Pride & Passion (13 page)

G
OD HAVE MERCY
, he was going to faint. Or cast up his accounts. He wasn’t quite certain in what order, he just knew that both were going to happen. Never in his life had he anticipated Lucy would kick his bollocks up far enough to knock against his teeth!

Blackness edged his vision, and he struggled beneath her weight as he all but dragged her to the back of the town house.

Goddamn,
he begged beneath heavy breaths,
don’t let me faint.
Not now, of all the times and places to be rendered weak as a babe.

Dear God, what did she mean by traveling the streets alone, at this time of night? And kicking blokes in the balls? he savagely thought.

Rifling through his pocket, he pulled out the keys, watched as they jumbled in his shaking hand. Christ, the pain, it was all he could think about. And she was still going on, yapping to him about something, but he could hear of none of it, except for a curious swishing in his ears.

“What the devil are you about, strolling the streets at this time of night—alone?”

“I don’t believe I need to answer to you.”

“You damn well will, you little baggage.”

“One might also ask what
you
are doing lurking in an alley?”

“Damn it, Lucy, you will answer the question, or I swear I will not be accountable for my behavior. This is not a game!”

She struggled in his hold and, still off center from the savage kick to his groin, Adrian temporarily lost his grip on her arm, and she escaped him for a second, before he reached for her hand, just missing and capturing the fingertips of her gloves instead, which left Lucy free and him holding the glove. She gasped, a terrified-sounding little noise that made him still in confusion. It was followed by the tinkling sound of metal hitting the flags of the foyer floor.

Lunging, she came forward, lowering herself nearly to her knees, but he was faster, despite his injury, and swooped down, seeing the shining object that had landed in the corner. He held it in his palm, studying it, then glanced quizzically at her. He thought her expression quite resembled that of a child’s stealing a sweet from the kitchen.

“I suppose it would be superfluous to question where you got this coin?”

Chagrin melted away, replaced by the beginnings of fear. It irked him. What did she think? That he would do her some harm?

“Give it back.”

He thought back to little less than an hour before, when Anastasia had showed him the same coin.
You give it to the doorman, and he summons a footman to take you up to the club. It’s your ticket in.

“You were going to meet him!” His gaze narrowed. “You’ve been there before, haven’t you?”

Raising her chin in defiance, she replied, “I don’t believe I owe you any explanations.” Something snapped inside him, and roughly he reached for her arm and pulled her to him. He started to make his way deeper into the house, all but dragging her along, Lucy protesting bitterly. In the library he shoved her into the nearest chair and pulled his already loosened cravat from his neck.

“You will start speaking now, or I swear…” he threatened, unable to finish the sentence. His mind was reeling with information, the implications, and the terror of knowing that Lucy was alone on that bloody street, intent on meeting her lover at the House of Orpheus.

“I will not,” she sniffed haughtily as she artfully arranged her skirts. “If you want to know, you’ll have to drag it out of me—torture me with one of your Templar methods.”

Oh, he’d love to, he thought as he stared down at her, mesmerized into pure idiocy as he focused on her mouth. He thought how he’d like to torture her—he’d start by unpinning that glorious mound of red hair. Shaking himself, he focused on the task at hand.

“I could use a Brethren Guardian tactic,” he growled, unsure if the Brethren even had a torture tactic—certainly none that had ever been implemented in the past two or three centuries. “But you wouldn’t like it.”
Which was the entire point of torture—you idiot!

“I am prepared.”

With an arch of a brow, he reached for her reticule
and snatched it from her, causing her to jump up in outrage. “That is private! You cannot simply just open my bag and go searching through my effects!”

“Brethren tactic, remember?” She tried to wrestle it out of his hands, but he held firmly on to it, while forcing her gently back into the chair. “Why don’t you just explain what you were doing out there, at this time of night, and why you have the coin with the mark of Orpheus? That will do nicely for starters.”

“Never! You’ll have to force it out of me!”

He laughed despite his foul mood. “Dear me, Lucy, this is not the Crusades, and I’m not going to strap you down on the rack.”

She eyed him speculatively. “We’re enemies.”

“If I were to strap you down…” He shook his head and cleared his throat. Certainly he couldn’t finish the thought because he knew she would not like to hear how damn much he wanted to lay her down on his bed and torture her with pleasure until she screamed and called out his name.

“Now, then,” he muttered, after steadying himself. “You may tell me your tale, or I will go rifling through your reticule. Your choice.”

With a shrug, she nodded to the beaded bag he held in his hands. “Do your worst.”

Such a dramatic little thing, he thought with a smile as he pulled on the corded and tasseled strings that held the purse closed. Such fire. It made him want to bed her—
hard
—riding her into submission. She would burn hot beneath him, every expression naked for him to see, just as her body would be. And her hair, it would resemble a river of flame over his pillow, and he would
reach for it, wrap the silken strands around his hand and tilt her face up to look at him as he thrust hard into her, making her accept him. And in her inherent dramatic fashion she would come beautifully—and loudly—
for him
.

Christ, he was hard as iron standing there, and he lowered the purse in his hands, trying to conceal the fact. He was supposed to be livid with her, not thinking of bedding her. He should be investigating her actions, discovering what the devil she was doing with this coin, but the image of her pale body arching beneath him, of her searching and reaching for the orgasm he masterfully held just out of her reach. By God, he would make her wait, make her teeter and fall, only to rise up again. He’d make her want…make her weep…keep her in an acute state of longing and aching need before he gave her what she wanted—just like she had done with him.

Get on with it,
he reminded himself. And reluctantly he tore his gaze away from her face, and his mind from the fantasy of making love to her. He would—he vowed it. He would have Lucy Ashton, there was no mistaking that.

Drawing the strings, he opened the reticule. There was some money—some coins, a key, presumably to her father’s house, which made him ask the asinine question, “Does your father know what you’re about tonight?”

“Oh, certainly,” she replied mockingly. “I shook him awake and informed him I was going traipsing through Mayfair in the dead of night to meet with the man who took my innocence.”

It was as though an electric bolt lanced through him.
He had known what was in Lucy’s past, and he had discarded it. But now, hearing it from her own lips caused a new ravaging in his soul. Was it insufferably hypocritical and priggish for him to wish that he could have been her first? He had dreamed of it for so long, how it would have been between them. He would have taken such good care of her. Would have made it beautiful, and tender—and slow, not rushing her, just allowing her to experience every nuance of pleasure he and his body would give to her.

With a savage oath, he picked through the bag until he came across a folded piece of paper. Her eyes widened, but their expression taunted him, dared him to unfold this bit of private correspondence, which did nothing to ease his riled, and feral—not to mention sexually frustrated—mood.

“So this is the damning evidence, is it?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“We’ll see soon enough, won’t we?”

Opening it, he read the contents, and saw red as every vessel in his head began to bleed, leaching blood from his brain, to his eyes, until his vision was swimming in crimson.

“Goddamn it!” he roared. “What the devil do you mean by obeying this summons? Alone? In the dark? My God, when I think of what might have happened to you. You’re reckless…a danger to yourself,” he huffed, quickly losing his control. “You ought to be tied up for your own good and safety and given to a man who will make it his life’s purpose to keep you out of mischief!” He reached for the cravat that lay pooled on the table.

“What do you mean by this?” she snapped as he began to bind her hands.

“What does it look like?”

“Untie me at once.
Oooh,
” she stammered as she stamped her foot against the floor, trying to connect with his foot. The foot wouldn’t hurt half as much as his groin still did.
“You cannot do this!”

“I assure you, my love, I can. And I am doing a fine job of it.”

He was done tying her, but his palm had caught her wrist, checking to make certain the cravat was not too tight. He had removed her cloak, and her arms were bare, the skin pale, beckoning as he made an upward brush of his hand along her arm.

“Get your hands off me,” she gasped, struggling to free herself as she squirmed in the chair. “Cease your manhandling.”

That did it. He stood in front of the chair, bent down to eye level as his hands wrapped around each of the chair’s curved arms. He stared into her vivid green eyes, as glorious as a blade of spring grass, and said, “I am
not
manhandling you.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I am not. Trust me…you will be fully cognizant of the matter when you’ve been manhandled by
me
.”

“Oh, really?” she drawled haughtily. “And what distinction will you make, hmm? What difference will there be from now?”

His mouth came dangerously closer to hers. His cock stiffened, and his bollocks burned with a gut-deep ache, but he could not stop himself. Her lips were too close, her mouth so daring and tempting…

“You’ll know, because I’ll do it properly, and you’ll beg me for more of my hands.”

She frowned, crinkling her nose as though she was hit with a most distasteful odor, then her eyes went wide. “You are intoxicated, your grace.”

The revulsion in her expression, the derision in her voice made him feel something more than a little dangerous. “Only mildly inebriated,” he drawled with a sardonic air he did not feel.

“Disgustingly drunk.” Her green eyes narrowed, a telling sign she did not find his repartee one bit amusing. “You are foxed. Ripping drunk, sir.
Sauced
.”

Something he had kept tightly tethered inside suddenly snapped. He straightened, putting distance between them, or else he might fall on her like a ravening lunatic. On the mantel, his glass of whiskey from earlier sat unfinished, and to settle the roiling emotions in him, he strolled to the hearth and reached for it. Taking a sip of the whiskey, he curled his lips around the crystal tumbler and studied her. The brandy did nothing to settle him. He wanted her with a power that would not be harnessed.

“
Sauced
is Cockney cant, Lady Lucy. Does your
lover—
” and he spat the word with such vehemence “—speak it to you?”

Her elfin chin tilted upward in defiance. “You insinuate that he is less than a gentleman, but he is more than you, sir,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Oh, yes,” he thundered, his hand gripping the crystal in a dangerously tight hold. “The very paragon of gentleman-like behavior. The man who shot and killed another in cold blood!”

“You have no proof!” she countered, and the passion in which she defended the bastard made him see red.

“I was there, damn you. I saw him point the gun and shoot Wendell Knighton in the chest from the rooftop. I am telling you, he did it.”

“It…it can’t be.”

“Why? Because you don’t want it to be true? Because you cannot bring yourself to ask a few very pertinent questions regarding the man you foolishly believe is better than me?”

“He
is
better than you!” she railed.

“Oh, really?” he drawled, the sound belying the depths of the darkness that he felt. “Well, I for one would never make you walk through the darkness of night to my carriage that I hid around a corner,” he said with lethal softness.

Something like pain flickered in the depth of her eyes, and he almost despised himself for saying what he had, but jealousy and an unholy unrequited desire was ruling him now, and had been ever since he had read that damned missive.

Her gaze turned mutinous. “Well, I know for certain, that he would not bring me to the very place where he had only just completed fornicating with his mistress!”

Adrian knew he stood there with his mouth agog, and his eyes bulging. Whatever her response, he had not expected that.

“The room reeks of her perfume. That same overbearing scent that fouled the air at the musicale. I saw her,” Lucy continued, her voice taking on a strange tone. “The tall blonde that kept sidling up to you, the one you made no pretence of showing interest in. For
all your prudish, priggish ways, you quite forgot your head tonight, did you not? I was not the only one to notice the spectacle you made of yourself.”

Something inside him fired to life, and he replaced the glass atop the mantel and strode slowly to where she sat, still bound in the chair. “She is
not
my mistress.”

She snorted in derision, her eyes rolling. “You must think me a fool.”

He caged her within his arms, his hands gripping each of the curved arms of the chair, making her jump, but he shortened the space between them, bending lower until he could look into her eyes, smell her skin, feel the rapid puffs of her breaths against his lips, and his body responded, wanting her, desiring to show her how it could be between them, what sort of lover he would be to her.