Winning the Wallflower Page 5

Cyrus was in the grip of a heady, purely sexual response. He groaned, far back in his throat, and pulled her to him even more tightly, letting his hands roam. She had narrow, patrician shoulders, he discovered, and slender arms with just a touch of muscle. “Do you ride?” he growled, tearing his mouth away from hers.

  His desire leapt even higher as he looked at her face. Her lips were rosy, her eyes a little dazed.

  “Yes, every morning,” she said, putting a hand to his cheek. “I can feel your beard growing.”

  Cyrus stilled. He had his father’s dark, thick hair, and he shaved at least twice a day. Even so, by this hour in the evening he often had a shadowed darkness on his jaw. His facial hair was one of the ways his cousin had baited him.

  But Lucy obviously didn’t share the duke’s disdain. Her eyes were bright and excited, and he could feel her fingers tremble on his cheek. “It makes you look quite rakish,” she whispered. “Dangerous.”

  “You were right,” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t notice your figure. I merely decided that it was acceptable.”

  Her fingers stilled on his face.

  He pushed her away from him and deliberately—scandalously—let his hands slip from her shoulders down the front of her gown, curving around the soft curves of her breasts. Lucy let out a little gasp but didn’t break his gaze. “I see you now.” His hands tightened until he could feel small, taut nipples through her chemise and gown.

  “And now that I see you,” he said, his voice dropping a register, “I find you absolutely . . . acceptable in every way.” He gave that word an intonation that revealed just how much he wanted her.

  A strand of hair fell by her cheek, and all of a sudden Cyrus had an image of Lucy—his Lucy—lying on a bed waiting for him, all that sun-bright hair tousled around her shoulders, her eyes soft with anticipation, her body barely covered by a few pieces of silk. He would buy her silk, in the same color as her lips.

  His entire body roared with sexual anticipation. “Bloody hell,” he said slowly. “I can hardly believe that I didn’t look at you clearly. What a fool.”

  A small smile touched her lips and he almost—almost!—asked her whether it was too late, but he had made it a rule never to ask for anything that made him vulnerable. Instead, he kissed her again.

  And once again he felt a note of deep satisfaction at the way she fit against him . . . but satisfaction was quickly swamped by potent, roaring desire. He hadn’t felt this way for years, not since he embarked on his plan and relegated sexual need to the place it belonged, in the background.

  He didn’t consider himself a sensuous man. Sex was a necessary pleasure, one that could be fit into moments that weren’t filled with more enthralling pursuits, such as calculating to a hairbreadth exactly when to buy or sell a company, the very moment to play the markets in order to influence currency.

  But now desire and possessiveness and lust were hitting him at once, making him tighten his hold on Lucy, crushing her breasts against his chest, desperately searching her mouth for the answer to a question he hadn’t asked.

  Lucy felt as if she were in the grip of a storm and the only solid point in her world was Cyrus. Her senses reeled with the taste of him, wild and free, like the wind and spice. He was kissing her with that sort of fierce piratical abandon she had always imagined.

  The depressing part was that even though her knees were trembling and her body felt feverish and distinctly unladylike, it wasn’t enough.

  All that daydreaming . . . and she’d missed the point. She hadn’t understood her own fantasy. It wasn’t important that the pirate king clutched his lady to his chest and kissed her. What mattered was the way the pirate looked at his beloved.

  Cyrus’s eyes glittered, more like black than green. She could see the desire in his eyes, feel it in the hot throb of his body against hers. He bent his head and his mouth slid from her mouth down the line of her jaw . . . and still he held her tightly against him.

  She had hungered for Cyrus from the moment she saw him, though she hadn’t known enough to understand the emotion. And now he craved her. Desire felt like a burning force that bound the two of them together, that made her ache in every spot where his muscled heat touched her and his body was touching hers in every place that mattered.

  But it wasn’t enough. The irony was pointed, given that she entered the room with a scheme to keep him based on nothing but his physical beauty, and now, even though she could have him—she didn’t want him.

  Desire only highlighted what was missing between them. The truth burned in the back of her throat, like tears that she could never shed. She wanted loyalty, respect. And genuine liking. She wanted him to look at her, and for her to see more in his eyes than lust.

  Curse words that she had never spoken aloud ran through her head.

  She could not allow herself to be compromised by Cyrus. Not for this. It would break her heart, all this fire and lust without something warmer behind it. She was already half in love with him, with his severity, the intelligence in his eyes, the utter restraint in his body . . . and now, the hunger in his caresses.

  He would break her heart, because he hadn’t even known her name a few minutes ago, and now he was kissing her as if he cared.

  He didn’t. He couldn’t.

  The thought was enough to make a drop of sanity penetrate the warmth of his body, the incantatory way his hands were spread on her back, just above the flare of her hips.

  She pulled back, caught a glimpse of his raw beauty once again, and had to swallow a pulse of pure desire.

  “Cyrus,” she said, stepping free. But her voice came out like an aching, husky murmur. His eyes flared and he reached out for her again. “No,” she breathed.

  “Yes,” he growled.

  Finally, his voice was the opposite of indifferent; it was warm and hungry. But there was nothing vulnerable about his face: how could there be? One was only vulnerable to someone one cared for.

  Who would have thought that desire could feel so empty? Perhaps she should throw her instincts aside and allow herself to be compromised. Any moment Lady Summers would return, or Olivia would appear . . .

  No. Even now he didn’t really care who she was. She knew perfectly well that he gave her that kiss because he felt sorry for her, because she was a wallflower. It had turned to something else when she was in his arms . . . but it didn’t turn to affection. It couldn’t.

  “My parents do feel our betrothal is at an end,” she managed.

  His hands slid from her shoulders. “Of course.”

  She took a deep breath. “I shall be absolutely honest.”

  “Why do I feel that it is your normal state?” There was a curl of teasing humor in his voice that made her feel feverish. She would give anything to stay with him, to see that face every morning, to hear him . . . No.

  “I had planned to compromise you,” she said, offering up the truth with a twist of embarrassment curling in her stomach. “I had planned to lunge at you in front of an audience, and kiss you, and then you would have to marry me.”

  The smile that curled those lips was probably outlawed in some countries. “Really?” he said, the word sleepy . . . hungry. “Do you want to practice? We don’t want to seem awkward in front of our audience.”

  She swallowed. “No,” she whispered. “I know—I see that you desire me, and I can’t tell you how much that means to me. No one has ever looked at me this way, or wanted to kiss me.”

  “They didn’t look carefully,” he broke in, his voice grating. “Believe me, I was as shortsighted and stupid as the rest of them. If any man out there had really looked at you, he would have pursued you like a madman.”

  “I find that hard to imagine,” she said, a bit wistfully.

  “I see you now.” His voice roughened.

  That helped. She took a deep breath. “We see each other, then.”

  There wasn’t even a touch of shame or apology in his face. “You needed to know.”

  The new tension—de
sire—leapt between them like a taut wire. Even though she was feeling it for the first time, she still knew it. But desire wouldn’t carry a marriage. He had probably felt it for other women, more beautiful women.

  He saw the truth in her eyes, even as she stepped back. “You’re still breaking the betrothal,” he said, voice flat.

  “I have to find a husband who cares more than you do,” she said haltingly. “I never knew I could be so selfish, but it would appear I am.”

  Cyrus had gone silent again, and the terrible distance in his eyes that she hated returned.

  Her voice was a little shaky. “I probably don’t . . . won’t find—”

  “I think you can probably find whatever you want.”

  She nodded jerkily. “Of course, a fortune changes everything. I know that.”

  “I didn’t mean the fortune.” But he didn’t explain, just looked at her from under brooding eyebrows. “So what do you want in a husband?”

  “Someone who wants to talk to me, who asks my name without being prompted. Who . . .” She hesitated. “Who even loves me, perhaps a little bit.” As the words left her mouth, she could not believe that she was turning down this man. From the moment someone had pointed out a Mr. Ravensthorpe, two months ago now, she had longed for him. Lusted for him, if the truth be told.

  And now she was rejecting him. It was unbelievable. A part of her was screaming, telling her that she could make him love her once they were married, over the breakfast table, or in the bedroom . . .

  But a stronger, clearer voice was pointing out that he would likely never fall in love with her. Oh, he lusted after her. But she could not spend her life yearning for something he wouldn’t give her.

  It would break her heart. It would break her.

  The sentence fell from her mouth without her bidding. “I know that love does not always accompany a wedding, and indeed, affection grows with time, but I think—”

  He put a finger to her mouth. “You deserve it, Lucy.”

  At least he didn’t pretend that he cared. But why should he? There were all those other wallflowers out there in the ballroom. “I think my mother will be looking for me.” Her voice sounded thin but surprisingly composed.

  “You are free to look wherever you wish, my lady.”

  “And so are you,” she returned, as formal as any medieval lady with her knight.

  Lucy walked out of the room ahead of Cyrus, shoulders back, teeth clenched. As it turned out, they were just in the nick of time. Olivia was strolling down the corridor toward them, her mother in tow.

  “Here’s Lucy,” Olivia said, raising an eyebrow. “We were just looking for you, darling.”

  Mrs. Lytton, Olivia’s mother, came to a halt. “I trust that your conversation has drawn to a satisfactory end, Mr. Ravensthorpe, Miss Towerton? It’s remarkable that Lady Summers allowed a young lady private congress with a gentleman, but I suppose that under the circumstances . . .”

  Cyrus stepped forward and gave the lady a smile that went a good way toward melting her chilly exterior. It was calibrated between humble charm and admiration; and it wasn’t in the least bit sincere. That was one thing Lucy had learned about her erstwhile fiancé. His face didn’t match his thoughts.

  “Sometimes privacy can be a boon,” Cyrus said. “Miss Towerton and I have just agreed to end our betrothal, on the very best of terms. In fact, I would venture to say that it was a most enlivening conversation, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Towerton?”

  Lucy smiled tightly, a faintly hysterical bubble of laughter rising in her throat. “Absolutely.”

  “That is quite modern of you,” Mrs. Lytton said. “I must say that I find a measured, disciplined attitude toward such arrangements to be of great importance. And indeed the dear Duchess of Sconce says as much in her Mirror of Compliments. You do know the text, do you not, Mr. Ravensthorpe?”

  “I fear I do not,” Cyrus replied. “May I escort you to the ballroom, Mrs. Lytton?” He offered his arm.

  Olivia’s mother made a sound like a bird that had learned to laugh, and took his arm. “The full title is The Mirror of Compliments: A Complete Academy for the Attaining unto the Art of Being a Lady. Which does explain why you might not have heard of it,” she added. “It does not speak to gentlemen.”

  Olivia wound her arm comfortingly through Lucy’s and a moment later they were in the entryway, surrounded by a disconcertingly large crowd of people. “Mr. Ravensthorpe,” Lucy said quietly, when he and Mrs. Lytton paused, “I will always cherish our friendship.”

  “As will I,” he said. His kiss burned through her glove. Then he bent his head to Mrs. Lytton and drew her hand back through his arm.

  And that was that.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “What on earth happened?” Olivia demanded. “I’m sorry that I didn’t arrive more quickly; drawing my mother away from her cronies almost took an act of God, I assure you. I gather the betrothal is at an end?”

  “Yes,” Lucy said. Now that Cyrus had disappeared into the ballroom towing Mrs. Lytton, she was starting to feel ill. Seasick, as if she really had been on the deck of a pirate ship.

  Clearly, it showed on her face. “You look awful,” Olivia said bluntly, grabbing her hand. “Come with me.”

  A moment later they were in the ladies’ retiring room, where Olivia banished the maid to guard the door. “My friend is going to cast up her accounts,” Olivia told her. “Be so good as to send anyone who wishes entry elsewhere.”

  Lucy realized she must truly have looked green, because the maid’s eyes widened and she scuttled from the room.

  Olivia gently pushed her into a chair, and then commanded, “Tell me all!” before dropping into a chair of her own.

  “We dissolved our betrothal, just as my mother wanted. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I did kiss him first.”

  “And?”

  “It was extraordinary.” Even now Lucy couldn’t put together all that heat and feeling with something as commonplace as a kiss. The word “kiss” didn’t mean anything. Yet in some dim part of her she knew that kissing Cyrus had meant the world.

  “Lucy Towerton, if you can’t be more explicit,” Olivia exclaimed, “I’ll go ask him myself! Did you kiss him? Or did he lunge at you in pure frustration when you tried to break it off?”

  A flare of heat swept into Lucy’s cheeks at the memory of the way Cyrus had lunged. For he had lunged at her. Plain Lucy, tall as a tower, had made Mr. Cyrus Ravensthorpe, Esq., lose his composure and pull her into his arms.

  It was pure greed that made her feel now as if she’d give her entire fortune for another such moment.

  “Lovely,” Olivia said, clapping her hands with a crow of pleasure. “Brilliant! He must not have thrown you to the side in a fit of prudery, given that you suddenly look pink instead of green.”

  “He did not,” Lucy stated, pulling herself together. “In fact, he actually kissed me rather than the other way around.”

  “Then why on earth aren’t you still betrothed?”

  “Do you know why he chose me, Olivia?”

  “Because you’re a lovely person.”

  “Because I’m a wallflower.”

  Olivia frowned.

  “He chose me because no one else wanted me,” Lucy added, just to make it all truly clear. “I forced him to be honest about it.”

  “That’s awful,” Olivia breathed. “You are right to throw him over. What an awful man. But why? Why on earth would he want a wallflower?”

  “He knew my parents wouldn’t object to his father’s profession, and he didn’t want any fuss about it. They were too frantic to marry me off. And I think he didn’t want to bother with wooing anyone.”

  “I don’t care for him any longer,” Olivia said, her eyes darkening. “How dare he say such a thing to you? It’s absurdly arrogant. Disgusting, really. Are you saying he deliberately looked for a woman who would be too desperate to even consider refusing him?”

 
“I told you that he never actually bothered to ask me to marry him,” Lucy said, around the lump in her throat. “He concluded the transaction with my father and thought that was good enough.”

  Olivia frowned. “Something doesn’t make sense here. The man has a fortune. He’s as handsome as Adonis. Why on earth would he think that he couldn’t find a wife just by snapping his fingers?”

  “I forgot to add that he wants someone from the aristocracy, and it seems that I was the highest ranked wallflower available who didn’t have spots.”

  “That’s revolting,” Olivia snapped.

  Lucy managed a weak smile. “See how lucky you are? He didn’t even look at you.”

  “Because I’m too plump? I loathe that man!”

  “Aren’t you listening? Because your parents are not members of the aristocracy.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” Olivia said sheepishly. “It’s a sore spot, obviously.”

  “He’s just so blasted handsome. I could even . . . I could feel so much for him.”

  “Well, don’t. It would be a terrible thing to be in a marriage predicated on a man knowing that his wife hankers after him, while he condescendingly pats her head once in a while.”

  “That’s just what I thought. Although I was too stupid to figure that out until after we kissed. So I broke off the betrothal, even though the kiss was rather wonderful.”

  “There’s one good thing about this,” Olivia said, getting to her feet. “You are not a wallflower any longer, thanks to that lovely fortune of yours. You can flaunt the fact that Ravensthorpe could never win the new you.”

  “I’m sure it will make all the difference to be the belle of the ball because men are lusting after my dowry,” Lucy said dryly. “Cyrus—that is, Ravensthorpe—may not have cared much for me, but at least he wasn’t attracted by my money.”

  “There’s a happy medium. You’ll find someone who might come to know you because of all the fuss, but then will fall in love with you.”

  Lucy snorted, but she followed Olivia out of the room, nodding to the maid hovering in the corridor. “I don’t seem to have my dance card; I suppose I must have dropped it in the study. Perhaps I should just return home. I’ll tell Mother that I have a headache.”