Come to that, she could never make it up to her father, who died believing his sons had been killed in an uprising in Martinique.
Staring out at the darkened streets, she sighed, gloom once again enveloping her. There was no way to make it all right again. The task was too enormous.
Then a thought made her frown and she turned to Tynan, also lost in his own thoughts. "What power does Malvern's mother hold?"
He made a soft noise of amusement, and cleared his throat. "There are men who like to be… shall we say… dominated."
"I don't understand. Say it plainly."
"All right." He touched his lips. "There are men—and women, too—who prefer to be tied up, even beaten. Abused, I suppose, though they do not view it that way."
"Oh." Adriana's eyes widened as she thought of it. "And she is the sort of woman who does the tying?"
"That's what they say."
"Well," she said without embarrassment, "that does make certain other matters a little more understandable."
"He did not abuse you?"
"Malvern? Oh, not at all." She shook her head. Thinking of the cryptic discussion between her brother and Tynan, she inclined her head and asked, "Tell me of your brother, Tynan. You never speak of him at all."
"What would you hear?"
"I don't know. Whatever you wish to tell me. What was he like?"
In the darkness, he turned to her and smiled. "In memory, I make him into a saint, but he was not that. He was headstrong and stubborn, like my father."
She chuckled. "Nothing like you, of course."
"Well, we did share that quality, though my mother said I was tenacious in the way of a cat, sneaky, while Aiden was a bull, barreling through anything in front of him."
"Did he marry?"
"No. His devotion was… complete." A more ragged edge roughened his voice. "In the end, it cost him his life."
She wanted to know how he'd died, but it was not the sort of question one asked. He would volunteer the information if he wished for her to have it. Instead she asked, "How long has it been?"
"Less than a year."
"You must miss him dreadfully." Without thinking, she reached for his hand, and he accepted her touch, turning his hand over to meet her palm to palm.
"That I do," he said.
"It must be difficult for you to watch me with my own brothers."
"No," he said clearly. "It is a joy."
The quiet, simple statement, rolling from him on that lovely Irish lilt, suddenly seemed to Adriana to sum up the whole of this man who'd come to her so abruptly, disturbing her safe, careful life in unexpected and unwelcome and startling ways. But at the heart of all of it, she knew why her father had liked him. He was a man of honor, a man of his word, and there was a very great river of kindness running through him. She tightened her grip. "Thank you for all you've done."
"And welcome you are," he said, and a hint of teasing crept into his voice. "I am quite certain you'll find a way to repay me." He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her inner wrist. "Will you not?"
She yanked her hand away. "Why are men ever thinking only of one thing?"
He laughed. "Do you not think of it, Riana?" He shifted, and settled an arm around her shoulders. An instant bolt of awareness spiked through her, shooting down her spine and into her belly, and it annoyed her. "Weren't you thinking of kisses outside the Tower?"
His breath whispered over her earlobe, across her jaw, and she closed her eyes. "A moment of weakness only."
"Not weakness—anticipation."
Anticipation. The scent of him enveloped her, and her flesh remembered suddenly the taut moment outside the Tower. The sense of awareness and connection flooded her now with an almost unbearable power. She closed her eyes as he touched her neck with his nose and, with a free hand, loosened the ties of her cloak. She tried to think of some word to stop him, but here in the dark, alone with him as the carriage rocked them side to side, she could not summon a single one.
"I think of kissing you all the day," he murmured, his hand sliding under the woolen cloak to light upon her shoulder. The tips of his fingers were cold and she shivered. "I think about where to land each one I am allowed. Should it be your ear?" He drew a line around the edge of it. "Or, perhaps, your throat?" All four fingers slid from her chin to her collarbone, light as feathers, and a shudder coursed down her spine, though she forced herself to remain still.
His voice deepened to a luxurious caress, the lilt rising and falling and rolling into her ear as his delicately wicked hands followed his narrative. "I wonder to myself which place would drive you mad? Here?" His fingers drifted over her breasts, slipped beneath the demure scarf she tucked into the bodice and, in a sudden gesture, pulled it free. She caught her breath, and knew he could tell she was aroused—her breath was hurried and shallow, and his hands were upon the upper swell of her breasts, so he could feel that. One finger edged along the lowest edge of her bodice, nearly upon her nipples if he but knew it, and she closed her eyes.
"Ah," he said, and he, too, was aroused. She heard it in the new huskiness in his voice. "There."
In the dark, rocking closer and closer into the circle of his arm, the cradle of his body, Adriana let go. She did not stop him when he tugged her close and bent her into the curve of his arm. She did not halt him when he brushed the fabric of her cloak away and bent his head over her breasts and pressed his sensual mouth to that low, low place just above the corner of her bodice.
She did not halt him. In fact she found herself arching toward him as his tongue came out and seared a line along the edge of that bodice, one side to the other, drawing a line across both breasts. Nor did she protest when his lips moved, and moved, and moved again, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses over her breasts and her throat and back down. His hair brushed her chin and she made a soft sound, and as if he knew what she wished, he reached behind him and pulled the tie from his hair. It spilled free over his shoulders, around his face, scattered across her throat and touched her breasts.
She raised her hands to it, taking a handful and letting it spill over her arm, silky and rich and gloriously sensual, and it was this, his hair, that sent her reason into some dark closed place and allowed the fullness of her sensuality to spill forth. She touched his hair and his head, trailed her fingers over his eyelids and let him kiss her palm, her wrist, her fingers.
And when he hauled her into his lap, when her hips pressed hard into his member, she shifted more fully, pressing closer, and he groaned in deepest pleasure.
But even this did not make him into a wild beast, as it had often done with… others. Instead his head came up, and his hands, and he clutched her closer, putting his mouth against her throat while his hands tugged at her sleeves, tugging them down over her arms, pulling her bodice lower, lower.
Her breath caught at his intent and for one tiny moment she felt reason begin to invade as her breasts, pushed high by her corset, spilled from the top of her dress.
But his mouth was too quick for the protest to last. Those elegant lips, those deft fingers, captured her, and his fluid tongue, his gentle teeth, his suckling mouth fell to their carnal task. Her hands tightened in his hair and her breath left her, and she let go, let herself fall into the unimaginable pleasure of his swirling and teasing and scraping. A pressure built in her abdomen, and she found herself aching for more, for his tongue in her mouth and his—
The carriage rolled to a halt, and they ceased, frozen in place. She was sprawled over his lap, her breasts exposed, her arms trapped neatly at her sides by the dress. His hair spilled over his shoulders, mussed by her hands, and there was a glazed, lazy expression on his face that she knew was reflected on her own.
He acted quickly, tugging the cloak tight around her, smoothing back his hair and setting her beside him before the footman had even jumped down. With a quick grin at her, he said, "How many kisses did I spend?"
Her body still pulsed and there was something wicked about havi
ng her breasts naked beneath the cloak, but no matter how she struggled, she could not quite get her hands in place to fix it. "Help me!" she whispered insistently.
He let go of a wicked laugh. "Must I? It's ever so erotic to imagine that cloak slipping the tiniest bit."
"Tynan!"
"Pretend to sleep," he said as the door handle moved. "I'll carry you in."
There was no time to do anything else, so she complied. He swung her easily into his arms and managed the step to the ground with no trouble. "She's exhausted," he said jauntily. "I'll just take her up to bed."
Bed. She tensed. Was that what they were going to do now? What else had she expected?
"Keep your eyes closed," he murmured. "There're footmen all about."
It felt like her cloak was slipping, and with that covert, hidden part of her, she hoped it was. She hoped he was tortured by a glimpse of flesh he could not touch, to pay him back for this game. With a wicked little wiggle, she managed to get her hands in place to make sure a small glimpse of something showed.
"You're a wicked thing," he said on a harsh exhalation as they climbed the stairs. "And I vow you have the most beautiful breasts I've ere seen."
He reached the top and Adriana opened her eyes. "Are we out of sight?"
He shoved open her bedroom door and put her down and pressed her against the wall. "Aye, we are." Even through her skirts she felt the aggressive thrust of his member, and with a fierce sound he bent and put his mouth against her neck, sucking hard as his hands went under the cloak to touch her breasts. "How many kisses have I spent, Riana?" he breathed.
"A dozen at least."
"Too many for one night." His fingers teased her nipples to aching points. "But I must spend two more."
She knew she should reign herself in, but it was impossible. Her blood boiled with want of him, with the glory of the feelings he roused in her when he bent and opened his mouth over her right breast, lingering with heat and swirling tongue. "One," he whispered, pulling away, and moved to her left side. "Two."
He stepped back and covered her carefully. "I must save the rest."
"Must you?"
A wicked, wicked smile made his eyes glitter." Anticipation," he said, and before she could react, he slipped into the passageway and closed the door behind him.
Adriana, senses in a delicious uproar, slumped against the wall and closed her eyes.
Anticipation. She smiled.
Chapter 14
Vauxhall was one of the many pleasure gardens scattered through the fashionable neighborhoods of London. Many of Adriana's former acquaintances had forsworn Vauxhall in favor of the more genteel Ranelagh, but she much preferred the former. The arches and promenade, the graceful statues and benches, the well-tended gardens themselves, all pleased her. But it was the music hall itself she most enjoyed. A high-ceilinged great hall with elegant plasterwork touched with gilt, it had, in fact, inspired Cassandra's parlor.
Under that arched roof gathered all the classes of London—a mark against it in many eyes, but a great benefit in Adriana's. It seemed to her criminal to limit music to the upper classes. One of the great beauties of life was music, and she felt it should be offered freely to all. And here, it was.
One of her gowns had been delivered earlier that afternoon, and Adriana wore it arrogantly, holding her head at a proud level as she and Tynan made their way up the promenade in the early dark, looking for Margaret. She knew eyes followed her—the deep blue velvet with its overskirt of gauze made the most of her extravagant figure, and the deeply cut bodice, even without the necklace of sapphires that had been her mother's, would have drawn attention.
In fact, she'd been appalled at the display, and had come down with a length of fine gossamer silk tucked over her shoulders and breasts. Tynan shook his head, smiling the faintest bit, and with a single, bold gesture tugged it out. "You're no blushing maiden, Riana, but a married woman in the full blossom of her beauty." His eyes had skated with dark appreciation over her flesh. "Wear it proudly. Haughtily."
As she walked down the promenade, it was not difficult to hold her head proudly, and it was Tynan who made it so. Dressed in an immaculate suit of midnight satin, the waistcoat again embroidered with the Celtic design that was so unusual, he was by far the most elegant and attractive man in the park. Women dipped their heads to gaze at him discreetly behind their fans, and young girls openly stared. Tall and lean, his eyes glittering with that hot light, he winked at one, smiled at another, caused a whole crowd of girls to giggle wildly as he passed.
And in her matching midnight dress, blond where he was dark, round where he was straight, lush where he was lean, Adriana thought they made a startlingly handsome couple.
Margaret had a box, and waved madly to them from it when they entered the building. Adriana waved back and would have gone straight to her, but Tynan held her back. "First we must be seen," he said, then leaned close as if whispering some intimacy.
"And remember how desperately in love we are."
Adriana smiled seductively up at him. "No woman here would fault me," she said sincerely. "You're the most dashingly handsome creature to have graced these walls in a decade."
His eyes glittered. "Am I, now?"
"You are." She flipped open her fan and inclined her head. "Though I suspect your conceit already informed you."
He laughed with genuine amusement, the sound ringing out as bold and robust as the man himself. Adriana caught on the sight of those big white teeth and felt a ripple of need go through her. To have those teeth on her flesh…!
Tucking her arm more closely to him, he led their promenade. "This will not be easy," he said, nodding to an acquaintance. "Hold steady."
And in a quarter turn it was plain this was much more difficult than a ride in Hyde Park, for there was no height from which to peer down at the hostile. And there was no buffer of wind and sun to protect her from the murmuring that began to rise around them, most of it inaudible, some of it less so. She heard "Malvern" and "duel" and "trial," and at last, "whore." Her face flamed, but Tynan had heard it, too, and tightened his grip.
Leaning close, he whispered, "Shall I kill him for you?"
She managed a small smile. "There's been enough of that, hasn't there?"
"Ah, perhaps." He glanced over his shoulder. "Pity. I would have enjoyed it, I think."
The incident made her remember another night, and with horror, she realized they should probably not have come. Not here. Urgently, she said, "Tynan, there is something you should—"
A man moved into their path and stopped. Adriana's heart squeezed as she recognized him—John Stead, Malvern's foppish second the day of the duel in Hyde Park. By his stance, he was more than a little drunk, and his eyes carried a feverishness Adriana found alarming. "Well if it isn't the merchant and his whore," he drawled.
To her surprise, Tynan said in a genial voice, "Stead. Have you met my wife?" Only then did Adriana see the hot color staining his cheekbones. "But I suppose you'll be jealous of my good fortune again, so you'll excuse us."
"I'll look forward to seeing your brother hang," Stead said to Adriana. There was no doubt he was very drunk, but the words struck horror through her anyway.
"Ah, but you'll not wish to vote that way," Tynan said, clapping Stead on the back. "Did I neglect to tell you the title will then be mine?"
The piggish eyes narrowed. "Is that so?" he drawled. Taking out a box of snuff, he cocked his head at Adriana. "Wasn't it here that you indulged yourself with Malvern in a box? I believe I was even here that night."
Adriana flinched, catching the quick, unguarded wound in Tynan's eyes. She looked away. "Honestly, darling," she drawled, "must we bore ourselves with this worm?"
"Certainly not." He made a move to go around.
Stead shifted slightly. "I'll take her when you're finished with her, Spenser," he said. "Times a man doesn't mind leftovers."
Adriana felt the furious tenseness go through Tynan's body, and she count
ered with a strength of her own while pressuring his arm, that they move away. There was an odd long moment when she was gripping his upper arm, pushing with all her strength, and he was just as steadfastly pushing back.
"Do not respond," she said to her husband fiercely as she managed to move them along, despite Tynan's resistance. "He hopes to draw you into a duel to make Julian look bad. You may kill him ten times when this is done, but not now."
Abruptly, Tynan relaxed. The color on his cheekbones remained, hectic and dangerous, but in every other way he appeared to be the perfect, light-hearted rake. He even managed a laugh, and glanced over his shoulder, then leaned close. "Do not think this is finished, Adriana," he said. "In this moment, I could cheerfully choke the breath from your pretty neck and not even blink with remorse. Do you understand me?"
"Very well," she said, spirits plummeting.
* * *
He had no memory of the music, only a sense of taut heat and the shattered brilliance of jewels reflecting the light of candles, and a burn in his chest that would not ease, a burn made of anger and hatred and humiliation.
And desire. For Adriana burned, too, like a torch in the darkness, her skin pale and pure against velvet, her throat draped in sapphires that fell in stars over the rise of her breasts, her hair swept up but catching all the light in the box as if she wore a halo. Her back stayed straight, her chin high, and for all his fury at her, he could not help but admire that strength of will.
Until last night, he had not seen how much like Julian she was. Both of them so icy and passionate by turns, those cool eyes reflecting far too much of what lay inside the mind. Tonight, as Julian had last night, she fought despair. It hovered in a pale mist over her too-bright eyes, and he'd added to it by responding to Stead's insinuations.
He shifted as a melody was sung by a tiny woman in a tiara, her voice three times as large as she. He could not halt himself from imagining another night, and his wife entangled in passion, making love in the shadows of some box here. It was not uncommon, of course. The boxes were deep and dark, and facilitated that sort of thing.
The Black Angel (The St Ives) Page 18