Guilty Series (106 page)

“Your own anger alarms you, does it not, when it flares up?”

“Yes.” His mouth tightened for a moment. “It does.”

“It should not. Because you
did
stop and walk away. That makes all the difference.” She studied him for a moment. “The other night in your brother's house when I saw you so angry, I was very impressed. And when you threw the glass at the fireplace, that, too, impressed me.”

“I cannot think why.”

“It made me realize how much passion you have in you.” She paused, then she slid forward until she was perched on the edge of her seat. Her knees brushed his leg, and he jerked as if she'd burned him. “Besides anger, what other passions do you possess, Englishman?”

He didn't answer.

Sensing her way in the dark, she leaned over his body. Half-crouching, she flattened her palm on the carriage seat beside his hip, bracing her weight on her arm. With her free hand, she pulled off his hat.

“Lucia, what are you doing?”

What she was doing was playing with fire. Dragon fire. She knew it, she couldn't help it. He drew her to him like a moth to flame, and she was determined to find out why. She was going to kiss him again, and she hoped that kiss would unlock the mystery of this enigmatic man and why he fascinated her so.

She tossed his hat over her shoulder, then she raked her hand through his hair. It was like silk in her fingers.

“Lucia, stop it.”

“You are always so perfect, and it always
makes me want to muss you up,” she murmured. “If I had my way, I would drag you into a pond and rub mud all over you.”

He made a smothered sound. The first crack, perhaps, in the wall of his discipline.

Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness, and she could see his face now. Lean, chiseled lines in the dim light, so implacable and hard he might have been a statue. The scar above his brow was a fine, white line. She touched her lips to it.

He closed his eyes and drew a sharp breath, but he did not move. She placed her free hand on his chest, feeling the wall of his muscles through the layers of his clothing. Excitement flooded through her. She lowered her head and kissed the scar on his chin, then the not-so-perfect line of his nose. Then she pressed her lips to one corner of his mouth.

“What is this?” His voice was harsh, his body unmoving beneath her. “Another of your kissing experiments?”

“Yes,” she answered in a whisper. Her lips lightly brushed his cheek as she spoke. He needed to shave, she realized, for his skin was like sandpaper. “I want another kissing experiment with you, Englishman.”

“God knows, you always do what you want.”

“And you always do what is right.” She kissed his ear and felt a tremor run through his body. Another crack. “This feels very right to me, Ian.”

“Lucia, for God's sake—”

She trailed kisses back down his cheek, savor
ing the rough texture. She tilted her head and pressed one last kiss to the opposite corner of his mouth, then she drew back.

Her lips a few inches from his, she waited, hovering, hoping, knowing she had made her move. It was his turn now.

He remained utterly still.

Lucia continued to wait, so close to him that her breathing mingled with his. One second went by, then two. Three.

Uncertainty began to claw at her, blending with her excitement until she couldn't separate them. Never had a man done this to her, never had a man made her take the initiative, never had a man made her work like this. Wait like this. Always it had been the other way. Men wooed her, pleased her, waited for her, tried to kiss her. But Ian was not like any other man.

Kiss me.

Still she waited, but he did not move.

Disappointment pierced her. The wall was intact. There was nothing that would breach it. Lucia moved to withdraw.

Suddenly, he made a rough sound and his hands gripped her arms. He shoved her backward, and his body came over hers, his weight pinning her helplessly to the seat. He captured her mouth with his.

The kiss was hard, almost violent, bruising her lips. It shocked her. But she was not afraid. Her mouth opened beneath his with a wordless sound of accord.

He tasted deeply of her, his tongue in her mouth, his kiss driving all the air from her lungs. Never before had she been kissed this way. It was raw and powerful, dizzying and glorious, beyond his control or hers.

She slid one hand into his hair, and with the other, she caressed the back of his neck. She bent her knee, and her inner thigh brushed his hip.

He tore his mouth from hers long enough to mutter an oath under his breath, then he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again, gentler this time, tasting her mouth in a soft, slow, drugging possession that spread aching warmth through her limbs.

Shoving aside the edge of her cloak, he pressed kisses along the column of her throat and across her collarbone, his breath hot on her skin. His body rocked against hers, and even through all the layers of clothing, she felt his hard shaft pressed against her. She moved her hips in a slow wriggle and felt him shudder in response. “Oh God,” he whispered. “Oh, God.”

He moved, sliding his body downward along hers. He spread his palm over her breast, shaping it through her clothing. She cupped his head, pulling him closer, wanting more, and he gave it, kissing the top of her other breast above the neckline of her gown. The warmth inside of her began to burn hotter, and she writhed beneath him. The movement tore a groan from his throat.

“You're killing me,” he told her, panting, his palms sliding down over her ribs to explore the
rest of her shape—her waist, her hips, her thighs. “Killing me by inches.” He lifted his body from hers enough to yank up her skirt. “But it's a damn fine way for a man to die.”

Then she felt his hand move beneath her petticoats for further explorations, sliding up her leg, across her hipbone to the apex of her thighs. A vestige of feminine sanity returned, and Lucia reached for his wrist through layers of fabric.

“I want to touch you,” he said. His hand spread over her most intimate place, while she kept her hand locked around his wrist. “Just let me touch you.”

Other men had said such words, and never had she yielded. Always she had decided when and how to stop.

He eased his hand between her thighs. “Lucia.”

Her name was a rasp torn from his lips, and the agonized sound of it conquered her in an instant. She released his wrist and let her hand fall away in complete surrender. She would give this man everything she had, including her heart, if he wanted it. “Love me, Ian,” she whispered. “Love me.”

He cupped her mound, and the pleasure was so intense that she jerked in response. “Oh!” she cried out, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face against his neck. She felt her whole body must be blushing from the hot, shameful excitement of it. “Oh!”

His fingers found the slit of her drawers and slipped inside to touch the most intimate place of
her body, a place she had never allowed any man to touch.

“Sweet,” he murmured, the tip of his finger sliding between the secret folds of her, making her blush even hotter. “So sweet.”

He began to caress her then in the most amazing way, his hand strong and sure and yet gentle, each stroke of his finger making her shiver. Her hips writhed, arching into his hand, moving of their own volition. Her body was no longer in her control, but in his, and what he was doing to her was like nothing she'd ever felt before.

Lucia could hear her own voice saying things in Italian, incoherent, desperate things she had never said to any man in her life. “Please, oh, please, oh, touch me, yes, oh, please.”

The excitement was building inside her, rising higher and higher, until words failed her, and she could only make odd, strangled little sounds. She needed…something, but she did not know what.

He knew.

“Yes,” he coaxed against her ear, also in Italian. “Yes, yes, that's it. That's it. You're almost there. Come for me. Come.”

She didn't understand what he meant, but her excitement was almost unbearable, and she thought she would die. Suddenly, with his next caress, everything inside her ignited, then exploded in a shattering array of sparks and dragon fire that made her cry out. His fingers continued to caress her, and waves of the most exquisite plea
sure she'd ever felt washed over her, again and again and again.

He kissed her mouth, gave her one last caress, then pulled his hand from beneath her skirt. She could hear his breathing, hard and fast as if he'd been running. Still on top of her, he shifted his weight and began unfastening the buttons of his trousers.

The carriage jerked to a halt.

Ian lifted his head and his hand stilled. His whole body went rigid. “Christ,” he muttered. “Christ almighty, what am I doing?”

He shoved himself violently away from her. She pulled her skirts down and struggled to sit up, her breath coming in gasps as she stared at him in shock.

“Stupid bastard,” he mumbled and rubbed a hand over his face. “I am such a stupid bastard. Brains in my crotch, that's what I've got. Stupid, stupid. So goddamned stupid.”

The carriage door opened. Neither of them moved.

Dazed, Lucia could only stare at him in wonder. Never had she imagined anything like this. What had he done to her with his hands? The way he had touched her and caressed her was like nothing she'd ever felt before. And then…

Santo cielo.

Such sweet pleasure. Waves and waves of it. Like falling, like magic, like dying…none of those descriptions were adequate to define what he had done to her. It was an experience beyond words.

Vaguely, she heard the clatter of something and realized the driver was rolling out the steps, but for the life of her, she could not find the strength to move from her seat. She pressed her fingers to her lips with a grimace. They felt puffy, swollen from the bruising of his mouth, and they burned from the friction of his beard-roughened face. Moments ago, she'd been on fire, but now, her body felt warm and languid, boneless. She wanted to weep. She wanted to laugh.

“Ian…” Her voice trailed off, for she could not remember what she'd been about to say. After that extraordinary experience, what could any woman say?

He was sitting across from her, his head bent, his face in his hands. “Ian?”

He lifted his head and looked at her. “Get out.”

With those words, Lucia scrambled out of the carriage and headed toward the front door of the house. He did not follow her.

“Walk on,” he ordered the coachman. “Anywhere. I don't care. For God's sake, just drive.” With that, he pulled back and slammed the carriage door, leaving Lucia stunned and alone on the sidewalk.

She knew she should go inside, but instead, she just stood there, staring at the hansom cab as it turned the corner of the square and vanished from sight.

She had found out what she wanted to know. Ian Moore fascinated her because she was falling
in love with him. Falling in love was supposed to make a woman happy, but Lucia did not feel any joy. The venom in his voice when he'd told her to get out of the carriage confirmed her worst fear. He still didn't like her. He couldn't possibly respect her. And he certainly wasn't falling in love with her.

Lucia began to wish she had never played with dragon fire.

E
very cell in Ian's body was in complete rebellion against what had just happened to him. His hands opened and closed into fists, and he wanted to crush something, mainly his own skull. Lust was pumping through him with each beat of his heart, and it was like anarchy inside him. Plague take that woman.

Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the seat. He tried to shut her out, but it was useless. All the self-discipline he possessed could not erase her from his mind, nor banish his need for her. After Tess, Ian had always limited his liaisons with women to discreet affairs. Mistresses, if his work permitted him to be in one place long enough for such an arrangement. If not, courtesans had
sufficed. But no woman—no mistress, no courtesan, not even Tess—had ever made Ian feel this way, like a beggar, like a king, like a madman.

He stared at the seat across from him, seeing Lucia, beautiful and warm and willing. With each breath he took, he inhaled the fragrance of apple blossoms and her. Those scents were everywhere—on his hands, on his clothes. They permeated the coach, and he couldn't bear it. He reached for the curtains beside him and yanked them apart. He opened the window, breathing deeply of the sultry summer air, trying to clear his head, force down his arousal, make sense where there was none.

Please, oh, please, oh…

Even in the midst of London traffic, even amid the clatter of carriage wheels and horses' hooves, her soft moans and incoherent pleas called to him, teased him, beckoned him back.

The carriage slowed for crossing traffic, and Ian noticed a trio of women milling by a street lamp near a shadowy alley. Tarts, of course. He was now quite close to Seven Dials, and tarts were everywhere.

Ian reached up and slammed his fist sharply three times against the roof. His body was screaming for release, and he intended to have it. The hansom stopped, the driver pulled on the brake, and Ian got out.

“Wait here,” he ordered, and walked back to the group of women. All three smiled at him as
he approached, positioning themselves for his perusal. He beckoned to the one with blond hair. Her smile showed her teeth, no doubt because she had them all. Her complexion was clear, with no pockmarks, and she had a pretty shape to her. He'd always preferred blond women anyway, damn it all to hell.

She came forward, smile widening. “Want a toss, guv'nor?” she murmured, her hand splaying over his chest.

“Come on.” He grasped her arm and headed for the alley. It was a dead-end one, with a gate leading into a mews. He led her toward a darkened corner.

“It's a bob for the usual,” she told him. “Anything else, the price be dependin'.”

“On what?”

She simpered in the silly, practiced way tarts were wont to do, fingering the silk of his cravat. “On what ye be wantin'.”

The usual would suit him perfectly well. Had she said a hundred quid, he'd have paid it. He reached in his pocket, pulled out the required coin, and pressed it into her palm. She bent and tucked it into her shoe.

When she straightened, he caught her by the shoulder and pressed her back against the blackened brick wall of the alley. He kissed her. She tasted of gin. He didn't care.

With that gin-soaked kiss, all vestiges of his reason dissolved. Burying his face against the
harlot's neck, he grasped a fistful of her skirt and tugged it upward. With his free hand, he began unbuttoning his trousers. Lucia's excited pleas echoing through his mind, he closed his eyes and tried to pretend it was she whose skin he kissed, but an odd, alien sound intruded on his fantasy. Ian turned his head and looked through the gate into the mews.

In the moonlight of the stable yard, a male dog was mounted on a female, humping her with frantic fervor, and the force of his thrusts was making her squeal.

Ian stared at them, suddenly paralyzed.

Years of work and discipline, years of restraint and reason, years of being an honorable British gentleman whose affairs were discreet and whose behavior was impeccable, and he was now reduced to the actions of a rutting dog.

He tore his gaze away from the animals and looked at the upturned face of the girl in front of him, for she was a girl, he realized. In the moonlight, with her eyes closed and her lips parted in a ludicrous imitation of passion, it was hard to tell her exact age. Seventeen, perhaps.

Self-loathing filled him. He was not a dog, and he could not fornicate in an alley like one.

“Never mind,” he muttered, and for the second time tonight, he tore his agonized body away from a willing female with her skirts up. Proof positive he had indeed lost his sanity. He turned and strode away, buttoning his trousers as he went, leaving the whore behind, a whore who
was no doubt delighted that she'd gotten a shilling for doing absolutely nothing.

Hard as stone and still angrier than a gentleman should ever allow himself to be, he left the alley and went back to the cab. He paid the driver, sent him on, and then he walked. He traversed London streets, grasping for his wits, working to rid himself of whatever spell Lucia had cast over him.

With each step, he tried to remember reality. He wanted Lucia, but he could not have her. She was not his to take. It was morally wrong to corrupt any young woman's innocence. In this case, it was suicide for his career, a career he'd spent fourteen years building.

Yet, no matter how many times he reminded himself of these facts, he still hungered for her with a ferocity that went beyond ordinary lust, and the savagery of his own carnal appetite was something he did not understand. Never had he felt this way, and it was making him do things, desperate things, things that made him a man he did not recognize, things that went against everything he had always believed about himself. Nonetheless, if she were here at this moment, he would throw his career and his honor away just to touch her again and hear her cry his name.

Ian walked and walked and walked, wishing he could walk right off the edge of the earth.

 

Ian did not come home that night. Lucia knew that because she'd lain awake until morning, lis
tening for the sound of his footsteps to pass her door. Nor did he return the following day. He sent a note to Grace, saying he intended to stay near Whitehall for the sake of convenience. There were many preparations to make for Cesare's arrival, he'd explained, and there was no sense staying in Mayfair.

Lucia knew it was an excuse. He was avoiding her. Despite the knowledge that he did not want to be near her, she yearned to be near him. Even if she had tried to forget what he had done to her, it would have been impossible. She recalled every moment of that night over and over, relishing memories of his kiss and his touch. Her heart savored the anticipation of when she might see him again, even while her head reminded her he was not in love with her.

During the three days that followed, she did not leave Portman Square. On the chance he might come back and she might see him, Lucia remained at home. She flew kites in the park with Isabel, she read books, she did embroidery. She practiced guitar, accompanying Dylan or his daughter when they played piano in the music room, but she did not go to any parties or assemblies.

Word that Haye had broken their engagement spread, though not the reason why. True to his word, Haye and his uncle had exercised their discretion, and word of Armand did not leak out.

Their hope renewed, her most persistent suit
ors once again came calling. Lord Montrose, Lord Walford, and Lord Blair all visited Portman Square, but she had no desire to see any of them. There was only one man she wanted to see, but that desire went unfulfilled, for Ian did not return home.

On the third evening after that night in the hansom cab, the Duchess of Tremore came to call, and if Lucia harbored any hope that her feelings for Ian were reciprocated, the duchess's visit vanquished it.

“Now that Parliament has ended and the season is nearly over, Tremore and I are returning to our home in Hampshire tomorrow,” the duchess explained as she sipped Madeira in the drawing room with Grace and Lucia. “Ian has asked if Miss Valenti might accompany us.”

Lucia stiffened on the settee, and her heart pinched with pain. Not only was Ian avoiding her, he was sending her away. She was being shuffled off again somewhere out of the way, and for a brief, irrational moment, she felt like a lonely little girl again, the little girl nobody knew what to do with. Only pride forced her to keep a neutral expression when her nature wanted to rage and weep. “I am going to the country with you, Your Grace?”

“Yes. I hope that is agreeable to you.” The duchess turned to Grace, who sat beside Lucia on the settee. “What are your plans?”

“We were intending to go to Devonshire in a
few days, as soon as Dylan is finished with the auditions for the new opera. Does Ian want you to take over the chaperoning of Miss Valenti?”

“Actually, we were hoping you could also come to Tremore Hall.”

“I suppose I could,” Grace answered. “Dylan can follow me when he finishes his work here. We can go on to Devonshire from there.”

“Excellent.” The duchess returned her attention to Lucia. “Have you given any thought to your situation? Ian has informed me that you have several serious suitors and that each of them has expressed to him the desire to marry you. He needs to know which one you prefer.”

Lucia felt horribly cold all of a sudden. She did not answer.

“Forgive me for being forward and asking questions that would not in normal circumstances be my affair,” the duchess said, misinterpreting her silence for reticence, “but your situation is an extraordinary one that demands haste. Your father arrives in three weeks, and if I understand correctly, the prince expects you to be engaged by his arrival and married by his departure. The only question is which man you will choose.”

Lucia stared down at her hands clenched in her lap and did not answer.

“Sir Ian suspected that you might not have made up your mind,” the duchess went on gently. “He has asked Tremore and me to hold a country house party for you, and we shall invite all three
of your suitors so that you might spend more time with each of them before you make up your mind.”

In that regard, time was not going to help. “I see.” She managed to choke the words out past the lump in her throat.

“Once you have accepted the gentleman of your choice,” the duchess went on, “Ian will give his formal approval, and we shall conclude the house party with a ball to celebrate the event. When your father arrives, Ian will be able to give him the happy news before he leaves for Anatolia.”

Lucia looked up in shock. “Ian is going to Anatolia?”

“I believe that is his next assignment. He was supposed to stay through Cesare's entire visit, but I believe the situation there is worsening, and the Prime Minister is dispatching him there as soon as possible.”

“What about the marriage settlements?” Grace asked. “Is Sir Ian not supposed to negotiate them?”

“Cesare and his ministers shall make the final arrangements with the groom and his family, and banns will be posted from Hampshire. Prince Cesare will come to Tremore. There is a Catholic church in our village of Wychwood, and the wedding will be held there. I hope all these arrangements are acceptable to you, Lucia.”

“I do not want to marry any of them,” she said, wretched. “I do not love any of them.”

Grace put an arm around her shoulders. “Per
haps you could persuade your father to change his mind and give you more time to find a man you truly want to marry.”

“I shall ask my father for nothing! Through most of my life, he has pretended I do not exist. I would not ask Cesare for food if I were starving!”

“Then it seems you must choose among the three suitors you have.”

“How can I choose? How?”
How could I ever let any man but Ian touch me?

Grace's arm tightened around her shoulder, but neither of the other women answered her question. After all, what could they say?

Lucia closed her eyes and swallowed hard, trying to swallow down the pain. She was falling in love with Ian, but it was plain that he did not feel the same. If Ian loved her, he would not be leaving for Anatolia. If he loved her, he would not be shoving her into the arms of some other man. If he loved her, he would have caught her up that night in the carriage and taken her away, married her, and damned the consequences. But like Armand before him, Ian did not love her.

Lucia could feel her face puckering up, and she ducked her head. Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back. She would not cry for a man who did not love her. She had done that once as a lovesick girl. She would not do it again as a woman.

It was time to face reality. She didn't love any
of these men, but they all seemed to be in love with her. None of them would shove her away, shuttle her off, go to Anatolia, and forget about her. It seemed she had gotten what she had prayed for that day in Lady Kettering's garden. God had answered her prayer three times over. None of them were Ian, but Ian did not want her. Lucia took a deep breath and looked up.

“Invite them all to this party, Your Grace. Let these suitors compete for my hand, and at the end of the week, I shall choose one.” She got up. “How do you English say it? May the best man win.”

 

During the two weeks that followed, Ian did nothing but work. He spent every waking moment getting things ready for Prince Cesare's arrival, taking charge of even the most mundane details, telling himself that if he didn't do these things himself, they would not get done right.

The prince's envoy, Count Trevani, arrived to assist with preparations, bringing with him lavish gifts from Cesare for King William, Queen Adelaide, and the Prime Minister. For Lucia, there were rich fabrics, gold plate, and jewels that would become part of her dowry. Even Ian received a gift, an exquisitely crafted silver sword.

Ian politely accepted the sword, and on behalf of his government, he accepted the gifts for the king, the queen, and the Prime Minister, inform
ing Trevani that William IV was eager to meet His Highness and a state dinner had already been arranged. He explained the arrangements he had made with the Duchess of Tremore, a plan Trevani found quite acceptable.