Promise Me Tomorrow. Candace Camp
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is highly improper.”
He cocked one eyebrow. “I would have thought that you would prefer we discussed your larceny outside the hearing of the rest of the company. But of course, if you insist on opening the door so that all may hear…”
Lambeth started toward the door, and Marianne stepped forward quickly. “No! No, wait. You are right. Let us clear this up privately.”
He smiled in a smug way that made Marianne long to slap him, and crossed his arms. “You have an explanation? Pray, go on. I should love to hear it.”
“I see no reason why I should give you an explanation,” Marianne retorted hotly.
Her initial spurt of fear over, her normal spirit was returning. The smirk on the man’s face goaded her. He was everything she despised in the aristocracy: supercilious, arrogant, utterly disdainful of everyone whom he considered beneath him—which was most of the world.
“Other than the fact that I should turn you over to our host for rifling through his smoking chamber?”
“Don’t be absurd! I was simply looking around. There is no harm in that, surely.”
“What about the safe?” He nodded toward the picture, still askew, with the safe behind it.
“Safe?” Marianne could think of nothing to do except brazen it out.
His mouth twitched. “Yes. Safe. The one behind that picture. The one you were breaking into.”
“I was doing no such thing!” She put on an expression of utmost indignation. “The picture was crooked, and I straightened it.”
He let out a bark of laughter. “You are a bold one. I’ll give you that. But I have you dead to rights, and you know it.” He strolled toward her. “This was a deadly dull party, but it certainly got livelier once you arrived.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Marianne took a step backward. She found his closeness disconcerting. She disliked him thoroughly; he was her enemy. Yet his smile created the oddest sensation in the pit of her stomach. And when he came near, she could see that his eyes were clear and gold, the color of sherry, darkened by the row of thick lashes around them. She found herself staring into them, unable to look away.
His gaze was knowing and amused, as if he sensed what she was feeling. “Yes, it is. Most young women bore me.”
“I am not a young woman,” she pointed out. “I am a widow.”
“Are you?”
“Yes, of course. What a thing to say!” He was so close now that she could feel the heat of his body. Marianne took another step back but came up against the liquor cabinet and could move no farther. She braced her hands on the cabinet on either side of her and tried to face him down. “You are a very rude man.”
“So I have been told. I am not, however, a flat, so I suggest that you try to stop bamming me. I have been watching you all evening.”
“I know. I saw you. That was when I first realized how very rude you were.”
“I watched you at first because you are devilishly attractive.” He smiled and raised his hand, running his forefinger down her cheek.
A shiver ran through Marianne, unfamiliar and delightful, and she twitched away from him, irritated with herself.
“I was wondering how to get an introduction when I saw you with Miss Castlereigh and Lord Buckminster. I knew they would introduce us, but by the time I got there, you were gone. I followed you out into the hall, and that is when I noticed your extremely odd behavior.”
“You were spying on me? I find that extremely odd, my lord.”
“You have the advantage of me. You seem to know who I am—that is twice you have called me ‘my lord.’ Yet I do not know your name.”
“It is scarcely any of your business.”
“You may as well tell me. I shall find out from Bucky anyway.”
Marianne frowned. “I am Marianne Cotterwood. Mrs. Cotterwood.”
“Oh, yes, a widow. I forgot.”
“I wish you would stop using that supercilious tone. Why should I say I am a widow if I am not?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps you are. On the other hand, perhaps it is simply part of your sham.”
“I am not shamming. This is a pointless conversation, and I am leaving.”
She started around him, but Lambeth reached out and grasped the low cabinet, blocking her exit. “Not until you tell me why you were sneaking up and down this hall, peering into all the rooms. And why you came into this one and proceeded to walk around it, lifting each picture, until you found the one with a safe behind it.”
Marianne’s throat was dry, and only partly because of her trepidation. Lambeth’s body was only inches from her; his eyes were boring into hers. It was hard to breathe, and she felt strangely hot and cold.
“You are a thief, Mrs. Cotterwood,” he said in a low voice. “I can think of no other explanation.”
“No.” Her voice came out barely a whisper. Her lips were dry, and her tongue crept out to moisten them.
Lambeth’s eyes darkened, and his hand came up, his thumb tracing her lower lip. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met, but I really cannot allow you to go about robbing my friends.” He paused, and a smile touched his lips. “On the other hand, Lord Batterslee is not really what I would call a friend. More an acquaintance, actually.”
He leaned closer, his warmth and scent surrounding her. Marianne closed her eyes, almost dizzy from his nearness. Then his lips were on hers, and she jumped slightly in surprise, but she did not move away. The sensation he was creating in her was too sweet and unfamiliar. She relaxed, giving in to the pleasure. She felt the hot exhalation of his breath against her cheek as he sensed her yielding. His arms went around her, and he pulled her closer, his mouth sinking into hers urgently.
Marianne felt as if she were melting, her loins hot and waxen, her whole body shimmering with pleasure. No man had ever made her feel like this. Indeed, she had rarely allowed a man to touch her, not since Daniel. Daniel’s kisses, too, had been sweet at first…
Marianne stiffened at the thought of Daniel Quartermaine. Another aristocrat with kisses and soft words—and no thought in his mind except using and abandoning her. Suddenly she realized what Lambeth was about. She jerked away from him, her hand cracking against his cheek in a resounding slap.
He stared at her, surprised, his hand going to his cheek.
“I know what you are trying to do!” she cried.
“It seems fairly obvious,” he replied dryly.
“You think that I will bed you to keep you from telling everyone I am a thief!”
His eyebrows sailed upward. “I never said—”
“You didn’t have to. As you just said, it is obvious. You accuse me of being a thief, then start to kiss me. What else would I think?”
“That your beauty distracts me from my duty.”
“Please. I am not a fool. Nor am I a whore. You are wasting your time. I won’t sleep with you, no matter how you might slander me to everyone you know.” Marianne’s eyes flashed. She had no idea what an arousing picture she made—her eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, her lips soft and moist from his kisses.
“A thief with morals, in other words.”
The faint amusement in his voice goaded her, and Marianne opened her mouth to reply hotly. But at that moment the door opened, and a middle-aged man stepped into the room. He stopped and gaped at them.
“I say.”
“Lord Batterslee.” Lambeth nodded