Page 17 of Venus in Disguise

What the hell did she expect if she said such things, looked at him in that agitating way? Giving into his instincts and ignoring the shrieks of his conscience, he pulled her against him. She went willingly—without so much as a murmur of protest, curse her—and his mouth crashed down upon hers with far more heat than it ought to have. Her first kiss, he reminded himself, and he forced his lips to soften when they would have plundered and demanded. She melted against him, pliant, turning to him like a sunflower following the sun. Her arms went around his neck, her soft body pressing against him, leading him farther along a road he could not afford to travel. Out of bounds, he told himself savagely, remembering her father’s fury when he had merely danced with her older sister. You’re asking for trouble, snarled an angry voice in his head. Frustration and resentment burned in his chest, giving him the will to reach up and grasp her wrists, pulling them from his neck.

“Enough,” he told her, his voice colder than he’d meant it to be. “You’ve had a taste of what you wanted. Now run along and catch yourself a nice biddable husband, one your father will approve of.”

She drew away from him as though he’d slapped her, and he hated himself for the uncertainty in her eyes.

“I want to see you again,” she said, her candour so disarming he could only gape at her for a moment.

“Don’t be a little fool,” he snapped, too impatient with her to explain the myriad reasons why that was the most idiotic idea she’d ever had.

“Why not?” she demanded, an implacably stubborn glint in her eyes, the wilful little minx. “You want to see me too, I know you do.”

He snorted at that, shaking his head in incredulity. She could not be that naive. “Any man here would want to see you again when you throw yourself into his arms so willingly.”

She blushed scarlet at his words and Ash relented, not wanting to hurt her, only to make her see sense. “Wait, I’m… I’m sorry. That was—”

“That was true enough,” she said, putting her chin up. “I suppose you must think me horribly brazen. I assure you I don’t go about kissing men on terraces in the dark, as a rule.”

He smiled at that despite himself. As if that hadn’t been obvious.

“I don’t think you brazen. I think…” I think you are delicious, fascinating and I want to peel away the layers of that façade until I find the woman beneath, he didn’t say. “I think you are young and lovely and trying to find your place in the world, as we all do. But you really are a fool if you think there is anything but trouble waiting for you if you dally with me. My lovers are women of experience, women who know how to play the game. This game is not made for the likes of you, my lady. Run along back to Mrs Chandler now, before you realise too late you’ve chosen badly and got your wings singed.”

“But—”

“Go,” he said coldly. “Now.”

Hurt flashed in her eyes but she went with a rustle of silken skirts, leaving him alone in the darkness. Ash clenched his fists, angry with her for stirring him up when he could do nothing about the feelings she provoked in him. What he needed was a fight.

Chapter 5

Dear Cissy,

I thought I ought to drop you a note about how we go on here. Things are much the same, except that we have all been holding our breath, waiting for his grace to leave. The house was in chaos this morning as he prepared for the journey. The relief of his absence is palpable, the atmosphere so much lighter the moment his carriage pulls away. I’m sorry that you’ll have to deal with him now but cannot pretend I do not relish his absence.

I know I’m not much of a correspondent – neither are you, I might add, except for scribbling in that diary of yours, but I thought I ought to tell you, Fidelia fell in the lake last night. Don’t ask me what she was doing walking about outside at all hours, alone, but you know how she is. Strangely, it seems to have done her good. When I spoke to her afterwards, she was far more like her old self. She even apologised for not being the sister I deserved, which is nonsense, of course, but a good sign, I think? Don’t you?

Also, Mr De Beauvoir is here, the landscape architect who has designed gardens for the duke here at Hardacre. Thank God he was, for it was he who rescued Fidelia, pulling her out before she drowned. It makes me go cold to consider what might have happened if not for him. He’s a jolly decent fellow too, though he doesn’t say much.

He looked at some plans I had drawn up for glass houses yesterday, and he liked them! I have some work to do yet, but he said that if I create proper designs, and if he believes they will stand up and his clients would like them, that he’d buy them from me! Isn’t that splendid?

I was so pleased I hardly knew what to say. I’m sure he thought I was a blithering idiot – he certainly thinks I’m a pampered puppy who can’t lift a finger for himself – but all the same, Cissy. I felt so proud of myself I could have burst.

How are you, by the way? Do write back.

Alex x

―Excerpt of a letter from The Lord Rufus Alexander Ponsonby to his sister, The Lady Narcissa Ponsonby (children of The Duke of Beresford).

3rd February 1850, Kemble House, Mayfair, London.

Narcissa sat on the hard chair by the fire in Mrs Chandler’s late husband’s study, outwardly tranquil as she traced a finger over her lips, unable to keep the memory of Mr Anson’s hot mouth crashing down upon hers from intruding into her thoughts. Harder still to forget was the way his kiss had softened, becoming tender, coaxing, as his powerful arms had crushed her against his chest. She’d felt her heart thrashing behind her ribs like a bird caught behind the bars of a cage, yet it had not been fear making her heart hammer so wildly, or not just fear, she amended. There had been anxiety enough thrumming beneath her skin, as in some far-off part of her mind the word consequences scrawled itself upon her brain in vast red letters that only an imbecile could have ignored. Yet, she hadn’t cared. Not even a little. Not in that moment. All that she had cared about was how it felt to be close to him, the first tantalising taste of a drug far more addictive than opium, one that offered far more pleasure, yet danger in abundance. He was dangerous, which naturally only made him all the more alluring.

“Narcissa! Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

She started, her eyes flying to those of her father’s: a cold, austere blue grey, about as warm as the North Sea and just as pitiless. This was the reason she should have had a care, the reason her behaviour seemed even more reckless in the light of day.

“Yes, your grace,” she said automatically.

“What did I say then?” he demanded, his voice a growl of irritation.