Untamed Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  Miss Jennings jumped, then responded to the voice of one used to giving orders. With her help, Deliah climbed out of the green silk, flung it aside and scrabbled through the welter of gowns for her own. “Damn him! I should have guessed he’d do this.”

  Miss Jennings was entirely at sea. “Has he left you?”

  “No, of course not. He thinks…oh, never mind. Here—do up my laces.” As Miss Jennings’s shaking fingers complied, Deliah added, “And don’t worry—I’ll be taking the gowns.”

  She heard the young modiste haul in a huge breath, then her fingers steadied.

  The instant the laces were cinched and tied, Deliah reached for her pelisse. As she shrugged it on, she heard a distant shout.

  Grabbing her reticule, she dashed out of the dressing room and hurried to the window. She looked out. The street seemed empty, but she couldn’t see the pavement directly before the shop; an awning obstructed her view. All she caught were glimpses of a shifting mass of arms and shoulders.

  Turning, she flew out of the open doorway and onto the stairs. Clattering down as fast as she could, she tugged her pelisse properly on, fumbled with the buttons.

  Heart racing—what was going on outside the door?—she was almost at the bottom of the stairs when the door opened.

  Breath catching in her throat, she looked up.

  Del filled the doorway.

  She tried to halt her precipitous rush. Her heel snagged in her pelisse’s hem, jerking one shoulder—she twisted, lost her balance.

  Pitched forward.

  Straight into his arms.

  Del stepped forward to catch her. Heard the door he’d sent swinging shut snick behind him just as she landed flush against him, and every sense he possessed focused, intent and hungry—suddenly ravenously hungry—on her.

  On her long, tall, undeniably feminine form plastered to his.

  On the warmth of her curves, on their lush promise.

  On her face, jade eyes wide with shock.

  Lips, rosy red and luscious, parted….

  Because she’d been above him, they were face-to-face, those luscious lips level with his.

  He saw them shift, form words.

  “What happened? Are you all right?”

  He felt her hands grip his arms. When he lifted his gaze to her eyes, hers searched, urgently, almost frantically. The emotion lighting the jade was simple, undisguised concern.

  She cared.

  No woman had for decades.

  Her lips firmed, then parted again. Her fingers gripped, and she tried to shake him. “Are. You. Hurt?”

  He’d been struck—that he knew—but not by any fist.

  She drew breath, her luscious lips parted again—and he knew he had to answer. So he did. In the most appropriate way.

  He bent his head, covered her ruby lips with his.

  Kissed her, not as he might any gently bred young lady but as he’d longed to kiss the houri who’d taunted him for the last hour.

  Her lips had been parted. He took her mouth with no by-your-leave. Simply waltzed in and laid claim…

  And ended reeling. Sinking. Drowning.

  Captive to an exchange too potent for excuses, too primitively powerful to ever be denied.

  Too urgent to be brought to any quick and neat end.

  His arms cinched tight, hauling her against him, locking her there—where she belonged. He felt her hands on his shoulders, then in his hair.

  Felt—knew—when she succumbed to the compulsion, to the desire that suborned all reason, to the unrelenting thud of passion in his veins.

  Their veins.

  The sensation was so heady Deliah was helpless to resist. To pull away, retreat to safety, to step back. Instead, she plunged in.

  Into the temptation of his hot demanding mouth, into the whirling vortex of desire that had seized the unlooked-for moment to manifest between them—the cumulative promise of the last hour’s teasing; the nascent passion they’d both been deliberately prodding flared to urgent life between them.

  She kissed him back, flagrantly demanding, joyously inciting, her inner self racing ahead, free of all restraint.

  Wantonly enticing. Abandoned and eager.

  Del sensed it, tasted her unleashed passion, and urgently wanted more.

  But…wrong time, wrong place.

  Some distant spark of sanity assured him that was so. With regret, he forced himself to draw back; only by reminding himself of all he would eventually gain did he manage to rein in his hunger, soothing it with promises of ultimate gluttony. That she would, at some time—the right place and the right time—appease his hunger, feed it until he—it—was utterly sated was, to his mind, an engagement already inscribed in stone.

  Easing back from the kiss, he lifted his head and looked down into dazed jade eyes, took in her oddly blank, faraway expression—and knew a moment of intense satisfaction.

  At last he’d found a surefire way to manage the willful woman.

  A way to tame her, to bring her to him, to his bed….

  The sound of a throat clearing hauled his mind from that attractive track, from dwelling on the satisfaction having her beneath him would bring. Looking up, he saw Madame Latour and her assistant peering rather warily down.

  “Pack up the gowns—all that were tried on—and send them to Miss Duncannon at Grillon’s. You may send your account to me there.”

  Madame’s face lit. She bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, Colonel. Miss Duncannon. You won’t be disappointed.”

  He was sure he wouldn’t be. He had plans for that pale green dress.

  Looking down at Deliah, he set her on her feet.

  She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, he asked, “Are you ready to go on?”

  She blinked, hearing, correctly, the latent triumph in his tone.

  Remembering what had brought her rushing down the stairs, Deliah swallowed, nodded. She wasn’t yet sure she had command of her voice.

  By the time he’d led her outside—where all appeared normal and utterly mundane—and she’d finished buttoning her pelisse against the increasingly biting wind, settling her reticule and gloves, then had taken his arm and begun strolling beside him, her wits had started to function again—enough to have her wondering if perhaps he’d kissed her, at least in part, because the modiste had been watching.

  That didn’t seem convincing, not even to her, but if furthering their roles wasn’t his motive, she’d rather not think of what was.

  Shouldn’t think of what was, or might be.

  She was shocked enough by her own motives—by the reemergence of the wanton inner self she’d thought she’d buried, or at least bludgeoned into weakness, long ago.

  With him, that side of her wasn’t weak at all. She was going to have to be on guard henceforth; she couldn’t return to England after all these years, supposedly reformed, only to fall victim to her own desires with the first handsome man who crossed her path.

  Admittedly, he was exceedingly handsome. But still….

  He’d been the first man to kiss her, at least like that, in more years than she cared to count…actually, in all her life.

  After a moment, she blinked, inwardly shook her head. She was looking ahead down the street—and seeing his lips.

  She needed to concentrate on the here and now. Replaying his last words…she frowned. “I can’t accept gowns from you. It wouldn’t be proper.”

  He glanced her way, but she didn’t meet his eyes.

  “What do you imagine I’m going to do with them? The least you can do is take them off my hands. Better yet, consider them a perquisite of helping me pursue the Black Cobra. Believe me”—his tone hardened—“it’s a small price to pay.”

  “In that case, you can let me pay for them—I’m more than flush enough to buy my own gowns.”

  “That’s not the issue. I can’t countenance you paying for the necessaries to continue our ruse. This is my mission, not yours. My responsibility, not yours.”

 
Those last two points were ones Del felt sure he needed to stress—and often. In every possible way.

  She grumbled, “I can’t see how those evening gowns could be deemed necessary.”

  “Oh, they are. Believe me, they are.” They—and the visions of her in them—were going to keep him going through the coming days. His reward, as it were, for weathering the difficulties keeping her with him had already caused, and those yet to come.

  “They’ll come to a pretty penny—you do realize that?”

  “After all my years in India, I’m wealthy enough to rival Croesus, so your concern on that point, while appreciated, is unnecessary.”

  She humphed. Eventually she said, by way of conceding, “Just be warned that that last evening gown alone will cost a small fortune. Madame may be young, but she values her work highly.”

  “Rightly so.” He felt doubly triumphant that he’d won that round—won the right to pay for her gowns. He should, he knew, be exceedingly wary about such a reaction, but he was too busy wallowing in the victory to let such considerations dim his mood. “A workman is worthy of his hire, and all that. But your point is duly noted—I promise not to expire of shock.”

  She gave an unladylike snort, then fell silent.

  He strolled on, with her on his arm, and imagined seeing her in that pale green gown. Wondered how he might arrange it.

  Some paces on, the fact that she’d been perfectly willing to part with “a small fortune” of her own registered. But her family wasn’t wealthy, and he was fairly certain she couldn’t have inherited more than a competence from any relative, not without his aunts mentioning it.

  Now he thought of it, she was traveling with an entire household, staying at major inns, hiring carriages and private parlors—and she hadn’t even paused to consider the cost of putting up at Grillon’s. He’d be picking up the bill there, but she hadn’t known that, and still didn’t.

  She was wealthy. But how?

  “Did you and the others catch any of those men?”

  Her question shook him out of his abstraction. “Yes.” They’d reached Berkeley Square. Halting, he glanced around, one comprehensive survey, then turned to her. “And as there appear to be no more following us, we’re going to take a detour.”

  “Oh? To where?”

  “The Bastion Club.”

  Four

  December 13

  The Bastion Club, Montrose Street, London

  The club wasn’t far. The hackney Del had hired halted outside a house in a street south of Hyde Park.

  Standing on the pavement beside Del while he paid off the jarvey, Deliah owned to considerable curiosity over the strange “private gentlemen’s-cum-family” club she’d heard so much about. Number 12 Montrose Street was a solid house, not dissimilar to those flanking it. As they walked up the neatly paved path to the front porch, she could see nothing to distinguish it from any other gentleman’s residence.

  The front door opened as they ascended the porch steps. A neat, rotund individual in the garb of a majordomo—somewhere between a butler’s regulation black tails and a gentleman’s gentleman’s less formal attire—stood waiting to greet them, a delighted smile on his kindly face.

  “Colonel Delborough?”

  “Indeed. And this is Miss Duncannon. I believe Torrington and Crowhurst are already here?”

  “Indeed, sir. I am Gasthorpe.” He bowed them in, then took Del’s greatcoat. “If we may be of assistance at any time, sir, please do not hesitate to call upon me and the staff here.”

  Deliah elected to keep her pelisse on. “Torrington and Crowhurst told us of this place.” While the underlying ambiance of the house was sparse and rather plainly severe, a vase of hothouse blooms rioted on the hall table, their color and freshness drawing the eye, softening the décor. There was a lace doily beneath the vase, and numerous other little touches that spoke of female, rather than only male. “I understand it was originally just for the gentlemen, but clearly that has changed.”

  “Oh, yes, miss—we often have the ladies to stay these days. Once the gentlemen wed—indeed, even before, during their various adventures—we were called upon to accommodate their ladies.”

  She was curious. “You don’t seem to mind.”

  “I will admit I was initially trepidatious, but now we look forward to the families descending—quite keeps us on our toes.”

  Deliah smiled. “I can imagine.”

  “Torrington and Crowhurst?” Del inquired.

  “Yes, sir. They’re awaiting you downstairs with the captured miscreants.” Beaming at Deliah, Gasthorpe gestured to the room to the right of the front door. “If you would care to wait in comfort in the parlor, miss, I will bring up a tea tray directly.”

  Deliah glanced, once, at the room beyond the open door, then, brows rising, looked at Del. “I’m not in the mood for tea, but I do want to see these men. I’ll come with you.”

  Del had hoped that Gasthorpe might manage to deflect her, but wasn’t truly surprised that he’d failed. Stifling a resigned sigh, he nodded. “Very well.” He’d long ago learned not to fight unnecessary skirmishes but to save his powder for the important battles. He looked at Gasthorpe. “Lead on.”

  Gasthorpe looked uncertain, but he took his lead from Del and, without argument, turned and led them to a set of stairs at the back of the front hall.

  Waving Deliah ahead of him, Del followed her down. The stairs led to spacious kitchens. Gasthorpe led them through and into a narrow corridor, off which several storerooms lay. He paused outside one. With his hand on the latch, he turned to them. “This is one of our holding rooms.”

  As Gasthorpe opened the door, Del drew Deliah back and entered first. He halted just inside, then moved further in, allowing her to follow.

  Deliah took in the occupants of the small room in one glance. Tony and Gervase sat with their backs to the door, on straight-backed chairs before a plain wooden table. On the other side of the table, three ruffians slouched on a bench. Hands tied before them, they propped against each other, shoulder to shoulder.

  All three looked rather the worse for wear. Two sported blackening eyes. The other had a nasty bruise on his chin. All three looked uneasy, restless and uncertain.

  Tony and Gervase glanced at Del and her as they entered; both started to rise, but she waved them back to their seats. She and Del remained standing behind them.

  Subsiding and turning back to the table, Tony gestured to their captives. “We’ve been chatting with these gentlemen.” Despite the easy tenor of his words, there was a definite suggestion of steel beneath. “They don’t seem to know very much about anything, but we thought we’d wait for you before getting to specifics.”

  Standing inside the now closed door, Deliah viewed the three ruffians and was glad of the three gentlemen between her and them. For all they were tied and clearly off-balance, they were hulking brutes with rough menace in their beady eyes—all of which had fixed on her.

  Regardless, she felt perfectly safe. The three gentlemen were more than a counter to the louts; the menace that rolled off their elegant selves was of an infinitely more lethal variety.

  And the louts knew it.

  That the pecking order was established and recognized was immediately made clear. When Del asked who had hired them, the louts answered readily.

  “Geezer came to our tavern—it’s in the East End. Said he were looking for men to grab a woman as was giving him trouble. He’d make it worth our while. All we had to do was grab her, and bring her to him tonight, and we’d get ten sovereigns.”

  “Ten sovereigns?” Deliah was incensed. “That’s insulting!”

  Del sent her a quelling look.

  “How did you know which lady to grab?” Gervase asked.

  The lout in the middle looked at Deliah. “He said she were tall, with dark red hair, a real looker—and she was staying at Grillon’s.”

  Deliah crossed her arms. “What, exactly, were you supposed to do with me after you seized
me?”

  “He made it sound easy.” The lout on the left sniffed. “Didn’t say nuffin ’bout you havin’ guards. All we had to do was snatch you off the street, and being careful not to damage the goods, bring you to the tavern tonight. He said to sit in a corner, an’ keep you quiet ’til he arrived.”

  Deliah was tempted to ask how they’d thought to keep her quiet.

  “Describe this man,” Del said.

  The louts grimaced, looked at each other. Then the one in the middle shrugged. “Nothing special about him. Could be anyone.”

  “Not helpful,” Tony murmured, and the louts paled.

  “How tall was he?” Deliah asked.

  The louts looked at her. “Maybe an inch or so taller’n you, miss. Ma’am.” The middle lout glanced at Del. “Not so tall as the gentl’man.”

  Deliah nodded. “What about his clothes?”

  The lout grimaced. “Middling. Not one thing nor another.”

  “He wasn’t a toff, that’s certain,” one of the others put in.

  “Nay—he weren’ even a gentl’man, though he spoke well enough.”

  “Describe the man’s hair,” Deliah said. “What color, and how was it cut?”

  The louts looked at her, then one answered, “Brown hair, longish.”

  Deliah glanced at Del. “Not the man in Southampton.”

  “Nor the two at Windlesham.” Del looked at the ruffians. “Where’s this tavern?”

  The three shifted on the bench, exchanging glances. Then the one in the middle—the leader—looked up. “What’s in it fer us if we tell you?”

  It was Tony who answered. “It’s simple enough. Tell us where the tavern is, and after we keep your appointment for you, we’ll hand you over to the authorities for attempted thieving, rather than attempted kidnapping. In other words, your choice is between transportation, or hanging.”

  The three exchanged another, longer glance, then the leader sighed. “All right. It’s the Blue Barrel in Cobalt Lane.”

  Leaving the three louts in Gasthorpe’s custody, the four of them repaired to the library upstairs. A comfortable room on the first floor with large leather armchairs and numerous side tables, it was the perfect venue for discussing developments, and planning their next move.