The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance

Desperate Measures Candice Hern

She was going to commit murder. If that scoundrel Philip Hartwell did not show up soon, Lydia Bettridge was going to track him down and rip his heart out. After all, this whole scheme was his idea. If he hadn’t suggested it in the first place, and if he and her brother Daniel had not gleefully concocted the plan, she would not now be waiting on pins and needles to learn whether or not it would work.

Or perhaps all that gleefulness had been at her expense. Had they been making a game of her, playing on her disappointment, poking fun at her unrequited affections?

By God, she would rip out both their hearts. With a rusty blade.

Lydia scanned the ballroom again, maintaining as casual an air as possible as she sought out Philip’s bright red hair among the crowd milling about in groups, waiting for the first set to begin. She was just about to stomp her foot in frustration when she saw him. Not Philip, but … him. Dear heaven, it was Geoffrey Danforth, the secret object of her scheme, and he was at that very moment making his way across the room directly towards her.

Her belly seized up in a knot of panic. What was she to do now? And where the devil was Philip?

“Here comes Danforth, my dear,” her mother said in hushed tones. “And he is smiling at you and looking exceedingly handsome in that gold waistcoat. The colour sets off his hair nicely, don’t you think? I hope you will not reject him like all the others. I suspect poor Philip must be delayed. You would certainly be forgiven if you did not wait for him any longer.”

Lydia had claimed a prior commitment for the opening set when asked to dance by three other perfectly suitable gentlemen, causing her mother to cluck and twitter with vexation. She was not pleased that Lydia had promised to be led out for one of the most important dances of the evening by her brother’s best friend, who had no marital intentions towards Lydia or anyone else, and for whom Lydia had no more than a sisterly affection. “Such a waste,” her mother had said more than once.

And here came Geoffrey Danforth, with his flashing blue eyes and a smile to make a girl weak in the knees. Oh dear.

He stood before them and sketched an elegant bow. “Mrs Bettridge. Miss Lydia. You are both looking very fine this evening.” His eyes swept over Lydia, hopefully admiring her new dress, which was cut a bit more daringly in the bodice than her usual attire. It had been a part of the plan, of course, to look as dashing as possible.

His gaze turned to her mother. “The yellow plumes are quite fetching, Mrs B. All the other ladies here must be seething with envy.”

Her mother giggled behind her fan and muttered something about a shameless flatterer. Geoffrey turned to Lydia and said, “I believe this is our dance.”

What?

“I beg your pardon?” She could have bitten off her tongue. Philip Hartwell was obviously not coming so their plan had to be scrapped. And yet here was Geoffrey, the object of her every dream and heart’s desire, asking her to dance — and she demurred. Why did she not simply take his arm and be quiet?

He grinned, an endearing lopsided grin that was somehow both boyish and rakish at the same time, and had set her heart aflutter since she was fifteen. “Hartwell is detained indefinitely and asked me to take his place.” Turning his head so her mother couldn’t see, he winked at her.

Dear God, did he mean what she thought he meant? Was he to take Philip’s place in more than just the dance? No, surely not. Philip would not be so heartless, would he? But then, he didn’t know.

Geoffrey took her hand and placed it on his arm. With a little tug — she was almost rooted to the spot, barely able to think, much less move, and so needed that bit of physical encouragement — he gently led her to the centre of the floor where sets were forming. “Don’t worry, Lydia.” He kept his voice low so others would not overhear. Deep and soft as butter, it was a voice that always made her want to close her eyes and allow it to melt all over her. “I know you must be disappointed, but I will do my best. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, but I daresay I can do a better job of it than old Hartwell.” He winked again, and her feet stopped working properly.

He placed his other hand firmly over hers and manoeuvred her skilfully across the floor without further incident. Surely he had noticed her falter, though he did not mention it. While they waited for the music to begin, he bent his head near hers and said, “Will you trust me to do the job properly?”

She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and decided to feign ignorance. “I have no idea what you mean.” Her voice sounded surprisingly steady, and she was rather proud of herself.

He smiled and gave her a little nudge with his shoulder. “No need to be coy, my girl. Hartwell told all. Had to, of course, since I was to take his place. But, quite frankly, Lydia, I was shocked to learn that you believed such a stratagem was necessary.”

“Oh dear. I suppose it does seem rather foolish.” More foolish than he would ever know.

“Indeed it does. I cannot imagine you have to work so hard to make some worthless chap take notice of you.”

“Worthless? You do not even know who he is.”

“Then tell me. It will make this easier if I know the object of this game.”

“No, I’d rather not tell who he is.” She’d rather die.

“It doesn’t matter. I know who he is.”

Panic prickled the back of her neck. “You do not. You can’t know.”

“I can and I do. He is an undeserving moron, that’s who he is. If he needs encouragement to notice your beauty, your charm, your wit, then he is certainly not worthy of you.”

His words sent a powerful yearning rushing through her veins. Did he mean it, truly mean it, or was he simply using flattery to squirm out of taking part in this fool’s errand?

“Does the fellow show an interest in some other young woman perhaps?”

“No one in particular, as far as I know.”

“And he pays you no notice whatsoever?”

She shrugged. “Very little. Or, at least not in … in that way.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t notice her, or that he ignored her. No, he was well acquainted with her. They had known each other for years, as he was one of Daniel’s closest friends. That was, perhaps, the problem. He treated her just as Daniel did, as a sister. Or worse. She sometimes wondered if he was even aware that she was female. He never looked at her as certain other gentlemen did, with a spark of interest in his eye, or the slightest hint of desire.

Yet, whenever she saw him, for her it was all spark and desire. Among her brother’s friends, Geoffrey was the only one who made her so thoroughly aware of his … maleness. She never much noticed how other men’s pantaloons stretched taut across a well-muscled thigh, or the impressive set of shoulders beneath their tight-fitting coats. But she had been noticing such things about Geoffrey for several years. The sight of him had been making her warm all over since long before she understood what it meant.

“Hmm.” His brow furrowed as he studied her. “And so I am to make this chap jealous?”

No sense in denying what he already knew. Maybe there was still hope for this scheme after all, even if it had been turned topsy-turvy. “That is what Philip and Daniel suggested, and Philip agreed to do it. They said that nothing piques a man’s interest in a young lady like seeing another man shower his attentions on her, especially if that man is generally known for avoiding such things, for keeping himself above any potential entanglement.” She tried to sound blasé but her cheeks flushed with warmth.

“Well, then, I am your man.” He slapped a hand against his chest. “I have never singled out any woman, publicly or privately, so if I am seen acting the mooncalf over you, it will certainly be noticed. Ah, the dance is about to begin. Pay attention, my girl. Observe my uncanny ability to make everyone here believe I am madly in love with you.”

And he did. He even made her believe it. He never took his eyes off her, except for those moments when the steps required him to link arms or hands with another man’s partner. At all other times, his gaze never left her. Sometimes it was so intense, locked so ardently with hers that she almost felt as though they were alone on the dance floor.

It was all perfectly glorious. Except, of course, that it was not real. He was merely play-acting, and doing a splendid job of it.

When the second dance of the set was about to begin, Geoffrey led her out of the line. “Parched, did you say? Then by all means allow me to procure you a restorative glass of chilled champagne.” Lowering his voice, he said, “Let us find the refreshment room and make our plans for the rest of the evening.”

Ever the proper gentleman, Geoffrey first located her mother and told her where he was taking Lydia. She looked puzzled — it was the first set, after all, and had so far not been lively enough to have worked up much of a thirst — but nodded her approval. One small ante-room had been set aside for light refreshments and, as it was still early in the evening, it was almost empty of guests. Geoffrey led her to a table in a corner, then flagged down a footman who brought them glasses of champagne. She had not often partaken of the pale sparkly wine, and smiled when the bubbles tickled her nose, which made Geoffrey laugh. She had been too nervous to eat before the ball, so even a few sips had her feeling slightly giddy. Maybe the champagne would help her get through this odd evening, allow her to enjoy the ridiculous situation instead of walking around in alternate states of confusion and panic.

“How am I doing so far?” he asked.

“You are playing the part beautifully, Mr Danforth.”

“Excellent. Has he noticed?”

“Who?”

“The man I am trying to make jealous, of course.”

“Oh. I … I am not certain.”

“I say, Lydia,” he said, his brow furrowed into a frown, “you had better tell me who the chap is. How am I to make sure he sees me mooning after you? In fact, I believe this whole scheme is doomed to failure unless I know its object. So, tell me. What lucky man has stolen your heart?”

Suddenly the bubbles in her stomach had nothing to do with champagne. Who was she to name? Should she simply look him straight in the eye and tell him that he was the one he was supposed to make jealous? That he was the one whose attention she wanted so badly that she had resorted to such desperate measures?

No, she couldn’t possibly confess the truth. It would be too mortifying for both of them. But what to do? She must name someone. The doors of the ante-room were open so that she could see into the ballroom. Just then, she caught sight of the infamous rake Lord Tennison leaning against a pillar and shamelessly leering at Lady Dunholme’s impressive bosom.

A fraction of a second later, before her brain could tell her how absurd it was and stop her from making an even greater fool of herself, she blurted his name. “Lord Tennison.”

Geoffrey’s jaw dropped and he glared for a moment in wide-eyed disbelief. “Good God. You can’t be serious.”

In for a penny, in for a pound. She drew herself up and said, “I’m quite serious. I find him exceedingly charming. And handsome.”

He stared at her as though she’d lost her mind. Which wasn’t far from the truth. “But you have no idea what he is, my girl. Trust me, Lydia, he is not the man for you.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really. He is a … a …”

“A rake. I know. That’s what makes him so—” she smiled dreamily and gave a little shiver “—exciting.”

Geoffrey narrowed his eyes. “Exciting, eh? That’s what you’re looking for?”

“Yes, why not?”

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t sound like you, Lydia.”

“Perhaps, sir, you do not know me as well as you think. Besides, who wants a dull, respectable gentleman who offers little more than a lifetime of tedium and propriety? A woman wants a man who makes her feel …”

“Desirable?”

Heat rose in her cheeks, but she soldiered on. “Yes, desirable. Is that so wrong?”

A corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “Not a bit. Tennison certainly knows how to do that, as he’s been openly desiring women for years. He is quite a bit older than you, of course, but I don’t suppose that signifies.”

“I like a mature man.”

“I do not doubt it.” The twitch became a full-blown grin. Was he mocking her? Did he guess that Lord Tennison was a ruse?

“Well, my girl, you have given me a formidable assignment. However, I shall do my best to see that Tennison not only notices you, but is overcome with jealousy. He will be falling at your feet by the end of this evening, I assure you.”

Oh dear. She wondered if she was in over her head, but was not inclined to turn craven just yet.

“Here’s what I will do,” Geoffrey said, keeping his voice low even though there were only a few other people in the ante-room with them, and no one close enough to overhear. Did he do that deliberately? Did he employ that low, smoky tone because he knew it unnerved her? “I have been seen dancing with you. Now I will be seen not dancing with anyone else. I shall linger about making calf’s eyes at you while you dance with other men. And I shall not dance at all until the supper dance, when I shall lead you out again. Remember, you must save that dance for me. We’ll be cosy over supper and make sure Tennison sees. Does that sound like a good plan to you?”

“It sounds brilliant. I will watch for those calf’s eyes.”

His expression softened, his eyebrows lifted and his eyes filled with a sort of woebegone yearning. Then his shoulders sagged as he gave a heartbreaking sigh, and Lydia burst out laughing. He was the very picture of a young boy in the throes of his first infatuation. “Do not overdo it, sir, I beg you. No one would believe it of you.”

He cast off the moonstruck look and was himself again. “You think not? You think no one would believe I could fall in love?”

“Oh, I believe you could fall in love.” She pinned all her hopes on it, in fact. “But I daresay it would never be a simple schoolboy’s passion with you.”

“You are quite right, my girl.” He laid his hand over hers. “I am no longer a boy. It will be a much more complex experience for me. When I fall in love it will be deeply and completely and for ever.”

It was her turn to sigh. How she wished she could be the object of such a love. His love.

He rose and took Lydia’s hand to help her from the chair, then kissed it. “For luck,” he said and led her back to her mother.

For the next hour and more, Lydia danced with other gentlemen. Her mother encouraged her to accept the attentions of each of them, as it was her fondest hope to see Lydia engaged by the season’s end. It was, after all, her second season. One more and she would be edging closer towards bona fide spinsterhood. Frankly, if she could not have Geoffrey, she would as soon be a spinster. It was not in her nature to settle for second best.

It was a heady experience to watch Geoffrey gaze at her across the room as though he could not tear his eyes from her. She could at least pretend it was real, couldn’t she? Or was it worse to know what it would feel like to have him look at her with love in his eyes than never to have known it at all? Was she setting herself up for disappointment and heartbreak?

Others noticed Geoffrey’s obvious attention. Her friend Daphne Hughes pulled her aside and peppered her with questions, certain that Lydia was hiding something from her. Worst of all, her mother noticed. “I cannot fathom what has come over him,” she said. “It’s as though he suddenly realized what a beauty you are. I won’t quibble over it, though. He’d be a fine catch for you, my dear. With your glossy dark curls and his golden hair, you will make a stunning couple.”

Her maternal hopes were encouraged when Geoffrey came to claim her for the supper dance — a waltz, no less. She positively beamed when he led her daughter on to the floor.

“You might want to ease up on the calf’s eyes, Mr Danforth,” she whispered. “My mother is getting ideas.”

“Is she? Well, that only plays right into our plans, does it not? If my blatant attentions are seen to meet with Mrs Bettridge’s approval, then we have Tennison exactly where we want him: very much aware that another man desires you. Look, he has just led out Mrs Wadsworth for the waltz. Let’s move a bit closer to them so he won’t miss the way my rapt gaze drinks in the perfection of your bosom.”

The music began before she could respond, and soon she forgot all about his impertinence. His hand was warm at her waist and, as her hand rested upon his shoulder, she could feel the strength of his muscles beneath the fine velvet of his jacket. He moved with such grace and confidence that she barely had to think about where to put her feet. His lead was sure.

It might just be the nearest she would ever come to being held in his arms. She closed her eyes and relished the moment.

“Tired?” he asked. “You have danced every dance. You will no doubt welcome the respite of supper.”

“Hmm,” she said, meaning: I will welcome any time I can spend with you, but especially twirling about the floor in your arms. She opened her eyes, looked directly into his, and hoped he might somehow read her thoughts.

“You are playing your part very well, too, Lydia. I swear you look as besotted as I do. And don’t look now, but Tennison is actually paying attention. Our ploy has worked. His eyes are all for you, my girl.” He muttered something else under his breath but she couldn’t be sure what it was.

He pressed his hand against the back of her waist and pulled her a fraction closer.

Lydia supposed she ought to glance over at Lord Tennison now and then, just to maintain the charade, but she only had eyes for one man, and she was dancing with him. The sheer bliss of the waltz ended too soon, and as it was the supper dance it was a short set. Geoffrey kept his hand lightly on her back as he led her into the supper room.

He guided her to a small table meant for two, and surreptitiously winked when Lord Tennison and Mrs Wadsworth took an adjacent table. Geoffrey placed her with her back to the other couple, then leaned down and said, “He shot an interested glance in your direction. He is most definitely intrigued. Let’s see if we can keep it that way.” He grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing footman. “I shall go fill a couple of plates from the buffet. Don’t you dare let another chap take my seat.” He grinned and walked away towards the tables set out like groaning boards.

She realized she was starving, as she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She’d been nervous all day, but now she was surprisingly calm, despite the rather startling turn of events. How strange to think that she had come tonight hoping to make him jealous and perhaps to see her in a different light, and instead …

But wait a moment. That was still her ultimate objective, was it not? To make him see her as a woman, a desirable woman worthy of a man’s attention. It was possible that all the play-acting had forced him to see her differently. Was that enough?

When this scheme had been hatched, it was because men were supposedly susceptible to jealousy. It had come about on a dreary, rainy day too wet to do anything out of doors. Daniel and his friend Philip Hartwell had been sprawled upon the drawing room sofas, bored to tears and itching to be out and about. With nothing else to do, they had deigned to spend time in her company — a novelty as she was five years younger than Daniel, the little sister only occasionally tolerated. They had been talking of the Erskine ball and who they might dance with or whether they should simply haunt the card room. Philip had asked Lydia about her friend Daphne Hughes and if she would be attending. She was quite sure he had a tendre for Daphne, though he would never admit to it. He asked Lydia whom she was hoping to dance with, and soon both he and Daniel were teasing her about several gentlemen. The gloomy day had affected her mood and she told them, rather snappily, that she did not care tuppence for any of those men, that the only man she cared about didn’t know she was alive.

That confession had set them off. They begged his name but she refused to tell and soon wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Eventually, they both dropped their teasing, especially Daniel who seemed genuinely concerned that his sister’s heart was in danger of being broken. The two young men commiserated over ways she might attract the unnamed gentleman, but it had all seemed horribly embarrassing and she had more or less ignored their advice.

Until, that is, they had struck upon the notion of making the man jealous. That had seemed a more logical approach, especially as they cited several romances where jealousy had turned the tide. As the Erskine ball approached, she’d become less sanguine about the plan they’d concocted, but the idea of jealousy as a means of encouragement still held a ring of truth for her. Upon consideration, Lydia decided the original plan ought not to be completely discarded just yet.

She looked up to see Lord Tennison returning to the adjacent table with a plate of food. He was tall and lean, and quite fit for a man of his age, which must be at least thirty-five. He was dark-haired and dark-eyed, his face chiselled into sharp planes and angles. His eyes were heavy-lidded and his lips were more often than not curled into a seductive leer. Lord Tennison was considered a dangerous man, with an unsavoury reputation and no honour where women were concerned. Yet, he was an infamous rake with many high-born conquests, so clearly a good number of females were drawn to him. He was still handsome, in a world-weary sort of way, but he held no appeal for Lydia. His dark, swarthy looks were the antithesis of Geoffrey’s golden beauty. She had, however, named him, and so she might as well make use of him.

She caught his eye and smiled. He paused, arched an eyebrow, then returned her smile. “Miss Bettridge. You are looking remarkably pretty this evening.”

His gaze flickered momentarily down to her bosom, which seemed to be generating inordinate interest tonight. She hadn’t minded Geoffrey admiring her figure, or even the other gentlemen she’d danced with, but Lord Tennison’s open appraisal made her decidedly uncomfortable. She was tempted to reach down and tug up the bodice, but decided that the rather daring neckline served her purpose. When Tennison’s eyes once again met hers, she broadened her smile, leaned ever so slightly forwards, giving him a better view, and batted her eyelashes. Once. Twice. But no more. She hoped to appear provocative, not silly. “Thank you, My Lord. It is kind of you to say so.”

He regarded her more closely, with a sort of melting warmth, and all at once she could understand how so many women had fallen under his spell. With nothing more than the look in his eye, he made her feel as though he’d touched her in a shockingly intimate manner, and while other more sophisticated women might welcome such a look, Lydia did not like it at all. To maintain her pretence, though, she dropped her gaze demurely and batted her eyelashes once more.

“Kindness had nothing to do with it,” he said in a lazy drawl. “I merely spoke the truth. See here, is someone getting you a plate? Or would you allow me the honour of doing so?”

“Someone has already done so, Tennison.”

She hadn’t seen Geoffrey approach, but the timing could not have been more perfect. His furious expression was an encouraging sign. Lydia put on her very best smile and turned to Lord Tennison. “Thank you so much for asking, My Lord. Perhaps some other time?”

“I look forward to it,” he said, glancing at Geoffrey with a gleam of mockery in his eye before returning to Mrs Wadsworth.

Geoffrey put a plate of food in front of Lydia and took his seat. His scowl was one of the sweetest things she’d ever seen. He really was jealous. At least, that is what she hoped. Maybe he was just angry, and feeling protective of Daniel’s sister.

“Dammit, Lydia, you truly are determined to have that scoundrel woo you?”

“I have said so, have I not? And I must say, Mr Danforth, that peevish look on your face does not signal that you are wooing me, which, you may recall, is the plan.”

He gave a resigned shrug. “Right you are. I must not forget my role.”

“It must be working, don’t you think? Did you see the way he looked at me?”

“Humph. How could I not? Ah, but you should see the way Eugenia Wadsworth is looking at you. Do you feel her daggers in your back?”

Lydia laughed. “Is she jealous, do you think? Of me?” It boosted her confidence to think that the beautiful, fashionable widow would see her as competition.

“Apparently,” he muttered, “jealousy is the name of the game tonight.”

Better and better, she thought. It was all going according to plan. The revised plan, anyway.

“Well, I really do not care about Mrs Wadsworth,” she said, and fluttered her fingers in a dismissive gesture. “It is Lord Tennison who concerns me. We are to make him jealous, in case you have forgotten.”

Geoffrey tore his gaze from the other couple and returned his attention to Lydia with a smile so beguiling it poured over her like warm honey. Thank heaven she was seated.

“I have not forgotten. Let us resume our performance. Can I tempt you with something to eat?”

She noticed, for the first time, the plate in front of her. Besides the sliced ham, lobster patty and pickled mango, there was a small pile of the tiniest strawberries. “Oh, strawberries!” She popped one in her mouth and it was like the richest of sweetmeats. She closed her eyes and savoured it. She was very much afraid she’d actually moaned with pleasure. When she opened her eyes, Geoffrey was studying her intently with an expression she could not immediately identify. Could it be … hunger? The air in her lungs suddenly felt thin, starving her of breath. She held another strawberry in her fingers, but could not seem to lift it to her mouth.

“I remembered about the strawberries,” he said, his eyes locked with hers.

“Hmm?”

“That picnic at your aunt’s home in Richmond. You almost became sick from eating too many wild strawberries. You fell back on the blanket and said there was no better way to die.”

Her heart gave a little skitter in her chest. “You … You remembered that?”

“Of course. You looked so charmingly … sated.”

He took her hand and lifted the berry to her mouth. When she took it, her lips touched his bare fingers, for he had removed his gloves for supper, and the brief taste of his skin overwhelmed even the strawberry. He watched intently as she ate it and then licked her lips to capture every hint of flavour left behind. She watched him watch her and, all at once, with their gazes locked, she sensed a new connection between them, something deeper and full of understanding, through eyes and lips and fingers, and the sweet scent of ripe strawberries enveloping them. It felt so right. And very real — at least for her.

Please, please let this not be entirely an act for him.

He leaned back and the moment ended. He grinned, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, while she reeled as though the earth had moved.

“You might try the lobster cakes,” he said. “They are devilish good.”

“I’m not very hungry.”

“Even for more strawberries?” He waved his fork over the remaining pile.

She shook her head. She might never eat again. But she could happily sit there and watch him dine. Or watch him do anything. Dear God, she was lost to him.

And yet he merely play-acted.

While he ate and she pushed her food around the plate, they spoke of ordinary things, of friends and family, books and plays, and a dozen other mundane topics. All the while, though, Geoffrey kept up the pretence of infatuation, touching her, smiling boldly, staring at her with those splendid blue eyes. Anyone watching would assume they were in love. He was a fine actor. She teased him about treading the boards if he somehow lost his inheritance.

“Some roles are easier than others,” he said. “I confess I am enjoying this one.”

Most of the guests were still dining when Lord Tennison and Mrs Wadsworth left the room. She watched the rakish nobleman with feigned interest. “What are we to do now?” she asked. “We cannot dance a third set together without causing gossip, not to mention giving my mother palpitations. How shall we proceed with our plan? Or perhaps Lord Tennison is leaving the ball? Oh dear.” She infused her voice with disappointment.

Geoffrey turned slightly to watch the departing couple. “No, they are not leaving. They are going out the terrace doors.”

“Oh. Do you think we should follow them?”

“A capital suggestion, my girl. Let’s go ogle each other in the moonlight. Nothing could appear more romantic.”

She felt many pairs of eyes on them as they left the supper room. No doubt tongues would be wagging as soon as they were out of sight. “Are you certain this is wise?” she whispered. “I fear people may get the wrong idea.”

“That is the point, is it not? To make one particular person get the wrong idea?” He patted her hand where it rested on his arm. “Do not vex yourself, Lydia. Taking a bit of air after supper with your brother’s best friend is no scandalous thing. Trust me, no one will care.”

She hoped he was right. She would hate for a general expectation to arise, forcing him into a situation he did not want, even if she wanted it desperately.

When they reached the terrace, Lydia saw Lord Tennison in a far corner, standing very close to Mrs Wadsworth. It looked as though they might have just ended a kiss, and Lydia turned away, embarrassed. Geoffrey led her to the opposite corner. He stood with his back to the balustrade and pulled her gently to his side so that she faced the garden. It was a beautiful, clear, temperate evening. The stars were out in force and the moon almost full, the air redolent of lilac and horse chestnut. It was the perfect setting for romance, with the perfect man at her side. If only …

He took her hand and discreetly held it behind him so that no one looking out from the ballroom could see. Neither could Lord Tennison, if he bothered to look, so she wondered why Geoffrey did it. She wanted to believe it was for himself and not for the sake of their ruse, but she tried not to get her hopes up. Though both were gloved now, she nevertheless felt the warmth of his fingers, especially when he began sketching lazy circles on her palm.

“I think we need to up the game a bit,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“If Tennison is the man you want, you must be prepared to play at his level. He is a man of the world, as you know, with a great deal of experience.”

“With women.”

“Yes. A great many women.”

“And you think I am no match for all those other women? That he may find my youth and inexperience tiresome?”

He reached up and stroked her cheek. “You are more than worthy of any man’s attention, my girl. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think he is worthy of your attention. I may not like him, but it is not my place to judge your heart’s desire. If he is the one you want, then I am here to help you win him. But, because he is so worldly, I suspect a few dances and moonstruck gazes are not enough to incite his jealousy. Tennison is a bold choice, Lydia, and you must be bold to win him.”

A frisson of anticipation skittered down her spine. “What did you have in mind?”

“Come with me,” he said. Keeping hold of her hand, he guided her to the steps leading down from the terrace.

“Where are we going?”

He merely smiled and led her into the garden, where gravel pathways were lit by paper lanterns hanging from trees. “I don’t understand,” she said. “How can we make Lord Tennison jealous if he can’t even see us?”

He’d stopped at a stone bench tucked among the shrubbery. “It’s what he will see when we return,” he said, and pulled her to sit down beside him. Very close beside him.

“What will he see?”

“A woman who has been thoroughly kissed.”

And there, bathed in the lush scent of a nearby lilac tree and the silvery light of the brilliant moon, he kissed her. Tenderly, at first. His hand spread against the back of her head, angling his mouth over hers, while his other hand settled low on her back.

She did not care if he did this merely to provoke another man, she was in his arms and he was kissing her — it was what she had always wanted, her every dream and fantasy. And, by God, she was going to take advantage of the moment. She kissed him back for all she was worth, twining her arms around his neck and pressing her body against his.

She felt the thumping of his heart beneath his shirt and waistcoat, or perhaps it was her own heartbeat. She could no longer distinguish his heart from hers. They were as one, synchronized, merged, united.

He parted her lips with a gentle nudging from his own, and all at once the kiss became lush and full and potently carnal as his tongue began an urgent twirling dance with her own. Good God, what was he doing to her? It was like nothing she had ever experienced or could even have imagined. It was earth-shaking, soul-shattering — a kiss filled with hunger and tenderness, with promise and desire. She melted into it, allowing him to draw her tongue deeper into his mouth, and everything within her dissolved into molten liquid.

They kissed and kissed for what might have been hours or mere moments. When he finally lifted his head, he murmured her name. “Lydia, ah, sweet Lydia.” He skated his lips along her jaw to the hollow beneath her ear. Unprepared for the intense sensation his lips wrought on that particular spot — she’d had no idea it was so wonderfully sensitive — she caught her breath on a gasp and shivered with almost unbearable pleasure. She arched her neck in shameless invitation as his mouth moved lower. His lips parted and the velvety tip of his tongue against her flushed neck sent ripples of pure bliss shimmering along every inch of her skin. The jumble of new sensations was so dazzling that all rational thought vanished. A moan rose from the back of her throat. She gasped his name, over and over, while kneading his back and shoulders with restless desire.

The sound of his name seemed to renew his passion, for he brought his lips back to hers and plundered her mouth again, almost savagely. She responded with equal hunger, and they kissed until her head swam in a sort of dark, sensual haze.

When they finally broke the kiss, she leaned her forehead against his, her breath ragged and her heart in turmoil. “Geoffrey? Is this real? Or are we still play-acting?”

“Does it seem like play-acting to you?”

“No. Oh, I don’t know! You have my mind all in a whirl. I don’t know what to think.”

He lifted his head and gazed into her eyes. “Sweet Lydia, I have a confession to make.”

“Oh?”

“Hartwell was not detained, and he did not ask me to replace him tonight in your little scheme.”

“He didn’t?”

“No, I asked him. In fact, I all but begged him to allow me to take his place. When he told me of your plans, I knew I wanted to be the one to play the lovesick fool.”

“But why?”

“So I would have a good excuse to do this.” And he kissed her again. “And this.” He trailed his lips along her jaw and down her throat. “And this.” His tongue dipped into the cleavage of her bosom while one finger slipped inside the lace at her neckline until it found her nipple, just barely covered by her stays. She uttered a moan of shocked pleasure as he teased it.

“Oh God, Lydia.” His voice was raw and breathless. “We must stop.”

She buried her face in the crook of his neck. “This is real, then? You are kissing me because you want to and not because of Lord Tennison?”

“I have wanted to kiss you for ages, Lydia. And the devil take Tennison. Surely you do not really want him, do you? Would you give me a chance instead?”

She threw her head back and laughed for joy. “Silly man. Of course I do not want that odious Lord Tennison. I have a confession, too, you know. What I told Daniel and Philip was true. I was indeed pining away for someone who never noticed me, and they really did help me contrive a plan to make that someone jealous. But it was not Lord Tennison, it was you.”

“Me? I had assumed it was Garthwaite or Lonsdale or any of a number of eligible gentlemen — but when you named Tennison, I began to have my doubts. I knew you were up to something, and I dared to hope it might involve me.”

“Wretched man! You knew all along I had lied about Lord Tennison?”

“Of course I did. You would never be attracted to such a jaded libertine. But you did give me pause in the supper room, when you flirted with him. You see, your scheme worked after all. I was seething with jealousy! Though I didn’t need that ploy to make me notice you. I’ve been noticing you since you gave up plaits and put your hair up.”

“Truly? I had no idea. I thought you entirely indifferent to me. You never hinted otherwise.”

“Because I was convinced you disliked me. With all Daniel’s other friends, you were fun and lively. With me, you always seemed a bit cool. But still, I found you irresistible.”

“Oh no, you resisted me quite easily! If I seemed aloof, it was because I was afraid to reveal how I truly felt.”

“And how is that?”

“I have loved you forever, I think.”

“And I love you, Lydia. With all my heart.”

“Deeply and completely?” she teased, throwing his words back at him, hoping he had meant them.

He laughed, took her face in his hands, and stroked his thumbs along the line of her jaw. “Deeply and completely. What fools we have been, eh? Each of us secretly pining after the other. We must name our first child after Hartwell for hatching the scheme that finally brought us together.”

She smiled at the implication of his words, and was tilting her mouth up for another kiss when a shriek from the shrubbery interrupted them.

“Lydia! What on earth are you about?”

Dear God, it was her mother. She looked anxiously at Geoffrey, who kissed her hand and rose from the bench.

“Not to worry, Mrs Bettridge. Miss Lydia and I have come to an understanding. I trust you will forgive us for behaving improperly, but we were too excited and happy to resist a kiss or two.”

“Well.” Her mother frowned, but she did not fool Lydia. She was surely thrilled beyond measure. “I suppose one must forgive high spirits at such a time. You will, naturally, call upon Mr Bettridge tomorrow.”

“You may tell him to expect me.”

“Good. In the meantime, Lydia, come with me. You must not been seen coming out of the garden with Mr Danforth, regardless of his intentions. People will talk, you know. Come along now.”

Her mother linked arms with her and walked towards the house. Lydia cast one last, longing look at Geoffrey before following her mother out of the garden and up the terrace steps.

“Well, my dear.” Her mother gave her arm a fond squeeze. “What an interesting evening you have had. Aren’t you glad Philip Hartwell didn’t show up for that first set?”

“I have never been so glad of anything in all my life.”

And she would thank him for it — for staying inside on a rainy day, for explaining the male psyche, for concocting a most excellent plan and for giving up his role in it. But mostly, for helping her to achieve her heart’s desire. At long last.