Once inside, she nodded a greeting to the other two women. He took the seat across from her and found himself quickly sandwiched on either side by feminine bodies soaked with familiar cheap perfume. His appreciation for the woman across from him only grew.
“Picking up strays, Damon?” the female to his right purred. “Two of us aren’t enough?”
He sent her a quelling look. Even in the dim coach, he detected the flood of color in the girl’s face. She held his gaze though, square chin set at a proud angle, watching him and his companions closely, and he was fired again with the need to have her, to possess her, to find his release in her body.
The other female snickered as her hand slid up his thigh. “I’d heard you had an enormous appetite.”
Angling his head, he watched his Amazon intently, rubbing a finger lightly over the top of his lip. “What’s your name?”
She did not reply for some moments, her gaze dropping to the woman’s hand inching up his thigh, higher and higher until she palmed his cock through his trousers. That wide, luscious mouth parted with a soft gasp of outrage, and her eyes snapped to his face. “Fallon,” she bit out. “Fallon O’Rourke.”
Wine, he decided suddenly, his mind racing over color pallets. He would paint those lips a deep ruby wine. After he tasted them, of course.
“Fallon,” he repeated, leaning back and smiling. He liked it. As different as the woman herself. A woman he vowed to have. In his bed and on his canvas.
He stretched his legs out before him, letting a booted foot slide between her feet. Lips set in a mutinous line, she tried to arrange her feet so that they did not touch. She shot a pointed look to the woman’s hand on his crotch. He merely stared at her, arching a brow.
She blinked and forced her gaze away from his lap, staring at the carriage wall as if a fresco of vast interest were painted there.
He scowled. A prig. He had hoped that an unaccompanied woman who felt free to prowl the streets alone at this hour of night might be a little more receptive. Unfortunate. He had little use for good women.
The hand on his cock grew bolder. Insistent. Annoying, as she sought to free him from his trousers. He seized her wrist, in no mood. At least for her. “Enough.”
Fury glittered in Fallon’s gaze. “Let me out. Stop the coach,” she quietly commanded.
He laughed. The sound curled through the air, dark and low. “We’re almost there. Sit back. Relax.”
Just looking at her sent his blood smoldering through his veins. Woke him, revitalized him as he craved.
Filled with a sudden desire to see those eyes widen even more, to see just how far he could scandalize her, he brought one of the tarts over his lap. Watching Fallon, he tugged down her gown. Plump breasts spilled over the top of her corset. Bending his head, he touched one large nipple with his tongue, tickling it until the dark tip was moist and engorged. The woman on his lap squirmed and panted out her pleasure.
Fallon made a small sound, part distress, part something else. She looked away, but only for a moment before her gaze dragged back again, watching the scene he played out in horrified interest.
The woman on his lap threaded her hand through his hair and gave a violent tug. “Harder.”
His Amazon’s eyes flared wider.
His blood pumped faster.
Fallon’s slender hand drifted to her neck. She stroked the side of her throat with deceptive idleness.
He bit down, catching the nipple between his teeth. The female shuddered in his arms, her body in spasms against his mouth.
Fallon inhaled, the ragged sound a sharp rip in the close confines of the coach—almost as though the act had been done to her. Her hand slid down her neck, stopping at her cloak’s ties. Her fingers played with the frayed ribbons at her neck for a moment before her hand dropped, falling to her lap.
Satisfaction curled deep in his gut at the sight of that trembling hand. She was not unaffected. He watched her as her hand curled into a fist. Oh, she was angry. Outraged. Like any good woman ought to be. But she felt something, too. And it was that very thing he wished to explore. Both with his body and his painter’s brush.
Eyes feasting on her, he enjoyed the rise of color staining her cheeks as he bit down and sucked the beaded tip. The woman on his lap writhed. Fallon’s mouth parted. The coach jerked to an abrupt stop. Before he could move, Fallon was off her seat and flying from the coach. He dumped the woman from his lap to the seat across from him and flew after her. She made it only a few feet from the carriage before he caught her arm.
Swinging around, her eyes flashed fire. “Release me.”
The hotel loomed beyond her. A pair of footmen near the door watched them curiously.
He opened his mouth to apologize, then stopped himself. He wasn’t sorry. He had enjoyed every moment of her discomfort. To say otherwise would be a lie. Of all his faults, dishonesty did not rank among them.
He stepped close enough to murmur against her ear. “What I did to her—I would greatly enjoy doing to you.”
The sound of her sharply indrawn breath tickled his cheek. “You’re a libertine.”
“Indeed.” He released her. Fishing out his card, he offered it to her. “But I can bring you pleasure. You’re…curious. I see it in your eyes. Let me show you how it can be.”
“You see nothing.”
“I see a woman.” His finger descended to her bottom lip. She froze. He tested the fullness, stepping closer until their bodies brushed each other. He traced that plump bottom lip, pulling her mouth open a bit, stroking the moist inside just a fraction. Her breath rushed free and he grew hard, imagining that sweet breath wafting over him a moment before she took him into her mouth.
Gritting past his arousal, he stepped back and placed his card in her palm, folding her fingers closed over it. “In case you ever have need of a friend.”
She glanced down at her hand with a befuddled expression.
“My address,” he explained.
“Oh!” Comprehension settled on her shadowed features. “I don’t think so.” She began to crumple the card. “I don’t need a friend like you.” Her glittering eyes shot a scathing glare toward his carriage where his companions waited.
He smiled. “One can never have too many friends.”
She snorted.
He brushed back a thick strand of fiery hair curling over her shoulder—soft as silk on his fingers. She flinched. His smile slipped. “Perhaps if I had you, I wouldn’t require other such friends.”
The words were absurd. Untrue. He did not know what motivated him to utter them. He closed his hand over her hand. She gawked at him. He nodded to their clutched hands. His skin burned where he held her. Her eyes widened at the contact, proving she felt it, too. Unfortunate she would not act upon it.
“Keep the card.” Smiling grimly, he pivoted on his heel and returned to his coach…and to a night of carnal abandonment. Even if it was not her, his body would find the release it needed. He always saw to that.
Fallon glared at the elaborate coat of arms on the carriage door as it closed with a decided click. Chest tight and prickly with outrage—and other emotions she could not identify—she debated searching for a large rock to throw at the departing vehicle.
The image of the dark-haired devil with smoky blue eyes lingered in her head. Heat swept up her throat, scalding her cheeks as she recalled the things he had done. The things she had watched him do. Insufferable rogue. She glanced down at the card clutched in her trembling hands and read the first line of the fine elegant script.
Dominic Hale, the Duke of Damon.
She snorted. A duke. Of course. Bitterness flooded her mouth, thick enough to make her nearly gag. A bloody lord of the realm…and the most licentious man to ever cross her path. Of course. She shook her head, her gaze scanning the Mayfair address. 15 Pottingham Place.
In case you ever have need of a friend.
Friend indeed! Did the cad think she would one day appear on his doorstep seeking his s
pecial brand of friendship? Did he think his blue-gray eyes so mesmerizing that she could not resist? His tall lithe physique—so rare among men—impossible to deny?
The Duke of Damon. She tilted her head and stared thoughtfully at the departing carriage. It rang a familiar chord. Likely his reputation preceded him.
The image of his tongue circling that woman’s nipple flashed through her mind and she closed her eyes in one long blink, denying that her stomach dipped and twisted at the memory. Very well, he had been…intriguing. In a dangerous and totally uncouth manner.
Opening her eyes, she scanned the card again. 15 Pottingham Place. With a savage mutter, she crumpled the card in her hand and tossed it into a puddle. Strides swift and sure, she ascended the steps into the Hotel Daventry.
The world would stop turning before she ever crossed the threshold of 15 Pottingham Place.
Chapter 3
“F allon? What are you doing here?” Evelyn knotted the sash of her wrapper over her slim figure. Reaching into the corridor, she pulled Fallon inside the room, sparing a quick glance up and down the hall’s length.
Fallon stumbled into the elegant bedchamber where she, Evie, and Marguerite had taken tea earlier. “I hope you don’t mind my coming.”
Evie’s forehead creased with concern as she turned from the door. “Of course not.”
“I won’t get you in trouble?” Fallon demanded, careful to keep her voice low, knowing one of the rooms on either side of Evie’s belonged to her young charge.
Evie fluttered a hand in dismissal. “What are you doing here? Did you forget something this evening?” she asked, glancing about the room.
“Not quite,” she hedged. “I met with some trouble upon returning home.” Home. She twisted her fingers, wincing. The word sadly rang wrong. Had she ever possessed a true home? A place of her very own that no one could take away?
“Oh, no.” Evie sighed, shaking her head.
Fallon nodded. “I’ve been sacked.”
Evie’s hand flew to her mouth.
“I’ll return tomorrow to collect all my things. As things stand, I don’t think it wise to return tonight.”
Evie wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her to a striped chintz sofa. “Of course not. But what happened? You said the new post was going well.”
Biting her lip, Fallon sank down beside Evie and reluctantly confessed the night’s deeds. Well…all save the last bit. No need to describe her encounter with the wretched Duke of Damon.
“I’m sorry to prevail upon you like this. I’ve no wish to jeopardize your new position.” She lifted one shoulder in a weak shrug. “I have nowhere else to go.”
Evie cut her off with a swift shake of her head. “You will stay here for the night. And after that…” Her voice faded. Uncertainty flickered in her soft blue eyes. She squeezed Fallon’s hand. Fallon nodded, understanding. In the morning, Evie sailed for Barbados to deposit Miss Pratt into the hands of her waiting groom.
Untying the strings at her throat, she removed her cloak. “I’ll find something tomorrow. A new post. A better one.” She gave a small, brittle laugh. “I always do.” Well, perhaps not better. But she did not want Evie to fret.
“Perhaps you can explain what happened to Mrs. Jamison. Surely she cannot fault you for her son’s—”
“She can,” Fallon interrupted again. “She will.” She shrugged with a lightness she did not feel. “Family tends to stick together, I’ve learned. Mrs. Jamison won’t take the word of a maid over her precious son.”
“Oh, Fallon, you’ve the worst luck.”
Luck. Fallon supposed she could believe that. Believe that luck alone—or lack thereof—was responsible for all the events of her life. But to believe that, she must accept that she bore no responsibility, no control over her own life. And that, she refused to accept.
“Oh, Fallon.” Evie glanced around her well-appointed room, biting her lip when her gaze landed on her large trunk. Fallon imagined she was contemplating a way to smuggle her into her luggage and stow her aboard ship.
Fallon’s gaze drifted, appreciating the fine rosewood furniture, the four-poster bed, the counterpane that looked plump and inviting, definitely down-stuffed. A marked improvement from the cots they slept on at Penwich.
As though reading Fallon’s mind, Evie muttered, “You deserve all this, too. You’re just as qualified as I to hold such a position.”
Would she have had this? If she had stuck it out and taught a few years at Penwich as Evie had done—earning the experience and letters of reference needed to land such a coveted post?
And seen Brocklehurst’s face one day more than necessary? Fallon shivered. He never had it in for Evie and Marguerite as with her.
“I land on my feet.” She would not have Evie depart for Barbados worrying for her. Not when she was about to embark on her long-waited adventure. “I’ll find a new situation tomorrow.”
“You’re welcome to stay here until we depart in the afternoon. Hettie never ventures into my room.” Her smooth brow creased. “Are you certain you will be able to find another post in so short a time?”
“Of course.” And if not, Fallon vowed it would not be Evie’s cross to bear.
Evie shook her head, her plait of honey brown hair tossing on her shoulder. “I don’t know,” she began, but stopped at the sharp screech erupting one room over.
Fallon jumped where she sat, her hand flying to her heart. “What on earth—”
“Eve! Eve! I need you! Get in here at once!”
“Good Lord. Is that your charge?”
Evie closed her eyes in a weary blink.
The screech came again. “Eve!”
Fallon arched a brow. “Eve?”
“She insists on calling me Eve.”
Master Brocklehurst had called her that, and Fallon knew how much her friend hated the designation. “Sounds like a lovely girl.” She gave a shaky smile.
“I haven’t all night, Eve!”
“Weeks aboard a ship’s cabin together.” Evie shuddered. “I’m starting to wonder…this might not be the adventure I planned.” Rising to her feet, she strode to the adjoining door, rolling her eyes. “You’ll have to excuse me. The royal highness beckons. It’s only the fifth time she’s called upon me tonight.”
Facing the door, Evie squared her shoulders. “She probably needs me to stoke the coals in the grate. Again.” She motioned to the wardrobe against the far wall. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable. I have a night rail that should fit well enough.” She gave a quick apologetic smile. “If a bit short, though.”
Lifting the latch to the adjoining room, she quickly entered and closed the door behind her.
Taking advantage of Evie’s offer, Fallon rummaged through her things until she located a spare nightgown. Closing the wardrobe, she passed the grate, the warmth from the coals a comforting stroke on her bare calves. For a moment, she allowed herself to forget tonight…to forget the duke with the mesmerizing blue-gray eyes and wicked smile and all the sinful things he had done within the shadows of that coach. And without.
Face burning, she fell back on the luxurious counterpane. At least she had a night of comfort. With Evie, no less. Stretching her arms over her head, her thoughts drifted to the duke again. Bloody man—men! They could be as depraved as they liked. They could do whatever they wanted. Even if they lacked coin, they could venture out and find respectable work without suffering all the nonsense she endured.
After tonight’s debacle, Mrs. Harrison at the agency would never consider referring her again. And the only work she could find would be of the variety no respectable woman would contemplate.
Oh, Da, you never thought I’d sink this low, did you? Too bad I wasn’t born a man. Surviving would be a spot easier.
As a man, she would be someone who could go about their day and perform their duties without being forced to defend their person. Someone whose presence would not make the women of the household uncomfortable simply by breathin
g and occupying the same space. Someone who Mrs. Harrison would not turn away.
With a sharp breath, she shot up straight on the bed. Suddenly, the world righted itself. Everything became clear. The impossible so…possible. If she only possessed the temerity to see it through.
Scooting to the edge of the bed, she stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror. Her eyes stared back, wider than usual, glowing with alarm and…excitement. The amber brown glowed with a hope she had not felt in some years. Not since the first time she was unjustly sacked.
Her father’s voice whispered through her mind again.
Ah, Fallon, lass. You’ve your father’s mettle.
“Yes, Da. I do,” she whispered, sliding her legs to the floor and moving to the vanity, so accustomed to talking to her father, even all these years after his death, it did not strike her as odd.
Sinking onto the stool, she spread her hair out over her shoulders. So like her mother’s, Da always said. And part of the reason, she suspected, that she attracted such unsolicited attention. Master Brocklehurst had certainly found fault with it, calling it wanton and sinful. As if she could help the unusual color of her hair—neither red, blond, or brown, but a mélange of all three.
Seized with impulse, she fumbled through the drawers, searching, a grim smile curving her lips. Her fingers landed on a pair of scissors.
She clutched them in her hand for a while, simply staring at them, the cold steel injecting a sharp bite of reality to the moment. Do you really want to do this? Yes. Her hair had caused her enough grief over the years. She lifted her gaze back to her reflection. But perhaps she could help with that.
Inhaling, she lifted a heavy lock of her hair off her shoulder and began to cut.
“Heavens, what have you done?”
Fallon ran a hand through her short-cropped hair and rotated on the stool to face Evie. Her bare toes brushed the silken tendrils scattered about the floor. Her once waist-length hair now stopped at the back of her neck, just above her shoulders. She shook her head, unaccustomed to the lightness.