Dancing with a Rogue (28 page)

“I read the newspapers.”

“Every member of the nobility gambles,” he said.

“Is that why you do it?”

“I must admit I also enjoy a wager.”

“You talk in riddles, my lord. Or are you really the Marquess of Manchester?”

He looked at her closely. “You doubt that?”

“I think something is not as it seems.”

“Not that, Miss Fremont. I am truly the Marquess of Manchester through some macabre progression of circumstances. I did not ask for it. I did not particularly want it. But here I am. Nobility. From poverty to estates, even if it is bankrupt.” His voice was filled with irony and amusement.

It was an oddly attractive combination, but then everything about him attracted her. Everything except that infernal quizzing glass that was gratefully absent at the moment.

His green eyes attracted her. The emerald-green gaze seemed to see everything, to peer inside the heart she'd always kept guarded. The unruly sandy hair that could never quite be tamed. The lean hard body that did not belong to a fool or gambler. He had the kind of muscles that came from activity, from hard work. He radiated confidence, at least when he wasn't acting the fool.

He wasn't doing that now.

“What do you really want?” she said in a low voice.

“What do
you
want? What game are you playing?”

They were dancing again. Whirling around and around and never getting anywhere.

“I only want security,” she lied. She wanted to tell him everything. How she wanted to tell him. But she still was not sure of his character. Still not sure he would not use it for some ploy of his own. She also worried that it would put him in danger.

“You can have security. You can probably have any man you want. Why Stanhope? Why someone who might have murdered his wife?”

She went still. “You apparently still want to do business with him.”

“And you still want to play games with him.” He shot the words back at her. “He is a dangerous man to cross.”

“How do you know?”

He hesitated too long. Now she knew that it was not only wealth he wanted from Stanhope.

Just then Dani returned. “Mrs. Miller wants to know whether to serve supper in the dining room or here.”

“In the dining room,” Monique said hurriedly. She was too close to him now. The slightly musky scent of him was intoxicating. His closeness raised the heat in the room.

She backed away a few steps, then turned. “My lord, the supper I promised you is ready.”

“You promised something else as well.”

“Supper will have to do for now. I am always hungry after a performance. I seldom eat dinner beforehand.”

He bowed. “Then I will wait.” He started to follow her. “But not for long,” he added in a low voice.

She tried to ignore his words as she led the way to the small, much too intimate dining room. Strange she had never realized how small it was until now. Probably because she had seldom dined here. She usually ate in her bedroom with Dani.

The table gleamed with china and crystal glasses. Mrs. Miller seemed very pleased with herself as she satisfied herself that all was prepared. There was chicken. Bread. Cheese. Grapes and other fruits. A bottle of wine was uncorked.

Because of a marquess? Or had he worked magic while he had waited for her?

She started to give him a sideways glance and saw that he had no such reservations. His perusal of her was bold and open and intense.

She took a piece of chicken and nibbled. Her usual appetite had faded.

He watched her even more intently.

“Are you not hungry?” she asked. She immediately regretted the statement. Hunger was in his eyes but it was not the kind of hunger she meant.

She hoped her own desire did not show as obviously. She was using food to disguise it when really her stomach churned inside. Or was it just that deep, internal ache that occurred every time she was in his presence, and never so much as at this very moment?

She'd wondered from the beginning what about this loutish American marquess attracted her. Now she knew. The façade cloaked a very complex and obviously intelligent man. What she did not know was his intent. And what he would do to accomplish whatever it was he was after.

But now she did not care. She felt lost in eyes no longer guarded, in the heat that warmed her beyond bearing, with the ache that reached to the core of her.

She longed to reach out and push a lock of hair off his forehead, to touch the face that fascinated her.

Instead, she forced herself to take another bite. Her tongue licked her lips. She tried to keep her attention on the leg of chicken but her gaze kept wandering over to Manchester, who had given up any pretense of eating and instead continued to watch her as a muscle flexed in his throat.

“It is very good,” she said.

“Is it now?” he said in a low hoarse voice.

“Mrs. Miller worked very hard on this meal,” she tried again. “I think …”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“I believe she misses cooking for a man. Her feelings will be hurt if she doesn't think you enjoyed it.”

“I will tell her I enjoyed it intensely.” His mouth crooked up at the side in a half smile.

“She will think you lied if the food is still there.”

“I will hide a piece in my coat.”

“It will ruin your coat.”

“Ah, a small price to pay for making a woman happy.”

“Lying, you mean.”

“If necessary.”

“You lie a lot,” she observed.

“And you do too, I think,” he said. “It appears we are birds of a feather.”

She had nothing to reply to that, so she took another piece of chicken and played with it.

“You look charming when you do that,” he said.

“Do what?”

“Lick your lips.”

She was accustomed to flattery, to wild extravagant compliments, but his observation was somehow far more seductive. Her blood seemed to slow and thicken like warm honey.

“What do you want?” she finally managed.

“At the moment?”

She found herself smiling. “I think I know what you want at this moment.”

“And you?”

She knew what she wanted, too. Unfortunately it was a very dangerous and unfortunate want.

“I want to know why you are pretending to be a foolish man.”

“I think all men are foolish around you.”

She sat straight. “Words,” she said. “Words designed to hide the truth. Why are you here? In London? Why do you want a business arrangement with a man known to be less than honest?”

The lazy, sensuous eyes didn't blink.

“I do not know him to be less than honest.”

“It is common rumor.”

“It is also common rumor that I am a disgrace to a long and noble title.” His voice was full of irony.

She wiped her mouth with the napkin.

“And now my turn,” he said. “Why did the bracelet mean so much to you?”

“You told me nothing. It is not your turn at all.” The level of heat and electricity had risen to astounding levels. She felt her every nerve reacting to him. Only words kept them apart. Only words constituted armor. Without them …

Without them, she would succumb to him. Even now, she was tempted to reach out to him.

You cannot trust any man.

How many times had her mother told her that? How many times had she watched the truth of the words?

Then why …?

“I think you should go,” she said.

He rose. “As the lady wishes,” he said. “I wish you luck with the good earl.”

His voice was light. It didn't hold any of the passion his eyes had just held. Instead, both his eyes and voice were well masked.

“Good night,” she said, standing. She wondered whether she had been the only one to feel the magic.

He leaned over. His fingers touched her cheek, and then he kissed her. It was not the kiss of a foolish man. Or an indolent one.

Nor was hers the response of a loose woman after another man.

It was pure volcanic. Layers upon layers of molten heat.

He stepped back. So did she. Her legs trembled slightly. She'd never wanted anything as badly in her life.

Except her father's downfall.

She swallowed hard.

Neither of them moved beyond that one step. Neither of them ran for safety.

Strange that she would think of it in that way. And include him in the thought.

Yet despite the mystery—even danger—whirling around him, she did not want him to go. The room would become colorless without him. The air would become stale. The day would become just another day.

Color lay in holding out her hand. She knew it. Felt it.

Color.

Life.

She had acted life. She had not felt it.

She was a woman, and yet she had never felt a man's tenderness. She had never allowed herself intimacy. She had not even been curious about it. Her mother had loved, and it had destroyed her.

She'd never wanted to be naive.

He stepped closer again. Despite his words, he seemed no more able to leave than she was to insist that he do so.

His fingers touched her chin, then the hollow of her throat. She knew he must feel the sudden speed of her pulse.

“I should go,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“You want me to?”

“Yes.” But she heard no certainty in her voice and neither, apparently, did he.

He leaned over and his lips brushed hers.

The volcano exploded.

Chapter Sixteen

Gabriel had been ready to leave. He'd had enough of games. She was not going to tell him anything, and he certainly didn't intend to tell her anything she could reveal to the man he'd dreamed about ruining these many years.

Yet he had lingered a moment too long. He had allowed himself to indulge those very compelling feelings. He had wanted to touch her again, to see whether her skin was really as soft as he remembered, whether her hair still smelled of roses. Whether those eyes could ignite fires within him.

Surely not.

Not if he used the discipline that had brought him to where he was. As brittle as her explanations were, as wily as her answers, he saw a vulnerability that touched him. He kept trying to tell himself that it, too, was only a pose, an actress's trick.

Yet he really didn't believe that. She did not trust him. He couldn't complain about that because he didn't trust her, either. Yet he could not rid himself of a feeling that there might be common cause here.

A feeling that was all too dangerous. If she really was the courtesan she seemed to be, she could destroy him with a word.

Yet the temptation was overpowering. Instead, he kissed her lightly on the cheek, then found himself unable to leave it at that. Her skin was as soft as he remembered, her hair like silk, her breath like the light breeze of a spring day.

She was intoxicating, and he understood why and how she had half of London panting after her.

He wondered whether part of it was because she was so different from other women he had known. Of course, he had taken little time in the past few years to cultivate a woman. Instead, he'd favored women who'd wanted no more than a momentary affair.

He'd never been tempted to linger.

This woman could make him linger for a very long time.

That terrified him, even as it intrigued him.

But he also knew her eyes were on a bigger prize, a wealthier prize.

That thought spurred him. She had no interest in an extended affair. Perhaps a brief interlude would dull the aching need inside him.

All those thoughts flitted through his mind as he hesitated, knowing that he might well not retreat easily from this bed as he had others. Her eyes, now a stormy gray as expressive as a squall at sea, appeared to reflect the same confusion that he had. Doubt mixed with desire.

Desire won. His lips pressed down on hers. He tasted her lips, then his tongue explored her mouth, tentatively at first, then with a sense of growing urgency.

Her arms went around his neck, and his arms tightened around her, drawing her near. Her gown was muslin and feather light and he could feel her body through it. Soft and supple but with strength. No girl's body, but a woman's.

He felt it change as his hands stroked her back, then moved to her breasts as his lips continued their seduction of her mouth. He felt her tremble as his fingers played with her nipples, erotically, intimately, feeling every response: the swelling, the hardening of the nipple. His lips moved down toward the throbbing pulse of her throat and nuzzled it, feeling her quiver, almost vibrating under his touch. He knew exactly what those tremors were, because they were rippling through him, too. His body was no longer his own to rule.

His lips drew away from her, and he looked at her face.

Her body was reacting to his, and reacting in a seductive, instinctive way, but the look in her eyes …

Startled.
And her lips … they had engaged his but in a curiously inexperienced way. As if every sensation was new.

She was an experienced woman who played wealthy men against one another, but some of her reactions made him wonder if …

He was wrong. He knew he was wrong. It was just a coquettish game that she played.

His loins were rigid and heated, and he felt as if he were on fire. He couldn't stop now. He crushed her to him again, his mouth insatiable as it tasted again and wanted even more.

“Your bedroom?”

Her expressive gray eyes looked enormous. Desire burned in them. But so did something else he could not fathom.

She hesitated, and he realized she was struggling with something he did not understand. Then a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

He put an arm around her shoulder, guiding her toward the stairs. “Up the stairs?”

“Yes,” she said. Not
oui
, he noticed. Her accent sometimes disappeared. It was obvious she was as comfortable with English as with French, and she used French to portray a certain image.