Luck Be a Lady

by Meredith Duran

  She gazed at him in open-mouthed silence for what seemed like a promisingly long moment. Then she sucked in a sharp breath and averted her face, showing him one rosy cheek. “You’re a boor. Stop this vehicle and let me out.”

  “Don’t worry yourself, sweetheart. I’m not going to touch you. You’ll just have to take my word for it. Rarely happens that two bodies suit each other, the way ours do.”

  “Did,” she bit out.

  “Did, and do, and will do,” he said. “It don’t change, that kind of chemistry.”

  “Very good to know.” Her voice had stiffened and thinned, a schoolmistress speaking to a hopelessly slow child. “Is there anything else you wish to say, in the hopes of shocking me?”

  “Shocking you? No. But here’s a promise: if I get you beneath me again, you’ll enjoy it even more. It’ll only get better, Kitty. Why, the fifth or sixth time, I expect I’ll make you come just by kissing your sweet little nipples. I’ll suck them slow and soft, and then hard. And when I use my teeth on you, the slightest scrape—”

  “Stop.” She hissed the word, her face red as she rounded on him. “This is—you are—”

  “I’m not telling you this to insult you.” Maybe it had started as a jab, but suddenly he felt as bothered as she looked. “I mean it as a promise. God’s word, Catherine. You’re a gift waiting to be unwrapped. I’ll open you up and make you glad to be alive, no matter what the day brings. Because you’ll know that come nightfall, I’ll be laying you down and spreading your legs and showing you how nature intended you to feel.”

  Her lips moved around a soundless syllable. She cleared her throat, then said hoarsely, “By the terms of the contract—”

  “We’ll leave the contract outside the bedroom, I think.”

  “If you dare touch me—”

  “Haven’t yet,” he said mildly. “But you’re looking mighty flushed, all the same.”

  “That is shock, Mr. O’Shea. Shock at your shamelessness—why, you have all the subtlety of an ox—”

  “Be shocked at my restraint,” he said. “I’m a decent man, after all. Otherwise you’d be under me by now.”

  The coach slowed. She knocked aside the shade, then gasped in obvious relief before scrambling for the door handle.

  He caught her wrist, making her freeze. Lifted it to his mouth, and pressed a close-mouthed kiss to her racing pulse.

  “You right that I’m no gentleman,” he murmured against her fragrant skin. “I’d make you grateful for it. Give it a thought.”

  She wrenched free and pushed open the door. “I’d rather—I’d rather sell my company!”

  But after she stumbled out, she turned back to him, her lips parting as though she meant to deliver one last retort. Instead, however, she stared up at him, silent, her slack-jawed expression gilded by the mellow glow of the lamp.

  “You’re awful,” she said at last, in a reedy voice.

  He laughed. “Seems you’ve got a taste for it,” he said, and pulled shut the door.

  * * *

  Falling asleep always proved difficult for Catherine. She spent the day on her feet; she never laid down but with a sense of exhaustion. But her mind kept ticking onward, cataloging the events of the day, showing her truths that she had not perceived in the frenetic hubbub of routine. This mistake, that oversight . . .

  She’d learned a trick for it. Not counting sheep, nothing so juvenile. She simply focused on her breath. One could count on the breath to make a simple rhythm, in and out. Beneath this simple focus, her mind grew quiescent and drowsy.

  Tonight, however, the trick failed her. Perhaps she was coming down with something. Each breath, which should have pulled her further toward sleep, only pitched her awareness higher—and of such commonplace things! The sheet, where it lay over her, close and soft as a touch. The braid that lay along her shoulder, heavy and somehow entrapping, like a rope holding her down. She felt restless, hot, though the air held a chill that the dying fire had done nothing to dispel.

  If I get you beneath me again . . .

  She pressed her palm to her cheek. It didn’t feel feverish.

  I’ll suck them slow and soft, and then hard . . .

  Her palm was sweaty, damp. He had done this to her. Unsettled her with those vulgar words. He’d known he was doing it. She should not give him the satisfaction of succeeding.

  But when she squeezed her eyes shut, what she saw was his bare, tawny body stretched over hers, his head lowered at her breast, mouth pulling like a ravening beast. An incubus.

  She cupped her palm over her breast. But that was not where she ached now. She slid her palm lower, to the spot between her legs.

  He had put his mouth there . . .

  This was why women were cautioned to save their virtue for marriage. She’d never known how a man could make a woman feel. The knowledge had corrupted her.

  It will only get better.

  She touched herself where he had. A gasp broke from her. It was not entirely his power. He was wrong to say that she required a partner. She could make herself feel—not precisely the same. That would take the scent and feel of his skin, the heavy delicious weight of him . . .

  No. She did not require those. She could take this power from him, place it in her own control. She must do it, for she could not accept his invitation. To do so would be to risk . . . everything.

  She touched herself clumsily, frustrated by the comparison to how expertly he had done it. He’d touched a thousand women so, no doubt.

  Her hand stilled. How curious that the thought should send a dark poisonous feeling through her. This was some trick of the fact of marriage, perhaps. Any decent spouse would dislike the idea of a husband’s promiscuity. But hers was no true marriage. He was a criminal, who would never make her a true husband. And she was not fit to be any man’s wife. Jealousy had no place in their agreement. He would laugh at her if he ever discovered it.

  She shoved him from her mind, rubbing herself harder now. Her body belonged to her, not him. As much as she resented him for it, she must also thank him for showing her so.

  But what harm was there in thinking of him in private? She would not allow herself to be alone with him again. With a sigh, she pictured his face . . . the bronzed length of his taut, hard body . . . the feel of his mouth on her skin, the skilled stroke of his hand . . . The pleasure began to build. It was coming.

  A squeak came from her door. A key turning in the lock!

  She sat up, blushing so brightly it was a wonder that the room was not illuminated. “Bodkin?” Only her lady’s maid had that key.

  No answer.

  She threw off the covers and slipped to her feet. The dead bolt turned. “Bodkin, I don’t wish to be disturbed tonight.”

  Now came a scrape. That was the second dead bolt, turning.

  God in heaven. Bodkin did not have that key.

  * * *

  Nick lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Fine job he’d done, talking so hot to Catherine. She’d sailed away cool as a breeze, but he just kept burning, visions sparking straight from his brain into his groin.

  He should have resisted the urge to needle her, talked straight instead. She’d be safer at Diamonds. Even she should see that. She was valuable to him. One vote down, but who knew when others would come that he’d need her brother to help him with? He had every reason to keep her safe. But to her brother, she was only an obstacle now.

  With a curse, he threw off the covers and stood. If she found out he’d wasted a moment’s sleep thinking about her, she’d only bridle and remind him that per the terms of that contract, he was beholden not to think on her at all.

  So he’d turn his attention elsewhere. Go downstairs and check on business, maybe join a game. He rarely indulged himself so—he was good enough that he almost always won, and clients didn’t come here to be trounced by the owner. But a single hand of baccarat, maybe. And a shot of whisky, to take the edge off.

  He had dressed and was heading toward the door
when the knocking started.

  Knew it. Like any full-blooded Irishman, he had a sense for oncoming trouble. He turned the bolt and threw open the door.

  His factotum, Callan, looked harried and flushed. “Begging your pardon, but that woman you brought here last week—she’s downstairs, demanding to be let in. I would have tossed her out, but she’s—”

  He brushed past Callan, cutting through the lamp-lit passage into the back stairway, where he took the steps by twos.

  She was sitting on a bench in the rear vestibule, wrapped up in a horse blanket. Callan must have lent it to her—it had the insignia of the House of Diamonds stitched into one corner.

  She rose, chin high, evidently oblivious to her equine reek. “Do forgive my appearance,” she said. “I was forced to leave in some haste.”

  “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I see that.” Not much sweetness in this victory. “What happened?”

  “Nothing so much.” But as she shifted, the blanket slipped, revealing another layer—a cloak, her own—and beneath it, a frilly collar of transparent lace.

  She’d fled in her night-robe.

  Nick waved Callan off, waiting until he’d rounded the corner to step closer to Catherine. “What happened?”

  She took a deep breath. “May I stay here, tonight? I know it—it seems very ironic, given my earlier objections. But I fear no hotel would receive me in such a state.”

  Half dressed and shivering, she still managed to speechify like the Queen. “Of course,” he said. “Come on, let’s get you a brandy.”

  “I don’t drink, Mr. O’Shea.”

  He snorted.

  * * *

  Catherine was trying very hard to remain composed. But shock, to say nothing of the cold, seemed to be sinking into her bones, causing her hard-won control to fray, so at last she began to shiver.

  O’Shea noticed, perhaps, as he seated her by the fire in his suite. He made some dark noise and turned away. “Stay there.”

  As if she had anywhere else to go. She stared fixedly at the handsome Persian carpet, listening to his footsteps retreat into the neighboring room. What a flight she had made. Apparently the dangers of town at night were vastly overstated. She’d had no difficulty hailing a hack, and the cabman had seemed thoroughly unsurprised at her destination. Nobody had even attempted to mug her.

  O’Shea returned, carrying the counterpane from his bed, gold threads glimmering in the rich brown satin. “Let’s trade,” he said. “This blanket will be warmer.”

  “I’m not c-cold.” The fire leapt two feet away. She could feel its heat along her skin, though it did not seem to penetrate to her marrow.

  “No matter,” he said. “That one reeks.”

  It did, in fact, have a smell to it. But when the other man had given it to her, it had seemed a veritable luxury. She could not quite bring her grip to ease now. “That’s all right.”

  “Catherine.” He went down on one knee. The firelight flattered his angular face. He had remarkable eyes, so light, fastened so attentively to hers. He looked at this moment like a proper gentleman, all consideration and care.

  Perhaps he was the first proper gentleman she had met, then. She could not recall much chivalry from the ranks of Everleigh’s patrons.

  “Give it over,” he said gently. But when he tugged at the horse blanket, she resisted, shaking her head.

  He frowned. Well, she could not blame him for his puzzlement. The lateness of the hour, and the indignity of her recent experience, had clearly scattered her wits. Certainly it had eroded her discretion, for when she opened her mouth, what came out was the blunt, bizarre truth: “I can’t seem to let go.”

  His hands closed on hers. Large, hot hands, not so different in their feel from any other man’s. But no other man had ever touched her like this, massaging the delicate bones of her palms, rubbing the length of her fingers, in a soothing, caressing stroke. “It’s all right,” he said. “You can let go. Nobody here to see.”

  That wasn’t true. “There’s you.”

  He smiled. “But I don’t count, do I? ”

  Did he? She studied him. What an odd twist her life had taken. She had fled to a gaming hell for safety, and now found herself inclined not to regret it. For he was right. Of all men, she had the least to lose with him—the most notorious man in London.

  Did he truly deserve that reputation? He did not strike her as cruel. Indeed, he had shown her far greater kindness than any—

  No. She could not afford to indulge such thoughts. The consummation had already opened a Pandora’s box of wayward desires. No need to add daydreams about his decency to that mix.

  But she did let him pull away the blanket. He settled the coverlet over her. It felt almost as solid, as heavy and reassuring, as his grip.

  Almost.

  She missed his touch, now that he’d pulled away. God help her.

  He sat back on his heels, squatting like a field hand as he said, “Clearly three locks weren’t sufficient.”

  “They held long enough.” Perhaps her brother was still fumbling with the third. She’d heard his curses through the door.

  “Held against who?”

  “Peter, of course. He was trying to break in.” A shiver traveled through her. “He said . . . he said it was not too late. That matters could be undone, that I could make a decent match. That Pilcher stood ready; that he—Peter, I mean—could take me to him tonight.”

  Here was the face O’Shea showed his enemies, she supposed: cold and austere, his mouth a grim slash. “Your brother’s got a big mouth,” he said quietly, “for a man who wants to keep these matters secret.”

  She sighed. “I don’t think Pilcher knows the whole story. From what Peter was saying through the door . . . I gather he told Pilcher that I was planning to elope.” It made no sense. Would he have encouraged bigamy? “I can’t imagine what he was thinking. It’s done; we are married. I cannot marry again.”

  O’Shea blew out a breath, his silver gaze trailing down her swathed figure. “You look all right. He didn’t lay hands on you?”

  “No. I climbed out the window before he made it inside.”

  His brows shot up. “That’s a tall house, Kitty.”

  She should object to the nickname. She would, next time he used it. “The trellis is sturdy.”

  “On a twisted ankle?”

  Startled, she flexed her foot. “Why . . . it feels much better, in fact.” Panic, it seemed, made a fine antidote to pain.

  He smiled faintly. “You’re a bundle of surprises. You got much practice in climbing out windows?”

  “No.” She paused, tasting the bitterness of her next words before she spoke them. “Go ahead and say it: you were right, and I was wrong. I was a fool to go back home. I should have known he would want revenge. I embarrassed him by halting that auction.”

  He frowned. “Here, now. It’s not foolish to think yourself safe with your brother.”

  She did not deserve his generosity. “You said it yourself, Mr. O’Shea. He cares nothing for me. And what I did today—why, if there’s anything he won’t forgive, it’s loss of face.” Peter’s concern had always been for his image, not the company. How had she forgotten that? “Perhaps I should have let the auction go on,” she whispered. “If I’ve ruined this . . . if he means to call our bluff . . .”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “It’s no bluff, though. It’s done.”

  True. She’d taken pains to ensure that this marriage was legitimate. The memory of how she had done it rippled through her, an echo of the heat she had felt earlier, lying in bed. She took care to keep her gaze from straying toward O’Shea’s bedroom.

  He rose, light and lean as a cat. What must it feel like, to move through the world in such a tall, lithe, powerful body? Each step must feel weightless, a pleasurable exercise in grace.

  The oddness of the thought made her flush. She stared down at her linked hands as he said, “You’ll stay here tonight.”

  “Yes, if you don�
��t mind it. But my brother—”

  “I’ll speak with him. When does he usually leave the house in the morning?”

  “I . . . it varies.” On a deep breath, she looked up at him. It put a crick in her neck. He stood almost a head taller than her brother. No fight between them would be fair. “Call me foolish. But I can’t countenance you harming him.”

  His jaw squared. “I said I wouldn’t. But at this point, you’d do better not to waste concern on him. Tit for tat, Catherine. Never give more than you get.”

  A brutal but sensible philosophy. “If that’s your belief,” she said slowly, “then what do you hope to get from me now? For the contract does not require you to help me in this way.”

  He stared down at her, his face impossible to read. It came to her that his bedroom was only seven steps away. If he demanded she join him there . . . if that was his price . . .

  “It’s late,” he said, and held out his hand. “Let me show you where you’ll sleep.”

  * * *

  O’Shea proved far more chivalrous than she’d anticipated. He said he would send someone to the shops in the morning to fetch a readymade gown for her. He opened the door for her, and did not touch her as he escorted her into the adjoining apartment.

  He played the gentleman very convincingly. But why? As shock faded, her brain began to click into working order again, and his gentleness began to alarm her.

  He had no reason to be kind. He was after something. And she . . . was falling for his trick. This man who had spoken to her so vulgarly in his vehicle earlier—she was softening toward him, surrendering all her native defenses. Longing for him to touch her again as he showed her the points of the suite where she would stay.

  She couldn’t allow it. She let him bow over her hand before he started for the door, but she made herself call after him. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” she said. “I’m well aware of your strategy.”

  He turned back at the door. “What strategy is that?”

  “Charm, I believe it’s called.”

  He widened his eyes, japing astonishment as he slouched against the doorframe. “Never say. And here I’d heard I had the charm of an ox.”