Rake's Guide to Pleasure. (8 page)

Just the memory of her ankles aroused him, and those ankles were right there, resting mere inches from his own. Hart could reach down and ease her
slippered
foot up, rest it between his knees. He could explore the delicate puzzle of bone and muscle, then glide up until his hand rose over her firm, warm calf. She had strength in her legs, the muscles of a country girl who'd explored hills and marsh and forest. Her calf would be relaxed, but her thigh . . . Oh, her thigh would tense under his touch. Her muscles would clench and strain as he stroked. They would tremble. He wanted them to tremble.

His fingers curled into his palms.

This was not how he chose a mistress. Not anymore. He did not pick a woman because of her
ankles.
He chose women who were easy. Simple. Women who volunteered for seduction and wanted him enough to keep their mouths closed about it. Hart dictated the terms, and forced the woman to voice her agreement before he would arrange a meeting. It was all business until he got to the bedroom, and even then . . . even then he was composed and . . . and .. .

"You did surprise me," Lady
Denmore
said in a rush, as if she could not resist speaking.

Hart blinked and felt himself settle back into his body. His
new
body. The one that didn't explore sordid fantasies with every desirable woman. "Pardon?"

"Your suggestion that we indulge ourselves. It shocked me. Your reputation is . . ." She raised both hands slightly. "Confusing."

Hart leaned into the cushions at his back. He let his gaze fall to her skirts, thinking of those damned ankles again.

"You are a rake. You do not fall in love, do not even
pretend affection toward your lovers. You simply engage in affairs. Everyone knows this.
I
know it. But. . ."
Her
hands rose again, hovered. "You were worse than a rake in your youth. A reprobate. You attended parties . . ."
Her breath jumped in her throat.

Hart thought of Lady
Denmore
at one of those gatherings . . . but she would be with him, only with him.

"You were notorious,
Somerhart
, but you have changed. A circumspect duke with a heart of ice, a study in control. But still a rake. How can that be?"

His distraction vanished and Hart felt a brush of panic over his nerves. He didn't like this, didn't like her looking at him with such focus. "Your confusion is easily dispelled. I am not a rake."

"But you were."

"I never seduced virgins, never lied to get into a woman's bed. I—"

"You had Mrs. Charlotte Brown and her sister-in-law in your bed
at the same time!

"I was hardly past my nineteenth birthday," he snapped, flushing almost immediately at the ridiculousness of his own words. He felt stupid.
She
made him feel stupid and he had sacrificed for years so he wouldn't have to face that feeling again. Her ankles could go to hell.

She wasn't even beautiful, merely pretty.
Unremark
-able except for those wicked eyes and that midnight voice. And the delicate pink toes and tensing thighs.

Lady
Denmore
made a thoughtful sound and pressed on. "There was—"

"Why did you accept my offer of a ride?" Hart ground out. "You clearly don't enjoy my company any more than you say I enjoy yours. Perhaps
you
are the glutton for punishment."

Her husky laugh enveloped him. "Perhaps I am. But you are an attractive man,
Somerhart
, and so very cool and arrogant. I admit I enjoy needling you. And I daresay you need it. No one else seems willing to try."

"No, they'd rather practice their sword thrusts from a distance."

Her head cocked infinitesimally and Hart tried to call the words back, but they were already free, revealing secret things about him.

"Is that what you like about me?" she asked. "That I tell you what I think? Everyone's afraid of you, you know. I assumed you preferred it that way. Every man in his place, every woman trembling at your feet."

"Yes."

"Well, I do not tremble."

I could make you tremble,
he thought. When she froze, Hart realized he'd said the words aloud. He could hardly manage to summon up regret. He
could
make her tremble, and often.

"I'm sure . . ." She paused to swallow the rasp from her words. "I'm sure you could. I do not doubt you learned very useful things in your youth. But it's simply not possible."

All his frustrations coalesced with a wrenching jolt. Hart leaned forward and made her jump.
"Why?
Are you working toward some quiet, profitable marriage? Because you are already spectacularly unsuccessful at being a respectable widow."

Her mouth curved up.

"Any man who would accept your rampant gambling would accept a few indiscretions as well."

"Would he? How very generous of him."

"I don't understand you."

"Then we are both equally confused."

Hart laughed, not truly amused, but he could laugh or jump from the carriage or strangle her. So laugh he did. The coach leaned around a corner, and Hart snapped open the window coverings to see the neat row houses of
Belgrave
Square.

"I am sorry that I cannot accept an invitation to your bed, Duke. But I cannot."

"Why," Hart muttered, "do I feel the
veriest
idiot, attempting his first, bumbling seduction?"

"If you aren't forced to exercise a skill, finesse vanishes. No one has challenged you in years, I'd imagine."

Hart slid his gaze across the darkness to meet hers. "Is that what this is? A challenge?"

Her eyes widened in alarm. "No."

"Hmm." His muscles relaxed a bit. He leaned back into his seat and turned to the window.

"No," Lady
Denmore
repeated. "This is
not
a challenge. Pray don't launch a campaign."

"Don't be alarmed." Anticipation inched up his spine and spread pleasure over his skin. How long had it been since he'd felt that? "I am not an invading army."

"You could be," she insisted.

Hart smiled at the view. "The neighborhood is deteriorating. We must be drawing close to Marlborough Road."

Her exasperated huff filled the carriage and drew Hart's thoughts to gasps of pleasure.
A challenge.
He felt his skin draw tighter across his whole body, felt his blood expanding. "Yes," he said, as if she had spoken.

"I was not challenging you. My life is not a game, Your Grace, and I would not appreciate your treating it as such." Her voice shook a little, he noticed.
Trembled.

Hart grinned into the night. "My sister would say I've been an arrogant ass, and I've found her to be frighteningly intelligent." He met Lady
Denmore's
wide-eyed gaze. "Like you."

She shook her head.

"Will you be attending
Moulter's
retreat?"

"No."

"Of course you will. Three days of deep-pocketed noblemen, half of whom wouldn't know a good hand if it introduced itself. I do believe I'll accept
Moulter's
invitation."

Her mouth had lost its will to smirk at him. Her lips pressed tight together. "I will not be your lover."

"Mm."

"Do what you wish. It will be in vain."

"I appreciate the warning, Lady
Denmore
."

She crossed her arms and fumed, pleasing
Somerhart
to no end. The woman was tempted, very tempted, and with very little help from Hart. He'd been rude and presumptuous, not the least bit seductive, and she was
tempted.
The last vestiges of Hart's perpetual boredom floated away like smoke.

When the carriage tilted around a corner, Hart put his hand to the seat and spread his fingers wide, thinking of Lady
Denmore's
thighs again. A dark shadow tore him from his pleasant thoughts, and Hart leaned closer to the glass to scowl at the distraction. A man stood on the corner, bundled against the cold. Only his eyes were visible above a thick, gray wrap, but those eyes watched closely as the lights of the carriage passed.

Thief,
Hart thought, without much alarm. Both his driver and footman were well-armed against the city's dark-minded inhabitants. But alarm reared its ugly head when the coach pulled to a stop just a dozen yards from the corner.

"Thank you, I suppose," Lady
Denmore
murmured, confirming that they'd arrived at her home. The latch clicked open and the footman swung open the door. Hart didn't bother waiting for the step. He jumped from the carriage, surprising his servant and no doubt pleasing Lady
Denmore
with his rudeness. But he was rewarded with a brief glimpse of the man on the corner, who was quickly backing away into the shadows. Hart stared after him, wanting to give chase and knowing he must not.

"Whatever are you doing?" her voice purred from his side.

"A thief. He was right on your corner."

"How do you know it was a thief? Likely it was our local boot black. He lurks about at all hours."

"Is he six feet tall?"

"Oh. Still—"

"He was standing right here, not a dozen yards from your home. You must take care. He likely already noted that you travel alone."

"Yes, I . . ." She glanced around, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. Hart felt a sudden anger. She should not be living here like this, in an unfamiliar city in a neighborhood only pretending at gentility. She should be traveling with a groom, at least, and not returning to her home at all hours of the night.

"You—" He started, but she spun on her heel and hurried toward a narrow set of steps.

"Don't bother, Your Grace. I can hear the censure in that one word. I am not wealthy and I am not married, so whatever you are about to say is meaningless. This is the neighborhood I can afford, the life I can afford. Good evening."

She fished a key from her skirts as she mounted the stairs, and actually unlocked the door herself, not a servant in sight. Hart watched, stunned, as the simple gray door closed with a solid thump. And Lady
Denmore
was gone.

Hart wasn't sure how long he stood there, frowning, but his driver felt compelled to clear his throat.

"Right," Hart muttered, and made himself step toward the open carriage door. "Drive around the block a few times, Lark. And keep a sharp eye out. I want to be sure we've chased that ruffian away."

And he and Lady
Denmore
would speak at length about her situation when they met at
Moulter's
estate. After he'd charmed her drawers off.

Chapter 4

The note glowed against the dark, polished wood of the sitting room table. Emma did not know what to think of it, but she was grateful for the distraction. A ride around the park with the handsome Viscount Lancaster would ease her worries for a few moments. If she were lucky, it might even annoy
Somerhart
.

"If that
Stimp
comes around," Emma called, "please bid him return. I need to speak with him."

Bess grumbled a sound of assent from the hall, and Emma turned her attention back to the cloak she was mending. The cheap fur edging around the hood had begun to free itself in clumps and tufts, but Bess had found a finer strip of fur at a market stall. The stitching required not the least bit of finesse, so the task was perfect for Emma. But the work needed little thought even with her lack of experience, and her mind turned immediately back to the man lurking on the corner the other night and the danger he presented.

Stimp
had claimed that her spy was an older man, and not a gentleman at all, but he'd also assured her that he'd convinced the man to leave.