The Lady Hellion (11 page)

“Then what if I offered to help you?”

“Then I would ask why you would make such an offer. Because if it is an attempt to control me or my methods, like preventing me from visiting brothels or gaming hells, I would politely decline.”

He lifted his hands, all innocence. “I only want to keep you safe. Perhaps if we work together, I won’t need to suture your leg again any time soon. Or worse.”

She stared at him. Was he telling the truth? Would he truly help, without trying to manipulate her? The offer was tempting. She could use someone to talk with, someone capable of drawing inferences and conclusions . . . and no one did that better than Quint. “What would that mean, working together? You’ll escort me on these errands?”

A muscle jumped in his slightly whiskered jaw. “No.”

“Why not?”

“If I were able, I would. Believe me.”

No, she refused to believe it. She wanted to know more, to learn about this illness that had convinced him he could not go outside. If she did, then maybe
she
could help
him
.

She recalled their kiss, the one in this very spot. He’d ended up outside and, though it had surprised him, it hadn’t killed him. And it had been a very nice kiss. An
amazing
kiss. She wanted more. More kisses, more touching. More everything. After all, it wasn’t as if she’d ever have a husband to do these things with.

And who knew how much longer Quint would tolerate her visits? He’d told her on multiple occasions not to return. One of these days, he might truly
mean
it. She needed to enjoy these stolen moments with him while she still could.

Her gaze flicked to his mouth as an idea occurred. “So I would come here at night, discuss any developments with you?”

“Yes, precisely. But no more recklessness. We decide
together
on how you proceed.”

“I’ll only agree on one condition.”

His brows lowered. “And what is that?”

“You kiss me whenever I want.”

Surprise registered on his face before he let out a startled, choked sound. “Kiss you?”

“Yes.”

“Sophie, you cannot ask me to kiss you. It’s . . . absurdly improper.”

“You’ve already kissed me—twice—so I fail to see why it is such a bad idea.”

“One of those times
you
kissed
me
, and we should not be kissing at all. You should not be kissing anyone until you’re married.”

Which would never happen. “Loosen up, Quint. You seem to enjoy kissing me and I know I like it as well. Where is the harm?”

Sophie beat back Lord Robert’s voice. Quint hadn’t seemed to mind her enthusiasm; still, it would do her well to remember not to get too carried away.

“Oh, God,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “You are unbelievable.”

“True. And you know how determined I can be when there is something I want.” Suffering through his amazing kisses while helping him conquer his fear at the same time? Oh, she wanted that. Badly.

“And I also know how you never stop to reason anything through. You are too innocent to realize, of course, but kissing generally leads to other more intimate things.”

Heat sizzled through Sophie’s veins at the idea of “other more intimate things” with Quint, and warmth settled low in her belly. She swallowed and said, “That is what I have you for, to retain a level head.” After all, he didn’t feel anything for her other than friendship. Remaining calm should be easy, at least for him.

“I should refuse,” he said. “But I’m at a rather large disadvantage, since you may just decide to leave and never return. There would be little I could do to force you to come back. I shudder to think what would happen to you then.”

Nerves and excitement bubbled up in her chest. “That is true. Does this mean you agree?”

“Newton help me, but yes. I’ll kiss you and I’ll assist your investigations.”

And I’ll find a way to fix you,
she thought. “Excellent. I knew you would see things my way. Shall we start now?”

He slanted her a glance. “With the investigation, you mean?”

She shook her head. “With the kissing.”

Arms folded across his chest, he lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, so that’s what you think, that you can crook your finger at me and I’ll do your bidding? I may be cracked in the head, Sophie, but all the other parts work just fine. Which means I’m still a man. And
this
man kisses a woman when he wants to, like when she makes him laugh. Or when her smile knocks him back ten paces. Or when she’s so beautiful he can’t breathe. Not when it’s an obligation.”

Sophie blinked. Words would not come, her mouth gone dry at the heady declaration. It was a wonder she could stand upright, what with her bones rapidly turning to jelly. “All right,” she finally managed.

His gaze darkened. “Of course that look happens to work as well,” he said quietly, advancing on her.

“What look?” She instinctively took a step back, then winced as a stab of pain radiated through her injured leg.

He froze, concern pinching his brow. Without a word, Quint bent, picked her up, and carried her deeper into the house. “Wait, where are we going?” she asked.

“To the study. To sit down. It’s obvious your leg is paining you.”

Sophie wrapped her arms around his neck, enjoying the shift and play of muscles beneath his clothing. When they reached his study, he did not set her on her feet. Instead, he crossed to an armchair by the fire and lowered into it, setting her on his lap.

“Let me see the sutures,” he said gently. “I want to ensure the wound isn’t infected.”

“It’s fine,” Sophie said. She was not shy, but sitting on Quint’s lap in the middle of the night for a businesslike examination of her wound had her squirming.

“Be still. I want to see for myself.” He lifted the gauzy layers of skirts and petticoat. The leg of her drawers was wide enough that he could push it up to see the wound on her thigh. “Excellent. The skin is healthy. Alice must be keeping her hands clean.”

She expected him to adjust her clothing to cover her—but he didn’t. Instead his large hand smoothed over her exposed leg, eyes raking her skin, while her heart fluttered behind her ribs.

“Sophie, I need to tell you—you expect me to retain a level head, but you should not rely on me. I’m not exactly in control of my faculties these days. Seeing you like this doesn’t help, either.” His hand indicated her lower half. “And I do not want to hurt you. I beg of you, rethink your request.”

If she’d had any concerns about his state of mind, his speech eliminated them. Would a madman really give fair warning? But there could be another reason for his hesitation, one far more humiliating. “You would not hurt me. And I think you are stalling. If you don’t want to kiss me—”

He closed the distance between them in a blink, pressing his mouth to hers, his tongue immediately pushing inside. He kissed her hard, desperately, his mouth rough and smooth at the same time, and she loved every second. She held nothing back, using her tongue and her hands to explore while his lips slanted over hers again and again.

The warmth in her belly spread until her breasts were heavy, aching. Moisture gathered in her cleft, the beat of her heart evident there in a rhythmic pulse. She became aware of Quint’s hardness beneath her backside—a thrilling, heady proof of his desire for her. For Sophie, not the Perfect Pepperton or any other woman. He wanted her, and she gloried in the knowledge. It was all she could do not to rub against his erection.

And then she did rub against it.

He groaned into her mouth, a pained-yet-excited sound she’d never heard from him before. Lust raced down Sophie’s spine. Her fingers trailed over his broad shoulders, reveled in the heat pouring off his frame. The opening in his shirt was just wide enough for her to slip a hand inside, testing the smooth, taut skin of his chest. His heart thumped under her palm, while the soft hair tickled her fingers. She ran her hand over his chest, enjoying the feel and the taste of him, and the tip of her finger brushed over his nipple.

He gave a quick intake of breath and then drew back to murmur, “Sophie, you’re killing me. We should stop before this goes any further.”

All she heard was “stop”—and so she rose up to kiss him once more.

Chapter Eleven

One kiss, he’d promised himself.

Kiss her quickly—yet long enough to ensure she did not complain. That had been the plan. But he hadn’t expected her to be so enthusiastic. A virgin, even one of twenty-seven, should not have him so flustered with mere kisses. The probability of such an occurrence had seemed incredibly low when this exercise began.

He should have known Sophie would defy logic.

Quint’s control unraveled the second her mouth found his once more, with any thoughts of ending this long forgotten. She kissed as she did everything else: with exuberance and passion, a reckless disregard for anything but the moment at hand. He could not stop from giving it back to her in kind.

With one hand cupping her head and the other on her leg, he clutched her tight. Licked at her mouth. Nipped at her lips. Tasted her until she gave a needy whimper in her throat. The sound wound its way through his groin to sharpen his arousal. God’s blood, how he craved her. He’d frigged himself so often in the last few days thinking of her, it was a wonder he hadn’t chaffed.

He could barely think, barely breathe, and the animal instinct—the desire to give and receive pleasure—took over. And with this particular woman on his lap, it was impossible to resist. It had been a long time since he’d felt this heady rush of lust drag him under the surface of rationality—and he welcomed the sweet oblivion.

His mouth left hers to trail across her jaw. He sucked the lobe of her ear between his lips, scraped it with his teeth. A gasp escaped just before she pressed her lips together tightly, as if to stop the noise. Which would never do. “I want to hear you, Sophie,” he whispered in her ear. “Every sound. Every sigh. Do not hold back on me.”

Next, he worked his way down the silky-soft skin of her throat. She threw her head back, giving him better access, of which Quint took full advantage. He felt drunk on her, out of his mind with this craving for her. A small part of his still-functioning brain could not believe she was allowing these liberties with him. The man whose suit she had refused. Yet here she lay, on his lap, soft and pliant, and offering up no protest. Pulling him closer. Kissing him. And he was not yet insane enough as to pass on such a rare gift.

Two fingers dipped inside the layers of her bodice and lifted a pale and perfect breast over the cloth, revealing it. “So pretty,” he murmured before drawing the rosy tip inside his mouth. He alternated between sharp pulls and laving the taut nipple with the flat of his tongue, determined to drive her mad.

Her fingers threaded his hair, holding him close. “Quint,” she sighed, the sound barely above a whisper. The more he sucked, the more restless she became. “Don’t stop,” she said. “God, Quint, I am burning alive.”

His hand returned to her thigh, where he brought it up to cup her mons. Heat scorched his skin and she rocked her hips against his palm. “Yes,” she groaned, and the friction against his aching cock nearly had his eyes rolling back. A few more of those and he’d spill in his trousers for certain.

Releasing her breast, he lowered her against the armrest until she was nearly flat across his lap. Her eyes, half-lidded and sultry, watched him, while her chest rose and fell rapidly. “Remain still,” he told her. “Let me feel you.”

With her skirts already gathered around her waist, he only had to find the part in her drawers. He spread her open and then her glistening vulva lay bare before him—the downy brown hair covering her mons and the pink, dewy lips of her labia externa and interna. He swallowed. Perfection. Utter perfection.

Without thinking, he swiped a finger through the moisture gathered at the entrance to her vagina and brought the digit to his mouth. He closed his eyes and savored the sharp tang of her arousal on his tongue. Sweet. Saint’s teeth, what he wouldn’t give to have his face between her thighs. But he didn’t want to frighten her.

“Please,” she panted, as if sensing his hesitation. “Don’t stop.” Her glittering gaze implored him to keep going and the desire in his groin grew heavier.

Further proof of his madness, no doubt, but he had no intention of stopping.

He slowly traced the folds of her labia with his thumb and explored every bit of her before pushing one finger inside her vagina. Her lids fell on a moan as her hips pushed up, bringing him deeper. The walls were hot and slick. And tight. He shuddered, imagining that wet, warm tissue clasping his erection.

Keeping his own raging need in check, he began a teasing slide in and out of her channel. Coaxing a response from her. Then he added a finger, stretching her further.

“Oh, yes,” he heard her say. He watched her body take his fingers deep inside. Felt her tremble. Then he curled his fingers, searching for the one spongy, sensitive spot—

She shouted and thrashed atop his lap. “Quint, oh God.”

He knew she was close. Her clitoris, the distended vascular bundle of cells at the top of her cleft, was swollen and taut, so he applied his thumb to it with relentless intensity. “Feel it, Sophie. Let it happen.”

Sophie clawed at him, the armrest, the fabric of the chair, anything she could reach. “Oh, God. Yes,” she whimpered. “Right there.”

Her thighs shook and her walls clamped down on his fingers. She clenched and then cried out, orgasm overtaking her. It was beautiful. The kind of image a man remembered to his grave. Her head thrown back, eyes closed, lips rosy from his kisses, shivering in ecstasy. He held on as best he could, prolonging the experience, until she twisted away with a shiver.

He dropped his head against the back of the chair, released her, and struggled to catch his breath. It took some effort to calm himself. Sophie seemed similarly undone as she lay boneless in his lap, a hand pressed to her chest, eyes shut tight. The study clock continued its usual tick, as if the world hadn’t just turned upside down.

Everlasting hell, what had he done?

Shame and loathing rolled through Quint. He’d . . . defiled her. She was a virgin. The daughter of a marquess. That she’d asked for it did not matter. He should know better—hell, he
did
know better. He just hadn’t been able to refuse her.

Hadn’t been able to stop himself.

Which stood as more proof of his imminent decline. His father had talked incessantly of copulation during his fits—dirty, filthy words—and had masturbated until they’d tied his arms down. That Quint had inflicted this utterly inappropriate act on a gently bred lady only verified what he already knew of his future.

He was not fit to be around others.

And his stupid cock was not listening. It lay hard and heavy in his trousers. Ready to mate at any second.

God, he hated himself in that moment. He adjusted her skirts to cover her.

“I am . . . I had no idea,” she murmured. Satisfaction and wonder laced her tone.

“And I beg your pardon for it. I should not have taken things so far.”

A crease formed between her brows. “Why not? Granted, it was a bit more than a kiss, but I’d hardly complain.” She struggled to sit up, so he helped to right her. “I daresay I’ll never look at your hands in quite—”

“
Sophie
.” He set her on the floor.

She laughed. “Quint, there is no need to be so serious. This was my idea and any regrets may be placed squarely at my feet. Not that I regret it, mind you.”

“You should.”

“Why? Because we are not married?”

“That, yes, but there is an even greater reason.”

“What?”

“Because I am nearly insane.”

 

 

The next evening, Quint scratched his pen furiously over the paper, the idea bursting forth from his mind. He must get the thought down in its entirety—before it was forgotten and gone. What if he split the coded message into parts and then performed a frequency analysis on each letter by section?

The hour well past midnight, he’d dismissed the staff some time ago. The coals had long faded, the temperature in the room decidedly chilly. Still, he wrote. When he finished, he placed his pen on the tray and sanded his paper. “Did you enjoy your ride with Lord MacLean?”

A gasp carried the length of the room. “You knew I was here?”

Only the instant she’d entered. He was attuned to her, down to the subcutaneous membranes under the layers of his skin. “Of course. And you did not answer my question.”

She lifted her chin stubbornly, a look he happened to adore. “A waste of time to ask, then, how you are aware of my perfectly innocent ride with MacLean this morning.” She stood and put her hands on her hips. “I do not like that you are having me followed. Especially during the day. It is unnecessary.”

He disagreed—and with MacLean around, Quint had all the more reason to keep her under watch. The Scot was a practiced reprobate, Sophie a reckless innocent. A clear recipe for disaster if ever there was one.

“I believe it necessary,” he told her, “considering your nocturnal activities. Criminals and footpads do not disappear in the daylight.”

“I am aware of that. But I am fairly certain MacLean could fight off any ruffian who dared approach.”

Quint clenched his jaw. Yes, no doubt MacLean could protect her. The sane Scottish lord could leave his house. Take her for rides in the park. Could likely club any attacker using a full-grown oak tree, if needed. But who would protect Sophie from MacLean?

“That may be so, but your kilt-wearing hero does not know what I know—and he may be caught unaware. And you are wasting your time by arguing.”

“You are exceedingly stubborn.”

“In that, we are well matched. All you need do is give up your ventures as Sir Stephen and I will happily dismiss Jenkins.”

She snorted in response. “You said you would help me, not try to stop me.”

Yes, he had—but he’d never expected the bargain she suggested. A bargain that had him hard and straining inside his trousers all damned day. It was all he could do not to pounce on her and lift her skirts.

Nevertheless, he would not allow it to happen again.

And not because of the antiquated belief that women should wait to find pleasure in the marriage bed. No, his resolve had to do with
him
. For whatever reason, she had wanted to dally with him. He didn’t pretend to understand it and had foolishly allowed his feelings for her to momentarily cloud his better judgment.

But she deserved better than a coward, a madman afraid to leave his house. The perfect and beautiful daughter of a marquess, she was braver and more intelligent than half the men in Europe. And he was . . . broken. Still that eleven-year-old boy standing in the freezing cold, knowing there was something wrong with him. He had no right to force himself on this woman, to touch her in any manner.

So despite the powerful, burning desire for her, he had to refrain from any further physical contact. Even kisses.

“I said I would help you, and I shall. Come with me.”

He reached for his piece of foolscap and stood.

“Where are we going?”

He stood close enough to see the pulse leaping at the base of her throat.
Ignore it,
he told himself. “I need to lock this away.” He held up the paper. “And we may talk privately there.”

“And we are not private here?” She glanced about the obviously empty room.

“Perhaps, but one never knows.” Especially when a member of his staff was likely passing information along to the Home Office.

Without waiting for further arguments, he led her to the rows of books at the far end of the study. On a high shelf, he plucked the edge of Hobbes’s
Leviathan
and the latch sprung. Sophie gasped as the bookcase opened. “You have a secret passage!”

“Which will not remain a secret if you do not lower your voice.”

He took her hand and stepped into the tiny corridor, closing the hidden door behind them. Darkness descended. He never brought a light when using the passage, as he didn’t need it. The trip was one he made often, sometimes out of need and other times out of weariness.

Sophie clasped his hand tightly, her breath coming faster. “Should we not have a lamp?”

“No.” He led her along the cramped space. It was not wide enough for them to travel side by side; rather, she pressed herself nearly flush against his back. “Just do not let go of me. Otherwise you may miss a turn and fall into the pit of crocodiles.”

A hand smacked his shoulder. Quint smiled.

“Here are stairs,” he told her. He guided her up the first step. Counted the eighteen. Then at the top, he found the latch and pulled it to open the door. Flickering light from the fading fire illuminated his bedchamber. He let go of Sophie’s hand, set his paper on the bed, and crossed to add more coal. “Push that closed, will you?”

Sophie shut the passage door while he tended to the fire, then he went to the bed. He’d designed the rosewood frame with squat, square posts, and without a canopy. Each of the posts had a small, decorative cap on top. Quint lifted and twisted the cap on the lower right post to reveal the wooden box hidden within. He withdrew the box, which was about the size of his forearm, and placed it on the coverlet.

“What on earth . . .” she breathed over his shoulder. “How positively clever! What do you keep in there?”

He slid the lid back, revealing the inner compartment. “This and that.” Rolling his progress on the code, he tucked the pages inside, around some other drawings. Just let Hudson try and find that.

“Are you working on something important?” She was close—so close her skirts brushed his leg, unnerving him.

“Possibly. Won’t know until I get it right.”

“You think this may have something to do with the break-in.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes. In the past, the Home Office has sought my help with various code problems. There is one cipher that is thought to be unbreakable, oftentimes called
le chiffre indéchiffrable
. If I can find a way to crack the cipher without the necessary key code, it would draw the attention of quite a few governments, including our own. It would be like having the only master key to every locked door in the world.” The box now closed, he slid it back into the post.