“I had planned on reading, my lord. I am familiar with Lady Prescott’s library and there is a particular book of Henry James I am eager to read.”
He smiled, as at last some sort of animation entered her features. “Ah.”
“I suppose you are repulsed by females who engage in intellectual discourse, as Lord Hoyt so thoughtfully enlightened me earlier?” The curve of her lips was sardonic.
“Of course not. A woman who reads has much to recommend her.” He frowned, observing the deep wariness that darkened her gaze.
With a single glance, she dismissed him.
He’d never had a female show such immunity to his physique. He fleetingly wondered if her attractions lay with the same sex. It was not vanity, more an awareness of his own sensuality. “Are you deliberately trying to be elusive?”
“Me?” She blinked at him rapidly, the only sign of her surprise. “On the contrary, I am not interested in your charms. I am actually trying to be rid of you.”
His laughter seemed to bemuse her. “Are all Boston ladies as candid as you are?” he asked, appreciating the forthrightness of speech that had not been wrapped in innuendo or sweet evasiveness.
“Shouldn’t I be? I suppose I must acclimate myself to the idea that honesty is frowned upon,” she retorted, her steady gaze challenging him.
He liked it. And was gratified that his guess as to her hometown had proved correct.
“In that case, Miss Peppiwell…” He downed his drink in a single swallow, sauntered forward and lifted her hand, brushing his lips fleetingly over it. He wished the glove did not separate her skin from his.
She graced him with one of those smiles that did not reach her eyes. “Good evening, sir…Lord Anthony.”
He did not release her hand. Some temptations should not be resisted.
With that thought, he dipped his head and captured her lips. He told himself he only did it to see if she could be rattled, but knew it for a lie. The berry ripeness of her lips had been tantalizing him since he first saw them.
He drew her closer and pillowed her breasts to his chest.
He chuckled against the lips she pressed together so primly, but he was not disappointed, for the contours of those lips were soft and luscious. He lifted his head slowly, and smiled at what he saw. No affront, not even a slap to his cheek for his audacity. Just an aloofness and condescending hauteur as she looked down her nose at him, despite the fact he stood much taller. But behind her studied iciness, he swore he detected a spark of heat, a curl of unwilling want in those amber eyes.
His intrigue deepened. He did not believe he had to look any closer.
It was quite possible he had found his future bride in the ice maiden.
…
The Honorable Lord Anthony Thornton was dangerous. His touch evoked an unbidden need Phillipa did not want.
She held herself perfectly still, blanking her mind. His head dipped, bringing his sensual lips down once more to tease hers. Heat rose within her, but Phillipa buried it under hated memories of the cruel taunts and painful grasping of her nemesis.
Lord Anthony’s lips, however, roamed over her warmly, firm and alluring. She repressed a moan that tried to escape. She could not, would not, give him an inkling of the sharp desire that slashed through her body at his touch.
He caressed her lips with a flick of his tongue, and then his soft chuckle vibrated to the core of her. He lifted his head, his lips quirked, and she fought to maintain an air of casual indifference. The bloody scoundrel! “Are you quite finished, my lord?”
“Indeed. I bid you good night, Miss Peppiwell. It was a pleasure dancing with you. Enjoy your reading.”
“Good evening, Lord Anthony.” She kept her features schooled and her feet rooted to the spot as he sauntered out of the library. She did not think his walk one of arrogance, more of inborn confidence. The library door closed with a snick, and befitting the lack of an audience, she wilted.
A gusty breath expelled from her lungs, and she rotated her shoulders, working the tightness out of them. Her heart still thumped and arousal teased her flesh. She snorted, disgusted with herself. At the first sign of a pretty face, her resolve, hardened by painful experiences, had cracked.
The man unsettled her. She stalked toward the bookshelf with anger in her step. She let her fingers fly with nimble speed over the titles until she found a copy of The Portrait of a Lady. She swallowed and dropped her forehead onto the cool wood of the bookshelf. She was lying to herself, and she hated that. She prided herself on being forthright with her thoughts and actions.
Lord Anthony was certainly not the only attractive man she had encountered since her launch into London society. Lord Orwell, the slimy blackguard, had a pleasant face that hid his vulgar crudity. Then there was Lord Hoyt, the handsome viscount who pursued her relentlessly, more for her fortune than anything else. Yet, Lord Anthony had been the only one to cause her protective wall to tremble.
A ripple in the crowd had alerted her to his presence when he first approached her, and she had assessed him out of curiosity. She’d deduced from the whispers that swept through the room, that he had not been expected to make an appearance. And he was a Thornton, a member of the scandalous house of Calydon. He was one of them—a privileged lord—brother to one of the most powerful dukes in the realm. She supposed that should have told her everything.
It certainly explained his arrogance in kissing her within minutes of their first introduction.
She was used to beautiful men. But she hated that simply from his prowl across the room, she had felt that low tug, that slow pooling of heat between her legs, with an intensity she’d never felt before. He was powerfully built, and even though she was tall in comparison to the dainty beauties of London society, she had felt dwarfed as he loomed over her in their dance.
He seemed darkly delicious, though it confounded her why. After all, his locks were golden, his eyes green, and his face the most stunningly handsome she had ever beheld. She had been greatly relieved to see the scar above his eye, branding him as human, after all, and not some fallen angel. Beauty alone had never attracted her, but he appealed to a degree she found staggering.
The doorknob rattled, and she snapped her head up. She tensed as she waited for someone to intrude. She hated attending these events, but her mother, her dear sister, Payton, and her aunt, the Countess of Merryweather, lived for the social whirl. Phillipa could hardly protest, not wishing to reveal the depth of her dislike for Orwell. Thankfully, the year was drawing to a close, so they only attended a few balls. The majority of the haute monde had already retired to the country.
She hurried to the door and latched it when no one entered, then sauntered to the sofa closest to the fireplace. She threw herself, without any semblance of ladylike decorum, into its depth, smirking at the simple indulgence of not sitting like a priggish miss.
Unbidden, her mind skipped to Lord Anthony. Thoughts of his lips and how good they’d felt on hers had her grinding her teeth. Oh, how she had wanted to sink into the kiss and accept the pleasure that he could give! A swift feeling of shame arose and she ruthlessly buried the heat that tried to flush her cheeks, ensconcing it under the coldness she used to protect herself.
It would be a grave mistake to trust another nobleman.
An unwanted shimmer of excitement pulsed through her, and her heart thumped in dismay at the thought of ever encountering him again. He roused feelings in her that she did not want to indulge in. Her mind shifted to Lord Orwell and her mouth turned down in distaste. The lecherous bastard. For all she knew, Lord Anthony was just like Orwell.
She gave a snort of repugnance as she snapped open James’s masterpiece, refusing to waste another moment thinking about a certain green-eyed lord.
Chapter Two
Two days later, the cold country air stung Anthony’s lungs, but did not prevent him from enjoying his morning ride with the beautiful Lady Jocelyn. He’d stopped off at his newly acquired Baybrook property, as
had become his habit of the last few weeks, on his way to Sherring Cross, his brother, the Duke of Calydon’s ancestral estate. Apparently a letter had arrived for him from their solicitor, which Sebastian wished to discuss.
Anthony had welcomed the distraction. For an endless day and two long nights the intriguing Miss Phillipa Peppiwell had been haunting his thoughts and heating his dreams. He had specifically decided on this morning’s detour…a valiant attempt to put her from his mind.
It wasn’t working.
A gray mare thundered past him. Raven tresses and joyous laughter from Lady Jocelyn rode the wind, charming him with the lady’s fiery, yet pleasing disposition. Unlike a certain ice maiden he could name.
“You are too slow, Lord Anthony,” she said with a chortle. She spun her mare around gracefully and cantered toward him. “I win.”
He banished the image of whiskey eyes and glorious red hair and turned a smile toward Lady Jocelyn. To his mild annoyance, her appearance did not lance arousal through him. Her dark beauty put her among the most stunning women he’d ever seen, yet the most feeling she excited in him was simple appreciation. He was content to look, but not tempted to taste. Especially after his titillating encounter with the coolly sensual Miss Peppiwell.
Lady Jocelyn had appeared out of nowhere, so different from the other young ladies of the haute monde, and he had been captivated by her fiery personality. He’d thought it a pity she had not been presented for her season, for she would have either shocked or charmed society. They had been distantly acquainted for some years, since her family was friendly with Lord Calvert’s brood, whom he visited regularly at their countryseat. However, Anthony’s new property bordered Stonehaven, her father’s estate, and they had become much closer friends over the past several weeks. It was probably a little late to realize he was not drawn to Lady Jocelyn in the way he had hoped. He had been courting her for a couple of weeks now. Riding up from London to his new estate to oversee the renovations, he’d stolen kisses that hadn’t roused him, and had escorted her to country balls and picnics.
She was a whirlwind, her energy and vivacity unrelenting. He knew she wanted marriage for the same reason many of the ladies of society did. Money. Which suited him fine—it was the usual way of things. If only they’d been more attracted, then at least it could possibly grow to love.
She did not, it seemed, hunger for his touch, either. She barely responded to his kisses, her lips pursed primly, no doubt thinking that was all to it. He had shocked himself by not pressing for deeper tastes. He simply hadn’t had the desire.