His smile faded, leaving her mesmerized by the smoky depths of his eyes. “Stay with me, Pamela. Share this gilded cage with me. Be my marchioness. Be my duchess someday.” Although she would have thought it impossible, the husky timbre of his voice deepened even further. “Be my wife.”
Pamela drew in a shuddering breath as Connor’s face swam before her eyes, veiled by a mist of tears. She knew in that moment how her mother must have felt when the audience surged to their feet and burst into thunderous applause.
“I don’t suppose you’ve left me any choice,” she said, hiding the swell of emotion behind a prim sniff. “After all, you have compromised me. Ruined me for any other man.”
“Numerous times,” he agreed, not looking the least bit sorry.
“I could hardly go to another man’s bed after I let a dirty, thieving Highlander put his hands all over me.”
“And in you…” he whispered, curling the fingers of one hand around her nape and drawing her mouth to his for a long, lingering kiss while his other hand slipped beneath the coat to have its way with her. By the time he broke away from the kiss, they were both breathless. “Are you sure you won’t mind squandering your precious reward on a dowry?”
Pamela slipped one thigh over his, straddling both his lap and his arousal, which was once again straining against the beleaguered seams of his breeches. “Oh, I intend to make you earn every penny. You’re not the only one willing to pay for their pleasures.”
As her eager hands reached between them, freeing his arousal so it could nudge against the dampness of her curls, Connor groaned. “I was right, wasn’t I, lass? Sleeping with the enemy definitely has its benefits.”
Pamela rose up to her knees, then slowly sank down, her breath catching on a shuddering whimper as he impaled her inch by glorious inch until she was filled to the brim with his sleek, thick heat.
She cupped his face in her hands, holding herself utterly still so she could exult in the sweet, wild pulse that began to beat where their bodies were joined before whispering, “Why don’t we find out?”
Although the sun was peeking over the edge of the horizon and the stables and kitchens were beginning to stir, Pamela managed to slip up the back stairs without being seen. She had only one near miss near the second-story landing, when the muffled thud of footsteps coming down the stairs gave her just enough time to dive into a narrow broom closet.
She emerged with cobwebs in her hair only to recognize the generous backside of the buxom cook who had caught Brodie’s fancy descending the stairs. Pamela would have almost sworn the woman was humming a bawdy Scottish ditty beneath her breath.
She climbed the rest of the stairs with a smile flirting with her lips. Once she was safe in her suite, she eased the door shut and collapsed with her back against it, breathing a heartfelt sigh of relief.
Which curdled in her throat when she saw Sophie curled up on the settee in her dressing gown with her legs tucked beneath her. Her sister had a rather peculiar glint in her eye. Pamela usually only saw that look when Sophie had spotted a chocolate confection or a particularly lovely length of ribbon she intended to have, no matter the cost.
Knowing that her sister rarely rose before ten without being cajoled or threatened, Pamela felt her heart sink. “What are you doing up so early?”
Sophie cocked a knowing eyebrow at her. “What are you doing up so late?”
Pamela opened her mouth to invent some story about a drunken coachman or a broken axle on a carriage wheel but closed it just as quickly, knowing it was hopeless to lie to her sister. She and Sophie might bicker like maiden aunts most of the time, but no one knew her better. Even before their mother had died, there had been so many times when it was just the two of them.
Pamela slowly crossed the floor and sank down in the wingback chair by the window, dropping her ruined slippers to the carpet beside the chair. Connor had insisted on carrying her across the grass to protect her from the fresh dew.
She could remember all of the times she’d sat up all night while Sophie slept, waiting for their mother to creep in at dawn—slippers in hand, lips swollen from a stranger’s kisses, eyes still so glazed from the pleasures of the night it was as if she could barely see the little girl who had been waiting so patiently for her to come home.
“I suppose there’s no help for it then,” she said softly. “You must think I’m exactly like Mama.”
“I most certainly do.”
Pamela bowed her head, Sophie’s words stinging even more than she had anticipated.
“You’re proud. Passionate. Determined to make your own way in this world without bowing to any man.”
Pamela lifted her head as her sister rose and came over to kneel beside her chair. Sophie peered up into her face, her blue eyes wide and guileless. “You share her strengths but not her weaknesses. Maman was always thinking of herself, while you think far too little of your own good and far too much of the good of others. You’re loyal and kind and generous and the most devoted sister a girl could hope to have.”
Pamela gazed down at her sister’s beautiful face through a haze of tears.
Sophie squeezed her hand. “She may have been the toast of the London stage and adored by any number of wealthy and powerful men, but I never saw a single man look at Maman the way he looks at you.”
Grinning through her tears, Pamela tucked a wayward curl behind Sophie’s ear. “You know—once I become a marchioness, I do believe I’m going to promote you to housekeeper.”
For Pamela the rest of the day passed in an agony of anticipation as she waited for the night to come. While a long, hot bath and an even longer nap soothed away much of the tenderness lingering between her legs, a tantalizing ache remained. An ache she now knew only Connor could ease.
She wasn’t sure what was going to be the most difficult—the hours they had to spend apart during the day or the hour spent sitting across from him at supper, playing the role of chaste lady to his courteous gentleman.
The minute she strolled into the dining room that evening and Connor rose to greet her, his smoky eyes aglow with appreciation and a new coat stretched taut over his broad shoulders, she knew the answer.
“My lord,” she murmured, bobbing him a demure curtsy when what she really wanted to do was throw herself into his arms and kiss him insensible.
“My lady,” he replied stiffly, offering her his arm so he could escort her to her chair.
Even that brief contact was torture. As she slid into her chair, he leaned down and whispered, “I wish you were the main course.”
He retreated to the chair directly opposite hers, leaving Pamela with a provocative image of herself laid out naked on that linen-draped table, with Connor free to partake of her at his leisure.
He lifted his wineglass in a silent toast to her while the footmen served the first course and the duke and his sister continued their incessant sniping. It took Pamela several minutes before she realized they were discussing the ball that was to be held in a few days to reintroduce the duke’s long lost heir to the crème de la crème of London society.
“Now Archibald, you need to stop fussing and fretting, and leave all of the planning to me,” Lady Astrid was saying.
The duke shot Connor a mischievous look, resembling a wizened little boy. “That’s all well and good, but don’t forget that I have a surprise for the lad.”
“Don’t we all?” Lady Astrid purred like a cat who had stumbled upon a saucer of particularly rich cream. She seemed to be in an unusually fine humor, which set off warning bells in Pamela’s head.
Connor rested his glass of wine on the table. “Miss Darby and I have decided the ball would be the perfect time to officially announce our engagement.”
“Have you finally charmed the chit into wedding you before next December?” the duke asked, spearing a juicy beef olive with his fork.
“I’ve devoted my every effort to it,” Connor assured him solemnly.
Pamela choked on her wine, remem
bering just how “devoted” some of his efforts had been. She rested the glass back on the table. “I’ve discovered that your son can be very persuasive when he wants to be.”
“A trait he inherited from his father, I assure you,” the duke said, winking at her.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when she lowered her glass to find Lady Astrid surveying her from the foot of the table with a benevolent smile. “Just leave everything to me, Miss Darby. I promise you and your fiancé an evening that you—and all of London—will never forget.”
Pamela paced back and forth in front of the open window in her bedchamber, pausing every fourth or fifth turn to poke her head out the window and glare down at the deserted lawn below.
She hugged herself as a chill breeze drifted through the window, raising the gooseflesh on her arms. What if Connor didn’t come to her? What if he had decided to embrace his role as gentleman and was content to bide his time until they were wed?
She sighed and wandered over to the gilt-framed cheval glass sitting next to the dressing table. Her reflection eyed her pensively as she began to tug the pins from her hair. She shook the thick mane loose until it came spilling around her shoulders, then unhooked the bodice of her gown and peeled it away. The sewn-in stays had left pink welts on her tender flesh and it was an immense relief for her heavy breasts to finally spring free.
She untied the ribbons at her waist, letting her skirt and petticoats slide down to pool at her feet, and stood there in front of the mirror, naked except for her silk drawers and stockings.
She had gazed at herself in the mirror a thousand times as she prepared for bed, but tonight she seemed like a new creature. A sloe-eyed stranger—wild and sensual and still desperately hungry despite the many courses served at dinner.
Her dusky nipples were peeping through the glossy tendrils of her hair. She sighed. There were times when she envied Sophie her bobbed curls, but her hair was far too thick and straight to support such a fashionable coif. She reached up to gather the heavy coils at her nape with one hand, exposing her breasts to the caress of the moonlight.
Pamela froze as a sharply indrawn breath warned her that she was no longer alone.
Chapter 23
Pamela’s breath quickened as the mirror revealed a man standing just behind her—a man dressed all in black, one with the shadows and soon to be one with her.
His eyes met hers in the mirror, the predatory gleam in their silvery depths reminding her just how dangerous he could be. Especially to her yearning heart.
As his gaze drifted downward, some ghost of maidenly shyness brought her hands up to shield her breasts. He simply slid his hands beneath hers so that his big, warm hands were cupping her breasts and her hands were resting lightly on top of his. She closed her eyes and sagged against him as he squeezed ever so gently, claiming them, claiming her.
“My sister is sleeping in the next room,” she whispered as he used his thumbs to tease both of her nipples into taut little buds.
He rubbed his lips along the slender column of her throat, his voice a husky vibration she could feel all the way to her toes. “I’m a thief. I know how to be quiet.”
As it turned out, Pamela was the one most at risk for waking Sophie. Connor might not have been able to make her the main course at supper, but he had no qualms about making her his private dessert. Before long she was quaking and shuddering beneath his clever mouth and biting her lip nearly bloody to keep from crying out her ecstasy.
When he bent her over the settee and began to pound into her from behind with driving force, he had no choice but to smother her sharp scream of pleasure with his hand.
And when they finally collapsed on the bed and he made love to her slowly and tenderly—gliding in and out of her as if he had not just all night, but the rest of his life to do so—he was forced to swallow her low moan of rapture with his kiss, while he came without a sound, every muscle in his powerful body surging as he spilled his seed deep within her.
When the strongest of the aftershocks had subsided, Connor threw himself to his back and flung an arm over his eyes, his sweat-sheened chest heaving. “Now I know who’s trying to kill me.”
Pamela sat up, raking her tangled hair out of her eyes. “Who?”
“You.” He lowered his arm to glare at her. “You’re an insatiable wench who won’t be content until you’ve milked the last bit of life from my staff, leaving me a hollow shell of the man I once was.”
She gave him an impish grin. “It’s our new battle strategy for defeating the Scots. It’s much quicker and more effective than a parasol.” Propping herself up on one elbow, she idly raked her fingers through the crisp whorls of his chest hair. “You know—you really shouldn’t tease so when someone might actually be trying to kill you.”
He blinked innocently up at her. “So do you think I should have declined Crispin’s invitation to archery practice?”
Her eyes widened in horror until she realized he was still teasing her. She gave his chest hair a vicious little tweak to punish him.
He winced. “I did learn something rather interesting yesterday morning at breakfast. It seems that Lady Astrid’s dearly departed husband burned to death in his bed.”
“Just like my mother,” Pamela breathed.
“Astrid blames it on a bottle of brandy and a lit cigar, but who knows?”
Pamela clapped a hand over her mouth as genuine horror washed over her. “Oh, no!”
“What is it?”
“Don’t you remember? The first night we met Crispin, I was trying to trick him into revealing something about my mother’s death, so I mentioned ‘habitual drunkards who leave their cigars lit and burn to death in their beds.’ I saw something in his eyes that I thought was guilt but it could have been hurt.” She shook her head, shame mingling with her dismay. “He must have believed I already knew about his father’s death and that I was being unspeakably cruel.”
“It doesn’t mean he’s innocent, lass,” Connor reminded her. “Witnessing such a terrible tragedy can sometimes warp a child’s mind.”
Remembering all the tragedy that Connor had witnessed, Pamela pressed her cheek to his chest, cherishing the slow, steady beat of his heart. “You won’t be truly safe until we find my mother’s killer. What if they don’t reveal themselves before the wedding?”
“Announcing our engagement at the ball may just force their hand. They can’t afford to risk me getting an heir on you.”
After all of the decadent pleasures she had enjoyed at his hands in the past few hours, Pamela was amazed that she could still blush. “That’s what Crispin said the first night at dinner. That you should strive to put your babe in me as quickly as possible in case you should meet with an unfortunate accident.”
Connor tipped up her chin so he could gaze into her eyes, his solemn tone belied by the depth of his dimple. “In this case, the lad was right. ’Tis my duty.”
Pamela gasped as he cupped her rump in his hands and rocked against her, proving he was not only willing, but more than ready to discharge his obligations. “I thought you were nothing but a hollow shell of a man.”
He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid your own duty to country and king isn’t done yet, lass. If you want to defeat the Scots, you’ve no choice but to march right back into battle.”
She reached down and lightly trailed her fingers over his rigid length. “And just how am I to defeat an enemy armed with such a formidable weapon?”
He arched off the bed and into her hand, clenching his teeth against a guttural groan. “The English have always been very resourceful. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“Oh, I already have.” Pamela gave him a wicked smile, then began to slide down his body, the warm, wet velvet of her mouth working its way down, down, down until he was left with no choice but surrender.
Chapter 24
The Duke of Warrick’s ball quickly became the most coveted invitation of the year.
Many were desperate fo
r a glimpse of the reclusive nobleman who had once cut such a swaggering path through society. Rumors had swirled around him for years. Some swore a crippling illness had left him a mewling hunchback while others claimed he had only faked his infirmity in order to lure his wife back to his side.
There were those who believed the young duchess had never really run away at all, but that the duke had strangled her in a fit of rage and buried her somewhere on his vast estate. There were even some who whispered that he’d kept her and her babe imprisoned in the attic for all these years to keep them from leaving him.
Although his son’s return had laid some of those rumors to rest, others had quickly risen to take their place. Those not fortunate enough to have secured invitations to Lord Newton’s soiree had eagerly absorbed the gossip from that affair. The duke’s heir was pronounced tremendously pleasing in both face and form, with the sort of towering physique that made women swoon and men grit their teeth in envy. His musical Scots burr was declared something to be emulated, and since that night Burns had become the most requested poet at every reading.
There were still some who refused to believe he had pledged his heart to the gold-digging daughter of an actress. When it was reported that the two of them had quarreled quite passionately right in the middle of Lady Newton’s drawing room, it sent several unmarried young women and their ambitious mothers into a tizzy of delight. Perhaps there was still hope he would come to his senses, cast her off and choose a more suitable bride from his own class.
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