If You Give a Rake a Ruby (11 page)

He was the one struggling for composure when her tongue met his. She stroked him, teased him, dueled with him until he was no longer certain who was kissing whom. He wedged her legs open with his knee and pushed his thigh between them. She was warm there, and he pressed intimately against her, eliciting a groan. He groaned himself when she took hold of him through his breeches.

“You're hard,” she whispered against his mouth.

“I want you.”

“I should say no.”

He kissed her neck, and her head lolled back. His lips trailed to her shoulder, making their way to that plump, ripe flesh spilling out under her fichu. “You should,” he agreed.

“This is a bad idea.”

“The worst.” He used his tongue to tease her skin through the gauzy material and pressed his thigh against her core. She shivered.

“I'm trying very hard to resist you,” she said, her voice low and husky.

“Keep trying. In the meantime, I think I shall push you against that wall, toss your skirts up, and thrust into you.”

She moaned. “I wish I didn't like that suggestion so very much.”

“Me too.” He began moving her backward when he heard a sharp tap on the door.

“Sir,” his butler said. Warrick jumped away from Fallon and pushed her behind him.

“Get out, Pressly.”

“I'm sorry for the interruption, sir, but…”

But Warrick had already seen her. “Never mind, Pressly. I understand.”

The butler gave him an apologetic look and moved aside. Lady Winthorpe stepped into the doorway and raised a thin brow. “Having tart for breakfast, Warrick?”

He sighed. “Good morning to you too, Mother.”

His mother was a small woman with a preference for large hats that dwarfed her delicate features. This morning she wore a bluish green gown—he supposed the color had some other more sophisticated name, but he didn't know it—with a hat to match. The elaborate plumage, consisting of feathers and ribbons looked heavy enough to cause her to list to one side.

She took one step toward the table, and Pressly hurried to pull out a chair. “Tell the footman to bring me a cup of tea,” she ordered as though she, not Warrick, owned the place. “You do still employ a footman?” she asked.

“Two, Mother. Thank you, Pressly, that will be all.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Was I expecting you, Mother?”

“If you mean to inquire as to whether or not we had an appointment, the answer is no. But I do hope the world hasn't become such that a mother is now required to make an appointment to visit her son.” She gave Fallon a long perusal. “Though I suppose I do see where it might avoid some unpleasantness.”

Warrick watched as the footman entered with the tea and supposed there was nothing for it. She was settling in. Perhaps if he embarrassed her—well, embarrassed her further…

He moved aside, revealing Fallon. “Mother, might I introduce you to—”

She held up a hand. “No, you may not.” She sipped her tea. “I know who that woman is, and I must say, Warrick, I am disappointed in you. A courtesan. Really!”

“Well, Mother, as you know, I live for your approval.”

“No, that is not something I know, though I dearly wish it were true. Perhaps then your father would be able to speak of you without clutching his heart, as though in pain.”

Warrick wanted to roll his eyes. His father was one of the healthiest men he knew. If he was suffering heart palpitations, Warrick would crawl back home on hands and knees.

“I should go,” Fallon said quietly.

“No. Stay and finish your breakfast.”

“I find I have lost my appetite.”

“Ha!” His mother exploded. He knew she would not be able to ignore Fallon for long. “You had better watch your tongue, you strumpet. I am the Countess of Winthorpe.”

“And I am the Marchioness of Mystery, as though anyone gives a fig!”

Warrick had the urge to flee and allow the women to work the matter out for themselves. But he had not fled the Battle of Valencia nor the Battle of the Bidassoa. He supposed he could stay for this one, though he suspected the outcome would prove particularly bloody.

His mother was standing now, and Warrick made to step between the ladies. “Mother—”

“I don't care whom you have slept with,” his mother was saying. “Whether it's the Prince Regent or the whole of the Shropshire countryside. You will not speak to me thus! And I demand you go upstairs, pack your tawdry things, and leave this house at once.”

“Mother—”

“Do you think I have designs on your son? I'll have you know, our association is purely through his design. I don't want him.”

Warrick gave Fallon a sideways look. “You don't have to go that far.”

“Do not be ridiculous,” his mother said. “I know your friend recently married the Duke of Pelham. You obviously hope to improve your situation in a similar manner. Well, choose someone other than my son.”

Fallon pointed a finger at his mother. The two women were practically nose to nose. If it came to blows, Warrick wasn't certain whom he should champion. At the moment, neither seemed to deserve his support.

“I'll have you know Juliette loves Pelham, and he loves her. And I wouldn't marry your son for all the—”

Warrick cleared his throat. “You needn't complete that statement. I assure you my pride is already bruised. First my mother finds it necessary to defend me, as though I am once again a child of four, and then one of the most sought-after courtesans in the country cannot say vehemently enough how much she does not desire me.”

“Warrick, really,” his mother said. “Do stay out of this.”

Warrick threw his hands up in frustration. Would leaving now really be so much a retreat as a calculated withdrawal?

“Listen, you little slut,” his mother was saying. “I have tolerated the rumors about you and my son because I have been friends with the Countess of Sinclair for more years than I can count. I don't care what you do with her husband, and I don't want to know. But you will not do it with my son.”

“No, I won't. Excuse me.”

Warrick watched Fallon stomp out the door, head held high as she breezed past the footman, who was pretending not to listen, but who would certainly inform his whole staff of this incident at the first opportunity.

“There,” his mother said. “Problem solved.” She wiped her hands together and took her seat again.

Warrick glared at her. “Did it ever occur to you, Mother, that she and I are working together?”

“Oh, dear God. Do not mention that dreadful spy business to me. I do not want to hear about it.”

“And I would prefer you do not meddle in my affairs. If I wanted your meddling, I would not have left Winthorpe House.”

“Your father threw you out, if I remember correctly.” She lifted a scone from his plate. “Are these freshly made?”

“I'm not going to quibble over details with you, Mother. Father is embarrassed that he has a son who has a vocation for which he is financially compensated.”

“Nonsense.” She nibbled on the scone. “I do believe this is freshly made,” she said in surprise. “Your brother Anthony has a paid position, but he has chosen a respectable career. If you had only done the same—”

“Sadly, my talents do not lie in the clergy, Mother.”

“Well, from the display I observed a few moments ago, I should say not! But why not buy a commission in the army? You could command a regiment.”

“Because I don't want to. I want to work in espionage. And right now I need Fallon's help.”

His mother sighed, loud and long. “I really do think this has gone on long enough, Warrick.”

He frowned.

“I mean the feud between your father and you. I am not a young woman any longer, and I want peace in my household. All of my daughters and sons, save you, are wed and well situated. Is it too much to ask that you be similarly placed?”

“What are you proposing?”

“Keep your vocation, if that is what you love, but come home. Make amends with your father. I believe if you were to marry, he would accept you back with open arms. The promise of grandchildren tends to soften him, you see.”

Warrick thought it was more she than his father who wanted grandchildren, but he did not comment.

“You remember Lady Edith?”

Of course he remembered her. She was the woman his parents had picked for him to marry. She was the daughter of a duke—wealthy, beautiful, and cold as ice. “As I recall, Mother, she is engaged to Lord Findley.”

His mother shook her head. “That is not going to come off.”

“It seemed rather fixed the last time I heard her spoken of.”

His mother frowned at him. “Really, Warrick, are you going to trust some gossip you heard weeks ago or what I am telling you right now? The engagement is over.”

He supposed if anyone knew when an engagement was at an end, it was his mother. “Why?” he asked.

“What does it matter? There's no scandal, I assure you. I suppose the two did not suit.”

There was more to the story, but she wasn't telling.

“And you want me to give her another chance?”

“If she'll have you, yes. It would please your father and me and do a great deal toward mending broken fences.”

Warrick nodded. He had no interest in Lady Edith, but he would admit there was a part of him that wanted to reconcile with his father. He missed their chats, the closeness they'd once shared, the easiness between them when walking in the country. And, truth be told, he missed his family. He'd been alone for a long time. Now he wanted to be part of something again.

“What are you proposing?”

“I am hosting a ball in a few days. Surely you received the invitation.”

“Mama.” He groaned. He detested balls.

“Just listen. I have invited Lady Edith. Come to the ball. Reconcile with your father. Dance with Lady Edith. Your father will be so pleased. He does not say it, but he misses you terribly.”

Warrick nodded. How could he refuse?

***

Fallon moved back toward the stairs and began the long walk to her room. She didn't know why hearing Lady Winthorpe discuss the woman she hoped Fitzhugh would marry disturbed her, but it did. Perhaps because she knew she would never be good enough. Perhaps because she knew his mother would never accept her.

And who cared? She didn't want to be accepted by his mother. She didn't want to have anything further to do with him. But though she'd stormed out and said she was leaving, she wasn't so much a fool as to actually go. She knew she was in a veritable fortress here, and she wasn't taking the chance that Gabriel or her father's men were waiting for her on the outside.

Still, she would have liked to go home. And she would have liked to get her hands on a copy of the
Morning
Chronicle
. She imagined the Cytherian Intelligence column was rife with stories about Mr. F— carrying the Marchioness of Mystery out of Lord A—'s ball over his shoulder.

She reached her bedchamber and dismissed the maids straightening it. She was only going to climb back into bed anyway.

She could kill Fitzhugh. She really could. The problem was that she also wanted to kiss him. And at this point, why not? Everyone thought they were lovers anyway. It wasn't as though she had a reputation to protect. She pulled the covers up to her chin and closed her eyes.

She knew him now. He wouldn't reveal her past to the
ton
. He wasn't that kind of man. He might threaten it. He might even do his worst in order to get what he wanted. She understood this wasn't just about him. He was trying to save lives, trying to find a murderer. But she knew him well enough to know he was a rarity.

Fitzhugh was a true gentleman. She might accuse him of being otherwise, but he wasn't going to intentionally sully a lady's reputation. Even if the lady in question wasn't really a lady at all.

She closed her eyes, willing sleep to come. She was tired. His screams last night had woken her from a deep sleep, and after seeing him, she'd only snatched a few restless hours. What had he been dreaming about? He'd been drenched with sweat and white as a ghost. But that hadn't startled her as much as the trembling. She'd never seen a man shake like that. What had scared him so much?

Where had he been? What had he done?

And why did she want to hold him and find a way to make it all go away?

A knock sounded on her door, and she sighed. “Go away, Fitzhugh. I don't want to talk to you.”

“It isn't Mr. Fitzhugh, miss,” a female voice said. “It's Kitty, the maid.”

Fallon frowned. “Come in.”

Kitty poked her head in the door. “You have a visitor, miss. I told her you were indisposed, but she insisted I tell you she was here.”

Fallon covered her face with the sheet. “Don't tell me it's Lady Sinclair.”

“No, miss. It's another like you.”

Fallon lowered the sheets. “Like me? You mean a courtesan?”

“She said she was the Countess of Charm.”

Fallon laughed. “Lily. Yes, send her up.”

“To your bedroom, miss?”

“Yes.” Fallon supposed she was shocking the servants as well as Fitzhugh's family. Now they had not only one fallen woman but two in their hallowed halls. She sat and tried to do something with her hair and then abandoned the effort. This was Lily. They'd seen each other looking far worse.

The door opened and Lily popped in. Fallon had rarely seen her auburn-haired friend without a spring in her step. Lily wore an apple-green dress with cream stripes and a matching hat. Lily almost always wore green or blue. She said those colors complimented her eyes. “There you are!” She immediately engulfed Fallon in an embrace. As usual, Lily smelled like apples and something else clean and wholesome. Lily leaned back and looked into Fallon's eyes. “You poor darling. Tell me what's going on.”

Fallon smiled. She had never known anyone as sweet-natured as Lily. With her freckles and dimples, she looked like she should be working on someone's farm. But Juliette had been the farmer's daughter. Lily, like Fallon, grew up in the city. Not London. Lily was from York, and Fallon could still hear a bit of the North in her speech. She wasn't conventionally beautiful. Her face was a bit too round, her hair a bit too bright, and her smile a bit too wide. But she was pretty. She was the kind of pretty that when she smiled men forgot she wasn't beautiful and fell in love with her anyway.

“How did you find me?” Fallon asked.

“I have my ways.”

Fallon groaned. “Don't tell me my presence here is in the papers.”

“Give me more credit than that!” She pulled off her gloves and reached into her reticule. “Here is a copy of the
Chronicle
.”

Fallon turned right to the page and scanned the story. It was just as she expected. “I suppose it could be worse.”

“I don't see how. The man literally carried you out of Alvanley's ball over his shoulder, as though you were a sack of potatoes. A well-dressed sack of potatoes, of course.” She patted Fallon's hand. “I don't know Mr. Fitzhugh well.”

“I wasn't aware you knew him at all.”

Lily waved her hand, dismissing the statement much quicker than Fallon preferred. “But he isn't the type to make such displays. Fallon, are you in some sort of trouble?”

Fallon stared at Lily. “No. Well, perhaps. How do you know
anything
about Mr. Fitzhugh?”

“You're not the only one with secrets.”