His Mistletoe Bride Page 14

  “Viscount Castle,” he said, “you will oblige me by naming—”

  “No,” Phoebe yelled, pushing Lucas hard in the chest. Tears of anger and panic blinded her. “If thee says one more word, I will not marry thee and I will never speak to thee again. I will not tolerate violence, especially in my name, no matter what thy stupid masculine honor might dictate.” She stabbed her finger through the folds of his cravat. “Is that perfectly clear?”

  Lucas opened his eyes wide with surprise, and something else. Was it . . . laughter?

  Her temper surged on a scarlet wave. She spun on her heel, gave Lord Castle a furious shove, and stomped off. The other guests scattered before her, their laughter rippling in her wake.

  Phoebe rushed out, humiliation closing her throat and tears obscuring her vision. Almost tripping over her feet, she hurried down a hallway that led away from the ballroom, avoiding the stream of guests snaking down the large staircase to the supper room. The idea of facing her relatives right now—facing anyone—was unbearable.

  Her heart raced, and she had to stop to catch her breath. Sucking in air, she leaned one hand against the wall of the corridor. As she struggled to calm herself, an unwelcome fact seeped into her brain—her behavior had been almost as wretched as the men’s. She had lost her temper, raised her voice, and stormed across the ballroom.

  And she had actually shoved both Lucas and Lord Castle. Phoebe always knew she had a volatile temper, but with her father’s guidance and support she had learned to hold it under tight rein. Tonight, however, when she most needed control, it had come roaring forth.

  She was surely the worst Quaker one could imagine.

  Sighing, she rested her forehead against the smooth papered wall, pondering her next move. She could not skulk in the corridor forever, nor could she go back into the ballroom. Besides, who knew what Lucas and Lord Castle were doing at this very moment? They might be brawling, or flinging challenges at each other. What if they had already left the ball, each one determined to go off and kill the other?

  She jerked her head up, stricken by the image of Lucas prostrate on the ground, a bloody hole in his chest. She had to stop them. Stop him. Find Meredith and Silverton right now and—

  A hand touched her shoulder and she spun with a strangled shriek. Lucas stood before her, looking worried and irate. With her, if his countenance was any indication.

  She pressed a hand to where her heart pounded against her breastbone. “Thee startled me.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” He did not sound sorry at all.

  His tone, along with her slip into plain speech, nudged her anger back to the surface. “Well, you did,” she snapped, forcing her way past her unwelcome habit. “But at least you had the good sense to leave the room before you and Lord Castle got into a brawl.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You did manage to avoid that, I hope.”

  He scowled. “Do you take me for a complete idiot?”

  She fisted her hands on her hips and stared. He settled his arms across his brawny chest but then his lips twitched, as if he held back a smile.

  “Apparently, you do,” he said. “Phoebe, I’m—”

  “Did you challenge him to a duel?”

  His jaw flexed and he cast a quick glance around. “This is no place to discuss the matter. Let me take you down to supper.”

  She gave her head an angry shake. “I will not go anywhere with you until you answer my question.”

  He rubbed an impatient hand over his face. “Very well. But I’m not going to stand out here in the corridor arguing with you.”

  He grasped her arm and pulled her down the length of the hall. She was about to object to being hauled about like a sack of grain when he stopped, opened a door, and gently shoved her into a room.

  She shook him off. He gave a short laugh and closed the door. Leaning against it, he gave her a hot, heavy-lidded look that sent an inconvenient prickle of excitement racing across her skin.

  Really, the man was insufferably arrogant, considering what had just happened. And she had every intention of giving him a proper set down once she figured out where to start.

  She moved to the center of a very pretty sitting room that looked to be in regular use. Comfortable chairs and a sofa were casually arranged before a cozy fire in an iron grate, and a crystal lamp on a side table shed a soft glow over the room. Quiet settled over them, as they were far enough from the public rooms for the chatter of voices to fade. The steady ticking of a clock somewhere in a dim corner and the crackling fire provided a soothing counterpoint to her rattled nerves.

  After a few moments she felt steady enough to turn around and face him. When she did, her precarious sense of control slipped again.

  He studied her with a silent, predatory watchfulness that penetrated her to the bone. And even though his body remained as still as a marble statue, his eyes burned like flame, with a scorching sensuality that leapt across the space between them.

  She drew in a tattered breath. She might be innocent in the ways of men—especially men like Lucas Stanton—but she thought she knew what that particular look meant. It frightened and excited her all at once. For an instant, she could think of nothing else, see nothing else but the hot gleam in his eye and the seductive curve of his hard, sensual mouth.

  Then reality came flooding back and she remembered his declaration of marital intent, and what had prompted it. It was surely the result of anger and wounded pride, rather than real desire or true affection.

  She crossed her arms at her waist, trying to close herself off from the alluring energy that shimmered around him.

  “Please answer my question,” she said in a quiet voice. “Did you, in fact, challenge Lord Castle to a duel?”

  He pushed away from the door and strolled over. She had to resist the urge to retreat, to pull back from the visceral reaction that curled through her body as he neared. She would not let him see the depth of his affect on her.

  With a hint of a smile, he brushed a careful hand across her cheek. She had to clench her teeth against the urge to nestle into it like a sleepy puppy.

  “You don’t have to be upset, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Nothing bad is going to happen.”

  Even though her knees quaked at the husky note in his voice, she schooled her face to blandness. “I am not upset. I am simply concerned.”

  “Thee is upset,” he said, playing with a lock of hair that drifted down from her temple. Her eyelids fluttered and closed as his fingers brushed down her cheek and over her jawbone. “They always give you away, your thees.”

  Her eyes snapped open at the hint of laughter in his voice. Deliberately, she pushed his hand away. “You will please answer my question. Did you or did you not challenge Lord Castle to a duel?”

  When he did not reply, her dignity deserted her. She grabbed the lapels of his coat and yanked them. Hard. She heard a little ripping noise, but ignored it. “I swear, Lucas, if you did, I will . . . I will be very, very angry with you.”

  His large hands engulfed her fists. The tender expression in his sea smoke eyes made her legs go knock-kneed.

  “You’re quite fierce for a Quaker, Phoebe. It’s been a revelation. But I assure you Castle won’t be a problem,” he said, releasing her hands.

  She stared up at him, too suspicious to let it go. “What exactly does that mean?”

  His lips quirked up in a roguish smile and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her in. He did it slowly, as if he expected her to bolt from his embrace. “It means exactly what I said. Don’t worry. I promise everything will be fine.”

  Suddenly, the strain of the evening overwhelmed her, and her limbs began to tremble. She allowed him to pull her close, leaning into him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  “I cannot believe I lost my temper,” she whispered, muffling her voice against the slippery satin of his waistcoat. Her shame came flooding back. “I have not acted like that since I was a child.”

&nb
sp; He rested his chin on top of her head, cradling her. It was wrong of her to allow it, but she craved the comfort and warmth he offered.

  “You shocked me and everyone else in the room, I suspect,” he mused. “I doubt poor Nigel will ever recover. Who would have thought Miss Phoebe Linville, of all people, could be such a firebrand?”

  Sighing, she pulled out of his arms. He frowned but let her go—reluctantly, she thought.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked in a puzzled voice.

  She swallowed a groan. Were all men this dense? Did he even remember how they had all acted out there in the ballroom? And her temper was rising again, which told her something important. Since meeting Lucas, she was apparently losing every shred of self-discipline she ever possessed.

  “The evening started with that horrible fight in the library, then I was pestered by the rudest man I have ever met, and then you appeared and threatened that same man to a duel, after announcing to the whole world that I was your fiancée.” She windmilled her arms in frustration, forcing him to step back a pace. “How could I possibly be all right?”

  One corner of his mouth kicked up. “Not quite the whole world, love.”

  She froze. That word fell so easily from his lips, but she had no idea if he really meant it. What she did know was that his easy affection made her stomach flutter and her body long to be in his arms once more.

  Mentally, she shook herself. He was trying to distract her, that was all.

  “Lucas,” she said sternly, “you may not have noticed at the time, but we did attract quite a great deal of attention. And Lord Castle will be sure to spread as much ugly gossip about us as he can. The man is a . . . a . . .”

  “Poltroon?”

  She crossed her arms under her chest and scowled at him. His gaze dropped to her bosom, and his amused little grin disappeared. Some other expression took its place, one so full of heated appraisal it sent a disconcerting ripple of excitement flowing through her veins.

  “Lucas, you must stop doing that,” she said through clenched teeth.

  He looked up, then widened his eyes with feigned innocence. “Stop what?”

  She blew out a breath. “Never mind. We were speaking of Lord Castle and the trouble he will cause when he starts spreading rumors about our supposed engagement.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not a rumor. And I’ll make sure Castle doesn’t become a problem.”

  Phoebe stared at him. Had she banged her head getting out of the carriage tonight and failed to notice? She had assumed Lucas’s public declaration had been meant to put Lord Castle in his place. But she now realized that was a ridiculous assumption. No one tossed out marriage proposals with such cavalier abandon, at least not a man like Lucas.

  Her mind flashed back to the scene in General Stanton’s library. Had Lucas, in fact, been asking her to marry him after all? Her foolish heart had longed for it, but her common sense had intervened to reject the notion. Who asked a woman to marry him in front of a roomful of people?

  Her mouth opened, a thousand questions poised on her lips. Only two mattered, though. Did Lucas truly intend to marry her? And, if so, did he love her?

  But her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth. Silently cursing her lack of courage, she fell back to her more immediate concern.

  “Lucas, you have not yet answered my question. Did you or did you not challenge Lord Castle to a duel?”

  His face turned to stone. “He impugned your honor.”

  Frustrated, she shook her head. “My honor is my own. No man can impugn it without my consent.”

  That made him scoff. “Phoebe, please do me a favor and stay clear of things you don’t understand.”

  Oh, she understood very well. Men willingly fought and even killed over inconsequential matters, and they liked nothing better than justifying their actions in the name of honor.

  Man’s honor. Not God’s honor.

  “Truth often suffers more by the heat of its defenders, than from the arguments of its opposers,” she said in a severe voice.

  He peered at her as if she had just sprouted wings from her forehead. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Phoebe grimaced. She had thought Mr. Penn’s quote to be more than apt, but Lucas obviously did not agree. Perhaps she could make him up a small book of quotations to give him for a Christmas present. He could certainly benefit from them.

  Frustrated, she spread her hands wide. “Why are you so upset by this ridiculous matter? It makes no sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense to me,” he growled.

  She recognized his flinty expression. He wore it whenever he encountered Silverton, or was forced to speak with him. Understanding finally dawned. “This is not about me,” she said slowly. “This is about Esme Newton.”

  His expression went positively glacial, but she would not be put off. “You have no right to be offended, Lucas. You have used me as an excuse to resurrect an old grievance, one that has little to do with me. It was not kind of you.”

  “Christ,” he muttered. He paced over to the fireplace, then across to the door. His hand reached for the knob, and for a horrible moment she thought he intended to storm out.

  But he drew back and she could breathe again. Turning to face her, he remained by the door. A casual observer would have thought him calm, but she saw stormy visions of the past roiling in his gaze.

  “Phoebe, you couldn’t possibly understand.”

  She clasped her hands in front of her, sending up a silent prayer. If they were to have any future together, Lucas must learn to trust her. “Then tell me so I will.”

  He blew out a tense breath. “Very well. Castle was one of Esme’s flirts, although that term doesn’t precisely capture it. He knew how I felt about her and he knew how she felt about me, yet he pursued her anyway.”

  “Ah. Just as you pursued the same woman against your cousin’s wishes.”

  He frowned and his gaze dropped to the carpet. “I suppose. I regarded it differently at the time.”

  She remained silent for a few moments, letting him grapple with his conscience. “And Esme allowed this?” she finally prompted.

  Lucas glanced up with a bitter smile. “To my complete astonishment, she did.”

  Phoebe could not help rolling her eyes. “Is there no man she did not flirt with?”

  That elicited a short laugh from him. “Esme loved the attention. She even loved that men fought over her, although I don’t think she understood how ugly it all would get until the end.”

  “Until Silverton.”

  He nodded slowly. She ached for him, but kept silent as he worked it through.

  “Esme loved having us all on her string, although I didn’t realize at the time how manipulative she was. I truly thought she loved me.” He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “Maybe she even did, in her own fashion. She said it often enough, at least in the beginning. Before Castle. And before Silverton,” he finished softly.

  “Why did she not marry Lord Castle?”

  He snorted. “Because he wasn’t a lord back then, just a second son. He didn’t inherit until a few years ago. In any event, a viscount would never be a match for Silverton. But when my cousin eventually spurned her, she had to settle for a moderately wealthy Scottish earl, who then took her to Edinburgh.”

  His voice was laced with contempt, but she could not tell if he reserved it for Esme Newton or for himself.

  Hesitantly, she moved toward him. “Lucas, this woman has caused you nothing but anger and grief.”

  He remained motionless against the door, looking impossibly remote. “I do understand that, my dear.”

  She took another step closer, silently willing him to let her in. “She was not worthy of you or Cousin Stephen. Nor is her memory worth the continued estrangement between you.”

  Phoebe had an impression that he flinched. His eyes, though, remained cold, freezing her out.

  Pulling in a shaky breath, she stepped right up to him.
“Do you still love her?”

  His head jerked back. “God, no.”

  “Are you sure?” she whispered.

  The ice in his eyes finally melted. “Looking back, I don’t think I ever loved her. I believe obsession is a better way to describe it.”

  “That offers me little comfort, Lucas.”

  He reached for her then, his hands drifting over her bare shoulders. His touch—tender and light—made her tremble.

  “You needn’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured in a voice so dark and tempting she almost melted against him. “Rest assured I won’t allow her memory to come between us or our marriage.”

  His words thumped her back to earth. It was time to stop hiding behind her fears, and confront him directly. “Lucas, I do not even know if there is anything between us. And you have not even asked me to marry you yet, much less told me you love me.”

  Something flickered across his features, and a chill shivered through her.

  “You do not love me, do you?” she asked, trying to pull away.

  His grip firmed on her shoulders even as his eyes narrowed. “I want no other woman but you, Phoebe. Never doubt it.”

  “Wanting is not loving,” she challenged. “I will not accept wanting.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw, as if he was holding something back. “Phoebe, I’m extremely fond of you, which you surely know. I will cherish you and our marriage. But you must understand that I am not given to extravagant declarations. I’m not a boy anymore, given to such foolishness.”

  She swallowed, her mouth tasting dry and bitter. For once, anger seemed a reliable ally. “You are very fond of your horses, too, but I do not expect you to marry them.”

  He stared at her for an endless moment before he let out a crack of laughter. “Christ, Phoebe! Where do you come up with these ridiculous ideas? My sweet, I never wanted to kiss my horses either, but I do want to kiss you.”

  And between one breath and the next, he did.

  Chapter 14

  Phoebe’s eyes grew wide as Lucas swooped down to kiss her. But when his lips met hers she squeezed her eyelids closed, overcome by the shock of his touch and the temptation that trembled through her. His mouth took hers in a silken slide, softly at first, as if granting her time to adjust. She had never felt a man’s kiss on her mouth. Her heart pounded with something akin to fright, yet she could not resist his lure—hot and sweet, hinting of champagne and something forbidden.