Taste of the Devil (17 page)

“Is there anything else, my lord?”

“No, Pratt that will be all. I do not wish to be interrupted tonight for any reason. Do I make myself clear?”

“Precisely, my lord.” The servant nodded curtly and left them alone.

Ginny took a few seconds to find her voice. Did the man actually plan to bathe in front of her? That would be too embarrassing. “If you wish to bathe, Lord Devon, I can come back another time.”

He waved her suggestion away. “I wouldn’t hear of it. We can have our conversation now. Surely, you are not squeamish at the sight of a man bathing, Reggie?”

Ginny’s focus darted from the tub to Tyler. What exactly was he about here? Did the man suspect she would expose herself by having vapors at the mere viewing of his nakedness? Not hardly.

“By all means,” she casually indicated the bath with her hand, “Have at it, sir.”

His eyebrow arched. “Oh, I intend to.” There was a lawless core within him that he battled. She was playing with fire.

The thin veneer that he held in check every day of his “lordly” life was cracking. Tyler struggled to tamp down the reckless part of his nature, the side that did not belong in the drawing room– ever. Freedom sank into one’s pores or rose from the core; and however one came upon it, natural-born or adopted, it took root and grew within. As a consequence, the outlaw was never tossed out with the bath water.

As the years passed by, this life fit him less and less and the other more and more. It was a side effect of the profession that was never acknowledged. Despite its hardships and dangers, he favored the brethren life.

And right now that proclivity was front and foremost.

So he began to disrobe.

Ginny didn’t know whether to look at him– or not look at him. She had never been around a naked man before. If she didn’t look at him, it might seem odd; however, if she stared at him that might seem odder still.

Especially since she was dressed as Sir Reggie.

Zounds.

She settled on striking a nonchalant pose with a vague unfocused look aimed an inch above his left shoulder.

Unfortunately, the man disrobed at a snail’s pace.

Piece by bloody piece. Hannibal crossed the Alps quicker.

The jacket came first. Tossing it on a chair, he strolled over to the fireplace to take a few more sips of his cognac.

Ignoring Ginny, he stared into the flames of the fire while slowly unbuttoning his brocade vest. It was done in such a measured way that she was sorely tempted to go over and grab both sides of the garment and rip the damn thing apart herself.

The vest was finally slung over a chair.

She let out an audible sigh of relief.

He glanced back at her, the curve of his shoulder only partially obscuring that mysterious curl of his lips.

With his back to her, Tyler stood before the fireplace in snug black breeches (that molded his muscular thighs rather indecently), black leather boots, and a voluminous, almost sheer, white linen shirt, the cuffs of which dripped lace over long, beautifully shaped golden tan fingers.

The rakehell took another sip of the cognac, glancing her sideways over the rim of the glass. The side of his face turned to her took on a dark, shadowy cast. His glittering, translucent stare bore through her as firelight flickered off the cognac in his hand and danced in his eyes like fire and ice in the eye of a hurricane.

Ginny’s lips parted. Good lord, he is beautiful.

With a casual flick of his fingers, he pulled the ribbon from his hair, freeing the glossy locks. The long strands tumbled about his shoulders, a stormy black cloud.

Objectively, Ginny thought the wild mane thoroughly mirrored the untamed mood he was projecting. Dark clouds. Thunder. Hurricanes.

It all rather added up to a picture, didn’t it?

Not, perhaps, a very pleasant picture for one caught in such a storm.

She worried her lip.

Setting his drink down, his lordship grabbed the hem of his shirt and lifted it up over his head. As he did so, the broad expanse of his chest was slowly revealed.

Warm golden skin was polished in the reflective firelight; hard muscles rippled.

Ginny blinked. My word. He is quite... fit.

Are wastrel lords always this fit?

He tossed aside his shirt and societal mores seemed to be tossed aside as well. This was a different Tyler Devon who stood before her. Ginny couldn’t pinpoint the difference per se, she simply recognized that a startling change had occurred.

The room is really getting quite warm.

Fanning herself with Reggie’s lace hanky, she gave into temptation, and stared unabashedly at the naked male chest flexing right in front of her.

A sudden urge to touch it seized her.

Wisely, she refrained.

Tyler finished his drink, poured another, then sat down on the divan in front of the mantel. Holding up a booted foot, he lazily drawled, “Be a good lad and help me take these off; would you, Reggie?”

Do I have a choice? Reluctantly, Ginny lumbered over to the divan and bent down to grab the proffered foot.

“No, no, my good fellow. Like this.”

Before she could protest, Tyler quickly turned her around so that her backside was facing him. Resting his glass on the floor, his hands cupped her hips, and guided her rear up.

He paused a moment, cocking his head to the side in examination, then directed her derriere up a notch higher. “Now that’s perfect,” he murmured, almost to himself.

His palms slid over the fullness of her backside before he let go.

What was wrong with the man? Was he foxed?

Probably. The rake had too much to drink tonight and would most likely fall asleep in his bath.

Ginny smiled to herself; she could slip away then.

Without preamble, Tyler suddenly placed his other foot squarely against her rump and pushed. Hard. The boot, still clutched between her hands, came off with a popping sound, sending her flying across the carpet.

She rubbed at her sore backside, throwing him a considering look.

He impatiently waved her back. “Now the other one.”

Reluctantly, she grabbed the other boot. This time it was his bare sole that rested against her velvet-clad rump.

“A word of advice, Reggie?”

Ginny glanced back at him over her shoulder.

“What?” She responded rather sharply.

“This angle will always get you in trouble.” Just before Tyler shoved, his toes tweaked her left cheek.

“Ow!” Ginny flung the freed boot at him. He neatly dodged it. “That hurt!” She rubbed the offended spot.

His chiseled lips lifted into a mocking grin. “If you wish to be taken seriously in life, Reggie, you must learn to take these things like a man.”

Her husband was toying with her much as Charles had toyed with the wig.

Ginny was irked; she did not want Reggie to become the object of his sport. After all, a fop had his pride.

“Really, milord, if there is something on your mind, then speak it. Surely, you understand that I could not attend your wedding due to the megrims; there is no need to be insulted.”

Tyler snorted into his glass. “The megrims, is it?”

Ginny bristled. “It is obvious you are in a foul temper, sir; for what reason I cannot say. Perhaps I should take my leave.” She started for the door.

His one spoken word– more a command– rooted her to spot.

“Don’t.”

Ginny hesitated. This did not even sound like Tyler! There was a strange, forbidding glint in his right eye. She pivoted on the ball of her foot. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Did I not make myself clear?” He finished off the drink in one gulp, then carelessly tossed the elegant crystal into the fireplace.

It shattered into tiny pieces.

“If you do not understand me, Reggie... I wager you soon will.”

His softly spoken promise was somewhat intimidating.

Ginny’s eyes widened as Lord Devon walked towards her. She consciously took a step back.

He kept advancing.

Ginny kept backing up.

That was until he backed her into a corner.

From his great height he glowered down at her.

She had never seen anyone actually smolder. Until now. His veiled eyes flamed from beneath sooty lashes; his well-shaped lips tightened into a firm line.

Her husband was on a burn, no doubt about it.

The breath caught in her throat.

Did he know about her ruse? No husband would be happy to have his wife cavorting around as a fop.

Still, Lord Devon wasn’t like any other husband. He wasn’t... real.

Tyler crushed the front of her frilly shirt in his fist and lifted her right up to the very tips of her toes. “I could use a bath, Reggie– how about you?” The smooth undertone was scored with menace.

Well, the rake was certainly a tad angry about something.

But was he angry with Reggie or Regina? If he didn’t know about her disguise, it probably would not be the best time to reveal it. She really had no clue what to do next.

“I-ah-I- that is to say, sir, I don’t think–”

“Oh, but I do.” He dragged her over to the tub.

“You should go first, lad, this being my home, my bedroom, my– Well, you get the gist, don’t you, sir?”

He drawled out his polite-sounding words with a false manner that was unsettling.

Ginny eyed him, somewhat anxiously. All right, so the man is more than a tad angry. Be honest. He is livid.

She never would have imagined her rapscallion of a husband having so much singularly directed passion about anything. Apparently, she had read him wrong on that score. In her defense, this was not the wastrel, laissez-faire lord of the manor she had come to know.

Or anyone else knew, for that matter.

“Um...” Ginny chewed the inside of her cheek, trying to think of an appropriate response. One that would get her out of hot water. Literally and figuratively. She glanced at the steaming bath.

Tyler released her shirt and began to unbutton the front panel of his breeches.

Oh, this was too much!

She was either going to have to admit her disguise or make a hasty retreat. Discretion being the better part of valor, Ginny spun around to make that hasty retreat.

“Stay right where you are, Reggie.”

Again, his clipped, authoritative voice froze her to the spot. There was something in the resonance of that tone that brooked no argument. The force of it was utterly commanding. This was Tyler?

Ginny stayed put, not sure what he would do.

He threw her a challenging look then proceeded to slide the loosened breeches over his lean hips.

Ginny responded by staring at the flocked wallpaper.

Miniature rams– inexplicably carrying little bows and arrows– cavorted over fluffy golden clouds all across the walls. Whatever for? She frowned as the decorating scheme distracted her. Who designs these absurd patterns? And why do we purchase them?

Her interest lasted for a brief moment. The real curiosity at hand, so to speak, finally got the better of her. Her traitorous sights drifted unerringly back to the one spot she knew she definitely should not be looking at.

Ginny had never viewed a naked man before.

Especially not that part.

The item in question was... Rather huge. And floppy.

Oh, dear. Not totally floppy.

Egads, there was a strange firmness to it that seemed to increase the longer she stared! As if simply by looking at it, the thing was being engaged.

It was like staring at a guillotine. There was a horrid fascination. One wanted to look away– yet one was compelled to stare at the morbid contraption.

Eventually, manners got the better of her and her gaze traveled up his body.

Only to lock eyes with Lord Devon.

The corners of his mouth lifted in a roguish-sort of way.

He knew she had been staring at him the entire time.

Ginny’s focus quickly darted back to the prancing rams on the wall, her cheeks flaming even brighter than the foppish rouge she was wearing.

She attempted a nonchalant whistle– like any man about town might– but all that issued forth from her parched lips was a feeble wheeze.

A splash sounded, and she realized he had finally entered the tub. Thank goodness! With him otherwise occupied, she could soon make her escape. She chanced a peek to see whether the coast was clear.

It was a mistake.

All the man had done was throw some soap and a washing cloth into the steamy water. He approached her with measured steps.

“And now, I am afraid it is time for you to come clean, Reggie. Dear. Boy.”

Chapter Sixteen

Oh, good God, he knew!! He knew.

Before she had time to even think what to do, he seized her by the shirt and rent it asunder. The bound breasts popped proudly into view.

Ginny gasped. The tight strips of material pushed up the plump mounds of her now heaving chest making quite an indecent display.

“My, what odd cleavage you have, Reggie-boy.” he murmured wryly.

Ginny cleared her throat. “I-I can explain, Tyler–”

This in her own voice, not the affected one of the fop Reggie.

Tyler had been focusing on her chest, but he quirked a brow as he stared down at her. “Can you, dearest?”

“Yes, you see I–”

“Wanted to deceive me.” He finished the sentence for her.

“Perhaps make light sport of me as you enjoyed the seamier aspects offered to the ton?”

“No! Not at all! And it has nothing to do with you, I–”

That seemed to make him angrier.

“Spare me the tales of your wanton larks. I can assure you there is nothing you can divulge that I have not already engaged in myself. In truth, I have no desire to hear what manner of revelry you have partaken of, madam.”

She was nonplussed. Revelry? Her? She seethed.

He completely misinterpreted her meaning. And how dare he compare her to his degenerate self! The reprobate just admitted to every sordid debauchery under the sun! Good Lord, did he think she did not know? Everyone knew. He was an utter tomcat! It was all the ton ever talked about.

She lifted her powdered chin into the air. “Do not compare me to you, sir! The insult is not warranted.”