by Shana Galen
Susanna gave a bark of laughter. “More likely he didn’t like the other men looking at you. You would have been crushed with the gentlemen vying for your hand.”
The girl exaggerated, of course, but Marlowe couldn’t help but like her. She was so naive. So sweet. “About your necklace,” Marlowe began.
Susanna waved her hand. “You can give it to me later. I have to pack, and I’d better begin, or I’ll not have a wink of sleep.” She started for the door. “I just wanted to say good night and good-bye.” She paused and rushed back to Marlowe, throwing her arms around her. Marlowe almost toppled over. “I’m sorry,” Susanna gushed. “I know you probably hate this, but you just look so small sitting here by yourself.” She pulled back. “I hope I see you again very soon.” With a quick kiss on Marlowe’s cheek, the girl was gone.
Marlowe watched the door close and then touched her cheek. What a strange gesture. She had to protect these people, and there was only one way to do that.
Rid the world of Satin.
Marlowe paced her room, her thoughts all in a rush. And when she decided on her plan of action, she sat down hard on the bed and closed her eyes. It could work. It could very well work. But she’d need Dane’s help. There was no other way.
Taking a deep breath, she pulled her wrapper close around her neck to cover the bruises and carefully opened the bedroom door. The hallway was dark and quiet, but she didn’t take a candle. The dark was her ally in this. She wished she weren’t wearing white, but if she was discovered, she’d simply say she’d become lost while searching for the kitchen. They’d believe she was looking for more to eat.
Silently closing the door, she stood in the hallway and pictured the house in her mind. Dane’s room was on the other side of it. She’d have to pass the countess’s room and Susanna’s to reach it. Moving stealthily, she crept past both doors. Light still burned under each, and she could hear the sound of voices. At one point, the countess’s door opened, and her abigail, Edwards, emerged, carrying a glim-stick and a pile of clothing. Marlowe hunched down beside a chair and did not move until the light disappeared.
She rose again and continued her trek along the corridor. She passed a set of stairs and entered the male section of the house. It was quiet and dark here, and she stopped in front of Dane’s door. No light shone under it. He was probably sleeping. Well, she’d just have to wake him up. She tried the handle and was pleasantly surprised to find it unlocked. These people really stood no chance against Satin. They didn’t even lock their bedchambers.
She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. A low fire burned in the hearth, but other than the crackle of the blaze, she heard nothing. She crept forward, toward the bed. She remembered where the furnishings were and sidestepped the chair where she’d spent part of her first night in the house. Finally, she stood next to the bed.
He was there. The covers had been pulled to his chest, which was bare, and he had one hand thrown up beside his head on the pillow. His face was peaceful in sleep, his dark hair tousled on the pillow. She could see the muscles in his arm, and with her gaze, she traced the limb down to his chest, which also appeared to be rather muscled. Maybe these swells did more than she gave them credit for.
The signs of his strength reassured her, and she reached out and poked his chest. “Dane, wake up.”
He didn’t move. She poked him again. “Dane? It’s Marlowe. I have to speak to you.”
When he still didn’t move, she patted his cheek several times. With lightning speed, he grasped her hand in his and hauled her half onto the bed. He opened his eyes and stared at her. “What are you doing?”
“Let me go!” She struggled, but he wouldn’t release her hand. Her feet were all but off the floor. “I need to speak with you. I was just trying to wake you.”
He released her hand, and she slid back to the floor as he sat. The bedclothes dipped down, pooling about his waist. She could see his naked back, could see where the bare skin dipped down to his buttocks. He was not wearing any clothing.
Maybe this hadn’t been such a prime idea.
He pushed his hair back and out of his eyes, which was hopeless, because it fell right back over his forehead again. But then he turned those deep brown eyes on her. “You shouldn’t be in here. It’s improper.”
Marlowe rolled her eyes. “I don’t care about that. Earlier tonight you said I could trust you. Can I still trust you?”
His eyes narrowed. “Is this about what happened in the garden?” He gestured to her throat. She’d forgotten to cover it, and pulled the wrapper about it again.
“Yes. I need you to send for your brother. I need a Bow Street Runner.”
“Why?”
“Because I do, that’s why. Are you going to help me or not?”
He didn’t answer her, merely stared at her for so long she thought he could see right through her. The way his gaze touched her made heat creep from the middle of her chest to her arms and legs and down to her feet. Her heart sped up, pounding so hard she feared it might burst. And her body tingled. She shifted uncomfortably, trying to rid herself of the sensation. What was wrong with her? How was it he could make her feel ill with just a look?
“Turn around,” he said finally.
“What?”
“I won’t have this conversation while I’m naked in bed. I will have to dress. Turn around. Unless you want to watch?”
“You don’t have anything I haven’t seen already.” But she turned around, because seeing it on other men had never made her heart pound or her cheeks flame. Maybe all the baths had finally ensured she caught a chill that would kill her. That was probably why she felt so warm. She heard him moving about behind her, and finally he said, “You can turn back.”
He stood beside the bed, dressed in trousers and nothing else. The firelight played on the hard planes of his chest, and she could not seem to look away for a moment. “You forgot your shirt,” she said finally.
“And you forgot to wait until morning to speak with me. Tell me why you think you need my brother.”
“No. The less you know, the better.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “You don’t really trust me.”
“If I didn’t trust you, would I be in here right now?” It was really quite difficult to tear her gaze from that bare chest.
He arched a brow. “Do you think I’ll ravish you?”
She frowned. “Ravish?”
He made a circular gesture with his hands, as though searching for another word. “Bed you?”
“No. You’re far too much of a gentleman for that.”
He was before her in an instant, his body almost flush with hers. “I don’t feel very much like a gentleman at the moment.”
She blinked at him. “You want to bed me?”
He gave a sharp laugh and raked a hand through his hair. “How can you be so naive? You must be to come in here and tempt me like this.”
Her brows winged upward. “I tempt you?”
“Yes. If I weren’t holding on to the last vestiges of my honor, I’d—”
She stared at him. His fists were clenched, and his jaw tight. He was really fighting to control himself. And she had made him feel this way? Her belly did another roll. She was not at all well, but she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “What would you do?”
“This.” His arm came around her, strong and steady, and he pulled her against his hard chest. His flesh was hot through the thin material of her night rail. She’d forgotten she was wearing her wrapper, and it had fallen open so she pressed directly against him. She waited for him to crush his mouth against hers. Sometimes men who didn’t know she had a quick right knee would try that. But she stared at his chest for a long moment, stared at the way it rose and fell, as though he was out of breath. And when he still didn’t take her, she looked up. His hand touched her cheek, the fi
ngers grazing her skin so lightly she shivered. He cupped her chin and looked down at her with an expression she didn’t understand.
“What are you doing?”
“Ravishing you,” he whispered. His lips brushed over hers as they had in the garden earlier tonight, and she shivered again. She had most definitely caught a chill. Still, she didn’t find his lips unpleasant. Just as she had in the garden, she felt a spark, and she angled her face up so he might kiss her more thoroughly. But he moved with maddening slowness, his lips teasing hers until her whole body ached and strained for something more. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. She only knew that she did not want him to stop.
She brought her hands up, and they landed on the bare skin of his waist. She felt him tense, but she didn’t draw her hands away. She slid them up his back, feeling his muscles bunch and strain under her fingers. With a low growl, he slanted his mouth over hers, and she dug her fingers into his back to keep herself from spinning out of control. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel her legs. Every part of her was numb except for where his touch branded her. His lips moved over hers, and she tried to match his movements with her own. When it proved hopeless, she simply surrendered to his kisses, letting him show her what he wanted.
He teased her mouth open, and his tongue dipped inside. She had seen men kiss like this before, and had always thought it the strangest, most disgusting sort of thing. Now she felt a tremor race through her body. Tentatively, she touched her tongue to his, and he hissed in a breath, and the hand on her waist tightened. He withdrew, angling his head and kissing her deeply, but she wanted his tongue again. She touched hers to his lips, and he went rigid. And then his hand moved into her hair, cupping her head and bringing them closer together. His lips had not closed, so she delved farther until his tongue met hers. Again, she felt a small jolt of surprise, as though the house moved beneath her feet.
And then he stroked her tongue with his, and she could not contain a gasp. She was falling, too ill to stand upright any longer. He caught her, lifting her and sweeping her into his arms. And still he didn’t stop kissing her. She didn’t know where his lips ended and hers began, whether she was kissing him or he was kissing her. She only knew he was holding her, and she was safe. What a strange feeling. Why should she feel safe with this man? She’d so very rarely ever felt safe in her entire life.
She felt the soft mattress beneath her back, and he was bending over her. His mouth left her, and the stubble of his cheek brushed against the skin of her face. His lips traced a hot path from her jaw down to her neck, and that was a completely new experience. His mouth tickled and tantalized until she felt herself arching to give him better access. But instead of continuing his kisses, he rested his forehead against her shoulder.
“Marlowe.”
She blinked, shaken out of her trance by his use of her name. Suddenly she realized she was lying on his bed, and the weight on top of her was Dane himself. His large body covered hers. He rested the bulk of his weight on his arms, which were on either side of her, but his legs were between hers, having nudged hers open at some point.
“What are you doing?” she asked, pushing him back and trying to sit. He didn’t fight her, merely rolled off her and lay back on the bed beside her, one hand across his face. She didn’t understand it. No man had ever released her without her having to make him aware she knew how to use her fists and her knee. But Dane made no protest, and she glanced at him curiously. He looked so beautiful, lying there in only his trousers. She longed to run her hand over his chest, but she had come to his room for a reason…Satin. Yes. She was wasting time.
“I apologize,” he said, his voice muffled by the hand over his face. “As you can see, I’m no gentleman.”
She laughed, and he drew his arm away to peer at her. “You find that amusing?”
“Yes. You are the most…gentlemanly gentleman I have ever met. I push you away, and you stop. I didn’t even have to use my knee.”
He raised a brow. “You’ve had to do that often?”
“Of course. Sometimes a man drinks too much and forgets I’m not the gang’s dell, or one of the cubs thinks he needs to show off to the others. I make sure they remember what’s what.”
“I see.”
“But you! You haven’t even tried to touch my bubbies.”
“Bu—your bosom?” His gaze slid to it now, and she felt that prickly heat again.
“Most men grab for my bubbies right away.”
He raised his brows. “It’s not because I don’t want to grab them, I assure you. I am exercising enormous restraint.” His brow darkened. “Despite repeated temptation.”
“And that’s why you’re a gentleman.”
He made no response, simply lay still on the bed beside her, staring at her for a long, long moment. She began to feel as though she must have a wart on her face, because he looked at her so long. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you confuse me, Marlowe. You’re naive one moment and seemingly full of experience the next. I could swear you’ve never been kissed, but you tell me men paw you routinely.”
She flipped onto her knees and glared down at him. “I’m not a bawd. If a man touches me, he gets the benefit of my fist.”
“But you didn’t hit me.”
She opened her mouth and closed it again. She had not seen that argument coming. Why hadn’t she hit him? “I liked the way you kissed me,” she said slowly, the revelation coming to her as she spoke.
He groaned and closed his eyes.
“Are you ill?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Not in the way you mean.”
He didn’t speak again, and the silence lengthened. She sat back on her heels, thinking about the difference between Dane and the other men who’d—as he put it—pawed her. He was a gentleman, it was true, but it was more than that. “When you kiss me, I feel a spark,” she said.
He opened his eyes. “You said something about sparks in the garden. And a man named Gideon. Is that your lover?”
“No. He’s a friend.”
“A thief?”
“A crony. Me and him, we watch out for each other.”
“And he spoke to you of sparks?”
Marlowe ducked her head. She didn’t want to talk about this. Why had she even mentioned sparks? She must have something wrong with her head to talk to him like this. “We kissed a few times,” she admitted. “When we were younger.”
Dane sat. “I see. And?”
She shrugged. “Gid said there was no spark. We made better friends. Besides, Satin would have killed us if he found us prigging.”
“And have you ever, ah, prigged?” Dane asked.
She gave him a sidelong glance. “That’s a rather personal question.”
“You don’t have to answer it.”
“I told you I’m no bawd,” she said, notching her chin up.
“Then you’re a virgin.” He passed a hand over his face. “What am I doing?” he muttered.
But Marlowe felt suddenly exposed and vulnerable. “What about you? Are you a…a virgin?”
He looked up at her. “We’re not talking about me.”
She gave him a push then set her hands on her hips. “I told you.”
His mouth crooked in a sort of smile. “I suppose fair is fair.”
“Exactly.”
“No, I’m not. But I’m no rake. I don’t debauch virgins.”
“I suppose you have a rum-blowen set up somewhere for your convenience.”
“A mistress? No. If I did, I wouldn’t be half as frustrated,” he muttered.
“I didn’t come in here to kiss you.”
“No. You want my brother, as does every other woman in the city.”
She didn’t try to understand him. “I need a Bow Street Runner.”
“Why?”
She held up a hand. “I told you—”
He grabbed her wrist. “And now I’m telling you. If you want my help, you’d better tell me something. You can start with who did this to you in the garden.” He gestured to her throat.
“You want to know who did it?” She was angry now. Why did the idiot man have to be so difficult? “It was Satin. He found me, and he knows where you live, and he wants to crack this house with my help.”
Dane stared at her, his expression one of shock.
“I don’t want to help him, but I’m dead if I don’t. So I figure I have one chance.”
“Which is?”
“I get him before he can get me.”
Twelve
Dane stared at the girl sitting on his bed in her white night rail and flimsy robe. She’d forgotten to cover her neck again, and he could see the red marks Satin had left on her pale skin. It was clear, even in the dim light, the marks were in the shape of fingers. He hadn’t seen that earlier. That might be for the best, because if he had, he might have gone after the bastard and killed him.
If the bastard hadn’t killed him first. This Satin was obviously fearless. He’d had the gall to accost a woman attending the Duchess of Abingdon’s ball, despite the threat of both discovery and harsh reprisal. And why should he fear? What reprisal would there be? If he’d been discovered, all he had to do was reveal Marlowe was not who she seemed. The gentlemen might have made some attempt to protect her in the moment, but no one would protect her tomorrow or next week or next month.
Dane looked at her again, noted she’d washed her hair, washed the blood out. The dark tresses tumbled down her back, and he’d felt the dampness weighing it down. He hadn’t actually thought she’d use the bath he’d ordered for her, but now that she had, he could smell the scent of the apricot soap she’d used. It teased him enough that he wanted to lean closer and sniff it, bury his lips in her neck and allow the sweetness to surround him.