Improper Gentlemen

by Diane Whiteside

  The lass was in dire straits. How could he say no?

  Especially when his body was clamoring for relief so loudly, his brain couldn’t get a word of restraint in edgewise. He hadn’t intended their tryst to spiral out of control like this. He’d never lost command of himself before.

  She rocked her hips against him in a wordless plea and he covered her mouth to muffle her cry before he plunged in, shredding her, filling her.

  Ruining her.

  All his good intentions . . .

  Welcome to the road to hell, me boy-o.

  Chapter 2

  What a piece of work is a man!

  —SHAKESPEARE, Hamlet

  1830, London

  “My stars! Isn’t he the cheeky fellow?” Lady Chudderley’s thin-lipped mouth screwed into a moue of distaste as she raised her lorgnette to eye someone across the crowded room. “I never dreamed he’d actually come.”

  “Who do you mean, auntie?” The party had turned into such a successful rout, Rosalinde Burke was pinned in the corner next to her great-aunt. They were stuck between a sideboard, groaning under the weight of finger sandwiches and petit fours, and the French doors leading out to the Palm Room. She peered in the same general direction as her great-aunt, but couldn’t identify the source of Lady Chudderley’s consternation.

  The old woman fanned herself with such vigor, the ostrich plume in her turban did a fair imitation of a charmed cobra as it bobbed above her head.

  “I had no intention of inviting him, I assure you, but at the Gainsborough exhibition last week, he was so . . . engaging, I found the words tumbling from my mouth before I thought better of them.” Lady Chudderley stopped fanning and her lips turned up in the ghost of a strangely girlish smile. Then she gave herself a stern shake and resumed flailing the air. “Honestly, one would think he’d have the decency to stand me up, since anyone with half a brain would know he wasn’t truly welcome in Polite Society.”

  “Who?”

  “Why, Lord Stonemere, of course.” She slapped the fan shut to punctuate her words. “He’s over there beside Lady Longbotham. Oh, I do hope he . . .”

  Rosalinde knew Lady Chudderley was still speaking. Indeed, when was she not? But her voice faded away as if Rose had dropped suddenly into a very deep well. She swallowed hard.

  Broad shoulders. Lean hips. It looked like . . .

  The man turned his dark head as if he sensed the weight of her eyes on him and met her gaze. She forgot to breathe. He still had the same raw-boned Celtic features, the same wild masculine beauty. And she was still utterly undone by the mere sight of him.

  Aidan Danaher.

  She’d heard of the infamous Lord Stonemere. She had no idea he and the man who still troubled her dreams and caused her to wake with a blush of wicked pleasure were one and the same.

  Rosalinde clutched the side of her plum organdy skirt, and then released it guiltily before her great-aunt could scold her for wrinkling her gown.

  “Who . . . did you say he was?”

  “Stonemere,” Lady Chudderley repeated. “The barony was near to reverting to another branch of Stonemeres, but then the family solicitor turned up the heir. The title came down through his mother, you see. Most irregular, but as it happens, she was a baroness in her own right. Then she abandoned the estate to marry an Irishman of all things. While she left a property, she couldn’t leave her title. The English side of the family is most perturbed over this development, as you can well imagine. An Irish baron in Wiltshire.”

  Lady Chudderley clucked her tongue against her teeth and shuddered in distaste.

  As if being Irish is the worst of Aidan’s sins, Rosalinde thought ruefully.

  Then her great-aunt sighed. “But one must admit, he’s a devilishly handsome fellow.”

  “Devilishly,” she repeated, partly because she was incapable of independent thought at the moment and partly because the description seemed particularly apt. The devil in question was headed straight for her. Against his deeply tanned skin, his smile was blinding, as if light glowed from inside him. It hurt to look at him, but Rosalinde couldn’t tear her gaze away.

  Aidan bent in an elegant bow to her great-aunt, lingering correctly over the old lady’s be-ringed fingers. He inclined his head and took Rosalinde’s hand with the proper cool detachment as Lady Chudderley rambled through a totally unnecessary introduction. Then he rubbed the pad of his thumb around one of Rosalinde’s knuckles, most improperly, when her aunt’s attention was diverted for a moment.

  Heat crept up her neck and spread across her cheeks. Her body needed no reminder of this scoundrel. As promised, she remembered him all too well.

  “Oh, child,” her great-aunt said with alarm when she glanced at Rosalinde. “You’re positively flushed. Have you a fever?”

  “No, but—”

  “Perhaps a change of air, Miss Burke. Shall I be having the pleasure of dancing with you?” Aidan suggested as the strains of a string quartet in the adjacent chamber warbled over the din of multiple conversations in the packed room. The thick workman’s brogue Rosalinde remembered was now merely a cultured lilt. “Lady Chudderley’s excellent repast has crowded this hall past bearing. There’ll be more space to breathe on the dance floor, I’m thinking. If you’ll excuse us, my lady.” He slanted a devastating smile toward his hostess and offered his arm to Rosalinde, daring her to take it.

  Rosalinde’s traitorous great-aunt giggled like a pudding-headed debutant, completely forgetting how inconvenient she’d found Aidan’s presence only moments ago.

  “By all means, enjoy yourselves,” Lady Chudderley said.

  “But I don’t wish to leave you alone, auntie,” she protested.

  “Pish-tosh, child. No one is alone in this press. I declare, if this isn’t the best turnout of the Season.” She waved them away, fan and ostrich plume aflutter in perfect rhythm, and began to waddle toward Lady Longbotham.

  “Come, Miss Burke.” Aidan led Rosalinde through the crowd that parted like the Red Sea before Moses.

  The string quartet in the next room finished a lively jig with a flourish. Her great-aunt had ordered all the furnishings in the music room removed to provide space for dancing. Only a few chairs and settees ringed the chamber where doting mother hens could keep watchful eyes on their chicks while the stylized motions of courtship were acted out on the dance floor.

  No one’s eyes were on Rosalinde. Except Aidan’s deep green ones.

  A thousand questions danced on her tongue but none of them would bear the possibility of being overheard. She rested her gloved hand lightly on him, but even so she was acutely aware of every speck of the man. His body heat radiated through her palm, up her arm, and then settled to roil furiously in her belly. He led her to the center of the dance floor a heartbeat before the first violinist’s next upbow and the quartet broke into a slow waltz.

  Without a word, Aidan took one of her hands, settled his other at her waist, and began twirling her around the room with the natural grace of a dancing master. But his frown would have been more at home on the headmaster of a particularly strict public school.

  “Ye didn’t say goodbye,” he said softly.

  “I believe quite enough passed between us without adding the farce of a farewell,” she whispered between barely moving lips.

  Besides, she wasn’t given a chance to see Aidan again. After her tattletale maid found his missing button under Rosalinde’s bureau, she presented the incriminating evidence to the commissioner. When Rose refused to name the man who’d been in her bedchamber, her father sent her back to England on the next available packet. She’d been under her great-aunt’s careful scrutiny ever since.

  “You didn’t keep your promise,” Rosalinde countered, since the music was now loud enough to cover their conversation.

  He was only going to school her in the pleasures of the body, not mark her for life. He’d managed to control himself well enough not to get her with child, but her maidenhead was thoroughly lost to that nigh
t of insanity on the island.

  His eyes darkened, a shaded glen where the unwary might meet a bad end. “Nothing happened that ye didn’t wish at the time. Most ardently, as I recall, or am I mistaken ?”

  Her cheeks heated afresh. How dare he remind her how he’d reduced her to pleading. She’d been an innocent, ignorant of the powerful urges they were playing with. He, on the other hand, knew full well what he was doing every step of the way.

  “When a lady begs so prettily, how can a gentleman refuse?”

  “You’re no gentleman and we both know it.”

  “On the contrary, I’m every inch a gentleman. Born to it, don’t ye know?” he said with a lazy smile. “Did I not tell ye when first we met, I wasna always as ye found me then?”

  The brogue was back, thick and sensual, roughening his voice and sending a shiver of longing over her. The man could make love with words alone, letting his rumbling bass touch the deep places in her nothing else could reach.

  Every inch a gentleman. For a blink, she was back in Bermuda, stretched out on her feather tick. Their bodies sweat-slick in the moonlight with the long, thick length of him pounding in and out of her. The emptiness finally filled. It was almost too glorious to bear.

  Then when she could abide the hot sweetness no longer, her soul had back-flipped into itself and she unraveled under him. Shuddering and convulsing, she’d been more than naked before Aidan Danaher. He’d tasted her bared spirit as well as her bared flesh.

  Rosalinde gave herself a silent reproof. This was not the time or the place to indulge such memories, but her body continued to riot in his presence, including a resumption of that blasted empty ache. She suspected if she excused herself and fled to the lady’s retiring room, she’d find her crotch damp with wanting.

  “I expect ye’ve questions regarding this turn-about of my fortunes. Me mum always had an air about her when I was young, ye see,” Aidan said. “I always fancied her a great lady. As it happened, she was.”

  “So now you’re a baron,” Rosalinde said, trying to keep her voice even. “Is that why you were released from Royal Dock?”

  “It is indeed. When Mum died, the lawyers figured out I was next in line for Stonemere and I was pardoned. Seems no one wanted a member of the Upper Crust, even one who didn’t know he was, shackled like a common murderer.” His practiced smile faded. “Might give the salt of the earth the notion that there’s not tuppence worth of difference between a duke and a ditch-digger. We can’t have that, can we?”

  She’d never asked why he was imprisoned when she fell under his spell like a besotted fool. It hadn’t seemed important at the time, but now her breath caught at the word ‘murderer.’ “Were you guilty?”

  His eyes glinted wickedly. “Sure and we’re all guilty of something, aren’t we, darlin’?”

  He didn’t pull her closer than propriety allowed, but she felt suddenly naked before him again. This man knew all her secrets, while she’d known none of his. She would not be pulled in by his easy charm this time. She lifted her chin in determination.

  “Don’t ye be fretting, lass. I’m not the sort to kiss and tell.”

  If only kissing were all there was to it. Even that would be bad enough—certainly grounds to force a marriage any day. Though Aidan had a title now, he didn’t meet her great-aunt’s requirement that she wed a respectable, well-connected gentleman. Rosalinde shuddered to think what kind of connections an Irish ex-convict might have.

  “Obviously, I have no idea what sort you are, Lord Stonemere, but I’m no longer the naïve girl I was when we first met.”

  She’d been eighteen when Aidan climbed through her window. Old enough to know better. She often wondered what madness prompted her to indulge in that sensual odyssey with him. She blamed it on the bright Bermuda moon. Or the heavy air drugged with night-blooming flowers and pounding surf.

  Or the smell of leather and warm horseflesh and Aidan’s distinct masculine scent.

  “I can only see ye’ve grown lovelier, Rose,” he said, then leaned forward to whisper. “The hollows beneath your cheekbones still make me ache to kiss them.”

  She looked away from him lest she fall into his eyes. “You will not speak to me so familiarly, sir.”

  “My apologies. Ye’re right, o’ course. And I can see ye’re no longer . . . naïve.” His gaze swept her bodice appreciatively. When she scowled at him, he grinned back. “Don’t fuss, Rose. I’m agreeing with ye . . . in a totally unconventional way.”

  “I prefer convention.”

  “I’ve me doubts about that.”

  “Did you ask me to dance so you could insult me?”

  He frowned. “Of course not. What I meant was ye’ve blossomed just as I expected ye would,” he said as they dipped in time to the Strauss tune. The pressure of his hand on her waist threatened to send her mind wandering back to that other wicked time, when his work-rough palms steadied her hips while he claimed her entirely. “I notice ye’re still unmarried.”

  “That is none of your business,” she said testily. Through her great-aunt’s finagling, she’d been engaged to a perfectly acceptable young man shortly after she returned to England. Rosalinde cried off six weeks before the wedding, much to Lady Chudderley’s dismay. Not because she couldn’t bear to tell him she wasn’t the virgin he expected, but because she couldn’t bear the thought of letting him do the lovely secret things Aidan had done with her.

  “The word about town is that you’ve an understanding with Viscount Musgrave,” Aidan said casually as he led her through a graceful underarm turn.

  She sighed. He didn’t need to know so much about her life, when it was obvious she still knew very little about his. How did a man fall from heir to a British title to a shackled prisoner on Royal Dock? Even if he hadn’t known he’d had a privileged birth at the time, his mother should have. And she ought to have used her influence then.

  “Do tell me if ye’ve set a date,” Aidan said. “They’re laying odds on it at White’s, ye see, and the purse is too fat to ignore.”

  “No, we haven’t set a date.” She jerked her gaze away from his knowing grin and tried to keep her eyes focused on a point north of his right shoulder. The room spun so, she was forced to give up and look back at him. “He hasn’t actually proposed, if you must know.”

  Not for lack of her great-aunt’s trying. Lady Chudderley was determined to make the match. She so badly wanted Rosalinde to set her cap for the viscount, she had sweetened the deal by promising to settle an astounding sum on her father the day Rosalinde wed Musgrave. It was high time the family made inroads back into the well-connected nobility, and Musgrave was related to nearly every peer in the realm by some degree of consanguinity.

  Since Lady Chudderley had no direct descendants, unless Rosalinde married well, the Burkes would be relegated to the status of merchants and tradesmen when her great-aunt passed on. Since the commissioner’s investments, her father’s pet name for his gambling debts, had taken a disastrous turn of late, Rosalinde felt honor-bound to try to meet the old lady’s terms for his sake.

  Besides, she owed her father something after the way he’d spirited her home in order to protect her good name.

  “Nothing set in stone between ye and Musgrave, then. Good,” Aidan said. “That leaves hope for me.”

  Rosalinde snorted. It wasn’t terribly genteel, but Aidan brought out unladylike urges in her of all sorts. “Whatever gives you the idea that I’d welcome your attention, sir?”

  “Past experience.”

  She stiffened in his arms. He might have a title now, but as far as she was concerned, he was still an Irish convict. One who’d been convicted of murder, no less. And she knew to her sorrow that he couldn’t be trusted.

  If only he wasn’t so devilishly handsome . . .

  She gave herself a mental shake. She’d made a mistake in the past, but surely she wouldn’t make a cake of herself over the man’s fine face and form now.

  “I advise you not to address
your attention to me, my lord, unless you enjoy spending your time to no profit,” she said with exaggerated formality. “The man I wed will be a proper gentleman.”

  “Ah, lass. Ye’d be wasted on a proper gentleman and ye know it,” Aidan said, then he leaned in to whisper to her. “A proper gentleman only beds his wife to get an heir. His mistress has all the fun while his wife faces the uncertainties of childbed. I ask ye now, where’s the justice in that?”

  She looked pointedly away from him as they continued to waltz. “If you cannot keep from being indelicate, I must ask you to refrain from speaking for the duration of this dance.”

  “Sometimes the truth is indelicate,” Aidan said.

  “You want the truth? Very well. At the risk of being indelicate, I confess I cannot bear the sight of you.”

  She pulled free of his palm on her waist. Without relinquishing her hand, he twirled her back into his arms as if her steps away were part of the dance.

  “Indelicacy is one thing. A lie is another.” He shook his head in reproof. “Never dabble in a game of poque, lassie. Ye can’t bluff. Your face is an open book. Ye can bear me well enough and we both know it.”

  She stopped dancing and cast her eyes down at the tips of his shiny boots. “Release me this instant,” she said through clenched teeth. “Or I will cause such a scene, they’ll hear it all the way to Bermuda. And that’s no bluff.”

  “Good,” Aidan said with a laugh. “Sounds like just what this party needs.”

  “Pardon me.” Another male voice jerked Rosalinde’s gaze up. “May I cut in, Stonemere? I desire the honor of dancing with Miss Burke, if the lady has no objections, of course.”

  It was Viscount Musgrave, tapping Aidan’s shoulder. His expression was calm and unruffled and as proper as tea with the vicar. Dear Edwin was the perfect antidote to this rogue who plagued her with improper thoughts of all sorts. Rosalinde could have thrown her arms around the viscount and kissed him right on the lips.

  Of course, that wasn’t a very proper thought either.