What the Hart Wants (Headstrong Harts Book 1)

by Emily Royal

  As he moved deeper into the building, a noise came from behind a door to the right.

  Someone was there. In his house.

  The noise stopped, then he discerned faint footsteps. They were too light to be those of a man. Perhaps a child was playing hide-and-seek. With a stern word and a clip on the ear, Fraser could dispatch him with little trouble.

  He pushed the door open. The walls of the room were lined with books, from floor to ceiling. A deep red rug lined the floor, its pattern illuminated by a thin ray of sunlight. Beyond, a pedestal stood by the window. It was empty. Presumably, someone had broken in and stolen whatever ornament had graced it.

  A sound came from behind, but before he could move, pain exploded in the back of his head, and he crumpled to the floor.

  *

  The unconscious man at Lilah’s feet seemed to have shrunk in size compared to the ogre which had emerged through the door.

  But nevertheless, he was a man, and a large one. Save the stubble on his chin, he looked every part the gentleman. A dark green jacket fitted his form like a glove, leaving little to the imagination regarding his athletic, broad-shouldered form. A wicked heat pulsed inside her body at the sight of his breeches through which muscular calves and thighs were visible to the point of wantonness. Polished black boots completed the ensemble, mud spatters evidence of his efforts to conquer the weeds and brambles surrounding the house.

  A man of tenacity.

  Thick, honey-colored locks framed a strong face with a high forehead, straight nose, and a square jaw, which could have been chiseled by Michelangelo. Her lips parted involuntarily as her gaze traced the line of his mouth.

  He let out a low groan and turned his head. The sunlight caught the strands of his hair, igniting a flare of red. Then he opened his eyes.

  Her senses were assaulted by the most striking blue she’d ever seen. Two pools, the color of an ocean, stared back at her, and she took a step back.

  Until now, she’d always believed her brother to be the most handsome man of her acquaintance. But he was nothing compared to the specimen before her. Had she not felled him by her own hands, assuring herself of his mortality, she would have believed him a gift from the gods.

  He sat up, rubbing the back of his head and uttered an ungodlike curse.

  “Fuck!”

  Then he noticed her. A slow smile crept across his lips. An uncomfortable heat bloomed across her body as his gaze caressed her form, and he made no attempt to disguise his frank appraisal of her. Then his lips thinned as his expression hardened as he spotted the shard in her hand—a shard to match the remnants of the vase on the floor.

  “What the devil do ye think you’re doing, foolish lass?”

  His voice, a low baritone, rumbled with a rich Scottish burr which resonated in her bones, and she drew breath, willing the cool air to temper the little pulse of longing.

  How could a man have such an effect on her?

  But the best way to fight fire was with fire—as she had learned years ago. He might be bigger and stronger than her, but he was only a man and, by the look of him, an arrogant one. There was nothing for it but to employ equal arrogance.

  She dropped the shard and folded her arms.

  “I might ask you the same thing,” she said. “This is private property.”

  “Is that so?” He held out his hand. “Help me up, would you?”

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort.”

  “Frightened, eh?” A tone of amusement lightened his voice.

  “I’m frightened of no man,” she said.

  “Then ye’re a fool.”

  He rose to his feet and brushed the front of his jacket. A puff of dust swirled in the air, and he coughed.

  No—not dust, but the contents of the shattered vase. Unable to suppress a giggle, Lilah let out a snort.

  “What’s so funny, lass?”

  “The fact that the owner of Clayton House is blissfully unaware that a trespasser is currently breathing in his ancestor.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She gestured toward the shards. “The seventh duke has resided in that vase for almost two centuries. He weathered the great Fire of London, the riots against the gin taxes, a shooting inside his ancestral home—only to be felled at the hands of a woman defending his home.”

  “Not his home anymore, though, is it? The current owner would be within his rights to recoup the cost of that vase from the woman who broke it.”

  “I was defending myself against a trespasser!” she cried.

  “Are you the owner?”

  “I’m acquainted with the family.”

  It wasn’t a complete lie. After all, the late duke’s widow, Anna, was Lilah’s friend.

  The man folded his arms, mirroring Lilah’s earlier gesture. “Then perhaps you’d care to tell me where the current duke resides.”

  “I have no idea,” she said, “but I doubt he’d wish to see someone like you.”

  His expression hardened. “Ye mean a Scot?”

  “No, a trespasser,” she said. “The family has a reputation for chasing uninvited guests off the premises. Often with a big stick.”

  He let out a chuckle. “You’re a feisty wee lass.”

  “I see no reason to laugh,” she retorted.

  “On the contrary, I find myself highly entertained,” he said, a maddening mix of amusement and over-confidence in his voice. “Perhaps I’ll tarry awhile. I’m in need of company and a good book.”

  Infuriating boor! Did he think to invade her solitude with his overly large frame and particular brand of arrogance?

  “You’ll find nothing to entertain you here,” Lilah said. “I claim rights of possession by virtue of having arrived here first.”

  “Then, you’re here with the owner’s blessing?”

  Unwilling to voice the lie, she nodded.

  “If he’s generous enough to admit you, I’m sure he’d have no objection to my presence here.” He nodded toward the broken vase. “It would, at least, remove the need to defend your person—and a very delectable person it is, too—if you’re accompanied by a gentleman.”

  “You’re no gentleman,” she said.

  He laughed. “Are you a lady?” he asked. “Ladies don’t prowl around abandoned houses they’ve no business in. Shouldn’t you be taking tea in a parlor somewhere, practicing whatever accomplishments you need to snare a husband?”

  A ripple of indignation rolled over her. “How do you know I’m unmarried?”

  “Because, lass, no man worth his salt would permit his woman to roam around London unaccompanied.”

  “Perhaps my husband gives me more freedom than society dictates.”

  He moved toward her, his body blocking out the sunlight, and took her shoulder. Barely suppressed male strength vibrated through his fingers.

  “If I were your husband, lass, I’d turn you over my knee and spank ye raw for being such a hellcat.”

  She let out a squeak of protest, but couldn’t stop the raw pulse of primal need.

  “You’ve no right to speak so!” she protested.

  “I have every right.”

  He squeezed her shoulder again and released her. Suppressing a whimper at the sense of loss, she pushed him away.

  “Y-you have no right to be here!”

  He moved toward the chair she’d vacated and sat. Then he picked up the book of poems and flicked through it.

  “Byron,” he said, a bored tone in his voice. “A mere beginner in the art of seduction.”

  “Byron’s one of the finest poets there is.”

  “You’ve not lived ’til you’ve read the words of Burns,” he said. “Byron dresses up his emotions with pretty speeches, but Burns understood the raw sensuality of a coupling. I could teach you, lass. I’m sure ye’d be a willing pupil.”

  Her breath caught at the flare of lust in his eyes. Anger and indignation warred with her own need, and she pointed at the door.

  “Get out,” she said. “
Leave me in peace. At the very least, you should stand. It’s ungentlemanly for a man to remain sitting when a lady is standing in his presence.”

  “Then come and sit beside me.”

  “Why can’t you just go?” she asked. “I don’t believe the owner would care for your presence here.”

  He closed the book with a snap and dropped it on the floor.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” he said.

  “How so?”

  He crossed one leg over the other with casual, easy grace. “To whom do you think you’ve been speaking?”

  “To a boorish, uncouth Scotsman!”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “I’ve been called worse by many a woman,” he said. He rose to his feet and bowed, clicking his heels together with a snap.

  “Permit me to introduce myself,” he said. “Fraser Malcolm Alistair MacGregor, thirteenth Duke Molineux, and owner of the property in which you are standing.”

  Chapter Two

  Fraser fought to suppress a laugh as the expression on the lass’s face turned from righteous indignation to horror.

  She concealed her shame well; he’d give her that—and she showed more spirit than most. Did she display as much spirit in the bedchamber?

  His body hardened at the thought of grappling with her beneath his bedsheets—the thrill of the chase while they battled for supremacy until she finally yielded.

  She regained her composure and straightened her stance, as if to appear taller. He smiled inwardly at her courage. She was small, even for a woman, and had dealt a lucky blow with that vase. The back of his neck still throbbed.

  “How do I know you’re who you say you are?” she said. “You could be a robber.”

  “I could ask you the same,” he replied. “Shall I summon my lawyer to settle the matter? Or, perhaps the Runners could determine which of us is the criminal.”

  “The criminal?” Her voice lifted a notch.

  “I’m alone, lass,” he said, “if that’s what you fear.”

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  He moved toward her and caught the faint aroma of French lavender.

  “Perhaps, ye’re more afraid of yourself,” he said.

  She tipped her head up to meet his gaze.

  She might, to the untrained eye, be described as unremarkable, with hair the color of peat. She had a heart-shaped face and an upturned nose with a determined little mouth, which spoke of an interior forged from steel. But her most arresting quality was her almond-shaped eyes, which were the color of whisky.

  And whether she knew it or not, they glittered with arousal.

  “If you really are the duke,” she said, “then you’re the criminal for letting this house fall to ruin.”

  “Bricks and mortar,” he said. “Is that all you care about?”

  A spark of anger flashed in her eyes. “Of course not!” she said. “I care nothing for mausoleums. It’s the living souls that depend upon an idle aristocrat that I care for!”

  “Such as?”

  “The birds trapped in the aviary,” she said, gesturing toward the window. “Nobody has tended to them for four years! Should they be left to rot as consequence for the misfortune of being in the power of your cursed family?”

  “Birds?” he said. “Is that all?”

  “Men like you live to shoot them out of the sky!” she snorted. “And what about the servants and tenants who rely on you for a living? Four years is plenty of time for dismissed servants without a reference to sink into the gutter and die.”

  “So, you’re laying deaths at my door, now?” he asked.

  “Your hand might as well have dealt the blow which killed them,” she said. “But you’ll continue to hide behind your title and abuse the underprivileged.”

  “Why in the name of the devil would I do that?”

  “Because it’s in your blood! The Molineux line is rotten to the core.”

  “You know nothing about me.”

  “I don’t need to.”

  “Then you’re a madwoman.”

  She raised her hand, and he caught her wrist and drew her hard against his chest.

  “Take your hands off me!”

  “Ye gods, lass, you’re like a terrier!” He laughed. “All teeth and claws, yapping at a man’s ankles. You need taking in hand!”

  He circled an arm round her waist, and she drew in a sharp breath as her body molded against his as if it belonged there. A spark of desire flared in her eyes, and her cheeks bloomed that delicious pink which a woman in need could never conceal. He dipped his head until their mouths almost met. She grew still, and her breath caressed his skin. He lowered his gaze to the smooth, porcelain skin of her neck, where a faint pulse rippled at the base of her throat.

  His mouth watered in anticipation. The men of his ancestry would mark such fresh, virgin skin as their own, to lay claim to their women.

  There was something to be said for the old ways.

  He flicked his tongue out and ran it along the seam of her lips. She let out a soft sigh, and he caught the faint taste of warm honey. He withdrew his tongue, and a whimper escaped her. She tilted her head, almost imperceptibly, to bring their mouths closer again, an involuntary act driven by need.

  “Tell me what ye want, lass…”

  Face flushed, she parted her lips, and he slipped his tongue inside her warm, welcoming mouth. She curled her fingers round his arms and held him close. A groan reverberated through her body as he took ownership of her mouth, devouring her, savoring the sweet taste of fire and honey.

  He broke the kiss, and she pressed herself against him, a low groan bubbling in her throat. She pressed her lips against his mouth, and the tip of her tongue grew insistent as she sought entrance. But he withdrew, and a frown creased her forehead.

  Clearly, this was a lass who was used to getting what she wanted, a lass who had no use for words when it came to conveying such raw need. He placed his lips against the corner of her mouth, then peppered her chin with a line of feather-light kisses, teasing her mouth with his tongue. She parted her lips again and let out a frustrated little mewl when he did not oblige her demand.

  He smiled against her lips. “I’ll wager you want my hands on ye now, lass, now ye’ve had a taste of pleasure.”

  She stiffened. Her hands, which had clung to him, urging him on, now pushed him away.

  He blinked to clear his vision and saw a blur in the corner of his eye before a sharp sting exploded on his face.

  “How dare you!” she cried. Hair disheveled, she still bore the look of a woman in need, though she fought to hide it.

  “Ye want me, lass,” he said. “I know when a woman’s ready for coupling.”

  The indignation at his crude language rippled through her expression, but not before a wild longing glittered in her eyes. What would it be like to bed her properly—to take her against the hard granite of the highlands, among the heather!

  She wrenched herself from his grasp.

  “You crude creature!”

  “You weren’t unwilling, lass.”

  “You’re worse than your predecessor. His only desire was to add to his long list of conquests. But I shall not be added to yours. I aspire to better things, and have no time for the baser needs of the savage.”

  “Oh, a savage, am I?” he said, suppressing the laugh at the struggle so evident in her expression. “Why deny yourself pleasure when you’ve been fashioned for it?”

  “There’s more to life than pleasure.”

  “That’s not what you were telling me earlier, lass.”

  “I said no such thing!”

  “Not with your words…” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “…but with your body ye were begging, were ye not?”

  She flushed and looked away, instinctively crossing her arms to conceal the twin peaks which had been poking at the muslin of her gown.

  “I’ll not dignify that question with an answer.”

  He let out a laugh. “You have no need
to, lass. I’ve already discovered how to turn that sharp little bark into a purr of pleasure.”

  “I see no point in continuing this conversation,” she said. “Rest assured, I’ll never darken the doors of this house again, now I’ve had the misfortune of meeting its owner.”

  She turned her back and retreated through the door.

  “Farewell, my sweet little terrier!”

  She increased the pace, uttering a curse as she disappeared through the main doors.

  As soon as he established himself in lodgings, he’d make inquiries as to the identity of the hellion. The quality of her gown indicated she had money, but her manner was not that of a lady.

  A courtesan, perhaps? And one with an intellect beyond that of the usual predatory female.

  With such a quarry to be had, perhaps living in London wouldn’t be a hardship after all.

  Chapter Three

  “I must say, Delilah, dear, you seem out of sorts today.”

  Lilah’s friend nodded toward the cup in her hand, which had remained untouched.

  “Is the tea not to your liking?”

  “No, it’s delicious, as usual,” Lilah said, sipping her drink. Overly sweet, but Anne always indulged her, arguing that Lilah needed to enjoy the luxuries her family could now afford, with little or no guilt.

  Which is what he had said—the infuriating rogue who possessed the unnerving skill of ascertaining what unsettled Lilah the most. The rogue who understood her basest desires, even more than she did.

  “Has something happened?” Anne persisted.

  Yes, something had happened. Lilah had almost given herself to a stranger.

  Worse than a stranger. Molineux. The successor to Anne’s first husband.

  But the last thing Anne needed was a reminder of her first marriage.

  Lilah changed the subject.

  “Have you visited Mrs. Forbes recently?”

  Anne nodded. “She works too hard,” she said. “Much like you, Lilah, dear, she seems determined to ignore the pleasures in life. I often tell her she should never have established her sanctuary.”

  “But if she hadn’t,” Lilah said, “then not only would disadvantaged women have one less place in which to find shelter, but we’d never have met.”