She let the pen trace the shape of his name, the long curve of the S, the sharp points of the
k
, the languid roundness of the
e
. She sat still and looked at the name. The stark word did not fit him well. His other name, Grayson Finley, suited him better. She wrote that next to his title. Her hand trembled a little and she moved it before a blot of ink could mar the page.
She closed her eyes and remembered herself returning to her room the night before. She had stood a long time next to her bed, thinking of his command that she sleep without her clothes. The Alexandra Alastair she knew would never do such a thing. But the Alexandra Alastair she knew would not willingly accept the kisses of a pirate.
She must have stood still for nearly thirty minutes. Alice had long since left her and returned to her own bed. The candles were beginning to gutter. And then, slowly, Alexandra had removed her dressing gown. She’d opened her nightdress, one hook at a time, and slid the cloth, warm from her body, down her legs to the floor. She’d stood a moment longer, letting the summer-night air touch her bare skin, and then she’d climbed slowly into her waiting bed.
She remembered still the cool touch of the sheets on her shoulders and calves and belly. The points of her breasts had tightened, tingling as her breath moved them against the sheets. She had pressed the heel of her hand to the hot, aching place at the join of her thighs, trying to suppress the sensations that lingered there. But she had thought only of
his
palm there, and her hand had come away wet.
The dreams she’d had once she’d finally fallen asleep made her face hot even now. She thought again of herself lying in the bed, her bare hips nestled into the mattress.
Except that this time, a pirate lay next to her, his tanned
and calloused hand drifting to her hips.
“Lovely lady,” he whispered. “May I taste you?”
“Yes,” her imaginary self murmured. She braced herself for his mouth on her skin, but instead he laughed, leaned over, and wrenched a diamond necklace—which her fantasy hastily added—from her throat. “Thank you, dear lady.”
Then he kissed her, hard, on the mouth, and rose from the bed, gloriously naked. He sauntered away, his taut backside drawing her gaze, and then dissolved into mist.
She opened her eyes and inhaled a long breath. She dipped the pen in ink again and drew another long curve next to the viscount’s name, this one of a question mark. She finished it with a precise dot.
Jeffrey’s heavy step boomed on the carpet. “Lord Stoke!” he bellowed.
Alexandra jumped, nearly upsetting the inkpot. “Jeffrey, for heaven’s sake, do tap or something before you spring into a room like that.”
“Sorry, madam,” he mumbled. “Lord Stoke is here.”
He was literally there, striding into the room behind Jeffrey. Alexandra sprang to her feet and stepped hastily in front of the writing table.
The viscount gave Jeffrey a dismissing look. Without waiting for Alexandra’s directive, Jeffrey tugged his forelock, turned, and fled.
The viscount closed the double doors behind him. Something he should not do. She should not receive a gentleman alone in her sitting room, doors closed, at six in the evening, especially not one who had kissed her so thoroughly the night before. She started to point at the doors, then thought better of it, and lifted the finger to touch her lips instead.
He came to her, his stride quick. Without asking permission, he cupped her face and tilted her head back. He scrutinized the corner of her mouth, and his frown increased. “Damn.”
Involuntarily, Alexandra’s tongue touched the slight
bruise the bespectacled man had left there. She’d felt it all afternoon, burning her skin like a shameful brand.
The viscount’s eyes were hard as blue steel. “He is sorry for what he did. Believe me, he is sorry.”
“You know him?” She remembered Maggie’s startled exclamation. She had called the man by name. Not only did the viscount know him, but his daughter did as well. That fact stirred her curiosity.
“If you would like him to apologize,” the viscount was saying, “I will arrange it.”
Alexandra did not want to see the man in spectacles ever again. “No, that is quite all right.”
His fingers were points of warmth on her skin. She closed her eyes to it, then opened them again when he spoke. His words were gruff. “I made him know that he is not to accost you again.”
“You did?” she asked weakly.
He traced a circle on the side of her mouth, more warmth. “I made them know that I would protect you. That they should leave you in peace.”
Who should? she thought wildly. The other pirates? Certainly the ladies and gentlemen of the
ton
would not leave her in peace if he went about proclaiming she was under his protection.
The most curious thing has happened, Your Grace. The pirate next door has made himself my protector.
The response would be shock, curiosity, delighted horror. Ruin.
She could stop this now with a well-placed reproof. She was the granddaughter of a duke, not a lady who was kissed in the street, then avenged. That sort of thing only happened to courtesans and high-born ladies in the demimonde. She smothered a sigh. What interesting lives they must lead. “My lord, truly, I am not hurt.”
His blue gaze fixed on her, darkness flickering behind
it. “I have many enemies, Mrs. Alastair.” His voice went low. “I wish you were not so difficult to ignore.”
She was melting again. She could not do this every time he so much as looked at her, so much as brushed his fingertips over her skin. Where would she be then? She was a respectable widow of five-and-twenty, not a giddy girl who let her head be turned by any handsome man. “You are not easy to ignore yourself, my lord.”
His severe frown softened. “That is gratifying.”
His lashes were as golden as his hair. They framed his azure eyes, sweeping down to hide the blue as he studied her face.
He said, “My enemies are deadly, and their games are real.” His voice turned grim. “It would be better if you were away from here entirely. Do you have a house outside of London, Mrs. Alastair?”
She nodded hesitantly. “My husband left me a small house near Salisbury.”
“You should go there. Now.”
His severe look made her heart beat faster. She wondered what was wrong. “I cannot possibly now. But I will leave London at the end of June. To spend time in Kent with the Featherstones, as I do every year.”
He shook his head. “No. Go now to your little house near Salisbury. Stay there until midsummer at the very least.”
Alexandra hated the Salisbury house. It was a perfect little Georgian gilded cage, built in the last century by some aristocrat for his ladybird, sold when the aristocrat’s fortunes declined. Theo had liked to install her there during the summer, encouraging her to have dainty tea parties and walks, while he made the rounds of country houses to sleep with other men’s wives.
She wet her lips. “It is impossible until the month’s
end. I have my soiree next week, and there is much to do.”
He looked at her as if soirees were the most unimportant things in the world. His warm fingers lightly stroked the back of her neck, quite distracting her.
She babbled, “The soiree will be one of the largest of the season’s end, before we all disperse to the country. Dukes and duchesses have already accepted. I cannot possibly cancel it.”
His caressing fingers threaded her hair, and she began not to care about soirees and dukes and duchesses. “You are invited, of course. And your daughter.” She bit her lip. “Though she will have to have a proper gown. I did mean to speak to you about her clothes, if you will forgive the liberty, I mean.”
Her face grew hot as she recalled their discussion of liberties the night before.
He must have remembered as well. His eyes began to smolder with heat, as if deep inside a fire had been stoked to a furnace glow. “Tell me, Mrs. Alastair,” he said. He smoothed a feather-light curl from her cheek. “Did you do as I requested last night?”
She could not breathe. “I did, as a matter of fact.”
The corners of his mouth moved upward. “That pleases me.”
“You suggested it.”
“And would you do everything I suggest?”
“No, of course not.”
His brows lifted, his smile deepening. “Then I wonder why you did.”
She swallowed. When she spoke, her voice trembled. “To discover what it would feel like.”
No other man on her list was this unnervingly masculine. Even the duke, who was near to the handsomest
of her possible suitors, was generally always—well, dressed. The viscount’s loose shirt let his heat touch her directly. She smelled the warmth of him, his sharp masculine scent.
“And what did it feel like?” he asked.
Glorious. And hot. And strange. And for some reason it had made her crave his hands on her body.
She drew a breath. “We are supposed to be talking about my soiree.”
He leaned to her, his body so close that she could no longer speak. “I do not wish to talk about your soiree.” He closed the small space between them and brushed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, right over the bruise.
A strange thing happened. All afternoon she had felt the bespectacled gentleman’s brutal and invasive mouth on hers. Even when she’d strived not to think of it, she was still aware of his mark, like a burning imprint, a sore she could not soothe. But at the touch of the viscount’s lips the hurt and the embarrassment evaporated. Her skin tingled the slightest bit, and then the tingle slowly dissolved, and with it, the hurt.
His lips brushed her like a warm summer breeze. Gone was the assault of the night before—this kiss was healing, gentle, like petals touching her skin. He raised his head slowly, his breath brushing the place where she now felt only his caress.
All thoughts of soirees, Maggie’s clothes, and the unnerving events of the afternoon took flight. Awareness narrowed to his lips on her skin, his body so close to hers, his fingertips playing with the soft curls at the base of her neck.
“I should resist you,” he whispered, “my beautiful lady next door. But you soothe my heart.”
“Oh,” she whispered. Daringly, she lifted on her tip
toes and pressed a light kiss on the scar that pulled his lower lip.
He smiled into the kiss. He leaned to her again and nuzzled her neck. The blazing hot line of his tongue traced itself around the shell of her ear. “Lovely lady,” he whispered.
He slid his arms all the way around her and held her close. The enveloping embrace made her start. Then her heart swelled with something almost like pain. She had not been held like this, with warm, strong arms cradling her, in a very long time. She had hugged her mother close for the last time years ago, before her mother’s illness had advanced and taken her. So long ago. She had longed for children to hold, as her mother had held her, but she had been denied even that simple joy. She had not realized, until this man had put his arms around her, how much she’d needed, and missed, such contact.
She let her head rest on his strong shoulder. How fine it would be to be this man’s lady, to be privileged to rest her head thus whenever she needed to. Beneath her cheek, his heart beat hard and slow. His strong hand slid down her spine, stirring warmth beneath his touch. She closed her eyes.
His stance shifted, and she felt him reach for something behind her. Her eyes snapped open. The list. Sitting on the writing table, face up, easily read by any person who cared to glance there.
She made a wild attempt to swing around and snatch up the paper, but his strong arm barred her way. He lifted it from the table.
Her mouth went dry. Drat, why had she not pushed the list into the drawer when he’d come in? The brandy in the tea seemed to have gone to her head. Her head certainly was spinning now.
He scrutinized the paper, then looked at her as he might look at a sailor who’d tried to tie a square knot and ended up with unraveled string. “What is this?”
“It is—” She broke off. She took a step back and tried to find refuge in haughty indignation. “It is private, my lord.”
His eyes had cooled. Indeed, they could have chilled a hot room on a summer afternoon. “My name is on it.”
Alexandra struggled to find words. She was very bad at lying. She had tried it a few times in her life, and it had never worked. So much easier and heart-soothing it was to babble honesty. The brandy was not helping her either.
“It is a list—”
“I can see that.” The temperature in his eyes lowered a few more degrees. “Of what? It is far too short to be the guests for your confounded soiree.”
She lifted her hands to her face. “Oh, my lord, please, you must not tell anyone of this. I would be mortified beyond belief!”
The paper began to crumple in his palm. “My silence depends on what it is.”
His look was so stern, so completely out of keeping with the silly list of suitors that her curiosity crept in. “What are you afraid it is?”
That, alas, had been the wrong thing to say. His body curved over hers, menace in every inch of him. “I have been threatened with blackmail by the very best in the world, Mrs. Alastair. Some of them I even let leave with their fingers.”
She stared in astonishment. “Blackmail? Why on earth should I blackmail you?”
He held the list before her. “Tell me what this is.”
His look was fierce, but the truth was so ridiculous. On the other hand, if she did lie to him—and her honest
tongue would trip over a lie—what would he do? Throw her through the window? He was certainly strong enough to do so. Or would he—
Their fingers?
She curled hers protectively inward.
She drew a breath. If she said it in a rush, maybe it would not sound so silly. “It is a list of potential husbands. Gentlemen who might be interested in marrying me. And whom I would consider marrying.” There. She’d said it.
Grayson stared at her. He was so used to deviltry and treachery that for a few moments his mind did not grasp what she had said. “Husbands?”
She flushed from the tip of her chin to the line of her hair. “We have narrowed it to seven—er, eight—and plan to pare the list down further by the end of summer.”
Honesty sparkled in her eyes, honesty that went all the way down to her lovely, lovely soul. In Grayson’s life, he had met many liars. He could count on one hand those he knew who were honest through and through. Ian O’Malley, for instance, never hid his inner self. Neither did Oliver, though the man was naturally taciturn. And now Mrs. Alastair. Delightful Mrs. Alastair, who had rushed to his rescue.
But why did her list contain
his
name? And the name of the Duke of St. Clair and the name of one of the most fearsome villains who had ever walked the earth? The man was supposed to be dead. Ardmore said he’d killed
him, and Ardmore was not an idle boaster. Bloody hell.
He released her. She bit her lip, watching him in trepidation.
A list of gentlemen this beautiful creature would consider marrying, with his name by itself at the very bottom. Grayson Finley, Viscount Stoke. Followed by a query mark.
A part of him wanted to laugh. There was merriment in this situation, a veritable chance to tease and play with his lady. At the same time, indignation rose within him. Could she not see he belonged at the top of the list, and all these other callow gentlemen below him?
He laid the paper on the writing table and bent over it. “What are all these stars and crosses and exclamation marks?”
He became aware of her agitated breath on his cheek, of the shimmering curls that just brushed his shoulder. “Nothing, really. They are not important.”
He glanced at her sideways. “I had just decided you were one of the few honest souls I had ever met. Do not try to lie.”
Her face went crimson. “They mean certain things we know about each gentlemen.”
“We?”
“Lady Featherstone and I. The list was more or less her idea.”
He exhaled slowly. He imagined Mrs. Alastair and her cohort sizing up the ranks of London’s bachelors and quietly discussing their attributes. He was not certain whether the vision pleased or frightened him. He pointed to the name Sir Henry Berkeley. “Why does he have two stars?”
“Stars mean children,” she said. “Sir Henry has two. A boy and a girl, ages five and seven. A ready-made family.”
The thought seemed to cheer her. Grayson firmly took up the pen that had rolled to the edge of the table and seated himself. He uncapped the ink pot, dipped the pen, and made a neat star next to his own name. “I have a daughter. Another ready-made family.”
She watched him worriedly, still nibbling on her lip. She was most fetching when she did that.
He touched the pen nib to the paper. “What do the exclamation marks mean?”
Her flush deepened. “It means—that the gentleman is particularly handsome.”
The duke had an exclamation mark. So did, God help him, Zechariah Burchard. But he would get to that.
He drew a careful exclamation mark on the line next to his name. “I have been told I am handsome.”
“Yes, indeed.”
He turned his head at the shy words. She was gazing at him from under her lashes, her eyes all sparkling.
Common sense suddenly intruded. What was he doing? He had no business including himself on this list, as lush and inviting as this woman was. He had business to conduct, a king to find, Maggie to provide for, and a devil’s bargain to keep. He had no time to flirt and play with a lady he could not possibly have. And yet—
Let me
, said his thoughts,
just for a little while
. Let me bask in her elegance, in her innocent chatter of soirees and suitors and gowns. Let me stay in this place so removed from my world, just for a little while.
He smiled up at her, then snaked his arm about her waist and pulled her gently down to sit on his knee. She smelled so good, all cinnamon and honeysuckle. He was right about the opals. They would shine white and soft in her red-brown curls. They had been made for her.
His arousal began to request attention. Her soft little
backside on his knee, her sweet-smelling hair brushing his cheek, and her lovely round breasts so near were stimulating him. He was a man, after all, and she was a most intriguing lady. Nothing else seemed important.
But things were important. He made himself return his attention to the list. “What are minuses?”
She shifted a little, which only brushed her softness closer. “Deficiencies in character,” she answered.
“I see. Then I will not have any of those. And the crosses?”
Her fingers twitched. “Merits.”
“Hmm.” The duke, he noted, damn it, had seven. He touched the pen to them. “Why does St. Clair have so many?”
“Well, he is a duke.”
“Well, I am a viscount. Excellent.” He gave himself a cross. “What else?”
“He is a family friend—”
“I live next door.” Another cross to Lord Stoke.
“I have known him a long while, and he has proved his kindness many times.”
Grayson contained the snarl that built inside him and continued to make crosses by his own name until he came to the edge of the paper. “I seem to have many merits,” he said.
She did not answer. He looked up. She was studying him, her lips pursed, inviting him, though she did not know it, to kiss her. And kiss her.
When she spoke, her voice was very soft. “Are you proposing to me, Lord Stoke?”
He quirked his brow. “Proposing?”
“You are claiming that you are the best candidate on the list. Does that mean you wish to marry me?” Her eyes became quiet, and realms of emotion he’d not seen there
before suddenly opened to him. “Or are you mocking me?”
He studied her cool brown-green scrutiny. Somewhere deep inside this woman lay hurt. Grayson had led a brutal existence among brutal people. But that meant only that he had learned to drill down through many layers to find the truth of a person. With Mrs. Alastair, he did not have far to go to find sorrow. His far neighbor, a baronet who obviously loved gossip, had told him that Alexandra’s first husband had been little short of cruel. Theo Alastair had dressed Alexandra in silks and jewels and let her adorn polite company while he rampaged through the town making the beast with two backs with everyone from penny prostitutes to the wives of prominent gentlemen. Mr. Alastair had kept several mistresses and did not much care who knew. Most embarrassing for the poor gel, the elderly baronet had explained. Relief when he died, don’t you know.
This list meant she was trying to avoid an embarrassing mistake the second time.
He looked into her clear, waiting eyes. “I regret—” he began slowly. He realized, no matter what his arousal was screaming, that he did regret it. Profusely. Why now?
Why did I have to find her now?
“That I cannot marry.”
The open spaces inside her suddenly shut with a snap. She closed her mouth, firmed her lips, and seemed to move ten feet away, even though she remained most snugly on his lap. “Then please leave my list alone.”
She reached out to draw it away from him. He laid his own, stronger, hand on its edge. “Wait.” He lifted the pen and drew a heavy line through the name Zechariah Burchard.
“What are you doing?”
“Do you know Mr. Burchard well?”
“Of course. He is a friend of Lord and Lady Featherstone.” She hesitated. “Although, I suppose he is only an acquaintance, really. They have not known him long. But he is a polite gentleman and very forthcoming, and we know absolutely nothing against him.”
He let his voice go hard and matter-of-fact. “Zechariah Burchard is a pirate. He deals in any cargo, including slaves, and he will sink all who get in his way—naval frigates, other pirates, pirate hunters. What he does to those he captures from the merchantmen is unspeakable. And he has a bad habit of coming back from the dead.”
She blinked. “What on earth does that mean?”
“His death has been rumored at least three times. Each time, he disappears for a while, then appears again. The last time I saw him, James Ardmore had set him on fire.”
Her eyes widened. “Set his ship on fire?”
“Set
him
on fire. He got tangled in a piece of his own burning rigging, and then Ardmore shot him. End of Burchard. And now he turns up on your list of eligible suitors.”
She looked at the list as if she’d never seen it before. “You must be mistaken. It cannot possibly be the same Zechariah Burchard.”
“When did you first meet him?”
“At the beginning of the season.”
“Ardmore killed him last November. Plenty of time for him to lay low, recover—however he did it—and take up residence in Mayfair.” His eyes narrowed. If anyone were a candidate for making off with a French king, it was Burchard. Why the devil he’d want to, Grayson had no idea, but strange occurrences and Burchard often went together.
This meant that Grayson would have to—damn it—talk to Ardmore. Ardmore and his pirate hunters had
been stalking Burchard for years. Grayson would have to break it to him that he’d missed again. He also did not in the least like that Burchard was walking around Mayfair—
meeting with Mrs. Alastair.
Damn, damn, damn.
He did not want to have to search for Burchard and send him either to the grave or to the other side of the world—as far away from his lady as possible—on top of everything else. He had to help the Admiralty hunt a missing French king, and so far, his men had turned up nothing. He had to make certain that Maggie would get as much unentailed money and property as he could possibly leave to her before Ardmore became impatient and returned to his all-out war against Grayson.
He did not want to deal with Burchard and Ardmore and the French king. He wanted to spend time in bed with Mrs. Alastair. She was lonely, she was hungry, and oh, God, he’d never met anyone like her. She had slept naked for him. Inconvenient that he had not been with her at the time, but she had done it. For him. Yes, snuggling under the sheets with this lady for the rest of June appealed to him. Everyone else could go to hell.
Except Maggie, of course. He must keep his senses and keep his head for Maggie.
The vivid vision of the day he had found her suddenly came to him. He remembered the damp Jamaican heat, the slim bones of Sara’s wasted hand, and his utter confusion when she’d led him through the house of the missionary couple to a wilted back garden. He had not seen Sara in twelve years, ever since she had deserted him in a port near Siam. How she’d turned up in Jamaica he did not know, but he’d known from the shadow on her face that she was dying. “Her father,” Sara had announced to the shocked Methodist man and his wife as she’d paraded Grayson past them. “I bring him.”
And there, digging in the dirt with a garden trowel, dressed in a heavy wool skirt and square cotton blouse, had crouched his daughter, Maggie. He remembered with clairty the shock that had coursed through him when she’d glanced up. He’d seen his own mother’s eyes staring back at him, the eyes of the woman he had not been able to save from murder. He remembered how he had sunk to his knees, stunned beyond imagining, remembered the hunger in his heart as he looked into her face and had seen his past, his present, and his redemption.
All of this, every single event that had happened since he’d found his beautiful child, he had begun himself, long, long ago when he had decided to accept the advances of his best friend’s lady.
A man could be so innocently stupid at twenty-two.
He ever so gently slid Alexandra from his lap. She landed on her feet looking bewildered.
Grayson rose. “Cross him from the list and tell your friends to cut the acquaintance.”
Her brow puckered, her lips parted, and ringlets straggled to her flushed face.
Yes, in bed, with her, for the next three weeks.
He decided to leave before he bore her to the floor and shocked her servants silly. Before he ceased caring what the servants thought and simply made her his own.
He put his finger under her chin. “Will you sleep bare for me again tonight?” He found himself unable to keep the longing from his voice.
Her eyes rounded. Outrage? Or fascination? “Sir, you presume.”
He really ought to tell her he liked it when she went all haughty. It made him want to erase her irritated expression with a long, dark hour of kisses. He had to satisfy himself now with giving her a wicked smile. “If you
change your mind, tap on the wall. To let me know.”
She stepped back, blushing hotly. He wanted to laugh. Did she know how beautiful she was, all flustered and bothered like that? If those gentlemen on that list even suspected she was considering them, they would roll over like tame puppies and wave their feet in the air. She would only have to place her hand on the arm of the one she wanted and they’d melt to her.
And then he’d have to break the man’s neck. His arousal demanded he take immediate action, but he willed it to silence. He needed to find an icy waterfall somewhere to calm him down.
He satisfied himself by letting his gaze rove once over her delicious body. Then he grinned at her confusion and left her.
Alexandra ran the brush through Maggie’s tangled curls, gently sorting them. The girl sat at Alexandra’s dressing table, a smock covering her fine new white gown. Alexandra had already dressed in a slip of creamy yellow silk covered by a gown of sheer silver-gray. The skirt shimmered in a pleasing way whenever she moved. Her curls had been caught in a loose knot and twined with pale flowers. A glittering diamond necklace reposed on her breast—ready for a pirate to steal.
It had been nearly a week since the viscount had discovered the list in her sitting room and had teased her with it. She’d been idiotically pleased at first that he had wanted to put himself high on it, and romantic enough to think he’d meant it. And then when she’d blurted her question, he’d turned to her, his eyes subdued, and said, “I regret—”
In other words, no, you silly woman. I am a pirate, I had an exotic island woman as a wife—what would I want with
a widow who needs to make a list of stodgy gentlemen so that she can choose her next dull and stay-at-home husband?