The Last Hellion

  “If Miss Martin has them, why not go to the front door?”

  “She has company,” she answered in an impatient undertone. “A man. She didn’t expect me back so early. My clothes are in the dressing room. The window is open.” She pointed upward. “I only need to get in and out without disturbing the lovebirds.”

  Vere’s gaze went to the window, then back to her. “That’s a goodish climb.”

  “I can manage it,” she whispered indignantly.

  His gaze slid down the pantaloons lovingly hugging her long, shapely legs.

  “I’ll do it,” he said. “Quicker that way.”

  Some minutes and a short, furious argument later, the Duke of Ainswood was pulling Lydia through the dressing room window. She wouldn’t have needed to be pulled if it weren’t for the dratted corset, which made it impossible for her to heave herself up from the ledge below.

  He slid his arms under her shoulders and hauled her none too gently over the sill, then let her tumble in a heap on the floor.

  But Lydia did not break easily, and being pushed and pulled and dropped didn’t bother her. If she’d needed delicate treatment, she would not have become a journalist. If he really wanted to injure her, he could do much worse than this. He was cross, that was all, because she’d refused to do it his way.

  He had expected her to wait in the garden. As though she had all night to wait while he bumbled about looking for her clothes in the dark, and collided with doors and knocked over furniture in the process, alerting everyone to the intrusion.

  Besides, she didn’t trust him to try to be discreet. More likely, he’d think it a good joke to break in on Helena and her guest. Lydia could easily picture Ainswood wandering into the bedroom, carrying a handful of undergarments. “Sorry to interrupt, Miss Martin,” he’d say, “but could you tell me which of these drawers belong to Miss Grenville?”

  The image made Lydia’s mouth twitch. Then, recalling who Helena’s guest was, she sobered. If Sellowby got a close look at her, a lot of dirty family linen would soon be displayed for the titillation of the public.

  She scrambled up from the carpet, thanking heaven it was a thick one. Otherwise, the entire household would have heard the thump when she went down. She went to check the door to the bedroom.

  “What the devil are you doing?” came Ainswood’s angry whisper. “Can’t you keep still?”

  Ignoring him, Lydia listened at the door for a moment before cautiously cracking it open. Her anxiety easing, she quickly closed it again. “They’re not in the bedroom,” she softly informed Ainswood. “They’re in the sitting room.”

  “How disappointing for you. If they’d been considerate enough to fornicate in the bedroom, you might have watched.”

  “I wish you would be considerate enough to be quiet,” she returned. “Can’t you find things without all that rustling and snorting?”

  “I can’t see a bleeding thing. Stay by the window, confound it, so I’ll know where you are. Do you want me to trip over you?”

  “Why can’t you stay at the window and let me look for them?”

  “I know what bombazine feels like—what it smells like, curse it. I’ve been to enough funerals.”

  Lydia moved to the window, where a feeble shaft of moonlight made a narrow rectangle of visibility. Thickly draped and crammed with garments and furniture, the dressing room was several degrees darker than the outdoors.

  She could just barely make out his form, one disturbingly large, blacker shape against the surrounding darkness. She saw him bend and snatch up something, heard him sniff it.

  “Found ’em,” he whispered. He advanced and shoved them at her. “Let’s go.”

  “You go first,” she said. “I’ll catch up in a minute. I have to…change.” And she preferred to do it here, where it was good and dark.

  There was a silence.

  She lifted her chin. “It will be easier to climb down once I get the corset off. I had the deuce of a time getting up, and it’ll be harder to climb down.” That certainly was true.

  Another, longer pause ensued. She hoped the thick corset muffled the erratic thumping of her heart.

  “Miss Grenville, you seem to have overlooked a minor detail.”

  “I can climb in skirts,” she assured him. “I’ve done it many times.”

  “The corset,” he hissed. “It fastens in back, remember? How do you propose to get it off?”

  For an instant her mind went utterly blank. Then heat shot up her neck and suffused her face. She’d forgotten: Lacing and unlacing this corset was not a one-woman maneuver.

  “I’ll jump from the ledge.” She turned to look down at the garden below. Very far below. And bathed in too much moonlight. “It isn’t so very far.”

  He muttered something under his breath, which she doubted was a prayer. “You’re not going to jump,” he said evenly. “You are going to step away from the window. Then you will take off the shirt. In the dark. Can you manage that?”

  “Of course I—”

  “Good. Then I’ll undo the bleeding, damned corset—if you can contrive to keep still for two minutes.”

  Lydia’s hands began to sweat.

  “Thank you,” she said composedly. And very calmly she stepped away from the window and moved to the opposite—and very darkest—corner of the dressing room.

  She heard him approach. Felt it.

  Clutching the clothing tightly to her stomach, she murmured, “With your vast experience, I’m sure you can unlace a corset in a few seconds.” And she would not have time to do anything foolish, she told herself, as her mind dragged up a memory of wild sensations, of heat and power and large, sure hands. She would not listen to any inner devils. She would not make an error she’d spend the rest of her life paying for.

  She forced her stiff fingers to relinquish the garments. As quickly as her rigid muscles would let her, she pulled off the shirt.

  She swallowed a gasp as his fingers touched her shoulder.

  He snatched them away almost in the same instant. “Jesus,” he hissed. “You’ve nothing underneath.”

  “A man does not wear a chemise.”

  “You’re not a man.”

  She heard a faint grating sound, as though he was grinding his teeth.

  “I have to find the lacing first,” he told her, his whisper rough.

  He meant that he had to do it by touch, because he couldn’t see. She swallowed. “Down,” she directed. “Under my right shoulder blade.”

  His fingers touched her shoulder again and trailed downward, leaving a burning trail of sensation.

  He found the place quickly enough, yet even with his hands on the stays instead of her flesh, the heat continued to prickle. A thin thread of moisture trickled between her breasts.

  She could feel his warm breath on her neck, on her taut spine, while he unlooped the lacing, systematically working his way down, and the confining garment loosened.

  It should have been easier to breathe then, but it wasn’t.

  When he was halfway down, the corset sagged to her hips, and she couldn’t stop herself from grabbing the front and holding it up to shield her breasts.

  The hands at her back paused, and her breath jammed in her lungs.

  The pause lasted but two pulsebeats before he returned to his work, which he completed with disconcerting efficiency.

  He stepped away.

  Then what Lydia felt was all too easy to identify, and shame scorched her from the top of her head to the ends of her toes. What had she expected him to do? Go mad with passion for her simply because she was half naked?

  He was a rake, a champion libertine. He’d seen hundreds of women completely naked.

  While she silently raged at her idiot self, she speedily donned her chemise and mannish shirt, and pulled her skirt up over the pantaloons. Not that there was any point in modesty when he couldn’t see and had made it plain that he wasn’t interested in seeing. All the same, she felt less vulnerable exposing her hindqu
arters under the shelter of her skirt.

  She got her drawers on, then had to take them off again because she’d pulled them on backward. Swearing under her breath, she got them right—finally—and hastily pulled on and tied her petticoat.

  She could hear him breathing—or snorting was more like it—while she continued dressing. The harsh expulsion of breath made it clear he was impatient to be gone.

  She quickly shrugged into her spencer. “You can go,” she told him. “I have to find my boots.”

  He uttered a low, guttural sound. It was very like the sound Susan made when she felt ill used: when one denied the greedy creature an extra biscuit, for instance, or ordered her to stop leaping on the maids.

  Something in the analogy made Lydia’s nerve endings twitch. Ignoring the feeling, she got down on her hands and knees to hunt for her half-boots.

  She found them close by, under the sofa wedged against the chiffonier. Before she could get them on, she heard footsteps and Helena’s voice approaching.

  “I’m sure it’s the neighbors’ cat,” Helena was saying. “Rosa must have left the window open.”

  Lydia’s glance darted to the window, but Ainswood had already moved away. In the next instant, he was down on the carpet next to her.

  She heard the doorknob’s faint click as it turned.

  Lydia hastily scrambled aside, pushed him down, and shoved him under the sofa. She had pulled the deep flounce back into place by the time the door opened fully.

  Helena entered. “Here, kitty,” she called. Then, after she’d closed the door, her voice dropped to a whisper. “Is that you, Lyddy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t expect you back so early.”

  “I know. It’s all right. Go back to your guest. I’m fine.”

  Lydia was not fine. A portion of Ainswood’s overgrown anatomy pinned down a section of her skirt. She couldn’t get up without his moving, too, and given the limited space available, she doubted he could lift a muscle without overturning the sofa.

  “Here, kitty,” Helena repeated in carrying tones. Then, very softly, she went on, “Do try to be quieter. Sellowby isn’t that drunk, and he heard something. Doubtless he suspects I’ve another man hidden in the house, and is dying to know who it is. You’d make a more agreeable surprise for him. Are you sure you don’t want to come out and—”

  “He’s all yours,” Lydia whispered tightly.

  “Do you need help with the corset?”

  “No. I’m nearly dressed. Please go, Helena, before he decides to investigate.”

  There was a long pause. Lydia hoped Ainswood had sense enough to hold his breath. She couldn’t tell. Her heart was thumping too loudly.

  “Lydia, I’d better warn you.” Helena’s whisper held a worried note. “Sellowby said he heard that Ainswood was seen entering the Blue Owl in Fleet Street this evening. Sellowby thinks you’ve piqued His Grace’s interest. Perhaps, to be on the safe side, you ought to contrive assignments far from London for the next few weeks.”

  Lydia was aware of movement under the sofa. Any minute now, Ainswood would overturn it, she was sure, and rush upon Sellowby to correct the man’s assumptions with his fists.

  “Yes, of course, but do go,” she urged. “I think I hear Sellowby.”

  It worked. Helena hastened out. “Coming,” she called. “It was only the tiresome cat. She…”

  Lydia didn’t listen to the rest. Her attention reverted to Ainswood, who released a pent-up breath. She expected a stream of profanity to follow as he wriggled out from under the sofa—trapping more of her skirt in the process. Instead, she discerned a more ominous sound.

  She told herself it couldn’t be what she thought it was, and tried to concentrate on untangling her skirt from his limbs. She couldn’t, and he wasn’t helping.

  His shoulders shook, and his chest heaved, and the strangled sounds he emitted confirmed her first suspicions.

  She twisted about and clamped her hand over his mouth. “Don’t,” she whispered furiously. “Don’t you dare laugh. They’ll hear you.”

  “Mmmmmmph. Mmmmmmmmph.” Ainswood’s mouth moved spasmodically against her hand. She snatched it away.

  A slap, she thought frantically. That would—no—too much noise—and he wouldn’t feel it. A knee to the groin—no—impossible—she could barely move her legs—but—yes—her hands were free. She made a fist and struck—his belly, drat him—and it was made of brick. Aim lower, she told herself.

  Before she could act, he did, and in an instant she was flat on her back, her hand pinned to the carpet and Ainswood on top of her. “Get off me, you—”

  His mouth fell upon hers, stifling the words and driving the breath back into her lungs.

  She had one hand free, and should have pushed or clawed at him with it, but she didn’t. Couldn’t.

  He’d kissed her before, but that had been in public before a restive audience, and their lips had scarcely met before she recovered her reason.

  This time there was no audience to remember, to keep her mind cool and focused. This time there was only darkness and silence and the warm, insistent pressure of his mouth upon hers. She wasn’t quick enough reacting, and this time the devil inside her took over.

  She couldn’t get her mind to think past the potently masculine taste and scent of him. She couldn’t rouse her body to struggle against the warmth and hard, muscular power of his. He was so big, so beautifully, warmly big, and his mouth tasted like sin, wild and dark and irresistible.

  The hand he held to the carpet curled ’round his, and her free one, the one she should have fought with, curled and tightened upon his coat, holding him instead. Her mouth clung to his in the same way, silently answering Yes when it should have been No, and following his lead, when he would only lead her to disaster.

  She knew this. In the depths of her swamped consciousness she knew right from wrong, safe from dangerous, but she couldn’t summon her weapons, her hard-won wisdom. For this dark moment, all she wanted was him.

  It lasted but a moment, and a lifetime too long.

  He broke away, done with her when she had scarcely begun to comprehend what she wanted from him.

  Even then, though hotly aware of her folly, she could still taste the sin of him on her lips and feel the need he’d stirred rippling in the pit of her belly. And when his body lifted from hers, she felt the loss of his warmth and strength and whatever else it was that he made her need. And she felt regret, as well, because she didn’t know how to draw him back, so that she could find out what it was she needed and what it was she’d been missing.

  From a distance came the tinkle of feminine laughter. Helena’s laughter, from two rooms away, where she lay in the embrace of…another rake.

  Like the tinkle of a bell, it summoned Lydia to sanity. She thought of the career she’d prepared and waited so long for, the small but precious influence she’d gained and could, with diligence, increase. She thought of the women and children whose voice she was.

  And she reminded herself what kind of man this was.

  The kind of libertine who despises women.

  Once used, we’re worthless.

  “Are you all right?” came Ainswood’s rough whisper.

  No, she wasn’t. She doubted she’d be altogether right for a long time. Forbidden fruit left a bitter aftertaste.

  “Get off my skirt, curse you,” she said. “How am I to get up with you sitting on it?”

  The relation between Vere and his conscience had never been amicable. For the last year and a half, they had not been on speaking terms.

  Consequently, he was far from feeling any pangs of guilt for his plans to seduce Grenville of the Argus or entertaining any scruples about how he’d accomplish this. On the contrary, he’d been having a jolly old time, jollier than he’d had in ages. This night’s adventures brought back fond memories of long-ago escapades with his two partners in crime, Dain and Wardell.

  It had been a long time since Vere had las
t stolen a ride on the back of a coach or committed absurdities in pursuit of an attractive wench.

  And even though matters thereafter had not gone quite as he’d expected, the novelty of the experience made up for the occasional irritation. While climbing in and out of windows for illicit purposes was a familiar activity, this was the first time he’d made a clandestine entry into the home of a known Cyprian.

  He’d thought it hilarious that Miss Damn Your Eyes Grenville didn’t want her harlot friend to know the depraved Duke of Ainswood was on the premises. As though there were anything this side of the house exploding that could shock Helena Martin.

  To make it more amusing, there was Sellowby, also on the premises, suspecting Helena had a man hidden—and Helena thinking she didn’t—and the dragoness fretting and twitching the whole time. And there was the added farce of Vere hiding under a sofa when the room was as black as a privy hole, and their hostess couldn’t see her own hand in front of her.

  He’d nearly choked to death, stifling laughter.

  And then…

  Well, of course. How could he resist? After all the difficulty Madam Dragon had had wriggling into all those layers of underwear and overgarments, Vere couldn’t resist showing her how little trouble he’d have taking them off again. After all her fretting about being discovered with him, he thought she ought to have something more interesting to think about.

  And there, matters had taken a very odd turn.

  In Vinegar Yard, Vere had hardly touched his mouth to hers. This time, he’d settled in for a long, slow siege of a resistance-killing kiss.

  And he’d met with the shock of his life.

  She didn’t know how to kiss.

  It had taken a moment for this anomaly to sink in, and before he’d quite digested it, she had caught on to the basics. Meanwhile, he could hardly be unaware of the lushly curving body under his, or the mantrap of scent. And so he had heated far too quickly to quibble with himself about whether or not she was a virgin and whether or not this was supposed to matter to him. And since he hadn’t been engaged in any soul-searching, it was very strange that he should pause. But he did, because something…bothered him.