At the Bride Hunt Ball Read online

  “What is what?” she bit out, bringing up a hand to self-consciously rub where he looked.

  “Red marks…” He nodded, apparently agreeing with himself. “Definitely some sort of chafing, like a man had rubbed his jaw—”

  “’Tis nerves, I imagine. Just nerves.”

  “And your lips, my dear…” He bent low and whispered, “Swollen and throbbing, I wager.”

  “Next, you’ll be telling me ‘what big eyes I have.’”

  He chuckled softly. “No,” he said, shaking his tawny head. “Though you do. But I will say, you look as if you had just—”

  “Please, my lord,” she warned, pausing in the act of lifting her spoon to her mouth. “I’m starved, really, and your conversation is…delaying the appeasement of my hunger.”

  “By all means,” he said with a turning sweep of his hand. “I prefer to make it a habit to indulge females who are in possession of hearty appetites.”

  She nodded, distractedly, and finished her soup.

  By the time the third course was served, Madelyn was finding it steadily harder to avoid conversation by shoveling food between her lips. She wasn’t very hungry, and if she sipped any more wine, would render herself unconscious well before the footman brought dessert.

  Truthfully, she was feeling quite proud of herself at the moment. She’d managed to studiously evade speaking with Rothbury for quite some time now, and she’d never looked at Gabriel at all. Well, just once. All right, three times. But thank God he didn’t make eye contact with her. She didn’t think she could handle that. Instead, he had been busy shooting questionable glares at Lord Rothbury.

  Murmurs of separate conversations rumbled about the table, but Madelyn was oblivious to them all save one. On the other side of Rothbury sat Charlotte, and next to her, Tristan. Each time Gabriel’s brother bent low to whisper into Charlotte’s ear, Madelyn leaned toward Rothbury in order to hear.

  “Miss Haywood,” Rothbury said, turning to her, a square of roast beef on his fork. “Are you attempting to flirt with me or are you trying to overhear the conversation to my left?”

  She took a gulp of her wine. Sighing, she looked into the earl’s handsome face. His eyes swam a bit and she knew the wine must have gone to her head. “Eavesdropping, I’m afraid,” she admitted.

  He shook his head. “That’s too bad. I was hopeful for the former.”

  She hiccupped. “Pray, might you tell me…exactly what it is they’re saying?”

  “Why, you naughty girl,” he drawled with a smile. “I’d rather take advantage of you in your present state. However, as Wolverest over there would surely run his dinner knife through my heart if I tried, yes, I do believe I can help you.”

  She chased a pea around her plate with her fork as she waited for Rothbury to finish listening to Lord Tristan’s and Charlotte’s whispers. He was quite the expert eavesdropper, she thought, popping the pea in her mouth. His looks never betrayed his real intentions and he even managed to hold a casual conversation with another earl seated across from him. After several minutes she became restless and even began to worry that he’d forgotten what he was supposed to be doing.

  Finally, he turned back to her.

  “After dinner,” he whispered. “His library. Something about a book of rare orchids. And she’s to wear only her bonnet, spectacles, and stockings.”

  “Oh no,” she said in astonishment.

  “Wait. I added that last bit. Small fantasy of mine.”

  “Oh! That scoundrel! I have to stop them. Stop him.” She went to take another sip of wine, but the glass was empty. Almost instantly a footman appeared, taking her glass and replacing it with a full one. She reached for it, but Rothbury got to it first and placed it out of her reach.

  “Certainly, I would never be caught spoiling a romantic tryst. However, you cannot traipse about saving virgins with your nose buried in a rug.”

  “Yesh, of course. You’re right.” She went to stand, but he stayed her by pressing his hand to her forearm.

  “At least wait until after dinner,” he suggested.

  Settling back down, she shook her head to clear it as the room appeared to slant.

  “Miss Haywood,” Lady Eugenia called out from down the long table. “It has been brought to my attention that your mother was an American.”

  The whispers and mumbles of exchanges from the other guests faded to silence.

  At the mention of her mother, Madelyn straightened in her chair. “Yes, she was. A Bostonian.”

  Lady Eugenia smiled like she’d just figured out the last piece of a puzzle. She leaned back in her chair, clasping her plum-colored linen napkin between her hands in a self-congratulatory gesture. “This explains so much about your nature, child.”

  “Aunt,” Gabriel said, a warning in his voice.

  All around them a bevy of footmen worked to remove the entree plates and replace them with dishes of raspberry cream. They worked silently, diligently, paying no heed to the tension rising in the room like a foul stench.

  Madelyn found herself regretting the amount of wine she had consumed. Sober, she would have been able to mask her emotions. As it was, she suspected she was an open book. “And what, exactly, is in my manner that my parentage explains, my lady?” she asked, her hands starting to tremble.

  “Why, your inclination for clumsiness. Not to mention your comportment. I always say one can spot an American simply by the way they walk…”

  “Aunt,” came Gabriel’s stony warning once again.

  “There’s always some sort of movement going on,” she continued with a smile, “a gangly, loose-limbed sort of gallop. However, I believe with a firm instructor, of course, those tendencies could be ironed out of existence.”

  Rosalind cleared her throat from across her aunt. “Did I tell you, Aunt, about our outing tomorrow? If the weather permits, I thought the women should like a stroll in—”

  “And of course there is the way you talk,” his aunt continued. “So loud. One of my friends, a patroness at Almack’s, told me that she never had to ask you to repeat yourself. You are definitely not given to mumble, dear.”

  “Aunt Eugenia,” Gabriel growled through his teeth.

  Madelyn looked down, half noticing that Lord Rothbury had now pushed a full glass of wine within her reach, apparently for her benefit. She didn’t partake, however, knowing, as tipsy as she was, no amount of wine would lessen her mortification at being singled out for ridicule.

  “But I see now why my nephew decided to allow your name to remain on the list,” Lady Eugenia said, dipping her spoon into the dessert set before her. “It is no great secret my youngest nephew enjoys a good jo—”

  “That’s enough!” Gabriel slammed his fist upon the table, causing a clattering shake. A heavy silence filled the room as all eyes swung alternately from the duke to his aunt. “I will not have…one of my guests slighted at my table, in my house, by my aunt, no less.”

  One of his guests. Madelyn swallowed, fighting back a surprising twinge of pain. Was that all she was to him? Suddenly, what happened in the alcove before dinner became a shameful memory.

  Lady Eugenia’s face pulled into an expression one would make if they had just tasted something quite bitter. Madelyn imagined it was the sting of disapproval from her oldest nephew.

  “Miss Haywood was invited for her unique qualities,” Rosalind said loudly, giving Madelyn the barest of glances as she spoke. “She’s an accomplished silhouettist. And more importantly, I quite like her.”

  Lord Fairbourne chuckled jovially, giving Madelyn an encouraging fatherlike wink, which surprised her. “She’s certainly not a dull one. Pluck to the backbone, those Americans. A more optimistic bunch I’ve never known.” He raised his glass to her and took a drink.

  All around her conversations began anew. They started as a low rumble, until the guests seated at the table twittered, grumbled, laughed, and simply chatted away as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. Not being the cente
r of attention any longer, Madelyn exhaled, grateful for their diversion but still pained by Gabriel’s indifferent address.

  Her conscience nagged at her. What was he supposed to call her? His lover? The woman of his heart? The tart in the hallway? Smiling wryly, she shook her head. She had no right to berate his words. She had never given him leave to call her Madelyn, though he did on occasion. And to address her in such an informal manner would have induced a wildfire of gossip. At the very least he could have said “Miss Haywood.” A shaky sigh rushed past her lips.

  “Are you all right?” Rothbury asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine.” Perhaps she was being too sensitive.

  Dinner ended with no further hitches. The ladies began to rise—the gentlemen standing dutifully—to wander back to the drawing room for tea and more chattering.

  Madelyn looked over to Priscilla, who had been very pleased earlier to see that she arrived late to the drawing room on the arm of the duke, no less. Presently, she caught Madelyn’s attention and gestured discreetly with a nod of her head toward the end of the table where Gabriel stood.

  Turning, Madelyn’s gaze was instantly locked with Gabriel’s. His stare was possessive and intense, and she shivered as his eyes burned into hers.

  An accompanying heat suffused her entire body, coaxing to the forefront of her mind the memory of his kiss, of his hands roving over her skin, of the wicked delight he created. She closed her eyes against the recollection. When she opened them a second later, he gave her a slow smile and a nod. She had that strange feeling again, like he could read her thoughts and was silently promising her from across the room that he meant to have her.

  Swallowing hard, she looked away, pretending to be interested in the conversation to her right. She must push all thoughts of Gabriel out of her mind, she told herself. He might want her, and she might want him, but there was an infinitely more important task at hand.

  Lord Tristan meant to seduce her friend within the next hour, and she meant to stop him.

  Next to her, Rothbury stepped away from the table. Charlotte’s and Tristan’s seats were empty.

  Madelyn looked about the room, but the pair had vanished. His library. He was taking her to his library under the pretense of showing her a book.

  Rising herself now, she excused herself from the room without hesitation. Though she was aware of the whereabouts of the private wing of the castle from the tour, she had no idea where Lord Tristan’s rooms were. She took a deep breath and assured herself that snooping around was her specialty.

  Chapter 15

  It was harder than she thought.

  In fact, it was turning out to be impossible. She had been searching for Charlotte and Lord Tristan for nearly an hour now, and all she found were locked doors and dead ends. Surely if his lordship was a fast mover, her friend could have already been seduced, thinking a marriage proposal at the ball would be Lord Tristan’s next move.

  A sharp jab of pain sliced at Madelyn’s ankle, reminding her of her recent injury. She paused until it abated, then heaved a frustrated sigh and turned down yet another corridor. It looked—aggravatingly—just like all the others she’d been down. With her luck, she was running in circles. However, she knew she had only herself to blame for her befuddled mind. After all, she had imbibed too much wine at dinner.

  Most of the corridors in the private wing of the castle were blanketed in shadows. She adjusted her grip on her candle holder, thankful she had thought to bring it with her. The hall she was currently searching was long and dark, lined on both sides with doors. Quietly, she tried opening them, but to no avail. They were all locked.

  As she continued down the hall, she thought of Gabriel and whether any of the doors opened to his private chambers. Never in a hundred years could she have imagined the passion she felt under his influence. He felt it too. He had told her so. It was maddening and exciting and wonderful…and it must not ever happen again. Just who was she becoming? A woman of such loose morals she daydreamed about a man who ignited her with immeasurable pleasure and anticipated when or if he would do it again?

  She tried pushing Gabriel out of her thoughts and focusing on her mission. Looking ahead, she squinted into the shadows. Her slippers padded softly on the rug and her pace quickened as the small, flickering light she carried revealed a bend in the corridor up ahead…a bend instead of a sharp corner. She had never been down this way before.

  “I must be in one of the towers,” she whispered to herself.

  Reaching the end, she rounded the curve and promptly stumbled atop a set of winding stairs. Her lamp went clattering to the stone steps along with her, the flame extinguishing in an instant. She took a deep breath, her eyes filling with tears, for the unexpected spill jarred her sensitive ankle. Covered now in a blanket of darkness, she held herself still to allow her eyes to adjust, and her aching body as well. She murmured a prayer of thanks that she had fallen atop ascending stairs instead of crashing down descending ones. In this huge castle, no one would have found her body until the next century. She might very well have become a part of a tour.

  After a few moments she noticed a faint, bluish light beckoning at the top of the stairs. The sound of rain pelting sporadically against a windowpane drifted to her, leading her to assume that the light came from a window. Grabbing her now useless lamp, she rose from her sprawled position with a wince, then ascended the steep, narrow steps. Cool, rain-scented drafts wafted in the air.

  The top came sooner than she’d thought it would, opening to a small room. Two narrow windows were on her left, and a heavy oak door flanked with unlit sconces stood across from her. She peered out the window, which overlooked a private garden from high above. The full moon shone brightly, sitting bravely in the night sky as a swath of black clouds raced across the wide velvety expanse, as if to swallow it whole. Fat raindrops tapped hard and irregularly against the panes of glass, promising an imminent downpour.

  Madelyn took a deep breath. She was getting closer, she could feel it. With nothing but a pit of darkness awaiting her at the bottom of the stairs, she decided to press forward instead. She lifted the heavy iron ring handle of the door and pulled. Nothing. Placing her useless candle holder on a ledge, she grasped the door handle with both hands and pulled with all her strength. There was a crack and a moan, and the heavy door relented, opening to the outside. Damp, cold air penetrated her green velvet skirts, chilling her skin.

  A narrow footbridge stretched before her, connecting to an adjacent tower. Madelyn looked about, noting how still the air seemed, although the clouds rushed across the sky. It was as if the night was waiting for something, for someone. She stepped out and then jumped when the heavy door slammed shut behind her.

  “Oh-no-oh-no,” she muttered, spinning around with the intention of opening the door…only there wasn’t a handle on the outside. Groaning, she slumped a shoulder against it. “Brilliant. Just brilliant. It cannot possibly get any worse.”

  And then the rain came down in sheets.

  He could smell her. It was either that, Gabriel mused, or he was going mad. Having dismissed his valet before coming up, he had chosen to retire early, hoping sleep might offer him sanctuary from his most ardent desire. Apparently, he was wrong—for at the moment it appeared he was imagining he could smell her delicate perfume in every blasted corridor of the private wing of the castle.

  With sharp tugs, he undid his cravat as he strode down the corridor leading to his private chambers. He supposed that perhaps it was he who smelled like her. After all, she had been in his arms, writhing in ecstasy, not more than a couple of hours ago. Yes, that must be it. He reminded himself that all through dinner he kept catching a trace of her scent around him. It had made him distracted, aroused, and impatient. Thoughts of her lush body, her moans of pleasure, played in his mind while they dined. She had been exquisite. Better than he imagined. And he should never, ever do it again.

  His nostrils flared. There it was again.

  His steps slo
wed as the unmistakable scent of rose and mint continued to tickle at his senses. Senses that had been at a steady attention—just like another part of him—since the day Madelyn walked—or was it stumbled?—into his life. The clumsy, adorable, accident-prone vixen had wiggled her way into his thoughts and, he suspected, his heart.

  He shook his head, trying to dispel the enticing aroma in the hall, and entered his chamber. What a folly it was that she had agreed to stay at Wolverest. The ball was in two more days. Which meant two more days of surviving the delicious torture of being in the presence of Madelyn. He kicked off his boots, setting them aside for polishing.

  Throwing his cravat over the back of a red wing-back chair, Gabriel stood before the hearth, a roaring fire crackling in the grate left for him by a servant. He removed his coat and waistcoat and placed them on the seat of the chair.

  Tense. Everything about him felt rigid. His muscles, his mind, his cock. Without a doubt the only remedy was to make her his. All of her and in every way. He would be bound to her and there would be no turning back. Could he do that? Of course he could; he was the Duke of Wolverest, he could do whatever he wanted.

  He looked into the fire while divesting himself of his linen shirt, breeches, and drawers. They joined the heap on the chair and he was finally naked. And starkly aware of his state of arousal.

  A frustrated groan rumbled forth and he swept a hand through his dark locks. He looked across his room, spying the washstand next to the window that overlooked the flower garden down below. A sudden surge of rain beat against the pane of glass in drumming waves pushed by the wind.

  “Dreadful weather,” he mumbled, shuffling toward the window. Perhaps he should ring for a bath and submerge himself in the frigid depths again. It seemed to be the only thing that worked, albeit temporarily.

  Deciding instead to pour the cold water in the pitcher over his head, he flung his wet head back and blotted the rivulets of water streaking down his face, neck, arms, and chest with a wide towel. Just as he was opening his eyes, a shadow raced between the battlements outside.