Wicked Company (90 page)

“Darnly be damned! Come here, beauty.” She quickly untied the curtain’s tassel, allowing the fabric’s heavy folds to hang down straight, affording them a bit of protection from the earl’s prying gaze.

“Ah… now, that’s better,” Hunter breathed, framing her face with his large hands and kissing her resolutely. Then, his blue eyes surveyed her from the tip of her head to her green satin toes. “I had almost forgotten how small you are,” he murmured. He placed a hand against the wall beside each of her shoulders, preventing her escape. Slowly, he traced a line down her neck with his lips, pausing at the base of her throat where her pulse was beating erratically.

“Hunter!” she whispered, trying to ignore the ripples of pleasure his touch evoked, “Darnly’s
spying
on us from his box!”

“No matter,” he murmured huskily, his tongue now playfully bathing the shell of her ear. “’Tis been so long… I would do this on center stage for all the world to see, my love.”

“You must stop, truly…” Sophie begged, leaning to the side so she could glance around the curtain in an attempt to catch sight of Roderick’s whereabouts. She was distressed to see the earl had remained in his box and was staring in her direction, his expression alternating between shock and outrage.

“I will cease nothing,” Hunter murmured, moving his lips from her ear to her mouth and boldly pressing his body against hers. “Not until I have you in my bed.”

He suddenly pulled his hands away from against the wall where he had entrapped her and once again cupped her face with his palms. Gently at first, his tongue sought the velvet lining beyond her lips. Sophie’s conscious will to resist his caresses had nearly vanished, and a familiar sexual tension began to boil between them. The darkened theater box, with its low ceiling grazing the top of Hunter’s blond mane, reminded Sophie suddenly of the small garret chamber where last they had made love… where Rory had been conceived.

“Rory…” she whispered, battling as best she could the tide of longing rising in her. “We must get back to—”

“I’ve seen him,” Hunter mumbled between fervent kisses. “Asleep at Mrs. Phillips’s… she told me where you were… he’s lovely… like his mum…”

“No… he’s not like me,” she protested weakly, rediscovering the contours of his face with her fingers and lips. “He’s exactly like
you
—”

Hunter pressed his frame roughly against her pale satin skirts, forcing her to acknowledge his rising ardor. He smothered her lips once more and kissed her passionately. “If you don’t tell me here and now how much you want me too, “he whispered hoarsely, “I shall perform an act among the gilt chairs in this box that shall, indeed, garner the audience’s attention…”

Summoning all her willpower, Sophie pulled away from him.

“Dear God, Hunter, you know I do,” she pleaded, “but
please…
you must heed what I say! The earl—”

Reluctantly, Hunter turned to gaze across the auditorium. The Earl of Llewelyn’s box was empty.

“See,” he smiled down at her in the shadowy light, a Scottish lilt having taken possession of his voice. “He’s left us in peace. The matter may still rankle a bit, but ’twas
six years ago,”
he said soothingly, “and the charges were bogus to begin with. I have it on good authority, Thomas Rosoman never joined Darnly’s original complaint and won’t stir the pot at this late date, either.” His fingers held her chin gently as he again began to brush his lips against her ear. “As you can imagine,” he said softly, “I’ve had months aboard ship to scheme exactly how I propose to seduce you this night… and my plan just so happens to involve that invitation to the ball Mrs. Phillips tells me you have in your reticule.”

“We daren’t attend!” Sophie exclaimed. “I fear you underestimate the grudge Roderick holds against you, especially since I have rebuffed his numerous schemes to—”

“Well, I should hope so!” Hunter scoffed, interrupting her. He gathered up her cloak draped on the back of her chair. “We shall be so heavily disguised and the earl so preoccupied with his many guests… he shall not even know we are there! ’Tis my first day home, lass!” Hunter exulted. “And I intend to dance all night… but first—”

He leaned forward, kissing her once more, insinuating the thumb of one hand inside her bodice. A soft moan escaped her lips and Sophie felt she would fall off the edge of the theater box if he didn’t cease etching feathery circles on her flesh.

“Oh, Hunter… my darling—” she whispered, dazed by the erotic sensations coursing through her and by the shock of Hunter’s having materialized virtually out of thin air.

“Come with me,” he whispered. He took hold of her hand and led her out of the Garricks’ private domain. In full view of the wizened old box keeper who doffed his cap as they passed by, Hunter suddenly turned and kissed her ceremoniously on each eyelid. Smiling broadly, he added, “And now, my love… into this magical night!”

***

“This is not the way to the ball!” Sophie exclaimed as Hunter ignored the shouts of hackney drivers and led her by the hand toward Covent Garden Theater on nearby Bow Street. “’Tis to be held at Lord Darnly’s, but Hunter we absolutely mustn’t—”

“Have faith… have faith, lassie!” he said, repeating his earlier admonishment.

Without further explanation, he entered the stage door entrance and waved jauntily at the doorkeeper, Mr. Besford, whom Sophie remembered from the days when Hunter was Covent Garden’s dance master.

George Colman, who had sacked Hunter for erroneously believing the actor had been disloyal over the mounting of the rival Jubilees, had broken up his managerial partnership with Thomas Harris in 1774 to
take on similar duties at the Haymarket Theater. On this night, Covent Garden Theater was deserted, having closed a few days earlier for the summer months. A single candle glowing in a wall sconce illuminated a corridor, and Sophie found herself being playfully propelled by Hunter down the darkened passageway. Lifting the taper from its holder, he then escorted her through a maze of rooms, past an open door, and into a large cavern filled with bins piled high with costumes.

Like the wardrobe chamber at Drury Lane, this room was also packed chock-a-block with theater props and pieces of stage furniture, including a massive four-poster used in innumerable dramatic death scenes.

“Our London quarters this night,” Hunter explained smugly, sweeping his arm expansively around the room, “complete with a royal bed and canopy. Harris said we could lodge here for the nonce.” He pulled her close, resting his chin on her head. “My other news is that I ran into Tom King earlier in the evening.”

“Tom King? The comedian?” Sophie asked, drawing away.

“Aye… I saw him before the performance tonight. Fortunately, he remembered me from the Stratford Jubilee. Old Rosoman has retired and Tom now runs Sadler’s Wells. He has need of an assistant manager this summer, starting immediately—providing I refrain from fisticuffs with the likes of Darnly! What say you, Sophie, m’lass? You and Rory and I shall, at last, have our cottage in the country,” he added, his gaze softening. “I very much want to know the lad as a son…”

“He’s a lovely little chap,” Sophie reflected softly. She gazed at Hunter in the murky light that scarcely illuminated the overflowing bins of hats and swords, wimples and ruffs. “You and he shall have your battles. Rory believes himself king of all he surveys… rather like his da!”

“Two voyages across the Atlantic Ocean can humble a man,” Hunter responded ruefully, fingering a felt cavalier’s hat that sported a crimson plume. “As a wise old soul of thirty-three years, I shall be happy in future with just good work and the two of you forever in my life,” he added, brushing his lips on the tip of her nose. “’Tis settled then? We shall take a cottage near Sadler’s and you can work on… whatever it is you wish to write.”

Sophie took a deep breath to steady herself, unsure if she could articulate the happiness flooding over her. She seized Hunter’s hand and kissed it, certain that the love she bore this man—had
always
borne him—was mirrored in her eyes. She was a thirty-one-year-old woman… married, but not married… an author, but not truly an acknowledged author… in love with a wandering rogue who was not a rogue at all, but a man of constancy. “And this is the place you dreamed of… while sailing home to me?” she asked quietly, glancing around the wardrobe chamber.

“Aye… I kept picturing you in this very bed,” he replied with a wolfish grin, gesturing toward the ornately carved four-poster festooned with swags of heavy, wine red velvet. “When I worked for Colman, I often came down here to find a doublet or pair of hose… and each time I’d see this massive bed, for some strange reason I’d invariably think of
you
! After a while, I would feel quite randy, just approaching this door!” he laughed, pointing toward the portal they had entered. “And, as I conjured you while lying on my hard bunk aboard the
Jenny,
this royal setting seemed rather an apt spot for…”

Drawing closer, she stopped his words with a kiss and then placed her forefinger at the spot marking the cleft in his chin.

“Tell me, sir,” she said in a husky voice, “exactly how do you intend to make love to me on this mammoth mattress?”

He placed the single candle in a holder on a table next to the looming bedstead and pronounced solemnly, “Not tell…
show.”

He pulled her against his chest and slowly bent down to kiss her, softly, tenderly—almost as if they were still youngsters tasting the sweetness of each other for the first time. His fingers began to explore the fastenings on the back of her bodice, plucking at the buttons that imprisoned her in the borrowed green silk gown. As his kisses grew more ardent, he intensified his efforts to free her from the stiff-boned garment, but to no avail.

“Damnation!” he swore under his breath in frustration.

Sophie pulled away from him with a deep-throated laugh.

“You will have to stop kissing me in this zealous fashion and
concentrate
on your task if you ever hope to succeed!”

“Blast, but you speak the truth, as usual,” he grumbled good-naturedly, whirling her around and commencing the difficult assignment of unfastening the buttons marching down her back.

His gentle caresses at the base of her neck during the minutes it required to complete his task sent a delicious warmth coursing through her, stimulating sensations of such primal longing that she felt an impulse to spin around and fling herself against his chest. He soon set to work on the laces of her stays. In no time, cool air grazed her skin. Hunter’s lips brushed between her shoulder blades, sending shivers rippling down her spine.

“God… you’re so lovely…” he murmured.

He coaxed her gown off her shoulders and loosened the rest of her stays. Soon he was implanting a trail of kisses along the length of her backbone as he knelt to unfasten the petticoat tied at her waist. Whether she was trembling from the chill or simply wanton with desire, Sophie’s last vestiges of control had totally dissolved by the time he pushed a mass of undergarments and yards of green satin into a frothy sea around her ankles.

“Dinna turn around yet,” he said softly, rising again to his full height.

She heard a rustle of fabric that she assumed was the sound of his coat and breeches dropping onto the floor.

“Now,” she heard him whisper. “May I see you, Sophie darling?”

Slowly, she turned to face him and her mouth went dry as she observed him pull at a length of neck linen attached to his shirt. It was the only item of clothing left on his long, lean frame.

Their eyes riveted on each other, Hunter cast aside his linen garment. Then his gaze drifted from her lips to her throat and glided slowly downward, feasting on her figure that, she reminded herself, would never be a match for Mavis Piggott’s. In a fluid gesture, Hunter gathered her up in his arms, bracing one knee against the mattress while he tugged on the burgundy coverlet.

“No…” she whispered into his ear, “…don’t remove it. I want velvet everywhere…”

He laid her gently on her back and then retreated momentarily into the shadows.

“Hunter?” she whispered, startled by his disappearance.

In an instant he was again beside the bed, easing his body down next to hers. He cradled his chin in his right hand.

“Velvet?” he said mischievously, revealing that he held in his other hand a crimson ostrich plume snatched from a cavalier’s hat perched on a nearby bin. Smiling faintly, he began to trail the downy edge between the valley of her breasts, strafing a gossamer line across her abdomen. “Remember your quill that night at Sadler’s Wells? I shall show you again how ’tis velvet everywhere,” he whispered, gently stroking the plumage up and down her thighs. After several minutes of this delicious torment, he transferred the feather’s tip to the secret site of her pleasure.

Sophie closed her eyes
,
allowing the incredible sensations to take full possession of her. The plume’s light, teasing strokes were soon replaced, however, by a gentle, rhythmic motion that she realized was Hunter’s own touch.

“Here ’tis pure velvet,” he murmured urgently, his fingers gently probing her flesh, “and
here…
” His erotic caresses called to her, insistent and demanding, rousing her from her sensual torpor to match him, touch for touch.