Talk of the Ton (Free Fellows League 5)

She did seem rather flushed. “You are more than welcome to any inch of my house, madam,” he said sincerely, clasping his hands behind his back. “Or my orangery, or my livery. Whatever you desire, you may have, Mrs. Becket.”

She laughed lightly and pushed a loose strand of that glorious red-gold hair that hung across her eye. “How gallant ! You are too kind,” she said, and closed her eyes.

“Are you quite all right, Mrs. Becket?”

She opened one eye. “Do I seem unwell?” she asked, wincing a bit. “I’m afraid I might have drunk too much of your delicious punch.”

“Quite the contrary, actually. You seem, at least to these eyes, rather well indeed,” he said, and let his gaze casually peruse the shapely length of her. “In fact,” he added, lifting his gaze languidly, “there has been many a Sunday morning that I looked at you and thought that perhaps I was gazing upon one of God’s angels, you look so well.” He smiled provocatively.

Mrs. Becket opened the other eye and lowered her head, gazing up at him through long lashes with a suspicious smile. “My husband has warned me about men like you, sir,” she said pleasantly. “In fact, he’s warned me several times of you in particular.”

“Has he indeed?” Darien asked, cheerfully surprised that a man like Becket would have discerned the subtle smiles and greetings Darien had freely bestowed on his young wife. “And what has he warned you?”

Now she lifted her chin and filled the corridor with a soft, warm laugh. “That a rogue, by any other name, should smile as sweet, but is still a rogue.”

Darien couldn’t help his appreciative laugh. He took a step closer and asked low, “A philosopher, is he? And what does the good vicar say about beauty, Mrs. Becket? Does he quote Petrarch?”

“Petrarch?”

“An Italian philosopher, long dead and buried,” Darien said and casually reached out, tucked the loose strand of Mrs. Becket’s hair that had once more slipped over her eye behind her ear. His finger grazed the plump curve of her ear, and he lingered beneath her crystal earring, toying with it. “Petrarch said that rarely do great beauty and great virtue dwell together.”

Mrs. Becket lifted one brow, then smiled fully, touched the strand of hair he had pushed behind her ear. “Mr. Petrarch sounds a rather jaded man. But I’m hardly certain if you mean to imply that perhaps I am a great beauty, my lord? Or possess great virtue? In either case, I should hardly know if I am to be insulted or pleased.”

“I am certain you are in firm possession of both,” he said with a slight bow, but he smiled a little crookedly. “I can see the great beauty. And I trust the great virtue.”

Mrs. Becket laughed low and pressed her gloved palm to her cheek. “My, it seems rather warm, even down here, does it not, my lord?”

“Quite,” he said. “I was just to the cellar to bring up a bottle of gin. Perhaps you might help me select. I am certain you will find the cellar much cooler.”

She glanced at the stairs leading to the cellar, then at him. “Ah, but that would be less than virtuous to accompany you to the cellar, would it not?”

“Absolutely,” he readily agreed. “But then again, there’s little harm in being slightly less virtuous in exchange for comfort.” He winked, held out his arm to her.

She looked again at the cellar stairs, and after a moment, nodded resolutely and pushed away from the wall. “You will find that I possess great virtue above the cellar, and in the cellar,” she said with a bob of her head, and put her hand on his arm.

“What a pity,” Darien said congenially, and led her to the top of the stairs. Next to the stairs was a small alcove from where he picked up a candle, lit it from one of the wall sconces, and turned toward Mrs. Becket. Still smiling, he took her hand in his and led the way d

own into the wine cellar.

At least he’d been truthful about the cellar; it was cooler the deeper they walked in between the shelves of wine and fine liquors.

“It’s delightfully cooler here,” Mrs. Becket said. “I am feeling quite renewed.”

“Ah,” he said, finding the shelf with the gin. “Here we are.” He put aside the candle and picked up a bottle to inspect it. Mrs. Becket peered over his shoulder. He turned toward her, the bottle in hand, and smiled at her sparkling green eyes. “Rather a good year for gin, I think.”

“I wouldn’t know, personally,” she said with mock superiority, “other than to say the addition of gin to a cranberry punch is most delicious.”

“I’m glad you found it to your liking,” he said. “It was quite unintentional.” And as he moved to put the bottle back and find another, he heard the scurrying feet of a rodent.

Mrs. Becket shrieked at the sound of it and lurched into his chest, grabbing his lapel in one hand. Darien grasped her firmly by the arms before they toppled into the shelving. “A mouse,” he said soothingly. “A little mouse as frightened of you as you are of it, I assure you. No doubt the tiny devil has already returned to his den.”

“A mouse,” she echoed and closed her eyes a moment as she sought her breath. But she did not let go his lapel. When she opened her eyes again, she was looking at his mouth. Her lips parted softly with a sigh of relief, and she drew a ragged breath.

In the dim golden light of that single candle, Darien saw the rosy skin of her cheeks, the smooth column of her neck, the rise of her bosom, and a look in her eyes that he felt deep to the very depth of himself. In a moment of madness, without thought, without so much as a breath, he let go her arm, put his hand around her waist, and pulled her tightly to him at the same time he put his lips to hers.

She did not resist him; her hand loosened on his lapel and slid up to his neck, to his jaw. Reverently, he kissed her, sinking into a vague feeling of remorse for having done it at all. But she wore the scent of gardenias in her hair and on her neck, and the scent filled him with an almighty lust. Remorse was swallowed whole by desire spreading through him.

His hand tightened at her waist; he touched his tongue to hers, and she easily opened to him. He had an image of her body opening much like that, and his desire got the best of him. He kissed her madly, his tongue in her mouth, his teeth on her lips, his hand drifting to the swell of her lovely bum, grasping it and holding her against him.