Chapter 14 #2
Owen preferred a specific type of intimacy, and that required a certain type of partner. Ivy was not that type. She was strong, confident, and so sweet that everyone who met her gravitated toward her light. She was the sort of woman who desired men like Lord Hartford: kind, soft, and gentle.
Except when he had spoken to her in that way, her pupils had dilated, her plush lips had parted as she had exhaled, and her cheeks had flushed…
suggesting that perhaps sweet Ivy did not quite know what she desired after all.
And how could she? Ladies were not given the opportunity to learn about their own bodies before they were shepherded into marriage.
Lust twisted in his belly at the thought of being the one to help her learn what she liked.
Furious with himself, Owen pressed the heel of his palm into his chest. This faux courtship had been a terrible idea, but he was stuck now. Rumors were circulating, and with his little performance inside, he had all but verified he was after her hand. He could not retreat now.
He exhaled evenly and straightened his coat. He could remain impartial to Ivy. Unaffected. It was not as if he were ever going to touch her for real. This was all pretend. He could do this.
The moment he re-entered the room, his eyes narrowed. She was surrounded by men. Until their exchange, she had not been approached. Now he could barely see the top of her head past the shoulders of gentlemen vying for her attention.
That was the purpose of their ruse, he thought, even as his jaw flexed. One single, smitten interaction with a viscount, and suddenly every man wanted to know what was so special about her. He hated that. If they needed a viscount to show interest first, then none of them deserved her.
He should go back outdoors. He should let her discover who was available to her… but of all the men encircling her, none was Lord Hartford. He had promised her an introduction to Hartford, had he not? And Owen was a man of his word.
He strode toward her, several men moving hastily aside at his approach, until he could see her face. She was frazzled and smiling so hard her cheeks looked ready to crack.
“Miss Bennett.” He offered his arm. “Would you take a turn about the room with me?”
Ivy hooked her gloved hand through the crook of his arm, murmured an excuse to the horde of men who were very fortunate this courtship was not real, and tucked herself tightly to his side as he navigated her to freedom.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly through her lips. “Thank you. I do not know what happened.”
“They want to know what makes you special.”
“How very disappointed they will be to discover the answer.”
“Do not be absurd.”
She peered up at him with those honey eyes of hers, but the emotion in them was concealed. “Your compliments are starting to improve. You must be careful, lest I get silly, girlish notions in my head and start to believe this is real.”
He sighed. He supposed he had acted pompous enough to deserve that.
“Let us promenade for a few minutes, and then I shall introduce you to Lord Hartford.” After another moment he cleared his throat. “I am sorry about what I said to you before, when I was trying to make you blush. I went too far.”
She arched a brow, and he could not help noticing how the yellow gleam of candlelight made her skin glow, as if she were lit from within. “Do not fret, your lordship. I found the lesson fascinating. I am eager to discover if I will find success using it.”
He stopped abruptly, and she took another step before being tugged to standing. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I look forward to practicing your last lesson with Lord Hartford. It had not occurred to me before tonight how woefully inadequate I am in the art of seduction. What is the next lesson?”
He gazed down at her eager expression and felt the most incomprehensible mixture of disbelief and annoyance.
He wanted to explain in no uncertain terms that he was not teaching her how to seduce another man, that the lessons were meant to convince the ton he was courting her, and nothing else.
But why? Since this was a platonic arrangement between them, he should be happy to help her enhance her skills.
Ignoring the sour feeling in his gut, he said, “I am pleased I could help.”
She gestured for him to lower his head, and when he did, her warm breath, sweet with punch, skated across his cheek as she whispered, “Do you think if I spoke to Lord Hartford like this, it would be a successful deployment of lesson one?” Her eyes met his before tracing over his cheekbones as if she were planning where to press her lips.
Owen thought of her soft breath on Lord Hartford, and ground his teeth together. “Yes.”
“You do not look as if you are affected. You look pained.”
“Because your brother is here,” he lied. He had no idea where Barnes or Miss Wixby were.
She nodded in understanding as they resumed walking and asked again, “What is lesson number two?”
It took him a moment to force himself to speak. “The art of conversation.”
“I know how to converse.”
“Not this way, you do not. It is a way of speaking that suggests meaning beyond the words. A double entendre.”
She peered up at him with fascination. “Can you give me an example?”
They had reached the end of the room, where his business partner had displayed several ostentatious marble busts of war generals.
They turned, and when they did, he surveyed the room.
The music flowed, as did the conversation, but he was keenly aware that eyes were on them, and that even Lord Hartford was having a difficult time looking away from her.
“Your gown is beautiful tonight,” he murmured. “I especially like the cut of the neckline.”
She glanced down at her gown, and seeing the soft swell of her breasts over the neckline, scoffed. “That was terrible.”
“I am under pressure.”
“What would I use for a gentleman? I like your trousers…” She trailed off, and then a devilish gleam entered her eye. “Were they made for three legs?”
Owen stopped abruptly, his mouth going slack with shock, and Ivy let out a peal of laughter that drew even more looks.
“You minx! How do you—”
“Six brothers, my lord,” she reminded him.
“You most certainly cannot say that to a gentleman,” he warned, growing hot beneath his cravat.
“Oh, I know. Do not fret.” She waved away his concern, but her cheeks were glowing, and she looked entirely too pleased with herself for shocking him. Before he could speak again, Barnes appeared at their side.
“Sister,” he said, his smile not reaching his eyes, “you have done a splendid job convincing the aristocracy that you are being courted by this lout. Shall we go remind everyone that I am your chaperone? That I am watching at all times?”
“You do not have to worry,” Owen said coldly, lowering his voice so that he could not be overheard by anyone beyond their trio. “I would not touch your sister if she were the last lady in England. She is related to you, after all.”
Something flickered across Ivy’s face before she smoothed it away. “I cannot, Barnes. Lord Brackley was about to introduce me to Lord Hartford.”
“I too have been looking forward to meeting the man. I shall come with you,” Barnes replied.
Owen glared at him, but they moved as one toward the marquess.
Lord Hartford was entertaining a number of women by the fireplace, but when they approached, he stepped forward and held out his hand to Owen. “Lord Brackley. Welcome to the House of Lords.”
Although Hartford was shaking his hand, his eyes were all for Ivy.
She was flushing, and it irritated Owen that she had had to threaten to hold her breath to flush around him, but merely being in Lord Hartford’s presence was enough to get her blood flowing.
He did not see what was so special about the marquess.
Yes, he was incredibly wealthy and had land holdings across the country.
Yes, he was respectable in the sense that he did not gamble or frequent brothels, at least as far as Owen knew—and he had certainly dug into his past when Ivy had shared his name.
Hartford was a member of White’s, attended every parliamentary session, and not a single man had a poor thing to say about him.
He had inherited his title four years prior, and although he was frequently seen riding in Hyde Park with one lady or another, he had yet to propose to any of them.
But was he the right man for Ivy? Owen was not yet convinced.
“Lord Hartford, have you met my close friends, Miss Ivy Bennett, and her brother, Mr. Bennett?”
Hartford smiled at Ivy, a small dimple appearing in each of his cheeks. “It is my pleasure, Miss Bennett.” He released Owen’s hand and took hers, bowing over it and kissing her glove.
Barnes beamed at Hartford, while Owen wanted to rip his hand away.
He took a deep breath. He did not know what had activated this possessive streak, but it would only do him a disservice.
Ivy was not his. He did not even want her.
The only explanation was that something about Hartford was putting him on edge.
“Where have you been hiding this orchid, Mr. Bennett? ’Tis unfair that Lord Brackley should discover her before the rest of us have had the opportunity to gaze upon her petals.”
What the hell did he mean by that? That better have been a very poor attempt at lyrical flattery rather than an example of lesson number two.
Barnes gave an uncomfortable chuckle, and Owen knew he was as disturbed by Hartford’s petal flattery as he was. “I have not been hiding her, but my lovely sister is too modest to make herself the center of attention. It is no wonder she went unnoticed.”
“I do not understand how that is possible.” Hartford continued to hold her hand and smile at her. “If I had set eyes on her before, I would have remembered.”
It was on the tip of Owen’s tongue to tell him he had seen Ivy at a party before, but that would only embarrass everyone involved.
At last Hartford released her hand and addressed her directly instead of talking about her. “Do you care for poetry, Miss Bennett?”
“Oh, yes, your lordship.”
That was news to Owen, but then it was not as if he had sat down with her and discussed her likes and dislikes. He frowned, wishing he knew more of the tiny details about her. Perhaps they should arrange a meeting where he could get to know her better—for the purpose of their ruse.
Hartford’s eyes were so focused on Ivy that Owen was beginning to fear he was a soul-sucker. Who stared at another person like that?
Barnes nudged him hard while Ivy and Lord Hartford fell into discussion about Alfred, Lord Tennyson. “Stop it,” he hissed. “You look like you are about to knock his teeth out.”
“There is something wrong with him,” Owen muttered back. “No one likes poetry that much.”
“Maybe not uneducated oafs,” Barnes retorted. “I think he is a good match for Ivy.”
“I do not understand what she sees in him.”
A flicker of regret passed over Barnes’s eyes at that, and Owen pounced. “What do you know?”
“None of your concern, Brackley.”
“It is my concern, and if you do not tell me this minute, I will interrupt them and—”
“He is kind.”
Owen’s brows drew together. “What do you mean, ‘he is kind’?”
Barnes shrugged. “You may recall some of the things I told you about my father when we were boys at Harrow.”
Owen remembered once sitting in a tree with Barnes and trading stories about their horrible fathers. Neither of them had ever gone into specifics, but they had found camaraderie in the unspoken.
He frowned in Ivy’s direction, wondering what her father had done to make kindness her only requirement for a suitor. And if that was Hartford’s only draw, did that mean she was not in love with the lord?
Barnes gave a mocking snort. “You do not have to look as if you want to avenge her. Our father has been taken care of. He lives in London now, and he has not seen her for years.”
“Did he hurt her?”
Barnes hesitated. “I do not think so, but I cannot be certain. He hurt other people in our family until I was big enough to stop it. Ivy saw that, and it changed her. Apparently, she spotted Lord Hartford displaying kindness to a servant a few years ago, and she set her sights on him then. If Father is determined to force her into marriage—and he is, because he does not believe a woman should go without a master—then she is equally determined to find someone who will be safe.”
Someone who would be safe, or someone who could keep her safe?
Was she still afraid of her father even though Barnes had sent him to live in London?
Hartford’s temperament was too gentle, too easygoing.
What if Ivy’s father wanted to see her again?
Once Hartford was her husband, he would have the power to arrange meetings on her behalf, and Owen suspected he would acquiesce to her father to keep the peace, leaving Ivy vulnerable.
And after she was married, Barnes could no longer protect her.
“Hartford is too nice.”
Barnes opened his mouth to make another sarcastic comment, but he let it die on his tongue, because he knew it, too.