Louise Allen Historical Collection

by Louise Allen

  Her stomach felt as though she had bolted ten of Mr Gunter’s ices one after the other. How could he risk everything like that?

  Then she made herself think about him, and not about how she felt, and understood the gnawing anger and shame of that old scandal. This was a man for whom truth and honesty were vital. His instinct was to protect women, to care for the weak and defenceless, and he had been branded a man who would ravish an innocent and abandon his own child.

  ‘I am too good for him to kill me,’ Quinn said arrogantly, glaring down his nose at her.

  ‘He might be better,’ she pointed out, unable to let it go.

  ‘I doubt it.’ He walked away to the sideboard and splashed brandy into a glass. ‘Forget that, there is something more important. I am sorry. I should have believed you when you told me you had no choice but to go to Tolhurst.’

  As apologies went, Lina thought, pushing aside her fear about the duel, she had heard more gracious ones. He was probably tired; although he hid it well, he seemed to have his head filled with a half-dozen intricate plots all at once and he was not used to having to apologise for anything. Timid Lina of a few weeks ago would have been grateful for the expression of regret and would not have dreamed of challenging a man about his plans.

  This new Lina threw herself down in a big winged chair and curled up, momentarily distracted by how comfortable the loose trousers were. ‘You had your preconceptions about me. It doesn’t matter now.’ But it did, and the fact that it had taken her aunt’s words to make him realise the truth stung. She was probably being unreasonable—after all, she had lied to him about who she was, what she was, why she was there—but she did not feel in the mood to be fair.

  She tipped her head back, shook her hair straight and began to plait it into one heavy braid; it gave her something to do with her hands other than hitting him, or dragging him to her for a kiss. Quinn was silent while she worked, brooding into his brandy glass as he leaned against the sideboard. Lina tied the end of the plait with her handkerchief for want of anything better.

  ‘You want to begin your return to society with a scandal?’ she demanded.

  ‘It has a pleasing symmetry to it. I left it with one, after all.’ He knocked back the brandy in one gulp and put the glass down. ‘I will deal with Reginald Tolhurst by the end of the week. Makepeace, too. When that is straightened out with the authorities you can emerge as Miss Shelley once more, so it is probably best if you are not seen with Gregor or me. My courtesan idea is not a good one, not now I realise the truth of your situation.’

  ‘I stay here, hiding away while you two superior males deal with the situation?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then what am I supposed to do?’ Lina demanded.

  ‘You can hardly go back to The Blue Door, not now your circumstances have changed, so you had better return to Dreycott Park for the remainder of the six months and then you will have your thousand pounds and can do what you want.’

  A few weeks ago that would have seemed like a miracle. Now the prospect made her miserable because Quinn would be here, living his new life, far away in every sense of the word, and she wanted to be with him, always. Which was impossible. He was a baron who was about to recover his reputation, provided he survived this insane duel he was plotting; her only hope of respectability was to retire to some out-of-the-way market town and trust that her chequered past never caught up with her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said blankly.

  ‘What is the matter?’ He came and stood in front of her as she sat there, curled up in her exotic boy’s clothes. ‘I told you everything will be all right. Your name will be cleared, we’ll get Makepeace out of your aunt’s life and you will have your own money.’

  Lina shook her head. What could she tell him except the truth, that she loved him? Even the new, braver woman that she was baulked at that. Quinn would want to run a mile—he was not a marrying man, beside anything else. Perhaps one day he would fall in love, but she thought it far more likely that he would find a complacent wife to give him his heir, keep his house and leave him free to do exactly as he pleased.

  ‘It is the other night, is it not? When I took you.’ She saw the way his eyes darkened, just thinking about it. She winced. Took you sounded so brutal for something that had been, for a few moments, so wonderful.

  ‘I do not consider it,’ she said. There I go, lying to him again.

  ‘Then you should do. It is going to be damned awkward if you want to marry.’

  ‘Why? I can always deceive him,’ she said, feigning lightness. ‘I am sure the girls can tell me all the tricks I would need to use.’

  ‘You would lie to your husband?’

  ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Not if I loved him.’ I will never find another man I can love, so that does not matter.

  ‘Hades,’ he swore, turning away. She watched him, enjoying the sight of his lean elegance, the masculine strength of him, even as she struggled with the misery that threatened to sweep over her. He turned back, intent on her expression. ‘Well, there is only one thing I can see that would square this circle. Marry me.’

  Lina felt the blood drain out of her face. ‘No. Absolutely not. Impossible.’ Quinn opened his mouth, but she swept on. ‘You are a baron. Even before all this, I was simply Miss Celina Shelley from an obscure country vicarage. I cannot possibly marry you—with your history you need a wife of the utmost respectability, not a nonentity who has lived in a brothel, been accused of theft, was found in a naked man’s bedchamber… Oh, yes, and not only is my aunt a courtesan, so was my mother, although I do not believe my father ever discovered that.’

  There, surely that was enough to stop this madness. But, no, she saw as she watched him, it was not. ‘It sounds eminently sensible to me,’ he remarked, folding up neatly on to the carpet to sit cross-legged at her feet as easily as if he was wearing his Eastern clothes. ‘I get a wife who is not going to cavil about my past. I know the worst about you. No secrets. We will be good in bed,’ he added, watching her from under hooded lids.

  ‘Is that all you think about?’ Lina demanded, furious to find he was putting outrageously tempting thoughts into her head. Sex should not matter. Love should and Quinn’s future and reputation.

  ‘Certainly not. I am thinking about Simon’s memoirs, Makepeace, Tolhurst, throwing a party, the duel, selling the Park, buying clothes, whether or not I can leave my business in Constantinople for six months or whether I need to send Gregor back there to supervise… And taking you to bed.’

  ‘Oh!’ Lina dragged the cushion out from behind her back and threw it at Quinn. It hit him in the chest and he laughed and rolled with it, sprawling back on to the carpet, over six feet of elegant, desirable, hard man spread at her feet for the taking.

  ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before,’ he said, sitting up again without using his arms.

  His stomach muscles must be like iron, Lina thought. ‘Because it is a ridiculous idea. I have no intention of sitting at home, sewing a fine seam, dusting your library and bringing up the children while you career off around the world with Gregor. Marriage ought to be a partnership.’ Children. Our children. She could almost see them.

  ‘Ah, yes, you want love in marriage, do you not?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, staring back into the amused green eyes.

  ‘And you will either have to lie to the man you love or lose him,’ Quinn observed.

  ‘Why are men such hypocrites about sex?’ Lina demanded. ‘You are not a virgin.’ He grinned. ‘And that is not supposed to worry me.’

  ‘A man likes to know who the father of his children is,’ he observed. ‘And, yes, we’re hypocrites. Jealous and territorial. You would get the benefit of a great deal of experience and the knowledge that I’ll fight to the death for you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to!’ It was a shamefully exciting thought, even as she denied it. ‘Even if you survive this idiotic duel you are intent on provoking.

  And as
for experience, I am sure that is overrated.’ As soon as she said it she knew it was a provocation too far. Quinn looked at her through slitted eyes for a moment, then reached out, seized her wrists and pulled her out of the chair and down on top of him so they both ended up on the carpet with her on top.

  Lina gasped, almost winded, her senses full of the impact of hard muscle and the scent of hot man, cigar smoke and brandy. He rolled before she could get free and she found herself trapped, his elbows on either side of her, his thighs bracketing hers and the very clear evidence of his arousal pressing into the junction of her thighs with devastating effect.

  ‘Get off! You said you do not force women—or doesn’t that count if they are not virgins?’ They were almost nose to nose. He had only to lower his head a few inches and he could take her mouth. Take anything.

  ‘It will not be force and I promise you will not end up any less of a virgin than you are now,’ Quinn said. ‘Don’t you want to know what you are turning down?’ He angled his head and trailed his tongue-tip along the line of her jaw. ‘Give me one minute and then, if you want to, say no. How dangerous can one minute be?’

  ‘Lethal,’ Lina said, trying not to pant.

  ‘Sixty seconds. Start counting.’ His mouth covered hers and his tongue slid between her lips, opening them, opening her, to heat and moisture and the taste of him.

  One, two, three… He tasted of brandy and spice and what must be just himself and the thrust of his…five, six…tongue was blatant and demanding and her own tongue met it, licked against it, tangled…nine, ten…found the hardness of his teeth, found the soft inside of his cheek…twelve. Oh, I cannot…fourteen. His hand was moving, she felt buttons give way and long fingers probing the bandaging around her breasts.

  Quinn gave a grunt of frustration, freed her mouth and lifted off her enough to tear open every button on the long silk coat. Twenty, twenty-one… He dug under his own coat at the back and produced a slim knife. ‘Keep still.’ Her heart thudded as the blade glinted in the candlelight. It slid, warm from his body, between skin and wrappings, then slashed up and he was peeling them back, exposing her to his hot, intent gaze.

  Thirty? It was difficult to concentrate, to count. Lina stirred, restless, pressing up against the hard length that promised so much, that her hands ached to caress, and he growled, deep in his throat, tossed the knife aside and bent to lave her breasts with his tongue. Twenty-nine…no, thirty…thirty-four?

  ‘Lovely,’ he murmured, capturing a nipple and tormenting it with his lips and teeth until she was whimpering. ‘Patience. Are you counting?’

  ‘Yes,’ she gasped. ‘Forty…I think.’

  He smiled against her skin, the evening beard fretting against the soft swell of her breast and she moaned, a sound that turned into a gasp as he pulled at the drawstring of the loose trousers and slid his hand down, over her belly, over the soft mound of curls, parting her as he rolled sideways to give himself better access to her body.

  Numbers swirled in Lina’s mind. Sixty, a hundred? She lost time and reality as one finger slid into the moist folds. She could feel she was wet with desire for him, beyond shame, her legs falling open to let him do what he wanted, whatever he wanted.

  His thumb found that part his tongue had tormented in the bedchamber, the sensation bringing her hips up off the hard floor in shock. He slid one finger, two, inside her and she clenched around him as his thumb moved. Everything whirled together, his touch, his scent, the hard floor under her, the heat of his body against her and his mouth, murmuring against hers. She was falling, flying, wanting—and then breaking, breaking into a million shards of pleasure and behind her closed lids the black velvet darkness was shot through with colours.

  ‘You forgot to keep count,’ Quinn’s voice said, rumbling under her ear. Lina blinked and opened her eyes. He was still lying on the floor with her held against his chest, and she was naked except for the crumpled silk coat. Words, she found, were beyond her. ‘Are you all right?’ He sat up, bringing her with him until she was cradled on his lap, her head on his shoulder.

  ‘I am beyond all right,’ she murmured. ‘Quinn, that was…overwhelming.’

  ‘Good.’ He sounded content, and tender too, and the combination made her quiver with longing. ‘You see—there are some benefits to marriage with me.’

  Of course, that was what this was all about. Convincing me to say yes, so his honour and conscience are satisfied.

  ‘There are benefits to being made love to by you,’ she said as she sat up, pushed the hair back from her eyes and tried to drag the coat closed over her exposed body. ‘How could I deny how much pleasure you just gave me? But it does not change anything. I am not going to marry you, Quinn.’

  ‘You will,’ he said, making it sound more like a threat than a promise. ‘You must go to bed now.’ He stood up and helped her to her feet, waiting while she pulled on the trousers and buttoned the coat, getting it completely awry. ‘Here.’ He reached out and redid the fastenings as though she were a child, his voice husky with suppressed impatience.

  Or perhaps frustration. ‘Quinn,’ Lina said as he guided her unsteady steps towards the door. ‘That is the second time we have lain together and you have not… I’m sorry. Should I—?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘That would not be a good idea. We will wait until we are married.’

  ‘But I am not going to—’

  ‘Bed.’

  Lina found herself on the far side of a firmly closed door. She leaned against it, trying to summon up the energy to climb the stairs to her room. Stubborn, stubborn man! Oh, but his mouth, his body, those hands. Not just his body, but the man himself, his mind, his courage, his humour. All of him.

  Marriage would be a disaster, she told herself as she stumbled upstairs, so much worse than living with a man for whom she felt merely liking and respect. There would be no messy emotion then, no yearning for something she could not have, no expectations, constantly disappointed. And if Quinn ever realised how she felt, then there would be the humiliation of knowing he was being kind and pitying her.

  Thank goodness she had sent the servants to bed, Lina thought as she gained the sanctuary of her bedchamber. She did not even think of snuffing out the candles; what remained of the night was going to be long and wakeful.

  Quinn pushed himself upright away from the door and went back to the decanters. If he could bring himself to do it, the sensible thing would be to follow Celina to her room and make her his once and for all. But the sensible thing was not the honourable thing and she had to be persuaded into doing what was in her best interests, even if that involved seduction.

  A wife had not been in his plans, at least, not until the point in his life when he decided honour was satisfied and he was ready to settle down a trifle. Someone intelligent, he had thought, when he had thought about it at all. Someone who would not sulk at being left for half the year to her own devices, or expect to drag him out to balls and parties every night when he was home and working—a capable girl she would need to be, one who could make her own friends and entertainment. A good mother, for there was the title to think of and, he supposed, he was not establishing his fortune just for the sake of it.

  And now, thanks to his conscience, he was faced with the prospect of marrying an obscure vicar’s daughter from somewhere in the depths of the country. A girl with dubious relatives, a scandalous past and possessing a curious blend of innocence, ignorance and shocking knowledge. A young woman who did not, apparently, want to marry him.

  He could appreciate her scruples, honour her for them even, he thought, sitting down and nursing his glass on his chest while he did his best not to think about the ache in his groin and the tension in his belly. But she was supposed to tell him of her worries, listen to what he had to say and then be convinced and marry him, not answer back, dig in her heels and refuse to be swayed, even by lovemaking.

  He had gone as far as he felt he could; now all he could try was a war of attrition, reminding
her with touch and murmured words and intense looks what had passed between them and what was to come—if she saw sense.

  If only Celina had not heard about that damn duel—it had alarmed and upset her. Doubtless she thought him not a very good prospect as a husband if she feared he would end up flat on his back in some field on the outskirts of London with a doctor, irritable at being dragged out of bed at an ungodly hour to participate in an illegal activity, prodding at his wounds. She would not believe him if he told her he was unlikely to get killed; he could quite see that a woman would prefer her fiancé to assure her he was definitely not about to do something fatal.

  Quinn mentally added Marry Celina near the top of his list of things to be done and crossed off find wife from the bottom. He knocked back the brandy in his glass and stood up, suddenly not so concerned about the prospect after all: Celina was going to be a delight in bed. And she made him laugh. And she would make him comfortable. And she had guts. Yes, his conscience was not so inconvenient after all.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lina met Quinn’s eyes defiantly at breakfast the next morning. She could feel she was blushing, and she knew the dark circles under her eyes would betray her lack of sleep the night before, but when he bent low to drop a kiss on her nape in passing she swivelled in her chair and hissed, ‘Do not do that and do not mention marriage again.’

  She had to stay angry with him or she would simply melt into his arms. The wretched man had discovered a weakness and she could only hope he did not realise that the way she responded to him owed as much to her own feelings for him as to his undoubted expertise in making love.

  ‘There is no need to whisper,’ Quinn said, calmly helping himself to the buffet as though they had not lain entangled in each other’s arms on the drawing room floor only hours before. ‘I have told the staff that I prefer to eat my breakfast without a footman hovering. We can ring if we want anything.’

  ‘I want you to stop this nonsense.’ She poured him coffee, strong and black as she had learned he liked it. He took the cup with a murmur of thanks and a look that curled her toes. ‘I am not going to marry you and that is that. Now, what are we going to do today?’