by Dare, Tessa
When she opened this newspaper, the clocks resumed ticking. Time had caught up with them, and one way or another, their stolen era of passion would come to an end.
Penny didn’t want it to end.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t avoid the reality any longer. If she didn’t read this for herself, she would hear everything from Aunt Caroline. Better to be prepared.
“Read it aloud,” Nicola said.
“‘A Report from the Maximus Club’s Spring Fete.’” She skimmed the contents, pulling out the most important words. “Southwark, pleasure garden, masquerade, orchestra, champagne . . . Ah. Here we are. Prominent guests in attendance.”
Penny scanned through the list of names and titles. Her cousin the Russian prince received mention, naturally. Farther down, the Misses Irving were named. She’d nearly reached the end of the column, and no mention of Lady Penelope Campion yet.
Then she read the concluding paragraph.
“‘In the usual fashion of masquerades, the identities of most guests were plain for all to see. However, one gentleman in attendance succeeded in generating a considerable amount of intrigue. As the evening drew to a close, only one question was on the guests’ lips. Who was that knight in shining armor? The mystery remains. He was last seen in the company of . . .’” Penny groaned.
“Well?” Nicola asked. “Which is it? Scandal or spinster?”
“Neither, apparently.”
“Let me see.” Nicola took the paper and found the point where Penny had left off. “‘He was last seen in the company of an unidentified woman.’”
“Unidentified woman,” Penny repeated, separating each syllable. She let her head drop to the table surface. “What could possibly be more depressing?”
“A suffocating cat?”
“True.”
Nicola turned the page of the newspaper. “Hold a moment. Your neighbor is hosting a ball?”
“What?”
Penny rose from her chair and hurried to read over Nicola’s shoulder. There it was, in black and white.
The Prattler has learned that one Mr. Gabriel Duke, better known to readers of this esteemed publication as the infamous Duke of Ruin, is planning to host a ball at the former Wendleby residence on Bloom Square. According to our sources, Mr. Duke has invited the better part of the London ton. Considering the host’s financial influence, and the ruthless way in which he wields it, the question will not be who will accept his invitation—but rather, who would dare decline?
“Burns! Burns!”
Gabe winced. Just what he needed—another ridiculous conflict between his architect and his housekeeper. He rose from his desk and followed Hammond’s bellowing into the dining room, hoping to head it off before it could begin.
He was too late, sadly. Mrs. Burns had already arrived.
“Yes, Mr. Hammond?” The housekeeper starched her spine. “Is there something I can do for you?”
Hammond gestured at the portrait on the wall. “You can explain to me why I’m looking at the inbred offspring of a suet pudding and a weak-chinned salamander.”
“That’s a portrait of Mrs. Bathsheba Wendleby.”
“I expressly told the workmen to remove these paintings two days ago. Lo and behold, they have reappeared. As if by magic.” His tone sharpened. “Dark magic.”
Burns did not address Hammond’s unspoken accusation of witchcraft. “These are family portraits, representing generations of Wendlebys.”
“Those generations of Wendlebys don’t live here any longer.”
“Nevertheless, Mr. Hammond,” she said with foreboding. “This house has a legacy, and it will not be forgotten.”
“This house has a desirable address,” Gabe interjected. “I’m going to sell it to some new-money upstart who wants to hobnob with aristocrats. Those buyers don’t want moldering portraits of a crusty squire and his hunting dogs. They want modern water closets and gilded molding. If Sir Algernon Wendleby cared about his precious legacy, he shouldn’t have frittered away the family fortune on cards and mistresses.”
When he finished his tirade, Gabe felt rather shabby about it. He wasn’t frustrated with the housekeeper. He was frustrated with himself.
After the last few days—and nights—with Penny, Gabe needed a reminder of just what the devil he was doing in Mayfair. He was here to sell this house for the highest possible price, and if the new occupants displeased the ton, so much the better. He wasn’t here to stay.
He wasn’t here to carry on a torrid affaire with the lady next door, either. With every tryst, he promised himself this time would be the last. It must be the last. The risks to Penny were too great.
Then she would whisper his name, or give him a coy smile, or breathe in his general vicinity, and all his resolutions turned to dust.
“As you like, Mr. Duke,” the housekeeper said. “The paintings will be removed today.”
“One more thing before you go.” Hammond narrowed his eyes at her. “How did he die?”
“To whom are you referring, sir?”
“Mr. Burns. Your husband. You were widowed, I assume.”
“It’s customary for housekeepers to be addressed as Mrs., whether or not they are married. There was never a Mr. Burns.” At the sound of the doorbell, she inclined her head. “If you will excuse me, I’ll answer the door.”
After the housekeeper left the room, Hammond approached Gabe and dropped his voice to a whisper. “No Mr. Burns? I don’t believe that for a moment. She’s hiding his corpse in a wardrobe somewhere.”
Gabe sniffed the air hovering about his architect. “What is that smell?”
“Garlic.” Hammond pulled a white, papery bulb from his pocket. “I’ve taken to carrying some at all times, and so should you. For protection. They don’t like garlic.”
“Housekeepers?”
“Vampiresses.”
“For God’s sake, this has to stop. Burns is not a vampiress.”
“She’s pale enough. But then, she does walk about during the day. Perhaps she’s a wandering evil spirit who possessed the reanimated corpse of a virgin beauty.” Hammond stalked away, scrubbing both hands through his silvered hair.
Gabe stared after the man. A virgin beauty? Burns?
If one looked past her gloomy attire and perpetually dour expression, Gabe supposed the woman might not be unattractive. But a beauty? Maybe she truly did have Hammond bewitched.
Light footsteps approached from the corridor. “A ball? You’re hosting a ball? Were you planning to tell me about this?”
Penny. Speaking of enchanting beauties.
Gabe turned to greet her—but he found himself without words.
God above, she was lovely.
Over the brief course of their acquaintance, they’d been systematically destroying her frocks—first rescuing Bixby from the coal store, then chasing after Hubert in the river . . . After the masquerade, even her black mourning dress would never be the same.
As a result, she’d been reaching further and further back into her wardrobe, drawing out frocks she likely hadn’t worn for some time. Each one painted a portrait of a different, younger Penny. In a strange way, he was growing acquainted with her in reverse. There was a year she’d chosen brighter hues and lower necklines, and a year she’d preferred demure lace, and a year when a modiste must have talked her into an absurd number of flounces.
Today’s frock must have been made several years ago, when she was not merely younger, but slighter in form. Her figure had matured since, and now the muslin clung to her body the way limewash gripped stone. Praise heaven, he could make out nipples.
His conscience niggled at him. There was something he’d been reminding himself of a few minutes ago. Something about selling this place, leaving Mayfair behind—and Lady Penelope Campion with it. He was supposed to remember it.
He remembered nothing. Nothing, that was, except for her silky thighs wrapped about his hips and the coarse saddle blanket chafing his knees when he’d taken her in the
He had no regrets.
“I’m up here, Gabriel,” she said tartly, yanking his gaze away from her breasts. Her brow wrinkled with concern as she held up a folded newspaper for his view. “And we need to talk about this.”
Chapter Eighteen
“What’s the meaning of this? You’re hosting a ball?” Penny waited on Gabriel’s explanation.
He offered none.
Instead, he strolled across the room to her, took the paper from her hand, and read through the notice of his impending ball.
“I see little to discuss. The Prattler has captured the details. In fact, it’s shockingly accurate, considering the publication.” He returned the paper.
“Yes, but—”
“While you’re here . . .” He left the room, glancing back in a manner that invited her to follow. “I want your opinion on some wall coverings.”
He mounted the stairs, and Penny followed. She hated trailing after him like a pup, but she wasn’t going to let him get away. “According to the paper, you’ve sent invitations already. Perhaps mine was lost in the post?”
“Hammond likes the periwinkle blue,” he went on. “But I don’t trust his opinion on current fashions. Not for a lady’s suite.”
Penny growled behind clenched teeth. Wasn’t he paying attention to her at all? Apparently not, or else she would have warned him that this ball scheme was a terrible idea.
He led her into a mostly empty bedchamber. The few pieces of furniture had been pushed to the center of the room and draped with Holland cloths, and the walls were stretches of blank plaster. Three strips of silk damask had been tacked to one wall, each a different shade of blue.
“You’ve seen my house. I don’t know anything about current fashions in wall coverings. Mr. Hammond’s opinion is surely—”
He shut the door and pushed her up against it, crushing his mouth to hers in a possessive kiss. As his tongue found hers, a needy sigh rose in the back of her throat. The newspaper slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor. She couldn’t recall why she’d been holding it in the first place. It didn’t matter.
All she wanted to hold was Gabriel.
She took his face in her hands, sanding her palms on the delicious scruff of his whiskers before twining her fingers into his hair and holding tight. His hands roamed her body, claiming handfuls of her hips and skimming over her breasts.
“I need you,” he murmured between kisses. “It’s been ages.”
“It’s been”—she thought on it—“seventeen hours.”
“Like I said. Ages.” He bent to kiss her neck.
“We can’t,” she gasped. “Not here. There’s no bed.”
He grinned wickedly. “Love, we don’t need a bed.”
“Oh.”
One of his hands caught the hem of her frock and hiked it above her knee, bunching her petticoats between their bodies. He swept his palm up her thigh, and pleasure rippled in the wake of his touch. While he nuzzled at her neck and licked at her breasts where they overflowed her bodice, his touch explored her intimate places. Her breathing quickened. Her nipples pulled to hard, aching peaks.
He slid a finger inside her. She melted against the door, her knees gone soft. She clutched his shoulders, clinging to him for strength as he stoked her desire with expert caresses.
“You don’t understand what you’ve done to me,” he whispered. “I don’t understand what you’ve done to me.”
“Whatever it is, you’ve done the same to me.” She gasped as he pushed a second finger inside her, and she caught him in a breathless, grappling kiss. They tugged at each other’s clothing.
“I wanted you from the first,” he said.
“I wanted you, too.”
“Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you in my bed.”
“I couldn’t stop picturing you naked and wet.”
“If you knew the things you’ve done in my imagination . . .”
“I touched myself while thinking of you.”
He groaned against her lips. “Jesus Christ, that’s one of them.”
She whimpered in protest as his fingers withdrew from her body. He slid his hands to her bottom and lifted her off her feet, carrying her across the room, to where a floor-length mirror in a thick gilded frame stood propped against the wall. It must have been too heavy to move.
He spun her to face it, positioning himself behind her. Their gazes locked in the mirrored reflection. His eyes were dark, fierce, demanding.
“Show me.” He yanked her skirts to her waist—frock, petticoat, chemise, and all—exposing her completely. “Show me how you touched yourself.”
Penny’s heartbeat stalled. The gruff command both scandalized and excited her.
With a rough flex of his arms, he hauled her to him. His erection throbbed against the small of her back.
“Show me.”
Penny stared into the mirror. A bolder, naughtier version of herself gazed back. She placed a hand on her belly and eased it downward, until her fingertips disappeared into a thatch of amber curls. She hesitated, holding her breath.
“More,” he demanded. “I want to see you.”
His gruffness aroused her, but she wasn’t intimidated. With him, she knew she was safe.
She raised her free arm above her head, clasping his neck for balance and resting her head against his chest. He wrapped his arm about her torso, holding her tight and pinning her lifted skirts at the waist. Her joints softened, and her thighs fell slightly apart.
“That’s it. Spread yourself for me. Let me see.”
The woman in the mirror did as she was told, sending her fingers downward to part the pink, swollen folds of her sex. A single fingertip settled over the sensitive bud at the crest, circling gently.
His ragged breath warmed her ear. “God, you’re beautiful.”
She stared at the reflection, transfixed by the eroticism of the image within. She felt like a woman in a boudoir painting, flushed with desire and unashamed of her body’s curves and shadows. Aware of the power she held, even in her vulnerable, naked state.
As her excitement mounted, she strummed faster. She was panting, arching her back.
Suddenly, he worked his free hand between them, levering for space. His fingers made quick work of his buttons, and he pushed his trousers down over his hips. His freed erection pulsed between their bodies, so thick and hot and so very, very hard.
Yes. Take me.
He teased her instead, pushing against her cleft and gliding back and forth, spreading her slickness along his full length. Then he lifted and tilted her by the hips, thrusting inside. Deep, and then deeper, all the way to her core, giving her the fullness she craved.
He took her in long, steady strokes. His hardness was an anchor, balancing against the dizzying pleasure as she worked the hidden bud with her fingertips.
“Come.” His voice was strained, but he held himself to a slow, devastating rhythm. “I need to see you come.”
She held his gaze in the mirror for as long as she could, until the bliss overwhelmed her. She bit her lip, sealing in a cry as the climax broke. For a time, she was weightless in his arms, aware of nothing but the pleasure racking her body.
He ceased his thrusts as she quivered in the aftermath, supporting her boneless form. A courtesy on his part, surely. He was as hard as she’d ever felt him, and as her breathing slowed, the tension in his body increased.
She caught his gaze in the mirror and nodded.
Now.
“Lean over,” he growled. “Hands on the frame.”
The brusque command thrilled her. She did as he asked, bending forward at the waist and bracing her hands on either side of the mirror’s gilt frame.
He lifted her by the hips and pushed deep, claiming her in one powerful motion. As he took her in pounding thrusts, his flanks met her backside with sharp, rhythmic smacks. They echoed through the room, obscene and arousing. Soon these sounds were joined by low, primal grunts of satisfaction.
She watched him, captivated by the display of raw, unfettered male desire. Sweat broke out on his brow. His jaw clenched so tightly, the tendons on his neck went rigid. He stared at the mirror, watching her breasts jiggle and sway with each thrust.
With a muttered curse, he redoubled his pace. Her observations were halted. It was all she could do to brace herself against the force of his thrusts. She would have bruises tomorrow from his viselike grip.
She felt him swell even larger within her, and his rhythm faltered. With a tortured groan, he pulled free of her sex and pressed her legs together, thrusting between her thighs until his seed spilled over her skin—hot and crude.
She felt marked, claimed.
But also wild and free.
Several panting, sweaty, sticky moments later, they crumpled together to the floor, sitting with their backs against the wall. Penny rested her head on his chest. He was lovely to snuggle. There was simply so much of him. She could be satisfied with just one of his arms to clutch, or a single shoulder to rest her head upon.
But Penny wanted him all.
She couldn’t deny it any longer.
Closing her eyes, she pressed her ear to his pounding heartbeat. Like the rest of him, his heart was strong, defiant, loyal. Capable of lasting love. He might revel in denying it, but she knew the truth. If he ever permitted himself to love, he would love fiercely and without reserve. Only the most stubborn of women would be able to bear it.
And Penny loved nothing so much as a challenge.
Let me try, she silently willed. Let me try.
“So.” He sat up and stretched, dislodging her from her resting place. “You were asking about the ball.”
The ball.
She pulled herself from her musings. Yes, that was why she’d come over, wasn’t it?
“When did you decide to host a ball?”
He stood, hiking his trousers. “Somewhere between delivering you home from the hotel that night and exerting a bit of influence over the Irving family the following morning.”
Penny was agog. “You didn’t.”
“Would you rather those sisters spread vile gossip about you all over London?”
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