And Then She Fell Page 7

  He didn’t precisely wish to dwell on what he felt for Henrietta—in the manner of his kind, he felt thinking too much about that subject only gave it more power—yet he knew what he felt, and given he felt so, how could he continue to pursue some other young lady to fill the position of his necessary bride . . . as Henrietta, apparently, intended he should?

  What did her encouragement in that direction mean?

  Had she glimpsed his . . . regard for her, perhaps through the fraught moments of the previous night, and subsequently decided that encouraging him to look elsewhere was a gentle way of dismissing his pretensions?

  He felt her gaze, glanced at her, and saw she was looking pointedly at him—one step away from a glare.

  Correctly interpreting the blankness in his eyes, she informed him, “Mrs. Curtis, Miss Curtis, and Miss Mayfair are moving on.”

  Thank heaven! “Oh—sorry. Temporarily woolgathering.” Rising, he summoned his usual easy smile and beamed it at the three ladies as he assisted them to their feet. “It’s been a delight chatting with you all.”

  All three smiled and made their farewells, but from the look she cast him, Mrs. Curtis hadn’t been fooled.

  Henrietta opened her mouth—no doubt to upbraid him—but instead had to shut her lips and smile as Miss Cadogan and her aunt, Lady Fisher, arrived to replace the Curtis party on the other end of their large rug.

  And so it went, with group after group shifting around the dell, chatting and sharing news, and assessing—as he was supposed to be doing—with matrimonial intent. There were several other gentlemen present patently engaged to varying degrees in the same endeavor, so he didn’t feel quite so exposed.

  Regardless, courtesy of the revelations of the previous night, he had precious little interest in pursuing their campaign. Instead, he took every opportunity to try to see past Henrietta’s expression—to discover some hint of what she thought in her fine eyes—but to no avail; she had a strong, well-developed social mask, and she kept it firmly in place.

  He’d almost reached the point of deciding that any degree of revelation stemming from the previous night had been all on his part and none at all on hers, when they were joined by the too-thin and too-young Miss Chester and her aunt. Mrs. Julian engaged Henrietta, drawing in Mrs. Entwhistle, who’d been passing; the three ladies were soon deep in an exchange concerning the recent spate of political marriages, and the implications of King William’s failing health.

  At first James and Miss Chester pretended to listen, but then Miss Chester turned her bright eyes on James and shifted closer. “I’m not terribly riveted by politics, are you?”

  He saw no point in obfuscation. “Not at the moment.”

  “Perhaps”—Miss Chester glanced around the clearing—“you and I might go for a stroll.” She met his eyes. “Just the pair of us, as we aren’t truly interested in all the gossip.”

  The avid light in her eyes set alarm bells ringing in James’s head. Few others had left the dell, and from what he’d seen, those had been the older young ladies, like Henrietta, not the sweet young things like Miss Chester.

  And call him old-fashioned, but he hadn’t heard that it was yet common practice for young ladies to proposition gentlemen. Especially not gentlemen like him.

  But how to refuse her without being overly blunt?

  James glanced around for inspiration but found none. “Perhaps in a little while, if others are of a mind to ramble, too.”

  Miss Chester pouted. Literally pouted. James suspected she thought it looked endearing; it made him want to leave—he had not agreed to deal with spoilt, overeager young beauties.

  “Oh, I don’t think we need to wait.” Miss Chester shifted closer still and laid a hand on his sleeve. “Why,” she cooed, “I’m sure we can find something of interest to pass the time, away from all these others.” She caught his gaze—rigidly unresponsive—and all but batted her lashes. “I’ve heard the gardens are extensive. I’m sure we can find some quiet path along which to wander . . .”

  He honestly couldn’t recall ever being so blatantly propositioned in his life. “I daresay.” Enough was enough. “However—” He bit the word off, along with the rest of what was possibly a too-strongly worded rejection, and sent an entirely instinctive, helpless look Henrietta’s way.

  She was looking and caught it. Then her gaze dropped to Miss Chester’s hand, lightly gripping his sleeve . . .

  Henrietta noted in that part of her brain that had grown obsessed with James and his reactions that he’d stiffened, holding rigid against Miss Chester’s entreaty, but it wasn’t simply protectiveness that surged through her and had her turning to Mrs. Julian and Mrs. Entwhistle and saying, “Indeed, it’s all quite fascinating, but sadly, Mr. Glossup and I must be on our way.” An appropriately social smile curving her lips, she met Mrs. Julian’s eyes, saw the flash of irritation therein, and evenly stated, “We have other engagements in town and should start back. If you’ll excuse us?”

  James promptly got to his feet, helped her to hers, and joined with her in making their farewells. As she turned from the three ladies—leaving two, at least, metaphorically gnashing their teeth—he offered his arm.

  She took it. As they strolled away from the trio, he whispered sotto voce, “Are we really leaving?”

  The hope in his tone was impossible to miss. Smothering a laugh, she replied, “Of course,” and waved him toward their hostess.

  Lady Jersey wasn’t the least surprised to learn they had some other engagement. “Why, of course, my dears—you must be in such demand.”

  Duly taking their leave, Henrietta directed James down a secondary path. As he led her out of the clearing, she glanced up at him. “You really didn’t enjoy this, did you?”

  He grimaced. “The thing with being a wolf of the ton, you see, is that we avoid all such affairs when we’re younger, so now I’m . . . well, you might say ‘constitutionally unsuited’ to such entertainments. I’m all the time thinking that I’d much rather be somewhere else.”

  She snorted. “Knowing Simon, I can believe that.”

  Looking down, she wondered if that was it—she was Simon’s sister, after all. Was that why James had been so protective at Marchmain House? Was that why he’d held her hand all the way home—purely to comfort her? It had been a comfort, but . . . she’d thought it might have meant more, but perhaps that was just wishful, necklace-induced thinking.

  The jewelry in question lay about her throat; she could feel the warmth that seemed to emanate from the beads and pendant. Strangely, she only ever noticed that when James was about.

  Yet it was she who was wearing the necklace, not him; there was no reason to imagine it would have any effect on him. No reason to suppose he was thinking of her in any light other than as Simon’s sister, The Matchbreaker, who had broken up the match he’d arranged, and then, once she’d learned of his noble reasons for seeking a bride, had offered to help him find a suitable lady.

  “Aah . . . do you know where we’re going?” James glanced around, but the path they’d been following had led them into a long walk bordered by thickly growing laurel hedges taller than him. They could see down the walk, or look back to where they’d turned into it, but he couldn’t see beyond in any other direction.

  Henrietta glanced around as if only just noticing where they were. “This is a secondary route back to the house. If we just keep going, we’ll reach there soon enough.”

  James wondered . . . “Secondary . . . so the others won’t be coming up on our heels?”

  “Probably not. The mamas and matrons will opt for the shorter way, taking most of the young ladies, which means most of the gentlemen will take that path, too.”

  So they were, for the moment, more or less alone. Out of sight of anyone. James drew in a breath. “Henrietta?”

  “Mmm?”

  He halted, and when she halted, too, and, drawing her hand from his sleeve, turned to face him, he . . . knew what he wanted to ask, but his courage a
bruptly deserted him. He’d been searching all day for some sign of her true view of him; when she’d leapt so decisively to his aid over Miss Chester, he’d thought—hoped that perhaps . . .

  Moistening his lips, his eyes on hers, he heard himself say, “I was wondering . . . about kisses.”

  She stared at him. “Kisses?”

  “Yes.” He pointed at himself. “Wolf of the ton, remember?” He’d had no idea his past would prove so useful.

  She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, you see, there are kisses, and”—he lowered his voice—“kisses. I was wondering, with young ladies, what was acceptable? What degree, so to speak.”

  The look on her face told him more clearly than words that she had no clue how to answer him.

  Which was exactly as he’d hoped. “Perhaps,” he suggested, and prayed she’d swallow the line, “I could demonstrate. So you could see the difference between what I imagine a ‘young lady’ kiss might be, as distinct from a ‘seducing an experienced matron’ kiss.”

  Naturally, she looked suspicious, but he’d expected that. He sighed. “Yes, I know it’s a bit much to ask, but you did offer to help me, and how else am I supposed to find out? If I get it wrong, I might shock some young lady out of her stays.”

  She snorted. “Most young ladies don’t wear stays, as you very well know.”

  He widened his eyes at her and managed to keep a straight face. “Actually, I didn’t know—wolf of the ton, if you recall. Experienced matrons are the standard fare for such as I—as you well know—and, in general, I assure you they do wear stays.” His eyes on hers, he smoothly continued, “But we aren’t here to talk about stays.”

  Eyes narrowing fractionally, she studied him, but then—yes!—gave a small nod. “All right. One kiss—one young lady kiss. Just enough for me to be able to tell you if you’ve judged it wrongly.”

  His lips curved—and if there was a greater degree of triumph in the gesture than there should have been, she didn’t get a chance to register it. Looping an arm about her waist, he drew her close—not too close—as close as he judged she would allow, while with his other hand he tipped up her chin, and before she’d managed to catch her breath enough to even squeak, he swooped and set his lips to hers.

  Gently.

  Reining in the nearly overwhelming urge to taste her more definitely, to part her lips and claim her mouth—and go far too far—he fought and succeeded, because it was so desperately important that he did, in keeping the kiss light, in spinning it out into a fantasy of the most delicately exquisite sensation.

  He knew exactly what he was doing, what he was aiming for, a seduction of an entirely different sort—at least for a wolf like him.

  Never had he set himself to tempt with such a light touch, with the merest brush of his lips, a pressure so light it tantalized with near-crystal fragility.

  He peeked from beneath his lashes; her eyes were shut—she seemed captured by the kiss, captive to the sensation. As he’d wanted her to be.

  Henrietta couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think, either, and for once didn’t care. Thinking wasn’t important; feeling—absorbing the sensations engendered by his kiss—was. She’d been kissed before, several times, yet those experiences had been nothing like this. Nowhere near as compelling as this.

  Even though this kiss—James’s “young lady” kiss—was as insubstantial as a fairy tale.

  It was all about promise, and hope, and what might be.

  The touch of his lips on hers . . . made them tingle. Made her nerves fizz delicately, like fine bubbles rising in the best champagne, with a species of anticipation. She was intensely aware of him, of his body and his strength, all around her and so close, yet not quite touching . . . except for his lips. His wicked, pliant, distracting lips.

  Slowly, smoothly, he lifted his head.

  Lips parting, barely breathing, she looked up at him.

  His eyes—those pools of melted chocolate—looked utterly innocent. They slowly passed over her face, lingered for a moment on her still tingling lips, then he raised his gaze to her eyes. Arched a brow. “Well? Will that pass muster, or . . . ?”

  She dragged in a huge breath and stepped back, out of the circle of his arms. Sought—bludgeoned her brains—for some suitable response. All she could come up with was a crisp nod and a breathless “You’ll do.”

  Turning, she started down the walk, grateful her legs consented to carry her. She couldn’t think about the kiss—about whether he’d been in earnest, or merely using his supposed pursuit of young ladies as an excuse—now. As he fell in beside her, she lengthened her stride. “We need to reach the house before the others do.”

  “Ah—of course. We don’t want Lady Jersey, of all people, to start speculating on what might have detained us.”

  “No. We don’t.” Belatedly registering the quiet laughter in his voice, she shot him a glance as, entirely relaxed, he paced alongside her. “That’s a truly evil prospect to raise.”

  He chuckled. “I know.” Looking ahead, he smiled.

  Henrietta was sitting before her dressing table that evening, watching in the mirror as Hannah curled and pinned her hair, when there was a tap on the door and Mary looked in. Spotting Henrietta, Mary entered and shut the door, then crossed to stand to one side of Hannah.

  Mary’s gaze swept over Henrietta and fixed on the necklace fastened about her throat. Satisfaction bloomed in Mary’s eyes. “Good. You’re still wearing it.”

  “Hmm.”

  At the noncommittal reply, Mary’s gaze rose to fix on Henrietta’s face. Henrietta avoided meeting her sister’s eyes—which promptly narrowed.

  “Is it working?” Mary asked.

  Henrietta wished she could lie, but this was Mary, who was not simply her bossiest sister but also the most acute. Attempting to lie to Mary never worked well. Henrietta opted for caution instead. “Possibly.”

  “Yes! Wonderful!” Fists waving, Mary danced a little jig, then tipped her head back and said to the ceiling, “Thank you, Lady!”

  Henrietta snorted.

  Which brought Mary’s attention swooping back to her. “So who is it?”

  “I’m not telling.”

  Mary straightened. Folding her arms, she stared at Henrietta’s reflection. Eyes narrowing, Mary tapped a finger to her lips . . . then stopped. “James Glossup. That’s who it is—he’s your hero, isn’t he?”

  Finally meeting Mary’s eyes, taking in her little sister’s triumphant expression, Henrietta narrowed her eyes direfully. “Under no circumstances will you dare say a word—not to anyone!”

  Mary positively beamed.

  Henrietta dragged in a breath, and remembered the one thing she held that would compel Mary’s silence. “If you want to get your hands on the necklace in the right way, as soon as maybe, then you will make absolutely certain not one word of your unconfirmed speculation passes your lips.”

  Mary’s smile widened, but she held up a hand and promptly said, “I do so promise—word of a Cynster.”

  “Humph!” Henrietta wanted to turn around to better study Mary, but Hannah was still working on her hair.

  Mary, meanwhile, was still dancing—literally—with delight. She swirled in a complete circle, then headed for the door. “You have no idea how happy you’ve made me, Henrietta dear. And you may rest easy—I won’t blab a word, and will do nothing at all to get in your way. Well—of course, I won’t. I want that necklace in my hands—in the right way—as soon as may be.”

  Pausing with her hand on the doorknob, Mary glanced back, and, eyes alight, added, “I just can’t wait.”

  Ignoring Hannah’s efforts, Henrietta swung around, but Mary had already whisked out of the door. As it shut behind her, Henrietta sighed. “Do you have any idea,” she said, speaking to Hannah, “what—or rather who—that was all about? Who she’s got her eye on that she’s so eager to have this necklace?”

  “No, miss. Not a clue.” Hannah paused, then asked, “
But is it true? That Mr. Glossup is the one for you?”

  Henrietta swiveled back and, in the mirror, caught Hannah’s wide-eyed gaze. “It might be. But you, too, will breathe not a word.”

  “Not even half a word, miss.” Her face showing almost as much excitement as Mary’s, Hannah waved the curling iron. “Now do sit still, miss, and let me get this done.”

  The exchange with Mary had brought home to Henrietta that she had, indeed, started to believe. Started to hope.

  Hope, she was discovering, was a very awkward feeling.

  Descending the steps into Lady Hollingworth’s ballroom, she saw James slipping through the crowd, making his way to the foot of the stairs to meet her—and she told her unruly heart to behave. Yes, he looked his usual polished, debonair self, every inch the wolf of the ton he so often claimed to be, and while he might be that . . . this afternoon, he’d been something else.

  He’d been the gentleman who’d kissed her with such reverent delicacy that she still felt giddy whenever she recalled the moment.

  They’d spent the drive back from Osterley Park discussing the various people they’d met there, but that had merely been a convenient smoke screen, one both of them had readily supported as a way to avoid having to deal immediately with what that deliciously simple kiss had revealed.

  Had meant.

  Truth be told, she still wasn’t sure what it had meant, only that it had meant something. That the moment had marked a change, a shift in their interaction.

  Exactly to what she wasn’t sure, but as she looked down into James’s face, upturned, his gaze locked on her as she descended the last steps, she knew very well what her heart was hoping.

  “Good evening.” With passable aplomb, she offered her hand.

  He grasped it and bowed, then, straightening, brazenly raised her hand to his lips; meeting her eyes, he touched his lips to her knuckles.

  Even though she was wearing gloves, she still had to suppress a shiver. The pressure of his lips on the back of her hand evoked the phantom sensation of those same lips pressed to hers. . . .