Her cheeks paled, and she thankfully resumed her sketching in silence. Had he horrified her with his frank talk? That had been in part his intention. To both shock her into quiet and hurry her up so they could leave this bloody—
“What of the buildings?” What of the . . . ? She froze midstroke and lifted her head. “What are they made of?”
She was relentless. “Oi don’t have a bloody clue.” He scratched at his brow. Nor had he ever given it any thought. It didn’t matter what walls or ceilings were made of, as long as they provided shelter from the elements. “I . . .” He glanced down and over her shoulder, caught sight of her work.
The very streets he’d described had begun to artfully materialize on the page under her masterful strokes. That was why she’d asked about the rookeries. So she could sketch it. Niall knew as much about art as he did courtly manners, but he could still appreciate her deft hand.
She angled her head, blocking his view of her work.
Then it began to rain.
The wind battered his garments, soaking the fabric and chilling him from the inside out. It was a misery he’d not suffered through since he’d poured his stolen fortunes into the ownership of the Hell and Sin. Ironically, he’d be forced back out into the elements by one of those peers he’d spent his entire life hating. “It is raining,” he reminded her snappishly.
“It is drizzling,” she said, not taking her gaze from her sketch pad. “Entirely diff—” A gust of wind stole those words, drowning them out.
Niall had known all number of odd types in the streets. But a noblewoman who’d sit and draw during a bloody squall? He rubbed his hands together to force warmth back into the freezing digits. How could she even move her fingers to sketch in this bloody cold? He clenched his teeth hard to keep them from chattering. God, he did not miss the brutal agony of living outside in the elements as he had for more than eleven years of his life. He’d never forget the hell of it. He did, however, relish the warmth and security that came in living at his club. A club he’d not see until Ryker’s sister found a husband to look after her.
“You should try gloves, Niall,” Diana suggested, making another mark on that page. She paused and ran her eyes over his frame. “At the very least, a cloak.”
“Gloves and cloaks slow your movements.” A lady born to high society, she’d never needed the dexterity to draw a blade and slash a man to save herself. Even if she saw danger in broken axles, she’d not had to battle a person for the right to draw another breath.
How smug the nobility was. They might have the advantage in wealth, power, and prestige, but they didn’t know shite about survival. The wind kicked up. He scraped his gaze over the gray horizon.
Lady Diana made no move to quit her sketching. She bent over that book. If the rain marred her works or that page, she gave no indication, just continued merrily on in her task. For all intents and purposes, she may as well have been picnicking in the damned park, but she wasn’t. They were here indulging her damned frivolities. Suffering through the rain for her pleasures.
All his age-old resentments boiled to the surface, as they so often did when presented with those lords and ladies who put their own interests before those of anyone else. He opened his mouth, set to blister her ears, when she stopped suddenly and turned the book around.
The rain had begun to mar the pencil on the pages, but it did little to detract from the brilliance of her work. She’d brought the rookeries blazing to life; he could almost hear the raucous din as whores hawked their services to drunken sailors.
“Of course, it’s not perfect.” She was wrong. She’d portrayed everything from the uneven cobbled roads to the dilapidated buildings. “Someday, when I visit, I’ll be able to better capture it.”
She spoke the way a lady might speak of a future voyage to the Continent and not some of the most perilous streets in England. He pulled back his lip in a cynical grin. The dandified fops who’d one day marry her themselves only visited those threatening streets to wager their fortunes and bed their whores. Not a single sane one of them would risk their highborn wife. “No husband will ever let you step inside St. Giles.” A husband who’d claim her body and crush her spirit and—
Diana snapped her book shut and began to gather her belongings. “There are no worries on that score. I’ve no intention of marrying,” she mumbled.
Niall sank to his haunches and quickly overtook the task, eager to be done with this place. “Here.” He stood and helped her up. Sketch pads and pencils cradled close, Diana waited as he gathered the blanket. Hastily folding it, Niall tucked it under his arm, and then they started at a quick pace down the path.
Then her words registered.
He came to an abrupt stop, his heel sinking into a thick patch of mud.
The skies opened up in a violent deluge that matched the tempest raging inside. Water streamed in rivulets down his cheeks, blinding him, and he blinked back the moisture. Tossing aside the blanket, he stalked forward and circled his hand around her delicate forearm.
A gasp exploded from her lips on a loud exhalation. The books toppled to the ground between them. “N-Niall.” That tremor hinted at her fear.
Good. The silly chit should fear him just then. He tightened his grip on her arm. “Wot in ’ell did you say?” he shouted into the wind.
The lady’s limp, wet curls hung about her, highlighting those lush, crimson lips made for sinning, now stark red against her pale cheeks. Strawberries. They put him in mind of that summer fruit and the first time he’d sampled such joys.
Do not look at her bloody mouth. Or think about how badly he wished to claim her lips and learn whether they tasted like berries and goodness.
Except . . . Diana spoke, not allowing him to look away. “Which part?”
The bewilderment in her question effectively doused his ardor. “About marrying,” he raged.
“Uh . . .”
Fury descended over his eyes, momentarily blinding him with his rage. That was what she’d say?
With a surprising show of strength, Diana used his distraction to her advantage and tugged her arm free. She hastily gathered her drenched books. “P-perhaps w-we should have this d-discussion in the carriage.” With the regality of a queen, even in a raging storm, she proudly stood.
Raindrops struck his cheeks, burning his skin. Ignoring the discomfort, he stared after her retreating frame.
Now she wished to escape the bloody rain? Now, when it was convenient to her?
She broke out into an all-out sprint. Who’d have believed a lady, hampered by skirts, could race off with the speed of a deft London street thief?
He had suffered through this past week with the ever-present reminder that his role here was temporary. This daft lady’s marital state was inextricably linked to his freedom. As soon as she married, she’d become some other man’s concern and Niall would be free to return to his home and hell. Only to find out she’d no intention of marrying, leaving him effectively trapped—unless his brothers relented and voted on his return. In five long strides, he easily overtook her, blocking her escape.
She shrieked, hugging those books close to her soaked garments. “You startled—”
“Why did ya say ya have no intention of marrying?” He interrogated her with the same biting fury he did traitors inside his club. Except . . . His gaze dipped lower. The green muslin cloak was plastered against her generously curved frame, highlighting her lush femininity. He briefly closed his eyes. He’d been too long without a woman. There was no other accounting for the lust she roused. Disgusted with himself, he gave his head a hard shake. “Oi asked ya a question,” he compelled.
To the lady’s credit, this time she did not back down. Rather, she stood, a veritable rain goddess wholly unfazed by the storm raging about them. “Because I do not,” she said with the same matter-of-factness as when she’d probed him on his damned preference for tea. And just like that, she marched off again.
He flared his nostrils. If she t
hought that flippant four-word reply ended the matter, then she was dicked in the nob. “Diana Verney, Oi’m not through with this discussion.”
Diana sighed, grateful for the volatile wind that concealed that troubled exhalation. Niall already took her for a weak, brainless twit. She’d not feed those unflattering assumptions.
Again, he gripped her by the arm.
Of course, he’d not let the matter rest. It had been a dratted slip of information. Information she’d intended to keep secret from the whole of the world. And just like that, she’d breathed the truth aloud—to this man. Fury burned from the sapphire orbs of Niall’s eyes.
Fiddling with the sopping strings of her hopelessly ruined bonnet, she conceded he was a good deal more than that. A vein throbbed at his temple. He was livid, and yet what business was her marital state to him? “By your response, one would think you were a disappointed papa.”
It proved the wrong thing to say. “Is this a game to you?”
Diana winced as he tightened his hold, and the fear she’d known in the alley at St. Giles stirred to life once more. For, in this instance, she was brutally reminded that this man, who so easily and harshly handled her, was not like the affable gentlemen of the ton, who’d never dare put their hands on a lady. Not unless they wished to marry, or face a duel at sunrise. “Release me,” she countered, not allowing herself to give in to the fear he roused.
Surprisingly, he did.
“Well?”
Goodness, he was unrelenting. And because Diana knew he’d keep her here until she either expired from the frigid, rainy weather or gave him an answer, she explained. “I have no intention of marrying.”
His eyes formed round, horrified circles. “All ladies want to wed.”
“Most do.” Only the naive, hopeful ones. “Some do not.” The practical ones who knew the peril in trusting your life and future over to a man.
“And you fall into the category of some.”
At last he understood. She would not, however, explain the pain that had brought her to the decision. Or the fear for what she ultimately faced. Those were pieces of herself she’d share with no one. “I do.”
Suddenly he released her. Unleashing a vitriolic stream of inventive curses, he began to pace a frantic path. Despite the icy rain penetrating her cloak, Diana’s cheeks went warm at the words spewing from his lips. Words no man, woman, or child should ever hear. “It matters so much to you whether I marry?” she puzzled aloud. Her own father didn’t give much consideration anymore to Diana’s unmarried state. Then, he didn’t give much thought to anything, since he’d discovered his wife’s treachery against his beloved, now dead mistress.
Niall stopped abruptly, midstride. He dragged off his wet hat and slapped it furiously against his leg. “Do you know why Ryker sent me here?”
They spoke in unison.
“To protect me.”
“To protect you.”
Niall jammed his hat back atop his drenched black curls. Moisture sluiced down his rugged cheeks. It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that he was better off without that soggy article, but she took in the vein bulging at the corner of his eye and thought better of it.
“It was a bloody rhetorical question.”
Diana stamped her boot, damning the muddied earth that robbed her of a satisfying tap. Him and his dratted rhetorical questions. “Don’t ask a question, then, if you don’t expect an answer.”
“I’m here, forced out of my club, to protect you from an imagined foe.”
Diana stopped beating her foot on the ground. A wave of shock went through her. It shouldn’t surprise her, given how little her parents had regarded her intelligence, that this man should also doubt her. “Why would you trust the word of a woman?” Uttering those words left a bitterness in her mouth.
He gave his head a shake, spraying her face with droplets of water. “That ain’t it. I know plenty of women and trust their judgment.”
That revelation held her momentarily frozen. In a world where not a single man of her acquaintance or relation trusted a woman’s judgment, this man did. He . . . He . . . Then the weight of his meaning sank into her slow-moving brain. Diana buried a gasp in her nearly frozen fingers. “You don’t believe me,” she whispered. She didn’t know why it mattered that, as he’d said, he knew plenty of women—women whose judgment he trusted—but it did. Damn him.
Niall caught her around the wrist, halting her, this time with a gentleness she’d not believed a man of his size and power was capable of. But then he spoke, shattering that illusion. “It doesn’t matter whether or not I believe you.” Letting her go, Niall growled, a guttural sound better suited to an incensed beast than a man. “It matters what your brother believes. And as long as you are unwed, then I am stuck”—he slashed a hand back and forth between them—“here.”
She recoiled and curled her fingers to keep from slapping his insufferable face. And from crying. She wanted to give in to that pathetic emotion, too. It was only because she was wet and miserable. It was foolish to feel the sting of pain at those angrily spoken words, and yet they gutted her still. For ultimately, that is what she was . . . to Society. Her father. Her brother. Niall. A burden everyone could do without. Diana angled her quivering chin up a notch. “You can go to hell.” With that remarkably cool deliverance, she stalked off.
Lightning lit up the dark sky with an eerie blue. “I’m not done with you, princess,” he bellowed.
Princess. Her teeth set. “I am done with you, sir.” Dismissing him, she lengthened her stride.
“I already told ya, I’m not a damned gentleman—”
She spun about so quickly, Niall nearly collided with her. He skidded to an abrupt stop.
“And I’m not a bloody princess.” Her heart raced. She’d not even heard or felt his approach. The fabric of his sopping, midnight-black coat clung to his thick chest and corded arms. And she damned herself for responding still to that raw, powerful masculinity. Rain soaked her head and ran in rivulets down her cheeks, blurring her vision. Through her lashes, she squinted up at him. “My name is Diana,” she yelled into the storm, “and I have no intention of marrying. Nor do I owe you answers or an explanation. And furthermore—”
Niall caught her about the nape and brought his mouth down hard on hers.
Frozen, Diana clung to her sketch pads as he devoured her lips. Devoured her as though he wished to consume. With a moan she released her books, and they tumbled to the ground. As a young girl, not even a village boy had dared to steal a kiss from the duke’s daughter. As a young woman, she’d arrived in London craving a hint of passion and a gentleman’s embrace. Nothing in all her waiting, wondering, or dreaming could have prepared her for this hedonic exchange. His breath came fast against her lips, in time to the frantic rise and fall of his chest.
She twisted her fingers through his long, damp locks, turning herself over to his violent possession.
Groaning, Niall parted her lips and laid claim to her. A shock like walking barefoot on a carpeted floor burned her at the satiny soft flesh plundering her mouth. She tentatively touched the tip of her tongue to his. An animalistic groan filled her mouth as he cupped her buttocks, dragging her close.
Through the damp fabric of her skirts, his shaft thrust hard and insistent against her belly. She should feel shame. She stood in the middle of Hyde Park in a raging thunderstorm hungrily kissing a man who, but for a brief encounter a year earlier, she’d otherwise known a week. In this instance she cared about nothing but this burning heat pooling between her thighs. And this need to be closer to him. To—
Thunder ripped across the horizon, and Niall tore himself away so quickly Diana stumbled. She shot out her hands to balance herself, as that connection was shattered.
“That was a mistake.”
His words sucked the breath from Diana. Another chill gripped her. One that had nothing to do with the rain and everything to do with the icy diffidence of his gaze. He’d bestowed her first kiss, r
educed her to a puddle of aching sensation, and that is how he’d refer to it? As a mistake? Then, what do you expect of a man outraged that he’s stuck here with you? That taunting voice whispered around her mind.
He gathered her books and held them over.
With fingers trembling, she reached for the wet offering.
“It will not happen again,” he said, freezing her midmovement.
It will not happen again. His words turned a beautifully passionate exchange into nothing more than a regret and a mistake. Teeth chattering, Diana remained stonily silent.
For the world’s ill opinion of her, Diana had too much pride to force a man who wanted nothing to do with her into the role of guard. She steeled her jaw. A man who didn’t even trust that someone, in fact, wished her ill.
Niall Marksman didn’t want the role of guard. At all. That was fine. He could be on his way, and Diana would continue as she’d been for the past year—alone, with only herself to rely on.
She was better off with him gone.
So why, as they reached the carriage, drenched from the steady rain, did it feel as though she lied to herself? Because he kissed me. Because he is the first man who’d never given a jot about my status as duke’s daughter and treated me instead as a woman to be desired. It was heady stuff, indeed.
Or it had been.
The driver hopped down from his box and hurriedly pulled the door open. He held a hand out to assist her, but Niall reached past him and, clasping Diana about the waist, hefted her inside like he handled a sack of potatoes from the market. Grunting, Diana rubbed at her lower back, glaring at Niall.
The Lady's Guard (Sinful Brides Book 3) Page 11
