by Gaelen Foley
Jacinda turned her nose up at his chosen party when he told her later that he had attended the Radical meeting. She continually implored him to consider joining the forward-thinking but still aristocratic Whig party instead, but in his view, the Whigs did not go far enough in their calls for reform. Her objections did not stop Rackford from pursuing his newfound political interests, however, any more than Sir Anthony’s pair of Bow Street runners stationed outside his door stopped him from sneaking out of the house quite regularly at night to wreak havoc on the Jackals.
He did not dare tell Jacinda this, either, for she would have surely disapproved. He knew she had assumed that he had simply informed against O’Dell, as he had against so many other of his former criminal colleagues, but that was not the case. No, he wanted the bastard for himself.
His attacks of late had been quite ruthless, for he was determined to see the bloody business through before he made Jacinda his wife. He was eager to close the door once and for all on his dark past in favor of his bright future with her.
She was a stubborn chit, of course, but he had every confidence that she would come around once he had won her full trust. Admittedly, his patience was wearing a bit thin at her continued refusal to acknowledge their desire for each other.
He knew her reasons, of course. The lady meant to be free. She was in dread of letting herself belong to him, but he knew that he was getting to her. When he showed up at Knight House with the odd cuts and bruises from his battles, she turned him utterly inside out with the way she fussed over him as though he were a child and petted and kissed him and demanded he tell her how he had hurt himself. He basked in her attentions—he could not help himself—keeping only a loose rein on his randy thoughts. He resorted to harmless lies about his thankfully slight injuries, for he didn’t want to upset her or remind her of what he used to be.
The sooner she forgot about that, the better.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jacinda finally met Rackford’s parents at the huge banquet and ball given the following Saturday night by Daphne’s parents, Lord and Lady Erhard.
The handsome but dissipated-looking marquess and his faraway, frail, meticulously dressed wife had come on one of their rare forays into Society. Faced with her Billy’s childhood tormentor, Jacinda had all but cut the marquess outright, knowing how he had treated his son. Seated somewhat across from Rackford’s tyrannical father at the richly laid table, she held Lord Truro in several cold, deliberate stares that slowly seemed to unnerve the man. She contradicted his opinions every time he offered one at the table, but it seemed he did not dare rebuke her, at least not in public. He drank faster and finally would not look in her direction at all.
Surely by the end of the meal, she mused, Truro the Terrible had realized that she knew of his crimes. As for the marchioness, Jacinda considered her beneath contempt for doing nothing to save her child from his father’s drunken violence.
In the drawing room after dinner, she noticed Daphne making herself agreeable to the marchioness, cooing over her white sequined gown. Ah, well. Amelia and Hellie had warned her of this. Daphne’s tactics were obvious enough: She was bent on impressing his parents so they would pressure him in her favor in his choice of brides.
Jacinda stood only half listening to Lord Drummond’s detailed account of his recent triumph on the golf links, waiting for Rackford’s signal.
“My lowest score ever…”
“How nice,” she murmured, gazing across the drawing room at where Daphne stood beaming at Rackford.
His back was to Jacinda, so she could not see his reaction to the haughty redhead’s flirtations. Surely, he was not fool enough to be so dazzled by Daphne’s beauty that he would fail to notice her spoiled temperament?
She scowled faintly as Daphne coaxed Rackford into dancing with her, vaguely aware of Acer Loring off to the side, scowling at them right along with her, for he had been enamored of Daphne for ages. With pursed lips and an angry flutter of her fan, Jacinda watched Rackford bow and Daphne simper.
If only he didn’t have to look so blasted gorgeous tonight…just as he did every other night. The candles burning brightly in the wall sconces cast a golden sheen over his sleek sandy hair. Her gaze traveled across the wide breadth of his shoulders in his snug-fitting midnight-blue tailcoat, then down his lean waist and compact hips to his long legs, clad in black trousers. It was an irksome trend, how he seemed to get better looking each day, the better she got to know him. She knew what his every twisty smile meant; every subtle shade of green that his eyes turned reflected a different emotion, and she had memorized them all. A pale apple green under his spiky dun lashes meant playfulness; but his eyes turned a blazing emerald hue when he was impassioned over politics or some other matter; the deep gray-green of woodland shadows meant he was brooding and should be given a wide berth.
When the dance ended and he disengaged himself from Daphne, Jacinda could not help but smile with satisfaction as he headed back at once toward her. As he made his way through the milling crowd of guests, he sent her a seductive look with a mischievous little flare of his eyebrows. He always kept his distance when Lord Drummond was near, not trusting himself to be civil; tonight, however, they had a special mission together, and he joined her in spite of the old wigsby’s presence.
“My lady,” Lord Rackford greeted her with a very correct bow.
Though her feminine senses tingled with pleasure as he came over by her side, she gave him a rather cool nod and turned to her aged companion. “Lord Drummond, I don’t believe you’ve met my friend, Lord Rackford. He is the son of the marquess of Truro. Lord Rackford, this is the earl of Drummond.”
Rackford bowed to him warily. “Sir.”
The gruff old statesman lifted his chin and scrutinized him, his spectacles glinting. “So, this is the budding Radical who has all of London abuzz.”
Rackford glanced uneasily at Jacinda. “Yes, my lord, I have been quite impressed by Lord Brougham’s ideas.”
“Wrongheaded, m’boy. That one is a troublemaker. I mistrust brilliance. Watch out for him. If Brougham had his way, we’d all be called ‘Mister.’ ”
“With all due respect, sir, I prefer to judge a man’s value by his actions, not by his birth.”
“Was it India where you learned such demmed exotic ideas, m’boy?” Drummond asked in annoyance.
“Sir, I will thank you not to use such language in front of the young lady,” Rackford said with shocking aplomb, lifting his chin.
Jacinda’s eyes widened. After the countless ungentlemanly things “Billy Blade” had done in front of her, she nearly laughed aloud, but it would not do for either man to make a scene. Apparently, her training was working better than she had foreseen.
“I say!” Lord Drummond huffed.
“Forgive me for interrupting,” Rackford said smoothly to Jacinda, “but I wondered if I might trouble you, my lady, for a moment of your time.”
“If you will excuse me, Lord Drummond?”
Before the old man could even utter a reply, Rackford grasped her wrist in a possessive hold and stalked out to a deserted corner of the sprawling, moonlit veranda. The muggy warmth of the June night made her gown cling to her skin, hot and damp, heightening the discomfort of her unfulfilled longing.
“You didn’t have to be rude to him, Rackford.”
“Rude? He’s lucky I didn’t knock him flat.” Maybe it was the weather making both of them testy with frustration, for he seemed to be feeling it, too. “I can’t believe you’re still angling after that old Tory hangman. I daresay I am beginning to take it personally,” he muttered, taking a quick swallow from his wineglass. “If Lord Drummond were interested, don’t you think he would have responded by now to your throwing yourself at him all Season?”
“I beg your pardon, I have never thrown myself at any man,” she whispered in haughty indignation. “The only woman throwing herself at anyone here tonight is Daphne, throwing herself at you!”
“Wha
t’s this?” A provoking smirk curved his handsome mouth. “Jealous, my sweet?”
“Are you ready to steal back my diamonds or not?”
He grinned, chucking her under the chin. “That’s my girl. You’re a game one, Lady J. Remember everything I told you?”
She nodded.
“Good. Then, go.” With a sly wink, he nodded toward the ballroom and the grand staircase beyond it.
“Right.” Squaring her shoulders, she snapped open her fan and assumed an expression of fashionable ennui.
Pursing her lips to keep from laughing, she went back into the ballroom and made her way through it toward the staircase, greeting acquaintances here and there, bidding them a good evening as she moved on. Waving her fan idly and trying to look nonchalant, she sauntered out of the ballroom into the entrance hall, where she mingled a bit more. Carefully, she ascended the wide double staircase. One of the private salons upstairs had been set aside as a retreat for the ladies; she pretended that she was headed there. Her heart pounded, but she lifted her white-gloved hand and smoothed her hair as she moved slowly, elegantly, up the stairs.
Really, having to steal one’s own diamonds!
Halfway up the steps, she saw her coconspirator strolling across the hall below, right on cue. Rackford was gallantly clearing the way for her brother, Alec, who followed on his crutches. He helped her brother into the salon, from which he had told her, a small white door led to a servant staircase. He knew the layout of the house from the night of his robbery here. By slipping into the service corridors, he would meet her on the third floor.
The upper floors were quiet except for the occasional maid or footman gliding past on some task and the occasional bursts of feminine laughter that emanated from the designated ladies’ lounge. Moving calmly down the hallway, Jacinda waited for her opportunity, looked left and right, then picked up her skirts and dashed silently across the intersecting hallway and around the corner. Her eyes began to shine with the excitement of her little adventure. She crept up the next set of stairs to the third floor, wincing when one of the boards creaked beneath her slippered feet. The muffled sounds of the ball faded as she hurried the rest of the way up the stairs, sneaking into the central hallway of the family’s private residential wing. Holding her skirts up, she went tiptoeing in search of the master’s bedroom.
I can’t believe he used to do this for a living. She was terrified someone was going to see her, but the excitement and the thought of getting away with it had her cheeks flushed, her heart pounding.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when she edged up to the corner ever so carefully and Rackford stepped out of the shadows.
She stifled a shriek. He grasped her forearm and yanked her around the corner.
“Shh!” he scolded as she stumbled against his big, hard body.
She had to cover her mouth with her hand to stop herself from letting out a peal of laughter. He bent his head down to her eye level and laid his finger over his lips, but his green eyes danced with wicked merriment.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this!”
“They’re your diamonds. It’s not as if we’re stealing.”
“It’s fun,” she whispered.
He shot her a wry look. “Hurry up.”
She stage tiptoed behind him as he prowled down the corridor, not making a sound.
“What is the penalty for stealing your own diamonds?”
“Do try to take this just a bit more seriously, would you?” he drawled, then nodded toward the elegantly appointed corridor to the left. “We want the west corner suite. Come on.” The hallway was dimly lit by candles placed on console tables at long, regular intervals. He pointed toward a pair of white double doors far off at the end of the corridor. “There it is—the room where I lost my freedom.”
She glanced at him, then froze, hearing something down the next hallway. “Someone’s coming!”
“Run.” He grabbed her hand with a sharp light in his green eyes as the footfalls grew louder.
Hand in hand they raced toward the white double doors. Holding her long skirts up around her shins, she glanced frantically over her shoulder. A tea cart appeared around the corner a moment before the servant pushing it did. Rackford had just enough time to open the door and fling into the room, pulling her with him. He closed it silently behind her.
“What can they be—”
“Shh!”
Huddled by the door, neither of them dared move for fear of being heard. Wide-eyed, Jacinda held her breath as they listened to the servant pushing the cart nearer. As her vision adjusted to the gloomy darkness of His Lordship’s chamber, the creaking sound passed on the other side of the door and moved on.
Jacinda pressed her hand to her heart and sagged against the door, gaping comically at her partner in mischief.
He shook his head, his white, wolfish smile a brief gleam in the darkness. “That was close.”
“Lord, you are such a bad influence on me.”
He grinned. She followed him as he strode over to the mahogany pedestal near the window. Atop it sat an impressive Chinese vase. Rackford took the vase off the stand and upended it with one hand, catching her diamond necklace neatly in the other. “Eureka,” he murmured. “Let’s get out of here.”
She hurried after him as he retraced his steps, going back toward the door. “Give me my necklace, you rogue.” Stifling a giggle, she reached into his coat pocket, but he captured her hand, whirling her around gently so that she found herself backed up against the closed door. She narrowed her eyes at him, fighting a smile. “What are you up to?”
Lean and tall, his body packed with compact muscle beneath his formal black and white evening clothes, he braced one hand on the door by her head and leaned toward her, dangling the necklace before her eyes. “Want it? Come and get it.”
She tried to snatch it out of his grasp, but he lifted it higher with a taunting smile. The diamonds winked and flashed with their bright fire in the darkness.
“Billy!”
“Don’t you want this fine bit o’ sparkle?”
“Aye,” she answered, borrowing his idiom with a defiant toss of her chin.
He bent his head closer, the moonlight beyond the window casting a silvery glow along his finely chiseled profile and the narrow plane of his cheek. “Give me a kiss, and it’s yours.”
She pulled back and met his aggressive stare with what she hoped was a stern look, but her gaze dipped to his tempting lips, rather spoiling the effect. “It already is mine.”
“No, no, my lady, you gave it to me.” His emerald eyes gleamed as he slung the diamond strand around his fingers and swung it before her face, mesmerizing her. “But if you kiss me, I will give it back to you again.”
She gave him a blushing pout. “But, Lord Rackford, we have agreed that we are only friends.”
“A friendly kiss,” he whispered, moving closer, tilting his head slightly.
She felt herself weakening under the potency of his charm. “Perhaps…one.”
His lips skimmed hers, back and forth, in a slow, tantalizing caress that made her quiver. But when he deepened his kiss with leisurely expertise, stroking her neck so seductively, she gave a faint moan and let her body melt back against the door. Her eyes drifted closed. Her head swam with the intoxicating male taste of him. The single-minded passion in his kiss robbed her senses. She was grateful for the solid door behind her, steadying her weak-kneed response.
Rackford trailed his fingertip down her throat to the center of her gown’s neckline. Her chest heaved under his deft, sporting touch. His warm, clever hand slipped down inside the front of her bodice, cupping her breast. She gasped with delight against his luscious mouth as his thumb teased her nipple.
For one sinful moment, she longed for him to tear her clothes off her and take her—simply, roughly claim what she could not bring herself to give of her own free will. He confused her so! It had been so easy to surrender that night in the rookery when she had thought
she would never see him again—when there had been no consequences—but now, to indulge in this dangerous desire was to risk placing her entire future in his hands. If their absence were noted in the ballroom below—if someone should come looking for them, find them together in this darkened bedchamber—she would be forced to marry him or face utter ruin. Her crazed heart pounded, torn between yearning and a stubborn refusal of that fate.
She was still determined to be the mistress of her own destiny, but pride had also come into the equation, further complicating matters. That night at the Devonshire ball, she had sworn he would never have control of her. A married couple became one person in the eyes of the law and God—and the man was that person. Mama had railed against it in several of her essays. As Rackford’s friend, she remained his equal. Yet even now she felt her control slipping away with the intoxicating manner in which he was peeling her long white gloves off her, stroking her hands.
He might not even want her anymore once he had possessed her, she worried as her control leaked away under his seduction. What if it was only the thrill of the chase that attracted him—and in any case, why should she compromise?
If she was smart, she could have her cake and eat it, too, said a pragmatic, if rather depraved voice in her head. Once she had fulfilled her duty to old Drummond and was an independent widow, she could simply take the magnificent Lord Rackford as her lover. But that could be years away….
Her body quivered eagerly as his hand crept in a slow caress down her belly. “Shall I pleasure you again?” he murmured softly, ever so willing to give.
She hadn’t the strength to protest, but kissed him with consuming heat as he gently cupped her mound. His searching fingers pressed the gauzy muslin of her skirts between her legs. She breathed a whisper-soft moan against his lips that was all the acquiescence he required. God, she had wanted this for so long.
He sank slowly to his knees, following the curves of her body with his hands. He drew his possessive touch down her hips and thighs and all the way down to her ankles, then slipped his hands beneath her skirts. Leaning her head back against the door, hazy-eyed with desire, she raked her now bare hands through his dark gold hair as he kissed her belly through her gown, his clever hands slowly lifting her skirts.