Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)
Page 29“Me? I am far, far worse than Sir Henry.” He leaned close, his breath brushing against her cheek. “You ought never to be near me again. You should run right now.”
His bright blue eyes blazed and a muscle in his hard jaw twitched. He was truly a frightening sight.
She stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips against that tic. He jerked and then stood still. She felt the muscle jump once more beneath her mouth and then subside. She slid her lips toward his mouth.
“Temperance,” he growled.
“Hush,” she whispered, and kissed him.
It was strange. Another man had just kissed her on the mouth, but this pressing of lips with Caire was entirely different. His mouth was firm and warm, his lips stubbornly closed against hers. She placed her hands on his wide shoulders for leverage and leaned a little closer. She could smell some kind of exotic spice on his skin—perhaps he’d rubbed it on after shaving—and his mouth tasted of heady wine. She licked the seam of his lips, once, gently.
He groaned.
“Open,” she breathed across his lips, and he did.
She probed delicately, licking the inside of his lips, across his teeth, until she found his tongue. She stroked across it and retreated. He followed her tongue into her mouth, and she suckled him softly, raising her palms to frame his lean cheeks.
Something in her shifted, crumbling apart and re-forming into a new and wonderful shape. She didn’t know what that shape was, but she wanted to keep it. To stay here in this dim hallway and kiss Caire forever.
The murmur of voices came from the far end of the passage, drawing nearer.
Caire lifted his head, looking toward the ballroom.
A door opened and closed and the voices stopped.
He took her hand. “Come.”
“A moment.”
He turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised, but she darted around him. His black velvet tie was nearly out of his hair. Carefully, she unknotted it and combed through the silver strands with her fingers before retying the ribbon.
When she came back around him, he still had that eyebrow cocked. “Satisfied?”
“For now.” She took his arm and he led her back to the ballroom.
“I’ll need to begin anew,” she said as they began circling.
“So it seems.”
She glanced up at him. “Are you willing to take me to another party or musicale?”
“Yes.”
She nodded. He’d said it matter-of-factly, as if there’d never been a question. “And when will you be going into St. Giles again?”
She’d expected him to reply at once, but he was silent for a moment as they walked. She looked at him. His eyebrows were slightly knit.
Temperance looked down, smoothing her hand down the lovely turquoise gown. She’d never felt material so fine and had gasped when she’d seen her reflection in the little mirror in her room. Caire seemed so cynical, but in many ways his actions were thoughtful. She took a breath. “Did you love her?”
He stopped, but she didn’t look at him. She couldn’t.
“I’ve never loved anyone,” he said.
That made her look up. He was staring ahead stiffly. “No one?”
He shook his head. “Not since Annelise died.”
Her heart contracted at the admission. How could one go through life without love at all? “But you’ve spent months searching for Marie’s killer,” she said softly. “She must have meant something to you.”
“Perhaps I search because she should have meant something. Because I should’ve loved her.” He grimaced. “Perhaps I’m chasing a will-o’-the-wisp of phantom emotion. Perhaps I’m merely fooling myself.”
She had an urge to take him into her arms, to comfort this cold, isolated man. But they stood in a crowded ballroom. Instead, she squeezed his arm. The contact might cause him pain, but no man could survive without another’s touch, not even he.
They stopped at the side of the dance floor, and she watched as the beautiful figures moved past. Lady Hero, the sister of the Duke of Wakefield, was a striking figure in a silver tissue gown.
“Would you like to dance?” Caire asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know how.”
He angled a glance down at her. “Truly?”
“There isn’t much call for it in a foundling home.”
“Come.” He began towing her again.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Not to a dark room, I assure you.”
They reached the back of the ballroom, where a double door stood cracked to let in some of the chill night air. Caire pushed through them and drew her out onto a long balcony that ran the length of the back of the house.
“Now, then.” Caire stood next to her and raised their joined hands.
“Oh.” She suddenly realized what he was going to do. “Not here.”
“Why not here?” he asked. “No one is about.”
That was true. The night was too cold for others to be out on the balcony.
She bit her lip, feeling foolish that she’d never learned to dance when everyone else at the ball could dance as well as they could breathe. “But…”
He smiled at her suddenly, handsome and wicked. “Are you afraid I’ll see how clumsy you are?”
“Careful,” he said low, though the smile still played around his lips. “I might abandon this lesson for one far more to my taste.”
Her eyes widened, unsure how to take his teasing tone.
“Come, it’s not so very hard.”
His voice was gentle now—and he was far too perceptive.
She inhaled, looking away from him, touched by his tenderness.
He took her hand. “The main thing is to always look as if you have a poker up your”—he cast a sideways glance at her—“er, back. Watch.”
And he patiently demonstrated the steps to the dance, coaching her to follow him as the music floated through the open balcony doors. Temperance studied his graceful movements, trying to imitate them, but what seemed inborn to him was a confusing series of steps to her.
“Oh, I shall never be able to do this,” she exclaimed after several minutes.
“So dramatic,” he murmured. “You’re doing quite well, I think.”
“But I keep confusing the steps,” she said. “You make it seem so natural.”
“It is natural—to me,” he said flatly. “I spent hours upon hours practicing these steps as a boy. If I misstepped, my dance master had a cane he would bring down on the back of my calves. I learned quickly not to misstep.”
“Oh,” she said rather inadequately.
His world was so different from hers. While she’d been learning to cook, mend, and pinch pennies as a child, he’d learned to master these silly, intricate steps. She pictured him, a proud little boy, dancing all by himself in a large, elegant ballroom, his only company a cruel dance master.
She shivered.
His brows knit. “You’re cold. Let’s go in.”
She nodded gratefully.
They stepped back into the ballroom, which seemed more crowded than ever.
“Would you like some punch?” Caire asked.
Temperance nodded again. He found an empty chair for her near a huge vase of flowers, and she sat while he went off in search of refreshment. The hour was growing late now, the scent of half-burned candles pervading the room. Temperance saw several ladies employ their fans and wished rather wistfully for one of her own. Then she was chiding herself for wanting more when Caire had already given her so much for this night. Perhaps he was right: perhaps no matter how much a person had, they could still be unhappy.
A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she saw Sir Henry making his way through the crowd. Oh, goodness! How awkward if he should see her. Temperance turned her head away and lifted her hand to her coiffure as if checking to see if her jeweled pins were still in place.
“Have you dropped something?” a feminine voice said nearby.
Temperance looked up, startled, and met Lady Hero’s wide gray eyes. She had taken the seat next to Temperance’s, and while the lady didn’t smile, her expression was quite pleasant.
Temperance realized she was staring and remembered that she’d been asked a question. “Oh. Oh, no, my lady.”
“Yes.”
“Ah.” Lady Hero looked at her lap. “It was to be expected, I suppose.” She glanced up and caught Temperance’s eye, smiling a little crookedly. “I find people treat me differently when they know my name.”
“Oh.” Temperance wasn’t sure how exactly to respond to that, because, of course, Lady Hero was quite correct: A duke’s daughter was treated differently. “I am Temperance Dews.”
Lady Hero smiled more fully. “How do you do?” This close, Temperance could see a fine sprinkling of freckles across her nose. They only served to highlight Lady Hero’s smooth, white complexion.
Sir Henry chose that moment to walk past them. She met his embarrassed eyes before quickly looking away.
Lady Hero followed her gaze. “That man is a toad.”
“I beg your pardon?” Temperance blinked. Surely she hadn’t heard correctly. Did the daughters of dukes call gentlemen toads?
Apparently they did. Lady Hero nodded. “Sir Henry Easton, yes? He looks agreeable enough, I’ll grant you, but he has definite toad tendencies. I say”—her brows knit slightly—“he hasn’t done anything to you, has he?”
“No.” Temperance wrinkled her nose. “Well, yes. He tried to kiss me.”
Lady Hero winced. “Horrifying.”
“It was, really. And rather disappointing, too. You see, I thought he might be interested in my foundling home, but he wasn’t. I’m afraid it was rather foolish of me.”
“Ah,” Lady Hero said, sounding wise. “I don’t think you should blame yourself, you know. Toadlike gentlemen generally try to kiss ladies entirely unprovoked. Or at least that is what I have been led to believe. No gentleman has ever attempted to press his unwanted attentions upon me, of course. Duke’s daughter and all that.” Lady Hero sounded just a tad disappointed.
Temperance smiled. She would never have guessed that a duke’s daughter would be so delightful to talk to.
“But tell me about this foundling home,” Lady Hero said. “I’ve never met a lady who managed one.”
“Oh!” Temperance felt a pleasurable rush of confusion. “Well, the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children is in St. Giles, and we take care of eight and twenty children at the moment, but we could take care of ever so much more if only we had a patron for the home.” Her shoulders slumped. “That’s why I was so hopeful of Sir Henry.”
Lady Hero shook her head. “I’m sorry. Do you have both girls and boys at your home?”
“Yes, we keep them in separate rooms, of course, but we accept all children up to the age of nine. They’re apprenticed out at that age.”
“Really?” Lady Hero said. Her hands were folded gracefully in her lap, and she made no movement, but she seemed somehow to be genuinely interested. “But then how—oh, bother.”
Her gaze had gone beyond Temperance’s shoulder.
Temperance glanced quickly and saw a rather stout matron gesturing imperiously.
“It’s Cousin Bathilda,” Lady Hero said. “She probably wants me to go in with her to dinner, and she’ll only become more irate if I pretend not to notice her.”