One Tempting Proposal (8 page)

He began to retreat, stepping carefully so as not to disturb her, but his boot heel scuffed against a tile. Her hummed tune cut off on a dissonant squeak, and he looked back to find her scowling.

“Who allowed
you
in here?”

It was no use blaming a maid for doing her job, but Seb couldn't resist revisiting their first encounter.

“Is that the proper etiquette for greeting a visitor? I'll make a note of it.”

“Most visitors wait to be invited before pushing in.”

Seb tried not to smirk. He even considered being contrite, but her green fire glare brought out a terrible streak of defiance.

“Am I not welcome?”

“You weren't invited.” She swiped her hands down her hips, apparently trying to settle her gown or remove the dirt from her hands, but it only drew his attention to how the dress hugged her slim figure.

He forced his gaze away from her body and studied the fronds of an enormous spiky plant arching over his head. “Does anyone receive an invitation to join you back here?”

“No.” In a less strident tone, she added, “I come here to be alone.”

He felt the utter fool. He understood the desire for solitude. When he was wrangling with a vexing mathematical concept, he'd sometimes wander on solitary walks around the Cambridgeshire countryside for miles.

“I've intruded.”

“You surprised me.” Her tone had softened, but she still watched him warily. “Why are you here, Your Grace? Have you come to chastise me again?”

Seb ignored her sarcasm and focused on the more interesting question.

“You enjoy horticulture?”

She seemed unwilling to let go of her ire, lifting dirty hands to her hips, and then crossing her arms to hide dirt-­stained fingers from his view.

“Yes, I love plants.” The tentative catch in her voice when she finally answered made Seb swallow hard. It was a moment of honesty, vulnerability, and he wanted more. Then her eyes went wide a moment before she tightened her crossed arms. “But I prefer to work in the conservatory alone. Annie shouldn't have brought you out here. If you'll excuse me.”

She stepped toward him as if to move past, but the space was cluttered with ceiling-­tall potted ferns on one side and wrought iron shelves overflowing with plants on the other. His shoulders spanned the space and she'd have to press in close, nearer than they would have stood if they'd danced the waltz, to get around him.

“I must go and change, Your Grace.”

He didn't wish her to go. Or to change. With tendrils of hair framing her face, eyes brightened by the light filtering through the conservatory windows, and a smudge of dirt on her cheek, she was the most appealing woman he'd ever seen. He knew he should move, allow her to go on her way, but his body fought him. He wanted to draw closer, not move away. He took a step toward her and caught her scent. Not vanilla this time, something brighter, citrus with a sweet tang.

“What is that scent?”

“Which one?” She glanced at the red flowers beside her and then up at the hanging blooms above her. He thought they might be wisteria.

“Yours.”

She reached up and placed a hand at the base of her throat. Her breathing quickened as he watched her, and his breath sped too.

He should have retreated when he'd had the chance. When she turned, he feared he'd gone too far and she meant it as a dismissal, but then she reached up and plucked a leaf from an unassuming plant with spiky leaves.

After crushing the leaf in her palm, she lifted her hand toward him, and the sharp pungent fragrance made his nose itch. It was an overwhelming version of the scent she wore.

“Aloysia citrodora
. Lemon verbena.”

“It's powerful.”
And smells much sweeter on your skin
.

She grinned. “It is. It must be diluted before use as a fragrance, but there's such a pure clean zest in the raw leaves. Don't you think?”

“Speaking of clean, there's just a bit of . . .”

He reached out to touch her but hesitated. His skin against hers would be the start of it, and one touch wouldn't be enough. He already wanted more—­to hear about her plants, read that journal she'd bent over so intently, and taste the skin he was about to caress.

“Will you always find fault with me?” In the space of his doubt, she reached up to scrub at her own face.

But she missed the spot and Seb pressed his fingers to her cheek, wiping gently at the smudge, his fingers brushing against hers as the heat of her skin warmed his fingers and wound its way, somehow, all the way to his chest.

“It's not a fault. Just a spot of dirt.”

It disturbed him how it easy it was, how right it felt to touch this woman, when he'd held back from touching anyone for so long.

“Did you get it all?”

He swiped his thumb across her cheek. “Here, yes, but there's more.”

She spluttered and waved one hand. “Well, go on and get the rest.”

The last mark was on the edge of her plump lower lip. He lifted his other hand and dabbed with one finger until all he could see was a lush crescent of skin as deep a coral as the bud she'd encouraged to blossom.

She didn't flinch away from his touch or turn her eyes down coquettishly. Lady Katherine used their proximity to appraise him, her eyes sharply assessing as she studied his face, roving over every aspect of his countenance but never quite meeting his gaze.

He'd done his good deed and wiped her face clean, but he still wanted to touch her. He cupped her cheek in one hand and rested the fingers of the other at the edge of her jaw.

Her voice was low and breathy when she asked him, “Have you got it all?”

When he dipped his head to nod, he drew closer to her mouth. And that was the greatest mistake of all. With barely a flex of his hands, he could tip her closer, taste the skin that was far softer than he'd imagined. But then there'd be no turning back. Hadn't he vowed to himself not to be drawn by a pretty face again? Not to lose himself in desire?

Lowering his hands, Seb slid one down her arm and felt her body tremble beneath his touch.

“Another time, will you tell me about all of these?”

He glanced around her conservatory.

She moved out of his grasp and glowered a moment, as if she took his question as a jest, a belittling of her interest and passion. But when he continued to stare at her expectantly, she seemed to lower her shield.

“Why do you want to know about my plants?”

He opened his mouth to tell her that he was curious by nature. The most difficult aspect of university had been narrowing his studies to just one or two topics. But the truth was more dangerous, impossible to admit. He wanted to learn more about
her
. Lady Katherine who called herself Kitty, when there was nothing frivolous or kittenish about her. Lady Katherine who laughed at her friends, and in the next moment scolded a man to set her insult aright.

Mysteries had always intrigued him, and he'd never met a woman who left so many questions unanswered in his mind. But he couldn't tell her that.

A woman cleared her throat behind Seb. “Beg pardon, my lady. His lordship says he will see the Duke of Wrexford now.”

Seb stiffened and Lady Katherine sprang away from him at the maid's intrusion.

“You're here to see my father?” She seemed intrigued by the prospect.

“Yes, regarding a settlement for Mr. Treadwell and Lady Harriet.”

She sighed with obvious relief. “My sister will be pleased to hear that.”

“I haven't convinced the marquess of anything yet. But I will. Leave your father to me.”

Seb turned to follow the maid. He'd come to assist Ollie and time spent in this perfumed room touching Lady Katherine wouldn't accomplish that goal.

“Your Grace?”

Turning his head, he caught her wiping again at the spot where the smudge had been. The spot where he'd touched her cheek.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Another time, I'll tell you whatever you wish to know. About the plants.”

Plants were well and good, but
she
truly sparked his curiosity. He wanted to learn whatever he wished to know about
her
.

The desire was so fierce it terrified him. Desire and attraction—­all of it led to loss of control. Losing one's heart, falling madly, trusting utterly—­none of it held any appeal. But she did, and far too much for him to find peace of mind anywhere near her.

 

Chapter Eight

“W
HAT HAPPEN
ED BETWEEN
you and the duke?”

Kitty ignored Hattie's question and pushed the dirty cotton gown from her hips before pressing a cool damp cloth to her blazing face. The duke had flustered her, setting her nerves jangling until she'd agonized over trembling so fiercely her teeth might begin to rattle. And he'd touched her. Not as a possession or a prize, but tenderly, as if he couldn't stop himself. The way she stroked an orchid or passionflower blossom, awestruck by its beauty, fascinated by its shape and texture and color.

She turned in her seat and faced her sister. “He told me that he plans to provide a settlement for Mr. Treadwell. That should help bring Papa around.”

It wasn't what Hattie had asked, but her sister squealed with delight, bouncing up and down like an excited child, and Kitty knew it was truly what she'd wished to know.

Kitty preferred not to explain her odd encounter with the Duke of Wrexford. She suspected it would be as impossible to sort out as their first.

At least she'd kept a clear head this time, and she counted that a victory. Even when he drew near, even when he put his hands on her, even when he'd caused her to tremble, she'd had enough sense to study him. She'd search his eyes and facial movements for any emotion that might belie his words. After scrutinizing and assessing, she found him . . . extraordinary, at least in her experience of men. Wrexford's eyes matched his words. If anything, he seemed to hold the full extent of his emotions at bay and express only a fraction of the genuine interest and pleasure he felt. Try as she might, Kitty couldn't catch him using any expression to deceive, charm, or prevaricate.

“And did he come to speak of marrying you too?”

Their mother's lady's maid stood behind Kitty arranging her hair and tugged her back into place when she tried to turn and glare at her sister.

“Don't speak nonsense, Hattie.”

“Why is it nonsense? The housemaid said he asked to see you. And in your hidden haven.”

It was her haven, but it certainly wasn't hidden. Even the Duke of Wrexford knew where to find it now.

“Annie would do well to gossip less. She shouldn't have brought him to the conservatory.”

“He clearly unsettles you.” Hattie's voice held the singsong quality they'd perfected in nearly two decades of sisterly taunting. Kitty knew she spoke partly in jest, but there was a disturbing seriousness in her sister's voice.

Marriage to the duke didn't bear discussion. She'd met the man twice and all of their minutes in each other's company wouldn't see the sand in an hourglass turn.

“Very well. He unsettles me. Is that a fitting basis for marriage?” Kitty struggled to infuse her shaky voice with Hattie's teasing tone.

“At least he makes you feel something.”

Her sister hadn't meant to be cruel. Hattie was never cruel, but her words pricked like rose thorns, scratching just deep enough to string.

“You think me unfeeling.”

“I think you guard your heart. And I've never seen a man pierce through your defenses—­unsettle you, as you say—­as easily as the Duke of Wrexford.”

Kitty sat still, allowing the maid to finish with her hair. She was grateful when Hattie turned away and began searching the wardrobe for a suitable day dress, finally emerging with a pale pink confection, far more frilly and frivolous than Kitty felt.

“This one?”

“That will do.”

Anything would be an improvement over the plain muslin gown she wore when working in the conservatory. Goodness, she must have looked like a street urchin when he'd found her, begrimed and disheveled, with dirt under her fingernails and wisps of hair clinging to the perspiration on her cheeks and forehead. Adderlys never got dirty. Or if they did, they certainly didn't let anyone see.

No one ever ventured down to the conservatory when she was working with her plants. Father considered the room to be much like the kitchen, a place of messes he'd rather ignore as long as delicious food and pleasing flower arrangements occasionally emerged from the chaos.

And Mother considered her interest in botany an unnatural pursuit for a young woman. Drawing flowers was well and good, even pressing them between the pages of a book until every bit of moisture and life had been snuffed out. But a lady who grew them from seed like a farmer, studied them, and enjoyed sinking her fingers into rich dark soil—­Mother declared such pleasures wholly unacceptable. But Kitty had never relented, never caught Violet's interest in sewing and embroidery, never matched Hattie's skill in music. And why was her passion inappropriate? No one seemed to find it the least bit disturbing that Violet's hobbies revolved around stabbing things with needles, or that Hattie's favorite songs to sing outside their parents' hearing were bawdy dance hall tunes she'd learned from the housemaid whose sweetheart performed at a music hall near Leicester Square.

Now, after years of being censured for her interest in horticulture, the Duke of Wrexford wished to hear more about her plants.

The man was a puzzle, faulting her one day and finding her seemingly fascinating the next. If it was artifice, she couldn't detect a single flaw in his façade. Nor could she believe him so accomplished at feigning interest and tolerating those he disdained. Even Father's mask slipped now and again. Surely a man like Wrexford, who'd spent years pondering lofty academic topics, would have little reason to waste time honing skills in deception.

Hattie helped Kitty into the clean day dress. Turning to inspect herself in the long mirror, she almost stumbled. How simple it was to transform with a bit of polish and a fine dress. This is how she'd been taught to present herself to the world. Clothes in the height of fashion, tailored to fit. Clean skin and every hair in place. Jewels glittering at her ears and neck as proof of Clayborne wealth. A spotless woman, without taint or flaw.

She almost preferred herself as Wrexford had found her, engaged in a task she cared about, dirty and imperfect, but more herself than the woman who stared back at her now in the looking glass.

But that woman wasn't acceptable—­not to her mother, not to their friends, and most especially not to her father. Kitty found it easier to give them what they wanted, even if it made for a life of pretense. She was skilled at pretense, after all.

“You look lovely.” Hattie came around in front of her and straightened the bow at the edge of Kitty's bodice. Her thin fingers fumbled with the ribbon, and Kitty noticed her sister was quivering.

“What if the duke's money isn't enough to sway Papa?” Hattie dipped her gaze, a tear caught in her lash. “I hate that my marriage is dependent on yours. I have no wish to see you forced into a connection you do not desire.”

The rest went unspoken, suspended between them. Hattie's mouth was still ajar, her breath seemingly trapped in her throat and waiting to escape.

Kitty knew what she'd say. Whatever they wished, their father's stubbornness and Hattie's desire to marry meant their fates
were
linked.

“But if you don't marry, I can't marry.” Hattie didn't need to add that it wasn't simply marriage that Kitty would be keeping from her. For Hattie, marriage to Mr. Treadwell equated with happiness, contentment, the kind of future Kitty wanted for both of her sisters but rarely imagined for herself.

Unlike Hattie, she'd yet to meet a man she couldn't do without.

“That is Papa's decree, yes.” In a lifetime of being Desmond Adderly's daughter, Kitty had come to expect arbitrary rules and high expectations. They'd all squirmed under his control at one time or another. But insisting on piano lessons when she didn't have an ear for music was a world away from choosing a man for her to wed and taking the most important decision she'd ever make out of her grasp.

“Let me speak to Papa again. No doubt the duke's support of Mr. Treadwell has reassured him.” She laid a hand on Hattie's arm. Her sister's tremors were like the fluttering a bird's wings against her palm.

“Perhaps if you simply told him you'd consider the Duke of Wrexford. Would that satisfy him?”

More pretense. But feigning interest in a suitable young man to stem the pressure from her parents was practically a habit for Kitty. Some of them she had truly attempted to like. Others she merely tolerated because it pleased her mother or had been insisted upon by her father. But taking tea with a man, or entertaining his chaperoned visits wouldn't go far enough this time. Their father would see through it immediately.

Only marriage would satisfy him. And before that a very public engagement with the thrill of telling family and friends, the announcement in the newspapers, and the satisfaction of knowing they would be adding a duke to the family.

She glanced once more at her reflection in the looking glass. Pretense and polish. That she could give them. The pretense of an engagement. What if she gave her father what he wanted? Gave her mother the pride of declaring two engagements?

Rushing to the bedroom window, she looked down and saw no Wrexford carriage sitting in front of their town house. Had he already departed or sent his driver on an errand while he spoke with her father?

“Kitty?”

“Stay here, Hattie. I must catch Wrexford if I can.”

Lifting her skirts, Kitty rushed down the stairs and saw Annie emerging from the entry hall.

“Is he gone?”

“He's just stepped out, my lady.”

Moving past the maid, Kitty marched toward the front door.

“Did he travel by carriage?”

“By foot, my lady.”

She pulled open the door, perched on the threshold, and scanned the pavement for Wrexford's tall figure.

“My lady, your jacket.” Annie held her coat and Kitty slipped her arms in and allowed the maid to begin buttoning her up when she spotted him. His long-­legged stride would have him around the corner and out of sight if she didn't hurry.

“That'll do, Annie.” Ignoring the gloves and hat the maid offered, Kitty sprinted down the pavement.

Attempted to sprint. Layers of petticoats and her overly flouncy skirt made speed impossible, but she pressed forward, her legs wrestling against the fabric as if she was treading waist-­high water.

“Wrexford!”

Pram-­pushing nannies and top-­hatted gentlemen scowled at her as she passed. Haste was improper enough. Shouting and flapping one's arms could get her categorized as a hellion.

It took a final push against her leaden skirts and the jostling of a slow-­moving nanny to get close enough to speak to him in an inoffensive volume.

“Your Grace, wait, please.”

If she was a hellion, he was a rogue. Like her, he wore no hat. In a sea of black chimney pot-­covered heads, his hair shone in rich shades of chestnut, with wheaten strands catching the morning light as he moved. The daylight performed magic with his eyes. She'd identified them as blue during that first encounter in the empty sitting room, but not the extraordinary shade she noticed now—­the vibrant blue of a gentian flower.

He turned to look back at her. “Ah, Lady Katherine. I thought it was you. Somehow even your pleas come out sounding like commands.”

“And yet you turned back.”

“I've been told my curious nature will be my ruin.” One of his wry grins accompanied the admission, and Kitty hated the way the sight of it stirred the silly fluttering in her belly.

“I promise not to ruin you. I simply need to speak with you.”

He pursed his mouth and studied her a moment as if considering whether to refuse her.

“I was just going to take a turn in the park. Join me.”

She swallowed down a tumbling sense of dread and nodded agreement. If he rejected the scheme she intended to propose, there could be no more public a setting for their falling out than Hyde Park.

She hoped to convince all of fashionable London that she planned to marry the man. Being caught in a quarrel with him wouldn't do.

“Was it a fruitful meeting with my father?”

He glanced at her, a quick brush of his gaze across her face.

“He's pleased at how determined I am to see Oliver and your sister comfortably settled.”

“But?” She didn't miss the hesitation in his voice.

“Your father was more interested in talking about your marriage.”

They'd just reached the edge of the park's green and he turned his body to guide her off the path and into a patch of shade under the pink-­frilled branches of a cherry blossom tree.

He left her, pacing a few steps away, unbuttoning his jacket and flicking the edges back to plant a hand on each hip. Then he stalked back toward her, head down, shoulders braced, a fearsome frown tightening his angular jar and drawing down his brows.

“To
me,
Lady Katherine. He wished to speak about your marriage to me. Our marriage. Yours and mine. Would you care to explain?”

Kitty winced as if he'd thrown his words at her rather than merely speaking forcefully enough to make her ears ring.

She'd feared this. Her father might be a great strategist, but he'd always lacked patience. And now he'd riled the man she very much hoped to cajole.

When she didn't find her words quickly enough, he turned away again. Pacing in a square, as if marking off a measurement. He grumbled as he stalked around his invisible path, and she thought he might be counting.

Forcing her mouth into a charming smile, Kitty dipped her head a fraction, and prepared to approach, but Wrexford turned and glowered, his blue eyes drained of all their vibrancy, his arms locked across his chest.

Mentally scouring her mind for the best strategy to quell his irritation, the most convincing words, the unassailable arguments to present to him, she came away with a shocking truth. None of her cunning would work on him.