The Sweet and Spicy Regency Collection (44 page)

“I doubt anyone will notice this small slice tomorrow,” he said and caressed her knuckles, enjoying the feel of her velvety smooth skin under the rough pads of his fingertips. Soon this woman—a creature as gentle as a sigh and as wild as a kitten—would be his wife…if things went his way.

But very little did go his way lately. And that worried him.

“You will have to start trusting and obeying me, Iona.” He tilted up her chin. “You could have been seriously hurt.”

Firelight flickered in her eyes. She swallowed hard and her lips parted as if she was going to argue. But she said nothing.

He didn’t know whether to be pleased or worried. The wizened part of him whispered that he should be worried. Very worried. This was her second brush with danger and the first one at the King’s Bath hadn’t cooled her ardor for adventure one blasted bit.

“Iona, I’m serious. This game has to stop. Here. Tonight.”

“But—”

Freddie interrupted them. He entered with several clean cloths draped over his arm and carrying a plain, ceramic basin of water. He was whistling a jaunty tune that came to an abrupt halt as he caught the two of them in such an intimate pose. The color seeped out from his cheeks again.

“The-the water, my lord. But perhaps I should come back later?”

Nathan quickly released Iona’s hand and took a step back.

“Set the water here.” Nathan pointed to his desk. While Freddie hovered, he took the clean cloth from his valet’s arm and dipped it into the basin. The steaming hot water nearly scalded his skin. But he knew from experience that the heat would help draw out the dirt and limit the threat of infection.

“This will hurt,” he warned Iona.

She tightened her lips and nodded.

He scrubbed the small wound with the hot, damp cloth. Her cheeks paled but she was brave. She inhaled slowly and turned her gaze to the ceiling. He supposed she was trying to hide the tears that were swimming in her beautiful eyes. Nathan noticed them though. Lately he seemed to be noticing every damned thing about her as if she were a glittering beacon in the gloom that had become his life.

“Freddie, fetch the brandy,” he growled, trying to tamp down the frustration beating through his body. Iona wanted his kisses and yet she still insisted he was nothing more than a dear friend. What he was feeling for her at this moment didn’t feel the least bit friendly though.

His valet murmured softly and rushed from the room.

“I’m fine,” she said once they were alone. “I don’t need a drink. Besides I can’t stand the taste of brandy.”

“Good. It’s not for you to drink,” he said more sharply than he intended.

Cleaning the wound with a healthy dose of brandy was a trick his governess had taught him. Growing up he was constantly coming home scraped and cut to ribbons. At first he thought his governess had been merely trying to punish him with the stinging liquid but, as he grew into adulthood, he realized that whenever he treated his own wounds with the brandy, he greatly reduced his chances of infection.

Despite the benefits of the brandy, knowing what he was about to do made him feel like the very devil. The alcohol he was about to pour onto her wound would burn like fire on her skin though he doubted it could possibly equal the pain he was feeling thanks to her changeable emotions toward him and toward the other men vying for her affections.

“Iona, about our future—” he started to say. But Freddie returned. Avoiding eye contact with either of them, he handed Nathan a small crystal decanter.

“I can handle it from here,” Nathan said, not wanting his valet to watch. If Iona were to cry out, Freddie would easily guess that his strange elf-like guest was actually a lady in disguise. He’d rather endure Freddie’s scowls and low opinion than risk having Iona’s identity revealed, even to old, dependable Freddie.

Once the valet left them alone in the room again, Nathan opened the bottle. “I’m sorry about this,” he said.

“So am I.” Her voice sounded rough.

Certain that, if he waited any longer, he wouldn’t be able to properly clean the wound, he held the wet cloth underneath her hand and poured a healthy draught of the alcohol over the small cut.

She hissed a breath but took the pain as bravely as any man he’d ever seen.

“That’s my girl.” Once he’d dabbed the alcohol from her hand, he drew her close and planted a light kiss on her forehead.

Of course he ached to do more than kiss her with a chaste tenderness he reserved for his favorite elderly aunt. Their bodies fit well together. He tightened his arms around her and enjoyed how her breasts pressed against his chest. She hugged him back and wiggled as if trying to get every last inch of her front into contact with his. His body tightened even more. He was convinced she could feel the solid proof of his desire pressing against her belly. More than likely, she would understand what happened between a man and a woman. Though an innocent, she wasn’t young or stupid.

Only vastly inexperienced.

Nathan groaned when his blasted conscience kicked in. To take advantage of her budding and somewhat uncontrolled womanly desires would be wrong. She didn’t fully understand what she was doing to him. She couldn’t.

He refused to believe she would knowingly tease him so cruelly by wiggling up against him like that. And that’s what she was doing to him quite thoroughly, teasing his body to a point of arousal that made it damnably hard to think.

What he needed to do was turn the tables on her. After all, she’d silently brooded during their entire walk to his apartment after leaving the Orange Grove. All because he’d refused to give her mustached lip a kiss. Served her right.

It frustrated him that their relationship was being relegated to clandestine assignations. This was exactly what he needed to do, wrest the reins out of her hands and take control of their game.

When he pulled away she gave a strangled cry.

“Does the sight of your blood frighten you?” he asked, since she seemed to be staring at her hands. The cut was bleeding a little after being so thoroughly cleaned, though he seriously doubted it was the blood that made her cry out.

She shook her wigged head and leaned forward slightly. “I’m not frightened.”

You should be.

To hell with his short-lived plan of teasing her but not giving in. His heart was pounding wildly against his ribs. He tossed aside the damp cloth, peeled off that blasted mustache she was wearing and removed the frizzy wig.

Taking a virgin, an innocent, to his bed was one line he’d promised himself he’d never cross but, dammit, Iona
was
going to be his wife. He’d already decided that he’d fight the devil to win her if need be. So why not rush the consummation and enjoy himself now?

Because he cared for her. Of course he’d always been fond of her. And had once believed himself in love with her. But all of those emotions paled in comparison to what he was feeling for her right now. The thought of losing her pained him even deeper than the torment he’d suffered when his family had turned their backs on him, refusing to even listen to his explanations.

For her he would do the right thing—even if it meant not touching her until she agreed to become his wife.

Chapter Eleven

Iona held her breath, praying he’d sweep her off her feet. He had a fevered look that made her belly dance. But instead of drawing her close again or touching her like he had that wonderful night at the King’s Bath, he was pulling away.

He was so infuriating!

Couldn’t he read the signs she was sending? Certainly he wasn’t so daft he didn’t understand that she wanted him as strongly as he wanted her.

And he wanted her. Of that she was certain. She’d felt the proof of his desire pressing against her belly.

They were both adults and far enough away from the prying eye of the
ton
to be safe. No one would need to know what might transpire tonight with her alone with him in his apartment.

So why was he acting as skittish as a feral cat?

Certainly his priggish behavior wasn’t stemming from an overblown sense of honor. He’d told her time and again that he didn’t care what society thought of him. And that he didn’t let the rigid rules of the
ton
control his actions.

What would she have to do to get him to kiss her again? At the King’s Bath he couldn’t seem to get enough of her lips but ever since their walk in Sydney Gardens, he appeared to be stubbornly set against the idea.

Maybe if she licked her lips as if she’d just savored a juicy orange, he might change his mind.

“Why won’t you kiss me?” she demanded instead.

“Why won’t I—” He raked a hand through his hair. “I’m not an animal that attacks every piece of fluff it encounters. Regardless of what you may have heard, I can control my urges.”

So that was it, he
was
trying to be noble. For her sake. Fustian! Her perfect reputation was ruining her life. Even the most disreputable of rakes refused to kiss her.

“I’m taking you home,” he said and grabbed up his hat.

Tears sprang to her eyes. She supposed she should be thanking him.

He paused halfway to the door. His shoulders tensed. Her heart shuddered in the silence that followed. She didn’t want to leave without his kiss and he appeared determined to deny her. He was going to send her on her way like an errant child.

“Dammit, don’t you dare cry.” He whirled around. She stumbled back a step while he advanced on her. In a flash, his arms were encircling her as he pulled her close.

“I have done as you have demanded. I have taken you to Goldsmith’s.” His deep voice caressed her lonely lips. “I have shown you the terrible trouble a gentleman can make for himself. Now you will do something for me.”

She nodded and then craned her head forward, seeking his kiss. “Anything…”

“Anything?” he said, his gaze pressed through her. “And I can hold you to your word?”

She’d give him the moon and the stars if only he’d kiss her. “Anything,” she whispered.

The heat spiraling between them was suddenly gone. And his lips were suddenly nowhere near hers. There was a calculating gleam in his eyes. He looked dangerous, ruthless. “I will escort you to the upcoming Victory Gala at Sydney Gardens where we will be seen together by others in a very proper setting.”

“I-I-I—” This was impossible.

“And you will stroll through the crowds at the gala on my arm,” he added.

Much to Iona’s chagrin, he stepped far enough away from her lips that she suspected that, unless she made a move, there weren’t going to be any kisses for her this night.

“It appears you have suitably composed yourself,” he said, the lack of emotion in his voice chilled her. Without giving her a second glance, he started back toward the door. “I shall walk you home.”

None of this was going as she’d planned. She couldn’t be seen with Nathan in public. Not when the official announcement of her engagement to Lord Lovington loomed a mere handful of days away.

Blast it! She’d given her word of honor she’d do anything for him. When he’d asked for her vow, her mouth had watered, expecting his desires to be directed toward the shadowy privacy of the bedroom, not to parade their attachment under the scrutinizing eyes of society. She’d simply have to talk him out of holding her to her word and pressing her to waltz into the Victory Gala on his arm. It was a terrible idea. Worse than terrible. It would set tongues to wagging.

A gentleman with his reputation being seen with her would be such an odd match that all of Bath would be tittering by the next morning. Word would surely spread across London before the week’s end. She had to talk him out of this.

Before she had a chance to launch into a somewhat heated argument, he set his hands on her shoulders and directed her toward the door.

“You are impossible,” she huffed, fighting an urge to scream at him. He’d so overset her, she teetered on the verge of matching Lillian’s and her mother’s skill in throwing a tantrum.

“So are you.” He sounded as prickly as she felt.

“Good.” She crossed her arms under her tightly bound breasts and glared.

He was too handsome for his own good. He’d tossed off his hat and his blond hair was in an adorable state of dishevelment.

“I’d hate to think I was the only one suffering tonight,” she grumbled.

“Every blasted moment I spend with you, I suffer,” he shot back.

Oh, he was worse than impossible. Why didn’t he simply go ahead and kiss her? Why make them both suffer? Simmering with frustration, she impulsively rose up on her tiptoes and cupped her hands around the back of his neck. She pressed her lips to his, taking the kiss he seemed so bound and determined to deny her.

“Take me to your bed.” She couldn’t believe those words had sprung from her mouth. And yet they felt right. She didn’t want to go home. Not yet.

He drew back and eyed her critically. She could almost see the thoughts spinning in his head.

“You’re serious,” he said finally.

She was terrified. Excited. And suspected what she was asking would lead to a basket load of troubles. Even so, her enflamed body wasn’t willing to let her sedate, dreadfully proper, logical mind talk her way out of this one.

Unable to speak, she nodded.

“You want me to take you to
my
bed? And do what a husband would do for a wife?”

That was the hitch. Would his dratted sense of honor toward her again leave him eager to fall on the matrimonial sword for her, like it had done the night at the King’s Bath?

He was watching her with an intensity that left her shaking. Did she see a spark of possession gleaming in his eyes? Was he like all the other dratted gentlemen in her life, interested only in wedding the paragon of perfection, the perfect Duke’s daughter?

As much as she ached for him, she feared that he too didn’t see beyond her pretty façade. Her recent reckless behavior obviously confounded him. She’d caught him frowning at her several times this evening alone.

“Well?” he asked.

While her body’s desires were still warring with her logical mind, she couldn’t seem to speak. This moment was too big, too important for words. Despite her fears and worries about his intentions and the consequences of the moment, this was something she wanted. Desperately.