by Darcy Burke
Panic rose.
Mentally, Ophelia retraced her steps. The book had been tucked into the band of her breeches as she left White’s. She recalled brushing her arm against its hardness to assure herself it hadn’t magically disappeared. In Avondale’s carriage, she had felt the weight of every page more keenly, certain he saw straight through her act. Even in the tavern, the book had burned holes into her flesh; she had been sure that any moment someone would point a finger at her and cry foul.
She thought harder, reaching back into her mind for a moment when she hadn’t felt the solid weight of the book or the burn of her guilt. A moment she might have been distracted. Ophelia’s brows furrowed.
She had insisted Avondale drop her back on St. James Street, afraid that someone might spot her exiting Avondale’s carriage close to her home and become curious. A man minding his own business while sauntering down the busy street should not draw much attention. It’d be easier to sneak back home. Had she felt the book walking home?
Ophelia scowled.
She couldn’t recall. Had been too distracted by the unrepentant grin coating Avondale’s face and the heated looks he kept shooting her—like the blast of cannonball fire—during the carriage ride. Most distracting, that.
Ophelia’s lips pressed together as she went over those final moments before she jumped from his carriage. How his strong, steady hand had rested on her back to support her . . . how the moment she turned to salute him, his lips curved sinfully as he shut the door in her face.
That damn Avondale!
Rapscallion!
She had been so distracted by his touch, by the sensations his hand had provoked—not to mention that she’d still carried a buzz from the ale—that she hadn’t even noticed those dexterous fingers had pinched her book! But that would mean . . . it would mean he had known all along that she’d looted the book from the club.
Had that been his true purpose all along? He was a member of White’s, after all. It was in his interest to preserve that blasted book. The damn man had played her for a fool!
She thought back to the moment he had appeared by their sides in the club. It had been right after she’d snatched the book and tucked it away.
She considered his willingness, if not eagerness, to show her the tavern. He had led her into a false sense of comfort by convincing her he meant her no harm. That he wanted to be her “friend.” And she had fallen right under his spell.
The man could weave words; she’d give the devil that.
She should have listened to her gut. She had asked him what he aimed to achieve because her senses had never failed her—and they sensed something from him.
The man had grossly underestimated her. He may possess a silver tongue, but she had something far more dangerous: an impossibly strong will.
Ophelia yanked open her bedchamber door and marched from the room. That wicked devil. He would not get away with this. She would demand the book back, or she would . . . she would threaten him with something she’d think up on the way to the lecher’s house. But one way or another, be it by fair means or foul, she would be leaving with that book in her possession.
“Ophelia, dear, is that you?”
Ophelia stopped and slowly turned. Her mother and father stood in the center of the hallway, blinking at her with different degrees of confusion peppered over their features.
“Why are you dressed in man’s attire, Ophelia?” her mother asked.
Ophelia thought quick. “Leonora has written a play,” she said, scrunching her brows. “I am to take on the role of the naïve gentleman who gets taken advantage of time and time again. I thought I’d dress the part.”
Her father frowned.
She nearly winced at her poor lie.
“Goodness, did she write a tragedy?” The countess’s eyes swept over Ophelia’s choice of wardrobe. “You certainly went all out. I must see this play when you are done rehearsing.”
Ophelia inwardly groaned.
She glanced to her father, a part of her hoping he would call her on her lie so that she wouldn’t have to write a play to perform for her mother. Though truth be told, it rather felt to Ophelia as if she were presently acting in a play. Indeed, the naïve part was no lie.
Her father did not oblige her wish and instead chuckled. “All you require is a wig, Ophelia,” he murmured, patting her head as they resumed their walk and passed her.
“Oh, and Ophelia, dear, you are missing an earring.”
Ophelia’s hands lifted to her ears. Indeed, one earring was missing. The jewel must have falling out when she yanked the wig off her head.
“And wear a cloak if you plan on leaving the house like that, Ophelia,” her mother finished over her shoulder as they continued on. “No need for tongues to wag.”
Yes, Mother.
Ophelia let out a low breath. Not a whit of suspicion had entered the depth of their gazes. Was this unconditional trust universal to all parents with their children? Or only to the ones that had never given them trouble? Her life truly had become an act in a theatrical play.
She shook her head and refocused.
Avondale best hand over that book. If he didn’t, his life would become a tragic play. This Ophelia vowed.
She straightened the lapels of her jacket.
And set out after that wretched rascal.
Harry traced a finger over the page of the betting book where the list was attached. It would be so easy to toss the damn book into the fire. But he hadn’t lifted the book from Lady Ophelia to destroy the evidence that linked him to the list; he had done it first as an excuse to see her again and secondly to discover what she hoped to gain from her actions.
But if the bloody book was reduced to nothing but ashes . . .
That, unfortunately, would be too obvious. By now, Lady Ophelia would have pieced together that he had pinched the book from her. Regardless of her plans for the book, he would be cast into suspicion if he destroyed the thing. Harry did not know on which path destiny would lead him, but he did know that no matter what road he found himself on, he did not wish to be an unredeemable rogue in Lady Ophelia’s eyes.
He glared at Warrick’s bold scrawl. They had made a mess of his mother’s well-intentioned work. She only desired to save his family from financial ruin. They had turned her list into a wretched curse.
Harry rubbed his temples.
A disgruntled Jones appeared at the door. “My lord, there is a, er, person who requests an audience.”
Harry glanced up from his desk, gaze flicking to the clock. Evening approached. “A person, Jones? Did this person not give you their name?”
“Yes, my lord, but it’s the oddest thing: the name does not match the, er, person, my lord.”
Harry scrunched his brows. “Well, who is it?”
“A Sir Othello Roseton, my lord, but—”
Harry shot to his feet, slamming the betting book shut. “Did you say Othello Roseton?”
Jones nodded.
“Send him in, Jones, and speak to no one of this, understand? Not a word.”
“Yes, my lord,” Jones murmured and disappeared from the room.
Harry could scarcely believe his ears, and moments later, he could barely believe his eyes either. Ophelia Thornton was once again standing before him, minus the periwig, lips pressed together, and eyes blazing.
He could understand Jones’s confusion.
It appeared as though she’d been busy undressing when she discovered the betting book missing. She still wore the same attire as she had earlier, though her cravat had come undone, and her shirt was untucked in places, hanging partially over her breeches. The jacket she’d carelessly shrugged on hung open, bestowing on her an air of wildness, like she belonged on a ship bound for Africa.
With the jacket open, the visible swell of her breasts was on display, and her hair, which was flattened in a braid against her head with tiny strands reaching for the sky, only added to her dishevelment. The name Othello Roseton did not s
uit her, not presently. She was too clearly a woman.
A woman who pranced about town in inappropriate attire at ungodly hours without a care in the world. For all her loathing of fortune hunters and their ilk, she was not very careful to avoid a scandal that would land her with one.
What if she got caught by a truly unscrupulous fortune hunter? The idea made Harry a little crazy, but instead of scolding her, he found his lips spread into a wide, unrepentant grin. He couldn’t help himself. He had expected her. Well, he’d expected her to confront him when he called on her the following morning. He certainly hadn’t expected she’d be mad enough to show up at his residence.
But even while Harry found her boldness refreshing, he found himself baffled by her actions. Did she not comprehend the different ways he could ruin her right this moment, this second? It seemed fate had gifted him with a third opportunity to ruin Lady Ophelia Thornton. And he was tempted, oh so tempted, to do so, if only to prove a point.
But once again, he refused to ruin her.
He ought to be knighted.
Beautiful, reckless woman.
“Don’t you dare smile at me, you cretin. Where is my book?”
A single brow shot up. “Cretin? I can’t say I’ve ever been called that before.”
“Where is my book?” she demanded again.
“Your book? Why ever would I be in possession of your book?”
“Listen here, Avondale—”
“I might be a cretin, my lady,” Harry interrupted. “But lest you want my servants to gossip, I suggest you keep your voice down.”
She huffed and marched past him, slamming the door shut. His gaze dropped to her hips. Heaven above, the woman didn’t walk so much as sway. She was sensuality and temptation and raging tempest all in one package. He fell in step behind her, his gaze riveted on that delectable behind. The jacket she wore did nothing to hide her curves. They were branded in his mind for all eternity.
He’d seen many alluring sights in his life, but he’d be hard-pressed to name any that could compare to the sight of Lady Ophelia dressed in tight-fitting clothing. She rendered his lungs incapable of functioning.
She whirled on him, her eyes blazing. “Explain yourself.”
Harry’s breath hitched, and for several seconds he completely forgot where he was. Then reality came flooding to him all at once. They were alone. In his house. In his study. The door shut.
If he were a rogue, he’d compromise her now, thoroughly, this very instant. If he did, all his troubles would be solved. In fact, he didn’t even have to compromise her. All he had to do was call on her father and tell him what transpired today, and she’d be his wife. It would be that easy.
But Harry wasn’t a rogue.
Well, not that much of one.
His lack of wealth was the problem. And he didn’t want Ophelia to be the solution.
Foolish, madcap woman!
He might not marry a woman for her wealth, but not all men possessed his sentiment. If it had been anyone but him . . . Christ, he could not even contemplate the thought. Yet looking at Ophelia now, he wanted nothing more than to rip away that shirt that clung to her curves, long-term consequences be damned.
“Do you know the number of ways I could ruin you, Ophelia? Are you baiting fate by running around dressed like that? Entering a man’s home without a chaperone?”
Her eyes widened, and he watched as she moistened her lips, his gaze drawn to the fullness of her mouth. Damn, were her lips naturally so plush, or did her teeth graze them from time to time? A provocative image flickered through his mind . . . of her, biting down on her lower lip, her eyes filled with desire and her skin flushed—
“Where is the book, Avondale?” The object of his fantasy hissed through clenched teeth, but a new wariness had crept into her gaze. Still, she ignored his question.
He stared into the depth of her eyes.
And he drowned.
He drowned in the raw, naked images of Ophelia that plowed through his mind. His entire body flushed with desire. His cock strained and strained. His heart rate increased its tempo. Air seemed to vanish from his lungs. His mouth went dry, leaving nothing but the sweet taste of chamomile and lemon on his tongue.
“I am not afraid of you, Avondale. You best be worried about what I will do if you do not hand over that book at once.” She frowned, any wariness vanishing between the creases of her brows. “Are you listening to me? Avondale?”
Harry thought the answer was quite obvious: he had not been listening to a word she said. It appeared, though, that Lady Ophelia was oblivious to all the signs indicating that his mind was elsewhere. Just as she seemed oblivious to the fact that she was in danger of being thoroughly ravished.
Her hands settled on her hips as she stared at him, waiting for a response.
But Harry was not in the mood to talk.
So he did the only thing he was in the mood for: he closed the distance between them and kissed her.
This was not a kiss meant to teach her a lesson. The brush of lips was meant to satisfy his curiosity, meant to appease his hunger. Draw a conclusion and allow him to gather his wits.
It did none of those things.
Instead, her lips parted almost instantly, and it felt like the universe exploded on his tongue. As he fell deeper into the abyss of Ophelia’s mouth, a low sound, something between a moan and a growl, erupted from his chest.
He pulled her closer, lifting her onto his desk. Papers scattered across the floor. Stacks of ledgers toppled. A book fell open on the carpet. He barely noticed.
Harry settled between Ophelia’s thighs and guided her legs to his waist. Their tongues waltzed as their desire built into a crescendo. The palm of his right hand slid up the path of her shin, drawing her closer to him, while his left palmed her breast. She arched into him, and he captured her sweet, sensual moan on his lips.
And as with all dances, theirs too came to an end. But unlike most dances, it did not end to the timeless tone of violins or the deep resonance of the piano. No, in this case, it was with the jagged saw of Saville’s voice.
“Avond—Ah—Hell.”
Chapter 12
Ophelia shut the door to her chamber and sagged against it for the second time that day. But this time, she had not returned empty-handed for her effort. She had secured the book. But she might have lost something much more precious along the way: her freedom.
By Zeus and Jupiter!
How could she have been so careless?
How could she let Avondale kiss her? Again.
And again, how could she kiss him back?
Do you know the number of ways I could ruin you, Ophelia?
The memory of those words brought a flutter to her pulse. Ophelia bit down on her lower lip. She did not know the answer. But Lord, a secret part of her wanted to discover each and every single way.
Are you baiting fate by running around dressed like that?
Another question she could not rightly answer.
Entering a man’s home without a chaperone?
Reckless! Reckless! Reckless!
At least this time, she had kissed Avondale in the name of distraction—or so she continued to tell herself. Of course, she could have pushed him away and darted from the room the moment his lips descended on hers. She would have. But Ophelia had spotted the betting book and allowed his mouth to conquer hers. He had kissed her before; she hadn’t thought there would be anything more to it than the first time. She had been so wrong. So utterly wrong.
This kiss, not at all sporting in its nature, had not been the playful kind. No, dear Lord, this kiss . . . this had been a man kissing a woman who knew she was being kissed by a man for herself.
When Avondale had kissed her, she had felt desired for her own person rather than the wealth behind her.
Then, as Ophelia pushed Avondale away and glimpsed the look of hunger in his gaze, it finally occurred to her, though infinitely too late, that perhaps she was tempting fate. She shoul
d never have called on Avondale alone.
It also occurred to Ophelia that in the strictest sense of the word, she was thoroughly ruined. With a sequence of three little words, the Earl of Avondale could become a very wealthy man.
Ophelia is ruined.
Proof? A witness.
We will marry.
She would not even be able to deny the statements. Because she had kissed Avondale back. She had permitted his hands to roam places much too intimate to be allowed. And she had enjoyed every unforgettable moment of those embraces. Right up until the Earl of Saville had entered the study and caught them red-handed.
Her heart still pounded at the very thought of what transpired on that desk—the desk where Avondale reviewed his accounts and all other business matters. The desk where he would probably draw up his list of demands for her father. The desk where he would now recall her behaving like a hussy every time he sat down to work. And Ophelia would now wonder each minute of the day whether he was indeed sitting behind that desk, at that very moment, and whether he was turning what they had done over in his mind.
Dear Lord, Ophelia. What have you done?
Or rather, what was she going to do now that she’d gone and done it?
At least she had gotten the book back, which Avondale had left on his desk. Ophelia had snatched it up before she fled his home, ducking her head as she passed Saville and his hawkish eyes. Lud, she did not want to focus on that at the moment.
Ophelia removed the book from her waistband, tracing the leather-bound cover with a sense of reassurance. This book seemed to hold all the answers to questions she hadn’t asked yet. And it might, if she were lucky, hold the solution to what transpired in the Earl of Avondale’s study.
She held up the book for inspection, recalling Rochester’s reaction to the bet about Willoughby’s waist. Somewhere within its pages lay the answer. A wager Avondale might not want to fall into the wrong hands.