by Clee, Adele
“I’m sure it can.” She pursed her lips to suppress a smile.
“Are you always so stubborn?”
She nodded. “Annoyingly so.”
He folded his arms across his chest as he considered her reply. “Were there not more pressing matters to attend to, I might put you to the test. But for now, I shall have to be content with taking you home.”
From his lips, even the word home sounded licentious. “You’re taking me to Stanton House?”
“Where else?”
“You cannot escort your mistress into your family home.” What would people think? Such an immoral action would surely reflect poorly on Rose.
The earl jerked his head and frowned. “You’ve no need to worry about my reputation, Miss Flint.”
She wasn't sure if he was being dense or acting the fool on purpose. “Stanton House is Rose’s home, too, is it not? What gentleman would allow a mistress to enter the residence of his unmarried sister?”
“I know you care for Rose, but you’re taking your role of paid companion far too seriously.”
Nicole shook her head. “I speak as her friend not her servant. No. I shall remain in the carriage and enter the house via the mews.”
“While the thought of being my mistress is loathsome,” he said with a chuckle. “You’ll have to leave the carriage eventually.”
Chapter Seven
Dressed in his evening clothes, for there was every chance he’d have to charge into Lady Chatwell’s townhouse and hunt for Lord Cunningham, Oliver hid in the dark depths of his carriage, keeping a watchful eye on the house from across the street.
“Had you done as I suggested, Miss Flint, we would be enjoying Lady Chatwell’s hospitality instead of sitting in a cold, cramped carriage spying on every passerby.”
The hint of frustration in his voice had nothing to do with the biting chill in the air. For a reason unbeknown, he had a strange desire to inform the world Miss Flint was his mistress. To stake his claim. To ensure the scoundrels knew to stay away. It was a ridiculous notion considering the fact they would soon go their separate ways.
“Had I listened to you, my lord, I would be roaming the ballroom in a dress befitting the village strumpet.”
Even though her silhouette was in shadow, Oliver was acutely aware of her curvaceous figure.
“A mistress does not dress with decorum. The more salacious her appearance, the better.”
So why did the thought of her flaunting her sumptuous body make him want to rip the eyes from every man’s sockets? Good Lord, he’d become a walking monument to contradiction.
“Then I am thankful I declined your gracious offer. I would prefer to hide in your conveyance, to avoid any misconceptions.” Miss Flint sighed and continued to stare at the amber glow of candlelight spilling out onto the street.
Music drifted through the cool night air as if carried on a breeze, the enchanting rhythm mingling with the faint hum of laughter.
Oliver couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to hold Miss Flint tightly in his arms, to feel her soft breath breeze against his cheek as he twirled her around the dance floor. They would be giddy from an excessive consumption of wine, and she would challenge his opinion simply to make him want her all the more.
Bloody hell!
Oliver shook his head. Since when had he become a man prone to daydreams? Why did he find it impossible to banish all amorous thoughts of the lady sitting opposite? Miss Flint held him spellbound — with her wise words, her bow-shaped lips and full breasts.
But how could he dance, how could he think of his own pleasure when Rose was still missing?
“You’re certain Lord Cunningham was the gentleman who entered the house an hour ago?” Miss Flint’s face was so close to the glass a white mist covered the lower half of the pane. She wiped the window clean with her gloved hand. “From our position here, it is difficult to distinguish one man’s features from the next.”
“One glance at Lord Cunningham and you would not fail to recognise him again. He walks like a man whose drawers are too tight and pinch with every step.” Oliver chuckled at that. Everyone knew Cunningham wore a corset to create a more masculine silhouette. “And I would recognise his mop of golden curls anywhere. Many ladies comment upon his cherubic countenance, though I would remind them that the Lord regarded Lucifer as an angelic being once.”
Miss Flint raised a mocking brow. “How on earth will you cope?”
“Cope?”
“If Rose marries the devil.”
“She won’t.”
“You seem so certain.”
“Not certain,” he corrected, “hopeful.” Rose was not a fool. The truth would soon bring her to her senses. “Besides, I refuse to converse with a man who thinks it appropriate to wear a waistcoat of mustard-yellow with a pea-green coat.”
The chuckle that left Miss Flint’s lips was perhaps the sweetest sound he’d heard. Her face brightened in a look of genuine amusement.
Since meeting her at the manor, he was aware of a deep sadness lingering beneath the surface. Perhaps she was worried about Rose and guilt festered. She was not on her own in that regard. Perhaps coming back to Town roused painful memories of the past, of the wicked scoundrel she was eager to avoid.
“You should laugh more often,” he found himself saying. Once Rose was safely back at Stanton House, he would press Miss Flint for the name of the gentleman she feared. He would do everything in his power to ensure the bastard never troubled her again.
“It is not for want of trying,” she said, her tone melancholic now. “But more a lack of having anything to be joyous about.”
The comment caused a sudden ache in his chest. The urge to make her smile, to watch her eyes light up in laughter, took hold.
“Having a house of your own is something to celebrate, is it not?”
“It is. And I will, once the solicitor confirms ownership of the manor.”
They fell into a companionable silence as they continued to study Lady Chatwell’s townhouse. Like bees to a hive, guests swarmed in their hundreds, eager to pay homage to their illustrious host. Carriages lapped Cavendish Square, again and again, waiting to find a place to stop.
“Thank heavens we arrived early,” Oliver said with some amusement. “That’s the fourth time Lord Mulberry’s carriage has driven passed.”
“When the carriage stops, why does he not get out and walk across the square?”
“Walk? Oh, the lord deems himself far too important. Esteemed guests are dropped outside the door.”
They continued to watch the scene. Two ladies in garish turbans and silk wrappers tottered up to the house. One tripped on the stone step and almost lost her flamboyant hat. Two gentlemen emerged and moved to a place further along the street to conduct their heated argument.
“There is a gentleman with a mop of golden hair lingering on the steps.” Miss Flint nodded to the window. “Either he has a sharp tack poking through the sole of his shoe or he is impatient to leave.”
Oliver rubbed away the water droplets from the inside of the glass and considered the man in question.
“It’s Cunningham, though he looks practically normal when wearing black.”
The fop stared at a note in his hand, refolded the paper and placed it in the inside pocket of his evening coat. With a raised chin, he descended the steps with haste and turned left.
“Why arrive in a carriage only to walk home?”
“The square is so busy it would take an hour for his coachman to weave his way through the heavy traffic. No doubt he will meet Cunningham a little further along the road.” For fear of losing the pompous lord, Oliver opened the carriage door and jumped down to the pavement. “Come.” He held his hand out to Miss Flint. “We’ll follow him, see where he goes.”
Miss Flint coughed and touched her fingertips to the base of her throat. Wide green eyes stared beyond his shoulder as if the air outside was tainted and she would choke.
“No one will
pay us any heed,” he continued. “Know that you have my protection.”
With hesitant fingers, she gripped his hand and climbed down to join him.
“Am I to wait ‘ere, my lord?” Jackson asked.
“If you do make it out of the square before dawn, follow us to the end of the road and wait there. The last thing I want is for Cunningham to recognise my carriage.” Oliver turned to Miss Flint. She gasped when he raised the hood on her travelling cloak and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s cold out tonight. And it will afford you a degree of anonymity.”
“Thank you.” A touch of pink coloured her pale cheeks, and she placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “Let us not linger. We must hurry before we lose him.”
Without another word, they crossed the road and strode after Lord Cunningham.
Miss Flint was unlike any other lady Oliver had ever walked with. She showed strength of purpose with every step, never faltered, kept up with his long powerful strides. She didn’t make those silly whimpering sounds when he quickened the pace. Nor did she pretend to be weak or frail simply to garner his attention. Her hand didn’t flap about on his arm like a fish pulled from a pond, but gripped the muscle with confidence.
Cunningham turned left into Margaret Street. With no sign of his carriage, he continued walking. Thankfully, the fop’s silly strut and tall hat made it easier to spot him amongst the people out and about in Town.
When they reached Little Castle Street, Lord Cunningham removed a brass object from his coat, looked left and right and used it to enter a house in the middle of the terrace.
Oliver drew Miss Flint into an alley opposite, from where they had a perfect view of the facade. The smell of manure mixed with urine and liquor confirmed the snicket was used for other purposes than access to the mews.
“What do you think he’s doing here?” Miss Flint still clung to his arm, though he offered no objection. Rarely, did the lady show any sign of vulnerability. And for some bizarre notion he had not yet fathomed, he was eager to play the hero.
“I haven't the faintest idea.” Cunningham was always up to no good. “But if we wait here long enough, we’re sure to find out.”
They watched the house for a short time. Every visible room remained cloaked in darkness. Strange misshapen shadows appeared before Oliver’s eyes as he strained to focus.
“Good Lord,” Miss Flint gasped. “Are my eyes playing tricks or is there a figure in the front window upstairs?” The sudden panic in her voice prickled the hairs at his nape. “Lord Cunningham knows we’re here. He’s looking straight at us.”
“Nonsense. Cunningham cannot see your face for it is buried in the depths of your hood.”
She turned, her frantic gaze darting over Oliver’s face. “Perhaps not, but he can see yours.”
“There is nothing to fear.” Oliver lowered his head until their foreheads were almost touching. “He will think we are lovers.” The muscles in his abdomen tightened in response. “He will see nothing more than an amorous couple eager to find a secluded spot to indulge their desires.”
Her breathing quickened as she stared at his mouth. The rapid rise and fall of her chest captured his attention. The sweet scent of jasmine filled his head. A strange tingling sensation sprang to life in his body, and he could think of nothing but pressing his lips to hers.
Good God.
Why did she have to be so damnably irresistible?
“But should he recognise you we’ll never know why he came here. We’ll never know if he’s with Rose.”
“There is only one way to obscure my face,” he whispered, his mouth so close to hers now. “You must kiss me before it’s too late.” Of course, he could simply turn his back or step further into the alley. But a rush of masculine pride filled his chest for inventing such an ingenious plan.
“Move closer,” she said, and he could sense her resistance. “Beneath the hood, he will struggle to see you.”
Oliver lowered his head a fraction more. “Then we shall have to hope you’re right.” He could feel the heat from her skin, her hot breath brushing his cheek.
Damnation.
Why the hell didn’t he kiss her and be done with it?
Seconds passed.
Their ragged breath mingled in the air between them, fused into one. Perhaps it was his imagination, but when his gaze focused on her lips, they seemed to edge closer.
A charge of energy sparked around them. Every fibre of his being longed to explore this physical connection. Just one touch, one kiss to appease his curiosity. A look of desire flashed in her glazed eyes, too.
“Have you ever kissed a man, Miss Flint?”
“Once.” She screwed her eyes shut and shivered.
“Am I to understand that the experience was not particularly pleasant?”
“It is a memory that shall haunt me until my dying day.”
Anger threatened to burst to life in his chest. These sudden surges of emotion were entirely new to him. “Was it the rogue you mentioned?”
“No.” She sucked in a breath. “A gentleman called at the house seeking permission to wed me. One stolen kiss during a walk in the garden was supposed to be an incentive to accept.”
Did she speak of a life with her parents, one before she’d found herself destitute?
“A kiss should express affection.” Lord above. He did not sound at all like himself. “But then I suppose it is also a way to test a couple’s compatibility. Perhaps a more satisfying experience would ease the distress caused by the memory.”
The corners of her mouth twitched. “You mean if I kiss you it might banish the nightmares?”
Oliver shrugged. “I have no notion. But is it not worth a try? Besides, we must do everything in our power to avoid detection. For Rose’s sake.”
The last comment made him sound like the worst of rakes. But he was desperate to taste her, desperate to rid himself of this craving so he could concentrate on the task ahead.
“But what if it proves to be an equally unfulfilling experience?”
“Trust me,” he said, pushing aside the thought that one kiss would not be enough. “It won’t.”
Miss Flint scanned his face and placed her gloved hand on his cheek. “You have far too much confidence in your ability to please,” she whispered, “yet I find the nervous hitch in your voice rather endearing.”
Nervous hitch?
What the devil did she mean?
“Perhaps you mistake nerves for excitement.” In truth, he was apprehensive. Should he fail to please, he doubted the opportunity to taste this beguiling creature would arise again.
“Then we shall have to do something to calm your spirit.” She moistened her lips and pressed them lightly to his.
She tasted of apples, of sweet meadows in the height of summer. The aromatic scent of jasmine flooded his senses once again. In Persian, jasmine meant a gift from God. Never had anything been more appropriately named.
For some reason, he closed his eyes. The merest movement of her mouth ignited a fire deep in his core, one he feared would never be tempered. The urgency to drink, to taste her deeply came upon him. All senses sprang to life, though he felt slightly detached from reality.
As a man used to meaningless encounters, his reaction unnerved him. Yes, he was in the grip of a mild obsession. Yes, he found every word that tumbled from her mouth fascinating. But once he’d succumbed to his craving, it would soon pass.
She pulled away, only slightly. “If I am to rid myself of a bad memory, I suspect you may need to kiss me back.”
Like a green boy fresh from the schoolroom, his effort was far from adequate. “Forgive me. I am still stunned you agreed.”
“As am I, but the desire to banish painful images of the past proved too tempting.”
Oliver slid his arm around her waist. “Then allow me to rectify what you deem to be my lack of enthusiasm.”
He drew her close so that her soft breasts pressed against his chest. The tiny ga
sp that left her lips went some way to restoring his masculine pride. He lowered his head again, kissed her slowly, teased her lips apart.
Unable to continue with this torturous slow melding of mouths, he deepened the kiss. From the hitch in her breath, it was evident Miss Flint had never experienced such a level of intimacy before.
The thought pleased him immensely.
Well, he would be the one to tutor her in the art of passion. And so he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, eager to delve inside the wondrous cavern. She welcomed him in. Her tentative tongue touched his once … twice … and then her desire burst through the flimsy dam of restraint. She threaded her hands around his neck and into the hair at his nape. A born temptress, she moaned into his mouth in such a way as to send every drop of blood in his body surging to his cock.
The searing heat inside spread — a desperate need to sate the hunger that consumed him. He smoothed his hands down her back, cupped her buttocks and squeezed as he explored the mysteries of her mouth. Urgent fingers ran up the front of his evening coat, grabbed the lapels and tugged.
Good Lord!
If she continued in this vein, he feared his cock would burst from his breeches. Indeed, he could think of nothing but gathering her skirt up to her waist … pushing into her core … hard and deep … pushing home.
The rumble of carriage wheels and the thud of horses’ hooves pounding the road caught their attention.
Miss Flint dragged her mouth away and heaved in a deep breath before peeking out of her hood at the hackney cab rolling to a stop outside Cunningham’s house.
Oliver tried to focus on the scene, but his mind was still drunk with desire. Miss Flint’s sweet taste lingered in his mouth. Her potent scent teased his nostrils.
“Lord Cunningham has a visitor,” Miss Flint whispered.
A lady alighted and paid the driver. The travelling cloak she wore was similar in style to Miss Flint’s garment, and she too had raised the hood to disguise her identity.
“Is that Rose?” It was a ridiculous question, Oliver decided, but all logical thought had abandoned him. Two years had passed since he’d last laid eyes on his sister, not twenty. Still, it felt like a lifetime. “I recall her being slender with an abundance of golden tresses.”
