Courting Chaos (Dunaway's Daughters Book 2)

by Lynne Barron

  Pushing his way between a trio of clerks, narrowly missing one of them with a rib of his umbrella, Phin hurried down the walkway, catching up to Harry when she turned the next corner. When he extended his umbrella overhead to shield her from the rain, she peered up at him from beneath the brim of her bonnet, eyes glittering with some emotion he did not recognize and was loathe to decipher.

  “I ought not to have played fast and loose, my lord.”

  Phin couldn’t think of a suitable reply to the opening salvo she’d delivered, or even an unsuitable reply, seeing as he hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about.

  “It was the dragon.” Harry continued down the street at a leisurely pace while all around people hurried about in the rain. “The damn dragon.”

  “You couldn’t resist taking it by the tail?” he guessed.

  Harry’s lips curled into a smile fraught with mockery.

  Oddly enough, it seemed to Phin as if the mockery was directed at herself rather than him. Her next words went a long way to proving him correct.

  “Had I not stopped to haggle, I’d have been long gone, and you none the wiser.”

  Too late, Phin comprehended his mistake. “Harry, no.”

  “Mayhap it has escaped your notice, but we are no longer in Mayfair, my lord.”

  For the first time in their acquaintance, Phin detected a Shropshire accent in her voice. He couldn’t begin to decide what it meant but suspected it did not bode well. “Harry, stop a minute and let me speak with you.”

  Instead, she quickened her pace, sidling around an elderly man and leaving Phin holding his umbrella up over empty air.

  Phin waited for the old fellow to shuffle out of the way and caught up with Harry as she stepped down into the road. “Where are you going?”

  Harry made no reply.

  Holding his umbrella aloft over her head, he kept pace with her through the mire.

  When they’d reached the opposite side, Harry whipped around, thrust her hands to her hips, lifted her chin and glared down her long, elegant nose at him. “I’ve crossed to the other side of the street. Kindly extend me the same courtesy.”

  “I never agreed to be courteous.”

  Huffing out an irritated breath, she turned and started off down the street once more, forcing Phin to skip a few steps to keep up with her.

  “I only meant I never agreed to be relegated to Mayfair or barred from Wellclose Square,” Phin said by way of clarification, frustrated by the ease with which she twisted his words and tangled his thoughts. “And I certainly never agreed to cross to the other side of the street should I see you somewhere betwixt.”

  Harry darted out from beneath the umbrella and hurried across the road once more, dodging around a carriage and nearly careening into a young gentleman. The pair did a little jig on the wet cobblestones before the fellow stepped back with a bow and allowed her to proceed.

  Phin caught up with Harry as she reached the opposite side of the street.

  “I did not speak so much as a word to your sisters.” She pushed back the sodden brim of her bonnet and tilted her head back to look at him. “I ignored their greetings and their cheerful chatter, turned my back on them and left the shop without so much as a by your leave.”

  Her words eviscerated him, the pinched and wary expression on her pale face scouring his heart. The magnitude of his blunder hit him with enough force to steal his breath and any reply he might have made. His hesitation nearly cost him the opportunity to make amends.

  Harry’s lips twisted at one corner, and her eyes flashed as she stepped back and away from him and the shelter of the umbrella. Rain pelted her bonnet and spattered her shoulders.

  Phin followed her retreat, grasped her hand and, ignoring her attempt to tug free, wrapped her fingers around the handle of the umbrella. “I knew you were inside when I sent Evelyn and Eloise into Madame’s Broussard’s shop.”

  Harry’s eyes went wide.

  “Leastwise, I learned you had an appointment,” he went on, his words falling fast and furious in an attempt to get them said before she took off again. “And knowing what a stickler you are about your schedule, I tossed my sisters into the carriage and out into the rain to meet up with you in the shop.”

  “Why?”

  There were so many ways Phin might have answered the simple, single word question. Not a one of them was the least bit simple.

  I’ve missed you in a way I’ve never missed anyone or anything.

  I cannot live through another day without atoning for the hurt I caused you.

  I want to bask in your beauty, be ripped to shreds by your sharp tongue and lose myself in your kisses.

  I want to tie you to me before some bullyboy, crime lord or peer of the realm claims you.

  “Why would you send your sisters into the shop, knowing I was within?” she persisted.

  “I intended to demonstrate that I have never believed you to be unsuitable company for Eloise and Evelyn. Then I planned to invite you to tea so that I could properly apologize for unwittingly setting in motion the events which transpired at the museum. It never occurred to me you would refuse to speak with my sisters, flee through the rain to reach the boundary of Mayfair and cross multiple streets in an effort to evade me.”

  “You began today’s misguided endeavor with an intention?” Harry asked, her voice laced with derisive amusement.

  Phin supposed he ought to have known Harry would not be mollified so easily. “Did I mention I had my cook bake currant scones?”

  Harry waved away the words with a flourishing sweep of her free hand. “I’m not yet over the fact you had an actual intention. And something of a plan, however foolish it was.”

  Phin smiled, shrugged one shoulder and said, “I was aiming for subtle.”

  “Subtle?” Harry repeated doubtfully. “You?”

  “Not my forte, I know,” Phin agreed a bit sheepishly. “I hoped to paint a picture for you, not with bright colors and flashy flourishes, but with soft brushstrokes and nuanced shading. A portrait of the lady I see when I look at you. Intelligent and fearless, elegant and amusing, independent and kind. The very best of ladies, far superior to any other lady of my acquaintance, and more than equal to the beloved sisters of a mere viscount.”

  It was clear to Phin he’d surprised Harry with his eloquence. Hell, he’d surprised himself. He’d never before needed pretty words to woo a woman, and thus had not learned to wield them with any sort of fluency.

  Not one to allow an opportunity, or an instance of extraordinary articulacy, to go by without taking full advantage, Phin soldiered on. “I never meant to expose you to ridicule or the prying eyes of Society. I only wanted to enjoy your company without Evelyn and Eloise underfoot. I am truly sorry I made a muck of it.”

  “First subtlety and now sincerity. Who are you and what have you done with Viscount Knighton?”

  Something eased in Phin’s chest at her acerbic teasing, the weight he’d been carrying around lifting enough that he felt hopeful for the first time in days. “Can you forgive me?”

  Harry wasn’t certain she wanted to forgive Phineas.

  Even after his rather poetic speech.

  Or perhaps because of it.

  Phineas Griffith, Viscount Knighton, unshaven and mussed from his tousled raven locks to his mud-spattered boots, was dangerous to her equilibrium. Spouting pretty words and apologies, he was downright detrimental. What would it mean for her future, for her precisely scheduled, exactingly organized life were she to forgive him and resume their friendship?

  More importantly, what would it mean for her heart?

  “Harry,” Phin prompted. “Can you forgive me?”

  “I suppose you’ll expect me to forgive you for having me evicted from the House of Lords as well?” Harry asked the question solely to stall for time, in order to consider the ramifications of forgiveness and friendship.

  “Alas, I cannot apologize for that,” Phineas answered with a grin. “It was wort
h the tongue lashing you doled out, and the shilling it cost me, just to see you in a pair of tight trousers.”

  Harry couldn’t help but laugh, never mind her amusement was tinged with exasperation and affection and all sorts of alien emotions she did not want to contemplate. Alas, contemplate them she did. Sadly, it took no more than two frantic beats of her heart to comprehend and catalogue the foreign feelings, and but one more to reach the obvious conclusion.

  Damn and blast, there went her hypothesis that love was no more than a myth conceived by men and perpetuated by women to justify all manner of wicked and wanton behavior.

  It made an illogical sort of sense. Mathematically speaking, it was even logical. After all, when a woman surrounded herself with rakes, odds were good she’d eventually fall in love with of one of them. Perfect five-to-one odds, seeing as Withy was…well, Withy.

  Still, there was a world of difference between acknowledging the obvious and conceding to the inevitable. Especially for a woman who did not believe in the inevitable and had never allowed anything as whimsical as fate or as arbitrary as destiny to determine her future.

  “If I forgive you, will you go away?” she finally asked.

  “Not a chance.”

  Well, if he wouldn’t walk away, it was up to her.

  Spinning away from his too-handsome visage and the gleam in his amber eyes, she started up the street again.

  It wasn’t until Phineas ducked under the umbrella that she realized she still held it.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “You may be on your merry way,” she answered tartly. “I am going to walk toward Wellclose Square until Ned finds me.”

  “Have you added another admirer to your collection?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry retorted. “I don’t collect admirers, only rakes, rogues and randy felines.”

  “Which is Ned?”

  “Ned is my driver.”

  “You’ve a driver?”

  “Ned isn’t my driver exclusively,” she amended. “He is employed by the Prince Hackney and Transport Company, proudly serving Wellclose Square and outlying environs for nearly two years.”

  “Your Mr. Prince truly does have a finger in every pie, doesn’t he?” Phineas murmured, placing one hand on her back to steer her around a puddle.

  Harry felt as if he’d branded her with the simple touch. Staked a claim of some sort, one she wasn’t entirely certain she did not welcome.

  Which only served to frazzle her nerves, muddle her mind and explain the monologue she launched into as they walked down the street shielded from curious eyes and sheltered from the rain by the umbrella that provided the illusion of privacy.

  “I don’t know as I’d say Mr. Prince has a finger in every pie, so much as a fingertip in a goodly number of small tarts. You see, Prince learned early on to diversify his holdings in order to diminish the risks. If one allocates only a portion of one’s profits from a particular asset to be re-invested in said asset, and distributes the remainder amongst a variety of ventures, one is not quite so vulnerable to the vagaries in any given market.”

  “Vagaries?” Phineas asked, his fingers flexing on her lower back.

  “Downturns. And upturns, for that matter,” she clarified. “It is all well and good to corner the market on a particular commodity or service, but should that commodity or service no longer be required or desired, or should a competitor undercut one’s prices, thereby diverting one’s customers, one would do well not to have one’s entire fortune invested in the endeavor.”

  “How does one go about deciding which venture is worthy of investment?” Phineas asked, his voice a bit gravelly.

  “A smart investor considers the need for a particular commodity or service, the initial expenditures required, the opportunity for expansion, the time required to realize a profit and the likely lifespan of the venture.”

  “Tell me more,” he prompted when she fell silent.

  Harry suspected he was only humoring her, but it hardly mattered as she felt surer of her footing just now than she had since discovering she’d unwittingly dropped one of the balls she was juggling.

  As she pressed close to Phineas to avoid another puddle, she realized she knew precisely how to retrieve that errant ball and send it revolving amongst the others once more. After all, one scoundrel was as good as the next, and the scoundrel Harry had in mind had been more of a father to her than either of those Arabella had chosen for her.

  The fact that the rather ludicrous plan taking shape in her head entirely negated the need to venture into Mayfair only served to underscore how truly convoluted her life had become of late.

  “One must contemplate the risks versus the rewards,” Harry replied, aware that if she embarked upon this new course both would be great. “And consider the consequences of success and failure.” Again, both would be great.

  “Sounds a bit like gambling,” Phineas said in a strangled voice.

  “To be sure.” It would be the biggest gamble of her life. “And sometimes there is simply no way to hedge one’s bets.”

  “Are you going to start in on odds doubling the take twice over?”

  “Squaring the take twice over,” she corrected automatically.

  “If you start in on odds squaring the take twice over, there is a high probability I will pull you beneath the nearest awning and kiss you senseless.”

  Well.

  Damn and double damn. All notions of risk and reward flittered from her head and left her floundering in unfamiliar territory.

  “How high a probability?” Criminy, had she really tossed out the question? Still, it wasn’t a dare. Not quite. Not yet.

  “One hundred percent.”

  “When one gambles, whether it be a wager or an investment, a piddling sum or a vast fortune, one ought to be assured the odds are in one’s favor.” Harry’s heart beat loud enough to drown out the rain, and her breath left her lungs on something rather like a sigh. “For myself, I’ll not risk a halfpenny unless I anticipate…”

  “What?” Phineas demanded, snatching the umbrella from her unresisting fingers. “What do you anticipate?”

  “Squaring the take,” she just barely managed to gasp. “Thrice over.”

  Phineas’s free hand fell to her waist, and he took a single step forward, his legs tangling in her skirts. Harry retreated, not to escape his promised kiss but to put them beneath the awning above the door to a haberdashery.

  “Christ, your mind,” Phineas breathed as he dipped his head. “Your beautiful, agile, calculating mind.”

  Harry wound her arms around his back, her fingers clenching damp wool and hard muscle. “Shall I calculate the odds you’ll cease speaking and kiss me already?”

  Phineas tossed down the umbrella, wrapped his arms around her and hauled her up hard against his chest. His mouth landed on hers, his lips hard and demanding. Harry welcomed his kiss without a murmur of protest. In fact, the moan that traveled from her chest to tremble on her lips was born of longing, of hunger and desperation and a need so stark she shook with it.

  Nine days of fury and regret, of heartache and humiliation, of misery and a terrible, horrifying sense she’d been betrayed by the one person in all the world she’d thought she could trust. All those twisted and knotted emotions were in the kiss she forced upon him when she parted her lips and swept her tongue into his mouth. Stroking her tongue over and around his, nipping at his bottom lip none too gently, she poured all the longing, all the anger and pain and desperation into the kiss. Punishing him for all of the muddled feelings and every single minute she’d wasted on maudlin thoughts and impossible expectations. And castigating him for every erotic dream she’d endured.

  Dimly, Harry was aware of Phineas making an attempt to gentle the kiss, if not break it altogether. He lifted his head just enough to whisper against her puckering, pulling, parted lips, “Harry, easy, love.”

  But Harry would have none of it. There was no ease in her and hadn�
�t been for so long she only vaguely remembered what it meant, how it felt to be carefree and comfortable and unhurried.

  Wedging one hand between their bodies, Harry coiled her arm up around his shoulder and clasped a fistful of his hair in her fingers. Raising up on her toes, she pulled his lips back to hers and picked up right where she’d left off—plundering and punishing.

  Phineas growled low in this throat, angled his head and met her ravenous assault, matched it and transformed it into something else entirely. With masterful swipes and greedy forays of his tongue, he took all of the emotions roiling inside her and converted them into pleasure, sharp and piercing.

  He spun her around and moved them deeper into the shelter and shadows of the awning, until Harry felt the cold, hard wood of the door at her back. And still Phineas kissed her, his lips playing over hers, his tongue sweeping inside to dance and parry with her own, to trace over the line of her teeth, to sweep along her inner cheek, as if he were determined to explore every last inch of her mouth, every texture and taste.

  His whiskers chafed her skin, scoured her chin and upper lip, the burn of it so foreign and wondrous, Harry couldn’t help the low moan that fell from her lips to his. The taste of him, mint and a hint of coffee, was so unbearably delicious. He smelled of starch and soap and his own musky sweat, and Harry wanted to fill her nose, fill her lungs with his scent. His hair was soft and silky against her fingers, his chest pressed so hard to her breasts she could feel the rapid thud of his heart, perfectly in tune with her own. His arousal prodded her hip, the length of rigid flesh hot and throbbing. And the sound of his breathing as he lifted his mouth only long enough to shift the angle of his lips, the raspy groan he emitted as their mouths melded together once more, as their tongues tangled anew.

  Her senses were full of him, her body pressed tightly to his, her blood pounding through her veins, pleasure engulfing her, drowning her in alien sensations. All thought scattered, but for one.