Lily Lang
Page 11
She smiled at Sir Ian. “Where can I drop you off?”
“You don’t stay angry long, do you?” He put out a hand for her to balance fingertips on as she mounted the stairs of the small black carriage.
She put her fingers in his, ignoring the tingling rush that swept over her skin and lodged in the damp, hot points behind her ears. When her temper and emotions flared, the rest of her body followed. Anger and lust wrapped up together. More proof it was a good idea to find someone halfway appropriate to slake this want with, before she did something she’d regret all because of raging emotions.
“I couldn’t,” she said, forcing a laugh. “When one gets as royally furious as me, one can’t afford to cling to the emotion.”
“Royally furious, eh?” Dark brown hair fell over his brow as he followed her into the cab. “Every woman I’ve met claims they’re incapable of such emotions.”
“Every woman gets angry,” she scoffed.
He folded himself into the opposite seat. His knees were skinny, his legs long. She had the impression he was rather like a colt or a puppy. Someone who hadn’t grown into his limbs despite appearing nearly thirty years old. “I never said otherwise,” he continued. “But I’ve found that most of them claim they have the temper of misplaced angels. Even Lady Cotrose.”
She lifted a single eyebrow. “I don’t know Lady Cotrose.”
“No, I don’t imagine you would. She’s a country bumpkin like me. Her husband tired of her screeching and screaming and throwing vases at his head.”
“Are we certain it’s not his fault?” She smoothed her lap so the silken, knotted flower decorations aligned down the outside edge of her thigh. “Certain behaviors could all but demand such a response.”
“He is known for chewing with his mouth open. A dire, horrid habit, I’m sure. But there was doubt that such habits required him being roomed with the hunting dogs.”
“Lady Cotrose demanded such?”
“Hard to tell. She was tied to a tree in the back gardens, so one must assume he decided to sleep with the hounds all on his own.”
She saw it then, through the dawdling remains of her temper. She’d forced herself to fake good humor, but that wasn’t exactly the same thing as being truly relaxed or happy. So he was teasing her. His eyes were sparking, and the tiniest quirk of a smile lingered on his lips. The way he watched from under canted brow, his chin tucked toward his chest…
He was having her on.
“Did he have a bed installed in the kennels? Or did he sleep on the paving stones?”
“Does it matter?”
She made a humming noise and rubbed her thumb over her bottom lip, trying to hide her smile. “It does. Considerably. As much as it matters if Lady Cotrose were tied to the tree with a silken cord. One must observe standards.”
He wasn’t half so circumspect with his grin. She liked that, liked the way it shone through the carriage. She knew entirely too many people who were afraid to demonstrate emotions, even the pleasant ones. Sometimes she was among them. Rather often, truth be told. “Is that all it takes? Observe the standards and one can get away with anything?”
“Not even that, most of the time. Take me, for example.”
“I’m sure most men gladly would.” His eyelids drooped, and if she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought he’d suddenly decided he was interested. She could almost think it involuntary. If he had any idea what that husky tone of voice did, he’d have used it straightaway.
As it was, she flicked a wry glance from under her lashes and went on with what she’d been saying. “I ignore all the rules. I’m positively wicked. I tell bad jokes, I drink port with the men whenever I can, and I wear the wrong colors. My mother is so mad, she would have given George III a run for his money. And yet curiously, no one has kicked me out of their presence.”
His cheeks hollowed on a shot of amusement. “I can’t imagine why not,” he said with dry aplomb.
“It’s a mystery, is it not?” She gave him her cheekiest grin.
Truly, she knew why people put up with her. Money and charm and beauty went a long way, which said ill things of the society she kept. She shouldn’t have started this line of conversation. But it was strange how easy he was to talk to and how their senses of humor meshed. Normally she would only suggest a silk rope to Victoria. Sera would have been shocked.
“Where are you taking us?” he asked, as if hearing her silent pleading to change the subject.
“You may take the carriage anywhere you like. I’d drop you myself, but I’m going to be late.”
“Late for what?”
She didn’t let the hard jolt of panic that clenched her chest show on her face. “I’m going to have tea with my mother.”
“The mad one?”
“The very same.” Her heart leapt into her throat. She wasn’t normally reckless when it came to her mother.
He let silence spin through the air between them, though the wheels kept churning over rough roads. They came to a halt in traffic, and costermongers and rag-and-bone sellers called out their goods. Outside the window, a boardman had hanging from his shoulders a two-sided ad for the smallest chimneysweeps in London.
“I’d like to go with you.”
“No.”
The carriage turned down Cheyne Walk. She didn’t have much longer before she could wave him away. Time with her mother could be fraught for many reasons, but at least she could always be herself. What parts of herself she wanted to be, that was.
He leaned forward to look out the window. His collar pulled at the back, revealing skin barely warmed by the sun and the ends of his dark hair. “I wouldn’t have expected you’d live in Chelsea.”
“My mother insists.” She said the words with a smile and a light air, but that was usually enough. She never had to lie—no one ever bothered to ask further. They took her surface explanations and everything was fine.
But Ian transferred that intense gaze to her. His mouth stilled for a moment, as his exacting gaze scanned her from head to toe. “And your father? He goes along with her?”
She swallowed. Once, twice. A strange knot lurked at the back of her throat. The street turned relatively quiet as they drew to a halt before gray stone and the green-painted front door. “What Mother wants, Mother gets.”
“But you called her mad.” When the door opened, he put one hand out. The footman hardly blinked, but Lottie flinched. He turned his hand, held it palm out. She liked his long, graceful fingers. This was a man who should play the piano. Or a woman.
“I called her mad because she is.”
“Insane, you mean?” He leaned forward. “Not angry?”
She pushed past him and stepped down. The sun was low in the sky. Across the street was the Thames, but before her was the building she both loved and dreaded. She smoothed her skirts. “I meant exactly what I said.”
“Yet you and your father let her determine where your household resides.” Then he did something she’d never expected—stepped down from the carriage. His top hat tilted at a rakish angle, he looked up at the tall building. “I think I’d like to meet her.”
“Not a chance in hell.” Her heart flipped in her throat. She couldn’t breathe.
“Such rudeness.” He smiled a slow-burn grin. “Will you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
The Last Time We Met
Lily Lang
He was her first—and only—love.
Miranda Thornwood is desperate. Her brother, accused of murder, has lost the inheritance that would buy him a proper defense. There is only one man in London rich and powerful enough to help. Jason Blakewell, owner of the St. James gambling empire…the man she once betrayed.
Jason is stunned to find Miranda on his doorstep. Once he was a stable boy, wildly in love with her—believing she loved him in return. Until, on the brink of eloping to America, she betrayed him to her father. And Jason was sent to the hulks.
For ten years he has dreamed of revenge, and now
she is handing him his chance on a silver platter. His price for giving her aid? She must become his mistress.
But when their lips meet, he tastes something other than revenge. He tastes the passion that never died. And now he is tempted to lay aside his thirst for revenge and risk his heart a second time in the greatest gamble of all.
Warning: This book contains handsome stable boys, French pastries, high stakes gambling, and odious uncles.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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The Last Time We Met
Copyright © 2013 by Lily Lang
ISBN: 978-1-61921-476-7
Edited by Christa Desir
Cover by Kim Killion
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: May 2013
www.samhainpublishing.com
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
About the Author
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