The Danger of Desire (36 page)

She bit his hand as he muffled her cries, and he was there, covering her, meeting her body with his own, feeding her need for heat and friction. He had only loosed the flap on his breeches, and it was somehow erotic that she was beneath him, open and naked and pale in the reflected firelight. All this while he was above, dark and clothed, with only the pale, incandescent light from his eyes shining down at her. Looking at her body, watching every little thing she did, each arch and sigh.

She reached up to fist her hands in the linen of his shirt, to feel the starch and smell his clean scent, and to tether herself to him, before she flew away again. Before she abandoned herself to the carnal heat, pushed higher and higher by the buttery texture of his suede breeches rubbing against her inner thighs as he rocked into her.

Her breath was coming in unmannerly, groaning pants. Surely the rest of the house could hear her and would know what she was doing. She covered her mouth with her own hand, desperate to hold back, to quiet the gasps and moans of pleasure stealing out of her mouth with every powerful surge of his body into hers.

“That’s it.” His voice was rough and urgent. “You have to keep yourself quiet or I’ll have to stop fucking you.”

“No!” she breathed and flung her hands out wide, digging her fingers into the coverlet, holding on for all she had. “You can’t.”

“I can.” He surged into her, deep within to touch her womb, and then he withdrew nearly to the end. “And I will. If you can’t keep quiet.”

“I will.”

“You can’t moan.”

She bit down on her lip and shook her head side to side, thrashing the feelings out of her.

“You can’t scream when I fuck you like this.” He hooked his hands under her knees and pulled them upward, bearing into her roughly, deeper into her core, the pain and pleasure of his body rubbing against hers, meshing and melting into heated bliss.

And her heart exploded and flung her into the black velvet darkness.

CHAPTER 25

M
eggs put off all thinking, all worrying, and all planning for the future until after the Balfour Advent Ball. She was going to allow herself to float along, buoyed above the ocean of care for just a little while longer. Or at least as long as she possibly could.

Her time within the approval of Society, of his family, wouldn’t last much longer, but she held on tight to her little dreamtime. All her other dreams had fallen away—of returning to her own home in the country, of taking up her life anonymously, of finding the peaceful love she had once known. They were nothing but a foolish, childish fantasy. But this, this joy she got from the joining of their bodies, was real. It would make no difference if she lived out the rest of her days as his mistress. She could not reclaim what she had lost. She had ruined herself irrevocably the first moment she had decided to turn thief, the first moment she had compromised the principles she had been raised with. But there was nothing to regret in the fierce bliss he gave her. If that was all the passion and joy she was to know for the rest of her life, then so be it.

The evening of the ball came bright and clear, the moon lighting the dry roads so every family of the neighborhood of Balfour arrived in good time. The viscountess did all the work of introducing her.

“The connection is really quite slight. Do you remember Eugenia, Countess of Whelmshire? My second cousin. No? Lovely girl, went to school with her, married superbly. Well, this is her youngest sister Effie’s daughter’s girl. But no matter, it’s such a treat to have a girl in the house, someone to fuss over and dress. Makes me feel young again, all the tinkering and plotting after the young gentlemen.”

Meggs had nothing to do but smile and look sweet and happy in her beautiful iced pink silk ball gown and beautiful cross necklace. And she
was
happy. Though Hugh had been far away, at the other end of the table at dinner, he had spoken to her.

“You’re to dance the opening set with me—that is if you’ll have me.”

“Of course.” She smiled up at him. The expectation of being able to hold his hand and look up at him for twenty minutes all together, without once having to hide her feelings, was its own kind of bliss.

And so when the musicians began to play, and her captain stepped up to claim her, she smiled at him as if he were the only person in the room.

“Miss Evans.”

“Captain McAlden.”

“Come, let us dance, and you can pretend to be charmed by my clumsiness.”

“I don’t have to pretend.” She laughed and was rewarded with one of his rare, almost silly smiles. But then as they danced, he grew more serious, more focused, until it was
she
who felt as if she were the only person in the room. When he looked at her like that, that way he had of making her feel as if she was not dressed at all but standing before him clad only in her skin, she blushed a startling crimson.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she admonished when they came together.

“Like what? How am I looking at you?”

“As if ...” Heat rose across her face, but it did not stop her from smiling. “You know very well what you’re doing.”

“No, I’m not
doing
anything. I’m merely thinking about
doing
. And planning to do later. Very much later. Don’t forget that as the choir boys try to charm you into kissing them.”

Heat set in under her skin and hummed along there in happy anticipation. The evening became a whirl. After the first set, the viscountess returned to lead Meggs around for more introductions. With each turn about the room, young men seemed to materialize out of nowhere, asking for the privilege of one of Miss Evans’s dances, if she had them to spare. She played her part, accepting demurely and dancing with each gentleman who asked without talking too much, or revealing anything about herself. But it was all lovely, lovely, lovely.

And so she was completely unprepared when the viscountess steered her toward a tiny, elderly woman seated at the center side of the room on a chaise.

“My dear Anne.” The viscountess greeted her friend. “May I have the pleasure of presenting my protégé, Miss Evans? Margaret, I would like to introduce you to my great friend, Her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Fenmore.”

Meggs stumbled to a standstill. And felt her heart give out, crumbling into hot icy pieces within her chest. But it only felt as though it had given out, for she was still standing, still breathing, still expected to speak and say something into the strange, echoing silence between them.

“Your Grace.” She looked the old woman in the eye, determined not to blink, not to so much as stammer. She couldn’t help it—there was ice and something more—blame and hatred coming from her voice.

The old lady was noticeably ruffled, taken aback at her nearly insolent tone, though she appeared to have a better grasp of the civilities. “I’m sorry, Miss ... ?”

“Miss Evans,” the viscountess supplied. She frowned at Meggs, her eyes full of concern. “She’s my cousin’s ... Are you quite all right, my dear?”

Meggs looked back at the duchess, who was staring at her, baffled and unsettled. Meggs knew she was supposed to say something, to make some sort of apology, but she could only stare back. Then Hugh appeared out of nowhere at her side, murmuring something about the heat and needing air, leading her away with an uncompromising grip at her elbow.

“What has gotten into you?” Hugh was looking at her sharply, those eyes steely and unblinking. “You’re antagonizing the Duchess of Fenmore. You’re supposed to take the role of a simpering, witless, young thing, not sparring verbally with Her Grace.”

“I’m sorry.” But she wasn’t, and he knew it from her voice, which was still shaking.

“Meggs? What is going on?”

How could she explain? There was nothing she could say that he would believe. “Nothing. You’re right, it is hot and close in here.”

“Try to remember your behavior will reflect directly upon my mother.”

The mention of the viscountess had a strong effect. “Yes,” she agreed. “I understand. I am sorry. I need to go to the withdrawing room.”

And she was sorry now. She felt awful, the disconcerting jumble of feelings over the past weeks nothing in comparison to the seething roil of poison in her gut. Meggs had imagined this moment a thousand and six times over the past years, had pictured the meeting, but in her dreamlike scenarios, she was joyful and triumphant, while the old lady was to have been weeping and contrite. But this had been horrible—awkward and unfulfilling. The moment had come and gone before she could compose herself enough to get past the dry burning in her throat and say anything to the point.

The withdrawing room was helpfully equipped with a tray of champagne glasses, and Meggs took one and gulped it down. Bubbles immediately came up into her nose, and she thought she might sneeze, but she didn’t, so she took another, more cautious sip to erase the raw dryness in her throat. No wonder people thought it was wonderful. The wine tasted light and bright, and wonderful—it tasted like hope.

So she took another swallow. And another.

Who cared about one old lady? Not her. There were choir boys to fleece.

Lady Balfour took her son by the arm. “Hugh, darling, just some motherly advice. You’re sadly dimming my triumph with your lovely Miss Evans by this atrocious dog in the manger show.”

“She’s not my Miss Evans.”

“Really? Then to what purpose is all this? Don’t be silly. You’re as transparent as a window glass. Now come along. You’re scowling ferociously at Mr. Blythwyn while he dances with Miss Evans, and it won’t do. You look as if you’d like to throttle him.”

Hugh was reminded of a similar comment he had once made to a friend, Colonel Rupert Delacorte, in exactly this same situation. And look what had happened to him—tied up in knots by the ravishing Miss Burke, instead of throttling her. But the Ravishing Miss Burke was not a liar, a sneak thief, pickpocket, and robber. She was not a “prime filching mort.”

Hugh didn’t know exactly what it was about Meggs tonight, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Nor could he relax his guard. Something was wrong, and he damned himself for a fool in instigating this whole experiment. He should have known she would not be able to resist the compulsion to steal. She was working the dance floor as if it were Covent Garden. As for Blythwyn—he was taking every opportunity to leer down the front of Meggs’s gown. “Damned Welshman.”

“None of that,” his mother admonished. “He’s merely talking to her, and she is talking back, learning to use that lovely smile of hers just as you wanted. You wanted the girl to move in society, and she’s doing it. Pray don’t dim her triumph with your misplaced disapproval.”

It would hardly be a triumph if someone caught her with her hand in their pocket. Her lovely smile would do her no good then.

His mother took his silence as assent. “Thank you. I would suggest you go and flirt with some other young lady, but I know that’s far beyond your powers of civility.”

“Is that what you call what she’s doing—flirting?”

“Hugh. Only in the best way, the correct way. A girl has to flirt and talk, otherwise young men just stare at their bosoms and plot how soon they can drag them off to the nearest dark spot.” She turned those canny, vixen eyes on him. “There, the dance is finished. There are some people I’d like her to meet.”

Meggs came off the dance floor glowing. She gave him what he could only call a mischievous smile as she brushed by. And then he felt the slight tug on his waistcoat. He reached immediately into his pocket—only to find two watches.

“God’s balls, Meggs, what in blazes do you think you’re doing?”

“Have to keep my hand in, don’t I? I get tired of stealing yours all the time, though it is the nicest.”

And away she went, with his mother murmuring vague things about “—my poor cousin’s girl. So happy to have her with me. Gives me a chance to bring a girl out at last. Such a pleasure. How do you like her frock? Don’t you think she looks well in that silk. Madame Egremont, of course.” All as light and sparkling as champagne.

Just when Hugh felt his mood could not be made worse, he spied Major Rawsthorne strolling toward him, looking like a rat amongst the chicken eggs. There was only one reason he would be approaching Hugh after their last set-to—he was looking to make trouble.

“Surprised?”

“Not particularly,” Hugh lied. He should have spoken to Balfour about expurgating his guest list after his last encounter with this bastard. “To what do we owe the ... honor, Major?”

“Oh, country air, festivities, charming company. Although I must say, I am surprised to see you here. Thought you’d still have yourself chained to old Middleton’s side. You have a reputation as a man who cares little for finer society.”

“I consider it a privilege to serve the admiral and His Majesty’s Navy, in any way I might be asked to do so.” God’s balls he was beginning to sound as pompous as Rawsthorne himself.

“Clearly. I was just telling Lord Cummings”—who had strolled over to join Rawsthorne—“you quite stole a march on me, young man. Captain McAlden, here, handed us a traitor, all but convicted of his crimes, along with all the evidence—and still I know nothing of how this miraculous feat was accomplished. Still waiting for your report.”

Lord Cummings of the unsavory friends down on the Cheapside docks. To what purpose was this bloody game? “I’m sure the Admiralty will forward you a copy in due time. It is nearly Christmas, Major. I hope the admiral’s staff has better things to do than copy out reports.”

“The war doesn’t stop for Christmas, Captain,” Rawsthorne hectored, pious as a parson. “But you are here to celebrate, no doubt. You should be well assured of your preferment. Although the second man, your traitor’s accomplice, slipped through your hands.”

“My hands?” The anger Hugh had tried to stifle, out of respect for his mother and Viscount Balfour, not to mention to keep Meggs safe, seethed to the surface. “I gave your department everything you needed to arrest the man. You jeopardized my ... men, gathering that evidence on Falconer for nothing. You let him go with your blatant arrest of Stoval in St. James’s.”