Luck Be a Lady (10 page)

But he was grinning at her. “All right,” he said. “You asked for it.” And he dived down, seizing her thighs and opening them wide.

“What are you—ah!” His mouth—he had placed his mouth on her,
there,
that very spot that his finger had found before. “Stop, stop—” It was too much; every muscle in her body was tightening without her direction; she was nothing but need, her bodily awareness focused entirely on his tongue licking and laving her with fierce, single-minded intent—

The tension snapped. Her hips jerked, pleasure crashing through her. Distantly she heard her own sob. Her hands scrabbled over his back, dragging him against her; she opened her mouth on his shoulder, tasting him, biting him as she shuddered beneath him. He tasted
like nothing in this world, salt and flesh and wickedness and . . .

“Now there's a proper cry,” he said raggedly, and fitted himself to her again, only now, when he pushed, it seemed that his appendage had been fashioned for her, the resistance gone. He seated himself to the hilt, deep inside her body, and began to move.

She wrapped her arms around him and cleaved to him as he thrust.
Yes.
The soles of her feet found the backs of his calves, and she felt them flex; she turned her face into his thick black hair and smelled the essence of him, musky and masculine and beyond anything.

Take me.
She could think it; just once, only once. His strong hands gripped her face; he opened her mouth to his tongue, and she accepted it, welcomed it, drinking him in. Here, this natural wonder, this unimagined glorious act—for a few blissful moments, it was all that there was; her mind was quiet, she was only body, nothing else.

At last, he groaned and thrust off her, rolling away to spill his seed safely. It gave her a shock; she realized she had forgotten her plan to speak to him about that again, before unwrapping the sheet. She felt a measure of belated panic at her own carelessness, and deep gratitude for his consideration.

His naked back was pale gold in color, blemishless and broad. When he rolled over, she stared at his body, absorbing his beauty from this novel angle. A long scar slashed over his ribs. His thighs made a sleek and graceful line . . . Panic flickered through her as he reached for the abandoned sheet. No doubt he meant to be courteous as he handed it to her. She covered herself with it, but made no offer to let him share, for there was still so
much more of him to see. And she had only this once to look.

But it is already over.

A weird panic swam through her. Never again? After what she had just experienced?

Alarm made her avert her eyes. What ailed her?
Eve with the apple.
Of course. Forbidden knowledge was always sweet—and poisonous. She steeled herself on a long breath.

She felt his gentle touch as he smoothed a lock of hair from her shoulder. “You gave yourself away too cheaply, Kitty.” His voice was hoarse. “You should have asked for the moon.”

The nickname triggered a different kind of unease. Nobody but her father had ever called her by a diminutive. “I asked for the only thing I want,” she said stiffly.

The only thing I knew to want.

No. She rejected that thought. Of course bed sport could be pleasant. Otherwise, there would be no slatterns in the world. That did not mean that this experience would haunt her. She would not permit it.

But she foresaw, even in this raw moment, that it would take effort not to think of what he had done to her.

That was not the worst part, though. The worst part was that when his hand lingered on her shoulder, massaging lightly, she wanted to lean closer, in case he wished to kiss her again.

She inched away. This was no ordinary marriage. She was no ordinary woman. It was not in her to make a proper wife to any man. She depended on her own self-discipline, and she could not allow him to weaken it, for there was no future between them.

She stood, gathering the sheet around her. She sensed him gazing at her, the silence weighted by a sense of expectancy that she could not stand. This was
done.
It must be done.

But a niggling sense of injustice lingered with her as she walked to the mirror to smooth her hair. She was a fair woman, was she not? Committed to honest and transparent dealings.

She made herself turn to look at him. “You are flawless, too.”

His swift, flashing smile seemed to snag a hook into her chest. Again, she felt she could not breathe, that this panic would crush her.

She turned back to scowl at her reflection.
The Ice Queen.
That was who she must be. And even if she
had
been a more feminine woman . . . he was a ruffian. Their worlds could never be bridged.

CHAPTER FIVE

N
ick was comfortable with silence. As a boy at the docks, he'd found out how much there was to learn by keeping one's mouth shut and letting others talk themselves into carelessness. The misplaced brag or the accidental mention of expected good fortune had led him many times to a windfall that others had lined up for themselves.

As a man, he'd discovered that silence made a weapon, too. Keep quiet long enough, and brave men lost their courage. Wise men lost their discretion. Tongues started to flap, defenses to crumble.

But God save him if the silence in the coach wasn't awkward. Enduring it wore on his last nerve. Didn't help that his new wife sat across from him, swaddled to the throat in a cloak as dark as night, her face emerging like a pearl from velvet, shining in the swinging light of the side lamp.

It aggravated him that she looked untouched, for he himself felt . . . rubbed up against, disordered, all messed and tousled inside. What had happened in that
bed today? He was Irish enough to think of witchcraft, and modern enough to dismiss it instantly. But the conviction lingered, unsettling and unwelcome, that something had happened that changed him, knocked him off-kilter the slightest degree, so her face now seemed like the only thing worth looking at.

He couldn't afford that kind of distraction.

Five years till he'd have it again. That term in the contract was looking different, suddenly. No longer just a point of amusement, proof that toffs would legislate anything, right down to the breath drawn by a body. Now it looked like a clever piece of torture. He was ordered, by a point of law, to resist the temptation that had risen right after he'd found his release, when he'd wanted to start touching her all over again.

Ice Queen, they called her. Let them keep on thinking so. He'd made his fortune through opportunities that fools and laggards had missed. He'd spotted her, hadn't he, when his niece had gone to work at Everleigh's? Watching her, he'd come to understand how a good woman might be likened to a rare jewel. With such a lady on his arm, a man would need no flash to show the world that he mattered.

But the world wouldn't be seeing him with Catherine. It would never guess that he'd cracked her wide open, proved the Ice Queen was made of blood and flesh, soft and pale, flawlessly smooth. If he touched that soft skin, now—if he stroked that stray lock of hair from her cheek, and put his lips at that sweet, shadowed crook where her neck met her shoulder—she'd threaten to summon a solicitor.

She couldn't annul the marriage, though. Didn't sit right, how smug he felt about that—or how irritated,
at the prospect of five years' wait till he could have her again. He felt rattled by it, in fact, and was glad when the coach slowed and she told him they had arrived.

“You will let me handle this,” she said as he opened the door and helped her down.

“Sure.” He let go of her as quickly as possible. Cloak or no, he knew that curve of her waist now, and the shape of it made his palms burn. Or maybe what smarted was his pride, for how indifferent she sounded to his touch. He'd made her cry out, all right. But her composure suggested she'd already forgotten it.

He wasn't a man accustomed to being forgotten, though he knew better than to expect anything else from her. Swells, fancy folk, had a talent for dismissing his kind. It hadn't ever bothered him before. He'd taken advantage of their snobbery, or laughed them off as shallow fools.

But she wasn't a fool, this woman he'd married. And he wasn't sure, suddenly, that he could bear her sneers so lightly.

*    *   *

As Catherine walked toward the drawing room, she tried to school herself for the confrontation to come. She should be relishing the moment, savoring the taste of long-awaited victory. Instead, all she could think about was the man beside her.

Was he reliving what they had done in that bed? She felt raw, unsteady on her feet, as acutely, tremulously alive to his presence as a fox to a nearby hound. One accidental touch from him, and she would be undone.

No. She would not let herself dwell on it. She would make herself numb to him.

She shoved open the door with too much force. Peter looked up from his newspaper, his glance flickering to O'Shea behind her.

“What is this?” he asked, frowning as he laid down the newspaper.

“Business,” she said crisply.

“You know I receive no tradesmen in the evening—”

“This is no tradesman,” Catherine said. “Indeed, I had thought a man like you, who follows the news so closely, would recognize Mr. O'Shea.”

Peter rose. “I don't . . .”

“Nicholas O'Shea,” said her new husband mildly as he joined her side. The displaced air carried the scent of his skin. She had tasted that skin. She had
bitten
him.

Flushing, she focused on Peter. The first traces of his comprehension registered in the slackness of his expression, his jaw sagging a fraction. “Nicholas . . .” He shot Catherine an astonished look. “What in the
devil
do you mean, to bring such a man—”

“We come to have your congratulations.” How sour she sounded. How like a spinster. But she wasn't any longer. “We are married.”

Peter reached for the back of his chair. Taking a white-knuckled grip on it, he uttered a short bark, balanced somewhere between laughter and choking. “You
what
?”

O'Shea's broad palm pressed into the small of her back. She swallowed a gasp. Now he'd done it. But she was fine! She was not undone. O'Shea meant only to encourage her—or to provoke her brother. He could not guess how her heart tripped. He would never know.

She inched out of reach. “That's right,” she said. “Married, legally and quietly, in the register office in
Whitechapel. So you see, the service entrance would hardly do—for your new brother-in-law.”

Peter shook his head slowly. “You're . . . this is . . .”

She darted a sidelong glance at O'Shea. The bright light of the parlor seemed to sharpen his beauty, making him a study in contrasts: sun-bronzed skin; hair gleaming black; and those eyes.
They should call him the Ice King, for those eyes.

Idiotic! She pinched herself. A devilish smile was tugging at the corner of O'Shea's mouth. Was he privately mocking her? Did he realize how rattled she was?

He caught her look, and winked at her before giving an infinitesimal nod toward her brother.

Frowning, she followed his attention back to Peter, who was gaping like a fish out of water. Why, perhaps O'Shea was laughing at
him.
It was worth some enjoyment. This was bound to be the sweetest discussion she'd had with Peter in years.

She bit back her own swift smile. “Do you find it preposterous?” she asked her brother. “Ludicrous? Both those words have crossed my mind of late—but in regard to
your
doings. I watched in silence as you embezzled from our profits to fund your personal affairs. But did you really imagine that I would let you sell the company?
Our father's company
?
”

Peter was turning purple. “This won't stand.”

“But it will,” she said. “The license was legally acquired. The marriage was entered into the registry. And the union was . . .” She took a deep breath. “Consummated.” She rushed onward, blinding herself to Peter's grimace. “There is no court in the land that would contest this marriage. I assume full directorship of the auction rooms now.”

“You goddamned—”

As Peter lunged, O'Shea stepped in front of her. As if she could not handle Peter! She had managed well enough on her own, for twenty-six years. She stepped around him. “It is done,” she said.

Peter fancied himself athletic. He fenced for pleasure at a local studio, and liked to brag that he could swim the Channel, if only he had the time. But as he sized up O'Shea, he was not fool enough to consider himself equal to what he saw. A curious sneer worked over his features, drawing his mouth into a tight little smile.

He sat heavily on the sofa. “Well,” he said flatly. “Congratulations. You have ruined me.”

“Your political prospects? No doubt.” Sensing O'Shea's surprise, she put a hand on his arm.

Hard as iron. Fearsome strength. But he'd been so gentle with her . . .

She bit hard on her cheek.
Just a moment longer,
she silently begged him with her look. A moment in which to treasure this victory, and to make Peter feel the absolute depths of misery. That would soften him for the bargain she meant to propose.

O'Shea gave a fractional nod, and she returned her attention to her brother, whose expression was murderous.

“You will regret this,” Peter said. “You imagine that you will seize control of Everleigh's? Now I will never be away from it. You have left me no choice. I will drive it into the ground to spite you.”

Her temper exploded. “How reassuring, that you should finally admit to how little you care for the place!”

He sneered at her. “And you? What care do
you
show, by marrying our name to that of the most infamous criminal in England?”

“Well, now,” O'Shea said evenly. “That's a gratifying thought.”

Peter's glare snapped to O'Shea's face, then slid away. He slumped, one hand bracketing his brow to shield his expression. “My God,” he muttered. “My God, you have
ruined
me.”

Here was the despair she'd been awaiting. “In fact, there is still a hope for you.”

“It's done,” he said, muffled. “You knew it. Why else did you do it?”

“But you spoke rightly, a minute ago. I have no wish to see you without any aim but the auction house. And so Mr. O'Shea and I have discovered a way to preserve your political aims.”

Peter loosed a choked snort.

“It is very simple,” she said. “You will support Mr. O'Shea's interests at the Municipal Board of Works, and give me full control at Everleigh's.”

Peter lifted his head, staring at her with the squinting concentration of a man blinded by the sun.

“Mr. O'Shea's buildings have been wrongly condemned,” she said. “They are located in Whitechapel; the inspector from St. Luke's had no right to condemn them. You will persuade the board that the petition of condemnation is null and void. As for Everleigh's—you will continue with your duties as auctioneer and client director. But I will oversee the accounts, and you will confer with me on any matters concerning the general operation of the company. As long as you meet these terms, Mr. O'Shea and I will keep this marriage private. Nobody will learn of it. And
you
may go on glad-­handing politicians without any rumors to trouble you. But if you refuse . . .”

He was listening, his attention fixed and unblinking.

“If you refuse to meet our terms,” she said, “Mr. O'Shea and I will make a public announcement of our marriage. Per the terms of Father's will, I will immediately assume equal control over Everleigh's in the eyes of the law. The sale will be halted, regardless. Meanwhile, I believe your future hopes will be greatly diminished by the public's knowledge of your new relationship to Mr. O'Shea.”

It took Peter a long, stammering moment to find his tongue. “This—this is—this is the most heinous,
ridiculous
blackmail—”

“No more ridiculous, I think, than a thief who wishes to become a member of Parliament.” She paused, savoring the moment. “Or—pardon me. That form of corruption seems a perfect qualification for politics. Indeed, perhaps Mr. O'Shea should consider contesting for the Whitechapel borough.”

At her side, Mr. O'Shea laughed softly. “Now, there's an idea.”

His husky laugh brushed through her like fingertips, stealing her breath. She did not permit herself to glance over. Peter was looking between them as though evaluating two rabid dogs. “You would keep it a secret,” he said slowly. “How would you do that? The bloody register book is accessible to anyone who—”

“No fear there,” Mr. O'Shea said. “It's tucked away where nobody will find it.”

Peter frowned. “But . . . your very association . . .”

“Mr. O'Shea and I do not intend to associate publicly,” Catherine said.

Peter blinked. “So . . . it's not to be a true marriage, then? You will never share a household?”

She willed herself to be ice-cold, lest the insinuations—and the memory they evoked, of O'Shea's mouth traveling her body—make her blush. “As I said, it has been made true in every way that pertains to the law. As for our future plans, they are none of your concern.”

“But they are.” He was staring at her very narrowly now. “Assume I accept your terms. I must do so on the absolute certainty that this marriage will never become public knowledge. For my aim is not merely to be a member of Parliament. That will only be the beginning. I will not be sabotaged by the eventual revelation of this—this grotesquerie!”