Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
Whitmore nursed a brandy at his usual table in White’s the following evening. The heavy scent of cigars and old leather thick in the air. Rain continued to drizzle against the tall windows, the sound soft but relentless, a rhythm that seemed to echo his never-ending thoughts.
He had not slept well. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt Isabella’s lips against his. Her soft sigh. The warmth of her hands. Her laughter afterward — teasing him, unbothered, while he sat there undone like some green boy after his first kiss.
“Ah, there you are,” came the smooth drawl of the Duke of Rolle, striding toward him with his usual calm assurance. His boots shone, his coat pristine. A man untouched by self-doubt.
Whitmore wished he could say the same.
The duke dropped into the seat opposite and waved for a glass. “I had meant to seek you out sooner, but business delayed me. So, tell me,” the duke settling into his chair. “Have you kissed her yet? I’ll send you your thousand pounds sent by the week’s end if you have.”
Whitmore stared into his drink. “I don’t want your money or any part of the stake Consider the bet null and void.”
“Nonsense. A bet’s a bet, and if you’ve fulfilled it, you shall be paid. So tell me, have you kissed Lady Isabella?”
He said nothing.
The duke smiled. “I’ll take your silence as your attempt to protect the lady’s virtue.” He paused, thanking a footman for his glass of brandy. “However, you appear as though victory doesn’t suit you.”
“Perhaps it doesn’t,” Whitmore muttered, setting down his glass. “Perhaps I’ve begun to tire of risks when they are at others expense.”
The duke’s brow arched. “A strange confession from a man who up until now has thrived on it.”
“Even a fox grows weary of the chase when he finds he’s cornered himself,” Whitmore said, too low hopefully for the duke to hear. He didn’t need his fellow peer to know how he suffered or laugh at him for being melancholy.
“Come now, Whitmore, don’t be maudlin. You’ve done nothing wrong. Lady Isabella’s pride will survive, and you’ve earned yourself a tidy sum.”
He forced a smirk. “You make it sound so noble, but you’re wrong.
She’s not injured at all. In fact, I do not think she could care a tidbit about what we did,” he admitted, wanting to rip back the words as soon as he’d uttered them.
And that was the rub, was it not? Her easy dismissal of him.
The only woman in London who refused to succumb to his charms, even after a kiss.
What the hell was wrong with him? Had he lost his ability to seduce the fairer sex?
The duke chuckled and signaled for the waiter. “You’ll feel better after a few hands of cards tonight.”
Whitmore didn’t answer. His attention had shifted to the table behind them, where two younger peers were laughing over their own brandies.
“She’s a rare beauty,” one said — Lord Lennox, a fellow known for his good manners and better breeding. “I noticed her at the ball last night. Stunning eyes. Carries herself like a duchess, which isn’t surprising considering she’s a duke’s daughter, though I hear she’s still unmarried.”
“Three Seasons, is it not?” his companion stated.
“Aye. A spinster by society’s cruel measure. Which makes her ripe for the plucking.”
The man’s laugh grated across Whitmore’s nerves. They had to be speaking of Bells.
“I mean to make a consorted effort for her hand,” Lord Lennox continued. “Her dowry’s handsome, her connections excellent, and she deserves better than to be overlooked. I shall call on Ravensmere next week.”
Whitmore’s jaw tightened. He told himself it was of no concern to him. That she was free to marry whomever she pleased. That he had no claim. But the thought of another man touching her, kissing her, made his chest twist painfully.
“You’ve gone pale,” the duke said, studying him.
“I’m fine,” Whitmore said shortly.
“Are you?”
“Only bored.” He pushed back his chair and tossed a few coins on the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve a meeting with my steward.”
“At this hour?” The duke frowned but said nothing further, letting him go.
Whitmore left the club without looking back, the murmur of the other men’s conversation chasing him out into the misty evening. The city smelled of wet stone and carriage smoke. His thoughts churned, restless, ugly things he could neither silence nor justify.
Sleep was what he needed. All would be well by morning. He’d be back to his usual, assured self and all thoughts of a pretty brunette would cease in his mind.
The Romley ball the following evening was in full swing by the time he arrived — much later than intended thanks to his dallying at home.
His meeting with his steward had stretched long into the afternoon, and by the time he’d exchanged his coat for formal attire and stepped into the grand hall of Lord and Lady Romley’s, the ball was already half over.
He took in the scene before him, the dancers and those in attendance. Ice ran through his blood when his gaze settled on one particular, very comely chit.
He narrowed his eyes. Lady Isabella was waltzing. And not with some doddering peer or overeager puppy, but with Lord Lennox, the very man from White’s the night before.
Whitmore’s stomach knotted as he watched them all but float across the floor. Isabella was radiant — her gown a pale-blue silk that shimmered with each step, her cheeks flushed, her smile bright. She looked happy. Too happy.
Lord Lennox held her with an easy grace, his hand respectful but firm at her waist. The man was decent. Kind. A good family. No debts, no scandal, no mistress tucked away in Mayfair. In short, everything Whitmore was not.
He clenched his fists at his sides and even though he knew he ought to look away, to save himself from watching what was clearly unfolding before him, he could not.
Isabella glanced up mid-turn and saw him standing there. For one heart-stopping second, their gazes locked. Her smile did not falter — in fact, it deepened, just slightly. The smug tilt of her lips said she knew exactly what she was doing.
“God help me,” he muttered under his breath.
When the waltz ended, Isabella curtsied gracefully, her laughter light as Lord Lennox said something in her ear that she found amusing. Whitmore didn’t wait. As soon as her partner bowed and drifted away, he crossed the room.
“Lady Isabella,” he said, too evenly and curt.
She turned, her fan fluttering lazily in her hand. “Lord Whitmore.”
“You seem to be enjoying yourself.”
“Why should I not?” Her tone was all sweetness, but there was a steel in her gaze that told him she was wishing him elsewhere, but too well bred to say it before anyone nearby. “It is a delightful evening. The music is divine, and my partners this evening have been most agreeable.”
“I see.” He took a step closer. “Lord Lennox, was it?” He hated that he sounded put out, jealous as hell. He’d kissed her for a bet, what the hell was he doing even standing at the Romley ball demanding to know what she was doing with another man. What was it to him what she got up to?
“Indeed. A most charming gentleman.”
“Yes, I’ve heard he is.” He ground his teeth and fought for calm.
Her brow lifted. “You’ve heard of him?”
“We are acquainted.”
“Then you’ll be pleased to know he is recently returned from Italy. Quite the traveler.”
“So I hear,” he said, his voice tight. The music swelled around them — a bright reel — but for Whitmore the sound blurred to a dull roar. All he saw was her. All he smelled was her perfume — rose and something warmer, softer, that clung to his memory like sin.
“I had not realized you favored gentlemen with impeccable manners and modest habits,” he said. “It is any wonder we did not suit?”
“I find I favor gentlemen who are honest,” she said, her smile unwavering.
He flinched. “And you think I am not?” And why would she not think so? He’d played her the fool. It was only luck that she did not know the full truth of his deception, or she would not even now be speaking to him.
“Do you?” she returned quietly.
He hesitated. “Bells—”
“Lady Isabella,” she corrected gently.
He exhaled. “You intend to make me insane, do you not? I think after what happened in the park we need to speak privately.”
Her fan stilled. “You flatter yourself if you think I’m going anywhere with you, my lord.”
He glanced around. No one was near. They stood partially concealed by a tall, potted palm, the guests nearby too busy with their own amusements to concern themselves with their doings.
“Tell me,” he said, his tone low, “what game are you playing?”
“No game, my lord. I am simply dancing. Laughing when something amuses me. Living my best life until I return to Hampshire or marry.”
“And you think to marry Lord Lennox.”
“Should it matter to you?”
“No,” he said too quickly, hating that it did matter. He loathed the very idea of her being held, kissed, even looked upon if it were anyone but him. Damn, he was a fool and acting like one. Whatever had happened to him? Somehow after one kiss he’d turned into a desperate husk of his past self.
Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “You sound defensive.”
“I am not.”
“You are jealous,” she said simply.
He stiffened, hating the fact that her barb had hit him squarely in the chest and unfortunately, was not incorrect. “I am not jealous.” Oh, but he was. Maddeningly so.
“You are.”
“Am not.”
“You most certainly are,” she said, her fan snapping shut. “And it’s rather unbecoming, my lord. Especially for a man who once told me he could not bear the idea of marriage.”
“That was before,” he began, then stopped himself. Before what? Before he’d kissed her? Before she’d undone him with a single smile? With her touch. The feel of her pliant, sweet body in his arms.
“Before you kissed me?” she supplied, her brows raised mockingly.
He met her gaze, the challenge in her eyes impossible to ignore. “You presume too much.”
“I presume exactly as much as you allow me to see. I’m rarely wrong, not when it comes to you, Whitmore.”
Her words cut through the noise and laughter like a blade. He didn’t know whether to curse her or kiss her.
So he did the latter.
He moved before he thought — one step forward, one hand sliding around her waist, pulling her back into the shadow of the palm. His mouth found hers before she could protest, before she could slap some sense back into his stupid head.
She gasped and he hoped she’d stop him. Push him away. She did neither.
At the touch of her lips, the kiss turned fierce, desperate — not a hesitant caress, fearful of those who may see. It was hungry, a fusing of mouths that fought to control the other. He tasted her desire, her outrage, her need — all tangled together, igniting him like kindling.
She should have pushed him away. He half-expected it. But instead, her fingers curled into the lapels of his coat and she kissed him back — a hungry gasp escaping her throat that made his cock hard.
Rock hard.
He broke away, breathing ragged. Her lips were flushed, her chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. The sound of the orchestra reached them again — lilting, romantic, utterly oblivious to their ruin.
“Have you lost your mind?” she whispered, looking out past the ferns to see if anyone had seen them.
“Entirely.”
“You will cause a scandal, and we will be forced to marry. That is not what either of us want.”
“Do I not? Right at this moment being scandalous with you sounds sweet indeed.”
“You cannot mean that.”
He pressed his forehead to hers, closing his eyes. “I don’t know what I mean anymore.” For a long moment they stood there, caught between propriety and desire, the murmur of the ballroom just beyond the leaves. He should leave, but still his feet remained firmly planted in one spot.
“Why do you do this?” she asked softly. “You cannot decide if you hate me or desire me.”
“Perhaps it’s both,” he said hoarsely.
“That is not flattering.”
“Neither is honesty,” he said, managing a wry smile. All he knew right at this moment is he wanted her, whether that was forever or for a night he could not say. But he did not want to leave her side. No need for monetary persuasion this time.
Her lips curved slightly. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, you kissed me back and are still here. There is hope for us yet.”
“I only allowed your kiss to make you stop talking.”
He laughed quietly, but there was no humor in it.
Inside, he was unmoored — torn between wanting to claim her and wanting to protect her from himself.
He didn’t want to hurt Isabella, but he had a sinking feeling that he would.
Be a disappointment, the scandalous Lord Whitmore who always managed to get himself into trouble with the ton.
“I should leave,” she said. “Before someone sees.”
He nodded, though his hand still lingered at her waist. “Go, then.”
She looked up at him one last time — eyes bright, unreadable — then turned and slipped back into the golden light of the ballroom, her gown whispering over the marble floor.
Whitmore remained hidden behind the palm, his pulse racing, his thoughts a storm. He could still feel the ghost of her lips on his, the taste of her laughter, the ache she left in her wake.
He was a fool.
A damned, lost fool.
And worse — he knew it.