Don't Tempt Me (Georgian #4)

Don't Tempt Me (Georgian #4) Page 15

She was attracted to him.

He watched her return his stare with unabashed frankness, which was not surprising. She had always challenged and annoyed him deliberately. Yet now, that did not appear to be her aim. Lysette’s hands rubbed nervously at the sides of her gown, her breasts lifted and fell with rapid breaths, her tongue stroked like a lover’s caress along her full bottom lip. All the while she looked at him. Rarely blinking, as if entranced.

Long minutes passed, yet he could not look away. She was a vision of heaven and hell, a devilish angel who apparently could fascinate men at will.

The question was: Why did she decide to fascinate him now?

And there was no denying that he was fascinated.

His smile faltered as his body tensed. Bloody hell. What was she doing? More to the point, what was she doing to him? The woman had bluntly offered him sex once and he had felt no interest at all. Now, he was fighting the urge to snatch her close and claim that lush mouth he’d previously found incapable of more than frustrating him.

There had always been an invisible cloak around her that discouraged intrusion. Stay away, it said, and he’d been only too happy to oblige. Now the mantle she wore was an enticing one. Surprise me, it whispered. Thrill me. The change was drastic. Wariness turned to eager anticipation.

It seduced him. She was seducing him.

Her perusal was heating his skin, creating the urge to shift uncomfortably, which he refused to do.

Her assignment was to lure Mr. James, damn her. Why, then, was she luring him instead?

The only way to find out was to ask her.

He straightened abruptly and strode toward her in a direct path, his purpose so determined that other guests moved out of his way.

“Mademoiselle.”

His voice came out lower, more intimate than he had intended, and she shivered, a sure sign of her cognizance of the growing sensual awareness between them.

“Mr. Quinn,” she greeted in return, her voice husky and inviting.

As his blood thickened, Simon’s gaze narrowed. He caught her elbow abruptly and pulled her toward the exit. Wisely, she did not protest.

He led her through the crowd and down a hallway, opening a closed door and pushing her ahead of him into the room. The interior was dark, and for a moment, her resemblance to an angel was magnified by the contrast of her white gown in the darkened room.

Lysette stepped farther into the large, liberally furnished library. Simon entered behind her, aroused by the exotic scent of her skin, a new fragrance he’d never smelled on her before.

He was infuriated by her effect on him. Despite his doubting of his sanity and his wariness of her motives, he was hot for her. The feeling of acting outside of his will was too similar to his situation with Eddington.

He pushed the door closed and the latch clicked into place, securing them alone together.

“What game are you playing?” he asked gruffly.

As the unmistakable sounds of sexual congress reached her ears, Lysette altered the use of her fan from a shield to its intended purpose, that of cooling her heated cheeks.

She stood in the far corner of the Orlinda ballroom, her back to the wall, her front shielded by a fern. As far as hiding places went, it was superb. She had a clear view of the main entrance to the ballroom, yet no one could see her unless they came within a few feet. The only reason for Edward James’s attendance would be to see her again. He would seek her out. If he came.

Lysette doubted he would. When Desjardins related the details of his conversation with James, it did not sound hopeful. James had been dismissive of such entertainments and claimed to be too busy to spare the time. The comte was certain the protests were no more than tokens. He claimed James had appeared flustered and distracted.

“I think that is his normal deportment,” she argued. “He seemed to find me interesting in the way one would a pretty butterfly—fleeting and not the least bit absorbing.”

“We shall see,” Desjardins said smugly. “I am rarely in error about such things.”

So here she was, concealed in a corner of the crowded ballroom to avoid unwanted attention, forced to listen to the sounds of an overly amorous couple.

Although she knew that many considered lovemaking to be pleasant, she could not agree. It was painful and degrading at worst. Unsavory at best. It was an invasion, an act of domination. She could not collect why some women enjoyed it. She assumed it was the thought of possible tangible gain, for a happy man was often a generous man.

As the moaning intensified, Lysette cringed, feeling painfully awkward despite being armored in her favorite pale yellow gown. The sleeves were longer and the bodice higher than current fashion dictated, yet it was undeniably a lovely confection. She had hoped it would deter those seeking easy sport, but it appeared that mere attendance was a statement of willingness.

“Mademoiselle Marchant.”

The deep, coarse rumble of James’s voice rippled down her back like heated water, sensual and saturating.

She pivoted with wide eyes, startled by his stealthy approach. It had been a long time since anyone caught her unawares.

Her mouth curved in a genuine smile. “Mr. James, what a pleasant surprise.”

He wore an evening ensemble of blue velvet so dark it was nearly black. His cravat was once again modestly tied, yet perfect. He was wigged, but the style was simple. His mouth was hard, his gaze harder. She should have been intimidated by such severity or frightened by his intensity. Instead she felt a different kind of stirring. Something hotter, more disturbing.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

Lysette blinked. “Beg your pardon?”

“You do not wish to be here.”

“What gives you that impression?”

“I have been watching you squirm for the last ten minutes.”

A laugh escaped her. “Why not approach me?”

“Answer my question first.”

“I felt compelled to come.”

His dark eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. She grinned, beginning to enjoy his examining perusals. He was confused by his fascination with her, and she suspected he did not enjoy it.

“I have no notion of why I am here,” he murmured.

“Should we leave?” she suggested, wondering if her assignment could be so easily won. Perhaps Desjardins was correct about Mr. James.

“What would we do?” There was danger in his voice, warning.

“You assume I meant for us to leave together.”

A flush spread across the crests of his cheekbones. “What is the comte to you?”

“Is this an inquisition?” she drawled.

“A lover?”

Lysette stiffened. “You are too bold.” She turned away, her heart racing with the mad hope that he would chase her.

She was not disappointed.

The clicking of his heels upon marble was impatient, reckless. He caught her arm and tugged her back, yanking her behind the fern, rather than beside it. When she gaped at him, his lips tightened into a thin white line.

“Why did he go to so much trouble to pair us here?”

Lysette’s brows rose. “Perhaps he thinks I am in need of a man-of-affairs since my husband passed.”

James’s eyes burned with an inner fire. “I am not for sale.”

“What an odd thing to say.” The beat of her heart leaped into a mad rhythm. Nothing in Desjardins’s notes could have prepared her for Edward James.

“Nevertheless, it is true,” he said briskly. His hands flexed around her forearms, kneading.

“What a relief to have dismissed that misapprehension,” she whispered, her voice husky from the heat of the air around them.

“I have a different theory,” James rumbled. “One more suited to this venue.”

“Do I wish to hear it?” Becoming short of breath, she stepped back, half afraid he would restrain her. There was an air of frustration and determination about him that seemed to brook no refusal. But her fears were groundless. The moment she pulled away, he released her.

“I am not what you want me to be.”

Lysette forced her lips to curve in a careless smile. “This grows more intriguing by the moment.”

“I do not provide stud service,” he snapped.

“Well,” she swallowed hard, “that is probably wise, considering your charm leaves much to be desired. You might starve to death if that were your occupation.”

The glittering of his dark eyes should have alerted her. But frankly, she had not even considered him capable of grabbing her and kissing her senseless. When he did—arching her back over his forearms, mantling her body with his larger one—she lay motionless for too long, shocked by the feel of his firm mouth on hers. Though his approach had been rough, his kiss was not. It was as perfect and deliberate as his clothing.

Then, shock solidified into fear. Her lungs seized, cutting off her air. She struggled and pushed at his shoulders. Then bit his lower lip.

James released her with a curse, nostrils flaring, mouth bleeding. He radiated lust and the need to dominate, two things that were highly dangerous when mixed, as she knew all too well.

Lysette struck him full on his cheek.

“If you ever lay a hand on me again,” she bit out, “I will sever it.”

The blow turned his head not at all, though a reddened imprint betrayed the force of the hit and his spectacles were askew. She set off at a near run, crossing the ballroom in a diagonal direction toward the door, pushing through those who stood in her way.

This time, no footsteps followed her and she burst out to the gallery with a gasp of relief. She turned on her heel and moved toward the front foyer, determined to send a footman in search of a hackney. The hallway was dimly lit on purpose, another affectation to lend to the sensual atmosphere. She relished the near-darkness, finding comfort in the anonymity it afforded.

“Lysette.”

She paused at the sound of her name. It was said in a murmur, but it was audible even over her labored breathing. Spinning, she faced Desjardins as he exited the ballroom, his thin frame backlit with the light of the ballroom’s chandeliers.