How to Live Indecently (2 page)

Daphne looked down at her hand, still in the stranger’s warm grip. What she
couldn’t
fathom was that she’d run into the night with a stranger. She’d done “wild” things before; she’d raced the squire’s horse back home in Dorset, she and some other girls had taken a nip of the headmistress’s brandy at school. She’d even sneaked out of school to spend an afternoon at a fair. But
never
had she done something so audacious as to leave a party with a gentleman she didn’t know.

Those earlier exploits paled by comparison. They seemed silly even. They’d been the antics of a girl and because she’d been a girl, she’d been able to get away with them. But she was a girl no more. She was twenty-two, a woman full grown. Beyond the fact that her stranger had been by far the finest-looking man in attendance, there were no excuses for her behavior now. She would be expected to know better at this point. Well-bred girls didn’t go off with gentlemen they didn’t know.

However, it seemed patently unfair well-bred girls were expected to marry them, and she’d had absolutely enough of that particular social hypocrisy. She was tired of being a pretty piece of chattel to be bargained in exchange for her family’s security. More than that, she was finished with “noble” gentlemen who were happy to take advantage of her situation, assuming she’d be all too glad to welcome their advances in exchange for their protection.

She held no hopes the gentleman she was supposed to meet tonight would be any different. She was done with the world of men, at least for a night. Tonight was for her, to be with a man of her choosing, who didn’t know who she was, a man who would demand nothing of her as if it was his due. She was a good girl, she would save her family in the end, but before then, she would have just one night that would hold all others at bay.

They stopped at the end of the alley where it joined the street ringing the square. Her stranger stepped in front of her to shield her from any traffic. The chivalrous gesture gave her time to appreciate the broadness of his shoulders, which did indeed hide her completely from view. She’d chosen her hero well.

She’d noticed from the start her stranger was a well-made man from the breadth of his shoulders to the trim waist beneath his finely tailored evening coat and the long legs planted firmly apart as he surveyed the road. But it had been his smile that had persuaded her to leave the veranda; his smile and those chocolate eyes. A woman could get lost in those eyes. She certainly had. They’d been warm even while being mischievous, eyes full of life and energy. His smile had been temptation itself, urging her to sin with him, yet when she’d placed her hand in his she’d felt safe, as if nothing could harm her as long as she was with him.

He glanced up and down the street, surveying the traffic. “Oh, look, there’s Riordan. Perfect.” He raised a hand to hail the oncoming driver of a high-perch phaeton and Daphne paled. Her conscience rallied one last time, reminding her she couldn’t afford to be caught at this perfidy.

Perfect? This was the worst possible occurrence. As nice as the idea of escaping was, it wasn’t going to work. She supposed she’d known it from the start and here was the proof. They were only a block from the town house and they were caught, recognized by another partygoer. She fought back the fear. Caution accomplished nothing. Tonight would not be without some measure of risk. She must be prepared to take it.

The gentleman in the phaeton pulled up to the curb. “Isn’t the party that way?” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the town house.

“That’s why we’re going this way.” Her companion laughed, unfazed over discovery and by a guest at the same party!

The newcomer cast his eye in her direction and gave her a nod. “I see. What did you have in mind?”

“I’ll need a favor or two, Riordan,” her stranger went on with utter confidence. “I’ll need you to cover for me, for us. You know how we used to do it.”

What did
that
mean? Was he accustomed to running off? The absurdity of what she’d done surfaced again. She knew nothing about him except that he’d dared her to leave the veranda and in her desperation she had. Daphne shot a backward glance at the alley they’d just come down. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to go back and pretend this momentary lapse of madness hadn’t happened. But her stranger squeezed her hand as if to say, “I know what I’m doing.” She swallowed her worries hoping she wouldn’t regret it. Her stranger was making plans to carry them away from the ball.

“Here’s my dance schedule.” He grimaced. “The list was my mother’s idea.” He shared a groan with Riordan. “I don’t know any of the girls on the list, which is all the better for you. They don’t know me either, not by sight. You’ll need to see to these ladies and I’ll need your phaeton.”

“What?” Riordan was all disbelief. “This is my uncle’s rig. He just put new wheels on.” Riordan shook his head. “Oh, no, you can’t have it.”

“I can’t go bashing around London in a hansom cab or on foot.”

“And I can? How am I supposed to get to the ball?”

“You can walk, it’s only a block and the queue for the carriages will take forever. It’s already down the street. You’ll thank me for saving you the wait. You can get to all my mother’s lovely dance partners that much sooner.”

Riordan wasn’t ready to give up. “That’s not the point. Why don’t you take
your
carriage?”

“It will be recognized.” Her stranger lowered his tone, slow and patient. “Riordan, listen to me. There’s nothing to worry about. Your uncle’s still out of town and I’ll be back before the gala’s over. You know it always goes until four in the morning.”

Her handsome companion made good arguments, but it was his charm that made them compelling. Daphne could see Riordan starting to waver much as she had on the veranda.

“You’re sure you’ll be back before four?”

“Absolutely. I promise.”

Riordan climbed down. “All right, I’ll do it. I owe you for one thing or another over the years.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped at a barely detectable smudge on the wheel rim. “Be careful, you know how much my uncle loves this rig.”

“I’ll be back before you know it.” Her stranger shook hands with Riordan and turned to her. “Ready?”

Daphne eyed the vehicle with trepidation. She’d never ridden in such an expensive carriage. Only wealthy gentlemen had rigs like these. Certainly no one in her Dorset village had anything like it. Her father’s carriage was sturdy enough for traveling, but it was older. The family did all their local driving in a pony trap. Whoever her companion was, he had rich friends.

Of course, she’d known from the start he wasn’t a nobody. A nobody couldn’t get an invitation to the Starry Night ball. She’d only gotten hers through the labors of a great-aunt who’d taken pity on the family’s circumstances and offered her a season in hopes of finding her a good match. Daphne did feel a twinge of guilt over that. A lot of effort had occurred to get her here, and she’d run out at the first opportunity. It was enough to make her rethink her impulsive decision.

The stranger smiled reassuringly at her hesitation, misunderstanding the reason for it. “It’s not as impossible as it seems to get up. Put your foot on the rim and grab hold of the seat rail to pull yourself up.” His hands were at her waist, ostensibly for extra support, but there was something more in his touch, something electric and knowing about the way those hands lingered at her hips, reminding her that along with the warmth and mischief in his eyes, there had been an element of potent sensuality too. Her stranger was no foreigner to the pleasures of the flesh.

Daphne pushed aside her hot thoughts and scrambled on board without too much embarrassment, but her clambering was nothing like his athletic vault into the high seat. He picked up the reins with ease and steered the horses into the stream of evening traffic. Daphne held on to the seat rail for dear life. How did anyone manage riding in these contraptions?

“Are you all right?” He looked over at her, his brown eyes full of concern. “Not having second thoughts, are you?”

“I hadn’t realized how far from the ground these were.” Daphne admitted.

“That’s why they’re called high flyers. You can hold my arm, if you like.”

Oh, she liked all right. It was comforting to take his arm, to feel the flex of strong muscle beneath the fabric of his coat as he drove. The earlier sense of security she’d felt flooded back. She was safe with him.

“This can’t go on forever,” Daphne said, relaxing a little.

“What can’t?”

“Not knowing your name. I can’t go all night without knowing what to call you. I have to call you something.”

He thought for a moment and she knew from the hesitation he was debating giving her his real name. “It’s Jamie. James, technically, but my friends call me Jamie.”

“I’m Daphne de—”

“No last names.” He cut in sharply but not unkindly.

“Why not?”

He shook his head and clucked to the horses. “Trust me, it is better this way.”

She understood what he meant. When these eight hours were over, they may never meet again. More important, they wouldn’t have the tools for meeting again, for finding one another. Tonight, he wanted an adventuring partner. He didn’t want a woman who would cling or make demands he had no desire to fulfill. The message was clear. He would not welcome any overture on her part to find him once tonight was finished. The realization stung, but it was best to know the rules from the outset. They would live hour to hour and when the night was over, their association would be over too, regardless of where their adventure led. It was what she wanted.

And it
would
lead somewhere. She was not naive enough to think their adventure would simply comprise driving around in the carriage. She’d seen the want, the primal desire rise in his eyes when he’d looked at her. But his attention had been flattering, nothing lewd or salacious like the lust she’d seen in the eyes of other men.

This man would not take what she was not willing to give. That decision would be hers to control. Even if she was wrong about his nature, she was not without her resources. No man would find her defenseless again.

The real issue was how much she would be willing to give. She had no doubt he could a coax a woman into giving him everything he asked for. If he could coax a carriage, he could certainly coax a kiss. Just the thought of any coaxing sent a lovely little thrill straight to her stomach.

He steered the horses into Piccadilly and Daphne looked about her avidly, drinking in the sights of early-evening London. She’d seen nothing of London at night outside of ballrooms. Another thrill of forbidden pleasure ran through her. “Where are we going?”

“The Egyptian Hall. There’s a fabulous display of ancient artifacts I’ve been dying to see—mummies and sarcophagi.”

Daphne laughed at his joke and let the warm spring evening settle around her, trying to ignore the sense of disappointment. “A museum doesn’t sound all that scandalous.” Maybe there would be no coaxing. It was a supremely depressing thought.

He leaned close to her ear. “Then you haven’t seen a museum with the right man.”

Ridiculous hope surged yet again. Perhaps they’d be scandalous after all.

“This will be the first of our four exciting things before four this morning.”

“Four? Impossible,” Daphne challenged. Most of decent London would be closed within a couple of hours.

He gave her a wink. “My dear Daphne, nothing is impossible.”

Chapter Three

The Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly
9:00 p.m.

Jamie brought the phaeton to a halt in front of the Egyptian Hall. He hopped down and tossed the reins to a waiting boy hired by the museum to watch carriages. Daphne waited for him to come to her side and help her down, relishing the feel of his strong hands at her waist as he lifted her, his touch suggesting he was the right man indeed for museums and much else her active imagination dared to conjure up.

The Egyptian-style façade, which gave the building its name, loomed in front of her, statues of Osiris and Isis flanking the entrance over papyrus columns and a cavetto cornice.

“Isn’t the museum usually closed by now?” Daphne furrowed her brow, taking in the light spilling out from the entrance foyer.

Jamie took her hand and she marveled at how natural the gesture felt. “It’s open late tonight because of the special exhibit.” He dug in his pocket and produced the shilling apiece admittance fee. He picked up a pamphlet about the exhibit and handed it to her, explaining. “It’s a posthumous exhibition of Giovanni Belzoni’s discoveries in the Valley of the Kings. I wasn’t old enough to fully appreciate it when it came through the first time in ‘22.”

He ushered her into the first exhibition hall, his hand warm and confident at the small of her back. His gestures were proof of how ingrained his gentlemanly behaviors were and perhaps some other less gentlemanly behaviors too. His touch implied he was at ease with women, that he knew how to touch not just women but
her.
Daphne was quickly deciding a bad boy playing good was an intoxicating combination and beyond his polished exterior, that’s precisely what Jamie was. Good gentleman stayed on verandas, bowed to society’s dictates and danced with partners of their mother’s choosing. Jamie had done none of those things. Instead, he was escorting a woman he barely knew through a nearly deserted museum, his hand at her back promising all nature of sensual delights in a single touch.

“I’ve never been here.” Daphne trailed a hand over a glass case containing canopic jars with carved stoppers in the shape of animals heads. “Bullock had sold his original collection by the time I was old enough to come to town.” Needless to say, there hadn’t been money to come to town when she was old enough either.

“It was fabulous to see. There were items from Cook’s voyages to the South Pacific in this very room. Then there was the Africa Room, which was an artificial jungle full of animals and trees, all life size.”

“It sounds fascinating.” And it did. Such wonders were beyond Dorset, beyond her. What would her gallant gentleman think if he knew he was escorting a knight’s penniless daughter? Sir de Courtenay’s family may have breeding and beauty, but they hadn’t a cent to their name. Her family had barely afforded finishing school for her. A fashionable season with all the London delights when she’d turned eighteen had been out of the question. She’d come out at a little country party hosted at the local assembly rooms and endured the attentions of older men who thought a girl in her circumstances would welcome any advances.