Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

F ilial guilt was little different than a boulder hanging from one's damned neck. That was why Garrick had agreed to escort Mother to the Rivendale Assembly Rooms this evening instead of paying a call to The Garden of Flora as he so desperately wished. The gathered revelers before them, swirling about in a lively Scotch reel, held no interest to him.

Nor did the overly tart lemonade, buttered bread, or dry cakes being offered in the supper rooms.

Although he was carrying on as if nothing had altered, politely conversing with anyone he deemed worthy of his attention, dutifully fetching Mother fresh lemonade when she complained the crush was rendering her uncomfortably warm, and otherwise behaving like the dutiful son he was, everything had changed. It did not matter that Lady Hester was in attendance, or that she was dressed in a becoming gown that perfectly complemented her golden hair. It did not matter that he had once found the dances at Rivendale's an utterly enthralling use of his evening.

Because thoughts of one woman were plaguing him with galling persistence.

"I am considering allowing Lady Fern Grant a voucher," Mother was saying. "What do you think, Lindsey?"

Mother was one of the original patronesses of Rivendale's, a rival establishment of Almack's, which she had sponsored after an argument with one of the imperious patronesses of that peculiar institution some years ago. In true Mother fashion, she had worked tirelessly to turn Rivendale's into the shining gem of polite society it now was. They were more exclusive than Almack's, their vouchers more costly and sought-after.

Miss Penelope Sutton would never be accepted within these walls, it was certain. But why should the thought occur to him at all? And worse, why should it be accompanied by a pang of regret? There was a reason society had rules, after all, and it was to keep women of her ilk where they belonged.

"Lindsey?"

Mother's indignant tone reminded him he had yet to offer his opinion on the matter she had presented.

He suppressed a sigh of irritation. "Yes, do allow Lady Felicity Vere a voucher."

"You were not listening, were you?" his mother demanded, her frown as fierce as her displeasure. "I was speaking of Lady Fern, not Lady Felicity."

The wrong Lady F. And all because he had been too busy thinking about a woman who was not a lady at all. A woman he never should have touched or kissed. A woman who most certainly ought not to be haunting his every waking—and sleeping—hour. A woman who was his brother's betrothed.

For now , he reminded himself. As soon as he found Aidan, that would change. He simply had to find the devil. Garrick appreciated the irony that his always predictable, ever-reckless brother appeared to have suddenly become irregularly, unusually, and impossibly circumspect ever since his fateful announcement concerning his unacceptable betrothal.

Naturally, this was the manner in which the world worked. Or perhaps merely the manner in which Aidan worked.

"Forgive me," he told his mother, tamping down his irritation, "I was distracted."

"By Lady Hester, no doubt," his mother said with a raised brow. "She is lovely. You have chosen well, my darling."

He followed her gaze to where his future wife was executing a flawless reel. Her every movement was sheer elegance; she moved with the practiced grace of a lady who had been carefully and properly schooled in the art of dance. Naturally so. She was the daughter of an incredibly wealthy, well-connected, and highly respected earl. Garrick watched her effortless motions and wished he felt a stirring of…something.

Anything.

But there was nothing within. Not a hint of interest, nary a twitch of awareness. He was not singularly aflame as he was whenever Miss Sutton was within proximity. No indeed, Lady Hester was not his source of distraction. But he would never admit otherwise. He could concede his abject failure to himself alone. It was just as well, for no one else judged Garrick as harshly as he did himself.

"Thank you, Mother," he offered distractedly, searching the room for a suitable excuse for escape. The glare of the chandeliers overhead was suddenly stifling, his cravat felt as if it were a noose, and he was incredibly aggrieved with himself. The latter, of course, was nothing new. "I am confident Lady Hester will make an excellent viscountess."

"And one day duchess."

His mother's softly spoken words were an unwanted reminder of the tentative health of his father. The duke was weak, it was true. This terrible business with Aidan—first announcing his intention to wed a thoroughly unsuitable bride and then disappearing—could well prove more than his heart was able to bear.

A chill chased down Garrick's spine, his gut clenching.

No. Father was far too important, far too powerful a man, to go to his eternal reward with such haste. Now was not the time. All Garrick needed to do was find his brother and set this infernal tangle to rights. It could be done, he was sure of it.

It had to be done.

The ramifications, not just for Father, but for Mother as well, were far too dire.

"I prefer not to contemplate that unwanted day," he told his mother, swallowing a lump of emotion that had risen in his throat.

"It is the natural order of our lives," Mother said calmly, as if she were not speaking of the death of her husband, Garrick's father. "None of us shall live forever, and that is why deciding upon a future husband or wife carries such unfathomable importance. You are a credit to the line, my lord."

A credit to the line.

Always, forever, the line . The duchy, the Weir family name and reputation, their position in society. Why had he never tired of the endless worries before now?

Garrick summoned a smile he did not feel. "It is my duty."

And it was. Marrying the right woman, begetting an heir and a spare, making certain there would be nary a whisper of scandal and impropriety about his name or that of his future wife's…these were all the heavy weights which rested upon Garrick's shoulders. He was the future Duke of Dryden, and he had been reminded of that salient fact from the moment he had been old enough to speak his own cursed name.

Oddly, the yoke had never felt so heavy a burden as it did now. Was Lady Hester truly what he wanted in a wife? A woman he had never been motivated to kiss? Perhaps he ought to at least try before shackling himself to her forever.

"At least two of my sons understand what is expected of them," Mother said then, making a small huff of dissatisfaction to punctuate her words. "Your youngest brother…I do despair, though I dare not speak of the unfortunate situation in public."

Aidan again. Blast him, always the source of trouble and discord. And blast Miss Sutton, for never straying far from Garrick's thoughts or conversations. It seemed that every discussion he entered with his parents referenced her, and she most certainly haunted his thoughts.

"A wise decision not to speak of it," he agreed, for even the potted plants at Rivendale's seemed to possess acutely listening ears and correspondingly wagging tongues.

Damn it, he needed to find his brother and put an end to this business with Miss Sutton. Surely it was the incomplete nature of the matter, far more than anything else, which had him feeling distinctly on edge this evening. Rendering him incapable of fully enjoying the social event as he ought.

Surely someone in attendance was a friend of Aidan's.

They should know where he was hiding himself. Where he had gone. Why.

Garrick cast his gaze about the ballroom, desperately seeking and searching. At last, he spied one of his brother's ne'er-do-well friends. Relief washed over him, nearly palpable. "Ah, forgive me for the distraction, but I do see Lord Carstairs just across the ballroom. I fear that I must speak with him about a pressing matter of great concern. If you will excuse me, Mother dearest?"

A pressing matter of great concern was the phrase Garrick always relied upon whenever he wished to excuse himself from his mother's presence. He had learned it from his father, and he had no doubt Father had been taught the same unique means of escape from an unwanted discussion by Grandfather, and so on, delving back into the annals of family history to the times of William the Conqueror. The women of the Weir family had been carefully selected, born and bred to understand that the complexities of their husbands' lives were none of their concern.

Lady Hester was no different. She would never question him, raise her voice, or offer opposition. This, Garrick knew. She would never dare to give him a poke in the jaw, as Miss Sutton had done. She would not look upon him with fury or kiss him with passion. Her mouth would not make him desperate to claim it. And he would never be filled with the fiery, all-consuming need to have her in his bed.

But that was the natural, proper order of life in the ton . Marriages were made for practical reasons. Money, éclat , expectations of one's parents, unions between families, property, society.

"Of course, my lord." Mother smiled. "I shall see you later, before you retire to your club, shan't I?"

He often remained at these events for hours, with the sole purpose of keeping Mother content. There were ordinarily any number of acquaintances with whom he might fight his ennui . The right word here, the proper connection there, and a man's power and influence could steadily grow. Garrick's certainly had. However, he found his patience and his desire to observe the social whirl steadily waning this evening.

Quite unusually so.

"I shall try," he told Mother rather than promising.

It was the best he could offer.

This evening's entertainments left him feeling strangely bereft and hollow and… itchy . Was it the absence of his brother or the unexpected effects of Miss Sutton in his life which had caused the sea change? Garrick could not say for certain.

All he knew was that something had to be done.

And with bloody haste.

He could not find Aidan soon enough. For finding him meant removing Miss Sutton from his own life.

Forever.

There were only so many blasted places Lord Aidan Weir could hide.

But Pen was reasonably certain she had already searched them all.

Still, he could not have simply vanished from London. He would not have left, not without leaving some word for her. The more days that passed without him patronizing The Sinner's Palace or at least sending her a note, the more worried she became.

Where could he have gone?

Pen was determined to find out.

Which was why she had bound her breasts and was dressed in the trousers and coat she had donned whenever she and Aidan attended bare-knuckle boxing matches together. It was also why she had greased the palm of a lad at the trade entrance of the club on St. James's Street that Aidan favored.

The Duke's Bastard was where nobs gathered to drink and eat and gamble when they had no wish to sully themselves with the riffraff of the East End. Duncan Kirkwood, the owner of the club, was the illegitimate son of a duke and had built an empire for himself that had not gone unnoticed by Pen's oldest brother Jasper. After the building they had intended to use as The Sinner's Palace II had been burned down, Jasper had suggested they set their caps at the West End instead. And so they had.

We could bring a rival to The Duke's Bastard , Jasper had said.

But as Pen slipped through its hallowed halls, she knew they would have quite a bit of work ahead of them to provide a proper rival. The Duke's Bastard had become one of the most exclusive clubs for the quality, and she understood the reason why. Rich, sleek woods enhanced the paneled walls, which were adorned by paintings and gilt-and-mirrored wall sconces. It appeared as if Mr. Kirkwood had spared no expense.

The Duke's Bastard was decidedly not the sort of establishment where a Sutton would be welcomed at the door—everything about it, from the murals gracing the walls as she reached the public halls, to the rich carpets, suggested it had been created for the quality alone. Most particularly, a female Sutton would never be invited within. Hence the necessity for discretion. And since she was a Sutton, such an objective had only been achieved by bribery and dressing as a cove.

She knew nary a hint of guilt as she found her way through the maze of halls, ducking shadows and footsteps at every turn. Raised masculine voices around a corner had her slipping into an alcove and holding her breath until the men inevitably traveled in the opposite direction. Having reached her majority living within a gaming hell, Pen had no trouble finding her way. One could locate the kitchen by its scent—rich foods being expertly crafted by Kirkwood's famous French chef, no doubt—and the rumble of more voices told her where the gaming rooms could be found.

At last, Pen stood in one of the main public halls, and judging from the gentlemen moving about at the opposite end, it was likely the hall where the necessary house was located. East End or West End, some things never changed. The more a man drank, the more he had to piss.

How convenient. Finding an area where gentlemen were coming and going would prove an excellent foil for her ruse. Pen hastened her strides lest the lad she had paid decided his loyalty was to his employer instead. She was moving so quickly, determined to find her way into the game rooms and discover whether or not Aidan was within, that she did not see the man exiting a door until he was before her, and she had plowed directly into his broad chest.

The chest was familiar.

"You again."

So, too, the deep, disapproving growl.

Biting her lip, Pen glanced up into the handsome face of the man who had so swiftly become her archenemy. Her heart dropped to the soles of the boots Aidan had given her to wear on their clandestine outings.

Lord Lordly. Blast the man. Why was he always everywhere she was? Pen had a moment to decide how she would allow this scene to play out.

Lowering her head and using the brim of her hat to shield her face, she cleared her throat and endeavored to speak in her most manly voice. "Forgive me," she said, stepping to her left and attempting to skirt around him.

Perhaps he would think he had mistaken her for someone else. Her voice sounded quite masculine when she made a concerted effort to render it low and rough. Did it not?

A finger caught in the collar of her coat, staying her forward motion.

Perhaps not.

"What the devil do you think you are doing?" he demanded, apparently not fooled at all.

Would the blasted cove never cease plaguing her?

"Seeking distraction," she ground out, "just as all my fellow gentlemen in attendance this evening are."

Somehow, perpetuating her lie seemed important, if for no other reason than to nettle the man at her back. Surrendering would be akin to admitting defeat, and she would not leave The Duke's Bastard until she could be certain Aidan was not within its walls.

"Making more trouble for me," countered the viscount, " that is what you are truly doing. Come with me, Miss Sutton."

Her name was a hushed hiss, letting her know that he saw through her disguise and that he did not wish to draw attention to them. She watched with frustration and disappointment as a gentleman who appeared on the cusp of maudlin drunk swayed as he made his way back to the main gaming rooms down the hall.

She tore away from the viscount's grasp and spun to face him. The light from the sconces caught on his slashing cheekbones, brilliant eyes, and sculpted lips. It seemed vastly unfair for the Lord to have made a man so beautifully handsome and yet such an arrogant arsehole, all at once. But then, that was the way of things, wasn't it?

"I won't go anywhere with you," she said, her stubbornness rising. She was a Sutton, and Suttons did not do what they were told. "I have some matters to attend to in the gaming room."

The smile he flashed her was grim and made her traitorous heart trip over itself as an accompanying flash of heat bolted through her. "I am afraid you misunderstand, my dear. I did not give you the option of denying me."

The arrogance of the man would have astounded her had she not already experienced it on every occasion their paths had thus far crossed. "I'm not your dear, you oaf."

The patronizing manner in which he employed the endearment made her long to poke him in his lordly jaw again. But now was neither the time nor the place.

His lips compressed into a forbidding frown, and she could not help but to recall what that mouth felt like on hers, kissing her so expertly. "I have no wish to be caught with you in this establishment, madam. I have managed to live two-and-thirty years without the taint of scandal, and I will not allow you to dash my reputation to bits."

His cold scorn vexed her mightily.

She planted her hands on her hips. "Then please do go elsewhere, Lord Lordly. I have no need for your presence."

His nostrils flared. "I cannot go elsewhere when I know you are gadding about dressed as a gentleman."

He truly was the most ridiculous man. "Why not?"

"My honor will not allow it," he said through clenched teeth.

Pen almost laughed, but he was serious, his countenance chillier than winter and every bit as frozen. "You can save your breath to cool your porridge, my lord. I'll be moving along."

Of course, Lord Lordly likely did not eat anything as common as porridge. But never mind. He could take his honor and shove it up his arse. She turned on her heel.

"Damn it, you troublesome minx."

His muttered words were her only warning. In the next instant, a strong arm banded around her waist, hauling her backward, over a threshold and into a chamber. The door closed. Pen had a brief impression of lewd murals and more glittering, mirrored wall sconces before the instinct to remove herself from Lord Lordly's overbearing clutches returned.

She attempted to wrest herself free, but he was as strong as those broad shoulders and thick arms beneath his coat suggested. She could not free herself regardless of how much she struggled.

He spun them about suddenly, pressing her back to the door and pinning her in place with his body. His palms flattened to the door on either side of her head. His knee slipped between her legs, unimpeded by the gowns and petticoats she would have ordinarily worn.

"What the devil do you think you're about?" she asked as she squirmed, still determined to flee him.

"Stop moving," he ground out, his jaw clenched.

Naturally, she ignored him, continuing to wriggle, her palms flattened on his chest. His heat seared her through her gloves, the rippling of his muscles as he worked to subdue her strangely pleasant. Her actions made his thigh settle at the apex of hers, wedging there.

And the connection between their bodies sent a jolt from her core that rushed through the rest of her.

Heavens. She was not meant to enjoy this. Venturing within The Duke's Bastard this evening had not been so that she would again cross verbal swords with the viscount, but rather so she might see for herself whether or not Aidan was within. And yet, what a terrible friend she was proving to be.

For she was not thinking of Aidan at all in this moment.

How could she?

The viscount was holding her to the door, dressed as if he had been gracing a ducal ballroom this evening, perfect and handsome and infuriating and everything she should not want. Everything that was forbidden to her. Her friend's lordly older brother. A man who believed her to be nothing more than a fortune hunter who was attempting to wed Aidan so she could amuse herself with drawing room visits and trips to the modiste .

But her desire was burning hotter than the fires of Hades itself.

His lordship's breathing was harsh. For a few heartbeats, they remained as they were, utterly still, bodies pressed together. His scent wrapped around her like a lover's embrace. And then he shifted. Subtly. Scarcely any movement at all, but she noticed it. Oh, how she noticed it. His leg slid more firmly between hers, pressing deliciously into her awakened flesh.

Her lips parted. The fight fled her. When his gaze dipped to her mouth, she was ready and willing, already anticipating his kiss. But he was not as hasty as she would have liked. Instead, he allowed his gaze to linger, as tempting as a touch, and swallowed hard. She watched the maddening dip of his Adam's apple above his expertly knotted cravat.

"This is your fault, Miss Sutton," he said crisply.

Coolly.

As politely as she imagined he would if they were facing each other in a society drawing room.

And then he quite made a lie of that frigid display of well-mannered gallantry by lowering his mouth to hers.

Sweet angels and saints.

The urge to fight him was gone. In its place was that same welcoming surrender she seemed to experience whenever he was near enough, his dangerous proximity rendering her weak. Inexplicable, thoroughly unwanted, and yet nonetheless true. Her arms wound around his neck, holding him close. His lips slanted over hers in a kiss that was almost harsh in its insistence. Firm and demanding, his warm mouth caressed hers with such stunning hunger that she was helpless to do anything but respond.

The viscount could kiss, blast his arrogant hide.

His tongue dipped inside her mouth, and he tasted of tart citrus.

He had been consuming lemonade, she thought, which seemed decidedly at odds with a gentleman who was at his club. He ought to taste of brandy or some other such spirit. But then, if she had learned anything from her brief acquaintance with Lord Lindsey, it was that he was a man of surprising disparities.

He was calm and gentlemanly, polished and perfect in true nob fashion. And then, by turns, wild. As he was now, trapping her to the door and devouring her with his mouth. He played the part of gallant viscount well, but he did not fool her. He was no stranger to iniquity.

His lips traveled along her jaw, stringing a path of unquenchable yearning in their wake. When he found her ear, he kissed the shell, his breath making a shiver of desire roll down her spine. Her nipples, already painfully pressed within the binding she had donned for this excursion, ached.

She knew from experience just how delightful a touch could be on them. But no one before the viscount had ever made her feel such shattering desire. Her entire body, from the soles of her feet, to the very roots of her hair, felt astonishingly alive.

Alive, and desperate for more.

His lips grazed the whorls of flesh she had not even known would crave such attention until now. Her knees threatened to give out. The abrasion of her undergarments beneath the too-large male trousers, coupled with the pressure of his thigh, sent pulsating awareness blossoming from her cunny.

That sinful tongue flicked over her flesh, and then his teeth caught the upper curve of her ear, biting. Marking her, it seemed. Claiming in an elemental fashion.

"You are a wretched annoyance, Miss Sutton," he murmured into her ear.

But while his words were unkind, his tone was nothing short of deep, dark seduction. Velvet and silk to her senses.

She rubbed her cheek against his, relishing the prickle of his whiskers on her sensitive skin. "As are you, my lord."

"I should fuck you right here, right now." He dragged his lips lower, down her throat to where her pulse pounded just above her cravat. "That is what you want, is it not?"

His unexpected crudity shocked her. Not because she had never heard such vulgar language before. She was a Sutton who had been born and raised in the rookeries. She had heard and seen all. But because from him, it was unprecedented. And far from being a loss of control, there was something about his words and his actions that seemed alarmingly deliberate in a bold new way.

Accompanying the shock permeating her lust-addled mind was another question. What would it be like to take this man as her lover?

He sucked on her neck, then gently bit the tender cord there. "Answer me."

Did she want him to bed her? Her body most certainly did. Her pride, however, would allow no such admission.

"You are astoundingly sure of yourself," she managed, irritated with herself at the breathlessness in her voice.

So much for seeming unaffected.

"Your body tells me everything I need to know." His right hand moved from the door to slip beneath her coat and caress her waist first, then her hip. "If I reach into your trousers right now, I am willing to wager I would find your cunny dripping for me."

No one had ever spoken to her thus, and the effect was potent. She almost begged him to do it and put the both of them out of their misery. But then she remembered that this was Aidan's brother and he thought incredibly poorly of her, and that if she were to allow him such liberties, he would likely only crow about it later.

His fingers trailed a tantalizing path over her trousers, gliding nearer to where she ached. Up her inner thigh. She should tell him to stop. Shove him away instead of holding him close. She did not feel at all threatened by the viscount, and nor did she believe he would press his suit if she were to deny him. And the truth of it was, she did not truly want him to cease his seduction.

She wanted him to continue.

He skimmed his fingers along the seam at the juncture of her thighs with tantalizing slowness. Nothing more than the lightest of pressure, a butterfly's wings.

Not enough.

She jerked into his touch, riding his thigh. He stilled, his head lifting with agonizing torpor. There was surprise in his countenance. Perhaps she had shocked him with her response. Heavens, she had stunned herself. His gaze met hers, searching, seeking.

Part of her wanted to look away, sever the connection, and yet she could not. In the flickering candlelight, the icy-blue of his eyes took on a deeper hue, akin to the sky after midnight.

"Shall I touch you, then?" he asked, his voice thick with desire.

He wanted her.

That was understood, for she had felt his body's reaction to hers before when he had been so intimately pressed against her. But she had supposed his previous reaction had been natural, caused by the fact that she was a woman and he had kissed her. This, however, what was suddenly unfolding between them, bore the distinct hallmark of something altogether different. Indeed, he did not just want her. He was wooing her.

He was taking his time. Seducing her with bold words and knowing caresses. Teasing her. Bringing her to the edge so that she was forced to either admit she wanted him too or retreat in thwarted desire. Was it his conceit that made him so bold?

His thumb brushed over the fall of her trousers, unerringly strumming directly above the place where the seat of her pleasure dwelled. He grazed her bud. How she longed to know his bare flesh on hers, rather than through the barrier of layers of fabric.

Still not sufficient.

These teasing, taunting passes of his thumb were intentional, she knew. He watched her silently, his stare growing hooded.

"Yes," she said at last, the word a reluctant hiss.

She had not come to The Duke's Bastard seeking Viscount Lindsey. Indeed, she had been doing her utmost to forget about his very existence and to carry on as if she had never met him. His insults had faded to the back of her mind. She had been singularly devoting herself, instead, to finding her friend so that she might box his ears and then direct him to inform his family he had been deceiving them when he had announced their betrothal.

But all her intentions and motivations, even her pride, fell away when the viscount's long, elegant fingers—fingers she had admired on previous occasions most unwillingly—found the fastening on the fall of her trousers. A few swift movements, his eyes searing into hers all the while, and the flap dropped.

A wisp of cool air invaded, teasing her. Holding her gaze, he replaced the air with his fingers. He stroked her tentatively, tenderly, tracing her seam to the pulsating bud hidden within her folds. His forefinger moved with expert attention, sending pleasure radiating from her core.

Her body had a life and mind of its own, hips bucking, heart pounding, her hold on his neck tightening.

"Just as I thought," he said, his low voice sending an answering spark of awareness to join the others he had already started. "You are wet. So wet."

She was. How shameful, and yet, she could not summon the urge to care in this moment of defiant, soul-destroying desire. His fingers were gliding over her, aided by the natural dew her body had produced. The sign she wanted him despite his arrogance and his highhanded behavior.

"Do you want to be fucked here and now, against this door?" he asked, finding an especially sensitive place and tormenting her with a combination of swirling pressure that had her nearly dizzied with need.

She ought to tell him no . To deny him. To deny them both. This was the very sort of dalliance her brothers continually warned her against. It was the reason they had all disapproved of her friendship with Aidan. They had been convinced he wanted to bed her rather than befriend her, and that he would leave her with a bastard and without a backward glance.

From the time she had been old enough to understand the differences between men and women, her siblings had warned her that wealthy nobs like their patrons would never marry a lowly Sutton girl. They had taught her that powerful men were quick to take advantage of powerless women and use them for their pleasures before discarding them for the next victim who believed she may somehow secure a protector or perhaps even a husband.

But she would not.

Just as Lord Lordly would never marry Pen. She doubted he would even lower himself enough to ask her to be his mistress. But that was fine. She was not setting her cap for either role.

"Say something, damn you," he growled.

It was his loss of polish and wintry condescension that sent Pen spiraling over the cliffs of Thou Shalt Not. She tumbled arsy-varsy to the jagged rocks below.

"Yes," she said, forgetting all the reasons why she must never agree to anything with this man.

Forgetting everything but his body burning into hers, his knowing touch, the fires of need he had stoked so expertly.

A knock sounded on the door.

"Anyone within?" asked a masculine voice from the other side.

Pen's heart froze.

The viscount stilled. "Yes," he called out, his voice carrying the stinging remonstration of a cat-o'-nine-tails. "Very much so."

"Beg pardon," grumbled the other voice.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, moving away.

Lord Lindsey withdrew from her with such haste, Pen nearly fell to the floor.

"Christ." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "What the hell was I thinking?"

Pen did not bother to say she knew the answer to his query. For it was quite plain he had not been thinking. Nor had she.

Her fingers, still gloved, flew to the fall of her trousers, attempting to rectify the damage he had done. But curse it, buttons were nearly impossible to secure in their moorings in such a state.

What a dreadful, terrible coil.

He raked a hand through his hair, watching her struggle, before stepping toward her again.

"Allow me." He brushed her fingers aside and nimbly fastened the fall.

She supposed he ought to be well-practiced at the art of fastening a gentleman's rigging. He was one, after all.

Pen tamped down the rising tide of embarrassment threatening to crash over her head. It would not do to allow this man to see her weakness. Knowing him, he would only find some means of using it to his advantage.

"Thank you," she said briskly, moving away from the door on the shaky legs of a newborn foal.

What had he done to her?

Moreover, why had she allowed it?

Worse still, why had she wanted it, wanted him , and so desperately?

"We are not finished, Miss Sutton," the viscount said, a hint of warning in his tone.

She inhaled slowly, trying to calm herself and regain her inner sense of calm. She felt as if she had been aboard a storm-tossed vessel for weeks, and now she had been suddenly delivered to a cloudless shore, expected to forget everything which had come to pass before.

"We are indeed finished, Lord Lordly, if we had ever begun," she managed, careful to keep her voice cool.

She had no wish for him to understand just how deeply he had affected her. Or just how badly she desired him, how her heart was racing faster than the hooves of a galloping stallion, how her body still hungered for his touch and her lips thrummed with the memory of his upon them.

"You are wrong, madam." He spoke just as coolly, his countenance implacable, as if he had not just been speaking to her with such delicious lewdness, touching her as if it were his right, kissing her as if he would die if he did not have another taste of her lips. "We are quite far from finished. But this is hardly the time or the place for what must come to pass. How did you find your way in here?"

The knowledge felt quite dear. If he wanted it, she would withhold the information.

"I walked," she said, not bothering to hide her insolence.

The walls between them had crumbled some time ago, and there was nary a chance of them being erected again. He may well be the heir to a duke, and he could look down his aristocratic nose at her all he liked, but he desired her as a woman, and that knowledge in itself was every bit as powerful as his position in London society, for she could use it to her advantage quite well.

He clenched his jaw. "Naturally. I had supposed you may have sprouted wings and flown, but I must express my most humble gratitude to you for disabusing me of my false suppositions."

He certainly spoke in riddles and rhymes, but he was plainly attempting to offer her a sally. The gesture was so unexpected that she hesitated in her response.

A bit too long.

His hand clamped on her elbow. Not in a bruising grip, but in one that told her he would not release her without a fight. And after what had just happened between them, waging war was hardly likely. At least on her behalf. One could scarcely tell what was happening behind those eerie blue eyes of Lord Lordly's.

"I hardly think we can leave this establishment with you clinging to my elbow," she pointed out wryly. "The tongues you have no wish to give cause for wagging will be racing instead."

"There is more than one entrance to The Duke's Bastard," he said, his gaze flicking over her face in a seeking fashion, "as you are undoubtedly aware. We shall take our withdrawal through one of those."

How like a member of the quality to suppose the men and women circulating in the service quarters would be too busy toiling at their various positions to take note of a lord hauling another gentleman from the club by his elbow.

"Once again, your utter arrogance astounds, Lord Lordly," she drawled, taking a small amount of pleasure from the manner in which he flinched at her use of the insulting title she had fashioned just for him.

Just as well.

Who did he think he was, kissing her as he had? Saying such wicked things to her, unbuttoning the fall of her trousers, insinuating his well-muscled thigh between her legs?

"It is confidence, Miss Sutton," he corrected, raising a dark brow, "not arrogance. The difference is easily distinguished, should one concern one's self with looking."

She pursed her lips. "Naturally, I do not tax myself where you are concerned. Why should it matter?"

He inclined his head. "Why indeed? Nonetheless, I insist you accompany me. There is much that needs to be discussed between the two of us."

She frowned. "I find no such need."

Lord Lordly smiled, showing neat, even teeth.

He had the smile and charm of a sinner and the reputation of a saint. Which one was he, she wondered? But then, the answer was abundantly obvious, was it not?

"Come with me, Miss Sutton, and I shall elaborate."

It was not truly an invitation. Rather, it was a warning laced with the pretensions of an arrogant lord and the suggestion he knew more of Aidan's whereabouts than he had initially suggested.

Her interest was piqued. "Very well, Lord Lordly," she allowed. "I will accompany you. But it'll be on my terms, not yours."

She did not wait for him to have the last word before she gave him her back and left the chamber.