The Rogue (17 page)

“I have heard ladies speak of you,” she said, her gaze traveling over him. “But I did not understand until this moment quite how positively virile you would be.”

He laughed.

Her lashes fluttered a bit. But her smile remained.

“I saw your last partner desert you. But some women are shortsighted like that. When Lady Constance has been married for a few years, she will sing a different tune, I suspect. Now, ask me to dance.”

He smiled.

“Have I misspoken?” she said with another flutter of lashes. “How awkward. I beg your pardon.”

“It is I who must beg yours,” he said. “I am regularly diverted by the brazen incivility of members of your class. But I don't like to return that incivility.”

“Incivility?” Slender black brows arched high. “I flattered you.”

He bowed. “Forgive me, madam. I have had my surfeit of dancing tonight already.”

“Perhaps another time.” Her pout seemed more sweetness than contrivance. “You are refreshing, Mr. Sterling. I should like to see you again. Will you call upon me tomorrow? Three o'clock? I will close my doors to all others so that you and I can become better acquainted.”

It was upon his lips to decline. But Constance's marked interest in Sir Lorian was certainly not idle. She was determined, single-minded, and it frightened him how he could look at the face of a beautiful woman now and still see only hers.

“I would like that,” he said.

Lady Hughes walked away smiling.

Minutes later, Dylan found him. He had a crestfallen air about him.

“She's gone,” he said. “Her father sent her to her aunt's
two days ago. The old bounder just told me with a triumphant smile. Said he'd keep her there till she comes to her senses or I leave Scotland, whichever happens first. Villain.”

Sir Lorian had led Constance into the dance. A waltz.

“Why don't you discover her aunt's location and call upon her there?”

“Thought of that. Considered carrying her off to Gretna Green, or anyplace else. This is Scotland, after all. But you know, cousin, I've decided I'm not that sort of fellow. She'll be my wife someday. Till then I've got to behave like a man of honor with her
and
with the people who'll be my family, eventually. She's fond of her mother and sisters, even the obnoxious wart that's her brother. And of course her father. Never want her to feel she's got to choose between me and them.”

Across the room, Constance smiled at her partner. Hughes held her at a distance. But her back was rigid, the muscles in her arms and the sinews in her neck strained. She was preventing him from drawing her closer as they danced.

“Perhaps she wants you to seek her out,” he said.

“Then she'll send me a message,” Dylan mumbled. “If she doesn't, well . . . She
will
. I'll wait. Edwards cannot keep her from me forever.”

Sir Lorian's hand slid down from Constance's back to her waist, and she stumbled.

“By the way, Saint, I had an interesting conversation with Loch Irvine earlier this evening. Said he just went down to Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. Something about Tor's ship, the one you sent back north after—well . . .”

“After they did business together.”

“Anyway, you know, that secret society . . . Do you think Tor was a member?”

The Torquil Sterling the world knew—perhaps. The man Saint knew—no. He was a carousing devil, but not a murderer. Saint had never understood how the brother he
knew could so blithely trade in slaves. But there were piles of gold to be had in the trade, and Torquil had certainly loved gold.

“You know . . .” Dylan was looking askance again. “It might help my suit with Edwards to have a bit of blunt in my pockets. Do you think . . . might it be time to have that solicitor read your brother's will after all?”

“Why are you so certain he amassed a fortune?”

“Well it couldn't hurt to know for certain, could it? If he did, it would be impeccable timing for me to come into some funds.” He grinned.

“All right.” Ignorance of the truth did not change the truth. “When I am finished here.”

Dylan glanced at the dance floor. “When do you imagine that will be, cousin? Ever?”

S
IR
L
ORIAN WAS
remarkably strong. And insistent. Constance kept her arms locked, her back stiff, resisting his urging to hold her closer. It was the most uncomfortable waltz she could recall.

“How are you enjoying Edinburgh, my lady?”

“It's delightful, all the museums and shops.” She regarded him through her lashes. “But it is nothing out of the ordinary. Not after years in London. I wonder what one does for real
amusement
here. I suspect you know.”

“I imagine I could invent some entertainment worthy of a lady of your sophisticated tastes.” He smiled at her as though he owned her. “Speaking of which, I had the greatest pleasure of sitting in Parliament House beside a friend of yours.”

Had.

“Oh?” She could manage no more.

“Lord Styles.” He was watching her face closely. “A shame he was obliged to go abroad so abruptly. But those fellows who don't mind getting their hands dirty with merchant ships are forever negotiating deals.”

“My father has been involved in eastern trade, sir.” She
forced a tone of teasing indignation. “You mustn't dismiss it so entirely.”

“Of course. But let's not bother with dull talk tonight. Let us instead turn ourselves to pleasure. I understand you are an avid horsewoman.”

“My father breeds hunters. But I ride for diversion only.”

“I'm fond of a satisfying ride. You and I must ride together sometime.” His eyes were tight upon her. “Lord Styles intimated that you have a fondness for the crop.”

Constance's stomach rose to her throat.

“I prefer the carriage whip,” he continued, his grip cinching her waist. “The finest mares perform best when their driver does not spare them.”

She felt her nostrils flare, her hands grow damp, yet could do nothing for it.

“It is a shame that you are unwed, Lady Constance.”

“Is it?” she made herself say.

“My wife and I have membership in a private little society, you see. Only married couples are admitted.”

“How singular,” she choked out.

“It is a singular sort of society. For those of mature tastes.” His smile invited confidences. “But perhaps you won't be long for the altar.” Sir Lorian's tongue lingered on the final word. “Then I might secure an invitation for you to our little society, and take up your riding instruction where my friend left off.”

The musicians drew the waltz to a close. Constance tugged out of Sir Lorian's hold, everything inside her flushing cold and then hot.

“Until our ride, my lady.” He bowed.

She fled. In her head was a twisted sickness of panic and dread as she went swiftly from the ballroom and up the stairs to the ladies' retiring room. Cold water on her cheeks and the nape of her neck would help. Three minutes alone to still her pulse and calm her churning stomach. She could do this. She was no fragile miss. Rather, Diana, a huntress stalking her quarry. Athena, armed for battle.

This time she would win.

T
HE HOUR WAS
late, the crowd thinned. Saint had no trouble following her from the ballroom and up the stairs. She went swiftly, her cheeks pale and fists sunk in her skirts.

On the floor above, women's voices came from beyond a partially opened door. Another narrow stairway led up into darkness.

She would not join other women now. She would never reveal her vulnerability.

He took the stairs three at a time and found her just beyond the turn, in shadow limned in lamplight from below. Back pressed against the wall, she opened her eyes.

He went to her. “It seems you are making a habit at parties of escaping into empty stair—”

She grabbed his hand. Her fingertips dug into his palm.

Sudden anger seized him. “What did he do?”

“Lend me your strength. For a moment, if you will, and I will recover.” She brought them palm-to-palm, twining her fingers with his. The action, so trusting, so intimate and vulnerable, hollowed out his chest.

“My strength is yours,” he said. “Say the word, and whomever has distressed you will know my displeasure upon the edge of my blade.”

“What will you do, Sir Knight?” The barest glimmer of relief shone in her eyes. “Draw on him in the middle of the minuet?”

“If necessary. I have no concern for the rules of your society. I don't care if I am barred from every house in Britain.”

“I was frightened,” she said, memory twisting inside her. “This helps.”

He held her fingers tightly and with his other hand he turned her face up so that she must meet his gaze.

“Before—” he said. “Days ago in the ballroom, you were frightened when I held you.”

“Yes.”

“Are you frightened of me now?” His voice was low, deep, and beautiful.

“No. Yes. I don't know. But I want you to kiss me anyway.”

He took her waist in his hands, wrapping them around her with such secure certainty that a fragmented sigh stole through her lips. His palm smoothed downward, over her hip, capturing the silk of her gown in an exploration of her that was at once innocent and erotic. Then, releasing her hand, he cupped her jaw. With the stroke of his thumb across her lips and the emerald fire in his eyes, he did not demand; he asked a second time.

She breathed, “Yes.”

He bent his head, his lips above hers so close. “You might want to close your eyes for this.”

“No.”

He drew away slightly. “No, don't kiss you?”

“No, I want to see it. The only thing I didn't like about kissing you before was not being able to see you.”

A moment's silence became two. Then he said, “The only thing.”

“The only thing.”

Finally he kissed her.

Softly, his lips brushed hers once. Then again. As though he wished only to capture a trace of her essence, he kissed first her upper lip, then the lower, fleetingly, the hush of their breaths enchanting the silence between them. Then he brought their mouths together. She let him kiss her and she felt his desire in the beauty of this caress and in his hands that held her with such careful strength. She wanted to bolt and run and she wanted to stay and sink into him completely.

“Saint,” she whispered.

“Don't make me stop,” he said roughly.

“Don't stop.” Fingers twining in his hair, she pulled him down to her and opened her lips to him.

Just as six years ago, he was perfect. He kissed her and pleasure stole sweetly and hotly through her. Tears prickled the backs of her eyes. Aching with relief and a nascent joy
she could barely believe, she met his kisses with parted lips. Frightening and honest and delicious, exactly as she remembered it, his kiss sought her. He wanted her desire and she gave it to him. Circling her hands around his arms, she went onto her toes and she allowed herself to taste him with her tongue.

“
Constance.
”

He seized her lips and she let him inside, felt him, and lust arced through her. She had known he wanted this, and she had longed for it. But this was
real
—his skin and scent and heat—animal and beautiful and physical, like they had never allowed themselves to be, like they had always wanted since the first. She grasped his waist as his hands surrounded her face. Closer, urgently now, he took her mouth completely, not allowing time to breathe, or to think. Each stroke of his tongue drove pleasure deeper into her. Each caress opened her body for more of him.

He dragged her against him. She went into his arms willingly, hot, and eager. Clinging to him, with her breasts and legs she felt the hard muscle of his chest and thighs, perfect,
so perfect
. Beneath his coat, she pulled at his shirt and sought his flesh with her hands. His skin was smooth, taut, a masterpiece of male beauty. She raked her fingertips over him, needing the reality of his body in her hands, feeling it inside her with a wild desperation. She
needed
him. She needed him to touch her. She ached for it, for pleasure, honest pleasure.

Grasping his wrist, she drew his hand between her thighs.

A shudder shook him. He broke the kiss and pressed his brow to hers.

“Constance, I—”

“Touch me, Saint.
Please
. Help me feel—” She caught the words behind her teeth. “Help me.”

He closed his hand around her.

Pleasure.

Sweet, sharp, forbidden.

Finding by her gasps where the pleasure was greatest for
her, he caressed her and she let herself feel it. He touched her perfectly, beautifully, making her arch to him and sigh and need more with each stroke. Beneath her hands his skin was hot, his muscles hard, and inside she was tightening, surging, and hungry for release.

She came against their interlocked hands with such relief that she could not contain her moan. He pulled his hand from beneath hers and sank it into her hair, and dragged her mouth under his. She let him bear her back against the wall, mad for this, for his hands on her body, his arousal against hers. Her palms swept up his back beneath his shirt. She had never thought she would feel this, that she
could
feel this—not like this,
never like this
. Digging her fingertips into him, holding him tight, she let him touch her everywhere.

A gasp sounded nearby.

“Good
gracious
! Maude, turn away!”

Constance's eyes snapped open to see Saint's, fevered, moving over her face.

“Mama, I think that is Lady Constance. I recognize her gown.”

“No! It
couldn't
be. Go—go down the steps, Maude. Immediately!”

Saint's hands slid out of her hair.