“And exactly who are you, Mr. Tremayne?” Fenella found herself very interested in the answer.
“You know enough about me to answer that question yourself.” He turned to pick up her coat from the chair where it lay.
It wasn’t the answer Fenella wanted. She understood, of course, that he was a Tremayne, even if a second-class one, and he would have experienced the tyranny of Society’s demands. But he was much more than that. A playwright with a fascination for the dark side, a quick-tempered, easily insulted man who, nevertheless, had a stunning smile when he chose and the most amazing eyes that, when fixed upon one, seemed to exclude the rest of the world from his attention.
“I know enough to answer it superficially,” she said, shrugging into her coat as he held it for her. “But I’d like to know more.”
“Would you, indeed?” There was a hint of mockery in his tone, and Fenella sucked in her lower lip, feeling that with her own honesty, she had somehow made herself vulnerable to his sarcasm.
She walked to the door without responding. Edward moved quickly ahead of her, his hand on the doorknob, his back to the door, facing her with a quite different expression. “I’ve done it again,” he stated with a rueful shake of his head. “Forgive me?” He took a half step toward her, though still blocking the door with his body.
Fenella was suddenly transfixed by his gaze. She found herself mute, a most unusual experience, as she watched him come closer. He stretched out a hand and cupped her chin, lifting it slightly. Then his lips lightly brushed hers and her skin tingled. When she made no move, he slid his other hand around her waist, drawing her close against him. He looked down into her upturned face and raised his eyebrows a fraction in question.
She had no difficulty reading the question and offered a half-smile in response, feeling as if everything was happening in a mist, in slow motion, her responses seeming to come without reference to her own will. When his lips pressed against hers, warm, pliable and yet firm with a hint of demand, Fenella gave herself up to the tactile whirl of feeling, her eyes closing her into a world of pure physical sensation. His body was hard against hers, his arm warm and strong around her waist, the taste and scent of him a heady mélange of woodsmoke from the fire and the sweetness of butter and honey with an underlay of lemon, fresh and sharp on his skin.
When finally his mouth left hers, her eyes opened, looking straight into the piercing blue intensity of his gaze. “I enjoyed that,” he said softly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek.
She found her voice at last. “Yes,” she murmured. “I did too.”
“When can we do it again?” he said softly, but now with a glint of humor behind the intensity of his gaze.
“Now?”
“If you like.” He drew her against him again, and this time the kiss was harder, fiercer, more demanding, and Fenella found herself responding with the same fierce demand, her body pressing against his as his hands moved down her back, caressing her hips, the round curve of her bottom, and she felt the hard thrust of his penis against her belly.
It seemed a long time before they broke apart. Fenella’s breath came rapidly, her cheeks flushed and her lips tingling. Edward kissed her again lightly, then released his hold. “Will you come tomorrow? In the morning, so we have more time?” he asked, moving away from the door.
More time for what? Fenella wondered distractedly, but she kept the question to herself. “Yes,” she answered simply. “Around ten?” And then she remembered she had promised to ride with Diana in the morning. But Diana would understand her reason for canceling, no one better, given her own history of impulsive imperatives.
“Until then, Fenella.” A fingertip stroked the curve of her cheek in a fleeting caress, then he opened the door and bowed her out onto the landing before moving ahead of her down the stairs to open the front door. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow,” she agreed, stepping out onto the pavement. The cold air of late afternoon seemed to wake her up, bring her back to a full awareness of the world in motion around her, and of what she had just done.
What kind of madness had propelled her into that intimacy with a man she didn’t even know if she liked? Certainly some of the time she came close to detesting him. But there was no denying the thrill of excitement at the anticipation of meeting him tomorrow. It seemed to have been a long time since she’d felt that thrill of anticipation, and she hugged the feeling to her, enjoying the uplifting sense of future promise.
She walked almost blindly to the corner and looked around for a hackney. Her mind didn’t seem to be properly ordered and she didn’t feel in the least like herself. It wasn’t as if she’d never been kissed before. She’d had several careless flirtations, all of which had led to some kind of physical touching, most recently with Lord George, who now seemed a rather pale and shadowy figure. He was nice enough, not in the least clumsy when it came to more intimate familiarities, but enough no longer seemed sufficient. Not when compared with the mercurial passions of Edward Tremayne. He was all scarlet and black compared with Lord George’s pastel steadiness.
Of course, Lord George, second son of the Duke of Wellborough, was an eminently suitable suitor, one Lady Grantley had set her sights on as the perfect son-in-law. Edward Tremayne, an illegitimate son of an earl, could hardly compete in her mother’s eyes, Fenella reflected as she flagged down a passing cab.
And in truth, Fenella herself couldn’t picture Edward as husband material, not with the rosiest of spectacles. He intrigued her, though.
Resolutely, she turned her thoughts to the evening’s dinner party, where Lord George would be an honored guest.
Chapter Four
“Oh, that’s very nice, darling. You look lovely,” Lady Grantley declared with an approving smile as her daughter entered the drawing room. “That deep blue brocade really suits you.” She hurried across to make some minute adjustments to the pale blue chiffon shawl draped over her daughter’s elbows. “A perfect choice, goes so well with the gown.” She stood back to examine Fenella’s appearance for any hidden flaws. “I do wish you would wear a corset,” she said, sighing. “However perfect your figure, gowns these days need the right underpinning to sit properly.”
“I won’t wear one, Mama. They’re horrifically uncomfortable. You know that yourself,” Fenella responded. “Some doctors say they’re actually dangerous, squashing all our inner organs.”
“Really, darling, you mustn’t talk about such things; it’s quite vulgar,” Lady Grantley scolded. “And what do doctors know about such matters? They’re all men, after all.” She shook her head, and the lamplight set the sapphires of her tiara alight with the movement. “Besides,” she added with firm conviction, “one must suffer for fashion.”
Fenella couldn’t help laughing. She turned to her father, who stood in front of the fire, a large whisky in hand, his expression that of a man firmly excluding himself from the conversation between his womenfolk. “Will I do, Papa, even without a corset?”
“Look fine to me,” he stated, waving a hand in dismissal. “What do I know about such frippery? That’s your mother’s business.”