Page 25 of The Confessions of a Lady
His chuckle was dark and rich, like the hot chocolate she used to bring to Lady Drake. ‘Because it is up to you? The maid orders the marquess and he obeys?’
She bit her lip, noticing how his pupils dilated, his eyes locked onto her mouth. ‘In this, I do, and you will.’
Liam kept staring at her, stealing the breath from her lungs for an endless moment. Then he nodded. ‘Let’s hope I’m better at obeying your commands than you are at obeying mine, Miss Smith. We shan’t speak of this night again. Though I can’t promise it won’t haunt my thoughts.’
Before she could form a response, he spun and walked out the door, his boots clipping quickly down the hall.
Blazing Betty.
Penny’s legs turned to jelly.
‘What in the hellfire just happened?’ She pressed her fingers against her lips, remembering the feeling of his mouth, the scent of rain, wind, and wild green spaces that clung to him, the heat pulsing from him, filling her with delicious shivers. He was a wizard, pulling her under his spell.
She shook her head, attempting to dislodge his words from her memory. To even imagine she held a part of him captive? Impossible. Haunting a man like Liam? She dared not dream it.
He may not have lied to her this evening, but she was fairly confident she had lied to him. As she stood in the dark library, she could confess a terrifying truth to herself. Shewouldallow him to kiss her again. If he wished it. Which was total madness. The sparks fizzing through her system invaded her mind, making rational thought impossible.
‘Fancy makes fools of us all,’ Penny whispered. But she was not some silly girl who could afford to lose herself to fantasy. Far too much was at stake. ‘He’s the enemy,’ she reminded herself harshly.
Liam is my enemy.
No. Not Liam. The Marquess of Stoneway. Lord Renquist. A lofty gentleman of the beau monde. But never Liam.
Carefully, she picked her way back to her room, hopes of sleep long since abandoned.
7
Liam rose early despite his restless night. It had been a week since his encounter with Penny in the library. They had studiously avoided each other, but he couldn’t escape her presence in his dreams. His erotic fantasies woke him in the middle of the night, hard as stone, desperate for the scent of vanilla and cloves, aching for a certain maid to blister him with her sharp tongue. Last night had been the worst so far.
Her Cupid’s bow mouth coasting over his heated skin, setting little fires everywhere she paused to lick, suck, bite. Her husky screams filling his room like the most exquisite symphony as he feasted on her body. Her strong fingers, so efficient and bold, gripping his aching length and stroking until his voice joined hers. The blaze of their passion reaching an inferno as sweat-slicked skin melded together in one pulsing quest for coalescence.
He splashed himself with cold water from the bowl on his dressing table, using the soft cloth and cake of soap to perform his morning ablutions, sternly demanding his cockstand to dissipate as he pulled his thoughts away from impossible dreams and tried to focus on his task for the day.
Meeting with the baron’s son, Charles Barrington. Reynard’s old chum from Eton.
Liam had been studying the letters Charles wrote to Reynard. It would seem they found camaraderie in their shared fate as second sons. Both strove for the wealth and power inherited by their older brothers and cruelly denied to them. The Devil’s Sons offered them a chance to claim the riches their fathers had refused to split between their heirs and spares.
All they needed to do was sell their souls and procure “product” for transfer to Europe. It also seemed they had an informant in Scotland Yard. Liam desperately wanted to uncover this man’s identity. While most names were coded and information was kept vague, there was enough evidence to make life incredibly uncomfortable for Charles should his father be made aware of his dealings.
Rumblings in the beau monde hinted at an already strained relationship between the baron and his second son. If he were to become privy to these letters and Charles’ involvement with the Devil’s Sons, Liam was certain Charles would be taking a one-way passage to the Americas.
He had sent an invitation to Charles several days ago requesting an early-morning meeting, hinting at the damning information Reynard had left behind. Charles’ quick reply left little doubt as to his motivation to keep his dealings with the Devil’s Sons hidden. But even with his bollocks in a vice, Charles’ arrogance was evident in his demand for a later time and change of venue to Whites. Liam refused. They would meet at the uncivil hour of eight in the morning at The King’s Cup. A grubby coffee house in Clerkenwell Green just off St James’ Walk catering to the working crowd. The time and location would ensure no members of the beau monde joined them. Liam expressed the value of such privacy when he sent his reply to Charles, refusing a change in time or location.
Charles had bragged in his letters to Reynard of late nights in some of London’s wildest gambling dens. Indeed, based on the one-sided conversation, it would seem Charles and Reynard competed most viciously over their ability to drink more gin, bed more women, and win more bets than the other. It was unlikely Charles’ activities had changed after Reynard’s death. The young lord was sure to still be a bit fishy around the gills from his late night, which was Liam’s real reason for insisting on such an early-morning meeting. Intimidating a man who was suffering a sore head from cheap gin and lack of sleep was an ungentlemanly tactic, but Liam wasn’t above fighting dirty.
Calling for his valet, Liam submitted to being shaved, combed, and dressed in bark-coloured breeches, a crisp shirt, bronze waistcoat, and forest-green coat.
He chose his brougham for the morning drive and strode out of the house, exhaling a relieved sigh at avoiding Miss Smith. He couldn’t possibly resist her tempting presence so swiftly on the heels of his fiery fantasies from the night before.
Distance. Distraction. Coffee.
As he settled against the velvet squabs of his compact carriage, the very woman plaguing his imagination passed by on the pavement. What the bloody hell was Miss Smith doing on the pathway so early in the morning?
Shouldn’t she be polishing silver? Lighting fires? Kissing me senseless?
Liam tugged on his suddenly tight breeches. Her shabby coat and beaten-up straw hat were hardly adequate for the chill spring weather, especially as the sky threatened to storm later.
She needs a new coat. Would her hazel eyes look greener if she were draped in deep emerald wool? Would her skin turn translucent against decadent crimson?
