Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover_The Fourth Rule of Scoundrels

by Sarah MacLean

  “Another?” he asked.

  “Another truth,” she said.

  He captured the foot at his chest, lifted it, pressed a hot kiss to the inside of her ankle, letting his tongue lave the soft fabric there until she sighed. “I want to take these stockings off you. I want your skin, softer than silk.”

  He nipped at her ankle, loving the gasp she let loose in the carriage, suddenly hot as the sun. “It is your turn.”

  She stilled. “For what?”

  “Tell me your secrets.”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  He knew that. She was filled with shadows, each one protecting some piece of her. Each one in need of light. “Begin with this,” he said, sliding his hand up her calf to her knee, following it with a swirl of his fingertips. “Tell me how it makes you feel. Without artifice.”

  She laughed as the he tickled her. “It makes me feel—” When she stopped, he did, too, pulling his hand away from her. She stretched her leg after him, as though she could catch him. Return him. “It makes me feel young.”

  He did return to her then, surprised by the word. “What does that mean?”

  She sighed in the darkness. “Don’t stop.”

  He didn’t, stroking again. And again. “What does it mean, Georgiana?”

  “Just that—” She stopped. Her foot flexed against his chest, and he wished they were at his home. He needed more space. He needed to see her—touch her—at will. She took a breath. “It’s been a long time . . . since . . .”

  He knew the way the sentence ended. Since she’d been with another man. Since she’d been with anyone but Chase. He didn’t want her to finish the thought. Didn’t want the man’s name here, in the darkness, with them.

  But she finished it anyway. “. . . since I’ve felt this way.”

  And, like that, he was unlocked. There was something about this woman, about the way she spoke, the promises she made with simple, ordinary words, that made him thoroughly desperate for her. But when she confessed her feelings, with utter honesty, surprise and a touch of wonder in her beautiful voice, how was he to resist her?

  How was he to ever give her back once he had a taste of her?

  How was he to walk away, eventually?

  Christ.

  What kind of mess was he getting himself into?

  He released her, setting her feet to the floor, and she resisted the loss of him just as his body resisted the loss of her.

  “Wait,” she said, leaning forward, her beautiful face coming into the light. “Don’t stop.”

  “I have no intention of stopping,” he promised her. Himself. “I just want to make a few things clear.”

  Her brow furrowed, “How much more clear must I be? I propositioned you in Hyde Park. I met you outside your office dressed like a . . .” She hesitated. “Well, like the kind of woman who does those things.”

  It occurred to him that she often dressed in such a manner. “I don’t care what you wear.”

  When she spoke, the words were dry as sand. “You certainly seemed to like the stockings.”

  The memory of black silk with silver piping took over, and what would have been a laugh became a growl. “I like the stockings very much.”

  She blushed, and he marveled at it. He leaned forward until he was inches away from her face. Her lips. “I wonder,” he whispered, “Do other bits of you go red when you are embarrassed?”

  The flush grew. “I don’t know. I’ve never looked.”

  “Well, I am most certainly going to look.”

  “In the name of investigative journalism, no doubt.”

  He grinned. “I am the best newspaperman in London, love. I simply cannot leave the work at the office.”

  She matched his smile for a long moment, until the expression faded into seriousness. She looked down at her hands, clasped in the space between them. “You are making me like you,” she said.

  He watched her carefully. “You don’t already like me?”

  She spoke softly. “Of course I like you. But now—you’re tempting me with things that I cannot have.”

  He knew immediately what she meant, and the words sent a wave of sadness through him. He was not the man for her. He could not give her a title. Could not give Caroline security. At best, he was born into mystery. Bred in the gutter.

  And that was before she knew the truth.

  Before she knew he was not what he seemed. He was nothing that he claimed to be. Before she knew that he had used and manipulated her to gain access to Tremley’s secrets. Before she knew that he was a criminal. A thief.

  Destined for prison or worse if he was found out.

  When he was found out.

  Because no matter how careful he was, no matter how well he threatened Tremley, as long as the earl drew breath, he was at risk.

  And everyone he loved was at risk, as well.

  So, even if she weren’t on the hunt for a title, he could not be the man she wanted. And he certainly could not be the man she needed.

  But he could be the man she had. Right now. For a brief, fleeting moment before they both had to return to reality.

  He reached for her, lifting her off her seat, loving the little squeak she released as he pulled her into his lap to straddle him, silken skirts and petticoats cascading around them both. She rose above him, topping his long frame by several inches because of their position, and he adored it, the way she looked down at him, something like promise in her beautiful amber gaze.

  “You can have it all tonight,” he said, his voice harsh and graveled and unfamiliar to him. “Every bit of me. Everything you want.”

  She leaned back, the curve of her bottom pressing into his thighs, sending wicked, wonderful ideas through his filthy mind.

  She began to roll her gloves down her arms. “I want to feel you.”

  Not ideas. Plans.

  “I want to touch you,” she added. One length of black silk was lost to the darkness of the other side of the carriage, and her hand was on his face, fingers tracing his cheek, his jaw, tilting his head up as she moved down, her lips skimming over the places where her touch had been. “I want to kiss you.”

  If she didn’t kiss him, he was going to lose his mind.

  She was seducing him with words and touch and scent, and he loved every goddamn bit of it. He wanted to pull her to him, to take her lips and remove the damn wig, to lift her skirts and make love to her until neither one of them could remember their names, let alone the ridiculous arrangement to which they’d agreed.

  But he didn’t move. He wouldn’t. There was something about this woman who dealt in desire and sin and sex, something about the way she looked at him, the way she spoke, the way she touched, that made him wonder if she’d ever in her life taken her own pleasure.

  And so he waited for her to do it. She would kiss him that night, or they would never kiss. This was her moment. Her pleasure. Her desire.

  Once he got her into his house, it would be his turn to give her every inch of pleasure he could.

  But now, it was her turn to take it.

  She leaned in, and he thought she was going to kiss him. But at the very last moment she pulled back, making him think she’d devised some new and wonderful form of torture. He said her name, and it came like a curse in the darkness.

  “Two weeks,” she said.

  “What?”

  She smiled. “I do think you are addled, sir.”

  “This is what happens when you tease a man.”

  She ran her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, and every inch of him responded to the pretty sensation. “Two weeks. No more. Nothing that would get us into trouble. Two weeks and then we are through.”

  The fact that he’d thought nearly the same thing mere minutes ago did not stop him from being slightly irritated that she could think about terms for their arrangement.

  He agreed, nonetheless. “Two weeks. Now kiss me, goddammit.”

  And, blessedly, she d
id.

  She’d never kissed a man.

  Oh, she’d been kissed, certainly. On multiple occasions, both wanted and unwanted. She’d been kissed by this man, and it had been magnificent. But she’d never once taken control of a moment such as this one, and kissed a man. Even with Jonathan, when youth and folly should have made her bold.

  The heady pleasure of the experience was not something that she would ever forget. She adored it, the way he let her dominate, the way he leaned back against the seat, his hands at her hips only to steady her in case the carriage moved unexpectedly. The way he let her lead the caress, first with hands and then with lips.

  And she adored the way he felt against her, hard and unyielding and so incredibly warm. He did not touch her, and she at once hated and loved the fact. She wanted the exploration. She wanted to tempt him. And touch him. And do her best to seduce him, for in all the years that she’d dressed as Anna, she’d never tried seduction.

  Something that he seemed to do so effortlessly. Without even touching her.

  She let her lips linger on his for a moment, getting her bearings before placing her hands on his shoulder and letting her tongue edge out to lick at him. He growled deep in his throat at the sensation, and she felt the rumble as much as she heard it. His lips parted, and she leaned in. Tested her power.

  His grip on her hips tightened, and the kiss grew deeper, more intense. She turned her head, fitted herself more carefully to him. The growl turned into groan, and one of his hands finally, finally moved, coming up the side of her neck, cupping her jaw, holding her for his kiss. His tongue met hers, and she pulled back at the lovely sensation. For a moment, he seemed lost, and then he met her gaze and with complete control, reached up, pulled her back to him, and took the kiss for himself.

  His hands were everywhere—sliding over skin and silk, up to her hair. She pulled away from the touch, “Wait,” she gasped, grabbing his hands, pulling them away from her. “Not the wig. Not yet.”

  “I want it off. I want you,” he confessed.

  “And I want that, as well,” she said. “But if anyone sees—”

  It had to be Anna entering his house in the dead of night. Alone. Wearing black silk.

  He groaned his agreement, placing his hands at her hips, instead, pulling at silk, shifting her, bringing them closer together. “There is far too much fabric in this dress,” he growled as he pulled her down, lifting himself, fitting them together, hard and soft, rocking against her once, twice, before biting at her bottom lip and taking her mouth with lips and tongue.

  It was her turn to groan at the onslaught of his kiss—and it was an onslaught, a carefully waged war of long, slow, drugging kisses, matched with movement and unspoken promises that made her hot and cold and desperate for him all at once.

  She lifted her head, wanting to see him. To understand this moment, when they seemed the only two people in the world. His eyes opened at the loss of her. “I had not planned this,” she whispered, her fingers running along the crests and valleys of his face.

  “The carriage?” he asked.

  “The pleasure,” she said.

  He paused, watching her carefully, and she nearly closed her eyes, afraid of what he might find. “That’s interesting, as your pleasure is all I had planned.”

  He stroked down the sides of her body, sending ripples of that promised pleasure through her, from shoulders to hips and back up to the place where her bodice seemed too tight, desperate for loosening.

  Desperate for his touch.

  He gave it to her, running his thumbs over the tips of her breasts, hardened beneath the silk. She threw her head back at the sensation, and he leaned up to run his teeth along her bare collarbone. Following the sharp edge with the warm stroke of his tongue. “Stop,” she whispered.

  He did, instantly, pulling away from her. Surprise flared, his willingness to stop unexpected. He watched her. “Is something wrong?”

  Yes.

  But it wasn’t what he thought.

  It was all wrong—every bit of it—because it felt so damn right. Because it made her wonder, fleetingly, what she’d been missing all these years. Whom she’d been missing.

  It made her question too much. Everything. She shook her head. “No,” she lied. “Kiss me again.”

  But he could not, because the moment the words were out, the carriage slowed. He leaned into her, placing a long, lingering kiss at the edge of her dress, where she strained for breath. “Tell me we are at my home.”

  She laughed at the desperation in his voice, only because it was similar to her own. She moved off him, wishing she didn’t have to. Wanting to stay there forever. “We are. I thought here, rather than the club.”

  He leaned over to help rearrange her skirts, and she loved the way his fingers lingered on the curve of her knee, the slope of her calf. “You thought well. I do not want us meeting at the club.”

  “Why not?” she asked as he lifted one foot and returned her slipper.

  “I won’t be seen with you there.”

  The words stung. “But you can sleep with me?”

  He stilled, his gaze meeting hers, hot and full of promise. “First, you misunderstand. I don’t want you there. I want you far from there. Far from scandal and sin and vice. I want to be the only scoundrel in your company.

  “And second . . .” He lifted her other foot, stroking his fingers down the arch of it before placing it in her slipper. “I assure you, there won’t be any sleeping.”

  The words sent a thread of pleasure through the core of her, as surely as if he’d lay her bare and whispered them against her skin.

  He set her foot gently to the floor of the carriage, and she said, “Take me inside.”

  White teeth flashed. “With pleasure.”

  Chapter 13

  . . . Truly, there are few stars in this Season’s galaxy that shine even half as bright as our fair Lady G—. She grows ever more desired at public functions, and we have no doubt that the eligible bachelors of the ton desire her for functions that take place exclusively in chapels. As for Lord L—, however, as their company seems well-kept . . .

  . . . In sad corners of ballrooms we have recently found poor, lost little lamb, Lady S—, once a welcome member of the Pitiless Pretties of the ton, now exiled for sins we cannot imagine. We have high hopes for her restoration, however, as she was seen dancing with the Marquess of E— . . .

  The gossip pages of the Weekly Courant,

  May 1, 1833

  His house was massive, gilded and gorgeous, every inch of it appointed in the height of fashion. She stood in the main marble foyer, turning slowly, looking at the high ceilings and the wide, curving staircase that led to the upper floors of the house.

  “This is beautiful,” she said, turning to face him. “I’ve never seen a home so perfectly designed.”

  He leaned against a marble column nearby, arms crossed, gaze focused on her. “It keeps rain from our heads.”

  She laughed. “It does more than that.”

  “It’s a house.”

  “Give me a tour.”

  He waved an arm to the doors on the far end of the foyer. “Receiving room, receiving room, breakfast room.” And to the ones behind her. “Cynthia’s morning room, another receiving room.” He paused. “I don’t entirely know why we need so many.” He indicated a long hallway that led to the back of the house. “The kitchens and swimming pool are that way. The dining room and ballroom are one flight up.” He returned his attention to her. “The bedchambers are lovely. They deserve personal inspection.”

  She laughed at his impatience. “Swimming pool?”

  “Yes.”

  “You realize that a swimming pool is not precisely a common addition to a London town house.”

  “It’s not precisely a common addition to London,” he said, lifting one shoulder. “But I like being clean, so it makes for excellent sport.”

  “So do any number of men. They take baths.”

  He raised a
brow. “I take baths, as well.”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  “You’d like to see me take a bath?” He looked positively thrilled by the idea.

  She laughed. “No. I’d like to see your swimming pool.”

  He considered refusing—she could see it in his eyes. After all, a tour of his home was not part of their agreed agenda for the evening. But she stood firm, until he took her hand in his—warm and large and rough from years of work—and led her through the house, down the dark hallway and through the kitchens.

  He came to a closed door, and set his hand to the handle, turning back to meet her gaze, he opened the door, and indicated that she should pass into the dimly lit room beyond.

  She stepped inside, first noting the barely-there light that came from a half-dozen fireplaces on the far side of the room, and then noticing how very warm it was in the room.

  “Stay here,” he said softly at her ear, pushing past her. “I shall light the lamps.”

  She stood in the warm darkness, watching as he put a match to a lamp nearby, casting a small sphere of golden light in the massive room. The light was at the edge of the swimming pool, still and dark, and utterly compelling. She moved without even noticing, drawn to the mysterious water as Duncan followed the edge of the pool, lighting more lamps, until the room came into view.

  It was magnificent.

  The walls and floor of the room was tiled in the most beautiful blue and white mosaic, like sky and surf coming together. The lamps sat on beautifully wrought marble columns, each light made manifest as a golden orb of glass. She looked up to where the ceiling gave way to what must have been a hundred panels of glass, revealing the sky above London, darkness and stars.

  She could look at that ceiling forever.

  And that was without the swimming pool, reflecting the stars and lamps on the water, wine dark, like Odysseus’s seas. She met Duncan’s gaze where he stood several yards away, adjusting the brightness of one of the lamps. No, not Odysseus. He was Poseidon, god of this place, strong enough to bend water to his will.

  “This is . . .” She paused, not knowing how to describe the room. The way it called to her. “. . . stunning.”