Page 6 of Inconvenient Honor
The woman responded tentatively, moving under his lips, and he forgot his purpose entirely. Desire to comfort gave way to desire to take. Just a taste, a small taste of what I’ve wanted all evening. When the tip of her tongue touched his lower lip, he deepened the kiss, probing and demanding.
She shocked him with a response that matched his. A red cloud of desire consumed him. He slid his hands up her arms to cup her face. When she didn’t pull away, he put one arm around her waist and pulled her until her body touched his, from his knee to his chest, her soft curves warm against him.
When Lily tried to push him away, Richard had to blink to clear his vision. He had her against the wall, her skirts bunched in one hand, her bodice askew.My God, what madness!
He pulled his hands from her bodice and leaned on the wall, one hand on either side of her, breathing heavily, his head hung low.
“I’m sorry,” he began. He felt like a fool and hated it.
“You’re just like him,” she spat.
“I beg your pardon?” His loss of control had left him disgusted with himself, yet her accusation outraged him. “I’m nothing like Volkov!”
She pushed him away. “You’re no better than Volkov. You will use any means to get what you want,” she said, rearranging her dress. “You make me sick, both of you.”
His irresponsible behavior left him with no response to that.
“Now I can’t go back in there,” she went on, looking down at her disheveled gown. “My entire reason for being here lies in tatters, and you, sir, are to blame. I trust what just happened, that much at least, will stay between the two of us. I can’t afford the notoriety.”
She started to leave but turned back and glared at him. “You owe me. Call my father home.”
Her clear voice grated on his memory. “I can’t afford the notoriety!”How odd! Any other chit would try to trap me into marriage.
He knew he ought to feel gratitude, but he felt nothing but anger. He had behaved like a damned fool. Watching her, wanting her allevening, offered no excuse. Richard Hayden never lost control. Never.
Damn the woman anyway.
Richard drew breath to clear his thoughts. He would call John Thornton home; she could be sure of that. And he would stay away from Thornton’s tantalizing daughter, as far away as he could.
Chapter Three
By the time the footmen began clearing the soup course the following evening, Richard profoundly regretted not taking a firmer hand with the seating.
Will’s Catherine, as hostess and Countess of Chadbourn, sat at the head of the table. Sahin Pasha, the guest of honor, sat to her right and Richard to her left. The countess commanded a remarkable range of knowledge. Having glossed over politics and recently published books, she engaged Sahin in a comparison of the flora and fauna of the English countryside with his native land. The bluff, avuncular man happily described flat farmlands and the rocky mountainous region of Cappadocia.
Their conversation progressed, as it ought. Richard’s problem lay with the two young ladies next in line, given their places at his mother’s request no doubt. The two had been after Richard like hounds on the scent all week.
Lady Jane Ashbourne sulked to Sahin’s right, spouting banal comments about primroses and expressing horror of a world without them. She came just short of insulting their guest.
Lady Sarah Wharton preened to Richard’s left. She ignored everyone around her while she kept up a dogged effort to engage Richard in a conversation about the probable social events in the coming season. Whenever he nodded politely, Lady Sarah took it as encouragement, and Lady Jane cast a sour frown in her direction.
From the far end of the table, holding court to the right of theirhost, his mother watched serenely, a satisfied smile firmly in place. He had no doubt who placed the two bloodhounds near him.
“But surely a landscape devoid of flowers must depress one!”
He looked across at Lady Jane—pretty enough, with good bloodlines, but utterly lacking in sense. As his hostess, she would cause an international incident within a year of marriage.
Lilias Thornton would know what to say. That thought came unbidden, as did the urge to look down the table at the woman herself who, lacking title or station, sat safely beyond the massive silver epergne that marked the middle of the table. Lilias sparkled up at Walter Stewart and his ilk, junior diplomats all, obviously enjoying the conversation. She would make one of them a good wife. The thought irritated him.
“I would prefer the beet root to the asparagus,” Lady Sarah declared, not quite keeping annoyance from her voice.
Stop staring and pay attention to the chit next to you!
“Of course.” He gestured to a footman. The footman brought the dish, and Richard did what manners demanded. A gentleman always offered the lady next to him her choice. He wondered briefly where his manners had scattered, glanced back at Lilias Thornton, and looked swiftly away.
He offered Lady Sarah her choice of fowl.
“The duckling, please,” she beamed.
