The Lady Hellion

by Joanna Shupe

  It took a quarter of an hour. When she finally decoded the message, it said:

  AN EXPLANATION IS EXPECTED. NO LATER THAN TOMORROW. THE USUAL TIME AND SETTING. A REFUSAL RESULTS IN CONSEQUENCES. Q.

  She read it again, then sighed. No question what “the usual time and setting” meant. He wanted her to come to his terrace after dark. But what sort of consequences? He had threatened to tell her father once. Would he dare?

  Sitting through a lecture outlining her idiocy and recklessness, which Quint would surely relay post-haste, held little appeal. And Quint would most definitely try to prevent any more excursions by Sir Stephen. Sophie had no intention of giving up, however. She’d found something worthwhile, something she was good at doing. And if she could help people, was that not worth a few bumps and bruises?

  And there was little Quint or anyone else could do to stop her.

  She made him wait two days.

  Quint nearly peeled the paper from the walls in his impatience and frustration. He had no recourse other than to send her another note—and she knew it. In those interminable hours, he imagined her dressed in man’s clothing and carousing in every gaming hell, opium den, and brothel in London. It nearly drove him mad.

  Correction, madder.

  His mood was decidedly dark by the time she appeared in his gardens shortly before midnight on the second day. He stood at the threshold, waiting for Canis to finish digging in the dirt, when a cloaked figure with a slight limp emerged from the gloom. The dog bounced happily around her feet, his tail wagging furiously, and she awkwardly bent to scratch behind the dog’s ears.

  Quint’s own reception would not be as friendly. He was still furious with her. Furious for the stupid risks and idiotic chances she took with her person. He wished he didn’t care, that he could leave her to her own devices. Wash his hands of her, like any rational man would have done long ago. But he was incapable of letting her go.

  She straightened and lowered the hood of her cloak. Moonlight illuminated the fine arches of her cheekbones, the curve of her upper lip, the gentle slope of her nose—and Quint momentarily forgot his anger. Tenderness and longing filled him, along with a heat more elemental in nature.

  He thought of their kiss, the one from the other night in this very spot. How she’d clung to him and whimpered in his mouth. Would she claim it a momentary fancy this time as well?

  “I see you solved the puzzle I sent. Did it take you two days?”

  Her mouth hitched as she drew closer. “Indeed not. It took less than an hour. You must be slipping, Quint.”

  “Of course I am slipping. I am mostly mad. Have you not figured that out yet?”

  “You are no madder than I.”

  He snorted. “Oh, that is reassuring. The woman skipping about town in men’s clothing.” And smalls. Damn it.

  “I hardly skip. Though I have been told I need to improve my walk.”

  “What?”

  She waved her hand. “Never mind. Well, I am here for the lecture. You may commence at any time.”

  Of course he wanted to lecture her. To rail and argue with her until she saw reason. But Sophie would only bristle, and the exercise would accomplish nothing. He had to understand why first, and then he could wage logical arguments to convince her of dropping the matter. “Why do you want to do this?”

  “I must. Why should I not try and help others when I can?”

  “Not good enough, Sophie. If it were benevolence, you would find another way to be charitable. Countless ladies perform altruistic deeds, but none put their lives at risk. Why have you chosen to dress as a man and mix with the lowest scum London has to offer?”

  “Because these women have no one else. They cannot afford a Runner and the magistrates rarely bother. Should they not have someone to turn to with their problems?”

  “Of course they should. I am uncertain why that person has to be you. Why not give them the funds to hire a Runner, if that is your concern?”

  She crossed her arms and pressed her lips together, remaining coolly silent.

  “It’s obvious to me that you enjoy the danger and duplicity. The risk is the reward, isn’t it?”

  “No, the solution is the reward. As fond as you are of puzzles, certainly you can understand.”

  “Yes, but my life is hardly in jeopardy when I am working on puzzles in my home, at my desk.”

  She sighed, her eyes sliding away. “Then you obviously do not truly understand.”

  “And just what would I not understand? How it feels to be trapped? How it feels to be unhappy with your prescribed lot in life?”

  Her gaze snapped back to his. “How did you . . . ?”

  “Because I know you. And a person who readily pretends over and over to be someone else, who eagerly courts danger without thought to the consequences, is unhappy with her present circumstances.” She blinked rapidly, and he knew he’d hit the mark. “So tell me, why are you so unhappy, Sophie?”

  She took her time in answering. “I merely need something of my own. Something worthwhile that I can be proud of. And I am good at it. Maggie has her art and her efforts to better the lives of these women, should they choose to pursue another livelihood. And Julia has her children to care for—”

  “Including Colton, who is every bit a child himself.”

  Sophie flashed a brief smile. “But I have nothing. I cannot draw to save myself and I will never have children or a husband. So why not this?”

  “What do you mean, you will never have children or a husband? You could’ve married ten times over. In fact, Lord Yardley offered for you only two Seasons ago. Someday, you’ll choose a suitor—”

  “Or my father will choose one for me.”

  The resentment in her voice set him back on his heels. That did not sound hypothetical. “Has he settled on someone, then?”

  “Yes, he has a man in mind. He said if I do not choose a husband myself by the end of the Season, he will approve a marriage without my consent.”

  Quint hadn’t expected it. Hadn’t thought the marquess would finally draw a line in the marital sand. He swallowed. This . . . this feeling in his chest—a sharp, crushing pain, as if he would crack apart at any second—was nothing he’d experienced before. Not with the fits. Not when his betrothal ended. Not even when Sophie’d broken his heart.

  He struggled to draw in a breath. “Who?” he rasped. Who would be the man so fortunate as to spend each night wrapped around her long, willowy frame?

  “He will not tell me. He fears I will scare the man off if I learn his identity.”

  “Your father is a wise man,” Quint noted.

  “Perhaps, but I still believe I can change his mind.”

  “Why?” He honestly did not know why she avoided marriage more earnestly than a well-seasoned libertine. What was she so afraid of? The propagation of the human race was instinctual in both males and females: men to spread their seed as far and wide as possible, and women to nurture and protect the young. It was elemental and necessary. So what did Sophie hope to gain by resisting?

  “I have always convinced him in the past. Though he did go one step further this time by making the edict public knowledge. That was new.”

  The marquess would only announce it if he was serious. Sophie had to know that. “No, I mean why do you want to change his mind? Why not just marry and be done with it?”

  She grimaced. “Because I would rather not. And my reasons are my own.”

  Sophie’s leg screamed in protest as she bent to pet Canis, yet she welcomed the pain as a distraction. Quint’s perceptiveness was, at times, especially grating. Such as now, for example. It should come as no surprise that he would uncover what she was about. He’d always understood her as no one else did.

  “Let us get back to the matter of these investigations.”

  She straightened, fighting a grimace at the pinch in her thigh. “We’ve been round and round on this, Quint. You cannot force me to give up.”

  “Then what if I off
ered to help you?”

  “Then I would ask why you would make such an offer. Because if it is an attempt to control me or my methods, like preventing me from visiting brothels or gaming hells, I would politely decline.”

  He lifted his hands, all innocence. “I only want to keep you safe. Perhaps if we work together, I won’t need to suture your leg again any time soon. Or worse.”

  She stared at him. Was he telling the truth? Would he truly help, without trying to manipulate her? The offer was tempting. She could use someone to talk with, someone capable of drawing inferences and conclusions . . . and no one did that better than Quint. “What would that mean, working together? You’ll escort me on these errands?”

  A muscle jumped in his slightly whiskered jaw. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “If I were able, I would. Believe me.”

  No, she refused to believe it. She wanted to know more, to learn about this illness that had convinced him he could not go outside. If she did, then maybe she could help him.

  She recalled their kiss, the one in this very spot. He’d ended up outside and, though it had surprised him, it hadn’t killed him. And it had been a very nice kiss. An amazing kiss. She wanted more. More kisses, more touching. More everything. After all, it wasn’t as if she’d ever have a husband to do these things with.

  And who knew how much longer Quint would tolerate her visits? He’d told her on multiple occasions not to return. One of these days, he might truly mean it. She needed to enjoy these stolen moments with him while she still could.

  Her gaze flicked to his mouth as an idea occurred. “So I would come here at night, discuss any developments with you?”

  “Yes, precisely. But no more recklessness. We decide together on how you proceed.”

  “I’ll only agree on one condition.”

  His brows lowered. “And what is that?”

  “You kiss me whenever I want.”

  Surprise registered on his face before he let out a startled, choked sound. “Kiss you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sophie, you cannot ask me to kiss you. It’s . . . absurdly improper.”

  “You’ve already kissed me—twice—so I fail to see why it is such a bad idea.”

  “One of those times you kissed me, and we should not be kissing at all. You should not be kissing anyone until you’re married.”

  Which would never happen. “Loosen up, Quint. You seem to enjoy kissing me and I know I like it as well. Where is the harm?”

  Ladies are not supposed to enjoy it so much.

  Sophie beat back Lord Robert’s voice. Quint hadn’t seemed to mind her enthusiasm; still, it would do her well to remember not to get too carried away.

  “Oh, God,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “You are unbelievable.”

  “True. And you know how determined I can be when there is something I want.” Suffering through his amazing kisses while helping him conquer his fear at the same time? Oh, she wanted that. Badly.

  “And I also know how you never stop to reason anything through. You are too innocent to realize, of course, but kissing generally leads to other more intimate things.”

  Heat sizzled through Sophie’s veins at the idea of “other more intimate things” with Quint, and warmth settled low in her belly. She swallowed and said, “That is what I have you for, to retain a level head.” After all, he didn’t feel anything for her other than friendship. Remaining calm should be easy, at least for him.

  “I should refuse,” he said. “But I’m at a rather large disadvantage, since you may just decide to leave and never return. There would be little I could do to force you to come back. I shudder to think what would happen to you then.”

  Nerves and excitement bubbled up in her chest. “That is true. Does this mean you agree?”

  “Newton help me, but yes. I’ll kiss you and I’ll assist your investigations.”

  And I’ll find a way to fix you, she thought. “Excellent. I knew you would see things my way. Shall we start now?”

  He slanted her a glance. “With the investigation, you mean?”

  She shook her head. “With the kissing.”

  Arms folded across his chest, he lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, so that’s what you think, that you can crook your finger at me and I’ll do your bidding? I may be cracked in the head, Sophie, but all the other parts work just fine. Which means I’m still a man. And this man kisses a woman when he wants to, like when she makes him laugh. Or when her smile knocks him back ten paces. Or when she’s so beautiful he can’t breathe. Not when it’s an obligation.”

  Sophie blinked. Words would not come, her mouth gone dry at the heady declaration. It was a wonder she could stand upright, what with her bones rapidly turning to jelly. “All right,” she finally managed.

  His gaze darkened. “Of course that look happens to work as well,” he said quietly, advancing on her.

  “What look?” She instinctively took a step back, then winced as a stab of pain radiated through her injured leg.

  He froze, concern pinching his brow. Without a word, Quint bent, picked her up, and carried her deeper into the house. “Wait, where are we going?” she asked.

  “To the study. To sit down. It’s obvious your leg is paining you.”

  Sophie wrapped her arms around his neck, enjoying the shift and play of muscles beneath his clothing. When they reached his study, he did not set her on her feet. Instead, he crossed to an armchair by the fire and lowered into it, setting her on his lap.

  “Let me see the sutures,” he said gently. “I want to ensure the wound isn’t infected.”

  “It’s fine,” Sophie said. She was not shy, but sitting on Quint’s lap in the middle of the night for a businesslike examination of her wound had her squirming.

  “Be still. I want to see for myself.” He lifted the gauzy layers of skirts and petticoat. The leg of her drawers was wide enough that he could push it up to see the wound on her thigh. “Excellent. The skin is healthy. Alice must be keeping her hands clean.”

  She expected him to adjust her clothing to cover her—but he didn’t. Instead his large hand smoothed over her exposed leg, eyes raking her skin, while her heart fluttered behind her ribs.

  “Sophie, I need to tell you—you expect me to retain a level head, but you should not rely on me. I’m not exactly in control of my faculties these days. Seeing you like this doesn’t help, either.” His hand indicated her lower half. “And I do not want to hurt you. I beg of you, rethink your request.”

  If she’d had any concerns about his state of mind, his speech eliminated them. Would a madman really give fair warning? But there could be another reason for his hesitation, one far more humiliating. “You would not hurt me. And I think you are stalling. If you don’t want to kiss me—”

  He closed the distance between them in a blink, pressing his mouth to hers, his tongue immediately pushing inside. He kissed her hard, desperately, his mouth rough and smooth at the same time, and she loved every second. She held nothing back, using her tongue and her hands to explore while his lips slanted over hers again and again.

  The warmth in her belly spread until her breasts were heavy, aching. Moisture gathered in her cleft, the beat of her heart evident there in a rhythmic pulse. She became aware of Quint’s hardness beneath her backside—a thrilling, heady proof of his desire for her. For Sophie, not the Perfect Pepperton or any other woman. He wanted her, and she gloried in the knowledge. It was all she could do not to rub against his erection.

  And then she did rub against it.

  He groaned into her mouth, a pained-yet-excited sound she’d never heard from him before. Lust raced down Sophie’s spine. Her fingers trailed over his broad shoulders, reveled in the heat pouring off his frame. The opening in his shirt was just wide enough for her to slip a hand inside, testing the smooth, taut skin of his chest. His heart thumped under her palm, while the soft hair tickled her fingers. She ran her hand over his chest, enjoying t
he feel and the taste of him, and the tip of her finger brushed over his nipple.

  He gave a quick intake of breath and then drew back to murmur, “Sophie, you’re killing me. We should stop before this goes any further.”

  All she heard was “stop”—and so she rose up to kiss him once more.

  Chapter Eleven

  One kiss, he’d promised himself.

  Kiss her quickly—yet long enough to ensure she did not complain. That had been the plan. But he hadn’t expected her to be so enthusiastic. A virgin, even one of twenty-seven, should not have him so flustered with mere kisses. The probability of such an occurrence had seemed incredibly low when this exercise began.

  He should have known Sophie would defy logic.

  Quint’s control unraveled the second her mouth found his once more, with any thoughts of ending this long forgotten. She kissed as she did everything else: with exuberance and passion, a reckless disregard for anything but the moment at hand. He could not stop from giving it back to her in kind.

  With one hand cupping her head and the other on her leg, he clutched her tight. Licked at her mouth. Nipped at her lips. Tasted her until she gave a needy whimper in her throat. The sound wound its way through his groin to sharpen his arousal. God’s blood, how he craved her. He’d frigged himself so often in the last few days thinking of her, it was a wonder he hadn’t chaffed.

  He could barely think, barely breathe, and the animal instinct—the desire to give and receive pleasure—took over. And with this particular woman on his lap, it was impossible to resist. It had been a long time since he’d felt this heady rush of lust drag him under the surface of rationality—and he welcomed the sweet oblivion.

  His mouth left hers to trail across her jaw. He sucked the lobe of her ear between his lips, scraped it with his teeth. A gasp escaped just before she pressed her lips together tightly, as if to stop the noise. Which would never do. “I want to hear you, Sophie,” he whispered in her ear. “Every sound. Every sigh. Do not hold back on me.”