A Dangerous Temptation (Bow Street Brides Book 5)

by Jillian Eaton

  There were more streaks of silver in her hair than there used to be and fine lines could be found in the corners of her eyes and mouth, but there was no doubt she was aging – and would continue to age – with all of the grace expected off a duchess.

  “That shade of cobalt looks absolutely splendid on you,” Vanessa continued. “Not to mention it is the color of the moment. Everyone who is anyone will be wearing it to the ball.”

  “Then we’ll all look like peacocks.” Doing a quick experimental spin, Amelia grimaced when the bows sewn onto the bottom of her skirt fluttered and bounced. She hated bows. Her mother knew she hated bows. And yet, when her new gown arrived this morning from the dressmaker’s, what did it have on it?

  Bows.

  Dozens of them.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Royal Menagerie made us into their newest exhibit,” she said. “The Prancing Peacocks. We’ll be all the rage.”

  “Goodness, Amelia.” Rolling her eyes, Vanessa turned to the canopied bed where a maid had carefully laid out half a dozen necklaces with matching earrings. “Must you always be so dramatic?”

  “Why? I enjoy being dramatic. Almost as much as you enjoy bows,” Amelia grumbled under her breath.

  “I heard that,” her mother said mildly.

  “I meant for you to.” Stepping down off the stool she’d been standing on for the better part of an hour while a seamstress made some last minute alterations to the hideous monstrosity that was the color of the moment, Amelia went to the window and gazed down at the street below. A gleaming black carriage sat in a pool of lamplight at the end of the drive, waiting to whisk her away to the last ball of the season. It was the very same carriage she’d occupied two days ago when she had been in the company of a mysterious dark-haired stranger who’d stubbornly refused to give her his full name…but had given her a taste of true, unadulterated passion.

  Amelia’s cheeks flushed a dull, rosy pink as she recalled the way he’d touched. And the way she’d touched him. It was a wonder the carriage was still standing after the fire that had erupted between the two of them, and she quivered just to think of the desire that had been ignited in her veins. Desire she’d been unable to forget, no matter that nearly a week had passed and there’d been no sign of Kent, nor any reason she had to believe she might ever see him again.

  If she didn’t know any better she might have been tempted to think it had all been a dream. A wonderful, tantalizing, lust-filled dream. One that had kept her awake every night since, staring up at the ceiling while she traced her lips and remembered what it had felt like to have Kent’s tongue between them.

  As sticky heat pooled between her thighs she pressed her forehead against the cool window pane, desperately trying to control the hot blush that was rapidly spreading cross her entire face. She hadn’t told her mother about her secret carriage rendezvous, nor would she ever – not if she valued whatever small freedoms she had left.

  Perhaps if she’d been kissed by a duke, an earl, even a baron, her mother might have understood. At this point, she might have even encouraged it. But an untitled Irishman with eyes black as sin and the devil’s own temper? Amelia knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Vanessa would rather she turn to the church and become a nun than become involved with the likes of Kent.

  “Amelia, what are you doing?” the Duchess of Webley demanded. “Fashionably late is one thing, but arriving after the first dance has begun is quite another. And you know we need to fill your card before then. Come over here and stand in the light so I can select your jewelry. I cannot seem to decide between the sapphire choker or the ruby pendant.”

  “Whatever shall we do,” Amelia said dryly. Pressing her hands to her cheeks to ensure they’d returned to a color that wouldn’t provoke any questions, she managed to obey her mother’s command with only the tiniest of sighs after forcing Kent – and his kisses – to the back of her mind. She stood silently, her stare fixed on the wall while Vanessa fussed over her as if she were a living doll to be dragged off the shelf and dressed at will.

  It had been this way for her entire life. Gown after gown, necklace after necklace, ball after ball, Vanessa lived vicariously through her only child. She couldn’t seem to understand – or, perhaps more accurately, did not want to understand – that Amelia was her own person with her own hopes and dreams and aspirations. Aspirations that did not involve dressing like a peacock and feigning interest in conceited noblemen who consistently bored her to tears.

  Surely there was more to life than this. There had to be, or else what was the point? She felt as if she were moving sideways instead of forward, repeating every day again and again until they all blurred together in one long stretch of dull, endless gray. Until seven days ago, when she’d kissed a rogue…and everything erupted into brilliant color.

  She knew what she’d done was wrong. Well-behaved ladies did not allow themselves to be wooed by strangers, no matter how handsome they were. But damnit, she was tired of being well-behaved. She was tired of minding her manners. Tired of always saying the right thing. Tired of pretending to be someone she wasn’t. And she was tired, utterly, completely, exhaustingly tired, of bows.

  “I cannot wear this.”

  “You’re right.” Vanessa tapped her chin. “The choker isn’t quite the right shade of blue, is it? Let’s try the–”

  “No,” Amelia interrupted as she reached behind her and started to fumble with the pearl buttons running down the length of her spine. “I cannot wear this. This dress. This – this awful, ugly, hideous dress. Take it off. Take it off at once!”

  “Amelia!” Her mother cried, shocked when buttons suddenly flew everywhere as Amelia ripped her gown and leapt out of it as if the bows had caught fire.

  Standing in her undergarments with her chest heaving and her blue eyes flashing, Amelia kicked the offensive garment away from her and placed her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry, Mother. But I cannot do it anymore.”

  The duchess’ nostrils flared. “If this is another one of your tantrums it is very ill-timed. The carriage is waiting and–”

  “I am not twelve any longer. This is not a tantrum. This is me choosing what I will and will not wear! I am an adult, Mother. Not a child or a doll or one of your yapping spaniels to be dressed up and paraded about! I don’t even want to go to this ball, let alone wear a gown that looks as though it should be decorating the coverlet in a boudoir!”

  “Are you done?” Vanessa asked calmly, her countenance perfectly composed save the small vein pulsing above her right eye. “Good,” she said when Amelia gave a jerky nod. “Then let me make myself perfectly clear. You are not an adult until you leave this household. And you will not leave this household until you are married. And you will not be married until you find a gentleman willing to put up with your bloody impertinence! These fits are beneath a lady of your station, Amelia. If you do not want to be treated like a child than I suggest you stop acting like one. You’re only embarrassing yourself with these ridiculous outbursts.”

  The anger that had bloomed inside of Amelia with thorny spikes and sharp leaves abruptly withered and died. Knowing it would be useless to argue, she glanced down at the gown she’d ruined – the gown a dozen seamstresses had worked for over a month to create – and felt an uncomfortable prickle of shame in the back of her throat.

  Her mother was right. She had behaved like a child. But that didn’t mean her reasons for doing so were wrong.

  “What if I don’t want to marry?” she asked softly.

  “Do not be ridiculous, Amelia. Everyone wants to get married.”

  “Why?” Her brows knitted. “Why do they want to get married?”

  She knew it wasn’t for happiness. Her parents had been married for nearly three decades and she’d never seen two people more miserable together. Oh, they tried their best to hide it, but it was obvious there was no love lost between them. Which begged the question why they’d gotten married in the first place…and why they’d remained so,
even though neither one seemed to have any particular attachment to the other.

  They weren’t alone. The ton was littered with husbands and wives who made it clear with their icy stares and long string of mistresses that theirs was not a love match. But then why go through the trouble of marrying in the first place? Why burden yourself with someone you didn’t like for the rest of your life? For wealth and title? For prosperity and privilege? Was being rich worth the price of unhappiness?

  Every woman Amelia had ever known, the exception of her Aunt Constance who was, among other things, a confirmed spinster, had always been a firm advocate of marriage. They’d long upheld the idea that finding a suitable husband was the most important achievement a young lady of means could hope to aspire to. As if her entire self-worth was solely dependent on the title and personal coffers of the man she managed to catch.

  It was a notion Amelia had struggled with for much of her life even as she had been carefully and meticulously groomed to follow in her mother’s footsteps. Blessed to be born of a blue-blooded family she was expected to marry into one. Anything less – anyone less – and she would have failed at the one thing she’d been, quite literally, created to do.

  But what if she didn’t want to marry one of the stuffy, self-important lords that had been fighting for her hand since she’d first made her debut? Arrogant men all who didn’t desire her any more than she desired them. All they wanted was to become the son-in-law of a duke.

  And her dowry, of course.

  “What a silly question,” the Duchess of Webley tittered. “Honestly, my dear. Where do you come up with such things?” Her elbows pointed out to the side as she rested her hands on her hips and surveyed the damage Amelia had done to the bow-riddled gown in her frantic bid to be free of it. “There’s no time to repair the buttons. Thankfully, you have the chartreuse with the satin ribbon trim we were saving for Lady Beckham’s soiree. It isn’t cobalt, but it will have to do it. Molly, Beatrice, if you please,” she said, snapping her fingers at the two maids who had been standing silently in to the corner of the bedchamber with their gazes averted.

  Within minutes Amelia was dressed, this time in a gown that was – thankfully – bow free. Diamond earrings (‘that neckline does not support an adornment’ Vanessa decided) swung from her ears as she stepped into the carriage and sat down across from her mother who was resplendent in a dark green gown and matching emerald choker.

  “Rumor has it the Marquis of Davenport will be in attendance tonight,” Vanessa said brightly. “He’s just finished the Grand Tour, you know. Handsome and well-traveled. Every debutante and their doting mama will be flocking to him like birds to seed. With only the tiniest bit of effort I’m certain you could capture his interest, Amelia. We’ll introduce you at the end of the fourth dance. That way you won’t come across as too forward. You should think about what you will say to him. Nothing too presumptuous or out of place, of course. Although you do want to be memorable.”

  But as they set out, Amelia found herself thinking of someone else entirely.

  And he wasn’t a marquis.

  “This is a bluidy waste of my time.” Standing slouched against a marble pillar, Tobias scowled at the long line of nabobs waiting to be admitted into the Earl of Newmark’s private residence, a sweeping manor with jutting terraces, sparkling chandeliers, and – he’d blinked twice to ensure his eyes weren’t deceiving him – a flock of white swans with matching gold bows tied around their long necks.

  The ball was the final event of the Season and it was turning out to be a mad crush. Eager to rub elbows before they left London for their summer estates, the ton had shown up in droves. There had to be over three hundred people already inside, and another two hundred queuing up with invitations in hand.

  Standing beside Tobias with his hands shoved into his pockets and a surly expression on his face, Ronan Hawk grunted in agreement. They’d been hired by Newmark to stand guard over the main entrance. After the recent slew of burglaries the earl wanted to ensure all of his guests left with the jewelry they’d brought with them. What he didn’t know – but Tobias and Hawk did – was that the person responsible had officially retired from her life of crime on the day of her wedding.

  Juliet, one of the best thieves St Giles had ever produced aside from Felix Spencer, had reluctantly promised to put her stealing days behind her when she married Hargrave. Tobias still couldn’t understand how Bow Street’s second-in-command, a man renowned for his morality, had succumbed to the charms of a common thief, but then he didn’t have to. After all, he wasn’t the one who had married the sticky fingered redhead. Nor was he about to complain as those sticky fingers had earned the Runners work they might not have otherwise had. Even though it meant he and Hawk really were wasting their time. Still, they would do the job they’d been paid for and they would do it well. Anything less wouldn’t be up to the strict standards Owen enforced on all of his Runners. But as Tobias’ narrowed-eyed gaze swept across the crowd, he wasn’t looking for a thief.

  Try as he might, he’d been unable to erase Lady Amelia Tattershall from his memory. The taste of her lips, the smell of her skin, and way her eyes had glazed as she’d found sweet release upon his thighs…every detail of their time together, however brief it had been, was imprinted on his mind like a brand. And like a brand, there was no getting rid of it.

  There was no getting rid of her.

  With one searing kiss she’d slipped under his skin, pooling in his blood like opium and making him crave another taste. Just one, he told himself, and he’d be satisfied. Just one, and he could forget her. Which was why, even though he knew he shouldn’t, even though he knew it would ultimately bring nothing but misery and disappointment, he couldn’t stop himself from searching for a gleaming crown of pale gold hair amidst the dull brunettes and commonplace blondes.

  Just as he had given up hope there she was, stepping out of the same regal black carriage that had clipped him in the park seven days prior. She was accompanied by a woman who could only be the Duchess of Webley, for their appearances were stunningly similar. Amelia was slightly taller than her mother and her eyes were a deeper blue, but they both shared the same delicate bone structure, winged brows, and stubborn chin.

  Those chins lifted in unison as they sailed through the crowd. Two queens, ready to sit upon their thrones. The line parted like the Red Sea, their peers eagerly stepping aside to grant them entrance even though they’d been waiting outside in the stale heat and swarming gnats for the better part of an hour.

  Lifting the hem of her ball gown, a filmy green concoction that his hands itched to tear apart, Amelia floated gracefully up the marble stairs. She walked right past him, close enough for him to reach out and touch if he so desired. He caught a whiff of her perfume, sweet lavender with a hint of vanilla, and his chest expanded as he drew in a sharp breath. Amelia turned at the sound, her head canting inquisitively to the side as her gaze gently probed the shadows.

  “Hello? Is there someone…you.” Those blue eyes widened when she saw him leaning against the pillar. She stopped so suddenly she nearly tripped, but managed to save herself at the last second. Touching a sapphire earring to ensure it was still attached to her ear, she stared at Tobias in silence and he stared right back, both of them drinking in the sight of the other as if they hadn’t seen each other in months instead of days.

  Had she been this stunningly beautiful when they met? Perhaps he really had hit his head harder than he’d thought, for otherwise how could he have forgotten the translucent perfection of her pearl skin or the sinfully plump curve of her bottom lip or the defining arch of her cheekbones?

  Moonlight shimmered in her hair, turning the golden strands to silver as if she were some kind of ethereal goddess instead of a mere flesh and blood mortal. Because Tobias was only a mortal – and a male one at that – he found his gaze inadvertently drawn to the subtle swell of her breasts as they rose above the straight-edged bodice of her gown with every small, shallow b
reath she took. Beneath those creamy, perfect breasts her ribcage slimmed to a tiny waist that he could easily span with both hands. Lace overlay on either side of her hips accentuated their fullness, and then it was a straight drop down long, long legs. Legs he envisioned wrapped in white drawers and sheer silk stockings. The kind that could be easily torn by impatient fingers…or teeth.

  Amelia almost looked too perfect to be real. She certainly looked too perfect to touch. But he had touched her. He had touched her until she purred. And damned if he didn’t want to do it again. Except this time…this time he wouldn’t stop.

  His eyes darkened with heat. His body hummed with desire. He started to reach for her–

  “Darling?” Belatedly realizing her daughter was no longer beside her, the Duchess of Webley paused at the top of the stairs and looked back over her shoulder. Light and music spilled out of the French doors in front of her. “Are you coming?”

  “In a few minutes,” Amelia replied, not taking her gaze off of Tobias. “I’ve seen an old friend I’d like to have a word with.”

  The Duchess of Webley frowned. “Very well, but do not dawdle. The marquis is already inside. If we want his name on your dance card, we shall need to be quick about it.”

  Something hot and tight gathered in the middle of Tobias’ throat as his arm dropped. Jealousy, he realized with a flicker of irritation. The pulsing knot in his throat was…jealousy. Shoving the unwanted emotion aside, he regarded Amelia with a humorless smile. “I told ye it was only a matter of time before you became a duchess.”

  Amelia pursed her lips. “As much as he’d probably like to be, Davenport isn’t a duke yet. Given the men in his lineage tend to favor long lives, he may not be one for quite some time.”

  “Pity, that,” he said without thinking it was a pity at all. “I suppose you’ll just have tae sink your claws into some other poor unsuspecting chap.”

  “I suppose I will. Good evening, Mr. Kent.” But she didn’t move, and neither did Tobias.