Some Like It Wild (20 page)

Connor rested his glass of wine on the table. “Miss Darby and I have decided the ball would be the perfect time to
officially
announce our engagement.”

“Have you finally charmed the chit into wedding you before next December?” the duke asked, spearing a juicy beef olive with his fork.

“I’ve devoted my every effort to it,” Connor assured him solemnly.

Pamela choked on her wine, remembering just how “devoted” some of his efforts had been. She rested the glass back on the table. “I’ve discovered that your son can be very persuasive when he wants to be.”

“A trait he inherited from his father, I assure you,” the duke said, winking at her.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when she lowered her glass to find Lady Astrid surveying her from the foot of the table with a benevolent smile. “Just leave everything to me, Miss Darby. I promise you and your fiancé an evening that you—and all of London—will
never
forget.”

Pamela paced back and forth in front of the open window in her bedchamber, pausing every fourth or fifth turn to poke her head out the window and glare down at the deserted lawn below.

She hugged herself as a chill breeze drifted through the window, raising the gooseflesh on her arms. What if Connor didn’t come to her? What if he had decided to embrace his role as gentleman and was content to bide his time until they were wed?

She sighed and wandered over to the gilt-framed cheval glass sitting next to the dressing table. Her reflection eyed her pensively as she began to tug the pins from her hair. She shook the thick mane loose until it came spilling around her shoulders, then unhooked the bodice of her gown and peeled
it away. The sewn-in stays had left pink welts on her tender flesh and it was an immense relief for her heavy breasts to finally spring free.

She untied the ribbons at her waist, letting her skirt and petticoats slide down to pool at her feet, and stood there in front of the mirror, naked except for her silk drawers and stockings.

She had gazed at herself in the mirror a thousand times as she prepared for bed, but tonight she seemed like a new creature. A sloe-eyed stranger—wild and sensual and still desperately hungry despite the many courses served at dinner.

Her dusky nipples were peeping through the glossy tendrils of her hair. She sighed. There were times when she envied Sophie her bobbed curls, but her hair was far too thick and straight to support such a fashionable coif. She reached up to gather the heavy coils at her nape with one hand, exposing her breasts to the caress of the moonlight.

Pamela froze as a sharply indrawn breath warned her that she was no longer alone.

P
amela’s breath quickened as the mirror revealed a man standing just behind her—a man dressed all in black, one with the shadows and soon to be one with her.

His eyes met hers in the mirror, the predatory gleam in their silvery depths reminding her just how dangerous he could be. Especially to her yearning heart.

As his gaze drifted downward, some ghost of maidenly shyness brought her hands up to shield her breasts. He simply slid his hands beneath hers so that his big, warm hands were cupping her breasts and her hands were resting lightly on top of his. She closed her eyes and sagged against him as he squeezed ever so gently, claiming them, claiming her.

“My sister is sleeping in the next room,” she
whispered as he used his thumbs to tease both of her nipples into taut little buds.

He rubbed his lips along the slender column of her throat, his voice a husky vibration she could feel all the way to her toes. “I’m a thief. I know how to be quiet.”

As it turned out, Pamela was the one most at risk for waking Sophie. Connor might not have been able to make her the main course at supper, but he had no qualms about making her his private dessert. Before long she was quaking and shuddering beneath his clever mouth and biting her lip nearly bloody to keep from crying out her ecstasy.

When he bent her over the settee and began to pound into her from behind with driving force, he had no choice but to smother her sharp scream of pleasure with his hand.

And when they finally collapsed on the bed and he made love to her slowly and tenderly—gliding in and out of her as if he had not just all night, but the rest of his life to do so—he was forced to swallow her low moan of rapture with his kiss, while he came without a sound, every muscle in his powerful body surging as he spilled his seed deep within her.

When the strongest of the aftershocks had subsided, Connor threw himself to his back and flung an arm over his eyes, his sweat-sheened chest heaving. “Now I know who’s trying to kill me.”

Pamela sat up, raking her tangled hair out of her eyes. “Who?”

“You.” He lowered his arm to glare at her.
“You’re an insatiable wench who won’t be content until you’ve milked the last bit of life from my staff, leaving me a hollow shell of the man I once was.”

She gave him an impish grin. “It’s our new battle strategy for defeating the Scots. It’s much quicker and more effective than a parasol.” Propping herself up on one elbow, she idly raked her fingers through the crisp whorls of his chest hair. “You know—you really shouldn’t tease so when someone might actually be trying to kill you.”

He blinked innocently up at her. “So do you think I should have declined Crispin’s invitation to archery practice?”

Her eyes widened in horror until she realized he was still teasing her. She gave his chest hair a vicious little tweak to punish him.

He winced. “I did learn something rather interesting yesterday morning at breakfast. It seems that Lady Astrid’s dearly departed husband burned to death in his bed.”

“Just like my mother,” Pamela breathed.

“Astrid blames it on a bottle of brandy and a lit cigar, but who knows?”

Pamela clapped a hand over her mouth as genuine horror washed over her. “Oh, no!”

“What is it?”

“Don’t you remember? The first night we met Crispin, I was trying to trick him into revealing something about my mother’s death, so I mentioned ‘habitual drunkards who leave their cigars lit and burn to death in their beds.’ I saw something in his eyes that I thought was guilt but it could have
been hurt.” She shook her head, shame mingling with her dismay. “He must have believed I already knew about his father’s death and that I was being unspeakably cruel.”

“It doesn’t mean he’s innocent, lass,” Connor reminded her. “Witnessing such a terrible tragedy can sometimes warp a child’s mind.”

Remembering all the tragedy that Connor had witnessed, Pamela pressed her cheek to his chest, cherishing the slow, steady beat of his heart. “You won’t be truly safe until we find my mother’s killer. What if they don’t reveal themselves before the wedding?”

“Announcing our engagement at the ball may just force their hand. They can’t afford to risk me getting an heir on you.”

After all of the decadent pleasures she had enjoyed at his hands in the past few hours, Pamela was amazed that she could still blush. “That’s what Crispin said the first night at dinner. That you should strive to put your babe in me as quickly as possible in case you should meet with an unfortunate accident.”

Connor tipped up her chin so he could gaze into her eyes, his solemn tone belied by the depth of his dimple. “In this case, the lad was right. ’Tis my duty.”

Pamela gasped as he cupped her rump in his hands and rocked against her, proving he was not only willing, but more than
ready
to discharge his obligations. “I thought you were nothing but a hollow shell of a man.”

He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid your own duty to country and king isn’t done yet, lass. If you want to defeat the Scots, you’ve no choice but to march right back into battle.”

She reached down and lightly trailed her fingers over his rigid length. “And just how am I to defeat an enemy armed with such a formidable weapon?”

He arched off the bed and into her hand, clenching his teeth against a guttural groan. “The English have always been very resourceful. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“Oh, I already have.” Pamela gave him a wicked smile, then began to slide down his body, the warm, wet velvet of her mouth working its way down, down, down until he was left with no choice but surrender.

T
he Duke of Warrick’s ball quickly became the most coveted invitation of the year.

Many were desperate for a glimpse of the reclusive nobleman who had once cut such a swaggering path through society. Rumors had swirled around him for years. Some swore a crippling illness had left him a mewling hunchback while others claimed he had only faked his infirmity in order to lure his wife back to his side.

There were those who believed the young duchess had never really run away at all, but that the duke had strangled her in a fit of rage and buried her somewhere on his vast estate. There were even some who whispered that he’d kept her and her babe imprisoned in the attic for all these years to keep them from leaving him.

Although his son’s return had laid some of those
rumors to rest, others had quickly risen to take their place. Those not fortunate enough to have secured invitations to Lord Newton’s soiree had eagerly absorbed the gossip from that affair. The duke’s heir was pronounced tremendously pleasing in both face and form, with the sort of towering physique that made women swoon and men grit their teeth in envy. His musical Scots burr was declared something to be emulated, and since that night Burns had become the most requested poet at every reading.

There were still some who refused to believe he had pledged his heart to the gold-digging daughter of an actress. When it was reported that the two of them had quarreled quite passionately right in the middle of Lady Newton’s drawing room, it sent several unmarried young women and their ambitious mothers into a tizzy of delight. Perhaps there was still hope he would come to his senses, cast her off and choose a more suitable bride from his own class.

By the time the night of the ball arrived, all of London society was in a frenzy of anticipation.

Especially Pamela.

The rest of her trousseau had been delivered only that morning, freeing her to choose her attire for the evening from a dizzying array of selections. With Sophie’s help, she had finally settled on a high-waisted ball dress of airy French gauze draped over a petticoat of ripe mulberry hemmed with not one or two, but
three
flounces that swayed like a bell with each step she took. Her puffed sleeves were
gathered just off the shoulders, accentuating the arched wings of her collarbone and the graceful curve of her throat. Her square-cut bodice revealed only a tantalizing hint of her generous cleavage.

Sophie had outdone herself dressing Pamela’s hair, coaxing the heavy coils into a profusion of loose curls and securing them atop her head with mother-of-pearl combs in a coif that Sophie assured her was the very height of French fashion.

She looked every inch a lady, which didn’t explain how she ended up frozen in the arched doorway of the ballroom, her icy fists clenched inside her silk gloves and her satin slippers rooted to the parquet floor. She’d never seen her mother suffer a single moment of stage fright, but she’d heard sobering tales of other unfortunate actors who had been paralyzed by it.

As her panicked gaze swept the crush of guests crowding the vast ballroom, all of whom would soon be gawking at her, whispering about her and finding her lacking, tiny black dots began to swim before her eyes. She didn’t belong on stage. She belonged in the wings, where she could applaud the efforts of others and safely hide from the glare of the footlights.

But then the guests parted to reveal a lone man who towered head and shoulders over most of them. Pamela drew in a deep breath and the dots vanished, leaving her vision crystal clear.

Had he been in attendance, Connor’s tailor would have been crushed. Connor had forsaken the elegant evening attire so painstakingly measured
and cut for him in favor of the rich woolen folds of his kilt and plaid. Several of the female guests were already stealing peeks at his bare knees from behind their fans and doubtlessly speculating on what he wore beneath the pleated skirt of the kilt. He did the traditional Scots garb such honor that by morning half the gentlemen in London would be frantically summoning their tailors so they could order their own kilts and tartan stockings.

Connor seemed utterly unaware of the stir he was causing. He only had eyes for her.

As their gazes locked, a devilish smile curved the corner of his mouth, reminding her that it had only been a few short hours since he had slipped into her bedchamber and into her. Her fists slowly unclenched. Her feet began to carry her forward as if they had a will of their own.

A harried footman stepped into her path. “Wait, miss! It’s not proper for you to proceed. You must allow me to announce you to the guests.”

Recognizing him as the same servant who had tried to refuse her entry on the day they had arrived at Warrick Park, she gave his arm a fond pat. “That’s quite all right, Peter. I already know who I am.”

As she swerved around him and began to wend her way through the guests, her chin held high and a smile flirting with her lips, she knew exactly who she was.

She was a lady. Connor’s lady.

By the time she reached his side, his smile had faded and he was scowling down at her cleavage.
Bewildered by his expression, she glanced down at herself but saw nothing amiss. She’d never seen him gaze at her chest with anything but the warmest of admiration.

“You’ve no jewelry,” he finally said, his scowl deepening.

She touched her bare throat self-consciously. “I know it must look a little odd, but I didn’t want to spoil my lovely ensemble with a string of paste pearls.”

“Don’t apologize, lass. ’Tis my fault. I should have thought to summon a jeweler along with all of those infernal dressmakers.” He cast a furtive glance around the room, an avaricious glint lighting his eye when he spotted a sparkling diamond necklace adorning the overripe bosom of a silver-haired matron. “Would you like me to steal something for you to wear?”

Pamela’s husky ripple of laughter attracted several curious glances. “Given the way the woman is eyeing you, I’m sure the two of you could work out a trade of some kind.”

Connor shuddered. “No, thank you. I have a better idea anyway.”

Pamela’s laughter died in her throat as he reached back to his own nape, unfastened the delicate gold chain he wore, and drew his mother’s locket out of his shirt. She stood utterly still—hardly daring to breathe—as he circled behind her and draped the necklace over her head. The locket, still warm from his skin, nestled against her breastbone as if it had been handcrafted just for her.

She touched her trembling fingertips to the smooth gold, knowing the locket hadn’t left his heart since the night his mother had given it to him so that he would never be able to forget who he was.

His hands closed gently over her upper arms. “Once we’re wed,” he whispered in her ear, “I’ll drape you in a king’s ransom of diamonds and rubies and pearls. You can wear them for me when you’re wearing nothing else.”

She turned to face him, her hand still pressed to the locket. “You can buy me those trinkets if it pleases you,” she said softly, “but this will always mean more to me than any king’s ransom.”

As if on cue, the quartet of musicians seated in the corner struck up the first soaring strains of a Viennese waltz.

Delighted to find an excuse to be in his arms without causing a scandal, Pamela beamed up at him. “Would you care to dance, my lord?”

Folding his brawny arms over his chest, Connor smiled down at her with equal tenderness. “Hell, no.”

“They make a striking couple, don’t they?” Crispin observed, joining his mother at the railing of the portrait gallery overlooking the ballroom.

She was dressed all in white again. Like a bride. Or a ghost.

“Indeed they do,” she agreed in a tone that was surprisingly amiable.

Connor was standing behind Pamela now. Crispin watched as he gently rubbed her upper
arms before bending his lighter head to her darker one and whispering something in her ear.

“What did you do with that broadsheet I found?” Crispin asked his mother.

She shrugged one pale shoulder. “Nothing of import. I simply made a few inquiries.”

“And just what did you learn?”

A smile curved her lips. “All in good time, my son. All in good time.”

Growing weary of her little games, he shook his head in disgust and turned to go.

She rested her hand lightly on his arm. “Never forget, my darling boy, that everything I’ve done has been for you.
Everything
,” she added, her meaning impossible to miss.

He turned to gaze into her dark blue eyes, chilled anew by the absence of emotion within them. “That’s precisely what I’ve always been afraid of.”

Sophie pressed her ear to the bedchamber wall, groaning in frustration as the distant strains of a Viennese waltz came wafting up from belowstairs. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see herself twirling around a candlelit ballroom in Crispin’s arms with every admiring eye fixed on them.

She threw herself down on the settee, glaring at the door. There hadn’t been a single opportunity for Crispin to pay her another nocturnal visit. Pamela had rarely left her bedchamber in the past week, much less the house. Given the intriguing thumps and muffled moans which emanated from
her sister’s chamber each night after the candles were extinguished and she believed Sophie was asleep, Sophie wasn’t sure she could blame her.

She rose to restlessly pace the room. Pamela had promised her that as soon as she and Connor were safely wed, she would reveal to the duke and the world that Sophie was her sister and not her maid. Sophie hugged herself, smiling to imagine the stunned look on Crispin’s face when he discovered she was no lowly maidservant, but…but…the sister of a marchioness!

Her gaze fell on the rejected gowns still piled haphazardly on the bed. Instead of moping, she supposed she could make better use of her time by hanging them in the dressing room before they wrinkled. She certainly had no intention of pressing them.

Feeling a bit like Cinderella after the wicked stepsisters had gone off to make merry at the prince’s ball, she gathered up an armful of the gowns. But when a lustrous pearl-trimmed bodice caught her eye, she let the rest of the gowns slide carelessly to the floor.

The silk of the high-waisted evening dress had been dyed a rich cornflower blue that perfectly matched the shade of her eyes. Unable to resist the temptation, Sophie held the gown up to herself and waltzed over to the cheval glass to admire her reflection. The dress would have been all wrong for Pamela but it was perfect for her. Well, at least it would be if she could find some cotton batting to stuff the bosom.

Humming along with the music drifting up from the ballroom, she swayed back and forth in front of the mirror before finishing her impromptu waltz with a graceful twirl.

When she faced the mirror once again, she was wearing an evil little smirk. “She borrowed my gowns, didn’t she?” she reminded her reflection. “Why shouldn’t I borrow hers?”

Before she could lose her nerve, she scrambled into the dressing room and tugged one of their old battered valises down from the shelf above the dormer window. The case was stuffed with discarded props they’d filched from the theater over the years, including the music box pistol Pamela had used to take Connor hostage. It didn’t take Sophie long to find
exactly
what she needed to complete her ensemble.

Pamela pursued Connor relentlessly through the crowd, ignoring the avid glances they were getting. “What do you mean you can’t dance? I don’t understand. I’ve never seen a man so light and graceful on his feet. Why, you practically dance every time you move.
Every
time you move,” she added under her breath, remembering a particularly spectacular motion he had executed in her bed only that morning. He certainly couldn’t deny having rhythm.

“My mother tried to teach me to dance when I was a lad. It did
not
go well.”

“But any man who can fence and recite poetry as well as you should be able to dance!”

He cast her an arch look over his shoulder, pointing out the illogic of that statement without a word.

Pamela doubled her steps to keep pace with his long strides. “Why didn’t you tell the duke? I’m sure he would have engaged a dancing master for you.”

“I almost killed the fencing master. Can you imagine what I’d do to a dancing master?” Connor groaned as he veered around a marble column only to find his path cut off by Crispin.

“I need to speak with you,” Crispin said, his lean face grim.

Crispin shot the portrait gallery a wary glance, but except for generations of glowering Warricks, it appeared to be deserted.

Connor added his glower to theirs. “So what’s it to be this time—a duel of words or swords? I’m afraid I didn’t bring my volume of Burns, but I’m sure we could scare up a sword or two if watching you get your fool head cut off will entertain the guests.”

“Please.” Crispin drew closer to them, his voice low and urgent. “I just need a few minutes of your time.”

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a collective gasp went up from the crowd.

All three of them turned as one to discover a golden-haired goddess garbed all in blue framed by the arched doorway. The Venetian half mask she wore only added to her irresistible aura of mystery.

As they watched, she rose up on the toes of her dainty little slippers and cupped her hand around the footman’s ear to whisper something in it.

The footman cleared his throat uneasily before announcing, “Le Comtesse d’Arby.”