The Lady Hellion (19 page)

There was no hurry this time. Quint was careful in his handling of her—stroking her hair and staring down at her with tender, kind eyes—and all the feelings she normally kept buried threatened to overwhelm her. She forced those notions away. This was not the time to act a lovesick schoolgirl. He’d already made his wishes quite clear on their future, and she hardly wanted a husband. No, what they had now suited her perfectly.

And it obviously suited him, as the erection near her thigh proved. She bit her lip, amused at the direction of her thoughts.

“Are you laughing?”

“Of course I am laughing.” She giggled, unable to prevent the tide of mirth from bursting free. “I am naked, you are naked. You are about to stick things in me. It is ridiculous when you think about it.”

His brow furrowed. “It’s a penis, Sophie. Not a ‘thing.’”

That caused her to laugh harder.

“Stop wriggling,” he said huskily, his shaft hardening further. “I want to make this good for you.”

She sobered instantly. Her fingers grasped his erection and stroked him slowly, swiping her thumb over the tip. She felt him shiver. “You will. You always do.”

“Sweet mercury,” he breathed when she did it again. “I love when you touch me.”

“Then I won’t stop.” She pressed light kisses to the hard curve of his jaw.

“Ah, God, Sophie.” He thrust into her grip. “You completely undo me.”

Fire licked through her, arousal building in her loins, as she worked his erection in her fist. He gave little gasps and grunts, eyes closed, muscles shuddering. She loved the unbidden sounds of pleasure, seeing how she could affect him. There was a heady power in pleasuring a man—especially when that man was the ever-controlled Quint.

He threaded their fingers together, stopping her, and pressed their joined hands to the bed. He kissed her long and slow, his tongue showing no urgency despite the hard shaft against her thigh. She loved the way he kissed, with absolute focus and determination, and her body responded, melting under his. Since she hadn’t the use of her hands, she rubbed her foot over the back of his leg to hurry him along.

“Damien,” she said against his mouth, “stop teasing me.”

“Never,” he murmured. “I want you begging.”

He didn’t release her hands, just continued to lick inside her mouth until she squirmed under him. Keeping hold of her hands, he slid down to her breast, where he laved the nipple with his tongue. When he drew a tip deep inside his mouth, pleasure pulsed between her legs. She was panting, desperate for him, needy for some kind of relief to the wicked burn.

“Now, Damien,” she breathed.

With a shiver-inducing scrape of his teeth, he freed her breast. “Not yet. You’re not quite ready.”

She shook her head, though he couldn’t see it. She was indeed quite, quite
ready.

He moved down between her legs and released her hands. Her fingers wound through his thick locks, holding on as he dropped kisses on her inner thighs. “So beautiful. Do you get this wet when you pleasure yourself?”

It was asked so matter-of-factly, as if he were truly interested and not attempting to embarrass or shock her. So she answered honestly. “I have no idea.”

He captured her right wrist and brought her hand down to the moisture gathered in her channel. “Feel,” he said. “Let me see you touch yourself. Show me, Sophie.”

Levering up on one elbow, she saw him between her legs, his dark eyes glittering and rapt with genuine curiosity. The sight of her obviously aroused him. The realization obliterated any shame or reservations she held. When she hesitated, however, his gaze flicked to her. “There is no right or wrong between us,
kotyonok.
I’ll never judge you or make you feel tawdry for what happens in this bed. I need you to enjoy yourself. Moreover, I like to
see
you enjoy yourself.”

She knew he was challenging her, that he wanted her to accept that Robert had been wrong. The reasoning was so simple, so straightforward, yet it could only be the result of one man’s logical mind. And since Sophie never backed down from a challenge, she fell onto her back, closed her eyes, and began an exploration of the soft, slippery folds. Dragged her fingertips through the wetness. Quint growled, a low sound of male approval, and she grew confident, dipping a finger inside.

He snatched her wrist and sucked the same finger past his lips and into the moist warmth of his mouth. His tongue swirled around the digit, making her gasp as he licked the arousal off her skin. “I love the way you taste,” he said and placed her hand back on top of her core. “Keep going,” he urged and shifted to reach for the French letter.

Pulse pounding, she rolled the pad of her finger over the nub at the apex of her cleft. Ripples of excitement stole through her, her back arching off the bed, and she couldn’t hold back a moan. Quint was on his knees, affixing the condom while never taking his gaze off her. When he was ready, he hefted her legs up, the backs of her knees in the crooks of his elbows, and spread her wide. “Put me inside you, Sophie.”

She did not hesitate, reaching down between them and positioning him at her entrance. He rocked forward and began a deliberate and careful invasion of her body. “Ah, God. Yes,” he said. “Oh, hell. I cannot wait.” He snapped his hips and pulled her toward him at the same time, seating himself inside, stretching her.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No. You feel so good, Damien. Do not stop.”

He set a punishing rhythm, arm muscles flexing and bulging as he held her up and brought their hips together. She could only clutch the coverlet, feel the exquisite sensations as he withdrew and filled her once more.

“Touch yourself again,” he ordered, his voice husky and low. “Bring yourself pleasure while I watch.”

She obeyed and it only took mere seconds before she exploded around him, her walls convulsing through the fierce orgasm. She shouted his name, and felt him stiffen as her body continued to ride out the incredible bliss. His hips jerked, movements unsteady, and he threw his head back, groaned, with his shaft pulsing inside her.

When the world stopped spinning, Quint withdrew and quickly dealt with the sheath. He dropped onto the bed next to her, still breathing hard. “My God, Sophie. You are . . . really, there are no words.”

“None? Not even from a man as eloquent as you?” she teased.

He was all seriousness as he rolled to face her. “For the first time in my life, I have a hard time explaining it. You make me feel as if I’m out of control yet grounded at the same time. It’s terrifying and exhilarating.”

“If it eases your mind, I feel the same way.”

A beat passed before he blurted, “I cannot marry you.”

“I know. I am not asking you for that, Damien. Nor do I expect it.”

He’d already made his position on the matter clear. In many ways, it was precisely what Robert had believed: She was good enough to bed but not the type of woman one married.

She was surprised how much that hurt.

“Did you love the Pepperton girl?” she heard herself ask.

“No,” he answered quickly. “I only asked her to marry me because she was the most sought after girl that year and I have a fortune large enough that her father could not refuse me.”

Sophie felt a little relief at that. He hadn’t loved the Perfect Pepperton, but he’d still planned to marry her. Because that was the kind of wife he wanted.

“But you left after she eloped. You were gone for months. I assumed . . .” Sounded silly to say it now, but she’d assumed the Pepperton girl had broken his heart.

“The reason I left England had little to do with Elizabeth. My betrothed running off with a groom was embarrassing, yes, but I’ve survived far worse. There were other reasons I went away.”

She waited for him to continue, to tell her about the other reasons, but he surprised her by switching topics. “Tell me what Reddington said tonight,” he said in a gentle tone.

“Mere bragging, is all. He approached me at the Portland ball, said he’d been thinking of me over the years and wanted to renew our acquaintance. But he meant—”

“I know what he meant.”

She cleared her throat. “He kept pressing and would not let me get away. So I stomped on his foot and escaped outside.” Quint stiffened next to her, so she said, “I was unharmed. He’s a bother but not dangerous.”

“And tonight?”

“His friend was ribbing him, saying how Lady Sophia had clearly turned him down. Robert said I just needed more coaxing, that he’d had me already and knew how to get me to respond. That was when I leaped across the table to hit him.”

“Am I to understand that he admitted, in public, to bedding you?” he asked, his jaw tight.

“He might not have gotten the words out completely before I punched him, but he certainly implied it.”

Quint shot to his feet and began pacing with no care for his nakedness whatsoever. Sophie was mesmerized. The light from the fire cast shadows over the taut skin and hard angles as he shifted angrily. She loved watching him. Loved listening to him, too. Then there was the way he’d held her in the carriage while she cried. Something had shifted between them tonight, something monumental. She just couldn’t quite—

Oh. Oh,
hell
.

She knew precisely what it was, this near-to-bursting giddiness in her chest. It was her stupid heart swelling with love for Quint. She closed her eyes. She
loved
him. Oh, heavens.

“He should not even dare imply it. I’ll have his hide for that,” he snapped, gaining her attention.

She forced any foolish thoughts of love and hearts from her mind. Notions of weddings, shared memories, and rumpled children must be firmly dismissed. “You needn’t worry,” she said quietly. “He challenged Sir Stephen and I accepted.”

“You did?” He stopped and faced her.

“Yes, I did. And now, thanks to you, I know how to handle a pistol.”

“I’ll stand as your second.”

She eyed him carefully. “You will? Are you certain?” When he nodded, she asked, “How will you—?”

“Never you mind. Allow me to worry about that.”

Chapter Nineteen

“Lords Reddington and Pryce,” Taylor announced.

Quint said nothing as the earl and another man strode into his ballroom. Taylor bowed and withdrew.

Reddington was handsome. Easy to see how all that masculine beauty would have turned a young girl’s eye. He had the classic aristocratic profile, chiseled jaw. Close-cropped, neat hair. Elegantly attired. He was, in short, everything Quint was not.

The realization did not help Quint’s mood. The man had held Sophie’s heart in the palm of his hand and had thrown it away. The unbelievable
fool
.

“Not sure why I’m here. Your note made little sense, Quint.” Reddington crossed his arms over his chest.

“I am performing my duties as Sir Stephen’s second.”

A crease formed on Reddington’s forehead. “Well, then you should speak to Pryce, here. Arrange it all.”

Quint had no intention of fighting Reddington anywhere else. He may be well enough for closed carriage rides at night with Sophie, but a field at dawn was another matter altogether. “It’s arranged. Our side chooses swords. And we’ll be fighting now.”

“Now?” he asked, brows shooting up.

“Yes. Right now. Right here. With me.”

That flustered the other man a bit. “This is highly irregular. It’s not the way it’s done.”

“It is the way
I
do it, Reddington. I mean to have satisfaction and you’ll give it to me.”

Reddington gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “We have no quarrel, Quint. I was attacked last evening without provocation. Sir Stephen accosted me for absolutely no reason. This should be handled on a field of honor.”

“Let us consider this the ballroom of honor, then. And I mean to handle it now.” Quint got up and stalked to the table where two foils were positioned. He hefted one.

“In place of Sir Stephen?”

“Yes. I am acting in his stead.”

“And what are those two doing here?” He pointed to Winchester and Colton, who hadn’t yet said a word.

Quint took his weapon and walked to the middle of the floor. He held Reddington’s stare. “They are here to ensure I do not kill you.”

Reddington drew himself up, squared his shoulders. “If you believe I’m afraid of you, you are wrong. Everyone is talking about you. They say you’re cracked.”

“Then you shouldn’t have any problem besting me.”

Reddington glanced at Pryce, jerked his head toward the table. “Who is Sir Stephen to you?” he asked Quint as his second went to examine the foil. The caps had been removed, making the swords deadly.

“My cousin,” Quint answered.

“The lad needs a strong hand, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“I do mind, actually. Accept your weapon and I’ll prove how much.”

Pryce brought the foil to Reddington, who then checked it over as well. “If you hoped I’d have a difficult time with swords,” he said, “I hate to disappoint you. I’ve been studying with a French master for years.”

“Good. Perhaps I’ll break a sweat before I beat you.”

Reddington’s eyes narrowed at that, a slight flush stealing over his cheeks. He thrust the foil at Pryce and stripped down to his shirt. Quint had already removed his outerwear, so he merely waited for Reddington to prepare.

Colton stepped forward and marked off the starting distance. Quint and Reddington both took their spots, arms raised in position. “
Allez!
” Colton shouted and both men charged.

When facing a new opponent, Quint assumed the defensive position to start. He liked to learn his opponent’s habits first, then counter them in order to win. Reddington had not lied about the training, but his movements were dramatic, wasteful. Smaller movements were always better, and Reddington’s style was too bold, his attacks handled with the grace of an elephant. He also did not try and change up his moves, as if unable to extrapolate from the ones he’d practiced. Quint soon spotted the patterns, knew what Reddington planned before the man executed it.

After a few moments, Reddington grew impatient in the face of Quint’s calm. He lunged, aiming for Quint’s shoulder. But Reddington landed off balance, and when Quint flicked his blade, it caught Reddington on the forearm. The man hissed as blood streaked across his skin.

That triggered Reddington’s anger and his movements turned even clumsier. Another flick and Quint slashed the top of Reddington’s thigh. Sensing he needed to reposition, Reddington fell back and that was when Quint attacked. The earl grunted, blood running from the two wounds, as he tried to defend himself.

Within seconds, Quint slashed Reddington’s left pectoral, then the right. Twin spots of red bloomed on the man’s chest. Reddington retreated once more, but Quint followed. He didn’t let up, didn’t give Reddington a chance to recover, and with one twist of his wrist, Reddington’s foil slipped and clattered to the ground. Quint aimed the tip of his weapon at Reddington’s heart.

“Quint, that’s enough,” Winchester said, now on his feet. Pryce and Colton were there as well. But Quint didn’t move. He leaned in. “Lady Sophia is friend to both my cousin and myself. Do not disrespect her again or you’ll suffer the consequences.”

“Lady Sophia? This is all over a woman?” Confusion cleared and he smirked at Quint. “Oh, I see. Your cousin overheard how the lady and I are old friends, and he must be jealous. Well there’s more than enough to share—”

With a sharp flick, Quint cut Reddington’s cheek. The man let out a howl of pain. “I am unarmed, you bloody whoreson!” he yelled, hand to his face.

“Leave her alone,” Quint growled. “Do not breathe her name. If you do, I will”—he dropped the end of the foil to Reddington’s crotch—“turn you into a eunuch. Do we understand one another?”

“You’re cracked,” Reddington whispered. “Everything they said is true.”

“Do we understand one another?” Quint repeated, his voice a deep snarl, the tip of his foil pressing into the other man’s scrotum.

“Yes! Yes. Fine. I shall stay away from her.” Reddington glanced wildly at the men surrounding them. “Get him off me before he goes even madder.”

Colton pulled Quint away while Winchester removed the blade from his hand. Pryce had already gathered Reddington’s things and the two men scurried from the ballroom without a second glance.

Still angry, Quint flung himself into a chair and proceeded to wipe his brow with his shirttail.

Colton cleared his throat. “I feel as if I’m missing a crucial piece of this story. Who, precisely, is Sir Stephen? You’ve no cousin in London, Quint. You’ve no cousin anywhere that I know of.”

“And what does this have to do with Lady Sophia?” Winchester asked.

“Reddington was overheard besmirching Lady Sophia’s reputation last evening.”

Silence descended as the two men absorbed this. “When are you just going to marry the girl?” Colton finally asked. “She said you haven’t yet asked her.”

“I cannot marry her. I cannot marry anyone.” Not until he recovered, if ever.

His two friends exchanged a look. “You were prepared to marry the Pepperton girl. And she was a nitwit,” Colton pointed out.

“That was before.” Before the shooting. Before the fits. And he’d only proposed to Pepperton’s daughter to prove someone would want him, even if that someone wasn’t Sophie. Fortunately, the betrothal had ended in disaster.
Alone. Better to be alone,
he reminded himself.

“Are you prepared to ruin Sophia, then?” Winchester frowned. “I won’t allow you to do it, Quint, and neither will Maggie. A lady’s reputation is absurdly fragile and you’re risking her ability to hold up her head in public. For what? To remain a bachelor?”

He knew Winchester’s outrage stemmed from the way society had treated his wife after her scandal. And yet... “You do not understand,” he muttered.

“You are correct. I don’t,” Winchester snapped. “So make me understand, Quint. Because the second Julia and Maggie catch wind of what’s going on, you’ll likely find yourself in front of a parson—whether you want to be married or not.”

“It’s obvious you care for her, Quint,” Colton said reasonably. “You’ve never dueled in your life—been staunchly against it, as long as I can recall—and here you are defending her honor at the risk of your own life. Not to mention Sophia would not proceed in this unless those feelings were reciprocated. So why not marry her?”

Quint refused to tell them. He knew he should, that they would likely sympathize about his illness. But the words would not come. He’d rather they think him a blackguard than a bedlamite. “Sophie knows my position on the matter. We’ve come to an understanding of sorts.”

A stunned silence descended, the air thick with disapproval.

Finally, Winchester blew out a heavy sigh and shook his blond head. “I never thought I would say this, but you are a bloody disappointment, Quint. I expect better from you.”

Quint struggled not to show how much that hurt as Winchester turned to Colton. “I’ll not wait any longer,” the earl said. “You and your wife can do what you must, but I’ll not stand by and watch both Sophie and Quint come to harm.” He tossed the foil to the ground in a furious crash and marched out of the ballroom.

 

 

Sophie strolled about The Black Queen, trying to appear interested in the play when what she was really doing was waiting for a chance to speak with another one of the house girls. She’d already cornered one girl but she’d been too scared to talk to Sophie. Scared of what O’Shea might do if he found out. The same reaction that Molly had had the last time Sophie was here.

She would not give up. All she needed to learn was whether Tolbert frequented this establishment, since at least one of the killer’s victims had worked here. Red, the errand boy she paid for information, thought he’d seen a man fitting Tolbert’s description last week but couldn’t be certain.

Smoke, sweat, and desperation hung heavily in the air while sounds of gaming filled the room. Sophie hadn’t asked Quint to come with her tonight. He was improving, but she did not want to push him too much. After her run-in with Reddington last evening, he no doubt needed a break from the strain of these outings.

That little voice inside her head was starting to annoy her. She did not want to love Quint. It was foolish. Their affair was temporary, and he’d repeated his desire never to marry her. Was that what she deserved? A man who bedded her nightly but did not want to take her as a wife?

Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, she sat down at a pharo table. All the girls were busy, so she’d amuse herself with—

“You. Come with me.” A beefy hand landed on her left shoulder.

Though her insides quivered, she tried to think what a privileged gentleman might say. “No, thank you. I’ve got my eye on this table here for a spot of—”

“I think you misunderstood,” the man said. “Boss wants t’ see you.”

Damn and hell. She really hoped that meant the floor boss and not the
boss
boss. Because the
boss
boss would be James O’Shea, would it not?

“Excuse me,” she murmured to the men at the table, who all watched Sir Stephen with a mix of fascination and horror.

The man waiting for her was huge, a solid mound of muscle. A brick wall with legs. His face was scarred and showing evidence of too many brawls. She could try to outrun him, but she doubted she’d get very far. “Lead on, then,” she said with a bravado she definitely did not feel.

They traveled the floor, weaving through patrons, tables, dealers, and croupiers. Sophie’s dread grew with each step. Where were they going? Who wanted to see her and, more importantly, why? Quint had told her not to return to The Black Queen and she hadn’t listened. Heavens, if they killed her, Quint was going to relish telling her
I told you so.

Oh, excellent. Now she wasn’t making any sense at all.

Another man stepped aside, allowing them to enter a door in the back. There was a set of stairs and Sophie had little choice but continue up. Her heart pounded, mouth as dry as a desert, as they wound through a series of corridors. Finally, he stopped and threw the latch, pushed open a door.

A group of men sat inside. Some were playing cards at a round table on one side of the room and a few more were leaning against the wall, watching. A large, rough-looking man sat behind a large desk. He waved her in. “Come, have a seat, Sir Stephen.” A few snickers at that and a rough hand at her shoulder pushed her farther into the room. “I am O’Shea, but I suspect you already knew that. Won’t you sit?”

Clearing her throat, she sank into the chair. “While we have not had the pleasure of being introduced, I certainly know your name.”

“Do ya not love how fine the quality speaks, boys?” he said with a chuckle, his brogue thick. “We don’t stand on ceremony here, sir. You can drop the act.”

Sophie blinked. What act, exactly, was he referring to? Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. “I’ll try and remember, Mr. O’Shea.”

“Just O’Shea’ll do. Would you care for a drink, Sir Stephen?”

Her eyes darted about the room. They all watched her carefully, as if this were some sort of test. But she’d been drinking spirits regularly since she began her charade as Sir Stephen. She could handle a drink or two. “Yes. Thank you.”

More snickers from the men in the room, but she paid them no attention as O’Shea pulled a bottle of light brown liquid from a drawer. Sophie relaxed. Whisky would not be a problem.

“Tell me,” O’Shea said, pouring two small glasses. “What were you speaking with my girl about earlier?”

“Procuring her services for the evening,” she lied easily. “Is that not what the girls are for?”

“Usually. Yet you didn’t take her to a room, I noticed.” He handed her a glass of spirits. “
Sláinte
.”

He threw his back and waited for Sir Stephen to do the same. Sophie tossed a good portion of the spirits in her mouth and then instantly regretted her haste. It tasted . . . terrible. But she was afraid to spit it out. She forced it down her throat, shuddering as the fire hit her stomach. “Gah,” she exhaled when her lungs were able to function.