A Dangerous Affair

by Jillian Eaton

  Rather like she was doing right now.

  Blast it all, Jules! Pull yourself together.

  Thankfully the waltz was coming to end. As the music swelled and then faded away, Grant let go of her waist but kept her hand clasped firmly in his. Lowering his chest in a deep bow, he brought her fingers to his lips.

  “A conversation for another time, my lady.”

  Flustered by his kiss and the warmth rapidly spreading up her arm, Juliet yanked her hand away. “If you recall, there will not be another time. I gave you your dance. Now you have to leave me alone.”

  “Do I?” he challenged.

  “If you are a man of your word.”

  “Let it never be said I am any less than that.”

  Their eyes met for the length of a heartbeat, and in that moment Juliet quite simply forgot how to breathe. Mesmerized by Grant’s emerald gaze, she felt the same pull deep inside that she felt when she looked at a priceless jewel. A sort of desperate yearning that came from the very depths of her soul. She wondered if the runner felt it as well, and was given her answer when he gently cupped her chin, his arrested stare never leaving hers.

  “Juliet…” he began huskily.

  “I’m sorry. I – I have to go.” Wrenching free of his grasp, she turned and bolted into the crowd. Keeping her chin down, she all but ran to the far end of the ballroom, fighting the entire time not to look back over her shoulder, afraid if she did she would be no better off than the woman who had turned to salt.

  But when she reached the double doors she couldn’t help but glance behind her. Chest rising and falling with the force of her breaths, she searched for Grant’s tall frame amidst the crush of ball gowns and black tailcoats, but he must have stepped out onto the terrace for he was nowhere to be seen.

  Good, she told herself firmly as she straightened her bodice and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. No matter how handsome or charming he was, the runner remained just that – a runner. He was a dangerous distraction she could ill afford, and it was high time forgot about him and focused on what really mattered.

  “Pardon me,” she said pleasantly to the footman standing beside the door. “Could you be so kind as to direct me to the lady’s dressing room? I need to powder my nose...”

  Chapter Seven

  Call it instinct. Call it a sixth sense. Call it a runner’s intuition. Whatever it was called, Grant knew there was more to Juliet than met the eye. Which was why he discreetly followed her out of the ballroom and down the hall, keeping just enough distance between them so if she happened to glance back over her shoulder he’d have time to duck into a doorway. When she went into the lady’s dressing room – nothing out the ordinary there – he waited around the corner, hands tucked casually behind his back and a pensive line creasing his forehead.

  From the moment he’d spied the vibrant gleam of her auburn hair across the room he’d been assuaged with the same sense of troubling familiarity that he had felt in the bookstore. It plagued him now as it had then, forcing him to wrack his mind for a memory that remained stubbornly out of reach. Surely if he had met Juliet before yesterday he would have remembered, as her face was not one a man could easily forget. The delicate features, impudent little mouth, and tip-tilted eyes were as unique as her fiery mane. In all his years, he’d never seen her equal. Which was why he knew she had to be a stranger. And yet…

  He stared hard at a flickering wall sconce while he considered the possibilities. Having always possessed an analytical mind, even as a young child, he knew the easiest way to solve a problem was to simply add two and two together. Too often people tried to make things more complicated than they needed to be. But every time he tried to add Juliet up, he kept getting five. Or seven. Or twelve.

  Maybe it was nothing more than raw attraction that had him on edge. But that did not explain where Juliet had come from, or how she was able to flit about London without a proper chaperone, or who her parents were. He knew they must have been both wealthy and titled – the Dashwood’s did not acquaint themselves with those they considered ‘lower quality’ – but what were their names? Come to think of it, what was Juliet’s name?

  Intuition – the same intuition that had served him well on the battlefields and in the alleys – told him there was something he was missing. Something he was overlooking. So what the devil was it?

  Grinding his teeth in frustration, he leaned back against the wall as he waited for her to reemerge from the dressing room, his fingers tapping out an absent rhythm against his thigh. When he heard the creak of a door and the low, whispery murmur of female voices he tensed, but it was only two young debutantes on their way back to the ballroom.

  “Oh!” the taller one gasped as they rounded the corner and saw Grant lurking in the shadows. “You frightened us.”

  “My apologies.” His manners as impeccable as his attire, he stepped forward and bowed. “I did not mean to startle you. I am waiting for a friend.”

  The two debutantes exchanged a quick glance.

  “But there was no one in the dressing room except for us,” the shorter one said.

  “And our chaperone,” the taller one added. “Although I fear she’s fallen asleep in front of the fireplace again.”

  “She does that every time.”

  “Too much elderberry wine.”

  “Mother is going to so very annoyed.”

  “Do you think she’ll finally sack her?”

  “Maybe. But that will be the third one this season!”

  “I rather liked the last one.”

  “Not me. She never let me eat any sweets.”

  “Only because you’ve had to have all your waistlines let out.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “It is. First the blue dress and then–”

  “Wait.” Grant held up his hand as his head began to pound. “Are you certain there’s no one else in the dressing room?”

  “Just our chaperone,” the tall debutante said.

  “There wasn’t a woman with red hair?”

  They exchanged another glance, this one longer than the first.

  “What?” he said, his gaze sharpening as he sensed there was something they weren’t telling him. “What is it?”

  The short one spoke up. “She said there was a – what did she call him, Jane?”

  “I can’t repeat it!” Jane said indignantly. “You say it.”

  “I can’t say it. Mother will wash my mouth out with soap!”

  Grant raked a hand through his hair. “Someone say it,” he growled. This was precisely why he loathed balls and avoided them at all costs. Because they were filled with chattering magpies who loved to use twenty words when two would easily suffice. No wonder they were so bloody obsessed with singing recitals.

  They needed to build up their lung strength.

  Casting a furtive glance to the left and right, Jane lowered her voice to a croaking whisper and said, “She told us a – a ratbag bastard was following her and if we distracted him she’d introduce us to the Duke of Beaumont.”

  Son of a bitch.

  Grant might have been tempted to think that being called a ratbag bastard twice in three days was nothing more than a random coincidence…if he believed in coincidences. Since he did not, there were only two explanations.

  Either Juliet was friends with the jewel thief from St Giles and she’d picked up a few of the lad’s more colorful phrases.

  Or Juliet was the jewel thief from St Giles.

  Two plus two…

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but there is no Duke of Beaumont.”

  His eyes darkened as he thought of how she must have laughed at him when he’d followed her out of the bookstore. Then again tonight when he’d asked her to dance. Juliet had played him like a bloody fool and he’d fallen for her charms like a fish swallowing a rotten piece of bait.

  “You mean we’ve been duped?” Jane cried in dismay.

  “Yes,” he said grimly as he reached for
his pistol. “And so have I.”

  Like stealing sweets from a baby, Juliet thought as she sauntered into Lady Dashwood’s private bedchamber. Not that she’d ever do such a thing. What sort of monster stole from children? Now rich nabobs who were too stupid to lock their doors…that was another story all together.

  The only source of light in the lavishly appointed room came from a fire smoldering in the hearth. Juliet’s shadow rippled across a life-sized painting of Lady Dashwood lounging on a velvet settee as she tip-toed to a dressing table carelessly strewn with hair ribbons, jewelry, and perfume bottles.

  Picking up a gold brooch at random she tested the weight of it in her hand, and then with a shrug tucked it into one of the hidden pockets she’d sewn into her gown. Just because she’d come for a ring didn’t mean that was the only thing she had to leave with.

  A pair of pearl earrings followed the brooch, as well as a diamond encrusted butterfly pin.

  “Now,” she said softly, “if I were a priceless ruby ring, where would I be?”

  As it turned out, not on the dressing table. Or in the armoire or the closet or stuck between the cushions of the chaise lounge. Crossing the room, she began to run her fingers along the wall, searching for any mark or depression that would indicate a secret panel. She knew the ring was here somewhere. It had to be. If this had all been for nothing…

  “There you are.” Her eyes brightened when her thumb pressed a hidden latch and a small drawer popped out of the wall. In the drawer was a mahogany box inlaid with ivory. Carrying the box over to the bed, she unceremoniously dumped its contents onto the ivory duvet. But to her disappointment, the only things to fall out were a handful of coins and an engraved pocket watch.

  “Blast and damn,” she hissed, stomping her foot in frustration. Where the devil was the ring? She’d turned the bedchamber inside out and there was no sign of it anywhere. She knew Lady Dashwood wasn’t wearing it. When she’d glided past in the ballroom her fingers had been bare save a small gold band. Dropping to her hands and knees, Juliet lifted a corner of the duvet and peered under the bed.

  Empty.

  Sitting back on her haunches, she blew a loose tendril of hair out of her eyes. Lady Dashwood must have given the ring to a friend, because it definitely wasn’t in her bedchamber. Which meant the entire evening was a bloody waste.

  Maybe not a complete waste, a tiny voice in her head whispered slyly. You got to dance with The Wolf, didn’t you? Deny it all you want, but you know you enjoyed yourself.

  “Sod off,” she told the voice irritably. She hadn’t danced with Grant because she’d wanted to. She’d danced with him because it would have attracted too much unwanted attention if she had given him the cut direct.

  Yes. That was it. It definitely hadn’t had anything to do with how dashing he’d looked in his black formal attire or the flare of desire that had sparked in her belly when she’d gazed up into his eyes. Blast it all, why did they have to be so green? Her own were a similar shade – the color went hand in hand with the red hair – but she’d never stared at herself in the mirror and felt as though she were slowly sinking into two pools of shimmering emeralds.

  Annoyed by the traitorous direction of her thoughts, Juliet shoved her skirts to the side and pushed herself to her feet. The last thing she needed to be doing was daydreaming over a runner. She was a thief, not a love struck debutante. And she couldn’t consider her work finished until she had returned to St. Giles.

  Her disappointment at not finding the ring tempered by the jewels weighing down her pockets, she checked her appearance in the antique silver mirror hanging above the dressing table to ensure she still looked as she had when she’d entered the room. With the exception of a slight flush in her cheeks, there was nothing to indicate she’d just spent the past ten minutes crawling around on the floor. Now all she had to do was slip back down the hall and out to the foyer. If anyone stopped or questioned her, she’d merely say she was suffering from a horrible case of the megrims.

  All things considered, the night had not been a complete loss. There were certainly worse things that could have happened. Like not finding any jewelry at all…or opening the door and coming face to face with Lord Grant Hargrave.

  Chapter Eight

  “Fancy meeting you here,” Grant drawled. “Looking for something?”

  Juliet jumped back from the door as if it had suddenly caught fire, her gaze darting from his hard, glittering gaze to the deadly black pistol he held pointed straight at her heart. “I – I was just looking for the dressing room. I must have gotten–”

  “Lost?” He smiled coldly. “Somehow I think you ended up precisely where you wanted to be. Turn around and put your hands on the bedpost. And before you think about running, I should make one thing clear. I will shoot you this time.”

  She believed him. Gone was the charming gentleman who had flirted shamelessly with her in the ballroom. In his place stood a man carved from granite. A man without kindness or compassion. A man who wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in her at the slightest provocation.

  This was The Wolf she’d been warned about. If only she’d listened to Bran…

  Turning quickly around, she did as he had requested, her fingers wrapping around the sturdy mahogany bedpost until they interlocked. Her muscles tensed when she heard the creak of a floorboard directly behind her, and she jolted when his hand clamped down on her shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” she said warily.

  “Checking you for weapons.” He pressed the pistol into the small of her back as he began an impersonal sweep of her body, starting with her neck and working down towards her legs. But his brisk, efficient touches began to slow the closer he got to her waist…and they stopped all together when he reached her hip.

  “Lift up your dress.”

  Juliet’s skin turned cold and then hot as a flush spread from the tip of her toes to the top of her breasts. Exposed above the lace-trimmed bodice of her gown, her collarbones flushed a dull red. She turned her head and glared back at him over her shoulder, eyes bright with defiance.

  “The devil I will,” she snapped.

  His head tilting a fraction of an inch to the side, he studied her as a scientist might a particularly fascinating new discovery. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

  “No.” It wasn’t until she’d spoken the word out loud that she realized it was a lie. Truth be told she was afraid of him. But not for the reasons she should have been. The way he could summon a blush to her cheeks with a single glance frightened her. And his ability to make her skin burn with a simple touch? Downright terrifying.

  “You should be.” He leaned in so close she could smell the peppermint on his breath and see the throb of his pulse on the side of his neck. His voice a velvet whisper, he said, “Lift up your dress, Juliet. I am not going to ask again.”

  “Are you going to rape me?” she asked matter-of-factly.

  A sneer drew his mouth to the side. “I’m going to find all the weapons you’re hiding before you try to kill me with them. I can assure you, I find nothing remotely desirable about a common criminal. You and your kind disgust me.”

  Now who was lying? Grant may have hated her every bit as much as she hated him, but there was no denying the attraction between them. Even now it shimmered just beneath the surface of their animosity, a flint that only needed the tiniest of sparks to ignite and burst into flame.

  “Easy,” he said through gritted teeth when she lifted her leg up and placed the toe of her boot on the edge of the bed. “No sudden movements.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’ve got a pistol. What do you think I’m going to do?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.” Cold steel kissed the nape of her neck as he pressed the muzzle to her bare skin. “But I wouldn’t put anything past you.”

  Smart man.

  Slowly, carefully, she drew the hem of her dress up to her knee, exposing the small dagger she had strapped to the inside of her calf. Remov
ing it from its leather sheath, she held it reluctantly over her shoulder, the hilt pointing backwards. Grant snatched it away.

  “Now the rest,” he said.

  “That was the only one I–”

  “The rest, Juliet.” It wasn’t a request, but a command. One he punctuated with a low growl that sent a shiver coursing down her spine. Bran, devil take him, had been right. The Wolf was ruthless. Now that he’d managed to sink his teeth into her, she didn’t see an easy means of escape. But no matter how sharp his claws or how vicious his bite, she would not – she could not – give up without a fight. It wasn’t in her nature to surrender. She was not a meek little lamb bound for slaughter. She was a lioness. And soon enough Grant would feel the sharpness of her claws.

  “Juliet.”

  “All right, all right. You needn’t be so testy,” she complained as she hitched her skirts up even higher and pulled out a pistol, then a second dagger.

  “Toss them on the bed,” he ordered tersely.

  She did as he asked, then waited with her hands loosely draped on her hips for his next command. It was a good thing she was facing away from him, for it meant he couldn’t see the calculating light in her eyes or the determined set of her jaw. She kept her leg poised on the edge of the bed, her bunched skirts revealing the creamy plumpness of her thigh and the slender curve of her calf. She could feel his gaze scorching her sensitive flesh and a small, catlike smile curved her lips. Grant may have forced her to get rid of her physical arsenal – with the exception of the small dagger she had tucked between her breasts – but there was one weapon he couldn’t strip her of.

  Her feminine wiles.

  Juliet may have been a virgin, but she wasn’t innocent. Far from it. She knew firsthand the devastating power a man could yield over a woman…and, courtesy of Sam, the power a woman could yield over a man.