And then suddenly, the sound of footsteps, accompanied by a feminine titter, approached. Perhaps it was a couple seeking an assignation. What manner of guests had Callie invited to this bloody soiree, for God’s sake?
Knowing he could ill afford to be caught here with Miss Hilgrove in his arms, he hauled her into the nearest chamber, which happened to be the small orangery adjoining the gardens. The room was dark, save for the glow of the fires kept stoked within for winter warmth and the silver glow of the moonlight overhead. He scarcely had enough time to pull the door closed behind them before footsteps moved past, along with another throaty giggle that sounded strangely familiar.
Roberta?
Perhaps. He could not be certain, though he had known Roberta for years.
It scarcely mattered who owned the giggle and the footsteps in the hall beyond the orangery, for in the next instant, Miss Hilgrove turned back into the frigid, disapproving wraith he had come to know so well.
She pushed out of his arms as if he were made of the flames she stoked within him. This evening, she looked very much like a fey creature descended from another realm to torment mere mortals.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded in a low voice that cut through the wild fancies of his imaginings.
He plucked his hat from his head, tossed it unheeded to the floor behind him, and raked his fingers through his hair. “This is my home. I live here, madam.”
“Of course it is.” She flitted farther away from him, the train of her gown dragging along the floor of the orangery in a soft whoosh of sound. “I am painfully aware this is your London residence. However, your sister assured me you would not be returning from whatever matters took you from Town for another few days at least.”
Callie once again.
His sister was bloody fortunate he loved her. Not even a saint could tolerate her hoydenish ways.
“Lady Calliope was wrong,” he said frostily.
To himself only, he would admit that his ire was more aimed at Miss Hilgrove than at his sister. She had essentially just told him she would not have attended tonight’s soiree had it not been for Callie reassuring her his demonic self would not be in residence.
Did she hate him that much?
Why should it bother him if she did?
“I can see that,” she snapped. “But now that whomever it was who was about to discover us alone together has gone, I must return to the engagement before my absence is noted.”
“No.” His hand shot out, of its own volition, capturing her wrist in a firm-yet-gentle hold, staying her when she would have fled. “I am not finished speaking with you just yet, madam.”
She stiffened beneath his touch. “Perhaps you are not finished, but I am done, Your Grace. Done with you and whatever it is you believe you can lure me into. I will not entertain any more of your unwanted attentions. I am a woman of honor, and I shall not succumb to your temptations. Not tonight or ever again.”
Oh, how he wished to prove her a liar. To tug her into his arms and claim her lips with his. To kiss her senseless. Mindless. To do everything he had spent the last eight days imagining. Every delicious depravity.
But he had pride. He was a man, for God’s sake. Not a martyr. She could only poke and cut and prod him so many times before he reacted. He was not fashioned of stone or ice as it so oft seemed she was.
“You assume far too much, Miss Hilgrove,” he corrected coolly. “Rest assured that I have no intentions of repeating the unfortunate follies of our last encounter. I merely wished to return the question. Why are you here, in my residence, where you decidedly do not belong?”
She flinched, indication his poison barbs had reached their intended target. He felt no vindication, however. Instead, he ached. Regret was a rapidly rising tide within, threatening to wash him away altogether.
“Lady Callie invited me, Your Grace.”
He took note of the familiar manner in which she referred to his sister, thinking it telling indeed. “Lady Callie, is it? I wonder, Miss Hilgrove, at your continued attempts to befriend my sister, even as you claim to loathe me. One might suspect you do so in an effort to see more of me, in spite of your avowals otherwise. The lady doth protest too much, and all that.”
She sucked in a breath. “How dare you? Is your vanity so immense that you truly believe I somehow inveigled an invitation from your sister in the hopes you might return early and haul me into a darkened room which reeks of mustiness and dirt?”
Did the orangery stink, by God? He inhaled deeply, but all he could smell was her. Intoxicating, mysterious woman and sweet floral notes. Everything that had been haunting him for all the days since he had seen her last.
“This is where Westmorland House grows its fruit, Miss Hilgrove. Many London houses have to send to their estates for fresh fruit in the depths of winter. Westmorland House is large enough that we have room to grow our own. I hardly brought you here to steal your virtue,” he returned, keeping his voice equally cold. “This room serves a purpose that has nothing to do with you.”
Though, to be fair, he would happily debauch her here. Tonight and every night after. And every morning and afternoon, too.
He instantly struck the unwanted thought from his mind.
Except it lingered. Daft, needless, useless thought.
“Of course, Your Grace. I am well aware that Westmorland House is one of the largest homes in all London. You need not remind me of the difference between our social standings.”
Her crisp tone and easy dismissal nettled. Also, she misunderstood him. He had not intended to deliver a setdown. Not, at least, in the sense she had understood.
He disliked being at odds
