It wasn’t lost on him either that his reaction rendered him the worst sort of hypocrite. He was ready to wage war on her behalf against some unseen assailant, and yet he had taken advantage of her last evening himself. She had come to him with a noble purpose. He’d known that having her in his chamber, such a decadent temptation within reach, was a mistake. Yet, he’d allowed it. And he’d allowed his emotions, made raw by reading her article and the ugly memories it visited upon him, to get the better of him. Hang it, he never should have kissed her.
He would see her tonight, surely, though he would do his utmost to keep his distance. Levi climbed the servants’ stair and slipped into the upstairs hall, where his determination was instantly put to the test by the sight of none other than Lady Helen gliding down the hall like a princess come to walk amongst the lesser beings in her castle. She wore an ice-blue dress with a cluster of damask roses on the bodice and a full, draped skirt of tulle over silk that showed off her figure to perfection. Her low décolletage revealed a swath of creamy skin, her breasts full and lusciously displayed. Golden curls were artfully arranged at her crown, diamonds winking from her combs and her throat.
The full impact of her beauty hit him in the chest like a physical blow as he met her gaze. “My lady,” he said formally, stiffly, even to his own ears. He had held her in his arms last night, and now she stood before him as a cruel reminder that the heady wickedness of the evening could not be repeated. Dared not be repeated.
“Mr. Storm.” A telling flush splashed across her cheeks.
She had to be thinking, as he was—as it seemed he could not stop—of their last meeting. The conscience that had been aggravating him all day returned.
“I must apologize for my actions,” he forced himself to say. “I am very sorry for the insult I paid you. It was unconscionable.”
Her eyes widened. Perhaps she had not expected him to speak of their midnight meeting. He knew well it was not done, that he should not mention it by the light of day. But he had never cared for rules, and it grieved him to think of how callous he had been. She was too good to be propositioned as if she were no better than a dockside doxy.
“Pray do not worry yourself over it, Mr. Storm. We both erred. It shan’t happen again.” Although her tone was calm, her fingers betrayed her inner agitation, picking at the delicately draped paniers of her skirts.
He nodded. “Of course. Thank you for your understanding, my lady.” Damn it all, he hated being so polite, so cold.
What he really wanted was to throw her over his shoulder as he’d done the first day he’d met her, carry her off to his chamber, and finish what they’d only just begun the night before. As gorgeous as she was in that dress, he couldn’t help but long to strip it off her and throw it in a heap to the floor.
Hang it, he needed to get ahold of himself or he’d be on his knees before her soon, begging to kiss her ribbon-trimmed hem. Since when had he become this weak-willed? This affected by beauty, a lush form, a woman, any woman? He had no right, he reminded himself harshly, no right at all.
“Will you be attending the ball tonight?” she asked lowly.
“Yes.” He didn’t dance at society functions, but the thought of holding her soft body to his was enough to make him wonder if he should. “Save a dance for me?” The words had escaped him before he could think better of them. He needed, just once more, to hold her in his arms.
She gave him a stunning, if wistful, smile. “Of course, Mr. Storm. Until then.”
Without further words, Lady Helen spun on her heel and swept away just as smoothly as she had arrived. It was best. Had she lingered any longer, he very much feared his limited ability to restrain himself and remain cool and unaffected would have diminished entirely. He stood there in the hall, watching her go, wondering just what the hell it was about her that drew him in a way no other woman before her had. If he had a modicum of common sense left in him, he’d retreat back to his offices and forget all about her soft skin and tempting curves and the overwhelming need to have her in his bed.
But obviously, he didn’t possess a shred of common sense any longer, for he beat a hasty path to his chamber so that he could change into his gentleman’s clothes and attend a damn ball and hold Lady Helen in his arms again. He was a lunatic. An idiot. A fool.
Just one dance, he promised himself. One dance and then he would say his goodbyes this night. By morning, he would return his life to its peaceful routine of work, sleep, work again. If his house wasn’t habitable, he’d go back to a hotel. Any hotel would do. Anywhere he didn’t share a roof with a gorgeous golden-haired siren. Of one thing, he was deadly certain. He couldn’t remain. She was too much a temptation, and he was too close to achieving what he’d always wanted. He had never been one to allow his prick to rule his brain, and he surely wouldn’t begin now. There was too much at stake. He had come too far to sacrifice everything he’d built.
As the ball wore on, Helen wondered if perhaps Mr. Storm had thought better of his request to spare him a dance. She had never overly thrilled to the notion of a ball. There was something about all the dressing and preparing, the prancing about in tight heels for hours, and the general tedium of it that quite wore her out. But this ball in particular meant a great deal to Bella, and Bella in turn meant a great deal to Helen, so she pasted a smile on her lips and kept a glass of champagne close at hand.
Her friend was doing an admirable job as hostess, and if the crush of glittering lords and ladies was any indication, the ball would be deemed a first-rate success by society. Helen fanned herself as she sipped her champagne from her station on the outskirts of the revelries. She had danced with a handful of lords, one of whom had been an old suitor of her sister Tia’s. The Earl of Denbigh was a widower now and had recently begun his return to society. He had broken poor Tia’s heart once, but in the end it had all worked out, for Tia had found a love that was truly meant to be with her husband Devonshire. Denbigh had been kind, charming, and witty as ever. But it had all been rather lost on Helen, who had spent each of her dances scanning the crowd for a sight of Mr. Storm, only to be disappointed every time.
She sighed, wishing she wasn’t such a ninny. Heaven knew there were matters of far greater import in the world than whether or not she danced the quadrille with Mr. Storm. Perhaps she should simply slip away from the festivities and go to bed. After all, she was tired from the late nights and early days she’d been keeping of late.
Helen turned, thinking to do just that, and there he was. Mr. Storm.
She stopped, her gaze clashing with his, the same, familiar heat sliding through her veins at the mere sight of him. He was so striking in his evening finery that it quite took her breath. “Mr. Storm.”
He bowed with a cagey elegance that was patently his. “My lady.”
Mayhap she would stay at the ball after all.
“I scarcely recognize you, sir,” she teased him, unable to resist. When she had come upon him earlier, he had been dressed in his work attire, looking rough and uncivilized with a hint of sin. Now he was as polished and refined as any duke in the ballroom. She wasn’t sure which she preferred, the rough and wild or the gentleman in him. Certainly, both made her yearn for something she had no right to want.
He took her hand and raised it to his lips for a kiss that was almost reverent. A new awareness settled over her, mingling with desire. In that moment, she caught a glimpse of the same in his startlingly blue eyes. All that had transpired between them the night before hung in the air between them, sparking like a live electric wire.
“Even a stray dog can clean up well with water and soap,” he said with that wry grin of his.
“I’d hardly characterize you as a stray dog,” she said softly. No indeed. Not a single soul looking upon Mr. Storm in the ballroom would consider him anything less than the picture of masculine beauty. He made her ache. “More like a wolf.”
He laughed. “I suppose I’m deserving of that barb.”
She hadn’t be
en referring to what had happened last night in his chamber. Rather, she’d been thinking of how she saw him, fierce and dangerous, powerful and yet best kept at a distance. But now she couldn’t help but think of his kisses, his caress on her breast. Her madly thudding heart reminded her that it hadn’t been long since his palm had pressed there, intimate and warm.
“It wasn’t a barb.” She realized belatedly that he still held her hand and extricated it lest any of their fellow revelers happen to take notice. “It was a compliment.” Helen paused then, wondering how much she should say, if anything, before plodding on. “And you needn’t have apologized earlier. I wasn’t insulted by you yesterday.”
His expression became unreadable. “You should have been, Lady Helen.”
“I wasn’t.” She didn’t know why it was important for him to know, but somehow it was. Her reason for fleeing him, she realized now, had been self-preservation and nothing else. She hadn’t been shocked. She hadn’t been outraged. She had been tempted then, just as she was tempted now, to cast aside the rigid rules of society and dare to experience passion just once in her life. Just once, and then she could go back to being proper Lady Helen, maiden aunt, spinster sister, dear friend, respectable reformer.
What was the harm, some forbidden force within her wondered, in allowing foolish Helen to experience one giddy night of pure, unadulterated hedonism in the arms of the man before her? Her breath caught at the notion, so wicked and yet so very wonderful all at once. The champagne must have bollixed her brain.
He looked at her as though he wanted to devour her. “It was exceedingly unwise of you to make that confession to me.”
She raised a brow, feeling wicked. “Oh?”
“It means you have forfeited your advantage. In life, as in business, you should never reveal too much too soon, or your opponent will seize upon your weakness.”
Was it always about business with him? This was not the first time he had spouted a maxim to her. But the very thought of him seizing upon her weakness, as he so politely phrased it, was enough to send a sharp tug of yearning though her. Oh yes, something strange had come over her. She thought then of Bella’s earlier words. A great deal can happen at a ball. Perhaps the time to see about that had come. “I’m sure I never had an advantage over you to begin with, Mr. Storm. Now, have you come to dance with me, or have you come to stand in the corner arguing with me all evening long?”
It was his turn to raise a brow. “Duly reprimanded, my lady. There’s nothing I detest more than the quadrille, but hang it, I’ll not have it be said that I stood in the corner arguing with the most beautiful woman in attendance all night long.”
The most beautiful woman in attendance.
Surely he didn’t think so. And of course, she wasn’t. There was a whole host of lovely ladies gathered tonight, Lady Bella with her raven hair and creamy complexion among the loveliest of all. Helen couldn’t hold even a candle to them. But the way he looked at her, the way he touched her, the way he had held her yesterday and kissed her with such fierce hunger…it made her believe.
He led her to the dance floor and they took up their positions as the familiar tune began to play. Although they were surrounded by others, they could have been the only couple in the room, so thoroughly were they aware of each other. Their eyes locked as they traveled through the steps, side by side, opposite, twirling together as if one. His hand on the small of her back was like a brand through the layers of silk and boning she wore. Mr. Storm stood apart from all the other men at the assemblage with his height, dark hair, and commanding presence. This night, she had eyes only for him. She was dizzied. The dance seemed to be too short and never-ending all at once.
Helen didn’t know if it was the dance or the champagne or the heat in the ballroom generated by the crush of guests, but as Mr. Storm led her from the floor at the quadrille’s completion, steeped in formal politeness, she felt suddenly faint and unsteady. He noticed instantly, for she felt a staying hand on her waist. Her vision blurred around the edges like a watercolor painting.
“Oh dear,” she said. “I fear I may swoon.”
It wasn’t like her. She was made of much sterner stuff, but she didn’t wish to embarrass herself. She needed some air. Her corset seemed too tight. Her entire body was flushed and heated. If she didn’t get away from this clamor at once, she didn’t know what would happen. It would have been the perfect moment for one of her sisters to accompany her to the retiring room where she could regain her composure as they gossiped about all the lords and ladies in attendance. But her sisters weren’t here, and she was alone with Mr. Storm in a sea of people.
How she missed Cleo, Tia, and Bo in that moment.
Everything sounded as if it were very far away, carried to her on a lush summer breeze. Maybe she should not have consumed quite so much champagne. She’d lost count of how many flutes she’d drained over the course of the ball. Good heavens, had it been more than five? A fresh wave of dizziness assailed her and she stumbled against his powerful, lean frame. He smelled divine, she thought fuzzily.
“Come,” he ordered, ushering her hastily away.
She collected her thoughts enough to protest. “Where are you taking me?”
He couldn’t simply escort her out of the ballroom and into a private room. Propriety certainly didn’t allow such a thing. She ought not to allow such a thing. Would not if it weren’t for the spinning of her head. As it stood, she was ineffectual as a fly at the moment.
“Hush.” He steered her around a tittering countess and a footman bearing a tray of champagne flutes.
“But—”
“My lady, hush.”
“Someone will see.”
“No one will notice. Everyone here is either far too inebriated or preoccupied.”
Casting a quick look about, he led her from the ballroom, down the hall, and into another chamber. As the door closed at their backs, stifling the cacophony of sound from the ballroom beyond, Helen realized they were in Jesse’s study. Alone. Still dizzied, she clutched Mr. Storm’s arm. “We are in our host’s private study. We cannot be here together.”
“Jesse won’t mind,” he assured her, guiding her to an overstuffed chair and easing her into it. He sank to his knees before her, his expression for once unguarded. “Are you unwell, my lady?”
He was concerned. A strange, new warmth stole over her. The world came back into crisp focus but her heart hammered furiously against her breast. She still felt off-kilter, almost as though she were out of her own skin, almost as if she were giddy.
Oh dear. He was before her like a knight of old, so striking and elegant, so unlike the arrogant stranger who had unceremoniously removed her from his offices the day they’d met. This Mr. Storm was different. Or maybe she was different. Or the night was different. Or she was hopelessly, thoroughly in her cups. She didn’t know which.
“I am fine,” she forced herself to say. “I daresay I sampled too much of the champagne this evening and that is all.”
“You don’t seem fine, my lady.” He frowned. His hands bracketed her skirts, near enough to her that he almost touched her, and the thought of those big hands of his on her made her quite weak. “Can I fetch you something? Some water, perhaps? Some ice?”
She licked lips that had suddenly gone dry. “There is nothing I need other than for you to return me to the ball. This is quite scandalous, sir. If someone should come upon us, it would cause us no end of trouble.”
“No one will come upon us. I’ve locked the door.”
His casual pronouncement did wicked things to her body that she was sure had everything to do with the blasted champagne. The door was locked. No one could disturb them or happen upon them. They were free to do what they chose.
Yes, she was in her cups alright, she had to be. There was no other reason for her to lean forward, set her palms upon Mr. Storm’s shoulders, and press her mouth to his. No other reason save for the fact that she had been thinking about him all day, about how h
e had touched and kissed her, how he had made her feel, how he had wanted her in his bed. She kissed him just for the feeling of his mouth upon hers once more, because she couldn’t help herself, because she couldn’t not.
And he kissed her back. Kissed her back with a ferocity that belied his every proper, polite conversation with her that evening. Kissed her back as though he hungered for her. He caught her waist and slid her closer to the edge of the chair, angling his lips over hers with just enough pressure to make her long for more. If she’d thought she was near to swooning before, she had been dead wrong. His tongue swept inside her mouth, claiming and seductive all at once.
He dragged his mouth down her throat, kissing and nipping and tasting. He caught her earlobe with his teeth and tugged, sending a white-hot spiral of desire straight to her core. She slid the rest of the way from the chair until she too was on her knees on the soft, rich carpet, skirts pooled around her. Her position was made somewhat awkward by her corset and the heap of her elaborate dress. She didn’t care in that moment if it was irreversibly crushed or if she’d have to find the nearest servants’ stair and run to her chamber in shame after Mr. Storm was done having his way with her. All that mattered was his hands and his mouth upon her, making her want him so much that she ached with it.
He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her neck again and then traced a path of fire straight to her décolletage. With one swift tug, he pulled down her bodice, revealing her corset cover. She hadn’t bothered with a chemise because of the cut of her sleeves, and she was glad for it now. One less layer between them.
He lowered her corset cover and unfastened the first two closures on her corset. The breath left her lungs as the reality of the situation pierced the fog of lust and spirits that had cloaked her sense of reason. She was on the floor of Mr. Whitney’s study with Mr. Storm in the midst of a ball with hundreds of people beneath the same roof, allowing him to undress her. It was sheer, sanity-defying foolishness.
Sweet Scandal Page 9
