Dancing on the Wind (8 page)

But that was desire talking, he realized ruefully. Mindless coupling with a stranger produced the worst depressions. He would regret succumbing to temptation the instant it was over. His interest wasn't great enough to make it worthwhile.

On the other hand, celibacy was conspicuous in the midst of an orgy. If he didn't participate, he must at least give the impression of doing so.

Matters had progressed while he and Lizzie kissed. When a deep masculine groan issued from under the table, Lucien glanced down and saw a woman demonstrating her professional skills on Roderick Harford. His arms around two blondes, Chiswick was weaving his way into the adjacent drawing room, where the carpet was softer and the fire warmer. Nunfield lay on his belly sucking the toes of a dark-haired doxy. The other guests were also pairing off in various quiet corners.

Lucien set the redhead back on her feet and rose from the chair. Then he put his arm around her shoulders and guided her out of the dining room and into the hall beyond.

"You don't like an audience, ducks? Can't say that I do, either." She cuddled close and began expertly caressing him.

It was almost enough to overset his resolution, but not quite. "Sorry, Lizzie, but tonight I'd rather sleep alone." Gently he detached himself. "I took a hard fall when hunting today and have bruises in all sorts of uncomfortable places."

"Are you sure?" she said coaxingly. "I have to do someone, and you're the best of the lot."

Noticing faint circles under her eyes, he suggested, "Why don't you get some rest, too?"

She hesitated. "If the truth be known, I've had a tiring day and wouldn't mind a solid night's sleep. Still, business is business, and Lord Chiswick likes to get his money's worth."

"Tomorrow I'll tell the others how sensational you were. Chiswick will never know otherwise."

She grinned. "Very well—it will be our secret." Her gaze ran over him admiringly. "I owe you one, ducks. Come see me sometime when we're both feeling more in the mood. Lizzie LaRiche—look for me in the lobby of the Theatre Royal."

He bid her good night and headed to his room, not without a pang of regret. She was an appealing wench, and perhaps he would seek her out the next time lust overcame prudence.

To his surprise a sliver of light showed under the door of his bedchamber. He entered quietly and saw a tall female form on the far side of the room. He assumed she was a chambermaid until he saw the rouge and translucent evening gown. It was another of Chiswick's doxies, this time a tousled blonde. He repressed a sigh; there was such a thing as too much hospitality. His ability to kick pretty girls out of his bed was not unlimited, so perhaps he should surrender to the inevitable.

His amusement evaporated when he realized that she was searching his clothes press. After checking the hanging garments, she closed the upper doors and turned her attention to the linen drawer. There she found a box containing several of his mechanical devices, which he had brought to show Lord Mace.

Before she could open it, he said coldly, "If you're looking for money, you won't find any there."

The girl dropped the box, which fell to the floor and broke open, spilling the contents across the floor. As she whirled toward him, her wayward golden curls danced around her face and her eyes widened with shock. He might have been sympathetic if she hadn't been caught red-handed in the act of theft.

He closed the door behind him, then folded his arms and leaned against it. "Do you always steal from your customers?"

"I… I wasn't stealing, my lord." Her low, pleasant voice had a broad Yorkshire accent.

"Of course not," he said dryly. "You merely got lost and made a wrong turn into my armoire."

She stared down at her clenched hands. "I… I was seeking Mr. Harford and didn't know what room he was in, so I looked in the press to see if I could recognize any of the clothes as his."

Perhaps it was true, though he doubted it. However, he thought he had stopped her in time. That scanty costume couldn't be concealing much in the way of stolen goods— it didn't even conceal much of her. He studied her appreciatively. It was hard to be outraged with a woman with such long, elegant legs. "I doubt that Harford is in need of your services. When I last saw him, he was engaged with one of your colleagues."

"Oh." After an awkward pause, she said, "I arrived here late—Lord Chiswick will be cross with me."

Thinking of Chiswick and the blondes, Lucien said, "I doubt that he will notice your absence any time soon."

"Still, I had best find him. I'm sorry I accidentally came into your room. Truly, I wouldn't have taken anything." She began walking toward him, confident that he would step away from the door and let her leave. "Good night, my lord."

He didn't move. As he watched her supple movements, the desire that had been simmering for days began burning hotter, curling through his veins and quickening his pulse. Though the girl was not as flamboyantly attractive as Lizzie, something about her intrigued him. Perhaps it was the improbable contrast of shyness and worldly appearance. Or perhaps it was a quiet dignity that was visible even in these circumstances.

The reasons were unimportant; what mattered was that the longer he looked at her, the less he cared about the consequences of passion. "Since Harford isn't available, you can stay and earn your fee with me."

His words dropped into the silence like a pebble into a pond, sending ripples in all directions. Kit stopped in her tracks. She had been right to fear Strathmore, for his feline, green-gold gaze was mesmerizing. Her pulse accelerated, and she was uncertain whether the cause was fear or anticipation.

He held out his hand. "Come here," he said in a deep, easy voice.

She wanted to run. Instead, as if it had a will of its own, her hand lifted and grasped his. His long fingers twined around hers, and he drew her into his embrace.

She had known this man would be different, and he was. Instead of mauling her, he held her lightly, smoothing her unruly curls, stroking her back, resting his cheek against her hair while she became accustomed to his touch. Her eyes closed. Warmth. Strength. A subtle eroticism that ravished her senses. Slowly her body softened and molded to his.

"What's your name?" he murmured.

She didn't reply, for doing so would destroy the moment. For the first time since starting her quest, she felt safe. She had been so alone, so afraid…

He lifted her chin for a kiss. A shiver went through her when their lips touched. Though the kiss was undemanding, she could not have broken away to save her life. It deepened, became a voluptuous mating of lips and tongues, a harmony of pulses. Without an iota of physical force, he was melting her resistance.

The spell shattered when she felt his warm palms on her bare shoulders. Good Lord, he had untied the tapes that secured the back of her bodice, then drawn down the flimsy sleeves of her gown. If she didn't stop him, she'd soon be naked. And it wasn't only her clothing he was stripping away, but her defenses and her sense of purpose. How could she have so easily forgotten that he was one of the enemy? It was not an accident that he was called Lucifer.

With a choked gasp, she shoved herself away, the heels of her hands hard against his chest. "I must go." She tugged her sleeves up again. "I… I was engaged especially for Mr. Harford. If he releases me from that obligation, I'll return."

She slipped around him and moved toward the door. In another moment, she would be free___

Lucien swore to himself as the girl slid away. Why did he have to set his sights on a doxy with an overdeveloped sense of responsibility? He reached out to draw her into his embrace again. "You can look for Harford later, if you still want to."

She gracefully stepped away, turning as she did. For an instant her face was silhouetted against the lamplight. A delicate profile, as pure as a Greek coin…

The recognition stunned him. Surely it wasn't possible—the resemblance was mere coincidence.

Instinct said otherwise.

Lust vanished, and he dived after her, catching her arm when she was halfway into the corridor. None too gently he pulled her back into the room and slammed the door, then swung her around so that he could see
that
unmistakable profile again. "By God, it really is you!"

She tried to twist away. "Let me go! I don't know what you're talking about."

He wondered if Lord Mace could have set her to spy on him. If so, that meant Mace was suspicious about his prospective new member, and the situation was more dangerous than Lucien had realized. But the girl shaking in his grasp did not seem like a hardened spy, or a whore, either. She had kissed like an innocent—an innocent who was learning quickly.

"Don't think you can deceive me again, my larcenous lady." He gripped her shoulder so that he could study her face at close range. With his other hand, he skimmed his fingertips over her features.
"Clever how
you've used cosmetics to subtly alter the shape and planes of your face. Your own mother would have trouble recognizing you. And you've padded your figure again, though not as obviously as when you were Sally."

Her resistance collapsed, and she stared at him, tears shimmering in her blue-gray eyes. "The game is up, isn't it?" All trace of the Yorkshire accent had vanished.

"It certainly is." He released her wrist. "Who the devil are you?"

She turned away and pressed trembling hands to her temples.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said more quietly, "but I want the truth. What is your real name—Kitty? Emmie Brown? Or Sally, like the bawdy tavern wench? Probably none of those."

She sighed and raised her head. "My name is Jane. I won't tell you my family name. I'm in enough trouble already."

He suspected that meant that he might recognize her family; her natural air was that of a gently bred young woman, the sort usually found in a London drawing room rather than a theatrical tavern. "Why have you been haunting the Hellions? Or is it only me you're trying to drive to distraction?"

"It's not you I'm interested in, Lord Strathmore, but another of your associates."

"Which one?"

She hesitated. "I'd rather not say."

"You're going to have to tell me something," he said sharply. "Surely you're aware of the penalties for theft. Since you're pretty, I don't suppose you will end up at Newgate, but if I decide to press charges, you will certainly be transported."

Her face paled. "Please don't turn me over to a magistrate. I swear that I want only what I'm entitled to."

He frowned. "Is your quarry a man who ruined you?"

She began prowling restlessly about the room, her pale gown fluttering around her ankles. "It was my brother who was ruined, though I'm affected, too."

"Did your brother lose a fortune at cards?"

She stopped and stared at him. "How did you know?"

"An informed guess," Lucien said dryly. "Gambling is the quickest road to ruin for a man. But what kind of contemptible young swine would allow his sister to risk herself to save him from his own folly?"

"James isn't like that." She drifted to the fireplace and gazed down at the banked coals. "One couldn't ask for a better or more responsible brother. He's in the army and had come home to convalesce from wounds. Just before he was due to return to his regiment, he was lured into a card game with… with a certain man. My brother was coerced, cheated, and probably drugged. When he awoke the next morning, the man had a note of hand saying that he would receive title to our family estate if James didn't pay him twenty thousand pounds within sixty days."