No Regrets (21 page)

   "Well, it's not Paris; it's London, and this . . . female went right down St. James Street like a common tart." In his rage, his voice turned into a growl.

   A vicious smile spread across Selina's face. "And your wife followed right behind me."

   Hamstrung. The bitch knew he could do nothing.

   If he called out Valeron, a family member, it would worsen the scandal. He forced his hands to remain at his sides to stop himself from pounding the Frenchman to a pulp. The way things stood, the news would spread through the ton like a forest fire in a high wind anyway. Caro had placed herself beyond the pale.

   "Damn you both to hell." He hauled in ragged breath and stomped down the Haymarket.

   He collected his hat and coat at White's and endured the banter of friend and foe alike, trying to pass it off as a foolish mistake, and then he headed home to face his resentful, reprehensible wife.

Lucas had no right to treat her like a disobedient child. Having changed from her riding habit into a fawn-colored morning gown, Caro paced the drawing room from sofa to window and back. He'd ruined her victory. Or he would have, if visions of shocked faces and leering men grabbing at her skirts weren't already sending mortifying quivers through her abdomen.

   Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Caro's heartbeat quickened. She scurried for the sofa and, picking up her book, set her face in calm unconcern. The letters on the page refused to form into any kind of order. It might help if she removed her spectacles.

   Too late. The door swung open.

   Grim lines carved brackets around Lucas's mouth. He surveyed her from the doorway, and her foolish heart gave its usual lurch. Accompanied by the roiling in her stomach, it made her feel quite nauseous.

   With what she hoped appeared to be calm aplomb, she laid her book face down on the table beside the sofa. "Lucas. How kind of you to find the time to join me."

   His gaze dropped to her book and then rose to her face. "Kind? I ought to wring your neck."

   She stiffened. After all his misdemeanors, how dare he utter a word of criticism. She arched a brow. "'Pon rep, Foxhaven, you look just like your father." It was an unkind cut that must have hit the mark, for he winced.

   A rueful smile twisted his lips. "Don't think to play off your tricks on me, Caro."

   He pushed the door closed with his shoulder and strolled to the hearth. He took up his usual stance, one elbow resting on the mantle. Tension vibrated in the air of her normally peaceful drawing room. A deep frown creased the space between his brows. "Lord, what a bumblebroth," he muttered.

   The pity in his eyes sent a cold chill down her spine. She'd seen that look too often not to get the urge to take cover behind the nearest potted palm. She lifted her chin. "What can you mean? I won a horserace and one hundred guineas. Regretfully, your record still stands, or it would have been two hundred." There, that sounded calm, if a little defensive.

   "My record has nothing to do with it. It is your reputation at stake."

   Shame might be merciless in burning the back of her throat, but she would not admit it to one of London's foremost rakes. She forced a brittle laugh. "Do you mean to say there is one standard of behavior for me and another for you?"

   A muscle jumped in his jaw. "You know there is. And society sets it."

   She clenched her trembling hands in her lap and cast him what she hoped was a look of sophisticated nonchalance. "Surely it is not as bad as all that? It was a horserace for heaven's sake, not a murder."

   He raked long fingers through his tousled hair. "You rode down St. James' ogled by every male member of the ton. They made wagers on the outcome in White's. Your name will be on the tongue of every Bond Street beau by nightfall."

   A huge lump clogged her throat at the horrid picture he conjured up. "I see."

   She got up and paced to the window. Long shadows from the houses opposite darkened the street. Dusk already. It might have been better if she had stayed in bed this morning. She had never felt so foolish in her life. "Mrs. Watson didn't seem care."

   He made a derisive sound. "Use her as your model at your peril." His tone hardened. "And what was my cousin about letting you engage in anything so foolhardy?"

   Her gaze faltered, and she stared at the rug. "He advised against it."

   "Advised? Very good of him, I'm sure. Why the hell didn't he stop the whole thing?"

   She glared at him. "No, Lucas, I won't hear a word against him or the Chevalier. This was all my own doing."

   "Damn it all. Must I watch your every move? Surely, commonsense would tell you it went beyond everything acceptable. I certainly never imagined you would do anything so mad."

   Mad described her stupid impulse quite nicely. "I thought you liked females with spirit," she tossed back, resenting the echo of Mrs. Watson's sly tones.

   He fixed her with a gaze so cold, she actually felt a draft. "Did you?" His voice was deceptively soft for the undercurrent of anger. "And I suppose demonstrating your spirit means publicly throwing yourself into the Chevalier's arms."

   "I did nothing of the sort."

   "I saw you. And so did a hundred other gawping spectators on Piccadilly."

   A blazing inferno engulfed her face as she recalled the kiss she had planted on François's cheek. "It was merely the excitement of the moment."

   "Like the moment on the balcony at the ball the other night, I suppose?"

   The sarcasm in his tone crawled over her skin. She seemed doomed to make one stupid mistake after another and drag François after her. "I told you. We are friends."

   His lips thinned. "Just as you and I are friends?"

   "Yes. I—I mean, no."

   He raised a brow.

   "You are deliberately confusing me," she said.

   "Am I?" He sauntered toward her. "I think I'd like some of the treatment you accord your friends."

   Warmth radiated from his lithe frame as he towered over her. She tried to ignore the quicktime beat of her pulse and put out a hand. "Please, Lucas."

   "Happy to oblige, my dear." His voice had the consistency of deliciously thick cream. "Perhaps it is time you understood the consequences of playing the flirt."

   The intense mildness caused her to step back. "I was not flirting."

   "You are serious about him, then."

   A pulse beat in her temple. "Stop it."

   His hand lashed out and caught her elbow, dragging her toward him, his face a magnified blur.

   "Let me go."

   His other hand came up, and long fingers cradled her head, holding her still while his mouth came down on hers, savage and hard, his breathing short and jerky.

   The instant their lips met, his touch softened and moved with gentle tenderness. A sense of sweetness flooded her. A flutter like whispering leaves caught in a breeze ran down her spine.

   A practiced seducer, a rake, who tasted of sweet wine and smelled of sandalwood and sweat and musky male. Her husband.

   Meaning to fend him off, she lay her hands on his shoulder. There they stayed, caressing the rough wool of his coat, slipping around his neck, twining with the silky strands of his hair, while the mindless kiss went on forever.

   She parted her lips and he plunged his tongue inside her eager mouth. Familiar with the technique this time, she joined the dance with her own.

   A deep groan rumbled up from his chest. He raised his head, removed her glasses, and tossed them on the nearby chair. His wonderful face came into focus.

   "What are you doing to me?" he asked.

   "Me?" she managed to squeak. "I'm not doing anything."

   "No?"

   His half-lidded gaze caressed her mouth. She parted her lips in response, aching for his touch, and he smiled. "See. That's what you do."

   His murmured words made her feel soft and melting inside, like a honeycomb.

   He dipped his head and captured her mouth in a hot kiss. She dissolved into him. She shouldn't do this. It wasn't part of their bargain. She couldn't think for the drumming in her blood.

   His hands skimmed down her back, a trail of weighted warmth. They cupped her bottom, cradling her against his lean hard length. Captured in the cage of his arms she felt wanted, desirable.

   His tongue traced the seam of her mouth. Pleasure shimmered through her, and she opened her mouth and welcomed him in with a moan. She arched her back. His thigh pressed against her hips. Delicious pulses of heat spread out from the contact. The room seemed to spin, not as if she would faint, but more like heady flight. She never wanted him to stop. If he did, she might regain her senses.

   He grabbed her shoulders and set her aside, striding for the door. Cool air replaced the warmth of his body.

   She froze in place. How could she have let passion carry her away? She watched him go, her chest so tight it hurt.

   He turned the key in the lock. "Insurance against unwelcome visitors." His low voice sent a jolt of desire straight to her core.

   She released her breath as he prowled his way back, a powerful, magnificent male sensuously sure of his welcome. She lowered her gaze to the patterned carpet. Could dreams come true?

   His chuckle, low and deep, seemed to say they might, and his encircling arms confirmed it. He swept her up and carried her to the sofa as if she weighed no more than kitten. Desire, as bright and sharp as her own, shone in his eyes.

   He laid her down and knelt beside her.

   Today, the pirate would have his wicked way with the maiden. She relaxed in his arms. "Lucas." It had the sound of a plea, not a protest.

   "Shhh, my darling," he murmured against her temple and stretched out beside her, one hard, heavy thigh resting on hers.

   He never called her darling.

   Languidly, she gazed at smoky fires deep in his eyes. She needed his touch, his heat, his desire. Now. She held still, afraid to break the spell.

   He traced her jaw with his fingertips, turning her face toward him. He brushed a tendril of hair from her cheek with fingers as light as thistledown, brushing her skin as if she were delicate china and could shatter at a touch. She smiled at the thought. She had already splintered into a thousand pieces.

   A smile softened his expression in return.

   "You know," he murmured, "Selina could not hold a candle to you today, the way you sat that horse. You truly were magnificent."

   "Magnificently disastrous."

   "That too." He gazed into her eyes.

   Had today's devilment caused him to see her differently? How often had she yearned for him to look past the plump vicar's daughter who hid behind her spectacles and potted plants, and into the woman who loved him with a passion so vast she daren't delve its depth and keep her sanity? She ought to try to keep sane.

   His tongue swept her mouth, more satisfying than a dozen cream cakes. His hand ran up her arm to her throat, blazing a trail on skin so sensitive it robbed her of thought. Graceful fingers, lighter than butterfly wings, traced her collarbone. It was a sensation so arousing that tears welled in her eyes. His knee nudged between her thighs, and she let them fall open. A hot blush suffused her body.

   Their limbs intertwined. His sigh, a sound of deep contentment, induced a long breath of her own. He wanted her.

   The knowledge gave her power, as if she had drunk too much champagne. She arched her hips up, seeking sweet pressure.

   His heart hammered against her ribs as he trailed baby kisses from one corner of her mouth to the other, teasing her jaw, lingering at her ear. Hot breath sent arrows of pleasure to her most secret place. Delightful agony and deliciously wicked.

   "Oh, Caro," he whispered.

   His mouth returned to hers, urgently plundering. She let the delightful sensations roll through her, until she was nothing but a bundle of tightly strung harp strings plucked to his tune.

   As his lips plied their magic on her mouth, his hand fondled her breasts. Her nipples tightened inside the confines of her flimsy gown, and for once, she felt as though there was far too much fabric.

   With slow, deliberate strokes, his hand moved across her ribs and lingered at her waist before resting on her hip. Warmth seeped into her skin from his touch.

   She ran her fingers through his hair. It fell around his face in silky hanks, caressing the hard cheekbones. She returned his kiss with wanton abandon, drinking him in, breathing his scent until it became part of her.

   It wasn't enough. She arched against his thigh, sparking shivers so deep in her core it felt like a knot of pain laced with pleasure.

   To her disappointment, he broke their kiss, his gaze following the trail of his hand down her leg. He caressed her ankle with sure, firm fingers. She glanced down to see her skirts thigh-high and her rosebud-embroidered garters in full view. But worse than that was the sight of and expanse of naked flesh above the white silk of her stocking. Her hem barely concealed what lay between her thighs.