Dancing with a Rogue (41 page)

“And you think
I
might need it.”

“I want you to leave London,” she said.

“Leave?” He was intrigued. That was supposed to be his suggestion.
For her
.

“I can get closer to him without hurting anyone else,” she said, lifting that chin again.

“You mean Pamela?”

“
Oui
. She is a young woman who needs help.”

“And that is your concern?”

“I have made it so.”

“But you hate her father because he did something to someone close to you.”

She was silent.

“Pamela and you resemble each other.”

“Do we?”

“Aye. I thought it a bit odd.”

“A coincidence.”

“I wonder,” he said.

Her body went rigid. “Will you leave?”

“I have property here in England. You do not.”

“Everyone—including you—says it is worthless. And you seem much more interested in the sea. You go to the—”

She stopped suddenly.

He squinted at her. “Where do I go?”

She looked away, then back at him. “I hired someone to follow you.”

“So it was you. Not Stanhope.” He should have realized it wasn't Stanhope. It had never occurred to him that she might have a reason …

“No, not unless there is someone else following you.”

“Why?”

“You were not what you appeared to be. You could have been associated with Stanhope. I did not know whether you were a risk to what I intended.”

“And what did you intend?”

“I told you. I want to destroy him.”

“And then …”

She shrugged. “I will continue as an actress.”

“If he discovers what you are about?”

“No one knows. No one but Dani. And you.”

He was silent for a moment. “Will you tell me who he hurt? And why?”

“No,” she said.

He put a hand on her shoulder and touched strands of hair. Blazes, but it was soft. “We are in this together. You can get me hung. I can do the same to you. Or transported. Is it worth it?”

“Yes,” she said starkly. “And you? You must feel the same.”

He had. He tried to tell himself he still did.

He could not do it. Vengeance might be worth his life. It certainly wasn't worth hers. They were skirting that all-important fact. As for telling her everything about that evening in his father's study, he could not. How could he tell her he had left his father to kill himself? Just as he had not been with his mother when she died. He had failed everyone important to him.

And how could he tell her that the only way he could atone was to fulfill his father's request?

She was watching him as if she had a view into his soul. Compassion was in her eyes. Compassion and empathy. Her eyes were moist.

“Do you have family now?”

“No.”

“No … lady?”

Gabriel felt a certain satisfaction at the question. “No.”

“Was Pamela right? That you really have no intentions toward her?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “Do you really think that I could make love to you and court another woman?”

“I do not know. I still know so little of you. And you left so … secretly the other night.”

“You were not in my plans, Monique. Nor do I believe I was in yours. I had to leave or …”

“Or?”

“I would never have left.”

“And now?”

“And now … I care too much. I am dangerous to you. I want you out of London.”

“I want
you
out of London.”

They glared at each other. But it was a glare that held far more than competition or challenge. The storm was back with all its wild promises. He felt its intensity as the winds raged between them, sweeping away everything in their path. Reason. Caution. Reservations.

All those considerations left her eyes, as he knew they left his own. He took a step forward. She took one. They were in each other's arms, their lips meeting, their bodies melding into each other, their fingers teasing and caressing.

His tongue plundered her mouth, and she explored his. He drew her closer and knew she felt his arousal. Her body responded to his.

God, how he wanted her. They were the two worst people for each other.

Or were they?

He swore to himself.

He had never been weak. Not since …

Her eyes were searching his. Asking. He wasn't sure of the question. He wasn't sure of his own answers. He only knew the draw was irresistible. He had always loved storms, had always been drawn to them despite the peril. His lips tightened against her, then as they remained melded together, he picked her up.

She pulled her lips away. “Mrs. Miller …”

“To hell with Mrs. Miller,” he said as he started to mount the steps.

Her arms went around his neck, and he sensed more than heard something drop. At that instant he did not care. He only cared about her. Monique. The only woman who had made his heart beat quicker, and warmed his blood and quickened his senses.

She was magic. It did not matter who or what she was, or what the future might hold.

Nothing mattered except her.

Chapter Twenty-three

Monique felt his strength as he lifted her so easily. His lips played with hers as he ascended the stairs and somehow managed to open the door of her room.

She heard Dani's gasp. Then a giggle as her friend scurried out the door. Dani never giggled. Monique was so startled at the sound she barely heard the words, “I will tell Mrs. Miller to delay supper,” and the sound of the door closing behind Dani.

The marquess lowered her so she was standing, his lips still melded to hers. Only very reluctantly did she move away. Very slightly.

She gazed up at him, at the intensity in his face, the fire in those usually cool eyes.

Monique had known she should say farewell at the door of her lodgings. Once inside, she knew that she would succumb.

Still, she'd invited him in. Standing here before him, her legs trembling slightly, she wished she could blame someone else. Perhaps even the devil.

But if nothing else, she was honest with herself.

She had not wanted him to leave. She wanted to know more about him. She wanted to know what he intended to do with the jewels. She wanted to know …

Drat, she wanted to know everything about him.

So she had invited him for supper. She thought she could control herself. Now, standing before him, she knew she had been lying to herself.

She had known it when she had changed from the dusty, stained clothes she was wearing. She knew it as Dani took the pins from her hair and brushed it until it shone. She knew it when she'd pinched her cheeks and even added a small bit of color to her lips.

She merely wanted to know more about him, she told herself again. She also needed him to yield this battle to her. They were interfering with each other. She was sure she had the greater grievance, and the greater right to seek justice.

Stanhope was her father.

She knew she could not tell him that.

What would he do with that knowledge?

She did not know. How much did he want his own revenge?

He stood silent, cravat wrinkled and pulled apart by impatient hands, eyes weary.

Her pulse quickened as his eyes turned emerald with desire. An unconquerable aching inside smothered all her arguments. Her words had been armor. His had been the same.

They parried, both knowing that neither would win.

She had never considered herself a weak person. But the moment they were alone it was as if some sorcerer had taken away her will. She'd relished his arms. His confidence. His strength.

Their gazes met as she stood there. Too near. Yet too far. She swallowed hard, then fixed her eyes on his neckwear.

“You can rid yourself of that silly cravat.” His imperious dandy cravat that he had worn since they had left Stanhope's home in the middle of the night was now stained and wilted.

“Surely not silly,” he said, drawing himself up in fake indignation. And yet there was a huskiness to his voice, a catch in it that told her he was feeling all the emotions that she felt.

Drat but she was drawn to him. From that sandy hair and those clear green eyes that seemed to see right through her, to the lean hard body, he was irresistible.

So was that bit of larceny she'd seen in him.

She would be hard-pressed to say why she had been drawn to the popinjay from the moment he'd rescued her at the theater.

Perhaps …

There was no such thing as two souls intended for one another. 'Twas nothing but an accident of fate, and they both had futures that precluded the other.

Still …

Still, she could not step away from him. She heard a noise coming from deep inside his throat, a groan of private protest, but like her he seemed unable to heed it. She understood then that he had some of the same demons as she.

He bent his head again and their lids met, and she was lost in a flood of sensations that had no reason. They were like gluttons, soaking up the essence of each other, and she realized they had been starving for each other during those wretched hours in the coach. All that time, they had been reaching out for each other, stopped only by their companions and their competing goals.

Monique felt his mouth drive hard against hers and his arms went back around her again, one of his hands burying itself in her hair.

He drew her body closer to his, as close as they could come with clothes separating them. She trembled as one shock wave after another jolted through her. Heat licked around the core of her as he pulled her tighter against him.

All thoughts disappeared, swamped with an overwhelming longing even stronger than those on the first night he had taken her to bed. She knew now what to expect, the glorious sensations …

She had no will when he was around, when he touched her. And now he was doing just that. Every place. His mouth was hard against hers, his tongue seductive as it teased her lips into opening, then explored, hungrily at first and finally incredibly gentle.

His fingers ran around the back of her neck, massaging her tired muscles until the tension faded from them, and her body relaxed against his. He unbuttoned her dress, and his mouth moved from hers and feathered her neck with kisses as his hands tugged her dress off.

She stood in her chemise, her body shivering with reaction from the seductive gentleness of his touch. Hot searing need was building in her, sending tingling sensations through every nerve ending.

Every resolve, every defense she thought she'd constructed tumbled away like sand carried away by seawater.

He guided her to the bed, then took off his cravat, followed by his shirt. He sat down and pulled at his boots while she watched.

He cursed under his breath, but she got the sense of it and couldn't help but smile. He was usually very efficient when no one but her was around to observe.

She left the bed and found a chair, moving it toward him. Then she took the heel of the boot and pulled.

She went over backward as the boot pulled loose.

Startled and chagrined to realize her chemise had flown up to reveal two stockinged legs, she scrambled up, knowing she looked like an awkward child.

But he was there, one boot on, one boot off, looking concerned and amused. He leaned down and offered her his hand and with one gentle tug she was up on her feet.

“You would not make a very good valet,” he observed.

“You are an ungrateful wretch.”

His finger touched her cheek. “Are you hurt?”

“Only my pride.”

“You looked lovely.”

“With my legs over my head.”

“Fetching,” he corrected.

“And you look a bit odd with one boot on.”

“I hate the bloody things,” he confided. “But they seem to be all the fashion in London.”

“What do you usually wear?”

Mundane things
. They were talking about mundane things. And yet their words were breathless, underlaid with unsaid suggestion.

She looked up at him, and his green eyes were intense, even brooding.

“Not these bloody things,” he said, avoiding her question as he had avoided so many others.

Her hand went up to his face. There was the slightest bristle now.

“You still have a boot on.” She knew her voice was little more than a whisper.

“Do you want to try again?”

“I think I will watch you,” she said.

He obviously had more incentive. His boot came off swiftly.

Then he stood. She untied the laces of his breeches, slowly, awkwardly, distracted as she was by lips that trailed kisses from her cheek to the nape of her neck.

When she finished the ties, her hands went to his chest, exploring the hard ridges, the muscles that flexed slightly under her touch. His body was rigid, her own alive with shots of electricity.

He released her, stepped out of the tight breeches, then pulled her chemise over her body. There was no corset. She had taken it off earlier when she had first arrived, and now there was nothing between them.

He held out his hand and guided her down on the bed and lowered his own body until he hovered over her. He kissed her hard, demanding, seeking. The kiss—and the touch of his body—ignited an explosion inside her, a series of detonations that exposed a raw craving so strong she knew it must be satisfied or she might well explode.

She put her arms around him, slowly pulling him down to her, feeling his need, the throbbing that teased, then entered her. Slowly. Carefully. There was no pain now, only expectation, only an overwhelming need to know whether this new journey would be as powerful, as exquisite …

He moved in and out with a slow seductiveness that drove her to near insanity. Her body strained against him, and she felt him fill her, move inside with a rhythmic dance that made her body come alive with wonderful, exquisite feelings too complex to ever define. Her body reacted instinctively, joining a primitive dance that evoked exotic reactions that built and built …