Nicole Jordan

by Wicked Fantasy

  Antonia was in the middle of her third round when she suddenly sensed she wasn’t alone. Whirling with a start, she spied Trey Deverill standing in the shadows a short distance away.

  She brought her hand to her throat, where her heart had lodged, and let out a breath of relief.

  “Forgive me for startling you,” he said in his deep, velvety voice as he moved toward her. “From my rooms I heard curious sounds and decided to investigate.”

  When he halted near her, the lantern light illuminated his striking features. Deplorably, Antonia’s heart leapt again, this time with renewed awareness of his undeniable masculinity.

  She managed a nod at his apology, yet she was annoyed at herself for always becoming so flustered in this particular man’s presence.

  “I thought you were with my father,” Antonia said coolly, turning back to face the target.

  “He suddenly was struck with an idea for a new staysail design, so he wanted to make a sketch and calculate some measurements.”

  Her mouth curved with wry understanding. “Then he will undoubtedly be up till all hours of the night. When Papa becomes obsessed with a new design, he never sleeps until he has all the details completely worked out.” She sighed and nocked another arrow. “I will be fortunate if he emerges from the Map Room before my holiday is over.”

  “Can’t you simply join him there?”

  “Oh, he allows me in, but I am not truly welcome. His work is not appropriate for a lady, you see.”

  She let the arrow fly and watched the whooshing arc. When the tip lodged very near the gold center, Deverill murmured in approval. “Impressive.”

  “Thank you, but this is a shorter distance than customary for competition.”

  “Archery is an unusual accomplishment for a lady, isn’t it?”

  Antonia smiled with wry humor. “Indeed. It is also one of my few accomplishments. I am not musical, nor can I draw very well. And I detest sewing. This and riding—and perhaps languages—are my only claims to talent, I’m afraid.”

  “A virtual Amazon.”

  She winced at the painful image and pressed her lips together.

  “I say that with admiration,” Deverill remarked, evidently realizing he had struck a nerve.

  “When a lady is as tall as I, Mr. Deverill, she doesn’t appreciate comparisons such as that.”

  She felt his measuring gaze skimming her body. “Your height seems unexceptional to me.”

  Antonia glanced up at Deverill, who was a full head taller than she. “I suppose compared to you, I am not excessively tall, but for a girl, height is a decided drawback. I tower over a quarter of the gentleman I meet.” Picking up the next arrow, she couldn’t repress another sigh. “It would have been so much better if I had been born male.”

  “Better for whom?”

  “For my father. Myself. I could have taken over his company, for one thing.” She loosed the arrow, watching with satisfaction as it hit the bull’s-eye. “Papa wanted a son—I suppose all men do. But my mother died before she could give him one, and he never considered remarrying.”

  “And for yourself?”

  Realizing he sounded truly interested in her answer, Antonia shot Deverill an arch glance. “Why, I could sail around the world, having adventures as you do. I have never had a single adventure. The closest I’ve come is christening several of my father’s new ships. I admit I envy you. You fight pirates; I sew samplers.”

  He looked slightly amused. “Fighting pirates is not all it’s cracked up to be, Miss Maitland. It’s hardly glamorous and often dangerous.”

  Studying him, Antonia suddenly frowned, recalling the scars she’d seen on Deverill’s bare chest. She had glimpsed even worse ones on his back. “Is that how you acquired your scars? Battling pirates?”

  In the gleam of lamplight, she could see his expression darken. “Some of them,” he answered finally.

  Regretting that she’d evidently struck a nerve of his, she shook herself from her self-pity and contrived a light reply. “Well, it is still more exciting than any pursuits allowed a lady.” Her gaze turned speculative. “I don’t suppose you would consider taking me with you on your next voyage?”

  His eyebrow shot up, as if not quite believing her question.

  “Surely you don’t hold superstitious objections about permitting females on board your ships, Mr. Deverill?” Antonia asked, her tone teasing.

  Deverill answered in kind, humor lacing his voice. “I might not object, but your father would be devastated to lose you.”

  “Alas, that is true.”

  “He has very definite plans for your future.”

  Reminded of her father’s dreams, Antonia nodded. “Papa wants what he thinks is best for me. He won’t be content until I marry into the nobility.”

  “The nobility is not all it’s purported to be, either,” Deverill said, his tone dry.

  “Yet for someone of my social station, a noble marriage would be a high achievement. And most young ladies in my situation marry for convenience. Few heiresses ever make a love match or experience a grand passion. And it will make my father extremely happy.”

  When Deverill’s mouth curled slightly at the corner, Antonia regarded him curiously. “I gather filial obedience is not a virtue with you?”

  He flashed her a grin. “In your case, I’m sure it’s admirable, but my soul shrivels at the prospect of wedding to please my father.”

  Her lips pursed in speculation. “No, somehow I cannot imagine you tamely making a marriage of convenience at your father’s behest.”

  His chuckle was rich. “That is beyond the realm of imagination. In any event, I am quite satisfied with my life and have no plans to settle down. My lifestyle doesn’t lend itself to marriage.”

  “Because you are always wandering the globe.”

  “In part.”

  Turning back, Antonia fitted another arrow to the bowstring. “I still wish I could accompany you. It would be gratifying to have just one small adventure before I settle down to a tame existence.” She released the arrow, grimacing when it went wide of the target. “Just once I would like to do something a bit wild and daring. I have never done anything wicked or scandalous or shocking in my entire life.”

  “And just what would you consider wicked or shocking, Miss Maitland?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. . . .” She paused, then stilled, suddenly feeling reckless. “Yes, I do know.” She slanted Deverill a glance. “A kiss would be satisfactorily wicked.”

  “A kiss?”

  Antonia turned fully to face him. “Would you show me what it is like to be kissed? I have never been kissed before, Mr. Deverill, and my best friend, Emily, teases me unmercifully about it. Emily is not fast, but she had a kiss a full year ago from a gentleman who was a friend of her brother’s. And I admit, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be kissed by a dashing adventurer. This could be my only chance. The Baldwin Academy is very strict, never allowing us to associate with anyone the least bit disreputable. And I am not likely to encounter many men like you once I put up my hair and enter society.”

  She had surprised him, Antonia could tell. He was regarding her with wariness, amusement, perhaps even a glint of admiration for her boldness.

  “Besides,” she continued her argument, “I might as well hang for a sheep as a lamb, as the saying goes. This afternoon I violated the rules of propriety with a vengeance by seeing you unclothed. A kiss won’t be nearly as scandalous. Please, won’t you satisfy my curiosity?”

  “You are actually serious,” he said finally.

  “Quite serious. And truly, there is no risk that you will compromise me. And even if you did, there would be no dire consequences. Papa wouldn’t force you to make amends by marrying me, since you have no title. Are you afraid, Mr. Deverill?” she asked when he still hesitated.

  She could tell her dare had sparked an answering fire in him; his dark eyelashes lowered to hood his eyes as he appraised her. “You like to live danger
ously, don’t you, Miss Maitland?”

  Antonia laughed. “I probably would, if I ever allowed myself. But I would never go beyond the bounds of true propriety.”

  Deverill’s gaze dropped to her bow and arrow. “I make it a point never to kiss an armed female. Put down your bow and come here.”

  Her heartbeat quickened when she realized he intended to comply with her request, even against his better judgment.

  Doing as he bid, she stepped closer.

  With one finger, he tilted her chin up. Antonia held her breath as Deverill bent his head to place a gentle kiss on her lips, the lightest brushing of flesh against flesh.

  His lips were warm and soft and created a delicious tingle on hers. . . . But the chaste caress was over all too soon.

  Drawing back, Antonia frowned. As kisses went, it had been far too delicate for so bold a man. “That was . . . disappointing. Can you not do better?”

  Laughter lit his eyes at her deliberate challenge. “If you insist.”

  This time he drew her into his arms, flush against his tall, sinewed body. She barely had time to register the delightful shock of it before he lowered his head to bring his mouth fully into slanting contact with hers.

  The pressure this time was hard and scaldingly hot, and she felt the sensation like a burning brand. Then he slid his tongue deep into her mouth, making her heart leap and her senses explode.

  His tongue slowly swept and plunged while his lips plundered. Antonia whimpered as a riot of fiery sensations thrummed through her body. Every part of her flared with heat.

  His stunning kiss went on for some time, heightening the fierce, trembling ache burgeoning inside her. Helplessly, she reached up to clutch Deverill’s powerful shoulders for support. When he finally drew his mouth away, her limbs were so weak, she could barely stand.

  Still clinging to him, Antonia opened her eyes to stare at him, dazed by the hungry yearning he had aroused in her so effortlessly.

  When at last she spoke, her voice was as unsteady as her limbs felt. “That was . . . magnificent.”

  His beautiful mouth curved in a very male smile as he gently released her and stepped back. “I am flattered you think so.”

  Shakily, she brought her fingers to her burning lips. “Thank you, Mr. Deverill. I will never forget that.”

  “It was my pleasure. Now I had best leave you to your shooting before your father finds us together and puts those arrows to better use.”

  Antonia stood motionless as she watched his tall, powerful form fade into the shadows. Her head still swam, her body still burned.

  She had never felt such intense sensations in her life. Worse, Deverill’s kiss had sparked a yearning deep inside her that made her long for even more of the exciting passion he had barely let her glimpse.

  Her fingertips brushed over her swollen lips. She would never tell anyone about his kiss, not even her dearest friend, Emily. She didn’t want to share the

  experience. She wanted to hold it to herself, to treasure it.

  Antonia shut her eyes, suddenly filled with regret. Perhaps it had been a mistake to ask him to kiss her, for now that she knew what she was missing, she would find it even harder to remain satisfied with her tame existence.

  Yet one thing was certain. She would never, ever forget Trey Deverill as long as she lived.

  One

  London, June 1815

  She didn’t look much like a damsel in distress, Deverill decided, watching Antonia Maitland across the crowded ballroom. Nothing like a young lady who needed his protection, her life endangered by a murderer. The potential victim of the very man she was privately engaged to wed.

  Instead, she seemed in her element at the glittering ball, gowned in an exquisite confection—pearl gray gauze shot with silver—that must have cost a fortune. Of course, as one of England’s greatest heiresses, Miss Antonia Maitland could well afford to patronize the most fashionable modistes.

  Yet the gown, while splendid, deserved only partial credit for her enchanting looks. Antonia positively glowed in the light of myriad candles burning in the crystal chandeliers overhead.

  Deverill’s eyes narrowed at the unexpected lust that shot though him. Physically she little resembled the gangly, self-conscious girl he had met four years ago. She was as tall as he remembered, but her figure had ripened to slender, womanly curves, and she carried herself now with an elegance, a graceful self-assurance, that had only been hinted at then.

  He would never forget their first meeting—her endearing embarrassment at catching him in the nude—and then later that evening, her bold, completely unexpected request for a kiss.

  At the time he’d thought Antonia utterly unique. Despite the advantages of wealth and luxury, she had fretted at the strictures society placed on young ladies, wishing she’d been born male so that she could control her father’s shipping empire and sail the world in search of adventure.

  Her ambition was the only masculine thing about her, Deverill reflected, riveted by her brilliant smile. Certainly her appearance was purely feminine. Her coppery mane was darker now, a glorious deep auburn. That and her creamy white skin gave her a

  vibrancy that roused all his primal male instincts.

  She was a beauty, no doubt about it. And reportedly her hand was sought by numerous gentlemen, despite her late father’s low birth and breeding.

  This morning, Mrs. Peeke, the Maitland housekeeper and a longtime friend of Deverill’s, had proudly summed up her mistress’s success: Antonia was genuinely popular with London’s fashionable set, accepted in society by virtue of her own lively charm and her claim to genteel blood on her mother’s side. And naturally, her vast inheritance.

  At present, she was surrounded by a flock of her ardent admirers, including her betrothed, the refined, aristocratic Baron Heward.

  Her betrothal was the prime reason Deverill was here in England. He’d returned to London after more than a year’s absence, summoned by the housekeeper’s fearful letter, imputing that Antonia was in danger. Samuel Maitland had died last year, supposedly of heart failure, yet Mrs. Peeke suspected differently—that he’d actually been poisoned by Lord Heward after a violent argument when Maitland had withdrawn his permission for the baron to wed his daughter.

  Deverill’s promise to investigate had brought him to this ball this evening in search of Antonia. He planned to renew the acquaintance and question her about her betrothal before deciding how to proceed.

  It was not much of a secret that she and Lord Heward had a private understanding. They’d been betrothed only days before her father’s death, but at Antonia’s insistence had put off any formal declaration for a proper year of mourning. According to the housekeeper, the official announcement of their betrothal would be made public next month at a betrothal ball, with the wedding to take place three weeks later, after the banns were called. Once they were wed, Mrs. Peeke feared, Heward would control Antonia’s fortune, so what was to stop him from murdering her as he might have murdered her father?

  This was Antonia’s first social function since coming out of mourning. Deverill watched as the baron led her out onto the ballroom floor for a cotillion.

  She seemed happy enough, laughing at something Lord Heward said. But then, the tall, flaxen-haired nobleman allegedly had the suave charm and patrician allure to win the heart of any susceptible young heiress.

  Deverill felt his jaw tighten. He had only a nodding acquaintance with Heward from their few encounters at gentlemen’s clubs, except for one occasion that had left an indelibly repellent impression—when he’d seen the baron viciously wield his cane on a beggar boy for the mere sin of daring to touch his elegant coat. That incident alone had roused an instinctive dislike of the man.

  Directly after meeting with Mrs. Peeke this morning, Deverill had visited his own shipping offices to discover what his people knew about Heward. What he’d ascertained was mainly hearsay but unsavory enough to warrant further investigation, and he planned to call on his dir
ector tonight after the ball to see which if any of the rumors could be substantiated.

  However, just because Heward was rumored to be avaricious and ruthless in his business dealings didn’t make him guilty of murder.

  He wouldn’t presume the nobleman guilty without proof, Deverill resolved, but he meant to discover if the housekeeper’s suspicions had merit. If so—if Samuel Maitland had indeed been poisoned by Heward—then he would bring his friend’s killer to justice. And he would make absolutely certain that his friend’s daughter didn’t become the baron’s next unwitting victim.

  Given the warmth of the ballroom, Antonia was glad when at the conclusion of the dance Lord Heward left her with her friend Emily and went off in search of refreshment for them both.

  “Isn’t it famous—my first ball is a perfect crush,” Emily declared, surveying the crowd with delight.

  Mustering proper enthusiasm, Antonia agreed. “A decided triumph, just as I predicted.”

  “I am so glad that you could be here to enjoy it.”

  Emily, now the Countess of Sudbury after her estimable marriage last fall, had been planning her ball for months but had waited so that Antonia could attend after she put off full mourning.

  Additionally, her success had been aided by world events. London ordinarily would be thin of company this time of year, for once Parliament adjourned, a significant portion of the Quality normally retired to their country estates for the summer. But the news last week of the Duke of Wellington’s miraculous and bloody victory at Waterloo, which had finally defeated Napoleon Bonaparte once and for all, had brought the ton flocking back to town for the jubilant celebrations.

  “Now if only Prinny would make an appearance,” Emily said hopefully, “my success would be assured. But I suppose that is asking too much. . . .”

  Her voice trailed off as a sudden buzz of excited whispers rippled through the throng of guests during a lull in the orchestra music. Like Emily, Antonia glanced toward the entrance doors, wondering if the Prince Regent had arrived after all.

  Then the crowd parted slightly, and she caught sight of the tall, powerful figure of a man moving toward them. Antonia’s pulse gave an unmistakable leap as she recognized the daring adventurer who had featured so prominently in her dreams more often than she cared to count during the past four years. Blood suddenly began pounding in her ears, making her light-headed.