Ravish Me with Rubies Page 6

  “And I’m lucky to have him in mine,” Petra said swiftly, resisting the charm of that smile.

  “Point taken. But in my defense, my only intention was to give you, your brother and your friends pleasure.” He shook his head. “I seem to walk through a minefield of thoughtlessness in your company. It doesn’t seem to happen with anyone else.”

  “Perhaps no one else has the courage to tell you.”

  His lips twisted into a wry grin. “Touché, Miss Rutherford. That is one very sharp tongue you’ve developed.”

  “I’ve always had it,” she told him. “But ten years ago I was too young to see when I needed to use it.”

  “And again.” He threw up his hand in a fencer’s gesture acknowledging a hit. “So, what now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are we to be at odds forever, or can we put this bone of contention behind us too?”

  “I don’t like being at odds with people,” Petra replied obliquely as the cab pulled up outside her house.

  Guy jumped down, reached up to take her by the waist and swung her to the ground. He held her for a moment, his hands on her waist, looking down into her upturned face. “I suppose I can take some comfort from that.” Swiftly he bent and kissed her mouth. The kiss was firm but fleeting and he’d lifted his head almost before Petra realized what had happened.

  “Kiss and make up,” he said. His eyes seemed to deepen and glow as he still held her at the waist, still looking down at her, his mouth soft. “You are quite lovely, Petra. Thank you for having lunch with me.”

  Petra struggled with the surge of unwanted feelings. His tenderness had thrown her off guard, the desirous glow in his dark brown eyes made her want to throw caution to the devil. Her anger, irritation, resentment fell away and for a moment she wanted him to kiss her, to lose herself in his kiss, to feel his body hard against hers.

  She stepped away from him, shaking her head as if to dispel cobwebs. “Thank you for lunch, Guy.” She turned and hurried up the steps to her front door, which opened before she could get out her key. “Thank you, Foster,” she murmured hurrying into the sanctuary of her house feeling as if she’d escaped a monster, but Guy Granville was not the monster.

  Guy waited until she was inside, then climbed back into the cab. “Westminster,” he instructed the driver, and sat back with a slight smile, his fingertips running thoughtfully over his lips where he could still feel the soft, pliable shape of Petra’s mouth. She’d interested him ten years ago, as a girl on the cusp of womanhood, with her eagerness to experience whatever came her way. He remembered how she had responded to his careful lovemaking with an openness and enthusiasm that he had found quite delightful. She had rather more armor now, but he had recognized for a moment while he was kissing her that same swift, sensual response. She’d quashed it quickly but he hadn’t been mistaken.

  Would Miss Rutherford be willing to play a little flirtatious game, he wondered. He found her both challenging and enticing, and it would be entertaining to find out if he could overcome whatever resistance their earlier history had caused.

  Lord Ashton had never been able to resist a challenge.

  * * *

  Petra gained the tranquility of her bedroom with a sigh of relief. She seemed to be on very slippery ground when it came to Guy Granville and she didn’t like the feeling at all. Games were one thing, but playing with fire was quite another. She was beginning to wonder if the strategy she had concocted with her friends was going to prove more difficult to put into play than she’d so blithely assumed.

  Two things were clear: Guy would not be easily manipulated and her own treacherous responses would not be easy to restrain. Maybe she should just give up the idea, but her spirit recoiled at the thought of leaving him in control of the field after what had passed between them. He was still arrogant, he still pursued his own path regardless of whose feelings he insulted on his way. He was the epitome of the overly privileged aristocrat who had never questioned his position or his right to do exactly as he pleased, when and where he pleased.

  Of course, Petra was obliged to admit that she and Jonathan too were the product of that privileged upbringing, but somehow she didn’t think either she or her brother were quite so ruthlessly self-centered. Or at least, she thought, kicking off her shoes, it was to be hoped they weren’t. One didn’t always see oneself as others saw one.

  She lay down on the bed, closing her eyes on the disconcerting reflection. She was sleepy after the wine at lunchtime, another perfect choice by their perfect host, she thought, wishing perversely that she hadn’t enjoyed it so much.

  Dottie’s arrival woke her from a deeply refreshing nap, her spirits as refreshed as her body. She sat up, yawning. “What time is it, Dottie?”

  “Just gone six, Miss Petra. It’s time you was dressing for dinner. I was waiting for you to ring, but when you didn’t I thought I’d best come an’ see.”

  “I’m glad you did. Viscount Aldershot is supposed to be taking me for dinner before a party later. He’ll be here around seven thirty.” She swung herself off the bed, feeling for the buttons of her crumpled skirt. “The lavender silk, I think, with that wonderful purple feather boa,” she decided, stepping out of the skirt and beginning to unbutton her shirt. “I’m in the mood for flamboyance.” She walked into the bathroom, unpinning her hair as she went. “I think I’d like to do my hair in a pompadour this evening. You do it so well, Dottie.”

  “Right you are, miss.” The maid began to select garments from the wardrobe, laying them out on the bed. “Will you wear the silver comb in your hair?”

  “Yes, and the silver ear studs,” Petra called back from the bathroom.

  Half an hour later she examined Dottie’s handiwork in her dresser mirror. Her rich auburn locks were piled up over pads on top of her head and twisted into a thick, elaborate chignon on her nape. Petra liked the style which, she thought, gave her much needed height. She stood up to step into the lavender brocade evening gown and Dottie fastened the plain purple sash at her waist, adjusting the low sweep of the neckline. She opened the jewel box on the dresser. “Pearls, Miss Petra?”

  Petra considered, her fingers trawling through the glistening contents of the casket. “Too demure,” she decided. “I like the emerald pendant to go with the lavender and purple. It’s a striking combination.”

  Dottie made no demur, she trusted her mistress’s dress sense, even when she insisted on putting together colors that traditionally would not be considered compatible. She fastened the emerald pendant and nodded as the large, deep stone nestled against the whiteness of Petra’s throat.

  Petra swung the feather boa around her shoulders, catching the edges on her elbows, and twirled in front of the pier glass. She nodded her satisfaction. The complete look was exactly as she’d envisioned. Charlie Aldershot would be appropriately captivated. Not that it took much to captivate the viscount, she reflected, making her way downstairs. She’d known him all her life and enjoyed his friendly company, but sometimes Charlie seemed to think that more was expected of him and every time he ventured beyond the easy friendly kiss she would gently remind him of the time when Joth had thrown him into the duck pond for breaking the bow of his archery set. It usually reminded him of where things stood between them.

  The doorbell rang as she reached the hall and she waited for Foster to open the door. “Lord Aldershot, good evening, sir.”

  “Evening, Foster. Is Miss—”

  “Yes, she is,” Petra chimed in, gliding across the marble floor to greet him with a kiss on the cheek. “How lovely to see you, Charlie.” She gave him her cheek. “Would you like a drink before we leave?”

  “No, I think we should go right away, if you don’t mind.” He ran an appreciative eye over her. “Only you could wear that boa, Petra.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, thank you.” She dropped a mock curtsy. “I’m quite ready if you are. Did you bring the barouche?”

  “I did, it awaits my lady’s
pleasure.” He gestured in invitation as Foster opened the front door.

  Charlie handed Petra up into the open carriage and followed to sit beside her. “Trocadero all right?”

  “Lovely,” Petra agreed, hoping she could do justice to dinner after her River Room lunch. Well, she’d be dancing off any excess at the party afterward, she reflected, and she’d need her strength for an energetic evening.

  * * *

  The Andersons’ house on Grosvenor Square was ablaze with light in every window. As the barouche drew up after dinner, the doors stood open to the street and the sounds of music and voices drifted across the leafy square. Footmen stood on the pavement outside the open doors ready to direct carriages to the mews and to escort their occupants into the house.

  Petra and her escort walked up the wide sweep of the horseshoe staircase to where their hosts waited to greet them. The double doors to the glittering ballroom behind them stood open. As she waited her turn to greet her hosts Petra glanced quickly inside the ballroom to see if she could identify anyone in the moving throng. She caught sight of Diana’s dark head bobbing amongst the dancers.

  “Lady Anderson, Sir John.”

  “Petra, my dear, delighted you could join us. Have you heard from your parents recently?” Lady Anderson asked. “I understood your dear mother was not enjoying the waters. Lady Cartland has just returned from Baden-Baden where she spent several days with your parents.”

  Petra, who hadn’t heard anything from her mother in weeks, murmured something vaguely suitable in response and moved away, Charlie at her side. “It’s embarrassing,” she said in a low voice, “but my mother is an appalling correspondent. She only ever writes if she has something most particular to tell us, or to ask us. It doesn’t surprise me that she doesn’t appreciate the healing qualities of the spa water, in fact I’m surprised they haven’t moved on to somewhere more lively, like the South of France.”

  She had no scruples about revealing anything about her parents to Charlie; he’d known them most of his life and he responded to this confidence with a grin. “I can’t imagine your mother enjoying Baden-Baden, it’s far too staid for her, she’s so glamorous and lively. When I first met her I couldn’t believe she was actually anyone’s mother, and it’s still hard.”

  “I know what you mean,” Petra said with feeling. They stood for a moment at the entrance to the ballroom getting their bearings. Her gaze swept over the throng and alighted on a dancing couple at the far side of the dance floor. They were a striking pair, Lord Ashton and the Viscomtesse Clothilde Delmont, moving across the floor with practiced ease, seemingly deep in animated conversation.

  Chapter Seven

  Petra took a glass of champagne from the tray offered by a passing footman and watched the dancers. The orchestra was playing a lively two-step and her foot tapped involuntarily to the rhythm.

  “Shall we dance?” Charlie asked.

  “Yes, please.” She took a sip from her glass, set it aside on a pier table, took Charlie’s hand and moved with him onto the dance floor. Her feet moved of their own accord and it was easy to maintain a conversation with Charlie while acknowledging friends and acquaintances circling the floor with them. She was acutely aware of Guy Granville as he and his partner seemed to come closer with each sweep of the dance floor. Was he deliberately steering his partner in Petra’s direction, or was it simply part of the inevitable rhythm and movement of the dance?

  Her question was soon answered. “Good evening, Miss Rutherford.” Guy and his partner were beside them.

  She looked sideways as if surprised at seeing him there. “Why, Guy, fancy seeing you here. I thought you were to be in the Lords this evening. Charlie, are you acquainted with Lord Ashton?”

  “Not personally,” Charlie said, bowing his head in greeting. “But of course I know who you are, sir. I read your columns in the Times regularly. Charles Aldershot at your service.”

  Guy returned the nod with a polite smile of acknowledgment, before drawing his partner forward. “Clothilde, may I introduce Miss Petra Rutherford, and her partner, Viscount Aldershot. The Viscomtesse Delmont.”

  The tall Frenchwoman’s smile seemed distant to Petra, who felt rather insignificant beside the other woman’s height and elegance. Nevertheless she managed a friendly smile. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Delmont.”

  “Indeed,” the woman said. “Charming.” She looked at her partner. “I would like champagne, Guy.”

  “Of course,” he responded. “Until later, Petra.” His dark eyes held a glow in their depths, one she recognized from those moments just before he kissed her. She felt her cheeks warm and with a quick half smile turned back to Charlie to resume the dance.

  “How do you know Lord Ashton?” Charlie asked.

  “He’s a neighbor, in a manner of speaking,” she replied carelessly. “His family seat is a few miles away from my home in Somerset. Joth is trying to persuade him to support a bill he wants to put up in the House about draining the Somerset Levels.” She frowned. “I thought Guy was supposed to be in the Lords tonight, supporting Joth’s bill. If he’s let him down . . .”

  She let the sentence fade as she saw Charlie’s expression sharpen with interest. “Oh, well,” she attempted a light laugh as the music came to a stop. “Joth’s dealings with Lord Ashton are his own business. Shall we go and find Diana and Rupert? I saw them go into the supper room a few minutes ago.”

  “As you wish.” Charlie steered her to the edge of the floor. “You sounded quite fierce just then. Do you not approve of Lord Ashton?”

  “I wouldn’t have the temerity to have an opinion on his lordship,” Petra said with another careless laugh. “He’s far too lofty to move in my social orbit.”

  “You know each other well enough for first names,” he pointed out, easing her through the throng toward the doors to the supper room.

  “That’s only because he and Joth are so well acquainted,” she improvised. “It doesn’t mean we’re on close terms or anything. I hardly know the man. Oh, there’s Diana waving to us.” With relief she moved quickly toward the table where Diana sat with a group of friends.

  “Good evening, everyone.” She greeted the table at large, taking the seat that Charlie pulled out for her. “How are we enjoying ourselves?”

  The conversation was general and lively and she was able to regain her equilibrium and hope that Charlie’s interest in her relationship, such as it was, with Lord Ashton, would fade. Until she caught sight of Guy standing in the entrance to the room, looking around as if making up his mind. There was no sign of the vicomtesse.

  Her heart jumped as she saw him move toward her, threading his way expertly but seemingly without a goal through the tables, pausing now and again to exchange a few words with people as he passed. Finally he arrived at the table where Petra sat, idly twisting her champagne glass between finger and thumb trying to look as if she hadn’t noticed him.

  “Miss Rutherford, may I ask for this dance?” He held out his hand, his inviting smile belying the formality of the greeting. “They’re playing a waltz and I well remember how accomplished a waltzer you are.”

  Petra took the offered hand, trying for a bland smile. “I hope your memory hasn’t exaggerated my accomplishment, Guy.”

  “I doubt that very much,” he replied, drawing her to her feet. “If you’ll excuse us, ladies, gentlemen.” He led her back through the room to the dance floor.

  As he clasped her hand and moved them into the dance it felt to Petra as if the last ten years had not happened. Her body seemed to adapt to his without conscious thought, following steps as memory dictated. He held her close, not close enough to draw attention but she could feel every movement of his lean, hard body, every ripple of muscle as if he had always been close to her like this, as if they always moved in step.

  “You’re very quiet, Petra.” His voice, soft though it was, crashed into her daydream, bringing her back to the present.

  She looked up
. “Oh, I was enjoying the music. I’m sorry if I’m being unsociable.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’m enjoying the feel of you too much to find fault of any kind. It’s amazing how vividly memory can come back.”

  “Yes,” Petra agreed, knowing that her body was moving too fluidly with his to make denial credible. “I thought you were to be in the Lords tonight. Joth was counting on your support, wasn’t he?” The question was designed to break the spell, but somehow she couldn’t produce a convincing note of provocation.

  “As it happens, the reading of your brother’s bill was postponed. The chancellor had something more urgent to bring before the House.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “There really is no need to fight your brother’s corner with me, dear girl,” he said, sounding amused. “I believe Jonathan will go far. His dedication to his constituency is to be admired, and, if I might say so, somewhat unusual in the present crop of young politicians.”

  “Jonathan never does anything by halves,” she said, willing as always to sing her brother’s praises.

  “No doubt. But, do you think once in a while we could talk about something other than your estimable brother?” The note of amusement was still in his voice and she could hear his smile in the lightly teasing tone. It wasn’t possible to take umbrage.

  “Yes, of course. I don’t mean to be a bore.”

  He laughed. “Oh, Petra, I don’t believe you could ever be boring.” He turned them in the dance toward an anteroom opening off the floor, guiding her steps out of the dancers.

  “What are we doing here?” Petra asked, looking around the room. Judging by the deep armchairs and velvet-covered sofas it was intended as a refuge from the ballroom for fatigued ladies and chaperones. However, it was presently deserted.

  “I had an overpowering urge to do this,” Guy said, drawing her with him to a curtained embrasure.

  Petra was ready for his kiss, her body leaning into him, her face lifting as he brought his mouth to hers. She couldn’t have feigned reluctance if she’d tried, and she had no desire to do so. Her mouth was hungry for his, opening eagerly beneath the pressure of his lips, her tongue fencing with his, tasting the warm sweetness of his mouth as she inhaled his scent. It hadn’t changed, she thought distractedly, his skin still smelled of lemon and sunshine, his linen of starch and the hint of lavender. His hands clasped her rib cage and she could feel the press of his fingers against her skin beneath the lavender silk, and as she moved against him she felt his erection rising.