Fortune's Lady (7 page)

“Oh, the Jacobins.”

Was he mimicking her? He looked huge, hanging by his hands from a limb and swaying slowly back and forth. She still couldn't think of him as a villain, but there were moments when it seemed as if he were playing with her.

“Do you like Rousseau?” he was asking now.

Rousseau, Rousseau. Some French writer. “Above all men,” she answered sincerely.

“Then you must admire Edmund Burke as well.”

“A genius.
Par excellence.
”

Riordan dropped his arms and straightened his waistcoat. The interrogation was over. Cassandra Merlin couldn't convince a grammar school dunce she supported the Revolution, or indeed, that she'd even heard of it. They would either have to take another tack with Wade, or Miss Merlin would have to undergo a fast course in political reality.

Question two was answered. That left question three—his favorite. How far with Wade would she be willing to go?

He heard murmured voices and watched a young couple pass, arm-in-arm, along the path twelve feet away. There was no real privacy here, but at least their spot under the beech tree was dark and out of the way. The girl's white dress might even be an advantage: lovers seeking seclusion would see it and search elsewhere.

A twinge of conscience surfaced momentarily, but he scuttled it without difficulty. This was no innocent maid he was sparring with, after all. She might look like an angel, but she was no different from all the empty-headed lightskirts he'd been trifling with for years. Until he'd met Claudia. Tonight's bit of business, it occurred to him, was destined to be added to his lengthening list of unsavory doings about which Claudia was better off not knowing.

Anyway, he only wanted to test this girl's willingness. A kiss or two and he would have her measure. To go beyond that would be—well, unsportsmanlike. That she'd come out here with him at all, alone, on the strength of a cast at hazard, said much for the quality of her moral discretion.

When he leaned his hands against the tree on either side of her face, Cass knew he was going to kiss her. Her first emotion was relief—at least he would have to stop asking questions! Apprehension followed quickly. But then, what could he do with her in a garden that she hadn't already allowed half-a-dozen suitors to do with her in a closed carriage or Aunt Beth's drawing room? That was a singularly uncomforting thought. Then she remembered that Quinn's “liaison” was supposed to be lurking about somewhere. Some mole-like person with huge ears from listening at keyholes, she didn't doubt, probably spying on them right now. Good. If things went too far, she would start screaming and he could rescue her.

Riordan watched as Cass wet her lips and tilted her head back. Desire spurted through him unexpectedly and he slid his hands down to her waist. “Good lord,” he murmured without thinking.

“What?” Her eyes were shining with a silver radiance in the leaf-filtered moonlight. “What's wrong?”

Should he tell her? What the hell. “It's only that I've never touched a clothed lady around the middle before and been able to feel her real body under my hands. No stays or corset or whalebone whatchamacallits.”

“Oh.” She looked away, embarrassed again.

He pulled her chin back to face him. “It feels like heaven.” He stroked her slowly, back to front, enjoying the feel of soft muslin rubbing against softer skin. A fragrance he couldn't quite name came to him from the place between her breasts; he wanted to bury his face there and inhale the sweetness. “And I've never seen anyone with gray eyes so clear and perfect, no other color but gray. Like a slate roof after a rain.” He was in complete earnest, so the amused twinkle in the very eyes he was extolling took him aback. “Do you doubt my sincerity, woman?” he demanded gruffly. He rubbed his thumbs along her ribcage and felt her shiver.

“No, indeed,” she answered breathily. “It's only that I've never heard my eyes compared to a slate roof.”

“After a rain, don't forget that.” He brought his hand to her throat and touched it softly, feeling the pulse quicken under his fingers. “I won't even tell you what your skin is like,” he said in a husky whisper, “for fear you'd mock me unmercifully.”

“I wouldn't—” She broke off with a little gasp when he bent his head and put his lips in the hollow of her throat. A moment later she felt his tongue there, warm and teasing and dangerous. She reached back blindly for the tree and he followed, pressing lightly against her with the full length of his body. What was he doing with his mouth? she wondered disconnectedly. What
could
he be doing to make her feel this way, as if her bones were melting, her skin catching fire where his lips were—

And then he was straightening, and the air was cold and wet on her throat, and he was running his palms up and down her bare arms in a distracted way. “You make a man lose his wits, Cass Merlin,” he murmured, trying for a light smile.

Her voice came out too high. “You make a woman lose hers, Colin Wade.”

Riordan tensed at the name. He dropped her arms and stepped away. Confused, Cass hugged herself, watching him. “Who did you come here with, Miss Merlin?”

“My cousin,” she answered, bewildered by his cool tone. “Frederick Sinclair.”

“Cousin, eh? Not much of a chaperone, is he?”

She spun around. Below the beech tree the ground sloped gently to a low brick wall; she could see an alley beyond it, the moon silvering the cobblestones. A tabby cat on top of the wall seemed to be staring directly at her. From the club came a man's muffled shout of triumph. Cass took a deep breath of night air, the better to comprehend what had just happened. Had she done something to offend him? She couldn't think what. Always it was she who broke away from an embrace, never the man. He seemed almost angry with her. What could be the matter? Why did she feel so stricken?

Her hands tightened on the rough bark when she felt him touch her again. She stood rock-still while he stroked her shoulders, then delivered a light massage down her back with his thumbs. What was his game? she wondered almost desperately, feeling herself starting to respond. Was he toying with her on purpose? If so, she didn't like it; it was childish and silly. Oh, but now he was pulling the dark, heavy hair away from the back of her neck and teasing her there with light, playful nibbles, and then hot, open-mouthed kisses.

“Miss Merlin, you taste as sweet as wine,” she thought he murmured. The sound of his voice set off the uncanny vibrating in her chest again, but now it was happening to her whole body. She felt his lips, then his teeth, pull lightly at her earlobe, and the weakness in her knees became a helpless trembling. She knew where his hands, clasped over her midriff, would wander next unless she did something. She did nothing.
Touch me,
she pleaded silently;
please, please touch me.

But at the moment when he would have, she lost her courage and twisted around to face him. His eyes were glowing blue fires. Moonlight on his strange silvery hair made her think of a predatory lion. “Cass,” he growled in his throat. He took her shoulders and slammed her gently back against the tree. Holding her face, he ran his thumbs along her lips until they parted. He nodded, satisfied, and brought his mouth down. Her hands went to his chest, as much to steady herself as to touch the hard smoothness of muscle under cool silk. His kiss was gentle, reined in, introductory. He sucked softly at her lips, nudging them farther apart. She didn't know whether he was saying her name or only sighing. His tongue flicked across her lips, then across his, before thrusting sleekly into her mouth.

Lights exploded before Cass's tightly closed eyes. She flung her arms around his neck and arched her body against him. Never, never had she been kissed like this. “Oh!” she breathed, and the intoxicated sound of her own voice thrilled her even more. Riordan's breath hissed through his teeth and he pressed closer. When he began to stroke the roof of her mouth with slow, sensual laps, her knees gave way. She might have slid to the grass if he hadn't tightened his arms around her waist and ground his hips against her.

He pushed higher, wanting her to feel his hardness between her thighs. “I want to touch you everywhere,” he whispered against her mouth. He put both hands on her buttocks and pulled her hard against him. “I want you under me. I want to see you lose all control, Cass, all restraint.” He saw a tear shining on her lashes and immediately gentled his hold. He took her mouth again, and her long moan of helpless pleasure was like music until he remembered where they were.

“Hush, love, hush,” he murmured, pressing light kisses on her cheeks, her eyelids. This couldn't go on, but it couldn't stop. “Come home with me, Cass. Come now. Say you will.”

“I can't!” She could barely speak. Her answer was automatic, unconsidered, the one she'd been giving in situations like this—but not really at all like this!—for years. Then all at once the shocking thought struck that she
could
go with him—she was
supposed
to go with him! Her breath caught and her hands tightened on his arms. She had
permission
to go home with this man and to finish the splendid, terrifying thing they'd started!

But it's wrong,
a soft voice reminded her in her other ear; it's a sin, and if there's a God he'll punish you. Yes, but—but he's a spy, an assassin, and I've pledged myself to try to stop him! Sophistry, the voice whispered scornfully; it's hardly patriotism that makes you feel this way, and you know it. It's lust.

That was when Riordan unknowingly interrupted the inner debate and took unfair advantage. Holding her neck, he kissed her again, savagely this time, while cupping his hand over one full, muslin-covered breast. The soft voice in Cass's ear was heard no more, and she slumped bonelessly back against the tree.

“Say yes. Cass, say yes.” He stroked the taut peak through her gown with his fingertips, rasping it lightly with his nails, and a jagged dart of liquid lightning jetted through her.

“Yes. Yes. Oh, please.”

Riordan took a long, shuddering breath and stepped back an inch. This was absolute madness. He knew it, but he wouldn't think about it. If he gave three seconds of rational thought to what he was doing, he would have to stop. That was unthinkable.

“Come on.” He took her hand and pulled her down to the path the way they'd come. She had to run to keep up with him. The proof of his desire for her was still evident, but he didn't care. All he wanted was to get her out of here, into his house and into his bed.

The interior of the gaming establishment seemed harshly and unnaturally bright. Would she come to her senses now? Would he? He kept her hand in a tight grip and steered her quickly through the staring crowd toward the front door.

“Wait. Colin, wait!”

Grinding his teeth at the name, he stopped and turned back to her.

“My cousin—I have to tell him something.”

The cousin! He'd forgotten all about the bleeding goddamn cousin! “I'll go,” he told her. “Wait for me here.” He jostled her toward an empty space of wall by the door and gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Don't worry.” He saw the door open, but turned away before the new arrival entered. It was not until he was halfway between Cassandra and her cousin that he heard three dreadful words.

“Hullo! Colin Wade!”

Riordan halted in his tracks and turned around very slowly, like a Christian martyr about to be stoned to death. It was easy to locate the speaker, a young man in a white wig sitting at the loo table between him and the door. He knew before he looked at him that the fellow wasn't speaking to him, but to the handsomely dressed, yellow-haired gentleman who stood in the doorway, smiling and rubbing his hands, nodding genially to his acquaintance across the way. The next thing he saw was Cass coming towards him, stopping midway, then turning back to Wade and holding her arm out in a baffled, beseeching gesture. Her lips were moving, but by some great good fortune her words were so far inaudible. He reached her in four long strides.

“You—Colin—”

“Shut up!” he told her in an intense whisper. “My name is Philip Riordan. I'm with Quinn.”

“Quinn!”

“Lower your voice, damn it.” His hold tightened on her arm as she tried to pull away. From the corner of his eye he could see Wade watching them. She spun around and took a purposeful step toward Wade. Not knowing her intent, Riordan grabbed her with both hands.

“Let go!”

He had to shut her up. He did it the way that seemed most natural, by kissing her. He held her in a breath-robbing bear hug and kissed her soundly and thoroughly. Part of him wanted to keep it up until she responded, softened against him and kissed him back, but another part told him that wasn't likely to happen this time. He let her go reluctantly.

Cass caught a shaky breath, brought her fist back, and struck Riordan in the face with every ounce of strength she possessed. While he swore and clutched at his jaw, she darted past him and ran out the door.

T
HE COBBLESTONED STREET
was torture; she might as well have been barefooted for all the protection her thin-soled sandals provided. “Damn, damn, damn,” she panted, almost weeping, exhausted but afraid to stop. She'd heard no sounds of pursuit, yet she was sure he would come after her. She had no idea what ill-lit street she was on, but a long stone wall bordered it on the left and beyond the wall was a park. Hyde Park? Green Park? St. James's? She knew the city hardly at all, only from brief and infrequent visits over the years, but she knew it well enough to recognize that she was nowhere near Holborn. How would she get home? It must be after two o'clock. She still had a pound and seven pence, more than enough to hire a hackney, but she'd seen no carriages at all in this darkened, residential section of Piccadilly. And she couldn't venture closer to the clubs and alehouses she'd run away from for fear of molestation. Or worse—of Philip Riordan.