And now she expected to be chased away from her family to appease his fury. He suspected he would never know what it had cost her to beg for that one tiny scrap of mercy, to plead for the security of the sisters for whom she would—and had—sacrificed everything.
She was trying, and failing, to keep the misery in her heart from showing on her face. Just briefly she turned her face away and dashed her hand across her cheeks.
He had to get her talking again, lest she truly break down, because he didn’t think he could bear it. “So you spied on me. For what purpose?”
His gambit worked. She made a wretched sound in her throat, and her face flushed a vibrant red. “Research,” she admitted. “The salacious novels sell best.” Rather peevishly, she added, “The Ton does enjoy their scandals.”
“And you picked me to be your subject?”
“No!” The denial was swift, but followed with a hesitant shrug. “Well, yes. But not at first—it was only that you were the first person I stumbled upon. And after—well, it was clear that you had enough experience for any ten men.” She drew in a shuddering breath, but at least she didn’t seem to be as near tears as she had been. “It’s very difficult to write things when you’ve got no experience with them. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d ever discover it.”
“I didn’t,” he admitted. “But Lady Nettringham did.”
Poppy had the good grace to look horrified. A queer little shiver ran through her. “But—no one will know. I would never—I would never have identified you—”
“I’ll know,” he said severely, and her eyes dropped to the floor as her hands fisted in her gown.
She was fretting again, wracking her brain for anything to sway him to mercy, so lost inside her own head that she did not hear his approach, did not register his presence before her until he had said her name. And then she leapt back in surprise, only to find her escape cut off by the grand piano at her back.
“I’m keeping your notebook,” he said. “It’s my surety that you won’t go off half-cocked, looking for someone else to spy upon.”
Her brows drew together, and in the light of the lamp, those damned gold flecks in her eyes glinted and glowed. He caught her hand in his, nudging his thumb beneath the tight clamp of her fingers until her grip eased, the tension dissolved. She stared, uncomprehending, still as a statue.
“Jilly intends to invite you and your sisters to a dinner party,” he said. “You will, of course, accept.”
“But I—I’m leaving London.” Her voice emerged as a strained rasp. “I’ve already packed. Perhaps the girls will attend, with Lady Winifred—”
“You’ll simply have to unpack.” He curled his finger around the upper edge of her glove, peeling the fabric toward her wrist. It was every bit as satisfying as he’d imagined, revealing that smooth white skin to the glow of the lamplight, uncovering another part of her that was his secret alone. And she let him, too perplexed to protest the overly familiar gesture. He tugged at the fingers of her glove, and it slipped free of her hand at last. Her fingertips were ink-stained.
Of course they were.
“But I can’t—”
“Poppy,” he interrupted. “So long as I’m in possession of your notebook, I really don’t think you’re in any position to argue with me.”
Again that brows-drawn expression, teetering on the verge of hopefulness, likely because he had not demanded she remove herself from London, from her sisters. She drew in a breath as if in preparation to speak, but seemed to think better of it. Absently her fingers curled around his—just for a moment, until she realized what she had done, and slacked her grip. He could read the uncertainty on her face, the questions she wasn’t sure she wished to ask. Still she said nothing, even as his palm slid up the smooth skin of her arm, over the sleeve of her gown, all the way to her shoulder, where he pressed gently until the stiff muscles at last relaxed and her shoulders sank to a more natural slope. Her breath escaped with it, unsteadily, as if it had been clogged in her lungs.
“You said you would destroy me.” She said it in a whisper, and it was only a bare, factual statement devoid of reproach, but the shame it evoked in him slammed into him like a fist to the gut. He had chosen this venue, this night, for a reason—an event large enough that neither of them would be missed if they slipped away from the ballroom, and far enough in the future blunt the sharp edge of his anger. But the days that had trickled by since last they had met had given her nothing but time to fret and to agonize. Given her antipathy, he had expected a fight—but instead he had found a woman who had reached the end of her tether, who had accepted his threat of destruction as fact, and still had come to bargain for the security of her sisters.
He had meant the threat when he had spoken it, but that had been when it was directed to some nameless, faceless woman, someone unprincipled and sly. It had never been meant for Poppy, who swayed on her feet before him as if she had used up every last reserve of her formidable strength. Even in the golden lamplight she was pale. Shadows wreathed her eyes, attesting to some number of sleepless nights, the strain she had suffered since he had sent her that note, those flowers.
She swallowed hard, in a convulsive movement, and tried again. “You said I was—”
“Hush.” He slid his palm from her shoulder down her back, urging her closer, and she stumbled forward with a little sound of surprise, her palms landing on his chest. The heavy skirt of her gown, made of some god-awful, stiff fabric, crinkled as it was crushed against his legs. His free hand cupped the back of her head, pressing her face into the crook of his shoulder. “I didn’t mean you,” he told her in a whisper. “For God’s sake, Poppy. I swear I never meant you.”
The words shocked the faint resistance out of her, and she gave up the pretense and relaxed in a rush, listing against him. Even as his arms came fully around her, the surrender surprised him. But she had been strong all her life, and perhaps, just once, she had allowed herself a moment of weakness—with him, because he knew all of her secrets. Possibly because he had not quite been the villain she’d expected him to be.
Her breath rattled in her throat, a funny little catch in it suggesting she had not fully won the battle over her intemperate emotions. Her palms lay flat, the ungloved one resting just over his heart, and he was sure she must feel the rapid beat of it. He found himself smoothing his hands up and down her back in what he hoped would be interpreted as a comforting gesture, until at last her breaths evened out, and he didn’t feel the awkward hitch in her throat on the inhale.
“No more spying,” he said into her ear. “I want your promise of that.” He didn’t want to worry that she was up to some mischief, that she might become embroiled in a scandal simply because she’d been foolish enough to go wandering about darkened houses.
She might have tried to speak, but all that emerged was a tiny, awkward sound. Instead she nodded, her hair brushing his chin. Somehow he managed to resist the temptation to plant a kiss into those dark, soft strands.
“If you require further research material,” he heard himself say, “I suppose I’ll have to provide it for you.”
Chapter Fifteen
“What?”
David heard the confusion in her voice, felt her head lift from his shoulder, but she did no more than that. She neither pushed him away nor shrugged off his hold, as if she, too, were reluctant to end the embrace.
“You can’t go out searching for scandals,” he said. “Not even to facilitate your writing. You’re damned lucky you picked me, and not someone—” Had he been about to say unscrupulous? Because he had never before been accused of having scruples of any kind, and he had blackmailed her into a midnight meeting. “Well. You’re just damned lucky.”
“But I don’t understand what you mean.” She didn’t pull away, but she drew back a bit, her lips pursed in contemplation. “How do you intend to provide research material? Will you allow an interview? Shall I take notes?” For a moment she seemed struck by the novelty of the id
ea, but an instant later her face fell. “But I don’t have a notebook with me. Unless—”
“No. You’ll not get it back, so you may cast that thought from your head this instant.” He softened the refusal with a slow sweep of his hand down her back. “I don’t give interviews,” he said. “Or lectures.”
A frown etched itself over her face, drawing her dark brows together. “I thought you said no spying.”
Good lord, she truly had no idea. How long had it been since he had held a woman in his arms who wasn’t as hopelessly dissolute as he was? Probably forever. He knew well enough to steer clear of innocents—they were more trouble than they were worth. And this one was more trouble than the rest of them put together.
He cleared his throat. “I thought perhaps a demonstration might be in order.”
Her eyes widened. “With whom? Surely you don’t expect to find a lady who would agree to—to—”
Oh, he could think of at least five ladies off the top of his head who held such exhibitionistic tendencies, but he didn’t expect that Poppy would have found that anything but horrifying.
“Poppy.” He spread his palm between her shoulder blades, felt the line of buttons that marched up the back of her gown. “I meant you.”
He had expected shock, surprise—he had not expected anger.
“Must you be cruel?” she snapped, and her hands shoved at him in an effort to free herself. He let his arms drop, let her wriggle out from the space between himself and the piano—and then stepped upon the hem of her skirt as she tried to sweep by him. She halted abruptly as the material pulled.
Casting a glare over her shoulder, she ground out, “My lord. Kindly remove your foot from my gown.”
“No, I don’t think I will.” He considered the tense lines of her face, the ire burning in her eyes. “If I have offended you, I will apologize. But I think I’d like to know how I’ve offended you before offering an apology.” He had an idea, but…
She drew a deep breath, as though steeling herself for an unpleasant task. “My lord, I am aware I am not the sort of woman to inspire any sort of…of carnal feeling in a man. I assure you, I am content with myself as I am. I don’t want your pity.”
“You think I pity you?” It was such an absurd notion that David almost laughed—or he would have, if he hadn’t suspected that to laugh at her supposition would be a wound beyond that which she could stand.
“Don’t you?” In a resurgence of spirit, she tilted up that determined little chin.
“God, no,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone less pitiable. You’re quite possibly the strongest, most capable, most determined person I’ve ever known.” It was the unvarnished truth. She was an incredible woman.
She stared, utterly at a loss for words. And when he lifted his shoe from the hem of her gown at last, she stayed frozen in place as if she had grown roots.
“I’m not certain where you obtained the impression that you are undesirable, but it isn’t true.” He eased closer, held her gaze with his own. “I’ve kissed you once before. Did it feel feigned? Did it feel as though I were humoring you, patronizing you?” He didn’t wait for her response, not that he had expected her to give one. “I didn’t ask you to walk with me at the garden party to win a bet, though I don’t doubt that there are men cruel enough to make them. I didn’t even ask you to walk with me to apologize for my inconvenient bout of temper. I asked you to walk with me because I thought I might have the opportunity to kiss you again.”
As if the words had galvanized her, she straightened her shoulders and declared, “What rubbish.”
Oh, that was it. The very last straw! He pounced, seizing her shoulders and dragging her across the space that separated them. She gave a squeak of surprise half an instant before he blanketed her mouth with his own, stealing the sound from her lips.
He wondered absently if she would always be such a challenge, if she would forever be taking strips out of his hide with that sharp tongue of hers—and then, as her surprise faded into acquiescence, and her lips parted for him, he found she’d stowed her sharp tongue at present. And she made a soft, kittenish sound in her throat when he looped her arms around his neck, and tightened them of her own accord. The movement flattened her breasts against his chest, revealing the fact that she wore no corset beneath her gown. He settled his hands on her waist, drawing her still closer. She smelled like soap and starch, and there was clearly something wrong with him, because even the finest of French perfumes had failed to stir him so violently.
And she had felt it, for she drew back with a little gasp, a wild blush spreading across her face.
“I assure you, that is quite beyond my power to feign,” he said, fully aware that he was scowling at her. “Are you satisfied, then, that I am not motivated by pity?”
“Y-yes,” she managed.
“Good.” With his hands at her waist, he lifted her straight off her feet, ignoring her shocked exhalation, and pressed her back against the nearest wall.
Pinned in place with the full weight of his body against her, she gasped out, “My lord!” against his lips.
“David,” he corrected. “I think it’s acceptable, under the circumstances, to call me by my given name.” She squirmed for a moment, but there was nowhere to retreat to, no way to alleviate the pressure of his hips against hers—and he wanted her to feel him, to understand in this primitive way, that the conclusions she had drawn of his interest were incorrect.
And then, as his lips coasted across her cheek, down the tender flesh of her throat, she wasn’t wriggling uncomfortably anymore. “David,” she gasped, “please.” But he didn’t think it was a plea for him to stop.
The high, tight neckline of her gown challenged him—as did the row of buttons down her back that held it in place. He turned his head for a moment to yank off his glove with his teeth, discarding the offending item to the floor, and then turning his attention back to the delicate skin beneath her ear as his fingers eased buttons from their loops with all the deft skill of a born seducer. Half a dozen came free, and she didn’t so much as flinch. A few more, and he’d still only made it down to the small of her back. Dear God, how many buttons could any one woman possibly need?
It would have to do. When he eased his hand to the back of her neck, her gown gaped at the front, the fabric no longer bound so tightly to her chest. Even the chemise she wore beneath the gown was appallingly plain—just thin linen, worn to threadbare softness.
As he eased the sleeves of her gown down her arms, he heard her soft intake of breath, felt the shudder that tripped down her spine. Her good sense had deserted her only temporarily, and while she might not have noticed him undoing her buttons, she had most certainly noticed the cool air in the music room on parts of her that ought to be covered.
And he, ruthless bastard that he was, cupped the nape of her neck and eased her straight back into that kiss, until there wasn’t a single thought in her head of protest. She didn’t flinch when his fingers drifted across her collarbone, didn’t protest when he tugged the neckline of her gown lower and slipped his fingers inside her chemise. She did gasp when he cupped the weight of her breast in his hand, exploring the supple curve, the way her nipple tightened to a firm little peak beneath the rasp of his thumb. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall why he’d once had such a preference for breasts the size of melons, when Poppy’s fit perfectly within his palm.
“David.” It was a squeak of surprise. Her hands had curved over his back; if not for his coat, she’d have likely dug divots into his skin. Her eyes had widened, her mouth rounded with shock. “This is—this is—”
Oh, lord—she was going to panic. Like any gently bred young lady would doubtless do, given the circumstances.
“Fascinating. Is this typical? Would a lady generally allow a gentleman to unbutton her gown in such a situation?” She turned her head, her eyes inquisitive, studying the positioning of their bodies, and he could practically see her analytical mind whi
rling, irrespective of the fact that his hand was still curled round her breast, that he’d managed to work his knee between both of hers.
A laugh wrenched itself up from deep in his lungs; on impulse he buried his face in the curve of her shoulder, smothering the sound in the warm, smooth skin there. God help him, only Poppy would evince such a reaction.
“I can’t see what I look like,” she said, regretfully. “I hadn’t considered that. Do you suppose there’s a mirror in here?”
He was not about to release her to facilitate the search for one, no matter how badly she wished to see what she looked like. She wriggled, and he suspected that she was just moments away from demanding he let her go—and he couldn’t have that.
He dragged his thumb across her nipple and watched her eyes go distant and hazy. She gave a delicious little shiver and her head dropped back against the wall. Her ungloved hand wrapped around the back of his neck to steady herself, and her fingers sifted through the hair at his nape, nails gently raking his skin.
“Don’t let me forget,” she whispered. “I need to know what I look like.”
Beautiful. She looked beautiful. The thought struck him suddenly, and lodged in his brain, unshakable. The lamplight played over her skin, painting it a luminous gold. Her mouth was soft, lush, and kiss-bruised. Those dark, thick lashes fluttered on her cheeks in an unconscious sensuality to rival the worst of coquettes. The icy self-control that governed her had melted away, revealing a woman of fire and passion.
This, too, belonged solely to him. The untutored roll of her hips, the throaty sigh that tripped from her lips, the rosy flush that burnished her skin—all for him. He’d always preferred women of experience, women who knew precisely what they wanted from him, who knew how to give and receive pleasure. He doubted anyone else had ever so much as kissed Poppy’s hand, much less her lips. But he also knew she was perhaps the only woman he’d ever held in his arms that would not measure him against her other lovers, weigh his finesse—or lack thereof—against any other man.
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