by Dara Joy
He supposed he could get like that from time to time.
During the physical act of love, he would try to touch something... Something that was missing in him.
On those rare occasions, when that fierceness came upon him, he had never been able to reach the core that he was seeking.
Lady Thomlinson had turned out to be more than he had bargained for. Smart and entertaining, her lively sense of adventure kept him grinning throughout the day.
And she was so natural.
So uncorrupted by the poisons of society.
How had she been delivered unto him? He was a willing participant in that underbelly of society.
As he stood in the frame of Frock’s massive wooden doors, his mind reviewing their days together, he caught an unwanted view of a gentleman’s rump that was suddenly flung up in the air directly in his line of sight.
He grimaced, his gaze shifting immediately away to scan the room for potential gamboling partners. Suddenly, his brow furrowed, and he stroked his square chin.
Abruptly, his focus snapped back to the rump in question.
By all that’s holy, it looks familiar...
A wrist dripping in lace fluttered in the air. Tyler’s scrutiny intensified. Is that Lord Henry? A nasal bleat of laughter reached him through the throng. Good God, no, it’s sir Reggie.
Maybe he should just step back a few steps and slip out the door before all was lost?
The rump wiggled again.
Tyler stopped short.
In horrified fascination, he watched the velvet-clad display. Something was already crystallizing in his mind. He was an expert on the female form, and the backside presenting itself to him (in all its lush, curvaceous splendor) was not that of a man.
Furthermore, this particular backside he had the pleasure of viewing not too many days past when he happened to walk into a certain bedroom and its owner was rooting around under a bed.
Storm clouds gathered over his head.
Reggie... Regina. Ginny.
His powerful fists clenched. That slip of a girl had deceived him! Him.
Tyler Devon’s heart pounded in his chest, its fierce thumps rattling the paper on which the verses he had so recently inked were written. Ginny had been the first person– other than one other– that he had trusted in years. To think he had believed in her innocence!
He had been utterly duped and more than likely cuckolded.
Whatever seams had been stitched to mend his lordship’s broken life in the last weeks, felt apart and melted away. Lost like a narrow path in a dense forest.
And with it went the carefree rake of the ton.
The words he uttered as he began to stride briskly towards her were not encouraging ones for Ginny.
And although he did not mean the oath literally, he certainly entertained the notion figuratively.
“DAMN AND BLAST, I’LL FEED HER LIVER TO THE SEAGULLS!!”
The dreaded pirate had at last arrived full sail.
And he was not likely to give quarter.
* * *
Ignorance is bliss even for the briefest of moments.
Had Mabel been present she would surely have warned Ginny that she was caught good and proper and by a man of considerable nature, for one such as Lord Devon would certainly have his due.
As Ginny rose from her bow, a voice from behind her, deep and forbidding as a storm-tossed sea, rasped in her ear. ”Giving as good as one gets relies on giving no more than what one deserves. That is the art, or should I say, trick, to it. Wouldn’t you say, Reggie Moore?”
Ginny froze in place, her heart hammering in her chest. It couldn’t be! What was he doing here tonight?
More important, had he somehow seen through her disguise?
Taking a deep breath, she slowly turned around, cursing her bad luck.
Lord Devon, her husband, stood before her, more handsome and more frightening than she could ever have imagined. His amazing opaline eyes were narrowed into twin cannons of blazing fire. Arms crossed over his chest, he viewed her with the silence of command that no simple rake ever possessed.
One summer, when she was young, she had witnessed a storm of driving intensity. The night sky had lit up for hours with angry flashes of color. She was sure that was what she was witnessing in front of her now.
It was called heat lightning.
She had no idea that one day the term would perfectly describe her future husband.
“I haven’t seen you about lately, Reggie.” Tyler’s deceptive tone was as deadly as the silk on a spider’s web.
Ginny swallowed, trying to find her “Reggie” voice.
What came out was a squeak even higher than the fop’s normal range. “Yes, well, Lord Devon, I have been under the weather, as Lord Henry told you.”
“Yes.” He stared her down.
Ginny swallowed again. She wished he wouldn’t look at her like that. His fiery demeanor had become noticeable even in the boisterous room. And his eyes were so damn glittery. Who had eyes like that anyway?
Henley let out a barely audible gasp and nudged her side. She fidgeted with her hanky. “You-you know how things tr-transpire.”
“Do I?”
She had never realized how threatening Tyler could be.
Wait. Perhaps she was misinterpreting his stony expression?
His thunderous eyes? The pulse beating in his neck?
Of course she was. The man was just too bloody tall.
Naturally, at times, he would come across as intimidating.
Her reasoning gave her renewed courage. She squared her shoulders. “Yes, well, dear boy, I am sorry to have missed your nuptials. Wouldn’t have for the world ‘cept for that nasty ague.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked, joining the pulse in his throat.
Zounds, did I just refer to him as ‘dear boy’? Ginny swallowed harder. What was she thinking?
Ever her stalwart companion, Henley put his arm around Ginny’s shoulders, alarmed at her blithe response to a man who looked like that. No doubt by this time, her cousin questioned her sanity. Even so, Henley took up the cause for her, making her love him all the more.
“’Twas a marvelous time, Regg. You should have seen the bride...” His words drifted off at the lord’s murderous look. A sheen of sweat broke through the fop’s face powder.
“Ah, yes, my marriage. An interesting affair, to say the least, Henry.”
Throwing all sense out the window, Ginny fumed at Tyler’s sarcastic tone regarding their wedding.
“How so, my lord?” she snapped, recklessly.
Lord Devon slanted her a look. “Well, Sir Reggie, let us simply say that my bride is rather the naive type and leave it at that.”
Oh, really. And why was he telling ‘Reggie’ this?
She crossed her arms over her chest and began tapping her foot in irritation. “I hardly think–”
Henry stomped on Ginny’s toe while giving Lord Devon a sickly grin.
“We made a bargain, my bride and I.” Tyler stared down at Ginny through hooded eyes. “But it appears that bargain has been broken.”
Her heart began to thud loudly in her chest. “B-broken, how?”
“Trust. Any good alliance is based on trust. But then you do not know much about the nature of marriage, do you, Reggie Moore?”
Ginny raised her chin. “I know more than you, sir.”
“I beg to differ. In fact, I think it might behoove me–
as your newfound wiser, older, and wed relative– to instruct you in the ways of these things.” The slight upward curve of his lips certainly did not invite interpretation.
“That won’t be necessary,” Ginny responded quickly.
“Although I thank you for your generous offer.”
“Nonsense. I insist.” His hand plunked down on the back of her neck. “Why don’t we go to my townhouse, where it is more private?”
It was not a question.
The man began to steer her doggedly toward th
e front doors with an iron hand at her nape. Where he pushed, she followed. Like a dead duff walking.
Henley trailed nervously after them; the fop had already started to fret. With good reason.
When they reached the entrance, Tyler stopped and turned to him. “Why don’t you go about your own business tonight, Henry; this is sure to be boring for you.”
His firm tone brooked no argument.
Nonetheless, Henley– stalwart soul that he was– tried.
He ran shaking finger around his too tight collar as he gathered his nerve. “Hmmm, umm, I think I should, at the least–”
“Not a chance.”
With that ominous decree, his lordship summarily shoved Ginny through the doors and into his waiting, crested carriage.
* * *
The ride back was annoyingly silent.
Ginny, ever the optimist, did not think that Tyler had actually seen through her game. Although her husband was certainly not acting like himself.
He seems so cold. So remote. Like that time in the garden, when his whole demeanor had instantly changed.
She did try to make idle talk in the coach at first, but quickly gave up amid the icy atmosphere. Lord Devon mutely stared into the night through the small window, the coach lamp illuminating a tiny muscle that beat a tattoo in his clenched jaw.
They arrived home all too soon for Ginny’s tastes.
“Pratt, send a bath up immediately to my chambers,” he clipped the order as soon as they came through the front doors. That said, ‘the hand of no arguments’
returned to the back of her neck and relentlessly steered her up the stairs.
If Pratt thought the request of a tub odd when his master had bathed but a few hours past, he never let on.
He was a very good butler, indeed.
When they reached his lordship’s bedroom, Ginny wasn’t sure what she should do. Tyler had barely acknowledged her since they left Frock’s. Should Reggie attempt to start up another conversation?
Tyler saved her from having to make that decision by going over to the small table by the bed and grabbing two crystal goblets. He poured a healthy measure of cognac in each.
Holding out one of the cups, he swirled the amber liquid around in a gesture that clearly indicated she should come and get it.
Treating him much like a coiled snake, she decided there was no sense giving him reason to strike. Gingerly, she stepped toward him, taking the glass.
Tyler arched his brow. Giving her a banal look, he swallowed his drink in two gulps.
Ginny rolled the goblet stem back and forth between her fingers. “I had always heard that cognac is best for sipping, sir.”
“True, yet in certain circumstances the first taste is best imbibed swiftly, with the second sip being the one for lingering.”
The husky rasp sent shivers up her spine. He was speaking of cognac, wasn’t he?
A puff of breath escaped her lips as he casually strolled back to the table and poured himself another.
The one for lingering.
He never took his eyes off her as he drank. Slowly.
Those incredible, blazing opals burning right into her.
Ginny wished she had her fan. It was getting abominably hot in this blasted room. An occurrence that seemed to be occurring around him frequently lately.
Pratt knocked on the door then entered at Tyler’s command. Two servants huffed and puffed as they hauled in a tub; they were followed by three more servants carrying pails of hot water.
“By the fire, if you will.”
They did as Tyler instructed, going about their work quietly. In no time at all a steaming bath awaited.
“Is there anything else, my lord?”
“No, Pratt that will be all. I do not wish to be interrupted tonight for any reason. Do I make myself clear?”
“Precisely, my lord.” The servant nodded curtly and left them alone.
Ginny took a few seconds to find her voice. Did the man actually plan to bathe in front of her? That would be too embarrassing. “If you wish to bathe, Lord Devon, I can come back another time.”
He waved her suggestion away. “I wouldn’t hear of it. We can have our conversation now. Surely, you are not squeamish at the sight of a man bathing, Reggie?”
Ginny’s focus darted from the tub to Tyler. What exactly was he about here? Did the man suspect she would expose herself by having vapors at the mere viewing of his nakedness? Not hardly.
“By all means,” she casually indicated the bath with her hand, “Have at it, sir.”
His eyebrow arched. “Oh, I intend to.” There was a lawless core within him that he battled. She was playing with fire.
The thin veneer that he held in check every day of his “lordly” life was cracking. Tyler struggled to tamp down the reckless part of his nature, the side that did not belong in the drawing room– ever. Freedom sank into one’s pores or rose from the core; and however one came upon it, natural-born or adopted, it took root and grew within. As a consequence, the outlaw was never tossed out with the bath water.
As the years passed by, this life fit him less and less and the other more and more. It was a side effect of the profession that was never acknowledged. Despite its hardships and dangers, he favored the brethren life.
And right now that proclivity was front and foremost.
So he began to disrobe.
Ginny didn’t know whether to look at him– or not look at him. She had never been around a naked man before. If she didn’t look at him, it might seem odd; however, if she stared at him that might seem odder still.
Especially since she was dressed as Sir Reggie.
Zounds.
She settled on striking a nonchalant pose with a vague unfocused look aimed an inch above his left shoulder.
Unfortunately, the man disrobed at a snail’s pace.
Piece by bloody piece. Hannibal crossed the Alps quicker.
The jacket came first. Tossing it on a chair, he strolled over to the fireplace to take a few more sips of his cognac.
Ignoring Ginny, he stared into the flames of the fire while slowly unbuttoning his brocade vest. It was done in such a measured way that she was sorely tempted to go over and grab both sides of the garment and rip the damn thing apart herself.
The vest was finally slung over a chair.
She let out an audible sigh of relief.
He glanced back at her, the curve of his shoulder only partially obscuring that mysterious curl of his lips.
With his back to her, Tyler stood before the fireplace in snug black breeches (that molded his muscular thighs rather indecently), black leather boots, and a voluminous, almost sheer, white linen shirt, the cuffs of which dripped lace over long, beautifully shaped golden tan fingers.
The rakehell took another sip of the cognac, glancing her sideways over the rim of the glass. The side of his face turned to her took on a dark, shadowy cast. His glittering, translucent stare bore through her as firelight flickered off the cognac in his hand and danced in his eyes like fire and ice in the eye of a hurricane.
Ginny’s lips parted. Good lord, he is beautiful.
With a casual flick of his fingers, he pulled the ribbon from his hair, freeing the glossy locks. The long strands tumbled about his shoulders, a stormy black cloud.
Objectively, Ginny thought the wild mane thoroughly mirrored the untamed mood he was projecting. Dark clouds. Thunder. Hurricanes.
It all rather added up to a picture, didn’t it?
Not, perhaps, a very pleasant picture for one caught in such a storm.
She worried her lip.
Setting his drink down, his lordship grabbed the hem of his shirt and lifted it up over his head. As he did so, the broad expanse of his chest was slowly revealed.
Warm golden skin was polished in the reflective firelight; hard muscles rippled.
Ginny blinked. My word. He is quite... fit.
Are wastrel lords always this fit?
He tossed aside
his shirt and societal mores seemed to be tossed aside as well. This was a different Tyler Devon who stood before her. Ginny couldn’t pinpoint the difference per se, she simply recognized that a startling change had occurred.
The room is really getting quite warm.
Fanning herself with Reggie’s lace hanky, she gave into temptation, and stared unabashedly at the naked male chest flexing right in front of her.
A sudden urge to touch it seized her.
Wisely, she refrained.
Tyler finished his drink, poured another, then sat down on the divan in front of the mantel. Holding up a booted foot, he lazily drawled, “Be a good lad and help me take these off; would you, Reggie?”
Do I have a choice? Reluctantly, Ginny lumbered over to the divan and bent down to grab the proffered foot.
“No, no, my good fellow. Like this.”
Before she could protest, Tyler quickly turned her around so that her backside was facing him. Resting his glass on the floor, his hands cupped her hips, and guided her rear up.
He paused a moment, cocking his head to the side in examination, then directed her derriere up a notch higher. “Now that’s perfect,” he murmured, almost to himself.
His palms slid over the fullness of her backside before he let go.
What was wrong with the man? Was he foxed?
Probably. The rake had too much to drink tonight and would most likely fall asleep in his bath.
Ginny smiled to herself; she could slip away then.
Without preamble, Tyler suddenly placed his other foot squarely against her rump and pushed. Hard. The boot, still clutched between her hands, came off with a popping sound, sending her flying across the carpet.
She rubbed at her sore backside, throwing him a considering look.
He impatiently waved her back. “Now the other one.”
Reluctantly, she grabbed the other boot. This time it was his bare sole that rested against her velvet-clad rump.
“A word of advice, Reggie?”
Ginny glanced back at him over her shoulder.
“What?” She responded rather sharply.
“This angle will always get you in trouble.” Just before Tyler shoved, his toes tweaked her left cheek.
“Ow!” Ginny flung the freed boot at him. He neatly dodged it. “That hurt!” She rubbed the offended spot.