Authors: Shelley Bradley
“You may call me Lucien. And you are...?”
“I will not use the Christian name of a man I hardly know. It’s most improper.”
“I’ll make certain you come to know me very well then,” he murmured, his eyes lighting up with hot suggestions.
“Perhaps after we’ve had a proper introduction.” Serena backed away anxiously. “For now, I think I should go.”
“Not yet.” His gaze, silent, imploring, rooted her in place as forcefully as a restraining hand. “Not by half.” A frown overtook his features, slashing dark brows downward. “What if your thief is waiting for another moment alone with you? Let me at least help you to find your friends.”
His request was simple, one she could have denied. But his point was well taken. She had no wish to suffer another attack.
“P-perhaps you are right. Thank you.”
Lucien nodded, his face suddenly relaxed.
In the odd pause that followed, he produced a silver flask, ornately engraved and bejeweled. He unscrewed the cap then drew in a long swallow. Serena stared, wondering why she found this sinner so intriguing.
When he finished, he let out a purely male sigh of pleasure that sent her thoughts—and her pulse—into turmoil. “Drink?”
“You shouldn’t consume strong spirits. God will damn those who do,” Serena said solemnly.
His deep laughter roared in her ears. “Sweetheart, He’s already damned me. A little nip here and there will hardly signify. But thank you for your concern, even if the sentiment is provincial.”
There was that word, provincial. She couldn’t fathom why everyone insisted on calling her that.
“I am not provincial,” she insisted, “merely concerned for my moral health.”
“Which means provincial, more or less. Don’t be offended,” he rushed to say at her frown. “Think of it as a compliment. You’re not jaded, and you haven’t succumbed to the temptation to cut that gorgeous golden hair.”
He reached toward her, fingers outstretched. Her breathing tripped. Serena knew she should stop him, but she remained immobile, transfixed by the rush and tumble of feeling he aroused within her. A strange coil of anticipation built in her belly.
He caught tendrils of her wispy, damp tresses between his fingers. Their gazes collided. Serena felt herself drawn her into the mysterious realm of his stare.
His eyes spoke in carnal whispers, promising pleasure. Overwhelmed by his magnetism, his presence, she stood motionless. She felt so...breathless, so drawn to this rake. He wasn’t like the
ton’s
other gents she had met and danced with; he was no strutting peacock. This broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped man demanded attention, and not just for his direct speech.
Was God testing her, throwing temptation her way? If so, Serena feared she was failing—just like her mother.
He drew a finger across her cheek. “I would give every cent in my pockets to know the thoughts behind those troubled eyes.”
Fearing he could indeed read them, Serena gathered her strength and looked away. She spotted Melanie’s purple-turbaned head. But her friend wasn’t alone, nor was she with Lord Highbridge. She was with a stranger, and they were kissing, their mouths clinging desperately. She watched Melanie throw her arms around the man’s neck, then saw him deepen the kiss. Around them, few people appeared to notice.
“Melanie,” she gasped.
Lucien turned and followed her gaze. “Your friend?”
Serena nodded slowly, numbed by shock. Clearly, something had overcome everyone tonight. Even she felt affected.
“She seems to have the idea of it.”
Serena turned to him, mouth agape. “They look indecent!”
He grinned. “I’ll admit it’s not the kind of thing I do in public, but in private . . . it can be most entertaining.”
Wide-eyed, she stared at him. That imaginary kiss arose again in her mind, his fingers touching her cheek, his lips covering hers. If he kissed her as the man was kissing Melanie, she had little doubt she would enjoy it, too much. His shoulders would feel solid and warm beneath her palms. His hands touching her back and shoulders would bring pleasure. Merely imagining it stoked a fire in her belly and snatched a breath from her lungs.
By the saints, she needed to collect her thoughts, which hardly resembled those of the morally upright woman she’d been this morning. But for some reason, after the threat on her life, after meeting Lucien, she felt too off balance to be that woman.
Stung by her body’s reactions, she whipped her gaze from his much too handsome face back to Melanie—and was stunned to find both her and her newfound escort heading for the exit.
“Melanie!” Serena shouted above the din of conversation. Instead of turning around, Melanie laughed and tossed her head coquettishly at something her companion said.
“Melanie!” she shouted once more in vain. Seconds later, Melanie, her purple turban, and her mysterious new lover were gone. In disbelief, Serena shook her head. Her head hurt, the rain fell in sheets, and her ride home had departed without her.
The rake stepped in front of her, shaking his head. “What will you do now?”
Serena lifted her gaze, and immediately wanted to wipe the smug grin from his face. “Do? I shall go home.”
“How? Did you come in your own carriage?”
“Of course not. I’ll hire a sedan chair.”
Lucien shook his head. “Not likely.”
His language raised her ire. “Why do you say that?”
“Sweetheart, everyone here wishes themselves at home. You cannot imagine you’re the only one in need of a ride.”
Splendid. Naturally, he had to be right.
“Besides,” he added, “it is not likely a driver will stop for a woman alone, because that suggests you are either you a lightskirt or a woman without money.” He shrugged casually. “Whatever the case, the driver isn’t likely to receive a farthing for his trouble.”
Again, he was completely correct, curse him. Serena sighed in frustration.
“Let me take you home,” he suggested, his rasp compelling.
She shook her head, scandalized by how a cozy carriage ride with him appealed. “I could not impose. Besides, it’s much too improper.”
“The only other alternative is to walk.”
Alone? At night? Across town?
“Better improper than dangerous, wouldn’t you say?” he prompted.
“But—but I—” she stammered. She was too drawn to him by half to be rational in his presence.
“Have you a choice?” He raised a brow lazily in inquiry.
“No.”
Drat him
.
He proffered his elbow to her. “Your carriage awaits, my lady.”
Serena chewed her lip with worry, quaking inside, before reluctantly accepting his arm.
****
Under the dry protection of Vauxhall’s entrance, Lucien waved the emerald-and gold-clad footman away, then handed Serena into a sleek, narrow vehicle. She caught sight of a lozenge on the door, which, like the rest of the carriage, was painted a dark hue that gleamed a glossy black in the cloud-enshrouded moonlight. She peered at the diamond-shaped crest, tried to decipher it, but her dubiously benevolent rescuer touched a hot hand to the small of her back, spurring her into the coach.
He mumbled something to the coachman she did not quite hear. The servant replied with a crisp, “Very good, my lord.”
He was a member of the
ton
? Apparently. She shouldn’t be terribly surprised. The man had enough bravery—and charm—for a dozen lords. Was he
haut
ton
? Or a part of the fast set that overindulged with the Prince Regent at Brighton with revolting regularity?
He settled against the plush wine-dark seat beside her and, after removing his mask, thrust aside his cape and a carved walking cane she had not previously noticed. As he leaned closer and stared, the small coach suddenly felt very small.
He emanated heat, smelled of rain and sultry night air. His bold gaze held hers prisoner. His eyes glittered with forbidden promises of unknown pleasure from which she knew she should turn away. A virtuous woman would do no less.
Her erratic pulse thudded as her breasts tightened beneath the edges of her muslin chemise. A damp heat, an ache, gathered in her nether regions, the cause of which she didn’t even want to consider.
The coach jolted forward. She sent a quick prayer upward.
The clippity-clop of the horses’ hooves seemed a distant rumble in comparison to his quiet breaths inches away. Tearing her gaze from his, she concentrated on restraining her trembling fingers. She could not fathom what it was about this man that disturbed her so. Or comprehend this foreign reaction that continually brought to mind sinful possibilities.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him quirk one dark brow in speculation. She scooted closer to the carriage’s side, away from him.
Casually, he draped his arm behind her shoulders, his fingertips toying with the exposed skin at her nape. “How is your hand feeling?”
The warmth of his touch settled across her shoulders, drifted over the back of her sensitive neck, cascaded down her décolletage. She swallowed hard, closing her eyes against the rush of tingles. “The bleeding has stopped.”
The corners of his mouth lifted in a warm tilt, his sensual lips surrounded by beguiling dimples. His green eyes gleamed in the near-dark, drawing her in without mercy. “Good news.”
Digging her nails into her palms, she struggled to keep the anxiety from her face. She prayed he couldn’t hear the
thump
of her beating heart or the churn of thoughts in her head. “Sir, really, you should not...touch me so familiarly.”
His dark brows drew together in a frown as he scanned her expression. Her gaze climbed to his with reluctance. Abruptly, he withdrew his touch.
The air’s chill surrounded her like a Highland snowstorm. Huddling within the folds of her domino, she told herself it was merely the chilly summer rain.
“I apologize,” he said, pulling out his flask once again. “I guess my gentlemanly manners aren’t quite the thing.”
She watched him take a long, sinful swallow of the liquor. “So I see.”
He shrugged. “At least I know how to enjoy life. Can you say the same?”
She had her gardening, her reading, various charities, and Cyrus, who indulged her in all areas of education, even in mathematics and the sciences. “Of course I enjoy life.”
“But does it excite you? You hardly seem like a woman who’s ever thrown her bonnet over the windmill.” His gaze mirrored the challenge in his voice.
He made it sound as if safety was something to be avoided. “Such actions ruin reputations. I prefer knowing I will be received wherever I call.”
He laughed at her. The harsh, cynical sound mixed with the vehicle’s musty smell to choke her.
“Sweetheart, life can end. Anytime. In an instant—” he snapped his fingers, the sound bursting through the small space like the crack of a whip “—your life can come to an unexpected halt. Did tonight not teach you that?”
In the silence, she realized he spoke the truth.
“If you had died tonight, could you say you did everything you wanted? Or anything so exciting its remembrance would have brought you a smile?” he challenged, leaning closer. “I’ll bet you’re too busy being cautious, too worried about what the
ton
will think of you.”
Serena glanced out the window, noting the rain had dwindled to a drizzling mist. Hadn’t she had thoughts of her unfulfilled dream of motherhood a mere hour ago? If she had died tonight, she would have left this earth with regrets. Not for marrying Cyrus. He had been kind and indulgent beyond hope. But oh, how she would regret dying a childless maiden.
She turned back to Lucien. “And what, sir, are you suggesting I do to make my life more interesting?”
“Nothing,” he said. His voice dropped to a smooth whisper that caressed her skin like silk. “Except allow me to kiss you.”
Coming from anyone else, the suggestion would have stunned her. But not from him. From Lucien, she was rapidly coming to expect the unexpected. So far, nothing about this man had fallen in the realm of her experience. He was brave, implacable, outrageous . . . and fascinating. She bit her lip, torn between intrigue and indecision.
“And if I allow you to kiss me, that will prove I am capable of leading an exciting life?”
He flashed a pirate’s smile, predatory in its pleasantness. “Something like that.”
Her heart thudded. “Why should I allow
you
to kiss me, and not someone else?”
His strong hand closed around her fingers. The contact jolted her with tingling energy. Then he turned her hand over, and those same fingers whispered across her damp, sensitive palm. Shivers ran up her arm and down her spine.
“You want me to kiss you,” he said quietly.
She shook her head, but couldn’t make herself speak the lie.
Then she heard the rustle of his dark evening clothes, the squeak of the carriage seat, as he leaned closer.
With the dim light from the carriage’s outside lanterns, she focused on the black ring encircling his unusual green eyes. Sitting this close, she could nearly feel the dark stubble on his square chin and firm jaw. His snowy cravat sat askew after their mad dash to the carriage, exposing the strong column of his neck. She knew an insane urge to press her lips there. His mouth, so full and curved, was one she would have expected on a French courtesan, not an English lord.