Her Prodigal Passion (10 page)

He narrowed his amber eyes at the pack of gentlemen gathered in waiting behind his wife. Beneath his stare, they disbanded like mongrels with their tails between their legs.

"
Desirable
partners, I mean." Marianne smiled at him, and the policeman looked as moonstruck as all her other admirers. "Luckily, with you three," she said, "we are evenly matched and delightful company all around. So, darling, why don't you escort Percy, and I'll accompany Mr. Hunt. Mr. Fines, you'll take Miss Sparkler in?"

"Delighted," Mr. Fines said.

With no other choice, Charity placed her fingertips on his proffered arm—then jerked away when shock crackled from the point of contact.

His lips twitched. "Beg pardon. Sparks are literally flying between us, it seems."

Her cheeks grew hot. She reminded herself that flirtation was as natural to him as breathing, and he didn't mean anything by it. Especially not when it came to her.
I don't do this
, he'd said.
Not with girls like you.

Pressure swelled beneath her breastbone. Blood pulsed in her ears.

"I believe it is called static, not sparks," she heard herself say. "The Hartefords have an electrifying machine in the library that replicates the phenomena. As I recall, static occurs when objects repel."

Silence ensued, the only movement being that of eyebrows shooting up. Over her pounding heart, she registered with shock that she—quiet, sensible Charity Sparkler—had delivered her first public set-down. What had come over her? She resisted the urge to clamp a hand over her mouth.

"Touché, Miss Sparkler. I deserved that and more."

Her shock deepened to see that the target of her barb was
smiling
.

He murmured, "So the mouse can roar."

"I am not a mouse," she managed to say.

"You tell him, Charity," Percy said.

"Only a fool would mistake a lion for a lamb," Marianne drawled.

Mr. Fines held up his hands in mock defense. "Fellows, I could use a second here. Being overrun by females, can't you see?"

Mr. Hunt snorted. "You've never complained about that before."

"The wisest man is the one who knows he knows nothing." Lines of humor fanned from Mr. Kent's eyes. "Sometimes an apology is the best defense, lad."

"Fat lot of help you chaps are." Nonetheless, Mr. Fines swept a bow and said, "I have a tendency to act rashly, but I vow I meant no disrespect. Will you forgive me, Miss Sparkler?"

She understood that his apology was for the kiss as well as for calling her a mouse. She steeled herself against his boyishly hopeful expression. He held out his arm—a gallant gesture.

Should she make peace?

She placed the tips of her fingers on his sleeve and said, "All is forgotten."

As they followed the others in, he bent his head toward her, and his quiet words caused her heart to somersault in her chest.

"Just so we're clear, sweeting, I asked to be forgiven ... not forgotten."

TEN

Supper was proving a disaster.

Paul found himself sandwiched between a baron's wife, who couldn't keep her hands to herself, and Charity Sparkler, who couldn't bother to give him the time of day. All through supper, he hardly tasted any of the courses. Lobster patties, roasted peahen, turbot in saffron sauce ... none of the decadent dishes piqued his appetite because he was being fed a steady diet of frustration by the recalcitrant miss sitting to his right.

Being ignored by a female was a novel experience. He couldn't say that he liked it, only because the female in question was Miss Sparkler. How could she be so indifferent after what had passed between them? Yet there she was sitting with her back to him and chatting up a storm with Kent, who sat on her other side.

Paul gritted his teeth. He couldn't make out their conversation, but the attentive tilt of her head conveyed her absorption in the exchange. Damnit, shouldn't she be talking to
him
? After what had transpired at the gazebo, they had plenty to discuss.

He remained appalled at his lack of self-control. At the same time, he reckoned that the kiss they'd shared would throw any man off-kilter. By God, in all his years he'd never experienced anything so ... consuming. So sweetly erotic. And the shock of discovering the passionate creature beneath that prim little exterior?

His spine tingled; his groin stirred.

Staring at the slender length of Miss Sparkler's back, all he could think about was how supple she'd felt in his arms. How beneath that bland grey frock lay the softest, silkiest skin. And her unique scent—he had the wild urge to nuzzle the curve of her neck to search out that elusive blend of linen and clean woman again. He hardened at the thought of smelling her, tasting her, losing himself in her honey and fire ...

Focus, man. You're supposed to make amends, not debauch her all over again.

The arrival of the final dessert course interrupted his brooding. As the poached pear in wine sauce was placed in front of him, Paul felt a slipper wandering up his calf. Unfortunately, it came from the wrong side. He jerked his leg away and cast the baroness a scathing glance.

She giggled, her darkened eyelashes lowering in an unmistakable wink.

For God's sake.
Heat crept up his neck as he saw the knowing glances exchanged around the table. Sitting across from him, Marianne Kent sipped her wine, but he knew she didn't miss a thing. Through the silver bars of the candelabra, he could see the faint lift to her fair brows, and he knew that she—and the other guests—were judging him. As if getting molested by a randy matron was somehow
his
fault.

Anger smoldered. Along with embers of embarrassment.

Deuce take it, he was tired of the lewd affairs. The meaningless sexual games. Drowning one's sorrows with sex was no different than doing it with whiskey: the mindless oblivion was inevitably followed by regret and self-recrimination in the morning. When the baroness' slipper crept up his leg again, his hold on his temper slipped. Gentlemanly manners be damned.

"Desist, madam." Though he spoke under his breath, the steel in his tone was unmistakable.

Finally, she got the message. She gave him an uncertain glance—and removed her foot. Her curls bobbed as she quickly turned to the gentleman on her other side.

Paul returned his attention to Charity, only to find that she was
still
absorbed in her conversation with Kent. What was so captivating about the blasted policeman? Just because Kent spent his days protecting society and chasing down criminals ... if he, Paul, wanted to do something useful, he could too.

Probably. Maybe.

Picking up his spoon, he stabbed at his pear. Vexing chit. She was confusing him
on purpose
. She'd lured him in with her unexpected depths and quiet empathy, that fascinating mix of propriety and sensuality and then—
bam
.

She was giving him the cold shoulder. The coldest, in fact, that he'd ever gotten.

"Stewing has never been my preference," Marianne Kent drawled from across the table.

The amusement in her eyes made him cringe. He put on a debonair smile. "I suppose it depends on whether one likes one's fruit soft or,"—he waggled his brows—"with more of a bite."

"Oh. Were we talking about the dessert?"

Paul felt himself turn as red as the wine sauce. "What else would we be discussing?"

"Your unusually meditative state." Leaning forward, Mrs. Kent said in an undertone, "She's lovely and original, you know. Mr. Kent is quite taken with her."

"That doesn't bother you?"

Mrs. Kent's lips curved. "I trust my husband."

Though this was simply stated, Paul had to wonder at the change in this once infamous widow. Before her marriage, she'd been his match and more when it came to jaded sophistication. But since pledging her troth to Kent, she'd shed that world-weary mantle, revealing, of all things, an honest woman in love with her own spouse.

"Easy for you to say. Kent has eyes for no one but you—poor bastard's been sneaking glances at you all evening long," Paul said.

"I know." Her smile reached her eyes. "Now will you admit the same?"

"That I've been admiring you, too? Guilty as charged."

"You know what I meant." She sipped from her wine glass. "I've never known you to be a coward, Mr. Fines."

Then obviously you don't know me very well.

He'd nearly gotten Percy killed because he hadn't had the bollocks to face his gaming debts. He'd almost destroyed Fines & Co. because he couldn't handle a broken heart. And he'd lost Rosalind because he hadn't been man enough to convince her that he was a risk worth taking.

Rosalind ... With a twinge, he saw again her shimmering violet eyes, the tears coursing down her alabaster cheeks.

I love you, Paul, but what kind of future can you offer me? Earl Monteith has promised to pay off my father's debts, to bring my sisters out into Society. And Mama has always wanted a title for me. If I don't marry Monteith, my family will disown me, and I'll be disgraced forever. Is that what you wish?

He'd failed to come up with a convincing argument.
I love you
hadn't been enough. And it'd been true that he lacked the things her family wanted. Worse yet, he hadn't even been able to find a single flaw with his rival: Monteith was known to be an upstanding peer, the rare lord who didn't drink or game and took his responsibilities seriously.

Compared to such a paragon, how could Paul compete?

Hell, he'd
deserved
to lose Rosalind.

'Twas a reminder of why he'd avoided marriageable ladies since then. He didn't need to have his gut wrenched to pieces again. He slid a look at Charity—
still
jawing away with Kent—and his mouth tightened. He ought to be relieved that things hadn't progressed much beyond a kiss. And even more so that she'd headed his honorable offer off at the pass. What kind of husband would he make?

"Oh, fie." A familiar, sultry voice penetrated his ear. "I dropped my reticule, and it seems to have rolled beneath your chair, sir."

Just bloody
perfect
.

His jaw set, he rose and turned to face Lady Augusta. She wore a low-cut gown and a smirking expression. He'd spent all of last evening deflecting her and Louisa's advances. What would it take to be rid of the wenches?

"Allow me to fetch it for you, my lady," he said curtly.

As he bent to retrieve the object, his gaze collided with Charity's. Jeweled fire blazed in her eyes ... and then she turned away. Staring at the rigid back of her topknot, he was swept up in a bewildering gust of rage and shame. He hadn't invited Augusta to drop her bag beneath his chair; it wasn't
his
fault that she was employing the most transparent ploy imaginable to get his attention. A ploy that was, unfortunately, inviting more than a few raised brows and knowing looks.

Wanting to get the business over with, he bent down on one knee to complete the fool's errand. On the pretense of helping, Augusta squatted beside him.

"Come to my room tonight," she said
sotto voce
. "It'll just be you and me this time—Louisa's got her hands full with her lord's sudden appearance." Glee lit her eyes. "When he's not off gallivanting, Parkington keeps her on a short chain."

Paul could give a fig about Louisa's marital affairs. In truth, he wished he'd never bedded either of the sisters. Why did the paths he chose always end up being the rockiest ones? What was supposed to be a casual tumble was fast turning into a sticky situation; he needed to extricate himself from the twins' web posthaste.

"Thank you, but I must decline." He groped in the darkness. Where was that blasted bag?

"Decline? You're turning
me
down? Surely you jest."

Catching the strings of the beaded purse at last, he pushed it at her. "As you'll recall, we agreed to share a night's diversion," he said in low tones, "and nothing more. Let us not taint that pleasant memory."

"Taint it?
Au contraire
, lover, I wish to
add
to it. I haven't yet had my fill of you."

"I, however, am done." He swatted away her grasping hands. "I hope you'll enjoy the rest of your visit. I shan't be a part of it."

Flags of color stood out on her face.

"Rest assured, I shall not lack for company," she hissed.

"Your servant." Rising, he offered his hand.

Ignoring his assistance, Augusta jumped to her feet and stormed off in a swish of red. Jaw taut, Paul looked to Charity's seat: its emptiness was as glaring as a judge. Snickers emerged around the table, fans beating the air in a titillated rhythm. Not wanting to provide further fodder for gossip, he sat down, his shoulders stiff.

Why the devil was he always mired in disaster? Why couldn't he do anything right? The answer blazed in his brain:
Because you're a failure through and through.

He found himself staring at his wineglass. He hadn't touched it all evening—and now the ruby depths winked at him. He could almost taste the oaky spice upon his tongue, feel the smooth slide over his insides, the numbing warmth. It was just wine, after all. Not heavy spirits, so it would only be bending, not breaking, the rules.

Kent's low voice reached him just as his fingers circled the stem. "I think you've been down that road before, lad, and decided it wasn't a trip worth repeating."

Paul clenched the crystal.

"What's done is done," Kent said quietly. "The only thing a man can control is the present."

Paul's grip on the glass tightened ... and then he let go.

Hell's teeth, Kent was right. He
had
been down this particular path before, and it had led him straight to hell. He had no intention of going there again.

He blew out a breath. "I seem to have lost my thirst."

Kent's chin lowered in approval.

"In that case," Mrs. Kent said, "I suggest we make our way out. There's to be a lecture in the Ivy Room, and indeed,"—she paused delicately—"I believe Miss Sparkler was headed in that direction."

Normally, he couldn't give a damn what others thought of him, but with Miss Sparkler, it was … different. Maybe, in this instance, different was good. Sudden energy buzzed through him, a feeling not unlike the rush he experienced during a boxing match. He'd just stared down one of his demons; surely he could take on a stubborn miss.