“He’s older than we were when we went to the East End, and those are whiskers on his chin.”
Simon peered at the approaching man. “Oh, I say, that’s just sad.”
“Better he get his tutoring where the girls are clean. Why don’t you do me a favor and take him to Madame Trumann’s. You’re always touting that establishment’s ample endowments.”
Simon’s face puckered. “I’d probably have to burp him after he’s finished with one of Trumann’s girls.” His friend gave him a contemplative look. “I know you’re not fond of brothels, old chum, but I think one of Trumann’s pretty little birds would do you a world of good. Why don’t you accompany us?”
“I should head home. Edith and I are to interview for Celia’s governess tomorrow.” He shoved his chair back, tossed several bills onto the table, and stood. “I bid you all a most pleasant night.”
A riotous protest arose from those seated at the table.
“Damn and blast, Westfield. You off so soon?” Edmond Wright boomed.
He nodded.
“Lady Randall is having a small, exclusive gathering tomorrow, Westfield,” Julian Caruthers added with a wink. “Know she’d be tickled pink if you were to attend.”
Westfield had partaken in most of Lady Randall’s exclusive parties. They started at her terrace in Belgravia and ended at her estate in Kent. They lasted well over a week and were full of dissipation. A month ago, he would have joined the revelry, yet today his stomach soured at the thought. With a grimace, he ran his hand over his thigh. “I think I shall have to forgo the festivities, Caruthers. Though do give Lady Randall my regard.”
“Aye, still not up to snuff?” Alasdair McGrath asked with a plaintive expression.
Picking up his walking stick, Hayden feigned a look of resigned sorrow, and a commiserative murmur arose from the group.
He turned from the table to see Boswitch staring at him as if he were a paragon. Poor misguided lad. “Boswitch, my good man, take my seat.” He motioned to his vacated chair. “I need to be shoving off.”
Boswitch gave the group a wide smile. “W-well thank you, Westfield.”
Westfield thumped Simon on his shoulder, then bracing his weight on his walking stick, he walked to the door. Had he done Boswitch a favor or a disservice leaving him with that group of reprobates? Well, for all Simon’s indifference, he could be trusted.
As soon as he stepped out onto Maddox Street, his coach appeared. He opened the carriage door and extracted his heavy wool overcoat and top hat. “I wish to walk, Evans.” He closed the door and stepped back.
“Walk, m’lord?” The coachman stared pointedly at Hayden’s leg and walking stick. “Do you wish me to follow you?”
“No, drive on.”
Evans hesitated, then tipping his hat, he drew the horses into a trot. The carriage faded into the fog and darkness.
Hayden slipped his overcoat on and took a long draught of cool air into his lungs. Hopefully, it would clear his mind or at least numb it.
By the time he’d reached Brook Street, the night air and solitude had done little to alleviate his tenacious thoughts of Sophia. He wondered what she was doing at this moment or whether Trimble was with her. The latter possibility seemed to incinerate good judgment, and before he knew what he was about, he hailed a passing hackney and gave the driver Sophia’s Chelsea address.
* * *
From inside the carriage, Hayden stared at the four-story brick home with flower boxes overflowing with dark boughs of evergreens. Even with the mist swirling off the Thames, hovering around its façade, Sophia’s residence looked warm and inviting—a beckoning light upon his dark soul.
Through the fanlight above the front door, a dim light radiated from the rear of the house. His gaze lifted to the first floor; it was dark. However, the windows on the second floor glowed with a soft light. Was that Sophia’s private suite of rooms? The thought of them suddenly darkening lodged an uncomfortable weight in his gut. He’d intended to only drive by and get a glimpse of her residence, but the cozy outside beckoned him and his desire edged him forward. He stepped from the hackney. With hurried hands, he reached for his billfold and paid the driver.
The clopping of the horses’ hooves had all but faded by the time he swung open the ornate metal gate and moved up the flagstone pathway. The need to see Sophia overwhelmed him. His feet moved as if pulled by gravity. It was lunacy calling on her at this hour—madness to call on her at all. But he’d not turn back.
He had won their wager. Sophia owed him recompense, and he finally knew what he wanted.
Her.
Chapter Twelve
The soles of Mrs. MacLean’s shoes landed heavily on the treads as the housekeeper trudged up the stairs. The woman’s grumbling grew louder as she moved toward Sophia’s bedchamber.
Sophia straightened in her chair and set her open book on her lap. The composition titled The Perfect Rose had arrived in today’s post. Another hateful gift from Great-Uncle Charles. A book that touted not only what features constituted the ideal English woman—a bow-shaped mouth, a heart-shaped face—but also implied a woman was flawed if she possessed any opinions at all. She should have burned it. Not read a stitch of it.
Mrs. MacLean entered the room and pursed her lips. “If ye be asking me ’tis too late to be receiving a gentleman caller.”
A jolt of apprehension flooded Sophia’s belly. She snapped her book closed. “A gentleman caller?”
“Aye,” the elder woman replied, peering at the crisp white calling card held in her hand. “’Tis Lord Westfield. An’ he don’t look nothing like that caricature I seen of him in Punch. No, indeed. The man looks twice as menacing. A right buirdly gent. Noot like most of them pasty-faced nobs one’s apt to see west of Charing Cross.”
Sophia’s heartbeat escalated, and the odd sensation pooling in her belly exploded sending hot rivulets over her nerves. “Westfield,” she said his name—two distinct syllables, the latter drowned under the thudding of her heart echoing in her ears.
“Yes, an’ insisting on seeing ye.”
With trembling fingers, Sophia placed the book on the side table and stood. Wringing her hands, she paced the room. She stopped and spun back toward the housekeeper. “Mrs. MacLean, please send him away. Tell him . . . tell him I’ve retired for the night.” The shrill tone in her voice echoed in the bedchamber.
The housekeeper tapped her foot on the floor and gave an exaggerated sigh. “I tried, miss, but he’s a plucky gent that don’t seem accustomed to being turned away.”
Indeed, Westfield was used to getting his way; he’d most likely remain ensconced in her entry hall until she received him. She let go of the death grip her hands were placing upon each other and took a deep breath.
“Show him to the drawing room,” she replied, mustering her courage.
What did he want? Rubbing her moist palms over the folds of her gold and red gown, she resumed pacing. She moved to the doorway and peered into the dim corridor. She could slip down the back staircase and out the rear of the house.
No, she would not be intimidated. Squaring her shoulders, she walked to the stairway and descended the steps. By the time she reached the drawing room, her heart was racing in her chest again. She took several calming breaths and opened the double doors.
Westfield leaned casually against the window frame, his gaze directed out the panes of glass. She knew the view across the street was nearly unperceivable. The air drifting off the Thames had thickened and settled over the embankment like a vaporous cloak.
He was impeccably dressed in a crisp white shirt, dark silver ascot, and waistcoat. His navy frock coat molded itself to his broad shoulders, and gray trousers encased his long legs. He looked every inch the gentleman. She nearly laughed aloud at the stream of her thoughts. It would be unwise to let the cut of Westfield’s bespoke garments fool her. He was a man to be wary of, especially where her pride and heart were concerned.
He pushed his tall form away
from the window’s casings and turned to her. Her stomach clenched. His blue eyes were shadowed, and there was a weariness to his normally handsome visage.
She stifled the foolish urge to rush forward. You must act indifferent, you silly goose. She stepped into the room and closed the doors to hinder Mrs. MacLean’s prying ears.
“Lord Westfield,” she said coolly, “to what do I owe the honor of your visit?” The steady tone of her voice pleased her.
His gaze raked over her, and she looked down at the gold and red gown she wore with its simple soft flowing skirt and square neckline. Self-consciously she lifted a hand to the exposed skin above the décolletage.
Many of the artists who resided in Chelsea donned aesthetic clothing and no corsets, but Westfield would think her Bohemian. Dash it all, she’d let the man touch her intimately. Of course he thought her Bohemian. She lowered her hand and returned his bold gaze. Thankfully, she hadn’t unpinned the chignon at her nape.
“You look well, Sophia,” he said, breaking the silence.
His deep masculine voice felt like a tangible force caressing her skin. She took a slow breath, tried to regulate the elevated beating of her heart. “Thank you, my lord.”
The silence in the room grew.
“Sophia, are you going to offer me a seat, so I may rest my weary leg?”
She wished to refuse his request; nevertheless, she motioned to the pair of chintz-covered chairs set before the hearth.
With a congenial nod, he strode across the room. An occasional hitch marred his stride. Yet otherwise, his gait was smooth for a man who’d suffered an injury such as he had. She bit back the temptation to tell him he should be using a cane, but then she noticed the familiar, elegant gold-knobbed walking stick propped against the wainscoting near the window.
He stood waiting for her, and reluctantly she moved toward the other chair. A flutter besieged her stomach with each step that brought her closer to him. She’d not forgotten how his mouth and hands had stroked her skin or the feel of his hard body, and certainly not how she’d welcomed his touch.
After she sat, he folded his tall form into the opposite chair. Casually reclining against its upholstered back, Westfield steepled his hands, pressed his index fingers to his lips, and looked at her.
Under his intense scrutiny, the fluttering in her stomach turned tempestuous. “My lord, it is—”
“Hayden.”
“What?”
“I wish you to call me Hayden.”
Not likely! “It is rather late, my lord. May I ask the reason for your visit?”
He leaned forward and braced his forearms on his knees. So close she could smell the faint scent of his shaving soap, along with the smell of tobacco drifting off his clothes. “I have finally decided what my recompense should be for winning our little game.”
“Your recompense!” She sprung to her feet.
Westfield quickly followed suit, standing, and closing the short gap between them. He peered down at her. “A dare was placed between us, Sophia, along with a wager. As the victor I’m due a forfeit.”
She wanted to step back, but she was pinned between his tall body and the chair behind her. “You told me I could leave and consider our dare and that silly wager null and void.”
The corners of his mouth lifted into an uneven smile. “I did. However, if my memory serves me clearly, you stated you did not wish to end either. In fact, you told me, quite adamantly, you intended to win. But since you left, you lost.”
How could he hold her to that, especially after what had transpired between them? “You sent me a check in care of Dr. Trimble’s residence,” she replied as though such a fact offered absolution.
“Yes, which you’ve yet to cash.”
How could she? She’d not won the staggering amount he’d sent her. Accepting it would have made her feel dirty, so she’d burned it. And the money Lady Prescott paid her, she’d given to Thomas for his hospital fund. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “You cannot be serious about this.”
“Quite.”
“And what recompense do I owe you? Shall I return the wages your sister paid me, grovel at your feet, or hail you superior?”
Sophia awaited his answer, but abruptly he moved toward the double doors. She stared at his back in confusion. Was he leaving? She wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or once again offended.
He flung the doors open. Mrs. MacLean jumped back with a squeal that rivaled a scavenging hog.
“Madam,” he snapped. “I suggest you retire to your room.”
The housekeeper momentarily froze, then fled down the corridor.
Westfield slammed the doors closed.
Sophia stood motionless as he stalked back toward her. With his hands on her upper arms, he pulled her close. “No, Sophia, I don’t want your deuced wages or you groveling at my feet. A night in your bed should suffice.”
Her knees weakened, and for a brief moment, she appreciated he held her. But indignation quickly overpowered shock. She tipped her chin in the air. “Over my dead body.”
He grinned. “My dear, contrary to any rumors you may have heard, I assure you I am not so depraved.”
“Lord Westfield, you are mad if you believe I will consent—”
His large hands cupped her face, and his lips covered hers. She opened her mouth, intent on rebuking him, but he deepened the kiss, caressed her tongue with his own, withdrew, only to plunge hungrily again. The rhythmic, primal sensation felt tantamount to a heady drug.
He stepped closer, pressed his hard body intimately against hers. Sinful heat radiated from him, warming her skin. Almost light-headed, she slipped her arms around his neck and returned his kiss.
His hold relaxed, one hand shifted to tangle in her hair, the other fell to her waist. “How I want you,” he whispered into her ear, his voice raspy and intense. He nibbled at her neck before returning for another deep kiss.
The foolish, imprudent part of her wanted him, as well, but she couldn’t stop the echo of her inner voice reminding her of his cruel words and the humiliation they brought about. A minute or two more, the rash side of her urged, then step out of his embrace and ask him to leave with the same indifference he showed you.
Cold air brushing over her spine interrupted her thoughts. Hayden had skillfully unfastened the buttons on the back of her gown. If she didn’t pull back, she’d tangle herself in a web spun by her own recklessness. She turned her mouth away and set her hands against his chest.
“Please don’t pull away, Sophia. Those dreadful things I said . . .” He briefly glanced away and mumbled a curse. “I didn’t mean them. The truth is you awaken emotions I believed long dead. I am an imperfect man, and God knows you deserve someone better.”
Startled, she peered into his eyes. They looked tired. She placed her hands against his cheeks and touched her thumbs to the dark smears under them. “I don’t know when you’re lying to me or offering the truth.”
“You wish to hear the truth?” He gave a bitter bark of laughter. “I have spent the last three weeks with one foot in purgatory and the other slipping off stable ground.” He brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek. “I think of you constantly and accomplish little.”
He appeared sincere, and she had already lost her heart to him. Don’t be rash, a voice warned, but instead of heeding it, she perched on her toes and pressed her lips to his.
With a deep, guttural sound, he cradled the back of her head and kissed her again. Within minutes, her gown pooled on the floor, and Hayden’s coat and tie draped a chair. She tugged at the buttons of his waistcoat. That fervent need to press her skin to his consumed her. He shrugged the garment off his shoulders, and then his fingers were on the small satin ties that held her white chemise closed. The thin material fell open, exposing her breasts.
With lowered lashes, she glanced at his face. He was looking at her as though he’d never seen a woman before. Her face warmed. Self-consciously she pulled the material
closed.
Gently he pulled her hands away. The fabric fell open again. Leaning forward, he whispered, “Forgive me for staring, but you are not only a remarkably intelligent woman, but beautiful.”
How did he know that at this moment, after Great-Uncle Charles’s thoughtless book on the perfect English rose, she desperately needed to hear such words? To feel desirable. Wanted.
His hand captured the weight of her breast. Her already budding nipple hardened against his palm. He lowered his mouth and trailed a slow path to the breast he held. His tongue darted out, teased the tip.
She hadn’t thought he could drive her madder with want, but the sensations from his wet mouth and tongue, along with the slight abrasion from his shaven chin, heightened her desire. It was impossible to stifle the little sound that escaped her throat. By the time he pulled away, she was panting.
“Will you allow me to make love to you, Sophia? Not because of some blasted dare, but because you wish to.”
The thought of their bodies tangled together, their mouths on each other’s skin, inflamed her. She buried her face into the folds of his white shirt, breathed in his scent. “Yes,” she mumbled against the cloth.
Without another word, he swept her up, cradled her in his arms, and moved to the settee. Abruptly he stopped. “Where is your bedchamber?”
“The second floor, but I can walk. Your leg—”
“It feels fine,” he responded dismissively.
As they ascended the stairs, Hayden kept glancing at her. Her expression most likely conveyed her apprehension. This was insanity. Once again, she had let his touch and his words play havoc with her judicious mind. Could she do this—take carnal pleasure with a man who was not her husband? A month ago, she would have laughed at such an outlandish thought, but now . . .
At the second-floor landing, he turned toward her room where light still shone from within. He crossed the threshold and with his foot nudged the door closed. The four-poster bed loomed. Fear and anticipation fought for control as Hayden carried her toward it.
Never Dare a Wicked Earl Page 12
