Twisting on his heel, he headed to the table where champagne and sundry other refreshments were being poured. He was acutely aware of her gaze homed in on his back. He suspected if he looked over his shoulder, he would see her whispering with the other ladies, warning them off. Little did she realize that she would be doing him a favor if she could ensure that he was left in peace. He had committed to three more dances, and wouldn’t disappoint his soon-to-be partners by heading to the gaming salon before he’d completed his obligations. Nor was he going to give Lady Ophelia the satisfaction of ruining his evening by sending him on errands. One glass was all she’d garner from him.
He didn’t know why, two years ago at Grace’s coming-out ball, he had asked Lady Ophelia to dance. He had thought she had grown into an exquisite creature, and she was Grace’s friend. While she had often looked down her nose on him, she’d been a child then and he’d assumed she’d outgrown childish things. He couldn’t have been more wrong. With a horrified look, she had given him a cut direct. Turned her back on him without even responding to his invitation. It had not spared his pride to realize that others had witnessed the rebuff.
Snatching up a flute of champagne from the table, he wended his way back through the throng, not at all surprised to find that she had moved on. He considered downing the bubbly brew but hard whiskey was more to his liking, and then he heard her seductive laughter. How the devil could an ice maiden have such a throaty, sensual laugh, a siren’s song that arrowed straight to the groin?
Irritated with himself for being drawn to the sound, he glanced back over his shoulder to spy her flirting outrageously with the Duke of Avendale and Viscount Langdon. Their families were well-respected, powerful, and wealthy. He was not surprised to see two other ladies in the group. The gents were sought-after, but just as he tended to avoid social affairs, so did they. Marriage was so far in their distant future that they wouldn’t be able to see it with a spyglass. They were here only because they were close to both Grace and Lovingdon. But now that the happy couple had departed, he suspected Avendale and Langdon would be headed elsewhere for their entertainment.
Unlike Lady O they would invite him to join them.
Ophelia’s laughter reached him again, only this time when the sound went silent, her gaze landed on him like a huge stone, then dipped to the champagne, and her lips tipped upward in triumph, just before she wrinkled her nose as though she smelled something quite unpleasant. Her face settling once more into deceptive loveliness, she shifted her gaze back to Avendale, summarily dismissing Drake in the process.
Unfortunately for her, he was no longer quite so easily dismissed.
Ophelia knew a quick spurt of panic. Darling strode toward her with purpose in his step, his large hands—a workman’s hands—dwarfing the flute he carried. His expression shouted that he was tossing down the gauntlet and she feared she might have misjudged his mood tonight, that managing him might be more challenging than she’d expected, but manage him she would. She would not be cowed, not by him, not by any other man for that matter.
He was a commoner who came from common beginnings. He might wear the outer trappings of a gentleman, but she had no doubt that deep down he was a scoundrel, with a scoundrel’s ways, and a penchant toward sinful behavior.
She didn’t know why that thought caused her to grow uncomfortably warm. It was the crowded room, the gaslit chandeliers, the layers of petticoats, and the tight corset. She certainly wasn’t imagining those hands exploring her body. She was not of the streets. She was a lady. And ladies did not contemplate such things.
But as he neared, something within the black depths of his eyes twinkled as though he knew precisely where her errant thoughts had journeyed and was more than willing to serve as her companion on a sojourn into wickedness. He was not handsome, at least not classically so. His features were rugged, craggy, as though shaped by an angry god. His nose was too broad, his brow too wide. His jaw too square. She could see the beginning of shadow, bristles that hadn’t the decency to wait until later to appear. Why was she wasting her time cataloguing each and every inch of him when she had lords aplenty willing to give her attention?
As he came to a halt in front of her, he gave his gaze free rein to take a leisurely stroll over her person. Breathing became difficult, and she had a horrid fear he would find her lacking. She drew back her shoulders. What did she care regarding his opinion of her, when his opinion was of no worth?
“Your champagne.”
His rough, deep voice wove something dark and sensual around the words. She suspected he wasn’t a silent lover, that he whispered naughty things into a woman’s ear.
“You were so remarkably slow in retrieving it that I’m no longer of a mood to drink it.”
“Surely you’ll not deny yourself the pleasure of allowing these bubbles to tickle your palate.”
He wrapped a wealth of meaning around the word pleasure. That he would be so bold as to speak to her with such disregard while others were near … it was not to be tolerated. But for the life of her, she could think of no witty rejoinder because he was studying her as though he could well imagine her tickling his palate.
“With your tarrying, I believe it has gone flat,” she said, before turning her back on him. “Avendale, I believe you were discussing—”
Drake Darling had the audacity to wedge himself between her and the duke. His eyes were narrowed, his jaw taut. “Lady Ophelia, I must insist that you take the champagne.”
“You, boy, are in no position to insist on anything where I am concerned.”
His gloved finger tapped the side of the flute, while his gaze bored into hers, and she could fairly see the wheels of reprisal turning in his mind. She didn’t know why she sought to provoke him, yet something about him unsettled her, always had. She wanted to put him in his place, to remind him—and herself—that he was beneath her. Her father had taken a belt to her backside and bare legs when he once caught her speaking with Darling. She’d been twelve at the time, but it wasn’t a lesson easily forgotten. She was not to associate with anyone not of noble birth.
“So be it,” he murmured, lifting the glass. He tilted back his head and downed the golden liquid in one long swallow. She could see only a bit of his muscles at his throat working, because a perfectly tied cravat hid the rest from view. But his neck, like the rest of him, was powerful. Moving aside the glass, he licked his lips, satisfaction glinting in his eyes. “Not at all flat. Quite pleasant, actually, like the kiss of a temptress.”
Anger, hot and scalding, shot through her. He was mocking her, ridiculing her. It didn’t matter that she had begun this little drama with her earlier request. He was supposed to scurry away when he realized she no longer had an interest in the champagne. He wasn’t supposed to make her wonder if any lingered on his lips, if she might taste it there. “Boy—”
“It’s been a good long while since I was a boy.”
She angled her chin. “Boy, perhaps you would fetch us all some champagne.”
“When hell freezes over, my lady.”
He took a step toward her. She took a hasty step back. Triumph lit his eyes. Blast him. She would retreat no further.
A footman passed by, and without removing his gaze from hers, Darling set the flute on the silver tray the servant carried. Then took another long step forward.
She fought to hold her ground, but she could inhale his intoxicating fragrance now. Earthy and rich, the scent of tobacco or perhaps sin. He eased closer—
Half a step back.
“Dance with me,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
She angled up her chin. “I don’t dance with commoners.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“I don’t fear anything.”
“Liar.”
She darted her gaze to the left, the right. Without her noticing, he had managed to maneuver her into the shadows of an alcove and was now barring her way. Those
she had been visiting with earlier were nowhere about. She should have known that Avendale and Langdon would side with this blackguard and escort her friends onto the dance floor, into the gardens, or off for refreshments. Blast them! Still, she’d not be intimidated by the likes of Drake Darling. “You, sir, are despicable.”
“And you’re a haughty miss who needs to be taught a lesson.”
“I suppose you think you’re the man to do it.”
His eyes darkened, his gaze dropped to her lips, and she found herself taking three quick steps back. “Don’t you dare,” she whispered, hating that her voice sounded more like a plea than a demand.
“You’ve been poking the tiger for some years now. You can’t always expect him to remain docile.”
He had the right of it there. She didn’t know why she had continually singled him out. Perhaps because she sensed a darkness in him, one that called to her, one that was dangerous to welcome.
“You’re making a spectacle of us,” she pointed out.
“We’re in the shadows. No one is paying us any heed at all.”
Like some great hulking predator, he advanced on her. While she knew it to be unwise, she retreated farther into the alcove until her back hit the wall. Her heart beat out an unsteady tattoo. Within her gloves, her palms grew damp. “If you do anything untoward, I’ll scream.”
He laughed darkly. “And risk being caught with a guttersnipe? I think not.”
“You’re a black-hearted scoundrel.”
“Which is exactly why I intrigue you. You’re bored with all the fancy gents hovering around you. They’d never think of touching you with ungloved hands.”
She caught her breath as his warm, rough hand cradled the left side of her face. Such a massive hand, his fingers easing into her hair, the edge of his palm against her jaw, the pad of his thumb stroking her cheek.
“You’re bored with gentlemen running about doing your bidding,” he continued.
“I’m not bored.” She hated how breathless she sounded, as though she’d been running up a never-ending hill. Her chest felt tight, painful.
“You’re spoiled because everyone gives you what you want. You’ve never had to work for anything. Not even a gentleman’s attentions or affections.”
“You know nothing at all about me.” Her voice came out small, frightened. In her heart of hearts, she knew he wouldn’t physically harm her, nor would he do anything to damage her reputation. Grace would never forgive him, and if she’d learned anything over the years, it was that he desperately wanted to please Grace and her family. But she feared he had the ability to glimpse into her shattered soul. Like called to like, dark to dark.
“I know more than you think, Lady Ophelia. Understand more than you can possibly imagine. You’ll marry some proper lord, but I suspect you would very much like to waltz with the devil first.”
“You’re quite mistaken.”
“Prove it.”
Before she could respond, he settled his pliant mouth over hers. It was softer than she’d expected, hotter. His thumb grazed the corner of her mouth, over and over, as though it were part of the kiss. She felt his tongue outlining the seam between her lips, before tracing the outer edges. Once, twice, then returning to the center, but no longer content with the surface. With an insistence that should have frightened her, he urged her to part her lips. His tongue slid through, gliding over hers, velvet and silk. Inviting her to explore, to know the intimacies of his mouth as he was discovering hers.
She should have been repelled, horrified. Instead she was entranced, drawn into sensations such as she’d never experienced. He was so terribly talented at eliciting delicious responses that began at the tips of her toes and swirled ever upward, a tingling of nerve endings, a lethargic warmth, that weakened her knees, her resolve to push him away.
She heard a deep groan, felt a vibration against her fingers and realized she was clutching the lapels of his coat. Clinging to Drake Darling was all that was keeping her from melting into a puddle of pleasure at his feet. This was merely a kiss, an ancient dance of mouths, yet it was proving to be her undoing.
He drew back, triumph glittering in his eyes. “Five more minutes and I could have you divested of your clothing and on your ba—”
Crack!
Her gloved palm made contact with his cheek, startling him, startling herself as well, but she would not allow him to make her feel as though she were a whore. “You are not only disgusting but you overvalue your talents. I didn’t enjoy your touch, your kiss, not in the least.”
“Your moans implied otherwise.”
She lifted her hand to deliver another blow, but he snagged her wrist, his long, thick fingers wrapping firmly around her slender bones. He could snap them so easily. She was breathing heavily, while he seemed to have no trouble at all finding air.
“One slap is all you get, my lady. I would have ceased my attentions with the slightest of protest from you. You can’t now be angry because you wanted what I was offering.”
“I want nothing at all to do with you. Now unhand me.”
His fingers slowly unfurled. Snatching her hand free, she fisted it at her side. “You are no better than the muck I wipe off my shoes.”
“Methinks the lady protests overmuch.”
“May you rot in hell.” She sidestepped around him, greatly relieved that he didn’t attempt to stop her, slightly disappointed as well. Whatever was wrong with her? It was an odd thing to realize that with him she’d felt … safe. Completely, absolutely safe.
Which was ludicrous. He didn’t like her. She didn’t like him. He was simply striving to teach her a lesson. She could only hope that she’d taught him one: she wasn’t a lady to be trifled with.
Chapter 2
“What were you doing talking with Drake Darling?” Somerdale asked as the carriage rolled through the quiet streets.
The ball would no doubt continue on until dawn, but Ophelia had been more than ready to leave after her encounter with Darling in the alcove. It appeared their little tryst had gone unnoticed, thank God. She’d lost all her enthusiasm for dancing, and had asked her brother to escort her home. He had gladly accommodated her request, no doubt because he was equally anxious to be off to his club.
Looking across the way at him, Ophelia couldn’t read his expression yet his voice hinted at his disapproval. “I was thirsty. I asked him to fetch me something to drink.”
“You would have been better served giving your attentions to a lord. Father placed an ungodly sum in a trust for you so that you would possess a dowry to entice the most influential lords. You need to set your sights on someone like Avendale. He’s a duke for God’s sake.”
“With no plans to take a wife. He was only in attendance tonight because of his friendship with Lovingdon. And you need not worry. I have no interest in Darling as a suitor.”
“See that you don’t. I like the fellow well enough, but Father would roll over in his grave. He entrusted me with ensuring that you married well. I intend to see to that duty.”
“Would you not be better served by seeing to your duty of marrying an heiress?”
It had been two years since their father’s death and she knew the coffers were not as flush as they’d once been.
Somerdale glanced out the window. “I’d hoped for Grace. Now I must begin my search anew. It is a bothersome task.”
Somerdale marrying Grace would have been a disaster. He needed someone not quite so rebellious.
“You don’t think I find the search for a husband equally bothersome?”
“Bothersome it might be but it is a condition of your trust. Pity you can’t gain access to it before you marry. We could have some jolly fun with the money.” He turned his attention back to her. “But your husband will take it over once you’re wed, and that will be the end of it.”
“The funds become mine if I don’t marry by my thirtieth birthday.” Which was her plan. Much like Avendale, she had no wish to tie the marital knot. Oh, she
made noises about it, even had both Grace and Minerva believing she wanted to marry for love, but the truth was that she wanted to be a spinster, never accountable to a man. No man would ever love her enough to forgive her for what she’d once done, and it was a secret she could not forever keep from a husband.
“If you want gowns for next Season you’d best marry during this one,” Somerdale said, cutting into her thoughts.
Her heart gave a little start. “Are things truly that dire?”
He shrugged. “Investments haven’t turned out as I’d hoped. I considered taking a loan from your trust to see me through until my situation improves, had my solicitor look over the details, but your funds are locked up tighter than a drum. Only your marrying a commoner or your death would release them into my hands.”
A shiver went through her. She was disconcerted to know he’d been searching for a way into her trust fund. That money was hers, her dowry, the key to her future, her freedom. Her father wanted her to have it. Somerdale would simply have to find a way to make do. “I most certainly am not going to marry a commoner. I doubt I’ll marry anyone at all. And I certainly don’t intend to die anytime soon.”
“If you want to have pin money before you’re thirty, you will marry some lord, even if he’s on his deathbed. Honestly, Ophelia, I’m in quite the pickle here.”
“That’s why you were interested in Grace, because she had such a large dowry.”
“Well, yes, of course.”
He said it as though she were an idiot to think otherwise. “She wanted to marry for love.”
“I assure you that if a woman puts coins in my coffers, I shall love her very much indeed.”
“That’s not the sort of love Grace wanted,” she told her brother. “I’m ever so glad she didn’t take your suit seriously.”
Once More, My Darling Rogue Page 2