“Rain?” the elder exclaimed, causing Blakely to bite his tongue to keep from laughing outright. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. “We had best go inside immediately. Rain would absolutely destroy our hair.”
“Oh, that would be dreadful,” the other agreed in a mocking tone that had him now biting his lips to remain silent.
“Aye, dreadful,” Francine added dryly.
“Rain!” the older one repeated, as though they discussed a veritable deluge of vipers thundering down upon them rather than the possibility of a few harmless water droplets. “You know what moisture does to your hair, Franny. Best mind you come with us now.”
“As if I could forget,” the reclining Lady Francine muttered to herself. Then louder and brighter, to her persistent companions, “The sooner I have a moment or several to myself, the sooner I am likely to join you inside. For the sake of my hair, if nothing else, will you please—”
“Going!” the younger one trilled, dragging off her sister despite the continued grumbling that they ought to be bringing “Franny” with them.
“Do come in soon, though. Else Mother may come looking herself,” the younger one advised, sounding more mature than she had thus far, still tugging her sister back. “One of your recent suitors is here to renew his address.”
“Aye, you really should consider accepting him, Franny. Mother says his rank and standing in the ton is comserate with yours and that he would make you a very suitable match.”
“Commensurate,” Francine corrected, even as both girls—finally—turned to speed from the garden. “And ’tis Francine,” she called after their retreating figures. “Oh, why do I even bother?”
“Because you know they are nothing more than ill-educated, flighty females but they remain family, so you feel responsible for them all the same.” Blakely stepped from the shadows, exposing himself on several levels, if truth be told. “And though part of me is loath to admit it, I have begun to feel a measure of responsibility toward you, at least in part. Come, make your full proposition. I promise to give it due consideration.”
3
The Mettlesome Miss and her Bold Bargain
My senses are remarkably acute. I see better than my peers, hear better than them. My sense of smell? Oh gads, should there be a rotten rodent rotting below stairs? My blighted nose will not let me sleep until ferreting out the offender.
When I can lose myself in some relaxing endeavor for a few moments, I can almost forget the curse I bear. But then something as simple as playing a game of piquet with my peers brings it roaring back. Either when one of them taps the cards mindlessly on top of the green, or picks at a corner with the edge of a fingernail. Or, heaven forbid one raises the stakes higher than he’s comfortable with and starts to sweat.
I become aware of it all. My nose flares, their perspiration turns pungent, and I feel as though I’m suddenly on the hunt. For what? I know not.
I only know my very cells respond with an acute awareness that leaves me both in awe and mentally rebelling—hating with every cognizant thought in my brain what I have become. A beast. An uncontrollable monster.
A lonely man, who remains afraid to engage with his young sons or love his wife, uncertain when the demon side might take control and render those closest to me lifeless.
It is a wretched, desolate way to live…
Francine scrambled to a sitting position and blinked. Though her vision was hampered by the lack of light, Lord Blakely’s commanding voice was unmistakable. And coming from the recesses of the garden, not the path her cousins had just flounced down. “Fie! Have you been here the entire time?”
“I have.”
What a rotten thing for him to witness! And after he’d deigned to meet her too. She knew her chances with him were ruined now that he’d beheld her childish antics with her cousins. Oh, why couldn’t she maintain “a more proper decorum”, as Aunt Prudence pompously phrased it, for more than a minute?
She stood and faced him, shaking out her petticoats and skirt. “I am certain after observing that interaction, you are quite ready to turn tail and depart, are you not?”
“I make it a point never to turn on my tail.”
The cryptic remark seemed to hold more meaning than she could infer. After a moment, she stopped trying. “Lord Blakely, I promise what you saw is not—”
“You lied earlier,” he accused, “claiming that we have been introduced.”
Caught, she confessed, “We did not exactly meet at the Seftons’”—or dance, much to my disappointment—“but I first saw you there.”
And have fancied you ever since…
As though laughing at her, the cricket chirps became louder, almost drowning out the hard pounding of her heart.
“You are quite the sauce box, are you not?”
“You find me overly forward? Impetuous?” Better to be a sauce box than married to an unwanted suitor. “Were I not, how could I have found a way to speak with you?”
“Intriguing, mayhap. Bold, of a certainty. Though reluctant,” he continued in a somber tone, as though admitting something he’d rather not, “I find myself considering your offer.”
“You are? Why, that’s smashing.”
“As to that, there remains significant doubt.” Three long strides and he was standing directly in front of her. “Tell me your terms, then I shall decide.”
The allure of his body heat and untamed presence only firmed her earlier resolve. She squared her shoulders. “My terms have changed.”
“They have?” His deep voice washed over her again. “To what? Upon further reflection, you have decided not to pursue your scheme?”
“Actually, I have changed my mind but…um…” Her voice wavered as she searched for the right words. Francine’s confidence in the appreciable talents of her intellect was resolute, but making an offer based on her questionable physical attributes was harder than she’d expected.
He shifted, easing away from her and the damp night suddenly permeated her gown. “I should be relieved to hear that you no longer intend to go through with this farce,” he said. “That you have no need of me now. Oddly though, I am crestfallen.”
“There exists no need to mock me, my lord. You do not have to be a…a…”
“An arse?” he supplied, stealing the word right from her thoughts, the scoundrel. “Be assured that was not my intention, but I daresay you have made the right decision. I am convinced of it, though my regret at the news cannot be denied.” He stepped back as if to leave.
“Wait.” Francine lunged to grasp his arm. “You would have me believe that you are quite run aground at the thought I no longer need your help? We both know I’d have to be a complete nick-ninny to believe that.”
Muscles flexed beneath her touch but she held firm. “What now, little miss?”
At the mocking tone, she released him. “You do not understand. I have not changed my mind about you, Lord Blakely, or the pretend engagement. ’Tis just that… Upon my word, this is difficult.”
“You obviously have more to say. Come, let us sit and you can state your piece.” He guided her to the bench she’d reclined on earlier and they both sat down, a respectable distance between their thighs—one she longed to close.
“What is it?” His wine-laced breath was warm as it wafted past her cheek, combating the slight chill in the air. “Am I now to conclude that no longer am I your first choice? That after making my acquaintance tonight, you have now decided I shall not suit?”
Lord Blakely turned away and faced the shadows.
In profile, the planes of his face outlined by the starlight, he seemed more vulnerable, more open to injury than Francine would have thought possible. She could just make out the casual fall of his overlong hair, the slash of black side whiskers against his well-defined jaw, the barely discernible curve of his lips, almost lost in the burgeoning folds of his neckcloth, now that he’d bowed his head. Lips she desperately wanted to touch with her own.
Or perhaps sh
e only imagined the details, having committed them to memory earlier.
“Cannot say I’m surprised,” he muttered, as if to himself. “Are you now moving on to candidate number two? Who is he, by the way?”
“Lord Crandall,” she tossed off the first name she thought of, hoping he was still unmarried, “but that is of no consequence because—”
“Lord Crandall?” His head whipped around and he fairly glared at her, his eyes suddenly taking on a shimmering golden glow. “Have you truly lost your wits? He delights in being an unprincipled reprobate, one who will eat you up and spit you out, bones and all. Come to think on it, I might too, but at least I would regret it afterward.”
Her fingers returned to his sleeve. “You do not understand.”
* * *
“Damn right I do not. How you could even contemplate the possibility of propositioning that rakeshame is beyond me. Crandall is an unconscionable mundungus of a man, certainly not a knave someone like yourself should—”
She laughed. “Now you begin to sound like Aunt Prudence.”
That comparison shut him up.
“I did not mean to imply that I have revised my assessment of your suitability for my proposition. Not at all.”
Blakely knew that her words were meant to reassure him. How was it they did…and didn’t?
“’Tis only that I have altered what I want from you and what I am offering in return.”
“Go on.”
“My circumstances still necessitate that you pose as my betrothed.”
“How do I know you shall end the farce? Jilt me in truth? You could simply be angling for a prime title.”
“Let me put your mind at ease. For one, if all I desired was a title, I would have accepted Farnsworth two Seasons ago.”
A duke, no less.
So I’m not the only one who sees something in her. Blakely might not be bosom chums with the man, but knew him to be better than many. And she’d turned him down? “He proposed?”
“His Grace most certainly did—through my uncle, who brought his suit to me. I declined the same way.”
He stifled a snort. “Farnswimpy becomes flustered, somewhat tongue-tied around a prime article like yourself.”
“That is of no matter.” So quickly she discounted his impromptu compliment. “Secondly, I have no interest in marrying or considering anyone for a husband. Truly, I do not. I am much more concerned with my freedom. Too concerned, I assure you, to barter it stupidly away—to you or any man. And we both know…” Uncharacteristically, she hesitated. Then turned toward him until their knees barely nudged. “May I speak plainly, without fear of wounding your feelings?”
He’d have to have them first. “By all means.”
“If my intention was to secure a husband in truth, would I not have, um, sought assistance elsewhere?”
And there he went, experiencing another strange clip to his pride. One that did not sit well in the least. “I am considered a magnificent catch, I’ll have you know.”
“Aye, you possess a title,” she rushed to assure, a little too quickly to his mind. “A good one. And your pockets brim, your estates produce. But you also whore and gamble and have secrets that—”
He snaked an arm out to capture her wrist. “What makes you say that?”
“I see—sense them.” And if that didn’t turn him up mute. “Come now, let us, for a moment at least, have utter and complete candor between us. Would any sane, marriage-minded miss—one with an analyzing brain and a modicum of true wit—really choose you?”
He did not know whether to be rudely insulted or hugely impressed by her observations. Unsettling, though they were.
Unsettling in the extreme.
Before he could ascertain why, she rushed on. “Now that we have confirmed I shall jilt away, you need to hear the rest of my proposal. For, in addition to the playacting, the faked betrothal, Lord Blakely, I would like to request you to be my lover.”
Shock held him immobile. Dirt from his last hunting excursion must be lodged in his ears. Blakely shook his head. “Repeat that.”
“I want you to be my lover. If you would not mind overly much, that is. During the tenure of our agreement,” she added, as if only doing it for a specified duration made her request any less surprising.
Did she have any idea what her words did to him? What the idea of prigging her was doing to his body? He stood abruptly, forced his fingers from her wrist and stalked away from the temptation she presented. A vision of mounting her filled his mind. Of riding her feminine, shapely arse until she moaned and wept around his cock as he pounded into her so hard, so deep, she screamed. And begged for more.
The thought fired his blood to the point of pain. Insane. He’d always been able to manage his desires. Always. His mind might not have dominion over The Change but through years of practice, he could remain sheathed inside a woman, experiencing her release—which somehow tamed the feline atoms of his being—until just before he erupted, always vacating her warm fancy in time and spilling his seed harmlessly.
Knowing full well the dangers of passing on the curse, he’d refrained from siring any bastards, but he couldn’t say the same for the others who shared his burden.
He could control his lust, his cells, tonight. But for how much longer? He looked past the hedges, gauging the position of the stars beyond. By midnight, Hercules would be almost overhead. In less than three months, the sun would enter the constellation Leo and his control would be precarious at best. Deadly at worst.
Did that give him enough time to fulfill her request and satisfy his burgeoning lust? Still not looking at her, he swore. “You do not know the entirety of what you ask.”
She stepped in front of him, caught his gaze and captured him as surely as if she’d snared a hapless hare. “Perhaps not, but I want you to show me.”
“Why would a virgin want to align herself with someone like me? Your reputation will be destroyed.” Why in the hell was he arguing with her? She’d just invited him to fuck her, for God’s sake.
It seemed some shred of nobility remained in him after all.
“Do you not understand? At four and twenty—and nine months,” said as though he should consider her ancient, indeed, “I should be considered on the shelf by now but my popularity has not waned, not among a certain caliber of men, ones I have absolutely no interest in.” For the first time, her composure slipped, voice cracked as agitation lent a panicked edge to her tone. “Can you not see? I want to be publicly ruined—or, at the very least, publicly claimed by you. Then my aunt will have to abandon her ridiculous notions of managing me into an unwanted marriage.” She dropped her gaze, lowered her voice to a whisper. “Aside from that, I… I am not a virgin.”
Not a virgin? That was news. “You have been with a man before? Sexually?”
“Aye,” she confessed in a small voice.
There was that at least.
“Only once. He was a boy, really, not a man.” She tipped her head up, braving his gaze. “Not to refine overmuch, but I was numb with grief at the time. ’Twas directly after my parents died and before my aunt and uncle traveled to Papa’s country estate—my home—to bring me to live with them. I did not object when he…”
“Who?” And why did he care?
“A shopkeeper’s son I had known for years. Not well, mind.” Her eyes flitted away before returning. “I just wanted to feel again. And I did. Only remorse after. Not any pleasure during. And, well…” Her face pinched as though she tasted something bitter indeed. How was it she managed to maintain her calm and serene tone—even while sharing something so very intimate? “Since I did not enjoy it in the least, I chose not to repeat the experience. Not that I have been the least tempted, because I have not.”
“Then why bring it up now? Why ask me to bed you?”
Her eyes glistened, speaking to every part of him that wasn’t a barbarian. “Because when I am close to you, my womanly urges make themselves known. And I want to experience i
t again, the physical knowing of a man. With you. In particular.”
Bloody hell.
At four and thirty, he’d had almost a full decade to familiarize himself with his body’s altered abilities—and limitations. His thoughts raced over what he and the others who shared his burden had discovered since The Change began…that the only way to mitigate the animalistic tendencies was through sex.
Surrendering to the instinctual need to mate, which heightened throughout the summer, channeled the foreign energy that drove him into an outlet other than altering his form. The singular act of swiving a wench was the only thing that subdued the wildness, calmed his blood and allowed him to function even remotely like normal during the time his control was at its most tenuous.
Which shouldn’t be for weeks yet, so why was lust stampeding his very being right this moment?
Because of the surprisingly appealing morsel before him?
He stepped to the side, away from temptation.
Temptation followed—Lady Francine matched his action. “Lest you forget, I shall compensate you handsomely once our time is finished—”
“What do you take me for?” he all but spat. When had his pantaloons gotten so dreadfully tight? “I am not a three-penny upright or licentious lord with pockets so empty the Devil dances in them at his leisure. I have absolutely no interest in your money.” Only yourself.
“Please, my lord. I only need the protection of our false betrothal until I reach my majority, which is not terribly far off. Then you will be released from our agreement and I promise not to make any further claims on you.”
A clue, finally. Something to take his mind off what his body craved. “Tell me what has happened, that you now require an official betrothal, especially one for such a brief commitment.”
Ensnared by Innocence: Steamy Regency Shapeshifter Page 4
