Maybe even true evil?
A chill skittered down her spine.
She didn’t know what he was hiding, but he was hiding something.
Something monumental.
She knew it. Her body hummed and tingled with the alarm of her self-protective, feminine instincts.
Oh, how Grandmother had railed about excessively charming gentlemen, how their persuasive exteriors could hide a heart riddled with sin and a blind a woman to their motives. And she’d known what she was talking about, she had run from her wealthy, socially powerful family to escape an impending marriage to just such a man when she had eloped with Grandfather. She had narrowly escaped a lifetime of unhappiness saddled to a liar and a womanizer.
Now it appeared that on her very first night alone in the city without Grandmother’s steadfast, if suffocating protection, Emily might be faced with a master of this type of subterfuge.
And he was such a fascinating, tempting example of his kind—
He picked up her hand and held it. He traced his fingertips over her palm in a light, sensual fashion.
Even through her gloves she could feel the sparking fire of his touch. Without warning, heat flared through her whole body, centering directly between her thighs. This time, wetness flooded her. Heavens, it was going to soak through her shift and petticoats. Thank God she was wearing her cloak.
It disturbed her that she could feel that way, despite her growing conviction that his enchanting exterior wasn’t exactly sincere, that perhaps it hid something dangerous.
She’d known her own tendencies to be a wanton. It had been a secret covered by the darkness during nights in her own bed. But she’d never suspected herself capable of such an immediate, intense response just from the touch of some strange man.
Then again, she hadn’t expected to come to the Blue Duck and meet a sun-god, a paragon of male beauty. She had expected a simple man. Someone more like John. She could have handled a man like that far better.
More chills went prickling down her spine. She was completely in over her head here. A slight trembling began in her hands.
“I sympathize,” Alex said. He released her hand.
A sense of loss startled her.
She should have been relieved.
He was staring at her so intently, his gaze narrowing slightly.
She smiled so as to hide her inner conflict. She mustn’t give him cause to think too deeply about her responses, to guess at her innocence.
“You had difficulties with your family?” she asked, trying to keep her swirling emotions out of her voice.
“Aye, my father.”
She flashed him what she hoped was a convincing sympathetic grin. “A real tyrant, eh?”
A slight smile—no, an ironic twist to those thin yet sensual lips. A sudden rigidity in the strong jaw line pulled the skin more tautly over his chiseled cheekbones. “My father expected that I’d attend Harvard and be a model scholar.”
“Is that such a bad thing?”
He flashed her a look, his eyes beautiful and shimmering with emotion. It passed too quickly for her to discern exactly which emotion. But there was an element of self-mockery, amusement…and darkness.
Something very, very dark.
Alarm went tingling through her all over again. She suppressed a shiver. “Goodness,” she said, too perplexed, too transfixed by the gorgeous, male enigma before her to say more.
He laughed softly. The sensual sound fell over her like a caress. “Let us just say that at thirteen I wasn’t of a mind to waste my time with my nose pressed into old books, reading about dead men. I signed on to a privateer instead.”
Her mouth fell open. He’d said that so casually.
For several moments, she could only gape at him. Sheer bewilderment froze all the other emotions that had been swirling within her. Now just one question consumed her mind.
How could anyone throw away the chance of a higher education?
Her chest tightened, the constriction rising into her throat, choking her. At thirteen, with her schoolmaster grandfather newly deceased, she’d been made to put aside her studies.
She’d been trapped!
Pinned under Grandmother’s watchful eye and forced to concentrate on insipid things. Needlepoint, bland watercolor paintings of sedate sunsets, the proper way to serve tea and make boring, polite conversation.
She’d have given anything to be able to study at college and continue the stimulating education her grandfather had introduced her to. This man had been born into wealth and privilege, that was clearly evident from his fine clothes, his polished accent, his bearing—and from what John had told her.
Alexander Dalton had had every opportunity to obtain an excellent education. Yet he had thrown it all away to muck about with mariners.
For a sun-god, he wasn’t very wise.
How could anyone not grasp the chance at a real education with both hands?
“You ran away—to sea?” she asked, still unable to wrap her mind around the idea.
“Aye, I did.”
Well, that certainly didn’t mesh with the intelligent light in his eyes. Or with the higher bearing and gentility implied by his aristocratic features.
Again, she was struck by the sense that his glib exterior hid something darker. The tingling centered around her navel, stronger this time. “Oh? And how did life at sea suit you?” she asked coldly.
“At first I found it very exciting.” His tone didn’t match his words. It sounded as if he was speaking of attending a funeral.
She looked up. His beautiful eyes gazed past her, tortured, as they peered into some distant yet well-remembered hell. He grimaced—a mask of anguish so intense that she sucked in her breath. An echoing, piercing pain blossomed in her chest, followed by a bone-deep ache to know him, to be able to understand what had caused such torment.
She arched her back, leaning forward, laying her arms on the table, wishing she could get closer to him. Wishing that she dared to touch him. “Where did you sail?”
He picked up his wine glass and appeared to make a study of its contents.
“During the war, we captured fat British merchantmen throughout the Caribbean, then afterwards we traded with Europe.” His voice sounded flat, disconnected from those experiences.
She bit her lip, wondering what the right thing to say would be. Anything to keep him talking. “How exciting to see the world like that.”
The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “Exciting, eh?”
Something in his tone made her feel like a child. “I’ve never been beyond Easton.”
He set the wine glass down and looked up, his pale eyes remote, as if he still didn’t really see her. He nodded slightly. “Oh, I certainly got to see some of the world.”
Then he chuckled, a sound so hollow and empty that it gave her sudden chills. She peered hard into his handsome face, trying to catch a glimpse of those distant, exotic places calling. All she saw was the self-mockery that quirked his lip upwards.
“After several years, I came home. In my absence, Father had sickened and he was having a difficult time keeping his affairs in order. He was running himself into bankruptcy. I immediately took over the business. However, instead of enjoying some respite, he died the next spring.”
His voice revealed such guilt that Emily’s heart gave a pang. She couldn’t keep herself from reaching out to touch his arm. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
He looked down at her hand and he compressed his lips. He pulled his arm away, then glanced at her, all that suffering and the faraway look gone, replaced by the same glib charm he’d displayed for the majority of the evening. “Well, thank you, but the loss isn’t so fresh now.”
She had the sense of a door being shut. The disappointment was crushing.
Alex veiled his eyes from Emily’s soul-piercing gaze. Yet he still felt her under his skin. He shifted in his seat and folded his arms over his chest.
What the hell had happened
? How had he lost all control over the situation?
It was his way to keep control over interactions with others. He did this by keeping his cold, empty core—the place where his heart ought to be—wrapped in layers and layers of such charm, that others could never guess how frozen he was inside. How empty. He dazzled others with this false warmth and kept them at safe distance.
Tonight, he had ended up dumping out some of his history in a truly weak and embarrassingly emotional rush. To a tavern harlot—and a pitiful example of a tavern harlot, at that.
Damn it all, anyway. What was he doing still sitting here? He’d already ascertained that Green hadn’t hurt her too badly. And he’d satisfied his gentlemanly worry that she was some innocent kitten lost in the night.
Once again, he eyed his companion critically. Yes, she was far too thin and her face was all sharp angles. Like a little fox. Her complexion was sallow. That mouth was far too full and wide, the nose just slightly too large. And she was painfully young. Not to mention that ridiculously overstuffed and obviously false bosom.
Had she even looked in the mirror before deciding to go out like that? It wasn’t very promising. Elegant women who knew how to conduct themselves were what he enjoyed. He hadn’t intended to take this girl upstairs. And he’d certainly known that she was older than sixteen the moment he’d seen her walk. Her hips swayed like a woman’s.
An exceptionally sensual, sexually experienced woman.
But something about her prickly manner had driven him to try to provoke her. The way her eyes sparked at him had sent genuine heat coursing through his blood. Not in a carnal sense—Well, at least not wholly. It was something more like a remembered fond pleasure. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
He couldn’t resist warming himself on her radiance.
And he could not deny it. As someone who had once taken hold the reigns of his own life at an early age, in a perverse way, he admired the fact that she had run from her family rather than buckle to what he could only assume was some form of paternal or maternal tyranny.
He should be pressing her harder to find out who her people were so that she could be returned to them safely. That’s exactly what a gentleman should do.
A little runaway in a Philadelphia tavern. A good girl, from an apparently good, upstanding family, who refused to kowtow to them—
God, her rebellious, reckless nature quite fired his blood.
Yes, his pulse had actually quickened during their conversation. That alone intrigued him. He’d been so dead inside lately. She had the power to heat him. And he hadn’t even seen her naked. A rare feat for a woman, much less this skinny little chit.
It made his thoughts linger on that sensual walk she had exhibited…
He gave himself an inward shake. There were other, truly beautiful, far more compliant Philadelphian women he might be with. Brigit, for one. He still hadn’t seen her since he’d come home, and her aggrieved note lay folded in his pocket. So what was he doing here with this girl, whom he would never in a hundred years take to his bed?
Damned if he knew.
Maybe it was her air of innocence, yet knowing, the way her lithe body moved so sensually.
And she did have compelling eyes—large, lushly lashed and the color of firelight through sherry. She had kept staring at him, staring into his soul, her eyes fairly glowing, as though burning with inner fire.
She possessed a brilliance about her that dazzled. It fascinated him.
It had warmed him, oh God, it had warmed him—such a delightful distraction—and he’d been cold for so long—
Again, he shook himself. No, what he needed was more than a shake, so he gave himself a harsh inner slap.
What nonsense. She was likely a girl from an unfortunate and impoverished background who happened to be good at telling a story to make herself sound more intriguing. And apparently his recent boredom had driven him a little too ready to be intrigued.
She was just another little tavern strumpet.
This side of Philadelphia was crawling with them.
And he’d wasted enough time—
Her sharp, hitching inhalation broke into his thoughts. She sneezed three times in a row. Her full bottom lip quivered in the aftermath.
Christ above…that mouth, red as ripe cherries and lush as velvet—his heartbeat quickened again and all his blood went rushing south to swell his cock.
God, she had a lovely mouth.
He offered her his handkerchief, but she had her own. She blew her nose as delicately as any elegant lady.
“Are you hungry?” As soon as the words left his lips, he started. Had he really just asked her to supper? Yes, he feared he had. But Christ, she was so thin that her cheeks were hollow.
She could certainly use a decent meal. It was the humane thing to do.
“Hungry?” she asked, raising those huge, lushly lashed eyes to his.
“Yes. Perhaps you’d like a late supper?”
She glanced about and wrinkled her nose. “No, thank you.”
So, despite being a harlot in a Hell City tavern, she had discriminating tastes and high standards. He definitely approved. He chuckled softly. “Not here. Someplace where they serve palatable food.”
* * * *
From the shadows, Richard Green watched Alexander Dalton help the thin, dark-haired girl into his carriage.
“I knew they were working together.”
Then he took a deep swig of whiskey from the bottle he held.
“Dalton works so hard to find new ways to make me lose face.”
As the last drops fell into his mouth, he frowned then threw the bottle to the street’s paving stones. The sound of smashing glass echoed loudly. He reached into his pocket and fished about.
Nothing.
“Well, I’ll be double-damned.” He whistled low. He’d left home today with two hundred dollars. He’d been looking forward to some quality female companionship—he fingered his ribs and winced—or at least he had been before the fight.
When had the little cut-purse cat done it? Most likely when Dalton had distracted him by challenging him.
Who would have dreamt, once upon a time, that it would all come to a pass like this?
In his mind’s eye flashed a smooth-faced seventeen-year-old boy with ghostly blue-gray, fever-glazed eyes. The rasp of that boy’s coughs broke the silence.
You deserved it, you shirking coward, the inner voice chided him.
It was always there. Tormenting him. Lying.
“No, I’ll not feel guilt! It was a rational choice. No one can fault me—they weren’t there!”
Chapter Three
He was watching her, silently, and it was setting her nerves jangling far more than the carriage rattling along on the paving stones of the street. Emily had not even been allowed to go out by herself until she had turned eighteen. She certainly had never been out alone with a man. She’d never been allowed any suitors at all, for that matter.
Grandmother hadn’t thought much of the male sex as a whole, and she had been of the firm opinion that no one could ever be good enough for her only granddaughter. No one was going to take her beloved Emily away from her. Not even a husband.
She had expected that Emily would remain unmarried and live with her forever.
Any young men who had made the mistake of trying to offer Emily a friendly look or word—and even the one or two who had braved Grandmother’s fierce glares to ask to come courting—had been firmly rebuffed by the domineering elderly woman.
Now Emily had spent a whole evening away from home and in the company of a charming, handsome gentleman. She had made the choice to actually leave the Blue Duck with him. The sense of freedom in that was heady.
“I’ve made a decision.”
Alex’s deep voice, smooth as silk, cut into her thoughts. She looked up at him and he held her gaze with his as he scooted closer on the carriage seat. Any sense that she had control over the situation vanished. She held her b
reath and tried to suppress the panic beating in her blood.
“A decision?” Was that hoarse voice really hers?
“Yes.” He reached up and lifted one of her curls off her shoulder in a casual, proprietary gesture. He pressed the curl to his lips, then let it drop. “I’ve decided to let myself fall in love with you.”
It was such an absurd comment that she gave a shaky laugh.
“You think that’s funny, eh?” He caressed her hair. Though clearly teasing her, there was an underlying edge of presumption in the way he handled her, as if she was his for the asking. Yes, that would be the way of a gentleman with a woman he assumed to be a harlot. He brought the lantern close. Looking over his merchandise?
He held a curl up to the light. “You’re not brunette at all, are you?”
She’d always hated her hair. It looked like the darkest, dullest brown at first glance, but under the light it turned an odd wine color. Other women had often said it was too unusual and vivid a color to be natural and accused grandmother of allowing her to put henna on it. But she never had.
He moved his face incrementally closer to hers and touched the back of her head. Her heart sped up and she closed her eyes. He brushed her lips with his, then applied gentle but firm pressure. His kiss spread through her veins like warm honey.
Alex lifted his head and her eyes popped open. Under his intense, speculative gaze, she took two quavering breaths. Had the carriage not been rolling quite so briskly, she was certain she’d have bolted straight out of the door.
Then he touched his lips to hers again, slanting his mouth tenderly over hers. Her lips trembled under his. With his tongue, he traced the outline of her mouth deliberately, lingeringly. It should have seemed silly, but the sensation of his tongue sliding over her lips was liquid, silken bliss. She sighed, deep in her throat, and leaned into him, giving herself over to the sensation of the kiss.
Alex shifted his weight on the squabs and made room in his pantaloons for his growing erection. The erection had come as a complete surprise. Yes, he had flirted with her. What else would a man do when alone in a carriage with a nineteen-year-old strumpet? It wasn’t likely that they would discuss literature or have a friendly political debate or commiserate about the fluctuations of the exchange.
Wild, Wicked and Wanton: A Hot Historical Romance Bundle Page 52