“Face for it!” she exclaimed.
“Plain and unremarkable. Nondescript in a crowd and just innocent enough to fool justice.”
Her lips fell apart and he watched a little cloud of breath disperse around her mouth.
“As long as you don’t try to pick my pockets, I’ll resist my rapacious urges, madam,” he added dryly.
“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Snatching her arm away from his grip, she marched forward, leaving him to follow with the umbrella, like a servant.
He ran around her to hold the carriage door open, noting a very shapely ankle as she stepped inside. He followed, closing the umbrella and shaking it, before he pulled the door shut.
“Where to?” He paused, giving her a sinister smirk. “Should I decide not to keep you my captive, of course, and inflict the unspeakable upon you.”
“Lambeth, I suppose,” she exhaled in a huff. “Park Hill, for heaven’s sake.”
Marcus was amused, and he was rarely amused by women. He leaned out, repeating the address to his coachman, word for word, in the same peevish tone. Then they were off, the great wheels trundling to life again.
It was lighter now, rosy dawn chasing away the shadows, but some street lamps were still lit, and as the carriage traveled onward, amber flares occasionally brightened the interior. Her eyes, a very rich, warm shade of hazel, studied him thoughtfully through the swaying stripes of light.
“Thank you,” she muttered.
He said nothing, uncomfortable with gratitude, which was why he never let himself be caught doing anything gallant.
Damned woman was probably getting his leather seat damp with rainwater and mud. It would leave a stain. Women and children always left stains on things.
They rode on in silence while he struggled for something to say. He had to tread carefully. Marcus Craven had a limited list of suitable topics for proper conversation, and he was unaccustomed to any effort this early in the morning. He was more of a nocturnal creature, especially in the chilly months of winter.
“You ought to carry an umbrella,” he managed, the words squeezed out, hands splayed over his knees.
A comely shade of pink colored her cheeks under the mud-spatters. “Really? Do you think so? What an amazingly insightful suggestion.”
“Just a thought,” he said evenly.
She shook her head, a quick, dismissive motion, and returned her gaze to the window. Upon entering his carriage, she’d unknotted her damp scarf and left it hanging loose. The top few buttons of her coat were undone, revealing a slender throat and an inverted triangle of smooth, creamy skin. He could see every swallow traverse her elegant neck, every slight swell of her breath as she recovered it after her near accident. Marcus had seen a great many women in his day, and several in a far greater state of undress, to put it mildly, but the sight of that little bit of skin exposed seemed to raise the temperature of the carriage interior by several degrees.
Stretching his legs, he brushed his foot against hers.
Her face, although masquerading as plain, could not hide a certain impish quality. There was a devious spark in her eye, a slight, wry twist to her lips. And that wasn’t another smudge of dirt on her cheek, it was a dimple, formed as her mouth tightened.
In his experience, women who squeezed their lips shut were doubly dangerous because you didn’t know what they were thinking, or from which direction an attack might come. Most of the time, the women he knew were only too happy to open their mouths. Indeed, they were rarely closed. He knew women who could chatter away for an hour about subjects that made no sense to him. Once, he had even fallen asleep in the company of a lady who was entertaining herself with a story about her recent trip to a milliners. When he woke, she still hadn’t gotten to the part where she actually purchased a hat. But, at least while they were talking, one knew where they were and that their minds were not engaged in any sly plotting.
The quiet ones were always the most trouble.
She didn’t move her leg away, as any other properly raised woman would.
Marcus glanced again at the triangle of bare skin. Below it, the next coat button, one of the few that remained in its proper hole, was pulled so tight across her bosom he was surprised it didn’t pop free and hit him in the eye. The anticipation was almost more than he could take at that hour of the morning, so he returned his attention to practical matters.
“You shouldn’t be out walking alone.”
“I’ve been walking quite capably since the age of two. If the Good Lord meant for me never to go out alone, why did he give me my own pair of feet?”
“He didn’t mean for you to walk out alone at this hour, I’m sure.” He moved his foot again. Her knees were clenched together, his legs straddling her muddied boots.
As they rattled along, her gaze remained pinned to the window. “I keep odd hours.”
Marcus didn’t like her avoiding eye contact, trying to hide from him. Cunning creature. He’d recognized her almost as soon as he saw her face in the lamplight, but decided to play with his mouse before he pounced.
“What are you staring at?” she demanded, still looking away from him.
He squinted. “There are, in total, five buttons missing from your coat. You ought to have it mended or you’ll catch cold. And your heels are worn down considerably, which might have caused you to trip on the curb.”
Now he had her. Those hazel eyes stung him with hot sparks.
“A visit to the cobbler is apparently overdue,” he continued, “and will save you from a twisted ankle, or worse.”
She scowled.
“One can never be too careful,” he added.
Her scowl deepened.
“No need to thank me for the advice. I’m always eager to help young ladies.”
Her lips curved into a wide, dangerous smile. “Are you done?”
Marcus gave her another meticulous appraisal, before pronouncing solemnly, “I see nothing else amiss.”
“Come now, are you sure?” The smile held, even as she spoke. He knew it was supposed to warn him off. It didn’t. “Please,” she urged, “do go on.”
He cleared his throat. In for a penny, in for a pound. “There is small hole under the arm of your coat, which a diligent maid should have noticed and mended. I suggest you speak to her about it. Such laxity could be symptomatic of a much larger problem, a lack of discipline, or pride in her work.”
Before the last words were out of his mouth, the smile snapped off her face. “Do you ride around all day and night looking for people to bore with your condescending, unsought advice?” Even though she was angry, she didn’t raise her voice. It was another pleasant change.
Struggling not to laugh, he leaned back in his seat. “You, madam, are not what you seem.”
If her eyes could fire poison-tipped arrows, he’d be a dead man, but her voice remained icily calm. “Unlike you. You look like a conceited ass, and you are one.”
His lips rolled inward, swallowing another chuckle. Her uneven buttons were a tremendous distraction, urging Marcus to put her back together again, re-button her coat, wipe all the mud from her cheek. There was a very definite sauciness in her full lips, a becoming fearlessness in her rich, autumnal gaze, whenever she deigned to look at him, that is. Ungrateful wretch. If only she knew.
“I beg your pardon?” she demanded softly, brows arched.
He shook his head, rolling it against the leather upholstery.
“You were about to say something else,” she pressed.
“No, indeed. I wouldn’t dare, madam. You have put me in my place with one strike of your tongue. My lips are, henceforth, buttoned. More securely than your coat.”
She looked down. “Oh.” Her small, pale hands fumbled over the uneven buttons.
Marcus sprang forward, cracking his knuckles. “Let me.”
To his surprise, she said nothing. Her hand dropped to the leather seat, and she sat still as he reached for the buttons.
He had to undo them first,
of course, in order to set her straight. His fingers were dexterous with the unbuttoning, but he doubted they’d be so efficient working in the other direction. He’d undressed many women, dressed none. One, two, three. They slid easily out through the stitched holes, exposing two perfect, silky soft mounds nestled in lace, rising high above her tightly corseted gown. He cleared his throat. Four, five.
The coat gaped open to her waist and her breathing took on a deeper, huskier note. He glanced up and saw her lips were dampened, as if her tongue had just swept over them. But she was watching his hands, not his face, and there was enough hunger in that gaze to make his fingers shake. Suddenly, his cravat was too tight, as were his breeches. The heaviness in his loins reacted to the signal she gave out with her gentle, heaving breaths, those splendidly voluptuous, tortuously trapped breasts pushing at their prim bindings.
“Is something the matter?” she inquired, innocently, batting her long, lashes.
Better get her safely buttoned up again. It was almost daylight and he was supposed to be a gentleman. Of course, if that was true, he wouldn’t be touching her buttons.
And if she was a proper lady, she certainly wouldn’t let him.
“Are you going to keep staring at my titties, or are you going to button my coat?”
His pulse quickened, accompanied by a tightening in his loins.
Concentrate, man.
As he thrust the bottom button back in its rightful hole, he caught the quirk of a mulish expression on her face. Was that disappointment pulling on her lips?
Somehow, he got the next one securely buttoned, but then he reached the peak problem area, where she was too well-formed for the coat. He looked up to find her watching his face, eyes glistening, as if sprigs of sunlight were trapped there. It didn’t feel like winter anymore.
“Coat doesn’t fit,” he mumbled, both hands pulling on it, his knuckles brushing her bosom. Breath burned in his throat. He let his fingers stray across the front of her gown again, ruffling the lace that framed her high cleavage above a low décolletage.
When she chuckled, her voice reminded him of a mouthful of sweet, creamy caramel. “Just couldn’t resist, could you, sir?”
With a grunt, he fell back onto his seat, leaving her coat half open. Uncomfortably aroused, he couldn’t trust himself to finish. “You’re a very brazen chit to talk like that.”
“So says the pompous gentleman putting his wandering hands all over me.”
He stared across the small space.
“Thinking about doing it again, sir?”
He swallowed. Hard. “Are you looking for trouble, madam?”
“No.” A faint smile turned up her full, succulent lips and she spread her arms wider, hands flat on the seat. Leaning forward, she teased him with her breathtaking curves. “I’ve already found him. Haven’t I?”
In the next heartbeat, he shifted forward to the edge of the narrow seat, grabbed her around the waist, and lifted her astride his lap. “Damned temptress.” He gathered up the layers of skirt and mud-rimmed petticoats. Oddly enough, he’d never done it in a carriage before, but fantasized about it. Tonight, he was ready for another new experience.
“Just a minute,” she exclaimed and he froze, thinking she was about to change her mind. “I get sick riding backwards.”
Relieved, he waited while she turned herself to face the direction of their journey. Under her gown, she wore a frilly pair of lace knickers, liberally embellished with tiny, salmon-colored, silk roses. While she was up, he unleashed his rampant erection, positioning the broad crest under her as she lowered to his lap. Through the convenient slit in her drawers, he felt her sex, warm and moist, waiting for him. Feet planted firmly on the carriage floor, he moved his hips, pushing up into her, impaling the wayward young woman on his cock, before she was even lowered all the way to his lap. It was a hot, satin glove, tight around him. Bliss. He worked his hips against her, his jaw tight, teeth grinding, hands around her impossibly slender waist.
The carriage bumped over a rut and they both bounced, his manhood penetrating even deeper as she came back down, crying out in surprise and pleasure.
Marcus reached around for her breasts through the half-open coat, wishing he could have her naked. Sadly, there wasn’t enough time. And he was about ready to explode, blood pumping recklessly through his body as she moved up and down, riding him expertly, her bottom slapping into his thighs, the top full curve of her breasts trembling against his fingers. He let her set the pace. Apparently, his jockey was in sight of her finish line.
He groaned as they passed over another rut in the road and she came down hard, writhing in his lap, squeezing her inner muscles around his shaft. He couldn’t have planned the route better had he known this would happen. Their progress slowed over rough ground, the vibrations of the creaking carriage pulsing through him and into her. Holding the woman, his chest curled to her back, his mouth on the nape of her neck, he felt his toes at the edge of a cliff. This was it. He hovered between jumping and falling. He’d waited a long time for her.
The Duke of Penhale knew he was going to climax. At fifteen, he’d learned to control the moment of emission and it had never failed him. Until now. With this woman astride his thighs, tormenting him beyond endurance, stroking him silkily with her body, his mind exploded. A gush of air ripped out of him, part protest, part sheer joy, and he pumped into her, arms keeping her trapped, while every ounce of his seed flooded into her.
Very slowly, he released his grip on her waist.
“Well, that was nice,” she cooed. “You might have warned me, sir.” Shifting off his lap, she readjusted her skirts and dropped to her seat. “I didn’t even have time to finish.”
The little minx lied. He knew it. He’d felt that wild fluttering inside, heard the tiny mewls and gasps as she throbbed around him and her sheath tightened. She’d finished alright. At least twice when they went over the ruts.
Eyeing her thoughtfully, his body warm and content, his manhood now semi-erect against his dark evening trousers, he watched her fussing. With another, unusual spur of chivalrous intent, he flung out one arm, offering his dry handkerchief.
She looked at it. “What’s that little thing going to do for me?”
“For the mud,” he explained. “On your face.”
At first he thought she would refuse it, but she begrudgingly relented, as if she was the one doing him a favor, and snatched the silk square. Before wiping her face, she noticed the embroidered initials.
“Yes.” He bowed his head, the rest of him unmoving. “I am Penhale.”
Gaslight warmed her face for one turn of the wheels and then she was in partial shadow again. “I recognized the crest on your carriage.”
“Was that before you stepped out in front of it, or after?” Clearly she was out to fleece him of coin. He should have known she was up to no good.
What else could he expect from her?
Chapter Four
Emma cursed inwardly. If it wasn’t for the dratted rain, she wouldn’t have accepted a ride in his silly carriage. She simply couldn’t trust herself to behave around him. What was she thinking to accept a ride? The answer was clear, however much it vexed her to admit. She knew what she did and why.
Thank goodness he didn’t recognize her. Life was full of strange coincidences.
“You chose the wrong man for your confidence tricks, madam,” he growled. “Haven’t you heard? The Duke of Penhale is a dangerous man. A rake of the highest order. No woman is safe in his company.”
After what just happened, did he truly think she needed the warning? Perhaps he was only reminding himself, she speculated, casting a quick, perceptive eye over the sulky, petulant, brooding baby.
“I’m duly warned, your grace.” She smiled, unable to resist teasing. “But what makes you think he’s safe in mine?”
His dark-lashed eyes widened. A flash of lamplight made his swarthy complexion seem unusually pale. He was on alert. Of course, he would never recogni
ze her as Le Petit Oiseau. Like any other man, he was too blind, too stupid.
Sitting across from her on the narrow padded seat, he seemed too unwieldy for the elegant carriage. A great, long-limbed spider trapped in its own web. He should be on horseback, she thought, picturing him astride a fierce, black stallion, charging into battle, chasing down the enemy. There was definitely an old-fashioned way about him. Almost medieval.
Although common sense reminded her to be glad he didn’t recognize her as Holly O’Neil, a thorny prick of anger still smarted. He was, like any other man, interested only in one thing.
Perhaps he’d never looked at her face before. Not for long, in any case.
Typical.
She recalled the circumstances of their first meeting, twelve years ago, when she’d had a gun in her hand and no qualms about firing it at him. At the time, she’d been struck mute by his incredible masculine beauty, that aura of dangerous, barbarian power, barely restrained within the traditional garments of a Victorian gentleman. At sixteen, it had terrified her. At twenty-eight, it annoyed her, infuriated her, aroused her until she didn’t know if she was coming or going.
She studied him with curiosity, taking advantage of this unexpected time in his rarified presence, much as one might linger morbidly over the scene of an accident.
She’d always thought his eyes green before, but now they seemed blue. It was difficult to tell through all the bloodshot. His eyelids slid to languid half-mast as he sank further against the dimpled leather seat, grunting under his breath about the tricks some women pulled. So, he thought she meant to demand financial restitution and claim herself injured by his carriage. The idea amused her, but Emma saw he was deadly serious.
“I promise you,” she said, softening her tone, “I did not deliberately put myself in your way.”
She knew he watched her from under his lashes, measuring the danger. Turning her face, she felt daylight gaining strength through the little window. The rain fell softer now, gently rattling the glass. Emma raised one hand to her throat, an unconscious gesture, but one that reminded her of the buttons he’d left open. She felt his seed, warm and sticky, between her thighs, dampening her knickers and petticoat.
Last Rake Standing Page 4