Confessions of a Little Black Gown (9 page)

She glanced at him warily, but the curious desire in her eyes caught him, lured him closer. Made him forget that he was supposed to be Hollindrake’s eunuch of a cousin, not the rake this lady brought out in him.

Kiss me
, her half-parted lips seemed to whisper.
Kiss me now before this moment ends.

Against every bit of sense he possessed, which quite frankly, most would argue wasn’t much, he pulled her closer and caught her lips with his, tasting the sweet softness she offered.

It was like something so ethereal, so heavenly, he almost stopped—for the purity and innocence of her response was in such contrast to her glances and gown. Then those first tentative moments melted away as she opened up to him, letting him explore her lips and then more so…as his tongue swept them open further and a heady, earthy sigh arose uninhibited from within her. That sigh, that sweet sound was like a siren call, and he deepened the kiss, exploring her, tasting her, going quickly mad with desire. He caught hold of her, rolling the two of them over so he covered her, so he could feel her beneath him.

Instead of maidenly protests, she sallied back, arching her hips to meet his, her body coming alive beneath him, her fingers going from their tight grip on his lapels to fanning over his chest, one of them twining into his shirt right over his pounding heart, where something else was awakening inside him.

Something so deep, so primal, it made him all the more hungry for her—like a man starved, he wanted to devour her.

He’d never been so rash, so reckless. Larken, the spy who never needed a map, who could find his way out of the most artful of traps, was utterly lost in her kiss.

Tally had no idea how this all had happened. One moment she was racing through the hedges in search of Brutus, and the next she was in his arms, in his embrace, tangled up with the man she’d never thought to find.

Oh, not Mr. Ryder, but
him
. The one she’d spent countless hours imagining.

The rakish sort of devil who wouldn’t stand on ceremony, who wouldn’t wait until they stood on the parson’s front steps to take what he desired.

A man who would catch hold of her and make her his without any hesitation.

Without so much as a “by your leave, milady.”

And no matter, that she’d imagined this moment more times than she’d be willing to admit, she’d never in her innocent thoughts envisioned it like
this
.

Oh, heavens, but when he’d looked into her eyes, and she’d seen the stormy desire afire there, the con
flict in those dark, dark eyes of his, she’d wanted only to discover every secret he possessed.

He’d gone from being her brother-in-law’s stuffy, ridiculous cousin to the most desirable man in England.

Ever imagined.

Kiss me
, she’d silently willed him.
Kiss me now before this moment ends.

And he had, much to her delight, to her thrill, to her absolute panic, which then gave way to a passionate fire the moment his lips touched hers.

She was lost and nothing else mattered.

Not Felicity and her relentless matchmaking. Nor Pippin and “Aunt Minty” and all their problems.

There was only this man and she never wanted his kiss to end, for it awakened her to a new world of unknown passion.

As his firm, hard lips covered hers, his tongue teased over her own, she felt herself opened, carried into an extraordinary awareness. Her body thrummed to life, giving voice to all the desires she’d held in check for far too long.

Oh, good gracious, if he was kissing her lips, stroking her hair, whyever did her thighs tremble, her body tighten down there?

Because, she thought wickedly, she wanted him to touch her there, to tease her there, in the same way he was gently plying at the loose tendrils of her hair, and as he did, her hairpins fell free; the soft
plunk
as they landed on the grass sounded like the tumblers of a lock clicking open, freeing her.

He continued to kiss her, moving from her lips to
her neck, to the lobe of her ear, which he teased and nibbled at.

His hands roamed over the velvet of her gown, the skin beneath coming alive in a blazing trail of fire.

Touch me, touch me again
, she wanted to plead.
Oh, yes, there
, she nearly cried out as his fingers brushed over the rise of one of her breasts, her nipple growing taut beneath.

Both her nipples going taut. How utterly wicked she felt, reveling in his touch…how wicked this man made her feel. Made her think of things so ruinous…so sinful…

Oh, just a moment.
Sinful? Her? With Mr. Ryder?

Tally’s eyes opened wide, the sound of Brutus’s angry barking and growling piercing her desire-befuddled senses.

Heavens! She was kissing a vicar.

Having sensed the shift in her attention, Mr. Ryder stopped his delicious nuzzling, her neck tingling as the cool evening breeze replaced the warmth of his lips. He rose up and for a moment there was only passion in his dark eyes, and then recognition set in, followed closely by the selfsame shock, she had to imagine, that she was feeling.

“Miss Langley, I—I—I—”

She put a finger to his lips, as much to stop the stammering apology about to come forth as for another reason. “Please, sir, not another word,” she whispered.

“But Miss Langley—”

This time she covered his mouth and glared at him, the sort of look that Felicity used when she discovered Brutus gnawing on yet another priceless
piece of Hollindrake furniture. “Will you be still, sir!” Her voice dropped lower and she paused. “For I don’t think we’re alone out here.”

Larken’s gaze narrowed.
Not alone?
What the devil did that mean?

Exactly as she said, for as soon as he did still, he heard not only Brutus, but the crunch of grass, the rustle of clothing a few aisles away.

They weren’t alone.

There was someone else in the maze.
A silent, unknown intruder. Just as she’d said.

In a fit of pique, Miss Langley wrangled her way out from beneath him, even as he struggled to his feet.

Now if he were a vicar, or even a gentleman, this sort of discovery would have him in a panic over having ruined the chit before a witness, but Larken’s thoughts were far from that.

His instincts, already thrumming with desire, now rose in an unholy howl. Who the devil was out here? Lurking about Hollindrake’s estate like a thief?

And only one name came to mind.

Dashwell!

Larken started to lean over to retrieve the knife he kept tucked inside his boot, but another fit of furious barking stopped him—and worse, at the sound of Brutus’s complaints, Miss Langley shot off again.

How the hell had she gotten untangled so quickly? Let alone gotten away from him? He cursed under his breath even as he dashed down the narrow grassy path after her.

Christ, how was he supposed to stop Dashwell with Miss Langley between them? And what if that bastard caught her first? He’d possessed no scruples about using Lady Philippa as a shield when he’d been trapped at the Setchfield ball, so who could say what he’d be capable of doing with Miss Langley in his grasp?

A red-hot, unanswerable anger swelled up inside him at such a thought.
He wouldn’t dare.

But Dashwell would, Larken knew, and that was enough to spur him on so he was right on her heels, close enough to catch hold of her. Then as luck would have it, right as he reached his hand out, Miss Langley tripped again in her elegant slippers and he hadn’t time to avoid her, falling and tumbling over her a second time.

This chit is going to be the death of me
.
Either by breaking my neck or driving me mad with passion.
But before he could decide which it would be, there was a new spate of barking and growling from Brutus.

This time near the entrance of the hedge.

The entrance?
How the devil had the fellow found his way out so quickly?

Miss Langley must have been of the same opinion, for she cursed, in Russian no less, much as her sister had done before, and while a vicar would probably admonish her for such a sin, along with a host of other indiscretions, his focus was on a more pressing problem.

Dashwell was escaping. For once the wily fellow gained the park, he could hie away to just about any cubbyhole on the duke’s vast estate, escaping like a fleet-footed fox eluding the hounds.

He leaned down, and ignoring Miss Langley’s hand which she held outstretched for help in getting up, plucked his knife out of his boot, ignored her surprised gasp and spun around to retrace his steps.

To hell with gentlemanly obligations, she could untangle herself and get to her feet without him, he thought, as he sped away.

“Mr. Ryder, what do you intend to do?” she whispered after him, as he turned the corner and headed for the opening, where Brutus was growling as if he had the entire French army on the retreat.

And in retreat his unseen adversary was, for when Larken reached the opening, whoever it was had escaped.

Near the shadowy trees at the edge of the lawn, the thunder of hooves betrayed that whoever it was, they were making their speedy escape, and would be long gone before Larken could call for his own mount and give chase.

But they hadn’t gotten completely away, for Brutus sat there with a prize of his own.

A boot, which he proudly held by the heel.

And when Larken knelt down to examine it, he had his second shock of the evening.

The boot was no Hessian. No worn, rough shoe of a sailor.

Rather the low-heeled sort worn by a woman.

A woman?
Whatever would a woman be doing lurking about Hollindrake’s house party?

“Madness,” he muttered.

“Pardon?” Miss Langley said from behind him. She came forward and looked around. “Oh, how inconsiderate! You let them get away.”

“Not by choice,” he told her, ignoring the urge to throttle his hands around her throat. Let them get away, indeed! If it weren’t for her and those demmed ridiculous, ungainly shoes of hers, he would have caught the devil. “However, Brutus managed to steal this.” He held up the boot for her.

“Oh, dear heavens,” she gasped, staggering back from it, her hands coming to cover her mouth.

“’Tis only a boot,” he said.

“Yes, I know that, Mr. Ryder. That just happens to be
my
boot.”

W
hat do you mean Hollindrake’s cousin was watching our windows?” Pippin whispered the next morning as she and Tally moved along the sideboard, selecting their breakfast from the well-laden platters of food before them.

A bountiful change from their days on Brook Street, Tally mused, as she followed behind her cousin.

“You heard me correctly. Mr. Ryder is here to spy on us,” she whispered back, glancing over her shoulder at the rest of the room and realized how so much had changed in the last six months. Here they were, huddled over the sideboard, whispering in secret because now there was always company and servants about at mealtimes. A vast change from taking trays in the salon of their empty house off Grosvenor Square—the only room they could afford to heat—or down in the kitchen with Mrs. Hutchinson near the stove.

“Bah!” Pippin sputtered, drawing the attention of the other occupants, Lady Charles, Lady Geneva, and Lady Standon.

Tally shot her an aggrieved look and lowered her voice further. “He is not who he appears to be. When you meet him, you will see what I mean.”

Pippin looked to argue the point, but one more glance around the room and she wisely held her tongue.

Lady Charles was kind and well-meaning, enjoying her repast and smiling over at the girls. However, the same could not be said of Lady Standon or Lady Geneva, both of whom were this bright sunny morning seated at the far corner of the grand table, sharing gossip and tidbits from the piles of letters that had arrived earlier.

Staines and several footmen stood at the ready, completing the crowded picture.

Hollindrake and Felicity had broken their fast earlier and then gone on to their various tasks that needed attending—Hollindrake to the business of his vast estates and Felicity in full flutter over the pending arrival of so many guests this afternoon.

That left only one other person missing, but Tally only felt relief at his absence.

For once she’d snatched her boot out of his hands, she’d been at a loss to explain how it had gotten out in the hedge, or who might have been wearing it. But if that had been astounding, so had the transformation of Mr. Ryder.

His knife tucked hastily back into his boot, he’d glanced up at her. “I—I—I didn’t frighten you, did I?” he asked. “I am so thankful I forgot to take that
knife out. Put it there so I would have one lest the silver at the posting inns was scarce.” He shuddered a bit and then added. “We must inform His Grace that there are ruffians about.”

Before she could protest such a ridiculous assumption, he’d caught her by the elbow and towed her toward the house, looking back over his shoulder several times as if he expected an entire brigade of thieves to come after them. It wasn’t until they’d reached the house that he let her go, and even then, only once they’d got to the doorway of the salon.

The heat of his fingers burned at her skin and she kept glancing up at him, hoping to discover the man she’d kissed holding her, but his expression was one of bland fortitude. As if he’d just passed the dullest of evenings, having done naught but play whist with her.

“Good night, Miss Langley,” he’d said in a tight voice, and then gone over to Hollindrake to make his report in a low whisper. That done, he’d departed with nary a bow and gone up the stairs with restrained, measured steps.

She’d stared after him for some time, clutching her slippers and solitary boot in her hands trying to make all the tangled, discordant notes of the night come together.

As she had most of the night, lying awake in her bed, torn between recalling that kiss and then his cool dismissal. And to her dismay, none of it made sense—only fanned her curiosity to new heights.

Who was this cousin of Hollindrake’s? This stranger?

Pippin reached across her, fork in hand, and
stabbed at several sausages, piling them on her plate, and then after a moment of consideration, she selected a few more for Aunt Minty’s plate. “Surely you were mistaken,” she added, while helping herself to a second scone and a large pat of butter. “I hardly think Mr. Ryder came here to spy on his cousin.”

Tally glanced over at the overflowing plates in Pippin’s hand and shook her head. As if Aunt Minty could eat all that. Then lowering her voice even more, she said, “He was surveying the house…as if he was looking for
something
…” She paused, her brows arched, for she dared not even say it aloud.

“Or someone,” Pippin finished for her.

Tally nearly sighed with relief. Of course her cousin would see the situation as she did. Glancing around the room to see if anyone noticed—well, mostly Lady Geneva, who held Brutus in horror—she nudged a sausage off her plate for Brutus, who had been sitting on his hind legs begging quite sweetly. But instead of picking up his breakfast, her dog let out a low growl. And if that wasn’t surprising enough—for Brutus loved sausages—then Pippin all but overturned her with a single question.

“That man over there?” she asked tipping her head slightly to the doorway. “That is the man I am supposed to find so fearsome?”

Tally followed Pippin’s direction and discovered Mr. Ryder shuffling about in the doorway as if he couldn’t decide if his hunger outweighed the formidable female audience inside. From behind his spectacles, his eyes blinked owlishly as if he wasn’t even sure where he was.

She glanced over at Pippin, who wore an expres
sion of pure amusement. And when Tally looked back at Mr. Ryder, searching for any sign of the man she’d encountered in the garden last night, had glimpsed in Thatcher’s study, she found nothing, other than the same ill-cut jacket and breeches he’d worn the day before.

Tally’s gaze fled back to the plate in her hand. How could she be so mistaken about him? Where was the man she swore she’d seen in the garden last night?

The rakish devil she’d kissed. Or more to the point, kissed her.

Behind her, she cringed as she heard him stumble over one of the chairs and offer a mumbled apology for his clumsiness to the other ladies.

Pippin shook her head. “That is the man who you think was spying on our rooms?”

“Well, yes, Pippin, but——”

“Hollindrake’s cousin?”

“Well, yes.”

“An ordained man of the cloth, a vicar, is here at Felicity’s house party to spy on us?”

Well, when she said it like
that
…“I know it sounds far-fetched, but Pippin he said he was looking at the architecture,” Tally argued. “Believe me, that side of the house has little to recommend itself for study. And whyever would he do such a thing at night?”

“Ah, Miss Langley, good morning,” came his familiar grating voice. “I see you are having breakfast.”

Pippin slanted a glance at Tally, one that said,
He noticed your breakfast. How observant of him.

Tally pasted a smile on her face and turned to greet him.

Across the room, he’d looked, well, just ordinary, but up close, he appeared quite rumpled—as if he’d slept in his clothes. And his collar wasn’t at all straight. Though he had taken the time to comb his unruly hair to one side, he’d finished the process by applying a pomade to it, which gave off an odor that had Pippin’s nose twitching and Tally’s eyes watering.

It was hard even to look at him when he smelled so…vile.

“Yes, breakfast,” she managed to say, now having completely lost her appetite. This was the man she’d kissed last night? Why, it was too mortifying to believe! For however could such a fellow stir her heart, her passions, so utterly?

Last night, hidden in the shadows and mystery of the maze and moonlight, she’d been convinced she was being ravished by a pirate, a spy, a man more dangerous than any she’d ever met.

Oh, but the light of day was a horrid reckoning indeed.

And one more thing was for certain: she’d rather die than admit to Pippin—not even if it reinforced her suspicions that Mr. Ryder wasn’t quite what he appeared—that she, Thalia Langley, had fallen into this man’s arms like a practiced Cyprian.

And found her first taste of rapture from his lips.

“Mr. Ryder,” Tally managed to say, not even willing to look him in the eye. “This is my cousin, Lady Philippa Knolles.”

“Lady Philippa, my sincerest pleasure,” he wheezed, wiping his hand on his breeches before he took Pippin’s in his limp grasp.

Pippin slanted a bemused glance at her.
Him? A spy? Oh, Tally!

Doubts landed in Tally’s stomach with the same disheartening thud of one of Mrs. Hutchinson’s infamous scones. Meanwhile, Mr. Ryder was studying the two laden plates Pippin was balancing in one hand.

“My! You have quite the appetite, Lady Philippa! I didn’t think young ladies ate so much,” he said in a loud, disapproving voice, even as he piled his own plate with extra helpings from every platter. “While I fear my experience with the female persuasion is sadly lacking, I’ve always heard it said that a birdlike appetite is considered
de rigueur
,” he said, mangling the French phrase with a terrible accent.

Tally, who spoke five languages, nearly groaned. What next? Was he going to point out the finer points of female dress?

As he’d nearly undressed her last night with expert ease…
She shivered, and he glanced over at her.

“Are you taking ill, Miss Langley? I suppose it was the damp last night. I find it has thoroughly invaded my bones this morning. I quite creaked when I awoke.”

Tally wanted to stop up her ears with two of Pippin’s sausages. Oh, heavens! He creaked when he awoke? How old was this man? She knew for certain Mr. Ryder was just eight and twenty (for she’d stolen a peak into Felicity’s
Bachelor Chronicles
this morning before coming down) and yet to hear him talk, one would think he was nigh on fifty!

He glanced again at Pippin’s plate and clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “Gluttony, Lady Philippa, is a dreadful sin.”

Tally’s gaze flew to him, while Pippin could only gape at such rudeness. “My cousin is taking up a plate to our Aunt Aramintha, who, as you know, is not well.”

“Oh,” he sniffed, as if put out by this act of charity. “I suppose that puts a different light on the matter. You’ll understand my mistake, since I’ve thought ladies of your ilk above such demeaning works of charity.”

Ladies of their ilk?

Tally watched Pippin’s brows furrow into a furious line and wondered, despite her cousin’s love of a good breakfast, if Mr. Ryder wasn’t about to find himself with a new pomade—of sausages, toast, and marmalade.

Luckily for them, Felicity came bustling into the breakfast room. “Mr. Ryder! There you are!”

The man nearly jumped out of his skin. And as he whirled around to greet the duchess, the contents of his now laden plate went flying up, depositing his breakfast over the two of them.

A shocked silence held the room for about three seconds, before Mr. Ryder began stammering an apology. “Your Grace! How could I—I—I be so…so…”

Witless? Clumsy? Ridiculous?
Tally would have been glad to fill any of them in for him. For truly how could a man be such a fool?

As Felicity accepted his rambling apology, and Staines and the other footmen rushed forward to help, one of them bumping heads with Mr. Ryder as he, too, tried to clean up the mess, Tally discovered her answer. To her shock, and in the blink of
an eye, his lips tipped in the very slightest smile as he tugged at a sausage that Brutus had decided to claim.

How could a man be such a fool? Not easily, she wagered. Not unless he was trying. And that would explain the moment of triumph she’d just witnessed.

But to her chagrin, no one else had noticed, and she doubted anyone would believe her, not given the performance Mr. Ryder was offering at this moment.

“Dear me!” Felicity said, glancing down at her ruined gown. “I will have to go change. Mr. Ryder, I would suggest you do the same.”

Thus charged, the man muttered something about his breakfast, but a stern glance from Felicity sent him scurrying from the room.

With him dismissed, Felicity shook out her skirts, mostly to disengage one last stubborn strip of bacon. “Tally, don’t forget what we talked about yesterday. The situation is far worse than I supposed. He’s a veritable disaster. This is going to take all our wits.” She huffed out a sigh. “Oh, how I wish Jamilla was here. She might inspire that man to well…be a man.” She gave another frustrated sigh and then spotted the housekeeper. “Dear me, there is Mrs. Gates. I must speak to her. I’ll be right back,” and she hurried out of the room in all her ruined ducal glory.

A strained silence overtook the room, and dear Lady Charles took charge by saying, “Oh, Geneva, Lady Standon, you must hear the news from Lady Finch…”

As the duke’s mother began to read aloud from
the letter in her hand, Pippin took a deep breath and went back to the sideboard for one more scone. “Tally, I do hate to sound like Felicity—”

“Then don’t,” she advised her, tossing another sausage to Brutus.

“I must,” Pippin insisted. “Tally, you’re being ridiculous.” She lowered her voice. “Mr. Ryder a spy? I think we’ve been writing too much of late if you believe an ordinary man”—she paused and shuddered as if she’d caught a lingering whiff of his pomade—“and I do mean
ordinary
, is some sort of spy. Really, you’ve let your imagination run away with you this time. And for me, of all people, to say such a thing should signify.”