Lady Wallflower (Notorious Ladies of London Book 2)

by Scarlett Scott

  Had he truly left? Was he so certain she would do his bidding that he was awaiting her now? Moreover, what did he want?

  She was curious. And foolish.

  Jo quietly excused herself and left the library. The hallway was empty. She had a choice. She could return to the safety of the gathering. Or she could try to find Mr. Decker.

  Her feet made the decision for her, guiding her down the hall, one tentative step at a time.

  “Psssst.”

  The hushed sound had come from behind her. Jo spun about, heart pounding.

  A sliver of Mr. Decker’s handsome face emerged from the music room. The corner of his sensual mouth was kicked up in a tempting grin. Then, he disappeared within.

  Another decision faced her. Flee or join him.

  Taking care to make sure none of her fellow ladies had emerged from the library to see where she had gone, she hastened into the music room. Mr. Decker was nowhere to be found. The new piano Callie had recently purchased to replace the previous old monstrosity, which had never been tuned to suit her, gleamed, the bench empty. So, too, the overstuffed chaise longue and the matching chairs.

  The door slid closed at her back.

  Jo whirled, finding Mr. Decker at last, leaning indolently against the wall, still grinning as if he had not a care. He was as insufferably attractive as ever this afternoon. His mouth looked like the sort that knew how to kiss. His wavy dark hair was tousled, a lock falling over his brow in rakish fashion, and the most ridiculous urge to run her fingers through those inky strands hit her.

  He had been hiding behind the door, the rotter.

  Jo clung to her irritation, which seemed the wisest course. “What are you doing here, Mr. Decker?”

  “Visiting my friend, Lord Sinclair.” His blue gaze swept down Jo’s form, assessing.

  Bringing heat to her cheeks and elsewhere, too. She fought the urge to smooth an imaginary wrinkle from her skirts. What gown had she chosen? Amethyst satin, trimmed with lace. Not her favorite, but passable, she supposed. Oh, why did she care?

  She frowned at him. “You know very well what I meant, sir. What are you doing here, in the music room?”

  “I could ask the same of you,” he pointed out.

  Even his voice was beautiful. Deep and decadent, sending a trill down her spine. It washed over her like silk.

  She tamped down the strange, unwanted sensations flitting through her. “I should go. The other ladies will wonder where I am.”

  He shrugged and pushed away from the wall at last, sauntering slowly toward her. “Let them wonder.”

  The risk of being caught here, alone with him, was great. Still, she told herself they had unfinished business. He was yet in possession of her list. She wanted it back. Yes, that was the sole reason she remained. Why she held her ground even when he stopped close to her.

  So close.

  Too close.

  “What of Lord Sinclair?” Her eyes narrowed on him. “Where does he suppose you have gone? I cannot believe he would approve of you waylaying his guests in his own home for nefarious purposes.”

  “I am insulted you instantly assumed my purposes would be nefarious.” Mr. Decker raised a lone, dark brow, looking sullen and seductive all at once. “Just what is it you think I intend to do to you?”

  “I cannot bear to contemplate it.” The suggestion in his voice and the intimacy in his searching stare made heat flare in her cheeks. “Whatever it is, you will not be doing it. I can assure you of that, Mr. Decker.”

  His scent was delightfully masculine. She liked it far too much, the way it inhabited her senses. Lord Quenington was handsome, but he could not compare to a boldly sensual man like Mr. Decker.

  His lips quirked, as if he were amused. “Do not be so hasty with your assurances, my dear.”

  But then, instead of pressing his advantage as she had supposed he might—as she had secretly longed for him to do, much to her shame—he turned away from her. Clasped his hands behind his back and strolled to the piano.

  “When do you mean to return my list to me?” she asked, giving in and following him.

  Flame, moth, etcetera.

  He unclasped his hands and trailed a lone, long finger lightly over the ivory keys. Not enough to make a sound. But there was something about that slow caress of the instrument that felt as if it were meant to be upon Jo’s skin instead.

  “Mayhap I meant to return your list to you in the blue salon.”

  The low rasp of his voice, after a lengthy pause during which she was horrified to realize she had been riveted upon the sight of his hand, startled her.

  “You never said so when we danced,” she pointed out.

  “Would you have turned up if I had?” He cast a searching glance in her direction.

  And all the air seemed to flee her lungs. Being alone with him was like consuming too much wine, heady and dizzying all at once. If she had a modicum of sense, she would retreat.

  Naturally, she stayed where she was. “Surely you did not expect me to meet you alone, in the midst of a ball, Mr. Decker? It would have been most unwise.”

  “Unwise is drafting a list of ways to be wicked and then delivering it to a gentleman with whom you are scarcely acquainted,” he countered, reaching the end of the piano at last and pressing gently on the last key.

  A light, haunting sound filled the air for a second, resonating.

  “What are you doing? Someone will hear you!” Without thought, she grasped his hand in hers, keeping him from playing another note.

  A mistake, as it turned out.

  His fingers locked on hers. The jolt skipping up her arm, past her elbow, sending with it a frisson that landed low in her belly, could not be denied. He used their joined hands to pull her nearer.

  So near, she was flush against him, her skirts flattened into his trousers, her breasts grazing his chest. Through her many layers, through the thick barrier of her corset, the connection brought her to life. Her nipples hardened, her breasts tingling.

  “You worry too much, bijou. There is so much nattering going on in that library, they would not hear an entire phalanx of soldiers marching down the hall.”

  Her free hand settled upon his chest, to push him away. But the fabric of his coat was soft and fine, and the hardness of the muscle hidden beneath it felt even better. Her questing fingertips moved, gliding over his warm strength. All the way to his broad shoulder. She ought to stop touching him. And she ought to sever this moment, end their connection, return to the library.

  But she was in a fog which was impenetrable at the moment. Not common sense or the fear of being caught alone with a notorious rakehell like Mr. Elijah Decker could pierce it.

  “I want my list,” she managed to say, amazed her tongue could still function properly.

  “What if I want to keep it?” he asked, his other hand settling upon her waist with a familiarity she could not help but to like.

  “You promised you would return it to me,” she reminded him.

  “I do not make promises.” He was suddenly serious. Almost grim.

  “Why not?” she wondered aloud before she could think better of issuing the question.

  She told herself she should not care. That his answer did not matter.

  “Promises are meant to be broken.”

  His matter-of-fact response took her by surprise.

  She wondered what had happened to him in his past, to make him so cynical and jaded. Who was responsible for the hardness in his jaw now, the firm set of his lips? The answer was apparent—a woman. And the jealousy that accompanied her realization was unwanted. Thoroughly so.

  “I have always kept my promises,” she said, though she did not know why she uttered something so foolhardy.

  Or why she sounded shaken.

  Or why her heart was beating so fast, as fast as the wings of a hummingbird.

  “And what promises have you made in your life, bijou?” he asked, sounding intrigued, some of the harshness fleeing his coun
tenance.

  “Stop calling me that.” She frowned at him again.

  But although she remonstrated him, there was no steel in her voice. No biting edge. Because she liked his pet name for her. Jewel, it meant. Jewels were shiny and faceted and coveted and beautiful. Everything Jo was not. Men did not fawn over her. They did not mow each other down in an effort to gain her next dance.

  Likely, the diminutive meant nothing. Mr. Decker probably used it upon all the women in his vast sea of acquaintances. The thought left a sour taste in her mouth. Made her stomach tangle into knots.

  “Answer my question,” he insisted. “What promises have you made?”

  She thought about it.

  “None,” she admitted.

  “None.” He laughed, the sound tinged with a hint of bitterness. “You prove my point. You could not uphold your end of the bargain and meet me in the blue salon.”

  Again with the blue salon. He seemed rather peeved with her failure to materialize. Surely a man such as Mr. Elijah Decker, who had scores of women falling into his bed, would not care that a wallflower such as herself had failed to meet him clandestinely at a ball. Unless…

  “Have I wounded your pride, Mr. Decker?” she asked, sensing the true reason for his pique. “Tell me, has no woman ever denied you before?”

  He clenched his jaw, the expression on his face saying more than words ever could. “My reputation speaks for itself.”

  “Am I the only woman, then?”

  “Not the only one,” he allowed, his hand traveling from her waist, flattening over the small of her back, caressing slowly up her spine. “But a wiser woman would have seen reason and met me in the blue salon.”

  That lone touch made her want to melt into a puddle.

  “You have it all bollixed up, Mr. Decker,” she dared to say, as if she did not relish his touch, his nearness—as if she had not taken note of the manner in which his head had dipped toward hers. “A wise woman would not meet a man of your reputation alone at a ball, surrounded by hundreds of lords and ladies eager to spread vicious gossip. Only a weak-willed fool would have done your bidding.”

  His hand coasted between her shoulder blades, then reached the neck of her gown. When his touch played over the bare skin of her throat, caressing her nape, it was all she could do to keep her knees from turning into pudding.

  “Is that so?” he asked, his gaze searing her the way his touch did.

  He was holding her, barely. His touch was gentle. She could shake him in an instant. But she had no wish to.

  How alarming.

  Mr. Elijah Decker was touching her in the way a lover would. And she liked it.

  She did not want him to stop, in fact. The slow stroke of his fingertips over her flesh lit her up from the inside. She was incandescent.

  “Yes,” Jo forced herself to say, though at this point, she was scarcely certain what she was agreeing to.

  “Those are hardly the words of a lady who wants to be wicked,” he observed calmly.

  “All I want is my list back.” That was a horrid prevarication. All Jo truly wanted in this moment was Mr. Elijah Decker’s lips on hers.

  And for him to never cease touching her—for this connection between them to go on forever. Yes, that, too.

  “I have reconsidered my leniency in returning it to you.”

  The rotter.

  She ran her tongue over her suddenly dry lips. “What do you mean you have reconsidered?”

  His fingers sank into her hair now, cradling her skull in the tenderest of touches. He had seduced her, utterly, and he had not given her a single kiss. Their lips were close enough. If she rose on her toes, if he lowered his head, they would meet. As it was, their breaths mingled, heat and temptation combining.

  “Simple.” His impossibly blue stare seared hers. “The terms of our agreement are no longer acceptable to me.”

  Without thought, her hand moved as well, navigating the strong ridge of his shoulder. “Why?”

  “I will tell you later.” Abruptly, he released her, removing his touch, his warmth.

  “How?” she demanded, frustrated with herself for her reaction. Irritated by the disappointment surging inside her at his withdrawal.

  She felt bereft. For a moment, she felt as if she were about to topple over. As if he had been all that was holding her upright. His presence and intensity overwhelmed, just as his touch had. It was ridiculous, her reaction to this man. It was futile, too.

  Men like Elijah Decker broke hearts. Men like him did not marry ladies like Jo. For eventually, it was a marriage she must seek or suffer her brother’s wrath.

  “I will send a carriage for you tonight,” he told her, holding up one of her hair pins. “Eight o’clock. The carriage will be unmarked, waiting in the mews.”

  She had not felt him pluck that pin from her hair. “I have a social obligation this evening.”

  He tucked her hair pin into the pocket of his waistcoat. “Feign a headache. Is that not what all ladies intent upon making mischief do?”

  “If my brother discovers I have snuck out of the house alone, to meet a gentleman, he will send me to a convent,” she protested.

  Julian had certainly threatened as much in the past, though she was certain it was bluster. Her brother was all bark and no bite.

  Mr. Decker watched her, his expression impassive. “Scared, bijou?”

  Her chin went up in defiance. “Never. If I agree to this, will you promise to return my list?”

  “I will consider it.” He grinned, looking very much like a man who knew he held all the power.

  Because he did.

  Chapter Four

  Decker was completely and utterly mad.

  One moment, he had been determined to return the list to Lady Jo, and the next, he had been arranging an assignation with her. All because he had touched the silken patch of skin at her nape. All because he had settled his hand upon her waist. Just a few minutes alone with her, when they could have been caught at any second, had been the sole requirement for him to commit his current, crushing act of stupidity.

  He still had the list in his pocket now, as he awaited her in the carriage he had told her he would send for her use. He had never dallied with innocents. Ladies of experience were his preference. The sort who did not have angry papas or brothers demanding a betrothal. The sort who were happy with one night of passion and nothing more. What had he been thinking, sending for her, spiriting her away, taking such witless risks?

  The answer to that question was painfully obvious, and painfully hard, right now. He had been thinking with his prick. Because the potent allure of her innocence was too rich. He had looked down at her lush, pink lips and those glistening eyes fringed with long lashes, and he had been struck by longing so fierce and deep, he had been forced to take a step away from her.

  The distance had not cured his need. He had known he could not possibly aid her with this list in any way save one. And he was going to begin tonight, despite the risks of debauching an unwed lady.

  The door to his carriage opened. She had come, after all.

  “Mr. Decker.” Surprise tinged her voice as she accepted a hand up.

  “You were expecting someone else?” he teased.

  She settled on the bench alongside him, fussing with her skirts. Her scent drifted over him, orange blossom with a hint of jasmine. His cock stirred to life.

  “I was not expecting you in the carriage,” she said. “You said you would send a carriage. Not a carriage with yourself in it.”

  A servant closed the door at his nod.

  Decker whisked the hat from her head so he had an unobstructed view of her face. “Next time, I will elaborate so there is no room for confusion.”

  Her lush lips pursed. “There will be no next time, Mr. Decker.”

  “Yes,” he told her confidently, “there will. Just Decker will do for what I have in mind this evening. No mister.”

  Her eyes widened. “And what is it that you have in m
ind, sir?”

  Sir. He was not certain he liked that either, but mayhap in the proper circumstances…

  “Patience, my dear, is an under-appreciated virtue.”

  She gave a little huff of irritation he found ridiculously charming. It made him want to haul her into his lap and claim her mouth with his.

  “I am merely expected to be delivered to my fate, without an inkling as to where I am going or why?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  “When are you going to give me the list?”

  He raised a brow. “Is this an inquisition?”

  She huffed again, her eyes narrowing. “You expect me to trust you, a man who has been blackmailing me? A man with a reputation for iniquity? A man who has lured me into breaking all the rules I am meant to uphold?”

  He could not argue with Lady Jo, not when she phrased it thus, could he?

  Decker grinned. “I am deuced trustworthy. I cannot deny my reputation, but I can assure you rules are all quite boring and deserve to be broken thoroughly and often.”

  “Only a man would say so. Women who break rules suffer the consequences,” she pointed out.

  “Then one cannot help but to wonder why a lady such as yourself would wish to accomplish all the naughty items on your list,” he countered.

  He could not deny he was curious.

  Decker did not miss the flush that rose to her cheeks. Lady Jo was damned pretty, but when she was embarrassed, she was downright delectable. And he wanted to consume her.

  “That is hardly any of your concern, Mr. Decker.” She flicked her gaze to the window of the carriage and fiddled with her skirts.

  “It became my concern when you gave me your list,” he prodded, taking the opportunity to study her without her regard upon him.

  Her nose was regal, slightly retroussé, her forehead proud and high. Her tongue ran over her lower lip as he watched, fascinated. Her mouth was so full. He could not help but to wonder what it would feel like upon him.

  He shifted in his seat, attempting to ease the sudden discomfort of his trousers.

  “I did not give you my list intentionally,” she snapped.