The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4)

by Grace Callaway

  “A parlor game. Hide-and-Go-Seek is all the rage in the upper echelons, especially amongst the unattached guests.”

  “What a brilliant idea,” Miss Billings exclaimed. “Do you think everyone will play?”

  “We’ll round ’em up for you. Just give us the word,” Goggs said helpfully.

  Richard stood at the periphery with the Blackwoods, watching as Wick and his posse worked their charm, enticing all the single ladies and gentlemen into joining the game. Within minutes, a dozen or so players stood in a circle as Parnell dictated the rules. Miss Billings would be the seeker; everyone else had to go hide somewhere on the ground floor, and the last one to be found would be the winner. The guests milled excitedly, Violet Kent amongst them, her eyes vivid against her flushed cheeks. Looking far less enthused, Miss Turbett joined the group as well.

  Wick came over and clapped Richard on the shoulder. “Ready, old fellow?”

  Richard stared at his younger sibling. “I’m not playing.”

  “Course you are. All unattached guests—that’s the rule.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  Although Wick’s expression remained pleasant, his tone hardened. “No more absurd than your plans for me. What happened to we’re in this together?”

  Hell and damnation. Richard searched for an excuse. “I’m too old for games.”

  “You’re hardly ancient, Carlisle.” Mischief danced in Lady Blackwood’s violet eyes. “Why, Lord Wormleigh is playing, and he’s got a couple of decades on you.”

  Richard glanced at Wormleigh. The aging Lothario looked well into his cups and was winking broadly at all the single ladies.

  “Don’t interfere, Penny,” Blackwood muttered to his wife.

  Miss Kent ambled up. “Ready to play, Wick?”

  “I’m not playing unless my brother does so as well,” Wick said stubbornly.

  Miss Kent’s fine brows lifted. “Won’t you deign to join us, my lord?”

  “No, thank you,” Richard bit out.

  “I understand,” she said sweetly. “Losing is more difficult for some people than others.”

  By Jove, why did the chit provoke him beyond bearing? In his entire life, no one had questioned his sportsmanship before. He might not be charming or popular, but he always conducted himself honorably in the realm of competition.

  “I wouldn’t know. I play to win,” he growled.

  “Excellent.” Wick grinned. “In that case, may the game go to the best man—or lady.”

  Chapter Six

  Violet raced merrily toward her destination. She’d wound her way through several rooms, deliberately taking detours to throw others off her scent. She knew exactly where to hide and didn’t want anyone else hedging in on her territory. She loved games; Carlisle wasn’t the only one who played to win. With glee, she imagined Lord High and Mighty’s face when she was declared the winner.

  She passed through the library, hurrying past the carved stone hearth and the seats clustered around it. At the sound of female giggles and male murmurs emerging from the maze of bookshelves, her eyebrows rose. Clearly, the room was already occupied.

  Not that she cared. Bookshelves were such an obvious place to hide.

  Leaving the room, she made her way stealthily toward the floor of galleries in the east wing. She heard occasional voices, but they grew dimmer as she located the small, chapel-like room that she’d explored with Polly earlier that day. Shaped like a cross, the room’s mint green walls were hung with gilt-framed paintings, and the ceiling was covered in a field of plasterwork flowers. She and Polly had scrutinized those exquisite white blooms and, in awe, concluded that each of them was unique, slightly different from the rest.

  Vi had also discovered something else.

  With unerring steps, she went to the head of the room, where five steps led up to a platform; here, one could look out a picturesque window framed by billowing silk curtains. She ran her fingers under the ledge of the third step, nimbly searching out the hidden mechanism. She pressed and heard the familiar click. Grinning, she watched the steps move as one, swinging open like a door to reveal the gloomy depths of the Priest Hole. She crouched, readying to jump inside—and squealed when a large, masculine hand reached out of the darkness.

  She gawked at the stern face staring out at her.

  “Thunderbolts.” She planted her hands on her hips. “What are you doing here?”

  ~~~

  “Hiding,” Richard said curtly. “That is the purpose of the game, is it not?”

  When Miss Kent continued to stare down at him as if he’d grown three heads, he sighed and heaved himself out of the Priest Hole. Even though she was on the taller side for a female, he still towered over her by half a foot. He preferred this position to looking up at her from the hole. As far as he was concerned, he’d take every advantage he could get when dealing with the brazen minx.

  “How did you know about my hiding place?” she demanded.

  “Pardon. I didn’t realize this niche belonged to you,” he said sardonically.

  Pink bloomed in her cheeks. “I meant how did you know about the Priest Hole?”

  “Billings gave me a tour. He mentioned that this gallery used to be a Catholic chapel. I put two and two together.”

  Miss Kent’s brows drew together. “You figured out where the Priest Hole was by yourself?”

  Richard resented the incredulity in her tone. As if she didn’t expect him to be able to put his own boots on, let alone figure out a simple secret mechanism. “Why is this a surprise, Miss Kent, when I assume you did the same?”

  “Well, I’m a hoyden, aren’t I?” Her smart words made heat crawl up his jaw. “Let’s face it, we adventurous and modern females are known to show a bit of ingenuity. But a gentleman such as you,”—she shrugged—“well, you’re…”

  He waited, arms crossed over his chest.

  “… conventional. A traditionalist.” Her eyes taunted him. “I wouldn’t expect you to be capable of locating a clandestine place.”

  In other words, she thought him a dullard. An unexciting—and stupid—stuffed shirt. That she held that opinion of him should come as no surprise. He’d never been the kind of man that women swooned over: a brooding, enigmatic Lord Byron… or a charming Wickham.

  When Miss Belton had turned down his suit, his mama’s words of consolation had been the following: You can’t blame her, Richard. Next time, try being less dependable and direct. Such earnestness grows tedious, you know.

  “Just because I don’t go looking for trouble doesn’t mean I can’t find a bloody Priest Hole,” he said shortly. “Like I said, I play to win.”

  “But I was going to hide here,” Miss Kent protested.

  “As they say, finders keepers, losers…” He imitated her shrug.

  “I am not a loser—” Her head swung toward the door.

  Footsteps and voices approached.

  “Crumpets,” she breathed.

  They stared at one another. Then, without another word, they both turned to the hole, Miss Kent jumping in first, Richard following and pulling the steps closed behind them.

  ~~~

  Footsteps entered the gallery… whispers of other guests looking for a place to hide. Violet waited in the darkness, her heart thumping in her ears. And not just because she didn’t want to be discovered.

  The Priest Hole had clearly been designed for one person. For a withered cleric, there would be just enough room to stand or sit with his legs outstretched. But now there were two bodies in the tight space—and one of them was deuced big.

  She and Carlisle stood facing one another; she was squished between his hard frame and the wall. Heat radiated from his body: it was like being trapped against a steel furnace. In the dimness, she could make out the harsh outline of his features, and his clean male musk pervaded her nostrils, affecting her... strangely. Warmth bloomed beneath her skin, the air in her lungs growing heavy and humid.

  “Stop wriggling about.” His quiet wo
rds brushed hotly against her ear.

  Perspiration trickled beneath her bodice. She felt tingly… squirmy.

  “For God’s sake, stop moving.” His voice sounded oddly husky. “Do you want us to be found?”

  “I’m not… comfortable,” she whispered back. “What in blazes do you have in your pocket? It’s hard and poking into me.”

  He tensed, his caged potency jolting through her at the same time that recognition struck her.

  Oh. Gadzooks. It’s… that.

  ’Twas as if someone had attached an electrifying machine to the hole and was cranking with all their might. Charged awareness crackled over her senses, muting the footsteps and whispering voices just beyond. Everything faded but him. His scent. His heat and closeness. All the hairs lifted on her skin, butterflies swarming in her belly.

  Don’t do it. Don’t look at him…

  Anticipation brimmed over. Unable to stop herself, she tipped her head back.

  His eyes gleamed in the dimness.

  In the next instant, his mouth was on hers.

  His kiss—her first—was a shock and a revelation at once. In the steamy darkness, his hard, firm lips ignited a dormant need. Hunger for something she’d never known came roaring to life inside her, and the feeling was astonishing. His taste poured through her, as dark and sweetly addicting as a cup of chocolate, and it made her ravenous. ’Twas as if she were starving and someone suddenly plunked her in front of a buffet.

  Instinct took over, all thoughts abandoning her save one. More.

  A desperate moan escaped her. He swallowed the sound, tilting her head back, and then the kiss caught fire. Senses aflame, she felt the hot, invading thrust of his tongue, and she answered naturally with a parry of her own. His low growl shivered through her. Their tongues twined, the slippery slide releasing a molten rush between her thighs.

  Before she could fathom her body’s startling response, she was lifted against the wall. Pulse galloping, she felt his thigh boldly insinuating between her legs, lifting her toes off the ground. The heat of that thickly muscled ridge burned through the layers of her petticoats; when she squirmed against him, the friction made bliss ricochet against her insides. She didn’t even realize she’d moaned again until a hand clamped over her mouth.

  “Shh, lass.” The raw hunger in his voice mesmerized her. “We must be quiet…”

  The warm, wet tug on her earlobe caused her head to loll dazedly against the wall. Butter and jam, who knew that that organ could be so sensitive? Her fingers bit into the unyielding sinew of his shoulders as pleasure came to her like a cart of desserts, each offering more decadent than the one before.

  He licked the shell of her ear, invading wetly, suckling the tender lobe until her toes curled inside her slippers. When his lips travelled lower, branding a trail down her neck, she wriggled in helpless delight. His big hands spanned over her ribs, just beneath her surging bosom. Her breasts strained inside her bodice, the tips taut and needy, and when his thumbs brushed against the undersides, she couldn’t help nudging into his caress.

  “You’re so soft. Sweet,” he muttered.

  His finger trailed over the bare skin of her décolletage, leaving goose pimples in its wake. He traced the low neckline of her dress… then dipped beneath. The breath whooshed out of her lungs when he found the stiff peak of one breast, circling gently. Desire flooded her.

  “Do you like that?” his voice growled in her ear.

  “Oh, yes—” Her gasp was swallowed by his kiss.

  Exhilarating pleasure swept through her. Spun her more powerfully than any dance. Darkness amplified the sensations, and she was whirling in them, lost, guided only by his scorching lips and masterful touch. She rocked wantonly against the granite ledge of his thigh… and felt an iron-hard bulge poking into her own leg. This time, a sense of discovery sizzled through her.

  She’d been around farmyard animals most of her life. Carlisle was… potent. Like a stallion she’d once seen brought to stud.

  His shocking arousal made her feel both dizzy and powerful. Her spine bowed as he gently tweaked the tip of her breast, his tongue tracing a scorching line on the swells just above. Her breath jammed, her fingers spearing the rough silk of his hair as need soared to a feverish pitch—

  “Hullo? Anyone in here?”

  The voice—Gabby’s?—cut through Vi’s haze. She froze; Carlisle did the same. Footsteps padded closer. She didn’t dare breathe, every muscle quivering with the fear of discovery…

  “Got you!” Gabby announced cheerfully.

  Taut as a bowstring, Vi fully expected the steps to swing open, to be exposed—dear God, with Carlisle. Instead, she heard the sound of whipping fabric, followed by male groans and shuffling on the platform overhead.

  “I told you the curtains were a curst silly place to hide, Goggs.”

  Through her panic, Vi recognized the disgusted voice as Parnell’s.

  “You didn’t have a better plan,” Goggs said plaintively.

  “You both did ever so well.” Gabby’s tone was consoling. “In fact, you’re amongst the last to be found. There are only three more—oh my goodness, did Lord Wormleigh just run past in the hallway?”

  “We’ll help you hunt old Wormleigh down,” Goggs offered.

  A stampede of footsteps… and then the room went quiet.

  The door to the Priest Hole swung open, the light momentarily blinding. When her pupils adjusted to the brightness, she saw that Carlisle had hoisted himself out. He was looking down at her, and the severe set of his features obliterated the remnants of her passion-daze.

  Emotion roiled in his scorched-earth eyes… anger? Regret?

  Shame and confusion crashed over her. Why did I… with Carlisle of all people? God, what have I done? What must he think of me?

  She didn’t even like him. Yet his dark hair and cravat lay crumpled by her hand, and her nerve endings still sparked with lustful sensations. Her cheeks flamed.

  Laughter rang in the distance. Carlisle’s muscular frame went rigid.

  “We can’t be found together. You stay,” he commanded. “I’ll go.”

  She could only nod. Moments later, the hole sealed shut once again, leaving her alone in darkness. Alone and shivering with discovery… because she now finally understood what all the fuss was about.

  Chapter Seven

  The following afternoon, Richard entered the amphitheatre. The magnificence of the domed interior momentarily lifted him from his dark musings. A forty-foot ring stood in the middle and, behind it, a raised stage backed by red curtains. The strains of an orchestra emerged through the closed drapery and added to the crackling anticipation. Guests were already filling the velvet-cushioned benches, eager to see the newly arrived performers from Astley’s.

  Standing near the back wall, Richard scanned the crowd—and spotted Violet Kent near the front of the theatre. As usual, she was surrounded by male admirers. Scowling, he noted how delectable she looked: she wore a pink frock topped with a cherry-colored pelerine that matched the shade of her lips. Thinking of how sweet her mouth had tasted brought a throbbing heat to his loins.

  Rationally, he knew that she was a mistake. A part of him had always known that she posed a particular danger to a man of his temperament. The curse of his ancestors flowed in his blood: like the Carlisles before him, he bore that fatal attraction to his opposite. He was naturally drawn to beautiful flirts, found that combination of feminine exuberance and delicacy fascinating. Such women roused his basest instincts, an elemental need to protect and claim. Unfortunately, his past had demonstrated repeatedly that that way lay disaster.

  His jaw clenched. Courting Violet Kent would undoubtedly lead to catastrophic results. Hell, he didn’t even know the specifics of her dowry, whether it would support the needs of his estate. Yet for the first time in a long time, his personal desires overrode all other considerations.

  Things had gone too far last night. He was furious at himself for taking advantage of an innocen
t. For losing control and violating his own code of ethics. Nonetheless, he was a gentleman, and his honor dictated that he now do the right thing. That he make amends for the liberties he’d taken—albeit with Miss Kent’s cooperation.

  Her very generous cooperation. The memory of it flashed like a fever.

  Returning to his chamber last night, he’d finally succumbed to the raging lust that she’d ignited in him from the start. Lying in the dark, he’d given his fantasy free rein. He’d envisioned Violet spread on the bed, his head between her thighs. He’d eaten her pussy until she’d cried out, her surrender honey-sweet on his tongue. Then he’d flipped her onto all fours, hoisting up her slim hips and plunging home. Her tight, wet pussy had milked his cock like a fist, wringing his seed from him, making him come harder than he ever had before…

  In all his years, he’d never experienced anything like her feminine passion. So vibrant and uninhibited—yet innocent too. In the Priest Hole, her inexperience had been evident and, he admitted to himself, powerfully arousing. At the same time, he wanted to shake some sense into her. Didn’t she know the danger she’d courted, hiding with a man in the dark? Didn’t she realize how vulnerable she was?

  She’s not yours to protect, his voice of reason warned. Recall your past mistakes.

  His jaw tautened as he watched Violet laugh at some quip of Parnell’s. Her laughter lit her whiskey eyes, her entire face aglow. For an instant, he found himself wondering what it would be like to be on the receiving end of such radiant warmth.

  Seeing her with the fashionable buck made Richard feel old and taciturn. The ten-year age difference between Violet and him might have been a hundred. Even as a younger man, however, he’d never been the dashing type, the kind of suitor a lady might wax poetic about. He didn’t like to mull over past failures, yet now his mistakes itched like old scars.

  His judgement when it came to the fair sex had been proven unreliable. He couldn’t read females, couldn’t decipher what they were truly thinking or feeling. Both Lucinda Belton and Audrey Keane had seemed to welcome his addresses, greeting him with winsome smiles, their dispositions lively and sweet. Yet in the end, his offers had come to naught. He could have understood their rejections… had they not been steeped in duplicity as well.