Page 11 of One Dangerous Desire
“I don’t wish to be known by my father’s name, Miss Sedgwick. Or his deeds.”
When she did an about-face, he thought perhaps she’d soften, that she would give him a chance for the explanation she deserved years before. Instead, she began stomping toward him and then sidestepped around, wafting her achingly familiar rose scent in the air.
“Where are you going?”
“To my carriage. It’s this way, and I’m cold.” She stopped long enough to peel back the lapels of his coat and lift the heavy wool garment out to him with both hands. “Thank you and good day, Mr. Leighton. I hope you enjoy your visit to London.”
Retrieving the coat, he sank his hands underneath and savored the heat of her body radiating off the fabric. Watching as she continued her angry march to the door of a finely turned-out carriage, he waited until she settled herself inside, then he ate up the pavement in four long strides to reach the vehicle.
Just as she lifted a hand to signal the coachman, he leaned against the brougham. “I am not visiting London. I live here.”
An alarming jolt of energy pulsed through him at the interest that comment sparked in her gaze. May Sedgwick could play no role in his plans. She would never be part of his future. He’d given up on that dream. He couldn’t give her the title she craved, and she wasn’t the blue-blooded English bride he needed to secure a foothold in London society.
Yet whatever had been between them was not yet finished, and he hated loose ends.
She watched him. Watched and waited, when all she had to do was signal to her coachman and disappear from his life again. “Does my father know you’re in London?”
“No, and I would prefer to keep it that way.” Ensuring that Sedgwick knew nothing of him, his business, or where he resided was part of the reason he employed Sullivan. His agent reported on Sedgwick’s movements weekly. The name change had given Rex a clean slate in London and, as far as he knew, Sedgwick was unaware of his presence in the city or his ventures.
But now his daughter knew, a woman who glared at him with long-simmering anger.
“He wouldn’t be pleased to see you.”
“I cannot disagree.” The last time he’d met Seymour Sedgwick, the man had promised to have Rex jailed for theft or hanged for something worse if he didn’t end his relationship with May.
She looked past him, avoiding his gaze, and asked in a softer, unsteady tone, “Will you be attending the Duke of Ashworth’s soiree next week?”
“I will if you will.” Something slid free inside him, but it wasn’t a pleasant liberation. Pain cut through him like the agonizing sting of a bandage ripped from a cut. He bit down hard and tasted the metallic tang of blood.
May lifted her gaze and it snagged on his.
They’d said the words before. He couldn’t remember who spoke them first during the gilded days of their summer romance. She’d risked much more than he to take their walks in the park or escape her father’s oversight to meet him at less-than-fashionable coffee shops. The phrase sealed their agreement when arranging clandestine meetings. They’d last said it on the day they decided to leave New York and begin a life together. She’d been willing to risk everything to be with him. He’d been a pathetic coward, more interested in saving his own neck than defying her powerful father.
“I am attending the party.” May pitched her voice in that haughty tone he loathed. “I understand the Earl of Devenham will be in attendance.”
The earl was one of many cash-poor aristocrats who sought wealthy brides. May, and a few American heiresses like her residing in London, were appealing prey for gents like Devenham. American wealth shored up their shallow coffers and maintained their outdated family estates. Rex understood the man’s interest in May, if that was what she was attempting to imply. Suddenly, it seemed very important that he find out.
“Are you brokering a marriage deal with him yourself, or has your father been invited too?”
She’d been watching him with wide eyes, but her gaze narrowed at his sarcastic tone.
“My father won’t be there. He has a prior engagement, and his presence isn’t necessary for me to choose a man to marry. Although I do find it’s useful when the man himself shows up, and the Earl of Devenham is terribly reliable.” She banged a fist against the interior carriage wall and the coachman directed the horses into motion.
Rex jerked back to keep the rear wheel from rolling over his toes. He stared at the pavement and then glanced at Ashworth’s townhouse, but he could see nothing clearly. Wherever he looked, two thick-lashed blue eyes glared back at him, like twin suns seared on his corneas as punishment for staring at her too long.
MAY GRABBED THEseat on either side of her thighs to keep herself from leaning forward to catch a glimpse of him as the carriage rolled away.
How dare he look so . . . fine? Completely and perfectly well. Hale and hardy, with muscles bolstering his previously lean frame, and a glint of fire in his eyes. As if he’d failed her that night so many years ago and then never thought about the incident again. Had, in fact, made a better and brighter life without her. Now he was this new man. Rex Leighton—wealthy, confident, handsome. He’d always been attractive, but now his looks were combined with an air of self-assurance she didn’t remember her New York Reg possessing. Beyond the newfound poise, there was also more than a hint of arrogance.
She released her grip on the tufted leather seat and reached for the drawing pad and pencil she kept in the corner of the carriage. Drawing had become a daily habit, and she’d gotten quite good at sketching quickly, even in a moving carriage. After anchoring her wrist at the edge of the paper, she pressed the pencil lightly and defined a few basic lines to represent his face. Bending over the pad, May worked to define the shape of his eyes. She varied the weight of her lines, attempting to capture their rich shading, smudging the pencil marks to give the gradient more depth. When she sat back to examine her work, sensuous tip-tilted eyes gazed up at her from the page.
When she’d first met Reginald Cross, he’d seemed such a kind, easygoing antidote to her father’s domineering and Mama’s endless admonitions. Reg never dictated to her, attempted to manage her, or told her how to behave. He’d given her the first inkling that beyond Papa’s name and Mother’s molding, she might actually be interesting on her own. She still had the sketchbook that had been his first gift to her. Reg encouraged her to go beyond the boring still-lifes of fruit her governess taught her to draw. In the end, she’d filled most of the book with terribly rudimentary and far too complimentary portrait sketches of him.
“Kind?” she huffed, laying in a few crosshatches to indicate the shadow between his cheekbone and angular jaw. “Easygoing?” That certainly didn’t describe the man she’d just met.
Her pencil strokes slowed as she shaped his mouth, carefully tracing the full curve of his lower lip and symmetrical peaks of his upper. The upticks at each edge eluded her. She’d often thought of them as twin promises of his rare but devastating smiles. A shiver of pleasure chased up her arm when she smudged the lines of his bottom lip, recalling its softness, the taste of him, the breath-stealing heat of his kisses.
None of it was gone. Not a single memory of their brief courtship had dulled. And now, having seen him and spoken to him again, memories of pleasure were as sharp as the pain.
