One painful fact was undeniable, brought to light from Carlisle’s investigations into the Fenian leader, John Mahoney: there was a traitor amongst their ranks. Someone was selling their secrets to the enemy.
But that someone bloody well wasn’t him.
Which meant, to escape his current predicament—and the four walls entrapping him—he needed to find out who the bastard was. At least five of the names seemed likely suspects, but if he had learned anything from his years on this earth, it was that the most innocent in appearance was often the most evil. The wolf garbed as a sheep, etcetera.
Sighing and scrubbing a hand over his face, he stood, stretching his back. The chair was too damned small for his large frame, as was the escritoire. Leave it to Arden to place him in a female’s chamber. Even the bloody curtains were pale pink and trimmed in lace. The bed was too small as well, and he suspected these oversights were intentional. Arden’s way of keeping him in his place and reminding him of the true reason for his stay.
He had to admit, it was a deuced sight better than being clapped into gaol. He supposed he could thank his fearless leader for that much. But he wouldn’t. The man was a cold-hearted prig, and attempting to converse with him was about as useful as holding a dialogue with a boulder. Both proved equally immovable.
A quiet knock sounded at his door.
Griffin sighed once more, certain his illustrious host-turned-jailer was at his door this time. Either way, he was fully dressed in shirtsleeves and trousers and bare feet. “You may enter.”
But when the door opened, he was once more shocked to see the lovely, dark-haired temptation of Arden’s sister trespassing upon his territory, quite as if it were where she belonged. It had been a mere day since he had seen her last, and within this very chamber.
Where she most decidedly did not belong.
Arden would have his head on a pike.
Griffin grinned.
So much the better.
His plan was unfolding miraculously well, for he had not even formed it yet, and already, she was once more in dangerous proximity to both himself and a bed.
He waved for her to make haste. “Come in then, if you insist upon invading my chamber once more, and be quick about it. Do not linger in the hall, lest you are seen, Lady Violet.”
Her vibrant gaze tangled with his as she stepped over the threshold and snapped the door closed at her back. “I do apologize for the intrusion.”
His lips twitched, but he suppressed his mirth. “An odd apology indeed, my lady, for someone who has just chosen to do that for which she offers her regret.”
She clutched her skirts, eyeing him defiantly. “Very well then. I retract my apology. I intended to intrude, and so I did. But you also allowed it, so you need not be such a vexatious curmudgeon about it.”
He stood belatedly, offering her an elegant, mocking bow. “The Duke of Duplicity, Earl of Vexatious, Viscount Curmudgeon at your service, Lady Violet.”
A laugh she appeared determined to stifle slipped from her lips before she could deaden it, and her cheeks flushed an endearing shade of pink. “You need not poke fun, Your Grace. I have come to offer you my aid after all, just as we discussed.”
He raised a brow, a grim sense of finality invading his chest. This woman was intriguing and unique, somehow innocent and bold, seemingly proper and yet daring, all at once. Nothing about her resembled her stiff-arsed brother in the slightest.
How could he use her as a pawn in this battle against Arden, even if she continued to fall into his lap? Into his chamber, for Chrissake! How could he not?
“Forgive me.” He could not keep the mocking tone from his voice, for there was something about Lady Violet West that made him want to ruffle her feathers. “I did not realize you intended to continually invade my bedchamber as part of your quest to offer me assistance.”
Her flush deepened, and she hesitated, hands gripping her skirts so tightly, he could see the strain on her knuckles. “If you had deigned to emerge from it, I would not need to invade it.”
“There remains the small matter of my choice between Lark House and gaol,” he reminded her drily. “Your brother wishes for me to make as little a mark upon this house as possible, which involves remaining here and keeping you from my distressing, ruinous presence.”
“Lucien demanded you remain in your chamber?” Surprise underscored her voice.
Ominous portent curdled in his gut as he thought of Arden’s stern warning yesterday evening. Though he suspected it had emerged partially from Aunt Horrible’s interruption of his heated embrace with Lady Violet, the further humiliation, piled atop the ignominy of being forcibly imprisoned within Lark House, stung.
“Yes.” He paused, an idea—wicked and wrong and so very tempting—hatching. Perhaps if she suspected her brother disapproved of her association with Griffin, she would be all the more drawn to him. “I suspect he wishes me to keep my distance from you especially, my lady.”
As he fancied it would, his revelation had her drawing up her shoulders, those jade eyes sizzling with fire. “I shall associate with whomever I wish.”
He knew a moment of guilt at the ease with which he had manipulated her.
“You do realize your sainted Lord Flowerpot would be horrified to learn his betrothed was visiting the bedchamber of another man, yes?” Though he had every intention of using her to destroy her brother’s vendetta against him by whatever means possible, the gentleman within him insisted he remind her of the damage she did her reputation by remaining alone with him.
In his bedchamber.
Yes, bloody hell, there was a bed. On the opposite wall. Some fifteen paces away. And Lady Violet stood only six, if he were to estimate. Perhaps four if he wanted to reach her badly enough. And the insistent twitch of his cock against the placket of his trousers suggested that indeed, he did.
Lady Violet met his gaze without flinching. “My betrothed’s name is Lord Almsley, and Charles need not know of my visits here. I would never dare enter a gentleman’s chamber ordinarily, but you are a special case, Strathmore.”
He believed her. Though she had been responsive to his kiss, everything about her screamed untried virgin. Precisely as she ought to be. And precisely as he would leave her, he reminded himself. He could toy with Arden, bring him low, without actually taking Lady Violet’s virtue.
The devil of it was, he wanted her virtue. There was something about Lady Violet that made him long to claim her, to mark her. The notion of her wedding herself to some boring, staid suitor, who preferred to dabble in soil and plants rather than worship the beautiful woman he was betrothed to, filled him with indignation.
But still, she had referred to him as a special case, and he could not like it. He would be no woman’s charity. Not even a woman as luscious, lovely, and convenient to his plans as Lady Violet was. “Explain, if you please, my lady.”
“Explain what?” She frowned at him. “That I wish to help you? I do believe I have already made myself clear on the matter. You need help, Strathmore, and I do not see any other aid forthcoming.”
Her observation rankled. Of course it did. He had friends, but his most trusted friend, Sebastian, was expecting a babe. Griffin would rather muddle through his predicament on his own than involve a man about to become a father. Then there was the Duke of Carlisle, who was newly retired from the League and hopelessly in love with his wife.
Griffin had no wish to interrupt their idylls on his own account. He had managed to find himself in this wretched mess because he had insisted upon antagonizing Arden, and he knew it. If he had been able to hold his tongue, the duke would have no reason to suspect him. But as usual, he had been reckless and had said too much.
Far, far too much.
Now he must pay the price.
Still, his pride insisted he argue with the duke’s beautiful sister.
“I do not require anyone’s aid.” He raised a brow, pinning her with a stare of his own, this one meant to discomfit. “You
must not forget I have allowed you to assist me.”
She made a dramatic show of looking over her shoulder before turning back to him. “And once again, I do not see any other aid forthcoming, Strathmore. But if you do not want my help, you need only say the words.”
He gritted his teeth. Of course he wanted her help. Just not in the manner she thought. “I have already accepted your help, my lady. What I have not accepted is your continued presence in my chamber. It is not only unseemly, but it is dangerous to your virtue.”
“Dangerous to my virtue?” Her gaze lingered for a moment on his throat, reminding him he had removed his neck cloth. “Would you like me to go then?”
For a brief wicked beat, he wondered what her lips would feel like pressed to his skin there. And then he banished the question and the thought at once, for he still needed his battle plan in place before he could take action. He could not compromise her today, here, now, no matter how much he yearned to. He needed to be certain of an audience.
Of Arden, specifically. He had no wish for any other witnesses. Just that of his jailer.
“Stay,” he grumbled.
She pursed her lips. “You are the least grateful person I have ever had the misfortune to meet, Duke.”
He would not argue the point, for he was not certain he could. The only thing he had to be thankful for was his life, which had proved a dubious gift indeed. His imprisonment in Paris—many years ago during the brutal siege there—had altered him forever.
He spent most hours of the day awake, a husk of a man, fit for duty only, which was why he could not afford to lose his position in the Special League. Everything about him was dark and bitter and empty and jaded and wicked. Everything but his loyalty to Crown and country, that was.
“Nevertheless,” he drawled, forcing himself from his tangled thoughts, “you have returned to offer me your aid. One cannot help but to wonder why.”
A becoming shade of pink once more crept over Lady Violet’s high cheekbones. “A cure for boredom, nothing more.”
Griffin grinned, sensing he had hit upon a sensitive subject. “My kiss moved you so deeply, you cannot help but to crave another. You were reluctant to admit it yesterday, but today you are willing to acknowledge reason. Admit it.”
“I have a betrothed,” she reminded him sharply.
So sharply, he could not help but wonder if the reminder was as much for herself as it was for him. She was attracted to him. Dead though he may be inside, he was still a man, and he knew when a woman wanted him.
Lady Violet West wanted him. He would wager his freedom upon it.
“Where is Lord Flowerpot?” he asked, unable to resist the jibe.
He was a devil, and he knew it. Part of him longed to settle upon some initially innocuous seduction. Part of him was fiendishly jealous of Lord Almsley, a paragon whose true name even sounded benevolent.
Vomitus.
What a perfect, pure, honorable gentleman. The sainted Earl of Horticulture probably thought the Lord would make his cock fall off if he kissed Lady Violet with tongue. Just as well, for the notion of any man other than Griffin putting his tongue in Lady Violet’s mouth was an anathema.
Where in the hell were such ludicrous, possessive thoughts emerging from?
He had kissed her once. True, he had also cupped her breast in his hand—quite unintentionally, of course—and the high and full curve had been a delightful cushion with which to catch his fall. Still, he had felt breasts before, damn it all. He had known women enough in his lifetime to not lose his head over a single kiss.
She frowned at him, looking vexed. “You must stop flirting with me, Strathmore. Your kisses were pleasant enough, but nothing I have not experienced before. Let us turn our attention to more important matters, shall we?”
Griffin stared at the vexing creature, aghast. First, she had dared to insult his proficiency at kissing. Then she dared to suggest there existed any matter more important than his kiss?
Astounding.
No one dismissed his kisses as pleasant enough.
He stalked toward her, intent upon one goal and one goal only. “Pleasant enough, my lady? ‘Pleasant enough’ is the manner in which one might describe a ball with dreadful musicians and bland sustenance. ‘Pleasant enough’ is how one might refer to the weather. ‘Pleasant enough’ is a damned insult. If all I gave you was pleasant enough, I suppose I have no recourse other than to try again.”
Chapter Four
The Duke of Strathmore was irate, and he was coming for her.
But not to do her harm. No indeed, he was stalking toward her, breathtakingly handsome with his beautiful face and that divine beard darkening his angular jaw and his sinful mouth…the mouth he intended to kiss her with once more. Oh.
She had no more time to think, for he was upon her. And though his words had vibrated with ferocity, his touch was gentle. Large hands, warm and tender upon her face, held her in place for his kiss.
She could have broken away with ease if she wished. She did not wish. Nothing and no one could have compelled her to move away from him.
Lips moved over hers, just the barest brush at first—once, twice, thrice—until she could not bear the keening need bursting inside her. Until strange sounds she did not recognize emerged from her, and her arms went around his neck, and she was shameless, pressing her body against his from hip to shoulder, rising on her toes, pulling him closer, seeking more.
He fitted his full lower lip to the seam of hers, delivering achingly slow, sensual kisses. He made love to her mouth. There was no other way to describe it, and she was wholly unprepared for the sensations he unleashed within her. She was aflame, lit up from within, burning, burning, burning.
The first kisses she had shared with him had been wondrous. These kisses were revelations, small and slow and steady, and achingly incredible. These were the kisses that would ruin her for any other mouth, any other kiss, any other man.
All she wanted was this one, this one, this one.
Another sound tore from her, part desperation, part need. Her fingers were somehow in his hair now, and it was luxurious and thick and soft. His scent enveloped her, all male, all Strathmore, all delicious. He surrounded her with his strong embrace, overwhelming her with his kiss, and then, just when she thought she could stand no more, his tongue sank inside her mouth.
This time, she ran her tongue against his. It was sinuous and wet, carnal and raw, and the act sent a fresh rush of need to her core, to the place between her legs that already ached. A steady thrum began, pulsing outward, like ripples on a lake whose pristine surface had been interrupted. She clung to him tighter, moving against him, hungry for the feel of him, for the taste of him. For as much of him as she could get.
His rigid length, long and hard, intimidating and alluring, pressed against her belly. He kissed her with an effortless sensuality that had her coming undone. Their tongues played. Hunger and need intertwined, rolling through her like a thunderstorm.
She kissed him back, perhaps with more vigor than necessary, but she could not seem to control herself. She wanted faster. Deeper. Longer. Fuller. Harder.
Everything.
That was what she wanted from him. She wanted his kisses, his seduction, his touch, his caress. Him. Good Lord, he had taken pleasant enough and fashioned it into nothing else shall ever compare.
His tongue was still in her mouth, his hands claiming her waist, his powerful body burning into hers, when she at long last thought of Charles.
Her betrothed. The man who, mere days ago, had kissed her with as much finesse as he was capable of producing, and whispered the three words every lady longed to hear from her suitor.
I love you.
It was the memory of those words now that at last turned the raging heat scorching her to ice. She removed her hands from Strathmore’s hair and pressed her palms to his shoulders, exerting scarcely any effort, before he tore his lips from hers and stepped away.
Her breaths were ragged
, her heart beating fast, and all she could do was stare at his beautifully handsome face and that mouth, even as she reminded herself it was Charles who loved her. Charles who would wed her. Charles only who deserved the right to kiss and touch her so intimately.
But she still tasted Strathmore on her lips, and she longed for those large hands of his, part bruising strength, part refined elegance, upon her. Her idea to offer him aid was a foolhardy one. It was the stupidest decision she had ever made. Coming to his bedchamber and letting herself in—an action she had never dared to take with any other man—not once, but twice, had been downright dangerous.
“Now then, how would you describe that kiss, my lady?” he asked.
His mellifluous voice was calm and smooth, whisky and seduction and devil-may-care all at once, as if he had been unaffected by what had passed between them.
Meanwhile, her entire world had just been rocked as if by an earthquake. She supposed if she was as beautiful as he was, she too would be self-assured. But Violet knew she was plain, her sole redemption in her long black hair.
She took a deep breath, hesitating to answer him because she was not certain if she had regained the capacity for speech, and also because taunting him was as great of a temptation as kissing him.
“Agreeable,” she said at last. “But I must insist upon not repeating such folly.”
“Agreeable?” he repeated, his eyes glinting. “And a folly?”
She feared she had thrown the gauntlet once more. “I have a betrothed,” she reminded him as much as she reminded herself.
“Flowerpot.” His tone was grim.
“Charles.” Her attempt to keep her tone stern was no doubt belied by her breathlessness, but it couldn’t be helped. “His name is Charles.”
And she must not forget him. She must keep him first in her heart and mind from this moment forward. Above all, she must not allow herself to look at Strathmore’s finely shaped lips, nor imagine what his broad chest looked like beneath his shirtsleeves. She swallowed.
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