But who was she to complain? Love was overrated anyway. As was holding on to one’s reputation. Neither allowed a woman a breath of freedom. And rakish though it was, she was very much looking forward to midnight and whatever salacious adventure it would bring in the guise of the Pirate King.
CHAPTER SIX
An edition of the works of Lord Byron has recently been published in England, expurgated, and omitting Don Juan, deeming all of the passages offensive to decency and good morals. Who are the British to decide what decency and good morals are?
—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen
Piccadilly Square, midnight
EVERYTHING IN HER home smelled like fresh-cut flowers, tea leaves and fobbing cinnamon. It was a damn good thing he’d bathed, scrubbed and shaved for the woman before coming over or he would have bloody wilted everything.
Silence drummed as Matthew awkwardly lingered in a lavish, pale green imperial drawing room decorated with overdone wall hangings, marble statuettes and a variety of gilded clocks scattered upon the mantelpiece of a grand hearth.
Matthew scanned the impressive length of the room and angled his way past countless upholstered chairs and pedestal tables. He paused before a white moonstone velvet settee. The woman had more furniture than he had toothpicks. He couldn’t even remember what it was like to own furniture just to own it.
He adjusted the patch over his eye, ensuring it was straight. Glancing down at his great coat, which was spattered and streaked with crusting mud from riding about in last week’s mud and rain, he cringed. He wasn’t going to be making much of an impression. Certainly not the sort she’d made on him.
God. Why was he letting himself face her again at the cost of his own pride as a man? Oh, yes, he knew why. Because of Coleman. That son of a bitch had gambled away and lost everything, and now it was up to Matthew to clean up the mess.
The clicking of heels echoed down the candlelit corridor, drifting toward him through the open double doors.
Setting his calloused hands behind his back, he widened his stance and watched that entryway. His pulse thundered.
Within moments, a curvaceous, dark-haired woman appeared. The same one he’d wanted to seize and mold against himself when he first laid eyes on her in the park. Who knew British women had the ability to rile an Irishman into a full salute with but a glance.
It was felonious.
He tried not to linger on that exquisite appearance. Those black curls, which bore delicate wisps of silver that hinted she was a tad above his own age, were gathered and pinned around an elegant pale face. The only flaw on her face was a welt of a line on her jaw from the crop he’d been unable to save her from.
Since he’d last seen her, her riding bonnet had been stripped and replaced with a gathering of pretty, pale blue satin ribbons that had been woven into her hair, matching the shade of her azure evening gown. That delectable gown clung to her body and full breasts in a way that made him want to bite his hand to keep from biting her.
What he wouldn’t do to unravel this.
Realizing she was watching him, Matthew smiled. He gallantly inclined his head toward her, offering his best rendition of a gent.
She met his gaze and also smiled, those full lips curving.
There was a sensual playfulness in that vibrant smile that made him want to trace his tongue all over it and never stop. Knowing his thoughts were treading on uneven hot bricks, he dug his bare fingers hard into the skin of his wrist below the cuff of his coat and locked it hard against his back. He needed to remind himself of the reality he was stupidly disregarding. Women of her caliber didn’t associate with bogtrotters like him.
She hesitated, her dark eyes flicking to his leather belt and pistols in quiet uncertainty.
Matthew self-consciously adjusted his muddied great coat over the handles of his rosewood pistols, burying them from sight. “You needn’t worry about the lead, luv. ’Tis more for my own protection. Not a lot of people like me.” Which was an understatement. To date, fifty-six people wanted him dead for turning them over to marshals for various crimes. Fortunately, they were all back in New York and most were still sitting in Sing Sing Prison. Most.
She sashayed into the room and rounded him, those hips a-swaying as that satin gown flowed ravishingly against the elegant movements of her shapely body. Dark eyes met his as the zing of citrus floated toward him.
He wanted to lick the air and every last inch of her.
Her lips widened into a dazzling smile. “I am ever so pleased you came.”
That voice was just as he had remembered it. Melodious. “I’m ever so pleased I did, too.”
She swept an ungloved hand toward the white velvet settee. “Would you like to sit?”
He shifted his weight from boot to boot. “Ah, no. I’d rather not get mud on anything that pretty or white.” He couldn’t help but smirk about it. “I owe too many people money as it is.”
Glancing toward his great coat, which she assessed indeed had crusting mud on it, she lowered her hand. “I care nothing for the furniture.” Her expression brightened as she searched his face. “I know all that you see is a chair too pristine to sit on, but I wish to assure you, that the chair does not represent me. Now, please. Sit.”
He eyed her, his smirk fading, noting the genuine dip in that honeyed voice and how she disregarded the mud on him without a blink. This was not your average aristo. There was an endearing earnestness lingering in those dark eyes and that pretty face. Sadly, her delicate jaw was still welted with an angry red line from that arsehole who’d cropped her.
He was beginning to sense that many men—men like Lord Arsehole—took advantage of what appeared to be an incredibly generous soul. And now, the dear was so bloody grateful to him for what he’d done, she was eagerly offering up everything—money, lodgings, a midnight rendezvous and a velvet throne—as if he were worthy of that and more.
Him. Worthy. His throat tightened. Feck. He’d taken money in the name of everything throughout the years, at the cost of everything, including whatever was left of his morals, but the idea of taking money from her felt like he’d really be crawling as a man. Coleman was going to maim him, but he just couldn’t crawl in front of a woman who made his very chest ache.
He cleared his throat. “I, uh, actually came to personally thank you for your earlier offer in the park. ’Twas very generous. Regrettably, Coleman and I must decline for reasons of integrity.” Not a lie. “I should go.”
Her startled gaze met his. “You intend to leave?”
“Aye. ’Tis late and I’ve inconvenienced you enough.” He also didn’t feel like standing in front of her in a tattered, filthy great coat a minute more. “It was a pleasure. And I do mean that. Good night.” He inclined his head and quickly rounded her before he could up and do something stupid. Like ask her if he could stay the night and every night thereafter.
She hesitated and then hurried after him. “Might I offer you tea? At the very least?”
He hated tea. “No, thank you. I don’t do tea.”
“Are you hungry? The chef always has something in the kitchen. I can have the servants bring everything out. You can have whatever you want. Caviar, wine, wilted cress with quail. What would you like?”
It was like dealing with all the mothers back in the ward who wanted to feed him for bringing their wandering children home. Only, this here woman could actually afford what she offered. He swung back to her, but kept walking backward to ensure he didn’t linger. “No, thank you. I ate.”
She paused. “I was really hoping you would stay. Will you?”
He jerked to a halt, his pulse drumming. “Why?”
She smoothed her hair, sending those soft, black curls swaying and, after a long moment, said, “I wanted to get to know you.”
This could be good or this could be bad. “What do you mean? As a person? Or as a man? Because there is a difference. One involves just talk and the other one involves a hell of a lot mor
e than talk. If you know what I mean.”
She blinked rapidly. “Uh...well...both.”
He drew in an astounded breath. Damn. Well.
To hell with Coleman’s notion of the trinity. He was doing this. Angling toward her, Matthew offered in a husky tone he knew the women in his parts liked, “Have at it. What would you like to know about this here man?”
She stared up at him. “Everything.”
Silence pulsed between them.
Everything. Christ, if he was stupid enough to blurt out everything about himself here and now, he doubted she’d let him stay long enough to finish a single sentence.
He cleared his throat. “I suggest we start with the basics. The name is Matthew Joseph Milton. And your full heavenly name is?”
“Lady Burton. It was on the card.”
“Right.” The one he had fingered to the point of tattering. The problem was, he wanted her birth name. Not the prissy title on the card that everyone else got.
Shite. What was he doing? Why was he staying and perpetuating this? A woman of Brit aristocracy would never seriously involve herself with a one-eyed third-generation Irishman with nothing to his name but letters. Furthermore, the boys back home, who were all full-blooded Irish patriots, would no doubt knock his teeth out for this. The woman could even have a fop of a Brit husband. Which he hadn’t fecking thought of until now. A husband who’d be number fifty-seven of men wanting him dead.
He huffed out a breath. “Before I find myself in a situation I’d rather not be in, are you married or currently involved with other men?” After living almost nine years in what he referred to as “Satan’s Circus,” he was long past being coy. It was all about the point.
She let out a laugh. “Oh, no, no. I am no longer married. I have been widowed close to four years now. Nor am I involved with any man.” She eyed him and added, “Yet.”
His brows rose. Luck was at long last on his side. “Ah. Yet. And, uh...how far are you willing to take this? Are we talking matrimony here? Because I’ll admit, despite not looking the sort, that’s what I’m going for. You may not know this, but a rough life does one of two things to a man. Disillusions him completely or makes him create a very long list of all the things he wants and needs. And I’m the latter.”
She lingered for an awkward moment. “Matrimony is for the rest of society, Mr. Milton. A concept I have abandoned out of respect for myself. In truth, I prefer to engage in...whatever adventure presents itself.” She smiled brightly up at him as if pointing out he were said adventure.
He paused. “Why do I get the feeling you’re a bit of a rebel in your circle?”
“I wasn’t always a rebel. I used to do everything everyone told me to do. And then I got bored.” Those pretty dark eyes held his gaze in a daringly intimate manner. “I should probably warn you of something.”
“Amuse me. What?”
“Attachments have not worked well for me in the past. As such, I don’t like to give a man more than a night. That is, if he’s fortunate enough to get a night.”
He dragged a heavy hand through his hair. Apparently, he was dealing with a full-fledged libertine. Not good. He’d sworn to himself long ago, that he’d only take on a woman capable of giving him everything. Because after having lost everything, settling for anything less was downright insulting. He had to make this one cooperate or that damn list of the things he’d always wanted—a wife, children, a home—sure as hell wasn’t going to fall from the sky anytime soon.
She lifted an inquisitive brow. “You have grown unnervingly quiet. Did I unnerve you?”
“I don’t kneel that easily, luv. Believe me. And I’m afraid I’m not willing to accept less than everything. It isn’t in my nature to do so.” He traced his gaze to those full lips and leaned in, fighting against dragging his palms down the curve of her throat. He was beginning to think this woman was about to make him question his nature. “Can I kiss you?”
“If you keep at this, Mr. Milton, you and I will end up fully unclothed within the hour.”
He drew in a steadying breath. “I was hoping.”
She wet her lips. “Were you?”
The woman had to go wet her lips. She probably did it on purpose. “What? Am I not breathing on you hard enough? I thought I was being ridiculously obvious here.”
“A little too obvious. What happened to us getting to know each other? All I know of you thus far is your name.”
“I thought you said attachments have not worked well for you.” He mockingly stared her down. “Besides. If I were to tell you anything more about myself, you’d ask me to leave and the night would be over. Is that what you want?”
She smirked. “I knew you were trouble the moment I glimpsed you in that park.”
“And yet you not only invited trouble into your home at an ungodly hour, but are asking him to stay. I wonder why.”
She lifted a hand to his chin. “Because when I want something, I have learned not to deny myself of it. And yes, I will admit, bold that I am, I want something. Can you guess what it is?” Holding his gaze, she delicately grazed the tips of her fingers along the curve of his jaw in a way that made his breath hitch.
He’d been touched by women before. Obviously. But something about her and that touch was hauntingly different. This was different. He could feel destiny biting into his soul, taunting him to swallow this and her whole.
He grabbed that hand and savagely pressed its heat against his chin. Lowering his gaze to hers, he tried to keep his breath steady and possessively fingered the softness of that skin, allowing her heat to penetrate his own.
She didn’t pull away.
Which meant she wanted him.
His throat tightened and he couldn’t bloody help but think about ripping all of that expensive fabric from her body with his teeth. Regardless of what this would ultimately result in, he was damn well willing to settle for whatever the hell the woman wanted.
Releasing her, he plunged his bare hands into those gathered curls. He dug his fingers in and out, causing pins and ribbons to cascade out as he unraveled some of the silken strands. “Are we doing this?”
Her chest rose and fell more rapidly, those breasts taunting him to touch and expose them.
Tugging back on that thick, soft hair, he tilted her face to ensure she was looking up at him. “I asked you a question, luv. Are we doing this?”
Her lips parted, those dark eyes intently searching his face. “Mr. Milton—”
“Matthew. Call me Matthew.”
“Matthew.”
“Yes?” He waited for her to say something, but no words fell from those lips.
She merely watched him.
Sensing the woman was mesmerized by what he considered to be a simple touch, he slid the tips of his fingers down that soft, pretty face, ensuring he didn’t touch or graze the welt on her jaw. His calloused fingers hadn’t had the honor of touching something so beautiful or satiny in so long. “I want you to tell me something.”
“Yes?” she whispered.
He cupped the sides of her face. “Since we met, have you thought about me at all?”
She hesitated. “Yes. I have.”
“Often?”
“More than I care to admit.”
She’d been thinking about him. Often. Just like he’d been thinking about her. Often. A little too often and to the point of pleasuring himself in the darkness of his room to ensure he didn’t explode whilst waiting to see her again. “And did you pleasure yourself at all whilst thinking of me?” he pressed.
Her eyes widened. “Is there a point to this?”
He tightened his hold on her face. “Did you?”
She held his gaze, those flushed features giving her the appearance of a woman who had just emerged from the throes of six hours of passion. “Twice.”
He could see in her eyes that she had done it twice. Knowing it was obscenely exhilarating.
“I did it more than twice.” He released her and purposefully li
ngered closer, letting his legs brush against those skirts. “Seeing you and I clearly feel the same about each other, I want you to put your arms around me. Are you up for it?”
Still holding his gaze, she slowly wrapped her arms around his shoulders, dragging him closer against herself until the scent of powder and citrus permeated his very breath.
He asked and she did. Damn. He’d been waiting for a woman like this all his life. He could only hope that her one-night-only rule wouldn’t apply to him after this was over, because he wouldn’t be able to live with that.
He slid his hands up the sides of those incredible curves, her warmth hardening the last of him. His cock pressed rigidly against the flap of his trousers. “Tell me what happens next.”
“I think we both know what happens next.”
His pulse thundered and he could no longer breathe. All he could think about was licking those full lips, ripping that dress in half and making her his, all his. “I should probably warn you, I’ve never been one to take anything slow.”
Still lingering, she softly and tauntingly pointed out, “Did I ask you to take this slow?”
He bit back a shudder and, God help him, he knew he was done for.
CHAPTER SEVEN
All that you can do, do not. Unless it will bring forth good. Unless it will bring forth change.
—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen
EVERY INCH OF BERNADETTE’S skin pulsed as those large hands trailed from her hair down the curve of her throat, until their blessed heat stilled at her bodice. His fingers slipped past the edge of her décolletage.
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