Dangerous

by Minerva Spencer

  “Ha!” Danforth cried in triumph. “No doubt you will head back to the arms of your wife and drown your sorrows.”

  At his friend’s words, Adam was glad he was still wearing his mask. The sensations that thundered through his body at the mere thought of Mia almost knocked him to his knees. For two hours he’d managed to avoid thinking about her and now he would have to resume the struggle.

  He choked back a laugh. Perhaps he could stay at Bealeaux’s from morning until night, sparring until such time as he could reasonably go home to a woman who’d made it a condition of their marriage that he leave her alone?

  “I say, old man, are you all right?”

  Adam realized he’d been standing and staring at nothing. He pulled off his mask, brushed his forearm over his damp forehead, and looked at the younger man.

  “Are you commencing your rustication today, or would you care to join me for a spot of dinner and some entertainment?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hordes of servants milled about in the hall outside Adam’s wife’s chambers when he returned home after a singularly unprofitable night at the tables. Danforth had been sitting on a pile of winnings when Adam had finally decided it was best that he go home and lick his wounds.

  It was just past midnight, and such an amount of activity seemed . . . unusual. Sayer met Adam at the door and wordlessly handed him a piece of paper.

  “What is this?” Adam looked at the small envelope with nothing written on it.

  Sayer held out a pair of spectacles without needing to be asked.

  “It is from Lady Exley. Your wife, my lord,” he added when Adam didn’t answer.

  Adam scowled and snatched the glasses from his servant’s hand. “Thank you, Sayer. I know who my wife is.” He tore open the seal and unfolded the single piece of paper.

  My Lord Exley:

  You are invited to an indoor alfresco party for two in my chambers.

  Respectfully,

  Your Wife

  Adam pulled off the glasses and glanced at Sayer but his valet was carefully examining his feet. “Right now?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “Do you think she wishes me to come as I am, or should I change into more suitable clothing and shave?” The question was only half-facetious.

  “I could not say as to the first, my lord, but I’ve hot water waiting for you.”

  Adam sighed and handed Sayer the spectacles and invitation. “What does one wear to an evening alfresco party, Sayer?”

  “I’m afraid that is beyond my experience, sir.”

  Adam snorted. “What good are you, Sayer?”

  “That is not for me to say, my lord.”

  Freshly shaved and wearing slippers, a gray silk banyan, and a nightshirt—for the first time in years—he entered his wife’s room. She was surrounded by chattering, bustling servants and wearing a gown of forest green silk that sheathed her delectable body like a second skin. Adam looked at the milling servants, frowning when he spotted the giant blond oaf.

  Mia’s eyes flickered between him and the footman.

  “You may go now.” She made shooing motions toward the door with both hands and servants, male and female, hurried from the room.

  Heaps of cushions were scattered in front of the fireplace—where there was a bloody fire burning. A coffee table groaned with food.

  “You’ve been busy,” he noted.

  She came toward him with her usual sinuous grace and took his hand. “Thank you for coming,” she said, in all seriousness, pulling him toward the pile of pillows.

  Adam gestured toward the fire with his free hand. “Are you cold?”

  “Always.” She frowned. “Is it too hot? Are you uncomfortable? Should I—”

  “I’m fine.”

  She waded into the center of the cushions and gracefully lowered herself, pulling him down with her. Adam glanced down at the floor and grimaced.

  “Please?” She cut him a look he could only call the “Irresistible Kitten Look.”

  Adam grunted and lowered himself gingerly onto a big cushion. “Very well, but it shall be on your head if I can’t get up again.”

  She turned to the table. “Wine, my lord?”

  Adam paused in the act of shoving several of the larger pillows between his back and a nearby chair. “Please.” Whatever was going on, he might need a bit of fortification.

  She poured two glasses and handed one to him. “Are you hungry?” She gestured to the formidable array of food.

  Adam wasn’t, but she seemed to have gone to a lot of effort. What the devil did the woman want? He’d stayed away from his own house all bloody day thinking to please her with his absence, and now this? He sighed. “Perhaps some bread and cheese.” He sipped his wine as she filled a small plate and brought it toward him, somehow managing to look graceful on her knees.

  She fussed with her own pile of pillows until she was satisfied and then reached out and took his foot in her hand. She removed first one slipper and then the next, her eyebrows raised as if in challenge. She motioned to the delicate chair he was leaning against.

  “In the palace we rarely sat on furniture, and never any as uncomfortable as this.” She sat with her small unshod feet crossed and resting against her calves. The last time Adam recalled sitting in such a position was when he had been a very young child. At seven and thirty he doubted he could manage it.

  He sipped his wine and waited. This was her orchestra; he would let her conduct.

  “I enjoyed yesterday evening very much, the company more than the play. The only part I did not enjoy was realizing everyone else knows so much more about you than I do.” Her brow creased. “I can see what you are thinking. Please don’t poker up. I think that is the correct saying?” She cut him an inquiring look.

  “Poker up is one way of expressing it,” he said wryly.

  “Tsst!” She tossed her head with contempt.

  “And that is certainly another way of expressing something, although I know not what.” He took a piece of cheese.

  She frowned, clearly in no mood to be distracted from her point. “I look a fool not knowing what everyone else does.”

  Adam took a large drink of wine, wondering what it was she thought everyone knew.

  “You are not planning on drinking too much and losing consciousness?” She arched one russet brow but her green eyes sparkled with humor. “Not that I did not enjoy the time I spent with you the first time.” She lowered her eyes and fiddled with the corner of an ice-blue velvet cushion.

  “What time?”

  A slow, sly smile spread across her face.

  “My lady?” He used a tone that usually obtained instant results from both those who knew him and those who didn’t. He could see by her growing smile his new wife was not a member of either of those groups.

  “I will offer you a bargain.”

  “Bargain?” Adam repeated warily.

  “Are you afraid to bargain with me?”

  He stared at her.

  She crossed her arms and stared back.

  Adam cast his eyes ceilingward. “Fine. A bargain.”

  She gave him a smile that told him there’d never been any doubt in her mind he would yield. Adam had just been outmaneuvered, and the unusual feeling was not one he enjoyed.

  “Bartering is the way of things in Oran. We will trade questions for answers. You will tell me what I want to know and I will tell you what I did to you on our wedding night. Or perhaps I could show you?” Her green eyes smoldered.

  Adam ignored her attempt to distract him, even if his cock did not. He gave her a bored shrug. “I will answer one of your questions in exchange for three of my own.”

  “Three for two.”

  “Two for three.”

  “An even exchange.”

  He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Fine, an even exchange.”

  Her smile was triumphant and Adam realized she would have taken two for three. Minx.

  “Shall we spit o
n our palms and shake hands?”

  Adam grimaced. “What a revolting suggestion. Is that another custom from the sultan’s palace?”

  “No, that is what Cian and I did to seal a pact when we were children.”

  “Spit will not be necessary. I shall take you at your word.” He held out his glass. She gave him a skeptical look and he scowled. “Don’t tease yourself—I shan’t lose consciousness again. Although it sounds as if you were able to find some sort of entertainment in the matter.”

  Rather than answer, she leaned back and subjected him to a thorough examination while she considered her line of attack. Her eyes glinted with clever, cunning plans and he suppressed a groan. Why had he agreed to this?

  As usual she did the unexpected. “I have heard, twice now, that you are very skilled with a sword. I would like to watch you.”

  He took a sip of wine to hide his surprise—and his pleasure. What man didn’t like feminine admiration?

  “That was not a question,” he pointed out.

  She gave him the same look she’d given him the night of her ball, when he’d mentioned her notorious dance. He decided he would label this look the “Menacing Kitten Stare.”

  “Very well.” He held up one hand in surrender. “Whom shall I call out, Lady Exley?”

  She laughed, her eyes sparkling.

  It was like being punched in the chest. But in a good way. Christ. He was a pitiful, pitiful man.

  Still chuckling, she shook her head. “That will not be necessary. I should just like to see you spar? I think that is the term—spar?” Her eyes roamed his body in a manner that made him think of other forms of sparring.

  He shifted on his cushion. “You wish to see me spar?”

  She nodded.

  “You couldn’t go to Beauleaux’s—”

  “What is Beauleaux’s?”

  “It is where I go to practice.”

  “Why can’t I go there?”

  “It is not done, that is why.” Adam braced himself for an argument but again she surprised him.

  “Then spar here,” she said, wisely choosing her battles. Any daughter of the Duke of Carlisle, a man with a punishing code of “what was and what was not done,” had probably learned the futility of argument.

  “Why is it so important that you watch me spar?”

  “Is that one of your questions, my lord?”

  It was Adam’s turn to laugh.

  “Never mind, I will answer it for free. Why is it odd that I would wish to watch my husband do something he does well and enjoys?”

  Adam’s stomach tightened at the word husband. Why were they wasting precious time with talk? He wanted to throw her back on these bloody cushions, strip that dress from her body, and—

  “Well, my lord?” She was regarding him with that knowing look; the one that burnt away his carefully maintained veneer of ennui and detachment.

  “What activities do you enjoy?” he finally asked.

  “That is one of your questions?”

  “Surely you could answer such a simple question for free?”

  “Perhaps later.” She crossed her arms. “You have not yet given me an answer.”

  “Very well, I will have Beauleaux send someone over and we will give you an exhibition match.”

  “When?”

  “Would tomorrow be soon enough? Or should I send for him right now?”

  “No, tomorrow will suffice.”

  Adam relaxed back against the cushion. But his little haggler wasn’t done yet.

  “Tell me about your gambling and the many properties you have taken from other men.”

  Adam gaped, and then shut his mouth. When was the last time anyone had surprised him so utterly and completely? It wasn’t a sensation he wanted to get accustomed to.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

  She sat up straighter. “Bloody hell.” She repeated the words, as if trying out the taste and feel of them on her tongue.

  “Those words are not for you, my dear.”

  “You like to use them, my lord.”

  “Yes, well, I’m a man, so I am allowed.” He flashed her a quick, unamused smile.

  The look in her eyes was no longer playful.

  Ah, the kitten has claws.

  “Do your man’s words mean you will not answer my question?”

  The temperature in the room had become chilly, in spite of the fire. Adam realized he liked the soft, cuddly kitten far better.

  “I’m happy to answer your question. I’ve acquired several small farms. One in Sussex, one in Lincolnshire, and one all the way up in Yorkshire. They are currently tenanted and operate without much oversight. There are two baronial halls, I suppose you would call them. One in Cumbria, leased for the long term. The other in Essex is a shell, uninhabited and uninhabitable at present. Two—no, three—full estates, all quite far north. Two are still occupied by members of the family under life-estate agreements. The third is undergoing renovations. I have a town house in Brighton, several buildings in the city, three of which are leased and the newest of which is nearing completion.” He mentally counted to see if he had missed anything.

  “For what purpose are you renovating these buildings?”

  “Is this a third question?”

  She rolled her eyes and made the hissing sound he was beginning to expect whenever she was irritated.

  Adam almost grinned. “What is sauce for the goose, my dear.”

  She glanced at the table of food. “What does saucing the goose mean?”

  “What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. It means it is permissible for one person to behave a certain way if another person has already done so.”

  She smirked. “Well, bloody hell.”

  Adam threw his head back and laughed. “Touché.”

  Adam had been about to take a drink of wine when he noticed her staring. He lowered the glass. “Don’t worry, I promised I wouldn’t become intoxicated.”

  “No, it isn’t that. It’s . . .”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “It pleases me to see you laugh. It is . . . a rarity.”

  He frowned and stared into the glass as he swirled its contents. Was he really that much of a dour, miserable bastard?

  “My third question,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. “What are you going to do with the two buildings you are restoring?”

  Piqued, repiqued, and capoted. Adam was almost insulted by her lack of interest in his dangerous reputation. Perhaps a man with two dead wives was no match for seventeen years in a harem? But why did she care what he was doing with his properties? And how the devil did she manage to sense the subjects he preferred to keep private?

  “My lord?”

  “I don’t think you really need an answer to your question. I can only suppose either Livia or Octavia has been talking out of school?”

  She leaned back among her pile of cushions, her expression as innocent as a baby’s. “Is that one of your questions, my lord?”

  Adam had the distinct feeling he’d just been stage managed by an expert.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mia could see by his scowl that the cold, haughty, contemptuous Lord Exley didn’t like revealing his acts of charity. Why would he be ashamed of providing a home for impoverished women and children? She recalled something Livia had told her at the theater.

  “For whatever reason, my dear Mia, Adam insists on promoting his reputation as that of a hard, cold man who cares for nobody but himself.”

  Mia had several ideas as to why he would be eager to preserve such a reputation. Now she just had to chisel and chip her way through the thick wall of ice around him to find the truth.

  “It is your turn to ask questions, my lord.” She made herself comfortable among the cushions and took a sip of wine.

  “Why were you arguing with Ramsay on our wedding day?” he asked, proving that he, too, could ask questions that disconcerted.

  Mia resisted the urge to hiss. “
We were merely discussing the situation in the Mediterranean. He can be very passionate when it comes to political issues.” She told herself the answer wasn’t completely a lie. After all, Jibril was part of the political situation in the Mediterranean.

  “How odd. It seemed to me that you were the one who was passionate.”

  A telling heat began to creep up her neck. How was he able to do this to her?

  Her husband watched her reddening face with his usual lack of expression, which only served to make her blush harder. He turned away and put his empty glass on the table. “Tell me what happened the other night—our wedding night.”

  She wasted no time wondering why he’d let the other matter rest. “It’s easier to show you, my lord. Come to the bed.”

  His lips twisted but he stood, the motion athletic and easy, in spite of what he’d claimed earlier. He helped her to her feet and Mia led him to the bed.

  She pulled at the sash on his robe and then frowned. He was wearing a nightshirt.

  He looked down at her. “Am I to understand you valeted me the other night?”

  “No, Sayer managed that for me.” She slid the robe from his shoulders, unveiling him slowly, like a statue. She tossed the beautiful silk robe over a nearby chair and stood back to examine his sleepwear. Like all his garments, the cloth was superlative. It was obviously a summer garment, light and soft. Her husband was a sensualist. He was also quite aroused. She studied the tantalizing outline of his erection through fabric so fine she could see almost see the finer details.

  She wrenched her gaze away and met his eyes, tingling at the raw hunger she saw. When she reached for his nightshirt, he grabbed her wrists, his hands like manacles.

  “Are you toying with me, my lady?” His chest was rising and falling fast. “Are you, perhaps, being wicked again?”

  The mere word brought a vivid flash of the prior night, of his relentless, torturous, glorious lovemaking.

  “No, Adam.”

  His breathing roughened even more at her use of his Christian name. It aroused him. And it aroused her to say it. He released her wrists and she lifted his shirt. He raised his arms to accommodate her, but she was too short to lift it all the way over his head.