The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  Something swung toward him just to his left and Dash ducked, reaching out and capturing the small fist that had nearly connected with his face.

  A shrill scream, followed by an “Ow,” sounded in the dark.

  Miss Barnes tumbled from the bed, landing in a tangle of nightgown and coverlet at his feet.

  “Ow!”

  “You repeat yourself, Miss Barnes,” Dash commented, pulling her to stand.

  She yanked her hand from his as if she’d been burned. “I’m afraid eloquence escapes me at the moment. It often does when I’m set upon in my bed.”

  Dash didn’t respond. He could only stare. Her chin was lifted haughtily, her full, soft lips trembling slightly. Her labored breathing forced her chest to rise and fall unnaturally fast.

  “Well, my lord. I assume there’s a rational reason for your presence,” she ground out, turning away. A moment later, the sudden dim glow of a lone candle illuminated her and little else. A plain white night rail clung to her body, accentuating her lush curves. Dash knew he should look away, but he found it impossible to resist the breathtaking view.

  “Oh!” she squeaked, looking down at her night rail and crossing her arms over her breasts. “Turn around!” she commanded, then added “and please, fetch me my wrapper.”

  Dash did as she asked, crossing the room to where a soft linen wrapper lay folded neatly on the edge of one of the chairs. He picked it up and turned back to Miss Barnes.

  “No,” she urged, gesturing for him to turn around. “Your presence in my room is highly inappropriate. Do not make the situation any worse than it already is.”

  “Of course,” Dash agreed, immediately turning around and walking backward until he felt her palm flatten between his shoulder blades. He laid the wrapper over his shoulder and waited.

  She whisked the garment away and a moment later, tapped efficiently on his arm. “You may turn around, my lord.”

  Dash slowly shifted to face her. “There is a rational reason.”

  “I’m sorry?” she questioned, folding her arms tightly across her chest.

  He adopted what he hoped was a look of confusion. “For what, Miss Barnes?”

  She looked down and fiddled with the tassel at the end of her wrapper’s sash, blowing out a frustrated breath as she did so. “Shall we start again, my lord? Why, exactly, are you here?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Dash replied obtusely. “For the puzzle.”

  “The puzzle?” Miss Barnes parroted, squeezing her upper arms as if for support, then unfolding them and gesturing toward the two chairs. “Now,” she began again, walking across the room and sitting down. “You needed the puzzle now?”

  “No, I wanted the box earlier,” Dash replied, following her and taking the chair opposite. “But you failed to appear for dinner.”

  “I see,” she replied hesitantly, nodding her head at the simple logic. “Well, then. You shall have your puzzle.”

  Dash sat on the edge of his seat, like the simpleton Miss Barnes believed him to be, and began. “I’m very curious about the box. Can’t imagine what my father would have kept inside of it.”

  “Well, you won’t have to wait long, my lord. I’ve nearly figured it out.”

  “That’s impossible,” Dash growled, forgetting his role and drumming his fingers on his knees.

  “Really?” Miss Barnes answered, her countenance changing abruptly.

  Dash realized his instantaneous rejection of her claim had been too quick. Too sure. He was becoming too comfortable with the woman. She made him forget himself far too easily.

  He ceased drumming his fingers and brought his palms together, then spread his hands wide in a pleading gesture. “Well, isn’t it? From what I could see, there wasn’t even a keyhole.”

  Of course there hadn’t been a keyhole. The Corinthians—and their enemies across the Continent and beyond—made use of numerous tricks to protect their secrets. In the few minutes Dash had been given to examine the box, he’d narrowed the possible opening mechanisms down to three.

  “Viscount Carrington, have you ever heard of a burr puzzle?” she asked slowly.

  “I’m afraid not,” he lied convincingly.

  Miss Barnes nodded, and then rose from her chair. “A man of your …”

  Dash thought to offer aid and suggest that “limited mental capabilities,” or, and perhaps more to the point, “stupidity” could be exactly the word or words she was looking for. But decided against it.

  “Your station in life,” she continued, walking back to her bed, “would hardly have use for such things. It’s nothing more than a game, of sorts, really.”

  She dropped to her knees and nearly disappeared beneath the massive bed. “Smchdoe dlap dop doapleln.”

  All right, that Dash had truly not understood. “What’s that?”

  Her head popped out from beneath the bottom of the bed curtains. “The burr puzzle was fairly simple to solve.”

  Her head disappeared again, and then the box scooted out, followed by Miss Barnes. She rose to her feet and picked up the box.

  “But the numerical lock beneath is not,” she continued while retracing her steps, her voice rising with excitement. She set the box and six beveled sticks on the table between them and reclaimed her chair.

  The top panel hadn’t been a solid piece at all, but was instead the burr puzzle; the oak sticks notched and set in so as to appear flat on one side. Beneath was a highly ornate padlock bearing the Carrington crest. A ring encircled the lock, the numbers zero to nine appearing with an ornate slash forged between each.

  He examined the puzzle more closely, fingering the sticks. Such puzzles had been a favorite of his father’s. One of Dash’s earliest memories was completing a similar puzzle while his father had looked on with pride.

  “I’ve only ever read about burr puzzles,” Miss Barnes offered, bending down closer and smiling. “And one with a flat side to it? Brilliant.”

  “That was my father for you,” he replied, his fingers moving to glide over the padlock. “Bloody brilliant.”

  Miss Barnes watched as he tried to force the padlock. “I’m afraid the lock requires a specific combination of numbers—eight in total.”

  She turned the box toward her and stared hard at the lock. “I’ve tried prime numbers, combinations in relation to the Greek alphabet. Anything that might appeal to a learned man,” Miss Barnes offered, pushing her mass of mahogany brown curls over her shoulder. “But I’ve yet to discover the answer.”

  Dash mentally reviewed his father’s favorite areas of scholarly interest, his Corinthian cases, even his most treasured books. They had discussed numbers in relation to patterns, but none that seemed more important than any others.

  Miss Barnes worried her ripe lower lip in concentration. Dash found the act mesmerizing.

  She was visibly easing, her shoulders relaxing until her wrapper fell open, revealing her gauzy night rail beneath.

  Miss Barnes looked up and he realized she’d caught his heated appraisal. A faint rose blush colored her cheeks, but she did not look away. “Well, have you figured it out, Lord Carrington?”

  Dash knew it was selfish of him. But he wanted badly to kiss Miss Elena Barnes at that very moment. Not because he needed her gone. But because he wanted her to stay.

  Elena’s breath caught when Lord Carrington leaned in until his face was no more than a hairbreadth away. “Not the lock, Miss Barnes,” he murmured. “But I have figured out you.”

  Elena felt a trickle of perspiration slide between her breasts. “Whatever do you mean?” she managed to ask, holding his gaze, though she felt it was dangerous to do so.

  The viscount knelt, his big frame boxing her in. He placed a hand on the damask seat cushion on either side of her hips, his gaze never leaving hers.

  Elena fought the urge to reach out and run her finger along the soft, supple seam of his lips.

  “I believe you already know.” His deep voice was dark silk over gravel.

 
He bent his head and his breath grazed her breasts beneath the fine cotton lawn of her nightgown. The heated, inviting brush sent a wave of want coursing through her. “I’m sure I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, my lord,” she managed to say, her voice quavering.

  “Don’t lie, Elena,” he growled.

  She balled her fists at her sides, desperate to hold on. But there was something so raw in his request. Something so like the base need threatening to devour her that Elena could no longer fight him. And in all honesty, she didn’t want to.

  She tentatively relaxed her hands and reached up, cupping his face in her palms.

  He raised his head and captured her with a soul-searing gaze.

  Elena’s heartbeat pounded in her ears, and she felt buffeted by a crest of emotion, desire, and fear that hammered her.

  Lord Carrington slowly closed the space between them and tenderly touched his lips to Elena’s.

  His hands caught her waist, drawing her closer to him until her breasts pressed against his chest. He deepened the kiss and gently nudged her lips apart, his tongue seeking out hers.

  Her first kiss. It was warm and wet, the welcoming heat kindling fires of desire throughout her body. Elena’s tongue hesitantly matched the pace of the viscount’s with inexperienced yet earnest enthusiasm. One of his hands left her waist and inched lower, until he palmed her derrière. He squeezed with such delicious pressure that Elena gasped. She gripped his waistcoat to pull him closer, then hitched her left leg up and around his waist, eliciting a growl of pleasure from him. He broke the heated kiss and moved down her throat, leaving a trail of white-hot kisses that surely branded her skin. He licked torturously at the sensitive skin just above her neckline, first the top of her left breast and then the right. Elena pulled feverishly at his waistcoat in a vain attempt to press closer and relieve the growing sweet pang of anticipation rising within her.

  His teeth tugged at her bodice and she moaned with pleasure, straining at the fabric of her gown to give him more of her. He dropped feverish kisses back up the length of her exposed neck and took her ear with his tongue, lightly sucking the sensitive lobe, then teasing the shell with quick, darting attention.

  Elena reveled in the wash of heady, earthy pleasure. Her body responded to his touch with whimpers and moans, her back arching while her hands begged him for more. No longer was she the awkward, undesirable bluestocking. She was wanted. Needed.

  And it was a revelation.

  “Why,” she whispered urgently, passion’s flames threatening to engulf her. “Why now?”

  Lord Carrington suddenly stilled. “Because I wanted to,” he said, his head lowering once again to her breasts.

  Knuckles rapped loudly on the door and Elena jerked away from him, instinctively curling down in the chair to hide.

  “Miss Barnes,” Bell’s voice called. “One of the maids thought she heard a scream.”

  Lord Carrington raised his head and gestured for Elena to remain quiet. “The house is riddled with secret passageways and doors—one of which is connected to your dressing room,” he whispered. “Give me thirty seconds, and then see to Bell.”

  He pressed one last, hard kiss to her lips before grabbing the puzzle box and disappearing into the dark.

  “Miss Barnes,” Bell called again. “Are you all right?”

  “Not in the slightest,” Elena replied in a shaken voice, low enough so that she was sure the butler could not hear. “Nor will I ever be again.”

  “Beg your pardon, Miss, but didn’t we come to town for the books back at Carrington House?” Rowena asked, picking up her step when Elena linked her arm with hers and urged the maid on.

  “Lord Carrington’s library does not contain the volume I desire,” Elena replied simply, dodging to avoid a flower cart as they crossed Crown Street and headed toward Finsbury Square.

  Elena hadn’t slept last night, and yet she felt oddly energized. She’d remained seated in the peach damask chair for a long time after calling out to Bell and assuring him that she was perfectly fine. She’d run her fingers over every last square inch of skin that Lord Carrington had touched, some with his eyes, others with his hands, and many with his mouth. One moment he’d been caressing her, and the next, he’d disappeared. She’d needed to assure herself that it hadn’t been her imagination.

  Rowena sighed in understanding. “And the walk doesn’t hurt a bit, now does it?”

  “A walk never hurts,” Elena answered, looking up the cobbled street to where the square opened before them. “Especially on a fine day such as this.”

  The sky was ominously gray, as though it might turn an angry, deep black at any moment and let loose raindrops the size of spring lambs.

  “Not exactly ‘fine,’ I suppose,” Elena amended, steering Rowena toward the address she’d gotten from Bell. “But still, weren’t you just complaining about the limited size of the parks? And this gives you an excellent opportunity to see more of the city.”

  By the time Elena had dressed and made her way downstairs to breakfast, the viscount had already left for his club. She’d been both disappointed and relieved by his absence.

  And desperately in need of a walk to clear her mind. So far, she was as hopelessly confused as when she’d awoken. But the day wasn’t over, she assured herself. Not yet.

  The Temple of the Muses shop front appeared and Elena’s step quickened. “Well, the rain will have to wait, as we have reached our destination.”

  “Right,” Rowena said enthusiastically, reaching for the ornate door handle and gently pushing. “You’ve something on your mind—or should I say, someone?” she added, a knowing smile on her beautiful face.

  Elena stepped in and waited for Rowena to follow. “I can’t answer such questions here, Rowena.”

  “Of course, Miss,” the young woman replied apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

  Elena instantly regretted the slight reprimand—especially since Rowena had been correct in her assumptions. Even now, hours after her encounter with Lord Carrington and with many city blocks between them, she continued to turn last night’s events over and over in her mind.

  “No, Rowena, it is I who should be sorry,” she corrected herself in a reassuring tone. “I’ve simply far too much on my mind,” she continued, lowering her voice as she beckoned for her friend to follow her. “But do note that I neither said ‘something’ nor ‘someone.’ It is too much, and we will leave it at that. Agreed?”

  Rowena nodded solemnly, just a hint of mischief in her eyes.

  Elena dearly loved Rowena. But she was not about to unburden herself in the middle of a bookshop.

  Elena glanced about the interior of the Temple of the Muses bookshop and temporarily forgot all about burdens and the casting off of such things.

  Before her, down three wide steps and past rows upon rows of books, stood a circular wooden counter where a number of clerks busily addressed the needs of several customers. Elena took the steps quickly, still staring at the counter—or to be more precise, the ceiling above where the counter stood.

  Elena belatedly realized with delight as she drew nearer to the backs of the customers that it wasn’t a ceiling at all. Rather, a massive circular opening revealed what must have been at least two additional floors above, iron railings the only thing standing between Elena and literally thousands more books.

  The volumes were housed in what appeared to be curved bookcases that mirrored the circular nature of the top of the building, making Elena feel as though she were surrounded by nothing but books.

  “Elysium,” she murmured, leaning even more forward and examining the candelabra that was suspended from the center of the tower.

  “Miss!” Rowena whispered urgently. “You’re talking to yourself again.”

  Elena rolled her eyes in response, realizing belatedly that a clerk stood just in front of her, a quizzical look on his face.

  “May I be of assistance?” he asked, looking entirely too ready to flee at the si
ght of her.

  There were times when Elena wondered whether she bore a badge emblazoned with the letter “B” upon her breast. She straightened and clasped her hands at her waist. “As a matter of fact, yes. I’m looking for a book on burr puzzles.”

  The clerk leveled a supercilious stare at her. “I’m sorry, but why would you need a book such as that?” he asked, his tone suddenly contemptuous.

  Rowena took a step forward and squared her shoulders. “That’s none of your business, is it? Just fetch my lady’s book—or better yet, tell us where we might find it so that you’ll not be touching it one whit.”

  Elena knew she should swiftly step in to rectify the situation, given Rowena’s cheeky response.

  And yet, she just stared at the clerk for a moment, relishing his discomfort.

  Aware her behavior was verging on the impolite, she cleared her throat and took hold of Rowena’s arm. But when the man’s thin mouth curved into a dismissive smile, she hesitated. “Mr.,” she paused, waiting for the man to offer his name.

  “Tinyrod,” he replied quietly.

  Rowena giggled and Elena tightened her grip. “I’m sorry?” she queried, sure that she’d misheard the man.

  “Tinyrod,” he repeated, his smile disappearing.

  Elena bit the inside of her cheek until she feared it would bleed. “Very well, Mr. Tinyrod,” she managed to say without laughing. “I do believe I would prefer to fetch the book myself. So, be a good man, and tell us where we might find the volume in question.”

  Elena could feel Rowena begin to shake from the effort of holding in a second giggle. She squeezed her friend’s arm harder. “Now, if you please.”

  Mr. Tinyrod retrieved a square of pasteboard and a quill. “On the third floor, just beyond drawings and games,” he answered, bending down to write out instructions for the women.

  “There will be no need for directions,” Elena assured him, then tapped her finger upon her temple. “It’s all in here.”

  Elena noticed that his fingers clenched until the quill looked ready to snap. She nodded regally in dismissal and shooed Rowena toward a broad set of stairs near the back of the room.