Never Love a Scoundrel (22 page)

His eyes were full of concern. She touched his lapel gently with her fingertips. “Perhaps you’re having an effect on me.”

He inhaled sharply. “Lydia. Unless you’d like to have an effect on
me,
you’d best get to your point.”

Why was flirting with him so much
fun
? But no, she hadn’t beckoned him here for an assignation, though that sounded rather delightful . . . She shook her head. “I wanted you to know that my aunt plans to come to your party and ferret out your secrets.”

He blinked at her. “What secrets?”

“You
know,
” she said. And when he continued to look perplexed, she added, “What happens during your vice parties . . . ”

He stifled a laugh. “Those aren’t secrets. It’s simply polite not to repeat them, though I’m sure some do.”

“Oh.” Her mind traveled a path in which she thought about some of those things and wondered how alike they were to what she and Jason had been doing at the musicale the other night. “So you’re not worried about my aunt ruining your party? That is, I’m afraid, her intent.”

“I would expect nothing less from her.”

Lydia flattened her palm against his chest, feeling his heart beating strong and sure despite the layers of his clothing. It seemed hers danced with the same rhythm, but that was certainly fancy. “You never should have invited us. Although now that you have, I couldn’t possibly convince her not to come.”

His hand came over hers and she wished their gloves to perdition. She wanted to feel the heat of his skin against hers. “It will be fine,” he assured her. His gray eyes bored into hers with promise. “I’ll be ready for her.”

She should leave now, before their joint absences were noticed, but she didn’t want to. Once upon a time he’d called her bold, and he’d said he liked it. She hoped what she was about to do wouldn’t disturb him. She moved so that their bodies nearly touched. Without breaking eye contact, she pulled the glove from her right hand. Then she lifted her hand to his face. “May I?”

He stared into her eyes, seemingly entranced. “Yes.”

Lightly, she touched her fingertip to the top of his scar, just beneath his eye. “Did it hurt terribly?”

His breath caught. “Yes.”

She traced slowly down his cheek, her finger gliding over the ridge of flesh. “How many stitches did you take?”

“Twenty-one.”

There was a slight bump just past the middle. “Were you conscious?”

“For every single one.”

She reached the end and set her fingers against his jaw. “I’m sorry.” Then she stood on her toes and pressed her lips to the base of the scar.

He groaned and turned his face to capture her lips. The kiss wasn’t gentle or soft. It was hard, demanding, and sent a stark flash of need straight to her soul.

His arms came around her and pulled her against his chest, crushing her breasts. But it felt wonderful. Though she knew it was pointless—they had no future together—she’d ached to be held by him again. She angled her head and opened her mouth. His tongue was ready, sweeping into her mouth hotly. Desire lightened her head and sped her pulse.

She curled her fingers along his jaw and wrapped her other hand behind his neck, though she still clutched her glove. He swept her around and lifted her to sit on the edge of the table, all the while deepening their kiss so that she felt open and exposed to his hunger. A word she’d only heard murmured crept into her brain and seemed the perfect description:
erotic
.

His hands urged her legs apart. She complied and he moved so that her inner thighs rubbed against his outer. If she’d felt exposed to his kiss, this was something far more invasive. But deliciously so.

His mouth left hers to trail down her neck. She encouraged his descent by throwing her head back and giving him free access to her throat. He could have whatever he wanted. She wanted him to
take
whatever he wanted.

His hand slid up her side, caressing her hip and then her ribcage before settling beneath her breast. His thumb brushed up over her nipple. She sucked in a sharp breath.

His tongue licked at the flesh above her fichu and she wished every single garment she was wearing would simply fall away. But his reason was far more present than hers and he pulled away. “Not here. Not now.”

He pressed a kiss to her naked palm. A long, hot, wet, kiss that made her squirm against the table. Then he took her glove from her other hand and held the opening so she could slide her hand inside. When the white silk was at last encasing her arm, he stepped back. “You’re the most dangerous young lady I’ve ever met. If you’d still like a tour of Lockwood House, I’ll arrange it.”

She wondered if “it” meant more than just a tour, or if that was just her aroused imaginings. She should say no. She should do whatever was necessary to refrain from being alone with him, but she simply couldn’t deny how good he made her feel. How no one else had ever come close to making her feel the things he did: alluring, desired,
liked
. “Yes, I want it.”

He nodded imperceptibly. “Look for my note. Now, go back into the retiring room.” He moved the chair away from the door and opened it a sliver. After peering into the room, he pushed the door wider and gestured for her to move inside.

She was alone in the retiring room before she had a chance to say anything.
Like what?
“Thank you?” or “I can’t wait to kiss you again?”

She shuddered, as much to clear her thoughts as to push the feel of his mouth and hands away from her. She had to get a hold of herself before she went back to the party.

Miraculously, she not only made it back to the drawing room, she also made it through the dinner without making a complete cake of herself. Of course, it helped that Jason was seated on the other side of the table and at the opposite end.

After dinner, Lydia was playing cards with her aunt, Mrs. Horwatt, and Lady Rowe when Jason and the other gentlemen reentered the drawing room. She’d relived their assignation—for it had definitely turned out to be one—in her mind several times. Aunt Margaret kept glaring at her for not paying attention, but Lydia simply apologized and then covered a fake yawn to infer that she was tired.

After glancing in Jason’s direction, Lydia was careful to keep her gaze averted. But her head snapped up when Aunt Margaret said, “Really, Johanna, I’m a bit scandalized you invited Lockwood.”

Mrs. Horwatt looked stricken. “But why? I thought it would be devilish fun to have him here. Moreover, I thought you would appreciate his presence.”

“I do not. He’s an absolute bounder. And mad as any inmate in Bedlam. ’Tis only a matter of time until he loses his mind like his mother.” Aunt Margaret’s dark eyes lit. Lydia tensed. She’d seen that look a hundred times. Her aunt was up to something.

“Lord Lockwood,” Aunt Margaret called sweetly.

Jason’s eyes narrowed slightly—not enough to draw notice from those around him, but Lydia was attuned to the nuances of his expressions. When had that happened?

He moved closer to their table. Mrs. Horwatt looked up at him nervously. Lady Rowe’s features were expectant. Aunt Margaret’s expression was calculating. Lydia tried to think of a way to avert the coming disaster, and surely it was going to be a disaster if her aunt was successful.

“Lord Lockwood,” Lydia said with her sunniest voice. “It’s so lovely to see you here tonight. How are you enjoying your evening?”

His gaze was appreciative, but decorously so. If anyone knew they had earlier shared a passionate embrace, it wouldn’t be because he’d let it show. “Quite well, thank you.” He turned his attention to their hostess. “Mrs. Horwatt, I must thank you for extending me the invitation to your fine home. Dinner was excellent and your husband’s port superb.”

Mrs. Horwatt preened a bit beneath his compliments, though Lydia noticed the woman couldn’t help staring at Jason’s scar with an expression of distaste. Unaccountably, Lydia wanted to kick her under the table.

“I’m sure any dinner you were invited to would be excellent,” Aunt Margaret said with just a touch of acid. “We must be grateful you’re able to comport yourself as you ought. The last time I attended a dinner party with a Lockwood, things didn’t turn out very well.”

Lydia froze. Aunt Margaret couldn’t be referencing the dinner party at which Lady Lockwood had suffered her mental break? But of course she was. Lydia looked up at Jason expectantly, her breath tangled in her throat.

Jason’s gray eyes hardened, but he forced a thin smile. “I’m sure these fine ladies don’t care for ancient history,
Lady
Margaret.”

“Of course they do, my boy.” Her contrived familiarity caused him to flinch.

“Well, I don’t.” He turned then, which was a bit rude since he didn’t excuse himself, but Lydia didn’t fault him in the slightest. She glanced at the other ladies to gauge their reactions. Mrs. Horwatt looked confounded, and Lady Rowe looked a bit disappointed. Lydia now wanted to kick
her
under the table.

“See what I mean?” Aunt Margaret said to her tablemates. “He possesses a modicum of manners, I suppose, but blood will win out. He’s young yet. His mother didn’t completely lose her mind until she’d reached middle age. It’s only a matter of time before Lockwood does the same, and I ask you, do we really want to witness that in public?”

Lydia actually bit her tongue to keep from accusing her aunt of wanting such a spectacle. That it was, in fact, what she was hoping to provoke right now.

But Jason spun around with such vehemence that all conversation around them stopped. Lydia stared up at him, silently pleading with him to just go. His eyes found hers, and after a long moment he seemed to understand. The muscle in his jaw, clenched so tightly when he’d turned, released, and Lydia exhaled the breath she’d been holding.

Jason bowed to the ladies at the table. “Good evening. Thank you again, Mrs. Horwatt, for a—mostly—delightful evening.” Then he turned without sparing Lydia even the briefest glance, and she hoped it was because he didn’t want to be seen doing it. Though she feared it was because he couldn’t bear to look at Margaret’s niece.

THE FOLLOWING
morning, Jason was preparing for an afternoon meeting with his solicitor when North interrupted him in his office. “My lord,” he said, “Lord Carlyle is here to see you.”

Jason frowned. What could he want? Their last meeting had ended with them possessing opposite opinions regarding Ethan. But now Jason had to admit his opinion was at least slightly different. Jason nodded once at North. “Show him in.”

A few moments later, Carlyle entered his office and offered a small bow. “Good morning, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all. Please, sit.” Jason gestured to one of the chairs on the other side of his desk.

Carlyle perched on the edge of the seat, his back ramrod straight. His demeanor was a bit excited or agitated even. “I came to talk with you about Jagger.”

Jason sat back in his chair as if he couldn’t care less about Ethan, but he was utterly alert and eager to hear what Carlyle had to say. “What about?”

Carlyle frowned. He set his hand on his bent knee. He seemed to be searching for the right words. “I’m afraid he might be involved in the theft ring after all.”

“Oh?” Jason kept his tone even. “Why is that?”

“There have been two robberies in Mayfair of late.”

“Two?” Jason gave up the pretense of pretending this topic didn’t interest him. He sat forward in his chair and clasped his hands atop the desk. “I read about the one on Curzon Street. There’s been another?”

Carlyle nodded. “Last night. On South Audley Street, near the park.”

“And you think Ethan was involved?”

“I don’t think he actually committed the crime, but yes, I fear he may be involved.” Carlyle didn’t look pleased to say it.

Jason didn’t hide his confusion. “What changed your mind? At our last meeting you cautioned me to give Ethan the benefit of the doubt. You believed he was trying to change.”

“I
hoped
he was trying to change, and now I realize my error. Hoping someone has reformed isn’t the same as their having done it.”

That was it? “You simply decided you were mistaken about him? What evidence do you have linking him to the thefts?”

Carlyle’s eyes widened a fraction before he masked his reaction. “It seems I’m not the only one who has changed his mind. You suddenly need proof to believe he’s taken Aldridge’s place?”

Jason shrugged, unwilling to share any alterations in his opinion, largely because he wasn’t sure he was ready to accept them. “You were quite persuasive.”

“As it happens, I have knowledge that gives me pause. While it’s not firm proof that he’s taken Aldridge’s place, it certainly casts him in an unfavorable light. He may have been involved with Lady Aldridge’s death.”

Jason’s blood chilled. “Tell me what you know.”

Carlyle inclined his head. “It’s why I came.” He leaned forward and set his hand on Jason’s desk. “Jagger’s manservant—a fellow called Oak—is a cohort from his past life. He visited Aldridge House on several occasions leading up to Lady Aldridge’s death.”

This didn’t sound good. Jason’s gut clenched. “What was he doing?”