He was so strong, so solid and hot against her, yet when he murmured something French in a deep tone of masculine appreciation, she was overwhelmed with exquisite sensation so delicate it reached the core of her soul.
His wicked tongue lingered, dragging along her mouth in slow delicious torture, his teeth tugging on her lower lip before he returned for one more assault, the effects causing her to waver, her eyes closed, the world spinning.
He released her face with care, his fingertips caressing a trail down each cheek and with a deep exhale leaned both palms against the wall behind her, the firm press of his biceps straining the sleeves of his waistcoat on the right and left.
Concealed in the shadows as if awakening from a pleasurable dream, she opened her eyes to view him in the dimly lit alcove, but could see little in the faint flicker of reflected light. His eyes were heavy-lidded and his breathing sounded uneven. Did he regret what happened or did he search for the right words to release her from their position?
She thought to speak and break the increasing silence but he caught her chin and with the pad of his thumb traced over her kiss-swollen lips caressing the spot where his tongue last tasted her.
“What is it?” Her anxious whisper persisted, uncertain if he felt pleasure or disappointment by their embrace. Everything depended on his answer, as if her next breath, the continuation of her heartbeat, balanced on the words he would voice. One touch of his lips and her world had changed forever.
“I’m sorry.”
His ambiguous confession told her nothing. Then he pushed from the wall and left her standing alone.
Chapter Thirteen
Damn it all, what was he thinking? He certainly hadn’t used the organ in the top half of his body. Penelope was already promised to another. Perhaps affianced. Hadn’t she told him she’d engaged her heart elsewhere? Men were called out for less. It was only Providence she had no older brother or angry father waiting in the wings. But would she abhor him? He did not know.
Nudging Abacus into a harder gallop, Phin attempted to extinguish the lingering thoughts of his impulsivity. If only she hadn’t looked so beautiful. How could she belong to someone else when she fitted so perfectly within his embrace? Damn it to hell. Tonight he needed to be functioning with pristine clarity. He couldn’t spare his heart another thought; this confusion a prime example why he avoided emotion.
Twenty minutes later he arrived at White’s and purused the wagering book. Around him disgruntled gentlemen who fled to the club as an excuse to escape their marriage navigated shrewd business negotiations. It wasn’t so different from the distasteful conversations found within a ballroom of marriage-minded mothers. Both examples smacked of the aristocratic fickleness in tolerating dishonorable behavior. The same judgmental eye forcing debutantes to practice curtsies until their legs wobbled turned a deaf ear to whispered liaisons. He knew of several hypocritical gentlemen who lost interest in their mate after a short period, their life a test in endurance more than a blissful union. Infidelity often followed.
Not that he would ever entertain a tryst once devoted. Honor bound by a vow made before the church, he knew love as a solitary consuming emotion. But he need not learn that lesson twice. He witnessed firsthand the damage his sister suffered from her short courtship with Winton. Why would anyone invite such sorrow if it could be avoided?
His experience with long-term relationships was limited, but the profound result left him scarred and bitter. Marriage was meant to be a union, an equal partnership, not a battle for power.
Phineas became smitten with Natalie Morgan the minute she’d accepted his request to dance. Their relationship progressed as most did, rich with the societal frivolities comprising a pleasant courtship. At first he hardly noticed the changes in her demeanor, but as their relationship advanced, Natalie’s demands became insufferable. She insisted he stop boxing and fishing, and abandon the stables, claiming his attention would be better spent elsewhere. Her vociferous ultimatums invited misery and controversy from his mother, friends and, most wrongly, his sense of self. No one wanted to be controlled, poked, prodded, and emasculated, yet Natalie enjoyed using her affection as a weapon, vying for every bit of his attention no matter the circumstance.
He practiced an exacting code of ethics as a gentleman, protected his mother and sister and assumed the complicated responsibilities of the title while his father traveled abroad. He refused to volunteer for a life of perspicacious scrutiny.
Natalie ended their relationship in a humiliating public display when he refused to bow to her wishes. The embarrassment lived in him still.
Phin shook his head to wipe away the memories and with determination revived his well-worn mantra. No wife, happy life.
This time the words felt hollow, and the sudden image of Penelope, disheveled and kiss-swollen, pricked his unease. How deliciously irresistible she looked as he leaned above her in the alcove, desperately gathering every scrap of control needed to force himself to walk away. He shook his head with self-disgust and reached for the wager book.
“What are you about, Fenhurst?” Douglas Franley, Viscount Cobham, removed the ledger from his grasp before Phin could object. “Making a wager this evening? Looking for fun? I thought you had your night’s entertainment already arranged.”
“What are you talking about? Give me the book, Cob. I have business to attend.” Phineas flexed the fingers on his left hand, his right reaching to reclaim the volume but the viscount made no move to return it.
“I saw the pretty piece you took to the dance floor. The way the two of you moved I assumed you would be otherwise occupied this evening.”
“Stated with your usual level of finesse.” Phin dropped his hand and threw a sweeping glance across the room.
“I never fancied you’d turn up at the club tonight or I’d have remained to take the lady for a stroll.” Cob waggled his brows in exaggerated communication.
Phin’s body stiffened as a short fuse of anger ignited. He spanned one palm across his jaw wiping away the hard set of tension, his temper unwilling to check, and glanced to Cobham. A devious smirk twisted the man’s lips.
Something unfurled within Phin, something powerful, ugly and bitter. “Measure your words.” He pinned Cob with a hard glare. “And give me the wager book.”
“I only thought to inquire about the lady’s—”
“Keep your hands off her.” His low snarl gave Cobham immediate pause. The man was no idiot drenched in cheerful ignorance. Phineas knew his type and the single fact fed his anger. With meticulous precision, his fist tightened around Cob’s cravat, the man’s face becoming mottled within an instant.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Fenhurst? Since when can’t you enjoy a harmless jest?”
Cob’s choked attempt at humor did little to assuage Phin’s temper, but he loosened his hold, having made his point. “Stay away from her.”
Cobham had the sense to remain silent and pushed the betting ledger in Phin’s direction before backing away, while all the while a voice inside Phin’s head reminded Penny was not his to guard. She was not his at all.
He blew out a cleansing breath and opened the volume. The book’s contents would serve as a distraction. Nothing was sacred when wagering at White’s. Countless pages listed witless bets placed upon animals, sport; even marital indiscretions. Despicable habit, to combat boredom by wagering on someone’s misfortune. He noted Lord Tilbury won a tidy sum by guessing how many times Lord Standen hiccupped between six and seven o’clock last evening. He thumbed the pages in earnest, scanning the columns of names and dates, searching for any clue Winton had placed a recent wager. If so, he could confront the man on settling day and obtain the answers needed to put Julia’s heart at rest. He missed his sister and wanted her to return. If he could deliver the answers she sought, she might be inclined to leave Brighton before the season’s end.
And then he found it. Winton’s name, scrawled in pencil beside a bet placed less than a week ago, wag
ering over one hundred pounds. And another listed beneath it. It would appear Winton fell in fairly deep if the notes in the margin read true. Several men at the club held his vowels.
What could Winton be thinking with such rash and indulgent wagering? The man would be on the rocks in no time if he continued in this vein. Could this recent activity be connected in some manner to the situation with Julia? Phin slid his finger across the column to note the date and time of the wager, but stalled when he noticed the bet’s counter participant.
Arlis Ridley.
Angered, he returned the leather-bound book to a waiting footman and meandered to the back of the club. Casting a glance into each passing room, he flexed his fists to temper his mood. It would do no good to cause a problem tonight, but a conversation with Ridley remained in order, no matter how much he preferred not to address the man.
He found Ridley playing piquet in the backmost corner of the club and well on his way to low water. His surly disposition appeared as short as the stack of coins piled on the table before him. Hesitating at first, an interested observer, the fast set who occupied chairs at the table caught sight of him lingering near the doorway and summoned him forward. Intent on gaining any opportunity to understand Winton’s disappearance, he took a fast seat at the table.
Phineas could never be labeled a gambler, but he knew enough of piquet to fare well.
Before long the other players folded, leaving Ridley and his nearly depleted pile of coins.
Undeterred by his lack of funds, Ridley shuffled the cards and dealt. Phin initiated conversation, reluctant to lose the opportunity to discover information.
“I understand you have a significant wager with Lord Winton.” He pushed a few coins to the center of the table as a footman brought him a brandy.
Clearing his throat, Ridley studied his cards before answering, his reply as cocksure as his attitude. “I do. Now that I’ve won Trumpington’s grey, I suppose I should pay for it. Winton is an easy mark. He anxiously accepted my proposition.”
Unwilling to vent his anger about the underhanded method Ridley employed to win the auction, Phin discarded. “And here I thought you were flush in the funds, first with your behavior at Tatts and again this evening, but a few carefully placed questions reveal your parlous financial state. Still you wager freely and take advantage of someone in dun territory.”
Ridley dismissed the comment with an adverse grunt and inimical glare. Cards flicked back and forth and the mood grew tense. Then, after he’d taken a long sip of brandy and all but cleared his coins, Ridley loosened his tongue.
“I’ll accumulate my wealth one way or the other, of that I have no doubt. Winton is in the deep more than I am. His grandfather is making his life miserable, squeezing him between his thumbs and forcing him to choose between his heart and his inheritance. He sat here not a fortnight ago bemoaning his situation and drinking too much. Most of us accepted wagers in his half-witted scheme to win a fortune before his grandfather could send him away on a wedding trip, but I think it’s a lost cause. The old man will win out, Winton will buckle, and we’ll all reap the benefits of his misfortune. I’ve already cleaned him out on more than one occasion.”
With a quick scrape of his chair, Ridley stood and shoved his right hand to the bottom of his trouser pocket. He produced a handful of miscellaneous items and Phineas wondered if he searched for the remaining blunt to continue play or if the game would end. He hoped not, the man proved a veritable font of information.
Ridley continued to sift through the collection in his palm until, satisfied, he reseated and tossed a pair of ruby earrings and a jeweled cameo into the ante at the center of the table.
“It’s all I’ve got this evening, but a pretty price they’ll fetch. Let’s finish this hand and call it a night before I find myself as dished as Winton.”
“As you wish.” Phineas discarded and glimpsed his opponent. Ridley played with such foolish abandonment, it was a miracle the game progressed as long as it did. To the contrary, the duplicitous blackguard held such a talent for ingratiating people and betraying them, he remained extremely wary. “This ends things neatly.”
Phin threw down his cards to reveal a perfect trick, the score of fifteen bringing the total to one hundred points and ending the game. Collecting his winnings from the center of the table, he took a quick sip of brandy and walked away ignoring Ridley’s muttered curses.
It was quick work to use his piquet money to repay a portion of the debt Winton owed the club. He remained unsure what caused the man’s rash behavior, but either way it appeared Winton had reached dire straits and was in need of a little help, despite the news he’d acquired tonight would disappoint Julia immensely.
Only the jewelry remained in hand, and the cameo gave Phin pause. He studied the delicate piece in the dim lantern of White’s parlor. The fine workmanship and intricate detailing of the brooch identified it as valuable. Were he to examine it in daylight, he suspected an engraving would reveal a family name. Anyone would be heartbroken to have lost such a delicate piece. And the devil only knew where Ridley obtained it or by what means. He slipped the cameo into his inside pocket with the intention of investigating it further and exited White’s without another thought.
He has somewhere else he needed to go.
Phineas replaced his pocket watch. Less than a minute would turn the evening into yesterday. He continued across the cobbles deeper into the cemetery, his mood a fitting companion to the low-lying fog, an unsettled creature, clinging to the tombstones, and lending the grass an ethereal gloom. He didn’t believe in specters or ghoulish apparitions although the memories crammed in the dark recesses of his soul held the same power to haunt, at times, rebel, with bold assertion to arrow a shiver straight through his bones. Regret, like a defiant vine, wound tight around his ribs, holding frustration and doubt, at times misery and anger, caged behind his ribs, where hollow emotion caused his heart a perpetual ache.
He discarded the maudlin reflection as his eyes fell upon the marble, his feet accustomed to the path, his body drawn to the location without direction. A flick of his eyes provided a scan of the familiar surroundings; the shadows silent and desolate. Who visited a loved one in the dead of night? Who carried flowers, mourned a lost companion, paid homage to a friend while the midnight hour surrendered to the new day? What was a cemetery anyway but a graveyard full of buried hopes and lost opportunity?
Like always, Phineas stared at the pallid stone, his eyes keenly focused on the carved marble, articulating each letter as if to spell out forgiveness, relieve his regret, and absolve all guilt. Yet as usual he failed; success out of reach.
He fought the sharp jab of desolation that aimed to knock him flat and murmured his apology into the silence before he kindly took his leave.
It was well past midnight before Penelope surrendered to her restlessness and discarded the notion of sleep. With palpable reluctance she climbed from the sheets to light a single candle on the bedside table while her mind replayed Phineas’ actions, his strong possessive embrace as they danced and the deliriously wonderful press of his lips during their stolen kiss. Pleasure and desire intertwined with feelings of disappointment and confusion at his direct dismissal. She no longer trusted her judgment to lead her emotions and her heart ached because of it.
Bending to arrange her slippers, she slipped them on and padded across her bedchamber to the far window overlooking the back gardens. A half moon shone, its glow a misty haze among the pewter sky much like the confusion clouding her heart. How could she continue to entreat Phineas to help her find Simon if standing near him made her pulse beat triple time? Lord, he looked devastatingly handsome tonight. For all his affability and warm amber eyes, his broad, tall frame exuded strength and masculinity. He was composed of all muscle, if that was even possible, from wide shoulders, hard chest to lean flat stomach. And his kiss, it simmered within her, the true cause of her sleeplessness more than anything else.
The sharp scrape o
f the gate latch forced her eyes from the moon to the gardens below.
As if conjured by the power of her musings, Phineas entered through the iron railing. Not sparing a glance at the house, he took a path to his left and headed out of sight with determined strides.
In a motion faster than her good sense advised, Penelope grabbed her silk wrapper and made for the door. She could manage a little rest if she understood why he’d dismissed her so promptly after their kiss. She doubted she would get any sleep if she didn’t at least try.
Following the same path he’d taken, she stepped with care as an earlier rain shower left the slate stones slick. Blades of grass, damp and supple, feathered the skin at her ankles, their sensitive brush heightening the intensity of her decision. Slipping quietly through the moonlit shadows, she stalled when she reached him.
Phineas leaned against a tall flowering tree at the back corner of the gardens not far from the gazebo where they had shared their near-kiss days ago. The remembrance heated her skin. How she had wished for him to close those few breaths of space and lower his lips to hers. Now having experienced his kiss, the yearning burned with wild abandonment and her pulse beat a traitorous rhythm in her ears, so loud she wondered how he did not hear it and discover her hidden near the trim hedgerow.
With anxious eyes, she watched him remove his waistcoat and hang it over a low-lying branch. His linen shirt, open at the collar, and his chiseled profile, outlined in the moon’s soft glow, presented him as if a secret dream brought to life, a peace-stealing memory. She blinked at his heroic image in the misty night air, surrounded by flower petals and the lambent glint of moonlight, mythical and unreal.
Almost.
The way her pulse jumped, the way her body hummed with anticipation, Phineas existed as no idle illusion conjured by her overactive imagination.
The Midnight Rake Page 13