“I went to the retiring room, Mama. All is well,” she rasped, still unsettled.
Several gentlemen had claimed spots on her dance card, and she eagerly accepted the distraction. She threw herself into enjoying the ball, dancing the quadrille and the cotillion several times. And yet, she kept an unwilling watch for Lord Anthony, and this greatly angered her.
An emerald waistcoat that glittered under the light of the chandelier drew her gaze. At last he entered the ballroom, unruffled as if he had not taken great liberties with her. His slow prowl across the room toward Lady Galveston had heat pooling low in Phillipa’s body. The roll of his hips and the power in his limbs had her imagination soaring.
What is wrong with me? Never before had she reacted to a man so.
She trembled as Lord Hoyt swept her into a quadrille. She danced almost mechanically, her mind swirling. What if Lord Anthony made a similar offer to Orwell’s because she had not controlled her unruly desires? Dread clouded her thoughts until she feared panic would snare her.
“What do you say, my dear?”
She forced herself to meet Lord Hoyt’s gaze. He had the most expectant look on his face, and his eyes glowed with happiness. She could not fathom what he had been talking about. She gave him a blank smile, to which he gave an approving grin. She must have passed muster to some concern of his.
“My dear, may I speak with your father tomorrow?” Lord Hoyt’s words finally broke through her fog.
Speak with my father? Phillipa’s muddled mind tried to understand what he spoke of. He looked so eager, his boyish smile making him more handsome. She assessed him as he waited for her answer. Hoyt did not rouse any feelings of lust in her. Orwell had not either, but she had once thought she could possibly be intimate with him.
This inappropriate, raging need to feel a lover’s caress and the force of his hips upon her, had only been brought on by Lord Anthony’s touch. She felt flushed from her head to toes. Probably her papa had been correct in his assumptions; she was indeed a harlot.
“No need to blush, my dear,” Hoyt murmured solicitously. “My mother understands the tendre we have formed. I know it is soon, but I am sure your father will welcome my suit.”
She stared at him, nonplussed. Surely, this was a jest. “Lord Hoyt.”
His hands tightened on her waist as he swung her around with unusual grace for someone so stocky. “Please call me Vincent, my love.”
She gave him a weak smile, reluctant to crush the earnestness on his face. She enjoyed his company immensely. But she did not want him to develop affections for her. She had been careful to not allow him any kisses at all, but he still was determined to move their relationship further. Rumors were whispered of his impoverished estate and she was an heiress. She had drawn swift conclusions about his interest. Yet, he seemed so genuine a person. “My lord, I do not think it wise to call on my father tomorrow.”
“Any man would consider himself fortunate to win your hand, Miss Peppiwell.”
“Why?” she questioned bluntly, irritated by the way he clipped her name. Anthony’s soft drawl of her name was smooth and sensual. She turned her mind from such thoughts and focused on Hoyt. He seemed flummoxed, and she took pity on him. She smiled, hoping to temper the acerbity that had been in her question.
“You are kind enough to dance with young bucks that trip over their own feet. You engage in discourse with the servants when you believe no one is looking. You are patient where others would be short. I also think you make people feel beautiful.”
His murmured praise had her gaping.
She forced a smile to her lips, stunned at his charitable thoughts of her. Her heart stalled at the look that flashed in his eyes. It was need. Yet she knew the minute she confided her secret to him, he would turn on her, just as Orwell had done. Hoyt was too honorable, too much of a conservative gentleman to consider taking an impure bride. “Please accept when I say I do think your company enjoyable. I am just not ready for marriage.” She knew she chose her words poorly by the relief that shone in his pale eyes.
“Say no more, my love. I will wait a few more weeks.”
She hesitated to be clearer—that she had no intention of placing herself under the restraint of a husband. She nodded, not looking forward to the day when she must be more forthright. Her aunt was correct; she needed to be more careful in how she danced and conversed with a man.
The quadrille ended and she murmured her excuses, powering through the crowd. She needed fresh air. The walls pressed in, and the need for escape chafed inside her.
Outside, the air wafted over her skin and she shivered, welcoming its cold bite.
She swallowed nervously as her eyes scanned the crowded balcony. She searched for Lord Anthony, if only to prove to herself she was not drawn to him. The minute she spied him, her heart raced and desire teased at her body. Surreptitiously, she watched him for endless minutes. To be truthful, she was charmed by the man. Not by any witty banter he’d exchanged with her, but the fact that a man of his reputation and stature danced willingly with the wallflowers and conversed with the hawkish matrons of the society. She had not expected him to mingle and laugh so freely, as if their encounter in the garden had left him totally unaffected.
She swallowed tightly as she remembered his hands skimming so hotly between her legs. He had touched her with such boldness. The memory seeped through her composure and her heart clamored that she had allowed him such intimate exploration. She desperately tried to shore up her resolve.
Oh, God, she had to speak with her closest friend, Lady Elisabeth. Phillipa had found Lady Elisabeth one of the few people she could trust, and she gave it to her unreservedly. She would pay her a visit without delay.
“Phillipa?”
She spun around to see her sister, Payton, approach, looking flushed and slightly tousled. She was so opposite to Phillipa in appearance people tended to be flummoxed when they realized they were sisters. Payton had their father’s looks—dark and exotic auburn hair, dark eyes, sun-kissed skin that was freckle-free, and so many curves her corset did little to tame her figure.
Phillipa glanced behind her sister to see the Honorable Lord Jensen St. John, as he emerged from the garden’s edge, trying not to look in their direction. She drew Payton to her, subtly fixing her mussed hair. Scarlet flags blazed on Payton’s cheeks and Phillipa looked sternly at her. Clearly, St. John had been less than honorable in the garden.
“I know you are already halfway in love with him, Payton. He has been courting you for three months now. But be very careful of the liberties you accord him,” she scolded, unable to endure the thought of Payton being callously used. She was an innocent, and wholly ignorant of the vile ways men could behave. Especially so-called gentlemen.
“Oh, Phillipa, he has asked me!” Joyous laughter spilled from her sister, warming her with its infectiousness.
She returned her exuberant hug, laughing, too. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. He will call tomorrow to speak with Papa. Hopefully now Aunt Florence and Mama will be less adamant that you marry.” Payton winked conspiratorially.
Phillipa laughed again, looping her arm through her sister’s as they walked into the ballroom. “Tell me all, Payton—except the part that has your lips swollen and your hair mussed.”
They walked into the crowded room, and she immersed herself in her sister’s happiness, grateful to leave her thoughts behind. She already feared Lord Anthony would become troublesome. She needed one night of basking in someone else’s joy before accepting the doom she had so willingly heaped upon her own head.
Chapter Six
A volcano lay under Miss Peppiwell’s cool surface. Anthony had seen it, experienced it, last night. The ice had cracked and what peeked from under it, he’d not expected. Her eyes had glittered with ire, and her cheeks had flushed so becomingly at the audacity of his intimate touch. But there had also been raging hunger, one that had spiked an uncontrollable need inside of him. He could imagine wha
t she would look like in the throes of passion, his cock sinking into the tight heat of her, encouraging her to take all of him.
God, he wanted her.
He had not intended for their kiss to traverse the path it had taken, but the readiness she had responded with roused and enthralled him. Her wet heat at his intimate caresses had only drawn him more. He’d watched the expressions chase across her face in rapid flicks of emotion—anger, bemusement, desire, then embarrassment. She had been clearly mortified by her vivid response.
He found her incredibly enticing.
Despite his enchantment, he had no bloody reason to push her so hard and so soon. Lord, the look on her face when he’d released her from their intimate embrace. Her confusion and humiliation had made him feel like a complete heel. It had been a while since he’d been so relaxed and free with a young lady. That was the only excuse he could think of for his ungentlemanly pursuit. No matter how hot or fast her body had accepted his advances, he should have been more mindful of her sensibilities.
He frowned, hands in his trouser pockets, staring out the window at the newest crumbling estate that was now his. Why was he so drawn to her? Her beauty was frigid, so unlike the women he was normally attracted to. And yet, she possessed a sensuality that shimmered beneath the chill, like a desert mirage.
But it was more than her beauty and sensuality that attracted him. He was curious about her. Such a bundle of contradictions, she was.
What had placed such icy reserve in her eyes? Why did Orwell pursue her?
A fork of lightning speared through the sky, startling the horses being led to the stables by his groom. He pulled himself from his musings. He had been too immersed in understanding the confounding Miss Peppiwell.
Dozens of gardeners, workmen, and tradesmen worked tirelessly to restore the massive Palladian manor house he stood in. He had found it several months ago during one of his visits to Lord Calvert’s estate in Hampshire, and had taken steps to purchase it. Something about the lonely beauty of the place had struck a chord inside him.
The huge structure held over two hundred rooms. The mass of weeds and vines that had choked the lawns had already been cleared, but the manor itself had a long way to go.
His brother’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “This is a solid investment.”