Don't Tempt Me (Fallen Women 2)

Then she’d been caught up in the excitement and danger. It was so deliciously wicked, in the corridor, with her hoop petticoats going up and down like ocean waves. It was thrilling, too, knowing that any minute she and Marchmont might be caught.

The trouble was, any minute they might be caught and he’d think he had to marry her. So would everyone else.

Her body liked the idea, too much. Her heart and mind and pride knew better. When she wed, she wanted an eager and happy and, yes, loving bridegroom. She did not want a man doing his duty—no matter how beautiful and exciting he was and how wild he made her when he touched her.

“Perhaps we ought to adjourn to a less public environment,” said Marchmont.

Papa stared at him. “What’s brought on this attack of stuffiness? The trials of managing Zoe into respectability? But if it were easy, Marchmont, then anyone could do it, and you’d be bored.” He held up a thick envelope. “Know what this is, Zoe?”

“It looks official. Like the Sultan’s firman.”

Papa laughed. “You’re close, child. Only observe the seal. This is your invitation. Arrived a moment ago, direct from Carlton House.” He clapped Marchmont on the shoulder. “Lady Lexham will be in alt. I know you said it would come. I know my girls are all in a frenzy about it. But my lady didn’t want to get her hopes up.”

The frozen expression on Marchmont’s face melted slightly.

“But that’s weeks away, I understand,” Lexham went on. “And my lady and I agree with Zoe that she needs to practice her social skills before that. With strangers. Men, in particular. She’s had all the experience she needs in dealing with women, and she is a woman herself.”

Marchmont’s gaze slanted briefly at Zoe before returning to her father. “Men,” he said. “You want her to meet men.”

“Other men,” Zoe said.

“She suggested it last night,” Papa said.

Marchmont looked at her. He gave very little away, but she was trained to notice. His eyes held some emotion, and it didn’t seem to be relief.

She told herself it was stupid to try to read his mind. They had been interrupted in a moment of passion. His mind would be muddled with balked lust.

“Mama said we could have a small dinner party,” she said.

“With men,” said Marchmont.

“No more than twenty guests,” said Lexham.

“With a lot of men she doesn’t know,” said Marchmont.

“That’s the point,” Zoe said. “I need to practice how to behave with men I don’t know.”

“But I’ll want your help with the list, Marchmont,” said Papa. “I’m liable to fill the places with a lot of fusty politicians.”

“They must be the kind of men who’ll wish to talk to me and dance with me and flirt with me,” said Zoe. “The kind of men who might wish to marry me.”

“He understands,” said Papa. “Eligible men, of course. He’ll know who’s most suitable, in the circumstances.”

“Eligible men,” said Marchmont.

“We shall give Zoe an opportunity to dip her toes into the social waters in a small way, among those disposed to accept her, before she tackles the mob at the Queen’s House.”

“Dip her toes, yes,” Marchmont said. “I beg your pardon if I seem preoccupied. I quite agree, and I should be happy to help you with the guest list, but the present time is inconvenient. Zoe and I have an appointment to see a man about a horse. Then we must have her measured for a saddle and riding habits.”

“Ah, yes,” said Papa, “I meant to attend to that. We had a bit of a to-do yesterday, I understand. Threw Priscilla into a panic. But Zoe always did that, I reminded her. You remember, don’t you, Marchmont?”

“Yes.”

“You needn’t worry about the horse, Papa,” Zoe said. “Marchmont will take care of that. But he’s right. We cannot stop now. I must change out of these contraptions.”

“In any event, I should want some time to decide exactly who merits the honor of meeting Zoe before the Queen does,” said Marchmont. “I’ll send a list tomorrow.”

“Splendid,” said Papa. He clapped Marchmont on the shoulder. “Well, then, run along, Zoe. Mustn’t keep the horses waiting.”

“I beg you, don’t run,” said Marchmont. “But do make haste.”

There was only one man in all the world whose opinion and respect meant anything to Marchmont.

To debauch that man’s daughter—under his roof!—was the act of the most swinish of scoundrels.

He and Zoe had had a narrow escape. The error must not be repeated. Marchmont must be on his guard against her at all times, because she was not going to guard herself.

Besides, she wanted to meet other men.

Marchmont stuffed the hooped petticoats and the frothy silk gown into the special mental cupboard. He stuffed the low-cut bodice there, too. He shut the door and turned his mind firmly to Zoe’s horse and saddle and habit.

She wanted to meet other men, and rightly so.

Her only trouble was an inability to say no.

She simply needed close chaperonage.

She must have realized this, because when she came downstairs a miraculously short time later, she had her maid with her, armed with the ever-present umbrella.

He and Zoe behaved with unfailing correctness all the way to Tattersall’s and during the time they spent there. They did not relax propriety for an instant, all the time at the saddlery and thereafter, during the purchase of a dozen riding dresses, the first of which was promised for Monday.

The errands completed, Marchmont took an immaculately polite leave of her and she of him.

Then he went home and drove himself mad selecting and discarding the names of eligible gentlemen. After which he dressed and went out and got very drunk.

The following morning, while nursing a headache, he tore up the list and wrote another one. He tore that up and wrote another. Two dozen tries later, he summoned a footboy to deliver the list of recommended invitees to Lord Lexham.

Marchmont did not return to Lexham House. She didn’t need him, he told himself. Her sisters would ready her for the presentation.

Perhaps he’d see her at the dinner party. If he decided to go. If he had nothing better to do. He wouldn’t be needed there. Her parents could watch her well enough. She’d get no opportunities to not say no.

She wanted to meet other men. She was quite right. It was perfectly reasonable. He should have thought of it himself, in fact.

He did not ask himself why he hadn’t.

Nine

Lexham House

Evening of Thursday, 16 April

The Duke of Marchmont didn’t know where Zoe had found the dress. It looked like Vérelet’s work, but he was positive he’d had nothing to do with ordering it.

He would never have ordered the corsage to be made so tight or cut so low. If there was an inch of lilac-colored satin covering her bust, it was the narrowest inch he’d ever seen.

And there were Adderwood and Winterton, on either side of her—the golden-haired half-naked angel between two leering dark devils. Not that they were obvious about it. But he knew that they—along with Alvanley, who sat opposite her—were staring at her breasts while pretending not to. He knew how to do that, too.

He emptied his glass.

The dessert course was in the process of being set out, and he was well on his way to being drunk.

Other men.

Lexham had decided to err on the side of caution. Ten guests only. Of the men Marchmont had suggested, Lexham had selected only Alvanley and Adderwood, the two youngest. Marchmont had put Adderwood on the list only because he couldn’t not add him. The stout Alvanley was less of a problem. No one could ever accuse him of being handsome.

But Lexham had discarded the Earl of Mount Edgcumbe, along with several other steady, older gentlemen. He’d invited Winterton instead.

In addition, he’d invited Adderwood’s sister Amelia, Lady Lexham’s sister Lady Brexto

n, Marchmont’s spinster cousin Emma—one of the indigent relations he supported—and the American ambassador, Mr. Rush, and his wife.

With only a dozen at table, the conversation was general, ranging freely up and down and across the board.

The meal had reached its last stages, and Adderwood was running the show, thanks to the opening the American ambassador had given him. Rush had marveled at the British press and its propensity to tell everybody everything about everybody and everything. From newspapers, Adderwood easily turned the conversation to books.

He was at his most charming this evening, the lecherous swine.

“Walter Scott seems to be highly popular here,” Rush was saying. “I heard of a dinner at which the hostess asked each of her guests to write down on a piece of paper the Scott novel he liked best. She received nine slips of paper, each one with the name of a different novel.”

“I heard of that,” said Adderwood. “The guests she asked were all men. If one were to ask women to name their favorite books, I suspect the slips of paper would bear the titles of horrid novels.” He turned to Zoe, using the opportunity, Marchmont had no doubt, to ogle her assets. “What do you say, Miss Lexham? Scott or a horrid novel?”