The first hour passed uneventfully. In the second hour, she appeared at her window, and he watched it slide open. He thought about calling up to her to stop her foolishness, but he didn’t want to chance waking her mother. As much as he thought her mother needed someone to wake her up to what Lilias was doing, Nash could not stand the thought of being the one to cause Lilias problems with her mother. He’d simply have to stand guard here every night until Owen returned to London, and then he was going to have to tell Owen about Lilias’s little adventures so that Owen would demand she stop.
Lilias kicked one leg over her window ledge, giving Nash a view of her creamy flesh. He had to swallow a groan of desire. She sent her other leg over, and then the little hellion started down the tree, shimmying her body, which moved her hips in a way that made him think of how she might move them if he were on top of her, entering her. He hardened instantly.
He let her descend almost to the bottom before he spoke. “I said to stay home.”
She stilled, gasped, and looked over her shoulder at him. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
He ignored that obvious question. “I vow it,” he said instead, mimicking the oath she’d falsely given him last night. Then he snorted. “You force me into a position where I have no choice but to tell Owen.”
“Fine,” she growled, then surprised him by dropping very nimbly to the ground. She landed with barely a thud, which told him Lilias had descended this tree often. More often than he cared to think about her endangering herself. She thrust her hands onto her hips and glared at him. “Tell him.” Then she smirked. “But you will have to wait unless you plan to travel to the Cotswolds to do so.”
By God, she was magnificent in her confidence.
“Now if you will kindly excuse me.” She tried to sidestep him, but he easily blocked her path.
“I will tell him, Lilias,” he said, sure she was bluffing about being unconcerned. “I’ll tell him, and you know he’ll demand you cease this. Owen is a proper rule follower, and he has never been the adventurous sort.”
He hated when her shoulders drooped. The last thing he wanted to do was make her feel defeated. She glanced at him from under her lashes. “You are undoubtedly right,” she said, sounding miserable, which made him feel worse. “He will very likely demand I stop my work with—”
Her words came to a halt, and she bit her lip.
“SLAR,” he supplied, not sure why.
Her eyes widened. “How do you know about the Society of Ladies Against Rogues?” She sounded both outraged and wary.
“I have my ways,” he replied. He did not want to tell her that Carrington had told him about it.
“Carrington,” she said, her tone derisive. “It had to be him. You may as well admit it.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” he replied, rather than lying to her about it.
“If Carrington told you about SLAR, then he must have told you of the important work we do.”
“He did,” Nash agreed. He rather liked the idea of a group of women banding together to stand against rogues. He just did not like the idea of Lilias endangering herself.
“Let me ask you this,” she said, her voice taking on a sweet note that made him suspicious. “What if it were your sister who was in need? What if the missive I received tonight was to aid Lady Adaline? Would you not want me to help her?”
“No. I would want you to contact me immediately,” he replied, crossing his arms.
She crossed hers, as well. “What if I could not find you? What if a woman with no brother or father needs someone to protect her?”
“All women have fathers,” he said, mentally cursing himself the minute the idiotic words left his mouth. “God, Lil, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t call me that,” she said, her voice hard.
“You still wish me to call you Lady Lilias?”
She sighed. “You may call me Lilias. For now. Unless you give me reason to wish you to call me Lady Lilias again.”
“Such as?”
“Well,” she said, “such as trying to stop me from going where I need to go tonight.”
“Lil—”
“Just listen,” she interrupted. “Guinevere’s sister Lady Frederica needs my help. It was her I was aiding last night, as well. There is a manuscript that has been written by a well-known Society mistress. It recounts all of the men she has bedded. In great detail. It seems some of her patrons did not pay her what they promised they would, and she wrote it with the intention of publicly shaming them.”
“Seems fair to me,” he replied.
“Well, I suppose,” Lilias said, “they should have paid her for services, er, rendered, but one of the men, a marquess who was her patron, also had an affair with a naive, unwed lady, and apparently, in the chapter about the marquess, the young lady’s name is mentioned, along with the fact that the marquess had intimate relations with her. It’s dreadful. She’ll be ruined.”
“Did you tell the mistress—”
“Mrs. Porter,” Lilias supplied, thinking to keep the woman’s identity secret if she could. “Yes, she knows. She was actually already very remorseful about writing the manuscript and had decided not to publish it. But she gave it to her brother, and he will not return it. I must obtain that manuscript before the brother and the publisher he’s working with release it. Lady Frederica cannot get away from her home tonight, so it’s up to me to ensure it does not get published.”
Lilias’s big heart and admirable ideals will get her killed.
The thought made him feel as if his blood had turned to ice in his veins. “If I help you obtain the manuscript, do I have your vow that you will quit your work with SLAR?”
“You’ll help me?” she asked, her surprise evident.
“I don’t see that I have a choice.” He didn’t say that the thought of her possibly being injured made him want to do all manner of unthinkable things. Such as lock her in her bedchamber and keep her there. With him. In her bed. Preferably naked. He swallowed his desire and fear for her. “I’ll help you until Owen returns, but when he does, I’m going to tell him.”
“Do as you must,” she said with a flippant air, then waved a dismissive hand at him. “If Owen demands I stop, I will.”
“You are a liar,” he said, recalling her previous “vow” to stay home.
“That’s rude,” she replied. “But I suppose ’tis true in this circumstance. If you force a person into a corner, what do you expect? These women need me, and I’ll not fail them. They need someone to help them, to protect them.”
Good Christ. He understood now. She was trying to be for them what she had never had herself. It was perfectly clear now why she was a founding member of this society. It had nothing to do with him. It was because neither of her parents had truly made her feel protected. He was a conceited arse for ever entertaining the thought that it could be him.
“Fine. I’ll accompany you on your missions to help these women until Owen returns, and then you are Owen’s problem.”
“Is that what you consider me?” The hurt in her voice was unmistakable. “A problem?”
“Yes,” he clipped, afraid if he said anything else he’d tell her something that would give away how he really felt. She was rash, impulsive, impassioned, and wonderful. Of course, she was a problem, but he’d rather have a million problems like her that made him feel alive than the nothingness he normally felt. “But I will bear you somehow,” he added, which would have been the perfect thing to say to keep a distance between them if his arm had not reached out without alerting his brain and his fingers had not brushed down the slope of her smooth cheek. It was perfect, just like her. He wanted to tell her how she made him feel. Instead, he said, “Where are we going?”
“The Orcus Society,” she said without a trace of embarrassment or concern.
Nash’s mouth slipped open. He knew a great deal about the place from Carrington, such as the fact that there were pleasure rooms there and men who did not d
eserve to even breathe the same air as Lilias. “How did you imagine you’d gain entry into the Orcus Society? You need to be a patron or be one of the women who—”
His words trailed off as she opened her cloak and revealed the seductive cut of a gown that would cause the scandal of the Season were she to wear it to any balls. She must have seen him staring at her delectable cleavage because she pulled her cloak closed once more. But it was too late. The creamy, round mounds of her breasts would be singed in his memory for the rest of his life. A ravenous need to touch her rushed through him.
Instead, he tugged a hand through his hair and forced himself to keep control. “You mean to tell me that you were planning on going into the club alone, and there you intended to pretend to be a courtesan?” It was unthinkable. Because if he thought too much upon it, then he would go mad with worry at how Owen would be able to protect her from herself in the future.
“I do not mean to tell you anything, but you’ve left me little choice. The answer is yes and yes, though. Now, where is your gig?”
“At my home. I could not very well drive it here and risk anyone seeing me and asking questions.”
“You walked here just to watch over me?”
Something in her tone sounded odd to him. He could not place it so he simply answered. “Indeed. I owe Owen that.”
“Yes, of course it’s about Owen. Well come along, then. Let’s get my gig.”
He followed her as she strode to the lane behind her townhome to the mews, as if she had no fear that she’d be seen by her mother. Because, of course, she would not. He grasped her arm before she entered the stables. “What of your coachman and stable master? Will they not ask questions?”
“No.”
“Whyever not?” he bit out. A proper stable master would.
When she simply shrugged, his temper snapped. “Does no one in your life put restraints on you for your own safety?”
Her eyes widened in the darkness, but away from the lamplight, the moonlight did not illuminate her face enough for him to judge if his outburst had revealed anything he did not wish it to.
“Why, Nash, I did not think you cared.”
There was that something in her voice again, the something he could not quite place. But he didn’t need to place it to decide he didn’t like it. It was unknown, and he did not care for the unknown. “For Owen’s sake, I care,” he replied on the chance he had revealed himself to her.
“Owen,” she said, the word a sigh. “Of course. You care for Owen’s sake.”
Did she believe him? He didn’t rightly know, and he was certainly not going to ask.
Once they were settled on the seat and on their way, he instructed Lilias to pull the hood of her cloak close around her head. Nash didn’t think they would encounter anyone on the streets this late, but he would not take any chances with Lilias’s reputation.
Lilias, he noted, did her best to keep space between them, and that was fine by him. Just sitting beside her was torture enough. If they were touching, he couldn’t be certain he could keep his desire restrained.
It occurred to him that she had not answered his question about the stable master and coachman, and he had an unwelcome suspicion that Carrington’s wife might have been correct in her belief that Lilias was wedding Owen to take care of her mother and sister. And yet, four years ago she had told Owen she loved him. It did not make sense. He had to know for certain why she was wedding Owen.
And then what?
He slid his teeth back and forth, at war with himself. There should be no interference. He’d vowed not to come between Owen and Lilias, but that vow had not included standing by as she made herself a sacrificial lamb. That he could not do. He would not pursue her, but he could damn well not let her be forced to wed someone she did not love, to have no choice in the matter because of money. If she was wedding Owen simply to have her family taken care of, Nash could aid her and her family. He could give them money without acting on his own selfish longing for her. There had to be a way to do it without her knowing where the money came from.
He could give her the gift of freedom that money brought, though it would be a thorny gift as she would be all but ruined after the kiss with Owen and then also breaking their betrothal. He stole a look at her. Her cloak was threadbare, but her chin was lifted, and her shoulders were back. Her eyes were focused straight ahead. The Lilias he had known would value her freedom above a reputation the ton deemed ruined, and he could provide enough funds for her that even if she never wed, she would have a comfortable life, as would her mother and sister. Lilias’s reputation would affect her sister’s, but with time and an unexpected enormous dowry thrown at Lilias’s sister, he imagined her chances of wedding well quite good.
He considered the possibility of how to give her the money anonymously. She would never take it, but he’d wager his useless life that her mother would. So the question remained: was she wedding Owen out of love or need?
As he guided the gig down the lane toward their destination, he glanced at her hands, which were folded in her lap. No gloves. “Where are your gloves?” he asked, already knowing. The ache for her nearly choked his ability to speak.
“What concern is it of yours?” she demanded.
“It’s rather foolish,” he said, making his tone purposely chiding, “to go about without gloves on a cold night. I didn’t take you as someone to show such carelessness.”
She turned toward him, glaring. “I am not careless! I’ve one pair of gloves, and I purposely did not wear them to keep them decent. No one where we are going will give a farthing if I have gloves on or not, so it is you who is the fool!”
She was quite right. He’d left her seven years ago knowing how desperate things were for her, and he’d selfishly never looked back because he feared his inability to control himself and not betray Owen. Yet, in the process, he had betrayed her. He had to make it right, even if she never knew it.
“I suppose you are correct that no one will care. Still, if you had planned to play a woman of the night—a successful one—I would have thought you might wear your best cloak and slippers.” He noted the hole in the toe of her slippers, which made him want to take her directly to the shoemaker and have a dozen pairs of shoes made for her so that she never had to wear such shoddy slippers again.
When she did not respond to his prodding, except for her glare becoming more pronounced, he pressed further. “You look like a street urchin, not a sought-after courtesan. I doubt they’ll let you in the door.”
“You insufferable beast!” she hissed. “How dare you! I’ll show you when we are there. I’ll show you that whatever fool of a man is at the door won’t even notice my worn slippers and cloak. He will be looking at my br—”
Nash’s gaze fell to her chest as silence descended. He could well imagine that no man would notice anything she had on; she was so very beautiful that she could wear a sack and still devastate one’s senses. He was so busy thinking about it, that he almost ran off the lane before the turn toward the Orcus Society. He had to jerk the gig back onto the road.
“Ha! My point exactly!” she cried out, smugness in her tone.
Nash jerked his gaze to her face, and she smirked at him. He was, he felt, very nearly at the answer he sought. “I suppose you are correct,” he said, ensuring his voice belied the fact that he really believed it to be so.
“What do you mean, you suppose?” she demanded with righteous anger.
He had to clench his teeth to keep from smiling. God, he’d missed this. Lilias had been the only woman he’d ever shared such easy banter with. This true back-and-forth of opinions clashing and trying to make the other person see one’s side. She used her wits, whereas other women had either readily agreed with him all his life, even when he knew they could not possibly, or tried to use their wiles to convince him. He maneuvered the gig to the alley entrance of the Orcus Society where workers and any courtesans entered. Tonight he, too, would enter there to escort Lilias, his sup
posed courtesan, into the club.
He slowed the horse to a stop, then turned his full attention to her. “I mean, you do have some charms in your favor, but the smartest thing to have done would have been to truly dress the part of a successful courtesan and to have brought your coachman with you. Of course, these are all details I suppose only a man would think of. You ladies don’t usually consider near as much as we men do.”
That ought to do the trick.
He honestly wanted to chuckle at his brilliant word choice.
He was so busy congratulating himself for his superb acting that he did not see her punch coming. She whacked him right in the arm. He was surprised but immensely pleased she had a nice, solid punch. Though it would not stop a man built like him, it could make him question proceeding if he intended her harm. That moment of questioning could give her time to escape if she needed it. Not that she ever would. He was going to see to that. Somehow.
“For your information,” she snapped while rubbing the hand she’d used to punch him, “I can assure you we ladies think just as well—no, better—than any man! I thought of everything you just mentioned, you insufferably arrogant man. These are my best slippers!” She lifted her foot, showing a sinfully enticing ankle and pointing at her foot. He could see her toes wiggling back and forth. She slammed her foot down.
On top of his.
“Damnation!” he let slip. “That hurt.”
She smirked at him. “It was intended to. I could see the punch did not meet its mark. Your arms are entirely too muscled.”
She thought him muscled? He could not stop the grin from spreading across his face, to which she rolled her eyes and then leveled him with a glare that would have shrunk a lesser man’s ballocks.
Lady Lilias and the Devil in Plaid (Scottish Scoundrels: Ensnared Hearts Book 2) Page 13
