The Bridal Quest Page 6

  Despite his light tone, his words were biting and his eyes were hard. It seemed clear to Irene that the man had little liking for his newly discovered family—or perhaps it was simply disdain for the nobility in general. She could not help but feel a certain sympathy for him. After all, she had for several years been viewed by many of her peers and even some members of her family with disfavor, if not actual dislike, for her forthright manner and blunt speech.

  Radbourne went on, "They have come up with a plan to cover my shortcomings by shackling me to a woman of good family. I think it is their hope that she will guide me into more appropriate behavior—or at least hide some of my inappropriateness."

  "You are a grown man," Irene pointed out. "They cannot force you to marry."

  He grimaced. "No. Only talk me to death on the matter."

  Irene hid a smile. She knew the power of an incessant harangue all too well.

  He shrugged. "But I know that I must marry and produce an heir. If I refuse now, I am only delaying the inevitable. I toyed with the idea of marrying an opera dancer or some such, just to put their noses out of joint. But it would be unfair of me to put someone else in that position. Nor would I want to doom my children to gossip and whispers. I will not make them pariahs among their peers. Therefore, I agree that I need to marry a suitable wife. You are, I understand, not yet married or betrothed, and according to my great-aunt, your family fits the requirements very well. Lady Haughston has apparently agreed to help Lady Pencully in this endeavor, so I suggested to her that you be considered as one of the possibilities."

  Irene gaped at him, so astonished that she was momentarily robbed of the ability to speak. Finally she blurted out, "You are considering marrying me because I once threatened you with a pistol?"

  "I thought that you might be less dull than the simpering misses they have presented to me," he replied, smiling a little.

  She stared at him for a moment longer, then drew herself up to her full height, her eyes flashing. "Are you mad? Your words are insulting in so many ways that I scarce know where to start."

  He stiffened a little, his face settling into hard lines. His voice was silkily dangerous as he said, "The idea of marrying me is an insult to you?"

  "Do you expect me to feel flattered because you decided to 'consider' me as a 'possibility' in your parade of brides? Am I to be honored that you picked me out from the others, like a mare at a sale? Because you deemed me somewhat less boring and unworthy of you than the other unmarried women of the ton?"

  His mouth tightened. "It is not the way you make it sound. I am not purchasing a wife. It would be a practical arrangement, something that would be advantageous for you, as well. I assumed that you had passed the age of holding girlish fantasies about love."

  "Believe me, I was never so young as to hold that sort of fantasy," Irene shot back. Anger vibrated through her, making her oblivious to everything else.

  She took a step forward, hands clenched into fists at her sides, and glared up into his face, finding his icy calm more infuriating than any raw display of temper. "Did you think that I was so desperate to marry, so unable to make my way through this world without the guidance of a man, that I would jump at such an opportunity?"

  "I thought you would be mature and logical enough to see the advantages for both of us in such an arrangement," he retorted. "Obviously I was mistaken."

  "Yes. Obviously. You may find me 'suitable', but I can assure you that there is nothing about you that suits me!"

  His eyes sparked at her words. It occurred to Irene that perhaps she had gone a step too far in her anger. But she refused to back down and appear intimidated before this fierce man looming over her. Instead she gazed straight back at him, setting her jaw defiantly.

  His hand lashed out and wrapped around her wrist, holding her where she stood—though it was not necessary, for Irene would never have revealed weakness by stepping back from him. He looked into her face, his eyes as cold and hard as glass.

  "Is there not?" he murmured in a tone all the more dangerous for its softness. "I think, my lady, that you might just find out differently."

  With that he bent his head, his other hand coming up to cup the back of her neck, and fastened his lips to hers.

  Chapter Four

  Irene went still, shocked into immobility. No man had ever had the audacity to kiss her before. His lips were warm against hers, firm yet soft, and they awakened in her a host of sensations that she had never experienced. She felt at once flushed and cold, and a tremor ran down through her body, bursting in a ball of heat in her abdomen.

  His mouth pressed harder against hers, and her lips opened instinctively. His tongue slipped inside, startling her even more and starting up a new thrum of pleasure deep inside her. Radbourne wrapped his arms around her, pressing her more tightly against him, so that she felt the hard line of his body all down the length of her own. She was surrounded by his strength and warmth, her breasts crushed against the hard muscles of his chest. Later she would think to herself that she should have been frightened at how easily he held her still, but in this moment she felt no fear, only the eager rush of excitement, the breathless pleasure of her blood pounding through her veins, the sudden awakening of her entire body.

  She felt the hot outrush of his breath against her cheek, heard the rough sound he made low in his throat, and she trembled in his arms, unprepared for the myriad of feelings that poured through her. Something seemed to open deep within her, aching and hot, spreading outward. She squeezed her legs tightly together, amazed at the yearning that was blossoming there.

  His hands slid down her back and curved beneath her buttocks. His fingers dug in, lifting her up and into him, so that she felt the hard line of his desire pressing into her flesh, and his mouth shifted on hers, digging deeper, his tongue taking her.

  Irene dug her fingers into his shoulders, holding on to him as desire swirled through her, urgent and compelling. Her tongue met his and twined around it, and she felt a shudder shake him. He wrapped his arms around her again, so tightly that it felt as if he wanted to melt into her. Irene wound her arms around his neck, lost in sensation, hungry in a way she had never imagined, eager for something she could not even name.

  There was the sound of voices as someone stepped outside onto the terrace, the scrape of a foot upon the stone. As the noises penetrated Irene's consciousness, Radbourne dropped his arms abruptly and stepped back, sucking in a long breath. His eyes glittered, wide and dark in his face, and the skin seemed stretched across his cheekbones, stark and taut. They stared at one another. Irene's mind was blank, aware only of the feelings coursing through her body.

  For a moment he looked as stunned as she, but then he blinked and half turned away, glancing toward the other end of the terrace, where a couple had emerged and were standing, talking together. The woman's laughter floated across the night air toward them, and the couple turned, strolling in the opposite direction.

  As if the others' movement had broken her trance, Irene came crashing back to earth. Her body still hummed with the passion that had overtaken her, but her mind was alert again. She realized with horror that she had been wrapped in Radbourne's arms, kissing him passionately, and that anyone at any moment could have stepped out of the ballroom and seen them. Her reputation would have been ruined, of course, but that was not what most exercised her mind.

  What truly horrified her was the fact that she had, for a few moments, completely lost herself in passion. She had not thought about that—not about her good name or what she was risking or, indeed, about anything at all. She had been held entirely in the grip of physical hunger, blind with need, driven solely by desire, like the basest animal.

  Irene had always prided herself on her control, on her intellect and reasoning. She had told herself that she was nothing like her father, who had been ruled by primitive urges and basic emotions. She thought before she acted; she wanted a rational life, free from the turmoil of emotions.

  Yet
here she had been under the control not of her mind, but of her lowest instincts. She had thought of nothing, wanted nothing, but to satisfy her physical craving. Like her father, she had been filled with a primitive hunger, and she had let herself be ruled by it. When Lord Radbourne seized her in his grip and kissed her, she should have pulled away and slapped him. She should have given him the sort of brutal set-down his actions had deserved.

  Instead, she had melted in his arms. Flooded with desire, she had kissed him back, had thrown her arms around his neck and clung to him. She had given herself up to him like the most feebleminded of maidens, letting him control her. Dominate her.

  She was filled with anger and disgust for herself—equal to the anger and disgust she felt for the man who had brought her to this state. She glared at the earl, relieved at the surge of anger within her, as it pushed out the passion that had filled her earlier.

  He gazed back at her, and she could see that he, too, had recovered from whatever desire had gripped him. Gone was the fierce gleam in his eyes. His face was devoid of expression, his lips thinned into a straight line.

  "It seems I am not so unsuitable after all, am I?" he asked quietly. "At least in one way."

  Rage shot through her, and without thinking, she lashed out, slapping him hard. His head turned aside from the force of her blow, but when he swiveled back to her, the mark of her fingers stood out, white against the tan of his skin, before turning red. He clenched his jaw, and for an instant his eyes sparked with fury, but he said nothing.

  "I will not marry anyone," Irene choked out, close to tears. "But if I did, through some bizarre circumstance, marry, it would certainly never be you!"

  She whirled and stalked back to the ballroom, not looking back.

  * * * * *

  Francesca had found a vantage point from which she could keep an eye on the dancers and also watch the two doors leading out onto the terrace. She was removed from most of the other guests and slightly shielded by a potted palm, and therefore she had been able to pass the last fifteen minutes or so without being pulled into conversation with anyone. She had found the spot shortly after Lord Radbourne strolled off with Irene Wyngate.

  She had been rather surprised when the earl had managed to maneuver Irene into a stroll about the room, and unless she was very much mistaken, she thought that Radbourne had led Lady Irene out onto the terrace. The earl, she thought, must be a great deal more determined or clever than most men, for Irene rarely allowed a man to persuade her to do anything. Of course, few men were brave enough to try. Her sharp tongue and dislike of flirtation were well-known among the ton. It was something out of the way for a man to even try to woo her.

  Of course, Francesca had to admit, the stern expression on the Earl of Radbourne's face scarcely made him look like a man who was wooing. Perhaps that was the reason Irene had gone along with him. Francesca wondered if it was possible that the earl might succeed where other men had failed.

  Her curiosity had been aroused when Radbourne had suggested to her that she include Lady Irene on her list of possible matches. To begin with, she wondered how he even knew her. Until Gideon had been found by Rochford and returned to the bosom of his family, he had not moved in the same circles as Irene, and after he came home, it sounded as though he had more or less been secluded with the family at their country estate. Where and when had he seen Irene?

  More than that, she wondered why he was interested in her. Irene was not unattractive. Indeed, in Francesca's opinion, Irene was one of the most intriguing-looking women in London. Her large eyes were a clear light brown, almost a golden color, and they were nicely accented by long lashes and nicely arched brows of a slightly darker shade than her hair. Her features were clean-cut, if a trifle strong, and her thickly curling dark blond hair gave her a leonine look that was slightly exotic. She was not the typical beauty, perhaps, but she was appealing—or would be if she did not make such an effort to dispel any interest in her looks.

  She usually wore her hair pulled ruthlessly back and pinned into a severe knot, thereby negating the most beautiful aspect of her looks. Her clothes were likewise severe; though of good cut and material, they were plain to the point of dullness. She allowed nothing to soften her looks—or for that matter, her personality.

  "Hiding?" A dry male voice said from behind Francesca, and she turned her head, startled.

  She smiled. Sir Lucien Talbot stood there, his handsome face set in its usual wry lines, his eyebrows arched in amused question.

  "Or are we spying?" he went on, moving up beside her and peering out across the ballroom. "May I join you?"

  "Of course," Francesca replied, smiling back at him.

  Sir Lucien was her oldest and dearest friend, and the only one who knew the dire state of her finances. As one whose pockets were frequently to let himself, he had long ago recognized that Francesca was living on the edge of financial disaster. He had even, especially in the early days right after her husband's death, taken a few of her items to pawn or sell for her, as a lady could scarcely be seen doing such a thing. Though Francesca had never told him that the projects she had taken on over the past few years were chosen for the monetary benefit she received in one form or another, she thought that Sir Lucien at least suspected she was not shepherding difficult girls through the marriage mart that was a London Season simply for the fun of it.

  "I am waiting for Irene Wyngate to come back into the ballroom. She went out onto the terrace a few minutes ago with the Earl of Radbourne."

  "Irene Wyngate?" Sir Lucien asked, his eyebrows vaulting up again in a genuine expression of surprise. "You are putting her forward as a candidate for the position of countess?"

  Francesca had told Lucien yesterday about Lady Odelia's scheme to marry off the newfound heir to the earldom, as well as of her own part in the matter. Sir Lucien, as one of the best-known arbiters of good taste and fashion, had on more than one occasion in the past been quite useful to Francesca in putting forward one of her "girls."

  "Lord Radbourne specifically asked me to include her," Francesca told him now. "I agreed to introduce them tonight. As soon as I did, he whisked her off."

  "Out to the terrace?" her friend asked, his voice assuming a lower, more suggestive tone. "Well, well ... I never would have imagined it of the Iron Maiden."

  "Pray, do not use that silly appellation. I cannot imagine why men have to come up with such odious nicknames."

  "My dear girl, because it suits her, and you know it.".He shrugged.

  "Well, I hate to think what I am known as," Francesca went on.

  "Why, my love, you are referred to only as 'The Venus', what else?" he replied with a grin. Francesca chuckled. "Flatterer."

  He was silent for a moment, scanning the room with her. Then he said, "Why do you suppose he singled her out?"

  "I don't know. I wonder how he even knew who she was. I suppose he must have seen her somewhere and been struck by her. She is quite attractive in her own way."

  "She could be stunning if she made a bit of effort," Sir Lucien agreed. "I suppose he could have enough eye for beauty to see that." He paused, then went on drily, "Do you suppose his infatuation will outlast a stroll on the terrace with her?"

  "I don't know. That is why I am looking for them. I do hope he does not cry off immediately. The more I thought about the matter, the more I realized that Lady Irene would be an excellent match for him."

  "Indeed?"

  Francesca nodded. "Obviously he is for some reason already interested in her. And she would suit Lady Odelia's requirements. Her lineage is excellent on both her mother's and her father's sides."

  "Old Lord Wyngate was something of a rogue," Sir Lucien objected.

  "Yes, but his scandalous behavior has never reflected badly on Lady Irene, or her mother and brother," Francesca pointed out. "And certainly she has the strength of will to make the man presentable, if any woman can."

  "And the wit to hide the faults she cannot change," Sir Lucien added.
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  "Yes. And, most importantly, Irene can hold her own with Lady Odelia. She will not allow the old woman to ride roughshod over her."

  "As we all know she will try to do."

  "Naturally," Francesca agreed. "And I think, from what I have seen of him, it might require some strength of character to deal with the earl himself, as well."

  "Really?" Sir Lucien turned toward her, intrigued. "I assumed he was, well ..." He shrugged.

  "Under Lady O's thumb?"

  Sir Lucien nodded.

  "I think not. When he came into the room, he seemed ... a trifle rough around the edges, I suppose, but not intimidated in the slightest. In fact, when I looked at Lady Odelia, it occurred to me that perhaps she was a little wary of him."

  "Well, well ... That would be a first," Sir Lucien mused.

  "I thought as much myself. He seemed to be going along with her plan but not obeying her, if you see what I mean. Oh, wait." Francesca straightened, reaching up to grasp Sir Lucien's sleeve. "There she is. Oh, dear. She does not look at all pleased."

  Lucien looked in the direction of her gaze and saw Irene. She had just entered through the open doors onto the terrace, and she was now striding through the crowd of people, her back ramrod straight. She did not glance to either side as she walked. Her jaw was set, her face flushed, and there was a furious light in her eyes. He noticed that people stepped out of her way as she approached.

  "I would not say it went well," he murmured to Francesca.

  She sighed. "No, I fear not."

  Francesca glanced aside and saw that the Duke of Rochford was making his way toward her from the direction of the card room. "Now what?" she muttered.

  Sir Lucien glanced over at her and then toward the duke. He chuckled. "It could be worse. It could be Lady Pencully."

  Francesca rolled her eyes in her friend's direction. "Curse your tongue, Lucien. Now she is certain to appear."