Running into Temptation

Melanie held out her hand to him. His gloved fingers closed around hers, strong and warm, and he supported her as he raised her up. He held onto her until she could stand on her own, the dazzling dizziness slowly righting the world around her. All the boredom she’d felt only moments before was gone when she looked up at her rescuer.

“I have not seen you here before, sir,” she whispered.

“I have just arrived in the neighborhood on a business matter,” he said with another dazzling grin. “I would have come much sooner if I had known there were such beauties to be seen. May I beg to know your name?”

After so long spent in the arid loneliness of no society, she was dizzy with his compliments. She laughed. “I am Miss Melanie Harding, sir.”

“And I am Mr. Philip Carrington, very pleased indeed to make your acquaintance,” he said. He lifted her muddied glove to his lips for a gallant kiss. “Please, let me see you home to begin to make amends for my terrible behavior.”

“Thank you, Mr. Carrington,” she answered. The name was vaguely familiar to her, but she couldn’t quite fathom why amid the delightful feeling of Philip Carrington’s touch as he led her by the arm to his horse. She hadn’t felt that way for a long time, not since Captain Whitney first appeared in her life.

He lifted her up into his saddle, his hands strong and steady on her waist. Then he swung up behind her, holding her close to him as he urged the steed into a gallop. The wind rustling past her seemed exhilarating now where before she had hated it.

Suddenly the world seemed fun again.

* * *

Suddenly Philip Carrington’s unpleasant errand seemed a lot more—interesting.

The fear and remorse of nearly running a helpless lady down in the lane faded as the lady in question looked up at him from beneath the dirt-spattered brim of her bonnet. He saw that not only was she unhurt, but she was remarkably pretty. Tousled bright curls tumbled around an elfin, heart-shaped face and her upturned nose was topped with a spray of pale golden freckles.

She gave a tremulous smile as she looked up at him with those large, cornflower-blue eyes.

“Are you injured?” he said, his voice rough with concern.

“N—no,” she gasped. “I do not think so.”

Her voice was as pretty as her face, delicate as a silver bell. She looked like a fairy princess dropped onto a dull, muddy country lane. He smiled back at her, wondering why he had ever resisted coming to the country in the first place. He had obviously underestimated the charms of rusticating.

Then, in a painful flash, he remembered all too well why he was there in the dismal, muddy countryside. He was there, away from the pleasures of his city life, because he could no longer afford those pleasures. Because he had to find his cousin Henry’s widow, Emma Carrington, and get her to pay him what Henry had owed him before he died. Without those funds, he would be forced to desperate measures.

He would even be forced to go to his nasty old uncle, Sir Angus Macintosh, in Scotland to ask for an advance on his inheritance. And that he did not want to do, even though Macintosh undoubtedly owed Philip for what he had done so long ago, sending Philip’s mother away because she had dared to marry—only to be widowed by—an irresponsible rake. When she had died while Philip was at school, he had vowed to get what she was owed, somehow.

He had also thought to woo Emma while he was here in the country, for she had been a pretty lass and a good friend to him in those heady days on the Continent. Henry had been a great fool not to see what he had in his pretty wife. Emma could give Philip the security he hadn’t known for a long time, thanks to his incompetent family.

But surely there was more to life than security. There was excitement, fun. Danger.

All the things he could see now in the sparkling depths of this lady’s blue eyes. “Please,” he said, “let me see you home to begin to make amends for my terrible behavior.”

She nodded, and let him lift her up in his arms to carry her to the waiting horse. She was as light as a thistle in his embrace, and she wrapped her arms around his neck with another laugh. There were no missish airs with her, no simpering. Just laughter and shimmering eyes.

The ride to the village went much too quickly for Philip’s taste. It had been many days since he had been so close to such a pretty woman, and Melanie Harding was easy to be with indeed. She asked him a few light, flirtatious questions about his business in the country, and told him she was staying with her uncle, a retired admiral, for a few weeks, and was bored to tears in the village. But there was to be an assembly soon and perhaps Mr. Carrington would come? Perhaps he cared for dancing, as she did?

Philip did care for dancing, now even more so than before.

They arrived at her uncle’s house on the narrow village lane much too soon. Philip watched as his pretty damsel in distress dashed up the narrow steps to a house where she paused at the door and turned to give him a flirtatious little wave. Even under the dust of her fall, Philip could see how lovely her pert little face and the bright curls peeking from beneath her bonnet were.

An angel lurking in the dismal depths of the countryside. Who could have imagined such a thing?

Miss Melanie Harding. Philip tipped back his head to peer up at the tall, narrow house. He had a feeling he would be hearing that name again soon. He was determined to see that fair face and slender figure again.

Philip sighed and wheeled his horse around. In the meantime he had to find lodgings and seek out the agent of this dismal journey—Emma Carrington.

At least things looked a little more fun now….

Chapter One

A few weeks later…

Melanie took a deep drink from her borrowed whiskey flask. She could hardly believe what she had just done. The strong, smoky liquid made it seem a bit more bearable, but not much.

She stared out the carriage window at the scenery that flew past, a blur of green hedgerows and blue sky that scarcely seemed real. Surely this was a dream? In all the romantic novels she’d read, heroines who had just eloped with handsome heroes did not feel so very…numb.

But then, was Philip Carrington truly hero material? She had been so sorely deceived once before, with Captain Whitney. Whitney had destroyed what little faith she had in men. But she hoped he had not destroyed her spirit.

In the giddy rush of that moment when David Marton burst into Philip’s room at the inn and caught her in Philip’s arms, Melanie had known all her practical plans of becoming Lady Marton of Rose Hill were gone. Yet somehow she hadn’t cared at all. Indeed, she had only felt—relieved. Free. And dizzy with the sheer, bubbling pleasure of Philip Carrington’s kiss. He was a most skillful kisser.

Melanie peeked at him from under her lashes. She suddenly felt remarkably shy for a woman who had run away so boldly with a man, but luckily he wasn’t watching her at the moment. He sat beside her on the seat of the hired carriage carrying them to Scotland, near but not touching, staring out the other window. She studied his profile against the pale yellow light, as strong and straight and perfect as some classical marble statue, and just as still and unreadable. The tumble of his golden hair fell over his brow and curled on the collar of his greatcoat. Yes—he did look like the romantic lover in a story. But how could the tale possibly end? In real life, romantic tales involving such men always ended badly. Look at her parents, at Captain Whitney.

She couldn’t see his eyes, so she had no clue what he thought about their impetuous act now. Was he deeply sorry he had asked her to go with him to Scotland to meet his rich uncle? Was he regretting the moment he kissed her and she, giddy with passion, had said yes? He had been remarkably silent on the journey thus far, and last night they had slept in separate rooms.

“Your romantic nature will get you into terrible trouble one day, Melanie,” her mother had said sadly as she packed her off from Bath after the catastrophic affair with Captain Whitney. It seemed Mama was horribly right, and now Melanie was utterly ruined.

Yet she would have done anything to escape from the stultifying tedium of her uncle’s house in that horrible little village. Where every day was the same as the one before, long, dull, never changing. She was losing herself there, losing the spark of excitement that made life worth living. Now she felt nothing but sparks.

Melanie studied Philip’s profile again, so handsome, so strong. Yes, her passion had steered her wrong before. But every day was a new day, at least away from the boring sameness of country life. Anything could happen now.

Especially once they crossed into Scotland. Gretna Green was there, just over the border….

Suddenly Philip turned to face her, as if he realized she was watching him. He studied her, his eyes narrowed, and she had the terrible, cold feeling that he had forgotten she was there. That he wondered why she was sitting next to him.

She pushed those misgivings away. It was too late for doubt now. She took another swallow of the whiskey and passed the flask back to him. He took a long drink of it and tucked it away.

Melanie gave a careless laugh, as if they were merely on a merry little jaunt to a summer picnic. “La, but I can’t believe we have come so far like this! It’s just like a voyage in a book.”

Finally, he laughed, too. It was a golden, wonderful sound, that warmed her even deeper than the whiskey. His eyes, those beautiful summer-blue eyes, cleared, and she saw the dashing, playful man she had been so irresistibly drawn to.

He reached for her hand and drew her close to his side. His arms were strong and warm when they slipped around her waist, his closeness reassuring. Surely sometimes her instincts steered her right? Surely she was meant to be here with this man? She looped her arms around his neck and smiled up at him.

“It’s a grand adventure, Mel,” he said, his tone light. But she was afraid she sensed something taut and tense underneath his humor. “The best one I’ve undertaken in a long time.”