Kisses to Steal

by Tilly Wallace

  Now that parliament had declared the Unnaturals subject to the same laws as all other Englishmen, society would have to acknowledge the creatures and learn to adapt to their presence. That meant letting the likes of Alick attend the theatre. Quinn heard whispers of wolf as they walked through the crowd, but most were too afraid to say it to them directly. Let them whisper behind their fans; it would enhance the reputation of the Highland Wolves.

  Some people called out to Ianthe and she was quick with a warm greeting and thoughtful comment for all. He thought how much a courtesan was like a politician. They cultivated friendships, knew all about their counterparts, and were ever watchful for usurpers. His mission sprang to his mind. How much did she know about Phillip Dunne and Septimus Fletcher's treacherous activities? Had they taken Ianthe into their confidence?

  "What are we seeing tonight?" He hadn't even thought to ask. It was irrelevant to him; he simply wanted to be in her company. Being around her soothed the fractious part of him that paced at being unable to break through his skin. Her fresh lemon scent twined around him and his inner wolf settled to have her near.

  "An Italian tragedy," she said as they found their seats on the main floor, overlooked by the clustered boxes controlled by the upper echelons.

  "Oh." Perhaps the evening's subject material did matter. That sounded particularly depressing and boring. How would he pass the time?

  His gaze dropped to the rounded swell of her bosom and he had a pretty good idea how he would pass the time: by plotting out each and every kiss he intended to claim. Starting with number two. Quinn leaned a little closer.

  "I will have my kiss now," he whispered in her ear. He was close enough that his lips almost grazed her delicate skin, and he could inhale the scent of citrus overlaid with something heavier and darker. Sandalwood, perhaps? He dared not touch her, in case he inadvertently lost kiss number two. She seemed to be a stickler for the rules of their week.

  "Why, Mr Muir, we are at the theatre and surrounded by people," she murmured, the perfect coquette with her eyes downcast behind her waving fan.

  "Do not worry, I have no plans to take you to the floor and ravish your mouth. The kiss will be entirely appropriate for the venue." He caught the arch of her eyebrow. She bit down on his bait and was caught on his line.

  Quinn took her left hand in his and caressed her forearm as he slid his hand higher, turning her arm to expose the underside of her glove. He undid each tiny pearl button over her wrist, grazing her skin with his fingertips as he worked. Taking his time, he slowed his breathing to quiet his actions. Buttons undone, he then stroked each of her fingers as he caught the end of the satin and gently tugged each tip until the glove slid free.

  It didn't matter that all around him people took their seats and caught up on the day's gossip. Above them, the ton sat in their boxes and surveyed the world, expecting those below to stare up at them. Quinn saw only Ianthe. She was the only star shining in his universe.

  Now he cradled her naked hand and arm, yet he still would not be rushed. He savoured every second. Her gaze settled on him, not on the hundreds of other patrons around them. Out of all the titles and fortunes present, Ianthe could look only at him. He held her captive. Her skin was warm against his as he placed his hand over her palm and, with his other hand under her wrist, raised her arm. Higher and closer, until each exhale feathered over the inside of her forearm.

  Her breath hitched, though her fan continued its lazy strokes even as she turned her head, pretending she had no regard for his actions. But she did. Quinn focused all his attention on her responses. From the quick rise and fall of her breast, to the sidelong glances and the soft noises Ianthe didn't know she made. He lowered his head and kissed the inside of her wrist, a leisurely touch of his lips and a stroke of his tongue to have the taste of her. Inside, his wolf closed its eyes and held her scent close.

  The catch in her breathing became a tiny gasp, and only then did he release her.

  "Really, Mr Muir, that was no real kiss." Ianthe took back her glove and drew it on over her long fingers with a slightly unsteady hand.

  He frowned. "I could drag you to the floor and ravish you tomorrow, if you prefer."

  The closed fan rapped on his arm. "Behave," she whispered.

  He glanced up as she flicked the fan open in a practiced move and hid her face, apart from her eyes, which continued to pull him in. The grey depths swirled and held more humour than he had ever seen from her in their short acquaintance. The tired lines around her eyes were gone, replaced by faint laughter lines as she admonished him. He had caught her interest now, and he would not let go until she saw all of him. He would show her how different he was to the staid old men she had surrounded herself with. If she pressed close enough, would she touch the wolf hidden inside him that longed to be seen?

  While he sat next to her, watching the opera, his attention was elsewhere. His lips kept tugging into a smile as the tragedy unfolded on the stage. Not that the opera was humorous—far from it. Some poor man lay dying while his lover sobbed over his limp form. What made him laugh was the way Ianthe kept rubbing her wrist. Did she even know she kept touching where he had kissed her? She would scratch and rub at the spot, and one time he caught her thumb making lazy circles over her glove. With each pass of her finger, she pressed his kiss deeper.

  He was under her skin, just as she was under his.

  After the opera concluded, they rose and clapped with the other theatregoers. Then Quinn guided her through the throng of bodies. The press of people was a convenient excuse to keep her close, his hand on the small of her back. His fingers were splayed over the silk of her gown, but the heat of her body soaked through the fabric. He pulled on his cravat with his free hand. The blasted thing was too tight.

  "Did you enjoy the performance?" she asked as they reached the lavish atrium.

  To his mind, he’d turned in a spectacular debut, although he doubted she referred to him claiming his first kiss. He wasn't counting the peck on her cheek from the previous night, even if she insisted upon it. "I enjoyed the company. Events on the stage were secondary."

  She stopped and took his arm, a flicker of wonder in her eyes, as if no one had ever paid her a compliment before. "If you ever tire of the army, you could make a career whispering sweet nothings to older women."

  Now that he thought on it, perhaps men did not often compliment her company, but only her form. It was easy to dwell on the shape of her breasts or the shade of her lips, but he found her mind equally arousing. "My words are only meant for you. They'll not be repeated to another."

  Her gaze widened, and she was on the point of saying something, when they were interrupted.

  "Why, if it isn't little Ianthe Wynn."

  The voice stole her comment before it was uttered, and her mouth snapped closed just as her fingers tightened on his arm. Internally, his hackles rose in warning and a growl vibrated through his bones. Quinn placed one hand on top of hers and looked over her shoulder to see who had addressed her. Someone known to her, he guessed, given her response.

  The voice belonged to a gentleman, probably only about thirty, but already exhibiting the expanding waistline and florid complexion of someone a little too fond of rich food and port. His love affair with excess was perhaps only matched by an obvious aversion to exercise. His clothing was expensive, although showing signs of wear on the ends of his sleeves. There was a tiny fray by the buttons at his knee, and a run in his stocking at the heel. His appearance put forward a good show, but it didn't stand up to close scrutiny.

  Ianthe squeezed Quinn’s arm, and then turned, a quizzical look on her face. "You have me at a disadvantage, sir. Do I know you?"

  From her reaction Quinn was quite certain she did, yet for some reason she was putting on a charade of ignorance. He narrowed his gaze, ready to call the fool out if he dared cause her any distress. He wished he possessed even the ability to half shift, so he could bare his sharpened canines at the oaf and give a more audib
le growl.

  The man laughed, and his gaze slid over Quinn and back to Ianthe. "I know you quite intimately, my dear."

  She shook her head. "I know many men intimately. You'll have to refresh my memory, for it appears you did not make a lasting impression."

  Even Quinn felt the sting in that comment. Could there be a heavier blow to a man's ego than a woman forgetting your name after you had intimate relations?

  The fellow's face dropped as doubt took hold. "William St John. My father died recently and I am now earl. With my wife ensconced in the country with our new heir, I have come to town to procure a mistress. Imagine my delight when I found your name bandied around in the clubs as being available. We can renew our acquaintance."

  As much as he wanted to hear Ianthe put the man down again, Quinn could stay silent no longer. This oaf assumed she was a loaf of bread on a baker's shelf, which he could purchase on a whim. The nerve of the man, to assume he could simply crook his finger and she would go running to him, whatever their history.

  "You are mistaken, my lord. Miss Wynn is not available. You must look elsewhere for your entertainment," Quinn said.

  The man waved a hand at him. His hungry gaze never left Ianthe's face, or more accurately, her décolletage. "Stay out of it, lad. This is between us. I was the first to have her, and I would have her again."

  First? Well, that put an interesting spin on proceedings. Although to Quinn's mind it didn't matter who had her first, or just last week; he fully intended to be last. Ianthe's fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve, and he was certain she had no desire to renew the old association.

  The smile on her face did not reach her eyes. "I am sorry, my lord, but I do not remember you. I have had so many men over the years, and you simply don't spark any memory."

  St John blustered. His mouth opened and shut several times, as if he could not believe that the beautiful courtesan could not place him among her beaus. "Really, Ianthe, no need to play coy in front of the lad. We all know what you are. You are in search of another patron. Your sort cannot last long without something between your legs."

  Quinn's wolf tore at his skin and demanded to be let free to wipe the leer off the earl's face. Not only did St John insult Ianthe, Quinn was tired of being called the lad. He was all wolf beneath his clothing. If they had been out on the street, he would have simply punched the man and knocked him off his feet. Here, with the ton swirling around them, he needed a more civilised approach. Perhaps he should show St John the lad's accuracy with a pistol at twenty paces.

  He went to draw his arm from Ianthe so he could slap his opponent and call him out, when she stopped him. She turned, shot him a quick look, and then squeezed his arm. It rankled, to let her face the man on her own, but Quinn would bite his tongue off to hold in his retort if that was what she wanted.

  She inhaled slowly, as though composing herself, and then addressed the boor. "My lord, you are obviously provincial and unused to the ways of the demi-monde. Please allow me to explain things to you. To attract a courtesan, men must possess one of three things: wealth, a title, or talent. My companion Mr Muir has neither of the former two, but makes up for it with the latter. I suggest you find one of my sisters who does not mind that you have neither fortune nor talent to accompany your title. Good evening."

  Ianthe had called him talented, which placated both lad and wolf. Quinn still wanted to put a carefully placed bullet in the man, but it was worth holding his peace to hear those words from her lips. The grin would not budge from his face now. To his further delight, not only did the smile disappear from St John's face, but he appeared to be deflating on the spot. The packed room relayed the insult with lightning speed, and courtesans twittered behind their fans. He doubted the man would find a mistress among the demi-monde now, for what good was a title without either wealth or talent?

  8

  Ianthe

  * * *

  Seeing William again after ten years shook Ianthe to the core, and she drew on Quinn's quiet strength to face him. The young man at her side acted as a shield while she threw her barbs. Perhaps the vision was wrong and this particular wolf was sent to protect her. She turned her back on the man she had once thought she loved, and walked away. A faint tremor in her hand was the only sign that betrayed her inner turmoil. Quinn, bless him, hailed a hackney and had her bundled inside before anyone else saw the shakes trying to take hold of her body.

  As the carriage pulled away from the crowded streets, he pulled her into his arms. Ianthe laid her head against his chest, and a sob escaped her throat. There was a comfort in Quinn's solid presence and the pulse of his heart under her cheek. He had revealed a deep secret to her; fitting that he now saw hers.

  "Who is he?" he whispered, one hand stroking her back.

  "My creator." That was all she could say, lest her heart break anew. She didn't want to think about the young girl who had loved so completely and so blindly that she gave herself to the earl's dashing heir. For once in her life, the second sight had sent her a true vision of glittering jewels and women in lush gowns. Only her interpretation had been wrong. Young Ianthe had thought it revealed to her a life as William's wife, but it had shown her the world of the demi-monde, who would accept her after she was ruined.

  Emboldened by the vision and seduced by what she thought to be love, Ianthe believed for one glorious summer that she was the only sun in his sky. Or at least she was until her womb quickened. Afterwards, Ianthe had shut those bright months away, closeted them in a dark corner of her mind, and refused to look at them ever again. Until tonight.

  When the carriage stopped, Quinn still kept her close against his side until they were back in the house. Standing in the quiet hush of the hall, Quinn took her hand and brushed his cheek against her knuckles. "Thank you for a delightful evening. I hope you sleep well."

  She tried to smile, and watched him take the steps two at a time. He’d stood by her all evening and his attention had never wavered, even when younger and far prettier women tried to catch his eye. For an instant, she had even thought he might strike William, and part of her had wanted to let him. Never before had a man jumped to defend her.

  Ianthe shook her head and let Sarah lead her up the stairs. She walked a fraught path, and Quinn made her feel things best left buried. That door in her mind had stayed bolted shut for so long, and behind it waited a deluge that would drown her. It was impossible to open it just a sliver to let selected emotions through. She either felt everything, or nothing. And nothing was the far safer option.

  Ianthe instructed Sarah to wake her early. Being around Quinn made her lower her defences, and she could not afford that. Nor did she want the Scottish lad lounging on her bed. She most certainly did not need his lean length taking up the quilt and making her sluggish blood pulse through her limbs. It was time to reinforce her mental barricades, and ensure he could not sneak under them again.

  The next morning, Ianthe was dressed and sitting in the dining room when he bounced in. Only one thought shot through her mind: He really was a lost cause. She could imagine a valet would resign in short order if he had to make Quinn presentable every morning. His hair looked like birds had nested in it overnight, and yet again, he wore his shirt open at the neck. Scandalous. His throat was exposed, displaying a light tan to his skin and a smattering of dark hairs visible on his chest.

  Not that she looked. And she certainly did not imagine for the barest second pulling his shirt open to follow the trail of hair. A man's physique held no interest for her whatsoever; one was much like another. Even if this one was far better formed than anything she had seen in years, and her fingers itched to trace the muscles outlined by his light shirt.

  "Good morning," he said. A wide smile was plastered on his face, and he imbued the room with a warm, comfortable air. "Did you sleep well?"

  He turned his back as he helped himself from the silver platters on the sideboard, which did nothing to help curb her impetuous thoughts. With no jacket and
only a short waistcoat, he presented his tight derriere. Even his buttocks looked muscled, and her hand curled around her cup. She might not be able to eat from this particular buffet, but she could still enjoy what was displayed. A sigh welled up in her chest as she dragged her mind back on topic. Something about sleeping?

  "Yes, thank you," she murmured over the rim of her teacup. In fact she had slept terribly. All night long she’d tossed and turned and scratched her wrist. Quinn's presence in the house stirred her up like a wind on the ocean, whipping everything to peaks.

  The way he had stood steadfast at her side, prepared to leap to her defence, unnerved her. Perhaps she had made a tactical mistake in accepting his wager. Companionship with a man was far harder to endure than the physical act of love. He was young, and given the heat in his gaze, the act would probably have been over in mere minutes. Whereas now, she still had five whole days.

  He sat opposite her and ate his food with gusto. She couldn't help but wonder at how he compared to his companions who could shift into wolves. Did they likewise have such large appetites? And did the things the wolves felt, or did, transfer to the human form? Ianthe re-evaluated her former opinion of his possible performance. Judging by his hunger, he might have lasted longer than a handful of minutes. How bothersome. She would simply have to find a way to endure his cheerful companionship.

  "Do you have plans for today?" he asked after devouring an egg. He seemed to prefer them whole, never bothering to cut them up; he just dropped them down his throat intact.

  Watching him eat was simultaneously horrifying and fascinating. It reminded her of why she preferred older men. They had much smaller and more manageable appetites. Already she could imagine her bill with the butcher and costermonger escalating. Having him in the house would be equivalent to feeding a wolf. In fact, having him change form might be preferable; she could have sent him out to the countryside to eat a sheep. Or an entire cow. He would also need walking to wear off some of his energy, which brought her back to her plans for the day.