The Many Sins of Cris De Feaux (Lords of Disgrace 3)

‘No, you were not. Not until you told me I was becoming agitated,?

? she conceded. Stepping back would be admitting that his closeness, his touch, affected her. Confessing that she had found his presence at her side had given her strength was too much like accepting weakness. She lifted her chin instead and made herself meet the cool blue eyes. ‘Up to then you were merely…lordly.’

Cris shrugged. ‘London style, that is all. Take no notice of Gabriel, he finds the idea of his old friend being a duke amusing, the sarcastic devil. Do I seem like a duke to you? After all, I am the kind of man who almost drowns himself in foolish swimming incidents, climbs out of windows and is acquainted with Bath chairmen.’ His face was austere, but she recognised the slight crease at the corner of his eyes, the start of a smile he was not allowing out.

She was not going to let him get away with charming her into smiling back at him. ‘Explain the window.’

‘The chair and the men were a surprise for your aunts. I wanted to stop Gabriel and make sure they arrived with it all set up for her.’

And you could not have run downstairs and out through the door? No, not without alerting me, she answered herself. Cris had wanted to talk to Gabriel Stone first. The pair of them made her uneasy. They had an aura of power and confidence about them, something that went beyond mere competence. They were used to being obeyed and to making things happen. Their way.

Tamsyn moved forward, closer, until she could feel the beat of his heart against her fingers, could see his pupils dilate with surprise, or perhaps, pleasure. ‘Tell me,’ she murmured sweetly, and he bent his head, to listen, or to kiss. ‘Do I seem a helpless little female to you? Do I appear unable to take care of myself and my aunts? Do you think that I need a big, strong man to protect me?’ She did smile then, showing her teeth in a clear warning that she could, and would, bite if provoked.

She expected Cris to respond with an attempt at mastery, a hard kiss to show her what she was missing. Or perhaps a display of affronted male pride and a declaration that she did not know what she was talking about and had quite misunderstood him. Instead he did the last thing she expected. He laughed.

It was infectious, open, genuine, and she laughed, too, not knowing why, only that this was completely disarming.

And then he kissed her. There were perhaps three seconds to make up her mind on how to react and she was aware of each of them in the thud of her pulse. Three seconds to decide whether to be charmed, or to be resentful, to be mastered or to fight. Or, perhaps, to meet him on equal terms.

One, two, three… Cris lifted his head, eyes watchful. He would not force her, she knew that. Whatever else this man was hiding from her, it was not a willingness to ill treat a woman. Tamsyn wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled his head to hers again and nipped at his lower lip, deliberately provoking. He laughed again against her lips, then probed with his tongue, risking her teeth, provoking in his turn.

This was the man from the sea, the man she had kissed in the surf without knowing why, only that it was right and she wanted him. Then they had been naked and that had been right, too, and they were wearing far too much now. Her hands ran down over the thin linen of his shirt, over the long, beautiful muscles of his back, down to the waistband of his breeches and she tugged, impatient, careless of rips.

He stepped back, breaking the kiss, to let her pull the shirt free and over his head, then his own hands were busy with buttons and pins and her gown was sliding from her shoulders, down to her feet and she was back in his arms, his skin hot and smooth under her palms, his mouth hot and urgent on the swell of her breasts above the neck of her chemise.

‘Yes,’ she said, closing her teeth on the tendon where his neck met his shoulder, biting gently, tasting his skin, tasting him. ‘Yes.’

‘Cris!’ The shout from outside froze them in place.

‘Hell’s teeth.’ Cris stepped back, looked round wildly for his shirt. ‘I must be out of my mind—the middle of the day in a confounded shed in the garden within a stone’s throw of the house and a dozen people. Are you all right?’ He dived into his shirt, dragged it on, stuffed it into his breeches while Tamsyn just stood and looked at him. ‘Get dressed! What are you doing?’

‘Looking at you.’ She wanted to smile at the sight of him, uncharacteristically harassed and urgent, dishevelled and flatteringly aroused. This was not the cool, calm and mysterious Mr Defoe, this was another man altogether and she was charmed as well as attracted. The sound of Mr Stone’s voice calling Cris came closer.

‘Dress, Tamsyn!’ He found the ends of his neckcloth, whipped it into some sort of knot, then moved to get between her and the door with its old glass panels fogged with salt spray. Through them, as she turned, she could see the blurred figure of the other man standing with his back to them. He seemed to be scanning the beach.

Suddenly seized with Cris’s urgency, she pulled up her gown, fumbled the fastenings closed, twitched the skirts, patted at her hair. ‘Am I decent?’

‘More or less. You’ll be the death of me, woman.’ He pushed in a few of her hairpins and smiled at her, suddenly tender, his hand cupping her cheek. ‘Do you want to be ruined?’

‘Yes, please,’ Tamsyn said demurely.

‘But not here—’

The door swung open behind him. ‘There you are. Cris, what the blazes are you doing?’ Gabriel Stone took a step inside, took one look at her, turned on his heel and went out again. ‘Or, rather, why the blazes are you doing it here and now?’ he enquired without looking back.

‘Insanity,’ Cris said without turning, his smile still promising things that made her feel reckless and eager. He stroked his fingers down her cheek and murmured, ‘We’ll talk.’ Over his shoulder he asked, ‘Is the coast clear?’

‘Completely.’ Gabriel Stone stepped aside to let them out on to the gravel in front of the summer house. ‘Everyone is in the yard admiring the sedan chair and arguing about which of the locals might be employed to carry it.’ He was still looking out to sea, presumably tactfully sparing Tamsyn’s blushes. She was amazed to discover she did not have any. ‘It will be a while before you can find two men suitable, I would suggest, Mrs Perowne. They need to be matched in size and strength, have good balance and endurance. Carrying a sedan chair is harder than it looks.’

‘You suggest I do not search too hard?’ She grappled to focus her mind on the issue and not on her pounding pulse, the excited flutter low in her belly, the ache in her breasts, the need to reach out and touch the man by her side. ‘But how long can these two men stay?’

‘As long as I am here, I will pay them,’ Cris said. ‘Call it a return for my board and lodging,’ he said when she began to protest. ‘When I leave they will stay for as long as you choose to employ them because this is their work these days.’

‘Bodyguards? You cannot pay for them as well as give us the chair.’

‘It is for my own peace of mind,’ Cris said. He offered his arm to her and she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. Mr Stone fell in on the other side and offered his arm as well.

‘I feel very well protected between two gentlemen,’ she remarked lightly as they strolled across the grass. The switch from reckless passion to a sensible discussion was disorientating, and the presence of Gabriel Stone with his rakish understanding at finding them in a compromising position in the summer house only added to the feeling.