The Midnight Rake (16 page)

“I’m wondering if I should ask Maman to direct Aubry’s dance instructor to spend a session with you. Do you not enjoy waltzing? I feel as though I’m escorting a broomstick across the dance floor.” He arched a brow with the droll comment, his voice filled with indulgent affection and she giggled despite herself.

She dared another glance from beneath lowered lashes and her breath caught.
Lord, but he was handsome.
All around them candlelit chandeliers glistened, music strained and dancers whirled, yet nothing captivated her but his eyes. Long lush lashes framed the light hue of his irises with exquisite contrast. How would it feel to be the object of his affection, if only for one evening? To be cherished and adored by this wonderful man? A pang of longing sliced through her heart weakening her resolve.

“Now, that’s better.”

He trailed his hand along the side of her gown with smooth finesse before resting it again at her waist, his sudden caress, almost possessive, kicked her heart into an erratic rhythm. She glided through another turn, her glove securely nested within his, her eyes lost in the sensual promise of his glittering stare.

“If this is our waltz,
my boon
, I want it to be enjoyable or I’m remiss in my ability to charm a beautiful lady.” Amusement flirted with his husky command.

She offered him a tremulous smile. “Please know I am thoroughly charmed. I apologize for my thoughtlessness. Never doubt your appeal.” She did not wish their dance to pass with anything aside from joy. If this was her one opportunity to be held in his embrace she wanted to remember every nuance with desperate clarity.

And then no need for conversation existed beyond the natural fluidity of their bodies mingling with the waltz. Music hummed over her skin, sensitized to every detail, the friction of Phin’s gloved hand clasping hers, the exquisite pleasure of his palm resting against the small of her back as he led with gentle pressure through each sweep and revolution. His skin, scented with expensive French cologne, hardly compared to the rich security of being held in his arms. Strong and graceful, their bodies in heavenly synchronicity, the flittering thought of perfection rose unbidden and rang true.

Every time she dared inch her eyes upward, he must have sensed her attention because he was always there, gazing into her eyes and deeper, touching her soul as if they danced alone in the ballroom except there were easily over one hundred people spinning in circles around them. Somehow within the unbearable crush, their waltz remained private and intimate, their bodies keenly aware in silent communication with every glide and twirl.

Her pulse hammered triple time echoing each pinnacle of sensation, and she swore were she given the smallest inclination Phineas experienced the same, she would slip from his hold into his embrace and offer her heart. It mattered not in the least she would break the same promise she avowed only moments before.

“I’m sorry, Penelope.”

His voice sounded as sincere as she’d ever heard it, and she raised her eyes in question as they twirled through another turn. “You’re sorry? Whatsoever for?”

She couldn’t tell him she dreamed of this, when he would hold her in his arms and lead her through the dance as if they were one together, their bodies perfectly matched.

Instead, she gazed at his face, as handsome as any rogue or rake and as honest as the most revered hero.

“Because I know it’s wrong.”

The deep tenor of his confession caused her breath to catch. One lock of hair fell across his forehead as he leaned in to deliver the words, the husky whisper teasing dangerously close to her ear. He turned her near the corner and his hand swept over her ribcage as if he could not keep from the touch. Their bodies somehow moved much closer, the demanding heat of his nearness causing her to stifle a shiver of excitement. She needed to say something, anything, but words were difficult and emotion all too easy.

“Dancing? Asking me to dance is far from improper. We’re attending a ball, are we not?” She tried to laugh, but it wouldn’t come, her questions fraught with unidentifiable sentiment.

“It’s not the dancing for which I am apologizing.” He paused before leading her through an elegant series of steps. “Dancing with you is the best thing I’ve done in a very long while.”

“Then what…” But she failed to finish her sentence as he swept her from the floor and into a curtained alcove at the far end of the room. It was there to conceal the passage of servants entering and leaving the ballroom, but right now stood empty and dark.

Her heart thundered a chaotic beat.

His lips descended to hers with precise accuracy and the last coherent thought that skittered through her mind confirmed he tasted so male and burned so hot, she would melt into liquid under the pressure of his mouth.

But to melt would be to miss it and with the realization she regained her wits, and answered his sensual assault with her own expression of emotion.

In less than a breath, the kiss turned erotic. One minute he lowered his mouth to hers in a tender, reverent press of affection and the next, after she answered his pleasure promise, their bodies communicated on an elemental level of want and need.

He backed her to the wall with the subtle pressure of his thighs, his hands cupping her face as he eagerly explored her mouth, his tongue running the line of her lips, his hot breath an invigorating entreaty to fuel their fire. Strong fingers threaded beneath the hair at her nape, the pressure of his fingertips against her scalp sending tingles of anticipation and curiosity throughout her body.

She moved her trembling palms up the front of his waistcoat, further to his broad shoulders, and then finally around his neck, her fingers interwoven in the hair at his collar, the brush of the silky strands an aphrodisiac to heighten their kiss.

Her clothes suddenly seemed too heavy, the air too hot and suffocating, and again she considered the possibility he would melt her into a pool of water at his feet if his mouth continued to offer her exquisite pleasure with nothing more than a kiss.

She drew a tremulous breath and as she did, he slipped his tongue between her lips into the hollow of her mouth. At first she froze at the intrusion of his hot, smooth parry, the friction causing sparks of excitement to shoot through her and settle much lower, until she answered each rub with a stroke of her own. Every sensation in her body heightened with the liquid caress of his tongue against hers. Desire mounted, indescribably in tune to the coiled strength of their bodies, his masculine scent, the smooth, hard planes of his chest, the rub of her silky underclothes against her own skin, the pebbling of her nipples inside the press of her corset.

He was so strong, so solid and hot against her, yet when he murmured something French in a deep tone of masculine appreciation, she was overwhelmed with exquisite sensation so delicate it reached the core of her soul.

His wicked tongue lingered, dragging along her mouth in slow delicious torture, his teeth tugging on her lower lip before he returned for one more assault, the effects causing her to waver, her eyes closed, the world spinning.

He released her face with care, his fingertips caressing a trail down each cheek and with a deep exhale leaned both palms against the wall behind her, the firm press of his biceps straining the sleeves of his waistcoat on the right and left.

Concealed in the shadows as if awakening from a pleasurable dream, she opened her eyes to view him in the dimly lit alcove, but could see little in the faint flicker of reflected light. His eyes were heavy-lidded and his breathing sounded uneven. Did he regret what happened or did he search for the right words to release her from their position?

She thought to speak and break the increasing silence but he caught her chin and with the pad of his thumb traced over her kiss-swollen lips caressing the spot where his tongue last tasted her.

“What is it?” Her anxious whisper persisted, uncertain if he felt pleasure or disappointment by their embrace. Everything depended on his answer, as if her next breath, the continuation of her heartbeat, balanced on the words he would voice. One touch of his lips and her world had changed forever.

“I’m sorry.”

His ambiguous confession told her nothing. Then he pushed from the wall and left her standing alone.

Chapter Thirteen

Damn it all, what was he thinking? He certainly hadn’t used the organ in the top half of his body. Penelope was already promised to another. Perhaps affianced. Hadn’t she told him she’d engaged her heart elsewhere? Men were called out for less. It was only Providence she had no older brother or angry father waiting in the wings. But would she abhor him? He did not know.

Nudging Abacus into a harder gallop, Phin attempted to extinguish the lingering thoughts of his impulsivity. If only she hadn’t looked so beautiful. How could she belong to someone else when she fitted so perfectly within his embrace? Damn it to hell. Tonight he needed to be functioning with pristine clarity. He couldn’t spare his heart another thought; this confusion a prime example why he avoided emotion.

Twenty minutes later he arrived at White’s and purused the wagering book. Around him disgruntled gentlemen who fled to the club as an excuse to escape their marriage navigated shrewd business negotiations. It wasn’t so different from the distasteful conversations found within a ballroom of marriage-minded mothers. Both examples smacked of the aristocratic fickleness in tolerating dishonorable behavior. The same judgmental eye forcing debutantes to practice curtsies until their legs wobbled turned a deaf ear to whispered liaisons. He knew of several hypocritical gentlemen who lost interest in their mate after a short period, their life a test in endurance more than a blissful union. Infidelity often followed.

Not that he would ever entertain a tryst once devoted. Honor bound by a vow made before the church, he knew love as a solitary consuming emotion. But he need not learn that lesson twice. He witnessed firsthand the damage his sister suffered from her short courtship with Winton. Why would anyone invite such sorrow if it could be avoided?

His experience with long-term relationships was limited, but the profound result left him scarred and bitter. Marriage was meant to be a union, an equal partnership, not a battle for power.

Phineas became smitten with Natalie Morgan the minute she’d accepted his request to dance. Their relationship progressed as most did, rich with the societal frivolities comprising a pleasant courtship. At first he hardly noticed the changes in her demeanor, but as their relationship advanced, Natalie’s demands became insufferable. She insisted he stop boxing and fishing, and abandon the stables, claiming his attention would be better spent elsewhere. Her vociferous ultimatums invited misery and controversy from his mother, friends and, most wrongly, his sense of self. No one wanted to be controlled, poked, prodded, and emasculated, yet Natalie enjoyed using her affection as a weapon, vying for every bit of his attention no matter the circumstance.

He practiced an exacting code of ethics as a gentleman, protected his mother and sister and assumed the complicated responsibilities of the title while his father traveled abroad. He refused to volunteer for a life of perspicacious scrutiny.

Natalie ended their relationship in a humiliating public display when he refused to bow to her wishes. The embarrassment lived in him still.

Phin shook his head to wipe away the memories and with determination revived his well-worn mantra.
No wife, happy life.

This time the words felt hollow, and the sudden image of Penelope, disheveled and kiss-swollen, pricked his unease. How deliciously irresistible she looked as he leaned above her in the alcove, desperately gathering every scrap of control needed to force himself to walk away. He shook his head with self-disgust and reached for the wager book.

“What are you about, Fenhurst?” Douglas Franley, Viscount Cobham, removed the ledger from his grasp before Phin could object. “Making a wager this evening? Looking for fun? I thought you had your night’s entertainment already arranged.”

“What are you talking about? Give me the book, Cob. I have business to attend.” Phineas flexed the fingers on his left hand, his right reaching to reclaim the volume but the viscount made no move to return it.

“I saw the pretty piece you took to the dance floor. The way the two of you moved I assumed you would be otherwise occupied this evening.”

“Stated with your usual level of finesse.” Phin dropped his hand and threw a sweeping glance across the room.

“I never fancied you’d turn up at the club tonight or I’d have remained to take the lady for a stroll.” Cob waggled his brows in exaggerated communication.

Phin’s body stiffened as a short fuse of anger ignited. He spanned one palm across his jaw wiping away the hard set of tension, his temper unwilling to check, and glanced to Cobham. A devious smirk twisted the man’s lips.

Something unfurled within Phin, something powerful, ugly and bitter. “Measure your words.” He pinned Cob with a hard glare. “And give me the wager book.”

“I only thought to inquire about the lady’s—”

“Keep your hands off her.” His low snarl gave Cobham immediate pause. The man was no idiot drenched in cheerful ignorance. Phineas knew his type and the single fact fed his anger. With meticulous precision, his fist tightened around Cob’s cravat, the man’s face becoming mottled within an instant.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Fenhurst? Since when can’t you enjoy a harmless jest?”

Cob’s choked attempt at humor did little to assuage Phin’s temper, but he loosened his hold, having made his point. “Stay away from her.”

Cobham had the sense to remain silent and pushed the betting ledger in Phin’s direction before backing away, while all the while a voice inside Phin’s head reminded Penny was not his to guard. She was not his at all.

He blew out a cleansing breath and opened the volume. The book’s contents would serve as a distraction. Nothing was sacred when wagering at White’s. Countless pages listed witless bets placed upon animals, sport; even marital indiscretions. Despicable habit, to combat boredom by wagering on someone’s misfortune. He noted Lord Tilbury won a tidy sum by guessing how many times Lord Standen hiccupped between six and seven o’clock last evening. He thumbed the pages in earnest, scanning the columns of names and dates, searching for any clue Winton had placed a recent wager. If so, he could confront the man on settling day and obtain the answers needed to put Julia’s heart at rest. He missed his sister and wanted her to return. If he could deliver the answers she sought, she might be inclined to leave Brighton before the season’s end.