by Lenora Bell
The trifle, he amended for the benefit of his ever-ready and ever-hopeful prick.
“Oh, that is . . . there are no words.” She took another bite and this time her eyeballs fluttered beneath her eyelids.
Did the woman have to act like the trifle was bringing her to ecstasy? “I gather you like it,” he said harshly.
“It’s perfect.” She frowned. “You don’t want any? You really should try it.” She took another bite and her tongue darted out to catch a stray bit of fluffy egg whites.
His cock danced hopefully.
“Here.” She scooped up a gooey bite of trifle and held it out to him. “Please try some.”
He shut his lips tightly. “I don’t like trifle.”
“Have you ever tried trifle?”
“No.”
“Just one bite.”
And that’s how all the trouble in the world began. He had to open his mouth, if only because of the fact that she held the bite toward his lips and he wanted to taste something she offered . . . even if it was only her spoon.
She took another sip of whiskey and giggled softly.
“What’s so humorous?” he asked.
“Remember when I walked on your back? ‘Harder, Olofsson,’ you said. ‘Do your worst.’”
“I remember,” Dalton said. “How could I forget?”
“And then, you should have seen the look on your face when you realized it was me and not Olofsson. You wanted to strangle me.”
His frown only made her giggle harder.
“I think you’ve had enough.” He reached for her glass but she pulled it away and swallowed the rest in one gulp.
“If you only could have seen your expression.”
“I see myself every morning in the glass and that’s quite enough,” he growled.
She laughed harder. “Admit it was funny.”
“It may have been.” He was trying to hide a smile but it broke through anyway. “I’m man enough to admit it.”
“What you did today.” She sighed. “Agreeing to convey Molly to Bristol. Staying here tonight so she can recover.” She twirled a long buttery curl around her fingers. “You’re very sweet.”
No, he wasn’t. What he was thinking about doing to her right now wasn’t sweet at all. It was primal and nearly uncontrollable.
“And Molly does need our help,” she said, sobering.
“How did she come to be standing in those bushes on the side of the road with that rusty old pistol?”
“I can’t tell you all the details but there are . . . extenuating circumstances. She was driven to attempt robbery by a series of unfortunate happenings. She needs our help to go back to her family in Cork.”
“Molly may ride with us.” Dalton leaned back in his chair. The whiskey was starting to work its magic now, spreading a warm, sleepy languor through his limbs. “As long as the pistol stays with me.”
“Oh, you.” Thea grinned mischievously. “You grumble but you don’t really mean it. It’s true what Con said.”
“What?” he asked suspiciously. “What did Con say?”
“Only that you were soft and sweet inside, and only wanted a good cracking.”
“That meddling son of a . . . I’ll kill him with my bare hands,” he fumed.
“But it’s true.” She stared at him with that smug tilt to her nose. “All this gruffness and heartlessness. It’s only an act. I’ve been watching you on this journey, you know.”
She took another bite of trifle. “Something rings false. Or should I say it rings true . . . as if you do have a heart, and you want to do the right thing.”
Now she needed to stop talking.
Dalton shifted in his chair.
Maybe he should sleep in the stables. That would be the only safe course of action. She’d been under her mother’s thumb too long and was beginning to test her powers . . . of seduction and deduction.
He relinquished his spoon and threw his napkin down. “I’d best be—”
“I’m also beginning to think you have a secret reason for going to Ireland,” she announced, waving her spoon in the air.
He forced himself to stay still, not to move a muscle, or twitch even a corner of his mouth. If he ran away right now it would be too suspicious.
She couldn’t possibly be going to say that he was a duke by day and a crusading justice fighter by night.
“Oh, I have secrets,” he said, sitting back down, smiling carelessly. “You caught me.” He lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I have a secret reason for going to Ireland.”
“You do?” Her eyes widened and she leaned closer.
“I’m not going to Ireland to visit a widow.”
“What’s the reason then?” She slid to the edge of her seat, breathless with anticipation.
Why was he going to Ireland? Think, Dalton. Make it plausible. And distracting enough to deflect her interest. “I’m going to find a . . . wife.”
She nearly dropped her spoon. “A wife?”
“That’s right.” Dalton sat back in his chair and crossed his ankle over his knee. “It’s a tradition for the Dukes of Osborne to take an Irish bride. I’m the age my father was when he married.”
She snapped her jaw shut. “Uh.”
“What was that?”
“I . . . I thought you were never going to marry.”
He shrugged. “My mother wants me to marry. I think perhaps if there were a child, a grandbaby, she’d find the will to leave the house. She’s Irish, and so she’ll approve of an Irish bride.”
She looked hurt and indignant. Damn. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, whisper into her hair that it wasn’t true.
He wasn’t looking for a bride. He could never marry.
“Everyone in London says you’ll never marry,” she said lightly. “That you’re a heartless, callous rakehell who’ll never settle down and do his duty.”
“And they’re right . . . to an extent. I’m marrying more for my mother’s sake than my own.” He didn’t like lying to her.
“So you’re saying you’re not a rake?”
“I’m London’s premier rake,” he said. “You know that.”
“Do I? You’re charming, it’s true, but I’ve noticed your smile never truly reaches your eyes, even when you’re kissing a girl.”
“Have you been studying me like one of your paintings, Thea?”
“Perhaps. You do seem to have hidden layers.”
“Are you saying I’m a masterpiece?” he quipped. He couldn’t betray how much she rattled his calm.
She tilted her head and her gaze slid across from his chin to his . . . was the lady staring at his crotch?
“I’m saying you don’t betray much with your words, but your body has involuntary signals. For example, the foot tapping.”
Dalton stilled his foot.
Damn her quick mind.
“Your left foot taps when you’re displeased,” she continued. “Usually three times, like it tapped just now.”
He froze. “You’re very observant.”
“And do you want to know something else?” She leaned closer, sliding her elbows into the space between his fingers. “I’ll wager you’re not even an honest-to-goodness rake. You’re only pretending to be one, to keep the marriage-minded mamas at bay.”
Dalton snatched his hands off the table. “That’s a wager you’d speedily lose. Ask anyone in London. Ask the publisher of the Times. My exploits alone paid for his son’s commission.”
She shook her head and threw him a challenging look. “Not convinced.”
How neatly she’d put him on the defensive. She was most likely the most formidable enemy he’d ever faced. He had to be careful with her. He couldn’t betray any emotion.
Luckily, he was practiced in the art of subterfuge.
He leaned back in his chair. “All you need do is read the entries in the betting book at White’s. The ones detailing my conquests. They tell the tale quite irrevocably.”
She d
ipped her spoon directly into the trifle bowl, dispensing with civility completely. “I don’t think so,” she said calmly. “They only tell half the story. And I mean to discover the whole truth.”
Dalton kept a cool, seductive smile on his lips. “Nothing to find,” he said nonchalantly. “Hate to disappoint you, lamb, but I’m a rake through and through.” He opened his arms wide. “There’s no heart of gold here. No heart at all, actually.”
Blue eyes narrowed. “Care to place a wager on that?”
“No, I don’t.” No wagers. Nothing to prove. He should leave now.
“Exhibit A.” She pointed her spoon at his feet. “Your boots.”
Now what? “What about my boots?”
“You haven’t had them polished since we left London. Everyone knows rakes always have shiny, polished Hessians in which to admire their own reflections.” She flourished the spoon through the air. “Therefore, you’re not a rake.”
Dalton snorted. “I’ll have them polished tomorrow.”
“Exhibit B.” Thea scooped more trifle and licked it off her spoon. “You don’t smell at all like a rake. I’ve been pressed against you and you simply don’t smell like one.” She tapped her forefinger against the table. “Spicy musk. Sandalwood. Pine forest. The aforementioned polished leather. Those are all acceptable scents for a rake. But if you must know the truth, you smell rather like the stables.”
“That’s because I’ve been tending our horses,” Dalton sputtered.
“No.” She smiled smugly. “That’s because you’re not a rake.”
“For the love of—this is ridiculous.” Dalton half rose from his chair. “I’m going to the stables now to be among my own kind.”
“Wait!” She flourished her spoon through the air. “Exhibit C is Molly. You allowed a girl who aimed a pistol at you to join your traveling party. That means you’re not heartless.”
“I’m not going to leave a young girl dressed in trousers and recklessly waving a pistol on the highway. She could have been killed. Or she could have ended up hanging from a noose.”
“Precisely. You care about those weaker and less fortunate then you. And you definitely love your mother. And you care about Con. Which leads me to the final exhibit,” she proclaimed.
“I think you’ve had too much whisk—”
“Exhibit D: you’re in a bedchamber with slightly inebriated me and you haven’t even tried to kiss me. You haven’t even stared with dark intent upon my lips.”
She set down her spoon with a bang. “So you’re most definitely not a rake worth his salt.”
She stood up from the table and bowed to the right and then to the left. “Esteemed gentlemen of the jury, the prosecution rests.”
Dalton groaned. She’d be the death of him. The gauntlet had been thrown. The challenge issued.
She was playing with fire now. He’d like nothing better than to prove his rakehood.
On the hearth rug.
Then the bed.
Push those skirts up and that bodice down. Make her sigh and scream. Spark hotter than the fire.
There was only so much provocation a half-drunken duke could stand.
He stared at her lips with dark intent.
Reaching down, he grabbed the legs of her chair and dragged her toward him.
“Come here,” he growled. “And I’ll prove I’m a rake.”
Chapter 13
“Gracious,” Thea exclaimed. A highly inadequate exclamation. Dalton grabbed her chair and yanked her around the table.
Perhaps she’d pushed him too far. Men must have breaking points.
But then she was beginning to think women might as well.
Pressure built inside her. Something reckless coiling at the base of her spine, waiting to unwind. She wanted his hands on her. Those large, roughened hands.
Thea had never had such urges.
She could satisfy those urges tonight.
The wicked thought buzzed like a bee flying too close to her ear, a secret, dangerous thrill. She had the rest of her life to be alone and untouched. Tonight she wanted to leave refined and proper far, far behind.
Another swift tug on her chair and her tightly closed knees were forced in between his powerful thighs.
Of course she knew he was a rake. He’d bedded half the widows and wives in London. Sophisticated, beautiful women. So of course he wouldn’t find her all that tempting.
There were rumors he’d once seduced three ladies in a single evening and that he was the reason Miss Antonia Bradford now lived in a convent in France.
There were those who said he transformed into a wolf when the moon was full and prowled the streets of London in search of prey.
Well, that last bit she’d invented, but the myths surrounding him were enough to intrigue any lady with a newfound yen for adventure.
His hands settled to either side of her, surrounding her but not touching her. She stared at his neck, watching the pulse that beat so close she could have leaned forward and kissed the place.
“A rake might lift the hem of your gown now.” His gaze followed his words, falling to her hem and then traveling upward.
But his hands never left the chair.
“Or he might command you to lift it.” The seductive words rolled against her mind like waves breaking against distant cliffs.
“I would never do that.” Or would I? came the reckless thought.
“You would.” He smiled lazily. “Trust me, you would.”
So confident and sure of himself.
The trouble was, when he spoke of lifting her hem, Thea imagined it happening, and it was only two short steps from imagination to longing, and another two steps to doing.
All that unwinding along her spine might travel to her hands and make her slide her gown up, inch by inch, over red leather boots and higher, over white stockings.
“I’ve been wondering what’s under that demure gown.” He tilted his head and a lock of hair fell across his brow. “Thin muslin, I’ll wager. Something I could see the peaks of your breasts through.”
Such crude language should offend, but her body responded to his words as if he’d touched her, the tips of her breasts stiffening and straining against the fabric of her shift.
He lifted his hands. She held her breath.
But he didn’t reach for her. He reached for himself instead.
Slid off his coat. Loosened his cravat and untied the knot.
“Any rake worth his salt knows that a woman enjoys the sight of a well-formed male.” He leaned back in his chair, thighs wide, hands spread. “Makes her wet and ready for him.”
Ready for what? Thea’s mind raced ahead, imagining all the possibilities, while her eyes drank in the sight of him.
Black leather boots creased with hard use. Buckskin trousers stretched across taut thighs. Cravat dangling loose around a thick, corded neck.
Severe jaw softened by that round indentation in the middle of his chin.
Bronzed hair, thick and wavy and impatient to fall in his eyes.
A stillness about him. A self-possession that drew the eye.
He commanded every room he entered. Ballroom or bedroom.
He controlled her responses right now. And just as she had when they waltzed, she longed to surrender.
He arched his eyebrows. “Had a thorough look?”
Thea gulped. “I . . . I’ve seen better.”
“Have you now.” He undid the buttons at the top of his shirt and slid it over his head, leaving only his untied cravat.
“Certainly. I’ve seen statues of . . . warriors.” She’d been about to say gods and demigods, but that might make him even more conceited. The man truly had a high opinion of his charms.
Though it was an apt comparison.
He was cast from bronze, towering over the mere mortals who wandered near his feet.
The sound of his laughter rumbled like carriage wheels over gravel. “A rake knows when a woman’s thinking about this.” He cupped himself th
rough his breeches in a terribly obscene gesture. “Care for a glimpse?”
Thea gasped. He was trying to shock her into ending the game. Admitting he was a rake and she was out of her depth.
“It might be diverting.” She tilted her chin higher. “But I’ve seen such sights before.”
His jaw flapped open. “Excuse me?”
Finally shocked him, Thea thought. Two could play this game.
“One cannot be a student of art without viewing the male form,” she said primly. “In Caravaggio’s painting of Zeus, for example, his . . . manly bits . . . float directly in the viewer’s face.”
“Float in your face?”
“Well, not literally. I only mean the perspective of the painting is such that it’s the first thing the viewer notices.”
“I’m sure it’s the first thing young ladies notice.”
“It’s not all that impressive, really. It’s floating, you see. Zeus is floating. On a cloud.”
“Sounds rather . . . flaccid. I can assure you there’d be no floating here.”
“I’ve seen other examples,” she said flippantly. “On the wall of a temple in Rome. An etching of the god Priapus. His attributes were . . . most impressive. Far more impressive than yours, I’m sure.”
“Have a care, Thea. Some gentlemen might take that as an invitation to stage a comparison.”
“And some ladies might take that challenge.”
Young ladies don’t take challenges. Or stare at a man’s breeches. Or . . .
Break all the rules! Every single one, something in Thea urged.
Could she? Did she dare?
Tentatively, her heart beating rapidly, Thea reached out her fingers . . . and broke a very big rule indeed.
He jumped back as if her touch had scalded him. “Oh no.” He shook his head. “Not yet, little lamb. Moving too quickly is against the rake’s code of conduct.”
He slid his cravat from around his neck, snapping the linen tie between his fists, and muscles bunched and rippled in his arms.
“Hold out your wrists,” he commanded.
What was he going to do? Thea widened her eyes as he lifted her wrists and wrapped the cravat around them, tying it in a loose knot.
“Ladies who break the rules must suffer the consequences.” He gave one last tug and drew away, leaving her trussed and breathless.
