My kind of scoundrel, p.8
My Kind of Scoundrel, page 8
She would do well to remember it was all an illusion.
A strategic move in his game.
Eleanor pointed to her cheek. “Well? Will you kiss me? We have work to do and cannot dally all day.”
A shiver raced down her spine when his fingers brushed her waist. His mouth was hot on her skin, the pressure light. He didn’t kiss her once but worked his way across her cheek, each featherlike touch lingering a little longer.
Her eyes fluttered closed when he reached the corner of her mouth. It was a mistake. She should have prised them open because Theodore Chance was an overload on a lady’s senses.
The sound and feel of his breath stirred the hairs on her nape. The sweet, aromatic scent of sandalwood flooded her nostrils. He was everywhere, his masculine aura teasing every nerve in her body to life.
Seeking more, she turned her head a fraction.
Then their mouths met—a sudden desperation igniting.
Eleanor had felt many emotions in her life: shame, guilt, a profound inadequacy. She had never felt a rush of passion so strong it almost knocked her off her feet.
The kiss they’d shared at the Olympic had been slow and tender.
This … this was raw. Unbridled.
This was lust, a greedy battle to feed the hunger.
Heaven help her. She couldn’t resist him.
She gripped his coat lapels as he pushed her back against the wall. They kissed in an open-mouthed frenzy. Heat pooled low and heavy. The pulsing between her thighs was like the incessant beat of a drum.
Sweet mercy!
This was madness.
“Mother of all saints! Tell me to stop,” he panted but claimed her mouth again with a need that defied logic.
A sweet moan rumbled in her throat.
He cupped her nape and deepened the kiss.
There was something savage, something reckless about the way he drank from her. Like she was the only woman who could slake his thirst. Every kiss was a desperate attempt to ease an ache, to sate a longing that knew no bounds.
The thought proved sobering.
Keen to guard her heart, she dragged her mouth from his, gasping to catch her breath.
Mr Chance looked at her, his gaze smouldering, his lips moist. “I suppose now I must pay a forfeit,” he said huskily.
“Don’t look so pleased. I might ask you to wrestle a wild dog.” In truth, she had no idea how to make this game enjoyable. How did one keep a man like Theodore Chance entertained? More kisses, perhaps?
“I would wrestle wolves for one more taste of your lips. When it comes to kissing, you more than meet the mark.”
“You possess the skill,” she said, struggling against the weight of his praise. “I am merely a novice.”
“You need to learn to accept a compliment.”
Heat crept to her cheeks. “It’s hard when you have been the constant cause of a man’s misery. I feel compliments are undeserved.”
He studied her before tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “There is beauty in your modesty. But when the fire of confidence blazes in your eyes, you’re breathtaking.”
Breathtaking? She had always believed herself quite plain.
“I—I’m not sure what to say to that.”
“You say thank you.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
He stepped back. “Now, what is it you’d have me do?”
Watching him prance like a peacock would be wholly amusing. But he had used his forfeit to rouse her desire. While the need to kiss him again was a potent beat in her blood, she wished to know him better.
“Answer one question.”
“Which is?”
“What is your greatest fear, Mr Chance?”
He jerked, apparently shocked by the question. Deep furrows marred his brow. No doubt he would rather yap like a Pomeranian than divulge something personal.
“My greatest fear has nothing to do with my life,” he said, leaving her more than intrigued. “Few things frighten me, but I’m afraid of what will happen to my brother Aaron if he’s left to live alone.”
It was an answer worthy of the King of Hearts.
It was an answer that caused a flutter in her chest.
“Aaron Chance is the most formidable man in town,” she said. He was a dangerous devil who seemed happy his siblings had married. “I imagine nothing fazes him.”
“Aaron thrives on solving problems. He lives to protect his family. Every sacrifice he has made has been for us.”
“I’m sure he will adapt.” Living alone could be daunting. It had taken her months to sleep through the night and not wake thinking every creaking board was an intruder. “Is that the reason you’re avoiding female company?”
“I’m not avoiding your company.” He smiled as his gaze raked over her body. “And you’re every bit a woman, Miss Darrow.”
“And you’re a scoundrel who lives to tease me.”
“I’m merely helping you forget your troubles.”
He had certainly done that.
“Then there is a more efficient way to spend your time. Gather anything of value. Fill a drawer with gloves. Search for bolts of material. We must take everything we can carry.”
Putting distance between them would prevent Eleanor from falling into his arms again. Salvaging the small things might pay for a ticket to Boston. A modiste who had dressed the haute ton would easily find work overseas.
“I shall pack a valise and fetch the villain’s book.” She gestured to the sprinkling of buttons on the floor. “These will fetch enough to cover a few months’ rent.”
She didn’t linger on the first floor but hurried upstairs.
Mr Chance’s soothing scent seemed to follow her, though it did little to prevent the wave of despair when she saw the devastation in her bedchamber. Clothes lay crumpled and scattered everywhere. The bedclothes had been torn from the mattress and now trailed forlornly across the floor. Amidst the chaos, she searched desperately but couldn’t find the patchwork blanket her mother had made—the cherished blanket she had clung to all these years.
Suppressing the need to cry, Eleanor dropped to her knees by the loose board. She brushed the mound of clothes aside and raised the plank.
Her heart sank.
The hollow space was empty.
No leather-bound book.
No record of those who had paid her to deliver their missives.
It wasn’t enough that the intruder left her feeling violated. He had stolen her only means of putting an end to this nightmare. How could she deliver his note? Mr Pickering knew to accept a specific book.
Eleanor tried to recall the title.
It was something obscure, like Falkirk or Falkland.
She could not locate another copy, not in time to deliver it to Mr Pickering. A different book would have to suffice, along with an explanation.
She stuffed garments into a valise and hurried from the room, keen to assist Mr Chance and leave the premises before the silversmith came prying. A quick peek inside the adjacent chamber confirmed it was a shambles, too. It looked like a whirlwind had whipped up the contents.
Stemming her tears, she made for the stairs.
That’s when she heard a creak behind her and felt a sudden breeze. A hard shove in the back made her lose her balance. She cried out, her valise slipping from her grasp as she went tumbling down the stairs, hitting her head on a wooden step and landing with a thud.
Chapter Seven
The thumping sound above stairs had Theo straightening. “Miss Darrow,” he called. He thought he’d heard a sharp cry. Perhaps she had stubbed her toe amid the chaos upstairs or kicked the door, annoyed at herself for kissing him again. “If this is part of our game, know I am up to my elbows in ladies’ gloves.”
Silence.
Not a faint chuckle.
Not a teasing or flirtatious remark.
Theo dropped the bale of gloves onto the glass counter, strode into the hall and gripped the newel post. “If this is a ploy to lure me to your bedchamber, know I would come willingly.”
Silence.
Theo might have returned to the mundane task of glove sorting, but a pang in his gut forced him to mount the stairs two at a time. He knew his fears were founded when he reached the landing and saw Miss Darrow lying on the floor.
Saints, have mercy!
Theo froze.
Her face was as pale as a cadaver, her legs akimbo.
Her eyes were shut as if the darkness was her solace, too.
A childhood memory assaulted him. A shrill scream had brought his sleepy-eyed brothers racing out of the bedchamber. Four years old and tripping over his nightshirt, Theo had peered around Aaron, desperate to witness the spectacle at the bottom of the stairs. The image of his mother’s awkward pose—the blood streaking her golden hair, the bulging whites of her eyes—haunted him to this day.
Gathering his wits, Theo stepped over her heavy valise, dropped to his knees and tried to rouse the lady. Panic assailed him. Blood trickled from a tiny cut on her hairline. Even a minor head wound could have disastrous consequences.
“Miss Darrow.” Theo’s hands shook as he stroked her limbs to ensure none were broken. He checked her pulse, relieved to feel a gentle pounding beneath his fingers. Gathering her into his arms, he uttered, “I’m going to move you now.” He’d been powerless to save his mother, but he’d be damned if he’d let Miss Darrow die. “Hold on to me.”
She lay limp in his arms, her breath barely a whisper.
Theo held her close and descended the stairs.
He exited the shop, shouting for his coachman to open the carriage door. “For pity’s sake, hurry.”
The burly fellow scrambled into action. “Stone the crows. What happened to her, sir?”
“Miss Darrow tripped over the hem of her pelisse and tumbled down the stairs.” It was Delphine’s pelisse and far too long for her. “Fetch her valise from the first-floor landing and secure the front door. The key is in the lock. Hurry, man. She needs a physician.”
Reminiscent of the day Miss Darrow helped bundle him into a vehicle, Theo used brute strength to place her on the seat. Once inside, he drew her onto his lap and continued speaking, willing her to wake.
“There’s something to be said for Keats.” He stroked her hair from her brow, his stomach twisting into knots. “The line he draws between good and evil is often unclear. Perhaps it’s a testament to his humble beginnings.”
His hopes of rousing a response came to nought.
Godby reappeared. He threw the valise atop the box, settled on his perch and flicked the reins. The carriage lurched into motion seconds before the nosy silversmith came dashing across the street.
Theo checked his pocket watch. They would miss their appointment with Pickering’s mobile library. But all was not lost. They could break the black wax, open the ominous note and force the librarian to confess. They could interview the barrow boy, assuming he was unharmed. Any insignificant detail might be pertinent to the case.
As the carriage raced towards Aldgate, Theo found himself staring at Miss Darrow’s lips. They were soft and plump, but that’s not what made their kisses unique.
An unknown ingredient had roused a fever in his blood—a secret something entwined with the hypnotic scent of jasmine, the warmth of her lips, and the vibrancy of her adventurous spirit.
He shouldn’t have touched her today. He shouldn’t have put his mouth to hers and drunk until intoxicated. How was he to solve her problems when every intimate interaction complicated matters? Yet, the need to taste her again was like a silent call from the soul.
Was seduction not part of their game?
Did she not welcome his advances?
His gaze moved over her delicate features. She was as fragile as fine china, yet beneath this dainty exterior was a determined warrior.
Who was she? What had happened to her parents?
Where had she learnt her dressmaking skills?
Had she ever been in love?
The need to know more about her proved compelling. Perhaps she had been plagued by a similar compulsion when saving him from death’s door. She had certainly probed his mind as he lay in bed recuperating.
When they arrived at Fortune’s Den, Aaron was outside, arms folded and glaring at The Burnished Jade, the ladies’ club across the street.
Aaron opened the carriage door, looked at Miss Darrow’s lifeless body nestled in Theo’s lap and growled, “What the hell happened?”
“Miss Darrow fell down the stairs.” Theo shuffled to the edge of the seat, certain Aaron was imagining a horrid scene from their childhood. “Send Sigmund for a physician.”
Aaron shouted for Sigmund and barked orders when he came charging out, fists clenched as if expecting trouble. “Fetch Gentry. Tell him it’s urgent. Go now.”
Sigmund did not dally. Mr Gentry had a private practice in Leadenhall Street. Aaron paid him to attend the monthly boxing bouts in the Den’s basement.
“How long has she been unconscious?” Aaron hauled Miss Darrow into his arms like she was as light as a babe.
“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.” He knew the point behind the question. The longer she remained comatose, the more likely she had suffered a lasting injury. “She stirred as we drew into Aldgate Street but didn’t open her eyes.”
“Let’s pray she wakes from this stupor soon.” Aaron stepped aside for Theo to alight. That’s when he noticed the elegant woman in a green pelisse and matching pillbox hat hurrying towards them. “Lord, give me strength. Just when I thought matters couldn’t get any worse.”
Miss Lovelace, the delightful owner of The Burnished Jade, came to a crashing halt beside them. “Good heavens. What has happened to Miss Darrow? Is that blood on her forehead?”
“She fell,” Theo said as Aaron turned his back on the woman he secretly admired and carried Miss Darrow inside.
“Shall I fetch a doctor?” Miss Lovelace followed Theo into Fortune’s Den. “Mr Gentry is an excellent physician. His practice is a two-minute walk away.”
“Thank you for your concern, but we have the matter in hand. Sigmund will return with Gentry posthaste.” Knowing the woman affected Aaron like no one else, Theo invited her to stay. “You spent time with Miss Darrow at Delphine’s wedding. I’m sure she would appreciate seeing a friendly face when she wakes.”
“Perhaps I may be of some assistance.” Miss Lovelace entered the drawing room—a private place reserved for family—and watched Aaron gently lower Miss Darrow onto the gold brocade sofa. “Though limited, I have some experience of head injuries.”
“Of course you do,” Aaron mocked, though he seemed determined not to look at her. “Is there anything you cannot turn your hand to, madam? Snake charming? Mapping the stars?”
Miss Lovelace raised her chin. “When a woman lives alone, she must learn to be self-sufficient. If you must know, I invited Mr Gentry to give a lecture on treating common ailments. He proved most popular with the ladies at my club.”
Theo suspected Gentry’s popularity had more to do with his striking countenance than his admirable profession.
Aaron surely thought so, too, because his strained smile failed to hide a flash of jealousy. “The ladies you serve are wallflowers. The attention of any man would leave them rigid in their seats.”
“How parochial, Mr Chance. Never underestimate a wallflower. Just because we do not parade like broodmares at Tattersall’s does not mean we are lacking.”
Aaron huffed. “You are not a wallflower, madam.”
“And how have you reached that conclusion?” Miss Lovelace removed a vinaigrette from her reticule and thrust it into Theo’s hand. Unabashed, she raised her skirts and knelt beside Miss Darrow. “See if you can rouse her while I loosen her clothing.”
“A wallflower is timid by nature.” Aaron’s eyes were upon her now that she had her back to him. “You’re as bold as a brigadier.”
Desperate to see Miss Darrow smile again, Theo pulled the stopper from the dainty bottle.
Miss Lovelace unbuttoned Miss Darrow’s pelisse to expose her throat. “Wave the aromatic salts under her nose.” She glanced over her shoulder and caught Aaron looking at her ankles. “As you know nothing of my personal struggles, sir, I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself.”
Miss Darrow’s head jerked the instant she inhaled the potent substance. She coughed, wrinkled her nose and turned her head.
Theo released a deep sigh, relief relaxing every tense muscle. “Miss Darrow? Can you hear me?” He prayed there were no lasting mental effects from the fall. That he’d have every chance to repair the damage he’d done.
Miss Lovelace touched the backs of her fingers to the patient’s cheek. “Please pour her a glass of brandy, Mr Chance. It may help to revive her spirits.”
Aaron obliged, though muttered something about being a lapdog. He returned and handed Miss Lovelace the glass, careful not to touch her fingers.
The brandy worked wonders. A mere sip brought the colour flooding back to Miss Darrow’s cheeks. She opened her eyes, though seemed confused to find herself in a drawing room.
“Where am I?” She winced as she shifted on the sofa.
“You’re at Fortune’s Den,” Miss Lovelace said, gripping Miss Darrow’s hand and rubbing the life back into her bones. “Do you remember why? Can you recall what happened?”
“I—I’m not sure.” She rambled like a bedlamite while verbally retracing her steps. “I saw Mr Franklin, the silversmith.” Then she recalled Theo caressing her cheek while they were collecting gloves. “I think it was part of the forfeit.”
“Forfeit?” Aaron snapped, his disapproval evident.
“It’s nothing,” Theo said. “Just a little game we play to pass the time.”
It wasn’t nothing. The intimate moments with Miss Darrow fed his newfound craving. Cravings passed, though he would never tire of kissing her.
“Don’t you think your games have caused enough trouble?”
“The game is crucial to building trust.”
“Yes, I remember we were kissing,” Miss Darrow confessed, leaving Theo inwardly groaning. “No, that was before I ventured upstairs and discovered someone had stolen my book and diary.”
