“What, then?”
His persistence distracted her from the uncomfortable sensations buffeting her. But only for a moment as the darkness still surrounded them. She burrowed herself deeper into his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him.
“Pen,” he urged. “Tell me.”
As if she ought to unburden herself to a man who had repeatedly told her he distrusted her and who was currently holding her captive at his town house. It hardly mattered. She could not manage a word past the fear clogging her throat. All she could do was keep her face pressed tightly to his neck, eyes shut against the darkness. Somehow, pretending the world around her was not enrobed in blackness helped to calm her madly racing heart.
There was a click as the viscount leveraged his body against something, followed by a slight creak.
“Here we are,” he said, his voice a pleasant rumble against her ear.
She could feel the vibration of his baritone in his throat. But she was not prepared to look. “Where?”
“My chamber.”
He had brought her to his chamber? The revelation left her so shocked that she tipped her head back, eyes opening, to find a room thankfully bathed in light. It was smaller than she would have expected for a viscount, but she could only suppose the chambers in the ducal apartments where the duke and duchess resided would have been suitably impressive. As it was, this room was far larger than any of the private chambers at The Sinner’s Palace, and far more refined.
The furious panic that had rendered her almost helpless gradually ebbed, replaced by the rational part of her mind.
“Are you mad?” she demanded.
“Quite possibly.” His response was calm, as if he had not just carried her from the mews through a secret passageway to the room where he slept, and as if she were visiting of her own volition rather than against her will. “After all that has recently come to pass, I expect so.”
She shifted in his arms, more than aware of the manner in which their bodies were pressed together and terribly aware of the fact that her weight must be a leaden burden. “Put me down, Garrick.”
Yes, she was using his Christian name once more. And why not? What better time to revert to familiarity with a gentleman than when she was in his bed chamber?
“You are certain your ankle is no longer paining you?” He frowned down at her, and whether it was reluctance to believe her or to let her go etched on his countenance, she could not say.
The weakest part of her most definitely knew which she would have preferred. But she had not come this far to play the fool to a viscount who would never love her or view her as his equal. She was a Sutton, curse it, and while she had been foolishly unarmed for her misadventures this evening, just as in other matters, she would make certain never to make the same mistake twice.
“It was a momentary pain, nothing more,” she reassured him.
He lowered her to the sumptuous carpet. She bit her inner lip to keep from wincing as her ankle made a liar of her. She had certainly suffered worse, but it still ached with a dogged persistence that increased as she put her weight on it. Not that she would allow him to know. And why should he care, anyway?
His shrewd, ice-blue gaze was assessing. “Why were you trembling when I carried you through the corridor?”
Had she been? She refused to believe it. “I do not tremble. I’m a Sutton.”
“You were shaking in my arms and clinging to me like a frightened cat.”
She frowned. “What would you even know of cats, Lordly?”
He flashed her a tight smile. “Perhaps a bit, considering I keep one as a companion.”
As if to punctuate his words, a small mewl interrupted their heated exchange.
Pen glanced down to find a fat chintz cat emerging from beneath a table, tail raised at an angle that suggested she was less than pleased. Green-gold feline eyes stared at her, and that easily, all the trepidation that had been daunting her throughout their sudden journey through the dark fled.
She knelt, ignoring the sharp pain in her ankle, and extended a hand for the cat. “Come, sweet kitten,” she crooned. “I shan’t hurt you.”
The chintz cat watched her, holding still as she assessed the probability of friend or foe. Pursing her lips, Pen made the sound that never failed to attract the cats she fed behind The Sinner’s Palace. None of them had a home, and they were each wary and bedraggled, but she was determined to see them get something in their little bellies.
When the feline refused to come nearer, Pen turned to Garrick. “What is her name?”
“How do you know she is a she?” he asked instead of answering.
“Her coloring,” Pen answered. “There are many strays in the rookeries, and the chintz cats are always mamas.”
“Next you will tell me you tend to the strays.” He quirked a brow, his expression impassive.
Ducal.
She held his stare. “I do.”
There was a pause before he finally responded. “Rosebud.”