Her Protector's Pleasure (4 page)

"If you don't mind my asking," he said abruptly, "what were you doing alone in that area of Covent Garden and at this time of night?"

Marianne's jaw slackened. It had been a good long while since anyone had taken her to task to her face. That this rawboned policeman in his shoddy clothes would presume to do so rankled her. After all that she'd survived, she was her own woman; she answered to no one. She responded with icy calm, a weapon she'd honed amongst the
ton
.

"As a matter of fact, I do mind," she said. "My business is my own."

"Not when it endangers your life and those of others who must rescue you from your folly."

The nerve of the man
. "I didn't ask for your help," she snapped.

"No, you didn't," he agreed. "As I recall, it was more of a scream for assistance."

For the first time in years, Marianne felt her composure crack a little. "I was not screaming. I was alerting my man Lugo to my whereabouts. At any rate, I had the situation well in hand before you came barging in." With a start, she heard the irritation simmering in her voice. She drew a breath. When she was once again collected, she arched a brow and pointed a glance at his arm. "Do you doubt that I would hesitate to do what was necessary?"

"I doubt your common sense, my lady. And your ability to control your impulses. No pursuit of pleasure could be worth taking the risk you did tonight," he said grimly.

That did it. The judgmental pedant thought to govern her, did he? A memory slipped through before she could stop it: kneeling between Draven's withered thighs, shame and fear making her gag.
Try harder, you useless cunt, or you shall never see your little Primrose again ...

Chest constricting, she pushed the image aside. Let out a breath. From the moment of Draven's demise, she'd sworn to be her own mistress. No one—least of all this sanctimonious
nobody
—would ever control her again.

Fury cleared her mind, made it as sharp and crystalline as ice.
A plan took shape in her head, and its simplicity nearly made her smile.
Lecture me, will you Mr. Kent? Well, we shall see who learns the lesson this eve.

"Obviously you haven't been pursuing the right pleasures," she drawled. "As a widow, I can assure you that certain delights are worth any risk."

His dark brows drew together, color spilling over the ridge of his cheekbones. Good—she'd shocked the prig. Before she could enjoy the spark of satisfaction, however, he said in dogged tones, "This isn't about me. It's about you and your disregard for your own safety. Many a constable's work would be lessened if only people practiced common sense—"

"And, you, Mr. Kent, are a fount of
common
wisdom, are you not?"

Her sarcasm did not escape him. Despite his holier-than-thou attitude, Ambrose Kent was apparently no idiot. "I have seen suffering in my line of work," he said, "much of which could have been prevented with a little forethought."

"Indeed," she said in a bored voice.

"I do not wish to preach, my lady, only to be of service." The muscle along his jaw ticked again; Kent was not quite as unflappable as he wished to be. "If you think yourself above my advice, then don't take it."

"Above, sir? Not at all. In point of fact, I am in need of your services at this very moment."

His eyes—the shade of light filtered through amber—narrowed at her.

"We have arrived at my home," she said. The upward sweep of his long lashes indicated that he'd been so engrossed in his righteous dispensing of advice that he hadn't noticed the carriage stop. "And after the night's disquieting events,"—she faked a delicate shudder—"I shall require escort inside."

He frowned. "Can't your manservant accompany you?"

"He could. But I am requesting your presence specifically." She bestowed a sultry look upon him, one that typically reduced males to puddles at her slippered feet. The policeman, however, continued to eye her with suspicion. She let her lips take on a seductive curve. "I should like to privately express my gratitude for your intervention tonight."

His color rose. "If you've learned your lesson, then that will be thanks enough."

My, this man
was
a challenge, wasn't he? Her interest piqued further. No male was without his Achilles' heel. And she had a good inkling where the chink in this would-be knight's armor was located.

"Perhaps another time, then," she said in a tone of indifference.

She tapped on the door, and it opened to reveal Lugo's impassive face. Ignoring the steps, Kent sprung easily to the ground and turned to offer her his hand. She took it, and as she alighted, she purposely missed a step.

Kent caught her. "Are you alright?" he demanded.

Crushed against the solid wall of his chest, she felt a strange wave of giddiness. She spoke, perturbed to realize that the breathlessness in her voice was not entirely feigned. "I must be more overset than I realized," she murmured. "Thank you, sir."

In the next instant, Kent swung her up in his arms.

"But your arm," she said in surprise.

"'Tis a scratch," he said dismissively. "I'll see you in."

FOUR

Rarely did Ambrose ignore his instincts. They'd saved his hide more than once, and he respected anything that kept him alive. Yet, like a character in some topsy-turvy dream, he found himself carrying a mysterious baroness—who, incidentally, gave meaning to the expression
soft and light as thistledown
—up the steps of a hulking gothic mansion. Inside, he blinked at the brilliant pink marble atrium. If the exterior of the place was all doom and gloom, the interior created the opposite effect, one of elegance and light.

Overhead, a tiered chandelier winked with crystal teardrops, and watered ivory silk flowed over the walls. Eyeing the large glass-fronted cabinet in his path, Ambrose navigated past with care. Even so, a Chinese vase rattled within, and his breath held until the bloody thing stilled. The piece of blue and white porcelain probably cost more than his year's wages.

"Would you mind taking me to my suite, sir?" Lady Draven tipped her head back to meet his eyes. "I'm afraid the steps may be a bit much for me at the moment."

How could he refuse that bewitching gaze? Tucking her closer, he followed the African manservant up the grand curved stairwell to the first floor. Even the hallway whispered of extravagance; his boots sank into cream carpet thick enough to sleep upon, and he lost track of the number of rooms they passed. At the end of the corridor, the servant ushered him into a lavish suite of peach and pale gold.

"Please have a repast and the necessary supplies sent up, Lugo," Lady Draven said.

Lugo bowed and departed, his expression giving away nothing. Perhaps 'twas nothing out of the ordinary for his mistress to arrive home in a strange man's arms and to entertain said man in her bedchamber. For some reason, the notion made Ambrose's gut clench. He spied the enormous bed upon the dais—hard to miss that enormous confection of feather pillows and blush-colored silk—and he felt another jolt farther south.

Bloody hell. What is the matter with me?

He didn't believe for a moment that his glamorous hostess had any personal interest in him; the notion was laughable. What was she after then?

Whatever it was, he didn't like being dallied with. He set her firmly on her feet.

"If there's nothing else," he said curtly.

"But there is," she said in a husky voice. "I am not yet done with you, sir."

In the dancing candlelight, he experienced the full effect of her lushly fringed gaze. Her eyes tilted slightly up at the corners—not enough to be exotic, but sufficient for English perfection. It seemed nigh impossible that irises could reflect such a vibrant shade of green or that they could mesmerize so with their depths of knowledge and mystery. With a wry flash, he understood why she wore that emerald necklace: not to match her eyes, but to highlight their natural superiority over the most dazzling of jewels.

Aye, he could not argue with her beauty.

But that she was also wicked, he had no doubt. Wicked, clever ... and dangerous. Now that he had her measure, he told himself that her physical attractions did not matter. He had no interest in a
femme fatale
or in sophisticated games. He was a simple man, with simple desires. Though the loss of Jane had dimmed his optimism, it had not altered his vision for the future.

He still wanted a loyal, amiable wife, a companion to ease the solitude of life's journey. Together, he and she would occupy a snug, ivy-covered cottage. In his idyllic musings, his better half would come to care for his family and bring some semblance of stability to the chaotic Kent brood. And if they were so blessed, he and his wife might have a child or children of their own to nurture and watch grow.

In other words, he yearned for normality. Peace.

The very opposite of what Lady Marianne Draven represented.

As if reading his thoughts, she smiled and untied her cloak. His pulse thudded as the velvet skin slid down her body, pooling at her feet. Aye, this sinful temptress would bring no man peace. His blood heated as his eyes traced the slender elegance of her figure. The misty green gown bared her creamy shoulders and clung to her high, rounded breasts. It hinted at her small waist and softly curved hips before frothing at her dainty slippered toes.

She was a woman without physical equal. Yet despite her polished exterior, he glimpsed shadows in the lucid depths of her eyes. Could such a pampered creature know pain or suffering? His thoughts blurred as she came closer to him. Her perfume curled in his nostrils, and the complex scent—exotic yet clean and utterly mouth-watering—roused a primal male response. Desire punched him in the gut, and he became almost light-headed.

No wonder: his blood had been redirected to another organ instead. To his shock, he felt his cock growing hard beneath his smalls.

Inwardly cursing his lack of control, he said, "I must take my leave."

"Nonsense. You've just arrived. And I cannot in good conscience allow you to leave without attending to your injuries."

She placed a hand on his arm, and he flinched at the sudden sting. Glancing down, he saw that blood had soaked through the makeshift bandage. Damn, her shot must have done more damage than he'd realized. His wooziness intensified.

"You'd best sit before you fall down," she added.

Shaking his head and finding that it only made matters worse, he saw no choice but to do as she instructed. He stumbled over to the gilded settee and sprawled onto the snowy velvet. The room spun from the effort.

His hostess peered down at him. "Let's get your clothes off, then," she said. "Can you manage or shall I do it?"

Shock pierced his buffle-headedness. "Beg pardon?" he managed.

"I can't very well examine your arm with your shirt on. Come, you aren't afraid for your virtue, are you?" she said, her brows lifting. "I promise I shan't take advantage."

"Of course I'm not afraid," he muttered. "But it's hardly proper."

She gave a throaty laugh. "And you
are
a proper sort, aren't you, Mr. Kent?"

"I believe in decency, yes," he retorted.

Her gaze thinned just as a knock sounded. At her command, a small army of uniformed servants entered bearing trays, towels, and a steaming copper basin. The one in charge, a sturdy brunette with a scar that extended from her ear down into her starched collar, said curtly, "Where would you like this, milady?"

"The bathing implements by me," Lady Marianne said. "And the refreshments can go next to Mr. Kent. Thank you, Tilda."

As the maid set about her duties, she shot a dirty look at Ambrose from beneath her lashes. He frowned, wondering what he'd done to offend her. Was it the mere fact of his presence? The manservant hadn't seemed to mind. Whatever the cause, Lady Draven's servants were an odd bunch, to say the least. They did, however, follow their mistress' orders with well-trained efficiency. A round table covered with silver-domed plates soon sprung up to his right. As the servants departed, Tilda gave him a last warning scowl.

Thoughts of the maid vanished as the baroness sat down next to him. She was so close that her skirts brushed against his trousers. She shed her satin gloves, and at the sight of the bruise circling one fragile white wrist, his gut twisted.

"You are hurt," he said roughly.

"'Tis nothing." She shrugged, as if being accosted by cutthroats was a commonplace experience for her. She unwound the handkerchief from his arm, revealing the oozing crimson stain upon his sleeve. "Well, Mr. Kent, I haven't got all night. Have you recovered sufficiently from your blushes to remove your shirt?"

Like a pendulum, his emotions swung in a wild arc. From concern for her to ... irritation.

He was beginning to heartily dislike this particular expression of hers: the arched eyebrows and curled lip made him feel like a squalid object dragged in by the cat. She thought him prudish, did she? Lacking in sophistication—and mayhap in general? Though he was not a man given easily to anger, his equanimity began to fray. The truth was his arm now throbbed like the very devil, and if she had no qualms about being alone with a half-naked man, then why should he worry for her reputation?

Grimly, he began to unbutton his waistcoat. Her gaze did not waver as he stripped it off, followed by his leather braces and cravat. Untying the laces on his shirt, he pulled the rough linen over his head, grimacing as the movement set his injured limb afire. He glanced at the wound: gory, but he'd suffered worse. He sat before her, a shirtless, bleeding stranger ... and not so much as a ripple passed over her calm, exquisite visage.

In point of fact, the brazen woman was
appraising
him. He told himself he didn't give a whit about her opinion of his person, yet his body ignored his brain's command. Beneath her languid perusal, his shoulders drew back, his chest muscles flexing as if being caressed. The ridges of his abdomen twitched, and when her gaze dipped below his waistband, heat flooded his face.