“Like Thistlewood, Tidd, Ings, Davidson, and Brunt.” She didn’t miss a name among the Cato Event conspirators.
Gathering a pencil, Duncan circled those respective names in her book. “The more players involved means the greater the likelihood that evidence is unearthed.” As had been the case with the infamous murder plot.
“And the lack of witnesses in a case as prominent as Lathan Holman’s likely indicates that the players involved remain obscure because the Home Office intends it to be that way.”
He grinned and dropped the pencil. “Exactly.” For the first time since he’d met Lathan Holman and taken on the case, a satisfied thrill went through him.
Josephine leaned over and touched her lips to his in a fleeting kiss.
He sat there, dumbstruck, blinking slowly.
“I want to help you with research pertaining to your trial,” she said, her voice husky and low, the only hint that a kiss had preceded that pronouncement.
He’d believed nothing could be more tempting than the sight of her mouth, only to be proven so wholly wrong.
She offered to assist him in Holman’s case when his late wife couldn’t have been bothered to so much as feign interest when he’d spoken of his cases. In fact, she’d called him uncouth and demanded he stop. And yet, this idea of taking help… it was still so new and foreign.
The clock chimed again; this the half-hour.
It is time for you to go.
“Yes,” she murmured, confirming that he’d spoken that regret aloud.
Slowly, Duncan came to his feet, and Josephine followed suit.
Only, she didn’t take her leave.
The air thrummed around them, coming alive with an energy that hissed like the earth right after a lightning strike.
And he was hopeless to make his legs move.
She drifted closer so that the tips of their boots touched, and their chests brushed.
Their chests, which rose and fell in a like, quickened rhythm.
Josephine’s long lashes fluttered, the glimmer of desire in her eyes concealed and revealed in a tempting kaleidoscope. “Duncan,” she whispered.
Their mouths were on each other’s in an explosion of fire.
He kissed her as if consumed. And she met each slash of his lips over hers.
She moaned, and that low, sultry hint of her desire fueled him, and he slipped his tongue inside the hot, moist cavern of her mouth.
Catching him by the lapels of his jacket, Josephine layered her body against his. He groaned. They tangled with their tongues, two people fired by passion, warring for supremacy in a battle in which he was all too happy to surrender.
God help him, for the scoundrel the papers and Society had purported him to be couldn’t keep his hands from her. He stroked the gentle curve of her hips and cupped the swells of her buttocks, dragging her close so that his throbbing length pressed against the softness of her belly.
Whimpering, Josephine wavered on her legs and sank onto the edge of the library table.
Duncan deepened the kiss. And she met every lash of his tongue against hers. He shifted his hands from her waist, guiding them higher. And then, through the soft muslin fabric of her dress, he palmed her breasts.
Josephine cried out, flexing her hips reflexively.
The world leaned and rolled.
Nay, that wasn’t the world.
Josephine and Duncan came down hard as the library table tipped sideways. The contents slid down, and cursing, Duncan moved into position over Josephine to shield her from the wooden vaults as they toppled over the side, one by one.
He grunted, taking three hard thumps on the back, and braced for the remaining shower of furniture.
Tick-tock-tick-tock.
The clock pinged, those passing seconds inordinately loud as Duncan and Josephine remained with their bodies folded into each other.
His heart thundered in his ears, still racing, not from the jarring interruption, but rather, the feel of her against him.
You bloody cad.
Duncan and Josephine spoke at the same time.
“I should—”
“You should—”
They both stopped and then started at the exact same time.
“You first.”
“Please, you.”
And at last, all desire lifted as he was left with a slow-creeping horror at what he’d done. He’d kissed a woman in his employ. Nay, what they’d shared hadn’t been just a kiss.
In the end, Josephine was the first to find a response. She made a clearing sound with her throat. “I should straighten—”
“You should go.”
She instantly fell silent.
A litany of curses rolled through his head. Not only had he proven a bounder in embracing her, he was a damned lout in his handling of the aftermath. “You were supposed to leave some minutes ago.” He didn’t have a damned clue as to what time it was. The earth might as well have stopped spinning on its axis, for all he knew. “I’ll see to this.” Stop talking, you fool. He tried again for sensible words, seeking blasé and at best finding curt. “Just go.” It would seem his pledge to not be boorish had proven a short-lived one.
“Of course,” she said stiffly. “I shall leave you to your work.”
He stared after her retreating frame as her boots beat a quickened staccato upon the floor. The tread of her footsteps grew muffled as she left the rooms. There was the rustle of fabric as she no doubt relinquished his hook and donned her cloak.
“Josephine,” he called after her. She angled her head a fraction so that their eyes met. “That should not have happened, and I’m sorry that it did.” Liar. “If you do not return tomorrow, I… understand. I will not hold you to the contract we agreed upon.”
She remained there, and he held his breath, wanting her to say something. In the end, she let herself out.
He didn’t move.
Swiping both palms up and down his face, Duncan unleashed a stream of expletives. He’d kissed a woman in his employ. It had been caddish and shameful—and the memory of her body against his left him shaken still. His desire to taste her and feel her had superseded all logic and reason and honor. And he wanted her still… He let his arms fall to his sides. “Enough,” he said tightly.
What had transpired this afternoon couldn’t happen again.
Nay, if she returned, it wouldn’t again happen.
Why did the idea that this would be the last moment he saw Josephine Webb leave him so damned bereft?
Chapter 11
Five hours later, on the fringe of Lord and Lady Montfort’s ballroom floor, her lips still burning with the memory of Duncan’s mouth on hers, Josephine acknowledged the truth—she’d never been kissed before.
Not truly. Not in any meaningful way. Not until Duncan’s kiss.
He’d kissed her as if he’d sought to devour her. Kissed her like her mouth against his was more vital than the air he breathed.
Josephine discreetly touched a fingertip to her lips. That kiss had felt like a brand, and yet, the waltzing couples twirled by in an explosion of colorful skirts, and Josephine remained unseen, as she’d always been. She swept her gaze out over the sea of guests, searching and then finding one slightly taller figure set apart from the rest of the crowd.
Classically handsome, tall, lean, golden-haired, and with his cravat meticulously tied, Lord Grimslee was the manner of gentleman to snag any young lady’s attention and sighs.
Two years ago, Josephine had been that woman. She’d been wholly enrapt by Lord Grimslee and had dreamed of their first embrace.
In the end, she had despised everything about her first kiss. Lucas’ lips had been soft, his kiss restrained. And then there’d been his breath, a blend of clover and brandy, and she’d been so distracted by that scent, she’d been incapable of thinking about anything other than just how distasteful she’d found the whole experience.
Fortunately, the moment had been decidedly quick, and when it was all said a
nd done, she’d accepted the truth. In matters of stolen kisses and passionate embraces? Something had been wrong. She’d not believed there was something wrong with her, per se. After all, it’d hardly be logical or fair to take blame for not being roused to some height of passion. No, what had proven wrong that day was every romantic tale she’d read that had portrayed those embraces as moments of magic.
But Duncan’s had been so much more than a kiss. That one word could not properly define the heat and the passion and the burning ache at her core to know more.
To know him in every way.
And he’d desired her with a like intensity. She’d felt his body’s response to her. To their embrace. And yet, he’d wanted to be rid of her.
Such was the way of it between her and men. In the end, they were all eager to be rid of her. So where did that leave her and Duncan, exactly? How was she to be when she returned to his offices tomorrow morn? And how in thunderation was she to face him after that embrace?
Stop it. It was just a kiss. One that had meant nothing to him. And to her? Why, to her it was a rousing moment of passion, but nothing more. She’d disavowed love, and physical desire was entirely different from emotional love, anyway. Just because her body had responded to him didn’t mean she was interested in marrying him. As such, it would be nothing on the morrow when she joined him. Alone. With that memory of their kiss between them.
Josephine swallowed a groan.
Everything about returning to his offices and being alone with him said one thing—danger. Except… after their embrace, Duncan had given Josephine leave to never again return. Just like every man, there was the expectation that they knew what women wanted or deserved. And the only certainty she’d walked away from his Curzon Street offices with was the knowledge that she wanted more than his kiss.
Why should women deny or be denied pleasures? Why should she not know passion?
Because Society had opinions about how she and every lady should conduct themselves?
Well, she’d lived that existence, and it had been dull and had never left her feeling the way Duncan’s embrace had.
“You are quiet.”
Startling, Josephine glanced over.
At some point, her sister-in-law had ceased dancing with Nolan and joined Josephine at the back of the ballroom. And for one moment, with the incisive way the other woman looked at her, Josephine feared the other woman knew all the secrets Josephine now kept. “Sybil.” Josephine forced her most sincere smile. “Forgive me. I was woolgathering…” Which wasn’t untrue. She’d spent the better part of Lord and Lady Montfort’s ball lost in thought… about Duncan Everleigh.
“Hmm,” Sybil replied noncommittal. They stood side by side, assessing the dancers moving through the lively steps of a country reel. “Your brother mentioned to Nolan that you’ve… disavowed marriage.” The orchestra reached a lively crescendo that nearly drowned out the other woman’s statement.
“Yes.” Or she had. She’d been so very convinced that she didn’t want to tangle with the emotion called love. She’d believed she would be content to never have a husband because marriage would see her stripped of the already limited freedoms that women enjoyed. No gentleman would dare tolerate a woman with a mind for legal matters. But Duncan did, and now everything she’d believed to be fact was confused in her mind. “I trust Henry was irate?”
“Quite so,” Sybil said without missing a beat, and both women shared a smile.
Sybil drew closer and positioned herself so that she stood shoulder to shoulder beside Josephine. “Not all gentlemen are unworthy or dishonorable.” Her sister-in-law’s eyes twinkled. “Most of them are, however. But your brother is not… and our marriage is a joyous one.”
“And I trust Nolan wished for you to remind me of that?”
“He did.”
As one, Josephine and Sybil found Nolan on the opposite end of the room. The minute their gazes landed on him, he jerked his focus skyward and made a show of studying the earl and countess’ crystal chandeliers.
Josephine’s lips twitched. “He’s not one for subterfuge.”
“I’d say,” her sister-in-law muttered. “He also wanted me to inquire as to whether you wish to leave.”
Leave…
Which could mean just one thing.
“I saw Lord Grimslee here.”
“He arrived a short while ago, and I have it on good authority that he was not supposed to be in attendance,” Sybil said, confirming Josephine’s supposition.
How many soirees and gatherings and balls had she made hasty retreats from because of him?
Well, her days of hiding from Lord Grimslee—or anyone—were officially concluded. “I’m not going anywhere.” Not anymore. As it was, she’d hidden herself away entirely too long. Why, even one day had been too long.
Sybil beamed. “Splendid. I’d have you know…” Whatever it was her sister-in-law would have her know, however, was lost as Josephine’s gaze went to the central figure of their discourse. Lord Grimslee beat a determined path across the ballroom—her eyebrows shot up—toward her.
Surely not.
The cad wouldn’t have the gall or the gumption to dare seek her out. Not when the gossip had at last begun to abate. Not when he’d humiliated her and shamed her before all the ton.
Not hurt. The pain of that betrayal had quickly come and gone. As much as there should have been the agony of a broken heart, she’d been filled with more resentment and outrage.
“Why, Lord Grimslee isn’t worth even a single—” That jerked Josephine’s attention swiftly back. She gave her head a frantic shake.
“Sybil.” He was nearly upon them. “Stop,” she said, barely moving her mouth. He’d always had a blasted knack for reading lips, and he was looking directly at her. “He’s—”
“I shall tell you precisely what he is. He’s not worthy of your defense.”
Josephine’s panic redoubled. “I’m not attempting to defend him. He’s h—”
“Good. Because Lord Grimslee is a faithless, heartless cad wholly undeserving of—”
“Lady Sybil, a pleasure as always.”
All the color leached from Sybil’s cheeks. “He’s…?” she mouthed.
Josephine gave a tiny nod. Just beyond her sister-in-law’s shoulder, the gentleman stood with his usual smile affixed to his lips. “Sadly, yes.”
“Bloody hell,” Sybil quietly cursed.
Josephine didn’t know whether to laugh or run.
In the end, Sybil brought her shoulders back and confronted Lord Grimslee head on. “You’ve a lot of nerve—”
“Sybil,” Josephine said, clasping her sister-in-law by the arm. With a smile so wide and false it threatened to break her cheeks, Josephine looked out upon the rabidly gawking guests. They all expected the very show Sybil had already begun to perform for them, and Josephine would be damned to hell and back again before she gave them that satisfaction.
Lord Grimslee shifted his eyes to Josephine. Oddly, his gaze contained the same warmth as had been there through their courtship. It had once made her giddy, only now she found it absent of the searing heat with which Duncan Everleigh looked at her. Duncan, who’d kissed her as if he wished to consume her. “I wondered as to whether this next set is available?”
This next set…?
What?
It took a moment for her to register the question and the one asking it.
Lord Grimslee wanted to dance with her? “Are you mad?” she blurted before she could call the words back. In a defensive gesture, she drew her dance card close. Every set was available. Reasons notwithstanding that, after three Seasons, she’d lost the bloom of her debut. And there was the lack of a dowry, of course. And the scandalous siblings. In short, a whole plethora of reasons that she was on the fringe of a ballroom.
“I take that as a no,” he said tersely, his lips still up in their customary smile. This grin, however, proved strained.
Good, he should be uncomfortable. The mise
rable bugger.
Sybil took a step toward him. “Of course it is a no.” Oh, saints love her sister-in-law for that loyalty, and yet, she’d not have Sybil put on display. Not for Lucas Holman, the Viscount Grimslee. Not for any man. “Whyever would she—?”
“Very well,” Josephine interjected, stunning her sister-in-law into silence.
Sybil spun to face her.
Before the other woman could make any further show, Josephine accepted the hand Lucas held out and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor for the current set.
A waltz.
Of course, it should be a waltz.
“Thank you,” he said solemnly when they’d taken their places among the other dancers.
But for a handful of instances she could count on one hand, he’d always been somber.
“I didn’t do it for you,” Josephine rejoined, not even pretending to misunderstand him. “I’d not have Sybil gossiped about.”
Surely she imagined the flash of pain in his eyes. Yes, undoubtedly it had been a flicker of the chandeliers’ glow.
“I deserve that,” he murmured in his predictably even voice.
“Yes,” she said, her words more matter-of-fact than outraged. After all, the viscount did deserve all the disdain her family could heap upon him and his kin. He’d felt his family could raise their reputation by marrying someone more suitable? To hell with him. How dare he or any of the Holmans look upon the Pratts and find them wanting when their own family was so mired in scandal?
Once, she would have been angry. But no more. For, in choosing as he had, Lord Grimslee had proven that he’d never loved her enough. That he never could have. Not in the way that she’d wanted to be loved.
Nay, one who’d been as fearful of Society’s opinion would have never accepted—or allowed—a wife to bury her head in legal books or work… in any capacity.
Unbidden, Duncan’s visage, as he’d been that afternoon, slipped in.
She missed a step, and her former betrothed caught her by the waist, righting her.
The Minx Who Met Her Match Page 13
