Rake in the Regency Ballroom: The Viscount Claims His Bride / The Earl's Forbidden Ward. Bronwyn Scott
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spent the years since Cambourne’s death proving it. He’d overseen the difficult tangle of financial matters and entailments until she’d learned to manage them on her own. He’d been the one to ride out to the mines and keep the Cambourne industries running while she was in mourning. Besides herself, no one knew the extensive Cambourne holdings better than Lucien. He was competent, handsome, well mannered, comfortable to be with. He was reliable and steady, a constant companion.
‘Philippa.’
All thoughts of Lucien vanished. She didn’t need to turn to know it was Valerian. ‘I came out here to be alone.’
‘Then we have something in common. I came out here to be alone with you, too.’ Valerian took up a position next to her at the railing, leaning on his elbows. ‘I wanted to talk to you. There are things I want to explain.’
Philippa shifted her body to face him. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea unless you want to start explaining why your hand spent most of dinner on my thigh. We are finished. You made that clear nine years ago.’
Valerian would not be put off by her harsh words. It was disappointing, but not unexpected that he could not be handled like the ballroom beaux. A set-down from her usually sent them scrambling for apologies.
Instead of begging forgiveness, Valerian laughed softly in the darkness, a beautiful, sensual sound that promised indecent pleasures. One would have thought she’d spoken love words to him instead of a scolding.
‘You are more sharp-tongued than I remember.’ He paused to look at her, his voice lowering. ‘And more beautiful. You’ve done well for yourself.’
If he refused to be scolded, then she would refuse to be taken in by his flattery. ‘St Just, if you intended that as a compliment, your skill is diminished greatly. I am insulted by the idea that my beauty has done well for me as if my looks were an industry designed to turn a profit. My looks have bought me a few houses and financial security. While those are not unpleasing things, the price for them has been my personal happiness. To think that my looks have done well for me is to be misled by the shallow mind you apparently possess. You show yourself poorly by believing I would settle for so little.’
There, such a scalding set-down should drive even him from the veranda. But Philippa was supremely dissatisfied with the results.
Valerian’s face broke into a wide grin, showing all his white teeth. His voice was low and private, laughter lurking beneath the surface. ‘I am glad to see that along with selling your hand in marriage, your parents didn’t succeed in selling your soul.’ He chuckled, enjoying his humour.
‘You’ve a black sense of humour, St Just.’
Valerian reached for her hand where it rested on the railing, caressing it idly with his fingertips. ‘My dear, when have I ever been St Just to you? Call me Valerian as my friends do, as you once did.’
Philippa snatched her hand away. How dare he come out here to insult her and then expect that he could take liberties? ‘Let me set you straight. I am not your “dear” or your friend. Nine years ago, I paid the price for what passes as friendship with you. I shall not make that mistake again. I have a new life now and there’s no room for you in it.’It was important that she define the rules first before he had a chance to worm himself into her good graces. He could be charming and she must be wary of letting her guard down, of letting him pretend to be her friend.
His face flushed at her words. She did not think the flush was from her candour, but rather from a rising anger. Valerian gripped her by the arms, his soft sensuality of moments ago replaced by a hard envy. ‘A life that includes Lucien Canton? What is Lucien Canton to you? Is he your lover?’
‘Take your hands off me. I don’t answer to you.’ Philippa looked him squarely in the eye. Something dangerous and erotic lurked in their emerald depths. In an unfair moment she thought Lucien’s hazel eyes merely pretended towards greenness.
He ignored her request. He crowded her against the hard iron of the railing. Somewhere in the far recesses of her mind she thought she should have minded the invasion. But his hot envy had transmuted into molten seduction.
‘Your body answers to me, Philippa. My hands were made for you and you alone. No one has ever felt like you do, Philippa. I’ve not forgotten how your skin feels like rose petals.’ He pushed back the shawl from her arms and trailed the back of his hands down their length, removing the long gloves as he went until her arms were completely exposed.
‘I have not forgotten what it is to span the width of your back with my hand and pull you against me.’Warm skin met warm skin where the plunging vee of her gown bared her back and she trembled against her will.
‘And you’ve not forgotten either,’Valerian whispered against her mouth, his lips moving to seal hers, his hands moving to crush her against him, one hand finding the firm mound of breast beneath the velvet bodice. He palmed it, caressed it reverently until she cried out in his mouth from unwanted pleasure.
It was all coming back to her in a rush, how he felt against her, how he could make her body come alive, how she loved the exquisite sensations he could coax from her. How could she have forgotten this?
Philippa burned. Every part of her body was on fire. Heat licked at her from the inside out. Pressure built at her core until she wanted to scream. Valerian was the sum of her world in that moment. He was everywhere—his hands on her body, his scent in her nostrils—and she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted this moment to go on for eternity. She hated herself for it.
She pulled away with the greatest of efforts, panting and desperate. Valerian looked dismayed at her retreat. That was some gratification. ‘Have a care, St Just. Lucien will not tolerate playing the cuckold.’ She gave a slight nod to the empty room beyond the French doors, where Beldon and Lucien had just arrived. She hoped she didn’t look as dishevelled as she felt.
‘Philippa—’ he began in a ragged voice.
She didn’t give him a chance to beg, to explain, to persuade. ‘You have gravely overstepped the boundaries of polite society.’
‘I didn’t do it alone,’ St Just responded, his eyes hot, gleaming dark with unslaked need.
‘How dare you try to implicate me in your base conduct?’ Philippa flamed. ‘Let me remind you that this is not some decadent European court filled with women who are dying of lust for your attentions.’
‘You’re just angry because you liked it.’ He had the audacity to give another throaty laugh.
Philippa’s nerves were stretched to breaking. She raised her right hand and slapped him hard across the face.
‘What was that for?’ Valerian put a hand to his red cheek, stunned.
Philippa inhaled deeply, squaring her shoulders. ‘That was “welcome home.”’
Chapter Three
Welcome home indeed, Valerian thought sourly, watching Philippa disappear inside. Through the glass panes of the French doors he could see her sit down at the polished cherry-wood pianoforte and arrange her skirts.
Lucien Canton slid on to the bench next to her, ready to turn pages, acting the devoted suitor to perfection. From the looks of him, the man did everything to perfection. He was immaculately turned out and not just his clothes, Valerian had noted. Canton’s nails were trimmed and buffed to a healthy sheen, his face freshly shaved. Valerian looked at his own nails, just as neatly kept. He too was fastidious in his personal habits. He had learned quickly in his time abroad that women responded to two things, cleanliness and sincerity, both of which were in short supply in many parts of the world. But from all appearances through the window pane, Canton possessed both qualities in abundance. Through the panes, Philippa smiled and laughed at something Canton had said.
Primal envy sparked in Valerian. He didn’t want Philippa laughing with Canton. He wanted her laughing with him. He hadn’t come home expecting to woo her. He hadn’t