Chapter 5 #2
It was a good, solid blow, and had she directed it at a man less formidably built, that man would have staggered.
Dain scarcely felt it. The lazy raindrops plopping on his head had about as much physical impact.
But he saw her wince as she jerked her hand away, and realized she’d hurt herself, and that made him want to howl. He grabbed her hand, then hastily dropped it, terrified he’d crush it by accident.
“Damn and blast and confound you to hell!” he roared. “Why won’t you leave me in peace, you plague and pestilence of a female!”
A stray mongrel, sniffing at the lamppost, yelped and scurried away.
Miss Trent did not even blink. She only stood gazing with a sulkily obstinate expression at the place she’d hit, as though she were waiting for something.
He didn’t know what it was. All he knew—and he didn’t know how he knew, but it was a certainty as ineluctable as the storm swelling and roaring toward them—was that she hadn’t got it yet and she would not go away until she did.
“What the devil do you want?” he shouted. “What in blazes is the matter with you?”
She didn’t answer.
The desultory plops of rain were building to a steady patter upon the trottoir. Droplets glistened on her hair and shimmered on her pink-washed cheeks. One drop skittered along the side of her nose and down to the corner of her mouth.
“Damnation,” he said.
And then he didn’t care what he crushed or broke. He reached out and wrapped his monster hands about her waist and lifted her straight up until her wet, sulky face was even with his own.
And in the same heartbeat, before she could scream, he clamped his hard, dissolute mouth over hers.
The heavens opened up then, loosing a torrent.
Rain beat down upon his head, and a pair of small, gloved fists beat upon his shoulders and chest.
These matters troubled him not a whit. He was Dain, Lord Beelzebub himself.
He feared neither Nature’s wrath nor that of civilized society. He most certainly was not troubled by Miss Trent’s indignation.
Sweet, was he? He was a gross, disgusting pig of a debauchee, and if she thought she’d get off with merely one repellent peck of his polluted lips, she had another think coming.
There was nothing sweet or chivalrous about his kiss. It was a hard, brazen, take-no-prisoners assault that drove her head back.
For one terrifying moment, he wondered if he’d broken her neck.
But she couldn’t be dead, because she was still flailing at him and squirming. He wrapped one arm tightly about her waist and brought the other hand up to hold her head firmly in place.
Instantly she stopped squirming and flailing. And in that instant her tightly compressed lips yielded to his assault with a suddenness that made him stagger backward, into the lamppost.
Her arms lashed about his neck in a stranglehold.
Madonna in cielo.
Sweet mother of Jesus, the demented female was kissing him back.
Her mouth pressed eagerly against his, and that mouth was warm and soft and fresh as spring rain. She smelled of soap—chamomile soap—and wet wool and Woman.
His legs wobbled.
He leaned back against the lamppost and his crushing grasp loosened because his muscles were turning to rubber.
Yet she clung to him, her slim, sweetly curved body sliding slowly down his length until her toes touched the pavement.
And still she didn’t let go of his neck.
Still she didn’t pull her mouth away from his.
Her kiss was as sweet and innocently ardent as his had been bold and lustily demanding.
He melted under that maidenly ardor as though it were rain and he a pillar of salt.
In all the years since his father had packed him off to Eton, no woman had ever done anything to or for him until he’d put money in her hand.
Or—as in the case of the one respectable female he’d been so misguided as to pursue nearly eight years ago—unless he signed papers putting his body, soul, and fortune into said hands.
Miss Jessica Trent was holding on to him as though her life depended upon it and kissing him as though the world would come to an end if she stopped, and there was no “unless” or “until” about it.
Bewildered and heated at once, he moved his big hands unsteadily over her back and shaped his trembling fingers to her deliciously dainty waist. He had never before held anything like her—so sweetly slim and supple and curved to delicate perfection.
His chest tightened and ached and he wanted to weep.
Sognavo di te.
I’ve dreamed of you.
Ti ho voluta tra le mie braccia dal primo momento che ho vista.
I’ve wanted you in my arms since the moment I met you.
He stood, helpless in the driving rain, unable to rule his needy mouth, his restless hands, while, within, his heart beat out the mortifying truth.
Ho bisogno di te.
I need you.
As though that last were an outrage so monstrous that even the generally negligent Almighty could not let it pass, a blast of light rent the darkness, followed immediately by a violent crash that shook the pavement.
She jerked away and stumbled back, her hand clapped to her mouth.
“Jess,” he said, reaching out to bring her back. “Cara, I—”
“No. Oh, God.” She shoved her wet hair out of her face. “Damn you, Dain.” Then she turned and fled.
Jessica Trent was a young woman who faced facts, and as she mounted, dripping, the stairs to her brother’s appartement, she faced them.
First, she had leapt at the first excuse to hunt down Lord Dain.
Second, she had sunk into a profound depression, succeeded almost instantly by jealous rage, because she’d found two women sitting in his lap.
Third, she had very nearly wept when he’d spoken slightingly of her attractions and called her “a ha’pennyworth of a chit.”
Fourth, she had goaded him into assaulting her.
Fifth, she had very nearly choked him to death, demanding the assault continue.
Sixth, it had taken a bolt of lightning to knock her loose.
By the time she came to the appartement door, she was strongly tempted to dash her brains out against it.
“Idiot, idiot, idiot,” she muttered, pounding on the portal.
Withers opened it. His mouth fell open.
“Withers,” she said, “I have failed you.” She marched into the apartment. “Where is Flora?”
“Oh, dear.” Withers looked helplessly about him.
“Ah, then she hasn’t returned. Not that I am the least surprised.” Jessica headed for her grandmother’s room. “In fact, if my poor maid makes the driver take her direct to Calais and row her across the Channel, I should not blame her a whit.” She rapped at Genevieve’s door.
Her grandmother opened it, gazed at her for a long moment, then turned to Withers. “Miss Trent requires a hot bath,” she said. “Have someone see to it—quickly—if you please.”
Then she took Jessica’s arm, tugged her inside, sat her down, and pulled off her sodden boots.
“I will go to that party,” said Jessica, fumbling with her pelisse buckles.
“Dain can make a fool of me if he likes, but he will not ruin my evening. I don’t care if all of Paris saw.
He’s the one who ought to be embarrassed—running half-naked down the street.
And when I reminded him that he was half-naked, what do you think he did? ”
“My dear, I cannot imagine.” Genevieve quickly worked the silk stockings off.
Jessica told her about the leisurely trouser unbuttoning.
Genevieve went into whoops of laughter.
Jessica frowned at her. “It was very difficult to keep a straight face—but that wasn’t the hardest part.
The hardest part was—” She let out a sigh.
“Oh, Genevieve. He was so adorable. I wanted to kiss him. Right on his big, beautiful nose. And then everywhere else. It was so frustrating. I had made up my mind not to lose my temper, but I did. And so I beat him and beat him until he kissed me. And then I kept on beating him until he did it properly. And I had better tell you, mortifying as it is to admit, that if we had not been struck by lightning—or very nearly—I should be utterly ruined. Against a lamppost. On the Rue de Provence. And the horrible part is”—she groaned—“I wish I had been.”
“I know,” Genevieve said soothingly. “Believe me, dear, I know.” She stripped off the rest of the garments—Jessica being incapable of doing much besides babbling and staring stupidly at the furniture—wrapped her in a dressing gown, planted her in a chair by the fire, and ordered brandy.
About half an hour after Jessica Trent had fled him, Lord Dain, drenched to the skin and clutching a mangled bonnet, stalked through the door a trembling Herbert opened for him.
Ignoring the footman, the marquess marched down the hall and up the stairs and down another hall to his bedroom.
He threw the bonnet onto a chair, stripped off his dripping garments, toweled himself dry, donned fresh attire, and rejoined his guests.
No one, including the tarts, was audacious or drunk enough to seek an accounting of his whereabouts and doings. Dain seldom troubled to explain his actions. He was accountable to nobody.
All he told them was that he was hungry and was going out to dinner, and they were at liberty to do as they pleased.
All but Trent, who was incapable of any action beyond breathing—which he did with a great deal of noise—accompanied Dain to a restaurant at the Palais Royal.
Thence they proceeded to Vingt-Huit, and discovered it had closed down that very day.
Since no other establishment offered Vingt-Huit’s variety, the party broke up into smaller groups, each seeking its own choice of entertainment.
Dain went to a gambling hell with his pair of… cows and Vawtry and his cow.
At three o’clock in the morning, Dain left, alone, and wandered the streets.
His wanderings took him to Madame Vraisses’, just as the guests were beginning to leave.
He stood under a tree, well beyond the feeble glimmer of a lonely streetlamp, and watched.