by Eva Devon
“And so, I can only assume, do you.”
“I suppose I do—I know I like you. Very much.” She had for years, ever since Hugh had shared his admiration for his shipmate, Toby.
“You like the idea of me,” he countered. “The idea of excitement. But let me tell you there’s no excitement—only cold, hard fear and intense preparation.”
“That sounds even better—I like a man who is prepared. So how are we going to stop this thief from using your name? I think Lady Meecham will be next—she was just written up last night—”
“Now, stop this.” He held up his hands again, as if he might physically try to stop her.
Which was impossible—she was having an adventure and she meant to stick to it as long as possible. “Don’t you think she’s the one? Why the Meecham diamond and pearl parure alone—”
He kissed her—he looped his arm around the small of her back, pulled her close and covered her mouth with his.
Every bit of the winter cold melted away—oh, now that was more like it.
His lips were firm and smooth all at the same time, and she was nearly overwhelmed by the him-ness of him—the smell of the starch on his collar, the barely-rough texture of the beard beneath his smooth-shaven skin, and the heat of his chest pressed tight against the layers of velvet and wool cloth between them.
Nearly overwhelmed—he was deliciously frightening and absolutely heavenly all at the same time. Because she was normally everything sane and logical and knew that kissing a rogue in an alley was not the done thing. But for the first time in her dull, deadly boring widowhood, she wanted a man—she wanted him, Tobias McTavish.
And he, rogue that he was, could tell—he eased back from the kiss. “Is that what you came here today to get, Caledonia?”
His voice was low and quiet—intimate, even—insinuating itself into her bones. Melting the few inhibitions she had left. “Perhaps.” Much as she might want to, she couldn’t throw herself into his arms in an alleyway. Or could she?
She gave into the reckless rush of blood in her veins and did exactly that—threw herself at him, relishing the way he caught her as his back slammed into the mews wall. She wrapped her arms tight about his neck and kissed him with all the frustration and desire and thwarted ambition careering around inside her. She kissed him with heat and hunger. With years of longing, and years of wanting and waiting for the second best man.
Because second best was better than none. And because he kissed her back.
His lips and tongue met and tangled with hers, meeting her need with strength and finesse. His hand was at the back of her neck, cradling her head, holding her close and closer still. Teaching her of tongue and taste, danger and desire.
And then it was over—he pushed her away.
She was disoriented and dismayed at so sudden a loss of him, until a jangle of harness and the clop of hooves penetrated her brain. She stepped aside and took up her abandoned reins to draw her mare out of the way, but she was not yet done with him. “Meet me at the Meecham’s ball later tonight. I’ll be looking for you.”
He shook his head as if to clear it—as if he felt as disoriented as she. “I don’t have an invitation.”
She gave him her best, most conspiratorial smile. “Steal one.”
Chapter 11
Toby immediately forced himself to shake all thoughts of the devious and frankly delicious Mrs. Bowmont from his head, because who should come out of the service entrance to the Balfour mansion and into the mews but Grindle, looking as fat and happy as an alley cat with stolen cream.
But more interestingly, when Grindle headed out of the mews toward St. James’s the two young fellows who had been following Toby and Caledonia Bowmont fell into step with him. So Toby mounted and took himself off through Green Park, getting ahead of the fellow so he was already there when the merchant returned to the warehouse on the Strand.
“You seem to have had a busy morning, Grindle.” Toby had made himself at home in Grindle’s chair. “Didn’t know you were so comfortable in the rarefied air of Mayfair.”
“Oh? Ah, yes. What a busy man you are, McTavish. I thought I saw you near Berkley Street but I didn’t know your…friend.” Grindle gave the word a suggestive intonation. “Or what game you were playing—I did not want to give you away.”
“How thoughtful.” Toby filed away the information that Grindle had seen him before he had seen Grindle—and ignored the man’s question to ask one of his own. “What were you doing there?”
“I—we, the company—have been engaged to supply the wine and spirits for the grand masquerade ball they plan in two nights. I was just below stairs with the butler, bringing him some samples, making sure the wine was satisfactory, and more importantly, arranging to be paid.”
“Very good. And the two lads whom you set to keep an eye on me—what was their purpose?”
Grindle was as canny as a shyster, and answered Toby’s query with another question. “To what purpose? It’d be a waste of good money to try and follow you.”
“I haven’t forgotten that your boys have threatened to kill me if the Runners don’t get off their backs.”
“That’s just talk.” Grindle waved the threat off. “You know how they are—all hotheaded bluster.”
“Then let’s keep it all bluster and no blunderbuss.” Toby’s tone was mild, but his intent was deadly serious. “Keep them away from me, Grindle.”
Grindle was not so easily intimidated or influenced. “But what were you doing in Berkley Square so close to the Balfour mansion, McTavish? Were you casing the ken for your next job? Or trying to flatter the viscountess’s daughter into giving you a key? The Balfour diamonds are famous, to be sure, but if you try something that night, we’ll all be taken up and no doubt about it.”
Toby smiled as blandly and menacingly as possible—he would not let Grindle under his skin. Nor would he mention the fascinating Mrs. Bowmont. “You worry about your men, Grindle, and not about me. I know what I’m doing.”
“And what were you doing with that society girl?”
“What I was doing was being taken for a ride.” Damn his eyes—the gleam in Grindle’s eye made Toby acutely uncomfortable. Not only because he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing. But because he didn’t want Caledonia Bowmont involved in this business in any way.
Because the ride was only going to get bumpier—Toby knew it the minute he saw her later that evening at the Meecham ball.
It was nearly ten o’clock by the time she appeared in the doorway, a vision in supple, flowing lavender silk. And wearing a fortune in baroque pearls. Almost as if she were baiting the thief. Damn her pretty eyes, because in doing so, she was making it damn hard for Toby to stop whomever the hell it was.
Once again he was at Arthur Balfour’s side, acting the rough colonial, as if he didn’t know a seed pearl from a seed purse. He bowed low over the gloved hand she offered him.
“Mr. Smith.” She pronounced his name with relish. “How pleasant to see you again, so soon.”
“Soon?” Arthur looked from his step-sister to Toby and back. “What do you mean, soon?”
“Mrs. Bowmont means I met her out riding today—a very pleasant morning ride in the park.”
“I enjoyed our ride as well, Mr. Smith.” Caledonia tossed off a smile like a smoldering firecracker. “I was impressed by your seat.” She breezed on, patting Arthur consolingly on the back while he choked on his champagne. “He was very nearly able to keep up with me over the toll road walls. But I’ve always heard that Americans are good riders.”
Toby decided not to let her have all the fun. “We’re also good rides, Mrs. Bowmont.”
Her eyes lit with pleasure at their banter. “Marvelous, Mr. Smith, marvelous. So are our bets in on who is going to be the Scottish Wraith’s next victim? You’ll remember I put in a strong vote for Lady Meecham—she’s even got the tiara out of the vault tonight. I doubt the Cutty Purse will be able to resist the full Meecham parure.”
> Arthur visibly paled. “Caledonia!”
Toby took pity on him. “Come, Mrs. Bowmont, we’d better have you dance before you frighten poor Arthur to death.”
She rewarded him with one of her dazzling smiles. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“I didn’t, but this will work well enough,” he answered as he swung her into place in the set. “I must tell you that you look conspicuously divine this evening, Mrs. Bowmont. The sweet lavender of the gown and white purity of the pearls contrast so strongly with the reckless black of your heart.”
She tipped her head back and laughed up to the high ceiling, and he could feel the strong defensive walls around his heart start to crumble just a little bit, as if the mortar had been surreptitiously weakened, and was suddenly beginning to give way.
“My heart is not in the least bit black—perhaps just a lovely deep, dark purple, like the sunset over the heather-covered Scottish moors.”
“Aye, not quite black as night, but drawing well on toward evening.”
“Just so,” she agreed. “And speaking of night drawing nigh—”
“Which we were not.”
“Which I am—can you tell me how you’re planning to do it? The broadsheets say you go up the drainpipes and down through the attics, but they haven’t said how this impostor does it. I think they would be better off pretending to be drunk and toddling off up the stairs as if they’re in search of the necessary.”
He had to admire her imagination—it was blessedly fruitful. Perhaps this thief was not of the criminal class—as the magistrates liked to call anyone who wasn't wealthy—but one of the Ton’s own. That would certainly explain the invisibility of the thief. “Is that what you’d do?”
“Certainly.” She nodded, sure of herself. “I should slip away and take whatever jewels the marchionesses and Lady Meecham, and the other matrons had decided they wouldn’t wear. I know my mother wouldn’t insist that her unworn pieces be put back into the safe until the end of the night, when she was taking the jewels she had worn off.”
It was a devastatingly clear assessment, delivered with frank insight into her world. Or was it her world—what had she said about only being a visitor to it? “Careful, Caledonia, you sound almost eager to steal something yourself.”
“Do I? I suppose I might be—in theory. And if I were a proper widowed lady I would want nothing to do with any of this.” She waved her hand to indicate the world and thievery in general, he supposed. “But I’m not a proper lady. I never have been. And I think this is the most exciting thing I’ve ever been a part of—I get a little vicarious thrill thinking about it all, and I like the feeling too much to regret any part of this.”
There was a wealth of interesting information about the equally interesting Mrs. Bowmont in that statement. “You do seem a trifle over-eager to witness a robbery.”
Her eyes brightened. “May I?”
“No. Because I’m not going up any stairs—or drainpipes—and neither are you. I’m going to get a drink. A stiff drink.” Stiff enough to keep him from doing what he had really come to the Meecham mansion to do—kiss Caledonia Bowmont silly.
On second thought—
“Come along, Mrs. Bowmont.” He tucked her arm in his,
“Do I get a drink, too? That would be wonderfully novel—no one ever offers me anything stronger than watered sherry. So many new experiences. Where are we going?” she asked, though she had already fallen in with him.
“Someplace private, where you can get what you came here in search of.”
There was that absolutely delighted smile spreading across her lips like fresh jam. “You?”
He shouldn’t be so flattered. “No—a thrill.” He backed her into a conveniently empty alcove and lowered his lips to hers.
There was nothing coy or unknowing about her response—she wrapped her arms about his neck and drew him closer still. Her pearls pressed hard into his chest, the baroque baubles coming between them more effectively than a sentry. His hand slid to her nape, unclasping the necklace.
He could almost hear her smile. “You can’t resist them, can you?”
“On the contrary.” He snaked the odd-shaped beads right down the front of her exceptionally well-fitted, exceptionally uplifting stays. “You know as well as I do that those pearls are fake.”
Caledonia McAlden didn’t even blush—if anything she smiled more widely. “Oh, bravo, Tobias.” She nuzzled along the line of his chin. “They are indeed fakes—but I’m not.”
“You are, too,” he growled into her ear. “You’re pretending to be far more worldly that you could possibly be.”
“Why don’t you try me, and find out?”
Chapter 12
He did. God help him, Toby wanted nothing more than to try all of her—every sinuous curve and delightfully wicked twist. But he would settle for the wicked twist of her lips that put that devious dimple in the middle of her cheek.
He kissed her the way a man kisses a woman he wants beyond distraction—with heat and perhaps a little anger. But he was angry—angry that she tempted him so. Angry that he couldn’t stop himself from wanting her just the same. Angry that she kissed him like he’d never been kissed before—as if she knew she was the most precious jewel he would ever hold in his hands.
But they were in too public a place. Anyone might come by—her mother, her step-brother Arthur, her step-father the viscount. “Come,” he whispered against her lips, and she came willingly, grasping the hand her offered her to lead her down a corridor to the first door that gave out into the courtyard, where the winter wind lashed against her bare arms.
Toby immediately turned back, determined to find someplace indoors.
“No.” Despite the cold, she was just as determined. “I think I know a spot.”
She led him at a run to the carriage house, which was well-lit on the alley side, with braziers put out to warm the gathered coachmen as they waited for their charges within the house.
But Caledonia Bowmont was as clever as she was beautiful, steering them toward the back of the carriage house, where the Meecham town coach was put up tight and snug. And best of all, dark and inviting.
She clambered in and immediately pulled out a thick, fur-lined rug. “This will keep us warm.”
“No,” he contradicted even as he wrapped the dark sable around her shoulders. “I’ll keep you warm.”
He drew her close to kiss her, so close she was almost in his lap. And then she was in his lap, with her arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, kissing him as if it were the rightest and best thing in the world. As if they had always meant to meet in a dark, velvet-lined carriage. As if he had always dreamed of kissing her wrapped in fur and delight.
She smelled of sweet orange blossom—sunshine in the dark of winter—and she tasted of wicked desire and sparkling champagne. Of brightness and light. Of happiness. Of possibility.
That was her allure—that was her danger.
Because she made him think of impossible things.
She made him hope.
She pressed herself to him, all heat and happy ardor. Everything within him, every nerve, every fiber of his being was attuned to her enthusiasm. And her urgency—she slid her hands along the line of his jaw to tip his head more to her liking.
No docile, sighing miss, she. She was all direct appreciation, murmuring approvingly as she took his lips delicately between her teeth, and bit down just firmly enough that she could be in no doubt of his state of arousal.
She was not in any doubt. “I’m flattered,” she whispered into his ear, before her hand found him, hard and wanting, while she kissed her way down his neck, leaving a scorched wake.
He wanted to say something arch and suggestive. He wanted to give her as good as he got, but already he was having trouble thinking enough to speak.
So he abandoned all pretense of thought and reason and gave in to the decadent hedonism sliding under his skin like quickfire—he set his hands to her bodice, reachin
g around to find her buttons before he pushed the gauzy sleeves off her shoulders to bare the top of her stays. His mouth was on her skin above the line of her shift, and she was arching her head back to grant him access, murmuring her approval.
Toby was happy to oblige—kissing and pushing away fabric, layer by layer, working her sleeves down far enough that he could assay the laces on her stays, and free her breasts to tease the honeyed tips with his tongue.
And set her pearls loose to fall into his hands.
But he was interested in pearls of a different type—he placed the necklace in her cupped hand, saying only, “Keep track of these,” before he returned to his leisurely perusal of her beautiful breasts.
Devil help him, but she was exquisite—her skin painted golden by the spill of warm lamplight cutting through the chill.
Her breath came in exuberant, visible gasps and appreciative pants. Within the confines of the carriage, the temperature was warming apace—enough for him to shuck the tight restriction of his evening coat and wrap it around her back. She took the moment to tangle her hands through his hair, urging him to her breasts to suck and tongue her over and over, moving from one tightly furled peak to the other, lavishing his attention upon her in the most intimate way.
“And you,” she said, and immediately went at the buttons of his waistcoat before she made short work of his cravat.
For the moment he couldn’t kiss, so he spoke. “We’re going to need a maid and valet to make us even reasonably presentable enough to return—”
“I don’t care.” She stripped the cravat from his neck and flung it away. “I have no intention of going back.”
That she meant every word of her declaration was evident in her haste to bare him as he had bared her, pushing his waistcoat off his shoulders, and opening the neck of his shirt. Tasting him as he had tasted her, setting her lips skimming across his chest, nipping and kissing from the hollow of his throat down. Setting his blood roaring in his veins.
