Page 27 of The Dangerous Lord

Trying not to look like a woman who’d wantonly been welcoming a rake’s kisses, Felicity forced an expression of surprise to her face, as if she hadn’t realized they’d been standing there. “Oh, I beg your pardon. Lord St. Clair and I were having a discussion.”

“I see that.” Lady Brumley smiled like a cat who’d fallen into the cream pot.

“And if you’ll excuse us, we wish to continue it,” Ian said behind her. “Privately.”

His passionless tone rubbed salt in the wound. She’d thought he felt passion because he’d made her feel something. Oh, how could she have been so stupid as to fall for one of his tactical maneuvers!

“We wish nothing of the sort,” she said with vehemence. “Apparently his lordship doesn’t understand the word ‘no.’” Forcing herself to face him, she added, “Good night, Lord St. Clair. I suggest you keep your hands to yourself in the future.” It was an ineffectual attempt to undo the damage, and she knew it.

So did he. “I will if you will,” he mocked, eyes gleaming with triumph.

She couldn’t bear it any longer. Pulling together the shredded rags of her self-respect, she fled through the glass doors into the ballroom.

There were people everywhere, and it felt as if they all watched her. Oh, if only the marble floor would open up and swallow her whole! Keeping her eyes averted from everyone, she hurried through the ballroom. Her body trembled, and tears stung her eyes.

Fool! she chastised herself. Idiot! Ninny! How could she—who knew what sort of man he was—have allowed him to kiss her like that? She wished she could say he’d forced it on her, but she knew better. He’d only needed to caress her to have her swooning in his arms like a foolish schoolgirl!

Long ago, she’d resigned herself to never experiencing passion. The likelihood that she would marry was small, and she’d balked at the thought of indulging her urges any other way. But she’d still had them, those aching feelings deep in her belly, especially when she looked at the sultan painting or saw adoring couples. She’d been primed for Ian’s advances long before she’d met him.

Drat him for guessing her weakness so easily!

Mortification dogged her as she threaded her way through the dancing couples. She’d played right into his hands! He’d heard Lady Brumley and Sara approaching, yet he’d deliberately continued to kiss her so he could have his revenge and “soil” her “pristine reputation.” He’d no doubt reveled in her silly acquiescence, congratulating himself on making her accept his touch, nay, welcome it!

More tears stung her eyes, and she forced them back, drawing on her anger to keep her from dissolving into weeping as she sought an escape from the ballroom’s prying eyes. The scoundrel! So he wanted to ruin her reputation, did he? Well, he’d gone too far. Two could play that game! She would make that arrogant, unfeeling viscount pay for his presumption and all his dratted tactics, make him regret he’d ever set foot inside the Taylor home!

Ooh, just wait until she wrote her next column!

Chapter Seven

Last week a well-known heir to an earldom was seen with a respectable but penniless young woman in Lady Bellingham’s orchard. The heir’s father insists that his son intends only friendship. Judging from the son’s behavior, however, the father’s statement may be grounded in wishful thinking rather than fact.

Lord X, The Evening Gazette, December 10, 1820

Thunderclouds formed ugly gray bruises across the dawn sky when Ian strode toward the Worthing dining room the morning after the ball. He’d abandoned all thought of sleep hours ago, and now hoped to breakfast alone. Surely no one would be about at this hour, even on a Sunday when the family could be expected to attend services.

But luck wasn’t with him. He halted in the dining room entrance, suppressing a groan when he saw Sara glance at him from the far end of the amply laden table. Bloody hell, he should have known better. Of all the people who must be up, it would be her. And now she would attempt a discussion of last night’s little scene on the balcony.

Last night’s disturbing, inexplicable scene.

“Good morning, Ian,” she said tersely. “You’re quite the early riser, aren’t you?”

He chose a seat far enough away to discourage intimacy, but close enough not to appear boorish. “I could say the same about you.” The servant scurried to place a boiled egg before him, and Ian served himself some toast from a platter on the table.

Sara flicked her hand dismissively. “Oh, I can never sleep when guests are in the house. I’m always worried about making them comfortable.”

He grumbled a response.

That didn’t daunt her. “You’d be surprised how many people are around at this time of the morning.” She pushed a sausage about on her plate with her fork. “Miss Taylor, for example, was up quite early.”

He refused to discuss Felicity with Sara, and so attempted a change of subject. “Is there any coffee?”

“Certainly.” Sara motioned to the servant, who was already rounding the table with a pitcher. Watching Ian closely, Sara added, “She was up and off over an hour ago.”

“Who?” he said, feigning distraction.

“Miss Taylor, of course.”

“Of course.” Had he finally succeeded in driving the woman off? The thought didn’t sit well with him. “I suppose Miss Taylor had to leave early to reach home before the weather worsened. It looks as if we’re in for a devilish day.”