To All the Rakes I've Loved Before (A Honeycote Novella) (6 page)

“From your butler. He had a spare pair.”

“Which only proves my point. We needn’t stand on ceremony.”

True. He supposed that if he didn’t mind wearing Giles’s cast off slippers, he could endure a crass conversation about money. “Two hundred fifty pounds, initially. Now, it’s one thousand.”

“One thousand pounds.” Amelia repeated. “Four hundred percent interest is steep.”

He shrugged. “As I said, I knew the risks. I’ll deal with the consequences.”

“The consequences are all over your face and body.” Amelia rose and began to pace in front of the settee. “There is an easy solution to your dilemma.”

“I’d love to hear it.”

She stopped walking and looked at him with those bottomless brown eyes. “I will pay off your debt.”

What?
“Absolutely not.” He’d invite Savage’s henchmen to dinner before he accepted a half penny from her.

“Why not?”

“I know it may not seem like it right now”—he smoothed the collar of the robe self-consciously over his chest—“but I do have some pride. I appreciate your extremely generous offer, but please understand—this problem is of my own making, and I must handle it on my own.”

“On your own.”

“Yes.”

“Would that involve trying to gamble your way out of debt?”

“Of course not,” he spat—a little too vehemently. Because the thought had crossed his mind.

“I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just that…” Her voice caught and she turned away.

Swiftly, he stood and touched her shoulder. His chest felt oddly tight. “What’s troubling you?”

Her chin trembled. “I couldn’t bear it if you were hurt again. Or worse.”

The realization that she cared both stunned and warmed him. “Nothing else will happen to me. The men who roughed me up just wanted to send a message. I’ll settle with my creditor, and all will be well. Trust me.”

“I do. Trust you,” she added.

As he pulled her into his arms—carefully, in deference to her tender sensibilities and his tender ribs—he realized the truth of his own words. No matter that he’d spoken them only to comfort her, all
would
be well. He had changed. Not just because of the beating, but because of Amelia. Against all reason, she saw a glimmer of good in him.

For the first time, he was starting to see it too.

But that was enough talk about his problems.

Amelia had her own problem to face. And he wanted to be the one to help her.

Chapter 7

Lord B. thinks it’s bad form to borrow money from a woman.

Miss W. thinks she will never understand male pride.

—from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple

Amelia didn’t know where to put her arms.

Stephen had his around her, enveloping her in warmth and pulling her close. When her breasts pressed lightly against the hard wall of his chest, her nipples tingled deliciously and her breath hitched in her throat. She liked the way his neck smelled clean and musky at the same time and how the stubble on his chin lightly abraded the skin at her temple. Everything about his embrace served to remind her—as if she needed reminding—that he was pure male.

Of course, this wasn’t a seduction. He was merely expressing gratitude, and maybe relief at having someone to talk with.

Still, she felt she should do something with her arms. She would just ease them around his back, like so, and—

Accidentally fondle his buttocks. Firm, hard buttocks. Good heavens.

“What are you doing?” His tone was not accusatory—more… amused.

She stepped back, quickly pinning her wrists to her hips. “I beg your pardon. I meant to reciprocate. Not that
you
were…”

“Would you like me to? I’d be happy—”

“No.” Her heart thumped so hard, surely he must hear it. She knew he was only having a bit of fun—teasing her—and yet her body responded to his wicked words. Her knees went wobbly and her belly fluttered. The thought of his hands, large and warm, skimming over her bottom, up her sides, cupping her breasts—

“Did you have a nice visit with your friends?” he asked politely, thus making the wayward direction of her thoughts seem all the more licentious. She really ought to limit her daily consumption of gossip rags.

“I did,” she said, surprised that she spoke the truth. “They’ve visited twice since Mama left, and it’s made me realize how much I’ve missed them.”

She walked back to the settee and sank into the silky pillows; Stephen sat beside her—a bit closer than before. Only a few inches separated his knee from hers. And yet, it was all quite respectable, if one discounted the fact that they had no chaperone. And that he wore a robe.

“Maybe you should call on them from time to time.”

“Their brother is the Duke of Huntford. He’s rather imposing. And Mama would insist on joining me. We’d only succeed in embarrassing ourselves.”

“So, you’d rather spend your life behind these walls than risk humiliation.”

Correct. That summed the matter up rather nicely. She swept an arm around the sumptuous, if garish, room. “This isn’t exactly Newgate. I have plenty to amuse me.”

A slow, sultry smile spread across his face. “Indeed. Just moments ago, you were amusing yourself with my—”

“Shall I ring for more tea?” It had been much easier to converse with Stephen when he was flat on his back and relatively defenseless.

“Not for me. But I would like to ask you something.”

The air around them went still, and Amelia knew the teasing was over. “Please, do.”

“Why won’t you go to the Norrington ball with Lady Olivia and Lady Rose?”

Her hackles rose. “Were your listening to our conversation?”

“I overheard some of it. I should have retreated to my room the moment I realized you still had company, but I confess my curiosity won out. You’re such a puzzle, Amelia.”

She was? “How so?”

He frowned slightly. “I don’t understand why a woman as lovely as you would sit at home sipping ratafia when you could be at a ball, dancing and breaking the heart of every young buck in London.”

She looked deep into his blue eyes and found not a trace of mockery. If he really thought her capable of breaking hearts, the blows to his head must have been serious indeed. And yet, it was possibly the best compliment she’d ever received. “I’ve already explained. My mother—”

“Is out of town.”

Blast. “True. But I’m not in the market for a husband”—he raised a dark brow at that—“so what would be the point of going?”

He took her hand and laced his fingers through hers. Her palm sizzled. “The point of going to ball is to enjoy oneself, to have fun—firsthand. Rather than reading someone’s account of the festivities three days from now, you could be living it.”

“I do appreciate your concern. But boring as my existence may seem, I’m perfectly happy with it.” She smiled, perhaps a little too brightly.

“That’s because you don’t know what you’re missing.” He stroked his thumb over her wrist in tantalizing little circles, making her pleasantly light-headed.

“What, precisely, do you think I’m missing? Blisters from stiff slippers? Scintillating discussions about the weather?”

“You really have no idea, do you?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but he was already standing, pulling her to her feet.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m showing you what you’re missing.”

He held her hand tightly, like she belonged to him. It was a disconcerting notion—and not entirely unpleasant.

They stopped in an open space behind a pair of wingback chairs. Stephen turned her so that they faced each other and cupped her cheeks, gently encouraging her to meet his gaze. Then he held her hands.

“You must use your imagination,” he began.

“Very well.” She could play this game. “What shall I imagine?”

“I am wearing not a robe, but a perfectly cut long-tailed dark coat with a white waistcoat.”

“You look most dashing, my lord.”

He grinned. “And you are wearing a satin gown of—well, I should let you select it. Any color and style you like. Be specific, please. Details are helpful.”

“I am partial to light green.”

“Good. Tell me more.”

“I should like it to be simple, without a lot of frippery. Perhaps short, petal sleeves.”

“Excellent,” he said encouragingly. “And would it be too much to hope that the neckline is a little daring?”

She decided there was no harm in accommodating the request. “It is rather daring, now that you mention it. Some of the older ladies are casting disapproving looks this way.”

“Perfect,” he growled. As his gaze dropped to the swells of her breasts, her pulse raced. “How are you wearing your hair?”

“I don’t know. Did you have something in mind?”

He seemed to consider for a moment, then reached for a loose tendril behind her ear and wound it around his finger. “Piled on top of your head, but with a few long curls dangling down your back and in front of your shoulder. Like this.” He released the curl and smiled as it sprang free, tickling her nape. “You are beautiful.” He uttered the words so sincerely that she almost forgot they were pretending.

“And you are the most handsome gentleman in the room,” she said, mostly to show that she wasn’t taking the whole imagining thing too seriously.

He tugged her closer, placing both his hands on the small of her back—quite a bit lower than could be considered proper. His breath warm on her ear, he whispered, “Can you hear it?”

“What?” The only thing Amelia heard was the frantic beating of her own heart.

He chuckled softly. “The violin, the flute. It’s a slow waltz. Listen to the beat.”

Slowly, he began to sway, encouraging her to do the same. He guided her hands to his shoulders, and she rested them there, barely resisting the temptation to sink her fingers into the firm, contoured flesh beneath his robe.

“I am a horrid dancer.” She wasn’t fishing for a compliment. She just thought he deserved fair warning.

“It’s more likely you’ve had horrid partners. Move with me.”

Before she knew it, he’d begun the steps of a waltz—at least she thought they were. She’d never waltzed before. And suddenly, she understood what all the fuss was about.

Stephen held her so closely that she could clearly see the dark fringe of his lashes, the many colors of the bruise along his jaw, and the thick, corded muscles in his neck. She could feel the warmth coming off his body and sense the strength coiled inside him.

He kept her in that intimate hold. There was no stepping in and stepping out, no changing partners. Not even a short reprieve in which a girl might attempt to catch her breath.

They moved in a circle, Stephen leading her surely with pressure of his palms on her waist, then shoulders, then hands. But she was beyond rusty, and when she took a wrong step, her chest bumped lightly into Stephen’s, causing a brief, incidental contact that was strangely and wonderfully intoxicating.

“You’re doing fine.” The low, deep timbre of his voice vibrated through her. “Now we turn this way”—he slid to one side, reaching across her belly, grazing the underside of her breasts. Smoothly, he raised his outside arm, which was joined with hers, forming a bridge over their heads.

As they stared into one another’s eyes, they made a full, slow turn.

Stephen smiled a wicked kind of smile that set her belly on fire, took both her hands in one of his, and held them above her head.

His gaze turned dark and hungry. “Amelia,” he said.

That
was the precise moment she realized she was in trouble.

Chapter 8

Though Miss W. is not formally out, she dared to waltz with Lord B.

What’s worse, she is clearly on the verge of kissing him.

—from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple

Stephen’s sudden light-headedness had nothing to do with his injuries and everything to do with the blood rushing to his cock.

They’d been about to execute a turn and he held both Amelia’s hands over her head—a vulnerable position, to be sure. Her breasts, high and round, thrust forward, their pebbled tips straining against the thin fabric of her gown, making his mouth go dry. Along the graceful column of her throat, he could just make out the rapid beating of her pulse. Her soulful brown eyes beckoned, luring him closer. And when her full lips parted, he was undone.

All pretense of dancing over, he released her arms and cradled the back of her head with one hand. With the other, he traced the tender spot on her neck where her pulse beat. The air between them crackled with desire. His cock grew harder, so much so, it was probably tenting the front of his robe.

And then Amelia’s gaze drifted to his mouth. His last ounce of self-control disintegrated.