Reckless Viscount

by Amy Sandas

  Even though the force of his reaction had come upon him unexpectedly, to a man who had mastered lovemaking as if it were a skilled art form, loss of control would have been unacceptable. Somehow, he had managed to keep a tight rein on the pulsing needs of his body and forced himself to accept just a sip of the passion he would have loved to unleash more fully.

  The span of his entire sexual history, starting with a schoolmate’s mother who had taken a liking to him one holiday, did not include a single virgin. His expertise was firmly seated in pleasuring women of a certain degree of experience who were all well acquainted with sex for the sake of pleasure alone. Women who expected to be pushed to the limit in the pursuit of greater heights of ecstasy.

  A proper young lady would die of shock from the things he would wish to do in bed, and he would hate to see even a flicker of disgust in those translucent eyes as he sought his pleasure. No, it was best he accept this one as off-limits, he thought with a sharp prick of regret.

  Leif set the small vase back on the chair and glanced at the clock. It was later than he thought. Rather than drag the hip bath up to his bedroom and lug buckets of water up the stairs two by two, Leif preferred the option that took far less effort. But if he was going to get washed up, he needed to get his use out of the kitchen before Mrs. Helmstead arrived.

  Two hours later, Leif was finishing the intricate knot of the stark-white cravat around his neck while Mrs. Helmstead sang a terribly off-tune limerick about a sailor with two wives as she swept the upper hall. His hair was expertly mussed in the current fashion and his face was clean-shaven to reveal the strong lines of his jaw that many ladies claimed was his most attractive feature aside from his devilish eyes. He leaned toward the mirror set above his washstand with a frown of concentration as he carefully tied the neckcloth so the frayed edges were tucked away and the threadbare spots were concealed.

  Feeling much more human now that his body was clean and his mind fresh and sharp, the malaise that had bothered him upon waking was almost completely gone. He had a full evening ahead of him and he intended to make the most of it. Lady Wharton was fresh out of partial mourning and had been sending out subtle signals over the last few weeks that she may be interested in some male companionship. It was time to see if the wealthy widow was ready for a lover.

  But first, he had to swing past his club to see if he could get in on a card game. He was nearly out of pocket money and wouldn’t make it through the week without getting his hands on some blunt.

  A short time later, Leif left his bachelor townhouse located just off St. James and started down the street with long vigorous steps. He was determined to avoid distraction and get on with what he needed to do. There was no room in his life for a curious young woman who smelled of fresh meadows and tasted of strawberries.

  Leif quickened his steps as if he might outpace the intrusive thoughts, but they stubbornly kept up with him and he found himself wondering about the freckles that were scattered lightly over the bridge of her nose and across her delicate cheekbones. Did they extend below her neckline? Across her belly, or the smooth inner skin of her thighs? He could so easily imagine her naked, her pale limbs spread out on yards of emerald-green velvet, her hair a cloud of subtle fire around her head and her eyes staring up at him with heat and anticipation swirling in their depths.

  Leif stuffed his hands down deeper into the pockets of his coat in an attempt to control the lust that flashed through his body. One of his fists punched right through the seam of the worn pocket with a great tearing sound.

  He growled his sudden frustration out loud, causing a strolling couple to glance at him nervously as they passed by him on the sidewalk. He just quickened his steps, hoping his club would offer up at least one lamb vulnerable to a fleecing. His financial situation was once again teetering on the edge of desperation.

  Chapter Seven

  Following the Carmichael ball dozens of calling cards and invitations to routs and soirees arrived at the Blackbourne townhouse. After leaving Lord Riley in the darkened hallway, Abbigael had proceeded through the evening with a renewed sense of purpose. She danced and laughed and charmed all who came into contact with her.

  It had been exhausting but successful. And since then, Abbigael had been out nearly every night. She finally understood why Lady Blackbourne had insisted upon having additional gowns made upon their arrival in town.

  Tonight she and the countess attended another ball with the earl graciously playing escort. It was nearly midnight. Early by London standards. The Season was in almost in full swing and every London hostess vied to claim ownership of the not-to-be-missed event of the year, so this ball was even grander and more ostentatious than the last.

  Within minutes of their arrival, suitors began vying for a place on Abbigael’s dancing card. After a few hours, several promising gentlemen had taken to gathering around her whenever she was not dancing. Abbigael should have been delighted in the success of her launch into London society, but she could not shake the wary perception that the attention was too superficial. She worried that even after a couple of weeks she had yet to garner more concrete interest from any of the young men beyond curious flirtation.

  Of course, news of her fortune had certainly cast a wide net, but she had to believe some of her suitors might have a genuine interest in her beyond her hefty dowry. She could be passably charming when she chose to be, she was a politician’s daughter after all. And these aristocratic peers didn’t seem to be put off by her freckles or the slight brogue in her voice. She had in fact become quite popular.

  But she hadn’t encountered anyone who seemed to be the match she sought.

  And it worried her.

  Perhaps she had set her sights too high in hoping for a sincere connection of friendship at least, if not something involving more romantic feelings. Had she been foolish to think she might find love in the dazzling ballrooms of London?

  Even as she laughed and danced and engaged in the acceptable forms of flirtatious conversation, she felt as if she were treading across a thin layer of ice that could shatter beneath her at any moment. She tried to convince herself that she was letting unfounded fear cloud reality. She told herself she had earned her liberation and that this was just a glimpse of what her life could be going forward. Bright, glittering. Full of gaiety.

  Unfortunately, the years of her life since adolescence did not lend strength to such a cheerful vision. She knew well how quickly things could take a dreadful turn. And tonight, she couldn’t shake the sense that there was something malevolent coiled up, waiting to strike. In the midst of her success, as she waltzed around the ballrooms and traded witty quips and warm smiles with eligible bachelors, her ears remained pricked for the faint hiss of venomous whispers. And every once in a while, she scanned the ballroom as if seeking out a skulking enemy.

  So when she first caught sight of Lord Atwood standing with a group of young gentlemen near the dance floor, she wasn’t terribly surprised. The sense of foreboding she had been struggling to suppress now had a discernible cause.

  She would have loved to say she had forgotten all about the young English lord who had briefly courted her nearly two years ago. In truth, she would likely never forget his superior smirk and assessing leer.

  She stared at the man who had once gone out of his way to ruin her. The man who had not let the secrets of her past lie fallow, but had revived them over and over again in the rumor mill until no one could be expected to forget that Miss Abbigael Granger, super-rich daughter of the imposing politician, had a touch of insanity in her blood.

  Lord Atwood looked exactly the same as when she had last seen him in Dublin. He was the epitome of British masculine elegance. Pale skin, artfully disheveled hair, long graceful fingers and a perpetual expression of dissatisfaction, as if the world around him never quite came up to snuff.

  As if sensing her attention, Lord Atwood glanced in her direction. Recognition flared bright in his eyes and his lordly expression slid into
one of malicious delight. He remembered her well enough.

  The odd sort of acceptance she had experienced at first seeing him turned to chilling paralysis and only one thought took purchase in her mind.

  So this is how my dreams are finally dashed. Once again in a crowded ballroom, face-to-face with that man.

  A group of four young ladies passed in front of Abbigael, momentarily interrupting the line of sight between herself and her old antagonist. It was enough to spur her into action. Later she would chastise herself for her cowardice, but right now, her only thought was to flee. She glanced to Lady Blackbourne and saw that she was deep in conversation with some of her racing cronies and hadn’t noticed anything amiss. Not wanting to waste another second, Abbigael joined the giggling debutantes, walking close enough to appear a member of their group, but not so close that they would wonder at her proximity in the crowded ballroom.

  She initially thought to slip away to the water closet, but when it became obvious the young ladies were heading in that same direction she took the first opportunity to alter her course. Now fully out of sight from Lord Atwood, she turned against the flow of guests and continued around the edge of the ballroom.

  She came upon the small conservatory by surprise. One moment, the wall at her side simply opened up.

  On instinct and urged by a touch of fear she hadn’t yet shaken, she turned in and was instantly surrounded by lush spreading ferns set at varying heights, small fruit trees and exotic flowering plants. The windows lining one wall from floor to ceiling allowed the faint glow of moonlight to filter into the space that presented no other illumination.

  Abbigael proceeded cautiously, not so naïve that she didn’t realize the little conservatory would be perfect for anyone wishing to steal a few private moments. She had no desire to come upon an amorous couple in a delicate embrace. By supreme luck or divine intervention, the room was vacant. And when Abbigael spotted a small cushioned chaise set back within the enveloping greenery, she rushed toward it in relief.

  From her position on the chaise, she couldn’t even catch a glimpse of the ballroom beyond. She was completely hidden from view. Now, as long as no one came along to disturb her, she might actually manage to bring her anxiety under control. She would only sit for a moment. A moment to gather herself and calm the nerves that were intent upon dragging her back to memories she could not afford to revisit. Not now.

  There had to be a way to stifle Lord Atwood before he had a chance to spew his poisonous rumors. And spew he would. She had no doubt about that after catching sight of his churlish grin.

  Surely the earl and countess could be of some help in that area. Their social influence was part of the reason her father had thought to ask for their sponsorship. Maybe this development didn’t spell complete disaster after all.

  She pressed a fisted hand to her chest, trying to concentrate on slowing the rapid shuddering heartbeats to a more sedate pace. She shouldn’t have fled so hastily. Self-directed anger took the place of the debilitating fear that had first claimed her when she had seen Lord Atwood. If she had been able to keep her wits intact, she would have realized that her best defense would have been to immediately alert Lady Blackbourne to the potential trouble.

  Instead, she had run away like a useless ninny.

  “Hello, Irish.”

  Hot sparks of alarm flew through her awareness. The greeting was whispered in a low and honeyed tone and originated from just behind her. She could have sworn there had been no one here when she had approached the chaise. Out of anyone she might have encountered in the private foliage filled nook, Lord Riley was by far the most dangerous.

  Even more so than the spiteful Lord Atwood.

  The dark moments from the other night still filled her thoughts in tantalizing detail every time she closed her eyes to sleep. With very little effort on his part, Lord Riley had invaded the very clear picture Abbigael had painted for her life going forward. He had become a shadow in the corner of every scene in her mind.

  She took a slow breath, trying to ignore the unsettling dance of apprehension in her stomach, and turned to face her unwitting tormentor.

  He stood a few paces away, leaning against the wall behind a huge potted fern. He was in shadow, but the sight of him dressed in resplendent eveningwear, his hair charmingly tousled and his smile as wicked as they come, sent a deep thrill down to her toes. He held a lit cheroot between his fingers and brought it to his lips to draw in the darkly aromatic smoke, then tilted his back and exhaled on a long breath, sending a thick stream of smoke curling up toward the ceiling.

  “It is not proper to smoke tobacco in the presence of a lady,” Abbigael admonished, then blushed, then silently cursed the revealing heat in her cheeks.

  He chuckled and pushed off from the wall. He reached forward and snubbed the cheroot out in the dirt at the base of the fern. Abbigael frowned at his lack of respect and he shrugged in response, clearly accustomed to such disapproval.

  “I am not intruding upon a scheduled assignation, am I?”

  Abbigael eyed him in confusion for a moment before she realized in horror that he was asking if she was waiting for a lover.

  “Of course not.” Her cheeks flushed even hotter.

  “Good. Then you won’t mind if I join you.”

  A spark of panic ignited. She could not afford to be distracted.

  “I actually was hoping for a moment alone.”

  Ignoring her protest, Riley approached the chaise and sat down right behind her. He reclined his lean muscled body along the length of the furniture, lifting one bent leg onto the chaise and lounging back against the raised edge. The side of his hip bumped against her buttocks.

  She should stand up and walk away. It was the only proper choice to make. But something stubborn and contrary in her nature urged her to stay, to accept his challenge, for that was exactly what it was. She glanced back through the ferns and fruit trees toward the glowing light of the ballroom.

  Stay with the rogue or face the demon from her past?

  Lord Atwood might threaten her future, but Lord Riley threatened her very being.

  After only a second, she realized she wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet anyway.

  And when another moment passed and he hadn’t said anything, she turned to look down at his reclining form. The span of his shoulders took up the entire width of the graceful chaise. He had one arm curved up with his hand propped beneath his head. The other hand rested lightly on his abdomen. She had never before realized how intimately two people could occupy a single piece of furniture. When she noticed he was watching her with faint amusement in his changeable eyes, anticipation began to mingle with the trepidation already firmly seated in her consciousness.

  “I thought I told you not to approach me.”

  He smiled and her toes curled in her dancing slippers.

  “You had to know I wouldn’t listen.”

  She had hoped. “Did you follow me?”

  “Maybe you followed me,” he shot back. The curl at the corner of his mouth betrayed the humor he tried to hold back.

  She gave a tiny harrumph and narrowed her eyes.

  His irrepressible grin broke free in response to her irritation.

  “Why are you here, Irish?”

  She scowled, but before she could reply he lifted his large hand from where it rested on his abdomen and gave a negligent wave. “I don’t mean here in this quaint little corner of tranquility. It’s easy to guess why you might claim a moment of solitude from all of that.” He gestured again toward the ballroom just beyond the encompassing foliage. “I mean, why are you in London parading yourself though the marriage market?”

  She put on the weary demeanor of a governess trying to instill an important lesson into the thick head of a resistant child.

  “I am here, Lord Riley, parading myself as you so elegantly put it, in the hope that I might receive an offer of marriage from a worthy man.”

  His grin twisted into something more of a
grimace.

  “I had thought you to be more sensible.”

  “Than to seek a proper marriage?”

  She tried to maintain a posture of modest decorum, a problematic task when the rich warmth in his eyes, cast so intimately up at her, threatened to crumble her firm resolve.

  “Than to seek fulfillment in such a conventional manner,” he answered glibly. “There are many more satisfying ways to involve yourself with a man than to marry him.”

  “More scandalous, you mean.”

  He smiled. Unrepentantly.

  Her heart skipped. Wildly.

  “Tell me there’s still time to alter your course. None of those bumbling blokes have made an offer yet, have they?”

  Abbigael glanced away from his teasing face, recalling the reason she had fled the ballroom.

  “No. They haven’t.”

  Lord Riley rolled to his side, curving his upper body in an intimate arc. He propped himself up on his elbow until his face became level with hers and only inches away. She watched him warily but did not scoot away or stand. His expression was surprisingly earnest.

  “What troubles you, Irish?”

  She should have denied any distress. She should have waved off his question with a flippant remark, but there was something comforting in the warmth of his body that curled around her. Close but not touching. She had no idea how it was possible to feel the instinctive urging to trust a man who by all rationalization was not worthy of such a sentiment. But she did trust him just then. As someone who was constantly judged unfavorably himself, perhaps he would not be too harsh in his judgment of her.

  Her answer, when she spoke, was very quiet though she didn’t fear being overheard.

  “A gentleman, someone I once knew in Dublin.”

  Riley arched a tawny eyebrow. “An old suitor?”

  She hesitated, pressing her fingertips to her temple and bowing her head.

  What difference did it make what she told this man? Her past could not be changed. There was no shame in the truth. She lifted her chin and met his curious gaze.