Lord Savage (3 page)

The collar of his dress shirt sat precisely against his neck, with the black superfine
of his evening coat tailored to perfection over his broad shoulders. To all the world,
he was the epitome of a civilized English lord, yet as his large fingers completely
enveloped my hand and I felt the heat of his palm through my gloves, I was reminded
of what he’d done, what I’d witnessed, not an hour before.

“You are an excellent dancer, my lord,” I said. “I am fortunate to have you as a partner.”

He nodded in acknowledgment but did not smile. “I demand excellence of myself in all
things, Mrs. Hart, no matter how trifling.”

I smiled anyway, determined to charm him as I’d charmed all the others. “I can tell
that of you already, my lord.”

“How?” he asked. His voice was deep and rich, the kind of voice that could charm with
only a handful of words. “From spying upon me earlier this evening?”

I caught my breath with surprise. “Did Lady Carleigh tell you that—”

“She did not,” he said. “There was no need. I saw you myself, Mrs. Hart, leaning over
the railing for a better prospect.”

Speechless, I blushed furiously, looking away from his face to my white-gloved hand
on his shoulder. I’d expected him to be angered by what I’d done, but instead he sounded
almost amused, in a dry and very English manner.

“Is that how you entertain yourself?” he continued. “Watching, instead of participating?
Is that what gives you the most pleasure? To be a voyeur?”

“I—I do not know what you mean, my lord,” I stammered. In truth I had never before
observed others making love, because I had never had the opportunity. This had been
the first time, and though I had enjoyed it immensely, I was not going to confess
that to him. “I had stepped out of doors for air, and heard, ah, curious sounds in
the bushes.”

“The sounds of a man taking a woman?” he said, bemused, as he deftly guided me through
the steps of the dance even as my feet would have stumbled. His voice dropped a fraction
lower, his words more confidential and meant for my ears alone. “As a married woman,
Mrs. Hart, you must surely have recognized the nature of those ‘curious sounds.’ If
you were drawn to them, then they must have intrigued you, and made you wish to see
more. Perhaps you even imagined yourself making those same curious noises, unable
to stop, nor wanting to.”

His audacity stunned me, as did the frankness with which he spoke of such matters.
I had wished for adventure, true, but I had not expected him—or any gentleman here
tonight—to speak so directly to me, without the genteel gloss of a witty double meaning.

“I am sorry, my lord,” I said, striving to draw the conversation back into my control,
“but I do not believe that is a suitable topic for this company, in this house.”

He laughed softly, a deep, rumbling sound in his chest that I found appallingly seductive.

“I can assure you, Mrs. Hart,” he said, “that this house has been a haven to far,
far less suitable pastimes, performed by this same company, than what you witnessed
earlier.”

“Does your assurance come from experience, my lord?” I said defensively. “Was that
scene in the garden only one of many in your past?”

“Is that what you imagine of me, Mrs. Hart? Is your fervid mind envisioning such a
scene even now?”

Sharply I drew in my breath, for in fact I was imagining exactly that. Was I truly
so—so transparent? He was toying with me, teasing me, twisting my words around for
my own entertainment, and I did not like it.

“You flatter yourself, my lord,” I said, “if you believe that I would devote my thoughts
so exclusively to your—your dalliances.”

“‘Dalliances,’” he repeated, faintly mocking. “I do not dally, Mrs. Hart. As our acquaintance
grows, you’ll discover that I am far more purposeful than that.”

“Indeed, my lord.” I swallowed, and licked my lips, which had suddenly grown dry.
“But only if I cared sufficiently to make such findings.”

He raised a single dark brow. “What a singular show of spirit, Mrs. Hart.”

If having spirit meant I must challenge him, I’d do so. “I’m American, my lord. Spirit
has been bred into me.”

“I have met a good many American women, Mrs. Hart,” he said, “and none of them have
possessed what you call
spirit
to the degree that you appear to do. You are, in fact, not like any of them at all.”

I couldn’t tell if this was intended as a compliment or not. “You are exceptionally
bold in your judgment of me, my lord, given that our entire acquaintance has been
the length of this waltz.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Hart,” he said easily, ignoring the rebuff in my words. “Judgments,
true judgments, can be made in an instant. I can see that you are not like the other
American women, nor are you like the English ladies languishing in little groups about
this room. You are not afraid of being alone. You are independent, a renegade, and
you answer only to yourself. Is that not so?”

I caught my breath again, stunned that he had in fact assessed me with such accuracy.
I’d never been a girl surrounded by a pack of giggling friends, and because of my
solitary upbringing, I’d accepted my lack of close acquaintance, even embraced it
as I’d grown older. Yet how had he guessed?

“You are silent, Mrs. Hart,” he continued when I didn’t answer. “You believe I have
insulted you.”

“No, my lord,” I said, striving to recover. “Although to be called a recreant is hardly
flattering to a lady.”

“I called you a renegade, Mrs. Hart,” he said. “A recreant acts from craven cowardice,
but a renegade has made a conscious choice to exist beyond convention and expectations.”

“I see I must choose my words with more care, my lord,” I said, deftly avoiding admitting
how correct his estimation had been. “You speak with a pedagogue’s precision.”

“I speak from experience, Mrs. Hart.” His eyes were intent upon me, holding my gaze.
“I consider myself to be a renegade as well. It is the reason we are drawn to one
another. The Turks would call it
kismet
.”

I shivered, feeling too vulnerable. To blame what I was feeling on kismet, on fate,
seemed so easy and pat, and yet I had no better explanation myself for why I felt
so inexorably drawn to him.

“I am disappointed, my lord,” I said, determined to regain some semblance of control—of
myself, if not of him. “Only the most callow of ballroom swains invoke fate as a way
to win a lady’s favor. Americans believe in plain speaking.”

“Then speak plainly to me, Mrs. Hart,” he said, unaffected by my reproof, “and I shall
speak plainly to you. Did watching me arouse you? Did your pulse quicken, your breath
catch? Did your nipples stiffen and ache? Did your cunt tighten and grow wet with
desire for my cock, Mrs. Hart?”

I stared into his pale eyes, shocked that he would dare say such words to me in the
middle of a crowded Belgravia ballroom, the blunt vulgarities all the more potent
in his aristocratic accent.

Yet what stunned me more was how my body was responding exactly as he described, now,
as I danced with him. Beneath the layers of lace and silk petticoats, I felt shamefully
wet, swollen, and empty.

My sex wept for his cock. There was no other way to describe it. With each gliding
step I took, my now-damp thighs rubbed together, then released, a gentle friction
transformed into an inadvertent caress that was growing increasingly unbearable. My
breasts felt full and heavy as they pressed against the bones of my corset. As much
as I was trying to assert myself against his arrogance, my body was shamelessly betraying
the excitement that same arrogance roused in me.

“You are silent again, Mrs. Hart,” he said, the most ordinary observation in the world
under other circumstances. “What has become of your plain speaking now, I wonder?”

He was watching me closely beneath his dark lashes, seeing far more than I wished
him to. Resisting the spell that he’d cast over me, I looked away to search for the
acquaintances who had brought me in their carriage tonight.

If I parted from him now, the way I had earlier from Mr. Smithson, there would be
a minor scandal and fuss, but it would be preferable to remaining here to listen to—

To what? The most devastatingly seductive man I had ever met, saying the exact forbidden
things to me that I’d always wished a man would say? If his words alone could do this
to me, what would it be like to feel those hands on my bare flesh and that cock driving
its way deep into my body?

“Mrs. Hart?” I thought he sensed my wish to escape, as his hand tightened around my
slender, corseted waist to hold me fast. “I await your reply, Mrs. Hart.”

“Yes,”
I blurted out abruptly, yes to the truth, yes to everything he’d asked of me and
other things he hadn’t. I felt dizzy, almost light-headed, with my heartbeat thundering
in my ears. Suddenly the waltz ended, leaving me wondering if he’d somehow planned
it this way all along.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hart,” he said, bowing like every other gentleman. “For the pleasure
of this … dance.”

For the first time, he smiled. His eyes lost their wolfish intensity, his expression
softened, and he looked much younger. He offered me his arm and I took it, clasping
tightly to his well-muscled arm as he guided me across the floor.

I supposed I was grateful for his support, considering how my knees wobbled beneath
me. I could not begin to explain what had just happened between us, and I was conscious
of how, for the first time all evening, no other gentleman stepped forward to ask
to dance with me next. Instead they all hung back, watching me with Lord Savage, as
if he’d made some kind of unspoken, primitive claim on me that the other men understood
and respected.

And in spite of how warm I’d become from the dance and his nearness, I shivered again.

“Ah, Mrs. Hart,” Lady Carleigh said, smiling over her spread fan. “How glad I am that
Lord Savage has brought you back to me!”

Savage smiled in acknowledgment and slipped his arm free of my hand. At once I felt
not only unsteady but bereft. Was the earl done with me, then? One dance and a single
wicked conversation, and that was all?

“I was only now telling Lord Carleigh how much I enjoyed your company earlier, Mrs.
Hart,” the viscountess continued, waving vaguely toward her husband. “He suggested
that I invite you to join us next week for a sojourn in the country. We intend to
make a small party of it at Wrenton—that’s our place in Hampshire. We all do what
we please, with whom we please, and because we all swear one another to silence, it’s
all great fun, and no tedious regrets afterwards. No more than twenty, carefully chosen
to exclude the bores.”

“Oh, of course,” I murmured. “Bores can be so—so boring.”

“Exactly,” said Lady Carleigh, chuckling. “Besides, I do detest a huge crowd. It destroys
the intimacy of the country, don’t you agree?”

I nodded. With the London season coming to an end, the nobility retreated to their
country houses for the hunting season and for visiting one another’s estates. I’d
already received a small pile of invitations from other noble hostesses, but none
was as intriguing as Lady Carleigh’s.

“You must not hesitate, Mrs. Hart,” said Lord Savage, his voice deep and confidential.
“The viscountess’s house parties are most extraordinary. You will not be disappointed.”

I turned to face him. “Will you be a member of the party at Wrenton, Lord Savage?”

He held my gaze for a long moment—long enough to tantalize me. I understood, and so
did he.

“If you will be there, Mrs. Hart,” he said at last, “then nothing would keep me away.”

Kismet,
I thought, certain he was thinking the same.

Kismet.

TWO

“Seems as if I just had everything unpacked and settled into these tiny rooms, ma’am,
and out come the trunks once again,” said Hamlin, my lady’s maid. “You’ve scarce been
here in London a week, and now you’re off again.”

“Oh, hush, Hamlin.” Unperturbed, I stood in middle of my dressing room, staring off
through the window without really seeing the view. I’d taken the best available suite
of rooms overlooking the river here at the Savoy, but as lavish as the suite was,
the space was still much smaller than my mansion in New York.

Even with Hamlin overseeing my wardrobe, the dressing room was nearly overflowing
with silk, lace, plumes, and embroidered fine linen. Perhaps for once the maid did
have reason to complain.

“I told you I’ll only be taking two trunks with me,” I said, almost apologetically.
“Even you can muster the energy for that.”

Hamlin grumbled wordlessly, letting her disapproval simmer as she gathered up armfuls
of lace-trimmed petticoats. The maid had been with me since I’d first been a bride,
and Hamlin’s loyalty over the years had earned her a certain right to speak plainly.

Not that I could have stopped Hamlin from offering her opinions even if I’d tried.
The maid was a stout, prickly Bostonian with stringent notions of right and wrong,
especially where her mistress was concerned. Hamlin was as watchful as a mother hawk,
and her protectiveness had only increased since Arthur Hart had died.

“Two trunks, ma’am, only two trunks!” she repeated dolefully, shaking her head. “How
are you to make do for a week in the country with only two trunks?”

“I shall manage,” I said. “A great deal of clothing can be packed into two trunks.”

“Not your clothing, ma’am, not at all,” Hamlin said. “You’ll need clothes for riding
and clothes for shooting, ma’am, dresses for breakfast, luncheon, tea, and dinner,
and I’m sure there’ll be at least one grand ball. You won’t be able to repeat a thing,
either, or have those grand titled folk think worse of you. But I ask you, ma’am,
how am I to put all that into two trunks?”

I smiled serenely. “Lady Carleigh was quite specific, Hamlin. It will be a small party
of guests at Wrenton Manor, and she wishes everything to be informal and easy, without
the usual constant parade of changes. Two trunks should be entirely sufficient for
the dresses we discussed earlier.”