Her Protector's Pleasure (13 page)

"Thank you," Ambrose said.

He handed over his worn great-coat, and surprise rippled across the butler's features. Ambrose felt a twinge of alarm. When he'd received the Hartefords' invitation for supper earlier that week, the card had been accompanied by a suit of evening clothes.

We wish to express our gratitude, and we'll take no excuses,
the card had read.
See you Friday evening at nine o'clock.

Lady Harteford's doing, no doubt. She was nothing if not a thoughtful, gracious lady. In his whole life, Ambrose had never owned any clothing as fine as the black and whites, and when he'd donned the outfit earlier, he'd thought that he looked almost acceptable. Certainly better than he usually did. For once, the clothes did not stretch too tightly across the shoulders or hang loosely from his rangy frame. Though the trousers were still a tad short, they at least accommodated his stride.

But seeing the butler's expression, he wondered if he'd bungled the cravat. Or misbuttoned the charcoal silk waistcoat. For the first time in his life, he wished for a looking glass.

"This way, sir," the butler said.

Ambrose had no choice but to follow. The butler announced his name, and then he was walking into the Hartefords' drawing room. There were many present, but his eyes went directly to Lady Marianne. She sat on the bench of the pianoforte next to Mr. Paul Fines, turning the pages of the music. Fines was performing a soulful ballad about a lovelorn lad. Their heads—his bright gold, hers a platinum shade—were close together. They complemented each other like the sun and the moon. Ambrose's hands curled at his sides.

"Mr. Kent, how splendid to see you!"

He tore his gaze from Lady Marianne—who hadn't bothered to look up at him—to his approaching hostess. As usual, the marchioness looked lovely; she wore a ruffled sapphire gown, and her hazel eyes reflected her genuine warmth. Harteford was a lucky man, no doubt about it.

"My lady," Ambrose said, bowing.

Harteford joined his wife, a proprietary arm circling her waist. "Glad you could join us, Kent. We owe you much for your bravery last week."

"I was glad to be of service, my lord," Ambrose said. "And may I say how relieved I am to see Miss Fines safely returned to the bosom of her family."

"No more relieved than I." The heartfelt words came from Gavin Hunt, who hobbled forward with the help of a cane. He'd sustained a temporary injury during the rescue of Miss Fines, who now ambled along at his side. "Never thought I'd say this to a Charley, but I'm in your debt, Kent," the fierce-looking fellow said.

"Happy to have me back, are you?" Miss Fines grinned up at her fiancé.

"Having you in danger took years off my life and well you know it, minx," Hunt said.

Seeing the expression that softened the man's scarred face, Ambrose felt an odd jolt of envy. Certainly he was glad for the beaming couple. And for the Hartefords, who looked on with affection and approval. Yet out of the blue, yearning struck him: what would it be like to know that joy for himself? He'd been fond of his ex-betrothed, had thought he could grow to love her—but her lack of fidelity had made that impossible.

Of their own accord, his eyes returned to the pianoforte. His jaw tautened as Fines leaned over to whisper something in Lady Marianne's ear. Her husky laugh drifted over, stirring Ambrose's loins.

Does she possess no shame whatsoever? Not even a week ago, she propositioned
me
—and now she is flirting with that damned Fines! By Jove, the least she can do is acknowledge me.

Before he knew it, Ambrose was making his way toward the instrument.

"Good evening, Lady Draven. Mr. Fines," he said curtly.

Fines rose languidly to his feet. "Hello, Kent. Didn't recognize you for a moment there. Found a new tailor, have you?"

Ambrose refused to be embarrassed over the truth. "The Hartefords kindly lent me the appropriate garb for the evening. As a policeman, I have little use for such finery. Nor can I afford it."

"Well, that's straight talking, ain't it?" Fines' smooth visage creased with a rueful grin. "Always liked that about you. And even more the fact that you saved my sister's life. No offense meant, eh?"

Ambrose shook the offered hand. "None taken."

"I wouldn't worry over it, Mr. Fines. Our Mr. Kent does not take offense easily." The drawled tones stiffened Ambrose's neck. "In fact, he is a man utterly in control of his impulses, aren't you, sir?"

Devil take it, why was she always baiting him?

"No man is always in control. Nor is any woman," he shot back.

Lady Marianne only smiled as she rose from the bench. Her deep purple gown gathered beneath her faultless bosom, flowing in a sleek column to her dark jeweled slippers. Diamonds glittered at her ears and throat, but they were no match for the radiance of her upswept curls.

"It can be amusing to indulge oneself on occasion," she said. "For instance, I must confess to being a creature of impulse when it comes to shopping. For clothing, fripperies … and anything else that catches my fancy."

A foreign emotion ripped at Ambrose's chest. "Gone shopping lately, have you, my lady?"

"Now what business would that be of yours, Mr. Kent?" she said.

"Er, am I missing something?" Brows lifted, Fines looked back and forth between them. "Why do I feel as if I ought to make myself scarce?"

Because you bloody well should
, Ambrose almost snapped.

He was saved from that
faux pas
by Lady Harteford. "Supper is served," their hostess announced gaily. "Since you are already conversing with Lady Draven, Mr. Kent, would you take her in? Mr. Fines, you must accompany dear Miss Sparkler."

Paul Fines shot one longing look at Lady Marianne, then strode good-naturedly over to the divan. Ambrose hadn't even noticed the young woman sitting there. Her quiet demeanor and plain frock had made her blend into the cushions.

"If I may have the pleasure?" Fines offered his arm with a flourish.

Flushing to the roots of her brown hair, Miss Sparkler put down her embroidery hoop. Ambrose noticed how the chit's thin fingers trembled against the rake's jacket. Their hostess had paired a lion with a lamb.

"Well, Kent, is it to be your pleasure to take me in?" Lady Marianne inquired.

Turning to his own supper partner, Ambrose's lips compressed. No lamb, this one. Best he keep his wits about him and remember his purpose: he was here to monitor Lady Draven. To gather objective evidence about her behavior. Thus far, his main observation was that she was a woman fully capable of eating a man alive.

"Shall we continue our discourse over supper?" he said, jaw clenched.

Her elegant fingers skimmed his sleeve. "By all means, let us have
discourse
together."

Her words shot heat through his veins. His bollocks drew taut; his member stirred. With a silent curse, he prepared himself for the long evening ahead.

FOURTEEN

Seated across from Kent at the lavishly set table, Marianne slid him a surreptitious glance over the elaborate floral arrangement. He was engaged in conversation with Miss Charity Sparkler, who sat to his left. Not only had he managed to draw words from the retiring chit, but whatever he was saying made roses bloom in her thin cheeks. Marianne's hands curled in her lap.

Something about Kent brought out the oddest instincts in her. No man could be
as earnest and upstanding—as bloody
good
—as the policeman appeared to be. She'd behaved outrageously toward him last week, yet he was sitting there, the picture of polite equanimity. In fact, he didn't even seem to register her presence. For some reason, this compelled her to test the limits of his restraint. To force this paragon to show his true colors.

Every man she'd ever known had had weaknesses and ulterior motives. Her father, for instance, had posed as a respectable country squire; beneath, he'd been a man obsessed with gaming, to the point where he'd happily sold his only offspring to his old friend Baron Draven for a hefty marriage settlement. Draven, of course, only proved the point further: he'd pretended to be a kindly rescuer, prepared to forgive her disgraced condition and offer her the protection of his name.

She'd fallen for his act—been so pathetically grateful. She'd sworn to be the kind of wife he deserved. Soon after the marriage, however, the cruelties had begun, and she'd found herself trapped in a hell beyond anything she could have imagined.

All because she'd trusted—stupidly and blindly. Well, once burned, as they said. She'd never make the same error again. Best she forget the business of males altogether and concentrate instead on her plans for after supper. At present, Lugo was conducting surveillance of Leach's office and would return for her at the meal's conclusion. Together, they would search the solicitor's premises to discover the identity of Primrose's captor.

Yet Marianne found herself distracted. Her eyes wandered back to Kent, who was
still
talking with Miss Sparkler. Piqued, Marianne catalogued his deficiencies. He wasn't handsome … although she had to admit that he looked disturbingly masculine in evening clothes. For once, his garments had a decent fit, molding to the breadth of his shoulders and showcasing his whipcord-lean frame. The casual disarray of his unruly hair lent him a raffish air. Miss Sparkler said something, and he smiled.

Her pulse skipped as his entire countenance transformed. With his eyes crinkling at the corners and that sensual mouth of his curved and relaxed, Ambrose Kent was unexpectedly, undeniably attractive. Not in the usual manner, but one far more compelling. Remembering the flames in his eyes and the possessive way he'd touched her, she felt her breasts tingle, the tips puckering beneath the violet satin.

"Asparagus soup, my lady?"

Chagrined at the direction of her thoughts, she gave an absent nod to the footman. Lud, she was supposed to be listing Kent's faults, not waxing on about his charms. The problem was that what she would typically consider shortcomings in other men seemed oddly favorable in Kent. He was poor and a member of the working class, and yet he had more dignity and pride than men who were his supposed betters. He was righteous, had tried on multiple occasions to govern her behavior; at the same time, if she was honest, he'd protected her from harm—even taking a bullet because of her.

The footman came to Kent and ladled the creamy green concoction into the shallow bowl. As she watched, a line deepened between Kent's dark brows as he studied the array of silverware at his disposal. A daunting selection, no doubt, for a man who looked like he might eat cheese off the knife with which he'd sliced it. At the baffled expression in his amber eyes, something in her chest went soft.

"Mr. Kent, you have yet to regale us with tales of your exploits with the Thames River Police." Gaining his attention, she selected the proper soup spoon from her own setting with deliberate care.

His brow cleared as he mirrored her choice of silverware. And, lud, if she didn't find it endearing that he actually counted his way to the correct spoon. She dipped her utensil into the soup in the proper direction, hiding a smile as he did the same.

"I do not wish to bore present company," he said.

"Oh no, Mr. Kent," Miss Sparkler piped up in an annoyingly eager manner, "I should love to hear about your work. It must be so exciting."

His cheekbones turned ruddy. "'Tis not as exciting as it seems, I'm afraid. Most days, I deal with disquieted lumpers and petty thefts."

"You are too modest, Kent." Harteford spoke from the far end of the table. Addressing the other guests, he said, "Over the years, Mr. Kent has helped Fines & Company to recover a substantial amount of stolen cargo. His work is highly esteemed by all of us at the West India Docks."

"Not to mention all Mr. Kent has done for us personally," his wife added. Helena was seated at the closer end of the table, and Marianne could see the gratitude in her friend's eyes. "You, sir, have kept those I love safe from harm, and for that I cannot thank you enough. Harteford, would you lead a toast?"

"Of course, my love." Harteford stood and raised his glass. "To Mr. Kent, who is a boon to his profession and our guest of honor. We salute you."

"Hear, hear," the rest of the guests echoed.

Silently, Marianne sipped her wine, her eyes on Kent's flushed face.

"You do me a great honor, my lord," he said, clearly discomfited.

Taking pity on him, Marianne redirected the flow of conversation to Percy, who was seated next to Miss Sparkler. "So, my dear, how are the plans for the wedding coming along?"

Percy's blue eyes danced at her fiancé across the table. "Um, too slowly?"

Marianne stifled a smile. The hungry look on Hunt's face clearly had nothing to do with the delectable quail in truffle sauce placed in front of him. Goodness, but the fellow looked ready to leap across the silverware and gobble Percy up in one bite.

"Nonsense." This came from Percy's mama, whose eyes glinted behind her steel spectacles. "Three months is the absolute minimum required to properly prepare for a wedding. Why, we have invitations to send out, a banquet to prepare for, not to mention your trousseau."

"I don't think Mr. Hunt cares too much what I wear, do you, sir?" Percy said playfully.

Hunt gulped his wine. "You look beautiful in anything, Miss Fines," he said, shooting an uneasy glance at his future mama-in-law. "Anything at all."

Or better yet, in
nothing
at all
. Amused, Marianne interpreted the expression on the man's face. Despite his fierce and rough-around-the-edges appearance, Gavin Hunt was a man hopelessly besotted with his intended. And Percy deserved no less.

Satisfied that her protégée was well settled, Marianne cut into the succulent bird.

Kent cleared his throat. "If I may," he said, "I think we must not overlook Lady Draven's role in all of this."

She froze, her fork inches from her lips. "My role? Whatever do you mean?"

"'Twas thanks to you that Black came to our assistance. Without your intervention, our task would have been a great deal more difficult," he said, his expression inscrutable.