Chapter 8

"I'm going to kiss him today." Prudence strolled the length of the book-lined wall in the library, her finger running down the spines.

Sunlight poured through the windows, and Cora and the other ladies sat in chairs scattered about the room, noses deep in different copies of the same book. The Prince's Pride. Prudence had gotten perhaps thirty pages into the book before realizing the royal in question prized his sexual exploits above all else. And he adored recounting them in detail to an innocent miss he corresponded with. The miss was scandalized and begged he desist writing to her. He refused. The scoundrel.

She'd abandoned it last night for work, for planning, for taming the chaos Mr. Bailey had dropped like a hot coal into her lap.

Cora and the other ladies looked up from their books, spearing Prudence with the quizzical expressions of curious puppy dogs.

Cora raised her hand halfway into the air, fingers slightly curled near her ear, as if asking permission to speak. "Kiss whom?"

Prudence gave one stout bob of her head. "Mr. Bailey. It is, I think, the only way to keep him occupied, distracted, so he does not interfere with our activities."

Lady Macintosh hummed. "There are many other ways to keep a man distracted, but… kissing is a rather pleasant one, I must admit."

"As long," Lady Templeton said with a sniff, "as you do not move on to other forms of occupation. You are not yet married. Other forms of occupation are strongly advised against. Kissing is allowed only with extreme caution."

"If"—Mrs. Garrison said, snapping her book closed and placing it on her lap—"you do move on to other forms of occupation, you will soon find yourself married."

Prudence summoned her patience and clasped her hands before her, used the soft voice she usually reserved for her younger sisters still in the schoolroom. "Kissing, and any other forms of occupation—of which there will be none—would be done solely for the benefit of all of you. Do you mean to say my sacrifices will be punished? That the three of you will tell my brother and demand—"

"Satisfaction." Mrs. Garrison pulled up tall, wiggled her shoulders back into a solid wall of stubbornness.

"That Mr. Bailey do the right thing." Lady Macintosh patted the back of her coiffure and looked toward the mirror across the room. Her hair had gone entirely gray, unlike the two other older women, but it was thick and had a lovely curl, and she seemed rather proud of it. With good reason. It was terribly lovely.

"In short," Lady Templeton said, "marrying you."

"Betrayal!" Prudence crossed her arms over her chest. "All I do, I do for you. I do not believe you would betray me so."

"Without a doubt, we would," Lady Templeton said. "Our disregard of social rules only extends so far." With her lips pinched into a thin line, her round face seemed to shrink, to harden. She meant what she said.

"You do not want to end up like me," Cora warned, her voice small.

"I won't." Prudence placed a hand over Cora's. "There is no danger. I will not have to resort to other means of occupying Mr. Bailey. There is not really any danger of kissing, even. You see, Mr. Bailey does not truly wish to kiss me. He wants my secrets."

"How can you know that?" Cora tugged at a curl just below her ear. "No. I think you're wrong. He changed his appearance and showed up here asking for you. What more could he want from you except your hand in marriage? Nothing else makes sense."

"You should see the way he asks questions." Prudence turned back to the books, choosing one at random and pulling it out by the top of its spine. Her hands needed some outlet for her frustration, some means of moving. "He knows something about us, all of us, and I will remind each and every one of you—he co-owns newspapers with my brother-in-law."

"Yes," Mrs. Garrison said, "and we practically own your brother-in-law. Mr. Kingston owes us. And he well knows it. He would not publish anything in his papers that would harm us."

Blast it all, they had a point. But it would still do to be careful. "What if Mr. Bailey published something without Kingston knowing?" There was always that, and she would not put it past the American to be so underhanded. "It will only be kissing if that. He does not truly want to kiss me. I think he is attempting to manipulate me. But he will not find me so easily manipulated. I will play his game. You will see. If I try to push past kissing to other modes of occupation, he will stop me."

She'd made a list of those modes last night. And it burned her pocket now. Touches came first on places of the body not covered by clothes—the neck, the arm, the hand. And then places of the body covered by clothes—the feel of an abdomen or breast through muslin or silk. Then lips touched lips. And then clothes were shrugged off to uncover hidden parts of the body, and those were touched, too, no muslin or linen in the way this time. Just skin and teeth and tongue. She had not been able to decide which would prove more intimate—a man touching a woman between her legs or a woman touching a man there. Still an unknown. But mouths in those places certainly came after hands there. And then came the moment when those two centers of the body were thrust together. The very bottom of the list, that.

She wouldn't even get close to it. Once she set her lips to his, he would run. No doubt about it. Hopefully all the way back to London, then she would not have to repeat this little distraction to keep him away from her secrets.

Prudence clutched the book to her as she faced her friends once more. "While I am occupied, you have a full day planned. I've put the schedule of activities just by the teapot there. You will want for no diversion. It's a full day."

Cora plucked it up, unfolded it, scanned it. "Perfection, but you will not join us at all?"

"I cannot if we are to keep Mr. Bailey away."

"Doesn't seem fair," Cora said. "I should simply demand Norton send him away."

"That will only raise Mr. Bailey's suspicions."

A knock on the door. Then the handle turned, and the door opened, and there he was, unshaven. The scruff just covered his cheeks, not enough to hide his lips. And still those fascinated her.

"Good morning, ladies." He bowed. "I was hoping I could join you." He looked at no one but Prudence, a single eyebrow raised. In challenge?

"I am sure the ladies would be delighted by your company," Lady Prudence said, "but I will not be joining everyone this morning. I would like to tour the house. It is quite old, I'm told, and I do love a bit of history."

His other eyebrow joined his first. "Do you, Lady Prudence?"

She found the gap in the bookshelf and replaced the book perfectly where it should be. "I will miss the company though. Unfortunately, the other ladies have already toured the premises, and I shall be alone."

"No need for that," Mr. Bailey said. "If you will allow it, I would like to accompany you. I, too, enjoy a spot of history. Please, Lady Prudence, may I escort you?"

Her heart fluttered. Not because her plan was working, she feared, but because that charming grin on that scruffy face with those well-fitted clothes… blast it all. The combination seemed to be a weakness for her. She should think about his up-ended schedule. His inability to keep a meeting time. Yes, that calmed her heart. Mostly.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Bailey. I would like that." She gave a bright smile to her friends, which they returned with warning glances. She needed no warning. She had a list in her pocket. She knew how far a woman could go, and she knew she would not have to.

"Where should we start?" he asked once they were alone in the hall together.

"There's a portrait gallery I'm keen to visit." Cora had told her it was a rather unvisited and abandoned part of the hall, and it was comfortable for a portrait gallery as well. Apparently, the former viscount and viscountess liked reading there amongst the likenesses of all their ancestors. The current viscount cared nothing for that practice nor for those ancestors, and so he and everyone else avoided the room except to clean it. And that part of the wing was not to be cleaned today, according to Cora. It sounded like perfection.

"Lead the way," he said.

"I don't know the way."

"Well then, we shall wander aimlessly together."

She smiled. A real smile. Was she ill? Perhaps the London fog agreed with her more than the fresh country air. But as they wandered, her steps felt rather bouncy, and she let herself enjoy his companionship.

When they began to climb a flight of stairs, she said, "Tell me about the makeover. I want to know everything about it from conception of the idea to the very final tweak of your cravat."

"Does it need fixing today?" He stopped, one foot on a step higher than the other, and lifted his chin to give her a better view of his snowy neckcloth.

"No. Perfection. You clearly had a valet tie it and have not muddled with it since."

"You've caught me. Mr. Combs tied it. I don't usually have a valet. Norton insisted we hire one before leaving London. And I dare not touch his work. He threatened me."

"With a shaving razor?"

"With the ruination of the only pair of comfortable trousers I possess in this place."

"Dark times, indeed."

He laughed as he continued his climb. "It was your brother's idea. To improve my appearance."

She set her pace upward to his slow, careful steps. "Naturally. But I am surprised you went along with it."

"Nothing else I was doing seemed to open you up. I'm not a stubborn man. I can change when necessary."

Her turn to laugh.

"Not stubborn all the time at least," he muttered. "I went to Bond Street to find my grandfather's tailor, and before I arrived, Norton appeared by my side. He insisted we find a new tailor, a younger one, and he insisted I use his barber. Eventually your brother's valet joined us, and I quite lost control of the entire production."

"Did it hurt?" She wanted to reach up and put her palm along his cheek. "When they cut your beard?" It had seemed a part of him, like a hand or foot or tooth. "Not physically, of course, but…" Was it wise to suggest this man had feelings that could be cut with blades sharp enough to shave a cheek clean?

His mouth pinched, but it seemed more of a thoughtful expression than an annoyed one. He would not deny his emotions then.

"It was like watching a new man take shape," he said. Oddly, she thought she heard honesty in his voice, as deep and dark as the stairwell they ascended.

They climbed the rest of the steps in silence, but when they reached the landing, Prudence pulled Mr. Bailey over to a window and gave him a hard, long look up and down his body.

"Do you mean to make me squirm?" But he didn't squirm a bit. He hooked his thumbs in the top of his breeches and rolled his shoulders back, giving her a better look.

And she did look her fill. Well-fitted, copper waistcoat, buff riding breeches, hessians, and linen sleeves and cravat as tidy and pristine as she'd ever seen. Gloves covered his hands. Ink beneath them, etched forever into his strong fingers?

She hoped so.

Why did she hope so? That question was not on a list. Led only to yawning chaos. She closed the door on it.

"You say you felt like a different man," she said, "but I do not think you are. I think by trimming the beard away and cutting off the hair, by shrinking the clothes to fit you better, you've given the real man more clarity. Now we can better see him. He only seems new because he's new to us."

"This popinjay is not me." His voice gruff.

"A popinjay? Is that what you saw in the looking glass yesterday and this morning? A peacock preening?"

"What else? Isn't that what you called me yesterday?" He grunted and looked out the window, giving her his sharp profile. Strong jaw, long nose. Finely sculpted lips and bright hard eyes. But without all the other distractions of long hair, ink stains, and scraggly beard, she saw something other than hardness there, too. With the curl of his hair waving back from his fine forehead, beneath his golden brow, she saw doubt. And a fighting spirit to counter that doubt.

How did she recognize it? All those things rolled up into two blue orbs? Because she saw the same combination in the mirror—hard determination and doubt.

"I can admit when I am wrong," she said. "You are not a peacock at all."

"What then?"

"Before, you were a bit of a bear. With matted hair and sharp long claws. The claws remain, but perhaps now you're more of a wolf? A fox? Still a wild animal, no doubt there."

He took a step toward her, his big body pushing her closer to the window, rolling her so her back side hit the windowsill, and she tilted back toward the cold glass pane at her shoulder blades. She swallowed, having to tilt her chin up to look at him. He placed his hands on either side of her hips, gloved fingers clenching the windowsill.

His body, hers, trapped, reminded her why they were here—kissing.

"A predator?" he asked.

She nodded.

"And you would like to kiss a predator?"

She licked her lips.

He dipped low, and oh it was coming, sooner than she thought it would. The kiss. But then he pushed away from the windowsill, away from her, and she melted against it as he strolled down the hall. She pressed a palm to her frantic heart. Blast. What was he doing to her? She conquered her flustered breathing into a steady tempo and marched after him.

He darted into a room. "I think I found it!"

"Well, that was easy, was it not?" She hitched up her skirts, swallowed her heart, and ran to catch up.

The room she entered was long with curtains bordering one wall, presumably hiding the sunlight which would otherwise flood through the windows, to keep the paint on the portraits that lined the other walls from fading. Furniture and rugs dotted the space, clumped near one window, then near another set of paintings. At the very end of the room, a huge painting dominated the narrow wall and beneath it an equally large sculpture.

Mr. Bailey stood before both, head tilted to the side, one arm crossed over his torso and the other scratching at his chin.

She joined him. "Dogs?"

"What it looks like to me."

"I would expect a statue of people."

"Me, too."

"Why dogs?"

"Why one, two"—Mr. Bailey began pointing, counting marble heads with intricately carved fur—"four… six of them?"

"You shall have to ask Norton." She looked up. "Even more dogs in the portrait."

He looked up, too. "Damn. Too many to count. It's a blur of fur and slobber."

"Is that what a group of dogs is called? A blur?"

"A pack, I think. But a blur is more precise. Because of the wagging arses."

She chuckled, changing the angle of her glance, the tilt of her chin, to study him instead of the painting. "See, you're no peacock or popinjay. A more refined creature would not curse in front of a lady. Nor mention unmentionable body parts. But you do so with ease. Very bearish of you."

"I would hate to disappoint you. You know"—he turned fully toward her and placed his hand atop the tallest dog's marble head, then proceeded to scratch behind its ear—"I do not feel as ridiculous as I did before. About my appearance." He dropped his gaze to his boots. "Thank you."

What was that light feeling floating through her? Why did having helped him feel so remarkably good?

"Tell me"—he stepped toward her, his head lifting until she could see his eyes, and those eyes oh-so-heated—"how can I help you? What deep reservations do you hold that I can banish? What secrets can I help you keep?"

Oh. Oh! That man. That was his slant, then? To pretend vulnerability with her so he could gain her confidence? Dreadful beast. She would not be outwitted.

Time to prove him wrong, to call his bluff. She leaned closer, too, fluttered her lashes. "There is only one way you can help me, Mr. Bailey."

"Yes?"

"Kiss me."

He flinched. Ah ha! She knew it. He did not want to. Of course he did not want to. No man did. And in the end, Mr. Bailey would not. If a prickle of grief pinched at her, it was not because she'd wished for it, desired it, had dreamt of it. Not at all.

His hand lifted from the dog's head.

And settled on her waist.

She gasped, a tiny little inhalation of disbelief as his hand slid around her body to nestle low, so very low, on her back. Almost too low. The nerves just there beneath his palm began to thrum, and that thrumming extended outward, everywhere, concentrating most particularly between her legs. She felt… need there. As she never had before. Just the barest flex of his arm muscle brought her closer to him. Just a bit more found her pressed against his body, the pulsing part of her, throbbing now as the lean, tight muscle of his leg teased it between so many layers of clothes. Too many?

No! No, not… what was she thinking? Who knew?

Who cared? His other hand had found her chin, tipped it up, and he dipped low, those fiery blue eyes daring her to pull away.

"You want a kiss, Lady P?"

She nodded. Words crowded in her throat, stuck behind her thick tongue. She wanted a kiss, but he would never. He wouldn't. Because that's not why he was really here.

"Are you positive?" he asked.

She nodded.

Something wary flickered in his eyes, and his hand on her back flinched a bit. He wouldn't. That flinch, that wariness—he didn't want to. She was safe. She would not have to be the one to back down first. He would retreat, leaving her victorious, and—

He smirked, and those hands resumed their confident press against her body. "Very well." The words said with his lips brushing her ear, his breath hot on her skin.

He would kiss her after all.

She wanted it.

No, she—

"Do you hear footsteps?" she asked.

He didn't seem to hear her, kept his gaze locked on her lips, not a hint of a gentleman there, only wild thing, only desiring. Only no stopping him now.

Oh, out of control. This looking not on her list at all. She managed to wiggle her arms between their bodies, to push at his chest. He didn't budge. The footsteps grew louder. Blast it all! They'd be caught. Embracing. She tugged him since he wouldn't release her, lurching backward, pulling him with her, rounding the statue as he blinked into awareness. The door at the end of the room creaked open, and she ducked behind the six dogs, yanked Mr. Bailey down with her.

Lost her balance. Like that night in the garden, she fell with a breathless thump onto her back.

Unlike that night? Mr. Bailey fell, too. Right on top of her.

She bit her lips together to keep from crying out as the cold marble floor provided a brutal pillow for the back of her head. But somehow worse than that—the large body falling atop her. Not smashing her, though. His arms flailed wide for one moment, and then he caught himself, hands on either side of her head, a brief catch before his body crumpled fully atop hers.

She cried out again—so much massive weight!—but this time his hand slapped down over her mouth, catching the sound, smothering it. He pressed his mouth to her ear, and they touched everywhere, ankles crisscrossing, knees nestled together, hips pressing, bellies kissing, chest to chest, and chin to neck. This also not on her list—the way two bodies fit together. But it should be.

His lips moved against her ear, barely speaking. "Quiet. Had you not pulled us behind here we could have just bounced apart, and Norton would not have suspected anything at all."

"You would not release me," she hissed.

"He's a gullible innocent sort of chap. But now, here we are stacked one atop the other like paper in a pile. Do not make a single sound. Along with being gullible, Norton is rather prudish. He'll see us married before you can blink an eye. Are you hurt?" His fingers slid between the floor and her skull, cradled the back of her head.

"No." Or she had been, but his touch proved a balm, numbing the sharp pain where, soon, a bump would surely rise.

"Shh."

For someone who had just told her to be quiet, Mr. Bailey certainly possessed a mountain of words.

She slapped a hand over his mouth, bulging her eyes large, hoping he understood. Two can play this game, sir. His chest puffed up several times in a row, and a wicked glint entered his eye. Was that muffled laughter? Something wet flicked across her palm. He pressed his own palm more tightly over her mouth. Another flick of wetness. She jerked. The man was licking her palm. The brute. The barbarian. The beast.

She wiggled. And something hard dug into her belly, stopping every muscle she possessed midmovement. She knew what the something hard was. But it took several moments to admit it. His gherkin. Not at all her favorite word for that particular bit of anatomy, but she could not give it a more consequential name. That would be to take it seriously, and she could not.

Otherwise, she would also have to sincerely acknowledge the pulsing which had begun between her legs. And his leg nestled just there, his thick thigh a warm and hard pressure against her middle. It felt good. Oh God, it felt good. She turned her head to the side, needing to hide whatever pleasure flickered in her eyes, and his hand dropped away from her mouth, cupped the back of her head. She closed her eyes and licked her lips.

And then his lips moved against her ear once more. "You like this, don't you, Lady P?"

Too late. She'd not hidden her gaze swiftly enough. He'd seen. But she would neither admit it nor deny it.

He chuckled, and then he pressed his thigh more tightly against her center. He slipped his hand around to cup her mouth once more. Good thing because she'd been about to moan. And when she could not moan, she ground that aching middle of hers against his leg.

"Quiet." His voice a warm whisper on the shell of her ear, so low a mouse would not be able to hear. "Remember what—"

Boot steps clicking down the marble floor, getting closer, silenced him.

"Move all of them." Norton's voice.

"But this has been the family portrait gallery since the very first viscount, my lord," said another man, his voice unfamiliar.

"Yes, but look at the windows." Norton again. "Lovely, perfect view of the lake. But we must always keep them closed because of the paintings. To preserve them. It is truly an illogical place to keep art. Lady Norton could make good use of this room if it were made more comfortable. She'd like the view." Norton's voice lower, more thoughtful for the last bit.

"Yes, my lord," the unfamiliar man grumbled.

The two men continued talking, but Prudence lost focus because every bit of her focus went to the curve of her neck, where it met her shoulder, and where Mr. Bailey had begun to place his nose. He inhaled deeply there, and then—ah, searing pleasure as his lips found her skin, dragged across, kissed it.

Kisses on collar bones. Another item to add to her list.

Too much sensation all at once. She did not want to, but she rolled her hips against his thigh, once more finding the delicious pressure of muscle against that yearning bit of her. His thumb caressed her cheek as his lips sparked fireworks across her neck and chest. He placed soft busses right above the line of her bodice until her breasts ached and her arms moved, curving around his body. Nothing else to do with them, might as well explore.

The soft wool of his coat.

The hard muscle beneath it.

The silky hair at his nape.

The way pleasure was a growl in his throat as she tangled her fingers there.

Not a peacock, this man. More dangerous.

The fireworks he set off across her body made her jittery, made her feel full and needy. She'd read about all of this, had never felt any of it. She wanted to kiss him. But he kissed her neck, beneath her chin, the line of her jaw, everywhere but her lips. She bit her lip to tame her desire, moaned.

Mr. Bailey froze first, his head lifting from her neck, his hand slowly moving back over her mouth. She froze, too, biting her lip with more force to stop any more moans from escaping. She listened. The room had grown quiet. How quiet, though? The quiet of men listening after they'd just heard a suspicious sound? Or the quiet of a room unoccupied?