Four Dukes And A Devil Part 27

India Byron raised a gla.s.s of champagne punch to her lips, then choked when she caught sight of a tawny-haired young man standing in the drawing-room doorway, scanning the crowd.

How did he get in here? she thought in alarm. she thought in alarm.

It was bad enough her older brother, Spence, had brought the simpleton home for the summer along with a gaggle of first-years from Oxford. But now to find him in London at a family wedding-to which he quite clearly had not not been invited-well, it was really beyond the pale. been invited-well, it was really beyond the pale.

She knew without conceit that he was here because of her. Ever since their introduction at her father's country estate last month, he'd been mooning over her-making calves' eyes and penning dozens of truly dreadful poems written in her honor. One more ode to my "dewy emerald eyes One more ode to my "dewy emerald eyes," she thought, and I'll surely be sick! and I'll surely be sick!

Taking a few steps back, she maneuvered herself so she was half-hidden behind a pair of her cousins, Jack and Drake-both men too deep in conversation to notice her skulking.

The next time I see Spence, she vowed, she vowed, he's a dead man! he's a dead man!

Swallowing a hasty draught of punch to help bolster her nerves, she set the champagne flute down on the nearest table and glanced around for a convenient avenue of escape. Across the room, another cousin, Cade Byron, and his new wife, Meg, were holding court-the bride and groom both glowing with happiness, as they accepted the well-wishes of family and friends alike. But India didn't have time to celebrate. At that moment, she needed to save herself.

Spying an open set of French doors that led to the terrace and garden beyond, she hurried toward them. As she did, she glanced back and gasped when she saw a pair of familiar mooning hazel eyes turn her way. Breaking into a run, she wondered how she was going to elude him.

Mercy help me, I'm bored, Quentin Marlowe, 8th Duke of Weybridge, thought, as he drained the last of his champagne. Twirling the now-empty gla.s.s between his fingers, he leaned a shoulder against a foliage-covered garden arbor and gazed across the lawn toward Clybourne House.

Actually, he would rather be drinking brandy, but he supposed eleven thirty in the morning was too early for hard liquor-even for him. Brandy or not, he knew the spirits would do nothing to relieve his present ennui. Not that his friend Cade's wedding wasn't a splendid affair-since it was-but at its heart, a reception was still just a reception. And over the course of his two-and-thirty years, he'd attended far too many weddings and wedding receptions to see this one as anything new.

Lately it seemed as if nothing nothing was new. was new.

London was invariably the same. Each spring, the Season came and went with its usual round of parties, amus.e.m.e.nts, and the annual crop of perky debutantes, all desperately searching for a husband.

Then late summer would arrive, and it was off to the country for hunting, riding, and social gatherings that would last through the autumn.

The holidays descended next, along with family and friends come to revel over cups of wa.s.sail and bicker over their differences.

Then winter set in-cold, oppressive and dreary.

Finally, spring returned and the whole cycle would begin again. Just thinking about it made him sigh.

That's the problem, he mused. Nothing surprises me anymore. It's all just a tedious bore Nothing surprises me anymore. It's all just a tedious bore.

Suddenly, a flash of white caught his eye as a young woman with fair skin and l.u.s.trous sable hair hurried from the house. Her slippered feet flew as she ran, her gaze darting right, then left, then back.

Pretty little thing, he mused. he mused. Gorgeous, actually. Gorgeous, actually. Quite likely a Byron, he guessed, especially given the mult.i.tude of them in attendance today. And young-probably not much more than eighteen, if he didn't miss the mark. Obviously, she was fleeing from something-or more likely Quite likely a Byron, he guessed, especially given the mult.i.tude of them in attendance today. And young-probably not much more than eighteen, if he didn't miss the mark. Obviously, she was fleeing from something-or more likely someone someone-since it seemed probable she was being pursued by one of the other guests. A lover's game perhaps?

Shrugging, he glanced away.

He was contemplating whether or not to indulge in one of the cheroots in his lapel pocket, when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of her racing down the terrace steps and across the yard. Her pale skirts swirled around her legs, displaying her trim ankles in a most enticing way, as she moved deeper into the garden. Suddenly she lifted her head and met his gaze, espying him where he stood in the partial concealment of the leafy arbor.

Slowing, she glanced again toward the house, hesitating as though she were weighing her options. Apparently, having made up her mind, she continued on in his direction, coming to a halt barely an inch away from him.

"Quick!" she declared in a breathless voice. "Kiss me!"

One eyebrow winged skyward. "I beg your pardon?"

"No time for pardons," she admonished. "He's nearly upon us. Just do it. Kiss me! Kiss me!"

"He isn't a jealous husband, is he?" he asked with lazy amus.e.m.e.nt. "Or a lover brandis.h.i.+ng a pistol?"

Now that really would liven up the festivities, he thought. he thought.

"No," she said. "He's just a besotted idiot who doesn't know when to go away. Hurry while there's still time. Kiss me. Please! Please!"

Quentin looked down at her lovely heart-shaped face and into the depths of her beseeching green eyes. His gaze roamed lower, tracing across the adorable sweep of her nose, the refined curves of her cheekbones, then over her full, rosy lips which were parted in rapt antic.i.p.ation.

Despite his better judgment, he was intrigued. Even more, he had a sudden craving to find out if her mouth tasted as ripe and delicious as it looked.

"Well," he drawled, warming to the possibilities. "Who am I to deny a lady?"

Taking her in his arms, he pressed his lips to hers.

The spark was instantaneous; a jolt of pleasure so intense it blazed through him like a rippling summer heat, saturating his blood and sinking deep into his vitals. As for her mouth, she tasted like honey and wine, with a lightness that made him think of pure springwater. Wanting a deeper draught to quench his sudden thirst, he traced his tongue along her lower lip and urged her mouth to open.

She gave an answering sigh of delight and began to respond. But just as quickly, she pressed her palms to his chest and broke away. She didn't draw back very far, however-their faces remaining close. "Is he still there?" she whispered.

He who?

For a moment, Quentin didn't understand the question. Then memory returned. Glancing up, he surveyed the garden. "Brown hair? Lanky build? Wounded expression like a puppy that just got kicked?"

She gave a faint nod.

"Then yes, he's still there. Shall we continue, since he doesn't look sure yet whether to stay or go?"

She paused, her eyes wide and slightly bemused. He wondered if she was about to refuse, when she nodded and slid her arms around his shoulders. "Yes. Kiss me again."

With a smile, he bent to do as she commanded.

Sensing her distraction over the other man, he kept their kiss brief this time. Light, playful, and undemanding. She relaxed, growing increasingly more confident and pliant inside his embrace.

Leaving his lips against hers so they were barely brus.h.i.+ng, he flicked another glance upward. "Now he looks like a furious, wounded puppy," he murmured. "Mad enough to chew off his own tail. Sure you aren't trying to make him jealous?"

Her sweet breath puffed against his mouth. "No! I just want him gone since he's been plaguing me this past month entire. Truly, I have tried to be nice, but he just will not take the hint."

He gave her another plucking, lingering kiss. "Don't look now, but I think your wish has been granted. He's turned around and is walking back to the house-or should I say stomping back. Ah, there, he's gone inside."

"Thank heavens," India declared, tension flowing from her in voluble waves that reached all the way to her toes.

For a moment she considered looking over her shoulder to verify that Peter, "the Pest," was truly gone, but she didn't want to take the chance of ruining her good fortune. Instead she gazed up into the face of the stranger, who still held her within his arms.

Arresting was the best way to describe him, she decided, since he wasn't handsome in the conventional sense. His nose was too long and hawkish for one, his chin too square. His bone structure looked chiseled, as though it had been hewn from a rough block of granite. Contrarily, his lips were elegant, capable of being seductive or stern, she was sure, depending upon his whim. As for his eyes, they were dark-the color of freshly brewed coffee-with a pair of formidable brows that arched like raven's wings above his penetrating gaze.

His most remarkable feature, by far though, was his hair. Thick and soft with a stubborn hint of wave, his close-cropped locks were so dark a brown as to appear black. But the true surprise lay at his temples, where twin streaks of silver gleamed as though painted there by a master's hand.

Her fingers tingled with the need to touch, to glide through those pale strands and see if they were as luxurious as they promised to be. Instead, she left her hands where they rested on the wide expanse of his large male shoulders-her body nestled against his long, powerful frame.

"Lately, I've come to realize how the poor fox must feel during hunting season, "she remarked, trying to steer her thoughts back to her recent escape from her unwanted admirer's attentions, rather than dwelling on the overwhelming sensuality of the man in whose arms she stood.

"That bad, hmm?" he asked.

"Worse." She paused. "I suppose you think I'm cruel?"

His dark gaze turned gentle. "Not at all. Sometimes stronger deterrents than words are required."

"Exactly. And I have you to thank. I am greatly in your debt."

"No need. Believe me, the past few minutes have been my express pleasure."

Her pulse gave a dangerous thump. "Yes, well, now that he is gone, I suppose I ought to be returning inside."

"I wouldn't go just yet," he warned. "Not until he's had time to call for his carriage."

Tiny lines formed over the bridge of her nose. "Oh, mayhap you're right. Still, you should probably release me, now that Peter is gone."

He stroked a hand over her back in a way that made her want to purr like a cat. "All the more reason to keep you right where you are. I kissed you for his sake. Now, I want a kiss of my own. After all, you did make mention of being in my debt."

"Yes, but you said there was no need for grat.i.tude-"

His teeth flashed in a wicked grin, his arms tightening as he turned her more fully into the concealing shade of the arbor. "I changed my mind."

Then, before she could draw another breath, his lips claimed hers again.

Delight burst like fireworks through her veins, the sensation of his touch every bit as shocking and thrilling as the first time she'd felt it.

When she'd asked him to kiss her, she'd a.s.sumed their embrace would be quick and to the point. He'd give her a simple, ordinary kiss that would last just long enough to discourage her unwanted suitor. Then she would thank him and be on her way back to the reception. No harm. No fuss.

But nothing of the sort had occurred.

Like a sky crackling with electricity just before a storm, a sizzle had gone through her body the instant his mouth touched hers. Her nerve endings had come alive, senses inundated with one glorious rush of pleasure after another.

Somehow she'd found the strength to break that initial embrace-and the second one as well-keeping enough of her wits about her to remember the reason she was in his arms at all. But this time she knew she was in trouble.

He was a complete stranger, and yet she was comfortable with him in ways that made no sense. His faintest touch left her vulnerable and unsure, but still she knew instinctively that she'd found a safe harbor in his arms.

Nevertheless, being alone with him was insane and foolhardy. She was only eighteen, not even officially out, yet here she was breaking every one of Society's most sacred rules. Letting him help her get rid of Peter was one thing. Letting him kiss her senseless was quite another!

Push him away, she told herself. she told herself. Say no while you still can. Say no while you still can.

But already it was too late, a heated shudder rippling over her skin like a fever, as he intensified their kiss. Slanting his mouth over hers, he claimed her, using a subtle pressure that made her gasp.

The moment her lips parted, his tongue came inside to glide in hot, wet, satiny circles that reduced her mind to mush. She whimpered as he feasted on her, the flavor of his kiss as intoxicating as the most potent liquor, and as effervescent as the finest French champagne.

Tightening her arms around his shoulders, she held on as he ravished her mouth, yielding to his smallest command, reveling in his possession. Responding to his tutelage, she followed his lead as he slowly, patiently taught her the finer points of kissing. He was the first man to ever really kiss her-since she supposed a couple of childish pecks under the mistletoe didn't count. And given his obvious skills, she realized just how much more she had to learn.

A long minute later, he slid his hands low and cupped her bottom to press her more fully against him. She startled, growing momentarily tense in his embrace. He did as well, his muscles tightening, even as his hold on her relaxed.

With a groan, he wrenched himself away. His eyes were dark and lambent as they met her own, his eyelids heavy with clear pa.s.sion. "My thanks for the kiss, dear girl," he rasped on a husky tone. "I can safely say that you and I are more than even now."

Abruptly, sanity came rus.h.i.+ng back, along with a cascade of heat that crept into her face. Smiling, he stroked the edge of a finger over one hot cheek, his skin cool against her burning flesh.

"You're as sweet as you are pretty. Run on now before I give your cousins real cause to come after me with a shotgun."

She swayed on her feet, not sure whether to go or fling herself back into his arms.

Whirling, she sprinted away, forcing herself not to look around to catch one last glimpse of him.

Quentin rested a fist against one of the wooden slats that formed the arbor and watched her flee.

The instant he let her go, he wanted her back, his body protesting the decision to release her. But despite his less-than-savory reputation when it came to women, he wasn't in the habit of ravis.h.i.+ng innocent young ladies, however tempting they might be.

d.a.m.n and blast, I wanted her though, he thought, knowing he'd be trapped in the arbor until the most pressing evidence of his arousal cooled. Even then, it would be wise to take his leave. If he returned to the reception and saw her there, who knows what impulses might arise to tempt him-and her-again. he thought, knowing he'd be trapped in the arbor until the most pressing evidence of his arousal cooled. Even then, it would be wise to take his leave. If he returned to the reception and saw her there, who knows what impulses might arise to tempt him-and her-again.

She might be young and inexperienced, but she was pa.s.sionate-wildly so-the sensation of her fresh, untutored kisses still burning on his lips. Whatever man earned the right to take her to his bed would be a lucky fellow indeed. But such pleasure would only be granted at the expense of a wedding ring-and that was a price he was most unwilling to pay.

No, despite her natural charm and vivacity, he was better off forgetting her. He'd worked the trick numerous times before with other women-the delicious Miss Byron would be no different.

Even so, as he reached into his coat pocket to extract the cheroot he'd earlier planned to smoke, he couldn't help but be struck by one salient fact.

I'm not the least bit bored anymore.

Chapter Two

I've laid out yer favorite white muslin gown with the little green scribbly-things all over it," her maid informed India two weeks later, as she walked out of the bathing chamber into the well-appointed guest room where she would be staying.

India laughed. "Those are Grecian keys, not scribbly-things, scribbly-things," she teased. Crossing to the bed, she removed her dressing gown, then reached for the fresh linen s.h.i.+ft lying across the cheery yellow counterpane.

"Well, they looks like scribbly-things to me," her maid replied. "I've set out yer green slippers as well. The rest I've yet to unpack and press. A great lot of bother all this traveling to and fro is if ye asks me, just fer a few days' visit. But I expect ye'll have a fine time all the same."

"As will you. Dorset is always delightful in August. I hear there are bathing machines in Lyme Regis, which is only a few miles distant."