The Sweet and Spicy Regency Collection (41 page)

His gaze raked over her slender form. Her hips, dammit, swayed at a slow, seductive pace. Those pantaloons he’d sent over outlined every delicious curve. Even though she was dressed as a man and wearing that ridiculous wig and mustache, he had to fight like the devil against an urge to drag her into one of Goldsmith’s private rooms and crush her supple body against his. He’d taste her and tease her until she was begging for completion.

But no, she was the pristine Lady Iona, daughter of a duke who deserved to be treated better than a Cyprian.

“Wynter!”

Not in the mood for any more disasters, Nathan ignored the man calling his name.

He’d only just extracted Iona from a buxom, gap-toothed Cyprian who had pounced upon them shortly after they’d given their hats and gloves over to the attendant at the door. The woman, dressed in a flimsy low-cut gown, had tossed her fleshy arm over Iona’s shoulder in an overly friendly manner and offered to teach Iona the secrets of giving a woman pleasure.

While Nathan had nearly burst into flames from embarrassment, Iona had simply tilted her head and politely thanked the woman but declined. She peeled the Cyprian’s arms from her person and presented her, with the most heart-wrenching innocence, with the address of a school that educated the
demimonde
in various respectable professions.

Which was possibly the worst thing she could have done. The less than grateful Cyprian turned all shades of red and, with her hand propped on her scantily clad hip, launched into a string of ear-singeing profanities.

He had rushed Iona away from the woman’s fuming clutches. They had just passed the overstuffed crimson-and-ebony-striped sofas that filled the front sitting area as if this were an ordinary gentlemen’s club, when he was distracted once again by the shapely thighs Iona’s form-fitting pantaloons were displaying only too vividly. His mind then got all twisted up in imagining how easily he could slide those pantaloons down her slender hips.

“Wynter!”

Damnation! Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Talbot and Harlow marching across the room toward him. Harlow waved his gold-capped cane in the air.

“Wynter!”

Harlow bounded toward him with a newly whelped pup’s eagerness. Nathan fought an urge to dart behind a post.

“Ho there!” Talbot called. “We were beginning to think we wouldn’t see you emerge from Miss Darly’s bedchamber until summer’s end.”

“You are mistaken about my whereabouts,” Nathan said. He shot a quick glance in Iona’s direction. Why in blazes had he thought this evening at Goldsmith’s was going to be anything but one disaster after another? “I have been busy dealing with a family matter.”

“Did you hear what he just said?” Harlow asked Talbot, nudging him in the ribs with his elbow. “I think we have caught our friend in yet another lie.”

Nathan gritted his teeth. This wasn’t what he needed. Truth be told, he had rather hoped the bothersome pair had lost enough blunt at Goldsmith’s already this week and would be searching for their amusements elsewhere.

He certainly didn’t need anyone, especially not either of those two, adding fuel to Iona’s curiosities regarding his debauched behaviors. Her blue eyes sparkled with a sapphire’s brilliance as she craned forward, only too eager to listen to whatever nonsense might spill out of Talbot or Harlow’s mouths.

“Breaks my heart, it does, to see a man denying what has to be a most wondrous tumble in a lady’s bed,” Harlow said as he swung around a golden-handled cane as if it were a baton.

“Believe what you like. It doesn’t change the truth. I’ve not been seen for the past couple of days because I was busy tending to a family matter,” Nathan insisted.

Harlow pounded the richly hued Aubusson rug under their feet with the tip of his cane. “A family matter with the actress and his by-blow, I’d say,” he drawled with a chuckle. “Say, Wynter, who is the young lad you seem to be trying to hide behind you?” He sidestepped Nathan to take a closer look.

Undaunted, Iona jutted out her chin, which only made her look more elf-like, and struck a languid pose with one booted foot crossed over the other. Without a moment’s hesitation, she sucked in her plump lower lip and scowled back at Harlow.

“Queer-looking fellow,” Harlow said with a snort. “Is he wearing a wig?”

“Don’t matter what he looks like as long as he has a fat purse,” Talbot said. “You do have a fat purse, don’t you, lad?”

Harlow poked Iona’s arm with the end of his cane as if she were some caged carnival curiosity to be teased. “Does he have a name?”

“Sir Percival,” Nathan said. He grabbed hold of Harlow’s cane before he could jab Iona with it again. “Please allow me to introduce my less than refined acquaintances, Lord Grainger Talbot and Mr. James Harlow.” He turned to Iona and gave her a wink. “Sir Percival Crumps arrived in Bath not more than an hour ago. Came in from Northumberland in fact. We only just met outside.”

“Ah, good thinking, Wynter.” Harlow leaned in close to Nathan and said under his breath, “Bringing us a fresh plaything. Pockets that deep, eh?”

“Shut up, Harlow,” Nathan said and pushed the whiskey-breathed fop away.

“And what brings you to Bath, Crumps?” Talbot swooped in on Iona like a starving tomcat stalking a helpless field mouse. “The Bath season will not start for several months yet. Only a few foolish souls still come to take the waters for summer holiday.”

“He is accompanying—” Nathan began.

“Does the odd little fellow not have a tongue, Wynter?” Harlow demanded.

“Yes, Wynter, stop playing mother hen. Let the lad speak for himself,” Talbot said.

Two pairs of expectant gazes pressed down on Iona who remained silent. For a moment Nathan thought she must have lost her nerve. He was about to come to her rescue when she drew in a deep breath.

“I accompanied—” she said in her regular, very feminine voice. Nathan stomped on her foot.

She rubbed her toe and hopped on one leg while glaring at him with a frighteningly feminine pout. He raised his brows and stared back. Her eyes widened. Stroking her bushy mustache, she coughed and cleared her throat. “I accompanied my mother,” she said in a deep, husky tone that sounded too velvety to be masculine. “She suffers from terrible pains in the joints and her doctors prescribed the Bath waters.”

“Ah…” Talbot said, furrowing his brows deeply.

“That is all well and good, but do you have enough blunt to make the evening interesting?” Harlow asked as he leaned heavily on Iona’s arm. “I suffered a run of bad luck two evenings ago and was left with pockets to let.”

“Poor fellow,” she said in her velvety deep voice. A sly smile snuck on to her damnably kissable lips and Nathan dearly wished it hadn’t. She looked much more female than male. Even with that ridiculous mustache pasted to her upper lip, he couldn’t fathom how anyone could mistake her for a lad, or an elf. “I believe you’d consider my pockets to be sufficiently loaded.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Harlow asked. He waved his cane in broad arc, pointing out the darkened back rooms of the less than proper club. “The tables in the back are waiting.”

“What’s your game, Crumps?” Talbot asked.

“Piquet,” Iona answered much too readily.

When she started to swagger after the two reckless fops, Nathan grabbed her arm. “I thought you said you were only going to take a look around the tables tonight. Not play.”

“I changed my mind.” Iona’s husky voice traveled down his body like a silky caress. Egad, dealing with her while she was dressed in such revealing garments was surely going to unhinge him. “What harm can come from my playing a hand or two of piquet?”

“A prodigious attitude! It is a harmless game, is it not?” Talbot said. He looked ready to lead her toward the back stairs that went up to the first floor where the roughest, highest stake games took place. “There is nearly always a willing player to be found in the upper stories.”

“No!” Nathan protested. “The lad isn’t ready for those sharks.”

“Let him make his own decisions, Wynter,” Harlow said. “And leave us to have our fun. You have done nothing lately but ruin our fine ideas.”

“Fine ideas? What fine—” Nathan started to say.

“Which reminds me, Wynter.” Harlow couldn’t seem to keep his unfettered mouth shut. “I have a bone to pick with you. What happened with those lessons you promised? You gave your word you’d help us seduce Lady Iona and yet you’ve done nothing. When in blazes are you going to begin? I paid court to that silly wench all week, showering her with flowers, attending an endless string of inane soirées and parties and have nothing to show for my efforts. The frigid little creature doesn’t appear the least bit interested.”

“I never promised you anything,” Nathan protested. It was too late though.

Iona suddenly turned as slippery as an eel. She deftly twisted out of his hold and whirled around on her heel until her face was a whisper from Nathan’s. Her nose wrinkled in concert with a petite sneer.

Which was an adorable sight. Despite how her fists were propped on her shapely hips in a manner frighteningly similar to the Cyprian’s angry stance a moment ago, Nathan couldn’t imagine ever witnessing a more alluring or feminine posture. He licked his dry lips.

“Seduction lessons?” she said slowly, dangerously. “Lessons so you can seduce this unfortunate lady to do what?”

“Why? So she will do whatever I wish her to do,” Harlow answered. His expression darkened. “What business is it of yours?”

“Perhaps I am a defender of the so-called weaker sex,” she said advancing on him. “Perhaps I cannot stand to see a lady discussed in such a coarse manner. Calling her a wench indeed!”

Talbot broke out into a hearty laugh.

“And where in blazes in Northumberland are the gentlemen such high-sticklers?” Harlow jabbed Iona in the chest with his cane.

“I have to agree with Crumps, Harlow,” Nathan said. He placed himself so Iona was safely behind him again. Young Harlow had a nasty habit of picking fights. From what Nathan had seen in the past week, the whelp seemed to relish bashing heads with his fists and sometimes with that blasted cane he’d recently started carrying.

Nathan supposed his own head had been equally as hot when he was in his early twenties. At four-and-thirty, memories of his wild youth felt as distant as a hazy dream. “You are acting uncommonly vulgar tonight.”

“Leave off!” Harlow gave Nathan an unfriendly shove that accomplished nothing other than upsetting his own balance.

Several of the gentlemen in the club chuckled as they closed ranks around the unhappy quartet. Money exchanged hands at lightning speed. No doubt wagers were being made as the gentlemen tried to predict the outcome of this confrontation.

Which was a waste of good money in Nathan’s estimation. With Iona, nothing could ever be predicted.

“You promised to teach Mr. Harlow how to seduce me…um…the me…missish Lady Iona?” she scolded Nathan and managed to step into Harlow’s path again. This time, with her back to Harlow, she’d put herself in a frighteningly vulnerable position. “Tell me, Wynter. What is the meaning of this?”

“Yes, Wynter, whatever were you thinking?” Talbot said, still laughing. “Zounds, I am appalled by your disregard of a lady’s sensibilities.”

“Thank you, Lord Grainger,” Iona said using a royally charged tone that, although it sounded quite sedate on the surface, could make even the worst she-dragons cringe.

“I would never—” Nathan started. To think that she would believe
he
would purposefully help another man to make a play for her heart. She couldn’t be more wrong.

“Duck!” Talbot shouted as Harlow swung his cane at the back of Iona’s head.

Before Iona could react, Talbot lifted her out of harm’s way while Nathan deflected Harlow’s wildly arcing cane with one fist and planted a facer on the upstart’s chin with the other.

Harlow collapsed into Nathan’s arms. A cheer rose from the crowd and money was again exchanged.

“Talbot, please see that this young numskull finds his way home.” When no one moved to help him, Nathan glanced behind him.

“Talbot?”

Neither Talbot nor Iona—disguised as an adorable elf—were anywhere in sight.

* * * *

Gracious, things were getting a mite out of hand. All Iona had wanted was a little adventure. Not to fill her ears with coarse language or become embroiled in a round of fisticuffs.

At least she now understood why Mr. Harlow had been acting like such an attentive brother to Amelia this past week. Using his sister to get close to her while thoughts of seduction polluted his mind, the nerve of the bounder! She’d certainly have a few choice words waiting for him the next time he offered to fetch her a cup of punch or inquired if she’d like to walk among some garden path with him.

Were all men scoundrels?

Iona was beginning to wonder.

Brimming with a healthy dose of seething anger, she followed Lord Grainger through the growing crowd as he rushed toward the back rooms of Goldsmith’s.

She didn’t need Nathan’s help. She could make her own adventures without him.

A sob caught in her throat. Picturing him in bed with that harlot of an actress or him discussing methods of her seduction with the likes of Mr. Harlow fed a deep pain in her chest that had nothing to do with the tight bindings she wore.

He’d denied both charges but had done so with such a casual shrug and self-depreciating grin that she’d have to have fluff for brains to believe him.

She supposed her mother and sister had been right all along. The bounder was naught but a cad. Tears sprang to her eyes. Why would Lord Grainger and Mr. Harlow say such things if they weren’t true?

Blinking furiously, she cast a glance over her shoulder. The dim lighting in the room created long swaths of shadows and did nothing to chase away the midnight darkness from the room’s far corners. Even so, she searched, hoping to catch sight of Nathan’s unmistakable silhouette emerging from the crowd, dearly wishing he would come chasing after her.

“Where is he?” she grumbled. “Shouldn’t we wait for Lord Nathan?”

“I think Wynter has his hands full enough as it is,” Lord Grainger said. He had a firm grip on her wrist. “He doesn’t need to be worrying after you as well…um…Crumps.”