Scoundrel (15 page)

“Perhaps,” Remmington conceded, although he had his doubts.

Sir Malcolm nodded politely, then he stepped away from Remmington’s table. He made his way through the room and paused again at several tables to engage in brief conversations.

Remmington frowned the entire time. He was stuck with Lily Walters. His last hope had just left the room.

The laughter woke Lily from a sound sleep. She opened her eyes and stared up at the moonlit canopy of the bed, immediately aware that she was in Remmington’s town house. Somewhere in the house a grandfather clock began to chime. First the quarter hours rang out, then the hour, three deep, resonant tones. A creak followed by a soft thump told her a door had closed nearby. Probably Remmington returning from wherever he’d been all night, she thought groggily. She wondered what he could be laughing about at this late hour.

Her eyes drifted shut and the sound of laughter returned, louder now. It came from the hallway. The low, menacing sound lacked any trace of gaiety, and she knew instinctively that it wasn’t Remmington. It was harder to open her eyes this time, to make them focus in the darkened room. She struggled to brush aside the shroud of sleep. The door to the hallway was the only thing she could see clearly.

The sound of laughter drew closer. The low tones repeated themselves in an almost monotonous rhythm. Her heart began to beat harder, each thump louder than the last. It was her attacker on the other side of the door. Lily was certain of it. The laughter was taunting, a wordless arrogance that said he knew exactly where to find her, that nothing would stop him this time.

Just as she opened her mouth to release another soundless scream, a pair of strong hands grabbed her shoulders, and the shock of it returned her strength tenfold. She beat her fists against a broad chest, twisted and turned in his grip, fighting for her life.

“Wake up, Lily!”

She kept beating against his chest, certain her mind was playing tricks on her. The voice sounded almost like—

“It’s me, Lily. Wake up.”

—Remmington. Her struggles ceased abruptly. She opened her eyes and found herself staring at a bare chest. Her fists rested against a soft pelt of hair that tapered down his wide chest to end in a vee at the waistband of his pants. She’d never touched a man’s bare chest. That was the only thought that occupied her mind for what seemed an eternity, but could in reality be no more than a second or two. She uncurled her fists and laid her palms flat against his shoulders. He felt so warm, so safe and solid.

“You had a bad dream. It’s over now.”

Dream? Lily shuddered. Every muscle in her body went limp at the same moment. She would have fallen over if his arms hadn’t wrapped around her. He pulled her onto his lap.

“It’s over now.” He tucked her head against his shoulder and began to stroke her hair. “You’re safe, Lily. No one can hurt you here.”

The sound of a soft knock on the door made her nearly leap from his arms, but he held her secure. She wrapped her arms tighter around his neck and stared fearfully at the door.

“Everything’s fine,” he called out to the servant who guarded her door. “Lady Lillian had a bad dream.”

“Nightmare,” Lily whispered. He held her tightly against his chest to absorb the shudders that racked her body. “How—” Another hard shudder cut off her question, and she leaned her forehead against his chest.

“I heard you call out,” he said. “Were you dreaming about the night of your attack?”

Lily shook her head. “No. Worse. He… he was here.”

He held her tighter. The feel of his warm, bare chest should shock her. They were alone and in bed together, Remmington was half dressed, and she wore nothing more than a thin nightgown. She pressed closer to his strength, comforted by the sure knowledge that he would keep her safe.

“I’m’s-sorry I disturbed you.” She rested her cheek against his chest to hear the steady sound of his heartbeat. “It seemed so real.”

When her trembling didn’t stop, he began to rub her arms and back in soothing motions, murmuring comforting words in her ear. He probably thought her childish to be so undone by a nightmare. She didn’t care. At the moment, she seemed to need that comfort. Aside from the night of her attack, she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had held her, or given her so much as a hug. She was much too old for displays of that sort from her family. But perhaps it was the vague memory of childhood that made Remmington’s embrace feel so soothing and familiar. There was something almost drugging about the way he held her, so close that she could hear every beat of his heart, every steady breath he drew. His scent wouldn’t distract a child, nor would the firm yet supple texture of his skin. The emotions he made her feel belonged to a woman. A woman he didn’t want.

She tried to push away from him. “I’ll be f-fine now. Per-perfectly fine.”

“You don’t sound fine. You’re shaking like a leaf.” He drew her closer and pressed her head against his shoulder. “Have you talked to anyone about what happened that night? The night of your attack?”

Lily shook her head. “I don’t want to th-think about it.”

“Sometimes people dream about things they don’t want to talk about.” He sounded very sure of his opinion. He nudged her chin up with one finger, but she avoided his eyes. “You endured something awful that night, Lily. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

“It’s over.” She clasped her hands together in a tight grip. Why couldn’t he treat her with contempt rather than consideration? He pitied her. Nothing more. Lily tried to concentrate on that fact, and not on the sight of so much bare male flesh. A moment ago he hadn’t seemed quite so naked. Why was she suddenly aware of the pressure of his arms around her, his warmth wherever they touched? “I-I don’t think I could recall it very clearly.”

“Tell me.” The harsh words were at odds with the gentle way he stroked her cheek. She glanced up at him and he caught her gaze effortlessly. “Tell me,” he repeated, in a more reasonable tone. “I promise it will make you feel better.”

Tell him what? That she wished he would care for her just a little? That she wanted to hold his affections as surely as he held her own? She didn’t think he wanted to hear any of that. “I don’t really think—”

He placed one finger over her lips. “Tell me what happened. What were you doing that night when he came to your room? Were you asleep?”

His finger caused an odd sensation against her lips. Her mouth felt numb where he touched her, yet overly sensitive at the same time. His hand dropped away when she began to speak. “I was awake. I really don’t want to—”

His fingers covered her mouth again. “What were you doing?”

“Brushing my hair.” She pushed his hand away, unable to concentrate when he touched her that way. “I was sitting at my vanity, brushing my hair, and in the mirror I saw my bedroom door open. At first I thought it was my father, returning early from White’s, but then I noticed the livery he wore and a moment later I saw the mask.”

She stared at his shoulder and saw the mask clearly in her mind. “It was a hideous thing, twisted into a snarling, unnatural smile. I tried to run, but he caught me halfway across the room and threw me to the floor. A moment later I felt his weight on top of me. I screamed and I thought someone would come to rescue me, but he knew no one would come.”

“Go on,” he urged. “What happened next?”

“I fought back. When he’d lunged at me, he’d also knocked over my vanity, and one of the heavy candlesticks had fallen nearby. I managed to grab hold of it. He let go of me for a moment and I struck him over the head as hard as I could. He crumpled onto the floor and I thought he was dead. When I turned to run to the door, his hand reached out and grabbed my ankle, and I knew he was only dazed. I ran down the stairs, then I heard him bellow something out, and I glanced over my shoulder. He was in the hallway, leaning against one wall, his hand cupping his forehead. I ran into the streets where I thought I would come across someone who could help, or that I could find my father at White’s. That’s when you stopped me.”

Remmington grew very still. “When you turned to look at him on the stairway, you said he held his hand to his forehead. Was he wearing the mask?”

Lily’s eyes grew wider. She felt hopeful for a moment, then she shook her head. “His hand shielded his face. I couldn’t see anything.”

He held her hand to his forehead. “Show me what you saw. How did he hold his hand?”

Lily was silent for a moment, trying to absorb the shock of touching his face so intimately. The innocent touch shouldn’t disturb her. After all, she’d just pressed herself against his bare chest. She traced the line of his brow and decided that this was a more refined torment.

“He was leaning against the wall,” she said, “turned from me this way.” She cupped his forehead and turned his head away from her.

“All right. Describe what you can see of him.”

She tried to concentrate on the task. Every thought she possessed centered on Remmington. How could she think about another man while he held her in such an embrace? Her hand brushed against a lock of his hair and without thinking, she sifted the soft strands through her fingers. She closed her eyes and forced herself to recall the shadowy figure on the staircase. “His hair was a dark color. Brown or black, I think. Papa keeps a lamp burning at the top of the stairs until he retires for the night, but it was still very dark.”

“Tell me what else you see.”

He submitted patiently to her examination. She avoided his eyes to study his face, to commit each detail to memory. An artist’s canvas could never capture the odd combination of refined nobility and animal magnetism. In that, he was utterly unique. The attraction didn’t lie solely in his features, but in some aura that surrounded him. It was a near-tangible thing, something Lily felt sure she could identify if she had longer to study him. Her hand moved to his jaw. “His chin was more rounded than yours, the line of his jaw not as strong. His nose should have been hidden behind his hand, but it must have been very large. I could see it from here to here.”

She traced the bridge of his nose to his upper lip, surprised to find a damp trace of perspiration there. Now that she thought about it, the room did seem overly warm. Her fingers rested against his mouth, testing the shape. “I think his mouth was smaller than yours.”

His voice sounded hoarse when he questioned her. “Is that all you can remember?”

He looked down at her then, and Lily’s lips parted in surprise. She saw her own desire reflected in his eyes, the same burning hunger that made her breath quicken and her pulse race with anticipation. Something in her dazed senses realized that time was her enemy. In a few short days she would return to her father’s house to lead a life that was a lie. Remmington would probably marry Margaret Granger before the year was out. She was in a time, a place, a situation that would never happen again.

She nodded, but didn’t know if she answered the question he spoke aloud, or granted the permission he silently demanded with his eyes.

He hesitated a moment, then lowered his head until their lips barely touched. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. With smooth, feather-light strokes, he traced the outline of her mouth with his lips. The kiss that followed seemed almost chaste. His lips moved against hers very gently, as if he meant to learn the shape of her mouth, or to decide how their lips best fit together. At last he drew away from her.

What happened next startled Lily, but she didn’t open her eyes when she felt the tips of his fingers touch her forehead. He traced a line across her brow, circled just beneath her eye, over the bridge of her nose, then to her other temple. After a moment’s hesitation, he began to explore the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, then he repeated the process on the other side of her face. The careful, intimate exploration left her as breathless as his kiss. She wondered if he’d felt the same dizzying emotions when she examined his face. He touched the center of her forehead and drew a line with the tip of his finger down the profile of her nose. He traced the outline of her mouth, then the line between her lips. He parted her lips, then dragged his fingertip over the even edges of her teeth. Without thinking, she touched the tip of her tongue to his finger.

She heard the sharp intake of his breath, felt her own breath catch when he crushed her to his chest. He lowered his head, but he still didn’t kiss her. With one arm around her shoulders, he wrapped his other hand around her hair until they were bound together by the fiery tresses. She gasped against his mouth and he caught her lower lip between his teeth, painlessly tugging her even closer, then he covered her lips completely.

Nothing could have prepared her for the effect of his embrace. A few of her suitors had tried to steal kisses, but she found them embarrassing and unpleasant for the most part, something to back away from. Her arms were wrapped so tightly around Remmington’s neck that they ached. She ached everywhere. And the heat. The room couldn’t be this warm.

No longer coaxing or gentle, his mouth moved against hers insistently, urging her lips to part. When she gave in to the silent command, he deepened the kiss and the tip of his tongue touched hers. She gasped and instinctively drew away, but he wouldn’t release her. His tongue returned to trace the outline of her mouth, then again to delve a little deeper. She didn’t know that people could kiss this way. Somehow she did know that he was introducing her slowly to the art, being patient while she decided if she liked it or not. That decision came when she began to mimic his actions, to explore him just as thoroughly. He tore his mouth away as soon as she tasted him.