The Last Hellion (Scoundrels 4)

He uttered a low, guttural sound. It was very like the sound Susan made when she felt ill used: when one denied the greedy creature an extra biscuit, for instance, or ordered her to stop leaping on the maids.

Something in the analogy made Lydia’s nerve endings twitch. Ignoring the feeling, she got down on her hands and knees to hunt for her half-boots.

She found them close by, under the sofa wedged against the chiffonier. Before she could get them on, she heard footsteps and Helena’s voice approaching.

“I’m sure it’s the neighbors’ cat,” Helena was saying. “Rosa must have left the window open.”

Lydia’s glance darted to the window, but Ainswood had already moved away. In the next instant, he was down on the carpet next to her.

She heard the doorknob’s faint click as it turned.

Lydia hastily scrambled aside, pushed him down, and shoved him under the sofa. She had pulled the deep flounce back into place by the time the door opened fully.

Helena entered. “Here, kitty,” she called. Then, after she’d closed the door, her voice dropped to a whisper. “Is that you, Lyddy?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t expect you back so early.”

“I know. It’s all right. Go back to your guest. I’m fine.”

Lydia was not fine. A portion of Ainswood’s overgrown anatomy pinned down a section of her skirt. She couldn’t get up without his moving, too, and given the limited space available, she doubted he could lift a muscle without overturning the sofa.

“Here, kitty,” Helena repeated in carrying tones. Then, very softly, she went on, “Do try to be quieter. Sellowby isn’t that drunk, and he heard something. Doubtless he suspects I’ve another man hidden in the house, and is dying to know who it is. You’d make a more agreeable surprise for him. Are you sure you don’t want to come out and—”

“He’s all yours,” Lydia whispered tightly.

“Do you need help with the corset?”

“No. I’m nearly dressed. Please go, Helena, before he decides to investigate.”

There was a long pause. Lydia hoped Ainswood had sense enough to hold his breath. She couldn’t tell. Her heart was thumping too loudly.

“Lydia, I’d better warn you.” Helena’s whisper held a worried note. “Sellowby said he heard that Ainswood was seen entering the Blue Owl in Fleet Street this evening. Sellowby thinks you’ve piqued His Grace’s interest. Perhaps, to be on the safe side, you ought to contrive assignments far from London for the next few weeks.”

Lydia was aware of movement under the sofa. Any minute now, Ainswood would overturn it, she was sure, and rush upon Sellowby to correct the man’s assumptions with his fists.

“Yes, of course, but do go,” she urged. “I think I hear Sellowby.”

It worked. Helena hastened out. “Coming,” she called. “It was only the tiresome cat. She…”

Lydia didn’t listen to the rest. Her attention reverted to Ainswood, who released a pent-up breath. She expected a stream of profanity to follow as he wriggled out from under the sofa—trapping more of her skirt in the process. Instead, she discerned a more ominous sound.

She told herself it couldn’t be what she thought it was, and tried to concentrate on untangling her skirt from his limbs. She couldn’t, and he wasn’t helping.

His shoulders shook, and his chest heaved, and the strangled sounds he emitted confirmed her first suspicions.

She twisted about and clamped her hand over his mouth. “Don’t,” she whispered furiously. “Don’t you dare laugh. They’ll hear you.”

“Mmmmmmph. Mmmmmmmmph.” Ainswood’s mouth moved spasmodically against her hand. She snatched it away.

A slap, she thought frantically. That would—no—too much noise—and he wouldn’t feel it. A knee to the groin—no—impossible—she could barely move her legs—but—yes—her hands were free. She made a fist and struck—his belly, drat him—and it was made of brick. Aim lower, she told herself.

Before she could act, he did, and in an instant she was flat on her back, her hand pinned to the carpet and Ainswood on top of her. “Get off me, you—”

His mouth fell upon hers, stifling the words and driving the breath back into her lungs.

She had one hand free, and should have pushed or clawed at him with it, but she didn’t. Couldn’t.

He’d kissed her before, but that had been in public before a restive audience, and their lips had scarcely met before she recovered her reason.

This time there was no audience to remember, to keep her mind cool and focused. This time there was only darkness and silence and the warm, insistent pressure of his mouth upon hers. She wasn’t quick enough reacting, and this time the devil inside her took over.

She couldn’t get her mind to think past the potently masculine taste and scent of him. She couldn’t rouse her body to struggle against the warmth and hard, muscular power of his. He was so big, so beautifully, warmly big, and his mouth tasted like sin, wild and dark and irresistible.

The hand he held to the carpet curled ’round his, and her free one, the one she should have fought with, curled and tightened upon his coat, holding him instead. Her mouth clung to his in the same way, silently answering Yes when it should have been No, and following his lead, when he would only lead her to disaster.

She knew this. In the depths of her swamped consciousness she knew right from wrong, safe from dangerous, but she couldn’t summon her weapons, her hard-won wisdom. For this dark moment, all she wanted was him.

It lasted but a moment, and a lifetime too long.

He broke away, done with her when she had scarcely begun to comprehend what she wanted from him.

Even then, though hotly aware of her folly, she could still taste the sin of him on her lips and feel the need he’d stirred rippling in the pit of her belly. And when his body lifted from hers, she felt the loss of his warmth and strength and whatever else it was that he made her need. And she felt regret, as well, because she didn’t know how to draw him back, so that she could find out what it was she needed and what it was she’d been missing.

From a distance came the tinkle of feminine laughter. Helena’s laughter, from two rooms away, where she lay in the embrace of…another rake.

Like the tinkle of a bell, it summoned Lydia to sanity. She thought of the career she’d prepared and waited so long for, the small but precious influence she’d gained and could, with diligence, increase. She thought of the women and children whose voice she was.

And she reminded herself what kind of man this was.

The kind of libertine who despises women.

Once used, we’re worthless.

“Are you all right?” came Ainswood’s rough whisper.

No, she wasn’t. She doubted she’d be altogether right for a long time. Forbidden fruit left a bitter aftertaste.

“Get off my skirt, curse you,” she said. “How am I to get up with you sitting on it?”

The relation between Vere and his conscience had never been amicable. For the last year and a half, they had not been on speaking terms.

Consequently, he was far from feeling any pangs of guilt for his plans to seduce Grenville of the Argus or entertaining any scruples about how he’d accomplish this. On the contrary, he’d been having a jolly old time, jollier than he’d had in ages. This night’s adventures brought back fond memories of long-ago escapades with his two partners in crime, Dain and Wardell.

It had been a long time since Vere had las

t stolen a ride on the back of a coach or committed absurdities in pursuit of an attractive wench.

And even though matters thereafter had not gone quite as he’d expected, the novelty of the experience made up for the occasional irritation. While climbing in and out of windows for illicit purposes was a familiar activity, this was the first time he’d made a clandestine entry into the home of a known Cyprian.

He’d thought it hilarious that Miss Damn Your Eyes Grenville didn’t want her harlot friend to know the depraved Duke of Ainswood was on the premises. As though there were anything this side of the house exploding that could shock Helena Martin.

To make it more amusing, there was Sellowby, also on the premises, suspecting Helena had a man hidden—and Helena thinking she didn’t—and the dragoness fretting and twitching the whole time. And there was the added farce of Vere hiding under a sofa when the room was as black as a privy hole, and their hostess couldn’t see her own hand in front of her.

He’d nearly choked to death, stifling laughter.

And then…

Well, of course. How could he resist? After all the difficulty Madam Dragon had had wriggling into all those layers of underwear and overgarments, Vere couldn’t resist showing her how little trouble he’d have taking them off again. After all her fretting about being discovered with him, he thought she ought to have something more interesting to think about.

And there, matters had taken a very odd turn.

In Vinegar Yard, Vere had hardly touched his mouth to hers. This time, he’d settled in for a long, slow siege of a resistance-killing kiss.

And he’d met with the shock of his life.

She didn’t know how to kiss.

It had taken a moment for this anomaly to sink in, and before he’d quite digested it, she had caught on to the basics. Meanwhile, he could hardly be unaware of the lushly curving body under his, or the mantrap of scent. And so he had heated far too quickly to quibble with himself about whether or not she was a virgin and whether or not this was supposed to matter to him. And since he hadn’t been engaged in any soul-searching, it was very strange that he should pause. But he did, because something…bothered him.