The Scoundrel and I: A Novella (8 page)

“Not a’tall,” he said. “Life’s more fun when nothing’s certain.”

“Spoken like a man who has never woken up to an empty larder with no idea how he will eat that day.”

In the striated lamplight, she saw the crease in his brow.

“True,” he said. “A few tight occasions when shot ran thin and Boney’s boats weren’t yet all in the drink. But no starvation to speak of, thank God.”

Abruptly she understood his words. She gasped. “I beg—”

He waved it away. “I prefer a bit of uncertainty, Elle. A man can plan and strategize, stockpile cannons and gunpowder for months. But when the battle’s met he’s got to fly with the instinct of the moment or he’s likely to be sunk.”

“Not everyone has good instincts.” She had not with Jo Junior.

“Spoken like a woman who don’t trust hers.” She felt his gaze upon her in the darkness and decided that the captain’s devil-may-care exterior hid a profoundly thoughtful interior.

“A woman who
does not
trust hers,” she murmured.

“Made a mistake or two based on faulty instincts, have you, Elle?”

“Borrowing the type, of course.”

“Not that sort of mistake.”

Of course not. The astonishing thing was that she found her lips opening and her tongue forming the word, “Once.”

“Josiah Brittle Junior?” he said mildly.

“Yes. I thought I understood his intentions.”

“Come to find you didn’t after all?”

“No. My instincts did not prove trustworthy in that instance.”

“What did he do to you, Elle?” he said in an altered voice. His eyes gleamed like opals in the darkness.

“Nothing that I did not foolishly allow. We worked together every day. I thought I knew him. I trusted him, and he took advantage of that.”

“A man who preys upon a woman in his employ ain’t worth the dirt on his boots.”

“
Isn’t
. But I was naïve. I should not have believed him.” She crunched her hands together in her lap. “I have no idea why I am telling this to you.”

“Because you know your instincts with me aren’t wrong.” He turned to look out the window and the carriage was drawing to a halt.

The Mayfair mansion of Lord and Lady Beaufetheringstone was gigantic, with a magnificent entryway of classical proportions jammed with guests and a vast foyer full of people festooned in sparkling gowns, starched neck cloths, and priceless jewels. The ballroom was even grander, a panorama of England’s most exalted elite dressed spectacularly, every one of them laughing and chatting and looking each other over.

Elle’s hands shook.

“Now, Princess,” the captain said and took her hand to tuck it into the crook of his arm, “let me do the talking.”

~o0o~

She obeyed. At first.

“
Wallachia?”
she hissed as they moved away from the Duchess of Tarleton. “I know nothing about Wallachia.”

“Neither does anybody else here,” he said, feeling her fingertips pressing into his arm, her knuckles against his ribs, and in charity with the entire world. Jane Park had refused him categorically. He would find a way to help her and the little ones—help she would accept. But now he was free and the prettiest girl in the room was on his arm. “Occurred to me that Tarleton’d spent months in Russia after the war. Couldn’t chance it. And foreign princesses from tiny unknown principalities are all the rage these days, don’t you know.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” she whispered. “And I think Wallachia is actually quite a large country. Where is your uncle?”

“Just on the other side of that potted palm. Ah, here’s Lady B. Ma’am,” he said, sketching the matron a bow. “Outdone yourself with the festivities tonight, as always.”

“Captain, who is this goddess and why haven’t you brought her here before?”

“Princess Magdala of Hungary, may I present to you—”

“Ladee Bee,” Elle said with a generous roll of her tongue. Bending her head gracefully, she curtsied, a single, sublime dip of her lithe body garbed in diaphanous white fabric that clung to her breasts and legs and left Tony’s senses entirely muddled. Lifting her kohl-rimmed eyes to their hostess again, she said in soft, halting tones, “I am ’appy to be makeeng ov your ac-vaintence.”

“Well, what a lovely creature you are,” Lady Beaufetheringstone exclaimed, the peacock feather in her turban dancing. “Have you been introduced to the Duke of Frye? No? He spent any number of years in Bulgaria, or perhaps it was Bavaria. In any case quite near Hungary, I daresay. Come.” She linked arms with Elle. “I will make you known to him. My cousin thrice removed, of course. His wife is a darling thing . . .”

The throng of people separated him from Elle and Lady B, the orchestra commenced a set, dancers crowded the floor, and he lost sight of her. Some time later he found her surrounded by guests, stumbling through English phrases with a demure and gently smiling humility that her companions obviously admired.

“Princess Magdala, everybody is simply rapt with their correspondence,” one lady was saying. “He is obviously infatuated with her.”

“No, no,” a gentleman interrupted. “You mustn’t let the countess mislead you, Princess. Lady Justice is merely playing games with Peregrine, and he is fully aware of it.”

“If he knows she is playing games, my lord,” another woman said, “why does he continue writing letters to her?”

“He likes to tease her.”

“Dees Pere—” Elle said, her eyes innocently seeking assistance. “Pere—”

“Peregrine,” a gentleman offered.

“He iz—how do you say in the Eenglish—in love vif her, yes?”

“Oh, yes, Princess!” one of the ladies gushed. “Entirely.”

“He’s merely flirting with her,” a different gentleman said. “She has invited that nonsense by printing his letters for the public to read, after all.”

“She disagrees with his politics,” another said.

“Eloquent girl! Always knows precisely how to turn a phrase.”

“She is the equal to any man in Parliament.”

“Do you know what
I
wish?” a lady declared. “I wish I were the first person each month to read Peregrine’s letters and Lady Justice’s replies. Wouldn’t that be splendid? Then I could tell all of my friends before anybody else heard a thing. My drawing room would be the most popular place in London.”

Everybody chuckled. Elle’s eyes shone and her lips were a sweet arc of delight. Across the circle, she met his gaze and a soft pink flush stole across her cheeks.

“Forgive me, ladies, gentlemen,” he said, and stepped toward her. “Must steal the princess away.” She nodded her coiffure regally and moved away at his side. Her fingertips pressed into his sleeve and her eyes danced.

“I spoke with your uncle,” she whispered. “He is wonderfully diverting!”

“Diverting? Frederick Baldwin?” She smelled of roses or lilac or lavender. Flowers. And sugar. And perhaps lemons. Lemons with a lot of sugar in them. Amidst every perfume and cologne in the crowded ballroom, her scent was the only thing in his head and it made him thirsty. “Certain you got the right man?”

“Yes! He spoke to me in Bulgarian. Can you believe it? I hardly knew what to say.”

“Nothing, I should hope!”

“Bulgarian could be similar to Hungarian, I suppose. What a disaster. How will I avoid understanding him the next time?” But she was laughing and abruptly he needed to be out of the crowded ballroom. Anywhere else. With her.

He drew her toward a doorway. “You need air.”

“I do?”

“You do.”

“But I was—”

“Trust me, Princess.”

And she did, allowing him to guide her through the press of guests, down a corridor, and through a closed door into an empty chamber. The summer evening was warm and no fire in the hearth lit the room, only a lantern from a terrace beyond the windows illumining shelves upon shelves of—

“Books,” she breathed, pulling away from him and gliding like a ghost toward a wall stacked with books from floor to ceiling. “What an absolutely magnificent library.”

A library
. Of all the rooms in this mansion to bring her to, he’d stumbled upon a room full of the printed word.

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “If I am not mistaken, this is an early edition of Thomas More’s
Utopia
. Here! Sitting like any other book on an open shelf.”

“You don’t say?” He attempted nonchalance.

She came to him. “Look at the fine tooling of the binding. And the cut of the letters.” She opened the volume and ran her fingertips along the edge of a page, stroking it like a lover. “After centuries the ink is still clear and crisp. It is simply magnificent.”

“Not the only thing that’s magnificent here.”

Her chin snapped up, her gaze met his, and the book was forgotten.

“I—” Her gaze dipped to his mouth and her sweet lips snapped shut.

Tony smiled. “Enjoyed yourself out there, did you?”

“I wiled an invitation to tea at your uncle’s house on Friday. Once he learned I was a princess, it was like taking sweets from a child.” Her cheeks were flushed with roses again.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, did you?”

“In truth, no. I think it is all the opulence. To be surrounded by so much beauty and wealth, and to be the only person who knows who I am, except Seraphina . . . and you . . .” She was breathing quickly now, the creamy swells of her breasts pressing against her shimmery gown. “To be playing the same sort of game of anonymity that Lady Justice plays,” she said. “It has made me feel especially daring. Reckless,” she added upon a whisper.

With his fingertips beneath her chin he tilted her face up. The room was dark, her eyes glittering, and he was feeling decidedly reckless himself. He couldn’t resist. And he was fairly certain she didn’t want him to.

In the blue of his eyes shone desire that Elle did not want to deny any longer.

“There is so little light in this room.” Her voice wobbled. “I cannot see properly.”

“Well, there’s the lucky part of it.” He drew the book from her fingers and set it aside. “You don’t need to see for this.”

“This?”

“This,” he whispered huskily and bent his head.

It was perfect—barely touching, the sweetest, most tantalizing brushing of his lips against hers, and the stirring of every fiber of desire within her. It was poetry. It was beauty. There was quite a lot of trembling, entirely on her side.

Then it was over.

He drew back a few inches and looked into her eyes, truly into her eyes, as though he wanted to see right inside her head, into the deepest part of her brain where all the secrets hid, including the secret that she knew must not be very secret anymore since it was probably written all over her face.

And then his perfect lips curved ever so slightly and he kissed her again.

At first he kissed her carefully, as though learning her lips as he was allowing her to learn his. His lips were surprisingly soft, delicious, tasting her with one gentle exploration after another. Sweet, heady longing grew in her, an ache of need that these modest caresses fed but did not satisfy. Pressing her lips to his more fervently, she reached for more.

Upon a sound in his chest that made her entire body heat, he took her mouth entirely.

It required very little encouragement for her to open to his kiss, and even less for her to reach up to his shoulders and cling there. His hand cupped her face, then he was coaxing her lips apart, drinking kisses from her lips and then—
oh heaven
—her tongue. He kissed her again and again, his mouth hot and hungry and beautiful and she never wanted it to end. Hands surrounding her face, he sought something in her mouth that she most definitely wanted to give, bending to her deeper, more completely with each meeting. His tongue swept hers and she moaned and twined her fingers in his hair and surrendered herself thoroughly to him.

He broke the kiss.

With an involuntary chirp of protest, she opened her eyes. His were dark and more astonished than she liked.

Air jerked out of her lungs.

Dropping his hands from her face, he reached for her wrists and removed her arms from his shoulders. Then he released her and stepped back. He was blinking now and he shook his head once.

“Didn’t you—” She took a deep breath and tried to steady her voice. “You did not enjoy that, I guess.”

“Good God, Elle. If I’d enjoyed that for a minute longer I would now be enjoying all of you on that divan there.”

She choked on the flare of heat that coursed straight up the center of her body.

“That—That suits me.” She folded her hands before her.

His beautiful mouth cracked into a grin. “You look like a princess and you taste like a goddess. But you still sound like a little print mistress.”

“Thank you. I think?”

“Thank you, most certainly.” He ran his hand distractedly through his hair—his hair that she now knew felt like satin and wanted to feel quite a lot more.

It must have shown in her eyes. His chest heaved upon a hard breath.

“We’ve got to get out of here, now,” he said, “before I do something I shouldn’t.”

She wished he would. But she appreciated the wisdom in his suggestion. Being discovered in this manner would not help her achieve her ultimate goal. A bishop of the Church of England was unlikely to welcome a wanton hussy into his house for tea.

But with Captain Masinter’s gaze upon her now, Elle did not feel wanton or hussy-like. She felt beautiful.

Going to the bookshelf and replacing the
Utopia,
she moved to the door. From behind, his hands circled her shoulders, big and strong and astonishingly gentle and he bent his head and kissed her shoulder. Her entire body shimmered in pleasure and a sigh slipped through her lips. Lightly he ran his fingertips down her arms, and stroked his thumbs over her palms. She shuddered and tilted her head.

“I could stand here all night tasting you, yet never get my fill,” he murmured against her shoulder. “Wonder what those blokes in your native country call it when they feel this way.”

“My native country?” she whispered.

“Hungary.” His lips brushed her earlobe and pleasure cascaded all down her side. “When they feel this ravenous for a girl”—his teeth grazed her neck and she gasped at the pleasure—“d’you suppose they say they’re English? You know, ‘By Jove, I’m devilishly English for that pretty girl!’”

She giggled. Then she cleared her throat. “Not girl. Woman.”

The lightest caress of his lips feathered over her skin. “I am devilishly hungry for you, woman.”

His mouth was doing remarkable things to her, but his hold on her hands remained loose.

“You’re not slapping my face,” he said, his voice muffled behind her ear. “That’s a good sign.”

“How is that a good sign?” she said unsteadily.

He laced their fingers together, her small palms against his, and a little moan escaped her.

“You don’t think I’m a scoundrel now,” he said.

She drew her hands away and moved the final step to open the door.

“I do still think you are a scoundrel, Captain.” She knew better than to lose her wits over provocative words. “It is only that I do not mind it quite as much as before.”

~o0o~

The captain collected his half-sister and they left the Mayfair mansion and drove across town to the printing house.

“Now,” he said as the carriage halted before Brittle & Sons, “you’ll tell me where you live and we’ll see you home. Properly.”

“I cannot.”

“Have you a grand secret you are unwilling to divulge, Elle?” Seraphina said. “Perhaps you truly are a princess, and only playing at being a printer’s assistant. Is that it?”

“I cannot explain, but I cannot allow you to see me home.”

“Then you will come home with me and sleep in my guest bedchamber,” Seraphina said, taking her hand, “and tomorrow morning after we have had a cozy breakfast and talked over every detail of the grand success of Princess Magdala of Hungary tonight, my coachman will return you here.”

“Thank you, but I cannot. I have work to do in the morning.” And Minnie sitting at her grandmother’s bedside waiting for her return.

“Elle,” the beauty said, “it is already the morning.”

“You have been so kind. Please forgive me.” She squeezed Seraphina’s hand and tugged hers free. She turned to the captain. “Thank—”

“No. What sort of man do you imagine I am, to leave a woman in the middle of the night to walk home along deserted streets?”

The sort she had kissed before. The sort that, after taking her virginity in the press room and telling her she would “eventually get it right,” went for a pint at the King’s Barrel and left her to clean up shop for the evening.

But he was not now looking at her like that sort of man.

“The streets are not precisely deserted,” she said, feeling peculiarly shaky. “The King’s Barrel is still full of patrons. And I have walked along these streets late at night any number of times.”

“Not in that rig, you haven’t.” He glanced at her gown.

Her hands darted to the forgotten tiara and necklace. Unclasping them, she passed them to Seraphina.

“With all due respect, Seraphina,” she said, “if being a lady means having one’s freedoms curtailed, I am glad not to be one.”

“Hm.” Seraphina slid the paste jewels through her fingers. “I think with that statement, you have effectively ruined my brother’s night.”

“She hasn’t,” he said.

“Oh, see!” Elle said, panic crawling into her throat. “There is Mr. Curtis, the curate from the church. He is probably on his way to visit parishioners in my building.”

“After midnight?”

“I will engage him to walk home with me.” She reached for the door handle.

He covered her hand with his and leaned forward. “
He
knows where you live?”

“I am quite well acquainted with him, in fact. Please, Captain.”

He turned the handle. Before she could descend, he climbed out and strode to the curate and introduced himself.

“I am pleased to meet you, Captain,” Mr. Curtis said. “I will be glad to escort Miss Flood to her building, certainly. I suspect her grandmother will be eager to hear how the evening went.”

“Her grandmother,” he said, turning his gaze to her. “Yes, of course.”

As Elle walked away beside Mr. Curtis, Captain Masinter remained in the street behind them, tall and rigid and solid, watching her go. It was for the best. Kissing a man did not mean she must allow him into her life. Her world. Her reality that had nothing to do with balls and aristocrats and victorious naval captains.

Rather, quite the opposite.

~o0o~

“Why have you come here?”

“Well, that’s a fine ‘good day.’” Blocking the press room doorway, with a silk hat lodged beneath his arm, the captain was better looking than ever in an exceedingly well-tailored coat, neat trousers, and boots so highly polished Elle might have checked her coiffure in them. But she never checked her coiffure, most especially not this afternoon when she had not expected to see anybody all day. Dressed in her shabbiest ink-stained gown, she looked a thorough fright.

“Always thrilled when a lady demands to know why I’m calling. Instantly reveals how happy she is to see me,” he drawled but his gaze was as warm as on the night before when he kissed her.

At the ungodly hour at which she had finally fallen into bed, she had vowed to put that kiss out of her mind entirely.

Kiss.

Kisses
.

Now his lips slipped into a half-smile and she snapped her gaze up to his eyes. Good heavens, she really must take care not to stare at his mouth.

“I am happy to see you,” she said and instantly regretted it when his smile widened. “But I did not expect it,” she hurried to add. “Tea with the bishop is tomorrow, of course, and today I am involved in a project—”

He stepped forward and bent his head toward hers, and Elle’s tongue forgot how to make words.

Close to her brow, far too close, he said, “And what project might that be?”

“After all those people at the ball went on and on about Lady Justice and Peregrine, I had an idea.” She felt dizzy. She tried to catch her breath, but it would not catch and she suspected it was because he had consumed all of the oxygen in the room like he was consuming every ounce of her calm. She willed her hands to be steady as she spread out the broadsheets that lay on her desk. “Everyone in London is enamored of their correspondence. Everyone in Britain, really. Mr. Brittle has saved all of the broadsheets—”

“Mr. Brittle saved them? Or Miss Flood?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I enjoy rereading them. And . . .”

“And?”

“My grandmother loves hearing them read aloud.”

“Ah, yes. The top-secret grandmother who is well known to trustworthy Mr. Curtis.”

“She says their correspondence reminds her of my grandfather’s courtship when he was young and too proud to admit his love directly.” A smile tugged at her lips. “Early in their acquaintance she suspected that he was smitten with her, even though he waited quite a while to declare himself. Until then she had great fun reading between the lines of his teasing remarks to decipher his affections.”

“Your grandmother is an admirer of Peregrine too?”

“And Lady Justice. Like so many people! Which is how this idea occurred to me. What if Brittle and Sons were to compile the best letters and pamphlets of Peregrine and Lady Justice, and publish them in a single volume?”

“A single volume? What for?”

“For entertainment. For posterity. For every society hostess who wishes she were the repository of all things fashionable. We could bind it in fine leather and give it a marvelous title, and sell it for twenty times the price for which the broadsheets themselves sold originally.”

“Miss Flood, you have a shockingly material appreciation for your hero and heroine’s love affair.”

“Oh, well, the decorative binding and the price are for Mr. Brittle’s sake. He would never take to the idea if he did not believe he could turn a profit from it.”

“Turning a profit is not your purpose, then?”

“I would simply like to see their letters collected. At least my favorites.”

“Which are they?”

“These.” She passed her fingertips over the pages. “These are the most heartfelt.”

“Sounds like a capital idea, Elle.” His voice seemed sincere, but not entirely like him either.

She looked up into his face, but he was staring at the broadsheets, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow beneath a lock of glossy black hair. She had touched that. She had touched him. Now, if she wished, she could reach up and touch him again. She could lean onto the desk and put her lips beneath his, and feel his kiss again. And perhaps taste his jaw too. The muscles there were bunched. She wanted to run her fingertips and then her lips over them and loosen the strain there.

Abruptly he turned his gaze to hers and she choked on her own desire.

She slapped a palm over her hacking mouth.

“Quite all right there?” he said in a low voice.

“Yes.” She coughed again. “Yes, that is—
yes
. The Brittles will return from Bristol in a sennight, and I hoped to have a proposal for the volume on Mr. Brittle’s desk when he arrives. Therefore, you see, I really must finish this—”

“Not this afternoon.” He drew the pen from between her fingers. “This afternoon you are coming with me.”

“To where?” Damn her wretched voice for quavering. And damn her heart for wanting him to reply
, To a dark room so I can kiss you silly again.

As though he knew her thoughts, he smiled a smile that sent her swift heartbeats into her toes. Then he set the pen in its stand.

“To meet my sister at the shops,” he said, backing away. “Aha, didn’t expect me to say that, did you? Miss Flood, I might very well be a scoundrel, but I’m not such a scoundrel as all that.” With a decidedly rakish grin, he went into the front room and called back, “Come along. Madame Étoile awaits her live doll.”