“This was an unfortunate accident. If you think I shall stay in my room, trembling over potential harm that might come my way as soon as I pop my nose out the door, you can think again. The only danger facing me now is the danger that these blisters may render me incapable of dancing at Acton’s ball,” she said. “Besides, why should one waste a perfectly nice morning lying in bed just because something unpleasant might happen? Apparently you haven’t.”
Her words struck too close to home. “Are you really interested in what would keep me in bed?” he asked in a low voice. She flushed and looked away.
“That was unnecessary,” he said, cursing himself for treating her so unfairly. “Forgive me. We need to get back. Here, I’ll toss you up.”
“Onto your horse?”
“That was the idea, yes.”
She eyed the fidgeting gelding dubiously. “And then what?”
“I’ll lead you back to the house.”
“If you say so.”
She hobbled toward the horse and grabbed the saddle’s lip. He bent and held his hand out for her foot. As soon as she lifted her hem, the gelding shied, snorting and dancing, its ears flattening against its elegant head.
“I don’t think he likes women any more than his rider does,” Mercy mumbled, dropping her skirt and backing away.
“Why ever would you say that?” Hart asked in genuine surprise, snapping the reins to settle the evil-minded brute.
“Nothing. Just an impression. Forget I said it.”
“I like women very well.”
“If you say so.”
“I dislike that phrase. Particularly coming from you. It reeks of insincerity.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you. Perhaps it’s just me you—and your horse—don’t like.”
“You haven’t offended me,” he said. “You are simply wrong. I admire women. I admire you. I just—”
“You do?” Her incredible eyes widened. They shone with unfeigned pleasure. Pleasure that he’d said he admired her? What an extraordinary notion. Sleep must have deprived him of his wits.
“Certainly,” he said, leading the horse back to her side. “You’re honest. You’re intelligent. And your concern for your brother—even if misplaced—is very laudable.”
“Oh.” Disappointment permeated the utterance.
What did she want to hear? That he had sat at that damned party last night straining to hear what she might next say? That he had waited for her to look at him so he might drink of her regard like a moonstruck lad?
She had turned away from him, her head bowed as she fussed with the saddle. The back of her neck looked downy and vulnerable. He cleared his throat. “Shall we try once more?”
They ended trying not once but half a dozen more times, and each time the fractious gelding shied away from her. Finally she turned around, hands on her hips, chin angled purposefully. “You will have to take me up with you. I simply cannot walk and he will simply not be ridden by a woman.”
“All right,” Hart agreed as the gelding bared its teeth and feinted once more at Mercy. He swung into the saddle and held his hand out. She hesitated an instant before taking it. He’d been right, her skin was rough and cold. She sprang upward as he lifted. He caught her about the waist and settled her sideways to him in the cradle of his lap.
Her bottom snuggled intimately against him. The subtle scent of rain and ferns, underscored by soap, filled his nostrils. She was warm and sweetly curved.
Thus when he nudged the gelding forward, preparing himself for a very long ride, he found a very different brand of panic playing havoc with his body than the one that had chased him from his room.
“How did you lose your horse?” he asked finally, breaking the silence after several miles. They were within sight of the house now and yet he could not endure another moment of this focused intimacy.
He had to distract himself from the feel of her, each step rocking her bottom softly into the juncture of his thighs, the delicate strength of her shoulder blades pressing into his chest, the scent of her. It did not matter that she was enveloped in blameless wool worsted. He reacted as if naked flesh were on his lap.
And more important, it was obvious that she was as uncomfortable in his arms as he was in holding her—though the reasons for their distress could not be more dissimilar; hers having been born of modesty, his of lust. But still he wanted to relieve her distress and found in that desire proof of his own hypocrisy. For though he’d questioned her lack of caution in her relations with men, he himself needed to erase that caution when she exercised it against him.
“Mercy?” he prompted, a hint of desperation in his tone. “What happened?”
She glanced at him sidelong. “I think it was a poacher,” she murmured.
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“There was a shot. My horse bolted and I fell off. I”—she peeked at him from beneath the sable fringe of her lashes—“I really wasn’t attending where I was going.”
“No one came to see what had happened?”
She shook her head and her cool, satiny hair brushed his lips. “I called but no one answered. I expect once they realized I was all right, they ran off.”
“Perhaps,” he murmured, considering her words. Poachers? Except for the birds and game Acton released himself, the countryside this close to London was hunted out.
“It doesn’t matter, does it? No real harm was done”—she shot him a wicked glance—“as long as I can dance, which I am determined to do even if I have to do so barefoot. I’m sure it’s only what you’d expect from me.”
He had no answer for that, and she was silent a moment before twisting around and solemnly meeting his eyes. The gelding, quick to take affront, danced sideways. She braced herself with a hand on his chest. He could feel each finger distinctly; her left thumb above his heart, her little finger branding his nipple through his cotton shirt. His mouth went dry.
“I … I want to thank you,” she said. “You’ve been far kinder than I deserve. I cannot think why I am unable to resist the temptation to provoke you.”
“Can you not?” he murmured. Her palm rode the rapidly accelerating rise and fall of his chest.
“No. And,” she admitted with the grudging grace of duty, “I realize that your suggestions are made for what you consider to be my own good.”
“I am all blameless benevolence,” he returned, watching the play of emotions flicker across her face, suspicion quickly chased away by amusement.
“I expect I really shouldn’t have invited you into the library,” she confessed in a hushed voice.
“No.” He bent his head to better hear her. The movement brought him very close. He could discern each faint inhalation, see the dusting of light cinnamon-colored freckles on the highest curve of her cheek.
“And I shouldn’t have pressed an acquaintance you were unwilling to acknowledge.” Another breathy apology.
Her lips were slightly parted and he caught a glimpse of the dark interior of her mouth. His eyelids slipped lower, masking the intensity of his attraction and the object of his interest. It was an insufficient ploy, for he could see her eyes widen as she discerned his intent.
“No,” he answered.
“I have been unfair,” she whispered, staring at him, her eyes inches from his, wonder and surprise commingled in their bright depths. And yet, and yet … she didn’t draw away.
“Doubtless,” he said, and touched his lips to hers. Her mouth shivered beneath his. “This,” he said, drawing his head back, “is most ill advised.”
“Doubtless,” she whispered, still staring into his eyes. Foolish girl. It was her undoing.
He twined one arm about her waist, pulling her closer. With his other hand he cradled the back of her head, tipping her face and guiding her unresisting mouth to him.
“And most dangerous,” he muttered, covering her lips again.
Chapter 11
She should say something, she thought dazedly when Hart
finally lifted his head from hers. Something sophisticated and brittle and dismissive. Something that would prove to him that she could play these games as well as he. That was what this was about, was it not? she thought. A lesson for the naive American? That had been what he had meant in saying this was dangerous.…
But for the life of her she could not say a word. She was entirely lost in the sensations he aroused. Helplessly, she blinked up into his aquamarine eyes; cool, unplumbed. He stared down at her, his face an unreadable mask, only his flushed throat any clue that he had been affected at all by their kiss.
She opened her mouth to speak. On the small movement his gaze fell like a predator’s. She heard the slight catch of his breath, saw the flare of his bold nostrils, felt a shiver tighten the chest muscles beneath her hand.
“God,” he breathed, and then he was kissing her again, his mouth warm and demanding, his arms pulling her ever closer.
She was naive, she thought, twining her hands around his neck and clinging there weakly. For those few kisses stolen from shy cowboys had never anticipated such … hunger. His ardor frightened her, but more, it excited her, it inspired in her an answering appetite.
With each caress of his restless hands over her breasts and belly, she learned the power of her own desire. She was entirely lost to the wanting he awoke, and when his mouth opened over hers, coherent thought fled.
She did not refuse him, he thought in dim amazement. And whether she clung to him because he had left her nothing else to cling to, or because she wanted this, he was grateful. For with each moment he pressed her closer and kissed the sweet, plush velvet lips, she caught fire from his heat, meeting his entreaty with her own, arching herself into him, cupping the back of his head in her hands and holding his mouth to hers.
Her lips parted and his own passionate response to such munificence made him dizzy. He swung his leg over the saddle and, clamping her tightly to him, slipped with her to the ground. And still, he tried to bring her closer, arching possessively over the sweet body straining up into his, discovering the only way to do so was to invade her warm, moist mouth with his tongue. So sweet, so passionate—
Tentatively, her tongue brushed his. He delved hungrily, begging more with tongue and lip and hands. She moaned softly. It was a tiny sound, but one of abandonment, and it awoke his fast-fleeing conscience as nothing else could have done. He drew his head back, staring down at her flushed face, the crescent of lashes feathering her cool pink cheeks.
She had given herself entirely to him, trusting him. No matter what surcease passion offered, he would not take more than what she should offer, regardless of what he needed. Abruptly, he set her on her feet.
She blinked, disoriented and lip-swollen, her hair streaming down her back, undone by the hands that trembled at his sides and itched to be buried once more in that cool satin. He forced himself to stand acquiescent. He would not embrace her again.
“Oh, my,” she whispered.
“Indeed,” he answered, amazed he’d been so carried away by what was really no more than a simple kiss, a few less-than-chaste embraces; uncertain of how she would interpret the clipped sound of that single word.
“So, you’ve proven your point,” she said, her eyes averted, her cheeks blooming with bright crimson roses. “You were right.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am as common as God can make a maid, and a maid I am, it would seem, only because of a lack of opportunity.” His demonstration of how easily he could effect her abandonment hurt, and she wanted to return the favor. Her words found their mark. He paled visibly. “Your point is well taken, sir.”
“And what point is that?” he demanded in a rough voice.
“That I am unfit to be my own guardian. That I, most especially, must guard myself as I am at the mercy of unladylike impulses. Because, as you have very skillfully demonstrated, I am no lady.”
“Unladylike?” He sounded genuinely confused.
“Yes. I am sure”—she bit back a sob—“I am sure that your sisters never reacted so to a man’s kiss.”
“I wouldn’t have any idea,” he answered, bewildered.
“Well, I do. They wouldn’t even feel the things I did when kissing you. They aren’t the things a nice woman feels.”
“Are you sure your horse didn’t upend you on your head?”
“Don’t mock me! I have read many books on deportment and—and other feminine concerns and they all agree; a nice woman does not feel excited by a man’s … physical displays.” And now her eyes did fill with tears. Angrily, she dashed them away, facing him with as much dignity as she could muster, seeing how she could not ignore the shape of his mouth or forget the texture of it.
He shook his head. There was a touch of bitter sadness in his pale eyes, a hint of despair and yearning. How had she ever thought his face expressionless? Subtle emotions played constantly across his features. One merely had to attend.
He reached over, spanning the short distance between them, and she thought he meant to take her in his arms again. She would have gone; indeed, she swayed forward to meet the anticipated embrace. But he only tipped her chin up with a single finger.
“You are wholly lovely and uncontrived,” he said, finally understanding. She’d thought he’d kissed her to teach her a lesson, to illustrate her vulnerability, and that she’d revealed instead a defect in herself, a baseness. He could not allow her to be so misled. “Any sane man would be ecstatic to know he was able to kindle in you more than curiosity with his kiss. Being a lady does not mean being dead to pleasure, Mercy, no matter what fantasies are being perpetuated by society’s scribblers.”
When she did not reply, he dropped his hand and stepped back, casting a glance in the direction of the house. He did not have time to convince her and he could see from the flush still staining her cheeks that she was unconvinced, clinging stubbornly to some mistaken notion that equated passionlessness with feminity.
Frustrated, he tugged on the bridle, forcing the gelding closer. Soon someone would look out his window and see them and he would have ruined Mercy in truth. For whatever his assurances as to the naturalness of her response, he knew too well that society was unnatural and it was according to society’s rules that Mercy had chosen to live—for whatever time. They had to hurry.
“You have nothing to upbraid yourself for. I am entirely at fault here, Mercy,” he said. “Whatever has happened, I have precipitated. I have taken complete advantage of a situation in which you should have been able to rely on me to act the gentleman. I beg your forgiveness.”
She looked at him in surprise. “You’re accepting all the responsibility for our … for my—”
“My kissing you, yes,” he said tersely as a light blinked on in one of the upper windows of the Actons’ house.
“Very noble,” she said, scowling. “And what of my part in our kiss? I was the”—she searched for a word and found one and it did not appear to make her very happy—“the unwitting victim?”
His chest tightened. “If that is how you perceive it,” he answered gravely.
“It is not!” she exclaimed. “I am many things, Hart, but I am not unwitting! I kissed you back, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
He stared at her, an incautious joy awakening within. “Why, yes, I believe I did.”
“Good.” She colored as soon as she’d said the word and he badly wanted to sweep her back into his arms. “I am an equal partner in what transpired here—ill advised as you assured me it was. I never said I wanted to be a lady, you know.” She made a great show of straightening her skirts. “Now,” she sniffed, “I suggest we forget about trying to determine who was more culpable.”
He nodded, smiling. “Agreed. We’d best be back to the house before our absence is noted.” He swung into the saddle and turned, offering her his hand, and when she’d given hers into his care, he lifted her in front of him.
She was a cheat, she thought, and as common as she’d always suspected she was a
nd Hart had just tried to convince her she was not. Because she knew full well that except for these next few minutes, Hart Moreland would never hold her again. And she wanted to hoard whatever sensations she could from these brief moments, because she had never felt so much, so intensely, before and she did not expect she ever would again.
So she lay back against the hard wall of his chest, burrowing between the open flaps of his coat, and, sighing softly, turned her head. The warmth of his body toasted her cheek through his thin cambric shirt. His heart beat strongly beneath her ear. She snuggled closer still, and his arm closed more securely about her.
“As soon as we’re back we’ll forget it happened, shall we?” she asked.
“Oh,” he replied quietly, “I don’t think I can promise that.”
Mercy thanked Brenna for her aid in unbuttoning the evening gown and shooed her out the bedroom door. She was too stimulated to sleep but too preoccupied to chat with the maid. She was a trifle bemused that Brenna had sat up waiting for her. It was late, well past midnight, and she’d been one of the last to leave the party.
She had been an exemplary guest. Even the ever-exacting Lady Acton could not have found fault with her demeanor. She had been entertained and been entertaining. She’d been approachable but not available. She’d been quick witted without being witty. And she’d smiled. Lord, how she’d smiled. At everyone. Her cheeks ached.
She sighed, her shoulders drooping. She only hoped Hart Moreland noticed her sophistication, she thought, self-congratulations fading away in a tide of wry honesty, because she certainly hadn’t proven her savoir faire to herself. All day she’d thought of little other than his passionate kiss, his long fingers stroking her body through the layers of clothes; his mouth warm and …
Impatiently, she tossed her shawl over a chair and, uncoiling her hair from its loose chignon, wandered over to the vanity. She sat down and slipped off her shoes.
She had tried so very hard to match Hart’s presumed insouciance with her own. After all, what was a kiss to a man of the world, particularly one like Hart? So she’d flirted and laughed, hoping Hart would not realize how much that kiss had shaken her. But Hart Moreland knew what he had done. It was there in the amused and all-too-knowing smile she had tried so hard to ignore.
A Dangerous Man Page 10