by Julia Kelly
“Not as a rule, no,” he said.
“Is that why you didn’t stay when the music began at Mrs. Sullivan’s party?” she asked.
“That sounds like Jonathan,” said Lady Barrett brightly. “Always making himself scarce even when there are ladies in need of a partner. Like now, for instance.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” he asked.
“Being present at a ball and actually participating in it are two entirely different things. And yet you still haven’t asked Miss Burkett to dance,” said Lady Barrett.
“Oh, I’ve been fortunate in partners this evening,” she said quickly, for she didn’t want Moray to think she was desperate to fill the gaps in her dance card. “Mr. Trevlan and I just danced the Broon’s reel.”
Moray’s expression hardened but he bowed low and formally. “Miss Burkett, would you grant me the pleasure of this dance?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you want to dance with me just because you hate Mr. Trevlan?”
“ ‘Hate’ would imply that Trevlan matters to me at all.” But despite the coldness of his words, it was obvious to her that a current of anger burned hot underneath them.
“Then why ask?”
He huffed and shook his head, sending his hair falling over his forehead. “Have I told you you’re an infuriating, distrustful woman?”
“May I remind you that the first time we met you intentionally sat in my seat to try to charm my story out of me?”
“Hear, Hear, Miss Burkett,” said Lady Barrett softly.
Moray sucked in a breath and then rocked back on his feet as though steeling himself to start again. “I want to dance with you because you wish to dance. I don’t want to make your suitor jealous. I don’t want to talk you into selling me your story. Just for tonight, I asked because I thought it would be something you’d enjoy, and because my speaking to you has no doubt deprived you of a partner.”
“Oh.”
His words knocked her off her steady footing, and she found herself torn between the temptation to touch him again and her suspicion of the man who’d made it so plain that he wanted something from her: her story. He was the man who would pounce the moment she showed any weakness. He’d coax and cajole until she divulged every sordid little detail of the end of her engagement—and there was much to tell.
But he was also the man who, with his hand still outstretched, was asking her to dance just because she enjoyed it.
Her body pulsed toward him. Touching him—even for a dance—would be dangerous, but she longed to feel the power of his grip holding her as she spun around and around.
“Thank you, Mr. Moray. I would be delighted.”
When she placed her hand in his, he squeezed it lightly. “You hesitated. Are you frightened?” he asked as he led her through the crowd to the edge of the floor where the reel was ending and couples were beginning to line up for the next dance.
Her heart beat out a fast rhythm, but she schooled her voice to stay steady. “Nothing about you frightens me, Mr. Moray.”
His eyes flashed. “Maybe it should, Miss Burkett.”
Liquid desire slid through her body, luxurious and slow as poured honey, but she didn’t pull away as she knew she should. He was the wrong man in so many ways. A newspaperman. A flirt. A frustration. A bachelor who, by all accounts, was stubborn in his ways. She wanted simple and uncomplicated and ready to wed. He was none of those things.
Still, she couldn’t resist letting her next step bring her a little closer to him. “You’ll have to try quite a bit harder than that, Mr. Moray.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
A quartet on the opposite end of the line began the dance’s pattern of joining, spinning, and crossing while Caroline forced herself to take a calming breath or two. If wanting him distracted her so much that she couldn’t follow the steps, he’d never let her live it down. If anyone was going to show their hand first, it was going to be him.
When the first four dancers passed their way to form the new end of the line, she kicked out her leading foot to cross the gap between the two lines. He caught her hand in his and spun her around the circle before he had to let go and fall back into place. A boyish grin broke out on his face. It was impossible not to smile while dancing a jig, and the next time the pattern called for her to join hands with Moray, she was flying.
By the time the song ended, she was breathing hard and felt a little wild. Every touch had set her skin tingling with a heightened awareness of him. She needed space, for fear that if he didn’t let her go she might do something silly. Again.
They’d wound up at the opposite end of the room from Lady Barrett, and she could see that Sir Gavin and Elsie had already rejoined the lady. Michael still hadn’t resurfaced.
“Take a turn with me,” said Moray, his arm outstretched. When she hesitated, he chuckled. “That’s the second time tonight you’ve looked like you’re frightened to take my hand.”
“You’ll forgive me for not trusting you after the last time we talked,” she said. It was the first time either of them had alluded to the kiss, and she was strangely relieved to see the lines around his eyes crinkle a little deeper with amusement.
“You have my word as a newspaperman that I have nothing nefarious planned, but I do need to speak with you.”
“A newspaperman’s word? That inspires confidence,” she muttered under her breath.
Didn’t he see that the last thing the two of them should do was speak? When they’d engaged in that innocent activity in the park he’d revealed a little bit of himself, telling her about his past as an apprentice and his self-education. It all made it so much harder to think of him as nothing more than a mercurial journalist. The more she learned about him, the more she admired him. The more she admired him, the more confusing he became.
“If you ask me one more time if I’ll grant you an interview, I’ll scream,” she said.
He laughed. “I promise it has nothing to do with my papers, which you hate so much.”
“Then what?”
He glanced around. “It’s a matter of some delicacy and there are too many people here. Is there somewhere private we can go?”
She nearly snorted in disbelief. “Here? Even if I were to agree to that and we were to find a place, we’d soon be discovered. I’d be ruined and you’d find yourself with a wife faster than you can blink.”
“Isn’t that what your Mrs. Sullivan is for?”
“Yes, but I’d rather not have to drag my future husband down the aisle. You might find this hard to believe, but I have more dignity than that.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “I apologize. I know you do. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
“Thank you.” She nodded even though the sting lingered.
“I just need five minutes of your time. Alone.”
“It’s impossible,” she said. “If you were to call, Elsie would be sitting a few feet away the entire time. Even when I’m out walking alone, my maid, Madeline, is a few feet behind me. I might be a spinster, but I’m still an unmarried lady. I’m never completely alone.”
“Come to my office tonight,” he said.
She scoffed even as the forbidden nature of his request made her shiver. “How? Mrs. James locks up the house every night. Elsie has the only other set of household keys, so if I were to leave—which I wouldn’t—I’d risk being discovered. Again, that lands us back at ruined and wed.”
The only time in her life she’d ever been given a degree of privacy had been during her engagement. Her mother, thrilled that Caroline had made such an advantageous match, had relaxed the rules that had governed Caroline’s life. But Caroline had learned that no engagement is ever guaranteed, no matter what whispered promises a couple exchanges when taking full advantage of a mother’s turned back.
“There must be a way,” he pushed.
“Mr. Moray, the only time I’m ever by myself is when I’m in bed, asleep.”
His eyes
fired, and she was certain that he’d deliver a suggestive quip—back to the flirt once again—but instead he just adjusted her hand on his arm and steered her toward her party.
Chapter Thirteen
MORAY MADE IT over the wall of 63 Cumberland Street’s backyard with little trouble, but as he stood in the damp grass gazing up at the black drainpipe that snaked up the wall of the Burkett house a greater challenge presented itself. It was insane to even think about climbing it, but as Caroline had so sternly pointed out earlier that evening, she was never alone. Except when she was sleeping. This was the only way to ensure that they would neither be caught nor interrupted.
It was also the one most likely to land him—and her—in a heap of trouble.
As he pondered the situation, he realized one of four things could happen.
One: He could successfully make it into Caroline’s bedroom without waking the household, give her his message, and leave, all without kissing her or being detected, thus preserving her virginity, which he was trying his best not to think about at the moment.
Two: He’d be detected by one of the other residents or a well-intentioned neighbor, at best landing him in jail, at worst spelling the beginning of his life as a married man, because surely her brother would force the marriage to cover up the scandal.
Three: He could fall and seriously injure himself.
Four: He could fall and irreparably kill himself.
He didn’t like options two, three, or four, but despite his misgivings he had to make the climb. What Eva had dug up about Trevlan was too important for Caroline not to hear, and he hadn’t been lying when he’d told her that it was a matter of some delicacy. It wouldn’t do for anyone else to overhear their conversation.
“You’re a numpty, eedjit bampot with less brains than a housefly,” he muttered as he gave the metal one last tug to make sure it would hold his weight, sent up a prayer to whatever god looked after idiotic newspapermen, and began to climb.
Even when he’d been young and nimble he hadn’t pulled stunts like this, spending all of his time learning his craft and squirreling away every penny he could as he clawed his way up the ladder from apprentice to printer and then owner and editor. And here he was, thirty-five and readying himself to scale a wall to steal a few uninterrupted, unchaperoned moments with a woman. And he wasn’t even going to let himself enjoy them.
The fourth finger of his right glove caught on a craggy corner of one of the stone blocks making up the wall as he began his climb and ripped. Damn. He’d incur Jesper’s wrath when the valet went through his clothes in the morning and found the thin, supple leather destroyed. Never mind that the wall was doing a fair job of ripping up his now-exposed skin.
Somewhere between the second and third floors, Moray realized he didn’t exactly have a plan for figuring out where Caroline’s bedroom might be in the house. He might’ve deployed his network of informants to coax the information from one of the Burketts’ members of staff but that would have taken too long. By the time they’d reported back it could have already been too late. According to the Tattler’s informants, it was only a matter of time before Trevlan proposed to her.
He looked up the dark building to the one window on the third floor that glowed with the soft light of a lamp. That was the room to avoid. While it might be Caroline’s, it could also be where the master or mistress of the house slept, and he knew for a fact he wouldn’t be welcome in either of their boudoirs.
With his attention fixed on the windows above him, he stepped without looking for his foothold and his shoe slipped.
Fuck!
He swallowed down a shout as his feet scrambled wildly against the side of the building. His hands clamped harder around the iron pipe that was the only thing holding him up.
He was not going the way of option four. Not today.
Adrenaline roared through his veins as the window a few feet above him shot open. His head snapped up just as Caroline stuck hers out into the dark night. Bloody hell, he hadn’t been ready for the sight of her, hair loose around her shoulders and catching the light of the waxing moon.
“Are you mad?” she whispered louder than he would’ve dared. “What are you doing?”
“I just thought I’d get a little exercise.”
She stared at him as though he’d grown another head.
“I’m climbing up to see you,” he said, becoming acutely aware that a couple of his fingers were stinging rather badly from his scaling. “May I come in?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not.” She reached for the latch to pull the window closed again.
“Wait, wait, wait!”
She paused.
“I don’t think I can get down without breaking something,” he admitted.
“You should’ve thought of that before you went climbing up a house like Scotland’s answer to Casanova.”
Despite the circumstances, he couldn’t help his grin. “Your faith that my exploits are Casanovaian is encouraging, Miss Burkett.”
In the moonlight he could see her roll her eyes, but he could also tell from the tug at her lips that she was fighting hard not to smile.
“May I please come in? This drainpipe and I are becoming altogether too acquainted,” he said. “You’ll be saving me from almost certain death.”
“You’re not that high up.”
“I could still die.”
She sighed and pushed the window open wider. “I cannot believe I’m agreeing to this.”
Neither could he.
Slowly and deliberately, he climbed the rest of the way, making sure to check every new foothold. When he was level with her, Caroline grasped his upper arm and helped him inside.
He slumped against the wall below the sill, gasping for breath as she shut the window. “That’s it. I’m too old to be taking risks like that.”
She placed her hands on her hips, clearly not realizing that the pose put her silhouette on glorious display against the light of a single lamp burning by her bed. “Isn’t risk inherent in running any newspaper? The risk that you’ll be scooped? The risk that you’ll be sued?”
“Yes, but that comes with a much lower chance of broken limbs or death.” He held up his hands to show her his ripped gloves. “And my valet is far less likely to have apoplexy after I spend a day at the office.”
“Are you one of those gentlemen ruled by his valet?” she asked.
“We all are. I just happen to fall into the camp who knows it.”
While her sigh out the window had been perturbed, this time it was indulgent.
“Let me see your hands,” she said, closing the gap between them.
When he held his hands out, she picked them up and turned them over to examine the bloodied edges of a couple holes.
“You need to clean these,” she said.
“I need a lot of things this evening.”
The innuendo slipped out before he could think how it might sound, but she merely shot him a look that told him she was barely tolerating his presence. He almost apologized, but then she cupped his right wrist with her long, delicate fingers and began unfastening the bone buttons that held the kidskin in place.
His mouth went dry as he stared, transfixed by the elegant eroticism of the tiny movements necessary to undress his hands. He’d never grown accustomed to the feeling of wearing gloves out in public, and he would’ve gone without them if it wouldn’t have been a gross violation of good manners at such an event as the Caledonian Hunt Ball. But now, watching a woman strip them off for him, he could see some merit in wearing the blasted things.
Her fingers warmed the fabric that had been cooled by the late-night air. She peeled back the first glove from the wrist, brushing her fingers across his skin and sending sparks flying up his arm. Blood rushed to his cock, and his balls tightened. The animalistic urge to drag Caroline down and cover her entire body with his, the primal desire to mark her as his own, grabbed him by the throat, and he struggled not to move. He might’ve c
ome here uninvited, his mere presence inappropriate, but he knew enough to avoid doing anything that might scare her into regret.
“You’ve scraped your ring and index fingers quite a bit,” she said, dipping her head to examine his wounds. “It must hurt.”
Because she wasn’t looking and he was weak, he turned his lips to brush over her soft, rosemary-scented hair. Everything about her was lightness and warmth offset by an earthiness—an intriguing combination that shouldn’t have worked but that inexplicably became her.
“What’s a little pain?” he murmured.
Through the curtain of her hair he could see her lips curve, but she kept her attention firmly on her work. Carefully she pulled at the ripped leather of his right glove to release his fingers. The glove dropped to the floor at their feet, and she moved on to the other.
“Where are your brother and sister-in-law?” he asked.
“At the front of the house, one floor down.” She tugged his fourth finger free. “You scraped yourself here as well.”
“I’ll survive.”
She worked the glove free methodically, each little tug and touch stirring his arousal until it burned hot.
“And your maid?” he asked.
“In her room, sleeping,” she said. “Which is what I should be doing right now too.”
He swallowed, realizing that, between being grateful he hadn’t gone careening down the side of the building and the faint light in the room, he hadn’t noticed that Caroline had traded her eye-catching purple gown for a simple dressing gown of dark blue wool. A thin strip of skin where the lapels crossed over her chest lay exposed, her pale skin catching the soft light.
She finally freed his thumb from the glove. It dropped to the floor to join its twin with a soft plop, leaving the two of them to stare at it.
Caroline broke the stillness first. “Take a seat. I’ll bring some water to wash your fingers.”
He should object that he didn’t need her to tend to him. Hell, he should go straight out that window and down the drainpipe once again if he had any sense or care for either of them, but even with her brusque efficiency she was all temptation. He’d had a taste of her touch, and he couldn’t resist the taste of more.