The Marquess (36 page)

Dismouth tapped his fingers together. “Then, Miss
Whitnell should suffer equal difficulty in obtaining them?”

For the first time that evening, the duke managed a half
smile. “She would need two dragons and a platoon of knights to pry that
old bastard out of his position.”

* * * *

Gavin already knew the sword he would use on his own
personal dragon, although slaying her wasn’t precisely his intention. He
might occasionally contemplate cutting off her tongue, but he had no desire of
otherwise ending a relationship that afforded him such pleasure.

He could think of no other good reason why he should lurk in
the dark London garden of her cousin’s townhouse on a windy spring night.
He’d already scouted the front and decided he couldn’t gain access
from there except through one of the two doors: the belowstairs servants’
entrance or the main entrance. The likelihood of one of the servants letting
him in was small, and he had no intention of giving Michael more ammunition for
his quick tongue if he should answer the main door.

The house shared inside walls with two other townhouses,
leaving any access impossible from the sides. So now he stood in the garden
behind the mews, contemplating the lighted windows above. He must be mad.

A silhouette crossed the lighted path of a second-story
window. Since their charade required that he have no apparent knowledge of Lady
Blanche and her companion, he’d not seen the inside of this protective
prison where the women hid. Gavin didn’t think much of Michael’s
precautions. He’d seen only one old man checking the downstairs locks. No
one guarded the outside. With a good ladder, he could climb inside in a flash.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have a ladder. And he could
tell from the shape of the silhouette that it was Dillian standing near the
window.

Damn, but he hadn’t performed such contortions to get
to a woman since he was a schoolboy. Anyone in their right mind would simply
give up and go home. He knew how to live without a woman. He’d had lots
of practice lately.

He just kept remembering how she looked lying there on that
divan, the frail folds of her fancy gown falling to the floor, her face flushed
and anxious as she watched the door for the appearance of her own personal
demon. Dillian Whitnell might have the courage of a lion, but she had the
physical vulnerability of any other woman. Since at the moment, Gavin
considered her
his
woman, he meant to protect her.

He also meant to climb into her bed, but that was another
matter entirely.

He would accomplish nothing by hiding in the shrubbery. Just
as he’d decided to fling pebbles at the lighted window, the figure pulled
the draperies across and disappeared into the interior.

Cursing, Gavin sought some means of gaining entry to that
floor. No vines conveniently lined the solid, vertical walls. He could possibly
look for some access from the roof of the neighbor’s house, but he had no
means of lowering himself two floors to the window he wanted.

Just as he concluded he would have to search the mews for a
ladder, he noticed a shadow furtively flitting from an ornamental boxwood to a
hideous stone urn. Setting his jaw, Gavin pulled his black cloak around him for
concealment and slipped behind a rose-covered arch.

The shadow skirted the house foundation much as he had done
earlier in search of some means of entrance. Unlike himself, this person showed
no evidence of avoiding doors. The shadow halted near the rear exit.

Gavin crept closer. He couldn’t stop the intruder from
entering the interior without following. He didn’t possess
Michael’s ability of walking noiselessly, but the spring grass concealed
his footsteps well enough, as long as he avoided the graveled walkway.

Skirting around an overly tall hedge, he briefly lost sight
of the rear door. When he reached the other side, the furtive figure had
disappeared. Cursing, not knowing if the intruder had somehow entered the
locked door, Gavin slid behind the stone urn— and nearly knocked down the
intruder.

Finding his arms suddenly filled with squirming round
curves, Gavin grinned and leaned against the urn for support while wrapping his
captive more firmly against him. He couldn’t have mistaken the identity
of his captive were he blind, deaf, and senseless. Her curves fit most
fortuitously into all the right places. “Had I thought you so eager for
my company, my lady,” he murmured into her ear, “I would have
notified you of my arrival much sooner.”

Dillian followed her outraged gasp with a thump of her small
fist against his chest. Gavin squeezed her against him, trapping her dangerous
arms. That maneuver denied him full access to her lovely breasts. He made up
for that lack by lifting her so the hollow between her thighs fit neatly
against that part of him which welcomed her most.

She stiffened at the intimacy, but then nature had its way,
and she relaxed, molding herself more securely into his embrace. Just that
little surrender sent all his senses blazing, and he had to restrain himself
from finding the nearest level surface to take her on.

He had treated her crudely in the past. He would maintain
some measure of gentility for now. Besides, he enjoyed the sensual pleasures of
touch and smell and anticipation almost as much as the actual act. He breathed
deeply of Dillian’s lavender scent.

“Are you still wearing that gown you had on this
evening?” he asked hoarsely, seeing the daring neckline in his
mind’s eye as clearly as if she stood before him in lamplight.

“No,” she whispered. “I took it off before
I realized someone lurked in the bushes.”

Gavin released her sufficiently to glance down at her
shadowy figure. He could see something loose and flowing about her ankles. He
threw his cloak over his shoulder, freeing his hand to run over the silken
material covering her breast. “You’re out here in your nightrail?”
he asked in astonishment mixed with a surge of lust.

She hid her head against his chest and nodded.

Gavin played that notion through his head and chuckled. She
could have called Michael and told him an intruder lurked in the yard. Instead,
she had dashed outside wearing only her nightrail. He gathered her a little
closer and wrapped them both in his cloak to keep her warm. “You knew it
was me,” he said with certainty.

“You don’t have to be so blamed arrogant about
it,” she answered huffily. “Who else would be foolish enough to
attempt scaling bare walls?”

Relaxing his shoulders against the monstrous urn and holding
her close, Gavin shook his head, still chuckling. The little termagant had
begun to grow on him. He rather liked her prickly defenses. He preferred her
mischievous laughter when they were in accord, but that didn’t happen
often enough to suit him. He’d settle for the heat generating between them
as they stood together like this. He knew if he touched her breasts, she would
be as aroused as he was.

“Consider it a compliment that I so desire your lovely
self, I’m prepared to scale walls for you,” he murmured against her
hair, enjoying the pleasure of running his hand up and down her ample curves
beneath the soft material of the gown.

She pulled her head back and glared up at him. “You
didn’t mean to...”

He heard the shocked tone of her voice but ignored it. “Of
course I meant to. Shall we go in now or do you wish to explore the
possibilities of this garden?”

Her small fist beat a tattoo against his chest again. “You
wretched pig! In Blanche’s home! Have you no decency? Would you shame me
before all the world? Why do you just not claim me your mistress before all the
ton
and make it easier for yourself?”

Gavin sighed and settled her tirade by closing his mouth
across hers. She didn’t struggle long, he noted. Dillian had an
unpredictable temper, but her physical desire blazed as hotly as his own. He
took a seat on the stone bench surrounding the urn and eased her nightrail up
so she straddled his lap. He’d prefer a warm bed to cold stone, but he
would take what he could. She tasted of strawberries, he decided as he dipped
deeply into the sweetness of her kiss.

“Gavin, don’t,” she whispered when he gave
her a chance to catch her breath. “We can’t...”

For answer, he suckled her breast through the thin wisp of
her nightrail.

She melted, almost literally melted, sliding into his lap
and nearly falling from his knees before he caught her. He didn’t think
he’d ever felt such intoxicating pleasure with a woman in his life. Her
responses not only made him ache with desire, they restored something missing
inside him, gave him back some shred of the confidence he’d lost. Not all,
perhaps. He might never return to the arrogant, cocksure bastard he’d
once been, but he had no wish to return to his previous life in any form.

“Gavin, you can’t possibly...”

He drank in her sigh of pleasure as he pulled her skirt up
and caressed her lightly, luxuriating in the simple pleasures of heated skin,
crisp curls, and welcoming moisture. Instead of beating him with fists, her
hands now slid beneath the shirt she’d unfastened. When her fingers
sought and played his nipples, Gavin nearly took her then and there. She
learned exceedingly well and much too quickly. That knowledge delighted him
even more.

As he reached for the buttons of his trousers, she
stiffened. He’d thought her beyond the protesting stage, and he threw her
an anxious glance. She wasn’t looking at him but at something over his
shoulder.

“There’s someone there, in the shrubbery!”
she whispered, leaning to speak against his ear.

The little wretch was perfectly capable of saying the like
to distract him from his purpose. His fingers caressed her intimately,
reminding her of his ownership of this particular part of her. She shivered and
moved against him, but her gaze remained fixed on something over his shoulder.

Hell and tarnation, he swore silently, turning to look where
she pointed. She hadn’t lied. A man slid from the rose-covered arch,
creeping toward the rear door.

“I didn’t fasten it behind me!” Dillian
whispered.

Gavin muttered a filthy imprecation and set Dillian aside on
the bench. The cold stone should cool her off. He rather thought his own loins
might petrify into permanent stiffness. Still, he eased around the urn and
prepared to fling himself upon the intruder when a second-floor window flew
open and a veiled head leaned out.

“Dillian! Are you out there? Come back inside at once!”

The intruder shot through the shrubbery, scaled the
ornamental boxwood, leapt from a wrought-iron table to the top of the brick
wall, and disappeared on the other side.

“Get back inside the house!” Gavin shouted, not
following the thief’s path but heading for the gate to the mews.

“No, don’t!” Dillian threw herself at him,
clinging so he could scarcely move. “He might have a weapon. He’s
too far ahead of you. Let him go.”

He had no experience with clinging women, nor any patience
with them. Shaking her off, Gavin ran to the gate and out into the mews.
Looking both ways, he could discern no running figure. Stables and discarded
trash littered the dark alleyway. The man could hide anywhere. Without knowing
in which direction he went, he had little or no chance of finding him without a
small army. She’d safely distracted him until the culprit got away.

Cursing with angry frustration, Gavin slammed back through
the gate and grabbed Dillian’s arm. “Why in hell did you stop me?”
he demanded. “I could have nabbed the varmint, and we might have had a
few answers around here. I sometimes wonder which side you’re working
for, Miss Whitnell.” He dragged her toward the house.

“Nabbed the varmint?” she repeated with
distaste, hauling on his arm rather than running to keep up with him. “How
very expressive. Let me go, my lord. I’m not one of your minions to be
thrown about as you will.”

He flung open the door and jerked her inside. “Do you
prefer it to think I am one of
your
minions?” he asked furiously. “Am
I only to do as you bid? Just precisely what game are you playing here. Miss
Reynolds Whitnell?”

Blanche was running down the stairs, her eyes wide with
terror. Michael already stood in the front hallway, arms crossed over his chest
as he observed Gavin tugging Dillian in her nightrail down the corridor.

Oblivious to their audience, Gavin continued shaking his
captive. “It’s about time I had some honesty from you. I want the
whole story, or I’m washing my hands of this whole damned deal.”

To the astonishment of all, Dillian jerked herself out of
Gavin’s grasp, picked up the skirts of her nightrail, and started up the
steps. “Then, go, my lord. I have no further use for you at all.”

She left everyone standing in the hallway, gaping, as she
departed with the injured dignity of a royal princess.

Dillian held her head high and her shoulders back just as
her military companions had taught her those many long years ago when she had
childishly wanted to run and hide and weep until her heart broke.

She wouldn’t let hasty words wound her. She would hold
herself above insults. And if physically challenged, she would fight with every
ounce of her strength. Effingham should rejoice that he hadn’t actually
lifted a hand to her, or she would have bitten it off.

She even resisted slamming the door behind her as she
retreated to her room. She clenched her fists and fought against the tears
swimming in her eyes. She wouldn’t think of the things the blamed
marquess had done to her, of the intimacies she had allowed, of the way he made
her feel special each time he looked at her with desire.

Shame swept through her as she remembered what they had
almost done in the garden. She had pretended all along that she had done those
things for Blanche, but she’d lied to herself. She had done them because
she wanted Gavin’s arms around her, wanted his kisses, wanted him in her
bed.