What a Lady Wants Page 16

  His expression brightened. “And you’ll give me the painting then?”

  “I didn’t say that. I shall consider the question tonight and discuss it with you tomorrow.”

  “But you won’t give me the painting?” he said slowly.

  “Not tomorrow,” she said brightly. “And probably not the day after. But perhaps next week. Or even next month.”

  “I see.” He stared at her then chuckled. “Apparently I will be calling on you after all. Very well, but understand it will only be for the purpose of convincing you to relinquish the painting.”

  “In the meantime, I shall keep it safe. I shall sleep with it under my pillow perhaps.”

  He shook his head. “I daresay that wouldn’t be the least bit comfortable.”

  “No, you’re right.” She thought for a moment. “Beside my bed then. Where it will be the last thing I see at night and the first thing I see in the morning.”

  He raised a brow. “I’m flattered.”

  “I simply think I should get used to seeing your face night and day.” She cast him a wicked grin. “In my bedchamber.”

  “You really believe this, don’t you?” His gaze searched hers. “This idea of fate. Of you and I destined to be together.”

  I wished for you and there you were. What else could it be but fate? Or magic. “I know it sounds absurd.” She raised her chin. “But yes, I do.”

  “It doesn’t sound quite as absurd as it once did.” He shook his head in obvious disbelief. “I should have won that game.”

  “But you didn’t and I did. Now I have a painting that you want. To get it back you are going to have to spend a great deal of time with me. And eventually you will come to the realization that—”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” He sighed. “We are meant for one another.”

  “Exactly. Now then, if you will step aside, I shall take my leave.” He stepped away from the door and grabbed the handle to open it.

  “One moment, if you please.” Impulsively she grabbed the lapels of his jacket, pulled him close, and pressed her lips to his, hard. The warmth of his lips on hers washed through her, and she wondered that her knees didn’t buckle beneath her. She pulled away. “Not quite as nice as the last time.” She patted his lapels and stepped back. “But worth the effort.” She turned toward the door.

  “Not really. However.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her back into his arms. “This is worth the effort.” He pressed his lips to hers, and she surrendered herself to the sheer enjoyment of his kiss.

  Surely this was desire. This odd yearning that filled her when he so much as touched her hand. That held her in its grip when their lips touched, when his body pressed against hers. That banished all rational thought from her mind and left her wanting him and everything wanting him meant.

  He drew his head back and sighed. “Didn’t I say there would be no more of this?”

  “If you did, I can’t recall. Admittedly.” She smiled weakly. “I can’t seem to recall much of anything when you kiss me.”

  “That’s most gratifying,” he murmured.

  She leaned toward him. “Perhaps another kiss might restore my memory.”

  His gaze shifted to her lips. For a moment she thought he would indeed kiss her again. Then he shook his head as if to clear it, stepped back, and looked at her in a firm manner. “You have won this hand, Felicity, but I assure you, the game is nowhere near over.”

  “My dear Mr. Cavendish.” Felicity favored him with her most innocent smile. “I certainly hope not.”

  This might well be the stupidest thing he had ever done.

  No. Nigel stared up at Felicity’s balcony. He had done far stupider things, although at the moment he couldn’t think of any. The smart thing, the clever thing, the thing any intelligent man would do would be to play Felicity’s game and best her at it, eventually convincing her to return the portrait. Of course a truly intelligent man would not be in this mess in the first place. Even so, he was smart enough to realize that the last thing he needed was to be in her company. The more he was around the blasted woman, the more he wanted her. He already liked her, a great deal really. In truth, aside from that annoying business of her wanting to marry him, there was nothing about the woman to dislike. She was intelligent and amusing and perceptive. But like and lust were a dangerous combination. He knew his own weaknesses, and Felicity Melville had moved to the top of the list. Eventually, if he didn’t get her out of his life, he would succumb to his desires, and any scandal he had been involved in in the past would pale in comparison.

  He moved quietly to the trellis that led to her balcony. She’d been home for hours and was surely fast asleep by now. Regardless, he could wait no longer. It would be dawn soon. Still, aside from the faint light from the stars, it was damnably dark. It couldn’t be helped, he supposed. If he didn’t recover the portrait of his uncle to night, tomorrow he would start down the inevitable path to marriage.

  Beyond that, he wanted the painting back in its place before his father noted its absence. In the weeks since he had started studying the family accounts, he and his father had grown closer. Nigel had begun to realize that in spite of his many transgressions, his father did indeed have confidence in his abilities, intelligence, and judgment. Discovering Nigel had wagered and, worse, lost the portrait of his father’s beloved brother would only disappoint his father. Nigel would do what ever he had to do to assure that did not happen.

  He took a firm grip on the trellis and started to climb. Would it be so very bad to marry Felicity? The question arose unbidden in his mind. To possess that willing body, taste those luscious lips, drown in those amazing eyes? For the rest of his days? No, of course it wouldn’t if one were ready to marry, if one wanted to marry. Perhaps someday. Someday, she might well have found someone else. A sharp pang of regret stabbed him. He brushed it aside.

  Nigel reached the balcony and pulled himself over the balustrade, landing lightly on his feet. Thank God one of the French doors to her room was open slightly to catch the night breeze. He carefully pushed the door wider and slipped through the opening, then paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the even deeper darkness of her bedroom.

  She’d said she would keep the painting beside her bed. He hadn’t seen any of her room the last time he was here but he assumed the bed was probably on the far side of the chamber. That was often the case when a lady’s bedroom had a balcony. He’d found such an arrangement most convenient in the past.

  Nigel inched his way across the room in a slightly crouched position, hands stretched out in front of him. The moment he found the bed, he would feel his way around it and from there explore the room one grope at a time. It wasn’t a good plan, but it was all he had. He refused to consider the tempting body that occupied the bed. In truth, he was better at escaping from bedrooms than he was at breaking into them. He’d certainly never, well, robbed a lady’s room before and he had only the vaguest idea of what he was doing. Still, as long as he didn’t get caught, he was probably doing it correctly. What he really needed was light but he didn’t dare light a lamp. Who knew what Felicity might do if she found him here?

  His foot snagged on something unsteady and he realized it was her telescope. He reached out and caught it before it could clatter to the floor. He breathed a silent sigh of relief. One obstacle avoided, but who knew how many others there might be in this room.

  “I suggest you not take another step.” Felicity’s clear, firm voice rang out in the night. “I have a pistol and as you’re nicely silhouetted by the light from the balcony, I should be able to do a great deal of harm when I shoot you. And I am an excellent shot.”

  Obviously he was not doing this correctly. Nigel groaned. “Why does that not surprise me?”

  “Nigel?”

  A match flared and she lit a lamp on the table by her bed. Felicity scrambled out of bed and stared at him. She was tousled and rumpled as one would expect a woman just roused from her bed, and looked at once innocent and sensual a
nd utterly irresistible.

  Except for the look in her eye of course.

  She glared. “What are you doing here?”

  He glared right back. “You don’t really have a pistol, do you?”

  “Of course I do. I keep it in the drawer in the table beside my bed. I had it in my hand a minute ago. It’s here somewhere.” She leaned over the bed and dug among the bedclothes, her long white gown clinging to her in completely inappropriate places. He swallowed hard and tried to ignore the way the fabric caressed and revealed and—“There it is.” She held up a large pistol. “I told you I had it.”

  He scoffed. “That’s a dueling pistol. Antique at that. And it only has one shot.”

  She smiled. “I only need one shot.”

  “It’s rather ornate, isn’t it? For a serious weapon, that is.”

  “It will do the job.” She studied the weapon in her hand. “And I think it’s quite lovely. All that carving and filigree.”

  “I daresay I shall regret the question,” Nigel said wryly, “but why do you keep a pistol in a drawer beside your bed?”

  “An unpleasant incident in Italy.” She shrugged. “Scarcely worth mentioning. Besides, one never knows who might climb over one’s balcony in the middle of the night.”

  “It’s nearly dawn,” he said without thinking.

  “I scarcely think the fact that it will soon be daylight puts your presence here in the category of a proper social call.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you here?”

  He didn’t like the casual way she waved the pistol around. The bloody thing could go off. For all he knew, it wasn’t even loaded, although he would wager if Felicity had a pistol, it was probably loaded. She wouldn’t see the point otherwise.

  “You can put that down now.”

  “Can I?” She studied him thoughtfully. “What if you have come to ravish me? I should need the pistol then.”

  He adopted a lofty manner. “I assure you, that is not my purpose.”

  She smiled in a wicked manner. “Are you certain?”

  “I have never been more certain in my life. Ravishment is not my intention. However.” He stared at her, and his restraint snapped. He stepped toward her. “My desire, my sincere and heartfelt desire”—he moved closer—“right here and right now”—he was a scant step in front of her now, her gaze locked with his—“is to rip that surprisingly sheer garment from your body, toss you onto that bed, and indeed ravish you from head to toe. I wish to make love to you until you are too exhausted to do so much as stand without support. Until you call out my name in your dreams and reach for me in your sleep. Until you can think of no one and nothing beyond the touch of my hand, the caress of my lips. And that, Felicity, is what I want.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes were wide and she stared at him. “I thought you wanted the painting.”

  He blew a frustrated breath. “I do want the painting.”

  “I believe we’ve been all through this.” Her voice was cool but there was a slight shake to it that was most gratifying. She stepped around him and moved toward the balcony and away from the bed. Excellent idea. “I won it, I have possession of it, it’s mine. And should you attempt to take it from me”—she hefted the pistol in her hand, and he winced—“I shall be forced to stop you.”

  “I would never take it from you.” Although admittedly the thought had occurred to him that he could simply grab the painting, toss it over the balcony, and then scramble down the trellis. That was contingent, of course, on locating it in the first place. He glanced around the room. “Where is the painting?”

  “You needn’t worry. It’s safe.”

  “I thought you wished it to be the last thing you saw at night and the first thing you saw in the morning?”

  “It sounded so good when I said it,” she murmured.

  “But obviously you were not entirely sincere.”

  “I have been sincere about everything regarding you and me,” she said staunchly. “Whereas you—”

  “That’s not fair, Felicity. I have been honest with you from the start.”

  “You never said the painting was not yours to wager.”

  “Nor did I say it was.”

  She studied him for a moment. “You must want it very badly to risk sneaking into my room at this hour. Why?”

  “Aside from the fact that it was not mine to wager?”

  She nodded.

  He blew a resigned breath. “The portrait is of my uncle. My father was very close to him. He died at a young age, and the painting means a great deal to my father.” He might as well be honest. He doubted anything else would be as effective with Felicity. “In recent weeks my father and I have grown closer. I would hate for him to know what a stupid thing I did in wagering the painting.” Nigel shook his head. “I have long believed that the way I have lived my life thus far was a disappointment to my father. It’s only recently that I have learned that was not the case.”

  “It’s a minor mistake though, Nigel, isn’t it? In the scheme of things, that is?”

  “Yes and no. The painting has great sentimental value but it’s not the loss of the painting itself that’s significant. I’m not sure I can explain.” He thought for a moment. “The wager we made was more than foolish. It was wrong of me to ask you to leave London. I panicked at the thought of your desire to marry me and the only thing I could think of to save myself was to get rid of you. It was the act of a coward. What I asked you to wager coupled with wagering the portrait, well”—he cast her a reluctant smile—“if I were the father of a son who did that I would be disappointed in his actions and his judgment.”

  “I see,” she said softly. “There’s nothing to be done then, is there?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Certainly you may have the painting back.”

  “Felicity.” Relief rushed through him, and he stepped toward her. “I shall substitute something else for the painting. What ever you wish.”

  “I wish…” She stared at him for a long moment. “Is the thought of marrying me so repugnant to you then?”

  “It’s not you,” he said quickly. “I believe I’ve made my feelings about you perfectly clear.”

  “Yes, yes.” She huffed and waved the pistol in the air. “You want me in your bed but not as your wife.”

  “And you will have it no other way.” He shook his head. “And I would have it no other way. I will not have your ruin on my head.”

  She paused. “What if I would?”

  “Would what?” he said slowly.

  “Would have it another way? What if I am willing to share your bed without benefit of marriage?” Her gaze met his. “What then?”

  He shook his head. “I could not allow that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because your life would be ruined. You want marriage and all that goes with it. Someday I shall be ready for marriage but not now.”

  “What if I were married? What if I were to marry”—she thought for a moment—“oh, say, Lord Norcroft. Tomorrow. Would you then be willing to share my bed?”

  “No!” Shock sounded in his voice. “I can’t believe you would suggest such a thing.”

  “And I can’t believe you would dismiss it. It’s not as if you have moral standards that preclude bedding married women. You told me yourself that they were not your marriage vows being broken.” She narrowed her eyes. “It is because I would be married to Norcroft—”

  “He is one of my oldest friends,” Nigel said staunchly. “I would never—”

  “Or is it because it’s me? Lord knows you’ve never hesitated before when it has come to a married woman.”

  He stared at her and had no idea what to say.

  “I thought as much.” She blew a long breath. “You may have the painting back. In that and in everything else between us, you may declare victory.”

  “What?”

  “I surrender. I give up.” She raised her shoulder in a resigned shrug. “I have found the one man I could spend the re
st of my days with. Indeed, the man fate has intended me for, and if I can’t have him, if he doesn’t want me”—utter defeat sounded in her voice—“then I shall have no one at all. You want me out of your life and I shall accommodate you.”

  “Felicity.” Good God, what had he done? Fear gripped him. He stepped toward her and held out his hand, forcing a calm note to his voice. “Give me the pistol.”

  Her brows drew together and she stared at him. “I’m not going to shoot myself if that’s what you were thinking.”

  “No, not at all.” He breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I would never shoot myself over you.” She scoffed. “I might shoot you but I would never shoot myself.”

  “I didn’t think that for a moment.” Although of course he had. He wasn’t at all sure if it was good to know she wouldn’t shoot herself but would apparently not hesitate to shoot him.

  “It is nice to know that you don’t wish me dead. However.” She squared her shoulders. “I shall do all in my power from this point forward to avoid your presence. I might well leave London after all. Go to the country, rusticate among the fields and forests and gaze at the stars. I’ll throw myself into my work. Possibly discover a comet or two myself.”

  “Felicity, you don’t have to—”

  “Oh, but I do. You see, Nigel, just as you have admitted to wanting me, I want you every bit as much. I have grown to care for you, deeply. I think I did from the moment you appeared over the garden wall. Seeing you as often as we have seen one another of late would only serve to remind me of what I can’t have.” She drew a deep breath. “A few minutes ago you asked what I wanted in place of the painting. Anything I wished, you said.”

  “Yes?” He held his breath.

  “I wish.” Her gaze met his directly. “I wish I’d never met you.”

  “Felicity.”

  “You should go now.” A defeated note sounded in her voice. What had he done to her? This wasn’t the Felicity he knew. “The way you came, I think. Quickly, before the sun is up. I shall send the painting back to Cavendish House this morning.”