Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

H e had committed an egregious mistake. A bloody stupid, reckless, pointless misstep.

Nearly tupping his brother's—Christ, not betrothed, but what to call her? His brother's… No. Garrick refused to think of her as anything in relation to Aidan now. Not after he had stroked her silken quim until she had come. She would forever be Pen to him now.

Still, nearly fucking her on a French sofa in a darkened drawing room had not been one of his finer moments. As he threw his shirt over his head and hastened to stuff it into the waistband of his trousers whilst someone continued a barrage upon the front door, he knew a searing, stinging shame.

"Whoever this is, he had bloody well be about to tell me the world is coming to an end," he grumbled, as irritated by the interruption as he was with himself and his utter lack of restraint.

Pen was scrambling to right her garments as well, and scoundrel that he was, he could not resist chancing another glance at her full breasts swaying with her frantic motions. Her pretty pink nipples were still deliciously hard, and keeping himself from taking a stiff peak into his mouth required all the restraint he possessed.

Rap rap rap.

The unknown presence at the door continued to make himself known in loud, irritating fashion.

"I will return," he told Pen, having shrugged into his coat. His cravat was missing, and his waistcoat had been thrown somewhere into the murk. This was his best effort at appearing as if he had not just been about to shag a thoroughly inappropriate woman he had no business desiring, let alone touching.

She nodded, and for reasons he cared not to examine, the fact that she had remained silent in the aftermath of her crisis nettled him. He wished she would say something—anything. Perhaps even a caustic Lord Lordly would be welcome. It would certainly do to quell his aching prick and the memory of her, all sleek and pulsing and tight, clamping on his finger.

If only it had been his cock.

Rap rap rap.

"Do not go anywhere," he added for good measure, his throat suddenly thickened by thwarted desire.

Still, she said nothing, her small hands working to restore her clothing into a semblance of order. Grinding his jaw, he turned and stalked from the room, intent upon answering the door and putting an end to this damned nonsense. What a lark—a viscount, answering the door as if he were a butler. And in such a state of dishabille. But there wasn't any other help for it. He had dismissed the staff some time ago, and there was no one else about.

Rap rap rap.

He threw open the door, determined to put the bastard in his place. But the man standing at the threshold, presumably responsible for all the noise, was a familiar face. His coachman, as it happened.

"Neave?"

"Begging your pardon for the interruption, my lord," said his ordinarily impeccable retainer, breathless and wild-eyed and quite unlike himself.

"What is amiss?" he demanded, concern curdling his gut.

"It's Lord Aidan, Lord Lindsey."

Aidan? His stomach lurched with a combination of relief and upset. "Where the devil is he?"

And why here, why now? Why could he not have appeared hours earlier, before Garrick had made such a muck of everything?

"I can't say, my lord." Neave held out a missive which had been neatly folded. "A scamp in the mews gave this to me without a word and ran off. I read it, thinking it was for me. But it seems as if Lord Aidan is being held for ransom."

Ransom?

Aidan?

With a trembling hand, Garrick took the missive, unfolding it and hastily reading its concise contents.

Find Lord Aidan Weir by delivering one thousand pounds to the alley behind The Beggar's Purse tomorrow evening at half past ten.

Tell no one if you value his life.

It was unsigned.

His fist clenched on the words, crumpling them.

Could it be true? Had his reckless brother somehow fallen into the clutches of villains who were now using him as a pawn to secure a small fortune for themselves?

"The scamp who delivered this to you in the mews," he said slowly, trying to force his overburdened mind to make sense of the situation at hand. "What did he look like?"

Neave shook his head. "I am sorry, my lord. He was in the shadows, and it happened with such haste…I never imagined the importance of the missive the lad handed over, or I would have apprehended him. He was no more than twelve, I would say, with hair that was perhaps dark in color."

Damn it. The coachman could have been describing anyone.

But this was not Neave's fault. If Aidan had indeed been kidnapped by thieves, he was entirely to blame for his stupid, wild carousing and his lack of respect for every virtue Father had instilled in them and…

Her.

Garrick's eyes narrowed as a new suspicion set in. The sum mentioned in the missive was twice the amount he had offered Pen to break off the engagement. A betrothal which she had just insisted never existed in the first place. Was it possible she was attempting to secure an even greater fortune from his family than that which had already been offered?

And meanwhile, Garrick had been sucking at her breasts, his hand shoved down her trousers, making her spend like the scoundrel he apparently was. What power she held over him. He would have to put an end to it.

"You are not to blame, and nor do you have a need to apologize," he reassured his worried-looking coachman. "You could not have known what the missive contained or why the lad had sought you out. Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention, that it may be speedily dealt with. Bring the carriage around, if you please. I will be returning my friend to his club in the East End before traveling home."

Yes, referring to Pen as his male friend rendered him peevish. Especially since he was standing before his coachman looking as if he had just been involved in libidinous behavior. Which he had. But not with his gentleman friend.

Friend was the last appellation he would apply to Pen Sutton.

"Of course, milord," said the coachman, who took his leave with a bow.

Garrick closed the door against the cool air of the night and took a moment to compose himself. So many emotions were roiling through him at once that his mind was nothing more than a thick, churning stew of anger, lust, confusion, and fear. He had been about to lose himself with Pen, it was true. The timing of the interruption could not have been better.

Or, it could have been planned.

Either way, there was no denying that Aidan had been missing these last few days. If he had indeed been taken against his will and was being held somewhere, Garrick would stop at nothing to rescue his brother and see him safely returned. And if Miss Penelope Sutton had anything to do with what had befallen Aidan, vengeance would be his.

She would be the one paying.

He turned and stalked back to the drawing room, this time bringing the brace of candles with him. Light flickered over the chamber, chasing the shadows which had drenched it and rendered it so intimate previously. It was just as he remembered, the furniture having been chosen and artfully arranged by his former mistress. And in the midst of it all stood Pen Sutton, as out of place as a cat floating in the River Thames.

She did not belong here. But damn it, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld, even dressed as she was, in the poorest attempt at mimicking a gentleman he had ever beheld.

Those hips.

Christ.

Cease thinking of her hips, you daft fool. And her lips for that matter. And how wet she had been.

"What is in your hand?" she asked, her gaze dropping to his fist, which was still clenched around the unwanted communication.

"A missive from someone who has apparently apprehended my brother and is demanding one thousand pounds in return for him," he ground out, clinging to his suspicion and his outrage. Those were far safer than the longing and desire, after all. He tried to summon an image of Lady Hester to his mind and failed dismally. "Tell me, Miss Sutton, what do you have to do with this latest farce?"

Her eyes were wide. "Someone has Aidan?"

" Lord Aidan," he corrected, because he still disliked the informal nature with which she referred to his brother.

He felt ridiculously possessive when it came to this woman. Obviously, he was going to have to do something to rectify this terrible state of affairs.

"As if his title matters at a time like this," she said, waving a dismissive hand in the air as if to suggest he were the one at fault.

"It matters." He cleared his throat, thoroughly irritated with her and still battling a most inconvenient surge of attraction brought about by the swaying of her breasts beneath that cursed shirt. Why had she not bound herself again? Her nipples were erect, prodding the thin cambric. "But do cease your attempts at distraction. They ill become you. I shall ask you again, and if you do not answer me, I must warn you I'll not be nearly as polite the next time I ask. What do you know of this, madam?"

Her brows arched, and she crossed her arms over her chest in a defensive posture, mercifully hiding her breasts from his avid gaze. "I know nothing of it, Lord Lordly. Why should I?"

"Why should you not?" he countered. "You have spent an inordinate amount of time with Lord Aidan recently. You orchestrated a fictional betrothal with him, one which your conscience apparently finally forced you to admit was a falsehood, and when one Weir brother was not available, you simply seduced another."

The moment the last accusation left him, Garrick wished he could have recalled it. He took no pleasure in the way she flinched as if he had struck her. But then, her shoulders went back and her chin tipped up, and with her hair flowing down her back, she resembled nothing so much as an avenging goddess of war.

An enraged one.

"Is that what you truly believe, my lord?" she demanded, ice in her voice.

Yes, it was. Was it not?

He searched himself for the answer and realized it was not one he wished to know.

He sighed. "Do you or do you not have any knowledge of where my brother has gone or has been taken?"

She had claimed ignorance before, but he scarcely knew what to believe or think at this juncture. He had been torn apart with lust for a woman he had previously reviled, and now his brother was potentially being held captive by mercenaries who may or may not have been hired at her whim.

"As I have already told you on numerous occasions, I have no notion of where he has gone. If what you say is true and he has been taken captive, however, lingering here to pay me further insults will not do him one whit of good." Her gaze was withering, her tone possessing the stinging bite of a cracking whip.

Blast her, but she was not wrong.

"You are correct that lingering here will not aid my brother," he said, agreeing with her as a plan took shape in his mind. "That is why the carriage is being brought around as we speak."

She nodded. "For once, you are exhibiting common sense. I commend you, my lord. I'll just be dressing, and then I will show myself out and hire a hack home."

The hell she would.

"You will be accompanying me, my dear," he informed her before turning his attention to the room itself.

His damned cravat and waistcoat were somewhere within, and he had no wish to gad about without having first donned them. Never let it be said that the exalted Viscount Lindsey had been in a state of unfashionable disarray. He would find the deuced cravat and waistcoat if it proved the death of him.

"I wouldn't accompany you to heaven if you claimed to be the Lord himself," she told him stubbornly, her slim arms still crossed in a defiant pose.

He ought to have been relieved at the manner in which she kept him from ogling her breasts. But the truth was, he was every bit the raging reprobate he had always accused Aidan of being. The need to see, touch, and taste her again was as overwhelming as the worry he felt for his brother and whatever coil Aidan had landed himself in.

"You have not got a choice in the matter," he informed the arrogant Miss Sutton. "You will go where I say you go."

Her hazel eyes narrowed. "You do not tell me what to do, Lord Lordly. I do what I want, when I want to do it, and not because any man tells me. Not even a lofty viscount such as yournabs."

Yournabs.

At times, it was appallingly easy—likely because she had been somehow tutored in the art of masking her dreadful accent—to forget she was an East End lady. But here was an alarming reminder of who he was lusting after. He ought to be appalled with himself in more ways than he dared to count. But that did not stop him from wanting her more than he desired to take his next breath. Even whilst Aidan was missing and possibly in the clutches of some villainous madmen. Even whilst Garrick suspected her of being a part of the plot, or perhaps worse.

"You are going to help me find my brother and bring him home," he informed her. "I do not believe you when you claim you aren't involved. There are far too many coincidences for me to believe otherwise. A fortune hunter such as yourself would not stop at five hundred pounds, would she? Not when she could have one thousand instead, and perhaps even the heir instead of the spare. Is that why you have been throwing yourself into my arms at every possible opportunity?"

It would certainly make sense. But a part of him loathed the notion of her wanting him for any reason other than the same mad desire he felt for her.

"Throwing myself into your arms?" she repeated, her tone indignant. "Of all the conceited, ridiculous, pompous, arrogant, arsehole remarks to have emerged from your smug lordly lips, surely that statement is the worst. Certainly, it is the most insulting."

He was being beastly, and even he could admit as much to himself. But he would be damned if he would make such a concession to her. He owed her nothing. He had given her pleasure, and she had given him aching ballocks and a cockstand he could do nothing to assuage. And then there was the self-loathing, which rivaled the size of England itself, festering within him.

How could he long for her so when he did not trust her, and when she was the most unsuitable female he had ever known, and when she was somehow entangled with his own brother? It made no sense.

"What would you have from me, madam?" he demanded, stalking past her to rescue his pathetically rumpled cravat from beneath a chair. "An apology? All you have done from the moment you first insinuated yourself into my brother's life is to make trouble." He snatched up the cravat and rose to his full height, turning back to her with a scowl. "First this betrothal folderol, then his sudden disappearance, followed by your hoydenish behavior."

"Hoydenish, is it?" Her arms were uncrossed and planted on her hips now, which meant that her nipples, still prodding the soft fabric of her white shirt, were taunting him. As were the full mounds of her breasts, swaying as her dudgeon increased. "I ought to darken your day lights for saying such a despicable thing to me."

Some part of him—a peculiar part to be sure—found her defiance intriguing. Appealing, even. But the rest of him—the part that had been sternly and steadfastly raised to bring credit to the family line as the future Duke of Dryden—was appalled that she would dare to threaten him with bodily harm after already having struck him on a previous occasion. He had thought they were beyond such foolishness.

Garrick tried to envision Lady Hester in a similar situation and failed. Curse it, he could not even seem to recall the color of her eyes at the moment. He was so absorbed in the hazel gaze of the spitfire before him that everything else ceased to exist.

Aidan , he reminded himself. Your stupid, foolish, addle-pated, ne'er-do-well brother needs you.

"I dare you to attempt it," he forced himself to tell Miss Sutton. "You are more than welcome to try."

By now, Neave would be awaiting them in front of the house. Lingering here with her was not just idiotic but a waste of precious time as well. He made short work of a knot and then took off his coat so that he could don his waistcoat.

All the while, she watched him silently, that stare of hers following his every movement. Judging him, it seemed. But neither had she moved in an attempt to follow through with her warnings, so he likely ought to deem this a victory.

"You aren't worth bloodying my knuckles again, Lord Lordly," she said.

He should not have allowed those words to burrow past his defenses, but he did.

He turned back to find her winding her hair into its former chignon using whatever pins she must have scavenged from the floor. What a pity to watch those long, wavy locks disappearing. However, the action did force her breasts to rise high and full against the front of her shirt.

He forgot to breathe as he recalled those sensitive buds in his mouth, beneath his tongue. She was so wonderfully responsive and genuine in her desire. Other women he had known in the past had always possessed an air of cunning calculation. When one was engaged in a business transaction with another, passion could scarcely be trusted. But Pen Sutton writhing beneath him had been nothing short of heavenly. He would never forget this night, no matter how hard he tried, and likely, he would be damned to hell for all eternity for it.

"I shall consider myself fortunate," he drawled in mocking fashion.

It was the sort of cutting rejoinder he might have issued in the drawing room or on the ballroom floor to let a social enemy know they were impinging upon his patience and grace. In polite society, the approval of Viscount Lindsey could make any man or woman. But the disapproval could break him or her just as well.

He was equally revered and feared.

Only Miss Penelope Sutton failed to appreciate the immensity of his stature, mocking him and taking a stand against him at every turn, and when she had no damned right to do so. She was infuriating.

The most beautiful, intoxicating creature he had ever known.

Lady Hester could not possibly compare, and nor could the woman who had once inhabited these four walls. But it was hardly a competition, was it? And nor did it matter.

"You do that, Lord Lordly," came her taunting voice, slicing through his thoughts. "And while you're going about it, tell yourself I'm the one who seduced you. Tell yourself I'm the one who slipped her hand down your trousers and stroked your?—"

"Enough," he ground out, needing to put an end to her words, for fear the effect they were having upon him.

He needed to think of Aidan. To find his brother. Not to continue dallying with this cursed female.

"Why can you not admit it?" she queried softly.

He should not ask her what she was speaking of. He ought to be shepherding her to the damned door. Instead, he was lingering in this world of mystery and shadow and iniquity, where he had nearly taken her as his. Where he wanted to take her still, despite all reason and logic and honor.

"Admit what?" His attempt at scoffing was rendered nebulous by the hitch in his breath.

Lord, how much further could he lower himself into the pit of disreputable deeds?

She sauntered nearer, exuding confidence that was entirely deserved. If she but crooked her finger, he would be on his knees for her.

"That you desire me, Garrick. You desire me, and you loathe yourself for that weakness. You are accustomed to living a life that is always above reproach. How dare your body betray you with something so base and unwanted as physical need for a woman you have deemed so hopelessly your inferior? That is how you feel, is it not?"

His thoughts teemed, scrambling and tripping over themselves. How despicable she made him sound. And how strange and intimate it was for her to use his Christian name. Who had given her leave to…

He had. In the frenzy of lust which had overtaken him, he had told her to call him Garrick. She had been charming him with her acerbic wit and unparalleled bravado. And so he had bid her use the name scarcely anyone used.

How right it sounded on her lips.

Curse it all. How dare he think Aidan a hen wit when he was no better, falling so easily beneath her spell?

He swallowed. "You know nothing of what you speak, Miss Sutton."

She raised a brow, the expression on her countenance one of sensual knowledge, sending a new arrow of heat directly to his groin. "Oh, I know, Lord Lordly. Trust me. I do."

But that was the trouble, was it not? He did not trust this woman. Nor could he.

Ever.

He was not sure which of them angered him more in that moment, her or himself.

"Finish preparing yourself, madam," he said coolly, attempting to disguise his irritation. "We have tarried here long enough, and my carriage awaits."

Without bothering to wait for her response, he offered her a terse bow and then quit the chamber.