Authors: Elizabeth Thornton
His frankness in that respect was not only outrageous, but an offense, albeit a forgivable one, to a woman of her rank and fortune.
She, an acknowledged beauty, a countess, widow of her late husband the Earl, could not even claim so exalted a title as Ravensworth's mistress. He showed no preference for his string of women, but enjoyed what each had to offer with a casualness which, in other men, would have been regarded as positively depraved. But Ravensworth was Ravensworth, a rogue, a
roue
, a rake, but an irresistible charmer for all that. There were few women who could resist an invitation to his bed.
Adfele
St. Clair was not one of them.
She laid a restraining hand against his chest. "You know
where to find me? I've kept on the house in Duke Street."
"Yes, I remember," he responded noncommittally. He opened the door and pushed her firmly across the threshold.
"You'll join me later?" she persisted.
Ravensworth hesitated for only a fraction of a second.
"If it is convenient."
His level look was inscrutable.
A spate of angry words rose to tremble on her lips but died unspoken when she observed the implacable set of his mouth. She inclined her head in gracious acquiescence, but before she could utter the words
a
bientot
,
the door was shut inexorably in her face.
The
Marquess
turned back into the room, and a few lithe strides brought him to the wing armchair so hastily vacated by Briony. He eased himself into its soft, cushioned depths and crossed one silk-
stockinged
calf over the other, bringing his black patent evening pump to rest casually at the knee of his gray satin breeches. His gold signet ring with its lion rampant crest flashed in the soft glow of candlelight as he bent to retrieve the book which lay abandoned in the empty grate. When he determined that what he held in his hands was a gothic novel of the type favored by the romantic young miss of the day, he grinned, showing a flash of even white teeth against his swarthy complexion.
One longhand
trailed to the floor to recover the flimsy, feminine slippers at his feet. He dangled them from one hand in front of his face for a moment or two,
then
his grin deepened.
"You can come out, now,
chérie
. I know you're here somewhere."
In the depths of her cavernous, dark tomb, Briony quailed. She pulled on the door of her icy refuge to ensure that she was beyond the gentleman's reach. It was her undoing. A pencil, poised perilously at the edge of the shelf, rolled forward, balanced on the precipice momentarily,
then
toppled to the uncarpeted floor. Ravensworth heard the crack and was instantly before the concealed door. In a moment he had flung it wide. In his hand he held
a
candelabra
, the better to see the jealous wench who had spoiled his sport with the wicked widow. When he saw the slip of a girl with her solemn gray eyes looking warily up at him, his smile froze. He had never before in his nine and twenty years set eyes on the chit.
After a moment's baffled silence, Ravensworth's ire began to rise. He had expected something different.
"Who the devil are you? And what do you mean by spying on me?"
As Nanny could have told his lordship, Briony, appearances to the contrary, was not faint of heart. She refused to be intimidated by his threatening manner. Gathering the shreds of her dignity about her like the folds of her threadbare dressing gown, she swept out of the water closet and brushed his lordship aside.
"I beg your pardon. Have you been waiting long? The water closet is unoccupied now."
"The what?" asked Ravensworth in some perplexity as she sailed past
him.
He deposited the candelabra on the nearest table.
Briony had no wish to engage the irate, young gentleman in idle conversation. She saw a clear path to the door and hastened toward it. Ravensworth was before her. He reached the door in two long strides and cut off her escape. Briony halted in her tracks.
In other circumstances, she might have admired the virile beauty of the dark-haired Adonis who barred her path. But Briony scarcely noticed it. She became
suffocatingly
aware of the leashed power of her adversary, and she stilled like a hapless doe
who
has inadvertently roused a sleeping tiger.
The man towered above her. Even if she screamed, who was there to hear her? The ballroom was on the floor above, and there was no reason, save one that she could think of, why her uncle's guests would wish to trespass to the floor below. She forced herself to relax. The man was her uncle's guest and therefore, by implication, a gentleman—more or less. Cool logic prevailed.
Safer by far to humor the ill-tempered philanderer.
"Who am I? Would you believe . .
.a
guardian angel?"
Briony knew by the tensing of his jaw that her halfhearted attempt at levity had failed.
"A guardian angel?" he encouraged. When she remained mute, he went on with glacial politeness, "Would you be so kind as to explain that remark?"
"A guardian
angel.
. .
for a damsel in distress?"
"Guarding what, may I ask?"
There could be no turning back now.
"Her virtue, of course."
She schooled herself to meet the blaze of his eyes with unflinching composure but his expression, she noted with some relief, remained impassive.
He propped one arm against the door and leaned the full press of his weight against it, and
Briony's
breathing became a little easier.
His lordship's measuring stare took in the slight form of the quivering girl who faced him so resolutely. The scrap of lace pinned at a ridiculous angle to her braided hair and the voluminous, wool dressing gown buttoned high at the throat and low at the wrist gave her a decided grandmotherly air. Miss Prim and Proper, he conjectured. Her accent was cultured but her garments shabby. A governess
perhaps,
or a paid companion. Damn if he wouldn't like to crack that cool exterior.
"Who gave you leave to judge the morals of your betters?"
Briony's
calm, gray eyes looked reproachfully up at him. "Was I being judgmental? I think not. And I believe
,
if you but consider it, you will acquit me of that particular vice. The lady protested, but you would not listen. She told you 'no,' but you insisted. What kind of woman would leave a sister in such peril?"
"What a child you are!" the
Marquess
exclaimed, shaking his head at the picture of wounded innocence she presented. Then, in a gentler voice, "The lady was not unwilling."
"I heard her refuse you." Briony was obstinate.
'Tell me, Miss Virtuous," he asked in a controlled tone, "does your 'no' always mean 'no' and your 'yes'—'yes?"
"Invariably."
"You cannot be serious."
"But of course I mean it. How is it possible to communicate if we say one thing and mean another? Imagine the confusion!"
"Miss Virtuous," said the
Marquess
of Ravensworth with a touch of asperity, "you are either the most ingenious wench that I have ever encountered or the most ingenuous."
"Why? What do you mean?" she asked, her brow wrinkling.
The
Marquess
laughed and shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous, girl! You know what I mean. What would happen
to . .
.well
. . .
gallantry, flirtation, flattery, and so on, if one told only the unvarnished truth?"
Briony looked slightly contemptuous. "Such things, I suppose, would die a natural death."
"And wouldn't you be sorry?"
"No! Why should I?"
Ravensworth looked incredulous, then puzzled, and finally disbelieving. "Do you stand there and tell me that you never fib, never tell an untruth,
never
practice even the smallest of deceptions when you find yourself in an impossible situation?'
"Never!"
"I don't believe it!"
'Try me," she replied recklessly.
This was going too far. The
Marquess
was not one to refuse a challenge. A lecherous gleam kindled in his eye.
"With the greatest of pleasure."
In one swift movement, he pushed himself from the door and tumbled Briony into his arms. She opened her lips to voice her protest at such manhandling, but before she could utter a word, his mouth swooped down and he kissed her.
Hugh Montgomery was a practiced lover. He knew to a nicety how to break down the resistance of the most reluctant female. His mouth slanted across
Briony's
shocked lips,
moulding
them with slow, deliberate, tender ardor, tasting, savoring,
drugging
her with persuasive pleasure.
It was
Briony's
first real kiss and she was captivated. She relaxed against him and opened her mouth to allow him freer access. The
Marquess
was not slow to avail himself of the unconscious gesture. His lips moved over hers, drinking in the sweet taste of her. He felt her innocent response as she trembled in his arms, and he was enthralled. His tongue slipped easily between her teeth, stroking, teasing, awakening her to a man's desire. He was thoroughly enjoying the novel experience of having an untried wench in his embrace when passion, blazing, all consuming, and so unexpected rose like a hot tide in his veins. His kiss deepened; his arms tightened around her small, warm body; he pressed her closer, closer, demanding everything that she had to give, and a whirlpool of emotion, of exquisite, tormenting sensation, caught them both in its irresistible eddy.
It was the
Marquess
who brought the kiss to an end. He drew back his head and looked searchingly into
Briony's
velvet gray eyes. Damn if the chit hadn't seduced
him!
There was wonder and surprise in his voice. "Why did I kiss you?"
"I think you were trying to prove something," Briony managed when she caught her breath.
"Was I? Ah yes, I remember! Now truthfully, mind!" he softly admonished. "Do you wish me to kiss you again?"
"No," she breathed on a strangled whisper.
"Liar!"
The word was a caress. He bent his head to capture her lips again, but Briony struggled free of his arms.
"You don't understand. I don't deny that I enjoyed the experience. How could I? But I don't think kissing
is . .
.well
. . .
healthy."
"Why ever not?"
She extended both arms and held them up for his inspection. "My fingers are tingling."
Ravensworth found her candor enchanting. "You win. You really are without guile. And now that you have proved it to my complete satisfaction, I think I want to kiss you again."
But Briony had regained a modicum of her Quaker discretion. She refused his offer politely but firmly.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "And don't fob me off with that 'guardian angel' drivel."
"Then perchance I am your nemesis?"
"My nemesis?"
He laughed shortly. 'There isn't the woman born,
m'dear
, who can get the better of Hugh Montgomery."
"I did!" Briony smiled shyly up at him and Ravensworth's heart missed a beat. The sweetest, most adorable dimples had appeared on her kissable cheeks. "However," she continued, and gave him one of her clear-eyed gazes (the dimples, regrettably, instantly departed), "I don't wish you any harm. Indeed, I wish you well."
"Do you? Why?" he asked, truly interested.
"Why not?'
"You don't know me," he said simply, then added as an afterthought, "yet."
Briony missed the implication. "What an odd thing to say! As if wishing someone well depended on personal acquaintance. I wish the whole world well."
"Even rogues and murderers?"
He was mocking her.
"Of course.
I don't mean that I wish them to achieve their hearts' desire. That would be mere foolishness."
"Oh quite!"
"Now you are laughing at me."
"I wouldn't dare."
His eyes were warmly appreciative. Briony did not venture to let her gaze linger. She glanced at her bare toes and remembered her slippers. With a show of gallantry, he fetched them for her and slipped them on her feet. His hands were warm but she shivered. A burst of laughter sounded close at hand and introduced a sense of reality.
"Who are you? At least tell me your name."
Briony demurred. She had no wish to have her name become the butt of a roué’s ribaldry. He opened the door to let her past. His smile was endearing.