by Hope Tarr
His hand slid to the nape of her neck. Downy soft hairs teased his palm. He guided her face up to his, tasting her honeyed breath. Her moist lips were parted slightly, expectantly. She wanted him too. He could feel it.
Anthony could wait no longer to taste those full, ripe lips. Cupping her shoulders in his palms, he drew her against him, angling his face to hers. Their mouths met, hers closed beneath his. The light caress inflamed him. He wanted more, much more.
He slid his tongue along the seam of her lips, probing. She hesitated, and then opened. Anthony glided inside the cinnamon-spiced cavern. Exploring, he found the treasure of her tongue and entwined it with his own. She sighed and sagged against him, weightless as air. So soft, so sweet, and so sublimely willing.
Somewhere in the background a clock ticked, reminding him that the night was slipping by. He dragged his mouth away to sample her blood-warmed ear. He took the lobe between his teeth and gave it a gentle nip before moving on to trace the heated whorls with the tip of his tongue. His mouth fastened on the hollow of her throat, tasting her racing pulse. Their struggle had left her skin salt flavored—deliciously so.
Her head fell back, and she arched against him. Wear had rendered the fine lawn of her shirt as sheer as silk. He could just make out the outline of her chemisette, feel the firm points of her nipples against his chest. He slid his hand downward until one perfectly shaped breast nestled in his palm. His thumb moved in a slow circle, finally grazing the taut peak.
“Bastard!” She pushed against his chest.
“Robin?” His brain enveloped in haze, he reached for her.
The sudden sting across his jaw cleared his head of the remaining fog.
Face bathed scarlet, Robin dropped her hand. “I may be a robin, Lord Montrose, but I assure you that I am no canary.” She wiped her damp mouth with the back of one trembling hand. “I shall hand over the pearls to you at midnight tomorrow as agreed, but nothing more.”
Rubbing his jaw, Anthony frowned. “I have never forced myself on a woman, Lady Robin. I have no intention of doing so tomorrow night or any other.”
“Hah!” She dropped to one knee and began shoving the scattered articles into the leather bag.
He laid a slippered foot on the leather strap. “This remains here.”
She tried to jerk the strap free.
“I’m afraid I must insist.”
She scowled up at him but, to her credit, she was not fool enough to argue. Ignoring his outstretched hand, she gained her feet. Walking to the window, she climbed onto the sill and took hold of the rope. One foot braced on the slate eave, she levered herself onto the roof.
“Until tomorrow night, Lady Robin.”
A soft thud announced that she had landed safely below.
Turning back inside the room, Anthony was uncomfortably aware that his manhood had come to its full, aching arousal.
God, what a woman.
Grinning, he allowed he’d never get to sleep now. He considered dressing and joining Reggie in Covent Garden, and then dismissed the notion. With only twenty-four hours to discover the identity of the captivating Lady Robin, he must use his time wisely.
Besides, the brothel where Reggie was spending the evening specialized in blondes. After tonight, Anthony was definitely thinking redhead.
Ballocks, Montrose. You were supposed to be at the theater.
Hands trembling, Chelsea took hold of the rope. Even as she edged down the slick, moss-covered stone, she asked herself how the night could have gone so wrong. In stalking her quarry, she’d been so careful, so thorough. She’d even scanned the society column of the Morning Herald to be certain of which evenings Lord Montrose would be away from home. That morning’s column had announced that dashing Lord M— would be escorting his lovely fiancée, Lady P—, to the premier performance of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet at Drury Lane. The gala in the Green Room, to be presided over by H.R.H., known among his familiars as “Prinny” was expected to last into the wee hours. How perfect, Chelsea had thought. She’d kept watch outside Montrose’s town house until seven that evening when, formally attired and handsome as sin, he’d left in his carriage. As soon as the dust from his lordship’s carriage wheels had settled, she’d raced home to fetch Jack. They’d waited in the alley out back until the last window in the house darkened. Then Chelsea had made her move. Thinking she possessed hours, she’d crept at her leisure from room to room, ending in the library.
Where she’d been nabbed by “Lord M” himself!
What manner of rake returned home before midnight? With a huff, she released the rope and dropped the remaining few feet to the garden. Her knees buckled, more from nerves than from fatigue, she suspected. Fortunately there was no need to climb the stone wall, for the gate was unlocked. Mentally thanking the careless servant who had neglected to bolt it, she lifted the hasp and slipped into the alley.
The cobbled thoroughfare was lit only by the moon and the candles left burning in the windows of a few houses. Earlier that day, she’d reconnoitered the alley. Now she easily slipped into its blackness, gliding her hand along the perimeter of garden fences and rubbish bins she’d committed to memory. Aside from surprising a cat that darted into her path with an angry hiss, she gained the end without incident.
Lantern light illuminated Jack’s taut features. She girded herself, but his expression eased when she approached.
“What the devil took ye so long? ’Tis after midnight. I was just about to come after ye.”
Guilt lashed at her. It was bad enough that she’d been wrapped around Lord Montrose like so much ivy, but to think she’d behaved so brazenly when her own brother was being held captive. And she’d abandoned poor Jack as well, leaving him on his own to wait and worry.
By the looks of him, he’d worried a great deal. Knowing how skittish he was, she hadn’t told him it was Lord Montrose’s house they were looting, which of course meant she couldn’t admit his lordship had discovered her.
“Sorry. I heard a noise,” she whispered, “but it was only the butler seeing to the candles. I hid in the library until he finished. By then, it was too dark to see much of anything, so I left.”
“There’s naught to be gained by takin’ foolhardy chances.” Jack cast one last look down the darkened alley and beckoned her to follow. “There’s always tomorrow night, ’eaven ’elp us.”
Tomorrow night.
Taking the lantern, she led the way down the maze of intersecting alleys, all the while asking herself how on earth she was going to slip out. Jack would never permit her to go without him. But she must. If Montrose set a trap after all, at least Jack wouldn’t be caught as well. Buried in the recesses of her mind was a far less noble motive: she wanted to be alone with Lord Montrose one last time if only to prove that her wantonness was an aberration, the result of jangled nerves and little sleep.
They emerged in the mew behind Mount Street and crept past the row of stables and coach houses. The whinnies of horses and Jack’s footfalls were the only sounds to stir the silence.
Jack reached over the gate and lifted the latch. As they walked up the narrow stone path to the back door, Chelsea congratulated herself on her choice. Mount Street was cloaked in shabby respectability, a mixture of shops, lodging houses, and small, unpretentious private homes. The parish workhouse was located on the south side; otherwise, the neighborhood was the sort where people led quiet, uneventful lives and were abed by nine. The gray clapboard town house she’d let was neat and nondescript—the perfect spot to hole up until the ransom delivery. And, with the social season at its end, the landlady had been prepared to be reasonable about the rent, especially when Chelsea had arrived at the rental office wearing widow’s black and offering to pay in advance.
They stepped inside the kitchen, and an unexpected sneeze provided her with the excuse for which she’d been searching.
“Gawd bless ye.” Jack set the lantern on the pine table and dug into his pocket for a handkerchief. “Ye’re coming
down with the head cold, I reckon. ’Tis what comes of dashing about ’til all hours, not takin’ proper care o’ yerself.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she replied meekly, dabbing the tip of her nose with the cloth. “I had planned to try my luck again tomorrow night, but perhaps I should rest instead.”
Jack headed for the pantry. “’Tis the first sensible thing ye’ve said since we got ’ere.”
His back turned, she grabbed the pepper mill from the table and sprinkled the granules into her palm.
Bracing herself, she brought her hand to her face and inhaled.
“Ahhhh chooo!”
Her sneeze rocked the rafters. Jack found her doubled over and clutching a chair back, eyes streaming.
“Poor lamb. We’d better get ye to bed.”
Still choking, she headed for the hall stairs. “Yes, I think I’ll go right up.”
Inside her bedchamber, images of Lord Montrose assailed her. Lord Montrose leaning against the desk, arms folded across his broad chest, unconcerned that his robe gaped open. The triangle of dark brown hair had confirmed that he wasn’t wearing a nightshirt beneath the black velvet. But then a Corinthian of his rakish caliber probably slept in the buff, Chelsea decided, shoving her practical cotton nightgown over her head.
She unlocked the drawer of the bedside table to assure herself that the pearls were safe. Unwrapping the square of velvet, she carried the necklace to the open window and looked out onto the moonlit garden. Late-blooming roses scented the breeze wafting inside, ruffling her loose hair and molding her nightgown between her legs.
She unfurled her fingers, the rope of pearls slipping through them in a silken stream. What would it feel like to stand in front of that window, naked but for the pearls, waiting for my lover to come to me?
Having never had a lover or even a serious beau, she relied on her imagination. Closing her eyes, she stroked pearl-wrapped knuckles over her cheek, recalling Lord Montrose’s silken caress. When her imaginary lover assumed Lord Montrose’s form—this time, sans robe—Chelsea crushed the necklace into her fist. Clearly a life of crime was having a dangerously disinhibiting effect on her morals.
And her concentration. Finding Robert was of paramount importance; she couldn’t afford to become distracted. These ridiculous, impossible fantasies about Lord Montrose must stop. Now.
Sighing, she stowed the necklace, blew out the candle, and slipped beneath the covers. The sale of the pearls was to have brought the lion’s share of the ransom money. After returning them tomorrow night, she must devote herself to stealing enough to redeem Robert.
Tomorrow night.
She sat up and plumped her pillow, telling herself she had no choice but to return the necklace. Lord Montrose was not the sort who made idle threats. No doubt he would hire Bow Street’s finest to track Jack and her if she attempted to renege on her promise.
Throwing off the worn coverlet, she pressed the back of her hand against her damp forehead. Perhaps she really was coming down with a cold. She did feel feverish. Sleep was what she needed. She lay back down and closed her eyes, but instead of blank darkness, Lord Montrose’s face drifted before her mind’s eye. With his seductive brown eyes, mussed auburn hair, and the ghost of a beard shadowing his strong, sculpted jaw, he had looked every inch the irresistible lover.
But resist him I must, she reminded herself forcefully.
Lord Montrose was a roué and the very next thing to married. Even if he were neither, the difference in their social stations would render impossible any respectable association. Viscounts did not marry the daughters of penniless country squires. Just as well. She thought of how blithely he’d offered her his bed—as though he’d expected her to fall into it—and her cheeks burned with outrage and, yes, shame. To a man like Montrose, women were playthings, to be used and tossed aside with no more thought than he probably gave to disposing of a worn pair of gloves. That didn’t alter the fact that she’d waited a lifetime for a man to kiss her like he had that night.
Until Dumfreys’s assault, she’d fended off would-be suitors with ease. But Lord Montrose was no callow, country-bred boy. Judging from tonight’s expert performance, he was an accomplished seducer, and yet she did not believe him to be entirely without scruples. When he’d given her his word that he would allow her to go free, she’d believed him. To his credit, he hadn’t forced himself on her, although he could have easily ravished her, especially after her own appalling lack of self-control had landed her in his arms.
But the knowledge that Lord Montrose was no rapist was cold comfort. With looks like his, she was certain he’d never had to resort to force to get what he wanted from a woman. It should be a crime for a man to possess such a disarming smile. How many hearts had he used it to capture?
She punched her fist into the pillow. Lord Montrose, you are the true thief.
Chapter Five
Anthony emerged into the sunlight. Adjusting his eyes to the glare, he descended the granite steps from Murdock’s Lending Library, a yellowed newspaper folded beneath one arm. It had taken him the better part of the morning and afternoon, but finally he’d found what he sought. He smiled in contemplation of his midnight engagement. If all went according to plan, by the end of the night he would have Phoebe’s pearls in his pocket and Chelsea Bellamy warming his bed.
He had his Lady Robin in hand now. Victory would be all the sweeter for the trouble she had caused him.
To Chelsea, Lord Montrose’s study was a typical male preserve of musty books, leather furnishings, and the faint, sweet scent of tobacco. With cravat loosened and shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, his lordship looked the part of a gentleman at his leisure—and even more dangerously attractive than he had on the previous night.
Lord Montrose tilted his chair from the desk and studied her. “So, Lady Robin, it seems you are a woman of your word.”
Facing him across the width of the desk, Chelsea unhooked the small leather pouch from her waist. Willing her hands to stop shaking, she handed it to him.
“Your fiancée’s necklace, as promised.” She shivered when their fingertips brushed.
After a brief inspection, he dropped the pearls inside a desk drawer and locked it.
“Truce?” Rounding the desk, he offered her his hand.
His long fingers curled around her palm, and Chelsea’s heart fluttered. Carrying her hand to his lips, he brushed her fingertips. A shudder shot through her.
Standing before him, she caught a whiff of the cool, clean scent of his shaving soap. The urge to let her fingertips trace the hard line of his freshly shaven jaw was so strong that, to be safe, she jammed her free hand inside her trouser pocket.
“I really should be going.” Her voice held remarkably steady for a woman whose insides were churning.
He released her with a show of reluctance. “I had hoped you might stay to join me in a light supper.”
Shocked, she crammed the hand he’d just released into her other pocket. “I’m afraid that is out of the question.”
“Don’t tell me that you’ve already eaten?” His face registered disappointment.
She was about to answer yes when her stomach betrayed her with a loud rumble.
He grinned. “I think not.” Hand on her elbow, he steered her toward the door. “But we can remedy that.”
She halted. “Lord Montrose, I don’t think dining with you would be wise.”
“Why not?” he asked, expression bland.
Was he mocking her? Annoyed, she answered through pursed lips. “I should think that would be obvious. I came tonight only to return the necklace I—” she faltered, “—stole from you. I am hardly an invited guest.”
He opened the study door and held it. “That is for me to decide.”
Chelsea hesitated. To accept his invitation would be to chart a perilous course. But over the past twenty-four hours, her body seemed to have developed a will of its own. She laid her fingers atop his, butterflies dancing in her stomach. He linke
d his long fingers through hers, and her hand disappeared in his warm grasp.
“You needn’t fear discovery.” His other hand on her back, he guided her through the sconce-lit hallway. “I have dismissed the staff for the night, including Chambers.”
Recalling the frail, black-clad old man she’d seen answering Anthony’s front door the day before, she asked, “I gather Chambers is your butler?”
“My uncle’s butler.” He paused, then amended, “My butler now, I suppose. Fellow must be in his eighties. He’s blind as a bat and creaks like carriage springs when he walks, but I haven’t the heart to retire him.”
A sliver of light showed beneath ornately carved double doors. Releasing her hand, Anthony opened them and led her inside a large dining room with cream-colored walls, emerald velvet drapes, and plush carpet patterned in hues of cream and jade. The faint smell of fresh paint hovered. The night before, she hadn’t stopped to admire the chamber’s beauty, but now she found her gaze straying. Roundels depicting scenes from classical mythology dotted the intricate plasterwork ceiling. Flames flickered in the wall sconces above a burl walnut sideboard laden with food.
Lord Montrose stood in the center of the room, the pride of possession shining from his brown eyes. “Do you like it? It’s one of the few rooms in this mausoleum that comes close to being habitable.”
Habitable indeed. Chelsea thought of the shabbiness of Oatlands, Robert’s legacy—assuming he survived—and her heart tugged. Rotting woodwork and a leaking roof, veritable calamities a few weeks before, were now the very least of her worries.
Aware of her host watching her, expectant, she suppressed a sigh and answered, “It’s splendid. The most beautiful room I’ve ever seen.”
