Apart from the scent of roses.
Despite himself, his body surged in response. She was slightly bent, arse outthrust, bosom spilling forward, peering intently through a parting she’d made between two large books. Oh, God. Ironically, the line of her was achingly beautiful. Chase imagined drawing a leisurely hand from the nape of her neck, down her lean spine, over the nip of her waist and sweet curve of her arse, savoring the perfect symmetry of her. The muscles of his stomach tightened.
But Rosalind March was spying.
What the bloody hell should he do?
He was neatly cleaved between yet again protecting her—from being caught, and hearing what he knew she was likely to hear—and from protecting the men from being spied upon. He knew what sorts of things would be talked about among old soldiers. Very little of it would be suitable for a woman’s ears.
He could pick all the voices out now. Kinkade, Ireton, Lawton, Kirkham, Callender. Rising, blending, tumbling over one another. Much laughing. Profanity. He heard the clink of crystal and the glug of brandy, the snick snick of cigars being clipped, and seconds later the first tantalizing puff of smoke as good cigars were sucked into life.
If he didn’t join them in a moment, he would officially be spying, too.
Bloody hell. Stopping Rosalind was the best way to protect everyone.
The thick carpet took the weight of his feet and his walking stick. The leather of his shoes obliged him by not creaking. The men were too temporarily deafened by spirits and laughter and the loud ballroom orchestra to hear him, and besides, why should they be straining their ears for people creeping up behind them?
Not even Mrs. March heard him. So intent was she on peering at the men.
In a few more steps he was so close to her he could smell her: not just roses, but something soft and warm. Soap, the herbs she’d stored her dress in, something uniquely her. He could see one tiny white hair sparkling amidst the shining dark of her coiffure. It caught his breath. She was not yet thirty years old, but it wasn’t as though the war and her flighty sisters wouldn’t have left its mark upon her.
All the little things about Rosalind had always spoken strongest to him. He could not have said for certain why. They seemed to tell the story of her truthfully.
He was scarcely an inch away from touching her now, and he stopped and waited for her to sense the heat of his body.
In seconds she stood bolt upright.
Which slid the silk length of her body up a tantalizing length from his hard torso. Not at all unpleasant, regardless of their circumstances.
Her gloved hand went up to her mouth to cover her choked gasp. She angled her chin in an attempt to peer over her shoulder, but he was so close he’d made it impossible.
Her throat moved in a swallow. Her eyes were wide with fear; her nostrils flared.
Neither of them could speak—they could scarcely breathe, for that matter—without risking discovery.
“…she said to me, I’ll ride you into tomorrow, and by God if she didn’t!”
“Which one was this? Mildred?” This sounded like Callender.
“No, no, the little one! Cassandra! On the pirate stage.”
On the what? No woman should be listening to this.
But Chase’s torso was warming deliciously from the beautiful warm woman pressed against it, which was distracting him from the conversation.
“…took me upstairs after that, she did.”
No man should have to worry that a woman was listening to this.
“…charge a subscription. Exorbitant. Exclusive. Very clever, I’ve decided. Now I’ve begun to think I’ll sell shares in the…” This was Kinkade.
The line of fine, fine hair trailing fernlike up Rosalind’s white nape mesmerized him. Her pulse thumped visibly in her throat.
It was all he could do not to lean forward and lick it.
“…where the hell are you going to get the capital, Kinkade? You’re up to your ears in debt, aren’t you?”
Her arse was now brushing against the official beginnings of what promised to be an impressive erection.
Sweet Mother of God.
“…she made the most brilliant mermaid…”
What on earth? Mermaid?
The conversation made no sense but sounded fascinating, and combined with the sensual woman in front of him, who had just purposely—he was certain of it—slid her arse ever so slightly across his now quite hard cock, he felt enmeshed in a druglike dream.
Rosalind’s head angled again; she wanted to see him. He could see that her lips were parted a little; her breath was shallow now. Her eyelids lowered to slits; her dark lashes quivered against her cheekbones. Against him, her ribs moved.
He swallowed, too. He had ducked his head so his own harsh breaths would be muffled by her shining hair. Which is when he saw that the fine, clinging fabric of her dress explicitly revealed the planes of her arse: round and smooth and taut as a peach.
Of a certainty she wasn’t wearing anything beneath that dress apart from stockings.
“…Ireton had to run for it! He was caught! Thought he ’twas in Covent Garden!”
A roar of laugher from the men.
Because it seemed, in the moment, a sensible and entirely unavoidable thing to do, slide a feathery finger along the crease of her buttocks as revealed by that dress.
Rosalind froze in what he assumed was shock.
Too bad, Rosalind, he thought. He did it again: the same feathery touch, originating at that sweet, wickedly erotic spot at the base of her spine, following the sweet crease of her buttocks.
And then again. Coaxing. Teasing.
Until her arse made a wee, deliberate circle against his erection.
Oh, God. He pushed himself hard against her, which might have been a mistake, but he hardly had a say in the matter: it was all his body’s doing.
What had he started?
She’d started it by being here at all, was his unworthy conclusion.
His palms slid down to cup then saucily squeeze her arse, and her head tipped back into his chest, affording him a splendid view of her breasts, rising and falling, rising and falling.
He relinquished her arse and gently wrapped his fingers around her forearms to lift them. Her arms went unresisting.
And then he deliberately placed her own hands over her breasts. Then dragged them lightly down over her peaked nipples in a circle.
Just a suggestion, Rosalind. An incredibly wicked suggestion. A way to participate in your own pleasure.
For he was a planner, and he had plans for his hands, and for her pleasure.
“…found ’im at Tatersall’s for my wife.”
Chase began to furl up the front of her dress. Slowly, slowly, lest it rustle unduly; mercifully it glided easily up over her silk stockings and her smooth skin. He held it bunched in one hand. And then he slid his palm over the silken and—oh, God, lovely wet curls between her legs.
She was rigid in shock. But her whole body would be pliant in seconds. He knew what he was about.
His finger slowly, lightly, traced the seam between the soft folds. Snagging in those fine silken curls. Leisurely, leisurely, twining in them, as he circled against her arse.
She was still rigid. But her breathing had gone staccato.
“…that horse couldn’t run to save its life!” someone objected. The voices of Chase’s friends came to them from another world now.
He traced that sweet damp seam as though he were drawing her into being. Leisurely, as though they were in no danger at all of being caught. Torturously leisurely. Again.
And then again.
Her skin pulsed to his touch.
Lightly again. And this was when her legs slipped wider, and his finger slid through velvety wetness.
He nearly swayed from it.
His breath now gusted against her throat, and she tugged her own bodice down roughly, giving him a view of the pale rose bead-hard nipples she’d taken between her own fingers.<
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He was fairly certain he’d never been this aroused in his entire life.
“…best idea you ever had, Kinkade.”
The musk of desire surrounded them now. Her knees began to buckle.
He wrapped her tightly with one arm to hold her upright, and his body took her weight, and he slipped a finger deep into her.
“…and I said, ‘Those shares will be worthless when they have the Stockton and Darlington railroad completed…’”
She turned her head into her shoulder and bit down on her soft bottom lip, and he saw again white teeth in her bottom lip like that night at the d’Alignys’. Her swift breath was hot, moist against his shirt. Her eyes closed tightly. And when he saw her fingers on her own breasts, circling, languidly circling, his own arousal was such a drug, such a madness, he suddenly became certain he could take her here, plunge into her here, behind this bookcase.
His finger slid into her…and out. And in, and out. He traced hard, repetitive filigrees over her hot, satiny flesh. He wanted her to acknowledge what she wanted, to ask for it definitively with her body. And she at last began to move against his hand, and together they found a swift and primal rhythm that would end beautifully and inevitably and hopefully soundlessly.
He began to feverishly imagine tipping her forward just a bit more to achieve the angle he needed to penetrate her. He liked imagining whether she thought he would, because suspense was a whetstone for his desire, and now it was urgent.
He took his hand reluctantly from between her legs and began to slide her dress up from behind.
And her body suddenly stiffened to the pliancy of a plank.
He went still, too. Puzzled.
And then…fiercely, darkly suspicious.
Her thighs were ever so slightly parted, and before she could jam them closed he slipped a hand through the space between them: something bulky and dully shining was strapped to her thigh with a pair of satin garters—one pink, one white.
She clamped her thighs closed on his hand—or tried to—but his hand had already wedged itself in there.
He traced the contours of the thing. For an instant the contrast between the silky give of her skin and the lethal, unyielding metal of the weapon was astoundingly erotic, and his absurdly high state of arousal prevented its significance from penetrating instantly.
An instant later desire evaporated in shock and fury.
What the bloody hell did she intend to do with a pistol?
He froze.
And she did, too. Her desire had completely given way to fear. As well it should. Bloody woman.
With feather-delicate fingers and a heart thudding from nerves and thwarted lust merging into anger, he did what he could have done in the dark, anywhere, with any pistol: he ascertained it was locked.
It was.
He dropped his hands from her silky thighs, and the now crushed dress fell like a blind drawn, and he landed his hands hard on her shoulders.
Rosalind’s mouth was sandy with terror.
Despite that, she felt…thwarted. There was a cold fluttering in her stomach; she deeply, irrationally resented missing the shattering release she knew would have been hers. She should have felt inappropriately indignant at being thus handled, despite how thoroughly—how wantonly—she’d participated. How on earth had it begun to make perfect sense: why shouldn’t Captain Eversea take me behind the bookcase in the library?
The way all kinds of rashness made sense when he was near.
If only he hadn’t raised her dress up so high. He might never have seen the pistol at all.
Sweet merciful God. What was she thinking? Thank God he’d hiked her dress up that high, or God only knows what she would have done. And if a woman couldn’t hide a pistol up her thigh, then where could she hide it?
Chase turned her around to face him. Slowly.
She didn’t want to turn, but it wasn’t as though those hands of his gave her a choice. She was eye-level with his cravat now. She risked a look higher up.
His eyes glittered with all the warmth of a gun barrel.
He mouthed the words broadly: Go. Down. Stairs.
He stared at her until she did what he seemed to want her to do: she nodded vigorously in comprehension.
Quietly, he added.
He didn’t add or else, but it was rather implied by his expression. She wondered what he intended to do.
Chase couldn’t just leap out from behind the bookshelf with his fading erection.
She waited.
He backed slowly, slowly, away from her, edging along the wall toward the entrance of the library again. Just the way she’d entered. One careful backward footstep at a time. He seemed to be listening hard, and Rosalind, breathless with nerves, listened, too; but none of the voices fell in volume or ceased chattering; nothing about the rhythm of their seemingly impromptu male gathering suggested they might know someone was spying or creeping backward or anything else.
He reached the entrance.
And then all at once Chase plunged forward with a hearty, “Gentlemen!”
Rosalind gave a start.
“Wondering when you’d turn up, E’ershea!” Someone was drunk and had lost the ability to pronounce certain consonants.
“Chase!” said someone else in round aristocratic tones.
Rosalind began to inch backward in just the same way Chase had. One light, gingerly light, backward footstep at a time.
“Captain!”
Much manly clapping of backs and clasping of hands seemed to be taking place. Slurred, profane, affectionate greetings, the sort she was accustomed to hearing among soldiers, were exchanged.
She crept farther back; the wall was cold against the half-moon of her back exposed by her gown.
The corner around which she could disappear, and the hall, were so tantalizingly close.
Chase was talking. “Took a wrong turn in the house, gentlemen, and bumped into an old friend here, which is part of the pleasures of London. I cut it fine, I fear, and I thought I might have time to linger for a chat, but fear I must be on my way. On to another engagement.”
A chorus of protest rose up.
“Surely there’s no other place worth being tonight?” This was Kinkade’s refined voice; Rosalind recognized it, and damn it all, she wanted to talk to him, but she didn’t dare now.
She heard absolutely nothing from Chase by way of response, but he must have either winked or made a rude and illustrative manly gesture—she could simply picture it—because the men burst out laughing and hooting.
“You’re right, Eversea, that’s a place worth being at any time.” This was Kinkade, sounding sincere. “But thank you for gracing us with a moment of your presence, Captain. And do ride her once for me.”
Bloody hell. He was leaving? She thought he’d intended to stay with the men and was simply sending her away.
This was when she bolted.
The voices faded as she dashed down the hall, skirt gripped in her hands, face aflame, stomach a block of motivating ice-cold fear. Lit sconces were a blur as she rushed by them.
Her hair began to loosen; there was so much of it and the pins could only be counted on to hold it for so long, and down it came, a strand at a time.
She nearly skidded when she turned the hall corner. If she could only outrace him—surely she could outrace him now (and what an unworthy thought that was)—she wouldn’t have to face his wrath.
She hadn’t the courage quite yet.
At last, there were the stairs, mercifully. She placed her hand on the cool, beautifully polished banister. She saw her face distorted in its shining surface as she launched herself down the marble steps, her slippers clacking down hard, her borrowed dress bunched carelessly in one fist to free her feet. She watched her slippers carefully, lest she fall. The flash of her toes hitting marble dizzied her.
And she came to a sudden abrupt halt.
A crowd clotted the foyer and the main door, of course.
Damnation.
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She plunged into the crowd with all the grace of a diver. She made a valiant go of it, gamely wending her way out of the door of the town house, weaving skillfully as a polo player through the silk and muslin and long-coated men, shaking off the long coats that snagged on her as she shoved past, taking a plume in the eye just once, leaving in her wake more than one indignantly squeaked “Oh!” as she elbowed through.
She saw the door. The brace of footmen. The tiny rectangle of dark outside. She felt the breeze of the night air.
And she was jerked to a halt by a large, hot hand gripping her elbow.
An experimental tug told her she wouldn’t be freeing herself with any ease.
She turned her head over the shoulder and flinched when she met angry blue eyes and a positively horizontal mouth.
She gave another fruitless tug.
Where had he come from? Bloody fast, he was. “Abram cove,” indeed.
“Duck your head,” he commanded. Low and cold, right in her ear, the tone brooked no argument.
He hurried her—marched her, rather—out of the door, clearing the way with his own height and his walking stick and willingness to step on toes, until they were once again into the blessedly cool-by-contrast night, his own head tucked into his chest to hide his face in order to protect her reputation.
She could feel the ever so slightly uneven gait as he dragged her down the stairs.
Nauseatingly hard, swift heart thuds sent blood ringing in her ears.
Why are you afraid of me? she’d asked him so many years ago. What an unforgivably green girl she’d been. Her taunting of him, her flirtations, her testing, had been because she was afraid of him—so much stronger, more certain of himself, was Captain Eversea. So seemingly impervious to her.
Her attempts to disarm him had been like so much hissing of a kitten.
She should have known better then. He’d had his limits. They’d both paid the consequences.
She should have known better now.
Since the Surrender Page 10