by Regan Walker
Mr. Powell walked to the small table next to the bed and lit a candle. “I’ll find you something to wear.” He looked back at her. “My mother is of a size with you. You can borrow some of her things.”
“But that would not be proper.”
“Do not be silly. You heard Nick. She is gone for months, and if she were here, I assure you, she would insist upon it.”
“What are you planning to do with me?”
“That”—he faced her with a wry smile—“is yet to be decided.”
He walked to the fireplace and, crouching, struck a match to a well-laid fire. Then he rose, took off his cravat and tossed it aside before loosening the neck of his shirt. The light of the growing fire was reflected on the skin of his throat and the dark chest hair now displayed. Kit remembered the feel of that hair on her breasts, and her nipples tingled. What would it feel like to have her mouth once again on his naked flesh? She felt a sudden craving for the pleasure they had shared.
“Where are you sleeping?” she asked, breathless.
“Here, of course.” He slowly walked toward her, his eyes dark with desire.
She stepped back, though something deep within her urged her forward. And, there was that smile again. Kit was unnerved. Did he think just because she’d given herself to him once he could have her again? She had simply taken refuge in his arms and he had made her feel safe for the night, safe from Rutledge. No. Without the brandy, and thinking more clearly than she had the last time they were together, she had no intention of sleeping with a man to whom she was not wed. She perhaps wanted to feel safe again with him, but she was not willing to pay the price.
“You told your brother the guest room…?”
“Yes, well, that was for Nick—and for your honor.” He stopped a foot in front of her.
“You cannot stay here.” Even as Kit said the words, she realized how absurd they sounded. It was his home after all, so she added, “With me.”
“Why not, Kitten?” He stepped closer. “We have already shared a bed. We have made love.” A faint smile crossed his lips. “And I am hungry for you.”
Kit felt her cheeks warm. A shiver ran down her spine, and she backed up. “That should not have happened.” She twisted her hands together at her waist and stared down at the floor, reminded of their passion and also of her shame. How could she have made love with him that night knowing how wrong it was? Worse, how could she want him again?
He closed the distance between them, his blue eyes staring into hers. She was suddenly very aware of him as a man. Tall, handsome and lithe, he smelled of brandy and that masculine scent that was his own, perhaps exotic sandalwood. It was the same scent she’d smelled on his coat, and it brought back more memories of their night together. Standing so near, she could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
Taking his coat from her shoulders and tossing it on the bed, he lifted her chin with his curved finger. “Perhaps it shouldn’t have happened, Kitten, but it did. And there is something between us you cannot ignore.”
His voice was low, a seductive lure drawing her in, reminding her of how she had come to him so willingly once before.
“No,” she said, shaking her head as if saying the word could make it true, could erase their night of passion. She was not that woman. But she could not deny the things she had done with this man. The things she wanted to do again.
“Is making love something you do not wish to do?” he asked. “As I recall, you seemed to enjoy it as much as I.” Then, more tenderly: “Besides, I have missed you, Kitten.”
“No, I cannot. I am not your…your…” She could not bring herself to say the word. Their one night together had been a wonderful, amazing and, yes, passionate experience, but it could never happen again. She had escaped one dreadful night into a dream. Into his arms. As much as she wanted his arms around her again, wanted to lie with him, she could not allow it. This was not who she was. Not who she was raised to be.
Placing his hands on her waist, he pulled her against him. The heat from his broad chest overwhelmed her as she tilted her head up to look into those stormy indigo eyes now dark with desire.
“You opened a door, Kitten, I’m unwilling to close.”
Chapter 8
Suspended in the glow of those irises that were the blue of a sky over a calm sea, Martin’s only thought was to once again taste her lips. In the weeks since they were last together he’d grown ravenous for Kit. He could not wait another minute.
Wrapping his arms around her and drawing her tightly to his chest, he bent his head to breathe in her scent of roses, and he touched her lips tenderly, as he had the night they first met. Reining in the fierce passion threatening to overtake him, he wooed her with kisses, and she melted into him just like before. He reveled in her softness, anticipating the rejoining of their bodies.
Abruptly she broke the kiss, brought her hands to his chest and pushed. Hard. He could have held her but decided he didn’t want to fight her tonight. He let her go.
“No. I cannot do…this,” she insisted.
He stepped back to ponder the vision before him. Flaming auburn hair now tumbled about her shoulders, the pins having fallen out long before. Her pale oval face held pleading blue eyes. It was apparent to Martin she was not denying him so much as denying what lay between them, the powerful draw their bodies had to each another. She might be a proper lady, but her physical response told him all he needed to know. The words coming from her mouth didn’t match the desire in her eyes.
Alas, he could see her mind was made up. They would not be resuming their relationship tonight. He sighed. After all, he reminded himself, she was not the courtesan he had first thought her. She was a dowager baroness. Patience was called for if he were to win her heart. And he very much wanted to win her.
Years of spying on the French had taught him restraint. Still, he could not help being incredulous. “You are serious?”
She lifted her chin, determination displayed in every feature of her beautiful face. “I am, Mr. Powell. Quite serious.”
He crossed his arms and stood back, amazed at her strength of will when he knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her. “I see.” Then, leaning close so that their lips were nearly touching: “And what would you have me do with you this night, my beauty?”
“I appreciate your helping me to avoid Lord Rutledge, Mr. Powell, I really do. But being here alone with you is not…proper. If you insist on my staying, at least allow me to take the guest room for the night.”
She probably had no idea how alluring she was, standing there in that silver gown, insisting upon her own room and all that was proper. With that fire in her eyes she reminded him of a red tabby cat his aunt owned that was ever quick to draw its claws. But he also remembered quite accurately what she looked like beneath that gown, what he had seen when she was attired only in moonlight and her claws were digging into his back. The image made it particularly difficult to quell his desire.
“‘Mr. Powell is it?” He hesitated, allowing her to consider him. He didn’t want her to think he easily accepted this ludicrous choice.
She said nothing, just stared. Finally he drawled, “Very well, Kitten, the guest room is yours—for tonight.” He walked toward the still open door without looking back, assuming she would follow. “It is just next door.”
He did not take her to the far guest room, the one he’d asked Nick about. He wanted her close should she need him—or better yet, should she change her mind. Covering the short distance to the next room in the corridor, he paused, aware she was following closely. “You will be comfortable here, Kitten,” he promised.
He opened the door, allowing her to enter ahead of him. Following, he lit a candle then the fireplace, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she made a short examination of the bedchamber. It might be more comfortable for her, but it certainly would not be more comfortable for him if she slept here alone. He doubted he would sleep at all.
“Allow me a few minut
es to find you some nightclothes and a gown for the morrow. After breakfast we will talk about what comes next.”
“Next?” Her voice quavered. “What do you mean?”
Was that fear he detected? Surely she did not fear him. He would protect her with his life.
“Now that I’m assured you are safe, I cannot allow you to stroll about London with a half-mad Rutledge hunting you. I have friends you can stay with, Kit, at least until other arrangements can be made. I rather think you will like Lady Ormond.”
“Lady Ormond?” Now that she had her own room, he could see she was calmer—and curious.
“The Marchioness of Ormond. Like you, she is an earl’s daughter. She is but a few years younger. I believe she’s rather looking forward to meeting you.”
“She is?”
What was it about this woman that made him want to be her protector? She had displayed great spirit in refusing the invitation to share his bed, and he liked that, but it was also her vulnerability that drew him. Martin wanted to keep her safe. Even now, he could see the fatigue beginning to overtake Kit as she leaned against the bedpost.
“Why, yes. I told you I’ve been looking for you. Lady Ormond has been assisting me in a way. You were not easy to find…not until tonight, when all of a sudden there you were.”
Kit yawned. “Tomorrow, then.”
He did not want to leave, and he thought of trying to calm her fears with assurances he would be just next door, but he could also see she needed sleep more than words. And if he touched her again, he might not leave at all.
“I’ll return in a moment, Kitten, to bring you those clothes.”
* * *
Kit paced the room, staring down at the unusual Chinese rug while she waited for Mr. Powell to return with the promised nightclothes. Her mind was full of him, this man with the seductive sapphire eyes and warm lips who had rescued her yet again.
She glanced up to see flowered curtains drawn over two large windows, a gilded ivory dressing table gracing the space between them. He’d given her a lovely room. But what did it matter? It wasn’t her room. It was merely a guest room in the house of a man she did not know. Kitten! He kept calling her that, as if to remind her of the first time the word slipped from his lips, the night she had so willingly gone to him. What had she been thinking? Truth to tell, she had not been thinking at all. She had gone to him so shamelessly. They’d made love, clung to each other while they slept. She could never forget.
A knock disrupted her thoughts. She crossed the room and slowly opened the door, and Mr. Powell smiled and handed her a pile of clothes. “These should do for now.”
She accepted them with a grateful, “Thank you.”
“Do you need any assistance? I can play the lady’s maid,” Mr. Powell said with a wry smile. She was sure he’d had much practice in handling women’s clothing, but she would not be accepting his offer of help.
“No, I can manage myself.” She still had the front-lacing corset and was glad she had worn it this night. He had once soothed her fears in the most intimate of ways, and she was only too aware of how easy it might be to give in to him again. She would not—could not—do that. His was the smile of the cat that had captured the mouse. She didn’t mean to be ungrateful, but she was no mouse. Thanking him, she abruptly said, “Good night,” and closed the door on both him and the passion he offered.
Among the clothes he had brought were a soft nightdress and a blue day gown with butter-soft leather shoes to replace her silver slippers. There was also a soft woolen cloak in a warm honey color. Holding it up in front of the standing mirror, she thought the gown would fit. It was close to the color of her eyes, and she wondered if he had selected it for that reason. Though she was pleased with his choice, she was tired of living on charity. Taking clothing from this man, even if borrowed, felt wrong. The fact that she had so little control of her life grated. Had it only been several weeks ago that Mrs. de Courtenay had insisted on buying Kit gowns?
Weariness overcame her, and too tired to object she decided it was futile to torture herself with things she could not change. She took off her silver gown and underthings, donned the nightgown her rescuer had provided and thought about how things would progress from here. The day had been a long one, getting the twins ready for yet another of their balls. Seeing the faces of her two charges brought a smile to her face. She had fallen in love with them, but now they were launched most splendidly. Their parents, who always accompanied Pris and Pen to the balls, would be all they would need. She didn’t feel badly at having to leave behind the governess position, but she would miss the family. The de Courtenays had been good to her.
She was relieved she had not killed Rutledge. That had been one piece of good news. As evil as she considered the man, to face an accusation of murder would be ruinous. And the earl’s family likely could produce witnesses to swear she’d attacked him. A new worry flooded her mind. He’d survived the blow and sought her at the ball. Was he now looking for revenge?
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she wondered what tomorrow would bring. Another move certainly. But where, and for how long?
Fatigued, she blew out the candle and slipped beneath the covers, but as she did, she brought her fingers to her lips remembering Mr. Powell’s kiss. She had come close to repeating her prior mistake, nearly seduced once again into his welcoming heat. Only at the last moment had she pulled away. Would she be able to pull away if there was a next time?
* * *
Martin had thought he would not sleep, but he was wrong. After one glass of brandy he laid his head on the pillow and soon fell into a fitful state of dreaming. A few hours later, after much tossing and turning, he woke from a nightmare, dripping with sweat though the fire had died long ago and the room had grown cold.
For a moment he had no idea where he was. It was a familiar strangeness; he had awakened in so many different places over the years. He raised his head from the pillow. The rain had stopped and moonlight poured in through the large window. One glance around told him he was in his family’s home in London, in his own bedchamber. My God. It had been so real this time. Like it happened yesterday.
The nightmare of Elise’s death never varied, his mind recalling perfectly the details of that night in Paris. How he had failed. His business was always dangerous; he should have seen the potential for calamity. But in the spirit of celebration he’d ignored his instincts. He had failed to protect his young wife and she was gone in a moment, lost to time, living now only in his memories and his nightmares. A nagging question that always lay beneath the surface, one he did not look at too closely, was whether he’d been the real target that night, not Elise. Perhaps the soldiers had only been feigning drunkenness. Such a possibility only added to his guilt. But he was unquestionably the reason she and their unborn child were dead. Their loss was a constant reminder he never should have married.
Sitting up in bed, he took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he remembered. This night the dream had been different, for when he looked down at the girl lying in the street, the eyes in the vacant stare had not been Elise’s dark brown. They had been blue.
The eyes of Lady Egerton.
Chapter 9
Kit was unsurprised to learn the friends of Mr. Powell—no, he insisted she call him Martin and it felt hypocritical to refuse—lived in Mayfair. A marquess would have a home in Town, and Mayfair was the choice for much of the ton during the Season.
They argued when Martin told her over breakfast that he was taking her to stay with Lord Ormond and his wife. She was tired of her life being controlled by others, yet what choice did she have? Blown along like a leaf before a strong wind, she saw her options as few at the moment, and grateful for his kindness she had finally, reluctantly agreed. Still, it was with some trepidation that she climbed the few steps to the arched door of the elaborate stone townhouse.
Located on Charles Street, the residence was only a short distance to Hyde Park where the nob
ility took their afternoon carriage rides. The name Ormond was not one she knew, but she did recall that the old baron, her husband, and her father had both known the Duke of Albany, Ormond’s father, according to Martin.
The door opened in response to Martin’s quick knock. “Afternoon, Jenkins,” Martin said, handing the butler his hat.
“Welcome back, sir.”
The dignified butler almost smiled, and it seemed to Kit he liked this houseguest. Martin Powell was charming, she had to concede.
“Is Ormond at home?”
“No, sir. Would you like me to announce you to her ladyship?”
“That would be fine, Jenkins, and please let her know Lady Egerton is with me.”
Lady Ormond must have been listening, because as she stepped over the threshold Kit heard a rustling of skirts like the wings of a flock of birds. “Martin! We were so worried about you, disappearing like that,” said a vision in rose-colored silk. “The countess asked most directly where you’d hied off to, but Ormond covered your tracks.” Then, facing Kit, the woman with golden hair remarked with a smile, “Thank heavens you found Lady Egerton, Martin.” She took Kit’s hand. “You must call me Mary. I have been hoping to meet you. Now that you are here we shall have a grand time.”
Kit knew she must have blushed, wondering what Martin had told the Ormonds about her. Had he mentioned Willow House? The very possibility caused her to feel exposed, as if everyone knew the horrible truth of her night in a bordello with this man standing at her side. Still, she instantly liked the woman who would be her hostess.
“You are too kind…Mary. Please, call me Kit.”
“I shall, Kit. Come into the parlour.” Then Mary turned to Martin and instructed him with an impudent smile, “Kit and I will have some tea, but you, Martin, are wanted at a meeting with Ormond.”