by Brenda Hiatt
"No, thank you, Kemp. I'll sleep well enough without any brandy tonight, I believe."
The manservant bowed and left Noel to snort at his own words. Whatever he decided to do now, he would not be sleeping anytime soon, of that he was certain.
* * *
"That will do, Matthilda. Thank you." Rowena had never been so nervous in her life. But whether she was more terrified that Noel would come to her chamber before she could rid herself of her maid, or that he would not come at all, she could not say.
His nod had implied that he would come— hadn't it? Would he reconsider, now that he was away from her "distracting" influence? She found it hard to believe she could have such an effect on a man of Noel Paxton's intellect and resolve, but his actions and words seemed to prove that she did.
Matthilda was still puttering about the room, hanging Rowena's gown in the clothespress, tidying the dressing table and turning down the oil lamp on the bedside table. Rowena's agitation increased to unbearable levels.
"I said that would do," she said, more sharply than she intended. "Good night, Matthilda."
The maid sent her a startled glance but asked no questions, merely bobbing a curtsey. "Good night, miss. Sleep well."
Rowena knew there was little chance of that.
She listened as Matthilda's light footsteps receded down the hall toward the servants' stairs. And kept listening, for any other sound in the hallway. Would he come? Could she really go through with her outrageous plan if he did?
As the silence lengthened, she began to relax. Of course he would not come. Noel Paxton was a gentleman, with a high regard for the law and the proprieties. And she was a lady, who had no business attempting a seduction, not even for the noble purpose of keeping the Saint of Seven Dials safe from the law.
That was her purpose, wasn't it?
Not that it mattered now, anyway. She had no doubt read to much into what Noel had almost said—or what she thought he had almost said. With a sigh of mingled disappointment and relief, she turned toward her bed, then froze. Was that a step in the hall? No, she was imagining things. But then came another sound, a soft scratching at her chamber door.
Her heart pounding frantically, Rowena moved to open it. Noel stood there, more handsome than she'd ever seen him, wearing only shirt and breeches, his collar open to reveal a disturbing triangle of throat and chest. His curly hair was disordered and damp, as though he had already washed for bed. For a moment she thought she might swoon, then chided herself for such foolishness.
"I—I hoped you would come," she whispered, standing aside to let him enter. She needed to maintain complete control of her emotions if she was to put this opportunity to proper use.
He stepped past her, softly closing the door behind him without taking his eyes from her face. "I nearly convinced myself I had imagined —or at least misunderstood —your invitation." His voice held a question.
"No, you did not misunderstand," she said, hoping he would not notice the trembling that had begun in her midsection and now spread to her extremities. She wanted to ask a similar question, but feared her voice might fail her—and feared his answer, as well. Instead, she smiled what she hoped was a seductive smile.
His gaze dropped to her lips, then returned to her eyes. He took a step nearer and she could feel the warmth emanating from his body, though he did not touch her.
"Are you certain that you understand what you are asking?"
She wasn't certain of that at all, but she nodded firmly. "Of course. I am . . . very well read, you know."
One corner of his mouth quirked up in a half-smile that sent odd sensations through her chest. "I'm aware of that. But there are some things one really cannot learn from books."
He was giving her a chance to reconsider and, cravenly, she was tempted to take it. For all of her studies of political intrigue, she actually knew very little of what went on between a man and a woman. For the first time, she regretted that she had not included romantic novels in her extensive reading.
"Then it is time I supplemented theory with practical application, is it not?" she forced herself to say, lifting her chin to look him full in the eyes— eyes that had darkened from hazel to dusky brown.
"Ever the academic," he murmured, moving even closer, until the fabric of his fine lawn shirt brushed against the thin cotton of her summer nightrail.
She tilted her face up for his kiss and he obliged her, his warm, firm lips taking possession of her own. His arms went around her, and her trembling subsided, to be replaced by a swirling need for something she could not define. Her noble plan forgotten, she clutched at him, pulling him closer, wanting more contact, more of . . . everything.
Noel's low, throaty growl inflamed her further with the evidence that he desired her as much as she desired him. He deepened the kiss, stroking her tongue with a rhythm that pushed her need to new levels. She heard another growl, and realized with a start that it had come from her own throat.
Pressing the length of her body against his, she reveled in the hardness of his chest, the strength of his arms around her— and in his insistent maleness, straining against his breeches, against her belly, proving just how much he wanted her.
Her body clamored for more, but she had no idea how to satisfy that longing. What should she do next?
He did it for her. Still kissing her deeply, he slid one hand to her shoulder, then her throat, deftly untying the ribbon that closed the neck of her nightgown. His lips followed his fingers, trailing kisses from her mouth to her shoulder, then to the hollow at the base of her throat, even as he undid the next fastening of her gown.
Swallowing convulsively, Rowena tilted her head back, giving him free rein to do what he would. Never had she imagined the sensations that swirled through her at his touch, and now she could imagine nothing worse than a cessation of his exquisite attentions.
Dimly, in the back of that tiny part of her brain that still clung to the capacity for thought, she remembered that she was supposed to be doing the seducing. Her hands clutched at his shoulders to keep her upright, but now she let go with one hand to fumble with the fastening of his shirt. The angle was quite different from undoing her own chemises. That and the sweet distraction of his fingers against her flesh made her clumsy.
"I rather like this shirt," he said against her ear, a hint of a chuckle in his voice. "Let me help you, before it becomes mangled beyond repair."
She knew she should be embarrassed, but somehow she was not. She was only anxious to proceed, to feel more of him against more of her. Judging by the speed at which he divested himself of his shirt, he shared her eagerness. They embraced again, this time with much of her upper body exposed to his now-bare chest.
Though her breasts were still covered by thin cotton, the space above and between them was not, and the soft roughness of the hair on his chest stimulated her sensitive flesh to new heights of desire.
She could not bare more of herself to him without breaking contact, however. Her nightrail opened only to breast level. To remove it, she would have to take it over her head—an irrevocable step. Did she dare? Could she not?
Noel's hands were at her back now, massaging her spine between her shoulder blades, at her waist, lower. Meanwhile, her own hands had free access to the whole of his upper torso, and she made good use of that freedom, exploring his sides, his chest, the firm planes of his back, where she felt faint ridges that might be scars. His body was so different from her own, so beautifully male. She wanted to know it better.
His hands were doing their own exploring, through the fabric of her nightrail. They spanned her narrow waist, then slid lower to cup her bottom and pull her tighter against him. He bunched up the thin cotton, and she could feel the hem moving up her calves, then her thighs.
In a moment he had it about her waist, and she was acutely aware that she had nothing beneath it, that nothing now stood between her lower body and his hands, his eyes. Her own eyes were tightly closed, but when he gently broke
their kiss, she opened them to find him gazing earnestly at her.
"May I?" he asked softly.
She knew he was asking her permission to divest her completely of her nightrail —to remove her last shred of defense against his touch. She nodded silently, not trusting her voice.
With a swift, fluid movement, he lifted the sheer fabric up and over her head, tossing it behind her. Then, gently clasping her shoulders, he smiled. "You are even more beautiful than I imagined."
Beautiful. No one, not even her mother, had ever called her beautiful before. But he seemed to mean it, his eyes admiring, even reverent. Still, Rowena had to fight an urge to cover herself, to shield her body from his eyes. Though she hadn't summoned it, sanity began to return. What was she doing?
Oh, yes. She was going to convince him to leave the Saint alone. Then she could be done with intrigue, admit her feelings for him, be his in every possible way. Was this the right time to ask? If she allowed him to take her, to compromise her, would it be too late? But what if she spoke too soon? Her desire to do nothing to stop him warred with her weakening resolve to appease her conscience.
He leaned forward to kiss her again, one hand coming up to cup her breast, and thought left her again, replaced by pure sensation. Again, she clutched at his shoulders, his back, pulling him agaist her so that her breasts rubbed against the firm roughness of his chest. It was an exquisite feeling.
Taking a step backward without releasing her hold on him, she guided him toward the bed. She had no idea what she would do once they reached it, but trusted that he would. A tendril of fear snaked through her— fear of the unknown —but she ignored it. She craved, and she must be satisfied.
He resisted her, however. "Rowena, you must be very sure," he murmured. "In a moment, I fear I won't be able to stop myself."
"I'm sure," she said, but then glanced up, into his burning eyes. Surely, his desire for her was at fever pitch now, as hers was for him. She must take this chance. "First, though —won't you please promise me that you'll give up your investigation of the Saint of Seven Dials?"
Noel felt as though she had dashed cold water on him, chilling the blaze that had been consuming him an instant before.
"Is that what this is about?" he demanded, sick disappointment coiling in his stomach. "You are willing to—to trade yourself for my promise?" He wasn't sure whether he was angrier at her or himself. Certainly, he had known better than to come here.
Her gray eyes flew open, revealing dismay, fear, and desire. It was the desire that almost undid him again, but he made himself hold her at arm's length, trying to ignore the way her nude body enticed his own.
"No! That is, I hoped that . . . that if you cared for me, you might be willing to change your mind. To . . . to please me." She made a motion as though to cover her nakedness, and he released her.
Her words only confirmed his accusation. "Perhaps you would consider another sort of trade," he said, his ego still smarting. "Tell me who Mr. R is, and I'll consider leaving off my pursuit of the Saint."
She stared at him for a long moment, then knelt quickly to retrieve her nightrail and clutch it to her chest, concealing her charms. Though that should have made it easier to bring his desire for her under control, it did not.
"You— you say that very glibly," she finally said. "Was that your design in coming here, to get that information from me? Not that I know the answer, of course."
He hesitated, for that had been the reason he'd used to justify his presence here— though he knew it was not the real one. At his hesitation, as good as a confession, hurt flared in her eyes. Hurt, followed almost immediately by anger.
"So, you meant to use me—to seduce me for information? Is that why you said . . . what you did, downstairs?" The glitter in her eyes was more than anger. She was dangerously close to tears, and Noel was not sure what he would do if she cried.
"No! I meant —that is—" Why was he on the defensive? "You are a fine one to talk. It appears that neither of us had completely pure motives for this . . . rendezvous."
"Pure—!" She whirled from him, affording him an excellent view of her shapely bottom before she moved behind a chair. Hastily, clumsily, she pulled her nightrail back on, then folded her arms across her breasts as she faced him again.
For a long moment she stared at him across the dim room, as though trying to decipher his thoughts from his expression. He doubted she would have much success, as he could not decipher them himself. Regret, anger, guilt —and a substantial amount of lingering desire— warred within him.
"I . . . I thought—" she began, one hand fluttering free to reach tentatively in his direction.
"Yes, so did I," he responded. "Perhaps we were both mistaken. In any event, I must apologize, for I had no business coming here in the first place, whatever my motives. You are an innocent, but I am wise in the ways of the world. Just as well we stopped when we did."
Rowena swallowed visibly, her eyes so bereft that he longed to comfort her. But he dared not move closer, knowing how strongly she affected him, how easily he could lose his hard-won control.
"Do you really think so?" she whispered.
She really was an innocent. "Had we not, you would have found yourself bound to me for life, willing or no," he explained. "Is that what you would have wanted?"
She looked away, and even in the dim light of the oil lamp he could see her cheeks darken. "I would not have expected you to marry me, of course. I can't imagine that we would suit, as different as our views are."
"Had we finished what we began, I would have married you, nonetheless," he told her, knowing it was true —and now regretting that they had stopped for a whole new reason. "I would not have been able to live with myself otherwise. In fact, I should offer for you even now, considering what we have done already."
"You needn't worry for my reputation," she said, still not meeting his eye. "No one knows you are here, so it is in no danger. And even if it were, I could simply return to River Chase. You are under no . . . obligation to me, sir."
The "sir" chilled him, but he could in honor do nothing now but leave. She had made her feelings clear. "Very well, Rowena, I will not press you. But we must be very discreet, to be certain no hint of this becomes known."
"I think that will not be difficult."
Perhaps it would not be difficult for her— though he would swear she had desired him nearly as much as he had desired her just a few minutes earlier. Clearly, though, however passionate she might be, her heart was not touched.
"No. No, I suppose not. Good night, Rowena." He waited for a moment, hoping she would look at him, that he might divine something of what she felt. When she did not, he scooped up his shirt and left the chamber.
Rowena remained where she was, one hand tightly gripping the chair back for support, until his steps receded down the hall. Then she collapsed into the chair, buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
* * *
Waking late the next morning after only a few hours' fitful sleep, Rowena took breakfast in her room. She could not bear to see Noel across the dining room table downstairs. In fact, she was not sure she could ever bear to face him again. What a horrible mess she had made of everything last night!
She should never have invited Noel to her room, she realized that now. Her plan to convince him to leave the Saint alone had been merely an excuse, a salve to her conscience. The truth was, she had wanted his kisses, his touch, and more— something she would never have now. If she had only remained quiet . . .
But no. Then she would be ruined, and by Noel's own admission would have essentially trapped him into a marriage he had never actually said he wanted. Nor did she want it herself. Did she?
Of course she didn't. Neither of them would be happy. She was too independent and he was too rigid. It would never work.
Tonight was to be another ball, but she intended to stay in her room, perhaps pleading illness. Certainly, she was mortally tired. She was just considering returning
to bed when a tap on the door heralded the appearance of Pearl herself, who appeared depressingly cheerful and fresh to Rowena's scratchy eyes.
"Here you are, sleepyhead!" she cried. "There are callers below already, and more than one has asked specifically for you— and you not even dressed to go down yet."
"I . . . did not sleep well," Rowena responded with perfect truth. "Perhaps you can make my apologies?"
Pearl regarded her closely —so closely that she was sure her friend would somehow divine what she had done —no, nearly done —last night. But Pearl only said, "You do look rather pulled. However, I have just the thing to cheer you. Wait here."
She hurried out, and returned a moment later with a small parcel. "It arrived less than an hour ago. I was worried it would not be here in time for tonight's ball, as it was to have been delivered yesterday." While she spoke, she pulled away the brown paper, then held up the most exquisite reticule Rowena had ever seen.
"Why, it is in the shape of a book," she exclaimed.
"Yes. I thought of you at once when I saw it at Mellon's on Friday. I'd hoped to give it to you for that ball, but the last one had been sold. But see? The colors match the dress you plan to wear tonight, so this is even better."
Indeed, the diminutive book-shaped purse was the same azure blue as Rowena's new ballgown. Charmed, she opened and closed it, smiling her thanks at Pearl. "It's perfect," she said, realizing that there could be no question of crying off attending tonight's affair now.
"There, did I not say it would cheer you up? Get dressed, do, and come downstairs. I must hurry back myself, as more callers will doubtless have arrived by now."
Pearl rushed off, leaving Rowena to toy with her gift. Interesting that Pearl should want her to carry this, when she had earlier tried to disguise Rowena's bookishness. Not that it had done much good, of course. She knew full well that by now she had been branded a bluestocking by nearly everyone who had met her.