The Gentleman Jewel Thief (6 page)

“I am sorry you were ill-treated by the bandits,” he said, his voice a low, rumbling purr. “I shall call my doctor in the morning, if you like.”

Violet shook her head. “No, thank you, I’ll be quite all right. A bit sore, a bruise here and there, nothing more. Though I’m afraid I shall require a doctor if I drink any more of your champagne. A dirty trick of yours, that.”

“But it calmed your nerves, did it not? You were quite shaken, and with good reason. I daresay most females would suffer fits of hysteria for days after what happened to you this evening.”

Heat rose in her chest, a boldness riled by the champagne that now coursed deliciously through her veins. The words bubbled to her lips before she could think to stop them.

“Indeed, Lord Harclay, you should know by now that I am not like ‘most females.’ If I were, I daresay you’d have dropped me at my father’s doorstep and washed your hands of the thing,” she said, shocked at the rising sharpness of her tongue but too far in to stop it. “Admit it. You have used the theft as an excuse to abduct me, to bring me unescorted to your home, so that you might seduce me.”

For a moment she expected him to laugh; the words sounded ridiculous, even to a lady like herself who devoured several unsavory novels a week. But instead he leaned forward, closing the space between them.

“And what if I have, Lady Violet?”

His voice was calm, silken, barely above a murmur; shockingly intimate. Violet sucked in a breath at the rush of heat low in her belly.

“It’s that damned stain you’re after, isn’t it?” she said with a smile.

His eyes traveled to the pink spot on her gown. Her nipples prickled to life beneath his gaze.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached forward and with an enormous hand covered her breast. She inhaled sharply, the breath catching in her throat as he bent his head and brought his lips to her flesh, just above the stain on her gown.

He pressed featherlight kisses onto her skin, small, heady things, his lips moving slowly over the rise of her bosom. The tenderness of his touch made the gesture all the more erotic; Violet found herself arching into his caress, her open mouth suddenly dry.

“I think,” he said, nipping her breast with his teeth, “I’ve got it, that dreadful spot.”

He raised his head and looked directly in her eyes, making no effort to hide his desire.

Lord Harclay leaned closer, closer, that peculiar, wonderful scent of his enveloping her; and then in a thrilling rush he dug his hand into her hair and pulled her to him, his thumb grazing her lips before he covered them with his own.

Violet was so taken aback that for a moment she entered a state of complete and utter paralysis, heart stalling in her chest. His kiss was urgent but gentle; his lips moved languorously, slowly, working to open her to him.

For a moment her eyes fluttered shut, and she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like if she gave in, allowed him to do what he wanted.

Again the image of Harclay-as-pirate flashed across her closed lids. This time he was peeling back her tattered chemise, flinging his tricorn hat across the deck in his urgency to have her, take her, pleasure her.

Pleasuring is what I most enjoy
.

His breath was warm on her skin, and his mouth tasted sweet, the champagne lingering on his tongue. It was an altogether exquisite first kiss, not at all what Violet had imagined and yet so much better. Deliciously, dangerously good.

She had to stop. She couldn’t forget her family, and this man—damn him—was making her forget not only her duty but her good sense, her wit, as well.

With a moan of frustration, she broke free. Her eyes snapped open; the look on Harclay’s face was one of vague surprise and smug satisfaction.

No, she mused,
absolutely
not; he won the first round, but victory would be hers in the second.

Without thinking, she drew back and delivered a ringing blow to his cheek. He blinked, the skin pulsing red where she’d struck him, and to Violet’s dismay his smug smile merely deepened.

“A strong arm you’ve got, Lady Violet. Do you box?”

“If the occasion calls for it, yes.”

He surveyed her for several beats, a wicked gleam in his eye. “In my not inconsiderable experience, I’ve found that ladies who box are likely to be great gamblers as well.”

Violet struggled to suppress the unwelcome smile that plied her lips at his joke. “While I regret my boxing days are behind me, I do like to gamble. I daresay I’ve a gift for it.”

“Let us see, shall we?” Harclay said. He rose and disappeared into a darkened corner, only to emerge seconds later with a deck of cards in one hand and the uncorked bottle of champagne in the other.

She swallowed. She knew as well as Harclay that she couldn’t resist the array of vices he now laid before her. Drink, dice, deeds done with hands and mouths and teeth. It was hell, it was heaven, and she wanted more of it.

“Tell me, Lady Violet,” Harclay said, leaning across the table to refill her coupe, “do you play vingt-et-un?”

“I have, once or twice.”

“Excellent.”

“We shall require a banker.”

“I’ll play the banker.” He offered her the deck; she cut it in the middle and passed it back to him. He shuffled the cards quickly, neatly, and set them on the table. “I propose a wager.”

Now,
this
was interesting. She took the coupe in her hand and raised a brow. “Oh? And what, exactly, do you propose I wager?”

Harclay shuffled the cards smoothly between his hands. “Your virginity.”

Violet nearly spit out her champagne and erupted into a fit of coughing. “My virginity?” She tried to laugh, a pitiful sound even to her ears. “What makes you think I’m still a virgin? I told you I’m a lady of many vices.”

For a moment Harclay looked at her. She sensed him searching, digging past her swagger—and the champagne—for the truth that lay beneath it all.

“You’re far too cunning a woman to dabble in
that
vice,” he replied steadily. “For you know that such an act can lead to messy complications, among them marriage and children. No, you enjoy rather more simple vices, cards and liquor and the like. Perhaps you touch yourself every once in a while, just to see what the fuss is all about.”

Here she blushed.

“Ah,” he said with a smile. “Perhaps you touch yourself a good deal more than once in a while. I hope you’ve enjoyed what you’ve discovered. Of course, that doesn’t change the fact that you’ve never lain with a man, not once. Though you often wonder what it would be like.”

Violet looked away, biting her lip. “Speak plainly, Lord Harclay. What do you propose?”

“It’s quite simple,” he replied easily, as if he were discussing not her virginity but the weather. “If I win, I ‘despoil’ you, as you so cunningly put it. If you win—”

“One hundred,” she blurted out. “If I win, you pay me one hundred pounds.”

It was exquisitely stupid, of course, to wager that which she’d been taught to hold most dear. Perhaps it was the image of him half-naked at the sideboard, a pirate intent on pillage; perhaps it was the punch, the champagne, the night’s disastrous events; or perhaps it was the kiss, good
God
, that kiss, that made her forget herself. Whatever it was, she spoke impulsively, without thinking, as if she were guided not by rational thought but by the heady, insistent pounding of her heart.

Besides, Harclay may have been a legendary gambler—she’d heard of his exploits long before she’d met him—but his prowess, and her wager, hardly mattered.

She was going to win.

What Harclay didn’t know was that Violet was no novice herself; indeed, she thought with a small, prideful smile, she was good, better than good.

The best cheat this side of the Atlantic, make no mistake. She couldn’t very well have kept the family afloat this long with just her luck, now, could she?

“O
ne hundred?” Harclay said, setting out the cards before them on the table. “Let’s make it one
thousand
, just to be fair. Surely your virtue is worth more than a shabby hundred.”

He caught the flicker of surprise in her eyes. Dear girl, she was probably used to the sort of dull games played in the drawing rooms of dowagers and such; the sort of games played over tea and crumpets and polite gossip, the wager no more than a copper or two.

And here he was, intent on laying claim to her virginity over a game of casino. It was forward and rascally, even for him. Virgins held no particular draw for him; a messy business, that, accompanied, as far as he knew, by tearful, clinging hysterics that shriveled his lust more quickly than a swim in a Christmastide pond.

But the thrill from his well-executed theft had not yet subsided, and his blood hadn’t felt so warm and alive for as long as he could remember. It could’ve been the champagne or the deliriously late hour, but he thought Lady Violet looked lovely. In the soft glow of the candles her cheeks flushed pink, her blue eyes danced as if to some maddeningly secret joke, and her hair!—glorious waves of it, pooling darkly about her shoulders and chest. It was all he could do not to reach across the table and touch it, bury his face in it.

Then there was the kiss. How her lips had seared his—his groin tightened at just the memory of it. Her mouth had been hot and slick, tasting sweetly of champagne, desire, possibility. They had moved in perfect harmony, he and she, heads bent at just such an angle, lips tugging languorously at just the right moment, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

So lost was he in the memory of the kiss that he nearly missed Lady Violet clearing her throat and pronouncing herself the winner.

“What?” he blurted out, brow furrowed. On the table before her lay an impressive array of cards. He could tell at first glance that she had indeed won, and by a landslide at that; his pile was positively pitiful in comparison.

“But how?” he continued, at last meeting her eyes. They were narrowed mischievously, a grin perking at one side of those delicious lips.

“Twenty-one points, that’s how. I say, my lord, for all your reputation I find you a most disappointing opponent. Surely you did not throw the game.”

“No,” he replied. “Certainly not.” Rubbing his forehead with his first two fingers, he surveyed the cards in genuine bewilderment. He hadn’t lost a game of casino since he’d been able to grow a beard. How the hell had she done it?

“You might make the note out to me, if you please, Lord Harclay. One thousand, no less,” Violet said cheerily. She swept her hand over the cards and with startling skill gathered them into a neat pile. It was obvious she had done this before.

Harclay replied with a groan. By now his bollocks ached fiercely. He had fully expected to win, had even picked the carpet beneath her feet as their place of congress. But she had surprised him with her skill, that minx, for, contrary to his original opinion, she was no novice, a fact she’d hidden well until now.

A wicked, wicked trick she’d just played. Harclay hadn’t had the wool pulled over his eyes in years—
years!—
and to be brought to his knees at last by Lady Violet Rutledge . . . It was humbling, wholly unexpected, and incredibly arousing.

He pulled a pillow onto his lap so that he might not embarrass himself any further. Clearing his throat, he said, “Another round. Double the stakes. You play banker this time.”

Lady Violet scoffed. “Another round? After I’ve proven I can best you quite soundly?”

“Good God, woman, just deal the cards!” he nearly roared.

Though she obeyed without protest, she raised her brow as if to chastise him for the damned fool he was. But what with his entire body shimmering in anticipation, his manhood screaming for release, it was all he could think to do.

“Wait a moment.” She paused. The blanket she clutched about her fell provocatively off her shoulder, revealing a tantalizing swath of sheer gown. “How am I to double my stakes? I’ve only one virtue to offer, after all.”

Harclay smiled tightly. “I shall just have to take you twice, shan’t I?”

He did not miss the pink of her cheeks burn red at his brazen suggestion.

This time he played carefully, thoughtfully, all the while keeping a close eye on Lady Violet. She played with concentrated gusto, cards flying through her fingers with the well-practiced skill of a seasoned player. Her gaze never left the deck, and more than once Harclay caught a curious movement of her lips, as if she were speaking to herself, or adding a sum aloud.

At last Lady Violet set down her hand. “I win,” she said. “Twenty-one again, see?”

“For the love of all that’s holy!” he exclaimed. He threw down his cards and fell back none too gently on the settee. “How do you do it?”

Again that tiny, maddening half smile. “Two thousand, if you please, though what sort of gentleman wagers so much on a few hands—you’re certainly one of a kind, Lord Harclay.”

For a long moment, he looked down at Lady Violet’s face, his eyes following the contours of her features: down the angle of her nose, across the soft descent of her cheek, lingering a trifle longer than was proper at her lips. It gladdened him to see the weight of his scrutiny driving her color high and bright. He may have lost a game or two of cards; but the intrigue, the desire, that darkened Violet’s eyes was well worth the loss.

“And you, dear girl,” he murmured, “you are also one of a kind. Certainly luckier than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Lady Violet smiled and looked down at her hands, busy shuffling the deck. “And
you,
dear sir,” she replied, “must realize I am immune to such honeyed words for that very reason.”

But beneath her haughty retort he sensed a sort of plea, as if her body, too, were drawn taut as a bowstring and begging for release.

The moment was ripe. He could smell the desire that rose from her skin, her hair, her breath, and before he knew what he was about, he was on his feet and reaching for her, blood roaring to life.

In a flash of sudden, violent movement, Harclay circled Lady Violet with his arm and pulled her to her toes against him, cupping her chin with his hardened hand, thumb holding her jaw in place. Her face was so close he felt the heat of her short, stunned breaths on his cheek. She pressed her hands against his chest in protest but he did not, could not, loosen his grip.

In her effort to push him away, Lady Violet lost hold of her blanket and it fell with a small sigh at her feet. She was left shivering in naught but her gauzy gown, a flimsy thing that exposed more skin than it covered.

Harclay felt her shaking and pulled her close against him. His erection prodded firmly, without shame, against her near-naked legs. The pressure, the feel of her warmth against his manhood, was at once delicious and maddeningly insufficient. He was reminded of his randy youth, when he’d wandered through life with a perpetually stiff member. How many poor women he’d rubbed against, looking for release; how dreadful it had been, for both him and the women!

He turned her away from him. Slowly, patiently, his fingers went to work at the satin buttons marching single file down her spine. He felt her tremble beneath his touch but she did not protest.

He reached the last button and, loosening it, allowed the gown to fall from Lady Violet’s shoulders. It pooled around her feet in a sweet-scented tangle; she was left in her chemise. Gently he raised her right arm, then her left; but when he tried to pull the chemise over her head, she shook her head.

Even a lady of vice has limits, he mused with a smile. He dropped the chemise back over her body.

Pressing a kiss into her shoulder, he turned her back around to face him.

Lady Violet stood very still against him. He could feel the prick of her hardened nipples pressing through his shirt. Her breasts pushed back against his chest, firm and insistent; from the feel of them they were generously sized, more than a handful each. Perfect, perfect, so goddamn
perfect
.

He nearly groaned as he imagined taking one breast, then the other, in his mouth, imagined her feminine curves filling his hands, her moans of surrender when he brought her to the brink with his touch . . .

He hovered above her, eyes wet with desire—a man completely transformed from the smooth, grinning devil of just a few moments before. She did not cower but rather stared at his naked passion in silent wonder, stunned by the force of his body, his desire.

“Why can’t we both win?” he whispered in her ear. “Two thousand for you, and for me . . .”

Slowly, carefully, he slid his hand from her waist to her buttocks. Fisting the fine fabric of her chemise in his palm, he pulled the fabric up, up, with his fingers, baring first her ankle, then her calf, then a delicious, milky white thigh. Finally his fingers found purchase in the soft skin of her backside.

With the same care he slid his hand over her hip. She gasped as he cupped her sex in his palm, her curls soft and ticklish against his hardened skin.

“And for me, this,” he said.

“Lord Harclay.” She swallowed, voice hoarse. “You wouldn’t, not after losing—”

“Oh, Lady Violet,” he murmured, “I would indeed.”

He slid his first two fingers deeper, so that they rested on either side of her sex. With great gentleness he opened her; she sucked in her breath but did not protest. With his second finger, he stroked the insides of her smooth, hot skin. Despite her fighting words, she was very aroused; slick and hot and pulsing. He stroked a little deeper, found the center of her sex, that small, delicious bead of flesh.

Lady Violet let out a breath. Her eyes flew wide, then fluttered shut altogether.

“Please, Harclay,” she whispered, “please.”

The words were more plea than command—what did she want? Please
yes
, please
no
? Perhaps, like all women, she wished for both.

When Harclay looked her in the eye he saw lust, and champagne, and desire and sex and fear. In her hands she’d fisted the fine fabric of his shirt, as if she clung to him for dear life itself.

“Please,”
Lady Violet repeated. Having a beat or two to compose herself, her voice was a bit steadier, her resolve stronger.

Gently he slipped a finger inside her, watching her face all the while. Instinctively she tightened around him, urging his finger deeper. She felt small, hard with desire, and deliciously wet.

Her eyes rolled back with pleasure as he began to move his fingers in tandem, one rolling the hood of her sex, the other deep inside her. Her hips circled against him, urging him to move faster, harder, and he obeyed. As she tightened further around him he slipped a second finger inside her.

Violet’s eyes went wide but she did not protest. He stroked and he pulled and he touched until he thought he might explode himself. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers digging into his hair, pulling it as she came closer and closer to her pleasure.

When it came he cried out with her, losing himself in the sensation of her pulsing hard and fast around his fingers. Her climax was violent and all consuming; she leaned against him, legs shaking, and he held her, waiting for the waves to subside.

His cock strained painfully against his breeches. How lovely it would feel to bury himself in her wetness, in that small, pulsing place that begged for him.

But, damn it all, he was a man of honor; and having just lost the wager, not once but twice, he couldn’t possibly take her.

At least not now. Not like this.

Besides, delaying the pleasure would only increase it when—
if
—he ever did indulge in that particular vice with Lady Violet.

Not that it didn’t bloody
hurt
to step away from her now.

At last Lady Violet opened her eyes; they were slick and sated and very blue.

Wordlessly, and with great regret, Harclay removed his fingers from her sex and let her chemise slide back down to her ankles. He loosened his grip and set her down on her feet, stepping back. Lady Violet stood still, unable to move or speak.

For some moments they stood beside each other, surveying a large painting of a woman in ornate court dress that hung above the fireplace. It took every ounce of his self-control not to take her in his arms, throw her on the settee, and have his way with her. How delicious she’d feel, still wet and willing, and, good
God
, those moans of pleasure—

“Ghastly portrait,” she finally said. “All that lace and silk and still the old bag is as bracket faced as they come.”

“That’s my great-aunt Eugenia.”

“You look nothing like her,” Lady Violet said quickly and focused her gaze on her slippered feet.

Several beats of uncomfortable silence passed between them before he spoke.

“I hope you enjoyed”—Harclay gulped—“that as much as I did.”

She did not look at him, but he could tell by the violent coloring of her cheeks that she had enjoyed it indeed.

“I’d like to brand you a cad, a shameless defiler with a thirst for one thing, and one thing only,” she began softly, meeting his eyes at last. “But unlike the cad I’d thought you to be, you defended me before Lord Casterleigh. Why? Why’d you make that silly boy apologize? It wasn’t necessary, you know.”