Cara already knew that she was not among the more adventurous of the Loversalls. There would be no corsairs for her, no harems, no coppersmiths’ sons or seraglios. The only bed she wished to be in was her own, and now.
Sounds echoed eerily. Street lamps cast only a dim glow into the gloom. What was Zoe thinking, to consider going out so late? Cara couldn’t help but remember every tale she’d ever heard of footpads and murderers, not to mention press gangs and other creatures of the night.
A hackney coach waited at the designated corner, the driver muffled in a heavy coat on his high seat, the horses standing patiently in the fog. Cara’s footsteps slowed. Surely she had not come so far to turn craven now.
Cautiously, she approached the cab. The vehicle appeared to be empty. The driver turned his head to peer down at her.” ‘E said as ye’d be a looker. Bein’ as ye’ve already kept me horses waitin’ overlong, missy, mebbe ye’d get in.”
Did the man think she was a woman of easy virtue? Cara didn’t know whether to be appalled or amused. To hesitate was to be lost, and so she climbed into the cab.
The interior was dark, which was perhaps fortunate, because from every indication it was also none too clean. Unknown substances gritted on the floor beneath her half boots. The air stank of spoiled fish.
The cab rattled through dark streets, around corners, in such a tangle of contrary directions that Cara soon lost all sense of where she was. By the time the cab drew to a stop, she was well and truly lost.
The cabby opened the carriage door and held out his hand. Gingerly, Cara took it and let the man help her down. Impossible to make out his features, between his hat and the muffler wrapped around the lower part of his face, but she sensed that he was young.” ‘E said as ye was to go the front door,” the cabby said, and climbed back up onto his seat. The cobbled street was close to the river, judging from the thickness of the fog.
Before her stood a tall house built in an older style, its top stories rising into gables and jutting out in shallow bays, its lower windows tiny jeweled squares set in designs of ornamental lead, its rooftop adorned with clusters of chimneys with protruding stacks. At least Cara knew she wasn’t in Westminster or Whitehall: this building had survived the Great Fire. Behind her, the hackney clattered off into the night.
What the devil was she doing? Cara stared up at the house. Light glowed from several of the old windows. She reminded herself of her family, and the Battle of Hastings, and reluctantly climbed the front steps.
The door was opened by a maidservant in a neat dark gown, white apron, and starched cap. The girl didn’t react to the sight of a lone female on her doorstep with so much as an eyelid’s blink. “If you’ll follow me, please, mum,” she said, and led Cara through a vestibule paved with black marble, past a delicately carved wooden staircase that led to the upper floors, down a hallway inlaid with different colors of wood, to a parlor at the back of the house. There, the girl curtsied and withdrew. The servant had clearly expected her, as had the hackney driver. Cara wondered how she—or Zoe—had been described.
She glanced curiously around the parlor. Wainscotted walls once painted a brilliant red with touches of blue and green were faded now, their colors echoed in the carpet on the floor. Bookshelves lined two of the walls, displaying volumes bound in velvet of different colors with ornamental gold clasps. On a third wall hung a tapestry depicting a somewhat brutal hunting scene. Beautifully embroidered draperies softened windows fashioned with horizontal mullions and diamond-shaped leaded panes in between. Plump crimson satin pillows graced the window seat. Two walnut wing chairs were drawn up to the fire. A book lay open on a small table of red marble streaked with white. Cara picked it up. Lily’s Eupheus: The Anatomy of Wit.
A long oak table used for informal dining, fancifully embellished with intricately carved animals and flowers. A cabinet four feet high, with two shelves inside that held curiosities. Old maps of England, Scotland, France, and the Low Countries. A counting table with a chequered top. A perpetual almanac in a frame.
A brandy decanter decorated with all-over diamond cutting. Ladies didn’t drink brandy. Cara poured herself a glass. Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t to have been brought to such a place as this.
If only she had never returned to London. If only Beau had never had a child. If only she had a pistol, or something with which to defend herself. For all its treasures—and this was a room filled with treasures—the parlor lacked a fireplace poker or anything else she might use as a weapon. Cara wondered if she might defend her virtue with a wooden chair. Not that it was her virtue that was in need of defending. She walked to the fireplace, which was embellished with a rear opening of brick laid herringbone-wise, a mantel frieze carved with monkeys and birds and fruits, and a scene of Diana bathing carved in the chimneypiece. A cozy fire burned in the hearth.
Moments passed, then half an hour. By the time the doorknob turned, Cara was in such a state of nerves that she had consumed not one glass of brandy, but two, and was contemplating a third. She stared at the door. Then, remembering that she was supposed to be her niece, Cara quickly turned her back. Her disguise wouldn’t pass for a moment in this bright candlelight. No use now trying to persuade the man that Zoe wanted no more to do with him. She supposed she’d have to beg.
The door opened, closed. A key turned in the lock. Footsteps crossed the floor. Nearer, ever nearer, wood to carpet... Cara clenched her hands. The feet stopped just short of touching her. “Well met, Lady Norwood,” drawled an amused masculine voice.
A pattern-card of propriety, was she? Cara spun around. “Damn you, Nicky!” she snapped, and raised her fist, and punched the marquess smack in the jaw.
Chapter 8
She’d punched him. The blasted woman had punched him. Which, when all was said and done, was hardly the worst she’d done to him over the years.
Nick touched his battered jaw. Cara looked almost as startled as he felt. Before she could recover sufficiently from her shock to abuse him again, he unceremoniously picked her up, plopped her down on the table, and held her prisoner there with arms on either side of her body, his legs pressed against hers.
They were practically nose to nose. They were definitely thigh to thigh. Nick’s blood stirred. Not to mention other portions of his person. If she hadn’t noticed yet, it was a matter of mere time. Lord, how could she not notice? Or perhaps she had. There was a horrified expression in her beautiful eyes as she stared at him. Curious, he waited for her to speak. She murmured, “I never hit anyone before in all my life!”
And of course he had to be the first. Nick could not help but smile. “Did you like it?” he inquired.
Cara’s horror began to fade, to be replaced by an awareness of her position. He held her so well imprisoned that she could barely squirm. “I did, rather. I think I’d like to do it again.”
At least she wished to do something again. Before she could become enamored of the notion of further violence, Nick leaned closer still. “Pray restrain yourself,” he said, and dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose. Then he kissed her cheek, her temple, her eyebrows and her ear, and pulled her cloak aside so that he might work his way down her fine slender throat. When she made no attempt to stop him, not that she could have stopped him, held prisoner as she was, or that he would allow it even if she tried, he drew back to look at her. Her lovely eyes had fluttered shut. Now they opened. Her luscious lips parted. She looked adorably dazed.
“Cara mia,” he groaned, and claimed her mouth with his. The taste of her was as intoxicating as he had remembered it all these years. He plunged his tongue into her eager mouth, and his fingers in her hair, scattering hairpins everywhere. Her hand moved to his chest, tugged at his cravat. Nick gave himself up to the moment. No woman he had ever known, and he had known many women, had ever fit so perfectly into his arms.
The moment, or moments. Perhaps even hours. When Nick at last regained his senses, Cara’s cloak was on the floor, her hair not only unpinned but
unbraided and tangled around her shoulders, her gown in a state of shocking disarray; while his cravat had been untied, and his shirt yanked open. Her hands were splayed on his bare chest. His hands rested on her bare skin also, one on her shoulder, and the other on her knee.
She was disheveled, bemused, and bewitching. Impossible for either of them to deny how much he wanted her now. In case she did mistake it, he moved slightly against her. She flushed. Now perhaps she would cease being such a termagant and listen to what he had brought her here to say. He leaned his forehead against hers. “Cara,” he sighed.
“Satyr! Goat!” She pushed at his chest. “Luring innocent young women to your lair!”
It would seem the moment—or moments—had ended. Nick didn’t feel like releasing her just yet. He placed his hand atop hers and captured them against his chest. “I don’t think that goats have lairs. And you’re hardly innocent, my love.”
Her fingers twitched, as if she wished to claw him. The expression in her sapphire eyes was not so blissful now. “No, nor am I young, and well I know it, so you needn’t harp on the subject. The fact remains that no gentleman would invite a well-brought-up young woman to misbehave like this.”
She was glorious, even in a temper. Nick raised her hands to his lips and kissed them. “Misbehave how? Pray be more precise.” He turned one hand over, ran his tongue along her palm, took a finger in his mouth.
“Um,” she said, distracted, and then snatched her hand away. “Release me at once, you toad, or I shall make you sorry that you did not!”
First a goat, and now a toad. This reunion wasn’t going exactly as Nick had hoped it would. However, it was going as he had expected, which was why the door was locked. He eyed her with amused curiosity. “How do you propose to do that?”
Cara glowered. She looked unutterably desirable, her lips swollen from kissing, her cheeks flushed, and her hair tumbling down her back. “I don’t know. But I promise you won’t like it one little bit.”
There would be no more kisses now, at least not willing ones. Nick wanted desperately to pick Cara up and carry her off to his bed, there to indulge in deliciously delirious paroxysms of passions that lasted for hours. After which, she’d doubtless run off to her country fortress, where long-fanged monsters lurked in the moat, and servants waited to douse him with boiling oil. Nick released her and moved away.
Cara watched him walk toward the fireplace. Absurd, to feel bereft. He moved like some sleek dark jungle beast, all sleek muscle and coiled strength, ready in an instant to pounce and bring down his prey. She swallowed as Nick took off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair, then bent to build up the fire. So there was a poker in the room. The firelight gleamed russet in his hair.
Damnation! This was what came from kissing. Yet Cara had wanted to be kissed. Well, hadn’t she? She’d even left off her stays. And now that she’d been kissed, want it or not, she wished very much for more. As if she didn’t already know what madness came from kissing Nicky! He stood up and smiled at her. Cara scooped up her scattered hairpins and ducked behind a box chair.
She was ridiculous. And enchanting. Not to mention voluptuous, her breasts thrust into fine relief as she raised her arms above her head to pin up her wayward curls. Nick could not help but think of peaches. Large, luscious, ripe peaches, so delicious for the tasting that a man didn’t care if the juice ran down his chin. And if he didn’t get control of his wayward thoughts, he was going to have to leave the room.
Having achieved a coiffure remarkably similar to a haystack, Cara lowered her arms. “You look absurd,” Nick remarked. “Cowering behind that chair. Surely you don’t think that I would do you harm?”
The frown returned. Her nose twitched. She said, “Lucasta Clitheroe.”
Lord Mannering wasn’t fool enough to be drawn into a conversation about Lucasta Clitheroe in this particular moment. “She’s the Countess Fenton now. You’re likely to encounter her at some point. It would probably be best if you didn’t try to snatch out her hair.”
Lady Norwood crossed her arms beneath her sumptuous bosom. “Whyever should I wish to do that?”
“You seem to dislike the lady.”
“I hope you don’t mean to tell me I should not!”
She looked both belligerent and wary, and so she should have been, because if Nick made up his mind to take her, that chair would not long stand in his way. Despite Cara’s opinion of him, he was a gentleman, however. More or less. Most of the time. “How do you like my house?”
She looked startled. “This isn’t your house.”
“But it is. You’re remembering the place in Bedford Square. This is also a family dwelling. Since few people associate the place with me, I can be private here. But I’m forgetting my duties as a host. Are you hungry? Would you care for some tea?” Nick eyed the lowered level in the diamond-cut decanter. “Some brandy perhaps?”
Cara had already had sufficient brandy. The sweet taste lingered in her mouth. Or perhaps that was the taste of Nicky. “Your house is beautiful,” she said. “I assume you use it for your trysts, since you were so intent on bringing Zoe here.”
“Actually, I wasn’t.” Nick watched her with some amusement. “Intent on bringing Zoe here. Your niece is terrifying. She puts me in mind of a young she-wolf.”
Cara tried hard not to chuckle, and failed. Since the marquess had apparently lost his interest in kissing her, she came out from behind the chair. “Do you deny you sent the note that brought me here?”
Nick was glad to see she’d relaxed sufficiently in his presence to be seated, although she’d find soon enough that carved mythological figures entwined with flowers didn’t make an especially comfortable perch. “True enough, I sent the note. However, Zoe’s presence here was never my intention. My servant was instructed on pain of disembowelment to deliver it to Ianthe.”
Cara stared blankly at him. “I don’t understand. You wished for an assignation with Ianthe?”
Of course he hadn’t wished for an assignation with Ianthe. Where Zoe was too young, too short, too dazzling to suit his taste, Ianthe was too tragic and water-logged. Cara, however—He said, “Don’t be absurd.”
Cara bit her lower lip and set to ruminating. Nick was silent, watching her. The ancient gown she wore was a faded blue in color, and clung to her magnificent body like he wished he might. Her hair made a brilliant, if somewhat untidy, coronet around her head. She looked like some pagan priestess about to engage in a fertility rite.
She had always looked that way. When he’d first glimpsed Zoe, during that first incredible second before he realized she wasn’t the female who had long haunted his sleep, Nick had experienced an appalling flash of déjà vu, as if the years had reversed themselves for him, and he was again seeing Cara for the first time, a moment he would never forget, for it had literally affected all the rest of his life. Now that Cara was with him again, so many years later, he found her much more captivating than she had been as a girl. Definitely she was more captivating than her niece.
And considerably more sensible. She said, “You don’t want Ianthe.”
It was a rare pleasure to watch a fine mind function. Cara’s mind was working at such a furious pace that smoke would at any moment puff out of her ears. “I do not.”
She grasped the carved chair arms. “Let me make sure I understand this. You expected me to come here.”
“I did.”
“You encouraged Zoe to set her cap at you so that Beau would persuade me to return to London.”
“I did.”
“You never wanted my niece.”
“I most emphatically do not want her.” Nick moved away from the table. “The devil, Cara, give me credit for a little common sense.”
Cara would give him credit, all right, for being a conniving scoundrel. And even more handsome than when she had seen him last. The lines of experience around his eyes and mouth suited him, as did his short hair. His shirt remained open, for she had torn off his buttons in her haste t
o touch his skin.
She didn’t regret it for an instant. Considerable time had passed since she’d enjoyed the sight of a man’s chest. Few chests, she suspected, were as handsome as Nicky’s. And as great a pleasure to rest against. “You are considerably better,” she said, “than a kumquat tree.”
Lord Mannering sincerely hoped that he might be. “Obfuscation,” he observed, as he poured brandy into a glass. “To confuse, and make obscure. I knew that if Beau grew worried enough about his daughter, he’d persuade you to return. Although I will confess to wondering at times if I’d bit off more than I could chew.”
He stood too close for comfort. Prudently, Cara removed herself from the chair. “You were right to wonder. Zoe throws things out of windows. She also scratches and bites. Beau is afraid you’ll play fast and loose with her.”
Nick remembered when Cara had bit and scratched, though not in a rage. Apparently she was remembering also, because she glanced at him. “Zoe says that you are very manly,” she added. “She notices these things because she means to have several affaires de coeur before she settles down to become some poor man’s wife. But she means to sample even those goods before she makes her purchase. You can see why she’s driving Beau to distraction.” Nick looked dismayed, and Cara could not stop herself from smiling. “How is your rheumatism, pray?”
An Extraordinary Flirtation Page 7
