The Irresistible Miss Peppiwell (Scandalous House of Calydon 2)

Anthony rested his elbows on the balcony railing, a cynical smile twisting his lips. He watched Lord Hoyt twirling Miss Phillipa Peppiwell with vigor around the ballroom floor. Hoyt’s massive frame moved with unusual grace, and his face had a look of a man in love. His dance partner looked resplendent, sheathed in a voluminous yellow satin gown that enhanced her frame exquisitely. Her expression bore the same cool look of indifference he recalled from their meeting at Lady Calvert’s ball.

Anthony forced his gaze from her and scanned the crowd, watching Constance with discreet protectiveness. She was dancing with Earl Fullerton, whose mother kept a more obvious watch on the couple. Anthony’s own mother, Lady Radcliffe, was lounging idly by the refreshment table. She was a powerful matriarch in her own right, more from being the dowager duchess of Calydon than from the title she currently held as Viscountess Radcliffe.

Bitterness shuttered Anthony’s gaze as his mother laughed, glowing in her social power. A power she had no notion might crumble instantly. The familiar feeling of rage tightened his gut, and he knew he needed an outlet in the warm, willing body of a woman to drive back the darkness that edged him.

His gaze swung to Lady Wilkinson, knowing her statuesque, voluptuous figure was his for the taking. His lips quirked in a jaded smile as he met her gaze across the room. The smile she returned was of pure, heated invitation, despite her husband’s presence as he conversed behind her.

Distaste filled Anthony. The swell of her bosom did not entice and the sly way in which she wetted her lips left him cold. He doubted he could ever again lie with a married woman, their fickleness now abhorrent in a whole new way. Adulterous liaisons were the norm among the haute monde, but he found himself weary of it all.

And yet, he fleetingly wondered if he did the right thing in dismissing Georgina. He could be ensconced in her arms within the hour, driving deep into her, finding the release that would give him brief respite.

A flicker in his periphery had his gaze homing in on Miss Peppiwell. The vibrant red of her hair was unmistakable as she darted between two young ladies, making for the periphery of the immense room. He arched his brow as she peeked out from behind a large potted plant, glancing about surreptitiously. He scanned the crowd and found Lord Orwell. A salubrious smile curled the man’s lips as he spied her. She scampered away, dashing out through a side door and stopped. She straightened from behind the door, pivoted, and dashed across into the billiards room.

Anthony chuckled at her antics, moving along the mezzanine balcony to keep her in his sight. The billiards room door did not lock from the inside. After kicking it in frustration, she opened it and peeked back out into the hall. From where he stood, he saw the predatory anticipation on Orwell’s face through the windows that adorned the upper half of the walls. She spotted Orwell and closed the door, none too gently.

Ah, where was the ice maiden now? This was more like it.

Anticipating her next move, Anthony considered briefly, then hastened to position himself appropriately.

Sure enough, she rushed to the outside windows, slid one up, and swung a foot over, flashing delicately shaped ankles in the process. How she managed, all corseted up and with that huge bustle, he couldn’t fathom. She slithered over the sill, ran up the narrow steps—and ran smack into Anthony. He swept her through the outside doors, pulling her hastily down the terrace steps.

“My lord!”

He ignored her furious whisper and drew her toward the edge of the garden that was cloaked in shadow. He turned to her, gazing over her face with intense curiosity.

She took several rapid breaths before she drew herself up and finally spoke. “You have rescued me again, my lord.”

“Ah, so this was not your way of enticing me into a clandestine affair?” he asked, his tone silky smooth.

“Certainly not.” Her voice could not have sounded more bitingly cold.

He reached forward and pressed a finger against her lips to halt further speech. Her lips parted, and the moistness against his finger sparked a flare of arousal through his veins.

“He comes, be silent,” he whispered low in the dark.

He watched as Orwell trotted down the stairs toward them. His gaze scanned the dark recesses of the garden, and the blinding fury that chased his features had disgust stealing deep in Anthony’s gut. After a few tense seconds Orwell departed, his walk rigid with rage.

Anthony’s blood ran cold. “Why does he hound you so?” he asked, though the answer seemed fairly obvious. The bigger question was what made Orwell think he could get away with it, when the lady clearly did not welcome his attentions.

“He pursues me for dances incessantly.”

“You fled Lord Hoyt’s embrace, ducked through the hallway, sneaked into the billiards room, and actually climbed through a window, all to avoid dancing with Lord Orwell?” he queried blandly.

Orwell’s palpable rage was hardly over a slighted waltz. She was lying.

“Yes. Thank you for the assistance, my lord, even though quite unwarranted.” She sounded anything but grateful as she made to leave.

He halted her, capturing her chin in his hand with firm intent.

“Lord Anthony!”

He tilted her face toward the dim lamplight, scrutinizing her shuttered expression.

“My lord, you take liberties I have not granted you.”

Her frigid beauty illuminated in the faint light struck him. His interest in her was of a wholly carnal nature, he reminded himself. He felt no guilt at the thought, as he did not subscribe to the notion that seduction was solely a gentleman’s domain. He believed in mutual pleasure, and respected that each party willingly indulged.

Yet, he hesitated, attempting to relinquish the urge to taste her lips. He had a certain obligation to Lady Jocelyn, after all.

Or did he?

Admittedly, he’d entered into that…situation…before discovering he was a bastard. Lady Jocelyn would no doubt run screaming from him when she found out. And he didn’t blame her.

He resolved to write to her immediately and relieve her of any obligation to him. He’d have to word his dismissal of her carefully, but firmly. Take all the blame on himself, although he would stop short of full disclosure. No need for that.

But Phillipa… She was a different matter. She’d intrigued him the other night, to the point of considering taking her as his bride. And she did the same now. In fact, more so than ever. And honestly, Phillipa didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who would care that he was born on the wrong side of the blanket. Her acid remarks about the strictures of society had hinted strongly at that.

Anthony wished to find his pleasure, with her lips beckoning him so. Unfortunately, the woman he wished to woo, to ravish, and possibly to wed, stood before him, indifferent to his charms and completely immune to his touch.

Hell.

She trembled slightly, and his gaze sharpened. Because of him? Perhaps she was not so indifferent, after all.

Or were her trembles just residual from Lord Orwell’s pursuit of her? That possibility, and recalling the vicious sneer on the man’s face, unsettled him. “Do you need protection from Lord Orwell?”

Shock flared in her eyes, which she quickly doused. “Protection?”

“Yes.” They’d already been through this at Lady Calvert’s ball. She knew the power he wielded.

She hesitated for a long moment, then said, “If I needed such assistance…at what price would it be offered?”

“There is none,” Anthony assured her.

She regarded him with thinly veiled disbelief. “Your offer is generous, my lord, but unnecessary.” Her lips curved in a cool smile that belied her flattering words. “Your concern for my person is deeply appreciated. You have only just met me, yet your kind, gentlemanly nature—”

Her teeth snapped together as his amused laugh cut her off. He sobered, delighted by the expressions that chased across her face. Affront, annoyance, and then chilly smoothness once more. He would

banish the ice maiden yet.

“Orwell is reputed to be a sneaky bastard,” he said. “I would willingly offer protection to anyone, should they become entangled with him. My offer stands indefinitely, Miss Peppiwell.”

“And you insist you are making your offer as a gentleman, with nothing asked of me?” Her disdainful gaze said she expected he did it for anything but gentlemanly consideration.

“I require nothing in return, Miss Peppiwell,” he assured her. He did not need to understand what drove Orwell. The man’s rage when she’d slipped away from him was enough to have warnings clanging in Anthony’s head. “If my own sister were involved in some folly, I’d hope someone would be kind enough to render her assistance without stipulations,” he said, hoping she would unbend and confide, nonetheless.

Miss Peppiwell stared at him incredulously, in clear disbelief. He wondered what had caused such a young woman to become so cynical.

“I thank you again for your generous offer, but I require no such assistance. I bid you good evening, my lord.”

She started to leave and he grasped her arm. Unable to resist the lure of her, he leaned in, dipped his head, and skimmed his lips over hers. He felt, surely, a statue had more animation. He deepened the kiss, searching for a response. She remained cold, her golden eyes strangely luminous in the dark. He lifted his head and gazed into her upturned face.