Beyond Scandal and Desire

by Lorraine Heath

  “It’s the reason I made the wager with Kipwick in order to have you attend my affair,” he continued.

  The words were a jolt, knocking her out of her stunned state even as they carried her further into it. “What wager?”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  He did not. Her anger with him continued to grow. She was going to smack him the next time she saw him—­for so many reasons. “He said you invited us to your affair.”

  His shoulder lifted, dropped. “I suppose those words contain some truth.”

  But not the entire truth. She heard it in his tone. “What is the whole truth, Mr. Trewlove?”

  “I do wish you’d call me Mick, especially after the intimacy we shared, the scorching kiss you delivered.”

  “I delivered?”

  “I can still taste you.”

  Was it because of his lowborn status that he spoke of things that shouldn’t be voiced aloud? “You shouldn’t say such things.”

  “They embarrass you.”

  “Of course they do. They’re improper.”

  “Not between two people with feelings for each other.”

  Jerking her head to the side, she gazed down the dark street. Lamps had yet to be installed. There was naught but construction, and she couldn’t make out any of the details. She wanted to deny she had feelings for him, but she couldn’t when she felt something, yet couldn’t identify exactly what it was she was experiencing. The kiss had made her aware of things she’d never before felt, had made her want to follow wherever it might have led—­even as she had a very strong understanding that it might have led to a bedchamber. She’d never felt that way with Kip, had never envisioned tangled bodies among tangled sheets, but then he’d never kissed her as though his life depended on tasting every aspect of her.

  Her thoughts were brought back to the problem at hand as a carriage pulled by four horses came around the corner and drew to a halt in front of the hotel. He shoved himself away from the wall. “Let me take you home.”

  “No, I’ll find a hansom.”

  He sighed. “I won’t touch you. I give you my word.”

  As though that was her worry. Her concern was that she might not be able to resist touching him. He was sin and danger and desire, liberating urges within her that had never known freedom, urges she feared wouldn’t be content to be locked away without experiencing fully what he’d offered. “You shouldn’t have to go to all that bother.”

  “It’s no bother. I have some appointments I need to keep.” A corner of his mouth hitched up. “Dark pleasures and all that. They’re best seen to at night.”

  Was he headed to a brothel or a mistress after delivering that blistering kiss to her? What did it matter? He was not for her, nor was she for him. Not when all was said and done. “No, thank you. I’ll find a hansom. There has to be one around here somewhere.”

  Another sigh, this one riffed with impatience, maybe a bit of disappointment. “Take the carriage, then. I won’t go with you.”

  “No, I won’t inconvenience you, keep you from your appointments.” Even as she loathed the thought that they very likely did involve another woman.

  “You’re a stubborn wench.”

  She’d never considered herself as such. It was odd, the various previously hidden aspects he brought out in her. “I suppose I can be when the situation warrants.”

  Another deep sigh, this one fraught with defeat. She’d have thought him a man to never surrender. “I’ll send my man to find a hansom. It may take a while. At least come inside while you wait, where it’s dry and warm. There’s a parlor off the lobby. Imagine a fire blazing.”

  Although the rain wasn’t hitting her directly, she’d grown chilled standing there with the mist circling about. “Yes, all right. Thank you.”

  He raised a hand and with two fingers, signaled someone over. The porter, carrying an umbrella. She supposed he kept one handy to assist those who arrived at the hotel in the rain. “He’ll escort you inside. I’ll join you in a minute.”

  Holding the umbrella over her head, not bothering to shield himself, the porter offered his arm. Gripping it to ensure she remained steady as they traversed the slick brick path that led to the steps, she glanced over to see Mick talking to his coachman. She hadn’t meant to be such an inconvenience, should probably have accepted his offer of the carriage, but it seemed wrong in light of what had happened in his office.

  The porter guided her along the path, up the steps, the rain pattering the umbrella, a bit harder than she’d expected. Its strength was increasing. She’d have been drenched if she’d tried to make it back inside on her own. So many things she didn’t consider because they were automatically done for her. She didn’t like realizing she was so incredibly pampered, protected, shielded.

  They’d barely gotten inside when Mick joined them. “Go on into the parlor, make yourself comfortable.”

  She left them there, with him giving instructions to the porter—­Jones, he’d called him earlier. For some reason it seemed important to remember that. She hadn’t viewed the parlor the other night; it hadn’t been part of her private tour. Dark wood paneling and dark red velvet chairs with fringe dangling from the seats made the room seem at once both masculine and feminine. She chose a chair near the fireplace where no fire burned. A chill swept through her. She’d been silly to insist on a hansom when a perfectly good carriage waited outside. But she wasn’t going to delay his seeing to his business, wasn’t going to be any more beholden to him than she already was.

  The tread of heavy footsteps had her glancing over to watch Mick stride into the room, so gracefully, with such strength, such command. This was his domain, his lair. He was lord here, and she had the sudden thought she might have been better off walking home, even as she found herself mesmerized by his movements.

  Without a word, he crouched before the hearth and began the task of lighting the fire. He wore no gloves. Those strong, capable hands adjusted the placement of the logs, did other things, the purpose of which she hadn’t a clue.

  “Don’t you have servants to do that?” she asked. The duke, bless him, called in a footman if the fire was in need of stirring.

  “I’m not going to wake them for this. I’ve been building fires since I was seven, Lady Aslyn.”

  She didn’t like that he’d added the title back to her name, wanted the earlier intimacy when she shouldn’t. The fire caught, the wood crackled, the warmth began to spread beyond him.

  He unfolded that tall, marvelously sculpted body of his, turned, stepped forward and took a blanket draped over the desk clerk’s arm. She hadn’t heard the man arrive. Not unusual. Staff learned to walk on silent feet. Still, she was surprised by his presence. Holding two snifters, he set one on the small table beside her chair, the other on a table beside a chair opposite hers, then quickly made his exit.

  “I thought you had appointments,” she said to Mick.

  He shook out the blanket, bent at the waist, draped the covering over her lap, tucking it in against her sides. He leaned in nearer, his eyes holding hers. “They can wait. They’re not nearly as important as you.”

  It wasn’t fair when he spoke words she’d longed for Kip to say. “I was being considerate, trying to save you some bother.” Her voice came out low, raspy. Nothing about her seemed to stay as it was whenever this man was near.

  “No bother. I enjoy seeing after you.” Words a suitor might utter, but Kipwick never had. But then he hadn’t had to court her; their eventual arrangement had always been understood. She should have made him work for it. Maybe then he’d appreciate what he had—­or had once had. From her viewpoint, their understanding was no longer what it had been.

  Mick moved away, dropped into the vacant chair and lifted the snifter. “This will warm you better than a blanket or a fire.”

  “Brandy?”

  “Cognac
to be precise.” He waited until she’d retrieved her glass, raised his slightly higher, bent his head just a tad in a very inviting manner. “Cheers.”

  She sipped. The liquid was velvet on the tongue, smooth as it seared its way along her throat. She couldn’t recall tasting anything as rich or flavorful. She imagined it had cost him a pretty penny. “It’s delicious.”

  “I’m glad you enjoy it.”

  Taking another sip, allowing the warmth to seep through her, to give her a sense of lethargy, she was half tempted to curl up and go to sleep. “So tell me the details of the wager.”

  “Hmm.” He shifted his gaze to the fire, which was blazing now, creating a comforting atmosphere, one that required a book or a dog in the lap. “We were at the Cerberus Club, Aiden’s gaming establishment. The game was poker. I’d only just sat down to play. Kipwick had been at it a while. Our first hand, I knew I could outbid him so I offered him an exchange.” His eyes returned to her, level, honest, bold. She always felt he studied her with every fiber of his being, that he marked her breaths, the beat of her heart. That not even a blink escaped his scrutiny. “If I won, he’d bring you to the ball. If he won, he’d not only gain the pot but all the chips that remained to me. With what I’d wagered and what remained, he’d have taken in more than a thousand pounds.”

  She was immediately struck with two realizations: that Mick would risk so much to have her here and Kipwick would risk her for monetary gain. Flattery and disgust battled within her. “And you won.”

  He gave a long, slow nod.

  “You both used me as an object.” Her voice was tart, reflected her anger.

  “I wanted your company, your presence here that night. I didn’t care what anyone else I invited thought of the place, but I valued your opinion. I was willing to engage in a questionable tactic. I’d already asked him to bring you and he’d refused, fearing for your reputation.”

  “And you didn’t care about my reputation.”

  He gave her a pointed look. “It was a ball. I didn’t see that your reputation would be in any danger. You hadn’t struck me as someone who lorded her position in Society over others.”

  A spark of shame skipped through her. “I didn’t mean to imply that associating with your guests was beneath me.”

  “Nor did I mean to imply I saw you as an object to be bartered. I see you as anything but. You intrigue me, Lady Aslyn, but I can’t call on you for two reasons—­you are already betrothed, and I sincerely doubt your guardians would welcome me into their home.”

  They wouldn’t. The duchess had made clear her opinion on the illegitimate. But to look at him, no one would know. She saw him as a businessman, a success, a man who went after what he wanted. And he’d wanted her company. Kip had abandoned her for cards, and Mick had only left her side when she’d insisted. He might not be courting her, but he certainly had a way of making her feel treasured.

  “Besides, I hoped you might enjoy the evening.”

  “I did,” she admitted softly. “Until the end.”

  “Rather unfortunate that.”

  With a nod, she sipped the cognac and turned her attention to the fire. “Shouldn’t your man have returned with a hansom by now?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as he stretched out his legs as though settling in for a long wait. “Not a lot of need for cabbies this time of night in this section of London. Someday there will be. Just not yet.”

  She peered over at him. With his elbow resting on the arm of the chair, he held the stem of his snifter nestled between two fingers, his palm cradling the bowl, no doubt warming its contents. The pose shouldn’t have made him look so enticingly masculine, but she suspected he could be decked out in petticoats and still give the impression nothing about him ever had been or ever would be feminine. “I suppose I should have taken you up on the offer of your carriage.”

  “It’s not too late, although now that we are further into the night, if you’re in my carriage, I’d have a responsibility to accompany you.”

  To sit in the dark confines across from her, their knees possibly in danger of touching. His mouth not so far from hers. She felt as though he’d branded her, in ways Kip never had, had never even tried. Better to wait for the hansom than to risk discovering she was weak where Mick was concerned. “Regarding Kipwick, as you’ve admitted to spending time with him, answer me this. Was last night an aberration?”

  He sighed. “You should ask him.”

  “You don’t gossip or tell tales out of turn.”

  “When you grow up as the object of gossip, you learn to loathe it.”

  She couldn’t imagine a child being gossiped about, but her experience with children was limited. She’d been tutored at the estate. Growing up, she hadn’t run around with anyone other than Kip, and then only when he made time for her. He’d gone off to school. She’d always expected she would, as well. She’d had a short stint at a ladies’ finishing school, but other than that, until her first Season, her life had been rather confining. “Was it the circumstances of your birth that caused the gossip?”

  A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Some questioned the absence of a father. Some knew Ettie Trewlove took in bastards. People tended to avoid us as though we might infect them with our illegitimacy. I grew up angry, quick to lash out.”

  “You’re still angry.” She could see it in the tautness of his jaw.

  “I am, but now my anger is directed at only one—­the man who spilled his seed into a woman and created me.”

  His words surprised her. “Do you know who your father is?”

  “I do.”

  “Does he acknowledge you?”

  “Not yet, but he will. Eventually.”

  She didn’t understand people not acknowledging their children, regardless of the circumstances of their birth. “How can you be so certain?”

  A muscle in his jaw tightened, jumped. At the audacity of her question or the means he intended to employ to ensure his father complied with his wishes? She didn’t believe he’d use physical force, but he was a man with wealth, power and friends who flourished in the shadows. He studied her, and she suddenly wished a more concrete trust existed between them. “I apologize. How you deal with family is not my business.”

  “He’s not family. He’s blood. Family has naught to do with blood.”

  She understood that sentiment. “Very true. I’ve been with the duke and duchess for so long that they are more parents than guardians. They’ve always treated me as though I were their true daughter.”

  “You love them.” It was a statement, but one edged with surprise.

  “Of course. They’ve been very good to me, but it’s more than that. They’re the ones who comfort me when I’m melancholy, who made me feel safe when I awoke frightened in the dark of night. The duchess taught me how to be a lady, to walk throughout the manor with a book balanced on top of my head. The duke taught me how to waltz.” She laughed lightly. “I would stand on his feet, and he would circle the room until I grew dizzy.”

  “He’s a man of patience, then.”

  She didn’t know why he sounded so disgruntled by the notion. “And one prone to indulging the ladies in his life. I’ve never heard him have a harsh or unkind word for his duchess. Whatever she wishes, he accommodates.”

  “Is that what you want? A man who never challenges you?”

  With her mouth open and no words pouring forth, she stared at him like she was a carp tossed onto shore.

  “I believe you’d grow bored with him after a time,” he continued.

  Goodness gracious, it hit her as though she’d been struck by lightning: she did find Kip boring—­at least when compared against Mick Trewlove. She shouldn’t be comparing them, and she realized she been doing exactly that from the moment she spied Mick sauntering toward them at Cremorne as though he owned the night and everything wit
hin it. “Where is the damned hansom?”

  A corner of his mouth kicked up. “The lady uses profanity. I’d have not thought.”

  “It’s late and the lady is tired.”

  “I can let you a room for the night.” A room to which he no doubt had a key. “There should be more cabbies about in the morning. At the very least it’ll be safer to walk about searching for one.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll wait. It can’t be much longer, and I’d hate for your man to go to all that bother and then have to send the hansom on its way.” She went to take another sip of the cognac, discovered her glass empty. How had that happened?

  “Would you care for more?”

  “No.”

  Apparently he didn’t believe her as he took her glass, replaced it with his. She didn’t want to consider that it tasted richer because his mouth had been against the rim.

  “You’ve never been kissed before.”

  Indignation raced through her. “I most certainly have.”

  “He didn’t do a very good job of it, then.”

  He hadn’t. She hated that he knew it, that he probably guessed correctly who’d kissed her. “You didn’t seem repulsed by my efforts.”

  “On the contrary, you’re remarkable. Yet in the beginning you hesitated to part your lips, seemed surprised by my . . . urgings.”

  “I will admit to being taken off guard by your unusual method of kissing.”

  He chuckled darkly. “Unusual? Sweetheart, any man who is kissing you properly is going to want his tongue in your mouth, your tongue in his.”

  The sensations slammed into her as though his mouth was once again claiming hers with a ferocity that bordered on barbaric. “Must we analyze what transpired in your office?”

  She had no idea what he might have said because Jones chose that moment to hurry into the room. Thank goodness. She started to rise—­

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t find a hackney anywhere.”

  She sank back down. Blast it all. How had she come to be in this awkward position?

  “Thank you, Jones. I know you did your best.”