Judson stepped up beside them and said in a superior tone, “I saw this demonstrated when I toured the Continent fifteen years ago. It’s old science.”
“You toured the Continent?” Adam conveyed amusement and scorn. “I believed it wasn’t so much a tour as an exile. Your father barely escaped prison, did he not?”
Flaring like the spark that ignited the experimental fire, Judson snapped, “He was clever enough to avoid hanging.”
“I’m clever enough to avoid pretensions,” Adam shot right back. “Clever enough to take fortune by the neck and twist it until my life is my own, and not dependent on a patron.”
Judson stuck out his chin. “Fortune is mine today, Lord Rawson. Remember that when she abandons you tomorrow.”
Laughing lightly, Adam said, “Your threat is as impotent as you are. Never think I’ve not noticed you scurry from coffeehouse to coffeehouse on Change Alley, sticking your long nose into everyone’s dealings. No doubt the man who employs you finds you useful, but does he realize your perfidy? Does he realize that should another wave a larger fist of money, you’ll leave like a well-fed rat abandoning ship?”
“You’ve watched me?” Judson’s eyes went vacant with dismay, then filled with cunning. “What does that make you? The rat catcher?”
“I have no desire to catch such a vermin,” Adam said congenially. “I’ll simply step on you.” As the little man stormed away, Adam muttered, “But I will discover what you’re about.”
Beside him, Bronwyn asked, “Should you have antagonized him?”
“He’s waving the coin around now, but mark my words. Soon he’ll be starving once more. I’m amazed he has survived on Change Alley for this great time.” He glanced toward the corner where Judson sulked. “He takes his luck and squanders it, rather than building to provide for tomorrow.”
“You despise him.”
He looked down on her and smiled. “An astute observation.”
She smiled back, unable to resist the juxtaposition of muscle, bone, and skin that composed his mirth. Then, embarrassed by the reaction she couldn’t contain, she looked with simulated excitement on the experiment. The gentleman had placed a small flame inside the glass globe and repeatedly compressed his hand pump. Her observation must have remained fixed on Adam peripherally, for just as the fire began to fade, so did Adam. His leg collapsed at the knee; she caught him with an arm around his waist.
He gained his balance in only a moment, but pain deepened the lines bracketing his mouth. “Come,” she decided. “Sit here by the door.”
He accepted the chair gratefully, apologizing, “I didn’t mean to drop on you like that. Did I hurt you?”
“Not at all,” she lied, ignoring the bruise his hand had left on her shoulder.
He massaged his thigh. “Valiant girl, of course I did.”
She pushed aside his hand and kneaded the injured leg herself. “Perhaps, but I’m no frail vessel. You’ll find I’m quite sturdy, quite—” The muscles tightened beneath her fingers and she lost her train of thought. Her face flamed as she contemplated her misguided massage, begun so innocently. How could she halt it without embarrassment? More important, did she want to halt it? His body was a pleasure to touch, and the stirring within his breeches created a curiosity in her.
Would she surrender to her curiosity? My God, she was considering seduction.
Seduction. Despite Adam’s enticement on Midsummer Eve, she had never understood all the mechanics of physical love. Her mother’s vague warnings had been explicit as to place—the bedroom—and time—at night.
Perhaps if she provided the place and the time, the wherefores would take care of themselves. And she was not, after all, Bronwyn Edana, but the French girl Cherie. The sophistication, the playfulness, the joie de vivre of Cherie could guide her.
She would do it. She nibbled her lower lip. She would do it, and she’d do it so cunningly he would never suspect her inexperience.
Invigorated, she rubbed his thigh once more, taking pleasure in the firm contours below the cloth.
Adam groaned quite without pain and commanded hoarsely, “You should call for my carriage before the others are distracted from the experiment.”
As if to mark his words, the crowd around the table oohed.
“The flame is extinguished,” he said.
“It grows stronger.” She looked up at him; he looked down at her. The flame she spoke of glowed about him, transforming his face with the beauty of a dark angel. She rose to her feet and extended her hand to him. He contemplated it with an emotion she couldn’t define.
Before she could wonder too much he took it, pulled it to his mouth, kissed the palm with open mouth. A thrill quite different from her former urge made her knees tremble. When massaging his leg, she’d felt quite strong; now she felt weak and very feminine.
“Such a contradiction,” she murmured.
Understanding without explanation, he refuted, “Such a promise.”
Carroll Judson, Daphne noted, couldn’t tear his gaze from the tender scene by the door. The vapid fop might prove to be a good conspirator in her campaign to drive Cherie from Madame Rachelle’s. Gliding forward, taking care not to call attention to herself, Daphne stepped close behind him and said, “You don’t join in our scientific discussion.”
“I don’t choose to.”
She followed his gaze. “Yes, I agree with you. Human reproductive habits are much more interesting.”
“So sarcastic,” he rebuked. “Why do you care?”
How much to say? Should she acknowledge her jealousy? Should she speak of her special relationship with Rachelle? Perhaps that wouldn’t be wise, for no one understood how much she worshiped Rachelle. She settled for Cherie’s lesser transgression, admitting, “Monsieur le Vicomte is a prize.”
He sneered. “One not for the likes of you, little bastard. You reach too high.”
She didn’t resent the slur to her birth. Why should she? It was the truth. What she resented, what galled her, was the ease with which this Cherie had stolen Rachelle’s attention from her own budding talents. That Cherie had stolen the man she coveted simply added to Daphne’s envy. “Too high? Not I. A cloud hangs over the handsome lord’s reputation, and as a man he is a decent specimen. He would suit me well.”
“He is betrothed.”
“His betrothed escaped him.”
Judson grabbed her arm and hustled her into a corner. Keeping an eye on Adam and the woman, he said, “Tell me what you know.”
“Haven’t you heard?” She permitted a small smile to tug at her lips. “They say his betrothed ran from him in fear, cloistering herself in a convent rather than sharing his marriage bed.”
“Is that girl, that Bronwyn Edana, really gone? Is this the truth?”
“Part of it is the truth. She’s gone from his house.” She nodded at the couple at the chair, sure she’d found a pleasant way to make mischief. “Too obviously, the rest is nonsense. What is the identity of the enigmatic Cherie?”
At first he seemed not to understand, then he jerked his head toward Adam and his lady.
“I’m not at liberty to speak,” she purred. “Rachelle would kill me.”
Before her eyes, the man’s demeanor transformed from fop to savage. Swift as a striking snake, his hands found her neck and squeezed. “I’ll take great pleasure in strangling you if you don’t speak.”
Panicked, she swatted at his hands, wrestled away from him. He easily loosened his grip but kept her within reach.
Rubbing her throat, Daphne realized that perhaps she had miscalculated. Perhaps this wasn’t the way to make mischief after all. Thrilled and appalled by what she was doing, she plucked at her lip. Rachelle claimed Daphne acted with too much impetuosity, and she respected Rachelle’s opinion. Rachelle, who had been a mother to her. Rachelle, who would care for her more if Bronwyn were gone. Daphne’s resolve firmed. “That’s her. The woman with the harlot’s hair. That’s Bronwyn Edana.”
“Im
possible.” His hands trembled on her shoulders. “Bronwyn Edana is Adam’s betrothed. That humorless male busybody would never allow her to escape his clutches.”
All was fair in love and war, was it not? “Monsieur, I know only what I’ve heard between Cherie and Rachelle.”
“If this is true…” His hand crept toward her throat again.
She shrank from the hairless one. “It is.” His expression threatened murder, and the grip of his hands still marked her throat. Fright overwhelmed her, and she tried to edge away. His hands shot out, halting her.
He gripped her chin in both palms, stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. She whimpered as he increased the pressure, but his grip kept her quiet. “You will say nothing of my interest. I have ways to ensure your silence, should you fail me.”
She nodded, eyes wide.
As if he were satisfied with her capitulation, he put her away from him. Ignoring her as if she were of no importance, he said, “Nothing could be worse. Nothing could be more disastrous.”
She watched as he put the back of his hand to his forehead like a Drury Lane actress.
“Bronwyn Edana. Here in Madame Rachelle’s, with Adam Keane. I will have to see what can be done about this.”
Chilled and thinking second thoughts, Daphne left him.
He never saw her go.
Chapter 10
Adam leaned against Bronwyn’s shoulder as they climbed the stairs, but she noticed a new agility in his movement. She wondered if he had been exaggerating his pain to elicit an invitation to her room and wondered more that she liked the notion.
She flung the door wide. She’d forgotten the petticoat she’d dropped to the floor, the collection of slippers tossed by a whirlwind around the rug. The branch of candles he held revealed it all. She blushed and apologized, “You’ll excuse the mess.”
“But of course.” He placed the candelabra on her dressing table before the mirror and tucked his walking stick under his arm. Hand under her chin, he lifted her face. “Housekeeping is the province of a wife, and a siren such as you could never fit that dry description of a woman.”
A pang that he so easily dismissed his betrothed zipped through her, but he gave her no time to think.
“’Tis hot in here, for all that the windows are open to catch the breeze. Will you be valet as well as siren?” He stepped back, extending his arm. “Déshabilles-moi.”
He wanted her to undress him.
She stared at his outstretched hand. So at odds with the elegance of velvet and lace, its broad, hardened palm and long fingers betrayed a seaman’s labor, the labor that had made him who he was. It recalled the formidable man she knew him to be and, for some inexplicable reason, thrilled her into obedience. Catching the cuff, she tugged off his coat. He took it from her and tossed it atop her petticoat and indicated the buttons of his embroidered waistcoat. In the carefree fashion of a rake, he’d buttoned it only at his waist. As he leaned against his walking stick, she freed him. His stillness was a hoax, she knew, for he gave the impression of a great cat, reserving its strength as its prey wandered closer.
She wondered at her willingness to put her head in the lion’s mouth, but when he slipped out of the waistcoat, she knew why. His shoulders, clad only in white muslin, recalled Midsummer Eve and the passion in the wood. He promised, implicit in his knowledge, an excitement such as she’d only suspected.
Stepping close, she untied the white lace cravat and spread the neck of the shirt. As her fingers touched the hollow above his collarbone, his palm slid behind her neck. He threaded his fingers through her hair.
For a man who’d only moments before been on the verge of collapse, he gave a gratifying imitation of vigor. He kissed her with a flattering appetite that never diminished even as she yielded. He took her tongue, pushed his way into her, and filled her mouth with the taste of mint. When she was gasping, out of breath, he released her and went to her chin, her cheeks, all over her face. It wasn’t affection so much as a suggestion of ravishment, and the hint of his impatience brought her surging to meet him. As wild as he, she kissed every bit of skin she could reach, amazed at her own exuberance. The experience in the woods had whetted her appetite, she knew. Fulfillment had been promised, but long denied.
Not true, her reason chanted. Not true. Not even her inexperience could disclaim it. When Adam reached for her, they ignited as surely as phosphorus exposed to air.
She thrilled at his fascination with her hair. He kissed every inch of her hairline, murmuring, “Clair de lune.” He ran his fingers through it, groaning at its length, its silky texture. He bunched it in his hand. He lifted it to his nose. “Les fleurs.” He groaned. “Votre chevelure sent merveilleusement.”
“Oui,” she murmered with barely a clue to his meaning.
He chuckled deep in his throat and tried to wrap her closer. “Your hair smells wonderful.” The whalebone cage of her panniers fought him, and he set her away. “Let me remove that contraption,” he ordered. “Nothing must come between us.”
He reached for her skirt, and she stepped back in a rush of doubt. Stupid to balk at the idea of him undressing her, yet Bronwyn did. Bronwyn did. I am Cherie, she reminded herself. Continental, experienced. What would Cherie do in this situation?
He encouraged, “Remove it yourself,” and it seemed the answer she sought.
With a faint smile, she lifted her silk skirt and petticoat. He watched avidly as her slippers, her hose, appeared. Before she revealed more, she tucked her hands beneath and fumbled for the tie at her waist. The panniers dropped to her feet, then she stepped out.
His gaze never left the now revealed shape of her hips as he kicked the cage into a corner. “Your petticoat,” he commanded. “Your stockings.”
“Monsieur, you go too quickly,” she remonstrated.
“Not as quickly as I would like, ma cherie.”
He glanced at her face, then hastily turned his head away. Even that brief contact heated her. He created an itch she couldn’t scratch, an urge she longed to comprehend. “Dear God,” she whispered. Suddenly aware of her strength, suddenly a tease, she pretended she was alone. Turning her profile to him, she lifted one foot to the seat of the chair beside her and removed her leather slipper. With both hands, she clasped her ankle and began a long, slow trek up her leg. Inch by painful inch, the skirt rose. At her garter she hesitated, fingering the rosette decorating it.
“Do it,” he whispered, his voice husky with strain.
Using the greatest of care, she pulled the bow loose and rolled the stocking all the way down her leg once more. Arching her foot, she whisked the hose away. It fluttered to the floor as she put her foot down, lifted her other leg onto the seat. After removing her shoe, she bypassed the garter on the way to her waist. Taking care that the drape of her skirt revealed only hints of thigh and hip, she loosened her petticoat, loosened her garter, glanced at Adam.
His nostrils flared; his face was stiff with control; his hands caressed the knob of his cane. The predatory lion watched her.
That brief glance stripped away the guise of Cherie. Again she became Bronwyn, pinned by the gaze of a starving man.
He sensed her trepidation. His cane clattered to the floor as he sprang forward to catch her before she could withdraw. He replaced her soft hands with his rough ones and rolled the other stocking down.
Now it was he who teased. His hands moved as slowly as hers, but they tickled the inside of her knee. They massaged her calf muscle. They spanned her ankle. And all the while, he flicked her sensitized skin with torrid glances.
What had been hidden from him was revealed. Not well, for flickering candles couldn’t completely conquer the night, but well enough to make her tense with embarrassment and pride.
The stocking ripped as it left her foot, and he stared, amazed, at the silken disaster clutched in his fingers. Taking advantage of his distraction, she tried to push her skirt down, but his hand clamped onto her lifted thigh.
“Non, allumeuse, y
ou have teased me, now take your punishment.”
She flinched back, but he stepped between her legs and pulled her close. The warmth of his body replaced the warmth of his gaze—worse by far, for all he was fully clothed. He wrapped both arms around her, placed both hands upon her buttocks and moved them in circles. The thin silk of her skirt offered no protection. “You see, ma cherie, in this way I can acquaint myself with every delectable curve. I can acquaint you, too, with the sensation of silk against your skin.” The circles became smaller, more specific. “Indeed, the silk lends a whisper of decadence, does it not?”
Beyond speech, she nodded.
He bent her back over his arm, leaning to kiss the expanse of her chest. His free hand rotated a path around her hip, up to the bows that both decorated and closed her bodice. One by one, from her waist to her neckline, he loosened the ties. With his fingers, he spread the silk to reveal the front of her corset. He touched each embroidered flower, smiled at the dainty stitchery. Her chemise still covered her bosom, a thin cotton against her skin.
She could scarcely breathe as she awaited his touch. She dug her fingers into his arm, tugging at him.
“A woman who knows what she wants, I see.” He nipped her ear. “A woman who demands her due. A woman most rare.” Boldly he sculpted her flesh. “Is that what you want, ma toute belle?”
Speech was beyond her, but he seemed to expect no less. His eyes drooped with pleasure, his mouth half smiled. “A rare thing, to find a woman who doesn’t pad her natural riches with wads of cotton.”
Forming the words with difficulty, she said, “I don’t need it.”
“Too true,” he crooned. “Nor do you need this corset which binds you so tightly.” With nimble fingers, he loosened the string.
Although she wasn’t cold, goose bumps chilled her from toes to hairline.
The agony of it, the pleasure of it, showed in his face. “Je suis fous.”
“Oui,” she breathed, although she didn’t know to what she agreed.
A small push of his hand had her falling onto the chair. The cushions received her kindly. Her eyes stretched wide as he stood above her. His shirt came off over his head, revealing toasted skin thatched with black curls.