A Rakes Guide to Pleasure Page 5

"How very tolerant of you."

  Somerhart crossed the entry in three strides and jerked the door open before the footman could reach it. The poor ser­vant looked as if he might drop into paroxysms of dismay. "Come," Somerhart ordered.

  "I haven't accepted your offer," she replied. "My reputa­tion is not something to be so lightly ruined."

  "Oh, for God's sake. You are notorious, Lady Denmore. Already. A woman heralded for rampant gambling and undignified behavior, and you've only been in town for a month."

  "True, but I have never taken a lover, Somerhart, and no one has ever accused me of such."

  The tic in his jaw stilled, and his eyes slid slowly down her body, warming to that seductive glint she'd seen mo­ments ago. Never, he was thinking, and she knew it. She was thinking the same thing. That if she agreed to this, he would be her first lover. This man, famous for his prowess. He knew things, she could see that in those glinting eyes. Things about women's bodies and their needs. Her body. Her needs.

  His eyes passed from warmth to heat.

  "You may escort me home," she said quickly, to try and quell the need rising up in her blood. "And that is all you may do."

  "You sound very sure," he murmured, drawing even closer. Emma could smell the starch of his linens, the subtle tang of soap. She slid her fingertips up his chest and let them rest against the muscles there, just for a moment. She felt his heart beating, sending blood to all that vital muscle, warming his skin. . . then she pushed him away with a shove that nearly toppled him.

  "Really, Your Grace. Crooking your little finger again? At least buy me a bauble before you try to tup me in the car­riage."

  Somerhart looked as if he'd like to throw up his hands, but he was simply too dignified. He only jerked at his coat cuffs again and shot a glance toward the footman who was most assuredly looking elsewhere.

  "Get in the damned coach." He jabbed a finger at the waiting carriage, and Emma obeyed, hiding a smile as she passed. "You are intolerable," he growled and followed her down the front steps. "A minx," he added for good measure.

  And Emma couldn't help but laugh in agreement.

  Hart knocked on the gleaming black side of the carriage, one foot still on the street. "Your direction," he snapped toward Lady Denmore's shadow as she arranged herself inside. There was a definite pause before she answered.

  "Belgrave."

  Hart did not sigh his impatience, because dukes did not do such a thing, but a very sighlike sound emerged from his lips. "Where in Belgrave?"

  A longer pause. "Marlborough Road. Number Twenty-three."

  He stared at the pale smudge of her face in the dim confines of the carriage. Marlborough Road. Not quite Belgrave then. More like Chelsea, or just at the edge of it. Hart had been telling himself quite forcefully that he needn't accompany her, that he should send her on her way and have his driver fetch him afterward.

  If he left with her it would fuel the gossip about them to a fever pitch, add permanence to her fledging notoriety, and revive the old talk about him. Talk he'd been trying to forget for years. And Lady Denmore would either torture him fur­ther or tempt him into going forward with these impetuous thoughts of seduction.

  But she lived in Chelsea, for God's sake. The edge of re­spectability. Not precisely a safe place to simply drop a woman at her doorstep and wish her well. It seemed he had no choice.

  Hart gave the street and house number to his driver, then stepped up to his doom. The carriage rocked with his weight, reminding him that the sturdy boat of his life was about to be swallowed by rough waters. Breath escaped his lips in a def­inite, undeniable sigh.

  As his eyes adjusted to the lamplight, he could make out her gloved hands folded against her black cloak, and the dark line of her eyebrows against pale skin. Those eyebrows arched with some scathing emotion.

  Hart braced himself for an attack but none came, and he slowly settled into the strange feeling of being closed up with a woman he didn't know how to handle. She irritated him to no end and prodded the beast he'd kept contained for so long. It had once roamed free, and she reminded it, re­vived it to its former hunger.

  Just the memory of her ankles aroused him, and those ankles were right there, resting mere inches from his own. Hart could reach down and ease her slippered foot up, rest it between his knees. He could explore the delicate puzzle of bone and muscle, then glide up until his hand rose over her firm, warm calf. She had strength in her legs, the mus­cles of a country girl who'd explored hills and marsh and forest. Her calf would be relaxed, but her thigh . . . Oh, her thigh would tense under his touch. Her muscles would clench and strain as he stroked. They would tremble. He wanted them to tremble.

  His fingers curled into his palms.

  This was not how he chose a mistress. Not anymore. He did not pick a woman because of her ankles. He chose women who were easy. Simple. Women who volunteered for seduction and wanted him enough to keep their mouths closed about it. Hart dictated the terms, and forced the woman to voice her agreement before he would arrange a meeting. It was all business until he got to the bedroom, and even then . . . even then he was composed and . . . and .. .

  "You did surprise me," Lady Denmore said in a rush, as if she could not resist speaking.

  Hart blinked and felt himself settle back into his body. His new body. The one that didn't explore sordid fantasies with every desirable woman. "Pardon?"

  "Your suggestion that we indulge ourselves. It shocked me. Your reputation is . . ." She raised both hands slightly. "Confusing."

  Hart leaned into the cushions at his back. He let his gaze fall to her skirts, thinking of those damned ankles again.

  "You are a rake. You do not fall in love, do not even pre­tend affection toward your lovers. You simply engage in af­fairs. Everyone knows this. I know it. But. . ." Her hands rose again, hovered. "You were worse than a rake in your youth. A reprobate. You attended parties . . ." Her breath jumped in her throat.

  Hart thought of Lady Denmore at one of those gatherings . . . but she would be with him, only with him.

  "You were notorious, Somerhart, but you have changed. A circumspect duke with a heart of ice, a study in control. But still a rake. How can that be?"

  His distraction vanished and Hart felt a brush of panic over his nerves. He didn't like this, didn't like her looking at him with such focus. "Your confusion is easily dispelled. I am not a rake."

  "But you were."

  "I never seduced virgins, never lied to get into a woman's bed. I—"

  "You had Mrs. Charlotte Brown and her sister-in-law in your bed at the same time!

  "I was hardly past my nineteenth birthday," he snapped, flushing almost immediately at the ridiculousness of his own words. He felt stupid. She made him feel stupid and he had sacrificed for years so he wouldn't have to face that feeling again. Her ankles could go to hell.

  She wasn't even beautiful, merely pretty. Unremark-able except for those wicked eyes and that midnight voice. And the delicate pink toes and tensing thighs.

  Lady Denmore made a thoughtful sound and pressed on. "There was—"

  "Why did you accept my offer of a ride?" Hart ground out. "You clearly don't enjoy my company any more than you say I enjoy yours. Perhaps you are the glutton for pun­ishment."

  Her husky laugh enveloped him. "Perhaps I am. But you are an attractive man, Somerhart, and so very cool and arro­gant. I admit I enjoy needling you. And I daresay you need it. No one else seems willing to try."

  "No, they'd rather practice their sword thrusts from a dis­tance."

  Her head cocked infinitesimally and Hart tried to call the words back, but they were already free, revealing secret things about him.

  "Is that what you like about me?" she asked. "That I tell you what I think? Everyone's afraid of you, you know. I as­sumed you preferred it that way. Every man in his place, every woman trembling at your feet."

  "Yes."

  "Well, I do not tremble."

  I could make you tremble, he t
hought. When she froze, Hart realized he'd said the words aloud. He could hardly manage to summon up regret. He could make her tremble, and often.

  "I'm sure . . ." She paused to swallow the rasp from her words. "I'm sure you could. I do not doubt you learned very useful things in your youth. But it's simply not possible."

  All his frustrations coalesced with a wrenching jolt. Hart leaned forward and made her jump. "Why? Are you work­ing toward some quiet, profitable marriage? Because you are already spectacularly unsuccessful at being a respectable widow."

  Her mouth curved up.

  "Any man who would accept your rampant gambling would accept a few indiscretions as well."

  "Would he? How very generous of him."

  "I don't understand you."

  "Then we are both equally confused."

  Hart laughed, not truly amused, but he could laugh or jump from the carriage or strangle her. So laugh he did. The coach leaned around a corner, and Hart snapped open the window coverings to see the neat row houses of Belgrave Square.

  "I am sorry that I cannot accept an invitation to your bed, Duke. But I cannot."

  "Why," Hart muttered, "do I feel the veriest idiot, attempt­ing his first, bumbling seduction?"

  "If you aren't forced to exercise a skill, finesse vanishes. No one has challenged you in years, I'd imagine."

  Hart slid his gaze across the darkness to meet hers. "Is that what this is? A challenge?"

  Her eyes widened in alarm. "No."

  "Hmm." His muscles relaxed a bit. He leaned back into his seat and turned to the window.

  "No," Lady Denmore repeated. "This is not a challenge. Pray don't launch a campaign."

  "Don't be alarmed." Anticipation inched up his spine and spread pleasure over his skin. How long had it been since he'd felt that? "I am not an invading army."

  "You could be," she insisted.

  Hart smiled at the view. "The neighborhood is deteriorat­ing. We must be drawing close to Marlborough Road."

  Her exasperated huff filled the carriage and drew Hart's thoughts to gasps of pleasure. A challenge. He felt his skin draw tighter across his whole body, felt his blood expand­ing. "Yes," he said, as if she had spoken.

  "I was not challenging you. My life is not a game, Your Grace, and I would not appreciate your treating it as such." Her voice shook a little, he noticed. Trembled.

  Hart grinned into the night. "My sister would say I've been an arrogant ass, and I've found her to be frighteningly intelligent." He met Lady Denmore's wide-eyed gaze. "Like you."

  She shook her head.

  "Will you be attending Moulter's retreat?"

  "No."

  "Of course you will. Three days of deep-pocketed noble­men, half of whom wouldn't know a good hand if it intro­duced itself. I do believe I'll accept Moulter's invitation."

  Her mouth had lost its will to smirk at him. Her lips pressed tight together. "I will not be your lover."

  "Mm."

  "Do what you wish. It will be in vain."

  "I appreciate the warning, Lady Denmore."

  She crossed her arms and fumed, pleasing Somerhart to no end. The woman was tempted, very tempted, and with very little help from Hart. He'd been rude and presumptuous, not the least bit seductive, and she was tempted. The last ves­tiges of Hart's perpetual boredom floated away like smoke.

  When the carriage tilted around a corner, Hart put his hand to the seat and spread his fingers wide, thinking of Lady Denmore's thighs again. A dark shadow tore him from his pleasant thoughts, and Hart leaned closer to the glass to scowl at the distraction. A man stood on the corner, bundled against the cold. Only his eyes were visible above a thick, gray wrap, but those eyes watched closely as the lights of the carriage passed.

  Thief, Hart thought, without much alarm. Both his driver and footman were well-armed against the city's dark-minded inhabitants. But alarm reared its ugly head when the coach pulled to a stop just a dozen yards from the corner.

  "Thank you, I suppose," Lady Denmore murmured, con­firming that they'd arrived at her home. The latch clicked open and the footman swung open the door. Hart didn't bother waiting for the step. He jumped from the carriage, surprising his servant and no doubt pleasing Lady Denmore with his rudeness. But he was rewarded with a brief glimpse of the man on the corner, who was quickly backing away into the shadows. Hart stared after him, wanting to give chase and knowing he must not.

  "Whatever are you doing?" her voice purred from his side.

  "A thief. He was right on your corner."

  "How do you know it was a thief? Likely it was our local boot black. He lurks about at all hours."

  "Is he six feet tall?"

  "Oh. Still—"

  "He was standing right here, not a dozen yards from your home. You must take care. He likely already noted that you travel alone."

  "Yes, I . . ." She glanced around, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. Hart felt a sudden anger. She should not be living here like this, in an unfamiliar city in a neighbor­hood only pretending at gentility. She should be traveling with a groom, at least, and not returning to her home at all hours of the night.

  "You—" He started, but she spun on her heel and hurried toward a narrow set of steps.

  "Don't bother, Your Grace. I can hear the censure in that one word. I am not wealthy and I am not married, so what­ever you are about to say is meaningless. This is the neigh­borhood I can afford, the life I can afford. Good evening."

  She fished a key from her skirts as she mounted the stairs, and actually unlocked the door herself, not a servant in sight. Hart watched, stunned, as the simple gray door closed with a solid thump. And Lady Denmore was gone.

  Hart wasn't sure how long he stood there, frowning, but his driver felt compelled to clear his throat.

  "Right," Hart muttered, and made himself step toward the open carriage door. "Drive around the block a few times, Lark. And keep a sharp eye out. I want to be sure we've chased that ruffian away."

  And he and Lady Denmore would speak at length about her situation when they met at Moulter's estate. After he'd charmed her drawers off.

  Chapter 4

  The note glowed against the dark, polished wood of the sitting room table. Emma did not know what to think of it, but she was grateful for the distraction. A ride around the park with the handsome Viscount Lancaster would ease her worries for a few moments. If she were lucky, it might even annoy Somerhart.

  "If that Stimp comes around," Emma called, "please bid him return. I need to speak with him."

  Bess grumbled a sound of assent from the hall, and Emma turned her attention back to the cloak she was mend­ing. The cheap fur edging around the hood had begun to free itself in clumps and tufts, but Bess had found a finer strip of fur at a market stall. The stitching required not the least bit of finesse, so the task was perfect for Emma. But the work needed little thought even with her lack of experience, and her mind turned immediately back to the man lurking on the corner the other night and the danger he presented.

  Stimp had claimed that her spy was an older man, and not a gentleman at all, but he'd also assured her that he'd con­vinced the man to leave.

  But if the spy truly was older. . . Matthew was smart, his father was a magistrate, and he could as easily pay some ruffian to look for her as come himself. She thought of Matthew's delicate good looks, his slim, elegant body . . . No, he would not hang about a London street corner, risk­ing life and limb to ferret her out, not if a man could be hired.

  A hired man could be fooled or chased off, though this one seemed determined to stay. Or maybe it was just as Somerhart had said. A simple thief.

  Emma sighed as she tied off the thread and held the wool cloak up. It looked halfway decent, but the sight didn't raise her mood. She was tired of this place, this cold house that echoed its lack. Most of the rooms were empty and none of them comfortably furnished. Perhaps she should have taken a suite of rooms at a hotel, but the hotelier had sprung at the opportunity to offer her
the vacant home that would be empty until March.

  Somerhart thought her living on the edge of respectabil­ity, but he had no idea. She was nowhere near the edge, had long ago fallen deep into the maw of indecency, had been deep into it ever since her mother's death, so long ago. Their ancestral home had become her father's personal play­ground; the caregivers hired for Emma and her brother noth­ing more than her father's favorite whores. Her home had no longer been a home, just as this place was no home, just shelter from the elements. She wanted a home, needed a home, and she was less than two thousand pounds from that dream.

  The Moulter party began in three days. Three days, and Emma could almost feel the coins sliding through her fin­gers. But it wasn't just the coin causing her excitement. Somerhart, that wretch, he had tapped directly into both her weaknesses. Gambling and lust. He could not know, but he did. Something about her advertised her wickedness to Somerhart, and called to his own.

  Since that night in the carriage, she had fantasized about him. Imagined him doing things to her that she had seen men do to women. She had been raised in wickedness and now she wanted to experience it herself. But she couldn't. She couldn't.

  Emma shivered and spared a glance for the faint glow of the coal fire. She would be leaving within the half hour. There was no point wasting good coal on a soon-to-be-empty room, so Emma wrapped the cloak about her shoul­ders and settled back into the chair to try to warm up before Lord Lancaster arrived.

  "And have you been staying out of mischief, Lady Den­more?"

  She smiled at the sparkle in Lancaster's brown eyes. "I'm not sure how to answer that, sir. I suspect mischief is my greatest appeal."

  "Not so," he protested, though he couldn't keep a straight face.

  "I was surprised by your invitation." "Unpleasantly?"

  "No, not at all. Very pleasantly surprised. You were quite gallant on the day I took advantage of your brother."

  "You deserved the advantage. My little brother is as arro­gant as any other young man."

  "And you are so very old."

  He graced her with a wide smile. "I'm grown ancient under the weight of my familial responsibilities."