“Don’t,” Claire protested, pulling up her hood, purposefully resisting his flattery.
“Humor me,” he murmured, slipping her hood off again. “I’m just admiring your hair. My mother’s hair was the same color.”
His voice had taken on a sudden gentleness and she remembered hearing the stories. How his beautiful mother and her lover had died in a carriage accident on the road to Dover-not that anyone blamed the countess for fleeing from her depraved husband. That the viscount refused to live with his father afterward was added scandal; he’d set up his own establishment though he was scarce sixteen. “It’s an unfashionable color now, I’m told.” She didn’t speak of the circumstances of his mother’s death, though the rumors had followed him. Nor did she wish to offer sympathy to a man like Ormond who had overcome his sorrow by availing himself of every vice and excess without regard for the females he’d ruthlessly discarded in the process.
“I find that the fashionable world is often in error.” His voice, like hers, was without emotion, as though they both were carefully weighing their words. “Harriet tells me you’ve lost your parents, too,” he said.
He spoke as if his father was dead, she thought. “Yes…four years ago. Our parents died of the putrid throat. We are wards of our aunt as you no doubt know-or rather Harriet is. I am not.” Please, God, may she soon be quit of this carriage. His nearness was becoming disquieting.
“Harriet refers to you as a spinster,” he said with a teasing grin-apparently untroubled by their close proximity.
“A very contented spinster.” She refused to respond to his boyish grin, intent on retaining her composure. “Unlike Harriet, we’re not all looking to marriage as our salvation,” she pithily added, wishing him to understand that she was not as gullible as the other women who came within his scope.
“Then you and I should get along famously,” he drawled.
She sent him a withering glance. “There is no you and I.”
His brows rose in teasing rejoinder. “I could make it worth your while. My fortune is considerable-and as you previously noted, alluring.”
“Not to everyone, my lord. I choose to earn my own way in the world.”
“Good God. Doing what?” The only women he knew who earned their own way were in the demimonde.
“I have a school for young ladies.”
“How commendable.”
“A necessity. I don’t wish to be beholden to my aunt.”
“I see.”
“I’m sure you don’t. Men like you have never known privation.”
“Or perhaps men like me-as you so censoriously remark-have known other kinds of privation.” Overcome by an unexpected sense of sadness-raw as the day he watched his mother die-he looked away for a moment. He must be overtired, he decided. When had he last slept? He couldn’t remember. Turning to his usual remedy for melancholy, he leaned down and pulled out a flask from under the seat. “Whiskey?” Uncorking the chased silver container, he held it out to her.
“No, thank you.” A stiff, discouraging response.
Perhaps it might have been to others; Ormond took no notice. “If you don’t mind,” he drawled, already lifting the flask to his mouth. Draining it in one long draught, he took note of her rigid posture and murmured, “No need for alarm. I never get drunk.” He smiled tightly. “In contrast to my father who has never been sober,” he added, each word filled with loathing.
“I’m sorry.” She made a small moue-reluctant to find herself feeling compassion for Ormond who would have seduced Harriet without a qualm.
“No, you’re not.” Corking the flask, he tossed it on the opposite seat.
“Rather, I don’t wish to be.”
“Because of Harriet.”
“Of course. You would have dishonored her.”
He didn’t answer. He shrugged instead. “She wasn’t exactly unwilling.”
“She’s young and stupid. You are neither.”
“What do you want me to say? It’s the way of the world.” He shrugged again. “And I’m no saint.”
“Just kindly stay away from her.”
He held her gaze for a moment in the dimly lit interior, a willful fire in his eyes. “What about you?”
“I’m not interested.”
Immune to the reproof in her voice, he said half under his breath as though trying to understand his aberrant impulse, “And yet, curiously, you interest me.” He frowned faintly in an effort to grasp the incomprehensible. Fulsome blondes were generally his style, not this prickly, bluestocking with a disconcertingly direct gaze.
“Take heart, Ormond,” Claire murmured, noting his frown. “I’m sure you’ll change your mind by morning. Rumor has it you’re fickle,” she added, sardonically.
He laughed, her mockery pointed but true. “Touché. While you, I expect, only harbor the most sincere and lasting emotions.”
“Is that not the way of the world, my lord,” she replied, derisively. “Men play at love while women risk shame for similar activities.”
“As you say,” he murmured. So she was not a complete martinet when it came to the conventions governing women; she apparently took issue with the double standard. Before he had time to reflect further on that intriguing bit of information the carriage came to a halt. Glancing out, he saw that they had reached Mrs. Bellingham’s. As his gaze returned to Claire he found himself saying something he hadn’t said since his green youth. “May I kiss you good night?”
“No, you may not.”
Was that panic in her voice?
Or something else entirely?
Attuned to the nuances in a female’s tone and, furthermore, disinclined to be gainsaid, he lifted one brow. “Is that a challenge, Miss Russell?”
“It most certainly is not!”
Ormand’s gaze was knowing, as though he understood that her outburst was not entirely indignation or umbrage. Sliding upright from his lounging pose, he reached over and touched her cheek. “It’s only a kiss,” he said. “How can it hurt?”
“This is exactly why I don’t want you near my sister! You toy with every woman who comes your way-without regard for anyone’s feelings but your own! Ormond, don’t be ridiculous!” she exclaimed as he lightly gripped her shoulders. “Ormond-for heaven’s SAKE!” she heatedly cried as he drew her close, as his hard-muscled chest met her breasts and his hands slid down her back, pulling her nearer still. Her breath caught in her throat. “Ormond-no…don’t…” she whispered.
Just as his mouth covered hers.
He inhaled her halfhearted cavil, knew from experience that her breathy protest didn’t mean no, and kissing her gently, assuaged her agitation-and his curiosity in the bargain. He’d never kissed a bluestocking; he’d never before been so inclined. But very soon, he decided he might have been wise to experience the sensations sooner. Her lips were soft-softer than others he’d known-and ripe as summer fruit.
That she almost instantly tasted of sweet surrender even as she struggled against his embrace was not unfamiliar and yet different somehow-more arousing, as though the citadel about to be breached was unrivaled. And in contrast to his usual detached approach to foreplay, this time he was curiously impatient-the auburn-haired spinster stimulating some hitherto unknown goad that stirred his blood to instant fever pitch.
Was it because he’d become weary of sameness; had he become tired of pretty blondes and simpering agreement? Was he looking for willfulness and contention with his sex?
Not that introspection mattered at the moment; the lady was beginning to softly moan into his mouth. Nor was undue speculation of import when she made him feel as though he might actually experience the much touted nirvana in her arms. Quickly lifting her onto his lap as though testing the possibilities, he calmed her brief outcry as his rigid erection pressed into her soft bottom, whispering against her mouth, “Hush, hush, no one can see us. You’re safe…” This wasn’t the first time he’d been parked outside some lady’s house, playing at love. His driver knew how to deal with interlopers.