Sweetest Little Sin

by Christine Wells

  Speaking of endowments . . . Louisa’s eyes widened a little. Surely, those figures weren’t carved in accurate proportion.

  “Oh, Lady Louisa, do come out of there! I am so mortified, I . . .” Louisa shut out Beth’s wailing and stifled her own prurient curiosity to glance about her.

  The interior of the temple was roughly the same size as a parlor, with cushioned benches lining the walls and a table in the center. Obviously, the structure was used for some kind of entertainment, rather than worship. She’d prefer not to guess the nature of that entertainment, but she had a fair idea.

  Louisa mulled over what Harriet had told her. A blue ribbon to request a meeting, white for all is well but nothing discovered. Pink was the distress signal, the one that meant she wanted to get out.

  There were any number of places she might leave the signal for Faulkner to find. But she needed somewhere he would think to look, yet would not be immediately obvious to a casual observer.

  The fringed Oriental rug that covered the central table seemed like a good choice. She might tie a ribbon around one of the tassels at the corner. To a casual observer, it would look as if it were meant to be there, yet someone searching for a ribbon would not miss it.

  She left the temple feeling rather smug and slipped her arm through her gibbering companion’s. “Please stop that, Beth, or I shall be obliged to slap you,” she said pleasantly, turning and drawing Beth back down the hill.

  Beth gulped and sniffed and shuddered, her eyes very wide and fawnlike. She looked as if no one had ever spoken to her in such a way before.

  Louisa fished out her handkerchief and handed it to Beth. “There you are. Truly, there is no need to cry. I won’t tell anyone where we’ve been.”

  Beth nodded and gulped and blew her small nose with an inelegant snuffle. Her face was blotchy, her eyes red. Goodness, how could Jardine even contemplate making up to such a wet fish?

  But she’d calmed down enough to fold Louisa’s handkerchief into a neat square and offer it back.

  “No, er, you keep it, dear.”

  Beth raised her watery gaze to Louisa’s face and gave a tremulous smile.

  Louisa nodded as she stepped out at a brisker pace. “That’s the barber. Now, do tell me. How far is it to the village? I have ribbons to buy.”

  Twelve

  THEY gathered in the drawing room before dinner with the rest of the guests. The men were boring on endlessly about the grouse they’d shot that day. Louisa found the masculine drone comforting and wished she might join in.

  But of course, she sat with Beth, sipping ratafia, which she loathed. Jardine sauntered over to them, the ever-present challenge in his eye, with a hint of animosity mixed in.

  That look energized her, made the blood course hotly through her veins. In the past eight years, she’d been almost dead to excitement, moving through the days like an automaton, except on those rare occasions when he came to her. Now, she felt as if her body had reawakened, and it wasn’t only his presence that did that to her, made excitement clench in her belly.

  It was the danger, the uncertainty, the heady feeling that what she did here was important, vital.

  In that instant, she knew she would not leave a pink ribbon at the temple tonight.

  “May I?” He indicated a chair next to Beth’s. So polite! The consummate gentleman.

  “Of course!” Beth’s attention was all on Jardine.

  He disposed his long limbs in the chair, crossing his legs in a negligent way he had, swinging one foot as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Beth looked as if she longed to climb into his lap.

  Jardine’s attention swung back to Louisa. Forestalling whatever acid comment he seemed about to make, Louisa said, “We were just discussing hunting and so forth. Have you taken your gun out yet, Lord Jardine?”

  Those mobile eyebrows climbed a little. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mr. Radleigh told me he bagged a brace of partridges this morning.” She widened her eyes a little. “Have you taken out your gun?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “I must confess I am a little out of practice. But I hear you are proficient in the art, Lady Louisa.” His smile grew wicked. “Perhaps I might persuade you to help me fire my piece.”

  If she’d been given to blushing, she would be as red as sealing wax, but fortunately, that wasn’t one of her weaknesses. “By all means. I’d be happy to lend you the benefit of my . . . advice.”

  “Oh, shooting!” Beth shuddered dramatically. “Honestly, just hearing the awful bang makes me scream and put my hands over my ears.”

  “You get used to it,” said Louisa, never taking her eyes from Jardine’s. “The sport can be most . . . satisfying. Don’t you agree, my lord?”

  His eyes burned into hers. “Yes,” he said softly. “If one has the skill and the patience to do it correctly. And one needs the right teacher, of course.”

  “Naturally.” Louisa smiled, holding his gaze. “It’s so easy to rush things, and go off half-cocked.”

  Jardine’s foot stopped swinging. His fingers tightened their grip on the armrest of his chair.

  Interesting.

  At least she hadn’t been mistaken about the heat between them. It survived, powerful and volatile as ever.

  She’d have to watch herself. While they sat in a room full of people, she was safe. Heaven help her if he got her alone after she’d taunted him like that.

  Louisa turned her attention to Beth, whose elegant brows knitted in puzzlement, as if she sensed some underlying meaning to the conversation but couldn’t fathom what it was.

  Thank goodness for small mercies. Louisa could tell the girl was innocent, if a little too obvious in her affections. Jardine was altogether too much for Beth to handle, that was certain. It would be like pairing a wolf with a spaniel pup.

  Louisa took a long sip of her ratafia and suppressed a grimace.

  Jardine reached forward, his long fingers closing around hers, which were curled around her glass stem. “May I refill your glass for you, Lady Louisa?”

  The heat of his fingers pressing against hers sent her senses reeling. Before she knew what she did, she nodded.

  Jardine went to the sideboard with the beginnings of a cock-stand in his trousers and a burning desire to carry the sly minx upstairs to show her exactly how he could use his weapon to best effect.

  The bawdy innuendo in her banter had taken him by surprise. He trusted he was the only one to receive the benefit of such wit. If that was how she flirted with all those suitors of hers, she’d soon find herself somewhere with her skirts up around her ears.

  The image that thought pulled up made him swallow hard.

  He poured ratafia, smiling grimly. At least he could torture her a little, too.

  A drop of ratafia spilled on his hand. He set down the decanter, raised his hand to his mouth, and sucked. He tasted the almond-laced sweetness, imagined tasting that same flavor on her mouth . . .

  His fingers tightened around the glass. Damn her, she had him tying himself in knots. What game was she playing now?

  He returned to hand Louisa her drink. Again, their fingers made fleeting contact. A jolt of pure lust pounded through his body, as if he were a schoolboy who’d never known a woman’s touch.

  He recovered, but not soon enough, for when he met her gaze, he detected a sensual knowing in those ice-maiden eyes. An awareness, a confidence he’d never seen in her before.

  What had brought about this change?

  The idea that leaped to his mind made his blood burn. He glanced to where Radleigh stood, his golden head bowed a little as he listened to a garrulous dowager whose turban only reached his shoulder.

  Had Louisa been intimate with him last night? Something in her demeanor when he’d questioned her had told Jardine that wasn’t so. But now, the knowing in those eyes gave him pause.

  When they moved in to dinner, he offered his arm to Louisa. They were the highest-ranking guests, so it wou
ld not seem odd that he’d done so.

  But he’d moved toward her as if no one else existed, as if she were a magnet and he a hapless iron filing that lay in her path.

  She laid her fingertips on his arm and his whole body tensed. As she moved at his side, her skirts hushed around her, brushed his legs with a gentle, whispered caress that tingled down his spine and wrapped loving fingers around his genitals.

  Oh Christ. This was exactly what he didn’t need.

  He handed Louisa to the chair beside him and waited for the footman to seat her. The brief connection ended abruptly, left him frustrated and shaken.

  Shaken? His body vibrated like a bloody tuning fork.

  God help him, but his resolve to stay away from her seemed flimsy as spun sugar. He didn’t know how he’d get through the house party without strangling her or having her.

  Either way, he was heading straight for disaster.

  ACCORDING to Harriet, the best time to prowl a house was at about four o’clock in the morning, when most people slept the deepest.

  Louisa eased open one of the long windows in the orangery and stepped over the sill.

  The gibbous moon shed baleful light on the landscape. Enough to see where she was going, at least. She didn’t dare unshutter her lantern until she was well clear of the house. If anyone saw her, she would lose her reputation. If Radleigh saw her, she wasn’t sure what he’d do.

  She passed the fountain, which had been turned off for the night. The still water limpidly reflected the night sky. She avoided the path that crossed the open garden and instead skirted close to the house, melting into a stand of trees as soon as she cleared the building. This way was longer than the path she and Beth had taken earlier, but she was less likely to be seen from the house.

  Nervous despite her newfound resolve, Louisa glanced over her shoulder as she moved deeper into the wood. Night creatures rustled, and the sudden flap of bats’ wings made her jump and let out a breathy cry.

  Ninny. What sort of secret agent was she, to start at every stray sound?

  She firmed her grip on the lantern. Should she open the shutters now? It seemed safer not to, even while screened by forest. She forged on, thankful for her walking boots on the uneven terrain and for the moonlight that shafted through gaps in the tree canopy to pick out her path.

  Judging herself to be far enough from the house to circle back toward the temple, she turned down a narrow trail.

  Her heart pounded and her breathing quickened. The night was cool and mercifully fine. A stiff breeze ruffled the leaves on the stand of copper beeches, a steady rustle and hush that seemed to whisper a warning.

  Louisa reached the clearing at the foot of the temple hill. A warm spurt of triumph rose in her. She’d judged correctly where this route came out.

  She skirted the hillock on which the temple stood. If she angled up toward the back of the building, the hill itself and its backdrop of foliage would conceal her from the house.

  As she approached the temple, her heart stepped up its hammering. Air sawed through her lungs. Deliberately, she stopped. Drew a long, deep breath and let it out. Then she put her head down and continued the climb.

  There was only one entrance to the temple. She scanned the surrounding landscape, her eyes accustomed by now to the darkness. Nothing, as far as she could tell. She listened, but no foreign sound disturbed the night.

  Louisa ducked around the small building and flattened her back against the wall. After assuring herself there was no one lurking inside, she slipped within.

  She was reasonably certain no one had followed her here. If they had, she’d settled on an explanation for her conduct. She’d say she came to look at the fantastically erotic carvings. It would be a mortifying admission of prurient curiosity, but more believable than that Lady Louisa Brooke had turned spy. Safer, too.

  Always assume you’re being watched. Harriet’s crisp accents popped into her head.

  Following that advice, Louisa forced herself not to dispose of her ribbon straight away. She opened the shutters on her lantern and made a show of inspecting the scenery.

  A cursory examination earlier that day in Beth’s company had given her the impression of a series of writhing bodies and impossibly dimensioned body parts in a tangle of limbs and strange positions.

  As she peered at the figures more closely, Louisa realized that not only were there figures of one man and one woman copulating but sometimes three or more people were depicted, doing unspeakable things to one another.

  She gasped, angled her head a little. Did men and women really . . . ? It looked virtually impossible to achieve that kind of balance, but she’d heard that people in the East were capable of incredible feats that boggled the Western mind.

  Blood pounded in her cheeks. She tore her gaze away. Mind on the job, Louisa!

  What now?

  Always assume you’re being watched.

  She turned and craned her neck, as if inspecting the figures on the wall opposite. As she moved toward the table in the center of the room, she pretended to stumble.

  With a low exclamation, she set the lantern on the table and bent as if to tie her bootlace. Using her body to shield what her hands did from the wide opening to the temple, she tied the blue ribbon onto the tassel of the rug and quickly rose.

  As calmly as she could, Louisa made another show of inspecting the carvings, just to be on the safe side.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t Lady Louisa.”

  Thirteen

  “DAMN, damn, damn.”

  Louisa muttered under her breath as she turned around.

  A faint smile curved Jardine’s lips. Brows raised, he sauntered farther into the temple.

  She decided to go on the offensive. “What are you doing here?”

  “You thought I wouldn’t follow you?”

  Thank God she’d masked her movements when she’d tied that ribbon. Perhaps he’d been fooled. Perhaps she might deceive this master of deceit.

  He wore only shirtsleeves and breeches and his black hair was rumpled as if he’d risen from bed to follow her.

  How had he known when she’d make her escape?

  He took a long, considering look around, and the significance of their surroundings hit her with the force of a cannonball. She cringed as those sharp, dark eyes took in all the luridly displayed couples copulating with flexible abandon.

  Jardine’s gaze returned to her, glittering with heat. Slowly, he walked toward her. With each step, the tension in her body wound tighter. Her heart thudded in her throat. Her mouth abruptly went dry.

  Her mouth. His gaze latched onto it, then traveled lower, down her body, and she felt it like a hot liquid caress inside.

  “I—” Her voice came in a husky whisper. Determined, she cleared her throat. “I must go. We cannot afford to be seen together like this.”

  She tried to sidle around him, but he caught her arm in a firm, inescapable grip.

  He didn’t hurt her, but she winced anyway. His touch was torture. It was bliss.

  “Why did you come here, Louisa?”

  She bowed her head, swallowed, then lifted her chin. “I was curious.”

  “You are not meeting someone?”

  “What? No! Is it likely I’d arrange to meet anyone, much less in this locale?”

  Jardine let go of her and shrugged. “I’m not altogether certain I know what is likely that you would do anymore, Louisa. I’m not sure I know you.”

  She remained silent.

  “Your betrothal to Radleigh.” He spread his hands. “That, I did not expect. And somehow, I still can’t believe you did it.”

  “Believe it,” she snapped.

  If only she’d never got herself caught up in this tangle. But the blue ribbon on that rug committed her even further to the cause. She couldn’t tell Jardine about her mission, or he’d whisk her away from the estate quicker than she could blink.

  “Then what are you doing here, among these orgiastic delights, Louisa
? Isn’t your future husband satisfying you?”

  Before she could stop herself, her hand flew up to slap his face. But his reflexes were dagger sharp. He easily deflected the move, brushed her hand aside as if it were a fly. Moved closer with purposeful intent etched over his patrician features.

  Those devilish eyebrows deepened in a frown.

  Louisa started backward, a hand on the table to steady herself. He followed, and she retreated, until her back flattened against the wall.

  The bumps and rough edges of the carvings dug into her back as she pressed into them. She swallowed, but it was as if a huge ball of stone wedged in her throat.

  Jardine’s beautiful mouth formed a sneer at the way she’d so stupidly worked herself into a corner. There was nowhere to run. She had to stand and fight.

  “If it becomes known that you and I were here like this, there’ll be a scandal. You’d have to take me as your wife.”

  “It won’t become known.” He raised one hand, bare of a glove. His fingertips feathered her cheek. The gentleness of his touch lay in odd contrast to his harsh expression.

  She shivered. Anticipation coiled tightly in her chest. “Don’t. I don’t want you to—”

  He lowered his head to capture her earlobe in his teeth.

  Ohh. He knew that always drove her to madness.

  Briefly, he bit into the fleshy lobe, sending hot chills through her body, then released.

  “No?” Warm air caressed her neck, made her melt inside.

  His lips slid down her throat and more tingles cascaded through her. Her body flourished and opened like an orchid in the tropical heat.

  “No,” she whispered. “Please don’t.” But she was already ripening, drinking him in like the sun.

  He lifted his head to look into her eyes, pressed two fingers to her mouth to stop her protest. She was breathing rapidly, her mouth parted to suck in air.

  He dipped his fingers into the moisture, running them over her tongue. Gently, he dragged his fingertips downward, drawing her lower lip into a sensual pout. Releasing it, he smeared her moisture over her upper lip, circling again to the lower.