A Most Scandalous Engagement Read online

  There was no shortage of partners for him either. He usually danced much of an evening, for there were always women who appreciated a man’s attention. But tonight he found himself interrogated by a line of young ladies who seemed to want to discover why the most eligible lady in the ton had settled for a fiancé so far beneath her. He enjoyed himself immensely as he flirted and flattered and teased.

  At last he sought a glass of champagne, and briefly stood alone to watch Elizabeth. If any of the men dancing with her had threatened her recently, she didn’t show it. She only displayed confidence and happiness, and more than once he saw her laughing.

  “You picked the best flower in the garden.”

  Peter turned around, then had to look far down, to an elderly lady who barely reached his shoulder. She wore a turban that allowed wisps of white hair to escape. She clutched a shawl about her shoulders—though it felt like a desert at noon in the ballroom—but Peter did not make the mistake of thinking this lady frail.

  “Good evening, Miss Bury—forgive me, it’s now Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”

  The old woman chuckled. “I left Mr. Fitzwilliam home tonight. He tends to sleep through such things—and he’s still exhausted from the elopement!”

  Peter chuckled. “You stayed single a long time, ma’am. I applaud your insistence on waiting for the best.”

  “I waited until I knew my own mind, young man. I knew Mr. Fitzwilliam in my youth, but did not think I loved him enough to marry. He needed some settling down first.”

  Peter thought of Fitzwilliam, whom he always saw sleeping in a wing-back chair when he entered the reading room at their club. It was difficult to imagine that the old man was once high-spirited.

  “I take pride in predicting who will end up with whom,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam was saying.

  “I imagine you did not lay money on me as Lady Elizabeth’s husband.”

  Her laugh was a dry cackle. “I thought for certain that your young miss would end up with Lord Bakewell.”

  “The heir to the Marquess of Ashborne,” Peter said, wondering if this was the man Elizabeth loved from afar. “Perfect for a duke’s daughter.” But no, Elizabeth said that the man she wanted had only a minor title—so he had already inherited.

  “And then there was Lord Dekker.”

  The one who’d confessed that he tried to get Elizabeth alone outside. Surely not the man she professed love for.

  A bit too coldly, Peter said, “He made it clear that he was interested in her.”

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam looked up at him, her lids drooping as she narrowed her eyes. “You’re a proprietary boy. I like that.”

  Before she could say more, two elderly ladies joined them, and Peter felt like a tree amidst shrubbery. They boldly questioned him about his surprise engagement and discussed the various men who’d “flitted about” Elizabeth, without ever once making him feel as if he didn’t deserve her.

  When he had the chance to escape, he did so, but remained near enough that he could listen to them talk in confidence. He didn’t feel guilty, for they were talking loudly enough into each other’s ears to be overheard by anyone within a ten yard radius. He learned nothing of significance, however, except that there were many young men who thought they had a chance with Elizabeth. None had stood out—which he had assumed from his own experience.

  So who was this man Elizabeth fancied herself in love with?

  “You’re the toast of the ball,” Thomas said.

  Elizabeth tried to smile up at him, but it was difficult, since he had claimed her for the next waltz. Peter had been talking to a bevy of elderly ladies, and she knew if she tried to catch his eye, she would only have drawn attention to herself. So she’d been forced to accept Thomas’s hand.

  He was a good dancer, but she’d already known that. She tried to pretend she was concentrating on the steps, on the press of the crowd, as he led her effortlessly.

  “Surely you planned to attract such attention,” Thomas continued. “Peter Derby is one of the most unsuitable men you could have chosen. Everyone is aghast and disbelieving.”

  “I did not choose him—I fell in love with him,” she corrected, striving for the mildest of tones. “The heart doesn’t consider the opinions of the ton.”

  He chuckled. “But the Duke of Madingley will. Your brother returns soon—you can’t fool him as easily as you’ve fooled the rest of Society.”

  “He knows my attachment to Peter.”

  “Attachment. What an interesting word.”

  She tried not to grit her teeth. “Lord Thomas, what is the point of annoying me? I’m engaged; you cannot have me as your wife.”

  “I already told you I don’t give up that easily. Does Peter Derby know the real woman inside?”

  “You don’t know the real woman,” she shot back through a false smile. “The painting is only one facet of me. And Peter knows it all.”

  One of Thomas’s eyebrows arched. “I should not be surprised, but I am. So Mr. Derby knows what you’ve done. And he approves?”

  “It is not for him to approve or disapprove. I made my own decision, before I was his fiancée.”

  “I like this side of you more and more, Lady Elizabeth.”

  He bent over her, whirling her through a turn until her breath caught, wondering if they’d fall.

  Thomas laughed softly. “You will go far to have what you want.”

  Startled, she met his mocking gaze.

  “It’s a side of you I empathize with—and find very exciting. And it only makes me more determined to have you. Don’t worry. I’ll protect your good name until you realize we’re perfect for each other.”

  He let her go then, and she realized that the dance had ended. She sank into a curtsy and moved away, not wanting to look into his face. She was unsettled and confused by his words—and his conclusions.

  “I thought I’d never have you to myself.”

  This voice she recognized, and she turned to Peter with relief and gladness.

  He studied her face for a moment, and she prayed that he would not question her, not now.

  But he simply smiled. “Shall I take you away from here?”

  “Ah, if only you could,” she murmured, feeling tired and not very triumphant. “But my mother will be here soon, and she wishes to show off her almost married daughter.”

  “More pressure you don’t need. I promise to have you back within the half hour.” He took her hand and pulled.

  She didn’t want to resist, so she let him lead her through the crowd. When they’d gone past a decorative grouping of potted ferns and shrubbery, he pulled her behind them and down a corridor.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, now moving more quickly to keep up with him.

  “I couldn’t very well lead you right onto the terrace.”

  “We are engaged, or so you keep reminding me.”

  “But I want to take you beyond the terrace.”

  “Even that is tolerated for couples in our situation.”

  He smiled back at her, teeth gleaming. She made the decision to forget everything else, to enjoy the night, to think about her problems tomorrow. He was just Peter, and she was just Elizabeth, off on an adventure. She thought she’d given up adventures—why did sharing one with him now make her feel so much yearning?

  He pulled her downstairs and through a door into a library, softly lit with several low lamps scattered across the tables.

  Did everything have to happen to her in a library?

  But he kept on going, through a set of double doors and out into the night.

  Elizabeth caught her breath, and the magnificent smell of azaleas filled her nostrils. There were torches to the left, where the terrace spilled off from the ballroom, but here, on a lower level, there was only darkness, the light of a half moon, and the faint glow of Peter’s face as he looked back at her. He brought her down marble stairs, and gravel crunched beneath her feet.

  When she pulled on his arm, he swung back to her, his hands settlin
g easily onto her hips.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” she asked. “It’s rather dark.”

  “I spent time here with Lady Ludlow’s daughter.”

  A gasp escaped before she could stop it. “I thought it was a different sort of woman you consorted with.”

  “Consorted with? Was I the subject of rumors?”

  “A few.”

  “Then we’re well matched.” He lowered his voice and murmured, “Did you think I saved myself for you?”

  She hit him on the arm, then let him continue to pull her along. The music and laughter faded away behind her, and although they were in London, it almost felt like another world, as leaves brushed her wide skirts, the moon hung wild above them, and the scents of so many flowers overpowered her. She’d walked in a night garden a time or two, but somehow this was different. She wasn’t the one in control, and instead of being frightened, she was excited and intrigued.

  The moon was suddenly blocked out, except for pinpricks of light.

  “An arbor,” Peter said. “It’s beautiful during the day, covered in vines and flowers.”

  His face was invisible, his deep voice a caress. She felt mesmerized, her problems somewhere else, only her body alive in the night.

  “But its true purpose is to keep things hidden,” he said, and gathered her against him. “I had forgotten it was here.”

  He was tall and solid, his legs on either side of hers, her skirts bunching toward the back. She closed her eyes as he suckled her lower lip. With a soft moan, she gave herself to his kisses, to the swipe of his tongue as he sought entrance, to the thrust deep into her mouth that made her shudder. Twining her arms about his neck, she held on, squirming as he rubbed his hands down her back, arching on a gasp as he cupped her backside and pulled her even harder against him.

  Was she like a man now, taking her pleasure with no plans for anything more serious? His kisses overpowered and devoured, his hands moved lower, separating her thighs so that she felt the pressure of him even more intimately. They were separated by layers of garments, but it didn’t seem to matter to her excited body. He rolled against her, again and again, long and slow and maddening as her body reacted in a wild, uninhibited way.

  And then he pulled back, and she almost staggered. Taking her hand once again, he spoke in a hoarse voice that almost didn’t sound like him.

  “Come, it’s too risky here.”

  She couldn’t speak, could barely keep up with his long strides. After the darkness of the vine-covered arbor, the half moon seemed almost too revealing, and she wanted to hide in the night shadows. Soon walls loomed above her, an inkier blackness against the night sky. He followed a turn in the path that took them to a far corner.

  “It’s a grotto,” he said with satisfaction. “Lord Ludlow had it made, rock walls inside and out. Come inside, but duck first.”

  She didn’t have to keep low for long. She heard the running water echo off the stone, the sound gurgling and peaceful in the sudden stillness. Next, she heard them both breathing, and she felt suddenly self-conscious, alone with him, far removed from family or servants.

  Again she felt his hands on her shoulders, as he gently pushed her backward. “There’s a bench,” he said, just as one hit the back of her knees.

  She abruptly sat down. “You are very familiar with this place,” she said dryly.

  He sat down at her side. “To be honest, I played here as a little boy.”

  Though she had no claim on him, the fact that he hadn’t come here with Lady Ludlow’s daughter made her feel better.

  His voice lower, he murmured, “By day, the water seems to gush out from tumbled rocks until it reaches the small pool. Shells and bright rocks line the bottom, and light glitters with the effect. Even the walls have brilliant stones in them. I can imagine the shimmer across your skin.”

  She didn’t know what to say, how to respond. His words sank into her, around her, like a warm blanket on a cold day. They were almost like poetry—she’d never suspected that Peter had a romantic soul. And then he was kissing her again. She heard a moan and knew it was hers, could not control her response to such unexpected pleasure. It swept over and around her, drawing her down to where passion and heat and touch all merged into one.

  He spread kisses down her neck, nibbling behind her ear, grazing with his teeth. It felt wicked and animalistic—and so very good. Her head fell back and her arms dropped from his shoulders so that she hung from the support of his hands at her back. When his open mouth slid from her neck and down the bare expanse of her upper chest, she shuddered, remembering what he’d done to her with his tongue. He didn’t disappoint, giving deep kisses to her cleavage, then trailing his tongue along her neckline.

  She moaned his name and held his head to her, wanting him to continue rousing this pleasurable rising, this need for more.

  And then his hand slid up from her waist and cupped her breast. Even through her low corset she could feel the delicious pressure as he kneaded her.

  With an oath, he put his fingers on the rim of her corset and pushed down. It didn’t give much, but it was enough, for his bare hand cupped her warm breast down inside her gown. She cried out, and he covered her mouth with his own. Her head swam in confusion, with his tongue in her mouth and his fingers caressing her. When he rubbed over the top of her puckered nipple, the shot of sensation went clear down into her belly, making her squirm and pant. His mouth left her and he bent his head, lifting her breast like an offering.

  His tongue lapped at her nipple and she convulsed, moaning and shaking. When she didn’t think she could bear more, he drew her into his mouth, suckling hard. She wanted to press herself against him, to wrap herself about him, to pull her clothes off and be free of constraint. The wildness rose higher inside her, urged on by the feel of his other hand sliding under her skirts, parting her legs, sliding up the sensitive skin between her thighs—

  And then the rational part of herself, fading fast beneath the rising improper girl she used to be, called out a warning that she was forced to heed.

  She put her hand down hard on her thighs, stopping his exploration. “Peter, no!” she cried, breathing so hard she felt faint.

  His hands immediately left her, and she fell back on her elbows on the cold stone bench. The draft of air across her damp breast made her shudder. She sat up and turned her back—as if he could see—and tried to right her clothing.

  “Elizabeth.” He spoke her name in a low, husky voice. “Do not use this on your mystery suitor, who might not be able to stop himself once he tastes you.”

  “Who?” For a crazy moment she couldn’t even remember whom he meant. William, she suddenly thought, mortification seeping over her. Peter had made her forget all about the man she thought she loved. How could that be? Did that mean . . . were her feelings for Peter stronger than . . . No. It was William she wanted.

  She’d lost all sense, all reason, writhing in Peter’s arms, letting him do . . . everything. How would she even face him in the light of day? She felt embarrassed at her weakness, when he was only trying to show her what to expect with a man.

  And all her old habits, her risks just for the sake of excitement, were returning with a vengeance.

  “Why didn’t you prepare me?” she blurted out.

  Chapter 13

  Peter heard all the hurt and confusion in her trembling voice. He reminded himself of her innocence, the trust she’d shown coming to him for help—her desperation. He told himself she’d agreed to all his terms, had wanted to learn how to please her secret suitor, he thought darkly.

  Damn, but he wasn’t going to do this—wasn’t going to have his fun with her, then gift her to another man, who might crush the very spirit that he so admired in Elizabeth. How could she not see how right they were in each other’s arms? He’d spent the last few years imagining exploring her body, and the wonder of it exceeded every forbidden expectation.

  He wasn’t going to go along with them using each oth
er—he was going to convince her that she belonged with him. This false engagement had become far too real in his own heart.

  He heard the sound of her troubled breathing, knew how upset she was. He put a hand on her knee, and although she stiffened, she didn’t pull away.

  “Elizabeth, one can never be prepared for passion—not the first time. You agreed to all of this.”

  Her voice was low, bewildered. “I know, but . . . I had no idea what it would feel like.”

  “Overpowering,” he murmured.

  She said nothing, and he felt the haze of desire suffuse him again.

  “Wicked.” His voice didn’t sound like his own.

  She was trembling now, and he wondered if she hugged herself, as she always did under duress. He leaned toward her again, and she shot to her feet, leaving him to brace himself on the bench, now warmed by her body.

  “Take me back to the house, Peter.”

  He stood up, adjusting his trousers in the dark. He took her hand, and her trembling disturbed the vow he’d just made to himself.

  “Elizabeth—”

  “I think our absence has displayed the right amount of longing for each other, don’t you think?”

  Reluctantly, he turned in the darkness to the faint light outside. “Don’t forget to duck.”

  “And don’t forget your gloves. You took them off.”

  He found his gloves on the ground beside the bench. His bare hands on her bare flesh were something he wouldn’t soon forget.

  * * *

  Elizabeth felt . . . dazed as she moved through the crowd at Peter’s side. The ballroom was hot, and once again she was the subject of so many stares. And it wasn’t because she was disheveled. On the terrace she was able to check her décolletage, and everything had been back in its place—

  But she couldn’t think about that. She couldn’t remember the shock of Peter’s hand on her breast, or his mouth—

  No, she definitely wasn’t thinking about that.

  She felt a tug at her elbow and turned to find Lucy smiling and wide-eyed as she looked between Peter and her.

  “Good evening, Miss Gibson,” Peter said, bowing to her. “Have you by chance seen my sister?”