His breath caught as she moved, sitting herself down on his lap in a feminine rustle of expensive fabric. The scent of vanilla and jasmine teased his senses, scattering what remained of his wits.

  “There,” she said, giving him a defiant look which Inigo was too dazed to appreciate.

  She wriggled a little, shifting her plump behind until she was comfortable and sending jolts of desire like electric shocks, singing through him. He bit back a moan, instantly hard and aching as the yearning to do unspeakable things burned through him, as though she’d set a match to gunpowder. Oh. Good. Lord.

  “How shall we do this?” she asked, making him wonder just how innocent she was. Before he could form a reply she added, “I mean, should we use a scale, like from one to ten?”

  “What?” he croaked.

  He sounded dazed even to his own ear, though it was hardly surprising. He couldn’t think of anything past the fact she was sitting in his lap, that her lush bottom was too close to his arousal and yet a million miles away. He need only shift her a little to be able to press his aching member against her softness and find some measure of relief. Her subtle perfume coiled about him, invading his senses: sweet and tantalising, warm, and entirely female.

  “Well, on a scale of one to ten,” she began her expression serious. “How much do you love me?”

  “I don’t love you,” he replied at once, wishing his heart would slow down as he was feeling lightheaded.

  She sighed and gave a shrug. “Well, it was worth a try. For my own feelings, hmmm, let me see… I shall give you a five.”

  “A five?” he demanded, a little stung.

  The blasted woman had been pursuing him for weeks and he only merited a five?

  He held his breath as she touched his face, delicate fingers trailing over his cheek and sending shivers racing over his flesh. “Don’t be cross. I haven’t the least doubt I shall be head over ears in love with you and it will be at ten soon enough, but I can’t tell you I love you until I know you better. You might have some dreadful habit that will make me change my mind.”

  How absurd he was. He didn’t want her to love him, yet her words unsettled him and made him anxious. “How very reasonable you are, Miss Butler.”

  She smiled at him, the corners of her beautiful mouth twitching up into something that looked just a little smug. “You are cross.”

  Inigo huffed with impatience. “I am not. You do not love me, Miss Butler, not even a pitiful five. You don’t know me at all.”

  “Hmmm, I think I do,” she murmured, and her voice was like a caress, making longing surge through his blood. It was the hardest thing not to put his hands on her and get this ridiculous nonsense over with. He clutched the sides of the chair with white knuckles just to be sure. “Anyway, moving on, if we use the same method, on a scale of one to ten, how much do you desire me?”

  She turned to stare down at him, and it was too much. His eyes dropped to her mouth and he couldn’t take any more.

  “Ten,” he rasped, and pulled her to him, one hand sliding into the warm silk of her hair, urging her head down, and pressing his lips against hers.

  There wasn’t the least resistance, just a breathy gasp. God, she was sweet, so soft, her lush curves willing and pliant in his arms. Beautiful and eager too, it was a heady combination. Though his body was hard and desperate he found he didn’t want to rush. It would be sacrilege, like gulping down a fine wine instead of savouring the flavours. So he took his time, brushing their lips together, teasing at the seam of her mouth with his tongue and experiencing a shock of pure lust as she tentatively met it with her own.

  Inigo groaned, pulling her closer still, until her body pressed hard against him. Oh, she felt good, so warm and feminine. His. The thought stole through his brain and he pushed it away. Nonsense. That was ridiculous. She belonged to herself. There was no way one person could possess another. It was morally wrong, unnatural, like marriage. It was some throwback to living in caves and dragging your woman about by the hair. Yet as she kissed him, her mouth firming against his, surer as she learned the way of it, he experienced that possessive heat burning inside of him and it wanted. It wanted so badly he felt himself unravelling, the edges of his mind coming undone and threatening retribution if he didn’t make her his. It wanted to know he was the only one, that she was his alone. The hand he’d settled upon her tiny waist travelled up her side until his thumb was close enough to stroke the underside of her breast. Her breath caught on a gasp at his touch and Inigo deepened the kiss, the hand he’d tangled in her hair angling her head so he could take more, and more and she didn’t so much as murmur a protest.

  In a daze he realised she’d slid her arms about his neck, and it was his turn to gasp as one hand tugged at his cravat. She cast it aside, and Inigo shivered with pleasure as her slender fingers insinuated themselves under his shirt, her fingers trailing teasing patterns on his skin. He watched as she drew back, eyes dark with desire, her lips swollen and red from his kisses. She was so beautiful, so warm and vibrant and alive, and he wanted to carry her up to his bed and show her just where this was leading.

  “Well,” she said, sounding rather unsteady. “T-That seems like a good start, but I… I think perhaps we should leave it there.”

  No. The word was on his lips, but he bit it back. This was madness. It would end in disaster. His body hurt, the ache of unsatisfied desire making him fractious and unreasonable. A sudden rush of anger burned through him as he realised, he’d never be allowed this. Not really. Why had she come here to torment him? She’d been teasing him from the start, believing she’d only need bat her lashes at him and he’d fall to his knees in gratitude at being noticed. Fear slithered under his skin as he wondered just how close to the truth she’d been. Taking his hands from her was like parting opposing magnets, the two forces fighting to remain joined.

  He watched in silence as she got to her feet, smoothing her skirts and deftly rearranging her hair. It irritated him, seeing her put back to rights when he’d been swept up in a hurricane and left in bewildering disorder.

  “I suppose I ought to go,” she said, turning to smile at him and looking a little uncertain.

  “Yes, now that you’ve had what you came for,” he sneered, wishing he wasn’t so damned angry.

  He folded his arms, fighting to appear indifferent. Let her go, what did he care? She’d laugh with her friends about how daring she’d been, no doubt, and he’d never see her again. Well, so much the better.

  He glanced at her, despite his best intentions, and found her expression soften.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, moving back to him. “I don’t want to go, I promise. It would be much nicer to stay with you but… but I will be missed, and it probably isn’t wise. I shall come back again soon though, if… if I may?”

  She reached out a tentative hand and put it to his cheek. Before Inigo could think better of it, could think at all, he’d turned into it like a cat seeking a caress.

  If he had any sense, he’d warn her to run while she could and never come back. For this was going in one direction only and he wouldn’t be the one to stop it happening. As it was, he closed his eyes, determined to sound unconcerned even though he would count the minutes until she returned to him.

  “Do as you please, Miss Butler,” he said. “I think we both know where this will end. I’ve made my opinion of love and marriage clear. I don’t believe in either, I have no room in my life for either. If you find pleasure with me, however, I’m more than willing to continue.”

  She dropped her hand, something in her eyes that looked remarkably like pity.

  “Goodbye, Inigo,” she whispered, and bent to kiss his cheek.

  It was only several seconds later that he realised he hadn’t seen her to the door, and that she’d used his Christian name.

  Chapter 5

  Dear Matilda,

  I hope you and the Peculiar Ladies are well. I had a very welcome visit from Bonnie last week with her new husband. What a handful they are! The ton must quake in their satin slippers wondering what the dreadful creatures will get up to next. It was lovely to see them both so happy.

  I, for my part, feel I am ready to be put out to grass. It is almost six months now and I am the size of a house. I’m always hungry and nap more than the ginger cat Nate has recently adopted. It delivered six kittens this morning and looks dreadfully smug. Not that I can blame it. Do write and tell me what everyone is up to. Life is rather idyllic, but I still miss you all and long for news of all your adventures.

  How has Minerva got on with her dare, and when are you going to take yours?

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Mrs Alice Hunt to Miss Matilda Hunt.

  30th December 1814. Beverwyck, London.

  “Well?”

  Minerva blushed as she discovered Helena lying in wait for her when she returned to Beverwyck. She was almost bouncing on the spot, the beautiful russet colour dress she wore catching what remained of the grey December light as she moved.

  “Hush,” Minerva said, glaring at her as she handed over her hat and coat to a footman. Helena grabbed her by the hand and dragged her up the stairs, not stopping until they were in the privacy of her bedroom, where she slammed the door and leapt onto the bed with a most unladylike squeal.

  “Tell me,” she demanded. “I can’t believe you completed your dare and it’s not the most scandalous thing you’ve done today! Tell me everything. Don’t leave out a single detail.”

  Minerva bit her lip and then laughed, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “Oh, Helena,” she said, staring at her friend and not knowing where on earth to begin. “Oh, my word.”

  “Good Lord, you did it,” Helena said, eyes wide with a mixture of outrage and admiration. “You kissed him.”

  Minerva nodded, though to say she kissed him, hardly seemed an adequate description. It was like saying the sun was quite warm when confronted with the fiery ball of flame.

  “I did.”

  “What was it like?”

  Minerva let out a shaky breath and went to sit beside her friend on the bed. She collapsed against the pillows with a sigh. “It was….”

  “Yes?” Helena demanded impatiently when the answer didn’t come.

  She laughed, shaking her head. “Well, I can understand how easily a woman can lose her virtue, put it that way. Oh, my, Helena.”

  Helena lay on her side, her head resting on her hand, regarding Minerva with troubled green eyes. “This is dangerous, Min, you do know that?”

  “I do,” she said, meeting Helena’s gaze. “If I was in any doubt of that fact today has banished any misconceptions, I assure you. I didn’t want to leave him. I can’t think of anything but seeing him again.”

  “And him?” Helena asked. “What did he have to say?”

  Minerva smiled, remembering his indignation at being given a five out of ten, the sneering way he’d spoken when she’d ended the kiss, and the way he’d closed his eyes and turned into her hand when she’d caressed his cheek. He might not believe in love, but he needed it, more than anyone she’d ever met before.

  “He thinks I’m deranged,” she said happily.

  Helena snorted. “I’m uncertain I can disagree with that. You’re risking ruin for a penniless natural philosopher who’s not even a gentleman. Your mother will never allow you to marry him, even supposing you can get him to the altar. Assuming that’s what you want?” Helena stared at her, narrowing her gaze. “Is it what you want?”

  Minerva pondered this. “I don’t know. Mr de Beauvoir does not believe in love or marriage. He believes men and women are equal and ought to take their pleasure as and when they desire.”

  “Good heavens,” Helena said in alarm, one slender hand pressed to her heart. “He’s a radical.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, smiling. “Or at least it’s a very personal revolution. I don’t believe he has the slightest interest in politics. His work is his passion.”

  Not his only passion, she thought, smiling as she remembered the feel of his mouth on hers, the urgency of his kisses. He wanted her. He wanted her very badly. She might not know a great deal about men, or passion, but she wasn’t a fool. If he wasn’t such a gentleman, things might have gone a deal farther than they had.

  “I’m not sure I should help you again.”

  Minerva stiffened at Helena’s words, seeing the worry in her friend’s eyes. “Oh, Helena, you promised!”

  Helena sat up, the rich skirts of her dress rustling as she moved. She was uncharacteristically serious, plucking at the counterpane on the bed with nervous fingers. “I know I did, but I’m frightened, Min. What if you’re discovered? What if he ruins you and won’t marry you?”

  Minerva pondered this. She knew it was a very real risk, but she also knew it didn’t change a thing. She wanted to see him again. The desire to be close to him was so much worse now. Before it had been a wistful ache, but now… now she needed to see him or she felt she might run mad. She could not consider forgetting it, pretending it had never happened, the thought of never being in his arms again, of never kissing him again, made panic rise in her chest.

  “I’m going back to him, Helena. Whether or not you help me,” she said, giving an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry, but I must.”

  Helena blew out a breath, folding her arms over her chest. “Somehow, I just knew you would say that,” she muttered, obviously frustrated.

  “Sorry.”

  Helena laughed, a slightly despairing sound as she shook her head. “I’m wondering if I should steer clear of Mr Knight. If this is the state I will end up in, he’s best avoided.”

  Minerva grinned and flopped back on the pillows. “I’ll remind you of that after the first time he kisses you. Ooof!” The world went white and blurry as a Helena hit her with a pillow. “Oh, you’ll pay for that,” she said, snatching up her own weapon and whacking Helena about the head with it.

  Helena’s elegant coiffure sagged to one side and Minerva gave a bark of laughter until Helena retaliated. A moment later, they were shrieking and screaming, and the air was full of feathers.

  “What the devil is going on in there?”

  Helena covered her mouth with her hand as her brother’s voice sounded from behind the door.

  “Nothing,” Helena replied through her fingers, her voice quavering.

  The door opened a crack and Robert peered around the corner. “Aren’t you a bit old for pillow fights?” he asked, his expression mild.

  Helena stuck his tongue out at him. Robert sighed.

  “Hoydens,” he remarked sadly, shaking his head. “I’m surrounded by hoydens.”

  “Well, you married one, your grace,” Helena shot back.

  The duke grinned at them.

  “So I did,” he said. “Carry on.”

  They watched as the door closed, and then collapsed on the bed in fits.

  ***

  7thJanuary1815. Hatchard’s Bookshop, Piccadilly, London.

  Jemima stared at the rows of books in front of her and wished she could focus on anything but the fact she was too hot, extremely flustered, and more than a little lightheaded. She gave up trying to read the titles and concentrated instead on counting them. Perhaps if she did that, she’d calm herself down, perhaps she’d wake up and discover this was all some terrible dream. Her aunt wasn’t dead, she wasn’t penniless, she wasn’t so very desperate that she’d agreed to meet a man here; a man she didn’t know, a man who….

  “Miss Fernside?”

  Jemima jolted in alarm, staggering backwards in shock and knocking into the arm of an elderly man. The book he held shot up into the air and she watched, helpless, numb with embarrassment, until a gloved hand snatched the book up before it could thud to the floor.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” the man before her said smoothly to the disgruntled customer. “Entirely my fault.”

  The old man huffed but grabbed the book and moved away, glaring a little at Jemima as he went.

  “Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry,” Jemima said, cheeks blazing. She’d been overheated to begin with; now she felt ready to set light to her bonnet. “I’m not usually so clumsy.”

  “Nonsense. I startled you. Quite understandable.”

  Jemima stared up at the man before her, taken aback by the brisk, imperturbable words. He was tall and broad, with brown hair, though brown did not seem to adequately describe tones that ranged from gold to mahogany. His eyes were darker than the darkest shade and rather intense as they scrutinised her, a slight frown drawing his eyebrows together.

  “You are Miss Fernside?”

  Jemima nodded.

  “Right,” he said, nodding in return. He thudded the floor with the cane he held in one hand, though whether from impatience or uncertainty she could not tell. He looked around the book shop, which was mercifully empty, save for the old man whom Jemima had almost upended. Typical, barely one other person in the wretched place to bump into, and she’d found him.

  “Have you chosen a book?” he asked, frowning at her empty hands with suspicion.

  Jemima shook her head, unable to form words though she knew she must look like a complete ninny. Yet all she could do was stare at him and think I will go to bed with this man. The urge to laugh, albeit hysterically, was so strong she could do nothing but clamp her mouth shut. At least he was handsome. Oh, lord, was he handsome. He looked as if he’d been chiselled from granite. She’d known he’d been a soldier, but she had not been prepared for the force of his presence, the obvious military bearing. There was nothing soft about him, every inch of him hard planes and uncompromising angles.

 

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