Lydia Dare - A Certain Wolfish Charm

"You think setting

Mrs. Bostic

on Lily is looking out for her?"

Prisca nodded her head. "Yes. I'm forcing Blackmoor's hand.

He

won't be able to simply turn his back on her and pretend she never existed."

Will closed his eyes, and she could tell he was reining in his temper. "Prissy, I didn't—"

"Don't call me that," she cut him off. Then she squared her shoulders and tossed her head back, as if she didn't care at all what he thought. "Do excuse me. This dance, I believe, is Mr. Fielding's."

***

Lily had expected the ball to be a sedate affair. But it was far from that. As soon as she entered the assembly hall, she found herself besieged by men. They came in all shapes and sizes, from tall to short, from thin to rotund, from young to old. But as she danced with them one by one, she realized sadly that they were after one thing, her dowry. Not a single one of them was interested in her as a person.

It was a painful realization to make. Here she was at a ball full of eligible men, and the only thing they were interested in was a gift Simon had given to her. It seemed quite ironic that she was trying to lure a husband to the altar with a gift from the man she loved.

Oh, goodness! Love? As she twirled about the floor, she realized slowly that she did love him. She loved him despite his temper. She loved him despite his reputation. She loved him despite the fact that he obviously didn't love her back.

He'd spent the entire night glowering at her. As she'd been swept from one dance to another, his scowl had grown larger and larger. She only hoped he wasn't trying to decide which man would be right for her. That would add insult to injury if he thought, by providing her dowry, he could also have some decision-making power in her choice of a husband.

Of course he wouldn't think that. She was a grown woman after all, responsible only to herself. She had no family to speak of, aside from Oliver, and she was quite capable of making her own decision about a husband.

She'd learned quite a bit about the men who were present as they danced. Many of them appeared to be fortune hunters. One even went so far as to mention his gambling debts. Only a few showed any interest in her as a person. Yet, even with those few, she still found herself very happy when the dances ended so that she could take a moment to rest. But that didn't seem very likely.

Lily wanted nothing more than to retreat to the retiring room so she could wipe her moist brow in peace. She wanted to sit down, take her slippers off, and stretch her toes. She wanted to take the smile off her face for just a moment, because maintaining the tilt at the corners was becoming quite painful.

Just when she thought she might have an opportunity to slip away, Emory Hawthorne approached her. "May I steal you away from your many admirers, Miss Rutledge? So that we can take a turn about the floor?"

Lily sighed. "Of course you may, Mr. Hawthorne." Perhaps he saw the pain in her face because his eyebrows scrunched together in a frown.

"Are you quite all right, Miss Rutledge?"

"To tell the truth, I am a bit exhausted," she groaned, flexing her toes inside her slipper.

"Then I have just the thing, Miss Rutledge," he said, offering his arm. She took it tentatively.

"Don't worry. I won't make you walk far." His dark eyes danced at her.

"Promise?"

"On my honor," he said as he covered his heart with his hand.

"I pray that I will find a man who has some," Lily mumbled.

Mr. Hawthorne laughed out loud, a rich sound that warmed her heart.

He placed a hand at her back to gently prod her through a set of double doors. He led down a winding path into a vast garden lined with hedgerows. The wind picked up the tendrils of hair at her neckline and instantly cooled her.

"Nice, isn't it?" he asked as she lifted her face to the breeze.

She sighed with pleasure. "Very."

He pointed out a bench and encouraged her to sit, then joined her. Lily relaxed, completely at ease with this man who'd saved her from hordes of moneyhungry men.

"Thank you so much," she said. "This is just what I needed, Mr. Hawthorne."

"Emory. Please." He smiled at her. She simply nodded.

"I kept waiting for Blackmoor to sweep in and steal you away from those who kept seeking your attention."

Lily shook her head. "He doesn't think of me in that way." She met his eyes, hoping the pain she felt at the mere mention of Simon's name wasn't displayed on her face.

"Oh, Lily." He chuckled. "That is where you are wrong." He raised one finger to trail it across her cheekbone. "He would have to be an imbecile

not

to feel that way for you."

The finger that touched her cheek didn't alarm her, but it didn't ignite her, either. Not like Simon's touch. Why must she compare every man to Simon?

Emory continued, "I have known Blackmoor for a very long time. And have never seen him act the way he does with you."

"But he doesn't want to

marry

me," she said. Heat suffused her face as she realized what she'd almost revealed.

"He would be a fool not to feel

that

way about you as well," Emory said quietly, his hand reaching to clasp her own.

"Do you think I could bother you to get me some punch, Emory?" she asked hesitantly. She needed a moment to herself. Just a moment was all it would take to right her thoughts.

"Certainly," he said as he rose. "I'll be back momentarily."

She watched him until he was through the double doors. Then she rose and wandered further down the garden path. She slowly trailed her fingertips in the fountain. A breeze blew across her skin, lifting gooseflesh along her arms.

"You let him touch you."

Lily spun quickly to find Simon standing in the shadows. His normally grey eyes had changed to black. His hair hung over his brow in disarray, as though he'd been running his hands through it.

"What did you say?" Certainly she hadn't heard him correctly. "What are you doing here? Did you follow me?"

He approached her, anguish in his eyes as he cupped her face. He repeated, "You let

him

touch you."

"He was just being friendly, Simon." She shook her head to throw off the hand that held her cheek, but he refused to let her go.

"He

wasn't

being friendly, Lily. He wanted you, just like every other man here." He looked down at her

décolletage

and then brushed his fingertips along her shoulder. She shivered. This wasn't fair.

He

was what she wanted more than anything.

"I think you've had too much punch, Simon," she snapped. Then she could say no more because the air whooshed from her lungs when he pulled her to himself, hard and fast.

"I have had a bit," he said quietly against her lips. "But now I plan to have a bit more."

That was when she realized he wasn't talking about punch.

***

Simon had watched her the whole night. He'd watched her laugh and dance with other men, their hands at her waist, her hand in theirs. And he'd grown more frustrated and apprehensive. It should have been him. He should be the only one she danced with. The only one she'd touched.

When he'd seen Emory approach her, it had been all he could do not to bellow across the dance floor. It took all of his strength to stop himself from crossing the room and tearing Emory limb from limb. He could imagine himself flinging small pieces of the man into the fronds of the plants. He hoped a piece wouldn't land in the punch bowl. That would be quite improper.

But then Emory had led Lily outside. Into the dark. Into the night. Into his domain.

The moon still hung high and full in the sky. It wasn't as powerful as before, but it still led him. It did not control him, but it did lead.