by Allison Lane
Tossing her the decanter, he swerved down a side street and out of sight. She could eat for a week by pawning the bottle, and he needed both hands free if he was to stay on his horse.
Cursing this latest stupidity, he squinted at a sign, then turned down another street. He’d drunk fast and deep, so the effects were still catching up with him. His body craved sleep, but he had to see his solicitor. Maybe Shipley could cancel Hillcrest’s announcement. Surely the newspapers would cooperate when they learned that the notice was false.
An accident blocked most of the street, but he squeezed past and turned down Green Walk, a narrow lane skirting the wall surrounding Christchurch. Shipley’s office stood opposite its rusty gate.
“Devil take it,” he muttered, peering around as he dismounted. “Where’sh everybody?” People usually clogged the lane, including half a dozen boys seeking half-farthings in exchange for minor services. He needed one to hold Caesar, but today even the boys were gone. Probably to gape at the accident – or pick the pockets of those gaping at the accident.
He was leading Caesar to the nearest lamppost when the screech of rusty hinges knifed through his head. A woman charged from the churchyard, nearly knocking him over. His free hand caught her before she bounced into the filthy street.
“Oh!” The gasp was a husky contralto that snapped his nether regions to attention. “I didn’t see— Ooh!” Her second gasp was wantonly seductive. One hand slid down his chest while the other caressed the scarred cheek that fascinated so many of his conquests.
Another courtesan plying her trade early. But this one he would accept. And if she was half as talented as she seemed, he would keep her awhile.
“Very nice,” he murmured, examining her wares. She was nearly as tall as he, her tawny lashes level with his mouth. Fiery curls framed a heart-shaped face containing the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. Nipples puckered by a dampened yellow gown distracted attention from its shabbiness.
Clever. Very clever. His fingers itched to touch, his lips to suckle. What a temptress! Circe herself could do no better. He’d hardened with astonishing speed.
Lust drove all thought from his mind. He wanted her. Needed her. If not for Caesar tugging on the rein, he would take her right now. Where the devil had everyone gone?
Business first, he reminded himself, recalling why he was here. Lust must wait, though he needn’t postpone all pleasure.
Jerking her against him, he closed his mouth over hers, plundering her sweetness. His hand shifted to caress a breast already swollen with passion.
One shapely thigh rubbed his throbbing shaft as she swayed.
He lost himself in her taste, images tumbling through his head of fiery curls spread across a pillow, that wanton body pressing—
“No!” she gasped as his hand slipped down the front of her gown. She stumbled backward, shock blazing in her eyes.
It took him a moment to understand that his erection had startled her, and another moment to register that she hadn’t kissed him back….
He narrowed his eyes, clawing through the brandy fog to examine her again.
Her features were refined. A rose branch and several thorns clung to her skirt, explaining the snags. A reticule hung from one wrist. Her hair retained the imprint of a bonnet. She’d dashed through the gate as if the hounds of hell nipped at her heels. Was the terror now swirling in her eyes the cause of her flight or the result of his advances? She was probably a virgin.
Damnation! His loins still throbbed. But avoiding virgins was the one rule he’d never broken, not even during the madness of ten years ago.
“Pardon me.” Though frustration bit deep, his apology was sincere, if a bit slurred. “I didn’t expect to find a lady here. Why are you alone?”
A thud echoed across the churchyard, widening her pupils. “Please help me, sir. Can you direct me to Berkeley Square? My guardian lives there.”
“What?” He knew he was drunk, but why was she in Southwark if she was seeking Berkeley Square? It was miles away on the other side of the Thames.
She inhaled, tightening her gown across that magnificent bosom and trapping his gaze on her pebbled nipples. His shaft pressed painfully against his pantaloons.
Words reverberated inside his head – marry the first girl I see. Marriage would be no hardship with this one and might solve all his problems.
“—uncle is forcing me to wed my odious cousin,” she was saying in a very cultured voice. “I jumped from a window, but I won’t be safe until I reach my guardian. Quickly, sir, before they catch me. How do I reach Berkeley Square?”
“How is it that your guardian lost track of you?” he asked absently, his eyes still trapped. His head whirled faster. Heat surged through his loins. First girl … marry … princess or prostitute…
“My uncle incarcerated me because he wants my estate. Please, sir. There is no time.” Louder thuds echoed. She lowered her voice. “They will find me gone at any moment. How do I get to Alquist House in Berkeley Square?”
The name wrenched his gaze to eyes seething with desperation. “Lord Alquist is your guardian?”
She nodded.
“He died a fortnight ago,” Rafe said slowly. “I just returned from his burial. Didn’t anyone tell you?”
She swayed, blanching, one hand covering her mouth. “Dear Lord. No wonder he dared bring me to London. What am I to do?” Muffled shouts joined the thuds. “He’s coming. I have to leave. My trustees are with Formsby’s Bank on Broad Street. Can you direct me there?”
The bang of a door hitting a wall signaled a broken lock. Voices shouted over one another.
“Gone!”
“—ought to wring her—”
“Damn the bitch!”
“—window—”
“—broken roses—”
Rafe’s heart raced. Her problem was worse than his. Her pursuers sounded too angry for a rational discussion.
“I’ll take you.” He tossed her across Caesar’s withers, then swung up behind her as curses flowed from the churchyard. “Stay low and hang on.”
Spurring to a canter, he kept her head below the top of the wall so the men racing toward the gate would not see her. The moment Caesar cleared the church, he turned down a side street, then into a maze of narrow lanes.
“Who are you?” he demanded when they were out of sight, hoping conversation would distract him from another wave of lust – every stride ground her hip against his erection.
“Helen St. James, daughter of Sir Arthur St. James of Audley Court, Somerset.” She flung an arm around his neck as he rounded another corner, plastering her against his body.
“The honorable Rafael Thomas, at your service,” he managed. With her head pressed against his chin, her perfume engulfed him. Heliotrope, his mother’s favorite scent.
Marry the first girl I see. She was certainly spirited enough.
In a bid to restore his reason, he ducked into an alcove between two buildings so he could put some space between them.
“Relax,” he commanded, prying her fingers loose. “You are safe.”
She released him, but his relief was short-lived. Now it was her eyes that captured him, drowning him in their green depths. If only he had full control of his faculties! But his head spun worse than ever. Clatters and shouts from the street beat dully against ears awash in the rush of blood. He burned wherever she touched him. Her taste—
Gathering his few remaining wits, he forced his mind back to business. “We have a problem, Miss Shan-Sin” —he couldn’t get St. James to roll off his tongue, so he settled on— “Miss Helen. I can deliver you to Broad Street, but the trip will take the best part of an hour. By then the bank will be closed. Is there anyone you can stay with until morning?”
“I have no acquaintances in town just now. My uncle has held me hostage since my father died last year. I planned to slip away tonight and find Lord Alquist, but you say he is dead.”
“He was struck down by a wagon two weeks ago.”
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“Then what am I to do?”
Church bells chimed five.
It was far too late to seek Shipley’s help. The solicitor couldn’t reach one newspaper before it went to press, let alone the dozen that might have received Hillcrest’s announcement. Not all of them were based in Fleet Street.
Dizziness spread to his stomach, which threatened to cast up the brandy. That reckless vow again screamed through his mind. Marry the first girl I see … first girl I see … first—
“You must marry me.” The words shocked him, though he didn’t reclaim them. It was the best solution for both of them. “It is the only way to retain your reputation. Spending the night together is bad enough. Leaving you alone would be worse. Without my protection, you will be ruined by morning – provided you live that long. London is dangerous.”
“Marry you?” She choked.
He met her gaze. “I’m not such a bad bargain, Miss Helen. I’m heir to a viscount and considered a gentlemen in deed as well as blood.” At least in most circles. “Marriage will thwart your uncle. But we’ll have to hurry. Doctors Commons closes soon.”
“Doctors Commons.”
Helen cursed the shock that froze her tongue. She stared at Mr. Thomas – the very drunk Mr. Thomas. His breath smelled strongly of brandy. His tongue was tied in knots. Green-tinged cheeks and blurry eyes confirmed his condition – foxed to the gills. At least he wasn’t violent. She’d barely escaped a beating the last time Dudley had come home in his cups. While Mr. Thomas had been on the verge of ravishing her right on the street, she could hardly deny that she’d invited his advances. Since her refusal, he’d been a perfect gentleman.
He swayed. “We need a special license, Miss Helen. Doctors Commons is the only place to get one.” Narrowing his eyes, he added, “You are of age, I presume.”
“Twenty-two. Quite on the shelf.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” He brushed her hip, swirling heat into her stomach. Every touch had done that since she’d run him down. And that kiss…
He scrambled her wits, making the last hour seem even more unreal.
She hadn’t seen him before crashing into him, then had been too stunned to back off – and not because of the impact. He was tall, dark, and hard. Very hard. And blazingly masculine, exuding power that demanded attention. Those muscular arms and shoulders needed no padding to fill his well-cut coat. His legs were equally fine. A curly-brimmed beaver hat pressed dark curls onto his forehead, reminding her strongly of Alex—
Wrenching her thoughts from the cad who had jilted her four years earlier, she focused on Mr. Thomas. Or tried to. It was hard to think through a pounding head and churning stomach.
His most surprising feature was the silver filigree that cupped his left cheekbone like delicate lace, reflecting the silver-gray of his eyes and adding intrigue and character to a face that might have seemed conventionally handsome otherwise. Before she’d realized her intent, her finger had traced that enticing scar. It was clearly old, for it blended smoothly into his skin.
Heat had seared her fingertips. Then his mouth had plundered hers, shutting down all thought. Not until she’d identified the hardest muscle of all had she come to her senses.
Thank God she’d pulled away. Another time she would have fled, but she was desperate. And he’d been her only hope. The narrow street had been quite empty, and his arms had seemed so very safe….
Think!
Her ears buzzed louder than a beehive.
Rafael Thomas, viscount’s heir. That was all she knew about him. Name and station. Why would he offer marriage? She tried to imagine, but Steven’s blow had scrambled her wits.
Even with the scar, he could have anyone he chose, and he must know it. She could imagine women throwing themselves at his feet, for he exuded an aura that commanded her to touch, explore, and demand satisfaction. Every brush of his body strengthened the command. Every whiff of his scent urged her closer. Her hand rose—
Shocked at the images forming in her mind, she shook her head – and immediately regretted it as pain knifed through her skull. Steven had halted the carriage as the church tower tolled four. So unless she’d been with Mr. Thomas far longer than she thought, she had been unconscious for half an hour. Concussions muddled thinking, which ought to prompt caution. If these sensual longings were a side effect, they might disappear by morning.
Yet Mr. Thomas was right. With Lord Alquist dead, she had nowhere to go. London was dangerous for a woman alone. With her lack of either money or maid, no reputable innkeeper would accept her. So he was her only hope. She should thank Fate that he was offering marriage rather than ruination. That alone indicated an honorable character. She could do worse – Dudley, for instance.
“Well?” he demanded.
Her hands twisted in her lap, but she nodded. “You have done me a great honor, Mr. Thomas. I will endeavor to make you a proper wife.”
Relief was so dizzying that Rafe nearly fell off Caesar. Marry the first girl I see. “You might as well call me Rafe, my dear,” he managed. “You have made me the happiest of men.”
The declaration dealt a fatal blow to his stomach. Twisting sideways, he retched again and again, dredging up his very toenails. His betrothed – another spasm hit with the word – uttered soothing sounds, adding embarrassment to his discomfort.
Nearly a quarter hour passed before he headed for Blackfriar’s Bridge and Doctors Commons, one arm wrapped securely around her as if fearing she might disappear.
Fool … fool … fool.
The charge battered his head with every step. What the devil had he done?
He was worse than a fool. This latest impulse might ruin him completely. What did he know about Miss Helen St. James anyway? She might be mad or diseased or incapable of intelligent thought. Anyone accepting such a ramshackle proposal must have something seriously wrong with her. She possessed an estate, uncommon beauty, and a vibrancy that demanded attention. So why was she unwed at the advanced age of twenty-two?
Yet it was done. Having given his word, he could not renege. And the match would end the fight over Alice once and for all.
But never in his wildest dreams had he expected this to be his wedding night.
Chapter Two
Helen suppressed another wave of dizziness as she pushed the last bites of beef listlessly around her plate. The little she’d eaten was curdling in her stomach.
Three hours had passed since she’d rammed into Rafe. Her head pounded worse than ever, making it impossible to concentrate. Surely this was a nightmare. Any moment she would awaken and—
“Is the food not to your liking?” Rafe asked.
The question cut through her rising panic. “It’s fine.” Transferring a sliver of meat to her mouth, she gamely chewed, surprised that he’d noticed her abstraction.
He was so drunk that he’d nearly fallen from his horse on Blackfriar’s Bridge. The effort to hold him upright had increased her own dizziness and activated her conscience. By the time they’d reached Doctors Commons, it had been screaming – he had no idea what he was doing; wedding a stranger was insanely reckless; her best course was to cry off and find some other escape.
Yet honor had forbidden her to cry off. Alex had already tarnished her reputation. A jilt – even in such ridiculous circumstances – would worsen it. She couldn’t do it.
Be honest, she admonished herself as Rafe picked at his dinner. You expected someone else to call a halt.
She blushed.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
How had he noticed? She could have sworn his eyes were on his food.
“Quite all right,” she murmured. “Though it seems rather warm tonight.”
Rafe’s knife clattered to the floor. A dozen diners turned to stare as his gaze moved lazily over her body.
Embarrassed, Helen ducked her head. This was all her fault. She should have protested at Doctors Commons. She knew Rafe was too drunk to be competent. He’d leaned so heavily on
her shoulder that she’d practically carried him into the building. Instead of dragging him inside, she should have demanded that he escort her to one of his society friends – there had to be many who would have taken her in. Or she could have asked about old schoolmates who might be in town. Marriage was an absurd solution. He could have protected her just as well by delivering her to whomever had taken over as her guardian – or to Alquist’s solicitor, for that matter.
Now it was too late. Instead of protesting, she’d meekly accepted his offer, too desperate to think clearly. And Rafe had seemed safe….
“Where is your trunk?” he asked, jerking her thoughts back to the dining room. “We must fetch it.”
“No.” She tucked her trembling hands under the table – his question revived her terror. “My uncle has it, but I must speak with my trustees before going near him. I doubt he will part with it anyway.”
Surprise flashed across Rafe’s face. “It is yours. No gentleman would keep it.”
“He is no gentleman and can cause untold trouble. He has already convinced my trustees to violate trust provisions by setting him in charge of my estate. I must reach them before he can poison them further against me. Unless I’m waiting when the bank opens tomorrow…”
He nodded, lapsing into silence. A forearm propped against the table seemed to hold him upright, though she no longer trusted appearances – a lesson learned at Doctors Commons.
The moment she’d pushed open the archbishop’s door, Rafe had straightened, walked inside unaided, and turned on his charm. He had an abundance of charm. The archbishop’s clerk had nearly tripped in his haste to serve them. Helen had been too busy fighting off a swoon to protest.
Damn her for a fool. She knew that drunkards were notoriously single-minded, refusing to relinquish whatever idea was stuck in their befuddled heads. A neighbor had once tottered halfway to Taunton before sobering enough to question his mission. Thus she’d been the only one with any sense.
Not that she’d used it. She should have expected charm. Rafe was a London gentleman much like Alex – six feet tall, with the same dark good looks and blazing masculinity. Thus it followed that he also used charm to deflect attention from lies, dishonor, betrayal—
