“Come, he must’ve gone upstairs.”
“Oooh! Yes! What a wicked tease! Maybe he’s already found a bed for us . . .”
He rolled his eyes, but finally, he heard them moving off. He let out a weary exhalation and leaned his forehead against the door.
That was close.
“Um, excuse me,” a feminine voice spoke up from the darkness.
Trevor nearly jumped out of his skin.
Not another one!
He whirled around, taken more off guard than any ex-spy should ever be and irked in the extreme by that fact.
It just went to show how out of sorts he still was over, well, everything these days.
But as he focused on an hourglass figure silhouetted in the moonlight streaming through the French doors to the little balcony, he could not believe his eyes.
You have got to be joking,
he thought. Another blasted woman waiting for him?
What the hell?
His eyes narrowed.
Is that what these wenches think of me? That they can do whatever they want with me? Take advantage of me? Use me?
Well, then.
Maybe Nick was right. He had always warned Trevor about being too nice to people. This was what nice, respectable gentlemen got: walked on.
No more, he vowed, suddenly full-on furious at this ambush and fed up with these games.
How this little predatory female had known to lie in wait for him here, he was too outraged to wonder. He truly could not be bothered to care.
Pushed past the point of chivalry, he decided it was bloody well time to fight fire with fire. Teach these huntresses a lesson they’d never forget. He didn’t know which one had trapped him this time, but she was about to get more than she had bargained for.
“Well, my dear,” he purred, stalking slowly toward the shapely outline of the woman. “Here we are,” he said coldly. “Alone at last.”
“What? Oh—I—um—I’m sorry—I—”
“Don’t lose your nerve now,
chérie,
” he taunted her in a low, silken voice. “You’ve got me all to yourself. I’m at your service, I assure you. Such persistence deserves to be rewarded.” He moved closer. “I’m here to give you what you want. So let’s get started, shall we?”
G
race stood there tongue-tied as Lord Trevor Montgomery stepped out of the shadows, looming before her like a mighty fallen angel with merciless hatred in his eyes. There was not even time to scream as he swept her roughly into his arms; he clamped her against his iron chest and claimed her mouth in an angry, insolent kiss.
S
o this is what goes on in London.
Grace feared she was in shock.
Fortunately, she was not the fainting sort. Who knew what this assassin-spy-pirate might do to a lady if she lost consciousness?
As it was, she barely knew what hit her. One moment, she was minding her own business, checking her teeth in the mirror, smoothing her hair before George dragged her onto the dance floor; the next,
he
had invaded her solitude, slipping into the room, all stealth and effortlessly smoldering seduction.
Silent as a marauding wolf.
At least she knew now her assessment of him back in the ballroom was right.
Something was definitely wrong with this man. An oversized ego, to start, paired with a nonexistent moral conscience. A gentleman did not go around grabbing random women and jamming his tongue down their throats.
On the other hand, half-swooning, Grace had to admit he was rather good at this.
His touch was a little more forceful than necessary as he stroked her body and held her. He seemed to be trying to scare her with the fierceness of his ardor.
He obviously did not know her very well. It was a point of pride with her that she did not scare easily (other than her general terror of Lady Windlesham).
Indeed, after the initial shock, she was more curious about this kissing business than anything.
Which was rather bad of her, she supposed. But after all, it
was
her first kiss.
Might as well enjoy it . . .
T
revor liked the way she tasted. Which annoyed him, considering his deliberately rude intent was to put the little harlot in her place.
Holding her more tightly, he plundered her mouth, driving her lips farther apart with his kisses while he stroked her silken neck. Her startled squirming against his body, combined with the sweetness of her tongue, lit a fire in his blood that had long fallen into cold, dead ashes. With a needy moan, he clutched her harder by her waist, petting her everywhere, cupping her delicate jaw in his other palm. His heart thundering, he was shocked and a little appalled at his own response, considering that he was usually a perfect gentleman.
But to his surprise, in this moment, giving in to raw lust felt glorious after going so long without.
He hadn’t had a woman in months, since well before he had been taken hostage, and before that, he’d lived like a monk, saving himself for Laura.
What a fool.
It was bloody well time to break his fast, he decided.
He wasn’t usually this spontaneous, but then again, it wasn’t usually autumn in the middle of June.
The whole world was out of sorts, including him. Nothing made sense anymore, so why should he follow his usual rules?
Longingly, he cupped the luscious stranger’s breast, soft, generous, and round. Yes, tonight maybe all he needed was warm human contact, some kind of connection.
Whoever she was, he would take the release she was offering. Then, maybe once he’d cleared his head, he could finally start to get on with his life. Begin to let go of his anger, though anger sometimes seemed like all that he had left . . .
G
race honestly did not know what was wrong with her. Her body was now willfully ignoring clear orders from her brain. He was just too delicious.
Push him away! That’s quite enough!
her usual prim side yelled at her. Who did he think he was, anyway? This man had no right to grope her, kiss her, treat her like a toy made for his amusement. Not her, of all people!
A preacher’s daughter. A Sunday school teacher!
But her long-starved flesh seemed to have other ideas about who she was, secretly, deep down.
Maybe in some shadowed corner of her heart, she wasn’t so different from the ex–soiled dove, Marianne.
Well, she might be the soul of respectability, but in his arms, she learned for certain—if there had been any doubt—that she really
wasn’t
an angel, as George and so many others liked to believe.
Oddly enough, she was glad of the reminder as this stranger showed her another, wilder side of herself. Her flesh thrilled to his fevered stroking. Her skin glowed, awakened by him; her lips swelled like blossoming roses beneath his masterful seduction; her toes curled in complete insubordination.
But while her nerve endings tingled with forbidden pleasure, her conscience was at a loss.
This had to stop.
Had
to.
She was not a hussy like some of those women in the ballroom. She was a lady, a good influence on others, and she most assuredly did not go around sharing torrid kisses in dark rooms with tall, dashing spies.
All right, that’s quite enough, big fellow.
Panting, she flattened her hands against his chest but forgot again to protest, marveling at the wall of muscle in front of her. Fortunately, he seemed to get the message anyway and let her up for air with a low rumble of velvety laughter.
“My, my, you don’t know what you want, do you, sweet? You’d better figure it out fast, or I’m going to make the decision for you.” He tilted his head to come in for another kiss.
“No—we can’t!” she panted with an air of desperation.
“We already are.”
“But I don’t even know you!” she whispered, her chest heaving.
“So? I like your eyes,” he answered, studying her with a roguish little smile made to devastate the female heart.
“Sir! This is most improper!”
“Indeed,” he agreed in a hearty murmur.
“You mustn’t—”
She couldn’t talk with her mouth full as he swooped lower, his warm, clever, questing tongue dancing with hers.
Grace felt faint with the unbearable temptation.
But when his fingertips skimmed her neckline, something about the expert tug at her clothing thankfully brought her out of this decadent enchantment.
What was she doing? This was insanity.
He was still kissing her as she flicked her eyes open wide. “Floor or the couch,
chérie
?”
Such a question! She stopped and looked at him in shock.
“You’re right,” he breathed, “who cares? Just make love to me.”
She quivered violently.
And just when she thought she was going to have to resort to kneeing him in the groin—a ploy she’d heard worked well, but had never tried—he reached under her backside and lifted her up off the floor, setting her gently on the scrolled, padded arm of the sofa.
“There we are, nice and cozy,” he ground out as he slipped the hem of her gown upward over her knee and stepped between her legs.
Dear God! She started to panic in earnest. This had got entirely out of hand.
Now that she was pinned on the arm of the couch unable to kick him, the only weapon that came to mind was the pearl-tipped hairpin buried in her chignon.
With a gulp, she reached up and slid it out of her hair, and as it brought her long tresses tumbling down about her shoulders, she braced herself.
And did what she had to do.
She jabbed him in the arm with it.
“Ow!” The famous hero released her abruptly and stepped back, clapping his hand to his opposite biceps. “What the—?” He looked at her in astonishment.
Grace held perfectly still, her eyes wide, her heart pounding. She dearly hoped he wasn’t the most soulless sort of assassin, but then, he worked for the Crown, so he had to obey the law like anyone else did.
Right?
She continued to brandish the five-inch hairpin like a miniature sword while he checked to see if his arm was bleeding.
“What did you do that for?” he exclaimed.
“I told you to stop.”
“No, you didn’t!”
“Well, I
thought
it!”
He looked at her in exasperation. “Well, I apologize for failing to read your mind, dear lady.” He shook his head in bewildered indignation. “Excuse me, but I thought this was what you wanted. You’re the one who was in here waiting for
me
.”
Her jaw dropped. “I was not!” She gasped, her cheeks turning scarlet. “Is that what you think?”
“Weren’t you?” he exclaimed.
Egotistical brute!
“Of course not!” she cried. “I was minding my own business! I-I had to fix my hair!”
He considered this, then flashed a knowing grin. “Right,” he drawled.
And she lost her temper. The one that nobody back in Thistleton even knew she had. “Oh, how can anyone be so arrogant?” she uttered as grandly as Lady Windlesham herself. “
What,
sir, do you take me for?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” he replied, scanning her person from head to toe, but his eyes danced.
She noticed as the moonlight sparkled in them that they were wolf-gray and altogether shrewd.
“Humph!” Unwilling to honor his cocky response with an answer, she hopped off the arm of the sofa and was relieved when he allowed her to walk past him unmolested.
In high dudgeon, she paced a few steps away to put him at a safer distance, then she pivoted in a sweeping turn and folded her arms across her chest. With a lift of her chin, she fixed him with her sternest look of Sunday-schoolmarm disapproval.
It usually worked on the nine-year-olds, anyway.
“I am no liar,” she informed him. “I certainly did not
ask
you to close the door and douse the candles. That was your own doing. But then, I expect men like you go around grabbing ladies and kissing them whenever you fancy!”
He quirked a brow. “Funny, I thought you were enjoying that as much as I was.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Please leave. Now.”
He glanced toward the door. “Afraid I can’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t make me go out there. Carnivores. They’re after me.”
“Well, you can’t stay in here!” she declared though it took her a moment to figure out what he meant. Then the whole, sordid picture crystallized in her lust-besotted brain. “Oh, Lud,” she said under her breath.
He had mistaken her for one of those shameless hussies who had been thronging him in the ballroom.
He frowned as he, too, finally began to realize his mistake. “Well.” He turned away scratching his cheek. “This is all very awkward.”
“I daresay—!”
“My apologies, Miss, er—might I ask your name?”
“
Now
you wish to know who I am?”
“Better late than never,” he said with a shrug.
“I think not.” She shook her head decisively, though it went against everything in her to be rude. “I’m afraid it’s best if we just part ways without further introduction. Then perhaps we can both forget this unfortunate debacle ever happened.”
“Is that what this was?” he murmured, while Grace ignored a twinge of guilt at her own white lie, for in actuality, she already knew who he was. No introduction was required, at least not on her end of things.
As for him, it was just as well if he never learned her name. It was safer that way for her reputation.
“Very well,” Lord Trevor replied, and though he looked a little nonplussed by the contrast of her cold treatment after such a fiery kiss, he managed a taut bow. “As you wish. My deepest apologies, madam, for this regrettable mistake.” He hesitated, as though he might say more, but then he thought better of it. “Well—that is all.” Pivoting, he headed for the door.
Grace watched him warily, her heart pounding. But when she heard voices in the hallway, she gasped and zoomed after him, grabbing him by the arm. “Wait!” she whispered.
He looked askance at her with a devilish smile. “Change your mind?”
She shushed him in exasperation. “Listen! There are people in the hallway!” she whispered, raising a finger to her lips.
“So?”
“If you step out there now, and someone sees me in here—alone with you, in a darkened room—my reputation will be ruined! To say nothing of my family’s. You are not allowed to ruin me,” she whispered angrily.
“Well, there goes the whole aim and purpose of my life,” he drawled under his breath. “Very well. Don’t look so terrified. I’m sure I can find another way out of here.” Giving her a sardonic look of reproach, he turned away and crossed to the French doors, opening them to step out onto the small balcony overlooking the garden.
Grace followed him uncertainly.
He peered over the edge to assess its distance from the ground below. Then, gripping the railing with a lackadaisical air, he swung one long leg over the side.
“Be careful!” she warned in a whisper, which earned her another long-suffering look.
“Thank you for your concern, Miss—?”
She shook her head again.
“Stubborn,” he taunted, then lowered himself deftly off the outer ledge of the balcony. From there, he took a long step sideways onto a cast-iron rose trellis affixed to the exterior wall of the mansion.
Down this makeshift ladder the ex-spy proceeded to climb as nonchalantly as if he did this sort of thing every day.
Which perhaps he did, for all she knew.
Except for one small snag.
“Ow!” she heard him mutter as she leaned over the railing, following his progress in begrudging admiration.
“What’s wrong?” she called down in a loud whisper.
“Thorn! Not that you care. You won’t even tell me your name. I’ll live,” he assured her in a grumpy tone.
Grace refused to smile.
Upon reaching the flowerbed below, Lord Trevor stepped off the trellis and briefly lifted the middle joint of his finger to his mouth to ease the little wound.
She could not deny that she was somewhat amused.
“Good-bye,” she called as loudly as she dared.
“Good-bye yourself,” he shot back.
She frowned.
Well, nice meeting you, too.
Then she watched him go marching off into the shadows.
Glad he was gone, she supposed that was the last that she would probably see him. After he’d taken such pains to flee the “carnivores,” it seemed unlikely he would return to the ballroom.
She, on the other hand, had better get back down there in short order, or someone might eventually notice she was gone.
You’re dreaming,
she thought, recalling her apparent invisibility to others downstairs.