Her Protector's Pleasure (9 page)

"See you there, gentlemen," she said. Heading to the door, she paused to add over her shoulder, "Coming, Mr. Kent?"

The furrows on his forehead deepened. "With you?"

"Well, of course." She settled a cool smile upon him. "You are the policeman, aren't you? Since it seems I must be protected, you may provide the escort."

NINE

As the carriage clip-clopped toward Covent Garden, Ambrose did not know who infuriated him more: the wicked widow sitting across from him or himself. With her silvery skirts draped elegantly over the lavender squabs, she was the epitome of cool and collected. A queen supremely aware of her own power. She'd laid a neat trap, and he'd blundered into it like a fool. The question was why she'd bother to ensnare him at all ... and why he couldn't rid himself of his concern for this maddening female. If she wanted to risk her foolish neck, why did he care?

Because ... from beneath lowered eyelids, he slid a glance at said neck. The elegant column was white and delicate, graceful as a swan's. The thought of anything happening to it—

"'Tis rather
déjà-vu
, isn't it? You and I alone in a carriage. Cutthroats lurking about."

"This is no game, my lady." His jaw clenched at her amused tone. "I beg you to reconsider interfering in this business. You must know it is unwise."

"I know no such thing. Miss Fines is a friend to me, and I must do what is in my power to aid her." Lady Marianne tilted her head to the side. The dusk's glow seeped from the edge of the curtain, frosting her upswept curls with icy radiance. "How is your arm, Mr. Kent?"

He blinked. She remembered his injury? "It is fine," he said curtly. "As I was saying, if you truly wish to help Miss Fines, you'd turn this carriage around and wait with the other ladies. I am sure they could use your support."

"Tea and sympathy has never been my forte."

"And apprehending kidnappers and murderers is?" He didn't bother to hide the sarcasm.

She gave a throaty laugh. "You have experienced my prowess with a pistol firsthand, sir. You tell me."

Anger blurred the edges of his vision. He'd never done violence to a woman—in action or in thought. But Lady Marianne Draven was no ordinary female. Suddenly, he could hold his tongue no more. The fact that she was a lady and his social superior be damned.

"Why do you take pleasure in baiting me?" he said.

If his bluntness surprised her, she showed no sign. The corners of her mouth tipped up as she replied, "I don't think I can take the credit for your current state—not entirely, at any rate. You're already wound tighter than a clock, Mr. Kent. I can't help but wonder why."

"The life of an innocent miss is at stake," he said through gritted teeth.

And it is my fault. I let Miss Fines and her family down.
The truth knotted his chest. He'd never failed in his duty before; the fact that he had shamed him to his very core. To think of what the young miss might be suffering because of his lapse—

"And you take full responsibility," Lady Draven said, as if reading his mind.

"If not my responsibility, than whose? I was supposed to keep an eye on her. It was my job to make sure nothing happened, and instead I was—" He bit off the rest of the words.

Don't go there, man. Do. Not.

"Instead you let your attention ... wander. Is that it?"

The knowing gleam in her verdant eyes made his throat clench. But he would not shirk from the truth. He jerked his head in assent.

"How long?" she said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"How long did you let her out of your sight?"

"Two minutes, mayhap three." Disgrace constricted his insides. "When I realized what I had done, I went searching for her. That is when I found the back door open and Miss Fines gone."

"During the time you were distracted, there was no commotion in the shop? No kidnappers at large, no cries for help?"

"I would have noticed if there had been a hubbub," he said. "When I questioned the patrons at the shop afterward, no one witnessed any sign of a struggle. One customer saw a girl fitting Miss Fines' description walking alone toward the back of the shop."

"Ah," Lady Draven said.

That single sound conveyed a world of significance. He frowned. "What are you getting at?"

"Merely that Miss Fines had it in her head to leave the shop. And to do so unhindered by you." The baroness lifted her fair brows. "My guess? She was lured outside—likely with the false prospect of seeing Mr. Hunt."

Ambrose mulled it over. The hypothesis made perfect sense. With grudging respect, he said, "Your skills of deduction are refined, my lady."

"Clever is as clever does."

A hint of genuine warmth entered her smile, and that infinitesimal softening of her lips made his breath falter.
Too beautiful—for her own good as well as yours.

"It doesn't change the fact that I should have been there every step of the way," he said doggedly. "I could have prevented Miss Fines from making so egregious a decision."

"Oh, I doubt that very much."

"I apprehend criminals for a living. I trust I can handle a young lady," he said stiffly.

Lady Draven laughed again. Despite his simmering anger, that husky sound reached straight to his groin. His bollocks tautened; his member stiffened as if being caressed. The notion of those perfectly shaped pink lips parting to pleasure rather than taunt …

"Goes to show," she said, "how much you know about young ladies."

Hah. He had her there.

"I have four younger sisters. Trust me, I know the minds of misses." Guilt prodded him to add in gruff tones, "Indeed, I ought to have predicted Miss Fines' behavior from the way she was questioning me about the business between Hunt and Lord Harteford."

"Sisters. Ah, that explains it," Lady Draven murmured.

"Explains what?" Devil and damn, the lady's mind had more twists and turns than the streets of the rookery.

"The sense of duty that hangs upon you like a rusty suit of armor. It's rather passé, you know." She adjusted her smooth gloves. "No one likes a dull Johnny."

"What the devil is that supposed to mean?"

"Simply put? You, sir, are a snob."

For a second, he was rendered speechless. "
I'm
the snob? Of all the hypocritical—"

"Oh, you're not an elitist in a social sense," she said with a thin smile. "You're the other kind. A moralistic snob. You expect perfection of yourself and others. And you take responsibility for everything—even what is not yours to take."

"I don't expect others to be perfect. And I damn well
was
responsible for Miss Fines!"

Her creamy shoulders made an indifferent movement. "Be that as it may, you cannot control everything, Mr. Kent, no matter how scrupulous you are." While he wrestled with anger and that unpalatable observation, she went on, "If I were to hazard a further guess ... you believe the weight of your entire family, four siblings and all, rests upon your shoulders. Am I right?"

"Five siblings," he shot back. "I have a younger brother as well. And it's not a mere belief—it is a
fact
. They depend upon me for their livelihood."

"No parents?"

How did they get into a conversation about his family? Bewildered, Ambrose raked his hands through his hair. "My stepmother died two years ago. My father has not been well since."

"I am sorry to hear that." Something ghosted through her eyes. Empathy, a flash of … pain? "It is difficult to lose someone you care about," she said quietly.

He stared at her, befuddled.

Without a doubt, Lady Marianne Draven was the most infuriating, provoking female he'd ever met. At the same time, a disconcerting realization struck him. He'd never talked so much about himself before, not even with his past lovers. And that perceptive gaze of hers? It pushed him to the jagged edge of his restraint. Made him feel exposed. Off balance.

He made an attempt to even the score. "Have you any family, my lady?"

Her eyes shuttered. "No."

A glacial silence descended, during which he wondered why she was lying to him. Because he had observed the flare in her gaze, the way the clear celadon depths churned with a dark emotion. His policeman's instincts told him that she was hiding something ... what?

"No parents or siblings?" he pressed.

"My parents are dead." She gave him a derisive smile. "Isn't it obvious that I am an only child?"

He tried a different tactic. "It must have been difficult being widowed at so young an age."

Her mouth took on a harder edge. "Not really."

"Being left alone in the world cannot have been easy."

Did he imagine the subtle bobbing of her throat?

"My inquisitive sir, I was left with ten thousand pounds per annum and the freedom to do with it what I choose. Nothing could be
easier
. Draven's money has given me the power to purchase my heart's desires."

She flicked a languid gaze over his person, and just like that his temperature shot up again, blood rushing beneath his skin. At the same time, the mention of her "heart's desires" warped his gut. How many men had she consorted with? A strange, crazed possessiveness gripped him. Other males, touching that white skin, kissing those petal-soft lips—

"Who knows?" Her eyes rested on his, cool and deliberate. "If the mood strikes, I might even offer you an arrangement some day."

Shock quelled his words.
Bloody hell.
This shameless woman thought she could
purchase
him, like he was a ...
male whore
? Heat razed his insides. Rage. Lust. A potent combination of the two.

"You'll apologize for that," he bit out.

"Why? 'Tis the truth. You want me." Her brows formed those damnable arches. "And we've already established that you need the money."

Her words slashed into him with the delicate accuracy of a rapier. Scenting blood, the beast within him growled low in its throat, straining against its chains. The next moment, his hands crushed the cushions on either side of her head. His body crowded hers. He could feel a heartbeat—his, hers—pulsing in the sliver of space between them.

"Apologize," he repeated.

Her bosom rose and fell. Her chin angled in challenge. "Make me."

His control snapped. Blood roaring, he bent his head and smothered that mocking mouth with his own. The kiss was savage, like no kiss he'd ever given a woman before. Her lips yielded, and he thrust his tongue home. She moaned as she did in his darkest fantasies. Her spicy cinnamon flavor fueled his hunger. The kiss turned ravenous, greedy, and when her tongue slid against his, he was lost.

Pushing her back onto the seat, he tasted the smooth slope of her throat. Her exotic, flowery scent made him heady as he licked his way up to her delicate jaw and then her earlobe. The gasp that left her told him all that he needed to know; he suckled, curling his tongue around the sweet curve of her ear until she began to writhe against him. His cock strained, stiff and chafing at the barriers between them. Groaning, he thrust into the cradle of her thighs, his hands moving to cup her breasts.

Soft yet firm. Heaven. He found the hard peaks, rubbed them through the thin layer of silk. She was panting now, her eyes closed, her hands gripping his sleeves. With a growl of pure want, he lowered his head, licked the crevice between her heaving mounds. Somehow, he managed to tug down one shoulder of her gown, and his next breath hissed through his teeth.

A rosy nipple, flushed with color and ripe as a berry.

He cupped her breast, his cock leaping at the sight of his worn leather glove against the pale perfection of her skin. The bounce of the carriage jiggled her flesh as he palmed her. He drew his thumb across the puckered peak, and she jerked, her eyes flying open.

Their gazes clashed.

Another craving took hold of him, foreign yet as potent as the lust beating in his veins. He strummed her nipple again, and her trembling response further incited him. Never before had he experienced this burning desire to assert his dominance—to establish his manhood to this maddening female.

"Say you're sorry," he said.

Her eyes widened.

"Say it." This time he tweaked her nipple lightly.

Her lips parted. "I will not," she said, and the breathiness of her tone almost undid him. Almost. "One cannot be sorry for the truth."

"The truth?" Even as his cock throbbed, something settled within him. Solid and grounding, a sense of power such as he'd never felt. Because every male instinct told him that he could pleasure this
selkie
seductress. Make her moan and lose herself to his touch. To experiment, he thumbed her nipple once more, and her gaze grew cloudy, her spine arching for his caress in spite of her obstinate words.

Wanton and wicked, this one. In need of a firm, steady hand. Whoever took on this woman would have his work cut out for him. And, damn, if he didn't want to interview for the job.

Job … duty. Rescuing Miss Fines.

Christ, what in blazes was he doing?

The memory of the other encounter with Lady Marianne slapped him to his senses. Through the haze of lust, he eyed the beauty panting beneath him. Was she leading him on again? Why did she delight in driving him to the edge of sanity? He might be poor and a policeman, but he was no puppet on a string. No toy to be trifled with.

Somehow, he summoned the willpower to release her. He pulled up her sleeve. "The
truth
is that you're a reckless woman. You need someone to protect you from yourself."

Her gaze sharpened. The next instant she shoved at his shoulders, her cheeks flooded with color. "Get off of me,
you lout
."

"Steady now. I'm just trying to help," he said, scowling.

"I don't need your help! I dictate my own life," she hissed as she sat up. "What I do is no business of yours."

"You've shot me and propositioned me. The latter twice." Now it was his turn to lift a brow, and devil and damn if that didn't feel good. "I'd say you've invited me into your business, my lady."