Daring Miss Danvers (27 page)
“Of course.” That smug look didn’t waver as he stepped around the desk and stood within arm’s reach of her.
He knew
. She felt lightheaded. “Why?”
“Because it’s remarkable,” he said with a secret smile. “Especially the jasmine and the topiaries . . .” His words trailed off, letting her know how utterly obvious she’d been.
She felt exposed. Even though he’d stripped her bare dozens of times in the past two weeks, she felt far more vulnerable this time. After all, this was part of her that no one knew about.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” he asked as he drew her against him. “Or is this another part of you that you’re determined to keep hidden, maddeningly out of reach?”
She didn’t want to hide anything from him. “Oliver . . . Everyone . . .”
His gaze was intense, boring into hers with expectation. “Yes, my darling?”
“I painted it,” she confessed.
“Oh, Emma!” her mother exclaimed, tears glistening in her eyes. “It’s magnificent. The flowers are so alive.”
Studying the painting closely, her father looked over his shoulder at her and nodded. His eyes misted over and crinkled at the corners. At the simple gesture, it was all she could do not to run across the room and hug him. “I always knew you had it in you.”
“My dear, what a remarkable talent you have,” her mother-in-law said, embracing her. “Why ever would you keep such a gift a secret?”
Emma swallowed and shrugged without knowing what to say. Should she admit to never imagining praise or acceptance, but always scorn and censure?
“Clearly,” the dowager said, her lips pursed. The tip of her cane tapped against the floor.
During the moment when her gaze traveled from the painting and back to her, Emma held her breath.
“I was right to encourage the match all along.”
“Then you aren’t terribly disappointed?”
“That depends. How long must I wait until I have a painting of my own to place in my sitting room where I can brag about my granddaughter-in-law?”
Emma felt her shoulders relax and her lips curve into a smile. “Not long.”
“Good.” The dowager winked at her.
Winked!
“Now, let us see what artful creations your cook has in store for us.”
Her parents beamed as they followed the dowager and Oliver’s mother out into the hall. She was still grinning when she felt him take hold of her hand and pull her back into the study, closing the door the behind them.
“We’ll only be a moment,” he said, pulling her close.
She slipped her hands beneath his lapels and gazed up at him. “Should I have confessed the way I take my tea with sugar instead of lemon, do you think?”
“You do not want to incur my grandmother’s wrath,” he teased.
His expression told her that he was still waiting for a different confession.
Wanting to bare her soul to him, she said, “I haven’t painted anything in years, but in the weeks leading up to the wedding, I couldn’t help myself. When you asked my opinion about the garden, I thought it was the perfect opportunity to show you how I feel . . . when I wasn’t brave enough to tell you.”
He smiled. “That painting shows me how passionate you are and how much you love . . .”—he lowered his mouth, stealing her breath with a kiss—“. . . the garden.”
“I knew that an association with another artist in the Danvers clan would not bode well for you. I didn’t want to say anything for fear of you losing your inheritance.”
“Because you thought our marriage had everything to do with my inheritance and nothing to do with how much I love you.”
She gasped. A delightful airy feeling rushed into her heart, as if the fireflies in his gaze were fluttering there. She circled his neck with her arms and leaned against him.
“How I’ve loved you all along,” he continued, pressing his lips to one corner of her mouth and then the other. “At first, I was going to leave the decision up to you. After all, you had the perfect excuse to end our pretense when your brother swept into the library with every intention of murdering me.” His lips lightly brushed over her jaw. “The next day, when you met with my grandmother, I was fully prepared to stop you and confess the whole truth.”
She arched her neck, encouraging his exploration of her throat. “What stopped you?”
“I heard you whisper”— he lifted his head and gazed down at her with enough intensity to stop her heart and start it all over again—“and I’m certain, sweeter words have never been spoken. I knew in that moment I had to marry you, Emma. For my sake as well as yours. You said it best.
We share a heart
. A statement so true that I had the jeweler inscribe it inside your wedding band.”
It took her a moment to recover from the joy rushing through her. “You’re right, you know. You’ve been right all along. I do love”—he took a breath—“your garden.”
“Emma . . .” He growled at her, taking her mouth in a fierce kiss of total possession, demanding her complete surrender, and leaving her dizzy.
“But not nearly as much as I love you, Oliver.”
T
hank you to my amazing editor, Chelsey Emmelhainz, for your insight, dedication, support, and most of all for making my dream a reality.
Thank you to the art department at Avon Impulse for my swoon-worthy cover.
Thank you to my sisters—Deanna, Cyndi, and Katie—and to my sisters of the heart—April, Gwen, Lora, and Robin—for listening to me ramble on about fictional characters, and even more for the times when you believe in them too.
Thank you to my parents for helping me to become the person I am.
Thank you to the incomparable Cindy C, the best research librarian I know.
Thank you to Lynne for making the day of “the call” even more incredible.
And to Mike, thank you for years of love and laughter.
See how Vivienne Lorret’s Wallflower romances began
with an excerpt from
“TEMPTING MR. WEATHERSTONE”
available now in FIVE GOLDEN RINGS: A Christmas Collection.
And continue reading
for a sneak peek at
WINNING MISS WAKEFIELD,
coming June 2014 from Avon Impulse.
Responsible Ethan Weatherstone is determined to save Penelope Rutledge—and her reputation—from her silly scheme, but can he save himself from the temptation of her lips?
E
than Weatherstone was due for a piece of her mind. It was about time he understood that he had no right to interfere with her life.
Mind made up, she took one last look at the mail coach and shook her head. She reached down for her satchel and stormed over to Ethan’s carriage.
Penelope threw open the door and climbed inside, seething as she sat across from him. He didn’t even have the courtesy to look at her. Instead, he sat back against the squabs, his head turned to the window. The only reason she knew he was aware of her presence was from the way he clenched his jaw, a muscle twitching just beneath the surface of his skin.
“Were you waiting to humiliate me? Waiting until I was already seated before you dragged me away from the mail coach? Or perhaps you planned to follow me all the way to Portsmouth?”
He refused to respond or even so much as look at her. If she hadn’t been angry before she entered the carriage, then she certainly was fuming now.
“Truly, Ethan, for someone who cannot live outside the lines of your carefully crafted order, your sameness that covers you like a shroud, this is quite surprising behavior,” she hissed, baiting him. “I only wish your concern for my happiness were as great as your concern for my reputation.”
At that, he glared at her sharply. Ah, so she’d struck a chord.
Good. Yet still, he did not say anything.
There he sat, perfectly groomed, his cravat perfectly pleated, his temper perfectly managed. She wished just once he’d lose some of that control. Because here she sat, with her eyes, most likely puffy and red from having cried most of the night instead of sleeping. She was certainly not perfectly groomed, since she could feel a soggy tendril of hair plastered to her cheek. Her cloak was damp from rain. Her nose was cold and likely red as well.
“How can you be so . . . so
unaffected
all the time?” Her voice rose with her accusation. “Haven’t you ever dreamed for something outside the realm of possibility? Or are you content with each day so long as your cravat is perfectly pleated?”
She glared at the offending garment, struck by a ridiculous notion to crumple it. No sooner had the idea formed that she gave in to the impulse and moved forward on her seat, her arm reaching forward.
Ethan stopped her, taking hold of her wrist. His eyes flared. Before she could react, he yanked, propelling her forward to land clumsily on his lap.
“How dare—”
His mouth covered hers, silencing her outrage. Her head spun, reeling from the sudden scorching heat of his kiss.
This was a kiss, wasn’t it? Yet, it was nothing like her dreams, where his rehearsed request was followed by carefully controlled actions. No, this was no gentle dream. This was hard and demanding. His tongue didn’t request entrance but swept in and plundered.
His arms were not gentle either. In fact, he held her so tightly she couldn’t move, and grasped her wrist so she couldn’t touch him or push him away.
But she’d never push him away.
Instead, she wanted to cling to him. Her anger evaporated in a rush of steam. Her mind cried out for more of this glorious punishment. She wanted his kiss to burn her, through and through. This was the first time she’d been warm in months.
When her betrothed suddenly announces his plans to marry another, Merribeth Wakefield knows only a bold move will bring him back and restore her tattered reputation: She must take a lesson in seduction from a master of the art. But when the dark and brooding rake, Lord Knightswold, takes her under his wing, her education quickly goes from theory to hands-on knowledge, and her heart is given a crash course in true desire!
“N
ow, give back my handkerchief,” Lord Knightswold said, holding out his hand as he returned to her side. “You’re the sort to keep it as a memento. I cannot bear the thought of my handkerchief being worshipped by a forlorn Miss by moonlight or tucked away with mawkish reverence beneath a pillow.”
The portrait he painted was so laughable that she smiled, heedless of exposing her flaw. “You flatter yourself. Here.” She dropped it into his hand as she swept past him, prepared to leave. “I have no desire to touch it a moment longer. I will leave you to your pretense of sociability.”
“’Tis no pretense. I have kept good company this evening.” Either the brandy had gone to her head, impairing her hearing, or he actually sounded sincere.
She paused and rested her hands on the carved rosewood filigree, edging the top of the sofa. “Much to my own folly. I never should have listened to Lady Eve Sterling. It was her lark that sent me here.”
He feigned surprise. “Oh? How so?”
If it weren’t for the brandy, she would have left by now. Merribeth rarely had patience for such games, and she knew his question was part of a game he must have concocted with Eve. However, his company had turned out to be exactly the diversion she’d needed, and she was willing to linger. “She claimed to have forgotten her reticule and sent me here to fetch it—no doubt wanting me to find you.”
He looked at her as if confused.
“I’ve no mind to explain it to you. After all, you were abetting her plot, lying in wait, here on this very sofa.” She brushed her fingers over the smooth fabric, thinking of him lying there in the dark. “Not that I blame you. Lady Eve is difficult to say no to. However, I will conceal the truth from her and we can carry on as if her plan had come to fruition. It would hardly have served its purpose anyway.”
He moved toward her, his broad shoulders outlined by the distant torch light filtering in through the window behind him. “Refresh my memory then. What was it I was supposed to do whilst in her employ?”
She blushed again. Was he going to make her say the words aloud? No gentleman would.
So, of course,
he
would. She decided to get it over with as quickly as possible. “She professed that a kiss from a rake could instill confidence and mend a broken heart.”
He stopped, impeded by the sofa between them. His brow lifted in curiosity. “Have you a broken heart in need of mending?”
The deep murmur of his voice, the heated intensity in his gaze, and quite possibly the brandy—all worked against her better sense and sent those tingles dancing in a pagan circle again.
Oh, yes,
the thought as she looked up at him.
Yes, Lord Knightswold. Mend my broken heart.
However, her mouth intervened. “I don’t believe so.” She gasped at the realization. “I should, you know. After five years, my heart should be in shreds. Shouldn’t it?”
He turned before she could read his expression and then sat down on the sofa, affording her a view of the top of his head. “I know nothing of broken hearts, or their mending.”
“Pity,” she said, distracted by the dark silken locks that accidentally brushed her fingers. “Neither do I.”
However accidental the touch of his hair had been, now her fingers threaded through the fine strands with untamed curiosity and blatant disregard for propriety.
Lord Knightswold let his head fall back, permitting—perhaps even encouraging—her to continue. She did, without thought to right, wrong, who he was, or who she was supposed to be. Running both hands through his hair, massaging his scalp, she watched his eyes drift closed.
Then, Merribeth Wakefield did something she never intended to do.
She kissed a rake.