Out Of Her League, An Erotic Romance (6 page)

“There seems to be progress.”

She forced a smile and shifted uncomfortably. “Your mother asked for my help selecting the floral arrangements for her ball,” she said. “I thought deep blue hydrangeas, purple iris, and white rose buds. Or would that be too garish?”

“I think that would be stunning with your eyes,” he replied dutifully.

Vanessa, well aware of her beauty, smiled at the praise. James studied her.

Society deemed them a perfect match. Not only did they share similar physical characteristics—both being above average height, with dark hair and deep blue eyes—they came from similar economic backgrounds and were on par socially. There was no reason why they shouldn’t marry. And yet...

“I thought it would be striking if we both wore azure,” she said. “An azure jacket for you, and an azure gown for me. Stunning, don’t you think?”

“As perfectly matched as the dappled grays of my team.”

“Quite.”

As the image of the two of them strolling arm-in-arm through his mother’s ball in matching ensembles settled his mind, he couldn’t resist carrying the metaphor of an expensively matched team a step further. “Though when viewed from behind, we might look like a perfect pair of asses.”

“Really, James.” She scowled at his vulgarity, then suddenly brightened. “Oh! I nearly forgot—I have the most wonderful news!”

“Oh?”

“Lord Tashton recently enjoyed a private audience with the queen. He tells me her majesty is developing a medal for the returning heroes of the Crimea. The Victoria Cross. Surely you’ll be recognized.”

Hero? James thought, swallowing a surge of disgust. What a sham London had become. To fail so spectacularly and be called a hero. He thought of the battle in which he’d been injured. He’d been given an idiotic order, an uphill charge across an open field against an entrenched artillery. Against his better judgement he’d led his men into that hot, smoking hell. Of the one hundred men in his company, only forty had returned.

Aloud he said, “What a productive use of time. No doubt that will help us win the war. Pinning useless fobs and ribbons on the chests of men no longer able to fight.”

“Better than no medal at all, I should think. At least your sacrifice will be recognized.”

Owen, his footman, entered the room, sparing James the necessity of a response. He gave a quick bow and asked, “Shall I set the luncheon table for four, sir?”

James titled an inquiring brow at Vanessa.

“You know I don’t eat until after two,” she replied. “And then only one biscuit with my tea.”

“Ah, yes, I’d forgotten.”

Had there really been a time when he’d found her delicate appetite charming? Where was her lust for food, lust for adventure, lust for him, for God’s sake? She had breeding, grace, and beauty, all the requisites he’d once thought were important in a wife. He had felt sure that in time he would be able to build a proper fire between them, but now he wasn’t so confident. Or perhaps his appetite had simply changed.

Vanessa was a spun sugar crystal confection. Lovely to look at, but ultimately hard and brittle. Kate was a luscious bowl of strawberries and cream with sugar on top, earthy and rich, just waiting to be devoured.

He turned to his footman. “Just three for luncheon.”

Vanessa wrinkled her nose. “Your physician and nurse? You’re cooking a meal for them?”

There was an edge to her tone, a haughtiness he’d never liked. James crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the window frame. “Not personally, no.”

“I meant, you intend to dine with them?”

“Something wrong with that?”

She gave a tight laugh. “You’ve been abroad too long. One doesn’t dine with people in one’s employ.” She plucked her white lace gloves from her lap and drew them on, remarking absently, “Charles—er, Lord Tashton, doesn’t allow any familiarity with his staff. He says it breeds contempt.”

James looked at her. “Charles, is it?”

Vanessa stiffened slightly, then returned his look with an expression of calm self-assurance. “His Grace and I have formed a lovely friendship of late. In fact, he mentioned he would like to have us both join him for supper. Once you’ve sufficiently recovered, that is.”

“Did he? How civilized.” James let the silence draw out, perversely enjoying watching her squirm. “But I think we might all be spared that ridiculous bit of farce, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Come now, Vanessa. Let us at least be honest with one another.”

In his conceit, it had never occurred to James that Vanessa would yearn for a way out of their relationship. But there it was. Suddenly the pieces all fell into place: their stilted conversations, strained smiles, perfunctory embraces. He had read her right, but only half right. She had seen his wound as a burden, but only because it prevented her from walking away from him when they had all but announced their betrothal. What a predicament she’d caught herself in, for how could she risk the censure of proper society if she abandoned a wounded hero? That wouldn’t do at all.

James recalled hearing somewhere that Lady Tashton, wife of the Duke of Ellerby, had died, leaving His Grace a grieving widower. Obviously the mourning period was over. He considered Lord Tashton. Although James had nothing against the peerage per se—his own father had been a viscount, and upon his death the title had passed to James’s eldest brother—he had never been impressed with Lord Tashton. He had found the man rather vain, entirely too pompous, and utterly lacking in substance. But obviously Vanessa differed with that assessment.

“Congratulations, Vanessa,” he said. “You’ve secured the interest of a duke. Well done.”

For a moment, she looked ready to defend herself, to argue, then her expression changed as she realized James was perfectly willing to let her go. “You’re taking this all rather well.” She sounded less than pleased.

“Why shouldn’t I? What a handsome couple you must make. Vanessa Kittworthy and His Grace, the Duke of Ellerbee, otherwise known as the Dashing Duke.” He paused, studying Vanessa with a frown. “He doesn’t make you call him that, does he? The Dashing Duke? I’ve heard he’s rather fond of that designation. That must be rather awkward in bed.”

Vanessa stood. “I call him Charles. Or darling.” She brought up her chin. “Or lover.”

“Ah. Much better.”

She picked up her reticule, then glanced at James. “How shall we explain the break in our relationship?”

He lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug. “We came to the mutual understanding that we don’t suit. Given that, I was willing to release you into the arms of the better man.” He thought for a moment, then continued, “Or should I say, better in terms of social rank? For Lord Tashton is certainly not better off financially—all of London knows how badly leveraged his estates are. And though it may be rather crass to admit, I’ve always had a gift for making money, haven’t I? Hence your exorbitant accounts with every dressmaker, jeweler, and milliner in town. But I expect you won’t miss those little extravagances, will you?”

Doubt, coupled with an expression that looked remarkably like fear, shadowed her face. She quickly shook it off, however, and assumed an air of haughty poise. “And when we meet in society?”

He gave a courtly bow. “I will have miraculously recovered, not only from my physical wounds, but from my broken heart.”

She crossed the room and gave him a peck on the cheek. Her lips were cool and dry. “Good-bye, James.”

“Good-bye, Vanessa. I wish you and the Dashing Duke well.”

She turned in the doorway and looked back at him. “James?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“When a woman releases you from a courtship, do have the courtesy to appear crestfallen for at least a moment, rather than looking as though the door to your prison cell had just been flung open.” She paused, sending him a cool smile. “Oh, and one other thing.”

“Yes?”

“In the future, you may address me as Your Grace.”

He smiled. Vanessa Kittworthy had beauty, breeding, confidence, and a dry wit, all wrapped up in one highly desirable package. She would make a spectacular wife—for some other man. He watched her walk away, feeling not the slightest pang of regret.

“I would offer you my sympathies,” Dr. Michaelson said, pausing to butter a hunk of bread, “but for a man whose intended has just ended their courtship, you look less than devastated. In fact, I might even suggest you look entirely too pleased.”

“Do I?” James said. “Oddly enough, Miss Kittworthy expressed a similar sentiment.”

“Then it’s altogether for the best,” the doctor pronounced. “The time to discover one doesn’t suit is before one enters the holy state of matrimony, not after.”

“Too true.”

Kate listened to their exchange in a state of jumbled nerves. The table before them was laden with the remains of their lunch: delicately seasoned baked cod, boiled new potatoes, freshly steamed asparagus, glazed carrots, and an assortment of breads and cheeses, each course accompanied by a crisp white wine.

It was the first meal she’d had in years for which she hadn’t been expected to shop, cook, serve, and clean up after. That fact in itself should have made the food delicious. But she hadn’t tasted a bite.

Her thoughts spun in such turmoil she felt intoxicated, though she’d merely had a few sips of wine. James Lancaster and Vanessa Kittworthy had broken off their relationship. His casual announcement had sent her pulse rocketing. Ridiculous, she scolded herself. It had nothing whatsoever to do with her. Nonetheless, the news had jumbled her nerves and emptied her mind of nearly all coherent thought.

It was all she could do to keep abreast of their luncheon conversation, which moved breezily from the news of the war in the Crimea, to a boxing match next week at Covent Gardens, to the awful state of traffic in London. All light and pleasant, with James presiding over the table with the relaxed, charming manner of a good host, happily refilling the doctor’s wine glass again and again.

As the meal ended, James turned and regarded her steadily. “Did you enjoy the fish, Nurse Riley?” Although his question was perfectly innocent, a subtle heat smoldered in his eyes as he looked at her.

She swallowed and managed a tight nod. “It was lovely, thank you.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I look forward to satisfying more of your appetites.”

Her stomach flipped, setting her nerves on edge.

A maid entered the room to clear their plates. Kate suppressed an instinct to stand and help her remove the dishes, reminding herself she and the doctor were guests. Instead she remained seated for the dessert course, which consisted of sugared almonds and tiny iced cakes. As sweets were a rare treat in her household, she happily indulged, finishing every bite. James watched her, smiling at her obvious enjoyment.

After lunch they retired to the library. Dr. Michaelson’s regimen might be considered unorthodox, but it appeared remarkably effective. James was managing increasingly arduous exercises and could support more weight on his ankle for longer periods of time. It was difficult work, often uncomfortable, occasionally painful, but James pushed through without complaint.

Once their exercise routines ended, Kate began her ministrations. She drew the lathered cloth over his skin, all too aware of the patient whose body she touched. Try as she might, she could not summon an ounce of professional reserve. A wave of pure physical awareness engulfed her, making her hands tremble and her heart beat erratically. Unable to stand the tension a moment longer, she rushed through her tasks. Once she finished, she opened a jar of mentholated cream and began to massage it into James’s shoulder.

“Have you ever had occasion to use the ointment, Nurse?” he asked. “Personally, I find it quite soothing.”

Her startled eyes flew up to his. It was the first time he’d referred to their tryst. She shot a glance at Dr. Michaelson. He was seated in a comfortable chaise leafing through a medical text, but presumably listening. She cast about for an appropriate response and finally managed, “I—yes. I have.”

“Oh? Was it a scrape or a burn?” James inquired, his face a mask of innocence.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your injury. Was it a scrape or a burn?” A mischievous twinkle sparkled in his eyes. He was enjoying her discomfort.

“A light rash, actually,” she replied, adopting the authoritative tone she employed with difficult patients.

“A shame. Where exactly—”

“My elbow.”

The grin that had been hovering about the edges of his lips broke into a wicked smile. “Is that right? Your elbow.”

“Yes.” She capped the ointment and set it aside. “In truth, I’d completely forgotten it until you brought it up.”

He arched one dark brow. “Did you? How remarkable. Perhaps you’d like me to check the area to ensure it’s healing properly.”

She sent him a warning glare. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m certain that will not be necessary.”

Soft snores carried across the room. Dr. Michaelson was fast asleep on the chaise.

James reached for his crutches and rose. “I believe that’s our cue. Shall we?”

Something about his satisfied tone caught Kate’s attention. Recalling their luncheon, she looked at Dr. Michaelson, then at James. “You deliberately kept filling his glass to put him to sleep,” she said.

He shrugged. “Well, I had to do something, even if it meant sacrificing a bottle of my best wine. The man hasn’t left us alone for the past three days.”

“Four days,” she corrected absently.

“Thank you. Now I know.”

“Know what?” she asked as she followed him out of the room.

He looked over his shoulder, his gaze locking on hers. “That you’ve been counting the days as well.”

A surge of hot, shameful heat infused her cheeks. Falling back on what she knew, she reached for something courteous and professional to say. “You’re making tremendous strides. Dr. Michaelson is pleased with your progress.”

James grunted a response. His injury was clearly not of interest at the moment. They moved through the cavernous rooms of his home, seemingly alone in the grand manse. She felt unsteady, entirely out of her element, and as a result her tone was slightly peevish as she asked, “Did you command your staff to disappear into the walls?”