Too Dangerous For a Lady

by Jo Beverley

  She started. “What?”

  “If you tied me to that wooden chair, you’d all be safe and you could sleep.”

  Still distracted, Hermione could hardly make sense of his words. “You imagine I travel with rope in my valise?”

  “Stockings would do.”

  “You’re deranged.”

  “Not at all. Think about it.”

  But instead she was thinking that he just might be, could possibly be, the dashing dance partner, the man who’d almost given her her first kiss, the soldier she’d never been able to forget. Thayne. Lieutenant Thayne. She’d never known his first name. It could be Ned, but if so, how had he sunk to such a state?

  One thing was clear. If there was any possibility, she couldn’t eject him to possible death.

  She forced her mind to clarity. “It won’t work. In the morning servants will come to build up the fire or bring hot water.”

  “Servants won’t come until you summon them, and no one can enter if the doors are barred.”

  He flipped the latch on the adjoining door, then walked to the chair. He moved it to face the fire and then sat down, presenting his back to her. She could pick up the poker and hit him over the head with it, except she would never do such a thing and apparently he knew it.

  Did he know why?

  That would mean that he’d recognized her just as she’d recognized him.

  Chapter 2

  She’d attended her first true ball in May 1811, aged seventeen and giddy with excitement. She and her friends had spun to even greater heights when some young officers had arrived, having ridden five miles from their billets. Their gold-braided uniforms had sparkled beneath the hundreds of candles, but they’d stirred every lady’s heart because they were soon to sail to Lisbon to join Wellington’s army in the Peninsula. She’d felt their heroism strongly because one of her brothers, Roger, had been a soldier and had died at Corunna two years earlier.

  The six young subalterns had not all been handsome or charming, but their regimentals had made them the stars of the night. One had been splendid, with a dramatic dark-haired, dark-eyed appearance uncommon in England, but so very common in the novels she’d loved back then. Someone had said he had French blood, but that hadn’t shocked her. There were a number of émigré families whose sons fought Napoleon.

  She’d been thrilled when he asked for a dance, and felt queen of the ball when he’d later asked for a second. The waltz had not yet become acceptable, so they’d enjoyed only country dances, but the holding of hands and the occasional turn close together had been enough to sizzle her. After all, it had been her first true ball, and the first time she’d danced with a stranger.

  No wonder she’d allowed him to coax her onto the moonlit terrace. When she’d realized they were the only ones out there, she’d trembled in the expectation of her first kiss and been a little disappointed when they’d only talked. Soon that had become magical. She didn’t know why it had been so easy, but she’d talked with him as she had never talked with anyone before or since, as if they were the oldest, closest friends.

  She’d told him about Roger and his death, and about the trials of being poor.

  He’d spoken of his need to defend Britain from Napoleon and of how his mother’s family had been slaughtered in the Revolution.

  She’d complained of her parents’ fractiousness, her older sister’s temperament, and her brother Jermyn’s dull wits.

  He’d said his mother was an invalid, but that his parents’ marriage was a great love match. That had led to a discussion of the nature of love and whether it was a rational or an irrational force. Dizzyingly deep waters for a seventeen-year-old. No wonder she’d never forgotten.

  He’d been two years older and had lived the typical life of schools and sports, while she’d been educated by a governess and raised to be a perfect lady, yet there had been no barriers between them. She’d willingly let him cut a silk rose off the bodice of her gown to be his talisman, and she’d always treasured the brass button he’d given her in exchange.

  They had been about to take the final step, to kiss, when her mother had rushed out to herd her back into the safety of the flock.

  Despite her mother’s whispered scold, she’d known he was no wolf and when he and his fellows had left at midnight, she’d had to conquer tears. She’d heard no more from him, but then, he could hardly write to her and had probably not felt the encounter as much as she. But she’d dreamed, when she’d allowed the folly, of encountering him at another ball, both of them older, when there’d be more possibilities.

  Never like this!

  She walked round to study him. Everything was blurred by his unkempt hair and a dark beard shadow. His loosely knotted neckerchief didn’t help, especially in garish stripes of red, green, and black. The clean-cut features were older and harsher, but surely it was him.

  He must have thought she was considering her actions, for he said, “My life truly is in danger if I’m caught, and I give you my word I’m not a villain. If you please, fair lady, tie me up and allow me to stay.”

  “What’s your surname?” she demanded.

  “Granger.”

  If he’d sunk to a life of crime, he’d use a false name. Thayne or Granger, she couldn’t send him out to his death, but if he stayed, she’d have to tie him up or she’d never sleep a wink. “Very well.” As she went to her valise, she probed for more information. “You don’t speak like a thief.”

  “You don’t speak like a nursemaid.”

  “I’m a governess,” she said, pulling out a pair of stockings. They were her best pair, however, and this business could snag them. She put them back and chose the most darned ones and approached the chair. “Put your hands behind you.”

  “A good move,” he said approvingly, doing as told.

  She knew nothing of tying secure knots, but surely multiple knots would do the job. She knelt to use one stocking to tie his wrists together against the central bar at the back of the chair.

  “What’s your surname, Miss Minnie?”

  “None of your business,” she said, disturbed by touching his hands. A lady didn’t handle any part of a man like this, and his hands were very fine—long fingered but strong. Nothing to help her recognition there. He’d worn gloves at the ball. A scar ran across the backs of the fingers of his left hand. Some mishap when picking pockets? Or in battle.

  “What did you steal?” she asked.

  “Only papers.”

  “That could mean bonds, money drafts, or banknotes.”

  “It could,” he agreed.

  She yanked another knot tight. She’d almost used up the stocking. “Once you’re tied, I could search you.”

  His fingers tensed. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

  Dangerous papers, then. With dangerous people after them, who might not hesitate to harm innocent children. She walked round to the front of the chair, the remaining stocking in hand, and studied him again. He met her eyes guardedly. Her heart pounded. Oh, yes, this was the man. Years older and eons more experienced, but this was the onetime Lieutenant Thayne.

  He met her eyes braced for trouble.

  Clearly he didn’t remember her. That hurt, but why should he? After the ball she’d had nothing of importance to distract her from memory and infatuation, but he’d gone to war. When not fighting, he’d doubtless dazzled and sweet-talked a score of girls in Portugal, Spain, and France, and forgotten every one. He’d probably thrown away the silk rose, having already forgotten what bodice he’d cut it from. Even if he remembered, why should he connect a dancing partner with a “governess” in a plain brown gown, whose hair was half in, half out of its pins? She was twenty-three years old. Well enough for her age, but there was a special glow to a pretty girl in her teens. Better he not remember. She knelt to tie his ankles together.

  “I’d take the boots of
f first,” he said. “They might be loose enough for me to take my feet out of them.”

  She was annoyed not to have thought of that. She needed to be clear witted, not enmeshed in girlish memories. “Thank you. Raise one.”

  She grasped the boot and it came off easily. It was the sort a man could get into and out of without a servant, and there were other signs of poverty. The boot was well-worn, down-at-heel and scuffed, and when she had it off, his worsted stockings were darned in the heel. Lieutenant Thayne had been from a noble family headed by a Viscount Faringay. How sad to see him in poverty, but he wouldn’t be the only one.

  The pay of army officers was barely enough to keep up the style of living thought suitable to their rank, and the half pay they got when they weren’t fighting only just kept body and soul together. Many had extra income from their families, but some, like Roger, hadn’t. His letters had often mentioned privations, though he’d made them part of the adventure.

  His rare letters had presented army life as an enjoyable adventure, and she hoped that had been true. Though he’d been a man in her young eyes, he’d been only twenty when he died. She pushed such thoughts aside for fear of crying, but realized that the dashing officer of her dreams had been even younger six years ago. What had happened to bring him to this state?

  “The other.” It came out more brusquely than she’d intended. “I’m tired and I want to get this done,” she added, dragging off the second boot.

  “Now tie my ankles to the chair legs,” he said.

  She dropped the boot to thump on the floor. “I don’t know why you don’t do it for yourself.”

  “Untie my hands and I will.”

  She glowered and returned to her task, but saw a problem. She needed to tie each ankle to a front leg of the chair and had only one stocking. She grasped the woolen stocking on his right leg and pulled it down.

  A naked lower leg.

  She’d seen such a thing before. Some workingmen did without stockings in the summer. Some poor ones did without shoes. All the same, in the intimacy of a firelit bedroom his bare calf made her quiver with embarrassment, and perhaps with something else.

  “No need to risk more of my stockings,” she said, pulling it all the way off.

  “None at all,” he agreed.

  Did she hear humor? She wasn’t about to look up and reveal her blushes. She took off his other stocking, and then paused. The long, jagged scar down his calf swept away irritation. Whatever Thayne was now, he’d fought for their country and been wounded, perhaps even at Waterloo.

  She tied his right ankle to one chair leg, finding his bulky woolen stockings more awkward, but unable to ignore his feet. She’d never thought about men’s feet, but his were excellent specimens with straight toes and no bumps or bunions. She felt sure Cousin Porteous had bumps and bunions.

  The thought of tying Porteous to a chair pushed her perilously close to giggles and she bit her lip as she tied the other ankle. Thayne would think her ready for Bedlam. Eventually she stood and backed away to assess her work, nodding with satisfaction. He wouldn’t get out of that—which made her softhearted. “I hope you won’t be too uncomfortable.”

  “I’m sure I will be, but needs must.”

  “Yes, they must,” she said firmly, which was difficult with the atmosphere in the room—the atmosphere created by naked limbs, proximity, and memories. She couldn’t help it. She had to know more. She sat on the upholstered chair facing his. “Have you always been a thief?”

  He gave an irritating impression of ease. “I assume not in the cradle.”

  “Have you had any other means of survival?”

  “Yes. What of you? The infants seem young for a governess.”

  “Billy is learning his letters and numbers.”

  “But you were born for better things.”

  “Why think that?”

  He cocked his head, considering. “I don’t know, but I’m sure of it.”

  Was he remembering? “You, too, were born for better things,” she said.

  “Was I?”

  “You weren’t born to be a thief. No one is.”

  “I’m sure there are larcenous lineages. Our birth can direct and constrain our path. As yours did?”

  Being born the child of an impoverished marquess had created many problems beyond the need for economy. People had always expected a grandeur and generosity they couldn’t afford, and some took exception to the lack of it. Some had sneered at the Miserly Merryhews. Others had thought them eccentric and perhaps even insane for their simple way of life. She’d spoken of these things that night.

  “My story isn’t uncommon,” she said. “I’m wellborn but poorly funded, and I’ve chosen honest labor.”

  “How wellborn?”

  “You or me?”

  “Either.”

  Perhaps he was chasing memories as she had—but then she remembered that she shouldn’t want him to remember. Despite that ball and their instant closeness. Despite that almost-kiss, dreams and longings, and a treasured button, she couldn’t afford entanglement with an impoverished criminal pursued by dangerous victims.

  “Enough of this,” she said, standing. “Now you’re safe, I can go to bed.”

  The word “bed” hung dangerously in the firelit room, especially with her nightgown draped over a nearby rack to warm. It was a perfectly decent voluminous garment of white linen, but its presence made everything wicked. She’d never had a man in her bedroom in her life except for the doctor twice when she’d had a fever. How was she to prepare for bed? The washstand was behind him, and there was a screen around it , but even so . . .

  “I don’t have eyes in the back of my head,” he said, and yes, there was definitely a tease in it.

  “I wish you’d invaded some other room, you wretch.”

  “I, on the other hand, am happy with my choice.” Looking directly at her, he added, “Will you honor me with a kiss, sweet lady?”

  The exact words he’d used six years ago.

  They’d talked and they’d talked, and he’d claimed that rose, and then he’d tried to claim a kiss. She’d been so torn, yearning for her first kiss and feeling it her duty to grant the warrior his due, yet terrified that it would be the first step to ruin. His lips had barely brushed hers when her mother had “rescued” her. It would only have been a kiss, but back then she’d felt as if she’d escaped the fires of hell. And regretted it a little.

  “A kiss won’t ruin you,” he said. That was the next thing he’d said that night, too. Before he spoke, she knew what would come next. “It might be the request of a man soon to die—Lady Hermione.”

  Despite a racing heart, she managed to speak calmly. “We’ve been here before—Lieutenant Thayne.”

  “Not quite, but we do have unfinished business.” Oh, that lopsided smile! She’d never forgotten that.

  “It was a long time ago,” she said.

  “Even so.”

  Unfinished business. That elusive kiss had haunted her dreams. She’d progressed as far as real kisses with other men, but pleasant or unpleasant, those kisses had never been the one.

  “You’re bound,” she pointed out.

  “Are you going to take advantage of it?”

  The idea had never occurred until he mentioned it, but now it was irresistible.

  “Probably,” she said, smiling as she stepped closer, heat spreading through her at the answering gleam in his eyes. Oh, this was wicked, but again there seemed no barriers of convention or propriety to save her from herself.

  On the terrace he’d been taller, but now she looked down at him. He’d been the stronger one, but now he was her captive. He’d been in control, but now she had command. When she’d allowed kisses over the past six years, the men had played the masterful part once she’d permitted their attentions. This man couldn’t hold her, direct he
r, or keep her close if she wanted to retreat. He couldn’t escape her, either, and there was no mother to rush in and save her.

  She rested a hand on his broad shoulder, vibrating at his strength and warmth, and lowered her head to press her lips against his.

  So sweet.

  So wicked.

  So thrilling.

  Still kissing, but in the slightest way, she put a hand on his other shoulder, and then slid both to cradle his face. Warm skin and the roughness of whiskers, and his lips teasing at hers for more. She drew back to look at him, seeing clearly his long lashes around widening dark eyes.

  He felt it, too, this wicked reversal. He, too, wanted more.

  It will be my pleasure, sir.

  She returned to her kiss, tantalizing him with butterfly touches until she could bear it no more and pressed hard against him. He opened to her, hot and moist, and she sank into that, exploring a new pleasure, for she’d never gone so far with any other man, and never in a situation like this. His tongue taught her new excitements and she almost drew back, but she couldn’t, wouldn’t.

  She was in command.

  He was safely bound.

  She relaxed into magic, letting him explore as she explored, settling against him, trusting his strength. And she was lost—not in memory, but in something entirely new, something meltingly sweet and so deeply stirring that her heart beat like a drum and a demanding ache stirred deep inside. She tingled—no, burned!—all over and her breasts felt confined by her light corset.

  Simply from a kiss.

  She pushed away, then had to brace herself against his chest. She recovered, retreated, standing to smooth down her skirts. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have. . . .”

  “Never has a lady transgressed so delightfully. Please, don’t stop for my sake.”

  “There are children nearby!” She’d spoken too sharply and she froze, listening for a response from behind the bed-curtains, or even from the next room. How could people have slept though the earthquake that had rocked her?

  She and her aching body wanted to return to destruction, but she grabbed her nightgown and fled behind the washstand screen, where she stood, breathing deeply, trying to regain sanity.