One Night of Passion (12 page)

“I don’t think my rooms would be appropriate, Georgie. Not now.”

“What about that Bridwick House the driver mentioned?” she asked impulsively.

“The only place you are going tonight is back to your own house. To your own bed.”

He didn’t want to spend the evening with her? This was an unmitigated disaster! And after his more than enthusiastic kiss, she had thought she’d found the answer to her dilemma.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

Colin heard the question and nearly flinched at the underlying accusation there.

She hadn’t done anything wrong . . . in fact, she’d done everything right.

Too right.

“No,” he told her. “It’s just that it’s growing late, and I have some important business to attend to in the morning.”

Like trying to repair my broken betrothal,
he thought, using the very proper image of Lady Diana as an excuse to get himself out from under this odd little Cyprian’s spell.

But Diana isn’t coming back,
a devilish voice whispered in his ear.

That wasn’t entirely true, despite Lady Diana’s vehement declaration that she no longer wanted to marry him. And the fact that he was no longer sure about his choice of bride was irrelevant.

Colin knew only too well that once all the misunderstandings about his court-martial were cleared up, their families would move heaven and earth to see the breach between them mended—meaning he couldn’t in all honorable intent consider his betrothal over.

Then again . . .

Dash it all, he was starting to doubt even the inevitability of a reconciliation.

This was all Temple’s fault. He was the one who’d cast doubts into what Colin had always held as undisputable beliefs—his marriage should be a meeting of good breeding and political gain, not “fun.”

And if Temple had thrown a tangled line into his straight and well-trimmed notions about love and marital obligations, Georgie had stirred them into a whirlpool of contradictions.

Just as he’d told Temple, he and Lady Diana were a perfect match, a choice marriage between a titled gentleman and a lady of quality.

And Georgie? She was certainly no lady—the facer she’d planted on Paskims’s nose proved that. Not that the bastard hadn’t deserved it after the foul name he’d called her.

But still, Colin thought, he should be shocked by her bossy manners, forward attentions, and ability to land a flush hit better than most men.

He should be appalled and repelled by such shocking behavior.

But instead he was intrigued.

Why, he hadn’t had so much fun at a London social event . . . well, ever. Dashing out of the Cyprian’s Ball, her hand tucked in his, the room erupting into chaos around them, their enemies hot on their heels, the sparkle of mischief in her eyes teasing him, had been . . . exhilarating.

And damn it all, if the chit hadn’t enjoyed every minute of it as well.

The old Colin, as Temple had called him, would have been worried about appearances, trying to do the right thing, and certainly never would have caused a row at a ball that was sure to end up being the most oft-repeated
on
dit
for the upcoming Season and beyond.

He’d like to blame his newfound notoriety all on Georgie. But perhaps it had been brewing all this time. Perhaps Lamden had been right—deep down Colin was a true Danvers. Like his scandal-driven father, like his rapscallion brothers. Of course, his father’s ill-gained reputation had taken two runaway marriages and nearly thirty years of travel and deception for the Foreign Office to attain its less than sterling luster.

And all it had taken to open Colin’s own Pandora’s box of mischief, to turn his world upside down and inside out, had been the introduction of one beautiful little troublemaker, and a few hours at the Cyprian’s Ball.

Glancing over at her, he rephrased that thought.

One all too tempting enchantress.

If only he hadn’t kissed her. But somehow in the tangle of dashing into the carriage and Elton’s rather hasty departure they’d been thrown together, and the rest . . . well, the rest was inescapable.

He tried telling himself he’d only returned to her side to save her from a bad situation. To make sure she was delivered back home where she belonged.

He certainly had not intended to kiss her, any more than he could consider the tempting offer so obviously sparkling in her hauntingly dark and mysterious eyes.

No, he couldn’t. No, he shouldn’t.
Absolutely not.

That,
Temple would probably say, with a doleful shake of his head and a couple of taps of his lorgnette,
was the old Colin talking.

And what if Colin accepted her proposition? He didn’t know if he dared, for he suspected it might come at a higher price than just mere coins.

“Where do you live?” he asked, determined to follow his best intentions and see the lady home safe. “Elton will see you taken there without any further delays.”

“What?” she sputtered, scrambling up in her seat, her tousled hair falling about her shoulders in a honeyed array of willful curls. “You can’t do that to me. Not now!” Her outrage flared with the same passion as her kiss, her body arching toward him, her breasts rising and falling with her ragged breath.

In an instant, he hardened, remembering all too well the way she’d trembled and moved with him on the floor of the carriage. The silk of her skin, the curve of her delicious breasts . . .

Ignore the breasts,
he told himself.
Forget the feel of
them under your fingers.

Honor, duty, King and country, he reminded himself. He had a mission to undertake. Yes, that was it, remember his mission.

“You’ll not take me home,” she was repeating.

“I most certainly will.” Colin took a deep breath. He’d never met such a stubborn chit. And troublesome . . . and rag-mannered . . . and all too desirable . . . He shook that last notion aside. “I apologize if my earlier lapse in manners gave you the wrong impression, but you are going home.”

“I am not going home. I went to quite a bit of trouble to go to this ball,” she said, her impetuous temper heating every word, the same anger he’d witnessed as she’d urged him to give Brummit the thrashing the cad deserved.

Now he was on the receiving end. Colin squirmed in his seat, unused to being the subject of a lady’s ire.

Lady Diana’s outrage had been shocking enough, but her ill-temper hardly held a candle to a furious Georgie.

She leaned forward, tapping a gloved finger against his chest. “I will remind you that it was you who picked me out for the evening. Now you’ll do your part and take me to your rooms.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stared straight ahead, as if daring him to do otherwise.

“I did not,” he shot back, feeling his own temper getting the better of him. He’d been taught never to argue with a lady, but Georgie was another matter. He had a feeling she’d actually like a good row.
“
I did not pick you out.”

“I disagree. You came back and claimed me for the night.” She set her shoulders in a defiant line. “I have witnesses.”

“Witnesses?” he sputtered.

“Yes. Captain Hinchcliffe, Captain Brummit, and Captain Paskims.”

“Commander Hinchcliffe,” he corrected.

“Aha!” she said. “So you agree. They were witnesses to your declaration.”

“It was hardly a declaration,” he said. “More of an offer to save your lovely hide.”

This seemed to take her aback, and a feminine softness rounded her harsher points. “You think I’m lovely?”

“That is beside the point.”
Lovely, yes. And gorgeous
and tempting, as a matter of fact.

“Not to me.” Her lashes fluttered over her dark eyes, and she shot him a glance that sent his blood rising once again.

Colin shook his head, trying to clear his befuddled senses. How had this gotten so out of hand? From his telling her she was going home to his telling her she was lovely?

He suspected this astounding minx could talk a pickpocket out of his best purse, spin circles around the Inn’s best solicitors.

Colin sat back in his seat and stared at the wry set of her mouth—as if she supposed she’d won.

Presumptuous baggage! He was of a mind to have Elton stop the carriage and dump her out where they stood—no matter the surroundings.

He’d wager she could take care of herself in the middle of Seven Dials.

And yet, he possessed a sneaking admiration for her direct and forward stance. There was something utterly refreshing about a lady who saw the situation in such black and white terms, and made no attempts to keep them to herself. No, from this hoyden, there were none of the usual carefully chosen words or pretty phrases meant to please a gentleman.

So unlike Lady Diana . . .

He didn’t know why he was making such a comparison, or why it mattered. But it did matter. He couldn’t see Georgie marrying a man she did not love, or choosing the obligations of Society and tradition to rule over her heart, as Lady Diana would have if fate hadn’t intervened for them. And for that, he admired the little spitfire. At least he did until she began badgering him anew.

“You are determined to ruin everything, I can see that now,” she was saying. “And if that is the way it is to be, then take me back to the ball.”

“Take you back?” he said, saying the words only to see if he’d heard her correctly.

And to his complete dismay and irritation, he had.

“Yes. Take me back,” she said, her mouth setting once again in the unmistakable line of defiance.

“You would go back to those men? To Hinchcliffe and Brummit and Paskims?” He shook his head. “They are not the type you want to be spending your time with.”

“They were exactly the kind I was looking for,” she told him. “Now, if you don’t mind,
I
have business to complete.” This time she rapped on the roof of the carriage. “Stop this blasted carriage at once. Stop it, I say.”

Given the lady’s commanding tone, Elton responded like any good servant and pulled the reins back, bringing the horses to a halt. She leaned over, flung the door open, and started out with a determined step.

“Oh no, you don’t,” he told her, catching her by the waist and hauling her none-so-gently back into her seat. “I didn’t risk my neck so you could go frolicking back into that lion’s den. Now tell me where you live.”

He issued his words in the same tone of command that would have marshaled a shipload of sailors and marines into seeing his orders obeyed.

Not Georgie. Instead, she appeared ready to lead a mutiny. A successful one.

“I cannot return home. Not yet. Not until I’ve . . . until I’ve . . .” Her cheeks flushed and her gaze darted away from his as her words came to a faltering halt.

Whatever was wrong with the chit? He was offering her a chance for an evening away from her profession, away from her livelihood.

Then suddenly he understood. Why it hadn’t struck him before; he could have kicked himself.

She wasn’t mad that he was refusing her charms. She was angry over her lost income.

Not that she would have seen much more than a few farthings from Hinchcliffe, Paskims, or Brummit, despite all their boasts of prize money.

The trio had a history of parsimony when it came to ladies of her profession. And worse . . .

He looked up and found that Georgie’s stubborn features were melting into a near panic.

“Now will you just leave me be,” she pleaded. “I’ve only a few hours left before . . . before . . .” Tears threatened to spill down her cheeks.

Egads, the gel should be on the stage instead of the
Haymarket trade,
he thought. She was the most convincing wronged innocent he’d ever seen.

This display might be just a Cyprian’s trick, her way of extracting a higher price by feigning a measure of innocence she likely didn’t possess, but it worked damned well in tugging at his heart.

After all, this was her occupation. While she had claimed earlier that she wasn’t interested in the usual compensation a Cyprian demanded, he hadn’t believed her then and he didn’t now.

Not completely.

For he couldn’t shake his suspicions that there were other reasons that had brought Georgie to the Cyprian’s Ball. Ones far more compelling than a new frock or a string of sparkly baubles.

Perhaps Temple was right, and she was working to save her family from ruin, or some other noble cause.

“Oh, so that is how it is.” He leaned back in his seat. “I understand.” And while he may appreciate her indignation, he certainly wasn’t going to let it sway him into allowing her to return to the ball.

Not so long as the devil’s own trio lurked about there.

“You can come with me,” he told her, before he could stop himself.

“With you?” she asked, one brow arching upward.

She needn’t sound so incredulous.

“And what is wrong with me? Contrary to what those bounders you are so taken with said, I still have enough blunt to pay my debts. And I suppose I do owe you for what you’ve lost tonight.”

I haven’t lost anything yet,
he thought he heard her mutter under her breath.

She sighed and took a deep breath, as if she were using her utmost patience not to knock him over the head. “You think you owe me money?”

“Yes,” he said. “Your fee for the night. I believe I’ve left you without your evening’s earnings.”

“Oh yes, my earnings,” she said, catching onto the subject as if he’d thrown her a rope. “Yes, I suppose you did.” Then she stuck her stockinged foot into his lap and wiggled it. “And my shoe. As I recall, you promised me a shopful.”

“I did not,” he said.

The delicate brow arched again. The one that warned him not to quibble the point, she was right.

“You only lost one shoe,” he said, doing his best to ignore the heel of her foot rubbing against his thigh, the way her dress fell back to reveal the trim line of her calf.

“But it was my best one,” she replied, bringing the remaining shoe up to rest on his other leg as if to present her evidence.

Point well taken, he thought, as his less than honorable intentions started to get the best of him again.