The Last Bachelor

by Betina Krahn

  “I’ll scream—” She panted and shoved at him.

  “No, you won’t,” he countered, breathing hard himself as he scrambled for equilibrium. And as that simmering silence lengthened, she proved him right.

  The turmoil in her senses slowly settled. Antonia found herself standing in an alley, pressed against a wall, with Remington finding every sensitive spot on her body with every hungry and demanding part of his own. Worse yet, the fire of her moral outrage was being redirected, translated into a very different kind of heat. Suddenly, all she could see was the roused sensuality in his face. All she could feel was the rush of her blood in her veins and the heat of his body, melting her outer surface and her inner resistance. All she could taste was the desire rising up the back of her throat.

  “Antonia.” He lowered a hand and dragged his fingertips down the side of her face. Again and again he stroked her, tracing her lips, caressing her skin, absorbing the nuances of her body’s softening. She could feel him watching the hurt and desire swirling in her core; could feel him reaching into her chaotic emotions. And she was powerless to stop it. Then he cradled her chin in his hand and brought his lips down on hers.

  His mouth was warm and firm and soft and exquisitely mobile as it caressed hers in gentle, changing patterns. She tilted her head, wanting him, seeking him, and, with a helpless sense of wonder, finding him.

  It felt exactly the same as it had the first and the last time he had kissed her, and all the times in between … that initial, breathtaking drench of pleasure, then the low, responsive resonance in her head and heart, and finally the inner calm that settled over her—the feeling that she was exactly where she belonged. When his arms slid around her, she couldn’t help sending hers around his neck and couldn’t stop her body from arching into his.

  He groaned softly and leaned into her, pressing her back against the bricks. He was so intent on reminding her of the fact that she wanted him, that he completely forgot the dingy alley, the traffic rushing by a few yards away, and the unfortunate fact that dozens of people had witnessed him dragging her into the service lane.

  In the middle of the financial district, emotional outbursts and the sight of women being set upon in the streets were emphatically not “business as usual.” Worse yet, it was just past two o’clock, the dinner hour, a time when many of the offices released their inhabitants into the streets. The cabbie had no difficulty finding gentlemen to verify his story to the local constable: a well-dressed lady snatched right out of his cab and dragged, kicking and flailing, into a nearby alley. With the backing of a pair of dedicated civil servants, an MP, and an assistant director of the Bank of London, the stick-wielding constable went charging into the alley after the pair.

  Running footsteps and shouts of “There they are!” and “That’s the bastard—get ’im!” broke in on Remington and Antonia. Several men rushed down the alley at them, and the sound and motion finally penetrated their passion-drugged wits. He wheeled belatedly and spread himself protectively across her cringing form, only to find himself seized roughly and wrestled back against the far wall of the alley. Antonia’s scream died halfway through as the sight of a black-clad constable and several men in business suits registered in her head.

  “Wait!” one of her rescuers yelled, just as Remington took a fist in the solar plexus. The blow knocked the wind from him and doubled him over. “Good God, man—that’s Landon!” said the same voice. “It’s the Earl of Landon!”

  “You sure?” The constable, who had just given Remington a punch to subdue him, blanched and drew back in horror. “A belted earl draggin’ women into alleys?”

  The MP bent to look at Remington’s face and came up wide-eyed. “Good Lord—it is Landon.” Then the fellow turned to look at Antonia, who stood paralyzed with horror, in the grip of two solicitous gentlemen. As the others turned to stare at her, the MP took in her half-mourning purple and announced: “Ye gods—then this must be the widow! You know—from the papers!”

  The murmurs of the onlookers grew to include such alarming phrases as “the bounder,” “a menace,” and “horsewhipped.” The constable, caught in the untenable position of having both apprehended and assaulted a peer of the realm, panicked and decided to drag him off to the station and let his sergeant sort it out. Remington recovered his breath just in time to protest.

  “Release me at once!” he gasped out, planting his feet and resisting with every ounce of physical strength he possessed. “I’ve done nothing wrong—”

  The cabbie stepped out of the crowd filling the alley, with a fierce scowl. “An’ wot do ye call draggin’ a woman right outta a coach, eh? An’ haulin’ her down a alley?”

  Antonia’s reeling wits finally righted. One minute she was melting in Remington’s arms, and the next a constable and an angry mob were carrying him away. Good Lord—they were arresting him for assaulting her! Much as he deserved to be thrashed for his wrongs against her, she couldn’t stand by and watch them arrest him for the crime of … a kiss. But, in truth, it was the sudden thought of this scandal breaking atop another one not yet laid to rest that spurred her to action.

  “Stop! Wait!” she called out, twisting free of the hands restraining her. “This is all a hideous misunderstanding.” But now that she had their attention, she realized that she had to come up with some sort of explanation. “It’s not what you think!

  “I was in the area and stopped by the earl’s business offices … to inquire about the outcome of some investments. But I found he wasn’t in … and I left, intending to take a cab home. But he arrived just after I left … and thought to catch me before I got into the cab. But he startled me, coming up from behind, so I cried out. He asked me to have a word with him and there was no place else as private …”

  She could see from the looks on their faces that they didn’t believe a word of it. And she could see from the narrowing of their eyes and the direction of their gazes—aimed at her kiss-swollen mouth—what they thought of her as a result of her weedy explanation. She stood simmering in the heat of her own lie as the constable weighed the merits of her story and seized upon it as the excuse he needed to wash his hands of a potentially messy situation.

  “Then you ain’t willin’ to bring charges?”

  “Charges? Of course not.” She gave what she hoped passed for an innocent smile. “It would be a miscarriage of justice for his lordship to be inconvenienced on my account.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” The constable ordered the fellows restraining Remington to release him. Apologizing profusely, he ordered the crowd to disperse.

  Remington straightened his coat and tie and offered Antonia his arm. She accepted his escort, and he led her back to the street at a quick but dignified pace.

  She was so busy keeping both her head and “appearances” up, that she didn’t notice the scrawny little fellow with the oversize brown bowler and ferretlike eyes at the edge of the crowd. Remington saw him, but so briefly that the name and face didn’t register until they were halfway to the doors of his office building. Belatedly, the fellow’s identity hit him like the constable’s fist, and he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. All he saw behind them was the constable, speaking to one of the gentlemen who had apprehended him and dispersing the gawkers who stopped to see what had drawn a crowd.

  He expelled an uneasy breath, praying that he had just imagined Rupert Fitch.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Antonia jerked her hand from Remington’s arm the instant they were out of view of the street. “You are without a doubt the most loathsome man who ever walked.”

  “Which raises the interesting question of why you spoke up for me, wretch that I am,” he said, keeping pace with her as she started up the stairs.

  She was in no mood to have to explain why she had interceded for him. She wasn’t even sure herself, though she feared it had something to do with that wretched kiss and with the peculiar ache she had felt, watching them haul him away. She still had feelings for him
… perilously near the surface. And if she didn’t get away from him soon, they could make her do something she would regret.

  “Don’t take it personally, your lordship. I simply could not abide the idea of seeing my name linked infamously to yours again, in the newspapers. I’ve quite enough to live down already.”

  “A sensible conclusion,” he said, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. “And all the more reason for you to make good your part of the wager.”

  She stopped in the middle of the hallway and stared at him. “You cannot be serious.”

  “I assure you I am. I intend to hold you to every syllable of our bargain.”

  She closed her mouth and hurried down the hallway to the open door of his offices, intent on finding Aunt Hermione, then finding the first available cab to take her home. But when she demanded to know where her aunt was, the fellow at the desk looked a bit unsettled. Hurrying down the hallway with Remington on her heels, she found his office empty and reversed course to search the other offices. But he prevented her from leaving by closing the door and leaning his back against it.

  “You’re not through here, Antonia.”

  The intimate tone of his voice raised her defenses. Spotting her parasol on a chair, she snatched it up and held it threateningly.

  “Why are you doing this?” she demanded.

  “I thought you said I was painfully obvious.”

  “You are obvious. You’re also devious. And I’ve learned the hard way that ‘the obvious’ is not your only motive. You want to seduce me again. What I want to know is why? What is it you really want from me?”

  “I thought that was the obvious part,” he said earnestly. “I want to marry you.”

  She was braced for something low and underhanded; she thought she was prepared for it. But hearing him say it still took her breath.

  “Well, I don’t want to marry you.” She managed a fair counterfeit of disdain, until he came toward her with a wry, self-mocking smile.

  “Why won’t you marry me?”

  She backed a step. There were at least a thousand good reasons, but at the moment she could think of only two or three.

  “I—I don’t like you. I don’t need you. And most important, I don’t trust you. You’ve lied to me and about me, and deceived me in every way possible. You’ve treated me like a troublesome child and a commodity to be acquired and disposed of at your whim.” Her voice thickened. “I don’t need rescuing, thank you. And I will not spend the rest of my life shackled to a man I don’t like, don’t need, and don’t trust.”

  “What about one you want?” he said. “Can you imagine spending your life with someone who makes your blood burn and your bones melt?”

  He moved forward slowly, and she felt an irresistible tension rising beneath her skin; a desire for touch, a hunger for pleasure of the sort she knew only he could supply. It was confirmation of his claim on her sensual responses, and it infuriated her. She retreated again and found herself trapped in a corner near a window.

  “I have always told you the truth, Antonia. You may not believe it now, but I meant every word I said about your ladies and about you. I wasn’t responsible for Woolworth and the others breaking into my house—I wouldn’t have hurt you like that for the world. And as to the rest … you know my faults and flaws all too well. I think it only fair that you give me, and men in general, a chance to redeem ourselves in your estimate. Two weeks, Antonia. For you to learn to like me, to trust me again.”

  By the time he touched her hand, she was incapable of more than a token resistance. But he merely pressed something into her palm and curled her fingers around it. It felt small and cool and hard. She found a tiny sphere covered with fawn-colored silk lying in her palm. It was a moment before she recognized it as one of her buttons—one he had cut from her dress that day in the upstairs parlor.

  Tenderness and anger and longing surged through her at once, clashing, leaving her defenseless. Feeling panicky, she pushed him aside and headed for the door.

  Aunt Hermione was in the very office where Remington had laid his romantic trap. She and Paddington Carr had made use of the luncheon Antonia had spurned, and now sat drinking wine and staring warmly at each other across the linen-clad table.

  “Oh! Toni!” Aunt Hermione said, flushing at being caught indulging in a bit of romance. “We are just having the nicest luncheon.”

  “Didn’t think Remington would mind … since you didn’t seem quite on your feed,” Paddington said, rocking back in his chair. He looked a bit embarrassed, but not so much so that he would release Hermione’s hand, which lay under his on the tabletop.

  Antonia glowered at her aunt. “It’s time to go Auntie, if you’re quite finished.”

  As they quitted the offices, Remington accompanied them downstairs, where he had the doorman hail them a cab. He helped Hermione into the coach, then casually mentioned that he would send his own carriage around to Paxton House the next morning to collect her at nine o’clock.

  “There is no need,” Antonia protested irritably, “I won’t be coming back.”

  He smiled as he handed her up the steps as well.

  “Oh, yes, you will.”

  His knowing look lingered in her mind, the way that small silken orb stayed in her hand, both fueling her irritation on the ride home. Her annoyance gradually focused on Hermione, who sat huddled on the far end of the seat with a petulant look. It was some time before Antonia could bring herself to say anything to her aunt on the subject uppermost in both their minds.

  “You surprised me, that’s all,” she said, trying to explain her irritation at something that obviously gave Hermione pleasure. “Remington’s uncle, of all people.”

  “I cannot understand what you find so horrible about my having a bit of luncheon with him,” Hermione said with an air of injury. “I’ve always liked gentlemen, you know that. And he’s a perfectly charming man. And handsome. And so droll. He makes me laugh, Antonia, and no one has done that in a very long time.”

  Antonia was hard put to come up with a reason to dislike the man, except his connection to Remington and her suspicion that this was another vile bit of maneuvering on Remington’s part.

  “He fairly raised Remington, you know,” Hermione said, glancing furtively at her, then back out the window. “Remington’s mother died when he was young, and his father was … well, interested in other things. Paddington stepped in to take care of him. He’s so hopeful that Remington will marry and give him a grandniece or -nephew before he passes on. He just loves babies. He didn’t get to have any of his own, and I must say: I know how that feels. You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a daughter.” She gave Antonia another sidelong glance. “You know, he thinks you’re very pretty.”

  “That’s very … gallant of him,” Antonia responded, a bit embarrassed by her truculent attitude. She looked out the window. “I think he’s quite … dignified.”

  Hermione relaxed and breathed a sigh, but a moment later she was back at it.

  “You know, Remington’s not had many lady friends,” she volunteered. “Paddington worries about him a great deal … thinks he should have someone to … ummm …”

  “Play footsie with,” Antonia supplied, leveling a disgusted look at her.

  “Well, yes. And make babies with. And you know I have thought for some time that it would be good for you to … ummm …”

  “Play footsie, too,” Antonia finished for her, understanding now why she had been so suspicious of this liaison. Hermione was now solidly in Remington’s camp.

  “Well, yes. It’s clear that his lordship is still very much taken with you, and eager to make amends for what happened.”

  “Aunt Hermione,” Antonia said tightly, narrowing her eyes.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Hush.”

  Because of the long spring days, the candles were not lit in the drawing room until nine o’clock that evening. Aunt Hermione was deep in the midst of telling the others about he
r adventure of the day, when Hoskins arrived to announce a caller.

  “At this hour?” Antonia said, rising from her chair by the window.

  “A man or a woman?” Aunt Hermione demanded of the butler.

  “It is Mrs. Howard, ma’am,” Hoskins intoned.

  “Mrs. Howard? Do we know a Mrs. Howard?” Eleanor asked, looking at the others’ equally blank faces.

  “Mrs. Camille Howard, madam.” He addressed Antonia.

  “Camille? Our Camille?” Antonia’s heart nearly stopped. “By all means, show her in, Hoskins.”

  Everyone hurried to greet Camille as she entered, but most stopped just short of embracing her. She stood there in her best frock and bonnet, her blond, girlish beauty marred by blotched skin and dark smudges under puffy eyes. Antonia paused, then held out her hands to the young woman, whose chin quivered as she took them.

  “Camille, dear … are you all right?” Antonia said softly, searching the signs of distress in the young woman’s countenance with mounting dread.

  Camille opened her mouth to speak, but instead of a greeting, out came a sob.

  “What is it? What’s happened?” Antonia enfolded the young woman with a hug, knowing already, in her heart of hearts, what must have brought the young woman there. The others hurried to join her, speaking words of comfort as they helped her to the settee in the middle of the room. Wedged between Antonia and Aunt Hermione, in a circle of sympathetic faces she had grown to know and trust, she cried for a while before she was able to answer Antonia’s questions.

  “It’s Bertrand,” she said, dabbing at her tears. “He’s a beast.”

  “He ain’t taken a hand to you, has he?” Molly demanded furiously. Camille looked a bit shocked and shook her head.

  “Does he holler an’ cuss an’ pitch a fit if’n the meat ain’t right or his drawers is scratchy?” Gertrude asked. Again Camille shook her head.