Lady Iona's Rebellion

by Dorothy McFalls

  Her gut tightened as she realized her mistake. The laughter in her throat disappeared. Goodness, she would have been much safer in the clutches of that knife-wielding card monger at Goldsmith’s than in Nathan’s arms right now. Somehow she—or rather her unfettered emotions—had allowed him to gain the upper hand.

  It was almost more than she could bear. His fiery stare felt as if it could burn straight through her, threatening to singe her until there was nothing left but a pile of ashes on the gravel walk. She drew a deep breath while listening to the thump-thump of her heart and wondered if he could hear her thundering beats.

  A whispered sigh brushed against her cheek and sent shivers tiptoeing down her spine. She drew a deep breath and held it. Her eyes slipped closed as she waited for him to kiss her.

  Instead Nathan muttered another curse. “You’re hurt.” It sounded like an accusation. He cradled her hand in his. “You’re bleeding, dammit. Why didn’t you say anything?”

  Her hand had been stinging but not enough to cause concern. Yet, even in the dim light she could see the blood oozing from where Varner’s blade had bitten into the soft skin between her thumb and forefinger. The blood was staining her glove.

  “I’ll kill him.”

  The cold conviction in his voice frightened her. This wasn’t her tame, harmless friend who had the power to lure away her heart. He was as dangerous as the card mongers in Goldsmith’s. More dangerous since she cared for him and didn’t want him getting into trouble thanks to her mad schemes. And more dangerous even still since she suspected this more unpredictable Nathan had the power to snatch away her heart whether she wanted him to or not.

  She touched his sleeve and felt the tension in his hard muscles. “Please,” she said, “it’s merely a scratch.”

  “That blade was filthy. Your so-called scratch is likely to fester. We need to get it cleaned up.” He gave a frustrated huff. “I’ll have to wait and deal with Varner later.”

  He kept his hand on her lower back as he guided her down the street, presumably taking her back home.

  “For future reference,” he said tightly, “not that you’ll need it if I have any say—when a gentleman is sitting alone at a gaming table, avoid him. There’s a reason no one is playing cards with him.”

  If not for that blasted nick on her hand, she’d still have her back pressed up against that smooth tree and him making love to her mouth. She wasn’t a total innocent. She knew when a man was on the verge of kissing a woman. And Nathan’s lips had been so close to hers that she could still taste the promise of his kiss.

  Confound it! She wasn’t ready to go home. Not yet, not when her body was shouting for something to happen. But what? That nagging ache growing between her thighs was seeking a completion she didn’t quite understand.

  He should be taking her home. But his apartment was closer. At least that’s what Nathan told himself as he led Iona up the short flight of steps and into his apartment’s tiny front parlor.

  He held his breath, waiting for her to sneer at the sight of his modest living arrangements. His rented rooms weren’t a fit place to bring a wife—or future wife—or even a future, future wife. And Iona was accustomed to the most expensive comforts only those living at the most exclusive addresses could afford.

  Though he was by no means impoverished, a large chunk of his income was being used to pay for his bastard nephew’s care and to keep Miss Darly silent. And then there were his worries over his father’s estate. He feared he might soon need to bail his brother out on that front as well. If not for his father’s fragile health, he’d stop covering for Edward’s mistakes and force him to start taking some responsibility for his actions.

  But his father was still weak and covering up for Edward had almost become second nature to Nathan. Despite all that, he despaired that he couldn’t show Iona that he could take care of her in a manner she would expect. Seeing how he lived, she’d surely forever scorn the thought of marriage to him.

  Graceful as ever—even with a frazzled wig, a cockeyed beaver hat and false mustache pasted to her upper lip—she wandered through the parlor with a serene expression pursed on her lips.

  “This is where you live?” she asked, not giving any of her thoughts away.

  He gave a nod. “I know it’s not much but it’s only temporary. As you know, before my father’s illness I spent most of my time in London.”

  “Ah.” She ran her long fingers across the back of a worn stuffed chair as her gaze tripped over the walls cluttered with artwork that had been gifted to him from various London artists he’d made loans to over the years. Her lips curled into a faint smile. “It’s quaint.” She blinked up at him. “I like it.”

  “You do?” He closed the front door and leaned against it. With his arms crossed, he watched as she continued to explore the parlor, touching and caressing the furniture. Her beautiful cornflower blue eyes grew wide as she drew her hand across the large, intricately carved oak desk that took up most of the room. His body tightened.

  “The desk doesn’t fit with the rest of the furnishings. It’s rather out of place, isn’t it? Too fine, too large for its surroundings. Is it yours?” she asked.

  He nodded. His thoughts were on anything but that desk. It took all his willpower not to sweep her up and show her another piece of furniture, a bed he’d set up in the middle of the room adjoining this parlor. A luxurious bed waiting for them, only a few steps away.

  Would it really be so wrong? Waking her up to the wonders waiting for her in the marriage bed might even give Iona the push needed to bend her blasted resolve against marriage. True, breaching her maidenhead before making her his wife would only prove that he was the rogue society had painted him out to be.

  Out of reach from the room’s pale flickering candlelight, he continued to watch her while he leaned against the now closed and locked door. Even wearing that blasted wig and mustache, she was beautiful and he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any other woman. Slender as a wren and yet as bold as a tigress, Lady Iona was an uncommonly rare find among the ton. Remembering how she’d accepted him despite the dastardly reputation he’d heaped all around him made his heart thud even harder in his chest.

  Regardless of her wishes concerning marriage and whether she wanted to become his wife or not, he desperately wanted to take her to his bed. And that made him feel exactly like the worst kind of lone wolf. One who lurked in the shadows, waiting for an innocent to fall into his clutches.

  “It suits you.”

  “What?” he asked, not at all sure what she was talking about. Surely she hadn’t seen past his closely guarded expression and read his thoroughly inappropriate thoughts.

  “The desk,” she said and quickly licked her pearly lips. “It suits you.”

  Their gazes met and for a heart-stopping moment he knew with a certainty that she wanted him as badly as he ached for her. Not knowing what he intended to do, yet fearing it would damn him forever to hell, he took a step toward her.

  The narrow side door to the parlor slid open and Freddie, Nathan’s tireless valet, poked his head in the room.

  “Will you be needin’ anything before bed, my lord?” Freddie asked around a wide yawn. His dark eyes landed on Nathan, who’d suddenly frozen in place.

  Freddie knew Nathan’s stance and could read the look of predatory lust in his employer’s gaze only too easily. Fortunately he’d had enough practice over the past few years to know when to be discreet. He started to back out of the room.

  “Beggin’ your pardon,” he said quietly, without even flicking a look in Iona’s direction. “I see you have everything you need for the night already.”

  “Just a moment, Freddie.” Nathan needed to clean Iona’s wounded hand. That was the reason he’d brought her to his apartment in the first place. Not seduction. Though seduction might come later, her health came first.

  Seemingly unable to help himself, Freddie looked up, his beady gaze drifting over to where Iona was standing. Of cou
rse he saw exactly what the blind fools in Goldsmith’s had seen—a lad.

  His brows shot up.

  “You-you and your…um…um…friend certainly wouldn’t be needin’ me for anything tonight?” Freddie asked, his drawl roughening and his throat working overtime.

  Dash it all. Clearly Nathan’s valet’s already poor opinion of his thoroughly debauched employer just dropped a few rungs.

  “Sir Percival Crumps has injured his hand,” Nathan explained through gritted teeth while silently cursing the depths he’d sunk to.

  It was lowering to realize that even his trusted valet would jump to the worst conclusions about him. He wouldn’t be surprised if all of Bath would be talking about his out-of-control lusts that had him taking anything and everything into his bed—including impossibly shapely and awkwardly dressed lads.

  “An injury, my lord?” Freddie’s voice trembled.

  “There was an unfortunate incident with a knife at Goldsmith’s. I will need some strips of clean cloth and a basin of hot water to clean the wound,” Nathan said.

  “Of course, my lord. A knife fight, my lord. Very clearly a logical reason to invite a youngster like Sir…um… Percival into your parlor. You couldn’t let him stumble home alone after finding himself on the wrong end of a knife. How very noble of you and—”

  “The basin of water, Freddie,” Nathan urged.

  “Of course.” Freddie rushed back toward the tiny kitchen, relief flowing through his voice and the color returning to his normally ruddy cheeks. “Right away, my lord.”

  While they waited for Freddie’s return, Nathan focused his energies on taking care of Iona’s hand—and trying to forget about his desire to strip her naked. Oh, what pleasure he’d take in administering his attentions to not just her injury but to her entire body. With a muttered curse, he shook the thought away.

  In the glow of the set of candles Freddie always lit in anticipation of Nathan’s return, he carefully peeled off Iona’s glove and turned her hand over in his own. The flow of blood had stopped. And though the gash needed to be cleaned, it wasn’t nearly as bad as he had feared. She hadn’t been downplaying the injury. It was only slightly worse than a nick.

  He whooshed out a breath of relief.

  “I doubt anyone will notice this small slice tomorrow,” he said and caressed her knuckles, enjoying the feel of her velvety smooth skin under the rough pads of his fingertips. Soon this woman—a creature as gentle as a sigh and as wild as a kitten—would be his wife…if things went his way.

  But very little did go his way lately. And that worried him.

  “You will have to start trusting and obeying me, Iona.” He tilted up her chin. “You could have been seriously hurt.”

  Firelight flickered in her eyes. She swallowed hard and her lips parted as if she was going to argue. But she said nothing.

  He didn’t know whether to be pleased or worried. The wizened part of him whispered that he should be worried. Very worried. This was her second brush with danger and the first one at the King’s Bath hadn’t cooled her ardor for adventure one blasted bit.

  “Iona, I’m serious. This game has to stop. Here. Tonight.”

  “But—”

  Freddie interrupted them. He entered with several clean cloths draped over his arm and carrying a plain, ceramic basin of water. He was whistling a jaunty tune that came to an abrupt halt as he caught the two of them in such an intimate pose. The color seeped out from his cheeks again.

  “The-the water, my lord. But perhaps I should come back later?”

  Nathan quickly released Iona’s hand and took a step back.

  “Set the water here.” Nathan pointed to his desk. While Freddie hovered, he took the clean cloth from his valet’s arm and dipped it into the basin. The steaming hot water nearly scalded his skin. But he knew from experience that the heat would help draw out the dirt and limit the threat of infection.

  “This will hurt,” he warned Iona.

  She tightened her lips and nodded.

  He scrubbed the small wound with the hot, damp cloth. Her cheeks paled but she was brave. She inhaled slowly and turned her gaze to the ceiling. He supposed she was trying to hide the tears that were swimming in her beautiful eyes. Nathan noticed them though. Lately he seemed to be noticing every damned thing about her as if she were a glittering beacon in the gloom that had become his life.

  “Freddie, fetch the brandy,” he growled, trying to tamp down the frustration beating through his body. Iona wanted his kisses and yet she still insisted he was nothing more than a dear friend. What he was feeling for her at this moment didn’t feel the least bit friendly though.

  His valet murmured softly and rushed from the room.

  “I’m fine,” she said once they were alone. “I don’t need a drink. Besides I can’t stand the taste of brandy.”

  “Good. It’s not for you to drink,” he said more sharply than he intended.

  Cleaning the wound with a healthy dose of brandy was a trick his governess had taught him. Growing up he was constantly coming home scraped and cut to ribbons. At first he thought his governess had been merely trying to punish him with the stinging liquid but, as he grew into adulthood, he realized that whenever he treated his own wounds with the brandy, he greatly reduced his chances of infection.

  Despite the benefits of the brandy, knowing what he was about to do made him feel like the very devil. The alcohol he was about to pour onto her wound would burn like fire on her skin though he doubted it could possibly equal the pain he was feeling thanks to her changeable emotions toward him and toward the other men vying for her affections.

  “Iona, about our future—” he started to say. But Freddie returned. Avoiding eye contact with either of them, he handed Nathan a small crystal decanter.

  “I can handle it from here,” Nathan said, not wanting his valet to watch. If Iona were to cry out, Freddie would easily guess that his strange elf-like guest was actually a lady in disguise. He’d rather endure Freddie’s scowls and low opinion than risk having Iona’s identity revealed, even to old, dependable Freddie.

  Once the valet left them alone in the room again, Nathan opened the bottle. “I’m sorry about this,” he said.

  “So am I.” Her voice sounded rough.

  Certain that, if he waited any longer, he wouldn’t be able to properly clean the wound, he held the wet cloth underneath her hand and poured a healthy draught of the alcohol over the small cut.

  She hissed a breath but took the pain as bravely as any man he’d ever seen.

  “That’s my girl.” Once he’d dabbed the alcohol from her hand, he drew her close and planted a light kiss on her forehead.

  Of course he ached to do more than kiss her with a chaste tenderness he reserved for his favorite elderly aunt. Their bodies fit well together. He tightened his arms around her and enjoyed how her breasts pressed against his chest. She hugged him back and wiggled as if trying to get every last inch of her front into contact with his. His body tightened even more. He was convinced she could feel the solid proof of his desire pressing against her belly. More than likely, she would understand what happened between a man and a woman. Though an innocent, she wasn’t young or stupid.

  Only vastly inexperienced.

  Nathan groaned when his blasted conscience kicked in. To take advantage of her budding and somewhat uncontrolled womanly desires would be wrong. She didn’t fully understand what she was doing to him. She couldn’t.

  He refused to believe she would knowingly tease him so cruelly by wiggling up against him like that. And that’s what she was doing to him quite thoroughly, teasing his body to a point of arousal that made it damnably hard to think.

  What he needed to do was turn the tables on her. After all, she’d silently brooded during their entire walk to his apartment after leaving the Orange Grove. All because he’d refused to give her mustached lip a kiss. Served her right.

  It frustrated him that their relationship was being relegated to clandestine
assignations. This was exactly what he needed to do, wrest the reins out of her hands and take control of their game.

  When he pulled away she gave a strangled cry.

  “Does the sight of your blood frighten you?” he asked, since she seemed to be staring at her hands. The cut was bleeding a little after being so thoroughly cleaned, though he seriously doubted it was the blood that made her cry out.

  She shook her wigged head and leaned forward slightly. “I’m not frightened.”

  You should be.

  To hell with his short-lived plan of teasing her but not giving in. His heart was pounding wildly against his ribs. He tossed aside the damp cloth, peeled off that blasted mustache she was wearing and removed the frizzy wig.

  Taking a virgin, an innocent, to his bed was one line he’d promised himself he’d never cross but, dammit, Iona was going to be his wife. He’d already decided that he’d fight the devil to win her if need be. So why not rush the consummation and enjoy himself now?

  Because he cared for her. Of course he’d always been fond of her. And had once believed himself in love with her. But all of those emotions paled in comparison to what he was feeling for her right now. The thought of losing her pained him even deeper than the torment he’d suffered when his family had turned their backs on him, refusing to even listen to his explanations.

  For her he would do the right thing—even if it meant not touching her until she agreed to become his wife.

  Chapter Eleven

  Iona held her breath, praying he’d sweep her off her feet. He had a fevered look that made her belly dance. But instead of drawing her close again or touching her like he had that wonderful night at the King’s Bath, he was pulling away.

  He was so infuriating!

  Couldn’t he read the signs she was sending? Certainly he wasn’t so daft he didn’t understand that she wanted him as strongly as he wanted her.

  And he wanted her. Of that she was certain. She’d felt the proof of his desire pressing against her belly.