Just to their right, he could see the open doors that led to the front foyer. He steered her toward them, and was relieved when she willingly followed him. Perhaps she thought he intended to walk with her outside? Steal a gentle kiss or three in Harrington’s garden?
God, she really was a naive thing.
And trust was a matter best reserved for men willing to play the proper gentleman.
As they stepped out into the warm summer night, he raised a hand to a waiting footman. “Please bring the Cardwell coach around.”
Surprise shaped her mouth into an “O”. “Are you leaving already?”
“I am sending you home.”
Her hand went tight again, the warmth in her eyes instantly shuttered. She twisted her hand out of his. “I will go home when I am ready, and not a moment before. You can’t just send me home as if you own me.”
West crossed his arms, blocking her way back inside. If she wouldn’t have a care for herself, he had no choice but to play the role of chivalrous knight, however tarnished his armor. For a moment, he considered the image she presented, dark waves of hair swinging wildly over one temple, her cheeks the sort of pink a man would gladly die trying to bring out in a woman’s skin. In spite of his resolve to stay far, far away, in spite of his determination to see her nowhere but home, lust speared him, sharp and unfortunate.
“If I owned you,” he growled, giving himself over to the truth, “I’d be a damned sight less frustrated. And your cheeks would be flushed with pleasure instead of annoyance.”
Chapter 13
Mary gaped up at him
Drat it all, but he always knew just what to say to disarm her. Every word that came out of his mouth was fashioned to send her body into spasms of want.
Though . . . what cause had he to be frustrated? He’d made his intentions toward her painfully clear. All week long he had avoided her. Or worse—ignored her. Tonight, though, for some reason, he seemed unable to leave her be. A silly hope, to have imagined he was escorting her outside for a kiss. She would not make the same mistake twice.
She forced her gaze beyond his shoulders, to the bright lights of the ball, waiting just beyond the front door. The music inside had shifted from the sweeping waltz they’d just shared into something lively. Her chance to dance with another partner and ask more questions was slipping from her hands. She considered barreling around him, returning to the fray.
But as if he could read her mind, those handsome lips shifted to a smirk. “I don’t think so. Time for bed now.”
Good heavens, he even managed to make that sound suggestive. Either that or her mind was flying there itself, urged on by his maddening words and easy smiles. He was a danger to the sanity and sanctity of women everywhere.
The Cardwell coach pulled up to the steps. With a small huff of irritation, she turned away from the hand he offered—as if he could play the gentleman now, ha!—and yanked open the coach door. Ignoring his offer of assistance, she climbed up in a profusion of skirts and silk. She imagined he would shut the door and instruct the driver to take her straight home. Instead, he surprised her by climbing in and settling on the seat across from her.
“You are coming, too?” she asked bitterly.
“I don’t trust you to see yourself all the way home,” came his infuriatingly mild reply. He rapped on the roof and then they were off, spinning through the evening, gaslights flashing by the glass windows in a muddied smear of light.
A moment of silence passed, a gasp of time during which Mary tried—in vain—to compose herself. How could she have been so foolish as to imagine he’d only wanted to dance with her? To walk with her in the moonlight and perhaps kiss her again? Those handsome blue eyes had knocked her sideways, destroyed her ability to think strategically. He had done it to distract her, and then waltzed her right off the dance floor before she knew which end was up.
She fixed her eyes on the ceiling of the coach, the door’s fine-grained woodwork, gleaming in the occasional flash of light from the street.
Anywhere but him.
“You are trembling,” he observed.
Mary’s gaze jerked toward him, though it was dangerous to give her eyes such permission. He was brooding across the seat, one leg stretched out in front of him, brushing against her skirts. “I assure you,” she retorted, “it is not from fear.”
“Naive of you, I’d say, given the danger you stirred up tonight, asking questions of everyone in sight.”
“I am not in danger,” she snapped. “Good heavens, must you natter on about it so? I only asked a few questions of a few people. It isn’t as if I stood drunkenly on the punch table and shouted, ‘Does anyone here want to kill Queen Victoria?’”
He stared at her for an undecipherable moment, then patted the seat next to him. “If you aren’t afraid, you must be cold then. Come and sit next to me. I know how to keep you warm.”
“I am not cold.” In fact, she was incensed. She stripped off her gloves, hoping it might help cool the flush spreading beneath her skin. “I am trembling because I am angry, you dolt. With you.”
There was a moment of silence. She thought, perhaps, he was laughing at her. But in the sudden flash of an outside gaslight, she caught the tension in his jaw. He didn’t look to be enjoying himself, precisely. “Why are you angry?” he asked, more softly now.
“You have no right to treat me this way.”
There was a beat of hesitation, as if he was considering his answer. “Perhaps it isn’t a God-given right,” he said, “as much as concern that makes me take such an imprudent interest in your hide.” His voice thickened. “But there is no denying I feel responsible for you.”
Once again, his words spun circles in her ears. She didn’t want to believe he felt anything for her but annoyance, but when he said things like that . . . and looked at her like this . . .
She could nearly believe he meant it. That she meant something to him, beyond a thorn in his side. But good heavens, could the man not decide his intentions? One moment he was cold toward her, the next he was too hot. Wasn’t a changeable nature supposed to be a woman’s purview? It was growing exhausting trying to guess his moods.
“Then you are fickle,” she retorted, shaking her head clear of those dangerous thoughts and hopes, “as well as foolish.”
“I am not the one taking foolish risks. And if you insist on cavorting about town without a chaperone, chasing all manner of ruffians, I will have no choice but to tell Lady Ashington about your adventures.”
Mary gasped out loud. “You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
Fear kicked aside the potent combination of anger and attraction he’d kindled, the danger of such a threat all too real. “Have you forgotten about my sister’s condition? She feels too responsible for my circumstances now, thanks to your insufferable behavior at the literary salon. She could not withstand the strain of such a surprise.”
He spread his hands. “That would be on your head. Not mine.”
Though it was the truth, his argument stung. She had done all she could to hide the circumstances of this newest adventure from Eleanor, but even as she let herself out of the silent, sleeping house, she had known there was some risk of discovery. She felt remorse in taking such a risk with her sister’s health, but she didn’t know what else to do. She was trying to help everyone, and lives were at stake on both sides of the equation. If only he showed some sign of taking the threats to the queen’s life seriously, things might be different. But as long as he ignored the looming danger, how could she choose another path?
“She must not find out,” Mary breathed. “Promise me, West. That you won’t tell her.”
“If it came down to a matter of ensuring your safety, I would have to.” He pulled a hand through his hair, though he scarcely needed the help to look any more rakish. “Besides, have you considered that someone else might tell her of your evening’s adventure?” he added. “That she might read about you once again in the gossip rags? E
veryone saw us dancing. The gossip must even now be flying about the ballroom.”
She looked down at her hands. Drat it all. He was right. She hadn’t thought about that possibility when she’d permitted him to tug her on to the dance floor. The man made every sane thought in her head go straight to mush.
Good heavens, could this web of deceit get any thicker?
She looked up, anger splicing her shame. “You are insufferable,” she shot across the few inches that separated them. Why, oh why, had she consented to a dance with him? He had probably known what he was doing from the start, plotting a public downfall, using it to press his advantage. “Incorrigible.” Her mind flew to a simpler word, one that even someone as thick as he could understand. “Selfish.”
He shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”
“Indecent?” she retorted. “Irredeemable?”
“No, I believe ‘cowardly’ was the term used tonight.”
She nodded. “Craven. Pusillanimous.”
“I know how much you like to read, but I’ve had a few years at university myself. I studied architecture for a time, under Phillip Hardwick, so you should know that tossing around such large words isn’t going to impress me.”
His smirk plucked at her anger. So, too, did the reminder that he was not as stupid as she liked to imagine. Phillip Hardwick was one of London’s most distinguished architects, and the thought that this man had once aspired to something more useful than to seduce scores of women sent anger coursing through her. “Well, large stones aren’t going to impress me!”
“So you admit they are large.”
Her eyes narrowed. Drat the man, he even managed to boast like a scoundrel. His ego was as enormous as his . . . well . . . his stones.
“You are the most egotistical man!” she panted. “Supercilious!”
“You forgot ‘large’,” he taunted.
She glared at him through the spinning shadows inside the coach. “Not so large.” A lie, that. Because she had felt him well enough when he’d pressed his body against hers tonight. And heaven help her, she’d felt an answering curiosity, swirling inside her. “In fact, I think diminutive might be a better word choice. Miniscule. Infinitesimal.”
“Have easy with such premature judgments.” White teeth flashed in the darkness. “You can’t really know how large they are until you hold them in your hands.”
“I wouldn’t . . . that is, a lady would never . . .” Her protest trailed off, and her cheeks flamed with unwelcome heat. Truly, she didn’t know what a lady might or might not do. He’d no doubt had plenty in his bed through the years. “You, sir,” she choked out, “are no gentleman.”
“Haven’t claimed to be, as far as I know,” he said, even as the coach pulled to a stop, signaling their arrival at Grosvenor Square. “Most ladies prefer a bit of a rogue, truthfully.” He glanced out the window, his brow furrowing. “Here you are. No. 29 Grosvenor Square. Safe and sound.”
Mary hesitated. She might be safe, but she was hardly sound, given that part of her wanted to stay right here in the coach. Fuming at herself now as much as him, she shook herself from her scoundrel-induced stupor and reached a hand toward the door latch, only to find it suddenly trapped beneath his gloved hand.
Her pulse startled, like a bird flushed from heather. She glared at him. “Was there something else you wanted? Would you like to call me Miss Rat now, instead of Mouse?”
“God no,” he choked. A curious shudder ran through him, and her hand absorbed it, though what it meant, she had no clue.
“Then perhaps you might like to come inside and start shouting in the stairwell? Hatch a plan to send my sister into early labor? I assure you, there is no need to pursue additional measures to ensure my compliance. I will not interfere again. The threats you’ve made are quite sufficient to muzzle any further nocturnal activities I might be considering.”
“Nocturnal activities, hmmm?” He rose from his seat, nearly predatory over her, his hand still pinning hers to the door. “Where must that innocent mind be dwelling, to come up with such a specific phrase?”
“Must you always turn a simple conversation into innuendo?” she snapped, though she did not try to tug her hand free. “My mind is not dwelling on anything but irritation, I assure you. And the driver—”
“Will neither move nor speculate as to the cause of our delay.”
She stiffened. “Because he is familiar with your reputation?”
“Because I supplement his salary, and he knows to be discreet.” Gently, he tugged her hand away from the door latch. She let him. Settled back onto her seat. Watched—without protest—as he pulled down the shade over the little glass window. Confusion scattered her wits. Apparently West wasn’t quite ready for her to go in yet either. The thought made her fingers curl over the silk gloves bunched in her hand.
He moved closer, his head bent down. She could smell the fresh soap and cinnamon scent of rum wafting off his skin, the faint, acrid scent of smoke, not at all unpleasant, clinging to his clothes. The melding fragrances were no less potent than the twisted promise in his words. She sank back against the velvet seat. “Why would you wish me to stay another moment? You’ve delivered your threats. Hastened me home, nearly trussed and bound. I can’t imagine what else you feel we must discuss.”
“Trussed and bound.” He shook his handsome head. “Honestly, Miss Channing, you have a flair for carnal theatrics.” He settled on his knees in front of her, his head now level with her own. “Can you not even admit you feel it?” He tugged the gloves out of her clutched fingers. Placed them on the seat beside her. “This odd alchemy between us?”
Mary’s eyes drifted toward her discarded gloves, feeling the loss of that armor keenly of a sudden. Her heart was spinning on a broken axis. She had no experience in such things, possessed no standard against which to measure the depth of this folly. He described it as alchemy, but she suspected it came closer to sorcery. And as prettily as the words were delivered, as much as it made her skin flush warm, it was a claim she couldn’t—mustn’t—believe. “Hardly odd,” she scoffed, lifting her eyes to meet his own, “from a man who’s had half the eligible women in London.”
“Surely no more than a quarter of them.” His words might be infuriating, but something about the timbre of his voice was making her stomach turn in an endless loop of want. He chuckled. “Though, I’ve admittedly had some of the ineligible ones, too.”
Drat it all, did he have to remind her? She understood she was sitting in a darkened coach with an insufferable rake. Understood, too, she was here by choice, not duress. She did not need the reminder of her foolishness. “Yes, I’ve heard of your substantial amount of experience in the field of alchemy,” she said bitterly.
In response, he began to strip the glove from his right hand, loosening the fingers and then sliding it off in a smooth, practiced motion. Mary watched through the darkness, her breath trapped in her throat. Dear heavens, he even undressed like a scoundrel, every move destined to send women in paroxysms of want. She watched as the leather slid free and he dropped the fine kidskin onto the floor of the coach. “Perhaps,” he said, almost lazily, “that substantial experience is how I know this chemistry between us is so odd.”
The night thickened, the air in the coach stirring with small eddies of possibility. “I should think,” she breathed, her eyes drifting to the tempting, bare gleam of his hand, “that ‘odd’ is too simple of a word.” Especially given that her own emotions tilted more in the portentous direction.
He removed his other glove and then his hands were laid bare—though for what reason, she couldn’t yet guess. Not for any safe, proper purpose, of that she was sure. She thought of how his hand had dipped into her bodice that night in the library. What if he meant to do that again?
What if she wanted him to do that again?
But no . . . his fingers were only shifting to dance over her silk-covered knee, the pressure and warmth of his touch shocking, even through all the layers.<
br />
“If not odd, perhaps you might choose another word then.” His lips shifted into a particularly wicked smile. “Incongruous might be more pleasing to your vocabulary. Anomalous.” His fingers swirled against her skirts, a silken, rhythmic promise. “No matter what else you may think of me, you must believe me when I say this sort of pull between two people, this rubbing along together . . .” He hesitated, as if sorting through the words to apply. “It does not happen every day.”
She refused to believe it, even as she prayed he wouldn’t stop. She’d read any number of novels, lost herself in the story on more occasions than she could count. She knew better than most that villains would say nearly anything to have their way with a heroine. “It feels more like we are rubbing in opposite directions a good deal of the time,” she breathed, though she could not summon the good sense to pull away from his touch.
“Sometimes, the right friction creates the most delicious kind of pleasure.” His other hand curled against her opposite calf, shifting her legs apart so he could lean closer, kneeling in front of her. Her skin prickled with awareness.
This. This was the proximity her body was craving.
His grin shifted to something wicked at her lack of protest, his handsome mouth hovering only inches from her own now. “And you must trust me when I say, Mary, that I know exactly where to rub.”
The faint hint of whisky on his breath proved her undoing. She imagined if she pressed her tongue to the corner of his mouth, she would taste the spirit there. In the faint light drifting in from around the edges of the window shade, she stared at the sinful swoop of his upper lip, nearly flush with her own. The feelings he had so expertly evoked that night behind the library curtains welled up beneath her skin, nearly pushed her forward. “I . . . I should probably leave,” she breathed.
“The coach door is not locked,” he murmured softly. “You may leave whenever you wish.” His touch against her knee lightened. “And you probably ought to leave, before you do something you will regret.”
The Perks of Loving a Scoundrel Page 15
