Regency Rogues Omnibus (41 page)

Radford watched Saxonhurst flipping several strands of his ridiculously long maple-brown colored hair back over his shoulder with the use of a small hook attached to where his right hand had once been. Really, Saxonhurst must have hurried with the news to tease and irritate him, because he never wore his waist-length hair loose like he was, Radford thought.

“Well?” Radford raised his eyebrow over his black eye patch.

“The way I see it, it is clearly a challenge. A challenge that was made directly toward you. Although, I do not know her. I have never heard of the lady before.”

“Lady?” Radford felt the hawkishness of his emotions intensifying. A demoiselle betting on the books at White’s was summarily unheard of.

Saxonhurst continued grinning, persistently more, seriously nettling him, and torturing his impatience, as he still hedged. “A handful she would have to be, Rad.”

“Saxonhur—” Radford began to threaten.

“Lady Nia O’Shea. I do so love to tease you.”

“You never did before, Saxon.” Radford’s remark was banked with newfound curiosity.

“Of course I did! Before . . . well the accident where I lost my hand and you lost your eye.”

“No, you did not.”

“Well then, I think I shall start . . . with you!”

“You’ve met a woman then?” It was the only logical reason Radford could think of. It was past time finally, for his normally solemn and reticent friend.

“No, no of course not. Simply a new leaf turned for the better let’s say. I am extremely tired of the wallowing.”

“Touché, my friend.” Radford smiled slightly with the hope that this could be true.

“The Lady Nia O’Shea has bet a small fortune that she will marry you in a fortnight!” Saxonhurst blurted out in a joyful manner. “Exactly put the wager states, I will have Lord Sutherlin bridled in marriage and bedded in pleasure, by . . . so on and so on.”

“Bridled and bedded!”

He was offended.
And it was ridiculous that he was, yet it felt rather demeaning in an odd sort of way. He should be thrilled. He should be puffed up like a manly peacock that a lady wanted to bed him and in this morally strict day and age, had proclaimed it so vocally and brazenly for all to witness. This was exactly the sort of woman he was hoping for, wasn’t it?

“Really, Rad, I thought you would be pleased.”

“I should be, Saxon, shouldn’t I, but...”

“Hm, feels rather odd being the pursued rather than the pursuer, perhaps, Rad?”

“Exactly. Yes, that must be it. Brazen tart, isn’t she? The language too, is meant to humble, titillate, and yet challenge.”

“Witty is good.”

“Yes, witty is number one here on my list.”

“List?”

“Yes, it occurred to me that I ought to have some idea of what I thought favorable besides nice tits, ass, and long legs.”

“I prefer short legs.”

“Really, Saxon? I did not know. Well actually, I realized after I started compiling the list that all women have beautiful endowments of one sort or another. However, when speaking of a wife these other characteristics become monumentally important. I never realized.”

“Characteristics, Rad?”

Radford turned the top piece of parchment on his desk toward Saxonhurst, who leaned forward. “Ah, loyalty, number one? As in not having affairs? Really, Radford?” Saxonhurst appeared surprised and the thought further rankled Radford, another oddity, he pondered, as Saxonhurst said. “Ah, the spying then, I see, Rad. But we no longer do that.”

Radford realized his mistake nearly too late to cover it. Really the wager must have him more rattled than he thought. He was not usually so sloppy. And he would never admit, even to himself, that the recent news that he might be losing the sight in his one remaining good eye had anything to do with this question of loyalty now. He had no aspirations of pity from anyone and so he sought to cover his
faux pas
quickly. “Yes, however humor and wit should be placed higher on the list. I had not set them in their proper order of importance yet.”

“You will have no argument from me. I miss humor and I am set to find it again.”

“Good for you, my friend.” Radford nodded to Saxonhurst.

“Well, you have not added brazen to your list here, Rad, and this Lady O’Shea certainly has that.”

“It is extraordinarily daring for a lady in this day and age, is it not?” Radford mused.

“Extraordinary. One might say ballsy, if we were not speaking of a woman.” Saxonhurst quipped.

“Intriguing.” Radford pushed the parchment paper around on his desk in an absent manner. His entire countenance felt energized in a way he had not experienced since the days of spying for the Archangels and England. Bittersweet. He had not allowed himself to realize how much he missed the thrilling pump of excitement thrumming through his tall frame, for an adventure about to begin.

“What will you do, Rad?”

Radford lifted his gaze to Saxon. “Nothing.” He felt oddly unsettled and he refused to acknowledge to himself the profoundness of his intrigue in this matter, so he fell back on his ever ready arrogance. “She will come to me. That is the plan and I never deviate from a perfect and brilliantly set plan. They will
all
come to me.”

Four hours later, Radford irritably slapped his leather gloves against his tan riding britches as he stood outside a decorous townhouse, one among many in London. Intrigue and irritation were proving to be winning combinations with him, and that coupled with the words ‘bridled and bedded’ blaring in his head, now found him standing in front of Lady O’Shea’s townhouse.

“Truly the lady has to be a minx,” he muttered, striding up to the front door. He really had no idea of what to expect. It was as unfathomable as was his presence there and for a man who assumed that he favored organization in all things to the point of an obsession, his actions now were bordering upon a nearly uncontrollable urge. Given that, he strove to hide his underlying reactions with a more arrogantly aristocratic facade. He knew that stance well.

When the door opened to an elderly, yet immaculately dressed butler, Radford merely flipped his calling card over with a snap of his fingers beneath the butler’s pinched nose. It was a wordless and pompous advance, with the word, “Duke,” blaring out of the pristine white card in so bold a manner as to have any butler worth his salt bowing and shuffling. Radford was therefore immensely surprised when this butler bared his teeth, and said, “I shall see if my lady is receiving.” Then, the short little man summarily shut the door right in his face.

“Balls.” Radford looked at the card outstretched in his hand. “What gall,” he muttered.

Then suddenly, he laughed, looking up at the door. He had arrived at birth in his cradle as a Duke and in all of his years, except for playing guises in spying ventures, he had been treated as though he was royalty to the point of irritation. He did not bemoan his good fortune, but some of the continuous trappings and attitudes were wearisome.

“The woman is completely peachy,” he declared with a chuckle and to him the word peachy meant sassy and impertinent, with touches of an original free spirit. He could not wait to meet her. Therefore, instead of turning away offended, he stood like a lower class clod upon her front door step.

He consoled himself with the fact that had the door not opened a moment later, surely he would have left, defeating the urge inside him to meet the brazen mystery woman. Also, within his few moments of reflection, he decided that his best, and for the justice of all males in any corner of the world, that his only course of action was to set a challenge to a challenge. The free spirited filly that he was about to meet needed to be set down a peg or two. Being a Duke was one thing, but more importantly first, he was a man. And his masculinity was rising to the occasion, spurred on by a witty and pernicious feminine advance.

“Lady O’Shea, has agreed to receive you, my lord, in the front parlor.”

Radford immediately noted the butler’s blatant leaving off of his proper noble calling of, “your grace.” And, he was equally certain the blaring
faux pas
did not come from the butler’s impertinence, but from the lady of the house’s orders.

Chapter Four

Radford sat with deceptive quietness in Lady O’Shea’s front parlor absently toying with the edge of the leather chair. The room spoke of subdued elegance with richly embroidered fabrics in reds and gold’s. There was an English hand-woven rug on the floor, in the unique color of black with honey-colored trim, and the entire room was set off with mahogany wood embellishments. Definitely not a feminine room, but highly sophisticated. The lights were low and cast a yellow glow over the books on the shelves. He considered wandering over to look at the titles to discover what might impress an overly bold
femme fatale
such as Lady Nia O’Shea, and he was just at the point of standing when suddenly the lights went out.

Radford stiffened. He was instantly alert and his senses jumped to heightened attention, more so than moments before.
Hm
. With much more blase than he was feeling, but with an innate sense of calculation, he sat back down to wait out the unusual turning of events. He knew that it certainly was not a mishap that had darkened the room, and his curiosity along with some years of trained instincts in the survival of dangerous situations, rose to his command.

Within seconds his eye adjusted to the blackness. At the same moment that he felt the distinct embodiment of a presence joining him in the room. He took a deep breath reminding himself that this was not a perilous covert mission for bloody old England, but rather a lady’s front parlor. There was not enough light for him to actually see anything, yet he could feel some airy movements off to his side. He sat completely still, trying to focus.

Yes, there it was.
A tiny movement just at the edge of his vision. He turned his head slightly and lost it again. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled. There was definitely someone in the room with him. He had the impression that the shape was willowy. Then yet again, he caught a movement at his periphery, it alluded to a tall form, silently moving toward him with the subtle scent of vanilla preceding it. He knew then, with a deep and drugging instinct that it was she.

Lady Nia O’Shea was stepping carefully in the pitched darkness, walking toward him. Still, he sat in silence, awaiting the next move to be made.

“I see that you have heard of my wager, your grace.”

Somewhat startled by the sudden sound of a voice issuing forth from the darkness, Radford first noted the Irish lilting to it, along with an enticing and husky feminine quality. A minx’s bedroom voice.

“Do you always greet your male visitors in the darkness,
cherie
?” Radford deliberately used an improper endearment to address the lady. She should be scandalized at the blunt forwardness. Curiously, he found himself hoping that she was not shocked at all.

The laugh that sounded was feminine, yet full-bodied and true. It stirred him instantly. “There are no secrets in the dark . . . are there? The senses do not lie, don’t you agree, your grace?”

Radford chose that moment to rise, and as he perceived, to gain a small advantage. He could readily feel the lady’s nearness to him. Her scent filled him, yet strangely he could not hear any accompanying sounds to her movements, except for her breathing.
Where were the rustling sounds of a lady’s full skirts?
It was a sound that was as ingrained into his hearing as his own voice. The absence of such a sound was blaring in his mind. He seriously began to wonder what it was that the lady was wearing, because he could only imagine one logical reason for the absence of that sound.

He turned suddenly and caught the briefest glimpse of pale skin. Thoroughly astounded, he realized that the lady was quite possibly
nude
. However, his instantaneous and incredulous amazement halted his complete belief that it could be true. No lady would do such a thing. Belatedly, he realized that he might expect the light to come crashing on with Lady Nia to be there in all her glorious nudity, as her aghast mother stormed into the room, and summarily caught them in a compromising position, to then begin the recriminations and blackmail into marriage.

It was only by a most unusual leap of faith that he stilled his inclinations of alarm. Nothing in the lady’s emboldened overtures thus far added up to ensnaring him by underhanded means. “What I do agree too,” he murmured, with less calmness than he was feeling. “Is that you have no hope of winning your flamboyant and pretentious wager, cherie.”

“Handsome, bonny lord.”

Radford tensed as the sound of Lady Nia’s purred words stirred the fine hairs on his nape. He had not sensed that she was so close to him. The realization stretched his muscular frame tautly in a sensually thrumming way.

“Can you not appreciate a lady’s willingness to try? And her sincere efforts to try to stir you, your grace.”

Out of the darkness a long strand of silky hair brushed suddenly against his jawline, then settled over his shoulder, before being whisked away. Radford had the impression of movement behind him with the air stirring around him as though Lady Nia danced slowly and closely to his back. His breathing deepened and his ever primed manhood stirred with its base tightening. The phantom minx definitely had his attention.