A Lady Dares

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘You lied to them!’ She saw all too clearly what he’d done. He’d set himself up as the boss, the chief. The man with all the power.

  He raised a blond eyebrow in exaggerated query. ‘You are not the owner’s daughter? Did I misunderstand yesterday?’

  ‘No, but—’ She didn’t get to finish.

  ‘So you are the owner’s daughter. Good, then I’ve told no lies,’ he said as if this were the worst sin he had to worry about.

  ‘I’m more than someone’s curious daughter. Did you tell them that? Without me there’d be no project.’ Elise wrenched her arm free and stepped away. She needed space where her logic wouldn’t be distracted by more masculine charms.

  ‘Allow me to be blunt. With you, there will be no project if you don’t let me do this my way. I am trying to help you. You have nothing without me.’

  He advanced and Elise fought a losing battle to retreat. Her back hit the wall. He leaned forwards, one arm bracing himself on the wall over her head. He seemed bigger at close range, not menacingly so, but overwhelmingly potent. Even the smell of him, fresh lumber and salty sweat, was all man—all nearly naked man. It was hard to forget that one thing with his bare chest mere inches from her. She’d like to forget it, though. Handsome men had proven to be her weakness in the past.

  Elise tried to look anywhere but at him. She could see every intimate detail of his skin: the fine dusting of blond hair, the thin white scar beneath his right breast. Lord, it was hard to concentrate! Even her breathing seemed more erratic.

  ‘Have I made you nervous, Miss Sutton?’ He smiled. ‘I can’t help but notice the inordinate amount of time you’ve spent staring at my chest.’

  Did she imagine it or did he puff that chest of his out intentionally just then?

  Elise opened her mouth to respond and then shut it. Had she really just seen his breast jump? Flex? Whatever one wanted to call it. ‘Stop that!’

  ‘Stop what?’ Pop! There it went again. He was doing it on purpose.

  ‘That thing you’re doing with your chest!’

  ‘Oh, this? Flexing my muscles?’ He straightened up and treated her to a bawdy show of alternately flexing each side of his chest.

  ‘Yes, that.’

  He laughed. ‘Do you know what your problem is, Princess? You don’t know how to have any fun.’

  Elise crossed her arms over her chest to make a barrier of sorts between them. How dare he think she was a stick in the mud just because she wore all of her clothes to the office? She knew how to have fun. ‘And I suppose you do?’

  Another smile split his face. ‘Absolutely.’

  Elise felt her breath catch. His eyes lingered indecently on her mouth. She was acutely aware of his nearness, that he still bracketed her with his arm leaning against the wall. She licked her lips self-consciously. ‘I’ll have you know I’ve had plenty of fun.’

  ‘Really?’ he drawled, doubt evident. ‘Well, maybe you have. I suppose I could be wrong. Let’s see, hmmm. Have you kissed a man?’

  ‘I most certainly have,’ Elise said indignantly, although why it should matter what he thought was something of a mystery. There’d been a few safe kisses in gardens after dancing, but that had been before society had made her choose between it and the shipyard. It had been before Robert Graves, with whom she’d done far more than kiss.

  ‘Unh-unh.’ Dorian wagged a finger. ‘Let me finish. Parlour games don’t count. Have you kissed a man just for fun in the middle of the afternoon in a public place where you might be caught at any moment?’ He was definitely flirting now, the images conjured by his words causing a slow heat to unfurl low in her belly.

  She fought it, trying to sound more affronted than aroused. No good could come from letting him see how he affected her with his teasing. ‘What, exactly, are you suggesting?’ No gentleman would imply her virtue was in question.

  A slow, wicked smile curved on his lips, his voice low and intimate in the small gap of space between them. ‘I’m suggesting you try it. With me.’ His mouth took hers then, without waiting for a reply, the press of his lips gently insisting that she give way to his greater experience. His tongue flicked over the seam of her lips and she opened to him, to the heady pleasure rising inside her at the leisurely decadence he invoked: mouth on mouth, tongue to tongue, body to body, cloth to skin. This was a naughty exploration indeed. Of their own volition her hands went to his shoulders, kneading the exposed muscles. He was right; she’d never been kissed, not like this. Those other kisses seemed childish by comparison, nothing more than play, pretend. But this was real, this man was real. And the consequences would be real, too. She’d been down that road before.

  That was enough to wake her senses. Elise pulled away. She would not repeat the mistakes of the past; this had to end now. She had scandal enough to worry about without being caught kissing her master builder. ‘Mr Rowland!’ She hoped her exclamation carried enough chagrin for more words to be unnecessary.

  ‘How about we dispense with the “Mr Rowland” bit?’ He made no move to back up and release her. ‘You can call me Dorian and I’ll call you Princess.’

  ‘My name is Elise,’ she snapped, realising she’d been manoeuvred too late.

  ‘Well, Elise it shall be, then, if you insist.’ He shoved off the wall. ‘Now you can say you’ve had fun.’ He winked. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must be back to work if you want your yacht done by the deadline. Have a nice rest of the afternoon, Elise.’

  She could not stay in that office a moment longer. It took all her patience to wait until Dorian was safely engrossed in his work before leaving. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d succeeded in driving her off her own property.

  How dared he? Elise strode through the crowded streets surrounding the docks, burning off her excess energy and anger, if that’s what it was. He’d kissed her in broad daylight and for no apparent reason other than the fun of it. One thought overrode even that: he’d been audacious, but she’d liked it! Hadn’t she learned her lesson with Robert? Handsome men were not to be trusted. They knew they could barter on their looks to take what they wanted unless a woman was careful. Elise was so wrapped in her thoughts, she nearly ran into Charles Bradford before she noticed him.

  ‘Miss Sutton. I was just on my way to see you.’ Charles righted her after their nearcollision, tucking her hand through his arm. ‘Whatever are you doing out here in the street? It’s no place for a decent lady.’

  ‘Lunch,’ Elise improvised, pulling her skirts to one side to avoid a barrel being rolled to a nearby store.

  ‘Out here?’ Charles had to shout to be heard above the street din. ‘Might I suggest a quieter venue? My carriage is just the next street over. Perhaps I could escort you?’

  There was no gracious way to refuse and perhaps it would be better to be with someone instead of fuming alone over her latest interaction with Dorian Rowland. In no time at all, Elise found herself ensconced in Charles Bradford’s open barouche. Of course, it was open. Being alone with a man in a closed carriage was unheard of for an unmarried woman and Charles was first and foremost a gentleman. He’d known he was coming to see her and had planned accordingly. Unlike certain other males of her recent acquaintance, came the unbidden comparison. She doubted Dorian Rowland planned accordingly for anything or even planned at all. He just did or said the first thing that came to mind.

  ‘I must confess to being surprised to find you here,’ Charles began as the barouche started to move. ‘I stopped at your house first and your butler told me where you were. I didn’t think there’d be anything more to do at the shipyard. If there’s still business to take care of, you should have contacted me. My father and I would have handled it for you.’ There was reproach in the comment.

  The Bradfords had offered as much earlier when the tragedy had first happened, but she’d insisted on overseeing it all on her own. She knew what Charles meant. There wasn’t that much to do if she was closing the yard. ‘You might be surprised at w
hat a girl finds to amuse herself with,’ Elise answered vaguely, her thoughts going straight to shirtless men and afternoon kisses. Charles might be all that was proper in a young man with his well-cut clothes, fashionable hair and polished manners, but he wouldn’t understand her latest endeavour or the need behind it. If he had understood, he and his father would never have pulled out.

  It occurred to her that this might be a prime opportunity to pull them back in. What if they did know what she was doing? They might re-invest and there would be money again. She wouldn’t have to wait until the yacht was finished. That thought only lasted a moment. Charles was looking at her with his calm, brown eyes and she almost blurted it out. But caution held her back. It had only been a day and Dorian Rowland had amply demonstrated he was uncertainty personified. What if he suddenly quit? What if he lacked the skill to finish the yacht? She’d do better to wait and see if her project could be completed before she told a soul. It wouldn’t do to be seen as a failure just now. If she was to fail, she wanted to do it in secret.

  Charles found them an acceptable tea shop where they could have sandwiches and a quiet table. He was solicitous, asking after her wellbeing, her brother’s plans to return to Oxford and her mother’s time in the country. The more solicitous he was, the more the contrast grew. He was nothing like Dorian Rowland. To start with, he wore all of his clothes and he was unlikely to steal a kiss in a public place. Charles was safe. Charles was comfortable. But she couldn’t help but wonder—would Charles’s chest be as muscled beneath his linen shirt? It certainly wouldn’t be as tanned. She blushed a little at the thought. It was most untoward of her to be picturing gentlemen without their clothes on. She could blame that, too, on Dorian.

  ‘Miss Sutton? Are you all right?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Why do you ask?’ Elise dragged her thoughts back to the conversation.

  ‘I asked you a question.’ Charles smiled indulgently. ‘What are you planning to do with the shipyard? My father would be able to help you arrange a sale. I’m sure you’d rather be off to join your mother.’

  Actually, that was the last place she wanted to be. How to answer without lying? She opted for part of the truth. ‘I’m thinking about keeping the yard, after all,’ Elise offered quietly, waiting for his shocked response.

  To his credit, Charles kept his shock to a minimum. He didn’t disagree with her, but merely voiced his concern. ‘Miss Sutton, your fortitude is commendable. But you have no one to run the place. Surely you can’t be thinking of doing it on your own?’ She knew what he was thinking. To do so was to invite social ostracism for the last time. She’d already skated so near the edge on other occasions. With her father gone, there’d be little pity left for her.

  ‘I have someone.’

  ‘Who?’ Charles reached for his tea cup.

  ‘A Mr Dorian Rowland,’ Elise said with a confidence she didn’t feel.

  The tea cup halted in mid-air, never quite making it to his mouth. ‘Dorian Rowland? The Scourge of Gibraltar?’ The tea cup clattered into its saucer with an undignified clunk. ‘My dear Miss Sutton, you must be rid of him immediately.’

  She’d hired someone called the Scourge of Gibraltar?

  Elise was glad she wasn’t holding a tea cup, too, or it might have followed suit. ‘Why?’ she managed to utter.

  The horror in Charles Bradford’s eyes was so exaggerated it was almost comical and it would have been, too, if it wasn’t aimed at the one man she’d pinned all her hopes on.

  ‘Don’t you know, Miss Sutton? He isn’t received.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘I was not under the impression craftsmen were in the habit of being received at all,’ Elise answered coolly, some irrational part of her leaping to Dorian’s defence. Perhaps it was simply that she wanted to defend the shipyard and her own judgement, or her brother’s judgement for that matter. He’d been the one to recommend Dorian.

  Charles smiled indulgently. ‘Oh, he’s not a craftsman, not by birth anyway.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to explain that.’ Elise mustered all the bravado she could. With a label like the Scourge of Gibraltar she could guess the reasons without the specifics, though details would be nice.

  Charles set his jaw, looking fiercer than she’d ever seen him, a look at odds with his usually calm demeanour. ‘Of course you don’t know and understandably so. It’s hardly a topic of discussion worthy of a lady. I will say only this: he’s not fit company for you.’

  The fervency in Charles’s eyes should have warmed her even if his sentiments did not. She ought to overlook his condescension in light of its motives: he was putting her honour first. He was thinking of her, concerned about who she associated with, even if the tone with which that care was voiced sounded a bit high in the instep. Her father had been a self-made peer, knighted for his efforts, and Charles’s own father was a baronet, neither family far removed from the efforts of work that had attained such positions. Yet she could not warm to Charles’s efforts with more than polite kindness. Her own body and mind were still engaged in recalling a less-decent gentleman with blunt manners and a blind eye for scandal.

  ‘I appreciate your concern, although it’s hardly fair to tell me he’s unsuitable and then not tell me why.’ As if she needed reasons other than the ones Dorian had already provided this very afternoon with his unorthodox kissing episode. Out of reflex and remembrance, Elise’s eyes dropped ever so briefly to Charles’s lips. She couldn’t imagine Charles behaving so outrageously. The thought was not well done of her. There could be no true comparison between the two. Charles was all a gentleman should be and Dorian Rowland simply was not. Charles would be eminently more preferable. Wouldn’t he? He was precisely the sort of man her brother wanted her to find: attractive, steady and financially secure. But even with all these credentials, Elise couldn’t help but feel Charles would still come out lacking.

  Charles seemed to hold an internal debate with himself, his features suddenly relaxing, decision made. He leaned across the table in confidentiality. ‘He is Lord Ashdon’s son, second son,’ he offered in hushed tones as if that explained it all.

  It certainly explained some, like how William might have encountered him at an Oxford house party. Even after William’s explanation, she’d been hard pressed to believe William had stumbled across a master shipbuilder in the course of his usual social routine. But the one word her brain kept coming back to was scandal. It was the very last thing she needed. Her father’s death had been sensational, but not scandalous. Dorian Rowland, however, was both. If society had seen him today, one of their own, half-naked and toting tools around the shipyard, shouting orders, it would be outraged. Then again, it already was. If Charles could be believed, Dorian’s transgressions preceded this latest. This venture into the shipyard was just one of many escapades for him. But she would be the one who suffered.

  It was slowly coming to her that Dorian Rowland simply didn’t care who he perpetrated this fraud on. He could have told her who he was and he hadn’t. He’d let her believe he was a craftsman. And why not? He wasn’t received. He had nothing to lose, whereas she had everything to risk.

  Her place in society was tenuous. She was the daughter of a dead man who possessed a non-hereditary title. Society had to acknowledge her father. It didn’t have to acknowledge her, especially if she put herself beyond the pale. She had only her virtue and reputation to speak for her if she wished to remain in society’s milieu. To be honest, her reputation wasn’t the best to start with and this latest effort to keep the shipyard open wouldn’t help, with or without Dorian Rowland’s presence.

  Oblivious to the tumult of her thoughts, Charles leaned across the table ready to impart another confidence ‘Enough of such unpleasant things. I confess I had other reasons for seeing you. I wanted to ask if you might consider going for a drive some afternoon? I know you’re in mourning, but a drive wouldn’t be amiss.’

  Hardly. Elise thought of her mother’s version of mourning in the coun
tryside. A drive was nothing beside her mother’s card parties and dinners at the squire’s, and Elise had made no secret that she’d set many of the trappings of mourning aside. All right, all of them. She did wear half-mourning, but that was the only concession she continued to make and even that transition had been rushed by society’s standards. She returned Charles’s smile, but the offer raised little excitement. ‘I’d like that.’ She really should try harder to like him, to see him as more than a comfortable friend.

  They finished lunch in companionable conversation, the subject of Dorian Rowland discarded until Charles dropped her off at the town house. He saw her to the door, his hand light at her elbow. ‘It was good to see you, Elise. I’m sorry if the news about Rowland disturbed you. Now that you know, I trust you’ll manage the situation appropriately.’

  Somehow, Elise thought as the door shut behind her, she didn’t think ‘managing appropriately’ included afternoons pressed up against the office wall kissing her foreman with all the abandon of a wanton.

  Dorian had abandoned all pretence of being in a good mood since the previous afternoon. The encounter with Elise had left him aroused with no hope of immediate satisfaction save that which he’d had to provide for himself. At the sight of a haphazard nailing job, he ripped the hammer out of one worker’s hand with a snarl. ‘Take it out and do it right.’ The others gave him a wide berth.

  He didn’t blame them. Kissing Elise had put him out of sorts even though he’d got what he wanted. He shouldn’t have done it. Technically, he knew better but that had never stopped him before. He took what he liked and he’d liked her, a princess with her temper up, her professional reserve down. She’d been furious with him and it had done fabulous things to her, turning the green of her eyes to the shade of moss and staining her cheeks to a becoming pink. In his arms, she’d become a woman of fire, burning slow and hot, desperate to prove herself.