Page 69 of The Truth About Lord Stoneville
Foxmoor scowled. “Now I know why you want to dance with her. You’ve got seduction on your mind. She’s exactly your preference, so you mean to use my wife’s ball—”
“Deuce take it, Foxmoor! For once in your life, couldyou just do as I ask without making judgments about it? You’re as bad as Maria, with all her talk of morality and compassion and saving one’s soul. I just want one favor, one dance with the blasted woman, and you won’t even help me with that!”
When Foxmoor looked taken aback, Oliver realized he’d expressed himself too forcefully.
Then his friend’s expression shifted to a more enigmatic one. “Maria, is it?”
“It’s her Christian name.”
“Yes. I gathered that.” He stared out over the ballroom. “You want the drawing fixed? Very well. When she throws her name into the hat, I’ll use a little sleight of hand to snag it, then hand it off to you so you can ‘draw’ it out of the hat. Very simple.”
Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve done it before.”
Foxmoor smiled faintly. “Once or twice. Men in love generally don’t like to risk their ladies being chosen by some other man on St. Valentine’s Day.”
“I’m not in love,” Oliver snapped. “So if that’s what you’re thinking—”
“Of course not.” But the duke looked unconvinced.
Oliver was tempted to tell the idiot that he reallydidhave seduction on his mind, if only to wipe that suspicious expression away. But he wasn’t about to risk losing his chance of having Maria partner him for the supper dance. That might be his only opportunity to speak to her alone, since his siblings were doing their best to “protect” her.
He turned to search the crowd for her. She was dancingwith Gabe in that angelic-looking gown that made him feel like the devil just for lusting after her in it.
And God, how he lusted after her. He wanted to kiss her rich, heady mouth while he took down that hair one amber lock at a time. Then he wanted to slip that creamy bodice off the shoulders it barely clung to and lavish her full breasts with caresses, tonguing the nipples into fine little points. He wanted to see her smile warmly at him as he lifted her skirts and buried his mouth between her legs to taste her pungent nectar.
He wanted to see her smile at him, period. He wanted it almost more than he wanted to have her in his bed.
Christ, what was wrong with him? How could he even compare a smile to a good swiving?
Yet his pulse pounded in his veins just remembering her smiles in his study yesterday. He wanted her to talk to him as she had before, to tease him and even chide him. Anything but these aloof glances and her insistence upon avoiding him. But after tonight . . .
It struck him like a thunderbolt. If he won his battle with Gran tonight, Maria would have no more reason to stay. Their arrangement would be done.
A chill crept over him. He wouldn’t allow it. He’d renew his offer to make her his mistress, and this time he’d convince her, too. He’d seduce her into it. She couldn’t leave—not yet. He couldn’t stand even the thought of it.
“Don’t you agree?” Foxmoor said beside him.
Oliver blinked. “Of course,” he said, praying that was the right answer.
“You’re not going to make some snide remark about marriage being the ruin of every man?” Foxmoor pressed. “That’s your usual response to any comment on someone’s happy union.”
“I’m not in the mood for snide remarks tonight.”
“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”
He grimaced. Foxmoor was far too astute for his own good.
The duke smirked at him. “I was talking about Kirkwood. About how he looks lost without Lady Kirkwood by his side tonight.”
“Has the bloom left the rose already?” Oliver said, strangely disappointed by that thought.
“Ah, there’s the Stoneville I’m used to. But no; hadn’t you heard? She’s in her confinement. They expect the arrival of their first child any day now.”
Unexpectedly, he felt a blow to his chest. Kirkwood, a father. He’d never thought to see that day. Now every one of his friends would have children . . . and he would not.
He scowled. What did it matter? He didn’t want children. He couldn’t imagine a worse father than himself.
So why did an image of Maria, heavy with his child, dart into his mind? Why was it he could picture himself sitting in the old rowboat with a blue-eyed lad as he pointed out the best fishing spots on Halstead Hall’s pond? Or imagine himself reading a story to a dark-haired girl who kept her thumb tucked in her mouth as Celia used to do?
