A Lady’s Lesson in Scandal, Page 4

  She stared hard into the shadows. She couldn’t see Rushden’s face but his low, amused voice was enough to make her think he wouldn’t be weeping anytime soon unless she made him. “Step forward,” she said.

  “So you can take better aim? That seems unwise.”

  She hesitated. This was not the neat murder she’d envisioned. Also, Rushden sounded a small bit young to have tupped her mother some twenty-three years ago.

  But Mum had called him the devil, hadn’t she? And devils didn’t age. “Here’s a tip,” she said sharply. “A man don’t cower in the dark.”

  A soft laugh answered her. “Fair enough.”

  He stepped forward into the square of moonlight.

  Her heart leapt into her throat and pounded like it wanted out. If this man was the work of the devil, it was a wonder more men didn’t sell their souls. He was tall, broad-shouldered, lean. Black hair. Full, hard lips. Mocking eyes.

  Naked as the day he’d been born.

  The man’s laugh matched the look in his eyes, low and unkind. The moonlight showed his fine white teeth, as straight as rails. Nice to be him, nice to be raised on fresh meat at every meal.

  “I wouldn’t be laughing if I were you,” Nell said.

  “Yes, well, you’ll permit me that much. Otherwise, as you see, you have me at a slight disadvantage.”

  She glanced down. No, she wouldn’t call it slight. Small mercy that the light probably kept him from seeing the blush on her face.

  “Do you like what you see?” he murmured.

  Maybe there was light enough, after all. Was this man enjoying himself, buck naked with a gun pointed at his pretty face? “Trying to distract me, are you?”

  “Undoubtedly,” he replied.

  She nodded. She could see how he thought his body might prove useful in that regard. What nobs she’d seen from a distance generally looked soft and doughy to her. Not this one.

  He also didn’t look near to Mum’s age.

  A memory sifted upward. Lord Rushden was never one for sporting, her mother had said that one and only time she’d spoken of it. He spent much of his time indoors. He took little interest in the work of his estates. I suppose that accounted for the sin in him; the devil loves nothing more than a pair of idle hands …

  Her throat tightened. Mum had never been a hand with descriptions; she very well might have neglected to mention that her lover was a class-A looker with the body of a boxer. Still, trying to square Mum’s description with this body took more imagination than Nell possessed.

  Bloody hell.

  This couldn’t be the right lord.

  He tilted his head slightly. It was the posture of a man considering something. She hoisted the pistol higher. “Don’t try it,” she warned.

  “Oh, never,” he said easily. “You’ll find I rarely try.”

  This one talked a lot of nonsense in his fancy, drawling voice. “Who are you?” And what the hell was she to do with him? Couldn’t exactly admit her mistake and go waltzing back out.

  His dark brows lifted. “My dear. Are you telling me you didn’t bother to learn my name before deciding to shoot me?” He laughed again. “This day grows better and better.”

  Weren’t many men in the world who could condescend with a pistol in their faces, but she should have known that they’d congregate right here in Mayfair. “You’re not very bright, are you? Seems to me that since I’m the one with the iron, you should be the one smiling and scraping.”

  “Scraping?”

  Blimey! Suddenly he was closer than he’d been before. She leapt back. “Don’t move!”

  He lifted his hands, palms out. “All right,” he said. “I’m a statue.”

  “Statues don’t move,” she said tersely, and his hands stopped climbing. “That’s better. Also, you keep in mind that I heard a great many fancy statues lack for heads.”

  A faint smile curved his lips. “Yes. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  She took a long breath. “You ain’t Lord Rushden.”

  His hesitation was slight, but she noticed it. “In fact, I am.”

  “You aren’t old enough!”

  “Ah. Perhaps it’s my predecessor you’re seeking.”

  At least Mum’s lessons were proving good for something. Most folks in Bethnal Green would not have understood this bloke. Had it not been for all those nights spent with books they could ill afford, Nell wouldn’t have understood him, either. “You mean to say that you’re the new Earl of Rushden.”

  “Yes.”

  She held very still, waiting for the implications to hit her. They struck hard, like a wallop from Michael’s fist, and they had just about the same effect, for the first sting was followed by a wave of hopelessness so black that she felt her grip on the pistol tremble. “When?”

  “Eight months ago,” he said.

  Eight months. Her body took a sharper breath, alarming her; it felt too close to a sob. There’d never been any hope, then. She was too late even for revenge.

  “I see this is bad news for you.”

  The man’s comment cleared her head. It wasn’t bad news that old Rushden was dead, save it meant that she’d now go to the gallows for nothing. For pulling a gun on a man who was nothing to her. Unless … “You’re his son?” she demanded. Mum hadn’t said she had a brother. Maybe a brother would take an interest in helping her.

  “Third cousin,” he said.

  “Oh.” They were barely kin, then. She couldn’t hope for aught from him.

  “What’s your grudge against the man?” he asked.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you care?”

  “My dear, you’re aiming a pistol at my face. I’ll care about anything that concerns you.”

  The smooth answer made her instincts bristle. He was being slippery with it. He had an idea in his brain that concerned her motives.

  “You seem … undecided,” he said.

  Wasn’t he the sharp-eyed one. She’d been ready to die if it meant taking her father with her. Justice for her mum: she’d gladly see it through. But she didn’t fancy sacrificing herself to make a stranger pay for his peculiar pauses.

  The gun was growing heavy. She adjusted her grip and saw him take note of it. He was going to do something in a minute. He talked lazy as a lord, but he hadn’t earned those muscles by lying on his arse all day.

  “I don’t want to shoot you,” she told him. “I had only one killing in mind, and you’re not it. But if you leap at me, I’ll reconsider.”

  “I don’t want to be shot,” he said. “So I won’t leap.”

  She nodded once. “How do you suggest we conclude this little rendezvous?”

  “What an interesting way you have with words. Sometimes you sound as if you were raised in a hovel. And sometimes … Wherever did you learn such vocabulary?”

  “None of your business!”

  “And it occurs to me that you look familiar.”

  “That’s your imagination.”

  “I find myself wondering how old you are, Nell.”

  She didn’t like the way he said her name. The interest in his voice felt too personal.

  “Let me guess,” the man said. “Twenty-two, thereabouts?”

  Lucky guess. Or maybe he’d kept tabs on the old earl’s bastards—though she couldn’t think of a reason for him to do so.

  In itself, that seemed a bad sign.

  “What’s your full name?” he asked.

  “Perdition,” she said flatly. “And I’ve been thinking on it, and maybe I’ll shoot you anyway. Seems to me that the fewer Aubyns in this world, the better for the rest of us.”

  “I’ve often thought the same.” He directed her a bizarre, pleased smile. “Really, we’re remarkably in accord.” He paused. “I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Simon. Not Aubyn, you’ll be glad to know. Simon St. Maur, at your service.” With a flourish of his hand that made her flinch, he sketched her a bow. A naked bow.

  He had muscles in places she’d never even known
could flex.

  She cleared her throat. “Lunatic relation, are you?”

  “I’ve often been called so. And let me guess.” His eyes were sharp on her face. “Nell is short for … Cornelia.”

  No reason to be alarmed, she told herself. Nell wasn’t short for much else. “Wrong,” she said. “It’s Penelope.”

  “Tell me.” His voice was thoughtful. “Were you really going to kill your own father?”

  When he put it that way, it sounded biblically wicked. Wicked enough to distract her just for a moment, and that was all he needed. He lunged forward and before she could fire, he’d smacked the gun out of her hand.

  The next second there was a tremendous bang and he had her wrists clamped together and twisted up behind her back as he held her pinned against him. She wrestled as good as she was able and heard him grunt once or twice; her cap came off and she spat hair out of her face as she thrashed.

  “Jesus bloody—” The rest of his words were lost in a gasp as she managed to twist and take a bite of his bare shoulder. Solid and hot and salty.

  He spat a curse and a door banged open behind her.

  “—the police!” somebody shouted, somebody else, probably the foxed valet, and she thrust up a knee. St. Maur did a sharp swivel that caused her to lose her mouthful along with her balance, at which point he had her. She squirmed to confirm it: yes, she was pinned like a butterfly to a board, and soon to be just as dead.

  “No police,” St. Maur said. “Have the blue bedroom readied.”

  “The blue bedroom!” came the scandalized reply. “Sir, surely the garret—”

  “But the blue bedroom has a lock.” Glancing back to her, St. Maur added, “On the outside.”

  The door thumped shut again. St. Maur’s free hand hooked into her hair and yanked her head back so they were looking at each other. Her addled brain once again pointed out that he was a fine-looking specimen: his eyes were some muddled shade between green and gray, and every bone in his face was sharp and straight, ruthlessly perfect.

  “You’d best let go of me,” she said—or croaked, more like; it was a bad angle for making threats.

  One black brow arched. “I think you’re finished giving orders for the night.”

  She put a sneer on her own lips as some new evidence made itself known. “Bit of a pervert, aren’t you?” He was hard as a fire iron against her.

  The shameless boor did not pretend to miss her meaning, giving her a slow smile that made her throat tighten and blood sting into her cheeks. “Absolutely,” he said. “And what of you?”

  “Me what?”

  “What am I to think of you?”

  “Nothing,” she spat. “I’m nobody.”

  “Oh, never that,” he countered. “A confused little girl, no doubt.” He let go of her hair; his knuckles brushed down her cheek, the lightest touch ever to raise the hairs at her nape. “A miracle … perhaps.” His voice dropped. “A figment of a desperate man’s imagination? Possibly.”

  “You’re spoony,” she whispered. Mad as a bloody hatter.

  “Hmm. Again: possibly.” His hand moved down her throat. Gently skimmed the line of her collarbone. That hand wasn’t showing any sign of stopping. “Or possibly just very insightful.” His touch lingered at her shoulder, his thumb delivering a firm, massaging pressure. She stiffened against it. She’d rake his eyes out.

  “Come into a man’s bedchamber at night,” he said in a low voice, “and he might mistake you for his dream.”

  A jolt of dread shot through her. “Take your hand off me.”

  “Oh, I would. But the day I’ve had … After such a day, such a miserable defeat arranged at someone else’s hands, it’s very difficult to take orders. Fancy it, if you can: having your life turned upside down by a villain. So many expectations crushed. And then the villain’s daughter appears, intent on blowing your brains out.”

  He meant her. He meant her father as the villain. “I never knew him,” she said quickly. “Never. I’ve nothing to do with him—”

  His finger pressed across her mouth. Hot, rough. Her stomach fluttered. “Shh,” he said, soft and comforting, as though she were a babe. “No matter. You’re still the answer to the riddle. And you called me perverse. I wouldn’t like to disappoint you.”

  In astonishment she watched him lean down to kiss her. Brilliant: an opportunity to knee him in the balls.

  But his hand planted itself back into her hair. He retook his grip and held her immobile as his lips touched hers.

  She snapped at him.

  He drew his head back a little, laughing. “Feisty.”

  “I’ll bite your tongue out,” she warned him.

  “Will you?” He looked diverted. “Shouldn’t you properly be begging for mercy? From the police, etcetera?”

  She froze. Was that an offer? Had he just asked for her body in exchange for her freedom?

  His smile slipped into a knowing angle. “Here’s your chance,” he said, and leaned in again.

  She tried to hold still as his tongue slipped between her lips. Tried to endure it. Only a fool would refuse such a bargain.

  But his mouth was … warm. Not as she’d expected. His lips were gentle as they molded against hers. She felt dizzy, suddenly. This wasn’t right. He should be mauling her. She’d been kissed before, hurried gropes she’d beaten off or smacked away, but never like this.

  He pulled back a little, his heated breath covering her mouth. “How are we doing?”

  “Sod off,” she muttered.

  With a little laugh, he applied himself again.

  She hesitated only briefly. He would call the coppers or he wouldn’t, but maybe he meant what he’d said: maybe she could sweeten him up and leave him kindly disposed. She opened her mouth and kissed him back.

  In reply, an interested little noise came from him. Mmm. His hard body came all the way up against hers. He was taller by a head, but her neck didn’t hurt: he’d slouched down to meet her. And he was licking into her like a child after the last traces of pudding in a bowl, and his mouth tasted like brandy, hot and rich and dark and clever. His hands, long fingers, felt down her spine, pressing, testing, against her lower back, finding the ache there, rubbing it out. She felt a surge of heat, animal-like, this strong, naked man rubbing against her as his mouth devoured her. Why not? What choice did she have?

  The quiver in her belly strengthened. She would give herself to him. Let this long, strong body do what it liked with hers.

  Lay the terms, a cold voice instructed.

  She broke free, not to fight, but to say, breathlessly, “If I do it with you, you promise you’ll let me go.”

  His mouth had found her ear, but at these words, he stilled. She had the curious impression that she’d startled him somehow.

  He pulled away. The moonlight reflected in his gray-green eyes. Thick, dark lashes framed those eyes, which studied her so narrowly that her intuition strengthened: yes, she’d surprised him. And he didn’t like it. He started to frown.

  “Alas,” he said. “We’ve had a misunderstanding. I want a different arrangement entirely.”

  Nell woke up the next morning spitting mad. She was mad at the fact that the door was still locked. That nobody came when she pounded on it. That she hadn’t just shot the man straight off last night. She was done with being bullied like a dog. He seemed a right arrogant bastard and was a pervert by his own action and admission; she could have done the world a favor by ending him.

  She was mad, most of all, at the way she’d slept. One might expect after being mauled by a blackguard to toss and turn a bit. But the bed was like a dream, a soft, fluffy, sinner’s paradise, its pillows stuffed with feathers, the mattress so quiet that even bouncing on it couldn’t draw out a creak. She’d slept like a baby—or, worse yet, like a woman without a brain in her head. The stupidity of it sent cold waves of horror through her. The lock was on the outside of the door! As she’d slept, St. Maur could have come in and done anything!

 
; Now she paced the perimeter of the bedroom, her temper growing worse with each pass. Not ten minutes away, people were suffering, starving—good people, girls who worked from sunup to sundown, babies who’d not asked to be born. But here there were houses full of stuff, fancy sheets woven with silk floss as soft as a baby’s bum; fancy washstands carved of dark wood that glowed like cherries where the light hit it; curtains the shade of the summer sky, heavy and glossy and smooth to the touch. The velvet-flocked wallpaper was so soft beneath her fingertips that had her eyes been closed, she might have thought she was brushing the belly of a rabbit.

  And the stool in the corner! One wouldn’t imagine you’d get too fancy with such a piece, but this stool was covered with embroidery so fine that her knuckles ached just looking at the stitches. Unbelievable. The rich even spoiled their arses!

  Given a knife, Nell would have cut out that embroidery—some goofy-looking, underfed girl with a unicorn lying next to her, his head in her lap—and sold it for five quid, easy.

  But she no longer had a knife. Last night, a couple of thuggish footmen had held her by the arms while a pug-nosed, sour-faced maid had searched her up and down, going straight for the blade Nell kept in her boot.

  Why St. Maur was keeping her instead of handing her over to the police was a question Nell didn’t want to entertain. There were a lot of things she didn’t think about as she paced—like, so what if he knew her name? Folks in Bethnal Green didn’t talk to strangers; he’d be hard-pressed to track her down once she escaped. No, she had better things to think about—like what she would manage to steal. A good deal, she hoped. She deserved it for sparing Mr. bloody St. Maur his wretched, dog-eaten life.

  She started with the book on the table by the bed. Gilt-edged pages and a cover of patterned red leather. She’d read a good many books in her life, but this was the handsomest she’d ever seen. The story inside looked ripping, too—some yarn about a magical, cursed stone. Mum would have loved it—as long as she wasn’t in one of her moods where only the Bible would serve.