Gideon snorted in disbelief. His feelings toward their savoir were apparent in every glare he threw her way. Every murmured curse he whispered when she was near.
Two years ago Gideon had started dropping hints about escape. It was only in the last six months that they’d been seriously discussing the idea. Oddly, Alex didn’t feel as excited by the prospect as he’d assumed he would. It was true; Ophelia was beginning to trust him. For the past year she’d taken him along when visiting gaming hells. And only recently she’d mentioned that he would attend the Rutherford Ball. Freedom tempted him. Although escaping gaming hells would be difficult with her henchmen nearby, at a ball surely there’d be plenty of opportunity.
He raked his hand through his hair, feeling discontent, unsure, when he should have been thrilled. Even if they managed to escape this hell, what sort of life would they lead with pasts like theirs? Ophelia was right; he could never return home. Perhaps he’d known that all along, which was why he’d never tried to contact his family. He was too damned ashamed.
And what would happen when Ophelia told the world of his sinful ways? Dare he tell Gideon of Ophelia’s latest threat? No. Gideon wouldn’t care, wouldn’t understand why Alex would worry over his family’s welfare. But then how could he understand? Gideon had no idea where Alex had come from, who his family was related to.
Alex sighed. “I’ll talk to James, see—”
“Ahem.” Wavers cleared his throat, their warning to move on.
They’d talked longer than was deemed appropriate. Gideon narrowed those gray eyes, his hatred bitterly palpable. Lady Lavender didn’t like them to fraternize. But after being together for twelve bloody years, what did she expect?
“We’re friends, we’re all going to be great friends.”
He could still remember the words she’d spoken those years ago when she’d tempted Alex to work for her. The words had been a lie, as everything else she’d said. Here, one didn’t have friends. He barely trusted Gideon.
Still, there was no other alternative. Even though sweat broke out along his forehead, with renewed determination he gave Gideon a nod. “I’m in.” And like that he’d jumped into a gray sea of churning waves, threatening to take him under.
Gideon grinned.
As far as he knew, Lady Lavender had twenty men in her control. Yet he, James and Gideon were the only three under constant watch. The only three who, as mere young boys, had been blackmailed. She hadn’t started whoring them out right away. No, she’d waited until they were sixteen, tempting them with beautiful women, teasing them with seductive possibilities.
And how eager he’d been to relent. Gads, he could still remember that first time. He’d thought that having sex with women would be an ideal way to spend his evenings and in return, Lady Lavender would keep the secrets of his family’s ancestry buried. He hadn’t realized he was selling his soul.
Gideon turned and disappeared into the parlor. Alex tipped an imaginary hat at Wavers and continued up the stairs. Taking in a deep breath, he contemplated the woman who would be waiting. It didn’t do to arrive wilted and uninterested. Yet, it had been a long time since a woman had naturally aroused him. A sweet blonde with blue eyes? Dark and exotic?
In the first few years, his cock had flared to life merely at the thought of bedding a woman. Now…hell, now it took concentration to care.
One thing was certain, she’d be a trembling mess. But he’d make her quiver for an entirely different reason. If Alex was good at one thing, it was making the innocent relax. It was his looks, he knew, the dark curls, blue eyes and dimples. He looked nothing like his domineering, Russian father, but more like his English mother. He looked like a fucking angel, or so he’d been told on many occasions.
Yes, the mothers liked his looks and they’d send their innocent daughters to him. He supposed they were being kind. They’d rather their daughters lose their virginity to someone who would be gentle and intent on pleasing. Then, on their wedding night, daughters would not cry, there would be no pain, and pig’s blood would be sprinkled upon the sheets. Husbands would leave their marriage bed happy in the knowledge that they had performed well indeed, with no idea that their wives had already lost their virginity to a whore.
He paused outside his door. Lady Lavender had done what she could to make the rooms void of sound, but noises seeped through…moans, whispers, groans of passion. Evening was a popular time. Vaguely he could remember waking to noises of the city— people calling out their wares, carriages over cobbled streets. Now, he woke to the sound of women being pleasured. At one time it was a magical, musical sound. Now it grated.
He gave a soft knock, just to warn his client, then wrapped his fingers around the cool, porcelain knob. Without hesitation, he pushed the door wide.
She stood near the windows. The setting sun outlined her body with a heavenly glow. Heaven in this hell, how ironic. Not blonde. Not a brunette. Not raven haired. Almost…auburn? He stepped further into the room. Yes, dark auburn, although a less astute man would have said brown. He smiled, surprised when he was rarely surprised anymore. He’d never had an auburn haired woman. Thank God for small favors. Something different in his mundane life. Softly, he shut the door, the latch giving a click.
She turned, spinning around in a flurry of brown skirts. “Oh.”
Her voice was a gasp of surprise that hardly reached him. He could barely see her face, the setting sun too bright behind her. But he didn’t need to see her features. Looks no longer mattered. She could have resembled old Bertie from the kitchen, or a perfect goddess created by the heavens and it wouldn’t have mattered.
He moved across the large room, his booted feet sinking into plush carpet, dulling any sound of footsteps. Only the best decorated Lady Lavender’s estate. The walnut four-poster bed cost a pretty pence. White curtains provided a seductive haven that cocooned lovers in a pure embrace, while the baby blue walls reminded one of brilliant summer days in the country. It was luminous, beautiful, perfect for the innocent. He hated the room.
“A drink?” he asked, moving to the side table to lift the wick of the only lantern that was currently lit.
From the corner of his eye he could see her gloved hand flutter around her, before settling on her chest like a nervous butterfly on a flower. “Um, yes, thank you. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
Her voice was husky, pretty really. He poured sherry into a glass and started toward her. The drink would help her relax, as would the fire crackling in the marble hearth. Expensive French chocolates sat on the table by the bed. Everything was in place, as it should be.
“Alex.” His gaze shifted to her hazel eyes. A shock of awareness shot through his body, sucking the very air from his lungs. Rosy cheeks, pert nose slightly upturned, wide, innocent eyes not exactly blue, yet not green…. Twenty three, four? Almost on the shelf then. Yet, there was something about her that called to him… That stirred his interest. He cleared his throat and dropped his attention, scanning her form quickly, looking for something, anything to explain his sudden attraction. Brown cloak was perfectly cut, material fine, but it was serviceable. Nothing erotic.
“Alex,” she repeated softly, her voice almost a caress. “Do you have a surname?”
He had, at one time. “No. Just Alex.”
Remembering his purpose, he started toward her once more, stopping close…close enough that his heat tempted her, but not too close that she felt overwhelmed. He took in a deep breath and suddenly he was the one overwhelmed. Her scent invaded his senses; the freshness of spring and more…something homey…sweet…as if she’d been baking cookies.
Curious hazel eyes blinked up at him. She had a soft splattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, so light in color that one had to be close to notice them. Hell. Her innocence screamed at him. Yet…yet, he couldn’t seem to look away. As he studied those freckles he had the sudden urge to kiss her. Truly kiss her. No pretense, no practice, but the sudden rush of lust that could only be s
ated with an irrational kiss. She reminded him of innocence, of a life before he’d sold his soul. A time when he’d flirted with sweet milkmaids and farm girls. A life when anything had been possible.
She frowned, a crease forming between her brows. “It’s hardly appropriate for me to call you by your first name.”
He laughed at her jest. But as confusion swept over her oval face, his laughter faded. Was she serious?
“Drink.” He softened his demand by smiling, his gifted, charmed smile complete with dimples. “And your name?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to take the glass and looking thoroughly disgruntled. “Since you’ve given me your first name, I now feel indebted to give you mine.”
He parted his lips to respond when she held up her hand, cutting him off.
“I insist we be on equal footing.”
He didn’t know what the hell she was talking about, but he was intrigued enough to wait for her next statement.
“Grace,” she said in a breath of air, as if admitting some great family secret. “Although it’s hardly appropriate for you to use it.”
His smile faltered. An odd virgin indeed. Damn, perhaps this wouldn’t be easy after all. She was going to be difficult. “My dear, you’re in my bedchamber; propriety doesn’t matter much.”
Her cheeks turned a charming shade of pink and although she’d met his gaze directly only moments before, she now found sudden fascination with the carpet. “All the more reason to keep up morals.”
Morals? Here? Was she mad?
Grace pulled her gloves from her fingers, one by one in a slow, unconcerned movement, as if she was in complete control. She looked rather unimpressed. And maybe she was. “Sir, as much as I adore small talk, I’d rather get on with it.”
Holy hell. For not the first time that evening, Alex was shocked speechless.
Chapter 2
“I see,” the incredibly handsome man murmured, staring at her intently.
He seemed confused. Why was he confused?
Grace stuffed the kid gloves into the pockets of her wool cloak and rubbed her aching temples. Blast, but she didn’t have time for this nonsense. He either had the book or he didn’t. But the man was watching her as if she were some odd specimen from the British Museum.
Perhaps her stepbrother hadn’t mentioned she was female? Would be just like John to exclude something that society deemed important. And obviously this man, with his brilliant blue eyes and pretty face, thought a woman should be kept under lock and key like most men seemed to believe.
“See here, I understand this is a little untoward,” managing to repress her ire, she gentled her voice to a calming murmur, “but I don’t have time to dally, I have things to do, important things.”
Something flashed deep within his gaze…amusement? Was he laughing at her? She stiffened, her anger flaring to life. Yes, of course as a man he found it amusing when a woman spoke her mind. Damn it all to hell, she was tired of being laughed at. John was forever finding sport in the fact that she still hadn’t married. And God forbid she attempt to submit a paper to the Antiquities Society. Yet, if she lost her temper, she’d lose her chance at finding the book. And so she struggled to remain calm, collected.
“Shall we?” she urged with a tight smile.
He paused, looking unsure, weary. “You’re positive?”
“Absolutely.”
Slowly, he set her glass upon a small side table and reached for his neck tie. “Of course. If that’s how you want it.” With long, almost delicate fingers, he untied the material like an artist undressing his muse. Bizarre man. What was he doing now?
“Tell me about yourself,” he urged.
Her gaze jumped to his face and for one brief moment, she swore her heart actually stopped. Angelic, really. And eyes so startling blue, they reminded her of the waters off the coast of Ireland. It was surprising that he would be studious. In her experience, studious men were usually old toads with narrow minds.
He was too attractive. Not that it mattered to her one way or another. Even if men found she had a pleasant face, once they realized she had a brain, they were already searching the ballroom for their next victim. And good riddance to them. Handsome men tended to make her nervous. One never knew quite what they were scheming. And they were always scheming.
“About myself?” She didn’t know how to answer that question as no one had ever deemed it important to ask her. How should she respond?
Well, you see, I live with an obnoxious stepbrother who likes to torment and ridicule me for not being married. No, that was too personal for polite conversation. There was always the tried and true, my mother is on her death bed. That usually shut people up and rather quickly soured the mood. But she didn’t want to sour this man’s mood, at least until she got her book.
She supposed she could always fall back on the, my little sister likes to dress as a boy tale she’d blurted out one time while she and Lord Rodrick had been left alone with nothing to discuss. Hmm. That might not be quite the thing either. Blast, but she was never good at making conversation.
“Well?” his eyes were smiling again, those crinkles at the corners mocking her.
“I…I…”
“Family?”
Flustered, she tucked a loose lock behind her ear. “Yes. Of course I have family.” He was close. Too bloody close. She couldn’t think with him this close. Couldn’t breathe with him so near.
The cravat hung loosely around his neck, fluttering there like a sail on an ocean breeze. Slowly, he pulled on one end until the snowy white material hung from his fingers, a sign of surrender. There, on the side of his bare neck beat a pulse slow and steady. Fascinating, really. She’d always admired art, and this man was certainly a piece of art. That lean body, that square jaw, those broad shoulders and lips just made for … Grace stepped back, her stomach tightening in an unfamiliar way that was neither upsetting, nor exactly pleasant.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” she said, attempting to sound sarcastic, although her voice came out with a husky breathlessness that bespoke more of interest than sarcasm.
Was it getting rather warm? She glanced toward the windows praying for a cool breeze, but they were tightly shut, forcing the spring wind at bay. Light was fading, night fast approaching. By merely coming here unescorted she’d risked her reputation. Every moment in this man’s private bedchamber was placing her further onto the path of ruination. She needed to procure the book and leave.
“Pray, listen—”
“How about I make both of us comfortable?” He quirked a dark brow in a knowing manner.
Confused, Grace shook her head. She didn’t want to be comfortable. She wanted the book, for God’s sake. “I was told your specimen is amazing, perfectly preserved.”
His lips lifted, ridiculously sweet dimples flashing in his cheeks. “Yes, I suppose some have called it perfect.” His fingers rested at the top button of his vest. The movement sent his scent swirling toward her. A warm scent, a masculine scent that was quite intoxicating; the out doors on a crisp winter eve. Not at all flamboyant and overwhelming as most men seemed to wear their cologne these days.
He stepped closer. She stumbled back. Her heart pattered against her ribs like a finch begging to be released from its boney cage. There was something about this man, something…animalistic almost. She looked behind her, for some odd reason thinking perhaps that heated gaze was pinned to someone else. But no, she was the only one in the room. He was actually stalking her. But…why?
“You have lovely green eyes.”
“Rubbish,” she whispered, backing up until her bottom hit the edge of a small table. Something fell over, rolling off the ledge and landing with a thud to the floor. She didn’t dare turn to pick it up. “They’re hazel.”
“And lips that could make the angels cry.” He paused then, only a breath away. So close she could see the gold that tipped his thick, dark lashes. Was he actually flirting with her? The thought m
ade her feel oddly irate. It was impossible. No one flirted with her. Yet, she couldn’t deny the odd vibration that seemed to hum between them.
The room tipped. Waves of dizziness swept through her body, leaving her feeling off balance and confused. Her corset felt too tight.
The man was being completely inappropriate. “Sir, I’d like to get on with business.”
He paused, a quizzical look flashing in those heavenly blue eyes. “All right.”
Thinking he’d relented, she almost relaxed. Stupid girl that she was. Before she could respond, he wrapped his muscled arm around her waist and jerked her forward. With a gasp, Grace fell into the man’s hard chest. Fear and attraction swirled deep within her gut in a lethal combination.
He lowered his lips to her ear; his warm breath tiptoed temptingly down her neck. “You do surprise me.”
He smelled so bloody good and he was warm, so warm. But this was wrong, so completely wrong. With a groan, she managed to cling to a tiny piece of reality and push back just far enough so she could move. Shoving her hand up between their bodies, Grace slapped him. Hard. He blinked, stunned.
Guilt fought with justification. Well, really, what did he expect? She curled her fingers against his chest, her palm still tingling from the contact of his cheek, rough with a day’s growth of whiskers. “Y…you deserved that.”
“I see,” he murmured, his fingertips going to that red mark on his cheek. Those blue eyes were narrowed, but not in anger. No, he looked more…bemused. “Because…I was bad?”
Confused, Grace’s nose wrinkled. Bad? What sort of question was that? “Yes, I suppose. Sir—”
“Alex.”
She swatted at his arm, still wrapped firmly around her waist, but the blasted man refused to release his hold. “Alex, just because I’ve agreed to meet in your private quarters…” She wrapped her fingers around his forearm, pushing. “doesn’t mean…” She dared to glance up. He was watching her again, that odd look in his eyes as if she was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. “I don’t know what you think I’m here for—”