Guilty Series

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  After a moment, she did, opening them with a wordless sound, and shards of pleasure fissured his body, threatening to break apart his control in an instant. He slid his hand to the back of her head, and her hair felt like silk against his palm as he deepened the kiss, exploring the softness of her lips, the hard line of her teeth, her sweet taste.

  As he kissed her, he moved his free hand down, grazing her with his fingertips in a light exploration along her throat, over her collarbone, and between her breasts. She had gained some weight during the three weeks she had lived in his home, he noticed as he continued down along her ribs to her waist, and he was glad of it.

  He curved his palm over her hip and felt her body tense. He stopped, leaving his hand there, waiting. She did not push it away. He took advantage of that tacit agreement, curling his hand beneath her thigh. She stirred in his arms and turned her face away with a little gasp, breaking the kiss. An inarticulate sound came from her throat.

  Was that a no? He decided it wasn’t. He slid his hand down her thigh and eased his other arm around her shoulders again. He ran his lips along her cheek, then kissed the velvety skin of her ear and caressed the back of her knee through her dress.

  Her breath was coming faster now, and he could feel fluttering shivers in her body, but she would not touch him, and that restraint was more erotic than he could have imagined. He lifted her legs across his own and eased her down until her head rested against the arm of the settee. He leaned over her and nuzzled her ear as he slid his hand back up her body to her breast. He embraced the shape of it, small and perfect in his hand. He could not feel her nipple against his palm through her clothing, but he could imagine it, and that alone was enough to inflame him. He made a rough sound, a groan in his throat smothered against her ear as he shaped her breast against his hand.

  She touched the side of his neck, a light, tentative move, and the lust inside him ignited like brandy on fire. “Grace,” he groaned, his hand reaching for the button of her lace collar. “Grace, you are so lovely. So sweet.”

  The button came free, and her hand curled over his wrist as the lace fell away.

  Don’t say it, for God’s sake. His body was heavy, aching for her. Not now, not yet. Her fingers still curved around his hand as he unfastened the top button of her dress at her clavicle. “Let me do this,” he murmured against her ear. The button came free and he moved to the next one. “Just let me love you.”

  She froze in his embrace, as if he had just thrown icy water over her. “Love, love!” she cried, and before he could gather his wits, she pressed her palms to his shoulders and pushed at him, succeeding just enough to roll off the settee and onto the floor. Scrambling to her feet, she was out of his reach before he could even begin to come to his senses.

  Dylan sat up, his body thick with desire, his mind unable to quite comprehend her sudden withdrawal.

  “How lightly you talk of love!” She was still panting, but there was no soft warmth in her now. Those green eyes were as cold as any arctic glacier could be. “You do not even know what love is.”

  He forced his body out of chaos and into some semblance of control. He leaned back against the settee, and he did not care that his erection was flagrantly obvious through his tight trousers. “You know far more about love than I, of course.”

  “Yes, I think I do.” She looked above his head, as if she could see through the velvet draperies and past the darkness outside. She went somewhere else, somewhere he could not follow her, somewhere that made her face soften in the fire’s glow with a wistful sort of tenderness he had never seen before. He hated that look because it wasn’t for him.

  He stood up. “Forgive me. I did not know you had buried your heart along with your husband.”

  “What do you know of my heart!” she demanded. “I loved my husband, loved him in a way you could not possibly understand. You do not know what it feels like to love another more than yourself. I doubt you know what love really is or what it means.”

  He stood up, his body burning, anger growing hotter as desire grew cooler. “Now it is you who presumes to know what is in another’s heart. I was in love once, Grace, as hard as that may be for you to believe.”

  There was a heaviness in his chest, a weight that made it hard for him to breathe. “I had been in love with the same girl since I was seven years old, a girl who was all the things I have never been, the only girl I ever wanted. I was twenty-one the summer after Cambridge when I came home and asked her to marry me. But I was the wild, younger son of the squire, marked with the tar brush even then. It was quite understandable, everyone thought, when she refused me. Over a decade has passed since then, and my romantic illusions about what love is may be gone, but I remember with painful clarity how it felt—every glorious, shining, agonizing moment of it.”

  Dylan took a deep breath, feeling as if he were sinking in quicksand, smothering in memories of a pretty, auburn-haired girl, a village green, kisses stolen and a proposal offered in the shadows of horse chestnut trees on a warm summer night. “Her name was Michaela Gordon. Yes,” he added as her eyes widened in surprise, “the vicar’s daughter.”

  He gave Grace a grin of self-mockery. “Shameless libertine that I have become, it seems I still possess a special weakness for virtuous women. What would people say?”

  He bowed, then walked away, slamming the door of the library behind him. There was no satisfaction in the loud, resounding bang.

  Chapter 10

  Sponsored by Whig families, Brooks’s was the club of liberals, particularly the Devonshire set, but it was not really a club for those interested in politics. In truth, it was a club for radicals, artists, and heavy gamblers. The perfect club for Dylan.

  He wasn’t here for any of those reasons now, however. He was looking for Hammond, who was also a member. The viscount was always in the mood for less-than-respectable amusements, and Dylan needed a great deal of amusement just now.

  The viscount’s butler had proved to be accurate about his master’s whereabouts, and Dylan found Hammond ensconced in a corner of Brooks’s with a pair of their wilder acquaintances, Lord Damon Hewitt and that bold young pup, Sir Robert Jamison. A perfect group for his purposes. After that scene in the library an hour before, he had forced his turbulent emotions under control, but it would not take much provocation for them to erupt again. He badly needed to let off steam. The pubs and taverns near Temple Bar sounded like an excellent start, and these three would be more than willing to participate in alcoholic excess, skirt-chasing, and making sport of anything or anyone they came across.

  Viscount Hammond was a long, lean, well-muscled fellow whose skill and quickness with a sword matched Dylan’s own skill. He had brown hair, brown eyes, and was at the moment sporting a short, precisely groomed goatee. Since it went against current fashion, Dylan approved.

  “Moore, you devil!” Hammond cried at the sight of him. “We were just talking of you.”

  The men were drinking port, a wine Dylan did not care for. He signaled to a waiter, who knew his drink of choice and nodded he would bring it. Dylan then sat down. “Talking of me, are you? What a dull subject.”

  “Exactly so!” Hammond cried. “I haven’t seen you at Angleo’s in ages.”

  “I’ve been working on a symphony. I’ve had little time for it.”

  “Make time, dear fellow. I have no decent swordsman with whom to spar.”

  “Spar?” Dylan countered. “I could slice you to ribbons any time I liked.”

  “You only wish,” Hammond said, laughing. “I trounced you last time we fenced.”

  “Only because I stepped on a loose capstone and fell off the wall.”

  The last time he had gone out for wild sport with Hammond, the two had sparred with swords on top of a stone wall by Regent’s Park, much to the fascination of the passersby. Like most of Dylan’s exploits, it had made the scandal sheets.

  “I am being serious about your absence, Moore,” Hammond said. “Nearly a month into the
season, and you’ve given the gossips nothing to talk about.”

  “Not a word of you in the society papers,” Sir Robert added. “None of your naughty limericks heard at dinner parties. Not one steeplechase through Hyde Park. No reports of you with triplets in a seraglio—”

  “Twins,” Dylan corrected. “And it was not in a bawdy-house, but a bathhouse. Bagnio, Sir Robert, not seraglio.”

  “Moore, you must admit that you have been a bit dull this season,” Lord Damon pointed out. “Not one scrape to your name. Is it not time for you to do something outrageous?”

  “Does tonight suit you?” Dylan asked as a waiter set a bottle of his favorite brandy and a glass on the table before him. “I am amenable to the most outrageous adventures you can dream of,” he went on, pouring out a generous measure of the liquor. “Particularly if it involves a pretty bawd or two.” And virtuous women could go to the devil, he thought, lifting his glass and swallowing the brandy in one draught.

  “So what shall we do, gentlemen?” Hammond asked. “Go slumming in Seven Dials, or perhaps Dylan and I should fence atop the rail on Westminster Bridge.”

  Dylan refilled his glass and opened his mouth to concur with both suggestions, but Sir Robert spoke before he could do so.

  “I say, there’s Sir George Plowright. Yesterday, Givens tried to break his record, but only lasted eight minutes. Plowright is still the pugilistic champion at Gentleman Jackson’s. Three years now, he’s had the title.”

  “Fencing requires far more skill than boxing,” Damon declared, earning himself toasts from both Hammond and Dylan.

  “I’m not good at either one,” Robert said gloomily.

  Dylan leaned over and gave him an affectionate swipe across the head. “You’re a young one,” he reminded him, “scarce two and twenty. Give yourself a few years, and you’ll surpass us all.”

  Sir George came swaggering by, his massive frame sheathed in a set of the gaudiest evening clothes imaginable. He was as well known for his colorful dress as he was for his boxing prowess.

  “I believe he has surpassed himself tonight,” Dylan commented, observing the subject of their conversation in the mirror on the wall behind Damon’s head as Sir George and his companion, Lord Burham, sat down nearby. “A pink waistcoat and a bright blue coat? Ye gods.”

  “Shame the devil,” Hammond said with a chuckle, “that a strutting peacock in pink-and-blue striped trousers and a pink waistcoat should weigh fifteen stone and be the undisputed champion of boxing in all Westminster.”

  “Bit of an irony, what?” Sir Robert added. “Anyone would think to look at him he favors the boys.”

  Dylan chuckled. “No, my young friend. There’s nothing so queer as that about Sir George. He has quite a different problem.”

  Robert glanced at Sir George, then back at the men seated with him, his eyes wide with curiosity. “What problem?”

  Lord Damon was the one who chose to explain. “The demireps say he’s a bit quick with his trigger,” he said, striving for a straight face. “He cannot seem to get his pistol in the correct position before he fires it.”

  Comprehension dawned in the younger man’s eyes, and he began to laugh. “Dash it, you’re having me on.”

  The others shook their heads, and all four men began to laugh at once, so heartily that the subject of their conversation raised his voice to be heard over them.

  “Burham, I say, it is a disgrace that Moore refuses to box. Can you imagine? I begin to think his reputation for daring is a great hoax.”

  Dylan met the other man’s gaze in the mirror and lifted his glass, smiling. He said nothing.

  “This is the man everyone thinks so brave.” Sir George waved a hand in Dylan’s direction, his voice becoming louder. “And why? Because he lives a degenerate life? Is that to be so admired?”

  “Have a care, Moore,” Sir Robert murmured. “He is baiting you on purpose. And in public, too.”

  Dylan took another swallow of brandy without taking his gaze from the beau in the mirror. “It’s understandable,” he assured the younger man. “Sir George and I are none too fond.”

  “The idiot challenged Moore at swords a few years ago,” Lord Damon explained. “Of course, he was slashed to pieces. He still hopes to have his revenge by persuading Moore to box.”

  “Or by having me ostracized from society,” Dylan added. “Preferably both.”

  “A life,” Sir George continued, his voice growing louder, “of ridiculous displays, grandiose gestures, and defiance of moral principles. Yet people tolerate it because he is said to be so gifted with music. Is that acceptable? I say no.”

  The room was silent now, tense and waiting. Still speaking as if to Burham, Sir George went on, “Moore’s life is of debauchery and excess, a contemptible mode in this Age of Reform.” He turned and looked around the whole room. “Is it a harmless thing to kiss young ladies at public balls? To live openly with actresses and keep company with prostitutes? I call it whoredom.”

  Dylan stiffened, his fingers curling around his glass, wondering if word had gotten out about Grace. And what of Isabel? He didn’t care about his own reputation, was rather proud of it, in fact. But if Dylan heard one disparaging word about either Grace or his daughter, he’d have Sir George’s head.

  He turned in his chair, putting on his most mocking smile. “Why Sir George, do you intend to become a clergyman, that you speak so?”

  “You appear to need an excess of feminine companionship, sir. You live in Cock Alley.”

  “How would you know?” Dylan countered at once. “From what I hear, you cannot manage to enter the gates, much less live there.”

  His words caused a ripple of shocked laughter to echo through the room. As if struck by a sudden thought, Dylan added, “To be so afflicted, yet have the name Plowright. Most unfortunate.”

  The laughter got louder, and Sir George’s face flushed dark red.

  “No need to look so distressed, dear fellow,” Dylan went on. “I have heard there are certain herbs one can take to assist one’s…er…endurance.”

  Sir George took a predictable step forward, then stopped, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

  Dylan saw the gesture, and stirred in his chair. He felt Hammond tug at his coat.

  “Moore,” he cautioned in a low voice, “this is piffle, not worth fighting about. Let it go.”

  Dylan didn’t want to let it go. He was spoiling for this, especially tonight, and so was Sir George. He looked over at Hammond. “I don’t believe I will,” he said pleasantly.

  The viscount placed his hands on the edge of the table and moved them as if playing piano. He shook his head.

  Dylan let out his breath in a hiss of exasperation. Hammond was being sensible for once. He turned once again to Sir George, and with regret, he began to disengage. “I fence, and you box, Sir George. We are both Corinthians of different sport and, like all men, we enjoy the company of women. Pray, do not make a row of it.”

  Sir George stepped closer to his table, tapping his ivory walking stick on the carpet in three thumps. “You call yourself a Corinthian? You are nothing of the kind. You refuse time and again to engage in the true sport of honorable gentlemen, no matter the provocation. I am offended by your claim to be among Corinthians when you lack the bravery to prove it. You are no gentleman, Moore. In fact, you are a coward.”

  That was enough for a duel, but he’d settle for a fight. Dylan slammed his glass down, shoved back his chair, and rose. “By God, sir, you go too far!” he shouted as he faced Sir George. “I will not be called a coward by any man, especially not by a strutting pink peacock!”

  He started forward, as did his challenger, but cooler heads intervened. Hammond rose and wrapped his arms around Dylan’s shoulders to hold him back. Burham grabbed Sir George by the arm. They attempted to put a safer distance between the two men, but it was not going to work.

  Dylan shook off the restraining arms wrapped around his shoulders. “I will not suffer this in
sult, Hammond,” he said over his shoulder. “Plowright’s craved this fight for years. This time, he shall have his way. And by fisticuffs, too, if that is what he wants.”

  Sir George gave him a smile of triumph. “When and where?”

  “Moore!” Hammond caught his arm and turned him around. “Don’t be stupid. You haven’t boxed since Cambridge, and even then, never seriously. Think of your hands, man!”

  Dylan yanked away again. “Would you allow any man to publicly denounce you a coward?” He looked at Sir Robert and Lord Damon. “Would you?”

  None of them answered, and Dylan went on, “What is the record time with this pettifogging prick?”

  They still said nothing.

  He turned and glanced around. “Any man here,” he shouted out, “tell me what the record is for standing against Sir George Plowright in a match.”

  “Twenty-one minutes, four seconds without going down for the count,” someone shouted back to him.

  “Easily done.” Dylan looked at Sir George and gestured toward the doors. “Shall we?”

  The other man raised his eyebrows. “Now? In the street? How like you, Moore.”

  “The mews then, if the street will not suit your refined sensibilities. I’ll not stand with this insufferable accusation against me one moment longer. What’s the matter, Sir George?” he added as the other man hesitated. “Are you afraid your pretty ruffled shirt will get a bit of horse dung on it?”

  “Now it is, then. In the mews.” Sir George bowed and walked away.

  “I shall mark the lines,” Burham said with a sigh and turned to follow his companion out of the club.

  The moment they were gone, the silence ceased, and talk began to buzz all around the room. Odds were laid and bets were made. Brooks’s was the club of deep gamblers, after all.

  “Moore, don’t do this,” Lord Damon advised. “You could damage your hands.”

  Dylan did not reply. He shrugged out of his coat and began to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. He’d only come out for diversion, but this was far more than that. It was a matter of honor. Besides, his blood was surging through his body like thunder rolling, and he wanted the storm to break. He didn’t mind breaking it over Sir George Plowright’s head. He tore off his gray-and-black jacquard waistcoat and his cravat, then unbuttoned his shirt as his friends continued their attempts to talk him out of this course.