Scandal of the Year (16 page)

“I could say the same for you.” In a temper over his wrecked plans—and the spontaneous combustion of lust inside him—he strode straight to the desk. “Why the devil are you in here? You’re supposed to be out at a ball.”

“I told Mama that I wasn’t feeling well. The coachman brought me home a little while ago.”

“She allowed you to abandon the Duke of Savoy?”

“He wasn’t present tonight. There was no reason for me to stay.”

“And so you would prefer to sit here in the dark.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I blew out the candle when I heard someone coming.”

Blythe willed her heart to stop racing. The reaction had more to do with James himself than with the shock she’d experienced at his abrupt entry into her father’s office. For one, she’d never seen him without his white powdered wig. If she’d thought him handsome before, now he was downright gorgeous, with rumpled black hair to match his dark eyes and swarthy skin.

Clad in blue livery, he created a forceful presence that altered the quiet peace of the room. The flickering light of his candle cast harsh shadows over his strong cheekbones. She had the oddest impression of roiling emotions in him, a notion that was corroborated by his terse tone and scowling expression.

But why should a footman be angry to find her at her father’s desk? Come to think of it, why had James crept into the office so furtively?

“Enough of your inquisition,” she said. “I believe it’s my place to inquire why
you’re
here.”

His features took on an impassive look. “The lamps,” he said. “I was charged with the task of making certain there were none left burning that might start a fire.”

“I see.” It was a reasonable excuse, yet she knew he wasn’t telling her everything. “And when you check each room, do you always remove your wig?”

He tossed the bundle onto a nearby chair. “It’s an annoyance. I didn’t think you’d mind if I did so.”

“You also closed the door behind yourself. Why?”

He fixed her with an unfathomable stare. Then he set down the candlestick, strolled around to the side of the desk, and seated himself on the edge. Leaning forward, he murmured, “Because I guessed at once that you didn’t want anyone to know you’re in here. And besides, I find it necessary to have a private talk with my employer.”

His nearness gave Blythe a tiny shiver of pleasure. Although his tale didn’t quite ring true, the note of sensuality in his voice had a distracting effect on her, as did the sight of his disheveled hair. She had the mad urge to reach up and comb her fingers through it. Besides his casual appearance, his unorthodox behavior rattled her composure. Never before had she known a servant to sit in her presence without invitation. James was much too close and she really ought to order him to move.

Yet the paper lying before her was a stark reminder that she needed his cooperation.

“I’m not your employer,” she pointed out. “My father pays your wages.”

“A minor distinction. Nevertheless, you do wield an undeniable power over me, Miss Crompton.”

Again, his silken words seemed imbued with undercurrents of meaning. Was he admitting that he was attracted to her? Or was he merely referring to the difference in their ranks? Whatever the reason, his dark brown eyes held her enthralled. He gazed intently at her as if she was the subject of his romantic dreams. Her blood beating faster, Blythe found herself craving his embrace with unladylike desperation.

How imprudent even to allow such a thought. Nothing could be more forbidden to her than a liaison with a servant.

“Why did you wish to speak to me?” she asked.

Her question broke the spell. Sitting back, he folded his arms and subjected her to a cool stare. “It’s about your plan to trick the duke’s daughter. Since I’m involved, I was curious to know if you’ve given up on it.”

“Of course I haven’t given up. I’ve already spread the rumor that Prince Nicolai of Ambrosia is to visit London. Everyone is on pins and needles awaiting his arrival.”

A brief tightening of James’s mouth revealed his displeasure. “Then it seems the nobility is far too gullible.”

“You told me yourself that people will see whatever they wish to see.” To give herself something to do, Blythe picked up the quill and twirled it between her fingers. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I came home early tonight without my parents.”

“You felt ill.”

She shook her head. “That was merely an excuse. The truth is that I’ve been writing a note to Lady Davina from Prince Nicolai, and I needed to borrow a few sheets of my father’s stationery. It looks more manly than mine, you see.”

James picked up a blank piece of heavy cream paper and held it to his nose. “It also doesn’t reek of flowery perfume, as yours does.”

“How do you know—? Oh, you delivered the thank-you note that Mama made me write to the duke.”

“For the chocolate bonbons that were ever so much finer than the mundane offerings of your other suitors.”

His mocking tone wrested a self-conscious laugh from Blythe. How embarrassing to remember that James had been standing nearby while her mother had dictated those gushing words. Not wanting to be disloyal to the duke, Blythe said primly, “It was very considerate of His Grace to send me sweets.”

“Very special, indeed. I’m sure he put a tremendous amount of thought into such an unusual gift.”

Irked, she tossed down the quill. “I know you don’t approve of me marrying the duke, but may I remind you, it is no concern of yours.”

“Quite the contrary. In order for you to succeed in your mission, I am expected to play Prince Nicolai of Ambrosia.”

James had a point there. Blythe couldn’t fault him for feeling manipulated, so she strove for a more conciliatory tone. “I am rewarding you well for your trouble, don’t forget. Now, you should be interested to learn what the prince wrote to Lady Davina.” She pushed the paper toward him. “Go ahead, read it and tell me what you think.”

He stared at her, his eyes hooded. Then he reached for the letter and angled it to the light of the candle. “‘To the most gracious Lady Davina.’” He aimed a sardonic look at Blythe. “Do they use the English tongue in Ambrosia, then?”

“His Royal Highness Prince Nicolai has had the very best tutors. He can speak English like a native.”

“How convenient.” One dark eyebrow cocked, James continued reading, “‘Pray forgive my boldness in writing this note, but I confess to being too eager to await the proper introductions. The tales of your great beauty have reached far and wide, luring me on a journey to the shores of England. I hope you will be so kind as to grant me an audience upon my arrival in London. Until then, I shall look forward with great anticipation to paying my addresses to you, dear lady. I remain your most ardent admirer, Nicolai Aleksander Leonide Pashenka, Crown Prince of Ambrosia.’”

Deviltry in his dark eyes, James looked at Blythe. “Couldn’t you have given him a shorter name? It shall prove a disaster if I forget the order of my own identity.”

“Stop teasing and tell me, is it a good letter? Do you think Davina will be fooled?”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid it won’t do at all.”

Affronted, Blythe sat up straight. “What do you mean? I spent the better part of half an hour debating exactly how to word it.”

“It isn’t so much the content, although I must say that
is
a bit syrupy.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“The note obviously has been written by a woman’s hand. And if I must play this role, I heartily object to the prince being perceived as effeminate.”

“Oh.” Blythe studied the letter with a fresh eye. He was right, there
was
a dainty quality to the penmanship. And James—in the guise of Prince Nicolai—required a more masculine style.

Sliding off the edge of the desk, he advanced on her. “You needn’t look so glum. Move aside, if you will, and I’ll do it over for you.”

Blythe found herself obeying, vacating the chair so that he could take her place. A belated concern struck her. He claimed to have had the education of a gentleman, but what if James had overplayed his skills in order to impress her? What if he embarrassed himself by producing a coarse, ink-spotted mess?

She hovered over him as he reached for a clean sheet of stationery and dipped a quill into the silver inkpot. He frowned down at her letter for a few moments, which only served to increase her anxiety. Then with confident strokes of the pen, he began to write. For a few moments, the only sound was the scratching of the nib on the paper. Every now and then, he reached out to refresh his ink.

Standing so close, she could touch his broad shoulders or run her fingers through the thickness of his hair. The very thought of indulging those desires stirred a secret fire in her. If only she could fathom why she felt so drawn to him. Was it merely the temptation of the forbidden?

Perhaps, for there was no denying he was the most breathtakingly handsome man in the world. Unfortunately, good looks were not what mattered in life. She was obliged to marry well in order to secure her future and her parents’ place in society. And yet … wistful longing kept a tenacious hold on her heart.

Clearly oblivious to her wayward thoughts, James signed the prince’s convoluted name with a flourish. He sanded the note before nudging it in her direction across the polished surface of the desk.

Blythe bent nearer to read it by the meager light of the candle. He had altered a few words here and there to lend a more masculine tenor to the message. The bold dark slash of his handwriting gave an air of authenticity to the letter, and she caught her breath in delight. “Oh, that’s much better. It’s perfect!”

Turning her head to smile at him, she felt a lightning bolt of awareness. His face loomed mere inches away, and there was no mistaking the heat in his eyes. His smoldering gaze flicked to her bosom, then returned to her face. More specifically, to her mouth.

“
You’re
perfect,” he muttered. “And I must be the world’s biggest fool for helping you catch another man.”

The husky statement sounded wrested from him by force. It sent a shiver over her skin, for never in her life had she heard such a romantic declaration.

In the grips of a powerful yearning, Blythe stroked her fingertips across his cheek. “James,” she whispered. “Oh, James.”

She didn’t know who moved first. But their mouths met in a tentative brush that instantly caught fire like dry tinder. In a flash, she tumbled into his lap, throwing her arms around him as he kissed her with feral intensity. When his tongue demanded entry into her mouth, she welcomed the intimacy. Whatever inhibitions she had left melted away under the heat of their closeness. His taste, his scent, the sheer masculinity of him, overwhelmed her with a feast of the senses.

In all of her girlish dreams, she had never imagined a man’s embrace could make her feel so wildly alive. She’d flirted and teased, much to the frustration of her suitors. But now she experienced the torment of passion herself. She craved James in every part of her body and soul.

Pressing herself to the wall of his chest, she could not seem to get close enough to him. Her fingers learned the angles of his face and the smooth silk of his hair. He explored her as well, his hands roving over the exposed skin of her shoulders and tracing the shape of her breasts. She moaned from the surfeit of pleasure. The illicit nature of their kiss only fed the hunger inside her. Clasped in his arms, in the small circle of candlelight, she felt as if the rules of the outside world had ceased to exist.

How amazing to know that James desired her with such ferocity. James, with his sardonic sense of humor and abundant charm. James, with his enticing aura of mystery. How was it that the one man who set her heart on fire had to be a servant?

Even as the unwelcome thought intruded, he lifted his head and slid his hands from her bosom down to her waist. His breathing harsh, he pressed his lips to her brow. “This is wrong,” he muttered. “We should not be doing this.”

His chivalry stirred her deeply. Catching his face in her hands, she brushed her damp lips over his. “It’s merely a kiss. Nothing more.”

“It’s far more than that. You know it as well as I, Blythe … Miss Crompton.” Grimacing, he shook his head. “There, you see? I haven’t even the right to use your given name.”

“Then I grant it to you.” Unwilling to end the pleasure, she enticed him with light kisses. “Whenever we’re alone, you may address me so.”

“We won’t be alone again, not if I can help it.”

“Then I shall devise reasons to keep you in my company.” With her fingertip, she traced the shape of his lips and the solid line of his jaw. “You’ll attend me to the shops while I procure your princely garments. I’ll find an excuse to stay home again so that I might teach you about the ways of society. You’ll need to learn what to say—”

He caught her wrist in a firm grip and pushed her hand away. “This isn’t a game, Blythe. I won’t be your plaything while you prepare to marry the duke.”

His sharp tone sliced through the romantic haze. Seeing the glitter of anger in his eyes, she felt the golden moment draining away, leaving her bereft. “I never said you were. It’s just that … we both enjoyed kissing and I only thought…”

He shook his head decisively. “Let me make myself very clear,” he said, his face cold. “I will not be satisfied with a passing flirtation. I want to seduce you. And by God, I
will
do so if you give me half a chance. Is that what you want? To lift your skirts for a footman? Do you really suppose your duke will accept damaged goods?”

His words struck Blythe like a physical slap. He had transformed the beautiful passion between them into something that was sordid and ugly. And as much as it pained her to admit it, he was right. Her destiny was to marry the Duke of Savoy. She didn’t dare throw away her future for a tryst with a servant.

The enormity of her mistake flooded Blythe. What madness had come over her? She should never have kissed James. Nor should she be perched in his lap—and in her father’s office, no less. How pitifully juvenile he must think her, not to have considered the consequences of her behavior! Even worse, a part of her still ached for him to pull her close and make the world go away.