Jacquie D'Alessandro (14 page)

Understanding slowly dawned in the doctor’s gaze, and his jaw tightened. “You don’t say. So what did the doctor do?”

“According to the legend, he backed away. A most intelligent decision.”

They stared at each other for several seconds, then Dr. Oliver said, “I’m certain that if the physician backed away, it was because he realized that the lady did indeed regard him only as a friend. Not because he was a coward.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Because if the lady had given the physician any indication that her regard was deeper than friendship, well, then, I think the other gentleman would have had a fight on his hands.”

Andrew kept his expression impassive, but he mentally applauded the doctor. If not for Lady Catherine, he might actually like this man. “I think we understand each other.”

“Yes, I believe we do. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Stanton…” With a curt nod, the doctor left him and headed toward the punch bowl.

Excellent. Another suitor taken care of. Andrew glanced around and when his gaze settled on Lord Kingsly, his eyes narrowed. Clearly Kingsly, as well as several other gentlemen, would do well to hear the tale of the unfortunate suitor.

Catherine stood alone at the fireplace, sipping her sherry, awaiting Genevieve’s return. When Genevieve had ex
cused herself for a moment, Catherine had actually been relieved. For the first time in their long acquaintance, she’d had difficulty following her friend’s conversation. She’d been forced to say “pardon?” three times, and it was all
his
fault.

This evening was not going at all as she’d intended. Oh, the avoid portion of her plan was working splendidly—shortly after arriving she’d left Mr. Stanton in the company of the duke and several other gentlemen, then had joined Genevieve. It was the ignore portion of her plan that was failing miserably. She knew every time Mr. Stanton moved about the room. Every time he spoke to someone new. Every trip he made to the punch bowl. In desperation she’d finally maneuvered herself so that her back was to the room, but then she found herself straining her ears for the sound of his voice and stealing quick peeks over her shoulder to ascertain his whereabouts.

Never in her life had she been so excruciatingly aware of someone. Never in her life had she found it so completely impossible to ignore someone. It was an unsettling, confusing sensation, and she was quite sure she did not like it one bit.

Genevieve rejoined her, and said in an undertone, “Darling, I just overheard the most
fascinating
conversation.”

“Oh? Between whom?”

“Your Mr. Stanton and Dr. Oliver.”

Warmth rushed into Catherine’s cheeks. “He is not
my
Mr. Stanton, Genevieve.”

“Based on what I just heard, I rather think he is whether you want him or not. He’s just staked his claim to Dr. Oliver, very cleverly I must say, under the guise of a tale called ‘the legend of the unfortunate suitor.’”

“Staked his claim? What do you mean?”

Catherine listened intently as Genevieve related the con
versation she’d overheard. When she finished, Genevieve heaved a delighted sigh. “That man is simply
divine
, Catherine.”

Heat scorched Catherine, and she tried to convince herself it was the heat of embarrassment. Of outrage at Mr. Stanton’s temerity. Yet as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t deny the almost primitive feminine thrill racing through her.

“Oh, to be desired like that again…” As low, devilish smile curved Genevieve’s lips. “If not for my hands, I believe I would offer you some competition for Mr. Stanton.”

A swift, strong, and undeniable shot of jealousy pulsed through Catherine. “You are welcome to him,” she said stiffly.

Genevieve laughed. “Darling, if only you meant that, and my hands were not crippled, and the gentleman not so thoroughly enamored of you—” She cut off her words and leaned closer to Catherine to whisper, “Here he comes.”

Before Catherine had a chance to draw a deep breath, Mr. Stanton stood before her. “May I join you ladies?”

“Certainly, Mr. Stanton,” said Genevieve, with a beaming smile. “This is a delightful party, is it not?”

“Indeed it is. I’m enjoying myself immensely.”

“You’ve been very social, Mr. Stanton,” Catherine said, pleased her voice sounded so cool in contrast to the heat singeing her. “I believe you’ve spoken to everyone in the room.”

“Just trying to spread a little cheer.”

“We were just speaking about competition,” Genevieve said, her blue eyes filled with innocent warmth.

Catherine’s belief that her cheeks couldn’t grow any hotter was proven incorrect, and she shot her friend a repressive look—a look Genevieve blithely ignored.

“Competition?” Mr. Stanton repeated. “In regard to sporting events?”

Genevieve shook her head. “In regard to matters of the heart. Would you care to share your opinion?”

Mr. Stanton’s gaze shifted to Catherine, and the compelling look in his dark eyes stilled her. Then he turned his attention to include Genevieve in his answer. “Identify the competition,” he said, “then outmaneuver it.”

“Excellent advice,” Genevieve said, nodding in an approving manner. “Don’t you agree, Catherine?”

Catherine had to swallow twice to locate her voice. “Er, yes.”

“The music is about to begin,” said Genevieve. “Do you know how to do our country dances, Mr. Stanton?”

“Passably well.”

“Waltz?”

Mr. Stanton smiled. “Extremely well.”

“Excellent. I’m certain you won’t lack for partners.” Genevieve leaned forward and lowered her voice in a conspiratorially manner. “The duke’s nieces have taken a keen interest in you.”

“What?” Mr. Stanton and Catherine said at the same time.

“The duke’s nieces. They’re quite smitten.”

Catherine’s gaze shot over to the trio of young ladies. Three fascinated gazes were fastened on Mr. Stanton as if he were a new species of exotic animal. An unpleasant, unwelcome cramp Catherine was beginning to recognize all too well squeezed her.

The string quartet played a series of arpeggios, then launched into their first selection, a waltz.

Mr. Stanton turned toward Catherine and offered a formal bow. “As we were unable to share a dance at your father’s birthday party, may I request the honor now?”

Common sense indicated that dancing with him, being held in his arms, did not fit in at all with her avoid-and-ignore plan. But everything female in her longed to accept his offer. It had been so long since she’d danced. And she wanted so very much to dance with
him
…

“I’d be delighted,” she said.

Lightly resting her fingers on his proffered forearm, they made their way to the dance floor. He turned her to face him, and her breath caught at the expression in his eyes. Before she could decipher that look, however, her hand was engulfed in his, his palm settled firmly at the base of her spine, her hand rested on his broad shoulder, then…pure magic.

The room swirled by in a rainbow blur as he led her expertly around the gleaming floor. Warmth spread through her from where his hand touched her back, encompassing her in a heated glow as if she stood in a ray of summer sunshine. She could feel the supple strength of his shoulder beneath her fingertips, and pleasurable tingles radiated up her arm from between their clasped palms. His scent, that pleasing mixture of clean linen, sandalwood, and something else that belonged to him alone, filled her head, rendering her almost giddy.

She felt as if she were soaring, flying in his strong arms as everything, everyone, faded into the background except this man whose gaze never left hers, whose rapt expression somehow made her feel womanly and beautiful. Feminine and exciting. Young and carefree. Invigorated, her heart pounded with exhilaration, infusing her with a sense of freedom such as she’d never known, forcing her to call on all her breeding so as not to throw her head back in a most unladylike manner and simply laugh with pure and utter delight.

When Mr. Stanton led them to a stop, she hadn’t even
noticed that the song had ended. For the space of several heartbeats, neither moved, standing as if locked in a motionless dance. Erratic breaths puffed from between her parted lips, although whether her labored breathing was due to the exertions of the dance or the man still touching her, she couldn’t tell. Gazing at him, it seemed as if his dark eyes held hundreds of secrets, thousands of thoughts, and she suddenly found herself desperate to know each and every one of them.

Applause for the musicians roused her from her stupor. He slowly released her, and she instantly mourned the loss of his warmth and strength. After forcibly gathering her wits, she clapped politely and smiled at him. “You do indeed waltz extremely well, Mr. Stanton.”

“My lovely partner inspired me.”

“I fear I am frightfully out of practice.”

“You gave no indication of it, but please consider me at your disposal should you wish to hone your skills.”

The temptation to spend hours indulging in the delicious sensation of whirling around the dance floor with him nearly overwhelmed her.

No, to dance with him again would be most unwise. And prove yet another failure to her avoid-and-ignore plan. Yet she had no desire to dance with anyone else present.

The sound of feminine laughter caught her attention, and she turned. The duke’s three nieces were descending upon them, their gazes riveted on Mr. Stanton, each girl clearly hoping for an invitation to dance.

And Catherine realized, quite unsettlingly, that not only did she have no desire to dance with anyone else save Mr. Stanton, but she did not desire Mr. Stanton to dance with anyone other than she. His earlier words echoed through her mind:
Identify the competition, then outmaneuver them.

Looking up at him she said softly, “I fear I’m feeling a bit…overheated. Would you mind terribly if we went home?”

Instant concern flashed in his eyes, pricking her conscience, although she felt, in truth, quite overheated. “Of course not. We’ll leave immediately.”

She tried, very hard, to ignore the glow of pleasure suffusing her at his agreement as it boded very poorly indeed for her avoid-and-ignore plan.

She tried, but she failed.

A
ndrew paced the confines of his bedchamber, alternating between staring into the low-glowing embers in the grate, and looking out the window into the moonlit garden below. He stalked past the bed, shooting the navy blue counterpane a dark scowl. Comfortable as the bed looked, there was no point in lying down, for he knew all too well sleep wouldn’t come. His mind, his thoughts, were too full. Of her.

Catherine. With a groan, he paused in front of the
glowing embers in the grate and dragged his hands down his face, vividly recalling her exhilarated expression as they’d waltzed this evening. The exquisite feel of her in his arms, her beautiful eyes glowing with delight, her delicate floral scent filling his head. It had required every ounce of his self-control not to simply yank her against him and profess his love in front of the entire assemblage of guests.

While tonight’s pleasant carriage ride and waltz had afforded him a flicker of hope regarding his wooing campaign, that light had been all but extinguished when they’d arrived back at Bickley cottage and she’d immediately excused herself and retired.

One week. He had one bloody week to court her. Make her fall in love with him. Change her mind about wanting to marry again. Convince her that they belonged together. That in spite of his nonnoble birth, he would be a worthy husband to her and a good father to Spencer. That he loved her so much he ached.

He squeezed his eyes shut as dread suffused him. One week—for unless something drastic happened, he strongly sensed she wouldn’t invite him to remain longer, and in any event, he needed to return to London to oversee the museum. No, in one week’s time, he’d return to his life in Town, and she’d remain here.

One week. Even if he were, by some miracle, able to accomplish all those seemingly impossible tasks, managed to convince her to share their futures, he couldn’t ignore what might happen when he revealed his past. Would she reject him when he confessed to her the secrets he’d never told anyone? The circumstances that had forced him to leave America?

Opening his eyes, he stared into the fire, futilely seeking answers in the dancing orange flames. His conscience
fought the same battle it waged every time he mulled the daunting question of whether or not to reveal his past. He hated the thought of lying to her, of there being any secrets between them. Liked to think if the time should ever arise that he’d tell her.

But would he? God help him, he didn’t know. If he were lucky enough finally to win her favor, would he, could he risk losing her by telling her the truth? His conscience prodded him to tell her. She deserved the truth. But then came the rationalization that always twisted his guts into a knot—no one knew except him. If he didn’t tell her, she’d never find out.

Blowing out a long breath, he tunneled his hands through his hair and shoved the matter from his mind, leaving it once again unresolved. What he needed to concentrate on now was revising his courting strategy, because thus far his carefully thought-out plan was not the smashing success he’d hoped for. He needed a new plan, and given his time constraints and the fact that other suitors hovered on the horizon, it needed to be a brilliant, not to mention drastic, plan. But what?
Damn it, I need help. I need
—

An idea popped into his mind, and he stilled for several seconds. Yes…that might be the very thing to help him. With a purposeful stride, he crossed the blue-and-gold Persian rug to the wardrobe and pulled his brown leather portmanteau from the back corner. Reaching inside, he carefully unfastened the hidden pocket in the lining and withdrew the item he’d secreted there after purchasing it in London the morning they’d departed for Bickley cottage.

A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment
by Charles Brightmore. He turned the slim, leather-bound volume over in his hands.
She’d wagered that he wouldn’t read it, but he’d prove her wrong. Not only would he read it, hopefully he’d learn something from this Charles Brightmore that might inspire a new wooing campaign. At the very least, he’d win his wager with Lady Catherine and be entitled to a boon…a prospect ripe with possibilities.

He pulled the wing chair closer to the fire and settled into the comfortable upholstery. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or so to read the book. Then he’d map out his new campaign.

This time he’d go into battle armed to the teeth.

Ensconced in her bedchamber in the comfort of her favorite wing chair next to the fireplace, Catherine leaned her head back against the soft upholstery and closed the slim leather volume. Pressing the book against her chest, she squeezed her eyes shut and cursed her folly at once again reading the words that filled her with dark yearnings. Stark needs. And insatiable curiosity.

Snippets of passages from
A Ladies’Guide
invaded her brain, igniting desires she’d tried so hard to suppress.

The leisurely caress of a man’s hand up the length of a woman’s thigh…the incredible sensations experienced by both partners when the woman takes his hardness slowly into her body…making love in the light so as to see every nuance of passion your lover is feeling…learning each other’s intimate secrets with hands and lips and tongues…a naked man will provide a feast of delights for the woman willing to explore…

A soft moan escaped her lips. Heat that had nothing to do with the low-burning fire in the grate swamped her. She could feel her pulse throbbing at the base of her throat. Between her thighs. Her breasts felt heavy and swollen and almost painfully aroused.

Lifting one hand, she slowly cupped the sensitive flesh through the material of her gown. Her nipple, hard and aching, pressed against her palm. She gently squeezed, shooting ribbons of fire to her womb, increasing rather than relieving her discomfort. Setting the
Guide
aside, she rose and paced the length of the room.

Dear God, the things Genevieve had described in the
Guide
…incredible, unthinkable, unbelievably tantalizing things. While she’d taken dictation from Genevieve, writing in a shaky hand such intimate wonders, she’d questioned whether Genevieve was creating fiction. But her friend had assured her she was not. Genevieve had spent ten years as the mistress of an earl, captivating him with her sensual prowess. Prowess she’d learned as a result of tutelage from her mother, who’d spent her entire adult life as a mistress, and Genevieve’s own imagination, which was inspired out of deep love for her earl.
It was very unwise for me fall in love with him, Catherine,
Genevieve had said.
It broke my heart when he ended our liaison. He found someone younger. Prettier. He no longer wanted my ugly hands to touch him…

Catherine paused near the window. Leaning her forehead against the cool glass, she stared out into the darkness, seeing nothing save the images bombarding her. Herself and Mr. Stanton…hands exploring. Mouths touching. Limbs entwined.

What would his large, strong, callused hands feel like caressing her? His lovely mouth kissing her? His long, muscular legs pressing against hers?

She actually felt feverish. She should
not
have reread that book. Should have allowed her wants and needs to remain dormant. And surely they would have. If Mr. Stanton had not brought them roaring to life.

After she’d helped Genevieve write the book and had
learned of the wonders that could physically exist between a man and a woman, she’d been stunned.
Never
had she experienced anything like that with Bertrand.

After being exposed to the tantalizing information in the
Guide
, however, her thoughts had much more frequently strayed to sensual matters, piquing her long-suppressed desires and her curiosity. Since embarking on writing the
Guide
eleven months ago, shortly after Bertrand’s death, how many nights had she lain in her lonely bed, her body throbbing with newly awakened, unfulfilled needs? More than she cared to recall. Her attempts to ease the aching had left her only more frustrated.

In the past, whenever she’d imagined a lover touching her, the man’s image had been shadowy and unformed.

Not anymore.

Mr. Stanton’s face filled her mind’s eye, igniting her imagination and fantasies in a way they’d never been lit before. He was no figment of her imagination, but a flesh-and-blood man. Who had called her beautiful. Who’d made her feel as if she were soaring above the clouds when he waltzed with her. Who could inspire pleasurable tingles with a mere glance. Who, Genevieve believed, cared for her—or at the very least, desired her.

Desired her.
She closed her eyes and blew out a long breath at the myriad sensual images that inspired. Images that did nothing to cool her arousal or relax her tension. She longed for the oblivion of sleep, but knew from experience that sleep would not come.

As they always did when her body and mind would not relax, the springs beckoned with their soothing warmth. She loved the privacy of taking the waters in the dark, alone, only her and the gentle night sounds surrounding her. Turning from the window, she crossed to her ward
robe and pulled out the thick, quilted robe that accompanied her on all her nighttime excursions.

She needed the soothing waters on her like she never had before.

Andrew paused on the dark path and strained his ears. A splash of water. Must be nearing the warm springs, or perhaps the small lake Spencer had mentioned. A shudder ran through him. He’d best take care lest he inadvertently locate the springs or the lake with his body, in which case this would be the last nighttime stroll he’d ever take.

Another soft splash sounded, seeming to come from behind an outcropping of rocks outlined in the moonlight about a dozen yards ahead. Might as well look at the damnable springs, so as to be prepared in case he could not find an excuse to avoid going there with Spencer. If forced, he’d look, but wild horses would not drag him into the water.

He took several steps forward, but then froze when another sound reached his ears. Something that sounded distinctly like…humming? Followed by a long purring
hmmmmm
of unmistakable pleasure. Unmistakable pleasure that sounded distinctly feminine. Surely it couldn’t be—

Cutting off the thought before it could take root and fill his head with a hundred fantasies, he moved forward. Quickly, silently, he approached the outcropping. Keeping to the shadows, he moved around the rocks until his view was unobstructed. And his heart nearly stalled.

A circular pool of water, approximately twelve feet in diameter, surrounded by the rocks on three sides, met his stupefied gaze. Sinuous curls of steam, glowing in the moonlight, wafted upward from the water…and surrounded Lady Catherine in an ethereal fog.

He blinked, certain that his desperate imagination had conjured her up, but when he opened his eyes, she remained.

Submerged in the steamy water up to her neck, eyes closed, a half smile playing about her lips, she breathed out another long purr of pleasure.

As if in a daze, he stood perfectly still, utterly transfixed by the sight of her.

He meant to do…something. Make his presence known, or slip away, but she reached up and slowly pulled pins from her upswept hair, and he lost the ability to move. Dark curls tumbled down, over her shoulders, and he instantly imagined combing his fingers through the strands, burying his face in those soft, fragrant tresses.

She opened her mouth, took what appeared to be a deep breath, then sunk below the surface. Andrew’s brows snapped together. Damn it. He hated to see anyone disappear beneath the water like that. And where the hell was she? Why was she under for so long?

His eyes scanned the surface. Why hadn’t she yet reappeared? She shouldn’t be under this long. How much time had passed? Surely only a few seconds, but still, tiny talons of panic clawed at him.

He started forward. What if she’d become entangled in something beneath the water? How could he hope to save her? He couldn’t swim. They’d both die. He’d jump in to save her, but would he be able to do so before he sank like a stone?

Still she didn’t reappear. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and the talons of panic gave way to stark terror that clamped around his heart.

“Catherine,” he yelled, breaking into a run. “Cath—”

Her head broke the surface, and he skidded to a halt about three feet from the edge of the spring.

She opened her eyes, caught sight of him, and gasped. “Mr. Stanton!” Her eyes widened to saucers. “What are you doing here?”

His breath still came in ragged pants, his lungs working like a bellows. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to regain control of his emotions. He actually felt weak-kneed. Weak-kneed and angry as hell.

He moved to the edge of the spring in one furious stride and glowered down at her. “A more apt question is
what the hell are you doing here
?”

Her mouth dropped open, and she simply stared. He didn’t know if she were more shocked by the clear menace in his stance and voice or by his use of an obscenity. But at the moment he simply didn’t care.

“Have you taken leave of your senses to come out here alone?” he fumed. “At night? To
swim
alone? Does anyone even know that you are here? What if something had happened to you? What in God’s name were you thinking?”

She blinked several times, then pressed her lips together. Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like
irritating, overbearing man,
she reached for the side of the pool. Before he realized what she was about, she’d gracefully hoisted herself out of the spring onto the rocky ledge. Then, water sluicing down her body, she stomped over to him.

Every thought he’d ever had, and a few he hadn’t yet managed to think, drained from his head and flopped onto the ground at his feet—to join his jaw.

She looked like a pale sea nymph, her dark hair slicked back, the dark curls flattened straight by the water, falling to her waist. Her body was covered, or more aptly not covered, in a wet chemise that clung to her form as if painted on—with transparent paint. His stupefied gaze traveled downward, over her delicate clavicle, to the gen
erous swell of her breasts, topped with dusky, hardened nipples. The indent of her waist. The flare of her hips. The shadow of the dark triangle nestled between her shapely thighs. Over her calves, right down to her slender ankles and dainty feet.