Reckless Viscount

by Amy Sandas

  Nervous?

  No. Frantic.

  “You must realize how inappropriate this is.” The words came out sharper than she expected, the clipped tones revealing her physical agitation.

  “Outrageous even,” he agreed with a note of mischief.

  “Definitely.”

  He smoothed one of his hands up the length of her spine and began to tease the sensitive skin of her nape with his fingertips. She tried to ignore the delicate shivers that chased down her arms. “Not to mention criminal and destructive. You can’t just steal a woman away like this. Someone might have seen.” She bit her bottom lip as he brushed his thumb over a particularly responsive spot behind her ear. “Damaging whispers may be flying at this very moment.”

  “Don’t worry,” he replied in a soothing whisper. His warm breath caressed her temple. “I am well practiced in discretion when I need to be. No one saw us.”

  “You can’t be sure of that,” Abbigael argued ineffectively.

  She shouldn’t be arguing with the man, she should have stomped on his toes by now or boxed his ears. But as soon as the idea entered her mind it was chased away again by another shiver of exquisite sensation as his gossamer caress trailed beneath her jaw.

  “I simply wish to talk.”

  “Then release me and step away.”

  “What?” His surprise was enough to boost her resolve.

  “I will talk to you, if you let me go and stop touching me.”

  Silence followed her words then he gave a soft rolling laugh that reverberated through her body. The sound was warm and heavy and smooth. And her heart did another breath-stealing dive into her stomach.

  “I’d love to find a reason to deny you, but you make a fair request.”

  His arms dropped away from her and he stepped back and to the side. With her pulse no longer thudding in her ears, she could hear the muted hum and laughter from the party that continued in their absence. Her eyes had become somewhat accustomed to the inky darkness and she was able to see the shadowed outline of his broad-shouldered form as he leaned back against the door that separated them from the ball.

  “I said I would talk to you. You don’t need to block the door.”

  “Just a little insurance,” he drawled as he crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head. She wished she could see his eyes, or some detail of his expression to tell her what he may be thinking.

  “For all your presentation as a devil-may-care rogue, you can be quite ruthless, can’t you?”

  “When it comes to something I want.”

  His voice was low when he answered. The tones were filled with dark hints of intimacy that curled around Abbigael’s heightened senses, making her feel as disconcerted as when he had held her against him.

  “What do you want from me?” she asked without thinking. As soon as the words were spoken she realized the danger in her question. There was only one thing that came to mind for what a man like Lord Riley might want. And she suspected he was very good at getting it.

  “I’m curious about you.”

  “Why?” Her voice grew more insistent in her growing impatience. When his only reply was a careless shrug, she continued a bit caustically. “Interesting how you are willing to risk my reputation to assuage your curiosity.”

  His voice was low and soothing. “As I said, I know well how to be discreet.”

  “Then why would Lady Blackbourne be concerned by our association? Somehow, your character has gained a wicked repute.”

  “I said I was discreet. I can’t help it if former companions choose to sing my praises.”

  “Sing praises or cry warnings?”

  His chuckle was deep and rich. “Only an innocent would differentiate between the two.”

  Abbigael had not considered her lack of social experience as such a distinct short-coming until just that moment. She wished she had had more opportunities to practice flirtation. Then maybe she could have responded to his comment with some clever quip to put him in his place, or at the very least give the impression she was not so green as he seemed to believe.

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other as unease settled around her shoulders. This man, for all of his careless banter, was not one to be taken lightly.

  “For the moment,” he added when the silence began to stretch too long, “I am simply curious about you.”

  It was the for-the-moment part that worried her.

  “That isn’t exactly reassuring.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be.”

  The timbre of his voice had deepened yet again. The sound curled like the gentle unfurling of heat from a fireplace, causing the surface of her skin to react with delicate awareness.

  “I wonder,” he began again softly, “how long it would take for me to prove you are not the docile and tame little creature you try to be.”

  She stiffened. A flash of panic skittered across her nerves.

  As if sensing her discomfort, he clarified. “I wouldn’t expose you to the world.”

  Relief released her held breath.

  “Just to myself.”

  And panic flashed again. With just a few provocative statements, the man had her spinning. Of course, it couldn’t have been on purpose. It wasn’t possible he could know how carefully she fought to maintain a steady appearance of calm tranquility.

  “You don’t trust me, do you, Irish?”

  Abbigael looked at him in the tenebrous light, wishing again it were not so dark she couldn’t see even the barest features of his expression.

  “I don’t think I should answer that.”

  He laughed then and the sound was rich and low, causing another wave of heat when she already felt overly warm.

  “That’s all right. The answer is plain enough.”

  The light arrogance in his tone increased the sense that she was out of her element here. She did not like being the object of amusement for anyone.

  “Are you making sport of me, Lord Riley?”

  “Not at all. I find you startlingly delightful.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I wish I could say the same for you.”

  “Oh?” His voice lifted on the word. “Do you want me to charm you, Irish?”

  “No!” she replied sharply.

  If she could have the sort of visceral response she was experiencing now when he was simply being a nuisance, she didn’t want to know what would happen to her if he intentionally tried to seduce her.

  He pushed away from his post at the door and stepped in front of her. A rush of anticipation flew through her from head to tingling toes. She didn’t back away, even when he came close enough that she could feel the warmth from his body. She should have stepped back, kept her distance, resisted his advance. But she felt challenged by his boldness, as if retreat would only give him more advantage.

  “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

  The low vibration of his voice invaded her blood, speeding her pulse.

  “I don’t know,” Abbigael answered in earnest. The tension permeating her body made it difficult to speak above a quiet murmur. “I feel I should be.”

  “Hmm,” he responded thoughtfully, “perhaps.”

  He lifted his hand toward her face and brushed his thumb across the crest of her cheekbone in a light caress. Sensitive goose bumps rose up on her skin. She caught her lower lip between her teeth to stop a gasp from escaping. She didn’t want him to know how acutely his touch pierced her composure. At least she could be grateful that in the darkened hallway, he could not possibly see her moonstruck expression.

  He swept the back of his knuckles down the side of her throat.

  “What is your name, Miss Granger?”

  Abbigael frowned. His question distracted her from the sensations he was sparking along the surface of her flesh.

  “We are not well enough acquainted for you to ask me that.”

  His laugh was a warm rumble and amusement was thick in his voice. “Have it your way.”
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  He slid his warm hand around her nape, gently delved his fingers into her hair as his palm cupped the base of her skull. At the same time, he slid his other hand around the curve of her waist until his fingers splayed wide against her lower spine.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped. Her heart jumped against her ribs and her breath caught helplessly in her lungs as she became overwhelmed by a sense of expectancy so acute it was almost painful. His body was warm but unyielding against hers, and she flattened her hands against his chest, trying to create a semblance of distance between them.

  “Irish, I’m going to kiss you now.” His words were uttered with deliberate promise. His mouth was close, so close that as he spoke his gentle breath disturbed the wisps of hair that fell against her temple. Chills of heightened sensitivity raced across her skin and a wild fluttering erupted in her belly.

  “No, you’re n—”

  His mouth swiftly closed on hers, stopping her protest, as if he had been waiting for her to speak to find her lips. He pulled her more deeply into the curve of his body, taking advantage of the subtle yielding that accompanied her surprise.

  In that brief and shuddering moment when his lips laid claim to hers, Abbigael realized she had been anticipating this almost from the very first second she had met his inquisitive gaze in the Silverly library. Even so, it was nothing like she had expected.

  Though he held her securely, he made very little demand in the possession of his kiss. His gentleness amazed her. Very softly, he brushed back and forth against the surface of her lips. Such a delicate friction that teased her into wondering what it would feel like to have his lips pressed more firmly to hers. She lifted her hands to his shoulders and rose up on her tip-toes, mindlessly seeking to assuage the curiosity he inspired.

  He obliged by wrapping his arm more securely around her, crushing her against him. For a second, she lost her breath and dizziness threatened. Then the lovely pressure of his lips on hers softened the rigidity of her spine, and it seemed only natural to relax against him and allow the steady flow of warmth through her limbs. And when the tip of his tongue traced the seam of her lips, sparks floated behind her eyes.

  She turned her head away, breaking the kiss. “It’s too much,” she gasped.

  “It’s nothing,” he murmured against her temple, though the swift pattern of his breath proved he had not been unaffected.

  Abbigael didn’t argue. Knowing she shouldn’t, she remained in his arms for another long moment. She simply didn’t want to deny the pleasure of being held so firmly, the warmth of his body, the intimate sense of connection. No matter how inappropriate.

  Had it been so long since she had known the comfort to be found in the closeness of another human being that even a rogue’s scandalous embrace could be preferable to nothing at all?

  A lump of emotion rose in her throat and she swallowed hard, trying to dislodge it. Tears pricked at her eyes and she tensed with the influx of painful reality.

  As heady as the moment was, he was right. The embrace meant nothing. Abbigael wanted so much more.

  “You must let me go.”

  He did, though with obvious reluctance.

  “Irish…” he began, but Abbigael interrupted him.

  “Don’t,” she whispered desperately as she stepped around him. “Don’t speak to me again. Don’t approach me, don’t acknowledge my existence. You are not what I want.”

  Then she found the handle of the door and opened it only far enough to glide through the opening into the stark and glaring light beyond.

  Chapter Six

  Leif Riley rolled onto his stomach, shoving aside the silk brocaded pillows and velvet tasseled coverlets that shared the bed. Satin sheets chilled his skin and the scent of the previous night’s companion still clung to the pillow beneath his head.

  The lady was an old friend, a rapacious young widow with enough wealth to scorn the need for a regular protector. And enough sexual appetite to seek Leif out every now and then for a little bed sport.

  He shifted again and felt the exhaustion that weighed down his limbs. He furrowed his brow against the thick knot of a headache behind his eyes.

  A lot of bed sport. And a lot of champagne.

  For all of the liquor and wine Leif had consumed in his lifetime, one would think he would reach a day when he could wake up without the evil aftereffects of overindulgence. On the contrary, Leif was perpetually doomed to the suffering of horrid hangovers. Certain libations were more dangerous to him than others. And as much as he enjoyed it for its light and bubbly characteristics, champagne always settled in his skull like a dry, pulsing rock by the next day.

  He must have been exceptionally tired, or thoroughly foxed, last night to stay in this room even after his guest left. To think on it, he didn’t even recall the lady’s departure.

  He flopped heavily onto his back, throwing a forearm across his eyes. Not that he needed to shield them from any intruding light. He had carefully designed the room to keep its occupants blissfully ignorant of the passing of time. His gesture was more an attempt at restraining the disturbing thoughts that ran rampant through his throbbing skull.

  His twenty-eighth birthday was swiftly approaching.

  And he felt old.

  Not old in years, nor even in the stamina and strength of his body. His income depended upon his physical attributes and he did what was necessary to maintain a clean muscled physique.

  No, he felt his age in his experience.

  In some respects he had lived far more than a man thrice his age. The years of drunken dissipation, sexual license and social irreverence had long been wearing on the structure of his soul.

  He knew it and had been ignoring it.

  But now, as exhaustion weighted his body and the thunder of too much alcohol clouded his brain and he couldn’t dredge up a single memory from the night before that made it all worth it, Leif wondered if mortality itself limited how much revelry and wickedness a man could take. Did there arrive a day when a man simply had to stop?

  He growled in frustration and threw a fist into the lush bedding at his side. Did such an option even exist for him?

  In a rush of angry energy, Leif rose from the bed in one solid fluid motion, accepting the punishing rush of pain through his skull at the motion. Fully naked, he left the plush boudoir and stalked down the hallway. He had no fear of encountering servants along the way. He could only afford to employ Langley, a decrepit old butler who rarely strayed far from his room on the ground floor near the front door, and a part-time maid/cook/housekeeper who only came around in the evenings.

  He entered the bedroom at the far end of the hall and noted the light filtering through the heavy curtains in front of the single window. It was full day.

  This room was Leif’s personal bedroom. It was barely larger than a closet and had likely been intended for a senior servant, certainly not for the master of the house. Leif had furnished it with only the necessities. A narrow bed was set against the wall and was dressed in plain white sheets and a pearl gray coverlet completely void of extra adornment. A chair, a wardrobe and a dresser with a wash bowl stood stoic against another wall. Aside from an oval mirror, the only other wall dressing was an old painting of Leif’s childhood home. The frame was battered and scarred and the surface of the image was covered by layers of dust and grime, but the painting held the honor as the focal point of the entire room.

  His mood darkened and he crossed to the dresser to splash his face with cold water from the wash bowl. It didn’t help to clear the fog of malaise from his brain. With a growing sense of surrender, he turned and went to sit on the edge of his bed, thinking of how easy it would be to slip back into the welcome oblivion of numbing sleep.

  That was when he caught sight of something odd.

  Right in the center of the chair next to his bed was a small green apothecary bottle spouting a collection of spindly wildflowers from its top. Leif tilted his head and eyed the unexpected addition to his room thr
ough a bleary gaze.

  He hadn’t had a housekeeper who lasted more than six months since he’d moved to London just over ten years ago. Each of them had their own reasons for moving on. But his current housekeeper, Mrs. Helmstead, had been with him for nearly a year now. Leif suspected it had to do with the fact that the spry old woman was more than a touch batty. She was forgetful and odd, and at times truly believed herself to be in charge of a grand country estate rather than a part-time servant at a bachelor’s residence in town. But she didn’t seem to mind Leif’s personal activities, or maybe she never noticed. She always had a bright smile when he happened to cross her path, and occasionally, she left him little surprises like these.

  Leif reached for the fragile glass bottle with a rueful smile.

  Where on earth had the woman found the flowers? They were nearly half dead and were certainly not the kind that could be found at one of the street vendors. Leif waved them beneath his nose and instantly thought of a slight wisp of a woman with fair reddish hair, large sea-green eyes surrounded by a fringe of sooty lashes, delicate elfin features and a lush pink mouth that tasted like strawberries and held the warmth of the sunrise.

  There he went, waxing poetic again.

  The girl had him twisted around and the shock of that single stolen kiss still lingered in his blood.

  His guileless Irish lass had been decadence and innocence together in a potion more potent than any alcohol. He couldn’t recall the last time the pure force of his own desire had risen so quickly. And easily. At the first gentle touch of his lips to hers, pleasure had streaked like lightening through his veins. Her slight weight and delicate curves, her intrinsic warmth and vitality, her tentative response and the profound sweet taste of her nearly undid him.

  But he had held back. He had somehow resisted the fierce desire to plunge his tongue past her lips and explore the inner recesses of her mouth. He had denied himself the pleasure of dragging her skirts to her hips so he could delve his hand between the soft flesh of her thighs.