But Grace had escorted her to the roulette wheel before she and her husband had departed. Now she had the attention of two other gentlemen—she’d been introduced to them recently, had danced with one at the wedding ball—and knew she should be grateful for it, should relish it, but couldn’t seem to keep her attention on either gent.
Instead she was constantly looking over to where Andrew stood at a table throwing dice. She loved the way he shook the ivory, released the cubes, then looked over the heads of the people bending to see what he’d thrown and met her gaze. Even from this distance, she could see the heat in his.
“You won again, Miss Hammersley,” Lord Manville said, turning her attention back to him.
“So I did.” She gathered up her winnings, placed another wager.
“Will you be at the Waverly ball?” he asked.
She smiled at him. “Those are my plans.”
“Excellent. I should like to go ahead and claim your first dance.”
“I’ll take the second,” the other gent, Lord Benson, said.
Laughing gently, she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. From the moment the Season had begun she’d longed for such attention, but now there was only one gent with whom she wished to dance. “Duly noted. I shall live in anticipation of the ball’s arrival.”
And the evening’s end. The gentlemen were charming, but they didn’t make her wonder what they were thinking, what sort of mischief they might get up to once they left the Dragons. She wondered if she might be able to convince Andrew to take her with him again. Surely he engaged in activities beyond wagering and brotheling. Was that even a word? It should be. It sounded much less harsh than the one Venus had taught her for the sexual act.
Her heart gave a little kick as Andrew strode toward her. She was barely aware of the ball bouncing over the roulette wheel, landing, the cheers going up, and the congratulations on another win being offered to her. Her focus was entirely on him.
“You seem to be having luck,” he said once he reached her.
She wanted that luck to continue, only with him. “It seems so, yes.”
He leaned in. “I’ve yet to see your maid arrive.”
She rolled her eyes and whispered, “I forgot to send for her.”
A corner of his mouth hitched up. “I thought you might. As it’s late, I should probably escort you home now.”
“As we’re family,” she said a little louder, “I’m sure no one will think anything of that.” While she said good night to the gentlemen surrounding her, Andrew gathered up her winnings, saw to it that her chips were exchanged for currency. Her reticule was considerably heavier as they walked toward the door. “If you’re heading off on an adventure, I want to go with you,” she announced boldly, but low enough that no one else would hear.
“Only off to bed.” Then to her surprise and delight, he blushed. “And you are most certainly not going with me.”
Pity. “What about tomorrow night?”
“What about it?”
“There isn’t a ball until the night after. What am I to do with myself until then?”
“Oh I’m certain Grace will come up with some sort of entertainment for you.”
A footman opened the door. She and Andrew walked out into the night.
“Will you be at the Waverly ball? Manville and Benson already claimed dances. My card is likely to fill rather quickly. I’ll happily save a dance for you.”
“I won’t be attending.”
She was surprised by how her enthusiasm for the Waverly affair suddenly dimmed. Perhaps if she spoke with the duchess, she’d convince her son to go. Although it was probably best if he didn’t. She found it difficult to give attention to anyone when he was about. If she wanted to be betrothed by the end of the Season, she needed to set her mind to it.
Although it was dark, except for the occasional street lamp, Andrew ran, barefoot, through the park near his town house. His body was in mortal danger of exploding, and he needed to do something to exhaust himself so he could sleep. He’d hated watching all the gents fawning over Gina. Not that she didn’t deserve fawning over, but still it had irritated.
Traveling with her in the carriage, inhaling her fragrance of violets, had been pure torment. He’d wanted to cross over to her, gather her up in his arms, and kiss her silly.
It had been a mistake to kiss her earlier. He’d been downing whiskey, striving to rid himself of her flavor, and he couldn’t do it. It was as though her taste had taken up permanent residence in his mouth. No woman had ever affected him as she did.
He wished he had a heart to offer her, but years ago it had been shattered. No matter how hard he tried, he could not seem to put it back together.
Chapter 7
Gina sat at the pianoforte and played a haunting melody that caused her to feel a bit melancholy, when she knew no reason existed for such morose sentiments. No balls, dinners, or soirees were taking place tonight—at least none to which she’d been invited. The duke and duchess had retired for the evening, encouraging her to make herself at home. She tried reading, but it was simply too quiet. She was rather glad Tillie had insisted she not return to Landsdowne Court. Even with the servants about, she’d still find only loneliness there.
A hand appeared before her, reaching for the music sheets. With a tiny screech, she stopped playing and twisted about to stare up at Andrew. He was so near she could see the tiny ring of black that circled the light blue of his eyes, could smell bergamot and lemon and something much darker, an indulgence. Whiskey or brandy or a very rich wine.
“What are you doing here?” The question was inane. This residence belonged to his parents. He no doubt came and went with frequent regularity.
With his back to the piano, he lowered himself to the bench, his hip resting against hers. In spite of her petticoats, she felt the firmness and warmth. “I noticed you weren’t at the Twin Dragons so I thought Grace might have abandoned you for the night and you might be in need of relief from your boredom. Nothing against my parents, but they can become quite dull as the evening progresses.”
“Another outing to the Twin Dragons?”
“I had something else in mind.”
Rowing, at night. She’d never considered it possible, wondered if her remarks about Somerdale taking her rowing had influenced him at all. It was cooler here; he’d wrapped her in a blanket and she snuggled down into it.
The full moon as well as a lantern suspended from the bow of the small boat guided them along the river. She didn’t think they were on the Thames, didn’t really know where they were, didn’t care. Instead she absorbed the peace and tranquility of the water gently lapping against the boat, the slap of the oars, the splash of a fish. The quiet of the man sitting across from her.
It was odd that when she was with him, she didn’t need conversation. When she was with others, she always felt she was being judged—her dress, her manners, her mien, her refinement. Were any of them proper enough to gain her a husband? What if she were poor? Would she spend her life alone? Wealth was a pitfall that lead to insecurities and complications when it shouldn’t.
“Somerdale called on me this afternoon.” He groaned. Perhaps from the strain of rowing, although she didn’t think so. “As did Manville and Wheatley.”
“Seems you have a virtual cornucopia of suitors.”
He sounded displeased which pleased her. “Have you ever courted a woman?”
“I have no plans to marry.”
Which wasn’t exactly an answer to the question. “I know I’ve asked before but you didn’t give a very succinct answer: Have you ever been in love?”
“Again, no plans to marry.”
She frowned. “You can love without marrying. What about your actress? Surely you cared for her.”
“Immensely, but I did not love her, nor did she love me. We were together because we enjoyed each other’s company.”
She couldn’t imagine the actress hadn’t fallen in love with him just a little. “Di
d you make her laugh?”
“On occasion. What has that to do with anything?”
“Tillie says you can’t really love someone who doesn’t make you laugh. Or at least, you shouldn’t marry someone who doesn’t make you laugh.”
“Does Somerdale make you laugh?”
She shook her head. “No. I like him well enough, but he’s trying too hard to win me over. It seems love should come about more naturally, more of a slow awakening, a realization he’s the one you want to clasp your hand when it’s wrinkled and frail and you’re old. Your parents hold hands. They touch often: a shoulder, an arm, the small of the back. I can tell they do it without thinking. That’s the sort of love I want. One that doesn’t require any thinking.”
“If you never think about it, you can take it for granted.”
“For someone who avoids love, you seem to have considerable knowledge regarding it. Who broke your heart?”
She could feel him studying her. Limned by moonlight as he was, his silhouette was clearly visible but she couldn’t detect the subtleties in his facial expressions. They were lost to the shadows. Rubbing her hands, she realized she might have pushed a bit too far. “It’s chilly out here.”
“Is the blanket not warding off the cold?”
“It’s helping some.” She was also wearing a pelisse he’d told her to bring. But there was a slight breeze that wanted to work itself into the very marrow of her bones.
She watched as he took the oars from the water and set them along the sides of the skiff. Shoving himself off the bench, he settled into the bottom of the boat and held out his hand. “Come here.”
Her heart fluttered as she took his hand, slid onto her knees, turned around, and wedged herself between his legs, her back to his chest. He brought up the sides of his coat and she snuggled in deeper against the heat provided by his body. “Oh, that’s lovely. It’s always so much more rewarding to be warmed after I’m cold. I appreciate it more.”
“Mmm.” His voice was a low thrum near her ear and the bristles lining his jaw brushed enticingly against her cheek. He closed his bare hands around her gloved ones, and additional warmth seeped into her being.
“Tell me about her,” she demanded softly.
“Gina—”
“I know there was someone. Perhaps you didn’t love her, perhaps she didn’t break your heart, but you don’t learn to avoid the fire until you’ve been burned. And you must admit you have an aversion to love. I won’t tell a soul. Your secrets are always safe with me, Andrew.”
“I can’t be the only one revealing secrets. If I answer, you must share with me the most intimate thing you’ve ever done with a man. And if our kiss last night is your answer, then you must tell me the most intimate thing you’ve ever imagined doing.”
The fog was rolling in, and she couldn’t help but think it was taking all the air with it as she was having a frightfully difficult time drawing in a breath. She nodded—no doubt unwisely. “I accept your terms.”
His arms closed more securely around her, wrapping her in a cocoon of heat.
“When I was nineteen,” he began quietly, “I met a woman, two years’ my senior, who intrigued me as no other female had. I’d yet to take an interest in balls, debutantes, or courtship but for her I recited Browning’s poems and Shakespeare’s sonnets, wrote poetry, sang ballads. I was quite … smitten.”
Not as strong a word as love and she wondered if he had an aversion to the term and experiencing the emotion. “How did you meet?”
“Our paths crossed when I was riding in the park. She caught my attention. Actually, her smile caught my attention. If ever a painting were created to demonstrate a come-hither look, hers would have served as the example.”
“Was she pretty?”
“Beautiful. While it was a bold action, I introduced myself. She hinted she would be visiting a particular museum the following day—at two—and I made a point to be there. She was alone. Our first kiss occurred behind the statue of a scantily clad couple lost in an embrace.”
“You certainly recall the particulars.” She didn’t like the jealousy that speared her.
“I remember everything. Every encounter. Every stolen moment. Her reputation needed to remain untarnished. She wanted no scandal—much like you. And nothing at all like you.”
The last was said so quietly she almost didn’t hear it.
“As I mentioned I was nineteen. Still residing with my parents. I wanted to be completely alone with her. I wanted more than kisses. She yearned for them as well. There is a club for those who seek secretive trysts.”
“The Nightingale Club,” she offered. “I’ve heard of it.”
His breath wafted over her cheek. “I assume you’ve never been.”
“Absolutely not. But I’ve wondered about it. If it’s as decadent as they say.”
“More so. It is a refuge for sinners and when you are surrounded by those desiring what you desire, it is easy to forget the wrongness of it.”
“But still, you met her there.”
“I did. As often as I could. I fell in love with her there. I decided I would make an honest woman of her. I would court her properly.”
“What did she say when you told her?”
“I didn’t tell her. I sought to surprise her. So I began to attend balls. At the third one, I spied her, standing with a group of men and women. But I didn’t really see them. I saw only her. The besotted fool I was, I rushed over to greet her, to let her know I was there, to ask for a dance. I knew the moment she spotted me. She didn’t smile or appear to be happy to see me. She showed no emotion whatsoever, as though her features had been frozen in ice. When I finally arrived, with my heart pounding, she merely said, ‘Hello, Lord Andrew.’ And then she introduced me to her husband.”
She twisted around. “You didn’t know she was married?”
“No, I knew only her Christian name. Unlike Rex, who was continually expected to attend social functions and was introduced to this lord and that, who accompanied Father when he went to his clubs so he would know who was powerful and who was not, who was a political ally, who might be an enemy, I was left to wander about wherever I wanted. I wasn’t bothered by my father’s ignoring of me. I had no interest in meetings, in learning what I must know in order to one day take over the reins. They would not be handed to me. I much preferred learning where the best whiskey was served, the more interesting wagering took place, and the most willing women were to be found.”
“What did you do when confronted with her husband?”
“I did what any good whore does: I pretended she meant nothing to me and it was a pleasure to meet him.”
She could hear the disgust in his voice—disgust with himself. The woman had made him feel less, feel used. She couldn’t imagine it, the bruising his pride must have taken. “The woman didn’t deserve you.”
“Her words were very similar when we met up later on an upper floor balcony, in the darkness away from everyone. ‘Spares are for fucking,’ she said. ‘Not for marrying.’”
While she might not know who the woman was, she felt an immediate gut reaction to her: she hated her. Not out of jealousy because the beastly creature had held Andrew’s affection—although she feared that might be part of it—but because the lady had hurt him, used such ugly words to describe her association with him. “She was a horrid woman. What she said wasn’t true. A goodly number of second sons marry.”
He chuckled darkly. “Not this one.”
“Who was she?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters. If I don’t know who she is then how am I to tear out her hair from her head.”
His laugh was low, dark, soothing. She felt him relax against her. Until that moment she hadn’t realized how tense he’d been sharing something so personal with her. His lips, warmer than usual, landed below her ear, threatened to melt her where she sat.
“You’re a temptress. You tempt in me in so many ways that you s
houldn’t, to confess things best left as secrets, to do things best not done.”
“I’m glad you told me.”
“I don’t know why I did. I’ve never told anyone else.”
“And the things best left undone? What would they involve?”
His hand came around, cradled her cheek, tilted her head back slightly. Then his mouth blanketed hers. There was no longer any chill, any breeze, any rocking motion on the water. There was only him.
He didn’t know what had possessed him to blather on about something he’d fought so hard to forget, but she made him feel as though he could tell her anything, made him want to tell her everything—including the one thing he could never tell her: how much he’d come to care for her.
She was an heiress with a fortune, could have any man she wanted, deserved a titled gentleman with vast estates—not the second son who would never amount to anything. Although for her, he might be willing to put his playful ways behind him. For her, he didn’t want to contemplate all he might do. Or how difficult it might be.
Because at that very moment he was having to refrain from doing all he wanted to do. As his tongue swept through her mouth, as she welcomed him, as her fingers became entangled in his hair, he wanted to possess her fully, wanted to caress every aspect of her body. He wanted her to palm his bollocks, stroke his cock. He wanted to fill her—without a sheath. To have an experience with her that he’d never had with another. He wanted to feel the slickness of her muscles closing around him, coaxing his seed to burst forth.
Christ! He certainly couldn’t do that. He tore his mouth from hers, gazed into her limpid eyes. She was so beautiful, even when the night shadows prevented him from seeing her clearly.
“We should no doubt head back.” His voice was embarrassingly rough and raw. He hoped all her petticoats prevented her from being aware of his throbbing erection. Usually, he was better able to control his reaction to a woman. But she unmanned him.
“I suppose we should.”
He assisted her in returning to her bench, taking delight in her small squeal when the boat rocked unsteadily, but then he took delight in everything about her. Once he was settled, he grabbed the oars and began rowing. He had a great deal of pent-up energy to unleash.
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