Tempted By His Kiss Read online

  “Good morning, my lord,” she said with a pleasant smile. “Are we disturbing you?”

  If that isn’t the understatement of the century. From the moment he’d laid eyes on her, she’d disturbed and disrupted him. Less than twenty-four hours acquaintance and his life was already at sixes and sevens.

  Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but enjoy the freshly washed glow of her skin and the luxurious beauty of her guileless blue eyes. Her pale blond hair was arranged in an attractive, feminine knot at the back of her head, her lithesome figure clothed in a black wool day dress whose colour in no way diminished her beauty.

  He caught a faint whiff of something floral, something distinctly her, that made him want to lean closer to test the scent. In his mind’s eye he imagined himself pressing his nose to the curve of her neck, and brushing his lips against the skin of her throat to see if her flesh was as dewy soft as it looked. Blood coursed in a ripe downward flow, abruptly heightening his awareness of the fact that he wasn’t wearing so much as a stitch of clothing beneath his dressing gown.

  God, what am I doing? He chided himself. Wool-gathering over some girl he didn’t know or want in his house. What was wrong with him? Worse, how could he even think of another woman with Calida barely cold in her grave? His nascent desire withered, his brows drawing together as he shot Meg a look he hoped would encourage her to move along—quickly!

  “Please forgive my manners,” she offered instead, “and allow me to make you known to my cousin, Miss Amy Jones.”

  He sent a glance toward the other girl, then inclined his head. “Miss Jones.”

  The girl giggled and dipped a quick curtsey. She gave no other response, apparently too shy to speak.

  “Miss Jones and I were just on our way to breakfast,” Miss Amberley explained in a lilting voice. “However, we were not quite certain of the location of the morning room.”

  “The dining room is downstairs in the rear of the house. I do not have a morning room.”

  “Ah, well, the dining room will do nicely, too.” She paused, her gaze subtly moving over what he knew must be his dishevelled hair and the night’s growth of rough whiskers.

  His glower deepened.

  “Perhaps once you are more suitably attired, you might care to join us, my lord?”

  “I would not.”

  Her pale eyebrows winged upward on her delicate forehead as if she might be considering a rejoinder for his blunt reply. Then she gave a mild shrug. “As you wish. We shall leave you to your slumber then.”

  The cousin giggled again, her eyes dancing. Dismissing her, he focused his attention on Meg. “Pray enjoy your repast and have a safe journey when you are once more on your way.”

  “On our way? Oh, but you obviously have not realized again.”

  “Realized what?”

  “That it is still snowing. There is nothing but white as far as the eye can see, and according to my coachman, the roads are completely impassable. My apologies, but I am afraid we shall have to trespass upon your good graces a while longer.”

  Swinging around, he walked to a window and pulled back the curtain. “Bloody hell!” Just as she claimed, it was snow, snow everywhere, with more falling by the second.

  He turned and came forward again, half expecting to find her puckered up with affront over his swearing—that, or ready to swoon as some ladies might pretend to do. Meg, however, seemed utterly unflustered. In fact, he thought he detected the faintest hint of a smile hovering over her lips.

  “Perhaps you might enjoy that breakfast, after all, my lord?” she remarked, her expression all innocence.

  He growled low in his throat, not entirely trusting what might come out of his mouth.

  She sank into an elegant curtsey, then signalled with a hand for her cousin to do the same. The other girl obeyed, though with far less grace than Meg herself. “Until we meet again, my lord,” Meg said. “At nuncheon, perhaps?”

  “Good day, Miss Amberley.”

  Stepping back into his room, he closed the door with a near soundless click. Waiting until he heard the pair of them move off down the corridor, he shucked free of his dressing gown, then climbed back between the now cold sheets. Punching his pillow and grumbling beneath his breath about unwanted house guests and damned cursed snowstorms, he rolled over and closed his eyes. Some minutes passed, though, before he fell back to sleep.

  “Will ye be needin’ anythin’ else, miss?” Meg’s maid asked. “If not, I thought I might nip off to me room fer a bit. I’m rather enjoying having fancy digs of me own, even if it is only temporary-like.”

  Seated in a comfortable armchair before the drawing room fire, Meg glanced up from her embroidery. “Oh, certainly, Amy. Do go on. But don’t forget what we discussed.”

  The girl’s forehead wrinkled in momentary puzzlement. “Oh, do ye mean about me stayin’ out of his lordship’s way and not talkin’ to him if I do ’appen upon him? Well, considering we haven’t see him all day long, that shouldn’t be hard.”

  “Yes, he has made himself rather scarce, has he not?” Meg replied. Despite her suggestion that Lord Cade join them for nuncheon, he had failed to put in an appearance at the meal. “Nonetheless,” she continued, “you are supposed to be my cousin, and if you start spinning wild lies, he might figure us out.”

  “Plus, there’s me accent. Don’t sound like no lady like you, miss. A high-’n’-mighty lord like him might notice such a thing.”

  “Exactly,” Meg agreed, repressing a smile.

  Once Amy departed, Meg returned to her stitchery, her thoughts lingering on Lord Cade, as they had with great frequency since her arrival yesterday afternoon. A conversation with the wizened, white-haired Beaks a short while ago had elicited the information that his lordship was indeed awake and once again ensconced inside his book room. Apparently he’d retreated there with a plate of cold meat and a libation, leaving strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed.

  Well, I shall be cheerful, despite his less than hospitable nature, she thought as she drew a measured stitch with her needle, the indigo thread gleaming even in the watery afternoon light. If he wished to keep to himself, that was his right. After all, this was his house, his domain, and she was the intruder.

  Honestly, though, one would think he could be a tad more accommodating. It wasn’t as though she’d had any choice in seeking refuge here. The weather was the weather, and could not be changed—not even for a divinely handsome aristocrat with a temperament fit to infuriate a saint! And so, for however long the storm kept them confined, she and Cade Byron would simply have to make the best of things.

  For her own part, she was well used to unexpected circumstances and ever changing locales, having grown up roaming from one port city to another with her mother and naval officer father. After a while, one learned to adapt and appreciate new situations and new people. Some might say such a life was hard, but she had never minded, having been happy and secure in the constancy of her parents’ love.

  Then, five years ago, everything changed. Her mother, to the astonishment and joy of all, had found herself with child again after years of barrenness. A miracle, everyone agreed. And a blessing. Yet in spite of an easy, uneventful pregnancy, the delivery went badly, mother and baby dying within hours of each other.

  Numb with grief, Meg had clung to her father. Another man faced with the prospect of raising a half-grown child alone, especially a girl, would not have been blamed for sending her away to live with relatives. Instead, her father had vowed to keep her close. With the sorrow of her mother and infant brother’s passing hanging over them, he knew that he and Meg had more need of each other than ever. And so, despite his love of the sea, Captain Amberley traded his ship for an office, taking a promotion with the Admiralty that allowed them to remain together.

  But now Papa was gone, too, and she was on her way to live with a great-aunt whom she had never met. She sighed as she took another stitch, wondering what her elderly relation would be like and how r
emote her house in Scotland might be. If not for the snowstorm, she might be arriving there even now. Until she could continue her journey, though, she would have to make the best of her situation—and her dealings with her irascible host.

  Meg’s needle slowed, halting entirely as she thought again about Cade Byron. Tingles rushed over her skin the way they had that morning when she came upon him in the hallway, recalling the sight of him dressed in nothing more than a thin silk robe. No man should have the right to look that good, she mused, especially not first thing in the morning. Darkly powerful and irresistibly delicious, he’d driven the breath straight out of her lungs. Even in his unkempt, just-out-of-bed state—or maybe because of it—he’d been nothing less than gorgeous, with his rich chestnut hair tumbled in wild disarray around his head, rough bristles shadowing the lean angles of his jaw line. If he looked this amazing injured and weary, she could scarcely imagine how he might appear in the peak of health.

  Her thoughts took an abrupt turn at the reminder, and she wondered exactly how he’d come by his limp and the unusual scar on his throat. His servants certainly weren’t forthcoming, although she hadn’t made much of an effort to pry. Nor had she inquired about the amount of pain he suffered, recalling the empty bottle of spirits at his elbow last night. Having grown up around military men, she’d known her share of those who used alcohol to dull a wide range of injuries and afflictions.

  Regardless, she supposed such speculation was none of her business. Just as the man himself was not. She knew she would be doing herself a favour if she didn’t dwell on him or his circumstances. After all, her time here would be fleeting, Cade Byron nothing more than an interesting detour on her journey north.

  To Meg’s amazement, the snow continued unabated, not ceasing fully until the third morning after her arrival. On a day that dawned clear and sunny, a quick glance outside made it plain she would not be leaving anytime soon. Lord Cade obviously realized that as well, the door to his bedchamber slamming shut with an echo that reverberated through the house like a snarled shout of frustration. As usual, she saw nothing of her host, and was left to take her meals alone in the dining room.

  On her fourth day of confinement, however, she decided she’d had enough. Despite her initial cheerfulness, she’d grown heartily sick of stitchery. As for her small store of books, she had read them all—twice! She knew there were more books in the house. The trouble was, they were all inside Cade Byron’s hallowed book room, where she instinctively understood she was not allowed to trespass.

  Well, he would just have to abide her interruption, she decided. He could glower and growl, bluster and yell, but his displeasure would make no difference to her.

  Yet as she strode down the hallway where she’d been led by Beaks that very first afternoon, she couldn’t help the flutter of nerves that swam inside her belly. Pausing in front of the closed door, she rapped briefly with her knuckles, then turned the knob, deciding if she didn’t ask his permission to enter, he couldn’t deny it—at least not until after she was already in the room. Chin up, she sailed inside.

  A brilliant wash of sunlight flooded the space, the buttery cream walls and rich, cherry-wood tones of the furnishings revealed in ways she had not been able to appreciate on that first gloomy afternoon. Gone were the heavy shadows, replaced by light that made even the deepest corners of the room visible to the eye. She remembered seeing books on that earlier visit, but only now did she realize how many works were contained in the room. Bound in supple leather, books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, dozens and dozens of them, their varied shapes, thicknesses, and colours creating a mosaic of visual and literary design. Slowing her step, she took an extra moment to survey her surroundings, relishing the lush texture of the Turkey carpet beneath her slippers and the warmth of the fire burning cheerfully in the grate.

  Lord Cade was seated in what was obviously his chair, a thick leather-bound volume in his lap. His head came up at her intrusion, dark chestnut brows furrowing as he peered at her through a pair of silver, half-moon eyeglasses.

  So he wears reading spectacles, does he? She mused. She had to admit, the addition in no way diminished his dangerously good looks. If anything, they made him even more attractive—his eyes shining above the lenses with the vibrancy of new spring leaves, his hair once again tousled, with a wilful curl dangling over his forehead.

  Her pulse gave a hop, her breath growing surprisingly short. Fighting off the reaction, she moved toward the nearest shelf of books. “Never mind me,” she called in a breezy voice. “Pray continue your reading and pretend I am not even in the room.”

  He laid a palm over an open page. “But you are in the room, without so much as a by-your-leave, I might add. What is it you want?”

  “A book, my lord. Seeing I am snowbound inside this house, I require some means of occupying myself. I searched the other rooms—well, most of them, at least—and realized my selection is rather limited, what with all the volumes being in here with you. I’ll only be a minute or two.”

  He gave a plainly sceptical snort, scowled at her for a few seconds more, then returned to his reading. Turning her head away as well, she perused the offerings. Powerfully aware of him sitting only a few feet away, she chose a volume with somewhat less than her full attention. Taking the book down, she flipped it open to a random page.

  The slaughter of cattle is best done when the beasts are well-fattened at the end of the summer season…

  Ugh! She recoiled at the topic. Closing the book, she returned it to its place. Her second selection proved little better—this time covering the fascinating subject of crop rotation.

  “You’d do better with the shelf on the wall to your right,” Cade Byron drawled. “I believe you are in the agriculture section at present.”

  She shoved the farming treatise back onto its shelf. “You might have said, you know.”

  “But then I wouldn’t have been able to pretend you’re not here, would I?”

  She waited to see if he might crack a smile. He didn’t, although his eyes did glitter with what she surmised to be suppressed amusement. Tossing him a narrow-eyed glare, she moved several feet across the room toward the area he suggested.

  These shelves, she discovered, were filled with titles and authors she recognized—Sheridan, Pope, Richardson, and Voltaire, just to name a few. Sliding out a copy of Candide, she opened it to discover the work in its original French. She read a few lines and began to smile.

  “Better, I take it?” Lord Cade commented.

  She glanced over. “Much. Thank you, my lord.”

  He gave a negligent shrug. “You’re welcome.”

  Turning back, she selected a volume of poetry. Yet even as she examined the book, her mind was taken up with thoughts of the man seated only feet away. That last exchange had actually seemed pleasant. The most civilized of their acquaintance. Mayhap he is mellowing and has resigned himself to my presence in his house.

  “The way I see it,” he remarked, thumbing over a page in his book, “the sooner you choose something, the sooner I’ll have my privacy back.”

  So much for cordial discourse! For a long moment she stared. “You really are a most disagreeable man, do you know that, my lord?”

  If she’d expected him to ruffle up over her insult, however, she was quickly disappointed. Looking up, he met her gaze. “That’s right. I am disagreeable. So take as many volumes as you like and hurry back to your chair in the drawing room.”

  She hugged a book to her breasts. “How do you know I have been spending my days in the drawing room?”

  He scowled, obviously annoyed with himself over his comment. “Just a guess. Where else would you spend your time?”

  But it had not been a guess, she realized. Has he been inquiring after me? The notion made her smile. “Well,” she mused aloud, “there are other places in which I might have made myself comfortable. My bedchamber, for instance. The room is most excellent.”

  A mocking light came into
his gaze. “I am glad you approve.”

  “Oh, I do. My feather tick is soft as a cloud. I could lie on it forever. Don’t you love lying on a good, comfortable bed?” Abruptly she broke off, realizing what she’d just said, and the suddenly intimate nature of the topic. She hoped he didn’t think she was flirting with him. Come to think of it, am I flirting with him?

  Lord Cade, however, did not rise to the bait. “Again, I am relieved you find the accommodations to your liking.”

  “How could I not?” she murmured, recovering. “You have a lovely house.”

  “It suits my purposes.”

  She paused. “You have a most excellent cook as well. A shame you do not take the opportunity to do his fare justice.”

  “How so? I am afraid I do not follow.”

  “Well, I couldn’t help but notice over the past few days that you haven’t once put in an appearance at a meal. Although I suppose you must eat sometime.”

  One corner of his mouth turned up. “On occasion.”

  “Then you should make those occasions more frequent. It’s plain that you need plumping up.”

  His eyes widened behind his spectacles. “Pardon me?”

  “You ought to eat more, my lord. You’re far too thin for your frame.”

  “Good Lord, you sound like my mother.”

  “If I do, then you ought to listen to her. She’s clearly a wise woman.”

  “She is indeed. Wise enough to know I make my own decisions. Now, choose your books and be on your way. Your two minutes elapsed some while ago.”

  Meg hesitated at the dismissal, then swung around and began studying books in earnest. She selected two volumes of poetry, a novel, and a satire. “Well, I suppose I shall be going,” she announced.

  He kept reading.

  “Thank you for letting me borrow these.”

  He gave a faint nod but didn’t look up.

  “Mayhap I shall see you at dinner this evening,” she prompted. “Should you decide to take a meal, that is.”