Chapter 6

Six

L ucy threw herself in front of danger like an erotic angel of justice, but she didn't throw herself at Keats. Annoying, that. He wasn't supposed to kiss a woman more than once. Against his rules. He was happy to break those rules for Lucy. Who knew idealism was so arousing.

And when had he found arousal so frustrating? He had to take himself in hand every night because she wasn't putting her hands on him. He'd offered himself up. He'd remained here for her disposal.

Yet, she did not make use of him.

She was headed to London tonight. The stable hands and coachmen bustled about the stables making preparations. Keats's basket and blanket lay in the floor of the coach, ready for her, should she need it.

If the woman could sacrifice her life for duty, he could put a damn basket together. Too little, but no idea how to do more.

He'd parted her legs and made her shatter, and he dreamt about it every damn night. He'd done so knowing it was wrong. No whisky to fog the brain this time, no jeering fellows slapping him on the back and cheering him on to mischief. He didn't want to be like that anymore, like the men who sent women here. But it seemed he couldn't help it. Not with Lucy, whose Miss just would not stay put on his tongue. How in hell could he be formal with a woman whose cunny he dreamt of tasting?

The doors parted, and a shadow walked through. Her shadow. He didn't need details to recognize it. He busied himself with checking the buckles of the harnesses, the wheels, every spring and board of the coach. He'd never cared about buckles and knots and bolts before. Wouldn't have known what to look for had someone shoved his face into it. Now he did, and now he cared because he needed to know damn well she'd ride safely to London and back.

The lemon scent of her soap wafted to him over the aroma of hay and horse. And then her warmth was right there, right at his side, and she was lifting her chin to look at him, parting her lovely lips.

"Are we ready, Mr. Keats?" she whispered.

"Just about." He checked the box beneath the driver's seat. Pistol there. Ready. Good. Any rogue or bounder could jump up on the bench and find his way here. Better Mr. Sacks is ready when it happens. The next time it happens.

Shame. Knife. Twist.

What the hell had he been doing with his life, and why had his father let him do it? He'd not encouraged it, but he'd certainly not cared about the duels and the drinking and the gambling and the women. So neither had Keats.

But now… He glanced at Lucy. She paced between the stalls, her hands clasped behind her back, waiting for him to finish.

"Is something amiss?" he asked.

"No. Yes. I'm merely… anxious. A new girl will be helping me tonight, and it's a bit of a risk to take her. But it's what she wants. And we no longer have Peggy, so there are more reasons than one to accept her help. I have never trained anyone before. I am afraid I will not give her what she needs to remain safe. And if we are—if she is—discovered by anyone she knows, my plans are ruined."

He looked left and right. They were alone, so he clasped her hand and led her into an empty stall at the back of the stables. "You will do anything for your cause, Lucy. No one is better prepared than you. From the first moment I saw you, you've been teaching me. More than you know. Your kindness. Your courage. They make me want to be a better man."

Her face brightened, and she looked at him as if he were good .

If only she knew.

"Do you have a knife?" he asked.

"Why?"

"I'd like you to be armed."

She took his hand and slipped it past her cloak, past the slit in her skirts and straight to her thigh. No, not the creamy softness of that limb, but to a cold blade strapped to it. Damn but he was hard. Hard as that blade.

He swallowed. "Clever woman. You are well prepared. When you get to London, you will bustle the new lady into the coach, and you will take off with haste, no stopping. You will come back to me. Do you promise?"

"You'll be asleep."

He shook his head. "I will be waiting." He had no other choice. His body and mind and damned racing heart would not quiet until he knew her safe. He kissed her. Long and deep, saying everything he could not with words because he'd never had occasion to use those words before, never truly knew the meaning of them.

The tension vibrating through her body drained away beneath his touch. Ah. He could help her, in the only way a man like him knew how.

He deepened the kiss, walking her backward slowly, gently, so she didn't notice until her back hit the wall. He stroked his tongue into her warm mouth and cupped her breast, rubbed his thumb back and forth over the nipple until it peaked, hard and lovely even through all those proper layers.

Not entirely proper. That slit in her skirts. Damn. Yes. He sought it out, raked his fingernails up and down her thigh, over the ribbon that held her garter up, over the steel of her knife.

He was harder than it, harder than he'd ever been.

But now was not for him.

He trailed kisses down her jaw, her neck, in the small space of skin visible above her bodice, and under her dark cloak. He licked the hollow between her breasts.

"Keats, what are you doing?" Her voice breathy as her hands tangled in his hair.

"Relaxing you. Making sure you leave Hawthorne calm and confident."

She gave a small, gusty laugh. "We can't."

He hit his knees before her.

He swept her skirts over one shoulder. What a blessing that slit was proving to be.

And he raised a brow as his thumb found her center and teased it. "Won't take long, angel. I know what I'm about." He had to be quick, didn't he? They were not well hidden. A clock ticked down the seconds someone would come looking for her.

He adored a challenge.

Her hands in his hair tightened, as if she might pull him to his feet.

She didn't, and he wasted no time discovering the taste of her, licking the seam of her between the fine cotton of her pantalets. She shivered, a squeak of passion lodged in her throat.

"Shh." He placed two fingers against his lips as he looked up at her then popped them inside his mouth, wetting them, sliding them out slowly. "You must make no sound, or we'll be caught." Holding her brown eyes prisoner, he slipped his fingers into her. She shuddered, tightened. He winked, grinned, then dipped beneath her skirts once more. Inhale, exhale, the scent of her everywhere. So damn good. A kiss, a lick, the taste of her even better. He kept one hand as busy as his tongue at her center and the other hand worshiped her thigh, her belly, her breasts. Every damn place on her delectable body he could reach, he did, those parts hidden and those parts revealed. All parts his in this moment.

Mine .

When he licked and sucked, she rocked her hips against his face. When he thrust his tongue inside her, then thrust his fingers deeper, she collapsed against the wall, her knees bending as if she could no longer support the weight of the pleasure he kissed into her.

She delighted in his touch, his attentions, and nothing had ever in his pitiful life given him more joy than taking fear from her, replacing it with this—heady passion, rising need.

Her hands clenched on his shoulders, and she made muffled little moans. If ever given the freedom of privacy, she'd be loud and demanding, and he'd give his own life to witness it, to cause it. He might have bruises on his shoulders where she gripped him. God, yes. To be marked by her strength… he'd beg for it if she wasn't giving it willingly, unconsciously. He worked harder, faster, time ticking in this small, heated, scandalous space, sheltered from the footsteps and voices so near but unknowing.

Entirely unaware that the prim yet intrepid Miss Lucy Jones was one shiver away from climax. He teased her lovely little clit with his tongue and thrust his fingers inside her once more, curling them, breaking her apart.

Her body rolled and undulated above him, around him, her creamy flesh shivering as he stood, gathered her against him so she could collapse into his embrace, so he could hold her up, keep her standing. She was a drenched gown draped over his shoulder, a woman loose-limbed and trusting even heavier in his soul.

"Better?" he murmured close to her ear. "Still nervous?"

"Nervous?" she mumbled. "What is that?"

He set her from him, holding her shoulders as she blinked into awareness and found the strength to hold herself up without his support. "I'll accept your thanks later. When you return. Perhaps you can show your gratitude by helping me relieve my tension as I've relieved yours."

Her gaze clouded then dropped down his body to his bulging cock. She looked away immediately, red blooming across her cheeks.

He guided her toward the stall door. "But now, you have somewhere to be."

She nodded, blinked, still too spellbound to do much else. He chuckled and ducked down for another swift and final kiss.

"Lucy," a voice rang out in the stables, familiar and jerking him out of the kiss. He looked over the edge of the stall then ducked down with a curse.

Lucy ducked down with him. "What's wrong?"

"Lucy," the voice called again.

Alex's voice. That's what was wrong. Alex was walking into the stables as she hadn't since their arrival. Bloody hell . He had to hide.

"Just a moment," Lucy called out, finally fully awake. She smoothed her skirts and mastered her blush. "That's the woman I'll be teaching tonight. She arrived here with you from London. And she has decided she does not want to leave Hawthorne House but would like to work with me. Rescuing the girls. It's a good thing, too. Because I will not be able to work in this capacity anymore once I wed."

Did he feel like crying? Good God, why ? He'd never cried a day in his life. Likely, he hadn't even cried as a babe. Surely not. He'd grunted and pointed at the wet nurse's breast. Quite like he did now. Hell, he may not have evolved much since infancy.

"I must go. Geddings needs me." Keats nudged her towards the stall door. "Be careful."

"Lucy," Alex called again.

"Go," he hissed.

And she did. He stayed in the stall until the coach rumbled out of the courtyard. Then he beat his forehead against the stall three, no, four times. Because maybe that would help… something.

It didn't.

"Keats!" Geddings could scream like a ton mama on a rampage when he needed to.

Keats slunk out of the stall. "Right here. Quit shrieking."

Geddings, standing half in shadow, stabbed his thumb toward the large doors leading outside. "Someone here ta see ya."

"Who?"

"Hell if I know. Take care of it and get back to work."

Keats heard the pounding of his heart in his ears as he forced one foot in front of the other. He didn't see anyone at first. Only the evening sky, the house and gardens. But then he heard the crunch of a boot on gravel and felt a presence to his right.

"Well, damn. It is you." Griff stepped into the dim light cast by the rising moon. He had the sort of sandy-blond hair that looked brown in the shadows and gold in the light. Beneath the moon and shadows, it shifted between both shades, swept back in a close-clipped fashionable cut. As always, he was impeccably shaved, impeccably dressed, and regarded Keats with a tight-lipped expression that seemed to defy humor itself. The only stain on his perfect appearance the thin white scar striking down the length of his jaw—the scar Keats had left there. He'd left a mark on a man who'd only ever treated him well.

He'd not leave a mark on Alex. And his friend's presence put her in danger.

"What are you doing here?" Keats demanded.

Griff hung his head, cuffed the back of his neck. "I had to find you. Didn't seem right to tell you by post. Your letters came from Dorking, so that wasn't difficult to find, but the fact that you're not using your actual name certainly confused me. You're not too clever, though, going by Mr. Keats ."

Hell and damnation. If Griff could find him… could others?

"Does anyone know you're here?"

"Maybe. I told your stepmother I was off to find you."

Anger, fear—they curled Keats's hand about Griff's cravat and fisted tight. Keats slammed his friend against the wall. "Does anyone know?"

Griff clawed at his throat, clawed to throw off Keats's hold, spoke with a strangled, halting rhythm. "Get. Off. No one knows. Get. Off!" He pushed Keats hard, sending him stumbling backward on legs made numb with staggering relief.

"What has gotten into you?" Griff paced toward him, tugging at his cravat. "First you run off, then you refuse to say where precisely. Then you attempt to kill me?"

"Wouldn't have killed you."

"That's not what my neck is saying."

"What did you come to tell me? Get it out, then go."

"I should have just sent a letter. If I'd know you were going to attack me, I?—"

"What is it?"

"I was going to tell you with a bit of sympathy, but I see you refuse that. Your father is dead, Keats. Your father is dead, and your stepmother is alone and with child. And Palmerson is infuriated that Alex has disappeared."

Your father is dead .

Your father is dead .

Your father is dead .

Surely Griff jested. But Griff rarely jested. He was the frown to Keats's grin, the Latin textbook to Keats's naughty erotic novel.

Keats's father was dead.

And still Griff lectured, as if he'd not just sliced Keats's life into two distinct parts. "And you… you're out here playing games!" He gestured up and down Keats's body. "Pretending to be a stable hand? What in hell for? Another lark, another jest? Another moment in which you give in to your own whims over the needs of others."

Keats lunged, slamming Griff against the stables and crushing his neck with his forearm. "You don't know anything. This isn't about me."

"You've never cared about anyone but yourself," Griff pushed back.

Keats released him, his arms and legs and entire body buzzing, buzzing, buzzing with the truth. "I haven't. But I do now." He stared up at the house.

Griff stood tense beside him. "What is this place?"

"A refuge. Hawthorne House. And the first rule of Hawthorne House is that you do not talk about Hawthorne House. Do you understand?"

"I assume you'll kill me if I do?"

"You assume correctly."

"Consider me silenced. Keats… you have to come home. You are now the Marquess of Rainsly."

"Yes, I'll come." What other choice did he have? At least he knew Alex was safe. Lucy would watch over her, guide her. Or… the idea swept through him gradually like a candle growing brighter. Alex could come home. The new Marquess of Rainsly would not force her to wed a man she did not want.

He could do good with this. It was a chance to truly change. He searched for some shred of grief, of soul-dark mourning. Found none. Found, mostly, regret that he and his father had never even attempted to know one another. Strangers with the same nose.

"I must write to Alex. Tell her everything has changed. She can return home now."

"Where the hell is she?"

Still, Keats looked at the house.

"In there ?"

"Leave it alone. Leave her alone." Keats headed toward the cottage he shared with Sacks, Griff rushing after him.

"You've been here?" Griff asked, recoiling as they entered.

"It's not that bad." It was currently empty. Sacks always took the ladies to London. Keats had nothing to pack, nothing here he'd need back in London, where he'd be a marquess, not a stable hand.

He needed to write to Alex. He'd sneak into the big house, find some paper.

And Lucy?

God, Lucy. He felt like she'd shown him every bit of her soul. He'd pulled back his thick skin to show her his, as well. Yet she still did not know who he was. What would happen if she did? What if he told her? What then?

Marriage?

Why not? She was a walking scandal, certainly, a farmer's daughter, but also a viscount's granddaughter. And hell—did he even care about any of that?

He wanted to stay with her, to keep her at his side. He didn't want ladies from the demimonde and willing widows, larks and whisky, or duels at dawn anymore. He wanted her . She was like a good bottle of whisky one never wanted to end. The whisky always ended, but Lucy wouldn't. She'd go on being brave and clever and damned arousing from now until eternity, and he'd go on being utterly enthralled.

And undeserving. Naturally. But she made him want to deserve her.