton, but he did not wish for their company. He wanted Deborah, and that meant that he had to give her time, court her slowly. He sensed that in time he might be able to gain her trust and the prospect was more appealing than any quick seduction had ever been.
He gave an ironic smile. No one knew better than he that a true rake would not be troubled by such scruples. A true rake took what he wanted and be damned to the consequences. He did not deserve the name of rake any more. He had not been entitled to it from the moment he had set eyes on Deb Stratton and she had occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of all others. He had not been entitled to the name of rake from the moment he had decided that he wanted to marry her.
Briefly, Richard considered making Deb a declaration. It would assure her of his sincerity, about which she had patent doubts. On the other hand, it was a risky strategy. He had not given himself enough time to win her trust, nor convince her to put aside her fear of marriage. If he proposed to her now, she might well run from him and then he would lose all that he had gained. He would have to wait.
Richard finished his wine and put the glass down gently on a nearby table. Deb had returned to the ballroom now. Apart from a high colour and a militant sparkle in her eye, there was nothing in her behaviour to suggest that she was discomfited. As he had suspected, she ignored him and went over to join Olivia, who was chatting to Lady Sally Saltire.
Richard’s smile turned wry. He had set himself a difficult task in courting Deb and there would be those who would advise him to turn from his pursuit to a more receptive quarry. Lily Benedict was still giving him a come- hither look, but it was about as appealing as a plate of leftover roast beef. Across the room Deb sparkled as Owen Chance came across to solicit a dance. Richard felt a tightening of something inside, which he recognised as a very possessive jealousy. He had pulled that trick on Ross earlier and now this was his reward. How appropriate.
He watched Deb take Owen Chance’s hand and join the set of country dances that was forming up. He watched the play of light across her expressive face and the way that her irrepressible curls bounced on her white shoulders. He saw her smile and felt the tug of it deep inside him. He knew he was not going to disengage. He could not.
He watched her as she performed the complicated steps of the dance. He found that he could not take his eyes off her. The situation was filled with irony. Deb found it difficult to trust him because of his reputation as rake. He had ceased to be a rake from the moment that he realised he loved her. He could not control his feelings for her. Deb did not know it, but she had him utterly at the disadvantage.
Chapter Seven
‘T oday, ladies, I thought that we might move on to discuss the poetry of John Dryden,’ Lady Sally Saltire said, opening a copy of the same poetry book that Richard Kestrel had given to Deborah the previous week. ‘We have plenty of poems to choose from. Would you prefer “London after the Great Fire” or “Farewell, Ungrateful Traitor”?’
There were groans from several members of the reading group. ‘Must we read something so dry, Sally?’ Lily Benedict besought. She gave Deb a sly, sideways glance from her slanting dark eyes. ‘I am sure that the majority of us would rather talk about love poetry, would we not, Deborah? How about those faithless Cavalier poets-Rochester or Sedley?’
Deb flicked open her book. She felt a little self-conscious. She had spent quite a while reading through the
