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The Bridal Quest
The Bridal Quest
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The Bridal Quest

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Francesca looked at her, somewhat surprised, and Irene realized that she had probably been rude again. It was a fault of which she was frequently accused.

“I beg your pardon,” Irene said. “I should not have interrupted you. But you have known me long enough to know that I believe in straight dealing. I cannot help but wonder why you asked me to promenade with you about the room.”

Francesca let out a little sigh. “I am aware of your preference for plain speaking. And while I am in general of the opinion that it is as easy to employ tact as to be blunt, I, too, find truth to be the best course. I asked you to accompany me because a longtime friend of my family asked me for a favor. I was asked to introduce you to someone who wishes to make your acquaintance.”

“What?” It was Irene’s turn to look astonished. “But who—Why—”

“I can only assume it is because he admires you,” Francesca answered, and smiled in that small catlike way she had, a little secretive and yet at the same time alluring.

Her words so took Irene aback that for a moment her mind was blank. Finally she rallied enough to retort, “Really, Lady Haughston, I am not fresh from the country. Do you expect me to believe that?”

“I see no reason why you should not,” Francesca responded, widening her eyes. “I do not know his reasons, of course. I did not think it my place to quiz him regarding his motives. However, I find that is commonly the reason why a gentleman wishes to meet a certain lady. Surely you do not count yourself so low that you think no man would find you worthy of his notice.”

Irene regarded Francesca thoughtfully. Lady Haughston had rather neatly boxed her in. Finally she said, “’Tis not false modesty. It is more that I have found I have a certain reputation among the ton that makes gentlemen disinclined to pursue my acquaintance.”

Francesca’s eyes danced with amusement, and her smile broadened. “A reputation, Lady Irene? Indeed, I cannot imagine what you mean.”

“I thought you believed truth was the best course,” Irene shot back. “We both know that I am regarded as something of a shrew.”

Francesca shrugged. “Ah, but while you are not fresh from the country, this gentleman is.”

“What?” Irene, puzzled, started to say more, but Francesca’s attention had focused on something over Irene’s shoulder, and she smiled. Irene dropped the rest of her words as she turned to see what had claimed Francesca’s attention.

It was a man. Tall and broad-shouldered, he strode toward them with purpose, and it seemed to Irene that those around him were dwarfed in comparison. It was not that he was so much larger than the other men, but there was a certain aura about him, a sense of toughness and strength, that set him apart.

His hair was jet-black, thick and a trifle long, giving him the faint look of a ruffian, despite the quality and cut of his clothes. His face was all angles and lines, with high, sharp cheekbones and a firm chin. The straight slashes of his eyebrows were as dark as his hair, and the eyes below them were an intense green.

She did not recognize him and yet there was something about him that tugged at her, some sense of familiarity that she could not place. Irene was aware of a peculiar sensation inside her, a dancing of nerves through her midsection that seemed both excitement and trepidation, mingled with another, unknown feeling that coiled down into her abdomen, hot and disturbing.

Who was this man?

“Ah, Lord Radbourne,” Francesca said, holding out her hand in greeting.

“Lady Haughston.” He bowed perfunctorily over her hand, and then his gaze slid past Francesca to Irene.

His eyes were not leering or bold, simply watchful, but there was a directness in them that was slightly unsettling. There was something different about him that intrigued her. She realized that she wanted to know more about him, that she wanted to talk to him, and the fact that she felt that way both surprised and annoyed her.

“Pray, allow me to introduce you to Lady Irene Wyngate,” Francesca went on smoothly, turning from him to Irene. “Lady Irene, I would like you to meet Gideon, the Earl of Radbourne. Lord Radbourne is Lady Pencully’s great-nephew.”

It dawned on Irene then exactly who their visitor was. He was the long-lost heir to the Bankes family fortune and name, around whom so much gossip had swirled over the last few months. Though she knew no one who could say they had actually met the man, she had heard a great deal about him. She had been told that he was a criminal, found in prison and hauled out of it by a powerful family member. Others had declared that he was mad, still others that he was simple-minded. A few had hinted at perversions the depths of which they could not even name in front of a lady. A number had held that he was deformed, hideous to look at.

Obviously the ones who had made the last assertion were wrong, Irene thought. She extended her hand, schooling her face into a polite expression that she hoped masked the leap of interest she had felt when she realized who he was. “How do you do, Lord Radbourne?”

“Lady Wyngate.” He took her hand, giving her the same brief sketch of a bow that he had given Francesca.

Irene felt a little frisson of excitement run through her hand at the brief touch of Radbourne’s fingers upon hers. It was absurd, of course, she told herself—the merest of touches, nothing more than a polite exchange that had happened on countless occasions. It meant nothing, indicated nothing…yet she could not deny that what she had felt was different from all the other times she had given her hand in greeting.

Irritation welled in her—with this man, with Francesca for manipulating her into meeting him, but most of all with herself for feeling this hitch of excitement and interest. It was most unlike her, and Irene found it decidedly annoying. She was, after all, a woman who always knew what she was about.

There was a moment of awkward silence as the earl looked at Irene and she returned his gaze coldly. She told herself that he was no doubt used to any unmarried woman he met fawning over him. Whatever the rumors about him, he was, after all, an earl and reputedly quite wealthy. She had no idea why he would want to meet her, but she was determined that he see that she had no interest in him.

Francesca cast a glance from Irene to the earl and back, then said, “A lovely ball, isn’t it? I do hope that you are enjoying the party, Lord Radbourne.”

The earl barely spared her a glance. Looking at Irene, he said, “May I have this dance, my lady?”

“I do not care to dance,” Irene responded bluntly. From the corner of her eye, she could see Francesca’s eyebrows vault upward at this bit of rudeness, but she ignored her.

Lord Radbourne, however, did not even flinch at her set down. To Irene’s astonishment, amusement flickered for an instant in his face, as he replied, “That is good, then, as I am not at all proficient at dancing. Why don’t we simply take a stroll and talk?”

His effrontery left Irene speechless. But Francesca, a trace of laughter in her voice, spoke up beside her. “That sounds like an excellent idea. While you two are occupied, I shall pay my regards to our hostess.”

With those words, Francesca turned and hurried away, leaving Irene alone with Lord Radbourne. There was little she could do except take the arm he extended, for she could see that they were the object of several interested gazes. If she gave him the direct cut now and stalked off, ignoring his arm, it would be gossiped about all over Mayfair tomorrow.

So she gave in with a regal nod, laying her hand on his arm. As they turned and began to stroll around the edge of the dancers, Irene nodded at one or two of the women watching them. She could feel Lord Radbourne’s muscles like iron beneath the sleeve of his jacket, and it startled her to find that the fact stirred a warmth in her.

“Lady Haughston intimated that you wished to meet me,” Irene began in her usual direct way. This approach, she had found long ago, was the easiest method of deflecting any man’s interest in her. It was unladylike, with none of the flirtation and deception that marked the common course of interaction between men and women.

“That is true,” he replied.

She shot him an annoyed look. “I cannot imagine why.”

“Can you not?” He looked at her again with an expression of faint amusement, an expression that Irene realized she quite disliked.

“No, I cannot. I am twenty-five years of age and have been on the shelf for quite some time.”

“You assume my interest in you is matrimonial?” he countered.

Irene felt a flush rise in her cheeks. “I just told you, I cannot imagine what your interest in me is. However, I have rarely found that men had any interest in spinsters.”

“Perhaps I merely wished to renew our acquaintance.”

“What?” Irene turned her head to look at him, startled. She had thought there was something familiar about him, and the feeling tugged at her again. “What do you mean?”

“We have met before. Do you not remember?”

Her interest was thoroughly caught now, and she studied his face, scarcely noticing as they stepped through one of the open doors onto the terrace.

“Let me refresh your memory,” he said, leading her toward the hip-high stone wall that edged the terrace. “At the time, you tried to shoot me.”

She dropped her hand from his arm and turned to face him. “What in the world are you—”

Suddenly the memory fell into place. It had been years—surely almost ten. She had heard a fracas downstairs in the entry and had gone to look into it. She had found this man punching her father, and she had stopped the fight by firing a shot from one of her father’s dueling pistols into the air.

“You!” she exclaimed.

“Yes. Me.” He looked back at her levelly.

“I did not try to shoot you,” Irene told him caustically. “I fired over your head to get your attention. If I had tried to shoot you, you would be dead.”

She expected him to turn on his heel and leave her at that remark, but to her surprise, he let out a short bark of laughter. His face shifted and changed, his eyes lightening with amusement, and he was suddenly so handsome that her breath caught in her throat. The heat that flooded her cheeks this time was not from embarrassment.

“Well, I am glad to see that you bear me no ill will,” she said tartly, to cover her odd and unsettling reaction. She turned and strolled away from him along the stone wall.

A little to her surprise, he kept pace with her, saying, “It was natural, was it not, for a child to protect her father? I could scarcely blame you.”

“Since you apparently knew my father, I imagine you know that he was little deserving of protection.”

Radbourne shrugged. “What one deserves has little to do with the relationship between parent and child, I would think.”

“My father would have told you that I was an unnatural child.”

He looked at her. “You stopped me from hurting him any further, did you not?”

“Yes. I did.” She did not look at him, instead turning her gaze out over the garden. She had no interest in discussing her father or her feelings toward him. “Still, I see little reason why you should wish to meet someone who held a gun on you.”

“I was finished with Lord Wyngate, anyway. I had made my point to him.” He paused, turning his own attention toward the garden. “But you seemed…interesting.”

Irene turned to him. “I fired a shot at you and you found it interesting?”

The smile tugged at the corners of his mouth again. “It was over my head. Remember?”

She frowned. “I am not sure what you are getting at.”

“You were correct in your first assumption, my lady. Matrimonial concerns are what brought me here.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My family is interested in marrying me off to a proper young lady. I am, you see, an embarrassment to them. The facts of my life are, apparently, somehow a scandal, a reflection upon them. And an earl who cannot ride, and whose vowels are not rounded and plummy enough, is a disgrace. As for my business interests…well, they cannot even be spoken of.”

Despite his light tone, his words were biting and his eyes were hard. It seemed clear to Irene that the man had little liking for his newly discovered family—or perhaps it was simply disdain for the nobility in general. She could not help but feel a certain sympathy for him. After all, she had for several years been viewed by many of her peers and even some members of her family with disfavor, if not actual dislike, for her forthright manner and blunt speech.

Radbourne went on, “They have come up with a plan to cover my shortcomings by shackling me to a woman of good family. I think it is their hope that she will guide me into more appropriate behavior—or at least hide some of my inappropriateness.”

“You are a grown man,” Irene pointed out. “They cannot force you to marry.”

He grimaced. “No. Only talk me to death on the matter.”

Irene hid a smile. She knew the power of an incessant harangue all too well.

He shrugged. “But I know that I must marry and produce an heir. If I refuse now, I am only delaying the inevitable. I toyed with the idea of marrying an opera dancer or some such, just to put their noses out of joint. But it would be unfair of me to put someone else in that position. Nor would I want to doom my children to gossip and whispers. I will not make them pariahs among their peers. Therefore, I agree that I need to marry a suitable wife. You are, I understand, not yet married or betrothed, and according to my great-aunt, your family fits the requirements very well. Lady Haughston has apparently agreed to help Lady Pencully in this endeavor, so I suggested to her that you be considered as one of the possibilities.”

Irene gaped at him, so astonished that she was momentarily robbed of the ability to speak. Finally she blurted out, “You are considering marrying me because I once threatened you with a pistol?”

“I thought that you might be less dull than the simpering misses they have presented to me,” he replied, smiling a little.

She stared at him for a moment longer, then drew herself up to her full height, her eyes flashing. “Are you mad? Your words are insulting in so many ways that I scarce know where to start.”

He stiffened a little, his face settling into hard lines. His voice was silkily dangerous as he said, “The idea of marrying me is an insult to you?”

“Do you expect me to feel flattered because you decided to ‘consider’ me as a ‘possibility’ in your parade of brides? Am I to be honored that you picked me out from the others, like a mare at a sale? Because you deemed me somewhat less boring and unworthy of you than the other unmarried women of the ton?”

His mouth tightened. “It is not the way you make it sound. I am not purchasing a wife. It would be a practical arrangement, something that would be advantageous for you, as well. I assumed that you had passed the age of holding girlish fantasies about love.”

“Believe me, I was never so young as to hold that sort of fantasy,” Irene shot back. Anger vibrated through her, making her oblivious to everything else.

She took a step forward, hands clenched into fists at her sides, and glared up into his face, finding his icy calm more infuriating than any raw display of temper. “Did you think that I was so desperate to marry, so unable to make my way through this world without the guidance of a man, that I would jump at such an opportunity?”

“I thought you would be mature and logical enough to see the advantages for both of us in such an arrangement,” he retorted. “Obviously I was mistaken.”

“Yes. Obviously. You may find me ‘suitable,’ but I can assure you that there is nothing about you that suits me!”

His eyes sparked at her words. It occurred to Irene that perhaps she had gone a step too far in her anger. But she refused to back down and appear intimidated before this fierce man looming over her. Instead she gazed straight back at him, setting her jaw defiantly.

His hand lashed out and wrapped around her wrist, holding her where she stood—though it was not necessary, for Irene would never have revealed weakness by stepping back from him. He looked into her face, his eyes as cold and hard as glass.

“Is there not?” he murmured in a tone all the more dangerous for its softness. “I think, my lady, that you might just find out differently.”

With that he bent his head, his other hand coming up to cup the back of her neck, and fastened his lips to hers.

CHAPTER FOUR

IRENE WENT STILL, shocked into immobility. No man had ever had the audacity to kiss her before. His lips were warm against hers, firm yet soft, and they awakened in her a host of sensations that she had never experienced. She felt at once flushed and cold, and a tremor ran down through her body, bursting in a ball of heat in her abdomen.

His mouth pressed harder against hers, and her lips opened instinctively. His tongue slipped inside, startling her even more and starting up a new thrum of pleasure deep inside her. Radbourne wrapped his arms around her, pressing her more tightly against him, so that she felt the hard line of his body all down the length of her own. She was surrounded by his strength and warmth, her breasts crushed against the hard muscles of his chest. Later she would think to herself that she should have been frightened at how easily he held her still, but in this moment she felt no fear, only the eager rush of excitement, the breathless pleasure of her blood pounding through her veins, the sudden awakening of her entire body.

She felt the hot outrush of his breath against her cheek, heard the rough sound he made low in his throat, and she trembled in his arms, unprepared for the myriad of feelings that poured through her. Something seemed to open deep within her, aching and hot, spreading outward. She squeezed her legs tightly together, amazed at the yearning that was blossoming there.

His hands slid down her back and curved beneath her buttocks. His fingers dug in, lifting her up and into him, so that she felt the hard line of his desire pressing into her flesh, and his mouth shifted on hers, digging deeper, his tongue taking her.

Irene dug her fingers into his shoulders, holding on to him as desire swirled through her, urgent and compelling. Her tongue met his and twined around it, and she felt a shudder shake him. He wrapped his arms around her again, so tightly that it felt as if he wanted to melt into her. Irene wound her arms around his neck, lost in sensation, hungry in a way she had never imagined, eager for something she could not even name.

There was the sound of voices as someone stepped outside onto the terrace, the scrape of a foot upon the stone. As the noises penetrated Irene’s consciousness, Radbourne dropped his arms abruptly and stepped back, sucking in a long breath. His eyes glittered, wide and dark in his face, and the skin seemed stretched across his cheekbones, stark and taut. They stared at one another. Irene’s mind was blank, aware only of the feelings coursing through her body.

For a moment he looked as stunned as she, but then he blinked and half turned away, glancing toward the other end of the terrace, where a couple had emerged and were standing, talking together. The woman’s laughter floated across the night air toward them, and the couple turned, strolling in the opposite direction.

As if the others’ movement had broken her trance, Irene came crashing back to earth. Her body still hummed with the passion that had overtaken her, but her mind was alert again. She realized with horror that she had been wrapped in Radbourne’s arms, kissing him passionately, and that anyone at any moment could have stepped out of the ballroom and seen them. Her reputation would have been ruined, of course, but that was not what most exercised her mind.

What truly horrified her was the fact that she had, for a few moments, completely lost herself in passion. She had not thought about that—not about her good name or what she was risking or, indeed, about anything at all. She had been held entirely in the grip of physical hunger, blind with need, driven solely by desire, like the basest animal.

Irene had always prided herself on her control, on her intellect and reasoning. She had told herself that she was nothing like her father, who had been ruled by primitive urges and basic emotions. She thought before she acted; she wanted a rational life, free from the turmoil of emotions.

Yet here she had been under the control not of her mind, but of her lowest instincts. She had thought of nothing, wanted nothing, but to satisfy her physical craving. Like her father, she had been filled with a primitive hunger, and she had let herself be ruled by it. When Lord Radbourne seized her in his grip and kissed her, she should have pulled away and slapped him. She should have given him the sort of brutal set-down his actions had deserved.

Instead, she had melted in his arms. Flooded with desire, she had kissed him back, had thrown her arms around his neck and clung to him. She had given herself up to him like the most feebleminded of maidens, letting him control her. Dominate her.

She was filled with anger and disgust for herself—equal to the anger and disgust she felt for the man who had brought her to this state. She glared at the earl, relieved at the surge of anger within her, as it pushed out the passion that had filled her earlier.

He gazed back at her, and she could see that he, too, had recovered from whatever desire had gripped him. Gone was the fierce gleam in his eyes. His face was devoid of expression, his lips thinned into a straight line.