The Lady Hellion

by Joanna Shupe

  How had she known?

  Canis began barking happily. It was the same unrelenting sound when he wanted Quint to pay him attention. Someone was out in the gardens—and it did not take a genius to deduce who might be out there. This was beginning to be a habit with her.

  “You may as well show yourself,” he called. “He’ll not let up until you do.” Tenacious did not even begin to describe the beast when he wanted something.

  The yapping ceased and soon Sophie appeared, looking adorably sheepish, with Canis cradled in her arms. “I had not planned on disturbing you. I merely wanted to make sure you had not given him away.” She climbed the steps to the terrace, set Canis on the ground, and then drew closer. She wore a black cloak and bonnet, which he assumed were her skulking clothes.

  “I ought to, but the staff have grown attached to the curst thing.”

  “Just the staff?”

  He did not care for the smug set to her lips. “I named him, did I not? What more do you want from me?”

  “Does it feel better with your shoes off?”

  He glanced down at his bare feet. Hard to say when it had started, this preference for the cold marble floor beneath his naked feet, but it helped him feel alive. A true gentleman would never be seen without shoes, yet Quint wasn’t about to put them back on. If she found it offensive, she was welcome to scuttle home. “It feels . . . bracing. As if the cold roots your legs to the floor. You should try it one day.”

  She lifted her plain skirts to reveal brown half boots with black laces. Bending, she pulled the laces loose, then stood and started toeing off her shoes. Quint watched this with a mixture of fascination and horror. Was the woman truly going to remove her footwear? Propriety had never concerned him, but even he knew this was beyond the pale.

  Two soft thuds and her stocking feet made an appearance. His heart kicked hard in his chest, and this time it had nothing to do with fear. Encased in thin stockings, her feet were small and delicate. She wriggled her toes and sighed, a sound that caused heat to unfurl in his groin.

  Tools of bipedal locomotion, he told himself and snapped his gaze to the gardens. Nothing more. They were functional appendages that should in no way be tempting. He should not be thinking of running his tongue along the smooth instep . . . or wondering how the soft underside would feel as it slid along the backs of his thighs—

  “I wish I could remove my stockings,” she murmured. “But even this feels heavenly.”

  Quint swallowed hard and crossed his arms over his chest. The image of her sliding stockings down her bare legs was too erotic to dwell on—not if he didn’t want an obvious erection frightening her. “I am not surprised. Traipsing through the mews of Mayfair is exhausting business.”

  “Indeed it is,” she returned cheerfully.

  “Why have you returned, Sophie?”

  She stared at her toes, moving them back and forth, clearly hesitating. No doubt attempting to fabricate a reason because she didn’t want to tell him the real one.

  “The truth,” he said.

  “It seemed a nice night for a stroll. You are generally up late, so I thought I’d see if you were still awake.”

  He snorted. No lady strolled by herself in the middle of the night. “You are aware I live alone. That this is a bachelor’s residence?”

  “Should I be worried? Are you planning to chain me to your bed and ravish me at your whim?”

  He strove not to combine the words “ravish” and “Sophie” in his head; the idea only served to remind him of what he could never have. “Indeed. Merely allow me to remove the other woman there first.”

  She chuckled. “That’s one thing hardly anyone realizes about you: how amusing you are.”

  Only she would believe that. Amusing was not a word anyone had ever used to describe him. Odd, strange, and aloof were far more likely. “Not everyone appreciates my humor.”

  “Admit you are fond of the dog, Quint.”

  Never. “Did you know the Romans sent mastiffs into battle wearing armor in order to attack the enemy?”

  She sighed, irritated with his evasion, and he hid a smile. “As always,” she said, dryly, “you are a wealth of information.”

  “Actually, I find myself quite in the dark these days.”

  Her eyebrow rose. “Oh? About what?”

  “I cannot think of a single reason you should be sallying about London in the dead of night, dressed as a man, even if to visit the Thames Police Office. Would you care to enlighten me?”

  “How . . .” She crossed her arms and thrust up her chin. “Are you having me followed?”

  “Yes. And you should hardly be surprised. If any woman in the history of England ever needed constant supervision, you are she.”

  “The driver. I should have known.” She rubbed her forehead. “I cannot fathom your audacity. You have no right to oversee my activities, and furthermore I am doing quite fine on my own.”

  “Only because no one gets a good enough look at you. How anyone could mistake you for a man is beyond comprehension. You are a hairsbreadth away from the scandal of the decade, Sophie.”

  “And you are wasting your time if you think to stop me.”

  “I never said I wanted to stop you. If I did, I would write to your father and inform him of what I know.” He held up a hand as panic clouded her face. “I will not do so unless I feel you are in immediate danger. But that does not mean it’s wise for you to do this. Therefore, I’ve hired someone to drive you about and ensure your continued safety—no matter what you are wearing. But what I do not understand is why you are posing as Sir Stephen in the first place.”

  He didn’t think she’d answer, the silence stretched so long. “You’ll laugh,” she said quietly.

  “I sincerely doubt it. Tell me, Sophie.”

  “I’ve fallen into a bit of a . . . diversion,” she explained with a wave of her hand. “I investigate things. For people—women—with no other resort. Prostitutes, servants, and the like. It started when my maid, Alice, her sister was accused of stealing the flatware in the house in which she worked. After I figured that one out, someone else came to ask for help and it kept going from there. We found I had an easier time dressed as a man, not to mention people took me more seriously.”

  Though he wished such treatment were not the case, he did not doubt her. Women were not afforded the same accessibility as men in any culture. Still, this hardly set his mind at ease.

  “Investigating. And here I thought you were not in immediate danger. It’s even worse than I feared.”

  “It is not!” She stamped her foot. “I’m helping people. And I am careful.”

  “Yes,” he scoffed. “Duels. Standing in as MacLean’s second. Visits to gaming hells.”

  She pinned him with a hard look. “You are surprisingly well informed for a man who never leaves his house.”

  “Shocking, is it not? Yet I remain current on all your antics. What do you think that means?”

  “I could not begin to guess.”

  “It means,” he said with all due seriousness, “that if I could learn of it, others could learn as well. Which is why I hired someone to protect you. God, Sophie. Do you know what could happen to you in a brothel? You could be dragged into any nook or empty room and be forced to do unspeakable things. Things a woman like you should never know about.”

  “A woman like me.” She let out a brittle laugh, and he could see the flush of anger on her cheeks. “You have no idea what sort of a woman I am, what I know or do not know. And I do not require a guard. You are not my father, Quint, nor my husband.”

  A well-placed blow, and he felt it keenly, his body tensing. He gave her a stiff nod. “Indeed, I am not. But that does not mean, as a friend, I do not feel responsible for your welfare.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if your repeated visits to my house are any indication, you seem to care for mine.”

  Chapter Eight

  A strange disappointment filled Sophie’s ches
t, eradicating any anger at his high-handedness, and she had to look away. Right. He cared about her—in a friendly way, of course. Just as she cared about him. As a friend. Indeed.

  So why, then, did she wish he’d said something more? Something different. Because you’re feeling something more, nitwit.

  “And what if I refuse?” she asked, getting back to the conversation at hand.

  “If you refuse or attempt to evade the guard I’ve hired, then I will write to your father.”

  She studied him, but his expression gave nothing away. If it was a lie, she could not tell. But she recognized the deliberate set of his chin, the hard, unrelenting lines of his jaw. “Fine.”

  The puppy trotted up, sniffed Sophie’s toes, then continued on to Quint. He sat on the ground by the viscount’s naked feet. Very masculine, naked feet. Just staring at them started a quiver deep in her belly. Did his skin look like that all over, slightly pale and dusted with brown hair?

  “And,” Quint continued, “you must promise to stay out of places such as The Pretty Kitty.”

  That got her attention. She gasped. “Absolutely not! I must have the freedom to go wherever is necessary for the information I seek. Sir Stephen affords me that freedom. I am perfectly safe there.”

  “Safe!” He tilted his head back, a mirthless laugh erupting from his throat. “You are anything but safe, even dressed as a man. Sir Stephen does not possess the strength to stop a brawl or evade a footpad. That part of town is more dangerous than most, Sophie. And what happens if a man who prefers to bed young, feminine-looking lads takes a fancy to Sir Stephen?”

  A fancy . . . to Sir Stephen? Good heavens. She could only blink at him.

  “I see the idea never occurred to you, my lovely innocent. It is one thing to visit Madame Hartley’s, where gentlemen act in a fairly civilized manner. A house such as The Pretty Kitty is another matter entirely. It is far more unpredictable. There are no rules there.”

  “I am hardly innocent. And I am not completely daft. I know what happens inside bawdy houses. You’ll be pleased to know that I always carry a weapon to protect myself.”

  He quirked a brow. “What sort of weapon? I know it is not a pistol.”

  “A knife. I carry it wherever I go.”

  “Wherever you go? Even now?”

  She nodded, eager to prove she wasn’t a total ninny. “Of course.”

  He turned and closed the short distance between them. She caught the calculating gleam in his brown eyes. It had her taking a cautious step back.

  He advanced, his large frame crowding her, and she held up her hands to ward him off. “Quint, what are you—”

  “What if I can find it?”

  “Find what?”

  “The knife. If I can locate it and disarm you, will you abandon this silliness after I prove how inadequately prepared you are?”

  Her spine met the edge of the doorframe, yet he kept coming, effectively trapping her with his body. He wore only a waistcoat atop a fine lawn shirt that hadn’t seen the good side of a pressing since Michaelmas, with the laces partially open to reveal the hard angles of his collarbone. Awareness prickled under her skin. “I am not inadequately prepared.” Why did her voice sound so strange?

  He didn’t look as if he believed her. “Let us conduct an experiment, shall we?”

  He reached into the folds of her cloak, clasped her hands, then raised and pinned them above her head, securing them with one of his own. With her cloak thrown open, the taut planes of his chest brushed the tips of her breasts, which began to tingle in appreciation.

  His free hand settled on her hip. “If I can relieve you of said weapon, then no more visits to bawdy houses and gaming hells.”

  “That is unfair!” She struggled in his grasp. “You’re holding me captive. At least let me have use of my hands.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “You think some drunken, randy rogue or cutthroat will fight fair? This is not Gentleman Jack’s or Angelo’s. An assailant will restrain you as quick as you can blink—and you are not strong enough to get free.”

  At that, she gave a renewed effort to break his grip. He held fast, however, and let her flail for a few moments. When she stilled, she panted, “Devil take you, Quint. I am not amused. Let me go.”

  “I am not amused either. And you, you stubborn woman . . . you need to be taught a lesson about safety.”

  “Safety? Need I remind you just who bested whom in your ballroom during our fencing exercise? I can take care of myself.”

  He did not comment as the fingers of his free hand began traveling up her rib cage, over layers of clothing . . . and ripples of sensation coursed through her body. She shivered when his palm slid over her stomach, his thumb coming to rest between her breasts. The pounding rhythm of her heart echoed in her ears. “Hmm. Not here,” he said, the deep, husky sound like warm honey as he nearly cupped her breast. “Where else might it be?”

  When his fingers started south, Sophie shook herself. She could not let him win so easily—even if his touch did turn her knees to jelly—so she twisted her body once more, this time with everything she had. Surprise flashed on his face before he tightened his hold. She continued to struggle, jerking on her arms and shoulders to free herself, but he would not budge. His palm glanced over her hip and then her upper thigh, and she began to use her legs, kicking, though her skirts and his proximity prevented her from doing serious damage. “Getting closer, am I?” he said, his eyes glittering in the light of a nearby sconce.

  The smug set of his beautiful mouth annoyed her. He presumed victory, and Sophie did not care to be dismissed so easily. She raised her knee and aimed for the one spot where men felt it most keenly—but Quint shifted and she connected with his inner thigh instead. “Curse you,” she ground out, chest heaving with exertion.

  A flash of teeth emerged in a rare grin. “I fully expected that move first. You almost caught me off guard.”

  “You are enjoying this entirely too much.”

  “Indeed, this is the most fun I’ve had in ages.” Curling his fingers, he began gathering up her skirts and lifting them. Cool air brushed over her ankles. “Besides, how could I not enjoy having a beautiful woman at my mercy?”

  The words irritated her further. “I am hardly at your mercy.”

  He chuckled, still collecting fabric in his hand. “Give over, Soph. You are seconds away from losing.”

  The edge of her skirts fluttered against her knee, and anger at her helplessness built like a thunderstorm in her chest. Clearly she would not best him physically, so she needed to employ a bit of strategy. Only one idea came to mind, however. So, rising up on her toes, she sealed her mouth to his.

  He stiffened in shock, but only for an instant. His lips came alive and then, heavens, he was kissing her—really kissing her. Intently, as if he’d been waiting a lifetime to do it—which wasn’t true, of course, since he’d fallen in love with the Perfect Pepperton. But Sophie no longer cared if he loved someone else. Nothing mattered but this very non-friendly kiss. Her breasts swelled inside her stays until she could hardly breathe, his hand cupping her jaw to keep her still as he kissed her with exquisite precision.

  Finally, after what felt like hours, he slid his tongue along the seam of her lips, and she opened eagerly to let him in. He invaded, overwhelming her senses with a delicacy and skill that would have buckled her knees had he not pressed her into the wall.

  His tongue twined with hers and Sophie matched his movements, determined to affect him every bit as much as he affected her. And he growled, a deep rumble of male desire that thrilled her. She never wanted this to end. It felt reckless and yet completely right, as if this was the one thing that had been missing from the last three years of her life.

  Suddenly her hands were free and she immediately threaded her fingers through his thick hair to hold him closer. He responded by tilting her head and deepening the kiss into something more urgent, far less gentle. His tongue continued to probe, to explore. An answering a
che built within, centered between her legs, and she began an exploration of her own, her palms moving up his arms to clutch his wide shoulders, marveling at the feel of him under her fingertips. So much strength there, and the heat that radiated off his big body seeped into her bloodstream, igniting her from the inside.

  His mouth broke off and he dipped to kiss her jaw, her throat, the evening bristle on his face gently teasing her skin. She shuddered as hot, open-mouthed kisses rained across her skin. “Oh, God, Quint.”

  She should stop him. Run from his house as quickly as her feet would take her. Go home, undress, crawl under the covers, and ease this burning craving at her own hand. Safely. And alone.

  But she didn’t. No way did she want this to end. Instead, she pushed on his shoulder to reverse their positions and dragged his mouth back to hers. He approved, kissing her with renewed vigor. His palm covered her buttock, bringing her pelvis in line with his, whereby he rocked his hips at the precise spot she ached the most. She moaned into his mouth.

  The sound of barking gradually registered through the fog in her brain. Quint must have heard it, too, because he broke off to rest his forehead to hers. Sophie clung to him, gasping for air, more shaken than she expected. It was as if he’d reached within her and turned everything inside out.

  The puppy barked once more, and Quint released her with a sigh. “Canis, quiet.”

  “What did you name him?”

  “Canis horribilis.”

  “‘Horrible dog’? I should have known you would not choose anything as simple as Spot or Blackie.”

  Quint lifted a shoulder. “It suits him. Though I am unsure why you believed I needed a dog.”

  “Because I live to torture you.”

  “Does that also explain why you just kissed me stupid?”

  No, that was more to torture myself. It only served as a reminder of the things she’d never have. Things she didn’t deserve.

  Sophie stepped away and pulled the edges of her cloak tighter, wrapping up all those dark desires and wicked yearnings. She kept her voice even. “I was attempting to win your silly game. And now that I have, I must return home.” Spinning on her heel, she strode across the terrace and headed for the gardens.