The Danger of Desire

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “I don’t want to, but I will if I must.”

  She huffed out a breath. “Why, for heaven’s sake? It’s none of your concern!”

  “I hate to see a young lady of good family with respectable connections risk her entire future for . . . what? The thrill of the game?”

  “Don’t be absurd.” She snorted. “The game is what ripped our family apart. I wouldn’t be playing at all if not for Reynold.”

  “So you admit that you’ve been playing cards at Dickson’s as Jack Jones.”

  Her gaze shot to him. “Fine.” She tipped up her chin. “I admit it. I am Jack Jones.” Laying her hand on his arm, she looked up at him with a plea in her eyes that fairly slayed him. “And if you reveal my activities to my aunt, you will ruin everything. So please tell me what I must do to keep you from making an utter wreck of my life.”

  Seven

  Delia could actually see Lord Knightford’s temper flare—the frozen look in his eyes, the thinning of his lips. Odd, how she’d begun to notice those signs. Probably because he’d been meddling so much in her affairs in the past day.

  “I am trying to keep you from making a wreck of your life,” he bit out. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is for a woman to go into the stews alone—”

  “I’m going as Jack Jones, not a woman. And not alone, either. Owen is there to protect me if anyone gets too close. He does an excellent job of it.”

  “Someone will recognize you eventually. I recognized you.”

  “Because you danced with me yesterday! That’s all.”

  “That’s not all. Aside from the fact that you’re too pretty to pass as a gentleman if anyone looked closely, you don’t have the derriere of a man. It’s far too shapely, and those trousers are rather tight for you.”

  That took her aback. He thought her pretty? Really? And he’d been observing her backside in trousers? Oh, Lord.

  Wait, that was highly unlikely. “You couldn’t possibly have seen my derriere. I was seated the whole time you were there.”

  “Not the whole time, trust me. And all it would take is your bending over once to pick something up—”

  “I don’t bend over. Women never do.”

  “Exactly. So don’t you think someone would notice if you performed the usual ladylike dip to pick something up? Or any number of other feminine actions you take for granted?”

  She swallowed. “No one’s noticed heretofore.”

  “It’s only a matter of time. It took me little enough effort to follow you and Owen on foot to the gaming hell—”

  “Follow us! You followed us?” Her heart pounded. So that’s when he’d seen her derriere in tight trousers.

  And she’d thought she was being so clever by escaping last night. But he’d known exactly where she was going. He could have found her then, if he’d chosen. “If you knew where I lived, why didn’t you demand to see my aunt last night and expose me?”

  “Before I did anything drastic, I wanted to give you a chance to stop your dangerous activities. I have no desire to get you into trouble with your relations.” His gaze hardened. “But I will, if that is what’s necessary to make you stop taking these risks.”

  Ooh, he could be so infuriating, him and his marquess high-handedness! “I am managing the risks perfectly well.” She tipped up her chin. “I’ve been going nearly every night for a month and not a soul has guessed I’m a woman. Men only see what they want, and they assume that no woman could ever be as good at cards as I am.”

  She wasn’t boasting about her abilities. It was a fact that even Reynold had acknowledged.

  “You are good—I’ll give you that. But you’re not managing the risks as well as you assume. Don’t you think people have noticed your ducking out to confer with Owen at balls, the private notes shared between you, your tiredness—”

  “Oh, Lord, I knew it!” she said as awareness dawned. “Lady Clarissa put you up to this, didn’t she? She keeps prying. But this takes the cake—setting her cousin to spy on me!”

  He thrust his jaw out defensively. “Not spy. Observe.” When she snorted, he added, “And everything I’ve seen tells me she was right to be concerned. This masquerade of yours is mad.”

  “Why? Because I’m winning money from lords who think they’re better than everyone else?”

  His dark gaze narrowed on her. “Is that what this is about? Money?”

  She caught her breath. She didn’t dare tell him the truth, since she still had no idea who her quarry was. For all she knew, the tattooed nobleman could be Lord Knightford’s close friend or relation.

  So she would have to give him the answer he expected. “Of course it’s about money. I need enough to forestall the foreclosure of Camden Hall before we’re all tossed out. I’ve put away quite a bit of blunt already.”

  “I can’t imagine you’ve put away enough to forestall foreclosure of an estate of any size.”

  He was right, but she couldn’t say that, since her hopes were set on a different source of funds entirely. “It’s not enough yet, but if I can have a couple more weeks in London—”

  “What about your suitor, the rich farmer, Owenouse?” he said sarcastically. “Can’t he take care of all of you once you marry?”

  His knowing look scraped her nerves. “All right, I admit that was a rather . . . clumsy lie.” Turning on her heel, she stalked down the path.

  He fell into step beside her with an easy stride that reminded her of a fine Thoroughbred’s. Or a tiger on the prowl. Honestly, he was too unnerving to bear. Men rarely unsettled her, so how did he always manage to do it? It galled her.

  So she lashed out. “You can be terribly annoying sometimes, you know, meddling in other people’s business.”

  “And you can be terribly stupid.” When she shot him a black look, he caught her arm to halt her. “I have it on good authority that you’ve turned down some perfectly eligible, respectable suitors. Why on earth would you do that when marriage is the easiest way to settle your future for good?”

  She tugged her arm from his. “My future isn’t the only one at stake. Since I do not inherit Camden Hall, any man I marry would have no incentive to save it, or to support my sister-in-law and her child. So while marriage might save me, it won’t save the rest of my family or their proper inheritance.”

  “Fine. If your sister-in-law is the one whose son will inherit the property, then help her find a rich husband. I hear she’s pretty enough to land one.”

  “That’s precisely what I’m trying to avoid! As soon as Brilliana is out of mourning, she means to marry the first wealthy man who offers for her, the first one willing to pay off the debt and save the estate. And I can’t let her do that.”

  “Why, for God’s sake? That would solve everything.”

  “Only if she can find one soon enough. How probable is that for a destitute widow with a son? So my only choice is to go on as I have.”

  “Really?” He stepped closer. “And what do you think will happen if you’re discovered playing Jack Jones in the gaming hells? Scandal isn’t the best way to ensure anyone’s future.”

  “On the contrary, it wouldn’t affect my life in the least, since I don’t intend to marry.” At least not until she found the man who’d ruined her brother and made him pay the money back.

  “You really mean it. You don’t want to marry,” he said, with the usual male skepticism that always grated. “Ever.”

  “You of all people shouldn’t find that odd. You’ve shown no evidence that you wish to marry.”

  “Ah, but I can satisfy my desires without marrying. You cannot.”

  Desires—hah! “I don’t care about that,” she said, and meant it. “It’s not the same for women as for men, you know. We don’t feel . . . things like that.”

  The few times she had, she’d been alone with her daydreams about daring soldiers and noble knights of old. But in real life, she’d never felt anything for the gentlemen she encountered. Even the few who’d initially attracted he
r had proved disappointingly ordinary.

  Except Lord Knightford.

  She scowled. Well, of course she would find the witty and devastatingly handsome Lord Knightford compelling, but that didn’t matter. He would never consider marrying her; he’d made that quite clear. Nor did she want to marry a man who would probably go on whoring and deceive his wife about it.

  “You actually believe that women don’t feel desire,” he snapped, as if he found that some sort of personal affront.

  “Absolutely.” When she realized Lord Knightford was eyeing her as if she’d just grown a third arm, she added defensively, “Brilliana says that the ‘pleasures of the marital bed’ are pleasurable only for the men. A wife just has to put up with relations.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. That may say more about your brother and sister-in-law’s marriage than about the ‘pleasures of the marital bed.’ ” When she blinked at him, he leaned closer. “Tell me, Miss Trevor, have you ever even been kissed?”

  That brought her up short. “I can’t believe we’re having this highly inappropriate conversation.”

  “Why not? We always have inappropriate conversations. It’s why I find you so charming. Answer the question.”

  “Of course I’ve been kissed. But—”

  “I should have said, kissed properly.”

  She slanted a wary glance at him. Her two kisses had both been distinctly unpleasant. Granted, one had been with a fortune hunter who’d taken her by surprise, but she’d rather fancied the other gentleman. Until he’d done some disgusting thing with his tongue and taught her that kisses sounded much better in stories than they were in reality.

  Though she ought to lie and say she had been kissed properly, she suspected he wasn’t referring to propriety. And the idea that kisses could be done wrong fascinated her. “What do you mean, properly?”

  He glanced across the street to where her aunt stood in the window watching them. “I’m afraid there’s only one way to explain that.”

  Before she could react, he tugged her into the midst of a circle of tall shrubs that hid them both from view. “I figure we have about ten minutes before your aunt sounds the alarm and we are interrupted.” He flashed her a smile that hinted he could introduce her to secret, enticing temptations with the snap of a finger. “Fortunately, I’ll only need a few.”

  He didn’t snap his finger. He kissed her.

  And it was nothing like those previous kisses. It wasn’t too hard or too soft. His lips were warm enough to heat hers, his breath smelled like oranges, and his closeness made something stop in her heart. The way he possessed her mouth was almost . . .

  Enjoyable. All right, very enjoyable.

  She enjoyed how he toyed with her lips, how he gripped her waist with the confidence of a man used to taking charge. She enjoyed the heady feeling of doing something rather naughty, and the unfamiliar swirling in her belly that made her want to go up on tiptoe and kiss him back.

  Lord, what was she doing, falling under his spell so easily?

  She broke the kiss. “My lord, please—”

  “My friends call me Warren.” Catching her head in his hands, he ran a thumb over her lips.

  She fought the sudden racing of her pulse. “I’m not your friend.”

  “But you’ll call me Warren, won’t you, Delia? At least in private.”

  “We are not going to be in private ag—”

  He muffled the words with another kiss. Only this time he tried what that other fellow had done—he slipped his tongue between her lips.

  And oh, what a difference. There was nothing disgusting about it, nothing messy and embarrassing. It thrilled her to no end. He tasted of marmalade and coffee, not at all what she’d expected, and his tongue delved lightly but insistently, rousing a response in her beyond anything she’d ever known.

  She felt giddy, excited . . . aroused the way she did in her daydreams. Heavens. Desire was real for women, too. Who could have known?

  He had. And now he was pressing her against his hard frame and feeding on her mouth with slow, silken strokes, and she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but feel the most incredible—

  The creak of a gate made them both freeze. He released her, resuming the easy stance of a lord sure of his position. But his gaze smoldered, and the coals sparked fires in her blood. Just as his kiss had done.

  “It appears I was wrong,” he said raggedly. “Apparently a few minutes weren’t nearly enough for me . . . Delia.”

  For her, either. She could have gone on and on . . .

  But he was a rakehell. She must remember that. Such men were good at kissing; Lord only knew what other scandalous things he was good at.

  Part of her dearly wanted to find out what those were. The other part was angry that he’d managed to get her so hot and bothered.

  Just then, Owen came around the tall shrub shielding them from the path. He glanced warily from her to Lord Knightford and back. “Your aunt wants to know if his lordship would like to join you and Mrs. Trevor for luncheon.”

  Bother it all, she would never survive that. “I doubt that Lord Knightford has the time to—”

  “I would be honored,” the marquess said, his gaze still riveted to hers. “Miss Trevor and I have been having the most intriguing conversation, one I would dearly love to continue.”

  Panic rose up in her throat. “Owen, would you give us a moment more?”

  “Her ladyship would not approve.”

  She glared at Owen. “A moment. That’s all.”

  Owen retreated, but only to the other side of the shrubbery.

  Delia neared the marquess and lowered her voice. “What do you intend to say to my aunt?”

  “I don’t know.” He sounded truthful. And when he shoved a hand through his hair, looking suddenly off-balance, she realized that he was as uncertain about this situation as she.

  “If you tell her about Jack Jones, I’ll deny it. You’ll simply look the fool.”

  He cast her an assessing glance. “Perhaps. But it would put your aunt on her guard, make her pay better attention to your activities at night.”

  “Or make her whisk me back to Cheshire. Then I’ll never have a chance of marrying well. Which rather defeats your purpose of trying to convince me with your . . . your kisses that my best alternative is to find a decent husband.”

  “True.” He stared her down.

  “Miss Trevor!” Owen called out. “Your aunt is coming this way.”

  Lord Knightford—Warren—offered her his arm. “Shall we, my dear?”

  Peeking through the shrubs, Delia saw that her aunt was indeed nearly to the garden. “Fine.” She took his arm. “But I am not your dear. And you are not staying for luncheon.”

  He broke into a devious grin. “We’ll just see about that.”

  Eight

  Warren realized he was skating on thin ice with Delia, but he couldn’t help it—she fascinated him. Most of the time respectable women were open books; he could see their machinations as clear as day. He spent half his time deflecting their attempts to snag him as a husband or snag him for someone else as a husband.

  Not with Delia. She didn’t want him for that. She didn’t want him for anything. Except perhaps his kisses, which she had seemed to welcome. Still, another woman would have used the sensual interlude to draw him in. She’d used it to push him out.

  Normal women simply did not behave that way. Certainly not with him. One moment, he thought she was like his mother—girding herself in feminine outrage against the very idea of lovemaking done for pleasure. And in the next, he wondered if Delia might simply be inexperienced. Which fired his desire to give her a bit of experience.

  That was the trouble: Delia was a conundrum. And he loved unraveling conundrums, especially the ones wrapped up in a fetching female with spirit.

  So he of course stayed for luncheon, easily overriding Delia’s objections. Her aunt ignored them, too. Lady Pensworth wasn’t daft enough to let a
wealthy marquess slip away, especially one who’d shown interest in her niece. And since Warren was standing there expressing his great pleasure in having the opportunity to spend more time with Miss Trevor and her family, Delia had no choice but to surrender.

  He did so enjoy when she surrendered, soft as silk, willing and wanton. Those kisses . . . God, he hadn’t had the like in years. Innocent yet eager, they made his mouth water.

  A cautious man would stay away. But he’d never been that. He much preferred recklessly attempting to get her to surrender again.

  When he reentered the drawing room of the town house, he was introduced to Mrs. Trevor, Delia’s young sister-in-law, who was busy sketching, a very ladylike endeavor. She was a beauty with abundant brown curls, whose gray-and-black half-mourning gown somehow accentuated her fulsome curves and creamy skin. But she lacked a certain something he couldn’t put his finger on.

  Delia’s brashness, no doubt. Mrs. Trevor didn’t look the sort to ever dress in men’s clothes and gad about a gaming hell. She was too reserved, too subdued.

  He glanced at her intricate images of classical subjects. “These are very good,” he said with some surprise.

  Mrs. Trevor blushed. “They’re designs for porcelain. I figured that if Wedgwood could use the designs of women like Diana Beauclerk and Lady Templetown, perhaps they might consider mine.”

  Apparently Delia wasn’t the only one trying to find ways to make money for the family. Though sadly, he didn’t imagine that selling a few designs to Wedgwood would ever save Camden Hall.

  “Your time would be better spent elsewhere,” Lady Pensworth said, “though I suppose some gentlemen might find such a talent attractive in a prospective wife. Now come, let us adjourn to the dining room.”

  Warren bit back an oath. Delia and Mrs. Trevor were clearly under quite a bit of pressure already to marry, and Delia, at least, was not taking that well. He wished her aunt wouldn’t be quite so forceful about it, since it was driving Delia in a different direction entirely.

  As soon as they were seated around the smallish dining room table, with Delia across from him and the other two women on either end, Mrs. Trevor turned to him with a polite smile. “So, Lord Knightford, do you have any favorite pastimes?”