Society's Most Scandalous Viscount (5 page)

She regained her composure despite his speculative assessment and eyed him with clever interest.

“And I've happened upon a pirate.”

Her voice had a husky quality, likely from the late hour and lack of use, each syllable passing through him to resonate in his groin. He chuckled, the sound captured and washed away with the onslaught of waves against the rocks. Perhaps he appeared piratical, his collar agape and shirt tails pulled free atop his tight fitted breeches and tall boots. He hadn't bothered with a queue and his hair whipped in the wind as recklessly as hers.

“Aren't you concerned you'll be caught trespassing on this stretch of land?” He swept his hand to the left in a careless motion.

What was it about this woman? She possessed rare, ethereal beauty, yet showed strength of character, not at all threatened while speaking to a stranger or repentant in her actions. Females usually simpered when he cast an eye in their direction, vying for an indication they stood a chance of warming his sheets.

The mental visualization of the lovely nymph in his bed, eager and waiting, raised his interest another notch. Damn his lust. He enjoyed a casual tumble. That was all. Emotion was complicated and time-consuming, and this woman intrigued him beyond comprehension. The dangerous notion warned he tread with care.

“Aren't you?” Her brisk retort snared his return to their conversation.

Excellent. She had no notion of his identity, nor did she care. “I rarely worry myself with aristocratic concerns.” That was a lie—his title and lineage sharp thorns in his side.

She darted her eyes to the house behind him, high on the cliff, pitch black aside from the lanterns Bitters had lit in the front rooms when his friends departed, undetected from where they stood on the beach. The cliffs climbed their steep ascent, so high even he had to extend his neck to follow her line of vision. Goddamn, his house looked like a fortress, locked up tight, sealed from the world of emotion that waited outside. Dark, like his soul. Empty, like his heart.

“You should.” Her mouth hitched in a delightful half smile. “The lofty lord who owns this monstrosity would justly see us jailed for treading on his land. Perhaps he's counted every grain of sand, every ripple of water that washes ashore.” The last remark held an acidic note of disdain. “I left on an evening walk, but never meant to wander this far. I'm not usually of a reckless nature.”

At last she realized the danger of her actions, but truly she'd be smarter to worry about his intentions than the master of the house, even with her blatant dislike of titled peers.

“Not of a reckless nature? I am.” That was a truth.

When she flicked her eyes to his, caught in the net of interest he'd cast, he elaborated. “At least many believe it true as they assess my staggering wagers with critical speculation, label my phaeton races as harrowing and mad, and hold me responsible for each dangerous liaison when it's the women who should know better than to tempt me. I'm often accused of recalcitrance for what is more boredom than interest, and yet my absent conscience enamors the gossips into spinning rumors of legendary scandal.” He watched for her reaction.

“And you're proud of this reputation?”

She appeared unaffected by his lengthy description of imprudent character and unrepentant debauchery, yet he couldn't be certain.

“More a relaying of facts.” That was the second lie. Stories of his actions and relationships were greatly exaggerated to provide lascivious storytelling. The threads of truth were there, for he enjoyed all the aforementioned disreputable habits in moderation, but the mongers of gossip had woven his exploits into a colorful tale—simultaneously providing him the armor necessary to live with the choices of his parents' indiscretions. It proved a convenient dual relationship.

A distant boom of thunder drew her attention and he used the distraction to step closer.

Her hair looked as golden as fresh straw, her skin creamy soft, and her body, silhouetted by the wind's persistence to mold her diaphanous gown to curves in all the right places, offered promises of exquisite pleasure. He wondered for a fleeting moment if he was lost in some strange hallucination, the likes of which he hadn't experienced since his jaunt through Arabia and his wild decision to smoke from the pipe offered.

But no, this midnight beauty was real.

“And what would cause a mermaid to leave the safety of the sea and run the risk of confronting an incorrigible pirate?” He cast his eyes to the moon, noting a brisk roll of cloud cover racing across the sky.

Her brows shot straight to the heavens. “I'm restless more than reckless, I suppose.”

She didn't reveal more, perhaps believing her answer sufficient, and he leaned a little closer, catching the scent of fresh cardamom and sweet cherries. The exotic fragrance jolted to the forefront, a rush of memories from sultry past travels.
Perhaps he dreamed, after all.

Again a baritone of thunder sounded. A streak of lightning rent the sky soon after. Her eyes flared and, sensing she might slip away before he learned how to find her again, he took one final step.

“With the weather threatening, will you once again slip into the waves, a sea nymph dissolved into gossamer mist?”

She smiled and his heart thumped a heavy beat. The wind scattered clouds to obscure the remaining moonlight and cobalt shadows slid across the rocks, the steady ebb and flow of the waves mimicking the rhythm of their conversation.

“And what would a nefarious pirate do when confronted with a mermaid seeking adventure?”

Her eyes ran over him from top to bottom and his skin heated under her scrutiny. Was she encouraging his attention? He was both confident and unsure, while her bold, flirtatious inquiry caught him off guard and elevated their conversation to an acute physical level. He knew with certainty what he wanted to do. Lower her to the sand, strip her bare, and drive into her luscious warmth. But what could the woman be after? He'd never felt so unbalanced when dealing with a female, still nothing satisfied like a quest or challenge.

With the next gust of wind the clouds broke, releasing a drenching rain that doused the lantern to a gleaming sputter. Without hesitation, he captured her around the waist to sweep over his shoulder in true pirate fashion, as if he'd plundered for booty and now stole the treasure. His long strides carried them to the groundskeeper's cottage across the beach, partially hidden by a rock formation jutting a line between the coastline and house. It offered a wall of protection and a tangible landmark in the pitch-blackness. Her surprised laughter beat against his back in time with her small fists, and the novelty of her rebellion provoked him to grin.

Shifting to cradle her in his arms, he deposited her with care beneath the eaves of the cottage, then swept a palm across his brow to slick back the lengths of hair fallen forward, both of them soaked to the bone and reclaiming breath, her from amusement and him from the sprint across the sand. He eyed her, not at all sure if she would scream her discontent or lash him for his outrageous endeavor, but she remained quiet.

The downpour transformed into a steady rain, dripping from the eaves to form a curtain of water that secluded them from where they once stood. A palpable tension took hold. They were wet. They were strangers. And each lightning strike ensured they were trapped together for the time being.

Chapter Five

Angelica eyed the handsome pirate who'd captured her attention and absconded with her person. His deep tenor caused a pleasant prickling of gooseflesh to dot her arms, while her mind raced with the current predicament. Here she stood in the middle of the night, hardly able to see the man beside her though she could feel the heat from his nearness, sense his potent masculinity, hear each exhalation. When he'd set her down, his hands had grasped her waist with strength and gentle agility. A flutter of excitement coalesced with fear and anticipation to send her pulse into a mad race. He may have carried her across the beach, but it was her heart that pounded in response. His body hard as stone beneath her stomach as he'd moved them to shelter, the shifting tension of his muscles against the thin barrier of her wet gown difficult to ignore.

She'd wished for some kind of adventure.
A
kiss from a stranger. A bold
flirtation
. They were guiltless wants.
Indulgences before she returned to London and accepted her father's decisions.
Now serendipity offered a chance to grasp hold of an adventure, to create a memory that bespoke of freedom and choice…and pure pleasure.

Something about the man, his large stature and visceral command, intrigued her on a level she'd never experienced. He drew her to the situation as if she clung to a rope and he merely wound her closer. Deeper and tighter, pulling her into conversation, illicit and rich with innuendo, and though she knew it unseemly, she'd enjoyed it. Worse, she went willingly, any voice that warned she flirted with danger or tempted fate was silenced by her desire to see what might happen next. What he would say or how he might behave. He was tall, strikingly handsome, and absolutely forbidden. Virility rolled off him in waves. She should have a care. She knew better. Still that ever-present undercurrent of wild curiosity suffocated any suggestions made by common sense.

While she contemplated her reckless
not restless
behavior, he lit the lantern on the hook by the door and bathed them in the soft glow of the lamp.

“We need to dry off.” He said the words as if they were an edict to be obeyed, and she nodded her agreement although how they were to accomplish the task remained unknown.

He wriggled the knob on the door and patted his pocket, although she couldn't imagine why. Only the groundskeeper and the owner of the manor would retain a key. Then he raised his boot and before she could summon an objection, kicked in the cottage door with a dull thud. He grabbed the lantern from the hook and preceded her, glancing over his shoulder and offering a winsome smile to imply she should follow inside.

She swallowed audibly. What was she doing? This was insane, yet she'd never felt so enthralled. Some unspoken sensation she couldn't explain assured she was in no peril, but still how could one be certain? If he desired, this stranger would overpower her with ease proving only a fool should enter the cottage. A rumble of thunder concurred, underscoring her decision to depart. She managed one step backward before his hand shot through the doorframe, captured her wrist, and tugged her into the dry shelter of the room.

Once inside she barely moved, though he busied himself with an ease that exuded well-worn confidence. The steady rain on the roof seemed to count the seconds, measure her exhalations. She strove to regain a normal breathing pattern. He made a fire in the hearth, lit another lantern, and gathered towels from a closet near the cupboard. For all intents, he did not appear a sex-crazed ravisher who'd lured her inside with the intent to force his advantage and steal her virginity. For some peculiar reason the rash thought hitched her emotions higher and her pulse raced in response, making her head swim with indecision.

Indeed, she required composure gathering, but the concept was near impossible to fathom. Now that they had light, she noticed every firm muscle outlined through his sodden linen shirt. Her gaze drifted upward over his biceps and broad shoulders to his collar where droplets of rain flicked from the lengths of his long hair to the floor with each movement. He possessed startling handsomeness, his hard-etched features profiled in the glow of firelight, the growth of new whiskers evident on his chin, acting the hero and looking the part, yet one carved of stone. Perfect in almost every way, but not quite alive. The thought struck her as odd, but she had no time to consider it.

“Dry off or you'll catch a chill.”

Another command and she, who usually had a witty retort or friendly reply on the tip of her tongue, accepted the towel and did as she was told, no matter the deep timbre of his voice sounded more brusque than concerned. When at last she'd accomplished the best result possible, he came to stand before her and she stared at the flesh exposed by the absence of a cravat, his collar plastered to his shirt, almost translucent, the pale linen several shades lighter than his skin, which was darkened to a medium brown from sunshine and negligence.

He stood close. Too close. The hairs on the back of her neck rose in objection, warning that were she to tilt her eyes upward she would be as near to a man, as near to a kiss, as she'd ever been. Her breathing went shallow as if she feared a deep inhalation would overtake the gap between them and somehow close the scant distance separating their bodies.

Still, she didn't even know his name. This pirate who'd somehow inserted himself into her plan for carefree adventure and tempted too many things to consider. She should return to the beach and find her way home. If only the weather would ease a bit.

She didn't raise her chin. She couldn't look at him. To look would be dangerous. How easy to get lost in his eyes. What color were they anyway?

She wouldn't succumb to the charming tenor of his voice and fall prey to the seduction of his words. He swallowed and she watched the movement of his throat, felt the warmth of his breath against her temple. She thought he might speak, but the moment stretched, bristling with a shared energy, an unknown frisson of tension and potent untapped emotion that radiated between them with unexplainable heat.

Her body reacted.

She should feel chilled—damp layers of clothing clung, her hair dripped, her skin cooled—yet instead, warmth drenched her core. A tingling rise of sensation was alive within, ricocheting from point to point, swirling and settling low in her belly with a tremulous tension as if she'd drawn back a harp string and held it extended, taut and stretched tight, quivering, begging to be released but unable to do so, not knowing how. Was this prurient desire? Men of his ilk likely experienced it all the time.