Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

WHERE A ROOKERY BOY PRESENTS HIS CASE

H e should have stayed away.

He’d tried to stay away, Nigel reminded himself as he stared across the Duke of Markham’s packed ballroom. Arabella was doing her best to ignore him, as he was doing his best to ignore her. Although she’d flashed a mischievous smile the two times she’d sailed past in some nob’s arms. Nigel wasn’t gifted at the waltz as he’d not learned how to do it until late in the game, so he wasn’t going to pose a challenge of any sort in this arena.

He was merely going to make an appearance to keep his mother happy, get slightly foxed, then spend a restless evening in his bedchamber at the Lair.

Restless, because that damned kiss was keeping him up nights.

Exactly, and he meant exactly , as he’d told Arabella it would. Not since he was mired in adolescent sensual angst had he pleasured himself this much in one week. The skin on his left hand and his shaft was going to be raw if he kept it up.

In desperation, he’d even tried cornering Lucinda Somersby in a parlor at a demimonde masquerade ball he knew Arabella wouldn’t be attending. The effort had gone over like a lead brick, the lady in question, one who’d been hounding him for months and was receptive, left with the impression that Nigel Streeter’s reputation was undeserved. The embrace had been a dismal, passionless fiasco.

Nigel grabbed a champagne flute from a passing footman and tossed back the contents. He’d made a mistake that was costing him. Maybe Arabella hadn’t recognized the risk—but he had. His lips had tingled before he’d touched them to hers.

That spelled epic trouble, didn’t it?

“Another mind-numbing holiday celebration,” his brother, Worth, said as he stepped in beside him. He’d grown to look so much like their father that it shocked Nigel every time he saw him. His hair was the exact inky black Tobias’s had once been. “One every day until New Year’s. I’d be much happier going to the Lair when you decide to flee this social tragedy.”

Nigel sipped from the glass Worth handed him. “Nice try, little man.”

“I don’t know what Mother has against my coming around more often.”

Nigel snorted softly, thinking of the fascinating group of females who’d stopped by last night, then left with half his clientele for rooms they had down the lane. Worth knew of such things, of course, but it wasn’t the time yet for him to witness them. “I do.”

“Someday, though, you’re going to let me work there a little.” He tapped his temple. “I have a mind for numbers.”

Nigel glanced at his brother, love an ever-present tide rippling through him. He would protect his family until his dying breath. And part of that vow meant doing things that would make them happy—and make him worry. “Someday, I will. That’s a promise.”

Worth smiled, pleased. He might have looked like a replica of Tobias Streeter, once the most dangerous bounder in England, but he had their mother’s joyful demeanor in every sense.

“Rumor is, that knave is chasing after Arabella.” Worth pointed his flute at the Marquess of Derring’s progeny holding court by the sweets table. Ambrose’s hawkish gaze was fixed on her and holding, bringing a wave to heat to the back of Nigel’s neck. She’d yet to dance with the miscreant, but it was likely coming.

He decided then and there to leave before that occurred .

“Couldn’t even keep his seat at Eton. Rode like a chit, truth be told,” Nigel murmured. “Bloody pathetic to watch.”

Worth grunted. “Not surprising. You should see him in the billiards parlor. Sent his cue through the window at Winthrop’s ball last spring. A woeful attempt at play.”

“Xander will never let this happen. Ambrose needs a fat dowry, and he can go elsewhere to secure it.”

“Not unless Arabella wants him. If she does, Xander will move heaven and earth, even for that cheerless creature. Because he believes in love, like the rest of the Cluster. The poor fools.” Worth sighed. “I do hope we’re not going to get caught in that legacy.”

Nigel scowled, their incredible kiss roaring through his mind. “She doesn’t want that halfwit. Did you not hear my story about his riding capabilities?”

Worth tilted his head, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “Maybe that adoring stuff skipped a generation. We don’t seem to be mired in this affection-above-all business, the younger set, not a one of us.”

Nigel paused, searching his mind. He’d never been in love, but he believed in love. How could he not with the examples he’d been given, true representations placed before him?

“What’s that scuffle going on over there? By the ratafia bowl.”

Nigel turned to look, wedging his flute in the potted palm at his side. Lord Reading’s wife was rumored to have taken a lover in the Marquess of Perth-Alton. The viscount and the marquess were chest-to-chest, fists clenched. Nigel noted what looked to be the butt of a pistol protruding from Perth-Alton’s coat pocket.

And they were standing right next to Arabella.

Nigel turned to his brother. “When I create a diversion, find Markham and tell him Perth-Alton has a pistol and whisky could pull the trigger. I know the menacing stance a man gets before he makes an enormous error in judgment.” He shook Worth when his brother seemed frozen. “Go. Now . I’ll get Arabella. Tell the family she’s with me.”

As Worth circled the perimeter of the room, Nigel braced his shoulder against the palm, which was housed in a ceramic urn the size of a wine cask. The piece was heavy as hell, but with a good grunt and a shove, it tipped and hit the floor with a tremendous boom. Dancers scattered as dirt exploded, the plant sliding in a misshapen lump to the middle of the floor. Conversation halted and erupted again, a cacophony of voices filling the space. Someone along the wallflower wall fainted, and the Countess of Nilling spilled ratafia down her bodice, adding mayhem to the proceedings.

However, Nigel had waited too long.

Perth-Alton was shoving Reading, and the viscount’s entourage stepped in. Someone in the group threw a punch, then all hell broke loose. Men who’d not been involved and shouldn’t be, dove into the melee until it swelled past the confines of the dancefloor, spilling out onto the terrace.

Nigel made it to Arabella before she’d had a chance to safely clear the area. He grasped her elbow and marshaled her against his side. “Come with me.”

She glanced over her shoulder as he led her away, skirting dazed couples and clumps of dirt, spilled champagne and chaos. “But the fun is just beginning. This is shaping up to be the ball of the Season!”

Nigel guided her down a darkened corridor and out the kitchen garden’s door. He always had his coach parked in the half drive on the western edge of Markham’s terrace for speedy exits. “Take it from someone who knows, you don’t want to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. This has all the markings of the wrong time.”

“I never liked Perth-Alton, anyway. I hope he gets socked right in the teeth! He tried to kiss me during a firework display at Vauxhall last year, when I repeatedly told him ‘Thank you, but no.’ His breath smelled like onions and brandy.”

“Remind me to discuss that with him when I next see him,” Nigel muttered, adding it to his running list. “Or, better yet, I’ll have your father talk to him. That’ll be grand to watch.”

Arabella skipped to catch up to him. “Oh, please, no. He’s getting too old for brawls with anyone except family. The Leighton Cluster have finally begun to throw softer swings.”

Realizing he was sprinting to escape the bedlam, Nigel slowed his stride, but he didn’t release her. It was a moment before he grasped that she’d taken his hand, and he’d accepted the invitation, linking his long fingers with her slim ones. Snow was falling, the picturesque kind that made you yearn for winter… before you found yourself praying for spring. He wanted to deny the romance of spiriting the woman away who’d been on his mind every second for the last seven days—away in the mist while a skirmish raged behind them—but he could not.

He halted by his carriage and watched, mesmerized, as snowflakes attached themselves to her eyelashes. They were leagues darker than her hair, highlighting insanely beautiful eyes. Feeling as if he should explain since he was once again with her and without a chaperone, he gestured to the house. “I’m not like them, even if I was born in the gutter. They take what they want despite any argument against the confiscation. I don’t touch women without their agreement. I’ve never once taken the word ‘no’ as meaning anything but ‘no.’ Force doesn’t light my fuse, as it were.”

Arabella glanced at their gloved hands, the heat from her skin seeping through kid leather and warming his. He’d never been more comfortable in frigid weather in his life. “You think too much about your pedigree rather than the journey you’ve taken to become the man you are. A successful entrepreneur. Part of a loving, large, and often raucous family. Weren’t you awarded a First Class degree at Cambridge? How many of the dimwits in that ballroom can say the same?”

Nigel stilled, stunned she knew this about him. “It was Second Class Upper Division, actually.” He shrugged, his cheeks flushing despite the chill in the air. “I didn’t want Toby to be disappointed he’d taken me in, you see. So, I worked harder than anyone. Nights in the university library, surrounded by books from the 15 th century, ghosts of students past urging me on. Trust me, I never took any advantage given me for granted. It’s part of the reason for the success I’ve had, I think. I don’t mind the struggle. In fact, I anticipate it.”

Arabella trailed her finger up his waistcoat, circling buttons along the way. He’d left his overcoat at Markham’s, but he absolutely didn’t feel cold. “Why did you come to my rescue in there? My father would have eventually made it to me, after he left his hiding place in the duke’s study.”

Nigel gazed at the sky, a shroud of dense black, not a star in sight. When he looked back, she was waiting patiently, as always, stubbornly sticking to her plan. Even if he had no idea what that plan might be—and doubted if she did. “Why did you come to me after your companion fled to Gretna Green?”

Her smile grew, her puff of laughter misting the air. “Because, except for my father, I trust you more than any man I’ve ever known. I don’t question why that is, it simply is. Weren’t you the one always telling me to have faith in my instincts?”

His heart raced, the beat sounding in his ears. The scent of jasmine rolled over him, obliterating London’s coal-smoke constant. What did this compassionate, beautiful, impulsive woman want from him?

And, more importantly, what did he want from her ?

He feared he knew.

“Before I escort you home, I need to stop by Belgravia. I was expecting a delivery and—”

“Yes,” she whispered and placed her damp slipper on the carriage step.

Yes , he repeated silently, and lifted her into his carriage, hoping he wasn’t dooming them both.

Stopping by Belgravia before returning her home made no sense.

Which spoke volumes when coming from the most sensible man she knew.

Bella kept herself from shouting in glee or doing a victory dance, any bit of whimsy might agitate Nigel more than he already was.

After a silent carriage ride, he brought her inside his home, gave her another cup of cold tea, and deposited her by a roaring fire in a room she assumed would be his study. The chamber held an armchair, a massive mahogany desk, and a Chippendale bookcase without a single book. A faded Aubusson rug that she suspected was his parents’ castoff completed the haphazard assembly of furniture. When Nigel came back to find her prowling the space, he halted in the doorway like he was a visitor in his own residence .

“What’s this?” she asked and held up a toy soldier made of tin. Except for a few patchy streaks of red, its paint was years gone.

He debated for long seconds, that menacing expression she loved so much overtaking his face. He really was the most honorable man. Any time he sketched outside the lines he’d drawn for himself was a cause for angst.

Except she didn’t want to be the reason he denied himself—if what he wanted was her.

She wiggled the soldier, reminding him of her question.

Yanking his hand through his hair, he sighed. He’d shed his coat, and his waistcoat was unbuttoned, the ends batting his hips as he crossed to her. He looked savage, impatient, and typically cross. She longed to tangle her fingers in those overlong strands again and make him forget his arguments against her. Have him groan against her mouth, his breath streaking through her. Reveal the mysteries of life beneath her fingertips.

He’d been right. Their kiss had not left her. It was now as much a part of her being as the freckle above her lip. She didn’t expect to forget it or the visceral way he’d responded to her. The way her body had changed right before her eyes, melting into his.

Perhaps when she’d repeated it a thousand times with this man, the first time would fade like rose petals cast in sunlight.

That, she hated to tell Nigel Streeter, was her plan.

“Tell me about it,” she suggested, placing the toy in its place by his ink blotter.

He wedged his hip on the desk, crossing his feet at the ankle, pretending to be relaxed when he wasn’t. “My past? Now there’s a story.” Scrubbing his shoulder over his chin, he laughed softly beneath his breath. “You require it all, don’t you, imp? Cut my vein and have me bleed before you.” His accent wobbled, a hint of cockney lacing the practiced vowels she bet he’d worked months to perfect.

She moved gently, appreciating how to tame a nervous stallion. Taking his hand in hers—both sets of gloves drying on the entry table by the front door—the pleasurable shock of touching him rippled through her. “These,” she said and traced the scars on his hands, “tell stories. And I want them. ”

His fingers flexed, his skin drawing tight over his knuckles. His breath shot through his teeth and struck her cheek. He smelled of mint and leather and man—and she desired him to the core of her soul. “I worked in a tarring house after leaving the orphanage. There’s no way to keep from getting burned. Toby found me not long after, ill and…”

Removing his hand from hers, he circled the desk, went to his haunches, and ripped a low drawer open. She recognized the label on the bottle he withdrew. Streeter, Macauley & Campbell , the finest whisky in England. Rising to his feet, Nigel poured a liberal amount in a tumbler, his golden gaze never leaving her. “There’s nothing poetic about poverty, imp. Nothing romantic about desperation. Ask your father. I’m no hero, merely a boy who had an incredibly fortunate win.”

Temper rising, she followed him around the desk, where they stood, facing off. A battle she didn’t completely understand. Wrestling the glass from him, she took a lingering sip and imagined she tasted him on her tongue. “Do you want me to leave, Streeter, is that it?”

He shook his head and stepped in until his hip brushed hers. “What I want is to toss you over my shoulder, spill you across my bed upstairs, peel your layers off one luscious lick at a time, then tup until we forget what month it is.”

“December,” she murmured, her body going up in flames at his lewd suggestion.

Knocking the tumbler from her hand to the floor, Nigel backed her two steps into the wall, cupped the nape of her neck, and seized her mouth in a profound display of yearning. He groaned with it, curling his long body over hers, sliding his hand to her jaw, and encouraging her lips to open.

Her heart pounded, the blood rushing through her veins as she followed his lead.

Bracing his forearm on the wall, he leaned into her, a firm press, his shaft full and hard at her hip. They tumbled, mouths locked, bodies sealed in an impassioned frenzy. Buttons flew when she fisted his shirt and yanked. He moaned against her lips, slanting his head and taking the kiss deeper, telling her he liked it rough .

She didn’t want to be polite. Controlled. Decorous. Everything she’d been raised to be.

She was willing to show Nigel her true self, her wild side—suspecting he might understand. That he might have a wild side himself.

They wrestled, murmuring inane nonsense, licking, sucking, caressing. His lips at her jaw, nipping the skin beneath her ear until sparks erupted behind her lids. His hand worked its way beneath her bottom and angled her body until they were almost hip to hip. Grinding against her, the kiss spiraling out of control. His skin was damp beneath her fingertips when she slid her hand under his shirt and along his spine, the triangle of nerve endings between her thighs pulsing a warning that something turbulent was coming.

But it wasn’t enough.

He was too tall, she too short. Her legs were trapped by layers of satin and silk. She couldn’t touch him as she longed to.

Lastly, he was holding back. Angst, frustration, and need roared through her like a train on uneven tracks.

“I want to feel you,” she breathed against his neck. “And I want you to be you .”

He swallowed, his throat pulling beneath her lips. “Tell me,” he whispered, “tell me what you’ve fantasized about.” Pulling back just enough, his molten gaze met hers. Amber lit his eyes like embers in the hearth at their back. “If you’ve fantasized about anyone else, that cur Ambrose, for instance, I don’t want to hear it. Ever .”

She laughed into his chest, burying her nose in the crisp hair running between his pectoral muscles. He growled when she gave him a love bite, instinct taking over. “I’ve imagined you teasing me. Making me feverish with yearning, pleasure I’ve only dreamed of experiencing. Relief I’ve tried to find myself but couldn’t.”

He kissed along her cheek to the side of her mouth. “Where? Where do I touch you during these visions?”

Taking his hand, she placed it between her legs. “Here.” Then she lifted it to her breast. “And here.” She moaned when his fingers cupped her and squeezed, his thumb finding the hard dent of her nipple through silk and cotton .

When she sought to touch him, he caught her hand. “Bell, imp… I…”

Bouncing on her toes, she captured his lips while gliding her hand down his chest to his thigh, covering his cock with her palm, then her fingers. He was longer than she’d imagined. And harder. Oh , she thought in wonder. Oh.

He toppled out of the kiss, his head falling back with a frayed sound. “ There , right there, Bell.”

As she recorded the shape of him—the rigid shaft, the bulbous crown—he dropped his brow to hers and seemed to melt into her touch. It was an incredible sensation to leave such a formidable man weak and hungry. With a low groan, he skimmed his hand over hers and showed her the motion he liked best. He let her experiment through woolen broadcloth while her body lit like he’d set a match to her skin.

Finally, chest heaving, he stopped her. “If I take you upstairs, our lives change, imp. There’s no going back. Please believe me when I say this.” He nuzzled her temple, his lips hot against her. “I’m not into half measures, not with you.”

She took a moment to think. To imagine life with him—or without. To imagine giving another man what she wanted to give him. Nigel Streeter, the worthiest person in her world.

Backing out of his grasp, she strolled across the study. When she reached the door, she looked back. He had a half-stricken expression on his face, though he hid it as soon as she turned. Holding out her hand, she whispered, “Are you coming?”

He met her in seconds, swept her off her feet, and as he’d said was his fantasy, tossed her over his shoulder.

Laughing, she slapped his firm bottom, love cascading through her.

Her little secret.

And the Macauleys were experts at keeping secrets.