Luck Be a Lady (13 page)

“I'm not c-cold.” The fire leapt two feet away. She could feel its heat along her skin, though it did not seem to penetrate to her marrow.

“No matter,” he said. “That one reeks.”

It did, in fact, have a smell to it. But when the other man had given it to her, it had seemed a veritable luxury. She could not quite bring her grip to ease now. “That's all right.”

“Catherine.” He went down on one knee. The firelight flattered his angular face. He had remarkable eyes, so light, fastened so attentively to hers. He looked at
this moment like a proper gentleman, all consideration and care.

Perhaps he was the first proper gentleman she had met, then. She could not recall much chivalry from the ranks of Everleigh's patrons.

“Give it over,” he said gently. But when he tugged at the horse blanket, she resisted, shaking her head.

He frowned. Well, she could not blame him for his puzzlement. The lateness of the hour, and the indignity of her recent experience, had clearly scattered her wits. Certainly it had eroded her discretion, for when she opened her mouth, what came out was the blunt, bizarre truth: “I can't seem to let go.”

His hands closed on hers. Large, hot hands, not so different in their feel from any other man's. But no other man had ever touched her like this, massaging the delicate bones of her palms, rubbing the length of her fingers, in a soothing, caressing stroke. “It's all right,” he said. “You can let go. Nobody here to see.”

That wasn't true. “There's you.”

He smiled. “But I don't count, do I? ”

Did he? She studied him. What an odd twist her life had taken. She had fled to a gaming hell for safety, and now found herself inclined not to regret it. For he was right. Of all men, she had the least to lose with him—the most notorious man in London.

Did he truly deserve that reputation? He did not strike her as cruel. Indeed, he had shown her far greater kindness than any—

No.
She could not afford to indulge such thoughts. The consummation had already opened a Pandora's box of wayward desires. No need to add daydreams about his decency to that mix.

But she did let him pull away the blanket. He settled the coverlet over her. It felt almost as solid, as heavy and reassuring, as his grip.

Almost.

She missed his touch, now that he'd pulled away. God help her.

He sat back on his heels, squatting like a field hand as he said, “Clearly three locks weren't sufficient.”

“They held long enough.” Perhaps her brother was still fumbling with the third. She'd heard his curses through the door.

“Held against who?”

“Peter, of course. He was trying to break in.” A shiver traveled through her. “He said . . . he said it was not too late. That matters could be undone, that I could make a decent match. That Pilcher stood ready; that he—Peter, I mean—could take me to him tonight.”

Here was the face O'Shea showed his enemies, she supposed: cold and austere, his mouth a grim slash. “Your brother's got a big mouth,” he said quietly, “for a man who wants to keep these matters secret.”

She sighed. “I don't think Pilcher knows the whole story. From what Peter was saying through the door . . . I gather he told Pilcher that I was planning to elope.” It made no sense. Would he have encouraged bigamy? “I can't imagine what he was thinking. It's done; we are married. I cannot marry again.”

O'Shea blew out a breath, his silver gaze trailing down her swathed figure. “You look all right. He didn't lay hands on you?”

“No. I climbed out the window before he made it inside.”

His brows shot up. “That's a tall house, Kitty.”

She should object to the nickname. She would, next time he used it. “The trellis is sturdy.”

“On a twisted ankle?”

Startled, she flexed her foot. “Why . . . it feels much better, in fact.” Panic, it seemed, made a fine antidote to pain.

He smiled faintly. “You're a bundle of surprises. You got much practice in climbing out windows?”

“No.” She paused, tasting the bitterness of her next words before she spoke them. “Go ahead and say it: you were right, and I was wrong. I was a fool to go back home. I should have known he would want revenge. I embarrassed him by halting that auction.”

He frowned. “Here, now. It's not foolish to think yourself safe with your brother.”

She did not deserve his generosity. “You said it yourself, Mr. O'Shea. He cares nothing for me. And what I did today—why, if there's anything he won't forgive, it's loss of face.” Peter's concern had always been for his image, not the company. How had she forgotten that? “Perhaps I should have let the auction go on,” she whispered. “If I've ruined this . . . if he means to call our bluff . . .”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “It's no bluff, though. It's done.”

True. She'd taken pains to ensure that this marriage was legitimate. The memory of how she had done it rippled through her, an echo of the heat she had felt earlier, lying in bed. She took care to keep her gaze from straying toward O'Shea's bedroom.

He rose, light and lean as a cat. What must it feel like, to move through the world in such a tall, lithe, powerful body? Each step must feel weightless, a pleasurable exercise in grace.

The oddness of the thought made her flush. She stared down at her linked hands as he said, “You'll stay here tonight.”

“Yes, if you don't mind it. But my brother—”

“I'll speak with him. When does he usually leave the house in the morning?”

“I . . . it varies.” On a deep breath, she looked up at him. It put a crick in her neck. He stood almost a head taller than her brother. No fight between them would be fair. “Call me foolish. But I can't countenance you harming him.”

His jaw squared. “I said I wouldn't. But at this point, you'd do better not to waste concern on him. Tit for tat, Catherine. Never give more than you get.”

A brutal but sensible philosophy. “If that's your belief,” she said slowly, “then what do you hope to get from me now? For the contract does not require you to help me in this way.”

He stared down at her, his face impossible to read. It came to her that his bedroom was only seven steps away. If he demanded she join him there . . . if that was his price . . .

“It's late,” he said, and held out his hand. “Let me show you where you'll sleep.”

*    *   *

O'Shea proved far more chivalrous than she'd anticipated. He said he would send someone to the shops in the morning to fetch a readymade gown for her. He opened the door for her, and did not touch her as he escorted her into the adjoining apartment.

He played the gentleman very convincingly. But why? As shock faded, her brain began to click into
working order again, and his gentleness began to alarm her.

He had no reason to be kind. He was after something. And she . . . was falling for his trick. This man who had spoken to her so vulgarly in his vehicle earlier—she was softening toward him, surrendering all her native defenses. Longing for him to touch her again as he showed her the points of the suite where she would stay.

She couldn't allow it. She let him bow over her hand before he started for the door, but she made herself call after him. “Don't think I don't know what you're doing,” she said. “I'm well aware of your strategy.”

He turned back at the door. “What strategy is that?”

“Charm, I believe it's called.”

He widened his eyes, japing astonishment as he slouched against the doorframe. “Never say. And here I'd heard I had the charm of an ox.”

“I said you had the subtlety of an ox,” she said. “But I know these tricks. You're a practiced flirt with a handsome face. No doubt you have good success among certain company. But you won't find it with me. Spare yourself the effort.”

“Handsome face.” He offered her a lopsided smile. “Are we turning to compliments now?”

“Do you imagine me incapable?”

“I had doubted, once or twice.”

“Oh, but I know this game very well. You're not the only handsome face in this room.”

“‘Handsome' isn't the word for it,” he said evenly. “With a face like yours, darling, you could have been a courtesan to princes.”

Surprise prickled through her. She squashed the emotion. “Yes,” she said. “Perhaps so.”

His head tipped as he considered her. “You don't sound pleased about it.”

“What is there to be pleased about? Nature worked a fine trick on my features.” And that trick grew very inconvenient when it attracted interest from men like Pilcher. “It was none of my doing.”

“Well now,” he said slowly. “Forgive me for a thickheaded ox, but that's the strangest way to call yourself beautiful that I've ever heard.”

“I suppose you would think so. There's the difference between us: I have no interest in my looks. I had rather rely on my brains.” She forced a sharp smile. “But then, that choice is reserved for people of actual wit, I suppose.”

He laughed! “Be as harsh as you like, Kitty. I'd sooner look to a magistrate for kindness.”

“Good,” she said. “We understand each other. You will not try to charm me while I'm here. It's a futile gamble, anyway.”

“Poor Catherine.” She did not like his idle tone. “I'm sure there's many a man who might have charmed you. But they probably lost interest when you opened your mouth.”

She swallowed. His words struck at some tender part of her whose existence she had done her best to forget. “You imagine so? I have been admired by many men. Dozens.”

“Only dozens?” He offered her a slow smile. “Best not compare us, after all.”

“There is no comparison,” she said. “I am a woman of honor, whereas you . . . well. There are words for persons who trade on their physical appeal—all of them too vulgar to speak.”

His brows lifted. “Why spare me? If you want to call me a whore, say it.”

She flinched. “Of course you wouldn't mind that. Lewdness is your native tongue.”

“I speak other languages with that tongue,” he said darkly. “Once, recently, I made you speak back.”

“More lewdness. How unsurprising.”

“If you're wanting me to surprise you, you need only ask, darling.”

“I doubt you capable of it. Nor is it my desire.”

“Is that so?” He came off the doorjamb, prowling toward her. She folded her arms, thrusting her elbows out to prevent him from drawing too near. A smile flitted over his full lips; he laid his hand on the side of her neck, his palm flexing lightly.

“I'd enjoy surprising you,” he said softly. “My native tongue, as you call it, has ideas you've never dreamed of in your virginal little bed.”

Some strange alchemy was at work, for the threat evoked a hot melting feeling inside her, akin more to excitement than to fear. Heavens—was it possible that she'd provoked him deliberately, to keep his attention a little while longer? “I'm no virgin now,” she said unsteadily, rattled by how quickly he made her a stranger to herself. “I have tasted what you offer, and I have no interest in exploring it further.”

“You're lying to yourself,” he murmured.

But she wasn't. She was lying only to him. For suddenly it was plain to her—his touch made it unbearably clear—that she could not count on her own indifference. Those lips, that mouth, the long warm fingers at her throat, were wicked. They made her thoughts turn dark and heated, swollen with curiosity. “I came tonight
from sheer necessity,” she managed. “And I am grateful to you for taking me in. But it ends there.”

“I know it.” He gave her a long, measured look. Then he caught her hand, pried open her fist finger by finger before folding them closed again around a small, cold, sharp-edged object.

A key.

He said, “That's the only key to this room. And there's only one door. You leave it in the lock, nobody will be coming in. Understand?”

She stared at the key. No, she did not understand anything. She understood nothing about him, least of all how he managed to leave her shaken and shamed by her own harsh words to him.

As the door closed behind him, a bitter taste filled her mouth. Again, that haunting question she could not quite dismiss: what if she was wrong about him? What if, despite all evidence to the contrary—his criminal reputation; this gambling den—he was a decent man, who offered his kindness honestly?

The sharp edges of the key cut into her palm. She grimaced and fit the key into the lock. Consideration. Kindness. She didn't want it.
Oh, be truthful.
God help her, but some twisted part of her would have preferred him to ravish her. Between them,
she
seemed the animal.

She distracted herself with a tour of the suite. It was not quite as spacious as his, but the sitting room was handsomely outfitted in neutral tones of cream and bronze. One door opened into a very modern, tiled water closet. The last room housed a bed that looked to be a museum piece. From the doorway, she ogled it. The carved oak canopy—the entire fixture was Jacobean. Were her eyes deceiving her?

She approached, placing one tentative hand against the thick poster. This was no facsimile, she'd wager. It would have fetched a handsome price at auction, for such beds were very rare.

Slowly she turned. The chair in the corner looked to be Chippendale. She hesitated, but there was no point trying to sleep in such a rattled state; she might as well indulge herself. She removed the Trafalgar seat. The outside edges of the front legs looked worn, just as they should. She tipped the chair forward, and found similar marks of heavy use on the back of the rear legs. This was no reproduction.

Amazement prickled through her. What on earth was O'Shea doing with such antiques?