“I have. But I will return it to you in exchange for a promise.”
His casual pronouncement took her by surprise and raised her guard all at once. “What manner of promise, Mr. Decker?”
“Just Decker, if you please,” he said smoothly in that butter-rich voice. “I find the mister far too formal. If we are going to be friends, you may as well call me what all my other friends do.”
“I have no wish to be your friend,” she countered, although the notion of being informal with him and being his friend both sounded deliciously intriguing.
And thoroughly wrong and impossible, of course.
She could never, ever be this rakish man’s friend.
“You may change your mind about that, bijou, when you hear what I propose.” His lips twitched, as if he wanted to smile but fought it.
She did not want to like the way he called her that—bijou—and yet, she did. All the more reason to frown at him. “I cannot fathom finding interest in anything you propose, Mr. Decker.”
“You have a list of objectives to achieve,” he pointed out carefully. “And yet, forgive me for the observation, you are an unwed lady of excellent standing. One with an unimpeachable reputation. What do you know about arranging assignations or finding someone who will kiss you until you are breathless?”
Nothing, she longed to say. Hence the creation of the dratted list.
“I fail to see what this has to do with you,” she told him curtly. “You are overstepping your bounds, sir. If you will not return my list or my hat, I will simply go without them.”
“I will return them both as long as you promise to let me aid you in achieving every item on your list,” he said smoothly, surprising her once more. “Including number eight, should you wish to confide in me what it is.”
“Let you aid me,” she repeated. “How? Why?”
“Because you are a dear friend of the Countess of Sinclair,” he said. “And because this list of yours is dangerous business. It would be remiss of me not to offer you guidance. Assistance. Whatever you wish to call it. It is my duty to make certain you do not attempt to accomplish any of your objectives with the wrong gentleman.”
Her eyes narrowed as she studied him, trying to make sense of the man and failing miserably. “I still do not understand your motive, Mr. Decker.”
He shrugged again. “Perhaps I am adhering to the remaining shreds of honor I possess.”
Jo did not believe that explanation. Not for a moment. She wondered how he could be so handsome and careless at the same time. How he could make a noncommittal gesture seem sensual and suggestive.
Regardless, the man was continuing to hold her list and her hat captive. She had to end this stalemate.
“Suppose I accept your assistance with my list,” she allowed. “What does that entail?”
“Lord and Lady Sinclair are hosting a ball tomorrow night. I trust you will be attending?”
Of course she would be there. The ball was Callie’s way of easing her once-ostracized husband back into society’s good graces. “Yes.”
“Excellent. So shall I. Save me a dance. We will discuss it further then.”
He wanted to make her wait an entire day? And why did the promise of a dance with him tomorrow make her heart beat faster than it already was?
“Fine,” she agreed grimly. “Now my hat and list, if you please.”
He retrieved her hat and skirted his desk, coming to stand before her once more. Again, she fought the urge to retreat. He startled her by running his fingers over her cheek, then tucking an errant tendril of hair she had not noticed behind her ear.
Just one swift graze of his bare skin upon hers.
And yet, she felt that touch.
Everywhere.
“A stray curl,” he explained, lest, Jo supposed, she think there was any other reason for that fleeting caress. “In your dudgeon, it came free of your coiffure.” Then he placed her hat neatly upon her head. “There you are, darling. The list, I am afraid, will have to wait.”
He turned away from her and strode back toward the other side of his desk.
She glared at his broad, undeniably masculine form and long legs as he went. Wishing the back of him was not also beautifully formed, and every bit as compelling as the front of him. He was all tall, sensual elegance. He moved with a careless grace that bespoke a man who knew the effect he had upon every lady in his presence.
Jo included, no matter how much she wished it were the opposite.
“You told me if I accepted your aid, you would give me the list,” she pointed out, flustered and irritated.
“I did indeed,” he agreed with effortless sangfroid as he faced her from behind his desk. “However, I am a businessman, you understand. I do not surrender all my power for bargaining until I am satisfied the exchange shall be mutual, not reneged upon.”
“You scoundrel!” she exploded, as furious with herself as she was with him. “You could have told me that from the beginning.”
“I could have.” The roguish grin was back. “But it would not have been nearly as amusing. Now, if you will excuse me, I do have a great many concerns requiring my attention today. Macfie will escort you to your carriage. Until tomorrow.”
With that, he seated himself and began sifting through the papers atop his desk, as if she had already gone. As if it were entirely acceptable for a gentleman to seat himself in the presence of a standing lady. And one who outranked him, at that. She was the sister of an earl, and he was the bastard son of one.
Jo entertained a brief, wild fantasy of throwing herself across his desk and rescuing her list. But in the end, she gathered the tattered remnants of her pride and left the office of Mr. Elijah Decker, cunning rakehell extraordinaire, just as empty-handed as when she had arrived.
Chapter Two
It was not yet time for Decker to collect his dance.
But one of the excellent advantages of being friends with the host and hostess of the ball meant that he was more than familiar with the layout of the Earl of Sinclair’s newly refurbished townhome. It also meant he could avoid being announced. In the interim, he could indulge in one of his favorite vices.
Watching.
Only, this form of watching was not nearly as piquant as the variety he had previously indulged in on the rare occasion. However, since Lady Jo Danvers was present, occupying a place on the periphery of the gathering and looking deliciously innocent in her pink silk gown adorned with white roses, it would suffice.
For now.
Observing the gathering of lords and ladies from a private balcony no one else knew was open had its merits. He had been ensconced here since just after the ball’s commencement, having reached the balcony with the ladder his friend—known to all simply as Sin—had made certain was left for him.
Decker wished he had a whisky to keep him company. If Sin had been a truly accommodating friend, he would have seen to it that a decanter and glass had been left tidily in a corner for him. However, Decker could not complain, he supposed. Eventually, he would slither from his hiding place, rather like a lethal snake poised to strike, and he would take Lady Jo by surprise.
He had found great pleasure in their clash yesterday. More than he had taken from any act in as long as he could recall.
Whilst he was fully clothed, anyway. Hell. Who was he fooling? Even when he had been naked and ballocks deep in quim, he had not been as stirred as he had been when he had traded wits with Lady Jo the day before.
His cock was hard, just thinking about how deliciously outraged she had been. He had seen Lady Jo Danvers on numerous occasions. But never had she spoken so many words to him. Never had he known the daring lurking just beneath her prudish exterior.
But he knew it now.
And, truth be told, he wanted it for himself.
Just a taste. If she was set upon the path of ruination, what would be the harm in being the man who aided her in accomplishing one of the items on her list? Or two, or three? Or all of the
m, for that matter? He had always been drawn to the forbidden, to the prurient. Why not Lady Josephine Danvers?
Fucking hell.
He had to temper his thoughts. For the notion of fulfilling every one of Lady Jo’s fantasies—and surely her list could not be titled anything but a series of them—well, it was too much to contemplate when he was about to enter a ballroom teeming with condescending lords and ladies who loved to scorn him. He had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, after all. He did not belong amongst their vaunted ranks.
A sudden movement caught his eye, then. Recognition seared Decker. Made his guts churn.
Bloody Quenington.
The same lord Lady Jo had been considering for an assignation.
A pompous arse, if you asked Decker. Not that Lady Jo had.
Either way, he was heading straight for Lady Jo.
Possessiveness blossomed within Decker, unfurling like the petals of a summer blossom beneath a heated sun. He could not bear to watch her dancing with the viscount. And as for an assignation?
Impossible.
Ludicrous.
Unacceptable.
Decker’s hand found the cool bronze of the balcony door handle, and he opened it. The raucous din of the ball reached him in full measure, no longer muted, but Decker stepped over the threshold just the same. He left behind him the calm darkness where he so often dwelled in favor of the bold, garish display of the social whirl.
He told himself he was doing this for Lady Jo. To make certain she did not entrust her innocence to the wrong gentleman. Indeed, he was a regular Galahad in his own mind. Except that he did not want to maintain her innocence. Nor did he want to save her from anything, let alone ruin.
Because he wanted to ruin Lady Jo Danvers himself.
There it was, the shameful truth.
If he had an iota of honor, he would leave her to her fate. Allow her to carry on with her list, uninterrupted. Allow Quenington to swoop in and claim his dance or whatever the devil it was he wanted with Lady Jo.
Decker hastened his strides and managed to weave in and out of the gathered throng, ultimately appearing before Lady Jo just before the viscount arrived. Her honey-brown eyes widened.
He bowed, doing the pretty although part of him railed against succumbing to expected societal interactions. “Lady Jo.”
“Mr. Decker.” She dipped into a passable curtsy. It was a hasty one.
Quite charming. She was so bloody short and small. He fancied he could tuck her into the pocket of his waistcoat and spirit her away without anyone the wiser.
“I am claiming my dance,” he told her.
Her brows rose. “Now? But I am promised to Lord Quenington for this dance.”
The blighter in question was approaching them. Decker pinned him with a deadly glare. The sort that promised retribution in slow and painful manner should his warning go unheeded. Quenington’s lip curled into a sneer.
Predictable, that.
However, Decker was more than accustomed to the scorn of most lordlings such as the viscount—the sort who suckled on their papa’s teat whilst they waited for their courtesy titles to be exchanged for the coronets that would be theirs upon dear old papa’s demise.
Decker had the means to see Quenington’s long, perfectly straight nose rendered forever crooked—whether by his own brawn or that of hired strength. He also knew the viscount’s predilections. Moreover, it was an unspoken rule that all members of the Black Souls club would remain in Decker’s good graces if they wished to maintain their membership. If the viscount wanted to remain a part of the club, he would forego his dance with Lady Jo.
Decker and Quenington locked eyes in a silent battle for less than a minute before the viscount inclined his head and sauntered off in a different direction.
Immensely satisfied, he returned his attention to Lady Jo. “No longer.”
She began to protest. “But Lord Quenington—”
“Has wisely changed his mind,” Decker finished, interrupting her without qualm. “I will be your partner.”
“You threatened him,” Lady Jo accused quietly, her high cheekbones going pink.
Fuck, she was glorious when she was nettled.
“Do not be ridiculous,” he answered without a modicum of compunction. “He realized he could not possibly match me in looks and charm and wisely decided to retreat.”
He had not threatened the viscount with words. There was a difference. And Quenington was bloody well undeserving of anything to do with Lady Jo Danvers, whether it be an innocent dance or an assignation.
Especially an assignation.
Decker was never going to allow that to happen. Not the chance of a flower blossom in a hail storm.
Lady Jo was still eying him suspiciously. The orchestra struck up the next song, which happened to be a waltz. Excellent.
He offered her his arm. “My lady?”
Her nostrils flared, the only indication of her pique. She placed her hand on his proffered arm. “Very well.”
“Do not sound so disappointed,” he told her, sotto voce, as he led her to the gleaming, freshly repaired parquet where their fellow dancers had assembled. “I am a deuced talented dancer. Quenington cannot possibly compete.”
He slanted a glance in her direction in time to catch her lips twitch.
“And so very humble, Mr. Decker” she added mockingly.
“I know my strengths.” He gave her a subtle wink.
The flush in her cheeks deepened.
“Why so embarrassed, cherie?” he could not resist asking. “If you were aware of all my strengths, that would put you to the blush for certain.”
“Mr. Decker,” she chastised in disapproving governess fashion, her voice outrage personified.
He barely stifled his grin—it would not do for her to realize how much he was enjoying himself. Or for the rest of the ballroom. Not that he gave a damn about what society thought of him, but he did have a certain reputation to uphold amongst the ladies of London.
Decker assumed his position on the floor opposite her. He placed one hand upon the middle of her back, whilst the other linked with her gloved hand. Her left hand settled upon his shoulder.
“Yes, Lady Josephine?”
She treated him to a ferocious frown. “All my friends call me Jo.”
He wanted to be far more than her friend. He wanted to whisk her into a darkened chamber and…hell. Best to banish that thought.
For now.
“Am I to be counted amongst your friends, then?” he queried lightly.
“No,” she said. “Of course not, but I strongly dislike being called Josephine. The name is better suited to a bitter dowager who takes great pride in mowing down everyone around her with vicious insults.”
He did his best to dismiss the disappointment accompanying her rapid assertion she did not count him amongst her friends. What would it require, he wondered, to earn the trust of the woman in his arms?
Why did he care, anyway? He told himself he did not as the music began. A Viennese waltz. And then, they were moving. Whirling. Although he was quite a bit taller than she was, they fit together in a disturbingly natural way. In a way that made him ponder how else they might fit together.
In the bedchamber.
Not the time to entertain notions that may give him a cockstand in the midst of a waltz, he reminded himself.
But something was nettling him. “Why not?”
He spun her.
“Why not what, Mr. Decker?” she asked as they whirled back down the line.
They moved with a mutual grace he could not help but to admire. They danced well together.
“Why do you not count me amongst your friends?” he elaborated, guiding them through the steps.
He had not danced in as long as he could recall, but some things were like riding a horse. One never forgot how to do it properly, after having learned the skill. It shocked him to realize he was enjoying this dance.
“I scarcely know you
at all,” she said. “And need I remind you that you are holding my list hostage?”
“I prefer to think of it as keeping it safe.” He grinned, then twirled her again.
There was something rivetingly sensual about not just the waltz but her. They went down the line, facing each other, then turning away, then facing each other once more, in an echo of their verbal parries and thrusts.
Color rose to her cheeks as they whirled together some more. “Safe is the last word that would ever come to mind in conjunction with you, Mr. Decker.”
“Oh?” He guided them through another series of steps. “And what words, pray tell, would come to that sharp mind of yours in conjunction with me, bijou?”
He spun her, enjoying the flounces of her gown and the silhouette she presented far more than he ought. She faced him, eyes bright. “Irritating.” They began making their way down the line yet again, turning away, and then back to each other. “Meddlesome.” More steps until she faced him once more. “Dangerous.”
Decker could not contain a bark of laughter as she ended back in his arms and they started another circuit of the floor. “I will take the last, but I contest the first and the second.”
“You have better suggestions?” Her gaze was fastened upon his as they moved together.
“Handsome,” he tried.
“Vain,” she said.
“Excessively witty,” Decker continued as if she had not spoken.
“Extraordinarily arrogant,” she returned.
“Capable of kissing a lady until she is breathless,” he countered before twirling her once more.
Her eyes locked upon his, and for a moment, she was speechless.
“Not this lady,” she snapped at last.
They turned away from each other, proceeding with the steps of the dance as if they had not just veered into momentous territory.
“How do you know unless you try?” he pressed.
They faced each other again, her color heightened. “I beg your pardon? What was your question, Mr. Decker? I am sure I misheard.”
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