The Courtesan's Secret (31 page)

And then he kissed her. Finally. It was everything it should have been. Deep and hard and hot. Her breath caught in her chest and exploded there, sending heat spiraling upward and down, coiling in perfect curls of fire and longing. His hand pressed against her derriere, his fist releasing her dress to grab the woman beneath. She met his kiss and arched into his hand, moaning, but not screaming. Not yet. She would not give him that just yet.

His hand moved to the front, to the apex, to the quivering, slippery folds of her sex, and he cupped her.

She was hot. Wet. Trembling.

She wanted to buckle against him, sobbing out his name or some such trite nonsense. Blakes would lose all appreciation of her if she became, literally, weak-kneed. She locked her knees and held on, her hands gripping his coat, her mouth locked on his, breathing his breath, anchoring herself in his arms.

He fingered her folds, softly, testing her. She moaned and writhed against his hand. But she did not scream.

She would not scream until she could do nothing
but
scream, and she was a long way from that. She thought.

Blakes seemed to think differently.

He plunged a finger inside her, a violent action that matched her mood exactly. His mouth still possessed hers fully, his tongue filling her, commanding her to respond. She didn't need to be commanded. She was with him fully, eager to be ahead, to lead him on, to control his passion as he controlled hers.

"I'm in you, Louisa," he breathed against her skin. "Start screaming."

"Make me," she said, staring him down, but she couldn't see him, not really. She was passion blind, her eyes unable to focus, her thoughts chained to his hand and his mouth, assaulted and enjoying every second of it.

He scowled, a look that screamed sensual promise, and plunged his finger into her faster, harder, his thumb brushing against a tiny bud of explosive sensation she had no idea she possessed.

She bucked against his hand, fighting for more contact, fighting against the assault of his hand. She couldn't understand herself, not what she wanted, not what she should have wanted. It all disappeared when she looked into his eyes or plunged into his kiss. Or was plunged into by his hand.

"What are you doing to me?" she whispered against his neck, her mouth almost smothered in his cravat.

"Ruining you," he said, his voice hoarse and low. "Possessing you."

"You... you do it very well," she said, her voice breaking into a high-pitched gasp at some particular motion of his fingers. "The result of much practice, no doubt."

"Shut up, Louisa, and let me ravish you in peace, will you?"

"Lord and Master, I suppose, is what you had in mind," she said as he spread her thighs and plunged deeper, watching her, his blue eyes glittering.

"Oh, I think I've mastered this," he said, his fingers doing mysterious and wonderful things, things which . . . things which...
oh, dear
. "What say you?"

"Shut up, Blakes. I need to scream."

And she did.

Blakes grinned, which she supposed was allowable as he
had
earned it.

She collapsed against him, her legs truly now completely unable to support her, which pleased Blakes inordinately. He withdrew his hand and allowed her skirts to fall back to the floor, sat down in that very pretty chair, and pulled her onto his lap. She was, she was mortified to admit, clutching his shoulders as if he could keep her from falling off the edge of the world, which is exactly how it felt, and breathing so forcefully and so shakily that she was afraid she must sound to him as if she were on the point of death.

Blakes didn't seem to find any of this extraordinary in the least, which was just the tiniest bit irritating. In fact, Blakes couldn't seem to stop grinning. It was, she decided when he actually began to
whistle
, completely annoying.

Of course, it was at that precise moment that the door to the dressing room opened. She tried to jump to her feet, but Blakes, still in that same aggravating mood, held her fast and turned to face the open door, looking, she suspected, like a man about to enjoy an afternoon tart at his leisure. She, naturally, was the tart.

"Oh,
there
you are!" Molly said, eyeing first Blakes and then Louisa. Upon which, she added, "I should have known."

"We thought we heard a, well...a scream," Iveston said, looking over his mother's shoulder. He looked decidedly unconcerned for a man who had heard a woman scream.

"I'm certain you did," Blakes said before she could get a word out.

At which point, Molly's gaze went directly back to Louisa. She looked entirely displeased.

"I'll see about getting a special license," Hyde said, looking appropriately grim and ducal. "It might be best if we not wait the usual length of time for these things, special circumstances and all that."

"Special circumstances, to be sure," Molly said, turning on her heel and walking off. She had a bit of a time doing it as the way seemed to be clogged with bodies.

Louisa elbowed Blakes in the midsection, which proved to be the prompt he needed to release her. She stood, albeit on shaky legs, but she did stand and looked more closely at the opened door and beyond into the yellow drawing room. It
was
clogged with bodies, the bodies of the dinner guests, who, having become convinced that salmon was a shoddy affair when compared to the
affaire
going on in Hyde's dressing room, had left the table en masse. To see her. To see Blakes. To see what they were up to.

Which only required that they look at Blakesley's breeches at a particular point to see exactly what was up and what was pointing.

Melverley, when he heard of it, and of course he would, would not be pleased.

Louisa smiled.

DUTTON was waiting for Blakesley when he arrived at Hyde Park for their dawn appointment. Of course, dueling was frowned upon and there would be hell to pay if they were caught, which hardly mattered as they had no intention of being caught. Besides which, as the whole of the cream of London Society had a fairly good idea of what was to happen this morning and had laid wagers on the outcome, it would have been very bad form for any of them to have reported it or made any attempt to stop it.

A wager was a wager, after all.

Speaking of wagers, Dutton and Blakesley had one which required settling, and Calbourne, there to officiate the duel, was not shy about setting that wager to rights.

"Before we begin," Calbourne said from his lofty height, "there is the matter of the pearl wager. By the terms, it is clear that Lady Louisa did, in fact, choose Lord Henry over Lord Dutton within the proscribed time and, therefore, Lord Henry has won the wager. In case of permanent injury, I do think it would be best if that wager be paid out now."

"You must think he's going to get the best of me," Dutton said, testing his foil. "I shan't be able to pay if I'm dead, shall I?"

"And that would be such a pity," Blakesley said, his voice tight. "Pay up, Dutton. Let's finish our business. I have another appointment in two hours and would not be seen in a lather."

"Going to beg her hand from Melverley, are you?" Dutton said softly.

"Try not to provoke him, will you?" Penrith said.

Penrith had come as Dutton's second. Iveston had come as Blakesley's. It was most convenient as all parties present knew the particulars of last night's events and no tedious explanations as to the source of the animus between Dutton and Blakesley were required. For all that men liked to pretend that they were above such concerns, they truly did love to know every
on dit
, and this duel was going to prove one of the finest of the Season.

"Will you pay your debt or not?" Iveston asked as Blakesley removed his coat.

"Of course I shall pay it," Dutton said, handing his coat to Penrith. "Am I not a man of honor?"

"I don't know," Blakesley snarled softly. "Are you?"

After that, it became very difficult for Calbourne to keep them from each other's throats, which clearly meant that it was the precise time for the duel to begin.

They were well matched in form and skill and temperament. Naturally, it made for an interesting and more than usually exciting duel.

The dawn was hazy and moist, the trees casting heavy black shadows over the trampled grass, the men grunting as the birds of the day sang their first notes.

Louisa, watching from behind a particularly large tree with her cousin the Marquis of Hawksworth at her side as her unofficial chaperone, grunted in concert with every grunt of Blakesley's.

"You don't think they shall do each other a serious injury, do you?" she asked Hawksworth.

"Not at all," Hawksworth answered, as if he had seen innumerable duels in his twenty years.

Ridiculous bit of male superiority, and so typical of males in general. Why, just look at Blakesley and Dutton, jabbing and slicing the air in an effort to skewer each other over... well, over her. It was not at all flattering. In fact, it was flatly irritating. What if Blakesley were killed, or worse, maimed? Who should marry her then and save her reputation? Not Dutton, that was certainly true.

"You are completely ruined, according to Amelia," Hawksworth said almost casually.

"Completely," she said. "Are you going to fight a duel for my honor, too?"

"Blakesley seems the right man for it," Hawksworth said, "especially as he's the one who ruined you."

Louisa cast a speculative glance at her cousin, just a glance as she didn't want to miss the duel, and these things were rumored to be over and done with very quickly. She didn't want to miss what was certain to be her only duel.

"I think you may be a coward, Hawksworth," she said. "Certainly that cannot be said of Blakesley, who fights Dutton for my honor."

"He fights Dutton for his own honor, Louisa," Hawksworth said, not even bothering to appear insulted. "No one has insulted me or even Amelia, why should I be desperate to fight?"

"You
are
a coward, aren't you?"

"Because I am not eager to get myself filleted? And over a woman?" Hawksworth laughed under his breath. "Fine. I am a coward."

It was at that moment, the moment when she was going to seriously chide Hawksworth for not displaying the proper manly traits, that Blakesley's foil sliced a neat line along Dutton's shirt, leaving a slim trace of blood behind. Louisa gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth. The last thing she wanted was to be found out and cast out. Actually, the last thing she wanted was to see Blakes bloodied.

Apparently, Dutton felt similarly for he spread wide his arms, tipped his foil down in a gesture of elegant defeat, and said, "Has honor been satisfied, Lord Henry?"

Blakes took a hard breath, staring at Dutton through the brightening day, and tipped his sword down. "Well fought, Lord Dutton," he said.

"Lord Henry," Dutton said, bowing just before he handed his sword to Penrith.

"You will not bother Lady Louisa again," Blakes said.

"That I will not," Dutton said.

The two parties swiftly departed the park after that, but not before Blakes looked over to where she stood with Hawksworth and smiled stiffly. Louisa gasped again softly and buried herself behind a very large and very dirty tree.

"Do you think he saw me?" she whispered to Hawksworth.

"Assuredly," he answered, adjusting his glove, looking at her in bored sophistication. Blasted Hawksworth, to behave so annoyingly; she thought of him more as a brother than a cousin and he knew just how to annoy her because of that closeness.

"How could he have?" she snapped, pulling her cloak closer about her. It was dark blue and should have blended her into the wooded background.

"Perhaps because you gasped and shrieked with every thrust of Dutton's blade?" Hawksworth said.

"I did no such thing!"

"You did exactly that, cousin," Hawksworth said. "It was most distracting to me; I can't think what perils you put the combatants in because of your womanish behavior."

"At least I am no coward!" she said as they turned to leave the scene.

"How could you possibly know that?" he asked, a smile hovering over his lips.

"Did I or did I not manage two men into ruining me on a single night? If you think it takes no courage to be publicly ruined, you are truly the callow youth I always believed you to be."

"Cousin, I apologize," he said, taking her elbow like the finest of men, which is what he was reputed to be, outside of the family, that is. "You are no coward. But can you brazen your way into marriage? That will be the true test of your mettle."

"Of course I can," she said with more confidence than she felt, even after watching Blakesley's heroic display on her behalf.

"I'm so relieved to hear it," Hawksworth said, "for if you cannot, then I don't see any way to avoid fighting a duel for your honor. That would be most inconvenient as I am an acknowledged coward."

"DID he just say he was a coward?" Matthew Grey asked.

"A jest," his father, John Grey, answered him as they slipped back into the darker shadows of the wood.

They had watched the duel, of course. As warriors, they were interested in acts of valor and of aggression, and they had not been disappointed by the morning's entertainment. Sophia had told them of it, naturally, knowing they would find it instructive. John had seen enough of Englishmen, and French, to understand the nuances of their battle games, but his sons had not. Or, perhaps it was more accurate to say that his sons could always learn more.