Guilty Series

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  He patted her arm. “Of course not. I shall leave you to a nice, long visit and adjourn to the study.” He turned to the man by the door. “Join me, Sir Ian?”

  “My pleasure.” Ian glanced at Lucia. “We cannot stay long.”

  She nodded, and the two men left the room, closing the door behind them.

  Francesca led her to the settee. “I heard that you might be engaged to Lord Haye?”

  “Ugh!” Lucia flung off her cloak and tossed it onto a nearby chair, then she kicked off her slippers and curled up on one end of the settee. “No, I am not engaged to Haye. It was all a misunderstanding.”

  She explained the circumstances.

  “Soiled goods?” her mother cried when she had finished. “My daughter? That is an outrage! I should like to walk up to Lord Haye and slap him for such an insult. I might do it!”

  “No, no, there is no need for that. I do not love him, so it does not matter.”

  “Still—” Francesca broke off and made a sound of contempt that sounded rather like a cat sneezing. “If that is how he thinks, it is no surprise he kisses like a fish.”

  “It does explain it,” Lucia agreed. “I feel as if I have had a most fortunate escape. Still, Cesare comes in less than three weeks. What am I to do?”

  “Since Haye is not a possibility, what of the other gentlemen I have been hearing about? This Lord Montrose, for instance, who gave Sir Ian the black eye. What of him?”

  She shook her head decisively. “No. Not Montrose.”

  “Perhaps you should kiss him,” Francesca teased, “before you make up your mind.”

  “Mamma!” she said in exasperation. “You are not helping!”

  “You are right. I am sorry.” Chastened, Francesca tried to be serious. “What of Walford?”

  Lucia stared at her, horrified.

  “Good,” Francesca said, noting her expression with a nod. “I’m glad your heart does not lean in his direction, for he is rather a fool. You would never be happy with Lord Walford.”

  “I quite agree with you, Mamma. I don’t even have enough interest in Walford to want to kiss him.”

  Francesca nodded in understanding. “A man’s kiss is very important. You will always be able to tell by a man’s kiss how you feel about him.”

  “Do you think so?” Lucia sat up a little straighter on the settee, struck by those words. “Is a kiss enough to know?”

  “You kissed Haye, and you were certain that he was not right. With Armand, you kissed him, and you fell in love. It seems to always be so with you.”

  “Yes, but I was wrong about Armand. I loved him, and he broke my heart. He did not love me, Mamma.”

  “Stupid man! He had no sense.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Just be sure you only kiss men with good sense, and all will be well.”

  She looked at her mother’s smiling face, and she couldn’t help laughing. “Oh, Mamma, you are impossible! I want advice!”

  “But what is it you want me to say?” Francesca leaned forward and patted her hand. “Lucia, I am not like most women. Although I know what it is like to be in love with a man, having a man’s love and giving him mine for a lifetime has never mattered much to me. I have always seen romantic love as a transient thing, here today and gone tomorrow.”

  “Love does not last.” Lucia’s spirits began sinking. “Is that what you are trying to tell me?”

  “I am saying that is how I feel about it. But then, I am perhaps too cynical. Too hard.”

  “Mamma, you are not hard at all! I think you are wonderful, and if Chesterfield had any brains, he would marry you.”

  “He has offered many times. I have refused.”

  “But why?”

  “Oh, my darling!” Francesca lifted her hand to Lucia’s face and caressed her cheek. “You are so different from me.”

  “In what way?”

  “You have such an enormous capacity for love. It astonishes me. It always has. When the right man comes, you will be able to throw all of yourself into loving him—your body, your heart, your soul.”

  “Of course.” She stared at her mother, still not comprehending. “What other way is there?”

  Francesca smiled a little, but it was a sad smile. “I envy you, Lucia. I loved one man, and that was all there was for me. Now, my body is the only part of myself I can truly give away to a man. That, and a bit of my affection. The rest, I hold back from him. I do not know why, but that is how I am. It is what I have become. It is what a courtesan must be.”

  Lucia did not know what to say. She had never thought of her mother in this light before. She said the only thing she could think of. “I love you, Mamma.”

  “I love you, too, my beautiful girl. More than I can say.” She leaned back against the arm of the settee. “So it is advice you want of your mamma? Very well. As I said before, you need to fall in love with a man of good sense, enough good sense to love you in return.”

  “In three weeks? I am beginning to think it is impossible.”

  “Ask Sir Ian to persuade your father to give you more time.”

  “He offered to do so, but he did not think Cesare would consent. I am afraid he is right.”

  “Sir Ian offered to go to your father on your behalf?” She clapped her hands together with a laugh. “So you have succeeded in charming him, just as I suggested.”

  Lucia gave her a rueful look. “Most of the time, Mamma, he does not even like me.”

  “Nonsense. He brought you here in defiance of Cesare’s orders, did he not?”

  “Only because I got your present, and I missed you so much I started crying. He felt sorry for me.”

  “Men never do things for women because they feel sorry for us. Never. No, you have succeeded in charming him.”

  “He didn’t seem very charmed after he got that black eye the other night,” Lucia said and began to laugh. “Oh, he was so angry with me! If dragons were real, Mamma, that man would be one, for when he is angry, his eyes flash like dragon fire. It is extraordinary.”

  “Like a dragon, is he?” Her mother sounded amused.

  Lucia scarcely noticed. She leaned forward on the settee. “Mamma, do you really think a kiss tells a woman what she needs to know?”

  “I think it tells you what you need to know, Lucia. It is not so for all women, but for you, I think, yes.”

  “But—” Lucia bit her lip, wavering, uncertain. She wanted Ian’s kiss more than she’d wanted anything in her life. On the other hand, she now had his good opinion and she didn’t want to lose it. If she kissed him, it would confirm his original assessment of her as a flirt and a tease.

  Her mind flitted back briefly over other men she had kissed. Some had been like Haye, a true disappointment. Some had inspired in her a sort of mild interest, but nothing more.

  Then she had met Armand. She thought of him and their nights together in the dark. So lonely she had been then, and he had been the antidote. They had talked and laughed and held hands. There had been anticipation and secret plans and the ache of longing. There had been kisses, many sweet kisses. He had always wanted more. He had wanted to touch her in forbidden places, and she had always stopped him. He had wanted her to lie down with him in the grass. She never had. As much as she had loved him, never had she lost her head, never had she lost control. Always, she had held back, waiting for the declaration of love, waiting for the marriage proposal. Neither had ever come. Armand had wanted her, but he had not loved her.

  She looked over at her mother, who was watching her with a little smile. “A kiss can never tell a woman how a man feels, can it, Mamma?”

  Francesca’s smile faded. “I’m afraid not, my darling. That is where a woman takes a leap of faith.”

  “I took that leap of faith with Armand, and I got a broken heart.”

  “But you still have utter faith in love. You want to love again, and you will.” She paused, then said, “Perhaps that is the difference between us, Lucia. When I took that leap of
faith as a girl, I ended up both ruined and devastated, and I could never find the courage to love again. You will find the courage. You are made that way.”

  The sound of the door opening interrupted her, and Ian walked in. He paused just inside the door, and Chesterfield stepped past him into the room.

  “Forgive me.” Ian looked at Lucia and donned his hat. “We must be going.”

  She did not try to argue, for she knew he had risked a great deal just to bring her here. She got to her feet, put on her slippers, and slipped her cloak around her shoulders. Then she took a deep breath and looked at her mother. “Another good-bye, Mamma.”

  “But there is always another hello, Lucia. Remember that, and do not be sad.”

  “I will try,” she promised, kissed Francesca, and said farewell to Chesterfield. Ian beside her, she left the house without a backward glance. After assisting her to step into the carriage, Ian gave the driver instructions to return to Portman Square and followed her into the vehicle.

  “Did you enjoy your visit with your mother?” he asked, settling himself in one corner of the carriage opposite her.

  “Yes, I did.” She pushed back the hood of her cloak and looked at him, but the carriage was so dark, she could not see him. “I know what it cost you to bring me here, and I—” She stopped, her heart so full of gratitude that she found it hard to speak. “Thank you. It was a wonderful birthday present.”

  “I am glad you enjoyed it.”

  She heard him rap his fist on the ceiling to tell the driver they were ready to leave. The carriage jerked into motion.

  Lucia stared at the corner where he sat, wishing she could see him. Moonlight fell through an opening in the curtains of the window behind him, and though that slash of silver light illuminated part of her side of the coach, it left his side in darkness. She could make out his cravat, a ghostly glimmer of grayish-white, but that was all. She could not see his face, but even had she been able to discern his expression, it would have told her nothing. It never did. His eyes could sometimes tell her things, but in the darkness of the coach, she could not see them.

  Never had she met a man like him. His unyielding sense of propriety baffled her. His control and his discipline fascinated her. His laughter enchanted her. His kiss delighted her. He was an intriguing, enigmatic mystery, and she wanted to understand him.

  “There is something I want to know about you,” she said, “something I have wondered ever since that night we played chess. How did you get the scar? And how did you break your nose? You must have been in a fight.”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “I lost my temper.” He stirred in his seat. “I don’t really like to talk about it.”

  “I understand. Because you are so controlled, so disciplined, you do not want to talk about the times when you are not.”

  “Yes.”

  She waited, not saying anything more, and her silence seemed to impel him to explain. “It was at Harrow. There was a fellow ragging me about my brother, and when he made a derogatory comment about Dylan’s music, I just snapped. I went after him. He broke my nose, yes, and the ring on his hand gave me the scar, but I did far worse to him.” He drew a deep breath. “I broke his jaw and three of his ribs before I was able to stop myself and walk away.”

  “Your own anger alarms you, does it not, when it flares up?”

  “Yes.” His mouth tightened for a moment. “It does.”

  “It should not. Because you did stop and walk away. That makes all the difference.” She studied him for a moment. “The other night in your brother’s house when I saw you so angry, I was very impressed. And when you threw the glass at the fireplace, that, too, impressed me.”

  “I cannot think why.”

  “It made me realize how much passion you have in you.” She paused, then she slid forward until she was perched on the edge of her seat. Her knees brushed his leg, and he jerked as if she’d burned him. “Besides anger, what other passions do you possess, Englishman?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Sensing her way in the dark, she leaned over his body. Half-crouching, she flattened her palm on the carriage seat beside his hip, bracing her weight on her arm. With her free hand, she pulled off his hat.

  “Lucia, what are you doing?”

  What she was doing was playing with fire. Dragon fire. She knew it, she couldn’t help it. He drew her to him like a moth to flame, and she was determined to find out why. She was going to kiss him again, and she hoped that kiss would unlock the mystery of this enigmatic man and why he fascinated her so.

  She tossed his hat over her shoulder, then she raked her hand through his hair. It was like silk in her fingers.

  “Lucia, stop it.”

  “You are always so perfect, and it always makes me want to muss you up,” she murmured. “If I had my way, I would drag you into a pond and rub mud all over you.”

  He made a smothered sound. The first crack, perhaps, in the wall of his discipline.

  Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness, and she could see his face now. Lean, chiseled lines in the dim light, so implacable and hard he might have been a statue. The scar above his brow was a fine, white line. She touched her lips to it.

  He closed his eyes and drew a sharp breath, but he did not move. She placed her free hand on his chest, feeling the wall of his muscles through the layers of his clothing. Excitement flooded through her. She lowered her head and kissed the scar on his chin, then the not-so-perfect line of his nose. Then she pressed her lips to one corner of his mouth.

  “What is this?” His voice was harsh, his body unmoving beneath her. “Another of your kissing experiments?”

  “Yes,” she answered in a whisper. Her lips lightly brushed his cheek as she spoke. He needed to shave, she realized, for his skin was like sandpaper. “I want another kissing experiment with you, Englishman.”

  “God knows, you always do what you want.”

  “And you always do what is right.” She kissed his ear and felt a tremor run through his body. Another crack. “This feels very right to me, Ian.”

  “Lucia, for God’s sake—”

  She trailed kisses back down his cheek, savoring the rough texture. She tilted her head and pressed one last kiss to the opposite corner of his mouth, then she drew back.

  Her lips a few inches from his, she waited, hovering, hoping, knowing she had made her move. It was his turn now.

  He remained utterly still.

  Lucia continued to wait, so close to him that her breathing mingled with his. One second went by, then two. Three.

  Uncertainty began to claw at her, blending with her excitement until she couldn’t separate them. Never had a man done this to her, never had a man made her take the initiative, never had a man made her work like this. Wait like this. Always it had been the other way. Men wooed her, pleased her, waited for her, tried to kiss her. But Ian was not like any other man.

  Kiss me.

  Still she waited, but he did not move.

  Disappointment pierced her. The wall was intact. There was nothing that would breach it. Lucia moved to withdraw.

  Suddenly, he made a rough sound and his hands gripped her arms. He shoved her backward, and his body came over hers, his weight pinning her helplessly to the seat. He captured her mouth with his.

  The kiss was hard, almost violent, bruising her lips. It shocked her. But she was not afraid. Her mouth opened beneath his with a wordless sound of accord.

  He tasted deeply of her, his tongue in her mouth, his kiss driving all the air from her lungs. Never before had she been kissed this way. It was raw and powerful, dizzying and glorious, beyond his control or hers.

  She slid one hand into his hair, and with the other, she caressed the back of his neck. She bent her knee, and her inner thigh brushed his hip.

  He tore his mouth from hers long enough to mutter an oath under his breath, then he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again, gentler this tim
e, tasting her mouth in a soft, slow, drugging possession that spread aching warmth through her limbs.

  Shoving aside the edge of her cloak, he pressed kisses along the column of her throat and across her collarbone, his breath hot on her skin. His body rocked against hers, and even through all the layers of clothing, she felt his hard shaft pressed against her. She moved her hips in a slow wriggle and felt him shudder in response. “Oh God,” he whispered. “Oh, God.”

  He moved, sliding his body downward along hers. He spread his palm over her breast, shaping it through her clothing. She cupped his head, pulling him closer, wanting more, and he gave it, kissing the top of her other breast above the neckline of her gown. The warmth inside of her began to burn hotter, and she writhed beneath him. The movement tore a groan from his throat.

  “You’re killing me,” he told her, panting, his palms sliding down over her ribs to explore the rest of her shape—her waist, her hips, her thighs. “Killing me by inches.” He lifted his body from hers enough to yank up her skirt. “But it’s a damn fine way for a man to die.”

  Then she felt his hand move beneath her petticoats for further explorations, sliding up her leg, across her hipbone to the apex of her thighs. A vestige of feminine sanity returned, and Lucia reached for his wrist through layers of fabric.

  “I want to touch you,” he said. His hand spread over her most intimate place, while she kept her hand locked around his wrist. “Just let me touch you.”

  Other men had said such words, and never had she yielded. Always she had decided when and how to stop.

  He eased his hand between her thighs. “Lucia.”

  Her name was a rasp torn from his lips, and the agonized sound of it conquered her in an instant. She released his wrist and let her hand fall away in complete surrender. She would give this man everything she had, including her heart, if he wanted it. “Love me, Ian,” she whispered. “Love me.”

  He cupped her mound, and the pleasure was so intense that she jerked in response. “Oh!” she cried out, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face against his neck. She felt her whole body must be blushing from the hot, shameful excitement of it. “Oh!”