Lady of Desire (7 page)

He went over to set it on the chest of drawers and put it down, then pulled the wooden chair over, twirled it about-face, and straddled it, draping his elbow across the top slat. “Never seen tattoos on a man before?”

She had never seen a man’s naked torso before, tattooed or otherwise, but it hardly seemed worth mentioning. “Where did you get them?”

“Church Street.”

She blinked in surprise at his unexotic answer.

He smiled. “An old sea dog retired from the Navy keeps a parlor there. Supports himself nicely in his old age, I daresay. He learned his art from the natives of Tahiti while serving aboard one of His Majesty’s frigates.”

“Did it hurt much?”

“Don’t recall,” he said with a lazy grin, scratching his scruffy jaw. “I was stone drunk every time.”

With a snort of amused disdain, she looked away.

As he commenced tending his wound, she stood awkwardly a short distance away, trying to keep her gaze averted. She felt she really ought to help somehow—his injury looked dreadfully painful—but she barely dared glance at him, belatedly unnerved by the presence of a very large, virile, half-naked man in the room with her. What her brothers would have said of this, she did not wish to contemplate.

With so many people to answer to, she wondered in a sudden surge of rebellion what it was like to be Blade. He was a ruffian, to be sure; but he was as free as an eagle, and she was deuced certain that no one ever told him what to do. He would laugh in their faces.

Glancing at him, chagrined to find herself envious of the lovely brute, she let out a sudden exclamation. “Blade! You’re going to get water on the painting! For goodness’s sake, it’s a Canaletto—”

“I think I know what it is. Why else would I have bothered to steal it?”

“Then you shouldn’t leave it where it can get covered in water spots!”

He watched her curiously as she marched past him to the chest of drawers and whisked the masterpiece out of harm’s way. Carrying it over to his writing table where it would not suffer the indignity of stray splashes, she took her time fussing over placing it just so, relieved to have some small task to distract her from gawking at him.

Looking back on it, she couldn’t believe that her best friend and lady’s companion, Lizzie Carlisle, hadn’t thought that Billy Blade was handsome. She had called him “A Nasty Man” and had been scandalized by Jacinda’s interest.

She wanted to laugh at the thought. Only Mama would have understood, she thought with an inward sigh, stealing another wicked peek at him from across the dim chamber. What a gorgeous air of wildness and rebellion he had about him, with his dark gold mane flowing back from his forehead and those pagan tattoos adorning his finely honed body.

Still, though the vast gulf between Billy Blade and the fashionable dandies of her acquaintance was obvious, she could not escape the nagging intuition that the gang leader was not entirely what he seemed. Perhaps he was the product of some highborn rake’s dalliance with a tavern wench, for he had a bold, strong, sensual face with a fineness to his features that whispered of loftier bloodlines than his seeming Cockney origins. The princely lines of his thick, tawny eyebrows winged over his wary yet thoughtful eyes. He had austere, knife-hilt cheekbones; a square, determined chin; and a generous mouth that would have tempted a paragon, let alone the daughter of the Hawkscliffe Harlot.

Yet his face also bore the marks of his rough life on the streets. His aquiline nose crooked slightly to the right, and above the outer corner of his left eyebrow was a scar in the shape of a scraggly star. As he began binding his lacerated side with a length of clean linen and an air of practiced efficiency, she dragged her stare away from him by sheer dint of will.

“You’re awfully good at looking after yourself, aren’t you?” she remarked in a tone of studied idleness, running her fingertip along the dusty top of the Canaletto’s gilded frame.

“Have to be. No one else is goin‘ to do it.” He got up and threw out the blood-tinged water, refilling the washbowl with fresh, cool water from the drinking pitcher. He leaned down and began splashing his face.

She fell silent, guiltily counting the number of servants who saw to her needs every hour of every day. She had never known any other kind of life. She was the daughter of a duke, after all. “Doesn’t your Gypsy girl look after you, at least?”

He sent her a hard-eyed glance over the water bowl. “I look after myself. Always have. Always will.”

She shrugged and looked away. “Of course.” He reminded her, she decided, of the little boy who had robbed her—too proud to take her offered charity, but desperate enough to steal. While Blade continued splashing his face and neck, she took off her diamond necklace and hung it gently over the corner of the Canaletto’s frame, then walked away so he would not notice what she had done.

Her body felt strangely lighter, freed of her diamond collar. She clasped her hands loosely behind her back and waited for him to finish freshening up. Though she tried very hard not to keep staring at him, those strange pictures on his smooth skin seemed to beckon to her, teasing her, arcing and writhing sinuously over his muscles with his least, careless movement.

She turned her head just enough to see that each tattoo seemed specifically designed to cover up the traces of older scars. She furrowed her brow.

Dripping with water, Blade straightened up from leaning over the washbowl. Firelight tracked the gleaming beads of water that trickled down his chest as he slowly pushed his long hair back with his hands. Damp from his hasty ablutions, its color had darkened to sandy brown. She felt a shiver of awareness low in her belly and seized a longer gaze at him than she ought.

As though reading her thoughts, he opened his eyes slowly and looked into hers from across the room, tiny water droplets glistening on his spiky lashes. As their stares connected, Jacinda’s voice failed her. She swallowed hard, feeling flushed and feverish all of a sudden. She could not seem to look away.

Casting aside the hand towel, he sauntered toward her. “Don’t you think it’s time you confessed?”

“To what?” she asked faintly.

“The truth. Who are you?”

“I’ve already told you—”

“You can’t gull a lad from the rookery, love.”

“I’m not so sure you
are
from the rookery.” She lifted her chin to continue holding his gaze as he drifted closer.

“Hmm.” His murmur was husky, noncommittal. “ What if I threaten to kiss it out of you ?”

She trembled at his words and hoped he had not seen it. “I don’t think your mistress would like that.”

“Ah, but the question is, would you? ”

She held her breath, her heart pounding. His deep green eyes smoldered like emeralds on fire as he came to her with sure, unhurried strides—giving her time, perhaps, to run. Or scream. Or stop him.

She did neither.

Locked in the spell of her dark, sultry eyes, Blade could not look away. Once again, she defied his expectations. Instead of flying from him in scandalized dread like a genteel miss, she stayed where she was, an innocent temptress, waiting for him, her chest rising and falling in soft, rapid anticipation, her hands at her sides.

She dazzled him, like looking too long at the sun’s glitter on the sea, an image half forgotten from his boyhood, and like the tides, she drew him to her with a power that enthralled him, overcoming his survivor’s sense of caution and his will. Yet the closer he went, the more hopelessly lost he became, his heart pounding, his senses climbing toward some exalted bliss. She stood before him like a captive goddess, as ravishing and out of place in his rough chamber as the Canaletto. The firelight played over the exquisite gold embroidery of her white gown, which was made of such zephyr-fine silk that it seemed to float weightlessly about her legs.

As his gaze descended, his breath caught in his throat, for her skirts turned translucent by the fire’s glow, outlining her slender legs. She was slim and modestly proportioned, all elegance and demure charm. He stared at her body with a hunger that went beyond the physical. He lusted for her—God, yes— but as his gaze swept back up over every inch of her to her lovely face, her eyes whispered to him of the gentling influence—the elevating companionship— he had so long been starved for.

Someone to inspire him, teach him, make him think. Someone to hold her ground no matter how loudly he roared. To understand when he talked about the deepest questions that plagued his soul.

He had no hope of finding that here. He was too different from everyone else in the rookery. Unlike Nate or even O’Dell, he was an outsider; even as a boy-thief like Eddie, he had quickly seen that his only means of being accepted and allowed to stay was to make himself indispensable. Now he was their leader, but he had never really been
one
of them. He would have given his life for his friends, but they could not comprehend the puzzles that obsessed him. He had his books to comfort him, as well, but they could not listen, care. This girl, whoever she was, embodied all the beauty and grace he craved in his dark, brutal world.

She…
sparkled
, he thought dazedly. He stopped mere inches before her, and still she did not back away; nor did she tilt her head back to meet his gaze, but stared straight ahead at his bare chest. He could feel the warm, beguiling sweetness of her soft breath on his skin; he studied every intricate twist and whorl of her glorious golden curls.

His heart slammed. Moving with care so as not to scare her, he lifted his hands from his sides and slowly ran his palms down her arms, savoring the satiny perfection of her skin. He felt her quiver under his light touch, heard her breath catch. He caressed her again, gliding his hands back up her lovely arms, past her puff sleeves and low neckline, until he came to the creamy expanse of her chest. He could feel the hectic beating of her pulse as he touched her, gently stroking her alabaster neck with his fingertips. Her long lashes drifted closed, and her shimmery rose lips parted with desire, her head tipping back ever so slightly.

My God, you are so bloody beautiful
. His smoldering stare took in the sight of her rapt face, so innocent, so ripe for seduction. He gazed at her beautiful, waiting mouth, lowering his lips toward hers; but halfway there, he paused with a brief, anguished wince.

William Spencer Albright
, he said harshly to himself,
you must
not.

The girl was vulnerable, traumatized. He could not take advantage of such an innocent creature. Good God, she was in the midst of running away from home. He knew from experience that what she needed right now was someone she could trust, not some rough stranger groping her. The thought of this naive beauty alone on the streets of London filled him with genuine alarm. She had no idea what she was getting into. Somehow he found the strength to divert his kiss to her smooth forehead, capturing her chin between his fingertips. He closed his eyes, determined to show her that he wasn’t an utter barbarian. When he needed to, he could still act like a gentleman—but then she moved closer.

Nestling against him, she laid her cheek on his chest with a sigh as soft as the brush of a dove’s wing, as contented as that of a weary traveler who had just come home.

Blade trembled with thwarted desire as she caressed his dragon tattoo, studying it with a fascinated stare. Unable to resist, he went exploring, as well, his deft, thief’s fingers loosing the little star-shaped pins that held her wild, resplendent curls captive. He slid them out of her gleaming tresses. She did not seem to mind, closing her eyes in pleasure. One by one, he freed them, until her long hair tumbled around her delicate shoulders in shining cascades the color of sunlight.

He caught a pair of her long curls between his fingers and pulled them gently, unfurling them to their full length. Pulled straight, her hair reached all the way to her elbows. He was still marveling over her when her lashes swept open. She tilted her head back and smiled at him, slightly starry-eyed.

“Whatever are you doing?” she asked in a deliciously flirtatious purr.

He met her smoky gaze. He couldn’t believe he was letting the chance to make love to this angel slip through his fingers.

He released her curls. “Just… playing,” he murmured in a husky voice. Her curls bounced back up toward her shoulders, perfectly reforming in their natural spiral shape. He returned her smile, feeling drunken and tender. He took her small, delicate hands in his. “You are,” he whispered, raising her knuckles to his lips, kissing each pretty hand in turn, “the most luscious, outrageously lovely thing I have ever seen in my life. Including the Canaletto.”

She smiled again, gratitude shining in her magnificent eyes. Such eyes. Dark and sparkling like a starry night.

“However,” he continued, “it occurs to me that I have been shockingly remiss in offering you my hospitality.”

“Oh? I hadn’t noticed.”

He narrowed his eyes with a wry smile at her saucy answer. “ You’re a bit of a hellion, aren’t you?”

“Never. Just ask my governess.”

Though sorely tempted to kiss that vixenish smile on her lips, somehow he resisted. “You’re dangerous,” he muttered, leading her over to the secretaire. He pulled out the wooden chair, offering it to her.

She sat, her every movement graceful and ladylike, even the way she crossed her ankles and tucked her dainty feet under the chair. He just stared at her for a second, dazed to realize how she had let him touch her. He couldn’t believe it.

She likes me
. The shock of it sent a jolt of wild joy through him that stole his breath and robbed him momentarily of his common sense. He, Blade, who stared down cutthroat thugs in the meanest streets of the city, who laughed at death and snapped his fingers in the hangman’s face, found himself nervous and jumpy in the presence of a pretty girl.
How utterly stupid
. He felt like an ass.

He didn’t care.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Uh, no.” He jerked himself out of his daze, casting about for the proper care and feeding of a lady. “Let’s see. Perhaps you would like some, er, tea?”