Samantha Kane

by Tempting a Devil

  “Perhaps you should be taking notes,” Roger commented drily. “I assume since you have four children of your own, you know how that process works. We are now going to discuss how to prevent nature from taking its due course.”

  “I know all about French letters,” Wiley said stiffly. “Had me several ladies who made sure I used them.”

  “Ladies?” Roger said, doubtful.

  “Yes, ladies.” Wiley’s response was caustic. “You lot aren’t the only ones who like a taste of the other kind.” Wiley smoothed a hand over his hair, smiling smugly. “I’m sought after by your more discerning ladies.”

  Roger snorted. “Discerning indeed.” He sighed. “I’m not going to consummate the affair.”

  “Good for you.” Hil nodded firmly in approval. “Clearly Lady Mercer is not the type of woman one beds and doesn’t wed.”

  “Does that mean what I think it means?” Wiley asked, incredulous. “You’re not going to shag a prime piece like her? And her begging for it?”

  “I thought we agreed that you are not to discuss Lady Mercer like that,” Roger said through clenched teeth.

  “But there are other ways not to get her pregnant,” Wiley argued.

  “That’s only part of it, Wiley.” Roger was suddenly exhausted. He leaned back against his chair and closed his eyes. “Right now she thinks she wants a torrid affair, but later? She’ll regret it. Her desire right now has more to do with finding a friendly face in London when she’s feeling very alone. She has no family to speak of, no friends. And suddenly I show up. When we were children she used to follow me around, smitten with me as only a child can be. I’m sure her behavior is more about those feelings than anything more passionate.”

  He opened his eyes and looked up at them. “She needs me. There was an incident today; someone tried to kidnap her little boy. I got the distinct impression she’s in trouble and out of her depth. She covered it up with some silly excuse about it being a one-time situation and never going out alone with the boy again. But she was too blasé about it. There’s something going on, and she has nowhere else to turn for help.” He sighed again, resigned and frustrated. “I can’t risk her being hurt if I walk away. She’s been abandoned enough. So I’ve got to walk a fine line. I’m going to have an affair with her and hope I can discover what’s going on, but I have no intention of bedding the lady.”

  Wiley still didn’t look convinced. “I think you’re wrong there, boyo. If ever I’ve seen a lady who knows what she wants, it’s that one. But suit yourself. There are plenty of ways to please a woman and have a fine time yourself without actually shagging.” He shrugged. “Have your cake and eat it too, is my motto.”

  “I agree with Wiley,” Hil said, surprising Roger. “The lady doesn’t even know how to kiss. You said it yourself. Surely introducing her to passion, without compromising her, will do no harm? Start as friends, end as friends. Those are the best affairs, I think. And who can resist a damsel in distress?”

  Roger liked that idea. “Yes,” he agreed. “I think those are the best affairs, too.” He’d feel better about handing Harry off to someone else, someone who could marry her, if she was a little wiser in the bedroom. He hated the thought of Harry going through life never knowing the true joy of sexual fulfillment. And wasn’t that a perfect excuse to eat cake. He took a moment to savor the thought, and then got back to what they really needed to discuss. “But the affair is really about what happened today.”

  “Does that explain the condition of your coat?” Hil asked. “I didn’t want to pry, but the curiosity is killing me. You saved the boy, didn’t you?”

  Roger blushed and pretended to inspect the new seam in his coat sleeve. It was superbly mended, but there was no possible way it could be disguised. The coat was ruined. “Saved is a rather strong word. I chased the miscreant, hollering ineffectually, and he threw the lad at me. I caught the boy and we both went down to the street. He was winded, I was wounded.”

  Wiley laughed. “You just ain’t hero material,” he said, shaking his head. “A scrape isn’t a wound. Come talk to me after you’re shot.”

  With a groan, Roger glared at Hil. “The longer he stays, the more he preens over a little nick from a chance encounter with a stray bullet.”

  “Nothing stray about it,” Wiley protested. “He was aiming for me.”

  “He was aiming at Sharp, and accidently hit you when you stupidly threw yourself in front of the gun,” Roger corrected him.

  “As I said,” Wiley replied smugly, “hero material.”

  Roger ignored him as he stood. “May I borrow a coat, Hil? I haven’t the time to go to the tailor.” Nor the money, but he didn’t say that. This had been his one remaining decent jacket.

  “Of course,” Hil said with a dismissive wave. “Although they’ll be too small. I’ll have my man take your coat to the tailor for you and borrow one or two that will fit until yours is done. A new sleeve is all that’s needed. My tailor shall take care of it.” He smiled at Roger and pointed at his boots. “We’ll get those cleaned, too.” Before Roger could thank him, Hil moved on. “Can you describe the man who tried to take the boy?”

  “Not really.” Roger was disgusted with himself. “I was more concerned with stopping him than memorizing his features. I’ve tried to remember all afternoon. The best I can do is tell you he was about the same height as me, perhaps a bit shorter, but not much. He didn’t wear the clothes of a street criminal, better than that. But he didn’t wear the clothes well, as if he’d borrowed someone else’s clothes to fit in at Manchester Square.”

  At that, Hil’s gaze sharpened. “That would mean the attempt on the boy was planned ahead, not a spur of the moment act by a common criminal.”

  “I thought perhaps it was because of recent stories in the newssheets,” Roger told him. “Her wealth and widowed status have been referenced in the stories, not directly of course, but only an idiot would not associate descriptions of a certain widow with Harry.”

  Hil considered the idea, but didn’t appear convinced. “Perhaps. But for a common criminal to read the papers and execute a plan that required a disguise, and then venturing into a heavily guarded area such as Manchester Square? It doesn’t sound right.” He turned to Wiley, a question in his expression.

  “Damn right,” Wiley agreed. “Too much trouble for too little reward there. You’d have to have more than one man, first of all. Getting the boy out of the square was always a gamble, no two ways about that. Best way would have been a distraction of some kind, something to occupy or block any pursuers. Then you’d have to have somewhere to hold the boy, someplace safe and out of the way. Secret. That kind of information is just the sort of thing half of St. Giles is waiting to find and sell. Then there’d be someone to keep an eye on the prize while the ransom is negotiated. Got to have someone who can read and write for that, don’t you?” He shook his head. “Not worth it, not at all. Too many risks and loose ends to make it worth the time.”

  “So it would make sense that someone with a personal interest in the boy or in Lady Mercer was responsible,” Hil concluded logically. “She gave no indication that she knew the kidnapper?”

  Roger shook his head. “No, not in words. Like I said, it was just a feeling I had.”

  “Anything else you can give me?” Wiley asked. “I know quite a few people who would take a job like that if they could hand the boy off when it was done. A snatch and grab, no trouble with feeding and caring for a mewling brat.” He nodded decisively. “Plenty who’d do that for the blunt.”

  “He had facial hair.” Roger strained to remember what he’d seen before the man turned and ran away from him. “Heavy mustache”—he outlined what he meant—“and lighter beard. Dark, I think brown.”

  “That it? All you’ve got?” Wiley asked. He walked over and poured himself a glass of Hil’s scotch. Hil made no protest.

  Roger nodded. “That’s it. I was across the park when I saw him from the front. After that I was chasing him. H
e had no limp or other deformity that I could see. You think you can help find him?” He looked at both Hil and Wiley when he asked. Both of them had connections in the underworld, on different sides of the law.

  Wiley made a face and wagged his head from side to side as if considering Roger’s question. “Probably.” He threw back his drink, and Roger winced at the abuse of fine scotch in such a fashion. “All right, then. Better than nothing. I’ll ask around.” He slammed the empty glass down on the table. “I’m off.” Without another word, he turned and marched out.

  Roger was rather taken aback. “Well, that was abrupt.”

  Hil shrugged. “He’s feeling the bars of the cage.” Hil spun his glass meditatively on the arm of his chair. “Part of him wants to return to the life he’s always known, and part of him is beginning to see the advantages of rising above his upbringing and accepting the opportunity I’m offering. He’ll make the right decision. The fact that he’s returning to the streets to try to help you find the man who attacked the boy in the park says quite a bit, I think. And I will check with Mr. Vickery at Bow Street.”

  “Why are you so determined to reform the boy?”

  Hil just gave him that damned enigmatic grin of his. “I’m a saint. I collect only the best sinners, like fine antiquities.”

  “Shall I move out of my room and just go and sit in one of your cupboards, then?” Roger joked.

  Hil shook his head. “Hide you away? Oh, no. You are one of my prize acquisitions. A Devil that won’t be tempted.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Why are we here?” Roger asked again. He loathed Rotten Row, but Harry wanted the very first thing they did together as lovers to be riding through Hyde Park under the watchful eyes of the fashionable elite. Roger had a rather long list of things he’d rather do with Harry now that he was her lover, but most of them were forbidden by his own design. Not for the first time since making that decision, Roger had second, and third, and fourth thoughts about it. Not consummating this relationship with Harry was going to be the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. Or not done. Surely this would either earn him a place in heaven, or drive him hellishly mad.

  Riding his horse or driving a carriage at a sedate pace was anathema to him. He was an excellent rider and a better driver. If he had the means, he’d try for the Four-in-Hand Club. But God knows he couldn’t afford a barouche or matched bays, and that group of drivers was very particular about both, as well as requiring a uniform that, to be honest, he wasn’t that fond of. He thought he’d look ridiculous in a blue waistcoat with yellow stripes and rosettes on his breeches. It simply wasn’t the sort of thing a respectable Devil wore. Buff breeches and a borrowed blue superfine coat worked quite well for him, if Harry’s admiration was anything to go by.

  Harry, on the other hand, looked so gorgeous in her wicked red riding habit that Roger was tempted to see if it was indeed possible to have relations with a woman while on a horse. He’d never wanted to try before. Horses were far too skittish, and stallions in particular were rather sensitive to that sort of thing.

  “We are here to show everyone that you are my lover,” she explained patiently. She was always so bloody patient. Roger knew damned well he’d asked that question at least five times in as many minutes. He wondered just what it would take to try her patience.

  “Then shouldn’t I be ravishing you?” he asked peevishly. “Right now it is only apparent that I am your reluctant riding companion.”

  “Don’t you want people to know we’re lovers?” she asked him quietly.

  He cursed inwardly at the hurt he heard in her voice, but refused to give in to it. “Of course I do. But,” he rushed to say when she started to reply, “I’d rather they be left to speculate about it, which will save your reputation, rather than know for a fact by our behavior that we are.”

  “While I’d prefer ravishment, I hardly think that putting a smile on your face and gazing at me adoringly will incite lewd talk among society,” she commented drily.

  “You don’t know society,” he countered. Then he sighed. “Fine. Look, I’m smiling.” He gave her his most winning smile, the one that highlighted his cursed dimples. “And how’s this for adoring?” He let his smile falter just slightly as he gazed at her like an actor on stage mimicking true love.

  “You look as if you have a stomach ailment,” she told him crisply. “I’d rather you go back to sulking so that everyone doesn’t think I’ve actually made you ill.”

  Roger burst out laughing. “Oh, Harry. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  She gave him a surprised look. “Of course I have, and so have you. But it does seem as if when we are together we return to the banter of our youth.” She laughed. “Not that we bantered about being lovers, but I’m sure you understand what I mean.”

  Roger nudged his horse a little closer to hers. “When we were younger, I never imagined that I would ever think of you the way I do now.”

  She peeked at him from under the brim of her fashionable hat. It was black and quite similar to his beaver hat, except for the netting that draped it and dipped down over her forehead. Something about the way she looked at him made her appear seductive and mysterious. Her golden brown eyes gleamed from under thick, brown lashes. “And how is that?” she asked.

  The question was innocent enough, but the answers were decidedly not. She wanted love talk, then he’d give it to her. His way. “That night in the garden, before I knew it was you, I wanted you desperately. I was ready to take you right there. To push you up against that tree, lift your skirt, and give you what you were asking for. I ached to do it.”

  She gasped and her eyes went wide.

  “I’m still aching,” he confessed roughly. “I think about it, about you, about us. Would you let me, Harry? Push you up against a tree, a wall, a table? You ask for ravishment, well, I can do that.”

  Their horses had slowed considerably as they both stopped paying attention to the park around them. “Can you?” she asked breathlessly. “What then? After you had me against the tree or the wall? What does that mean, ravishment?”

  “It means I’d kiss you the way I did in the parlor yesterday when I could resist you no longer. I’d crush you to me and devour you. Kiss you until you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t say no.”

  “I’d never,” she told him fervently.

  “God, Harry, I want to do that,” he said just as fervently. But I won’t, he reminded himself. At least, well, he could do that. But no more. Well, more, of course, because he couldn’t leave her like that, could he? “I’d make you come so hard, Harry,” he whispered.

  “You … what?” she whispered, her brow knit in confusion.

  Roger was so shocked for a moment he just stared at her. She’d never? Surely not. “Sexual pleasure, Harry,” he said. “It’s just another name for when you climax.” She just looked more confused. He cursed her dead husband again. “How do you feel right now, Harry?” He leaned closer to her and whispered harshly. “Are you excited? Aching?” She’d leaned toward him, as well, until their hat brims were almost touching. “Between your—”

  “I say,” a voice called out from behind them, “could you move? You’re blocking the path.”

  Roger jerked back and glared at the riders behind them. The ladies looked scandalized while the gentlemen all looked envious. The one who’d spoken had his lips pursed with disapproval as if he’d caught them humping right there in the park. Roger was about to give that damn prude a piece of his mind, when Harry pulled on her reins next to him and her horse danced to the side. Roger disdained giving the fellow an apology. He followed Harry at a sedate pace until he was able to reach out and grab her elbow. She stopped, but refused to look at him. Very calmly he walked his horse around so that they were facing each other, yet side by side.

  “I can’t be sorry for telling the truth,” Roger told her, perhaps more sharply than he should.

  When she turned to him it wasn’t anger or embarrassment
causing her blush. “I don’t want you to be sorry,” she told him. “I want you to make me climax.”

  Even though he knew she had only a vague idea what she was talking about, to hear Harry say that out loud made Roger’s arousal that much stronger. “If I touched you right now,” he told her, “it would happen.” Harry immediately held out her hand to him. Roger laughed, but even he could hear the desperation in it. “No, darling. I’m not that good. I’d need to touch something a little more … personal.” He knew he couldn’t, however, not here in the park in the middle of the day. So instead he took the hand she offered in both of his, turned it over, slid her glove down just a bit and reverently kissed her bare wrist, touching the tip of his tongue to the pulse beating beneath her fragrant skin.

  Her sharp, indrawn breath was unsteady. “You’re right,” she said, her voice even lower than usual, a husky invitation that scrambled his wits like too much whiskey. “That’s nice, but not enough.”

  Roger laughed again and straightened in the saddle. “I’ll try harder next time,” he promised ruefully. He was reluctant to let go of her hand, which seemed altogether silly to him. They couldn’t very well ride their horses stuck together like that.

  “Well, well,” a woman’s voice purred off to his right. “Isn’t this sweet? Why just the other day, Templeton, I could have sworn you said you were afraid Lady Mercer would never give up her ridiculous pursuit of you. And now here the two of you are, as cozy as can be.”

  Harry’s hand clutched his for an unguarded moment, but her face gave nothing away. “Good afternoon, Lady Maxwell, and Mr. Faircloth,” she said politely. “We did not see you there.”

  For his part, Roger refused to act either guilty for being caught kissing Harry’s hand so intimately, or happy to see his old lover Lady Anne Maxwell and Harry’s repugnant Mr. Faircloth. He took his time lowering Harry’s hand and finally letting go, his back to the interfering duo the entire time. Harry was frantically rolling her eyes and shifting her head ever so slightly toward the interlopers, trying to get him to play polite. He made sure by his resigned sigh and the exaggerated turn of his head that they knew he was doing it only to make Harry happy. A conversation now, however, had the added benefit of letting Faircloth know that Harry was most definitely not interested in his attentions.