CHAPTER TWO
The seeking female fingers crawled over Edward’s thigh with all the subtlety of a charging bull.
Nearly choking on the delectable morsel of game hen that he had just placed in his mouth, Edward shot a covert glance at the woman seated next to him.
Hell’s teeth.
As hostess of the vast London townhouse, Lady Beauvaille was no doubt a beauty, he grudgingly conceded. Though she was past the first bloom of youth, there was a lush sensuality to her full curves and a smoldering hunger in her dark eyes.
And yet, while he enjoyed being groped beneath the table as much as the next gentleman, he preferred that the woman seducing him did not possess a husband who was renowned for his marksmanship. Or one who just happened to be sitting across the table.
Sedately sipping her wine while pretending an interest in the elderly general at her side, the woman boldly continued her exploration of his lap. The nimble fingers squeezed and stroked with undeniable expertise. Then, shockingly, they began honing in with ruthless intent.
Edward hastily swallowed the piece of game hen lodged in his throat as he shifted from the determined attack.
Was the woman demented? Biddles had not warned him that the wealthy matron was in any way out of her wits, but then perhaps it was simply the way of London society. Perhaps all hostesses made a habit of fondling their dinner guests.
Denied of her quest, Lady Beauvaille swiftly turned to regard him with a faint pout.
“Why, my dear Lord Harrington, is there anything amiss?”
Carefully wiping his fingers upon a linen napkin, Edward swiftly considered his options. He did not desire to cause an unpleasant scene. Not when it was bound to create a scandal. On the other hand, he did not wish her to believe he had any interest in a more . . . intimate relationship.
The mere thought was enough to send a shudder through his body. He happened to be extremely fastidious when it came to his mistresses. And besides which, he possessed a healthy dose of self-preservation. Banal sex with a woman who had no doubt spread her legs for any number of gentlemen was hardly worthy of a lead ball through the heart.
Hoping to soften any sting of his rejection, he conjured a polite smile. “What could possibly be amiss, Lady Beauvaille?” he murmured. “The rumors of your extraordinary skills as a hostess have not been exaggerated.”
The dark eyes restlessly studied his carefully bland expression. They lingered upon the rich hazel of his eyes and the chestnut locks. Then deliberately they moved down to take a slow and shockingly thorough inventory of his broad shoulders and flat waist.
For the first time in his twenty-eight years of life, Edward comprehended what a woman must feel like to be mentally stripped bare.
Oddly, it was not nearly as pleasant as he had assumed it to be.
“I hope, my dear Lord Harrington, that it was more than my skills as a hostess that attracted you to my small gathering?” she said in a throaty voice.
Edward resisted the urge to tug at the cravat that was suddenly choking him. If he were a hare, he would be bolting for the nearest hole.
“Well . . . yes, certainly.”
She licked her full lips in a predatory gesture. “It seems that we are of the same mind. Perhaps we should discuss our common interests later in the conservatory? After the dancing begins?”
There was a muffled noise from across the table, and Edward shifted to glare at the suspiciously innocent expression of Biddles. Damn the sneaking rat, he silently seethed. His friend had been perfectly aware of Lady Beauvaille’s penchant for accosting her gentlemen guests and had done nothing to warn him. Indeed, he was clearly taking inordinate pleasure from his discomfort.
Never one to allow such a fine jest to go unrewarded, Edward leaned to grab his wine glass and at the same moment gave a sharp kick to Biddles’s shin. He had the satisfaction of a muffled grunt but no ready escape from the woman regarding him as if he were a tasty morsel.
“I must admit that it is a tempting offer, my lady. However . . .”
Like a blessing from above, the awkward moment was interrupted as Lord Beauvaille loudly cleared his throat to indicate it was time for the women to depart the table.
With a last, shameless squeeze of Edward’s leg, Lady Beauvaille rose grandly to her feet and led the handful of ladies from the dining room to the nearby salon. Reprieved for the moment, Edward heaved a silent sigh of relief.
Gads. He had imagined any number of pitfalls when he had traveled to London. Embarrassing gaffs, naïve blunders, and disapproval from the overabundance of puffed-up prigs. But . . . being accosted by a randy lady of the realm at her own table? Never. And now the bold hussy would be expecting him to join her in the conservatory.
With a pang of longing for the simple, quiet existence that he had left behind, Edward sipped his port and dutifully laughed at the bawdy jokes that were tossed about the table. He even indulged in a small cigar without coughing upon the vile smoke. Any hope for an intelligent discussion of the current laws being argued in the House of Lords or discovering the latest news from the Continent had long before been crushed. It was obvious that nothing but the most frivolous conversations were allowed at such events.
They lingered until the sound of arriving guests marked the beginning of the ball. Hoping his impatience was not noticeable, Edward followed the gathering herd up the stairs to the ballroom. Once within the depressingly opulent gold and ivory room, he stepped to one side and waited.
It took several moments, but at last the slender, brilliantly attired gentleman entered through the door and paused to peer about the crowd with his quizzing glass. Edward did not hesitate. Reaching out, he grasped the nefarious rat by the scruff of his neck and plucked him into the shadows at his side.
“Going somewhere, Biddles?” he murmured with a glitter in his eyes.
Smoothing his hand over his peacock blue coat, Biddles smiled with a guilelessness that was at utter odds with the sly amusement in his pale eyes.
“Oh, here you are, Edward. I feared you might have bolted.”
Edward planted his fists upon his hips in a decided threat. “Believe me, the notion has crossed my mind more than once this evening. Unfortunately, my desire to throttle you overcame my sensible urge to return to my home and pack my bags.”
Biddles produced a lacy handkerchief to dab at his nose with a wounded air. “Really, Edward, there is no cause to be in such a twit. Granted the game hen was shockingly overcooked and the vegetables as limp as Lord Beauvaille’s manhood is rumored to be, but even you must admit that the pastries were divine.”
Edward rolled his eyes heavenward in a silent plea for patience. This was not at all what he had agreed to.
“Quite amusing, my friend. However, you are well aware my annoyance has nothing to do with Lady Beauvaille’s chef.”
“No?”
“No.” His eyes narrowed in an ominous manner. “Why did you not warn me?”
“Warn you of what?”
“Biddles.”
The thin lips twitched, but at last, conceding he had pressed the larger man’s temper as far as he dared, Biddles offered a small sigh.
“Oh, very well.” He met Edward’s glittering gaze squarely. “I did not warn you because I knew you would flinch like a terrified virgin the moment Lady Beauvaille approached you.”
Terrified virgin? Edward stiffened in outrage. He had been called many names, but that was certainly not among them.
No doubt because most gentlemen preferred not to be thrashed within an inch of their life.
“Ridiculous,” he growled.
“Now, now.” Biddles held up a slender hand. “Do not be angry. ’Tis not my fault that, for all your fine qualities, deception is not among them. Your every thought is written upon your countenance.”
He offered an impatient snort. “Thankfully deception has never been a much-needed skill in Kent. There a gentleman is judged upon his honesty and integrity.”
“Good gads, what a tedious notion.”
Edward smiled wryly. “I happen to find it quite refreshing.”
“No doubt.” Biddles gave a flutter of his handkerchief. “However, you are in London, not Kent, and here you will discover your refreshing honesty does not serve you well.”
A pang of sharp longing rushed through Edward. Damn. He wanted nothing more than to be back in his shabby home with a good book and a glass of brandy. Now, that was his notion of a perfect evening.
Unfortunately Biddles was correct. He was in London and trapped into playing the ridiculous games of the ton.
“You mean I must endure being groped under the table by an aging jade with a smile upon my lips?” he said dryly.
Biddles did not even blink. “Precisely. Lady Beauvaille is a powerful figure among society. Had you deliberately avoided her advances or revealed your distaste for her peculiar habits, she could have made your introduction to the ton unbearable.”
“Lovely.”
There was a moment’s pause as the humor became more pronounced in the pale eyes. “Besides which, watching you choke upon your game hen was utterly priceless.”
Edward could not halt a strangled laugh. Really, the outrageous rogue was without shame.
“I am happy I could be so entertaining.”
“Think nothing of it.”
Edward snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Now, while you are enjoying your little jest, perhaps you will be so kind as to reveal how the devil I am to avoid meeting the doxy in her conservatory. She expects me as soon as the orchestra begins.”
“Do you truly wish to avoid the encounter?” Biddles demanded with a speculative glance. “Lady Beauvaille may not be fresh out of the nursery, but her beauty remains, and it is said that she is quite talented.”
Edward did not attempt to conceal his shudder. “She is also wed. Even if I did not find her utterly repellent, I do not dally with other gentlemen’s wives.”
“Honest and principled.” Biddles gave a world-weary sigh. “Gads, you will never survive among the natives, old chap.”
Edward merely arched a dark brow. “It is your duty to ensure that I do.”
Biddles grimaced as he glanced toward the full-blown matron who was even now regarding Edward with a hungry smile.
“Oh, very well. I shall go and attempt to distract Lady Beauvaille. You remain here and try to avoid bewitching any other desperate ladies.”
Unable to resist a measure of revenge for his friend’s taunting, Edward conjured a sweet smile.
“Thank you, Biddles. I shall be certain to tell Anna of Lady Beauvaille and the terrible sacrifices you have been forced to bear for me.”
Not surprisingly, the slender gentleman abruptly froze to regard him with a narrowed gaze. There were few in London who did not realize that the one-time rake and scoundrel was now firmly under the authority of his spirited wife.
“Breathe one word of this to Anna and I will have you trussed up in a corset before you can blink,” he muttered in low tones.
“Only if your sweet wife doesn’t murder you first. My bet is on Anna.”
Biddles cast him a sour glare. “So is mine.”
With a loud sniff, the flamboyant dandy turned on his heel and threaded his way through the growing crowd.
Still smiling, Edward moved deeper into the shadows and leaned his large form against the wall. He did not doubt that Biddles would somehow manage to divert Lady Beauvaille. There were few who could resist his charm. That, however, did not completely ease his discomfort.
His smile faded as his gaze idly roamed toward the dance floor. Despite the vastness of the room, he felt suffocated by the growing crowd and all too aware of the sneering glances cast in his direction.
Gads, the evening had only begun and already he was wishing himself miles away. How the devil was he supposed to endure another three months of such torture?
Absently lifting a hand to tug at the demon-spawned cravat that dug into his throat and tickled his jaw, Edward was counting the hours before he could reasonably offer his excuses to leave when his gaze was abruptly captured by an exotic beauty as she stood in a distant corner.
Good God.
Edward forgot to breathe. He forgot to blink. And even how to swallow.
Hell’s teeth, but she was exquisite.
In the candlelight her hair appeared as dark and glossy as polished ebony. It had been elaborately arranged in curls atop her head, with a handful left to brush the ivory of her cheeks. Her dark eyes were heavily lashed and so large they seemed to dominate the perfect oval of her face, while the curve of her lips was full and a delicate shade of pink.
Slowly his stunned gaze lowered to the slender form currently attired in a shimmering yellow gown. His body instantly heated in awareness, and he clenched his hands at his side.
It was not just that she was a brilliant peacock among the pale doves that caught and held his attention.
It was more the vibrant force that seemed to crackle in the air about her.
This was not a woman who would drift through life. Oh, no. She would blaze her own path and damn anyone in her way.
A startling, near-overwhelming urge to charge across the room and claim her as his own shuddered through him.
Thankfully he had not lost his wits entirely.
Even if he were to toss himself at her dainty feet, it would accomplish no more than to embarrass the poor woman and make a fool of himself.
Edward was painfully aware that he was a source of mocking amusement among society. He was bourgeois, unsophisticated, and lacking the smooth charm that ladies admired.
It would take a great deal more gloss before he could hope to approach a young woman of breeding. For now she was just as likely to take him for a servant as for a nobleman.
Without allowing himself the opportunity to do something ridiculous, Edward pushed from the wall and headed firmly toward the French doors.
The cloying air was beginning to make his head ache, not to mention the god-awful screech of the violins tuning in a distant corner. If he were to survive the night, he needed fresh air.
And perhaps a healthy dose of arsenic.
Lady Bianca was in a glorious fury as she stood in the corner of Lady Beauvaille’s ballroom.
Again.
It was so glorious, indeed, that none but the very dense or very desperate had possessed the courage to even smile in her grim direction.
How dare her father, she had brooded with a great deal of self-pity.
It was surely horrid enough that he had devoted the afternoon to ruthlessly breaking her heart and laying waste to her future. One would think that even the most dastardly of sires would be satisfied with such a feat.
To insist that she attend this tedious gathering while she was still in shock went beyond the pale. She needed time to compose her shattered nerves. A few days to accept the unacceptable.
For the first time in her young existence, however, she had discovered that neither her tantrums nor her tears had made the least impression upon her father.
Indeed, when she had adamantly proclaimed nothing could halt her from spending the evening alone in her chambers, the Duke had brutally threatened to toss her over his shoulder and haul her to the Beauvailles’s ball, in her unmentionables if necessary.
It was enough to make the most docile maiden smolder in frustration.
And Bianca had never been mistaken for docile.
Unfortunately, for all her desire to stomp and pout and toss about breakable objects, she could do no more than endure her aggravation in stoic silence. God knew there would be enough gossip when it was discovered her father had turned Stephen away. She would not add to the fodder by behaving as an ill-tempered shrew.
At least not in public.
Once in private, however, well . . . that was an entirely different matter, she acknowledged as her father nonchalantly moved to her side.
“I must admit, my dear, you appear delightfully tragic standing alone in this corner,” her father murmured in low tones. “Quite the Joan of Arc, in fact. However, playing the martyr is hardly the best means of attracting a prospective husband.”
Bianca snapped open her fan as she glared at the hapless guests twirling about the ballroom.
“Luckily for me I have no interest in prospective husbands. You have seen to that.”
She thought she heard a muffled sigh, but when her father spoke there was nothing but sardonic amusement in his voice.
“Ah, so you intend to remain a heartbroken spinster. No doubt you’ll live with your brother as he struggles to keep the estate from falling into shambles and become one of those bitter old aunts that frightens away all the children?”
Bianca stiffened, battling back the ghastly image her father had painted.
Egads . . . it did not even bear considering.
The fan fluttered until her curls bounced in the breeze. “What does it matter to you?”
“Beyond my intense dislike for a sulky child, there is the undeniable fact that you could ease the burdens that currently plague us.” There was a strategic pause. “It seems I shall have to take matters into my own hands.”
With mounting unease, Bianca shot her father a suspicious glare. “And what does that mean?
“If you do not choose a husband, I will.”
The blunt statement was as shocking as if he had slapped her in the face. Perhaps more so. For a moment Bianca struggled to simply catch her breath.
“You must be jesting.”
“Not at all. A wealthy husband would no doubt be generous to his newest family members. Especially if you are wise enough to please him.”
“No.” She gave a shake of her head. “You cannot force me to—”
“I believe we have already established that as your father, I can force you into almost anything, including marriage.” He smoothly overrode her furious words, blithely lifting his quizzing glass as he turned to regard the passing crowd. “Let me see. . .. What of Lord Stackhouse? He is old enough to endure your tempers with patience and rich enough to keep you in style.”
The fan dropped from her fingers in horror. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Not at all.”
“For heaven’s sake, he is ancient enough to be my grandfather. Not to mention the fact that he smells of cabbage.”
Unperturbed, the Duke shifted his attention to a lumpy baronet with a florid countenance and unsteady gait.
“Very well. What of Sir Hewitt? He is only a few years older than you and has inherited a tidy fortune.”
“He is also an incurable drunk and stupid beyond bearing.”
“Which only means he would be easily swayed by a beautiful young maiden.”
Blankly wondering if her father was as bosky as the baronet, she glared at him in disbelief.
“You wish me to produce a herd of beef-witted offspring who are overly fond of the bottle?”
“Perhaps not,” he reluctantly conceded. “Hmm . . . there are not so many eligible bachelors as one would wish. Lord Carlfield is rumored to be on the dun, and Mr. Summers has already managed to bury three wives. Not at all seemly.”
She nearly gagged, all too aware of the rumors that Summers was queerly attached to sickly females.
“I would rather toss myself from the nearest cliff.”
“Ah, well, I fear the pickings are dismally slim. But never fear—there is still Lady Talford’s soiree.”
Grinding her teeth until she feared they might crack, Bianca clenched her hands at her sides.
“Surely, you must have overlooked the gentleman in the corner? He appears to possess a heartbeat, which seems to be your only prerequisite for my husband.”
Her father glanced toward the decidedly large gentleman who stood in the distant shadows. Astonishingly, he seemed to stiffen in horror.
“Lord Harrington? Absolutely not.”
Bianca was instantly intrigued. If her father disapproved of the man, then she was certain to desire a closer acquaintance.
At the moment nothing would please her more than to tweak the Duke’s arrogant nose.
“Why? Is he wed?”
“No.”
“Are his pockets too shallow to haul us out of the hatches?”
“His fortune is more than respectable.”
Bianca gave a lift of her brows. “A heartbeat and a fortune? What more could you possibly demand?”
“He is the Peasant Earl.”
It took a long moment before Bianca at last placed the contemptuous title with the newest member of society.
A member that had been greeted with a decidedly cold shoulder by most of the ton.
“Lord Bidwell’s acquaintance?” she murmured.
His nose flared in disapproval. “A most peculiar connection, I must say. I had no notion Biddles possessed a taste for trumped-up farmers.”
Bianca frowned in bewilderment. For all his faults, her father had never been a prig. Powerful, assertive, and arrogant. . . but never a prig.
“I have never known you to condemn a man for having worked with his hands, Father. Were you not the one to claim that one loyal tenant was worth a dozen mincing dandies?”
“For my estate, not for my daughter,” the Duke retorted in haughty tones. “And I will expect you to take care to avoid any unnecessary introductions, Bianca. There is no telling but that he might very well be toadish enough to presume he would be free to call upon you.”
“Indeed,” Bianca murmured, her gaze returning to the Peasant Earl.
Oddly, she found herself fascinated. There were few members of society she was not familiar with. Overall the ton was a small and exclusive membership, rarely changing or admitting new members.
And never a stranger such as the Peasant Earl, she acknowledged, gripped by an unfamiliar sensation as her gaze ran boldly over the intruder.
He was larger than most gentlemen of the ton. Perhaps not taller, but broader through the shoulders, with heavy muscles that rippled with a fluid ease. Muscles that ensured there was no need for padding . . . anywhere, she noted with pure feminine appreciation. Nor for any of the lace and baubles that many dandies used to distract from narrow chests or weak chins.
Ornamentation would only distract from the raw male perfection.
Her heart gave an odd hitch as her gaze inched higher, encountering the countenance that was startlingly bronzed.
He was not traditionally handsome, she concluded. There was nothing elegant or pretty in the fierce Roman nose or prominent cheekbones and full lips. They were brash and bold and unrelentingly male. But combined with the heavily lashed hazel eyes they formed a compelling beauty that was nicely framed by thick chestnut locks that brushed his collar and tumbled onto his brow.
All in all he was a gentleman who would command attention no matter where he might be.
And best of all, the sort of gentleman who would not allow himself to be intimidated by anyone.
Not even a duke.
Bianca felt a smile curve her lips.
Perhaps sensing the direction of her rebellious thoughts, her father regarded her with a gathering frown.
“Bianca, what are you about?”
With perfect timing, the mysterious gentleman detached himself from the shadows and strolled toward the nearby French doors and onto the terrace.
Tossing her father a defiant smile, Bianca was swiftly following in his path.
“I have decided that I wish to discover more of this Peasant Earl.”
“Absolutely not,” her father growled, remaining doggedly upon her heels. “Bianca, I forbid you.”
She did not miss a step. “If he possesses the funds that you claim he does, then I have no need for your approval, Father.”
“Bianca . . .” The Duke halted at the French doors even as Bianca swept determinedly forward, not halting until she was standing directly before the startled Earl.
She felt a moment of trepidation as she glanced up the long distance into the starkly male countenance. Something warned her that this man was like no other that she had encountered. But, still seething with a mixture of pain and frustrated rage, she ignored the tiny bells of warning.
For the moment all that mattered was punishing her father.
“My lord, we have not been properly introduced, but I wished to . . .” Her nerve briefly faltered.
The chestnut brows arched as the Earl of Harrington regarded her with a quizzical smile. “Yes?”
“Bianca, return to me this moment,” her father commanded, for all the world as if she were his faithful hound.
That was precisely all that was needed to goad Bianca beyond the point of reason.
Without further ado, she stepped indecently close to the gentleman before audaciously smiling into his hazel eyes.
“I wish you to know that you are soon to be my husband.”
There was a strangled groan from behind Bianca as her father fled in either fury or horror.
Or more likely a combination of both.
A flare of satisfaction at having bested the Duke at his own game raced through her.
Later she would excuse her behavior as that of a madwoman. A stark raving lunatic. At the moment, however, she was too enwrapped with her childish need to strike out to care.
A smug smile had just begun to curve her lips when, without warning, strong arms lashed about her waist and hauled her against a granite-hard chest.
Startled, she opened her lips to protest the shocking treatment. A breath too late as her words were smothered by a pair of warm, wickedly talented lips.
The kiss seared through her body.
Her toes curled, and the protest died a swift death.
Oh . . . my.