To Taste Temptation

Her lips parted as if she would say something further. Then she closed them firmly and gazed out the window instead. They were silent again, but this time the silence was a companionable one. Sam closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat. He wondered sleepily just how much his sister’s questions were prompted by O’Hare the footman.



He dozed a bit, and when he next woke, the carriage was turning into an enormous drive.



“It’s very large, isn’t it?” Rebecca said in a small voice.



Sam had to agree. The Hasselthorpe home was more a rolling mansion. It squatted complacently at the end of the gravel drive, in the middle of a vast field of mown grass, all the better to reflect its glory. Several generations had obviously been at work on the gray stone structure. Here were gothic windows, there, Tudor chimneys; the different styles jumbled together only gave notice that the family that lived here had been in residence for centuries. In front, the drive circled and there were already four carriages there, depositing gentlemen and ladies of the ton.



Samuel straightened and gave a reassuring smile to Rebecca. “We’ve arrived.”



IT WAS A perfect day for an outdoor picnic, Emeline reflected the next morning. The sun shone and the sky was bright blue with fluffy white clouds. There was a tiny little breeze, just enough to play with the ribbons on the ladies’ hats, but not so much that it blew their hats off. The gentlemen looked handsome and manly. The ladies pretty and delicate. The grass was still green and the view lovely: rolling hills with a few sheep to give it interest. One couldn’t ask for more.



Or rather one shouldn’t have to ask for more, because unfortunately, Lady Hasselthorpe had forgotten the wine. To be fair, the lack of drink was technically the fault of the housekeeper, but every lady knew that the servant reflected the mistress. A good chatelaine hired a competent housekeeper. An absentminded chatelaine made do with a housekeeper who forgot to pack the wine.



Emeline sighed. It was funny how thirsty one became the moment it was discovered that there wasn’t anything to drink. The first footman had already sent back several of his fellows for the wine, but as the luncheon party had walked over half an hour to find this lovely spot, it would take some time.



Lady Hasselthorpe flitted about her guests, her cheeks pink, her hands fluttering helplessly. She was a great beauty with golden hair, a wide, smooth forehead, and a tiny rosebud mouth, but alas, her intellect did not nearly match her looks. Emeline had once spent an excruciating twenty minutes in her company at a ball, trying to make conversation, only to realize that her companion was incapable of following her thoughts to a logical conclusion.



Emeline wished very much that Melisande were here, but Melisande wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. A burst of overloud laughter drew her gaze. Jasper was in the midst of a group of gentlemen, and as she watched, he set them all roaring with laughter again with something he said. In contrast, Lord Hasselthorpe stood in grave conversation with the most illustrious guest, the Duke of Lister. Both Hasselthorpe and Lister were important members of Parliament, and Emeline suspected that their host had even higher political ambitions. She watched Lister send Jasper an irritated glance, which her fiancé never even noticed. The duke was a tall, balding man of middling years well known for his ill humor.



“Will you stroll with me?” Samuel’s deep voice came by her side.



Emeline turned, unsurprised. She’d known the moment he started walking toward her. It was strange but she found that she always seemed to be aware of his movements. “I thought you were angry with me, Mr. Hartley.”



Where another man might have prevaricated, Samuel met her head-on. “Not angry so much as disappointed that you plan to marry for convenience instead of passion.”



“Then I don’t understand why you would wish to stroll with me, if you’re so insulted by my choice.”



It was the first time they’d been able to speak alone since the argument with Jasper, over a week ago now, and that disastrous kiss afterward. She glanced at Jasper. Her fiancé was in the midst of some sort of story, his long face animated, and he wasn’t looking their way at all.



Samuel bent his head toward hers. “Don’t you? I think you’re quite sophisticated enough to understand my reasons.”



“Nevertheless, I don’t like to stroll with a gentleman insufficiently in control of his temper.”



He leaned close, his eyes searching hers, and while there was a small smile playing about his lips for the benefit of the other house party guests around them, she knew that he wasn’t at all amused. “Quit attempting to start an argument and walk with me.”



Lady Hasselthorpe turned in their direction at that moment. For some reason, their hostess had chosen to wear exceedingly wide panniers draped with lavender and orange satin for a ramble in the countryside. Now her fashionable skirts swayed incongruously, the hem sweeping against the grass.



“Oh, Lady Emeline, do say you aren’t disappointed in me! I can’t think what became of the wine. I shall have to dismiss Mrs. Leaping immediately on our return. Except”—she twisted her hands at her waist in a pretty, confused, and altogether useless way—“I don’t know where else I’ll find a housekeeper. They are so dear about these parts.”



“Finding a good housekeeper is always a problem,” Emeline murmured.



“And look, that woman is all by herself.” Lady Hasselthorpe indicated a strikingly handsome blond woman in a green frock that showcased an amazing bosom. “She’s the duke’s special friend, you know. He insisted we invite her, and naturally no other lady will speak to her.” Lady Hasselthorpe knitted her brow fretfully. “And with no wine! Whatever am I to do?”



“Shall we investigate the progress of bringing back the wine?” Samuel asked gravely before Emeline could say anything.



“Oh, will you, Mr. Hartley, Lady Emeline? I’d be ever so grateful.” Lady Hasselthorpe glanced about vaguely. “I suppose I’ll have to be the one to talk to Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Won’t that just be daring?”



“Indeed, my lady.” Samuel bowed. “Meanwhile, we’ll seek out your wine. Lady Emeline?” He held out his arm to her.



Which made it impossible to refuse.



“Of course.” Emeline smiled and rested her fingertips on the diabolical man’s forearm, too aware of the heat emanating from his body. She only hoped that the heat wasn’t reflected in her face.



As they walked over the downs, he paced his longer strides to hers, and they soon left the picnickers behind. Now that he had his way and they were strolling together, she’d expected him to immediately start a conversation, but instead he was silent. She peered at him out of the corner of her eye. He had a slight frown on his face as he watched the path. What was he thinking? And why in the world should she care?



She huffed out a breath of air and turned her own eyes forward again. It was a beautiful day, after all. Why let a surly companion spoil—



“Who’s that young man talking to Rebecca and the other girls?” Samuel’s voice cut into her thoughts.



And how silly to feel a twinge of disappointment that he’d begun the conversation with his sister. Had he forgotten all about the kiss he’d given her the week before? Perhaps he had. Well, then, so would she. “Which one?”



Samuel waved a hand impatiently. “The one with the idiot laugh.”



She smiled. Unfortunately, that described the young man rather too well. “Mr. Theodore Green. He has a very nice annual income and an estate in Oxford.”



“Do you know anything else about him?”



She shrugged, feeling contrary. “What else is there to know? I don’t believe he gambles.”



He glanced at her with something like disappointment in his eyes. “Is that the only way in which you judge a man? His income?”



“And rank, of course,” she drawled.



“Of course.”



“He’s the nephew of a baron. A very nice catch for Rebecca, if she can overlook the idiot laugh,” she said as if considering. Something seemed to drive her to provoke this man. “Really, I don’t think we can aim any higher for her. Your colonial money will only buy her into a certain level of society and no further. I’m afraid your family can be of no consequence in the matter.”



His lip curled. “You aren’t as shallow as you pretend.”



“I don’t know what you mean.” She was glad she faced forward, for she wasn’t sure she could control her expression. The wind picked up the hem of her skirts playfully, and she batted them down.



“All this talk of money and rank. As if that was all that made a man.”



“We are discussing your sister and prospective husbands, are we not? How would you have me judge a gentleman?”



“Character, intellect, kindness to others,” he listed rapidly. His tone was low and intense. They’d crested a little hill, and golden fields demarcated by hedges and low stone walls lay before them. “How he fulfills his duty and looks after those who depend on him. There are any number of points I’d place above income in a man I would wish Rebecca to marry.”



Emeline pursed her lips. “So, then, if I found a kind, intelligent beggar in the street, you would immediately want to draw up a marriage contract?”



“Don’t pretend to be obtuse.” His arm was hard as rock under her fingers. “It doesn’t become you, and you know perfectly well what I mean.”



“Do I?” She gave a short laugh. “I beg your pardon, but perhaps I am obtuse. Here in England, we like to marry our daughters and sisters to gentlemen who can properly keep them—”



“Even if the man is a rakehell or a half-wit or—”



“Yes!” He was striding so fast now that she had to skip to keep up. “We think only of money and rank because we’re such greedy wretches. Why, if I could find an earl with twenty thousand a year, I’d marry him even if he were riddled with disease and senile to boot!”



He stopped short and grabbed her by the upper arms, which was just as well, as she would’ve fallen otherwise. When she looked up into his face, she knew that she ought to be afraid. He was pale with rage, his mouth twisted in a sneer. Fear, however, was the last thing she felt.



“Cat,” he hissed at her, and then he lifted her nearly off her feet to bring her mouth to his.



The word kiss did not adequately describe their embrace. His mouth ground down on hers, forcing her lips apart, forcing her to accept his tongue. And she gloried in it. She met his rage with her own fury. She gripped at his shoulders and dug her fingernails into the fabric of his coat. Had she access to his bare skin, she would’ve scored him, marked him with her despair and been glad. She was panting, almost crying, her mouth working under his, their teeth scraping against each other inelegantly. There was no finesse, no pretty caress in their kiss. This was a display of lust and anger.



She could smell his skin. He wore no powder or pomades or perfume, it was purely him, and she was driven mad by his scent. She wanted to tear the coat from his shoulders, rip off his shirt and neckcloth and bury her nose in his naked neck. The desire was animalistic and nearly out of control and that was what finally made her stop. She pulled her head back and saw that he watched her almost analytically. His eyes were far more calm than she felt.



Damn him! How dare he not be as affected as she?



He must’ve seen the anger in her eyes. His mouth curved, though not into a smile. “You do it apurpose.”



“What?” she gasped in real confusion.



He studied her face. “You argue with me, enrage me, until I can’t stand it anymore and kiss you.”



“You say that as if I plan to make you kiss me.” She pulled at his grip, but he wouldn’t let her go.



“Don’t you?”



“Of course not.”