Earl Power: A Modern Aristocracy Billionaire Romance (Endowed Book 2) Page 4

  I look over her right shoulder, waiting for the right moment to join in the dance. I stretch my torso, fill my lungs and slide my right foot between her feet.

  She smells wonderful. Coconut and citrus, a delicious combination. Her arm lies gently along mine with her hand resting softly on my shoulder, like a little bird perched on a branch. I feel her muscle tone through the woolly sweater. Mara’s not hanging off me like some women do. She’s firm, supporting her own weight. I’m supposed to keep my gaze riveted between her head and right shoulder—my "window"—but the temptation to look into her eyes again is too strong.

  She catches my gaze, and with a flutter of her eyelids, folds her fingers softly over my hand. I fight the urge to grip her tighter.

  Dancing with Mara is different, like there’s a war going on. Maybe that’s not the right analogy, but it is different. Although she’s responsive to my lead she’s not compliant, like Liv. I get this tug of resistance from her before she surrenders into it—completely—until a turn or two later when it comes again, the sensation that she could lead this thing if I’d only let her, but that she doesn’t actually mean it, she’s only teasing me, testing me.

  At first this tug-of-war feels alien, but then I start to play with it, fighting back, demanding more of her, more rapid twirls, a more strident attack of the dance floor. I don’t ease up. I exploit my leading position for all it’s worth, because she still has to follow my lead no matter what . It makes her breath come faster and her cheeks flush crimson.

  Blood is pounding in my ears as our hands grip together tighter, getting slick with sweat. I don’t know if it’s hers or mine, and I don’t care. It’s goddamn glorious. I never knew a waltz could be so erotic. My stomach clenches with the desire to pull her in close and really show her who’s the boss.

  Which is perfectly abominable of me. Then again, I’m feeling strange tonight. I don’t even have the excuse of alcohol.

  “The wedding will be fine,” Mara says, her husky voice cutting through my haze of thoughts as the tempo slows down again.

  “With the grace of God.” I lean in to get a lungful of her scent.

  “I heard you had a hand in it, too.”

  I smile and spin her around. “A few details.”

  “Then it’ll be fantastic.”

  Her teasing tone makes me look straight into her eyes. “That would be the wishful thinking of the bride-to-be.”

  She laughs. “Maybe. But Hayley is quite a realist. So, if she says it—”

  “I can only do my best.” I grip her fingers tighter and, using the pressure of my other hand on her shoulder blade, maneuver her closer to the position I want her to be in. It’s way inside what Henri, my dance instructor from my youth, would call the “forbidden personal space.” Because fuck that.

  Gazing down at that luminous, oval face of hers, with those glowing eyes, that noble nose, and those perpetually pouting lips, I wish the world around us would just disintegrate for a moment. Or even just go away forever. She oozes sexuality from every pore and yet there’s an intriguing toughness to her that draws me. A hard shell. I can’t believe she’s single. Then again, she may not be. Not every boyfriend would fly from the west coast of America to Britain for a wedding. More fool him, in that case.

  Over her shoulder, Ken and Liv are twirling away, oblivious to us, so it seems I haven’t committed any social faux pas by initiating this dance. My attention happily shoots back to Mara’s dark eyes, which complement her red hair in a way that makes a man look twice. And I’ve definitely looked more than twice. All pretense of avoiding eye contact is gone; I can’t help it. I get the impression she’s been staring at my face the whole time anyway.

  I pull her into a twirl, bringing us directly under the chandelier. The dappled light on her face makes those eyes glitter. She cranes her neck, staring up.

  “It may not look it,” I say, “but the chandelier is secure.”

  She grins. “I was admiring the ceiling vaults. Rib vaults, Roman. Except for those ones over there.”

  “And those are?”

  “Groin vaults.”

  “Are they?” I maneuver her toward the edge of the dance floor. “I hear you’re an architect.”

  “You heard right. I hear you run this place.”

  “You also heard right. How long are you staying?”

  “Just until after the wedding.” She sighs. “I have to get back to my job and Dave doesn’t want to hang around too long once Hayley’s gone off on her honeymoon.”

  “You’re flying back with him?”

  “Uh-huh. Not a big traveler, Dave. It’s his first time out of the States. Mine too. He wanted company.”

  “That's awfully nice of you. You must be quite close.”

  “Yeah, we are.” A negative emotion flickers across her face. “Closer than I am to my real dad.”

  “I see.” But I don’t want to destroy the mood by talking about parents. “How do you like Britain so far?”

  She lowers her gaze for a few seconds. When our eyes meet again, there's a hint of something unreadable in her expression. “It’s not bad. But I haven’t seen much.”

  I squeeze her fingers. “No, I suppose not.”

  I wish I could change that.

  Four stanzas later, I’ve spiraled her right off the dance floor to the furthest corner of the room from the piano. Five fat Doric pillars extend from floor to ceiling—holding up those groin vaults, I suppose.

  It’s dark back here. We use this section of the room for a stage when we have recitals, and right now it’s a storage area for champagne and wine crates. I lead Mara behind the leftmost pillar so we’re completely out of sight. There’s a giddiness in her step. We’re still dancing, but to our own rhythm now, and it’s slower, closer, dirtier.

  Mara breaks off from me, retreats a step and shakes out the arms she’s held stiffly for the dancing. Her back's up against the pillar, her hungry stare scorching my face as I advance on her. Her challenging smile tells me she’s up for more than dancing. My left arm cradles her waist through the scratchy wool of her sweater, different to how I held her while waltzing. I plant my other hand on the cool marble beside her ear. As I lean in, reducing that infernal personal distance to near zero, I feel her breath on my face, in rapid gusts.

  My focus is on her mouth —her alluring lips of natural color. I have to know what kissing her feels like. I must know. Her scent takes hold of my brain. I'm watching for the sign. Any sign. Because she hasn’t given one, not yet. Maybe she won’t. A leaden feeling of pre-disappointment courses through my veins.

  But then her eyelids flutter and her breath comes out in one long, soft sigh of sweet surrender, slackening her lower lip enough to create a parting. I swoop in and capture her mouth with mine, pressing down hard. I feel like I’ve entered heaven.

  She shudders as I press into her with chest and groin, letting her feel my state of arousal. I take my hand off the pillar and use it to cradle the nape of her neck and angle her mouth the way I want it so I can plunge in again and open her teeth with my tongue. There’s no hesitation. I dig deeper, needing to find her point of resistance. She tastes of the red wine from our winery in Beaune. It’s never tasted this good.

  I’m being selfish as fuck, and I know it, as I roughly pry her thighs apart with my knee, but I don’t care because she's writhing, pressing her breasts hard into me, her nipples tough pebbles against my ribs. Her leg hooks around mine, letting me know she wants more and I'm desperate to give it to her. The folds of her jeans rub through my thin linen trousers as we writhe together frantically, like animals. Sliding cool fingers up to the base of my skull, she clutches, scratches, and takes a grip of my hair. She could pull my hair out at this moment and the pleasure would override the pain. Her fingers, warmer now, caress my ears, grappling over my sideburns like a blind person trying to trace my features. Not until her hands encircle my neck, her thumbs resting against my larynx, does she finally go still. I feel her body relax, her mouth stre
tching into a smile beneath my lips.

  I break off the kiss to see this—her glorious, broad smile revealing teeth that glint in the darkness and make her look somehow wise. What does she know? That I haven’t ever lost it so badly and kissed someone like that before? That after seeing her on Skype that first time, she entered into my fantasy life and now the dream is coming true? That I want to rip the clothes off her, starting with that horrible sweater?

  But even with an almighty erection surging, I can’t continue this. Not here. Not now. Probably not ever. She’s leaving the day after the wedding. And this was supposed to be a date with Liv.

  If this were one of my brothers doing this, I’d be scathing in my condemnation. My hypocrisy settles around me. A petulant part of me says it was all worth it, but my conscience beats it to a pulp.

  I flatten my hair back down to my skull. “Sorry, I-I—”

  “No.” She grabs my arm. “It was me.”

  “I rather think it was me.”

  “Let’s not argue the point.” She flashes me a terse smile and her gaze wanders past me, back to the real life waiting for us beyond the pillars.

  “We should return,” I say.

  “Yes.”

  We wander side by side—but several inches apart—back into the fray. My mind is working overtime on the problem of getting Mara alone before her three-day stay is over. The guilt must be written on my face but the merrily dancing crowd is oblivious and carries us in different directions like two commuters on a London Tube train platform.

  Within seconds, I’m called upon by the housekeeper to preside over the arrangement of the wedding guest lists. I assume my blank face again, ready for duty, as the blur of Mara’s red hair gets further and further away, until finally I can’t see her when I look around the room. One person I can see clearly, though, is Liv, who's walking straight toward me.

  5

  MARA

  OKAY, WHAT IN THE hallows of hell was that?

  I’m back at the piano, perched on the stool beside Letty, pretending to help her by turning the pages of her music score. But it’s just an excuse to sit down. To collapse. And breathe. I can’t keep up with the notes. I can barely think.

  “Now,” Letty says. I lean forward and flip the page as fast as I can. We settle into this routine, Letty telling me in advance when to turn the page. I’m glad she has to concentrate so hard on the music that she doesn’t notice my bright red face and my shaking hands. She’s the type to tease.

  Where do I go from here?

  My gaze flickers back to the room, seeking clues. And it’s not that straightforward. Seb is speaking to Liv right in front of our pillar, looking utterly unfazed, as if abso-fucking-lutely nothing has happened behind it. His head is cocked backwards, arms folded across his chest as she gestures at him. They look for all the world like she’s telling a joke and he’s not impressed. Standing there coolly in his black shirt and trousers, he doesn’t look like a man who just kissed a woman to within an inch of her sanity.

  I find his lack of flusterment disturbing.

  Come to think of it, Liv hardly looks like a woman whose date has been kissing another woman. No, she seems quite amused at her own joke or anecdote or whatever. How jolly. Maybe aristos love this type of game, these liaisons dangereuses. Maybe I don’t qualify as a credible threat. Or could it be possible that Liv’s so damn naïve that she suspects nothing?

  Or maybe I just imagined the whole freaking thing?

  Oh God, now they’re standing really close together. Her arm is draped along his.

  Where the hell is Hayley anyway? This is an emergency.

  I wait out the song in agitation then hurriedly excuse myself from Letty, whereupon a young man swiftly takes my place at the piano stool. At least I don’t have to feel guilt at abandoning her. I slink along the edges of the room, avoiding all eye contact, and escape into the cool corridor with its rows of gilded, dour, black-eyed portraits. Hayley’s near the staircase’s end, chatting in a group of four well-heeled ladies. I bounce up and down, sinking my heels into the plush carpet, waiting for them to just go.

  Finally they disperse and Hayley turns towards the stairs. I run and catch up.

  “There you are,” she says, twisting. She’s glowing in a cream shift dress. Not pregnant-glowing—we’ve already discussed that possibility and ruled it out—just a healthy, happy glow. I know she’s going to look fabulous tomorrow.

  One look at my face and her expression falters. “Are you okay?”

  I raise my fingers to my forehead, massaging my temples. “I did something dumb.”

  She laughs. “Hey, I’m the one getting married.”

  “Seriously,” I plead, and let out a heavy breath.

  “How dumb?”

  “Seb dumb.”

  A slow smile lights up her face. “How the heck did I miss that?” She then appears to be at a loss for what to say, which does not happen often. We rarely have discussions that involve my love life.

  “Let’s sit down.” She points to the window seat ahead of us—a real window seat, thick oak, wide enough for two, offering a view of the courtyard in the twilight, and a perfect position for people-watching.

  Snug together, we observe in silence as people come and go through the function room door at the end of the corridor. Some head up to bedrooms upstairs and saunter straight past us, others glide in the opposite direction, through the arches, to the kitchen or the main door. Without exception, they convey timeless elegance. Apart from all the cell phone usage, we could be in any century.

  I feel her looking at me. “Was the kiss … good?”

  “Does it matter?” I bite out. “He’s with Liv, Hayley, plain as fucking day. It shouldn’t have happened.” My whole body is tensed up, right up to my scalp. If he came and laid a finger on me now, I’d explode and splatter the silk wallpaper something serious.

  “Do we know that for sure?” Hayley asks, her voice calm. “Because it’s news to me. I think it’s some kind of courtesy thing, so the best man doesn’t look sad.”

  I shrug. “You’re the one who lives here; you tell me.”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know about his life at all. I rarely see him. He’s always out on the farm or at markets or somewhere. He only does the dinner thing with the family for Sunday lunchtimes.” Hayley pulls a face. “And then it’s all business—crop yields, rotations, grain prices. Charts and graphs and indicators galore. Closest I’ve heard him discuss dating is his analysis of the herd’s fertility rates.”

  I sink my back against the window pane. “I should’ve told him I’m on day ten of my cycle. See his face. ”

  Hayley laughs. “I’d love to see that. Well, I’m going to find out what’s going on.”

  I throw her a stern look. “No, forget it. If his official date is Liv, then that’s that. I’m going to keep my distance. I don’t want anything mucking up your wedding tomorrow. Anyway, what’s the point in trying to figure out the mindfuckery when I’m only going to be here another day and a bit?”

  I’m already counting down those hours. I don’t know if I want the time to pass slower or quicker. My fingers twitch in my lap. I can’t even sit still.

  A man is strolling down the corridor towards us. Big and blonde—it’s Ken. He’s definitely single. There’s no billionaire heiress dominating his dance card. Why couldn’t I fall for him instead?

  “What are you two doing back here?” he says. “Fancy another dance? Letty’s wrapping up in a few minutes.”

  “Not me,” Hayley says. “I have to find Alex.”

  “Mara? One last dance, for luck?”

  I don’t want to go near that ballroom. Then again, I’m morbidly drawn to the thought of seeing Liv wrapped up in Seb’s arms. It should strengthen my resolve to stay the hell away from him. I probably need to see this.

  I slide off the seat. “Sure.”

  As we stroll into the ballroom, I’m gripping Ken’s arm tight. There are only five couples left on th
e dance floor. Sure enough, Seb’s dancing with Liv in her perfect sea-blue silk dress. She’s as graceful as a ballerina, roughly my build, but the way she holds herself makes her seem twenty pounds lighter. Nifty trick, that, but I suspect it takes years of training from an early age.

  I avert my gaze.

  Luckily, I have a natural ease with Ken. Letty’s playing Elton John now and the mood is lighter. Ken is being downright impertinent, sliding his hands where they technically shouldn’t be. I’m keen to ramp up the naughtiness. I scold him loudly when his fingers graze my ass, especially as we’re within hearing range of a certain other couple.

  “So, Liv’s a family friend?” I ask brazenly when they’re out of range again.

  Ken’s gaze slides over to the target of our discussion. “Daughter of Earl Strathcairn, friend of my mother’s. She’s an heiress, actually.”

  “I thought only sons inherited.”

  “Except in rare cases. Her father’s earldom is one.”

  “Good for her.” I’m not going to comment on the outmoded system of inheritance. What would be the point? My gaze follows Ken’s, over to Seb and his partner.

  “Mother set them up,” Ken says.

  I flush with pleasure at this information. “Oh?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “No, no, not at all. I can see why she’d—I mean, they make a… lovely couple. Really, lovely.” An arranged date. By his mother. How quaint. Possibly just for this wedding? That means they hardly know each other. Although they do seem to be getting to know each other somewhat better now.

  Ken twirls me around abruptly and I lose my footing. “Careful there, Fred Astaire,” I growl. There’s too much going in on my head to cope with fancy footwork as well.

  We dance out the rest of the song in silence and Ken keeps his hands to himself, as if in unspoken understanding of whatever I’m going through. I feel comfortable with him even in my confused, half-witted state.