To Tempt an Earl (17 page)

No.

While he hadn't been in her company for long,
now that she was grown, he
had
been around her quite a bit
when she was younger. People did change, but it was clear that all
of Bethanny's metamorphosis happened on the outside. Her heart,
passion, and lack of grace that she exerted in life remained true;
it was evident in her candor and honesty; it was evident in her
very ability to dance. Bethanny would continually challenge him,
excite him, and remain fiercely loyal.

Was this love? He wasn't sure, yet he knew if
he continued on this path, it would either lead him to love or
madness.

Likely both.

And what a delight to find a woman capable of
creating such emotion. Such… a profound reaction in him. Graham
knew he'd have secured a rare treasure if the duke allowed his
suit.

Perhaps he should approach him now? Patience
had never been his strong point, so with a determined air, Graham's
gaze searched the ballroom for the duke's face, but couldn't locate
him through the crush.

"Blast," Graham murmured.

"You!"

Graham turned at the sound of his friend's
voice.

"Clairmont? Clairmont! Just the man I've been
searching for." Graham began to grin a welcome to his friend but
halted, a chill rushing up his spine as he took in the cool anger
simmering below his friend's gaze.

"What happened?" Immediately Graham was on
alert, his gaze darting about.

Bethanny!

"I believe that is the question
I
am
to ask
you!"
Clairmont bit through clenched teeth. "Blessed
providence is on your side that we're in a crowded ballroom." He
fumed.

"Pardon? What in heaven's name are you
speaking of?"

"You… come with me. Now," Clairmont ground
out, then spun on his heel, heading out the main ballroom and down
the hall.

Foreboding clenched his chest. Devotion,
loyalty, honor — all words that were useless without action. He
owed Clairmont; after all, he was the closest thing to a brother
he'd ever had. So with his mouth set in a grim line, he followed
his friend out.

"Get in," Clairmont ordered as he gestured to
the closed carriage bearing the duke's crest.

Nodding, his lips pressed together, Graham
entered the carriage, heart pounding with uncertainty.

The carriage lurched forward as the driver
pulled them out of the Symores' residence and onto Curzon Street
toward Berkley Square. The silence was thick and heavy as Graham
folded his hands and watched his friend.

The duke was silent, brooding, and his gaze
was searing as it attempted to bore a hole directly through
Graham.

"Are you going to speak with me, or are we to
make eyes at each other for the remainder of the evening," Graham
spoke impatiently.

Clairmont remained silent.

"I don't know whether to question your sanity
or to be afraid. You've never been this quiet," Graham drolled.

"That's because I'm trying to convince myself
that I shouldn't call you out."

"A duel? What in the bloody hell—"

"Bethanny," the duke bit out, his eyes
burning with barely suppressed anger.

"Bethanny," Graham repeated. It was amazing
how one word could carry so many implications, so many emotions… so
much potential.

"Yes, my
exquisite
ward, who I was
under the misapprehension that you were to protect."

"I—"

"Don't speak!" Clairmont shouted.

Graham closed his mouth and silently fumed as
his mind spun. He knew that the duke wouldn't take lightly his
emotional attachment to his ward, but this was going too far.

"You… I trusted you. And what do I discover?
That this evening you had her pinned to a wall, tangling with her
like a common courtesan."

"You will not speak of her in such way,"
Graham bit out, his teeth clenched.

Clairmont gestured angrily to Graham. "I was
referring to
your
dishonor, not hers. This is your fault.
Yours. Damn it, Graham, we know how to charm women! We understand
just what to say, how to say it, and are experts at executing a
simple touch or kiss to create desire. We get what we want, when we
want it. And damn it all to hell if you're going to take that from
Bethanny!"

"What makes you think I'm simply sporting
with her? Do you think so little of me that I'd greedily take what
is not mine without a thought? Is my loyalty so thin? So weak that
I'd forget our years of friendship and betray you in such a
way?"

"I—"

"No, now it is your time to listen." Graham
tugged on his cravat till it came completely loose. He tossed the
silken scarf to the side of the bench and blew out hot breaths of
frustration.

"Did it ever occur to you that I might
possibly care for her? That my behavior is not selfish? How little
do you think of me? In our friendship, our association, when have I
ever corrupted an innocent? When?" Graham demanded.

"Well—"

"I have not ever! Nor would I! If you have a
fraction of understanding of the frustration I have experienced
knowing that the woman I am falling in love with is
your
ward? Have you any idea the sleepless nights I've endured, knowing
that the very woman I'm charged with protecting from men like me,
men like
you
, is, in fact, the very one who has slipped
beneath my skin and captured me so utterly that I'm becoming much
like those blasted dandies that go all mooncalf over a woman! And I
don't care! Hang it all!"

"Graham—"

"I'm not finished!" Graham pointed a finger
at the duke. "Don't begin to tell me I'm not up to scratch. I'm
bloody well aware of it. I don't need your confirmation." Graham
exhaled, his shoulders heavy, just like his heart. Because that was
the searing truth. He knew it well enough himself. He'd be damned
if he had to hear it confirmed by his best friend.

"May I speak now?"

"If you absolutely must," Graham replied
tiredly.

"And—"

"Who do you think you are, condemning me? And
just who informed you of my whereabouts?" Graham interrupted, his
irritation surfacing once more.

The duke stilled, his eyes widening before
softening into a hurt expression. "I saw it myself," Clairmont
answered quietly, too quietly.

Graham's heart stilled.

Somehow, it was different, knowing that his
friend had witnessed with his own eyes the heated exchange between
himself and Bethanny. It shamed him. Because the truth was, he knew
better. While Bethanny was passionate in a way that men only dream
of, she was still an innocent. And regardless of how much she'd
wanted the kiss, Graham had, in fact, taken advantage of her
passionate nature and explored it more than any man ought — any man
save her husband.

Husband.

The word haunted him, taunted him with a
vision that disappeared like vapor. Because the sad truth, the one
he had tried to bury with fantasies of hope, was that he was not
worthy of her. At once, the anger, the frustration dissipated into
hot shame, into the blackest pit of hopelessness.

It was suffocating.

"Stop the carriage," Graham spoke softly.

"Graham, no… perhaps I was… too impatient
with my accus—"

"Stop the bloody carriage,
Your
Grace."
Graham locked gazes with his friend, knowing that such
a formal address would gain his attention.

"Graham."

"Your Grace… the carriage. Now," Graham
repeated, his tone grating on his ears as he heard his own
desperation.

The duke rapped on the roof twice, and the
horses slowed their pace.

Without another word, Graham opened the door
and rushed into the night, feeling it swallow him, covering him in
the bleak truth.

It could not be borne.

He had no other option other than to leave,
to rusticate in Edinburgh where the temptation of Bethanny Lamont
could only haunt him, where the visions of her beauty would be
imagined, not touched.

Good Lord, not touched.

His body ached with unrequited desire.

Yes, he had no other option. Tomorrow. He'd
leave tomorrow. He had work to do in Edinburgh as well; he'd pour
himself into his assignment, leave behind all… hope. Because that
was what was killing him now, softly, slowly, like poison. Hope.
Because he knew it was a lie.

There was no hope.

"And where have
you
been?" Lady
Southridge's voice teased as Bethanny tried to subtly enter the
crowded ballroom.

"Enjoying the evening," she replied
offhandedly. However, she couldn't restrain her smile or the soft
sigh that escaped her lips.

Good Lord, she'd never survive at a gambling
table.

"Ah, you appear to have… thoroughly… enjoyed
yourself," Lady Southridge remarked.

Bethanny spun to face her, eyes wide with
worry. "What do you mean?"

"Ah, dear. I'm far too… mature… to be
hoodwinked."

"Ah, mature…" Bethanny grinned.

"Yes, a nice way of saying old, dear. Though
I'd not claim to less than four and forty years."

"You don't look a day over eight and
thirty."

"Blessed child."

"Thank you," Bethanny demurred.

"However, you didn't succeed at changing the
subject. Speaking of which, you haven't seen my wayward brother,
have you?" Lady Southridge's eyes danced.

"Er, no, I don't see him."

"Ah, again, I'm not one to judge, but if you
wish to keep your secrets, I suggest you get better at hiding them.
Of course, you don't
see
him now… I asked if you had seen
him… as in the past. Clever wording won't throw anyone off, dear."
Lady Southridge patted Bethanny's shoulder lightly, shaking her
head.

"I have not seen him recently," Bethanny
amended.

"Which implies that you saw him at some time.
Come, Bethanny. You can do better. Truly throw me off," Lady
Southridge challenged, tapping Bethanny's shoulder playfully.

"Er… I haven't seen him?" Bethanny tried.

"Perfect. Vague," she tilted her head
thoughtfully, "yet honest. Good girl. Now, I hear my brother is a
delightful kisser. Are the rumors true, or were they grossly
exaggerated?" She leaned forward, her grin wide and her gaze
bright.

"Lady Southridge!" Bethanny scolded hoarsely
as her gaze darted about the room, hoping no one else could have
heard such a brazen question.

"Oh heavens, girl. You must trust me. I'd not
ask such a question where it could be heard!" Lady Southridge
rolled her eyes and shook her head.

Bethanny's gaze shot back to the people
around them, noticing that they, indeed, were not paying the least
bit attention.

"I…"

"Yes?"

"Yes."

"Yes…?" Lady Southridge leaned forward,
waiting.

"Yes." Bethanny straightened, affixing a
polite smile in place.

"You do realize you didn't actually answer my
question." Lady Southridge cocked an eyebrow.

"Yes, I did."

"But — ah... clever girl. You're learning."
Lady Southridge nodded her approval.

"I try." Bethanny shrugged offhandedly, a
grin teasing her lips.

"Try harder. You're going to need it to get
past that guardian of yours."

"The duke? Graham's his best friend—"

"Ah… see? You admitted everything I wanted to
know with just a simple sentence." Lady Southridge clicked her
tongue and shook her head.

Bethanny took a deep breath. "But I'm quite
sure you already knew all of this information, so why the
interrogation to begin with?" Bethanny asked impatiently, though
with a grin.

"Because I'm preparing you."

"For?"

"Charles, the duke, Clairmont — whatever you
wish to call him." She flipped her fingers dismissively.

"But Graham—"

"Graham is much like the duke
was
before Carlotta… and
that
is all your innocent ears need to
hear on the subject."

"But—"

"No, you'll be fighting an uphill battle…
your own Waterloo, if you must."

"How dramatic." Bethanny leaned back slightly
and gave her best disbelieving expression.

"You doubt me? Have I ever been wrong?" Lady
Southridge placed a dramatic hand to her chest.

"Yes."

"Aside from that one time."

"You told me that lemon would turn my hair
blonder."

"It does."

"It was orange. Thankfully I was able to
steal some of cook's coffee and stain it back. Heaven help me if I
had used
all
the lemons you brought me!"

"That was one time—"

"And then with the powder—"

"It said on the bottle—"

"Must I continue?" Bethanny scarcely resisted
the temptation to place her hand on her hip.

"I'm not wrong on this." Lady Southridge
sighed theatrically.

"Very well, what do you suggest?"