“Yes,” he admitted.
“I wouldn’t expect you or your lot to have identified my …” Favor let the sentence hang. “He isn’t one of your number.”
Tunbridge stared at her a second before bursting out laughing. “Don’t say he’s a groom or a stable boy? Not a footman! Good God, you’re not another Lady Orville, are you?”
“No!” she snapped.
Tunbridge’s amusement faded. A speculative gleam entered his eyes. “I could make quite a tidy sum if I was to correctly name the fellow who’s captured your fancy, Miss Donne.”
Of course. Pleasure palace it may well be, but first and foremost, Wanton’s Blush was an exalted gaming hell. And Lord Tunbridge one of its deepest players.
“You … you rakehell!” Favor breathed in high dudgeon, not in the least displeased with the direction the conversation had taken. She had adroitly sidestepped a potentially ugly confrontation and in doing so set up a perfect opportunity to further pique Carr’s interest.
All she had to do now was name Carr her would-be swain. Tunbridge, eager to find favor with Lady Fia’s sire, would run to him immediately with the news. What man could resist knowing he was a lady’s rumored object of fascination?
“We could, say, split the winnings,” Tunbridge suggested slyly.
She gasped. Not because she was shocked but because she couldn’t think of anything else to do. She couldn’t give up Carr’s name quite that easily. Not if she was to be believed. Favor, who was as adept at tale-telling as any minstrel, knew the value of good timing.
Tunbridge sidled closer and she presented him with her back. He touched her lightly on the shoulder, a furtive, conspiratorial touch, nothing of passion in it. She made herself stand still. She felt him bend his head close to hers. His breath tickled her ear.
“Just a first name?”
Now was the time. She’d only to whisper a forlorn “Ronald” to draw Carr to her as surely as iron filings to a magnet. She’d misplayed Carr last night. She’d said the right things, she’d endured his touch, and she’d listened to his every word. But without enthusiasm. He’d known it and it had made him suspicious.
She could easily rectify that error.
Say his name. Tunbridge pressed her shoulder encouragingly.
“Who is he?” he whispered.
She conjured his face, preparing to whisper the answer but instead of Carr’s haughty, handsome visage it was Rafe’s face that formed behind her closed eyelids.
No, she thought desperately. Not Rafe. Carr. Say it.
Her lips parted. She took a breath. “He’s—”
Tunbridge’s hand was snatched from her shoulder. At the same time she heard him make a sound of angry protest. She spun around. Her heartbeat quickened; happiness raced through her.
Rafe stood before Tunbridge, smiling. It took Favor a second to realize Rafe’s smile was far from pleasant.
“Sorry, dear fellow,” Rafe drawled. “Didn’t want to see the lady’s shoulder dampened by your … enthusiasm.”
The delight she’d experienced on seeing him, a delight she was in no way prepared to examine, faded. He was deliberately provoking Tunbridge. Reality doused her in cold truths. She’d had the matter well in hand. His interference could only cause trouble and the great lout didn’t seem to realize that most of that trouble would be his own.
“You insolent cur!” Tunbridge spat.
“At least I don’t drool,” Rafe answered lightly, but his posture was far from nonchalant. He stood in an attitude of readiness, body angled sideways, weight forward, and arms loose at his sides.
“Who the hell are you?” Tunbridge demanded.
“Just another worshiper at Miss Donne’s shrine.”
Tunbridge looked as confused as he did angry. Abruptly Favor saw Rafe through Tunbridge’s eyes. For Carr’s guests, appearance was of paramount importance. Rafe, attired in worn, somewhat shabby but well-cut clothes, clearly hadn’t the means for dandification.
“The hell you say! What do you mean by interrupting this lady and myself?” Tunbridge said. “Can you not see we were engaged in a private conversation?”
“Really?” Rafe asked innocently. “I’m de trop, am I?”
“Decidedly.”
She had to do something and quickly. Rafe mustn’t provoke Tunbridge any further. The man was rumored to have skewered five men to their deaths.
“Oh!” she said.
Neither man appeared to hear her breathy gasp of distress.
She redoubled her effort. “Oh! My! You!”
At this squawk both men turned. Rafe frowned, apparently displeased she’d interfered with his masculine posturing. She ignored him, keeping her attention on Tunbridge and saw the moment comprehension seeped into his expression.
“Him?” Tunbridge breathed.
She nodded, eyes wide, not having to reach very deep to produce a shuddering inhalation. “Him.”
“Lucky bastard!” Tunbridge said admiringly, new appreciation in his expression.
“What the devil are you talking about?” Rafe demanded.
“Please.” Favor lifted her head, striving to emulate pride before the fall. “As you are a gentleman, Lord Tunbridge, I ask you to honor my confidences.”
Tunbridge, all eager anticipation, slumped as if she’d pulled a trump card from nowhere in a game of hazard. “Well …”
“Sir!”
“Yes. Fine. Confidence shall be kept. Blast. Damn. Hell.”
She didn’t believe him for a minute. But she did believe that at this moment he honestly believed he would keep her secret. He’d at least that much of honor left. That’s all she needed. A little time in which Rafe might get away. The rash, impetuous … man.
“Your language, sir, is not fit for this lady’s ears,” Rafe said.
Favor, who’d heard far worse from Rafe, stared at him, trying to discern if he’d suddenly decided to make a jest. Clearly not. He was glaring at Tunbridge, who stood poised to fly to his confederates and learn the identity of the big, ill-dressed man he’d somehow overlooked these past weeks. He looked about as trustworthy as a cat near an open bird cage.
“My pardon,” Tunbridge muttered hurriedly. “Disrespectful of me. I am unspeakable. A pig. Forgive me, Miss Donne and Mister … Mister? Sorry, sir. I didn’t catch your name—”
“You didn’t and you won’t!” Favor stated emphatically. “Not from either of us, Lord Tunbridge! Please, sir. Leave us!”
Luckily Raine finally decided it might prove wise to take his cue from her. He positioned himself between Favor and Tunbridge, his attitude growing even more threatening. “I believe you heard the lady’s request, Tunbridge. Leave.”
Tunbridge looked from one to the other. “Damn!” he burst out. “I don’t know why you won’t reveal the fellow’s name. Since he’s a guest of Carr’s it won’t be all that bloody hard to discover and you’ll save me a bit of time.”
Favor placed her fingertips over her chest and closed her eyes. “I will not make my tender heart the object of filthy speculation,” she whispered dramatically.
“What?” Rafe’s head snapped around.
“Fine,” Tunbridge bit out, and without another word stalked off in the direction from whence they’d come.
They waited in silence until Tunbridge disappeared, before turning to face one another.
“What the hell was that all about?” Rafe asked in bewilderment.
Favor burst out laughing.
She braced her hands on her knees, laughing in that full rich way of hers and there was nothing he could do but smile and then chuckle and then laugh himself. And that was the last thing he’d been expecting to do.
When he’d seen that ass’s hand on her he’d reacted instinctively, viscerally, jerking it away from her. He’d expected her to be furious that he’d thwarted her tête-à-tête. But when she’d turned he’d seen the welcome in her expression, the surprised second of—God help him—what looked like joy in the smile that sprang full
blown to her lips … for him …
And later while he tried to figure out what sort of lies she’d been telling Tunbridge so that he could appropriately play his part, she’d caught his eye and the immediate sense of understanding, the lightness of it, had been like homecoming.
The realization rushed into his thoughts and soul, filling the empty and hollow parts of his life. When he was with Favor, his past did not exist. He felt no anger or bitterness or hatred. He thought of Carr and his mother without choking on the need for redress or recompense. His eye turned out, toward the morrow: not in, toward the past.
And now she made him laugh.
What more could she do to him?
Except make him love her.
“Ah! Me,” she finally sniffed, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand. She sighed and smiled at him. “Well, you’d best be off before Tunbridge comes hurrying back bringing witnesses to my deflowering.”
“What?”
Favor valiantly withstood another wave of laughter.
“Oh, yes. That’s what he was doing whispering in my ear, trying to coax from me the name of the fellow who’d caught my fancy.”
She nodded happily, unaware of the havoc she was causing in his heart. “They’ve a betting book on it, you see. Poor Tunbridge, after discovering he was not destined to be my paramour, decided he might as well make the best of the situation and find out the name of the fellow who was. Being a lady, I, of course, declined to name names and refused to say more than that my beau was not among Tunbridge’s circle of friends. Then you arrived. I could not have asked for better timing.”
“You jest.”
“No!” She grinned broadly, tapping him lightly on the chest with her finger, winsome, naughty, and utterly engaging. “I couldn’t make up so rich a tale.”
“I’m afraid I have more faith in your skills than you,” he said dryly.
“Well, perhaps I could come up with as good a tale, but none better,” she allowed modestly. “Why did you come?”
He wasn’t about to tell her he’d come because he’d made the frustrating discovery that he wanted no other woman but her. He glanced about for inspiration.
“Clothes. You were to get me clothes. This afternoon. At one. It’s”—he yanked his timepiece from his pocket—“three o’clock.”
She drew back and he cursed the distance that separated them even though it was but a mere foot or so.
“You mean you came charging over here because I failed to deliver your clothes at the exact hour you’d decreed? Of all the reckless, self-important, vainglorious masculine—Oh!”
He wasn’t attending her words as well as he ought, though something in her tone cautioned him. He was simply too busy enjoying the sight of her, hair tossed by a suddenly capricious breeze, color fresh in her cheeks and lips, eyes as clear as wood violets. “It wasn’t that reckless.”
“Ah!” Her hands flew up in exasperation.
A thought interrupted the pleasure he took in the picture she made. “Why would that Tunbridge fellow think you had chosen a paramour?”
“Because I told him so.”
“You were lying.”
Her brow cleared. She smiled sunnily.
Damn. He may as well hand her his heart on a platter and what the bloody good that useless organ would do either of them was, and would forever remain, a mystery. He would do no such thing, for it could only result in more harm to her.
And worse harm for me, an inner voice cautioned. An irreparably, irredeemably worse harm.
“Was I?” she asked archly.
He did rise to her bait although it took much effort to stand motionless while she sashayed up to him, tossing her head.
“But of course you were,” he said with carefully measured indifference. “If you had found your gull, you’d hardly be out here cavorting with Tunbridge. You’d be close by the poor dupe, setting up a wind what with fluttering all those lashes.”
Her impertinent smile wavered, dissolved. “Well, if you think that for one instant I believe you came storming out here simply to demand I produce your purloined wardrobe, you’re sadly mistaken.”
“Why else would I come here?” he asked coldly. “I thought to teach you that I am not to be discounted at your convenience. Certainly not because my demands interfere with your pleasures.”
Her lips pressed tightly together, the full curve of her enticing lower lip disappearing.
“Having achieved my purpose,” he went on, “I will now leave you to your … diversions. Tomorrow you will bring the clothes.”
There. He’d sounded cold and threatening to his own ear. He needed only to leave. Except Favor’s lower hp had reappeared and it trembled slightly and the hard brilliance of her eyes was no longer hard, but veiled by a wash of unshed tears, angry tears but tears nonetheless. He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen a woman cry. It undid him entirely.
“Why do we always end up fighting?” The words escaping her lips were rife with unhappiness.
He gave up. Reaching out, he captured her easily and spun her about, bending her over his arm.
“Little falcon, don’t you honestly know?” he asked. “Why, so this won’t happen.”
And he kissed her.
Chapter 21
Rafe’s lips moved over hers. His arms were strong and his body an anchor she could cling to and not for an instance did she consider trying to free herself from his embrace. With a sigh, she gave herself up to his kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down.
She closed her eyes, soaking up all of the delicious sensations not only surrounding but filling her. Like a dry sponge thrown in an ocean, her awareness expanded with the influx of perceptions. She cupped his hard jaw, holding his face to hers, alive to each inch of beard-rough skin abrading her palms.
Her pawn. Her blackmailer. Her thief.
His muscular arms, the sinew in the thigh pressed against her hip, the hard chest flattening her own breasts, all of these set her skin tingling with the need to arch closer, rubbing against him like a cat. His scent filled her nostrils, crushed grass and dry pine, astringent soap, mysterious male musk.
And kisses. Kisses such as she’d never known nor dreamed existed: the feathering gentleness of velvety nibbles; the shivery carnality of moist, softly drawing kisses; and, finally, a deep, soul-searing kiss as he angled his mouth sideways over hers and tilted her chin, urging her mouth open. She needed no further encouragement. His tongue stroked the sleek lining of her cheeks, playing with her own tongue: wet, warm, and infinitely wicked.
Abruptly sensation exceeded experience. She’d no words to record the feelings rocketing through her, no terms to even identify them.
Her head fell back and wedged in the lee of his arm. Her eyelids fluttered open, allowing her a glimpse of his rugged face, tense and intent. Then he was kissing her again. But surely kisses alone could not account for the surge of pleasure coursing through her, as sweet and heady as hot mead. Kisses couldn’t set a pulse beating high between her thighs, or rouse an aching in the very tips of her breasts.
She wanted to melt into him, to feel his body surround hers, to absorb him into herself. She tried. Lord knows, she tried.
She moved her hands around his torso and up his back, clasping the hard, mounded shoulder muscles and pulling herself as close as humanly possible. Her hips burrowed into the niche created by his splayed stance. A sound rumbled from deep in Rafe’s chest. He pulled away from her. She voiced an unintelligible but vehement protest, her eyes opening to flash a disbelieving glare at him.
Why would he want to stop? Why, in the name of all the saints, would anyone ever want to stop something so wonderful?
He lifted his head and stared down at her. His breath rushed out in pants to fan her hot cheeks and swollen lips.
“Oh, no,” he said, sounding amused and winded and angry and tender all at once. “Kisses, yes,” he said and rained a dozen lightning-fast busses over her temple, cheeks, and eyelids. H
er mouth turned to intercept them but could not. She made a sound of frustration.
“Dear Lord,” he whispered, capturing the back of her head in one broad hand and pressing her forehead to his.
“Kisses,” he whispered. “Nothing more.” He laughed. “I seem to have acquired a taste for punishment. I knew how inadequate kisses would—No! Stay, you!” he commanded as she tipped her chin seeking his lips. “I am no saint and you, lady, are a far greater temptation than this poor mortal flesh has ever endeavored to resist.”
She didn’t understand the meaning of his words, or why, though his gaze roved like a stalking thing over her countenance, he held himself back. She knew only that a moment earlier she’d been vibrantly whole, and as each moment passed her pleasure dissolved like footprints lapped by an incoming tide.
She’d had too little happiness of late. She’d forgotten its flavor. She worked her hands up to his face, bracketing the tense jaw between her hands and polishing his lips with hers.
“Kiss me,” she whispered. He stared down at her, the shadows of his lashes making mysteries of his warm brown eyes. She could read nothing there. The very world seemed to hold its breath. She brushed her fingertip across the silky sable fringe of his lashes. “Kiss me.”
His head moved slowly down—
“’Sblood! Tunbridge was right!” A woman’s voice broke Favor’s hushed anticipation.
Instantly, Rafe straightened, carrying her to his side and behind him, shielding her from curiosity seekers.
“Pray excuse us.” His voice was vitriolic and cold, like burning ice. “I hadn’t realized we were being offered as voyeuristic entertainment,” he said, “or I should have endeavored a more licentious tableau.”
Silently, Favor cursed the intruders, far more furious at their interruption than embarrassed by it. She raised her chin to a haughty angle and stepped from behind Rafe’s broad back.
“Lady Fia.” She acknowledged the slender girl and brace of snickering men on either side of her. “Were you seeking me?”
But Fia didn’t appear to hear Favor. Her gaze was trained on Rafe, as blank and fixed as a sleepwalker’s.
The Reckless One Page 17