Chapter Three
Adrian’s feet were unusually heavy as he climbed the stairs—the last remnant of the receding attack. The itch had begun at the tables and worsened while he and Bessie had been discussing his family.
Bessie should have known better than to broach the topic, although he knew she believed she had done so for his benefit. And, in the past, her warnings had been uncannily prescient.
Hell and damnation.
He didn’t like that she had known his mother long before she’d become the Black Widow. He didn’t like her knowing his family’s most closely guarded secrets. And, accurate or not, he certainly did not appreciate her presumptuous lecturing.
On the other hand, he would always be grateful for the service she had done the only person besides his sister he’d ever wished to protect. At a time, he’d had no power to do so himself.
His feelings toward the mother who’d abandoned him—albeit after a public scandal and divorce his father had forced—were complicated. Tonight was no time to unravel them. The Lyon’s Den’s upper rooms were the one place, at present, he felt, if not safe, at least somewhat sheltered.
Perhaps he had been too short with Bessie.
And perhaps there had been something to the widow’s censure.
An itch began anew just below his hip. He repeatedly snapped his fingers, concentrating on the friction and the subsequent pop. If he successfully turned his mind, he’d learned he could nip a second attack away before it blossomed.
And what better an excuse to shift the direction of his thoughts than the anticipation of a new lover?
He’d been exclusively seeing the Skylark for months.
Novelty could be exciting. This new woman might not be able to match the Skylark’s gift for soothing touch, but her preference for vigor—that sounded promising.
And one body could warm him as well as any other.
As he opened the door, a slipper-clad foot held out in front of the fire drew his gaze.
Nice.
A delicate ankle. A hint of healthy-muscled calf. Affixed to the slipper was a sparkling buckle in an unusual shape. A firework. In diamonds.
Like the Skylark, a wealthy cit.
The leg disappeared into the shadows.
“Playing shy?” At present, he’d no patience for coquetry.
He shrugged out of his tailcoat. “There’s no need to dissemble.
” He unbuttoned his waistcoat before peeling away that garment, too.
“Especially when we’ve both been informed of the other’s expectations.
” He smiled to himself. “I’m told you are partial to enthusiasm. ”
He brought back the memory of the hint of leg, the silk that clung to the flesh into vivid relief. He imagined that foot draped over his thigh. Naturally, his body stirred.
Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the darkness and part her form confined to shadow took shape. While he couldn’t clearly see her face, he could just make out the outline of a small but shapely bosom beneath her dress’s pale fabric.
Not just pale. White.
Strange choice for an assignation—what she had on would have been more appropriate to a debutante ball than to rooms such as these. But the body beneath the dress, and the chest heaving with what he hoped was anticipation…those, he’d certainly enjoy uncovering.
“You may trust”—he removed his braces as he prowled in her direction—“in my appreciation of your needs.”
He tugged a length of his voluminous shirt from his trousers. A feminine gasp halted his efforts. Wait. Could she see him?
He cocked his head. “You are, as previously agreed, blindfolded, are you not?”
Silence.
“My terms were that your eyes remain fully covered!”
“Your terms?” She made a high-pitched sound. Whether from anger or from fear, he couldn’t tell.
He frowned into the darkness, unsure of how to proceed. Her identity, he found as his eyes adjusted, was protected by some sort of odd-looking netting, whereas he was fully exposed.
Annoyed as he was, he prided himself on never having scared a woman who’d placed herself under his protection. He did not intend to start now.
He’d more than enough reasons for self-loathing of late. More than enough proof he was, unfortunately, his father’s son.
“There, now,” he soothed. Moving slowly, so as not to startle her again, he loosened his cravat. “The fault is not entirely your own. I should have knocked before entering the room.” He placed the strip across his forearm. “Shall I tie this around your eyes now?”
“No!”
“No?”
“Presumptuous of you to undress, don’t you think?” Her voice was low, as if she were intentionally disguising her normal pitch.
“Disrobing on entry is my custom.”
“Custom,” she echoed.
He sighed.
This—this conversational inanity—was why he preferred a familiar partner. The Skylark would have been waiting when he entered, blindfolded and unclothed, and the softness of her skin would already have been bringing him blessed, blessed relief.
“My custom, yes. And my preference.” He bit his tongue before adding, and one for which I’ve paid handsomely.
The truth, yes. But hardly gentlemanly.
And Bessie’s accusation of rudeness had not been lost on him. Even in a transaction such as this one, one should not wholly abandon courtesy.
“As this is our first encounter,” he offered, “perhaps some conversation is in order.”
“Conversation?”
He flashed a rueful smile. “If you are going to repeat everything I say, perhaps I will call you the Magpie.”
“You will do no such thing!”
“Well, then.” Testy little strumpet. She may not be able to follow directions, but she’d been well-educated in elocution. “What kind of bird would you choose for a name?”
“I’m not a bird.”
She crossed her arms, which had the unintended effect of displaying a delectable amount of cleavage.
“And even if I were, I wouldn’t be a magpie!”
“Clearly!” He didn’t bother to hide his amusement. She was an odd little thing with a bit of a bite, too. Which was something he could understand, appreciate, even. “Why?”
“Magpies mimic the songs of other birds.” Her veil swished around her collar as she lifted her chin. “If I were a bird, I’d sing my own song.”
Ah. Independent, too. He felt a tug of affinity…an inexplicable draw, now, not only sensual, but intellectual, too.
“Which songbird is your favorite, then?” He kept his voice smooth, soothing. “I’m partial to blackbirds.”
He took another step forward. She remained seated, her hands gripping the sides of the chair. He nudged her knuckles, a bit like encouraging a parakeet off her perch. When she flexed her hand, he grasped her fingers tight within his own and then guided her to her feet.
She was taller than he’d expected. He could just about have tucked her head beneath his chin and yet her hips were nearly even with his own.
Perfect.
She’d removed the glove from the hand he held. Her fingers weren’t cold. Nor were they shaking. She’d long, thin fingers suited for gliding over a harp…or the flesh of a lover’s stomach.
“While blackbirds can be belligerent, they are also known to be independent”—he lifted her knuckles to his lips—“capable”—he caressed them with his thumb—“and”—he touched his lips against their softness—“clever.”
His mouth against her skin was flint striking flint. A thousand tiny sparks quickened. He held the back of her hand to his cheek, savoring the glimmer.
Savoring the relief.
“Should I to ascribe these attributes to you, Blackbird?”
Oh, Heavens.
Eliza’s internal exclamation was part prayer, part awe. He was like an angel of darkness with wings parted wide enough to blot out the light.
Eliza had come to this—this place—intent on saving her sisters. She only ever intended to meet with the Black Widow, ask her for her assistance, and then depart as soon as possible. The few people the wiser, the better.
Now, she found herself face-to-face with a man she knew to be the intimate confidant of very person who had, tonight, devastated Cassie’s hopes. A man who—if she could not get her hands on Harbury—she would happily use for vengeance in the duke’s place.
But instead of loudly enumerating the many, very sensible reasons she loathed him, she was staring up into his face. Redver’s question—smooth, deep, and rich with flirtation—had left her speechless.
“Come into the light,” he urged with a gentle tug to her hand.
Up close, he was no less arrogant looking than he’d been at a distance.
He’d been pointed out to her, always on the outskirts of any gathering, glowering like a bird of prey. Pointed out, in fact, by various hopeful young women who must have been partial to rogues in need of reform.
She’d thought she had no such partiality for rogues. And none at all for arrogant ferals.
And yet, there was something alluring about his square jaw, his thin nose, and his narrow, hooded eyes, even if his prominent eyebrows arched in a manner that made him appear perpetually cross…until he smiled.
His smile was unexpected.
Warm, inviting, and full of wicked promise, his smile left an ache in her chest. If his face had a saving grace—and she wasn’t yet convinced she was willing to grant him that much—the saving grace would be his lips.
His lips were full, almost feminine.
She wondered why she couldn’t look away. His lips, his gaping collar, and the dark hair visible beneath…together they were creating a pool of heat in her lower belly even as her palm itched to slap away his curiously appealing grin and her body pulsed with a longing.
“Please,” he added.
She blinked. Ah, yes. He’d just asked her to come into the light, hadn’t he?
“I’d rather not,” she answered.
She’d meant to sound authoritative, like her godmother at her most haughty, but she did not even recognize her own low, gravely tone. Somehow, she, like Cassie, had entered an involuntary dance. He was leading, calling forth some rebellious buried deep inside.
How could she be herself, but also not herself?