Valerian Inglemoore. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Valerian Inglemoore was the last man she’d expected to see in Lucien Canton’s drawing room. Philippa mustered all her aplomb. ‘Viscount, this is indeed a surprise.’

      Surprise didn’t even begin to cover it. What was he doing in Truro? How long had he been back? A thousand questions rioted through her mind. She mentally tried to tamp them down, telling herself she didn’t care about such information. But it was like fighting the Hydra. The more she tried to squelch the rising tide of questions, the more questions came forward—worse questions because they didn’t deal with the basic information of who, what and when, but with more intimate concerns—had he thought of her at all during his absence? Had he realised what he’d termed a mere dalliance was something far stronger? Did he have feelings for her yet? Did she, in spite of her efforts to deny it? Her pulse was certainly racing as if she did, as if she’d forgotten why she’d foresworn any connection to him years ago.

      ‘It is a surprise for me as well, and a pleasant one at that, I might add.’ Valerian bent over her gloved hand with an elegant bow. ‘Enchanté, Duchesse.’

      The warmth of his touch sent a powerful frisson up her arm, so sharp she had to control herself not to snatch her hand back as if burnt. She told herself the reaction was due to the strength of his grip. The reaction had nothing to do with still being attracted to him. She had hardened her heart against Valerian Inglemoore years ago and rightly so.

      Time had proved her choice a good one and her escape from his seductive clutches a lucky one. Reports from Europe during his sojourn abroad reached her circles, portraying him as a splendid diplomat with a talent for seduction. From captain’s wives to Continental princesses, no woman was safe from the dashing viscount’s wiles and no woman wanted to be. He’d become a much sought-after commodity.

      It was easy to see why. She was doubly glad she’d given him up years ago. He was far too handsome for his own good now that he’d come into the fullness of his adulthood. Anyone less wise than she would be easily distracted by the silky sleekness of his dark hair. She knew from experience how simple it was to spend an evening thinking about running hands through those ebony skeins.

      If the hair didn’t distract one thoroughly enough, there was the trap of his piercing jade eyes, the angular planes of his chiselled face, the sensual promise of his lips, the caress of knowing hands, firm and confident as they learned the contours of one’s body and the pledge of his own body, all muscles and hot strength beneath superbly tailored clothes. Ah, yes, Valerian Inglemoore was a walking minefield of passion—promising pleasure but delivering heartache to the unsuspecting miss. It was good she knew better. That was one trap she would not fall into again.

      Valerian gave her a slight nod, a smug smile playing on his lips. She felt herself blush. He’d caught her looking. She hadn’t meant for that to happen.

      The butler entered and intoned the announcement for dinner. Philippa felt herself breathe again. She started towards Lucien, eager to escape the scrutiny of Valerian’s gaze. A warm hand on her arm stayed her.

      ‘Would you do me the honour of allowing me to escort you into dinner?’ Valerian asked, his voice low next to her ear, his message just for her.

      Philippa shot a look at Lucien, but he would be of no use to her. He’d already acquiesced to the situation, a hard look in his eyes that belied the friendly tenor of his words. ‘You’ve got her then, St Just? I remember now that the three of you grew up together.’ It was said pleasantly enough, but Philippa didn’t miss the tightness of Lucien’s smile or the covert scrutiny in his eyes.

      Valerian seated her at the foot of the table and put himself promptly on her right, leaving Beldon and the vicar to juggle Mr Danforth between them.

      Philippa couldn’t decide if she preferred Valerian next to her or next to Lucien. Both positions offered their own forms of temptation. She could either have him next to her and struggle with his physical nearness or spend the entire evening fighting the distraction of his handsome visage down the table. But it hardly mattered, she reprimanded herself. He didn’t affect her either way. Her current reaction was merely the shock of seeing him again without warning.

      She wished she could read Valerian better. It would be a small measure of comfort if he was struggling to adapt as well. Did she have any effect on him at all? All at once, she vividly recalled the hardness of his erection, the feel of him pulsing through his trousers in their youth, how he’d taught her to caress him. Was he hard now? Or entirely immune? No matter that he’d once claimed only the shallowest of feelings for her, he’d roused to her none the less.

      She had to stop! Philippa reached for her wine glass and took a generous sip. These were unseemly thoughts. They were base in nature and had no place at the dinner table, especially coming from a woman who had spent the years putting the memory of his kisses behind her.

      The footmen removed the soup and served up the fish course. Conversation lagged as they performed their duties. Once the course was settled, Lucien picked up the threads of small talk. ‘St Just, are you home for good or has the Continent enchanted you?’

      Valerian patted his mouth with a fine linen napkin before speaking. ‘I am home for the duration and proud to say it. I terminated my affiliation with the diplomatic corps while I was in London over Christmas. I can now devote my time to my estate, my much neglected gardens and my nursery.’

      The statement was ambiguous. Anyone knowing Valerian as she did would wonder if he meant his flower nurseries or perhaps a nursery of another sort. No one was ill bred enough to ask for an explanation, but apparently such probing was not beyond the pale for Mr Danforth, who hadn’t known Valerian for more than the time it had taken to eat the soup.

      With a smug masculine tone to his voice, Danforth said, ‘You mean to marry and beget an heir. Very good thinking. I hear you’ve quite a fortune. You’ll need an heir to look after things.’

      At the head of the table, Lucien nearly sprayed a mouthful of wine at the tactless comment. It was practically an art form to make such a faux pas as mentioning ‘begetting’ and money in the same poor comment.

      Valerian met the rude comment evenly. ‘In fact, I do mean to marry as soon as possible. Enough time has been wasted, I think. I find myself eager to embrace matrimony. With the right woman, of course.’

      ‘Naturally,’