Dair Devil (8 page)

Oh my!

It had never occurred to her that to truly enjoy a passionate kiss, their mouths must open. It was so—
decadent
. And he was so—
delicious
. She pressed herself against him, wanting more and not wanting him to stop. She wanted everything about the moment to be burned into her consciousness: His warm hand cupping her bottom; the feel of him large and bare, pressed up against her; his fingers entwined in the hair at her nape, tied with a lavender satin bow; and the wondrous way he kissed, as if he truly, fervently desired nothing and no one more than he did her.

Oh how easy it was to spiral into erroneous belief. And all it took was one kiss…

I
F
R
ORY
WAS
disconsolate to have their delightful kissing interlude brought to an abrupt end by the snapping of the curtain rod, she was shocked into speechlessness when she landed, straddling him, a disheveled wreck. Never mind she might have broken ribs. She knew she was bruised from head to foot from being tumbled and crushed under him as they rolled across the stage and then landed on the floor. And when they came to a crashing stop he just lay there on his back laughing, and so heartily that she bounced on his abdomen.

But the tumble jolted her awake to her behavior, and all she could think about was setting her clothes to rights and getting away from him as quickly as possible. She had to distance herself before Drusilla and Mr. Watkins discovered her whereabouts, and before Grasby realized his little sister had seen him drunk and disorderly, cavorting with females of low repute. But what could she tell them had happened to her? Her panniers were twisted and broken, the buttons and strings that gathered her petticoats into a polonaise had snapped, and the material was now hanging loose and haphazard. And where was her walking stick? The last she remembered seeing it was when she was hit by a wall of male muscle and it flew out of her gloved hand. She hoped it had not caused any of the dancers serious injury…

She was brought back to the immediate present when Dair gently squeezed her upper arm and, with a wink and a finger to his lips, signaled for her to remain silent. No explanation was necessary. The loud regular clatter of boots on floorboards, accompanied by the squeals of alarm from the dancers, had her scrambling off him and kneeling at the edge of the raised platform to see what was happening.

Just inside the doorway was Mr. George Romney, arms folded, shoulders hunched, and looking troubled. Beside him was his brother Peter, grinning from ear to ear. They shuffled out of the way of a contingent of uniformed militia who were marched in by a ruddy-faced captain of the guard. The soldiers came to an abrupt halt halfway up the length of the studio, where stood a stout gentleman in an eggshell blue frock coat with metallic thread and spangles, legs splayed and thus displaying his strong calf muscles to great effect. What lessened the impact of his stance was that he had stridden into the middle of the spilled paint, and now had splatters all over his buckled shoes. He was holding aloft a sword before an audience of crying and panicked dancers and declaiming. He quickly terminated his rehearsed speech when he was interrupted by the captain of the guard barking out orders, but his arm holding the sword remained in midair. Rory suspected he had frozen in tongue and body upon hearing, and then seeing, the soldiers. She recognized the frozen swordsman. It was her brother’s best friend Mr. Cedric Pleasant. She surmised that he was the “pleasant friend” to whom Consulata Baccelli had referred.

She wondered at the whereabouts of her brother. She prayed he had managed to go into hiding somewhere in the room. Perhaps he was crouched behind the stack of canvases up against one wall, or under the table draped in cloth that had upon it all the paraphernalia needed by a painter of portraits? Better still if he had managed to dive back out the open window he had climbed in through. He was not amongst those now gathered in the studio, so when Dair tugged on the lace at her elbow to get her attention, she readily turned away from the melodrama. She was surprised he remained nonchalantly propped on an elbow out of sight.

“Report, fair scout! What’s happening out there?”

“You don’t want to see for yourself?”

“Let me guess,” he said, ignoring her question. “Twelve—maybe fifteen—militia, not including their captain…?”

Rory looked out into the studio, counted, then nodded, impressed.

“Couldn’t ask for better odds! I would be insulted if there were fewer than a dozen. Six, and the wagtails would mistake them for customers. Eight, and our canary birds think they’re for the round house for soliciting. Now with a
dozen
of our city’s finest invading the premises, they suspect something far more serious is on the boil.”

Rory frowned.

“Wagtails and canary birds? On the boil? I have no idea what you’re talking about but it’s nothing to do with aviaries. And, I would hazard a guess, contrived for your own amusement?”

Surprised, Dair stared hard at Rory for the first time since crashing into her. While he liked what he saw, she was a shapely little thing with big blue eyes and glowing hair, her self-possession and the intelligence in her expression unsettled him. He wasn’t sure if she was laughing
at
him or
with
him. Instinct said the latter, so he took a leap of faith and confided in her, saying at his most nonchalant,

“You aren’t particularly perturbed that Mr. Romney’s premises is overrun with uniformed ruffians?”

“Why should I be?” she said with a shrug, adding with a cheeky smile, “I have a war hero to protect me.”

“Ha! That’s true!” he replied, and felt his face grow hot. God! Was he blushing? He felt sick to his stomach at such weakness. Plenty of women had used that one-line gambit on him, fluttering their eyelids and pouting their reddened lips, and to bed the most beautiful of them he let them think it had worked. But he had never blushed at the remark.

“A war hero masquerading as a savage,” Rory teased.

“For a wager—all of it,” he blurted out, as if a confession was required of him.

“Yes, I thought that might be why. But those poor—wagtails and canaries—they don’t know that, do they? And the militia… I hope you aren’t out of pocket for their invasion? Or will your winnings cover expenses, too?”

“Clever.” His mouth twitched. “I’ll wager my breechcloth you know what
perturbed
means, too.”

Rory turned away to look out over the stage again; anything to stop him staring at her so fixedly. She was feeling quite faint. She told him what was happening, adding, “The captain has two of his men guarding the door, which is now closed. You won’t escape that way, if that was your intent?”

He tugged again on her lace and gestured with his thumb over his bare shoulder. “Door behind us. And it’s unlocked. What’s the gentleman with the sword doing now?”

“He’s put away his sword and is conversing with the captain.”

“Mr. Pleasant will be as grumpy as a kicked toadstool to have his performance upstaged. Wise of him to sheath his sword and not play the hero. He’s no coward but it would be idiotic to challenge men in uniform, particularly with such odds stacked against him.”

“A war hero would. You would. Nothing frightens you.”

For the second time in as many minutes, Dair was startled by such ready conviction. But he quickly recovered his sangfroid and inclined his head in acknowledgement, saying with a grin, “I will frighten them into submission. I doubt any of those boys have seen a Colonial least of all a native of that continent.”

Rory’s gaze flickered over his painted face, with its two braids dangling either side of his ears, and then across his wide shoulders, but dared not let her eyes drop any further, and quickly brought her gaze back to his face with its blackened eye sockets. That he was watching her intently was evident in his fixed stare.

“Yes, you will,” she said calmly. “And it wouldn’t require you to wear such an absurd disguise. You don’t look like an American Indian in the least.”

“Absurd? And how many American Indians have you—”

“I’ve seen etchings!”

An involuntary burst of laughter was quickly muffled when he clapped a hand over his mouth. He leaned in to her with a raise of his eyebrows. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours…?” But when she frowned, not understanding the inference, he sat back, suddenly uncomfortable and said with unusual brusqueness, “Next time I need to appear ridiculous I’ll seek your advice!”

“You don’t need my advice. You do quite splendidly on your own! Oh! Oh! Now that was rude of me! Forgive me!”

He grinned, watching her fluster and flounder her apology, cheeks apple red with embarrassment. He chuffed her under the chin, then pinched it affectionately.

“You, my sweet-mouthed delight, are nothing like Consulata’s usual coterie of female friends… I’m glad you threw yourself in my way.”

“Threw myself?” Rory gasped loudly. “
Threw myself
?” She did not know what else to say to such a startling accusation. She was saved further embarrassment and explanation when Dair put a finger to her lips to quiet her and jerked his head at the stage.

“Listen! Sounds like an argument. Female tearing strips off some poor fellow. It’s not Consulata. When she fires up it’s all Genovese and gestures! Who did you say was out there?”

“I didn’t.”

Rory peeked over the ledge, but she knew who owned the agitated voice without needing to do so. Into the startling diorama of soldiers standing to attention, dancers huddled together, and a painter’s studio in disarray, swept the Lady Grasby, followed by William Watkins a stride behind. Both rushed up to Mr. Romney demanding answers. Rory had no idea what was being said, there was too much competing noise. She could well imagine the painter was being accused of the world’s ills by her sister-in-law, who was gesticulating widely with her folded fan.

Dissatisfied with the laconic painter’s responses, when he pointed out the captain, she readily turned on this uniformed officer and proceeded to flay him with no regard for his rank, his mission or their audience. Drusilla’s weapons of choice never wavered: The Talbot family pedigree that stretched back to Edward the Third; her grandfather-in-law’s earldom, which her husband would one day inherit; and the Earl’s noble connections to every Privy Councilor, which would see the captain shipped off to St. George’s Island in the southern ocean, if he did not do as she commanded.

Rory sighed and said somewhat apologetically, “Lady Grasby is threatening the captain and he is looking most decidedly intimidated.”

“Grasby?
Lady
Grasby?” Dair’s ears burned and he sat up. “Tell me, Delight, do you see a wide-eyed ginger-haired fellow, thin as a whipping post—a scribbler with a blotter and pencil? Is he making copious notes?”

She nodded. “He is. And he cannot write quickly enough for the conversation. He’s just broken the tip from his pencil and it’s jumped out of his hand. Oh no! The poor fellow went to ground trying to recapture it and has had his hand trodden on by Mr. Watkins—”

“Mr.
William
Watkins?
Weasel
Watkins is there too? Hallelujah! It is a happy day indeed!”

Rory looked over her shoulder in time to witness Dair punch the air with joy.

“Weasel?
Weasel
Watkins? Is that what you call him?”

She tried to stifle a smile but Dair saw it and pointed a finger at her.

“Admit it, Delight! The moniker fits him like a glove. Those squinty eyes! Those bushy brows! Those thin, disapproving nostrils!”

“I will admit to nothing. And shame on you. Not everyone can be an Adonis. Certainly not Mr. Watkins. But he does dress his faults well.”

“But he does dress his faults well,” Dair mimicked, pulling a face of disgust.

Rory couldn’t help herself—she giggled.

“Never in my wildest imaginings would I have believed Major Lord Fitzstuart capable of envying another. You could wear a sack and females would swoon at your feet. Poor Mr. Watkins must use all his sartorial skill to fashion himself into something worthy of a female’s attention. You enter a room in a sack and poor Mr. Watkins’ efforts would be for naught.”

“Come here, Delight,” he commanded gently, and pulled her down beside him, a firm grip on her gloved hand. There was no roguish smile when he looked into her eyes and said quietly, “It’s time for me to end this charade. I must, before my friend the scribbler uses up all his parchment. But before I make my grand exit, I want your name. You’re not a dancer, and you are not an actress. Your conversation—everything about you—tells me you’ve been well cared for, or were, in the past. No. Don’t struggle. I don’t want to cause you distress. I want to offer you—” When Rory continued to look at him blankly, he huffed, glanced away, then looked back at her in exasperation. “The Devil! What am I offering you…?”

Rory swallowed hard, throat dried with expectation, gaze riveted to his handsome face. By the deep lines between his black brows, she knew his mind was in a turmoil of indecision.

“How am I to know if you don’t?” she asked in a small voice.

His gaze dropped at that, but not away—down, down to her mouth. Then down further still, to the swell of her small firm breasts contained in a tight striped silk bodice, the square décolletage low-cut, and just peeping out around its silken edge, the pretty lace border of her chemise. He caressed a fold of the delicate lace between the tips of thumb and forefinger, itching to fondle much more… Finally, he lifted her chin with his forefinger, and brought his gaze back up to her face.

“You know what I want, Delight. You don’t kiss a man the way you kissed me without expectation of a result. Well, this is your lucky day. I’m going to give you what you want.”

Rory blinked. It was her turn to experience turmoil. Her mind throbbed with the competing emotions of joy and dread. Joy because she saw that he desired her. She might be ignorant but she was no simpleton. The handsomest man in London found
her
desirable. No one had looked at her like that, ever. He certainly had never known of her existence before today, despite her attendance at the Roxton Easter Ball less than a month ago. But joy was quickly swallowed by dread, the dread of what he was about to propose. One kiss and he presumed to know what she wanted? Men were such immediate creatures!