Trapped by Scandal (17 page)

As far as his card-playing companions were concerned, William Ducasse, Viscount St. Aubery, was his usual genial, if slightly reserved, self. He played as astutely as he always did, although the game was essentially one of chance, and after half an hour, he gathered up his modest winnings and made his farewells to the table.

He left the club, nothing in his bland demeanor offering a clue to the swift calculations his mind was making as he walked to Half Moon Street. The Lizard had come into the open, a move that changed the rules of the game by which they had always played. William could congratulate his old enemy on such a sideways maneuver, but it made it imperative that he find out what lay behind it. What was Everard Dubois planning? If he wasn't working in the shadows anymore, what did he hope to achieve by moving into the open?

As he strolled casually down Piccadilly, William, as always, looked for followers, but he had the feeling that was an old technique, one the Lizard had abandoned. His quarry was to be free to walk the streets and go about his business without a close follower. It was intriguing, and it
also made him unusually anxious. He hated the idea that he didn't know what was in the Lizard's mind.

He arrived at his leased house in Half Moon Street, a tall, narrow residence with a front door that opened directly onto the narrow pavement. A curricle swept past him in the street as he inserted his key in the lock, so close he could feel the breeze of its passing against his coattails. As soon as he stepped into the hall, he sensed something was out of place. He looked around the narrow hallway. Everything was in its usual place.

“André?” He called for his servant as he hung his beaver hat on the hook by the door.

The man appeared from the baize door behind the stairs, looking a little agitated. “Forgive me, my lord, but you have a visitor, and . . .”

“That's all right, André, you need not explain my presence to his lordship.”

William stared with growing anger at the figure who had appeared in the doorway of the small sitting room to the right of the hall.

“You must not blame André, William,” Hero said swiftly. “But—”

“Oh, believe me, I do not,” William interrupted emphatically. He seized her shoulder, spun her around, and pushed her back into the sitting room, closing the door with a click behind them.

“Just what do you think you're playing at?”

Hero shrugged lightly. “If the mountain won't come to Mohammed . . .”

SIXTEEN

I
swear to you, I wasn't followed. You know you can trust me for that.” She pushed back the hood of her dark cloak, which effectively concealed both face and form.

“Where's your maid?”

She gave him a look that conveyed how idiotic she considered the question. “No one saw me, no one followed me, no one knows I'm here.” She articulated every word, her green-eyed gaze fixed upon him with a resolution that stated clearly that she was not going to back down. And she said nothing more, merely waited for him to speak, outwardly calm although her heart was fluttering against her ribs. Fury glittered in his eyes, and his lips had thinned, a pulse jumping in his cheek.

“You make me so angry,” he stated slowly. “I try very hard never to lose control of my anger, but you, Hero, make that all but impossible.”

With great difficulty Hero stood her ground, although she flinched inwardly. But he made no move towards her, despite the clear threat in his voice and expression. “No one followed me, no one knows I'm here,” she repeated
doggedly. “We are quite private, unless you cannot trust your servant?”

William didn't dignify that with a response. He turned and opened the door. “André.” He barely raised his voice.

“My lord.” The man appeared instantly.

“You will escort the lady immediately to Grosvenor Square.”

“
Oui
, my lord.”

“No,” Hero said. “I am not leaving here, not until we have talked properly. I will not be brushed aside any longer, William. You owe me an explanation for behaving as you did in Yarmouth, and I want it. I don't accept this vague fuss about reputation. My reputation is not yours to guard. You have not earned that right.” She stood defiantly, her feet unconsciously braced as if she were about to do battle with a wolf.

William jerked his head at André, who, with clear relief, stepped back again into the hall and closed the salon door.

“So,” William said, “I have not earned the right to be concerned for you. Well, let me tell you this, Hermione, I am responsible for any harm coming to you through any act of mine. That is a fact, and one you would do well to accept quickly. I will not relinquish that responsibility, and if you fight me over it, you will lose. I can safely promise you that.”

She looked at him in disbelieving astonishment. “Who on earth do you think you are? You did not oblige me to fall in love with you. I was a more than willing partner in
our relationship, if that's what it was. It was a love affair, one that you brought to a wretched finish without a word of explanation. You left me high and dry, not knowing what I'd done wrong. For that, William Ducasse, you are certainly responsible, and I demand an explanation.” One booted foot stamped in vigorous punctuation.

Golden fire flashed across his eyes, and he spoke with icy control. “You, madam, are a termagant.”

“And you, sir, are a bully,” she fired back, no longer afraid of his anger. “You think your opinion is the only right one, you think that everyone must obey your slightest dictate, you think you only need to give orders without explanation and everyone must jump. Well, I, for one, am not going to.” The other boot made emphatic contact with the floor.

“Are you going to compel me to put you out?” His voice was now dangerously low.

“Oh, do so if you wish, but I can assure you it will make the biggest scandal Half Moon Street has ever seen. I will ensure that, and I will sit outside your door until you
have
to let me in again.”

“You are the most unschooled, ill-disciplined, self-willed, spoiled brat it has ever been my misfortune to know,” he exclaimed.

“And you are a prudish hypocrite who thinks he can ride roughshod over anyone in his path.” Hero reached out blindly, and her hand closed over the first object it met, which turned out to be a jug of late September roses. She hurled it at him and then stood, her hand over her mouth, staring at the damage she had wrought. William
stood dripping, a rose caught in the unruly lock of hair on his forehead, several more adorning his shoulders. The earthenware jug, miraculously unbroken, lay on the carpet at his feet.

“You . . .” He took a step towards her, grabbing her by the shoulders. “For two pins, I would . . .” His words faded as he saw the sudden laughter flare in her green eyes as she looked at him.

“I . . . I'm sorry.” She gasped through a bubble of laughter.

“No, you're not,” he denied savagely. “You're a wicked, lawless woman, and may God help me, I cannot resist you.”

He caught her against him, his lips crushing her laughing mouth as his arms encircled her in a grip so tight it was almost punitive, but Hero reveled in the strength of him once more, the power of his body against hers, so familiar and so long missed. She reached up a hand to pluck a rose from his hair and brushed the wet lock off his forehead, even as her mouth remained riveted to his, her head bent back beneath the pressure of his kiss. His arm moved to her waist, supporting her as his body bent over hers, before his other arm slipped beneath her knees and he lifted her against him.

“Obviously, I have to find another way to make my point,” he declared, lifting his mouth from hers. “It seems there's only one thing you understand.”

He carried her out of the sitting room and marched with her upstairs, kicking open the door of a large firelit bedchamber on the first landing. He tossed her unceremoniously onto the big four-poster bed.

“Get your clothes off,
now.
”

Hero's skin tingled with excitement as she sat up and reached down to unlace her boots, watching as William threw off his clothes, dropping them carelessly where they landed.

Naked, he turned and hauled her to her feet as she pushed off her stockings with her feet. “You're too slow,” he said, deftly unfastening the little looped buttons that ran down the back of her gown. He pushed it off her shoulders and dropped it over a chair. “Take off your chemise.” His voice had suddenly dropped a note, and the urgency of passion was a deep throb.

Slowly now, with great deliberation, Hero peeled off the flimsy silk chemise, sliding it down her hips, stepping out of it as it puddled at her feet. She stood facing him, her bare skin gleaming opalescent in the fire's glow.

He put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a light push so that she fell back onto the bed, feeling the slight roughness of the embroidered coverlet against her back. He leaned over her, sliding a hand under her bottom and shifting her slightly so that she lay at full length on the bed. He moved to kneel at the end, holding her feet lightly in both hands. He moved her feet apart, spreading them wider on the coverlet, opening her thighs. His flat hands moved up the insides of her legs, parting her thighs even wider. Hero felt her skin grow hot with anticipation, her sex growing moist and swollen with longing. When he touched the core of her body with the faintest brush of a fingertip, her hips bucked with the jolt of lust.

William smiled, a very slow smile, as he moved his
hand from her body. “Don't move an inch. Stay just as you are.” He stood up from the bed and moved away out of her sight for a moment. When he came back, he held something concealed in his hand. He looked down at her, his eyes narrowed and darkened as he gazed at her spread-eagled body, caught the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes warring with the sensual longing in their green depths.

Putting one knee on the bed beside her, he leaned over, opening his hand to reveal a small brush, one she knew well. She had watched him shave often enough. It was of the softest badger hair, and as she realized what he was going to do, her heart seemed to leap into her throat, a flush suffusing her skin. “Please,” she whispered, not knowing if it was a protest or a plea. She had only the faintest inkling of what it would feel like.

The faintest inkling bore no relation to the reality. The brush lightly flicked against the insides of her thighs, stroked upwards one tantalizing millimeter at a time. She held her breath, waiting, waiting for what took an eternity to come. When the soft brush touched her moist and heated sex, she heard herself gasp, a little moan escape her. Her hips jerked against the coverlet, and he laid a restraining hand on her lower belly. “Be still. I'm not finished yet.”

It was unbearable, and yet it was the most exquisite torment Hero could ever have imagined. She writhed beneath the soft, flicking caresses, wanting it to stop, wanting it never to stop, and William, a smile playing over his lips, continued with the silken strokes until she could contain herself no longer. A cry broke from her lips, and her hips lifted as the muscles of her backside and belly
clenched tight and the storm of delight ripped through her, finally casting her ashore to lie flat on the bed, her limbs in an abandoned sprawl, her eyes closed as tears of ungovernable pleasure oozed beneath her lids.

William knelt astride her, slipping his hands beneath her bottom to lift her on his palms, holding her open as he slid inside her. Instantly, her inner muscles tightened around him, and he moved his hands to grip her hips, holding her steady as he moved with a swift, urgent rhythm that Hero picked up without a breath, concentrating now on giving back something of what he had given her. And so hard was she concentrating on giving pleasure that her own crept up upon her, catching her by surprise just as his pleasure peaked, and he cried out the instant he withdrew from her body, falling on top of her, his penis throbbing hotly against her belly.

When finally he managed to roll off her, he lay beside her, his hand on her belly, a faint laugh escaping him. “Let that be a lesson to you, Madam Termagant.”

Hero grinned weakly, her fingers trawling through his hair. She found a stray rose tangled in the chestnut crop and held it up. “You're quite a flower garden. Perhaps I should make a habit of throwing things at you.”

“I seriously don't advise it,” he said.

Hero decided that on second thought, she would heed his advice. William, for all his iron self-control, had his limits. Besides, she was not in the habit of exhibiting childish bouts of temper herself. She drifted into a trancelike half sleep and was only vaguely aware when he moved sideways and slipped from the bed. She heard him
moving around and finally rolled sideways to prop herself on one elbow.

“So what now, William?”

“Well, now you're here, I see no reason to hurry you away,” he said, fastening the tie of a dressing gown at his narrow waist. “Unless you have some other engagement this evening.”

Hero thought rapidly. She was engaged to go to the theatre with a party of friends, but the prospect seemed no longer in the least inviting. “No,” she said firmly. “But could André take a note to Alec? To say I won't be home for dinner?” Alec would also make sure that her previous engagement was canceled appropriately, but that she kept to herself. There was no knowing what would offend William's overly cautious sense of social propriety. Better he thought she had nothing else to do than that she was deliberately canceling a previous engagement at short notice to indulge in an evening of unbridled licentiousness. She couldn't quite manage to swallow the mischievous little chuckle of anticipation at the thought.

“You'll find pen and paper on the secretaire.” William gestured to the desk beneath the window. “I'll bring up some wine.” He left the chamber, and Hero slowly got off the bed. There was a jug of water on the washstand, and she cleansed her body of the residue of that passionate interlude, then put her chemise back on, before writing her note to Alec.

“Oh, I had it in mind that you should remain naked for my delectation this evening,” William said, coming back into the chamber, a hint of sensual amusement in
his voice. “Let's take that off. I'll keep the fire hot, I promise.”

The idea sent prickles over her skin as Hero slipped out of the chemise. In truth, there was something wonderfully liberating about being naked. And it reminded her of the many occasions on their journey through France when they had enjoyed the freshness of the river air on their naked bodies. Somehow it sensitized the skin, made one more wholly aware of one's surroundings and the sensual opportunities they embodied.

“What of you?” she asked.

He inclined his head. “It would please me greatly if tonight we played a little game. You stay as you are, I stay as I am.”

A host of scenarios flooded her already overactive imagination, each one more compelling than the last. “If you wish it, sir,” she murmured, regarding him through lowered eyelashes.

He gave a soft laugh. “Oh, yes, I wish it.” William bent and threw more logs on the fire. “Do you have your note written for André to take?”

“On the secretaire.” Hero hitched a velvet-covered ottoman closer to her with her foot and sat down facing the fire. She took the glass of pale gold wine he gave her and sipped, watching the spurt of flame as the fresh logs caught.