Authors: Caroline Richards
The Darkest Sin (6 page)
She hesitated for the barest second. “Miss Rowena Woolcott.” A strange feeling of relief flooded over her, like the beneficence of a confession. The knot in her stomach loosened, and for some unknown reason she believed that she could entrust her identity to this man. “I would ask you to keep this in strictest confidence,” she said, “as knowledge of my existence could endanger those closest to me.”
“You have my word,” he said simply. “By this point in our short if unorthodox acquaintance, I understand that it is your wish to remain dead to the world.”
Rowena bit the inside of her lip to keep her expression calm. “I realize this sounds mysterious but only because you don't yet know all the elements at play here, not that I know myself, which is why I've come to you . . .” To stop herself from rambling, she clasped the tumbler on the table before asking finally, “Then you will help me?”
His smile widened at the entreaty in her voice, the hard lines of his face transformed into an expression she wished desperately to interpret as warmth. Rowena blinked and then just as suddenly the smile faded. “Miss Woolcott,” he said, her name on his tongue unreasonably pleasing to her ears, “much as I would like to help you, I must reiterate what I said to you yesterday evening. I am not the man you think I am. Trust me when I say that your consorting with me can only bring you more harm. The best I can do is offer you funds so you may return to your home safely. Otherwise, you will simply be compounding an already difficult situation.”
“Difficult for whom?” Her hands curled into fists. “I get the distinct impression that there is something you are unwilling to reveal here, sir. Why is it that you are keen to unravel the mystery behind a stranger's death, but you will not help me?” The words left her mouth before she knew it. She was, after all, as much a stranger to him as the actress lying cold and dead on Mrs. Banks's table in Shoreditch.
He raised a brow. “Simply because I found myself embroiled in the Cruikshank murders does not mean that I am prepared to involve myself in every lamentable situation that comes my way.”
Rowena flinched at the dismissal in his tone, narrowly reining in the urge to tell him the whole truth, or at least what she knew of it.
Rushford continued, “In short, Miss Woolcott, I suggest that you flee the scene as quickly as you are able.”
“Then you admit that I am in danger. How could you possibly know that, sir?”
“You've told me on several occasions, if you'll recall.”
“And now you believe me suddenly. So what has changed?”
“You would have made an excellent barrister, Miss Woolcott,” he said drily, a glimmer of admiration in his eyes.
She unclenched the fingers on her lap. “Then I'm not finished questioning you, my lord. Why is it that you find yourself embroiled in these nasty situations, the Cruikshank murders and now this poor actress? There is something at work, I'm convinced, that compels you to come to the aid of those who have nowhere else to turn. It is the reason behind my appearance at your town house last evening and the reason why I am sitting across from you here today, my lord.”
He considered her over steepled hands. “You are tenacious, Miss Woolcott.”
“Merely desperate,” she corrected him. “There is no one else to whom I can turn for the appropriate expertise. You are a man who could spend his time gambling or boxing or riding in Hyde Park, and yet you choose to devote your time to matters far outside your station. Why?”
Rushford placed a hand over his heart in mock surprise. “I protest, Miss Woolcott. It is you who are the sleuth, shadowing my every move and gathering the most intimate of information about my personal habits. Given your propensities, you most likely know how much I wagered last night at Crockford's and the condition of my linen.”
Despite her desperation, Rowena felt her cheeks warm, the image of Rushford's impressive musculature, and the memory of his attempt at intimidation, difficult to banish. He was teasing her, she knew, as only a man of his experience could do. Well, she was no schoolroom miss, ready to run with her hair aflame at the thought of being alone with a man. Still, the thought caught her unawares, like the tendrils of a dream at dawn. “I had no choice but to meet with you as I did,” she said in an attempt to justify her actions. “Of course, I had to learn everything I possibly could, and it seemed to make perfect sense at the time . . .” Inexplicably and illogically, all of this felt somehow right, like the tumblers of a complex lock falling into place.
Lord Rushford was a stranger, she reminded herself again, which did nothing to account for the compelling force that drew her toward this man. Perhaps, if she was totally honest with herself, she was simply confused, the strain of her recent experiences tingeing her actions with a hint of madness. The troubling, outrageous dreams, so flagrantly erotic, were somehow responsible for this uncommon, unaccountable response. It was time for reason to resurrect itself. Lord Rushford was but a means to an end, she told herself, looking directly into the dark gray eyes across the table.
He took a last draught of his drink. “If you dare not return home, do you require funds, Miss Woolcott, to settle elsewhere ?” He had clearly made his decision.
Her chin jerked up. “How did you know that I cannot return home? Do you believe me now?”
He shrugged at the accusation in her tone. “You mentioned something about a difficult guardian.”
“Your words, your assumption, not mine,” she said tersely. “And I do not require funds. I require your
assistance
.”
assistance
.”
“I believe we have a stalemate, Miss Woolcott. Particularly if you persist in shadowing my every move. What will it be nextâCrockford's and the West London Boxing Club?”
In response, she gulped the last of her brandy, the heat searing her throat. She bit back a cough, placed the glass on the table, and adjusted the collar of her cloak. “I shan't give in,” she said, amazed at the conviction in her voice, “until you help me. You, Lord Rushford, are the only one who can.”
For the first time, she detected a hint of weakness in his armor when he said, softly, “Why me?”
“I just know,” she said, although she really didn't. “And I have a plan.”
“Why does that not surprise me?”
“You yourself suggested it.”
He appeared to stifle a smile. “I can hardly contain my impatience. I'm certain you're eager to regale me with the details.”
The sound of deep-throated laughter cut off her rejoinder. Three men entered the ale house, their boisterous shouts attracting the publican's attention. She and Rushford were no longer alone, and she welcomed the diversion, a dilution of the tension, an illusion of safety. Leaning forward, she placed her hands on the table, summoning the courage to make her declaration. “You suggested,” she said softly so only he could hear, “that I become your mistress, that we become lovers.” The words, outrageous and desperate, pulsed between them.
Rushford did the unexpected. He, too, leaned forward, his voice dropping to an intimate growl, to grab her hand, his grip warm and inescapable. “You don't know what you're asking, Miss Woolcott,” he said just above a whisper. His voice was deeper than usual, sending a shiver down her spine. “You're asking for the impossible.”
Rowena nearly jumped from her place as his hand warmed the inside curve of her wrist. Layers of fabric did little to lessen the imprint of the heat of his fingers on her skin. Worst of all, she couldn't bring herself to take her hand back. She struggled to maintain her train of thought. “I don't mean in reality, of course, Lord Rushford,” she hastily amended, “merely as a ruse so we may spend time together without arousing suspicion. It would be dangerous for me, Miss Rowena Woolcott, to appear to employ your services, you understand.”
“My services?” he prompted.
Rowena jerked her hand out of his after what seemed an eternity. “You deliberately misunderstand me, sir. Together we could move at will amongst the demimondaine, the world of the poor creature lying dead at Mrs. Banks's,” she said, gathering the collar of her cloak more closely around her. She could not repeat the shocking words and suddenly wasn't sure of what to say at all. She was drowning again, but this time in an entirely different way.
Rushford's glance was hard. “I warned you last night, Miss Woolcott, and here you are today taking me up on my offer.”
“Don't be ludicrous,” she huffed. “You deliberately misunderstand.”
“Then what did I just hear?”
She scraped back her chair to rise, and he immediately followed suit, towering over her and in that one movement asserting his dominance. The three men who had entered the tavern earlier looked up from their tankards of foaming beer, eager to take in some light entertainment. Rowena fastened the toggles of her cloak. “I believe we are finished here,” she said tightly.
“I sincerely hope so, Miss Woolcott.” Rowena's view was filled with the wall of his chest, mere inches from her nose, the faint scent of vetiver tantalizing. “As I mentioned several times, I'm not the man you're looking for.”
“I shouldn't be too sure.” The words sounded feeble, all the more so when she flinched away from him. Raw, potent desire was making her begin to tighten and ache in a way that was both familiar and disturbing.
“What will it take to finally frighten you off, Miss Woolcott ? Don't you already have enough with which to concern yourself?” He leaned down, his breath fanning the smidgen of skin left bare at her throat. She forced herself to look into the flat gray of his eyes. “Mistress? I don't think so,” he said.
Despite their audience, Rushford pulled her close against him, the pressure of his hands on her arms enough to slip her easily into his embrace. Then he lowered his head slowly and kissed her.
A rush of confusion. Fear and danger blended with an intoxicating gust of desire. Rowena's body began to fight against the logic of self-control at the first touch of his lips. She had never been kissed before, yet the contact with this stranger felt overwhelmingly familiar, her lips blooming and responding to his as though she'd been born to it. The incursion of his mouth began slowly and leisurely, as if they had all the time in the world, an easy exploration of every soft corner of her mouth, subtle and dangerous. The fire he stoked flicked through her veins, like a hot bath after a cold day outdoors, until she thought she'd die from the pleasure it invoked. His hands tangled in the knot of hair at her nape, his palms cradling her against him, sampling and seducing, until she no longer knew where his mouth left off and hers began.
His tongue was rough velvet, tasting and teasing. What began as one slow kiss multiplied, the dance of his tongue conjuring erotic images, mirroring the tasting and touching, the thrust and parry, as shocking images flashed through her mind. Her legs wrapped around his waist. Her breasts brushing his chest, the tips swollen. The fullness between her thighs, inexorable and undeniable.
She was brought back to earth when he pulled away from her mouth, only to begin trailing his lips down her cheek, to her chin and to the pulse that beat at her throat. He dragged his tongue along the small strip of skin made available by the collar of her cloak. His hot breath scorched, and she arched her back as he pressed her body more closely against him. Her thigh slid instinctively and familiarly between his legs, and even with the barrier of her skirts and his trousers, it felt strangely like coming home. Shocked, her mind suddenly clear, she pushed him away. Rushford released her instantly.
Her breath was coming quickly. “I know what you're doing,” she said, a sob nearly escaping her throat. “And it won't work.” She stepped away from him, sawdust sliding beneath her boots, until she was halted by the table at her backside. Stingingly aware they were not alone, she retreated into herself with mortification. The three men at the adjacent table were sniggering into their tankards, while Rushford seemed entirely nonplused at the scene they had recently provided.
“I was merely demonstrating,” he said distinctly and as though their shocking embrace had never occurred, as though he had no trouble shaking off the effects of passion to instantly recall the issue at hand, “the inadvisability of following through on your plan.” He lowered his voice. “I urge you to be cautious, Miss Woolcott. Your first instinct to remain in the shadows is in all probability your best choice. And now if you will excuse me, I must return home and prepare for what you probably already know is an evening of gambling pleasure far away from Mrs. Banks's charnel house and your unwise demands. In short, stay away from me.”
Rowena stepped back, her balance suddenly unsteady, struggling against the flush of desire and the specter of defeat. Her heart ached as she thought of Montfort, her sister and aunt, imagining them standing by her side. She fought the longing for their arms around her, to make her feel shielded, safe, and as though nothing had changed. Losing them would be the cruelest blow of all and made this moment in a Shoreditch tavern with Rushford seem worth the humiliation. Impetuous, impulsive, and relentless she might be, but those qualities formed the steel in her spine that would finally convince Rushford he had no choice but to do her bidding. The threat of the Frenchman stiffened her resolve, fueling a dangerous logic that refused to give way.
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