A Most Indecent Gentleman

by Bronwyn Scott

  She looked across the seat at him, both of them regarding each other with frank awareness. She was using him and he was using her. Underneath that lay a sizzling layer of passion and attraction. She knew she’d kiss him again and more if he asked. Jocelyn Eisley was irresistible, as was this new development of a game within a game.

  Chapter Eight

  Cassandra was bluffing, of course. The Gypsy camp did make her nervous, a not-so-subtle reminder of how outrageously she was behaving. Cassandra couldn’t believe she’d actually done it. But she was starting to believe anything was possible with Jocelyn. He brought out the risk—taker in her, the woman who wanted to experience all life had to offer, who wouldn’t let one poor experience deter her from living deeply. She refused to believe such an attitude made her loose.

  “How is that you know Gypsies?” Cassandra settled back in her seat, determined to enjoy the ride out. Lock’s Fields was across town on the edges of the New Kent Road, not exactly next door to Mayfair.

  “They come to town every year at this time.” Jocelyn stretched his long legs across the small space. “There’s better work for them in the city until spring. I’ve been going for years. At first, it was a lark. But then I got hooked.” He was starting to relax, falling into his tale and she hung on every word. “Their lives were so different than mine, so unpredictable and full of adventure. They’ve traveled the breadth of England. I love hearing their stories. Sometimes I go out for a night and end up staying a few days.” He gave her a boyish smile that made her stomach flip with its charm. “There’s a family that’s been kind to me. They’ve taken me in and tolerate my presence. You’ll get to meet them—Florica and her son, Emilian.”

  Said in a different tone, the last might have been taken as another challenge, but Cassandra recognized the significance of what he shared. This was not a challenge to rub elbows with the tramping element. This was a rare glimpse into the heart and soul of Jocelyn Eisley.

  “It will be an honor to meet them,” Cassandra answered softly. Did anyone else know this side of the earl’s heir who visited Gypsies for a holiday? Would anyone want to know that side of him? The pretty girls in the ballroom would absolutely recoil from such an association. The men who laughed at his bawdy poetry would not understand his need to live on the fringe, to live outside the confines of the life he was born to.

  “Your dress might not think it’s much of an honor.” Jocelyn nodded toward the pale skirt peeping out from her cloak. “I hope you don’t freeze, either.”

  If he was trying to scare her off one last time, he’d have to do better than causing her worry over her gown. “I’ve come this far, Jocelyn. I won’t turn back. Besides, I have no doubt you’ll keep me warm.”

  The coach slowed and Jocelyn drew back the curtain to peer outside. Sporadic firelight lit the windowpanes of the coach in the dark. “We’re here.” He grinned at her. In that grin was excitement over showing her this piece of his world. There was also challenge, a piece of that other game they played but sometimes forgot. He threw open the door and jumped down. He turned and reached for her and she took his hand.

  She was thankful for the strength of his grip. Without it, she would have stayed in the coach. Lock’s Fields was a wide-open, muddy space filled with all nature of tents and conveyances. Campfires burned, scattered through the site. It was a crude, harsh way to live. These were not the Gypsies of stories with colorful clothes and gold earrings. There was no glamor here. Despite all her courage, Cassandra felt a stab of fear. Newcomers were often not welcome. She discreetly clutched the folds of her cloak close with her free hand, suddenly feeling as if the pale fabric of her gown was a beacon announcing that she wore a dress sewn with pearls and crystals worth more income than these folk would see in a year.

  In a fight, she would not be helpless; she had her wits. She had Jocelyn. He would not let any harm come to her. Would he? Had she overestimated his affections? Was this all part of the other game they played for the sake of others’ intrigues or was there indeed some genuine sentiment between them that had sprung up? Part of her hungered to know what it would be like to be a woman Jocelyn truly cared for.

  She stepped down onto the muddy surface, not quite frozen but, thankfully, not entirely thawed and sucking. Still, her slippers wouldn’t last. If it had been summer, she would have kicked them off and gone barefoot. It was some consolation that Jocelyn was faring only slightly better in his evening shoes.

  He shrugged and smiled, melting her reservations. “Spontaneity has its drawbacks on occasion.” Then he surprised her entirely, sweeping her up into his arms, the folds of her cloak trailing in his wake. “And then sometimes it has its benefits.” He winked and she laughed, feeling like a princess rescued by her knight in a fairy tale.

  It was a rather remarkable feat that he could carry her with so little effort. She was tall, as tall as some men, and yet he bore her through the camp with ease, depositing her on more stable ground in front of a caravan and bright fire off to the side away from the main thoroughfare.

  “Emilian, I’ve brought a guest.” Jocelyn called out. A dark-haired young man emerged from the other side of the fire.

  He shook hands with Jocelyn and smiled at her. “I’ll get Mother. You will want your fortune read.” To Jocelyn he said, “There will be dancing soon. Milosh and some of the others have finally come in for the winter. There will be celebrating. You will stay.”

  It wasn’t really a question. Cassandra knew before Jocelyn even answered that they would. What better way to continue his scare campaign or his seduction? But she had a secret, too—it didn’t scare her one bit, not now that she’d set her mind on it. On the contrary, it excited her. They’d had a taste of one another in the forest and it had left them wanting more. If they stayed, for whatever reason, that hunger could be satisfied but not without cost.

  Only with the most extreme of luck would she beat her uncle home. Her uncle wanted the league caught, but there were limits he’d tolerate to seeing it done. He’d already banished Aunt Amelia—her stepaunt technically—to the country for her indiscretion with Nicholas D’Arcy. If word of another scandal got out, he would not hesitate to send her home in disgrace, too, unless she had the information he needed.

  As they waited for the fortune-teller, Cassandra started to see Jocelyn’s tactics in a new light. Perhaps they weren’t solely about scaring her off but about forcing a confession from her. All she had to do was cry off and Jocelyn would take her home. If that’s what he thought, he’d misjudged her. Risky as it was, she wanted this adventure.

  The fortune-teller descended the steps of her vardo, hands outstretched toward Jocelyn. Jocelyn took her hands and kissed her cheek. She was an attractive woman approaching middle years, and Cassandra felt a twinge of jealousy at the easy familiarity between them. It was clear Jocelyn had had many lovers. Was this woman one of them? What woman would turn down a chance to be in those arms?

  “I am Florica. Emilian tells me you want your palm read.” The woman turned her smile in Cassandra’s direction, all friendliness. There was no sign of being sized up and compared. Perhaps not a former lover then. Cassandra relaxed some and let the woman settle between them on a log bench.

  Florica took her palm and studied it, drawing her finger along the various lines, commenting with a little ah or mmm-hmm. After a while, Cassandra shot Jocelyn a worried look. Perhaps she had a bad palm, if there even was such a thing.

  Jocelyn laughed. “You’re making Cassandra nervous, Florica. She doesn’t understand this is a science and it takes time.”

  “Ah, very well.” Florica looked up from her palm. “Your palm is both difficult and simple to read. I was hoping for more, but I cannot see it just now.”

  Of course not. The cynic in Cassandra emerged. How many times had Florica said that to the naive girls who visited her wagon? Such an admission prevented her from having
to be overly specific and risk being wrong. It was disappointing but not unexpected. Palm reading was just for fun. It wasn’t real.

  “You are passionate, you are a risk taker. I can see that in your lifeline. You have a great vitality for living.” Florica became solemn here. “But your fate line is a mystery to me. What it tells me is that your destiny is upon you. What it does not tell me, clearly, is what that destiny will be. All will be decided very soon.”

  The last comment startled Cassandra out of her cynical complacency. The earlier comments could have been easily divined. Not every girl would risk coming here, which would lead Florica to err on the side of adventure and risk, especially if that girl showed up with Jocelyn Eisley. But the last? How could she know that? Her comments echoed the sentiments of Cassandra’s own mind. Her life had come to a head after being discovered with the vicar. It was no exaggeration that London was her last chance.

  “Thank you,” Cassandra said tentatively, withdrawing her hand.

  Florica tossed Jocelyn a worried look. “I fear I have scared your friend.” Florica turned back to her. “Just be yourself. The palm never lies, but also, it does not circumvent free will. The palm does not tell us what will come to pass.” Florica smiled as if that settled it all. “We must not dwell on gloomy thoughts. Tonight is for fun.”

  Beyond their fire, a larger campfire burned and fiddles were starting to tune. Florica gestured toward her vardo. “Come, I think we are of a similar size. You need to change.”

  Changing was actually a relief as Cassandra traded her pale gown for a dark skirt of sturdy blue wool, a cotton blouse and half boots. Her hair had come loose and she took out the remaining pins, letting it hang down her back, remembering Jocelyn’s fascination with it in the woods.

  When she emerged from the vardo, Jocelyn was waiting, two tankards of ale in hand and a blanket under his arm. He smiled, his eyes dark with desire at the sight of her. “I only thought you looked beautiful before,” he said, guiding them through the gathering crowd to a place by the fire where they could sit with their ale and watch the dancing.

  Jocelyn stretched out beside her on the blanket, propped up on an elbow. She was conscious of his eyes on her, serious and desiring. “So, you’ve told me one of your secrets—the vicar. When are you going to tell me the other?”

  Cassandra put down her tankard. This was it. He’d done everything but call her out directly. But she’d make him do that, too. “What makes you think there’s another secret? Surely you don’t believe the fortune-teller.”

  “Oh, I believe her, all right. There’s no doubt of it. ‘Your destiny is upon you.’” Jocelyn quoted, fixing her with a hard stare. “You’re in London because you need something and you need it badly enough to risk your reputation in a Gypsy camp with a man you supposedly don’t know beyond a first name.” His voice was a growl in the darkness, desire warring with the need to play the game.

  “Why do you need to know?” Her own voice was edged with desire, too. Perhaps they could set aside the game long enough to seek satisfaction.

  “Because I have difficulty in reconciling my need to make love to you with the fact that you’ve been sent to betray me.”

  Cassandra sat up straighter, meeting that sharp green stare. “I don’t see a reason to tell you what you seem to already know.” The bubble was certainly off the wine now. She needed to use that to her advantage. Why should he be the only one allowed to accuse? He was not the innocent in all this. “I’m not the only one with a secret. You’re hiding something as well and you are also prepared to go to great lengths to protect it. I might have come here, but |you brought me.”

  Jocelyn’s eyes narrowed in speculation. “What might that secret be?”

  Cassandra decided to risk it all. “That the League of Discreet Gentlemen does exist and you know it does because you are a member in good standing. It’s your job to scare me off so my uncle can’t bring you and the rest of the organization down.”

  “So our secrets are really two sides of the same coin, our destinies are intertwined,” Jocelyn murmured, his tone seductive in the firelight. He’d shifted the game again to the more personal one. “But I think you have one other secret, one that has nothing to do with your uncle or randy country vicars.”

  Her breath caught, watching the firelight play across his features. How swiftly they’d moved from confrontation to seduction. From business to pleasure, the line between the two blurring into oblivion. “What would that be?”

  “That what happened in the forest today had nothing to do with either. And neither does what is going to happen next,” Jocelyn whispered just before he kissed her.

  Chapter Nine

  Since when had confession fed desire? He’d expected that hearing her admit to her secret would dampen his ardor considerably. Instead, it had heightened it. He didn’t hold with betrayal or covert activity and that was exactly what she’d engaged in, in the hopes of bringing down the organization.

  She’d pretended not to know who he was. She’d pretended innocence over the league in the hopes of drawing him out. All lies, except one, and that had been her passion. When the confession came, by rights she should have been embarrassed over having been caught out. Instead, she’d braved it out with flashing eyes and a challenge that said she would not play the penitent here. She had matched his challenge with one of her own and he’d answered it with a kiss.

  “Are you seducing me to distraction?” she murmured beneath his lips. How he wanted more of her beneath him than just her mouth. They’d been playing two separate games, one of strategy and one of passion, but now the two had combined.

  “Maybe I’m simply seducing you.” Jocelyn drew back to watch her face. “Tell me, do I have a chance?”

  She gave a throaty laugh, a hand trailing down his chest. “You know you do.”

  He caught her hand and kissed it before jumping to his feet. “Then watch me.”

  Cassandra watched Jocelyn join the other dancers, realizing only now that the dancers were all male. It was easy to spot him, his blond hair standing out amongst the dark hair of the others. But there were other things that set him apart, too. She would notice him in a room full of blonds. Jocelyn joined arms with two dancers, forming part of an impressive line of men performing intricate steps with their legs and feet, their hips swiveling in provocative motion.

  The grace of his body amazed her. Here was a man so very comfortable in his skin, so very confident with the physicality of his body. It was no wonder he exuded sensuality at every turn. Sex was a natural extension of that comfort and confidence and heaven help her, she wanted to be part of that. Apparently, she wasn’t alone in that sentiment. Around her, other women had risen and had claimed a man, dancing before their chosen partner in a display of their own attributes.

  Cassandra rose and went to Jocelyn, her hips swaying as she came to him, her feet already finding the rhythm of the music. This was a new kind of dancing. There were no required steps, no preestablished patterns. There was nothing to guide her except her own desire. She danced a circle about him, raising her arms above her head, hands clapping in time to the beat with the other women. Jocelyn’s hands were at her waist, drawing her against him, letting her feel him where their hips met. Her breasts pressed to him, taut against the friction of her jacket meeting his.

  “We are wearing far too many clothes,” Jocelyn whispered huskily at her ear. The circle was starting to shrink as dancers departed for more shadowy climes.

  “Absolutely,” Cassandra breathed, knowing full well that her response signaled much more than agreement.

  “Come with me.” Jocelyn grasped her hand and led her from the circle. “Florica has offered us her vardo.”

  The inside of the vardo featured very little furniture, Cassandra noted as Jocelyn lit a lamp, but it had the essentials: a wide box bed and a trunk. Truly, she cou
ld live without the trunk, all she was interested in was the box bed.

  Jocelyn blew out the match and turned toward her, the light from the lamp outlining him from behind; blond, golden and strong. In this setting of woods and autumn forest, he might have been a druid prince of old come to life. Without words, he began to strip for her, removing his coats, his cravat, setting each one aside with deliberate intention until he was left only with his trousers and shirt.

  Her breath hitched as he removed his shirt with slow, teasing fingers. He’d had practice at this. Only an expert could tantalize like this. But the tempting was worth it to see the promise of his chest revealed. She’d felt the strength of him before, but to see it by lamplight made it real. Her fingers ached to touch him, to trace each line of muscle on those sculpted planes, working her journey lower and lower until it reached the hidden regions beneath the waist of his trousers.

  “Shall I do the honors?” His hands rested at the waistband of those trousers, hands discreetly placed to draw the eye downward, making it clear what those honors were.

  “Yes.” Cassandra’s mouth was dry, the single word hard to form as she watched him remove his trousers and make short work of his smalls.

  My first naked man, she thought. This was nothing like her previous encounter with intimacy, which had been a hasty, bumbling affair, accompanied by far too many clothes to be constructive. My first and maybe my last, because who wanted to see anything else after one had beheld Jocelyn Eisley? She didn’t need to see a multitude of naked men to know she was looking at male perfection. The chiseled precision of his chest gave way to long legs and the curve of muscled buttocks, the ideal backdrop for the phallus that rose large and strong from the center of him.

  “I want you, Cassandra.”