The Lady Hellion

by Joanna Shupe

  With a cry, Sophie launched herself across the table at Robert, knocking him and his chair to the floor. There had been no plan or forethought, merely blinding, maddening rage. Drinks and cards spilled onto the floor. She’d never attacked anyone in her life, would’ve never even contemplated it, if he hadn’t said anything. But now, bursting with fury, she pulled back her fist—and punched him directly in the eye.

  Strong hands lifted her off Robert, who wore an expression of absolute bewilderment. Sophie struggled for a moment, then stilled as Mulrooney, Madame’s doorman, dragged her across the room. “Come on. Anyone who starts a fight gets tossed.”

  Robert’s face twisted into surprised, ugly fury. “You’ll be hearing from my seconds!” he yelled.

  “Perfect!” she shouted back. “I look forward to putting a bullet into your heart, you maggot-eating swine!”

  The carriage door suddenly opened. “Is this one yours, my lord?”

  Quint opened his eyes to blink at Mulrooney, who held a sullen Sir Stephen up by the collar. “Yes, he is.”

  Mulrooney hefted Sir Stephen inside. Sophie, disheveled and flushed, scrambled onto the seat. She avoided Quint’s eye, her chin lifted defiantly.

  “What happened?” he asked Mulrooney.

  The doorman looked to be fighting a smile. “Started a fight, your lordship. Launched himself across the card table and corked the Earl of Reddington right in the eye.” He winked at Sophie. “That be a right fine hook you have, sir.”

  Sophie nodded tersely, saying nothing. “Thank you, Mulrooney,” Quint said, pressing a coin into Mulrooney’s palm. “I’ll see the lad home.”

  “Very good, your lordship.” Mulrooney shut the door and strode through the lamplight back toward the brothel.

  Quint turned to Sophie, who was sitting with her arms crossed. Her leg bounced impatiently. “You started a fight with Reddington? Why?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Shall we go?” She pounded her fist on the roof.

  Jenkins opened the small partition. “Where to, sir?”

  “My house,” Quint answered and the carriage started off.

  Her gaze fixed on the darkness outside, Sophie seemed in no mood for explanations. He gave her a minute to calm down. Finally, when her breathing returned to normal, he asked, “Tell me why you hit Reddington, Sophie.”

  “He’s a pig.”

  “So is Colton, yet you’ve never planted a facer on him. Tell me what Reddington said or did to upset you.”

  She shook her head vehemently, lips pressed firmly together.

  “It will take me less than an hour to learn it for myself, you know. You might as well tell me, kotyonok,” he said softly.

  “He’s a disgusting, dung-headed horse’s arse.”

  He blinked a few times, surprised, and guesses as to what had happened began floating through his head. What had he been thinking, letting her go in alone? Tamping down the anger directed at himself, he reached out and pulled her over to his lap. She resisted at first, but he was stronger. He wrapped his arms around her, removed her spectacles, and cradled her against his chest. He hated that he hadn’t been inside to protect her from whatever had happened.

  Eventually she relaxed and dropped her head into the curve of his neck. He kissed her forehead. “Did he touch you?”

  She gasped. “No. Quint, no. Not that. He—” She exhaled a shuddering breath. “He said naught but lies.”

  “About Lady Sophia?”

  Her silence was his answer. So who was Reddington to her? Because Sophie would not attack a stranger in a public setting—especially while dressed in disguise. Then it hit him. The Earl of Reddington had taken the title four or so years ago when his older brother unexpectedly died. Before that, he’d been known in Society as Lord Robert Langley.

  The pieces fell into place.

  The man who had taken Sophie’s maidenhead. The man she’d loved, whom she’d wanted to marry. Reddington was the man who’d rejected her, shamed her, during her debut. Hurt her.

  A tempest gathered in Quint’s chest, a storm of fury and protectiveness he’d never experienced before. Sophie had not deserved Reddington’s cruelty. She was honest and passionate, and much too good for the likes of Reddington. The man had broken her heart, and now he was speaking ill of her in public.

  Unacceptable. Infuriating.

  He soothed her—and himself—by stroking her back. “I am proud of you, psihi mou. You are the strongest, bravest woman I know. Reddington is a fool.”

  She surprised him by bursting into tears.

  He held her tighter, hating her tears, hating Reddington, and hating himself for not being a man worthy of marrying her. He should’ve been inside, handing Reddington a beating the likes of which he’d never seen. Instead, he’d been cowering in a carriage like a doddering old man.

  Sophie cried great, gulping, unladylike sobs that tore at Quint’s insides. She obviously still had feelings for Reddington. That’s why she’d never married; she’d spent years pining away for the man who’d stolen her heart. And now that Reddington had returned, he’d hurt her again.

  Quint knew what he would do. Reddington’s fate was sealed.

  When she quieted, she whispered, “I’ve ruined your shirt.”

  “Ruin them all you like, if it makes you feel better. I never pay attention to my clothing anyway.”

  “I cannot believe I cried. I never cry.”

  “Everyone cries, Sophie. Lacrimation is a perfectly normal, necessary function. And I know you’re not a woman prone to weeping and falling apart.”

  She drew in an unsteady breath. “Thank you.”

  “Me? I’ve done nothing.” Less than nothing, if such a thing were possible outside of mathematics.

  “Just sitting here,” she said, laying her palm on his jaw. “Hearing your voice utter words such as lacrimation . . . it calms me.”

  “Shall I detail the lacrimal apparatus for you, explain how tears work?”

  “Yes,” she sighed, relaxing against him. “I love listening to you talk.”

  Quint was more than happy to oblige her.

  When they arrived at Quint’s house, he insisted on carrying her inside. She tried to walk, but he would not be dissuaded—and after the tender way he’d indulged her on the ride home she was loath to argue. So she pressed her face into his throat and held on, the familiar smell of him stealing into her lungs to calm her.

  He’d made so much progress in the last two weeks. From being terrified to step foot outside his house, to now taking carriage rides and walking through the gardens. Before long he’d be riding his horse down Rotten Row at the fashionable hour.

  “We never found Tolbert,” she said as he easily climbed the terrace steps.

  “Forget Tolbert. He is not the man you’re after.”

  How was Quint so certain? Something about Tolbert bothered her. Was it merely because she did not like him, or was it more?

  “Quint, I owe it to the women—”

  “And you will. But not tonight.” He strode inside, kicked the door shut with his boot. “Tonight you’re mine.”

  His staff abed, the house was utterly still as he took the stairs. Seconds later they were in his chambers, where he laid her on top of the bed linens. He sat to remove his boots, then went to the dresser for a condom, which he placed on the small table by the bed. She was content to watch him, on her side with her hands folded beneath her cheek, as he removed his waistcoat and cravat. He pulled his shirt over his head, then peeled down his trousers. He was strong and big, his half-hard arousal bobbing between muscled thighs, and the sight of him took her breath away.

  He started with her boots, then set to work on the rest of her clothing, saying nothing, his expression serious and determined. When she was completely naked, he stretched out on top of her, bare skin to bare skin. He felt delicious.

  His mouth found hers, and he kissed her, softly, with reassurance. She wished she knew what he was thinking—not that she planned to stop what he
was doing in order to ask. They both seemed to realize this was not a time for words, that actions were more important at the moment. His lips coaxed hers for what seemed like hours, and he soon nibbled and teased all the hurt and anger right out of her.

  There was no hurry this time. Quint was careful in his handling of her—stroking her hair and staring down at her with tender, kind eyes—and all the feelings she normally kept buried threatened to overwhelm her. She forced those notions away. This was not the time to act a lovesick schoolgirl. He’d already made his wishes quite clear on their future, and she hardly wanted a husband. No, what they had now suited her perfectly.

  And it obviously suited him, as the erection near her thigh proved. She bit her lip, amused at the direction of her thoughts.

  “Are you laughing?”

  “Of course I am laughing.” She giggled, unable to prevent the tide of mirth from bursting free. “I am naked, you are naked. You are about to stick things in me. It is ridiculous when you think about it.”

  His brow furrowed. “It’s a penis, Sophie. Not a ‘thing.’”

  That caused her to laugh harder.

  “Stop wriggling,” he said huskily, his shaft hardening further. “I want to make this good for you.”

  She sobered instantly. Her fingers grasped his erection and stroked him slowly, swiping her thumb over the tip. She felt him shiver. “You will. You always do.”

  “Sweet mercury,” he breathed when she did it again. “I love when you touch me.”

  “Then I won’t stop.” She pressed light kisses to the hard curve of his jaw.

  “Ah, God, Sophie.” He thrust into her grip. “You completely undo me.”

  Fire licked through her, arousal building in her loins, as she worked his erection in her fist. He gave little gasps and grunts, eyes closed, muscles shuddering. She loved the unbidden sounds of pleasure, seeing how she could affect him. There was a heady power in pleasuring a man—especially when that man was the ever-controlled Quint.

  He threaded their fingers together, stopping her, and pressed their joined hands to the bed. He kissed her long and slow, his tongue showing no urgency despite the hard shaft against her thigh. She loved the way he kissed, with absolute focus and determination, and her body responded, melting under his. Since she hadn’t the use of her hands, she rubbed her foot over the back of his leg to hurry him along.

  “Damien,” she said against his mouth, “stop teasing me.”

  “Never,” he murmured. “I want you begging.”

  He didn’t release her hands, just continued to lick inside her mouth until she squirmed under him. Keeping hold of her hands, he slid down to her breast, where he laved the nipple with his tongue. When he drew a tip deep inside his mouth, pleasure pulsed between her legs. She was panting, desperate for him, needy for some kind of relief to the wicked burn.

  “Now, Damien,” she breathed.

  With a shiver-inducing scrape of his teeth, he freed her breast. “Not yet. You’re not quite ready.”

  She shook her head, though he couldn’t see it. She was indeed quite, quite ready.

  He moved down between her legs and released her hands. Her fingers wound through his thick locks, holding on as he dropped kisses on her inner thighs. “So beautiful. Do you get this wet when you pleasure yourself?”

  It was asked so matter-of-factly, as if he were truly interested and not attempting to embarrass or shock her. So she answered honestly. “I have no idea.”

  He captured her right wrist and brought her hand down to the moisture gathered in her channel. “Feel,” he said. “Let me see you touch yourself. Show me, Sophie.”

  Levering up on one elbow, she saw him between her legs, his dark eyes glittering and rapt with genuine curiosity. The sight of her obviously aroused him. The realization obliterated any shame or reservations she held. When she hesitated, however, his gaze flicked to her. “There is no right or wrong between us, kotyonok. I’ll never judge you or make you feel tawdry for what happens in this bed. I need you to enjoy yourself. Moreover, I like to see you enjoy yourself.”

  She knew he was challenging her, that he wanted her to accept that Robert had been wrong. The reasoning was so simple, so straightforward, yet it could only be the result of one man’s logical mind. And since Sophie never backed down from a challenge, she fell onto her back, closed her eyes, and began an exploration of the soft, slippery folds. Dragged her fingertips through the wetness. Quint growled, a low sound of male approval, and she grew confident, dipping a finger inside.

  He snatched her wrist and sucked the same finger past his lips and into the moist warmth of his mouth. His tongue swirled around the digit, making her gasp as he licked the arousal off her skin. “I love the way you taste,” he said and placed her hand back on top of her core. “Keep going,” he urged and shifted to reach for the French letter.

  Pulse pounding, she rolled the pad of her finger over the nub at the apex of her cleft. Ripples of excitement stole through her, her back arching off the bed, and she couldn’t hold back a moan. Quint was on his knees, affixing the condom while never taking his gaze off her. When he was ready, he hefted her legs up, the backs of her knees in the crooks of his elbows, and spread her wide. “Put me inside you, Sophie.”

  She did not hesitate, reaching down between them and positioning him at her entrance. He rocked forward and began a deliberate and careful invasion of her body. “Ah, God. Yes,” he said. “Oh, hell. I cannot wait.” He snapped his hips and pulled her toward him at the same time, seating himself inside, stretching her.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No. You feel so good, Damien. Do not stop.”

  He set a punishing rhythm, arm muscles flexing and bulging as he held her up and brought their hips together. She could only clutch the coverlet, feel the exquisite sensations as he withdrew and filled her once more.

  “Touch yourself again,” he ordered, his voice husky and low. “Bring yourself pleasure while I watch.”

  She obeyed and it only took mere seconds before she exploded around him, her walls convulsing through the fierce orgasm. She shouted his name, and felt him stiffen as her body continued to ride out the incredible bliss. His hips jerked, movements unsteady, and he threw his head back, groaned, with his shaft pulsing inside her.

  When the world stopped spinning, Quint withdrew and quickly dealt with the sheath. He dropped onto the bed next to her, still breathing hard. “My God, Sophie. You are . . . really, there are no words.”

  “None? Not even from a man as eloquent as you?” she teased.

  He was all seriousness as he rolled to face her. “For the first time in my life, I have a hard time explaining it. You make me feel as if I’m out of control yet grounded at the same time. It’s terrifying and exhilarating.”

  “If it eases your mind, I feel the same way.”

  A beat passed before he blurted, “I cannot marry you.”

  “I know. I am not asking you for that, Damien. Nor do I expect it.”

  He’d already made his position on the matter clear. In many ways, it was precisely what Robert had believed: She was good enough to bed but not the type of woman one married.

  She was surprised how much that hurt.

  “Did you love the Pepperton girl?” she heard herself ask.

  “No,” he answered quickly. “I only asked her to marry me because she was the most sought after girl that year and I have a fortune large enough that her father could not refuse me.”

  Sophie felt a little relief at that. He hadn’t loved the Perfect Pepperton, but he’d still planned to marry her. Because that was the kind of wife he wanted.

  “But you left after she eloped. You were gone for months. I assumed . . .” Sounded silly to say it now, but she’d assumed the Pepperton girl had broken his heart.

  “The reason I left England had little to do with Elizabeth. My betrothed running off with a groom was embarrassing, yes, but I’ve survived far worse. There were other reasons I went away.”
>
  She waited for him to continue, to tell her about the other reasons, but he surprised her by switching topics. “Tell me what Reddington said tonight,” he said in a gentle tone.

  “Mere bragging, is all. He approached me at the Portland ball, said he’d been thinking of me over the years and wanted to renew our acquaintance. But he meant—”

  “I know what he meant.”

  She cleared her throat. “He kept pressing and would not let me get away. So I stomped on his foot and escaped outside.” Quint stiffened next to her, so she said, “I was unharmed. He’s a bother but not dangerous.”

  “And tonight?”

  “His friend was ribbing him, saying how Lady Sophia had clearly turned him down. Robert said I just needed more coaxing, that he’d had me already and knew how to get me to respond. That was when I leaped across the table to hit him.”

  “Am I to understand that he admitted, in public, to bedding you?” he asked, his jaw tight.

  “He might not have gotten the words out completely before I punched him, but he certainly implied it.”

  Quint shot to his feet and began pacing with no care for his nakedness whatsoever. Sophie was mesmerized. The light from the fire cast shadows over the taut skin and hard angles as he shifted angrily. She loved watching him. Loved listening to him, too. Then there was the way he’d held her in the carriage while she cried. Something had shifted between them tonight, something monumental. She just couldn’t quite—

  Oh. Oh, hell.

  She knew precisely what it was, this near-to-bursting giddiness in her chest. It was her stupid heart swelling with love for Quint. She closed her eyes. She loved him. Oh, heavens.

  “He should not even dare imply it. I’ll have his hide for that,” he snapped, gaining her attention.

  She forced any foolish thoughts of love and hearts from her mind. Notions of weddings, shared memories, and rumpled children must be firmly dismissed. “You needn’t worry,” she said quietly. “He challenged Sir Stephen and I accepted.”

  “You did?” He stopped and faced her.

  “Yes, I did. And now, thanks to you, I know how to handle a pistol.”