The Gentleman Jewel Thief

by Jessica Peterson

  But she stood her ground. “It’s not in the stables, is it? The diamond. Damn you, Harclay, you interrupted my search! It wasn’t as thorough as I would’ve liked.”

  “No, it’s not in the stables,” he said teasingly and took a step closer. He could see she was shivering. “Come, Violet, let’s get you inside before you take a chill. Though your aunt may throttle you, I’ll not have her displeased with me.”

  With a little huff she followed him toward the house. Harclay wondered how he was going to control himself with Violet’s clothes painted against her body like a second skin. It was going to be a terrible, delicious, enthralling struggle.

  “You and Auntie George seem to have made fast friends,” she said. “How brazen you are with your charms, flirting with defenseless women young and old. You’re shameless.”

  “For God’s sake, she’d just been hit in the head with a billiards cue.”

  “That sound was awful, wasn’t it?” Violet replied. “Made my stomach turn. I do hope she’ll recover.”

  Harclay lifted the latch on the kitchen door and held it open for Violet. “I’m afraid she’ll have a rather frightful headache in the morning, but from the look of it she’ll be on her feet in a day or two. Cold compresses will help, as will strong coffee. You must send me word of her recovery.”

  Lady Violet stepped inside the dim hallway, shaking off her sleeves. Harclay took the collar of his jacket in his hands, and as he removed it from Violet’s shoulders she turned to face him.

  He drew a breath of surprise; she was practically in his arms.

  And practically naked. Her face was turned upward toward his own; she surveyed him with those damnably beautiful eyes, the lashes casting long shadows on the pale slope of her cheeks.

  “Why do you care so much about Auntie George?” she asked.

  He felt himself go red about the ears. “I know you think I’m a scalawag, Violet, but I do have feelings. Especially for those who happen to be my guests—and are related to a rather clever lady with whom I am newly acquainted.”

  Violet’s eyes softened about the corners. He thought he could detect a smile trying to break free at the ends of her mouth; but before he could be sure, she was overtaken by a rather violent shudder.

  “It-t-t’s quite c-c-cold in here, Lord Harc-clay,” she said.

  Without thinking—for it was quite the natural thing to do, what with her enticing proximity—he took her in his arms and pressed her against his chest. At once her shivering came to a halt; he could feel the warmth of his skin seeping into her own. Slowly, very slowly, she melted against him, pressing her ear to the flat of his breastbone.

  “Do I make you nervous?” she murmured, the smile finally reaching her lips. “Your heart is r-r-racing.”

  “Nervous isn’t quite the word, Lady Violet,” he replied.

  She laughed. “Ah, yes, I can tell that w-w-wood of yours is alive and well.”

  “Can’t be helped,” Harclay said with a shrug. “If you would only indulge me—”

  “I t-t-told you before, my lord, you lost that b-bet. And I’m still waiting on my p-prize, besides.”

  “Ah, yes, that,” he said. Again Violet shivered against him; he ran his hands up and down the length of her arms, gently, patiently. Beneath the wet layers of her clothes he felt the goose pimples rise on her skin; but she did not protest against his touch. She lifted her head from his chest and looked up at him expectantly.

  Good God, she was lovely, her blue-gray eyes enormous, lips stained an indecent shade of red from the wine. He swallowed, willing himself to remain still, not to thrust her up against the wall and take her right here in the kitchen galley.

  “How did you f-find me, out in the stables?” she breathed.

  Harclay scoffed, lowering his head so that his lips hovered just above her mouth. “For all your cunning, you made a rather epic racket. And don’t think I would let you out of my sight, not even for a moment; I saw you slip from your aunt’s carriage, and heard it, too! Must be ancient, that coach, for it creaked most fiercely when you jumped.”

  “Ancient indeed,” she was saying, but her eyes were trained on his lips, “like riding on a haywagon . . .”

  He couldn’t bear it. Something about the warmth of her body against his, those striking, intelligent eyes, and—Christ!—those just-bitten lips. He felt as if he were under a spell, his movements governed by the heady pounding of his heart.

  Bending his neck, he pressed his lips gently against Violet’s mouth. At once the memory of their first kiss took captive his thoughts. It had been thrilling, that kiss, but this one was better, their lips already acquainted and far more eager. Hers were possessed of the same brilliant cleverness as her mind; they moved slowly, thoughtfully, over his own, innocent but sure.

  He cupped her face in his hands, grazing the curve of her chin with his thumb. She let out a small moan, opening her mouth to him, and the slick warmth of her nearly drove him wild. It was all he could do not to devour her, not to ravage her lips with his own.

  Harclay felt her begin to shiver, and he pulled her closer, closer, and yet she still trembled. His self-control virtually in shreds, he commandeered what little was left and pulled away.

  They were both breathing hard, the force of the kiss leaving them silent for several beats.

  “A bath,” he panted. “You need a hot bath before you take ill.”

  She shook her head, a dazed look in her eyes. “I’ll be a-a-all right—”

  He wrapped her in his arm and led her to the kitchen, an enormous space that glittered with copper pots and smelled pleasantly of cinnamon and baking bread. A few kitchen maids were still washing the china from dinner in the troughlike sink across the room.

  “Stoke the fire,” Harclay called to them, “and have hot water brought up to my chambers for a bath. Quickly, if you please!”

  Before Lady Violet could protest, Harclay swung her up the narrow stairs and into the candlelit haven of his bedroom.

  • • •

  Violet was never one for theatrics—it was shameful, really, the displays put on by debutantes these days—but by the time they reached Lord Harclay’s chambers she was shaking so hard her teeth chattered like a pair of foxed matrons at the season’s first ball.

  She’d been soaked through by the rain, yes, but truth be told it was the earl’s kiss that had set off the fireworks in her heart, her belly. The way his lips moved over her own, pulling, feeling, had sent tingles of desire pulsing through her limbs—tingles that, to her great embarrassment, now turned into tremendous, uncontrollable shudders.

  From the corner of her eye, Violet caught Avery and a footman setting a gleaming copper tub before the fireplace, where a freshly tended fire crackled pleasantly and warmed the room.

  “Avery, bring up the water when it’s ready,” Harclay murmured, his eyes never leaving Violet’s face.

  The butler bowed. “I took the liberty of warming a few blankets by the fire, my lord. They’re on the bed, should you require them.”

  With a short, polite bow that belied the complete and utter impropriety of the situation, Avery left the room.

  At once Harclay’s hands were on her body, tearing at her pelisse and gown and stays with a quiet savageness that brought heat back into her body.

  “E-eager, are you, m-m-my lord?” Violet managed a tremulous smile. “How sh-sh-shameless of you to take ad-advantage of my c-c-condition.”

  “Don’t be silly,” he replied, helping her to shrug off half her clothes in one swift movement. “The faster we get these wet clothes off you, the faster I can get you warm.”

  She wondered how, exactly, he was planning to do that. Was the bath a mere decoy for more sinister methods? She glanced at the bed—a massive but elegant affair of lacquered mahogany and white linen—and wondered if he meant to warm her there.

  “D-
d-do you bring all your wom-wom-women up here?” she asked.

  Now he was tugging at her stays, ravaging the sturdy lacing with his enormous callused hands. His fingers brushed against the bare skin of her back; they felt deliciously hot and sure.

  “Never,” he replied steadily. “I’m rather territorial about my bedchamber. And my bed, I’m afraid. I consider it a bit of a sanctuary, a place of rest and reflection. Women, though I admire them, are not conducive to such things.”

  He turned her away from him as he continued working on her laces.

  “So y-y-you prefer the f-f-floor?”

  Though she couldn’t see his face, she could sense his smile. “Among other places, yes,” he said.

  Her gown fell with an unceremonious squish at her feet. For the second time in a single week—really, this man was an expert at cornering her half-naked—she stood before him in naught but a chemise and stockings.

  Violet turned away from the flames, away from Harclay. The heat of the fire raised careless curls of steam from the fine muslin at her shoulders. And still she shook, the chill—or was it the anticipation?—causing her skin to break out in waves of goose bumps.

  “This has to come off, too,” he said quietly, running a finger along the edge of her chemise at her neck.

  She swallowed. His touch felt lovely; the loveliest sensation she’d yet to experience in her twenty-two years.

  “All r-right.”

  Harclay gathered the chemise at her hips and lifted it gently over her head. She stepped out of her stockings, tossing them into the darkness.

  And then she was as naked as the day she was born. Instinctively, Violet wrapped her arms about her breasts; she grew very still, the chill all but gone from her body.

  Behind her, she heard Lord Harclay suck in his breath and sensed him draw close.

  “You”—he murmured—“are very beautiful, Violet.”

  She felt him place a single finger on the last knob of her back, just where her buttocks met her tailbone; with that same finger he traced a line of fire up the length of her spine. The tide of sensation, every part of her alive, was overwhelming.

  Her eyes fluttered shut as he wrapped his fingers around her neck and pulled her mouth to his. She felt powerless against the onslaught, boneless and full of longing. The chill of the room was agony; the heat of the earl’s touch, paradise.

  Harclay was right. While Violet loved to gamble, to drink brandy and curse like a sailor, she did not dare indulge in carnal sins. She’d read of the act in novels, of course, in French pamphlets, and in the faces of married friends; and yet none of it had prepared her for this—this kind of heaven and hell, the inescapable desire to do things she’d never done with a man who robbed her of her fortune, and her fortitude.

  She shivered; with one last tug at her bottom lip, Harclay pulled away. Violet blinked and he was back, wrapping her tightly in a cashmere blanket. He turned her to face him and tugged the blanket even tighter about her shoulders. At once the warmth of the cashmere seeped into her skin, and she shuddered one last time before relaxing into the cocoon of Harclay’s arms.

  Violet watched him through her lashes; though his features were carefully arranged into an inscrutable whole, his eyes were wet and dancing. She could feel him, him, even through the thick blanket, prodding against her legs.

  “Life must prove most uncomfortable, what with that—that thing in your pants.”

  Laughter rumbled through his chest. “You’ve no idea, Lady Violet. Though I pride myself on my ability to control such urges while in public, it seems I am unable to resist you, especially in private.”

  There came a knock on the door. Harclay quickly tucked Violet behind him, and she peeked over his shoulder to see Avery and several footmen bearing great, steaming pots into the room. Two at a time they emptied the pots into the tub. At once the scents of lavender and rosemary filled the chamber.

  “And the candles, don’t forget those,” Harclay said.

  Avery bowed. “Of course not, my lord.”

  Several more footmen entered the chamber, carrying what appeared to be every available candle in the house. They placed the candles about the tub, creating a forest of flickering flames that cast a glow on the steam rising from the scalding hot bathwater.

  Violet’s skin prickled in anticipation; if Harclay didn’t throw her on the bed and have his way with her first, this bath was going to feel lovely indeed.

  The footmen disappeared, shutting the door quietly behind them. Silence settled heavy and expectant between Violet and the earl.

  At last he cleared his throat.

  “A book to read, perhaps, while you bathe?” Harclay said.

  Violet blinked. “Yes,” she replied. “Please.”

  Harclay turned and disappeared into the darkness; she heard a door open, a door shut quietly. Violet stood beside the tub, breathing in the lavender scent of the water in an attempt to calm her nerves. Surely it was better to bring a book into the bath rather than the earl himself.

  Several moments passed without any sign of Harclay’s return. The water beckoned, cooling by the moment.

  “My lord?” Violet called out into the room, unable to see beyond the steam that rose from the tub.

  No answer. She waited a beat. Silence.

  Where the devil did he go? She looked at the water, hot, inviting, and fragrant, and shrugged her shoulders. For the hundredth time that day, she damned Harclay to hell and slipped out of the blanket. She sucked in her breath, the chill night air raising goose bumps on her skin, and slipped into the tub, careful not to douse the candles with splashes of water.

  She nearly moaned as the heat of the water enveloped her limbs and loosened her muscles, and she was half-asleep with pleasure when a sudden squeak, a chair leg sliding across the wooden floor, jarred her to life. Her eyes flew open to rest on Harclay staring down at her.

  “I beg your pardon!” she cried. She crossed her arms about her torso, covering what she could. By the gleam in his dark eyes she could tell she was failing, and quite miserably at that.

  She grew still in the tub, paralyzed by the pleasant sensation of her blood quickening pace inside her skin. Heat bloomed in her chest, rushing the tips of her breasts to solid points that broke the surface of the water. She was embarrassed by her body’s blatant invitation, but despite herself she thrust her breasts higher, exposing both orbs of wet, slippery pale skin to the chill air.

  Harclay dropped the book to the floor and approached slowly, accepting the invitation with his eyes. He circled the tub once, twice, three times, the sound of his shoes against the floor mimicking the riot of her heart. She recognized the look on his face—the intensity of his eyes, the forbidding tightness of his lips—it was the struggle to control himself revealed. Above the steam that danced on the surface of the water she could tell he burned, as did she, though she dared not bat an eyelash, afraid to scare him away. Tonight she could not blame her desire on the heat of excitement that followed a lucky hand; tonight there was not a thrilling crime to fault for her lack of self-restraint. Tonight it was just the two of them, and she wanted him badly, more than she had wanted him under the spell of that night’s revelry.

  He skimmed the water with his fingers, releasing a curling waft of lavender into the air. She shivered as he shrugged out of his coat and lowered himself onto his knees beside the tub. His fingers reached deeper into the water, dancing on the skin of her thigh, and he glanced at her from under his eyelashes. She blinked, parted her lips.

  Yes.

  The ends of his mouth turned upward in a small grin, confidence restored, and his fingers continued to dance higher, higher, and she jumped when he touched her. They both laughed and he leaned forward, his chest and belly flush against her own, and he crushed his lips against her throat. His deep, thunderous kisses sent her flying; she held fast to either side of the cop
per tub, her desire igniting her body so quickly she feared she might burst skyward in a flash of flame.

  She sat upright and pulled his head toward her own. She pressed her lips against his, using her teeth to pry open his mouth. The force of the kiss knocked her backward and she fell into the steaming water. Still their lips tugged and pulled and caressed. She placed a hand on either side of his face and pulled him underwater with her, and for several seconds she reveled in the weightlessness of their embrace.

  “Well, well, my dear,” Harclay panted when he came up for air. “It seems your strength has been restored.”

  “Perhaps,” she replied. It was impossible to take her eyes from his lips; below the water, his fingers worked to open her, caress her, and she felt her control slipping away.

  His strokes were gentle and confident, brushing again and again that part of her that was most sensitive. She thought she might cry out from the pleasure of it, a building pressure that screamed for release.

  “Please, oh, please let me go,” she whispered as her head fell back with a thump on the ledge of the tub.

  Harclay smiled. “Not yet, Violet, but soon,” he murmured and brought his lips back down on hers.

  Just when her desire reached fever pitch, Harclay withdrew his dancing fingers.

  “What?” she panted. “No, please, don’t stop . . .”

  Harclay lifted her from the tub, one arm beneath her shoulder, the other supporting her knees. As small rivers of bathwater ran down her limbs, she shivered and looped her arms around his neck, never breaking the kiss.

  He set Violet gently down upon his bed. The linens felt warm and inviting against her naked back. She pulled him down with her and for a moment they lay against each other, breathing hard. The weight of him on top of her left her breathless; she liked the feel of him, the reminder of his enormity, the enormity of his desire for her.