Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

L ord Lordly was in quite a huff.

Pen was not surprised. She knew she had been pressing him too far. But when the tender lover had vanished, replaced by the haughty lord, she had not been able to resist needling him. Her reward was to be bundled rudely into his carriage and secreted to a destination unknown.

She eyed him now, seated opposite her in the swaying conveyance, and could not keep her wicked impulses under control.

Pen nudged his booted foot with hers. "Where are you taking me, Lord Lordly?"

His lips compressed into a disapproving line. "To a place where I can make certain you will not cause me further trouble."

Hmm. The alarm which had been gnawing at her ever since he had claimed he received word that Aidan was being held for ransom by unknown miscreants grew stronger. The heightened concern was as much for herself as for her friend. If he had indeed managed to find himself in such a scrape, she would hardly be surprised. However, she could only imagine what manner of fiend would do something so dastardly. Aidan was forever pockets to let, his vowels scattered about London. Perhaps he had crossed the wrong man.

But regardless of where Aidan was, Pen found herself being held similarly captive. Only, the viscount had not spoken of ransoms.

"You realize, do you not, that my family will come looking for me when I fail to return?" she asked with a calm she did not feel.

Oh, it was not that she feared the man seated opposite her. Nothing he had done thus far gave her cause to suspect he would hurt her. Rather, it was the notion of what her brothers might do, should they discover where she had gone and with whom.

"Let them look as they please," he drawled, his countenance impassive. "It would be little different from the games I am being forced to play with my own brother."

"Yes, but we are not responsible for whatever ill has befallen Aidan," she reminded him.

" Lord Aidan," he corrected. "And the matter of whether or not you and your siblings are responsible remains to be seen."

The insufferable oaf.

Had it been a mere hour before that he had been bringing her to the heights of pleasure with his exquisitely knowing touch? It seemed impossible to believe the cold, gruff lord before her was the same ardent lover who had kissed her as if he wanted to consume her.

Pen stifled the urge to kick him in his lordly shin. "You truly believe we have secreted him somewhere and are demanding ransom? Why should we be bothered to do such a thing?"

"You would be able to double your largesse with such an action, would you not? And who better to make your quarry than a reckless blockhead who is always flitting about, drowning himself in petticoats and drink?"

His estimation of Aidan was once more insulting. She would have defended him, but she was feeling rather vexed with her friend at the moment. If he had not insisted upon this wretched, terrible idea of his, she would not be trapped in this carriage with his arrogant brother. And she most definitely would not have kissed him or allowed him to remove various articles of clothing, and she certainly would never have given him liberty to touch her intimately.

Best not to think of such things at the moment.

Aye, that was true.

She pinned her handsome enemy with a glare. "There is a flaw in your logic, Lordly. Hasn't it occurred to you that I've already told you we are not, nor were we ever, betrothed? Therefore, there ain't a need for your blood money to keep me from sullying your family name. I don't want to marry your brother, nor am I holding him prisoner, you conceited lout."

He continued observing her with a dispassionate stare, apparently unmoved. "A lout, am I? You did not seem to think me one earlier."

Heat simmered through her at the reference to what had passed between them in the drawing room. Ruthlessly, she banished it. "And you did not seem to think me a dogged fortune hunter earlier either, or the sort of lady who would take her friend captive and hold him for ransom. Yet, here we are."

"Indeed, here we are." His long fingers strummed lightly on his thigh, as if he were impatient to arrive at their destination.

And likely, he was.

Pen, on the other hand, was not. "Where are you taking me?" she asked again.

Her attempt to evade him at their previous stop had led to the viscount chasing her down the street and catching her, before hauling her over his shoulder and depositing her in his carriage. If his coachman, who had been watching the events unfold, thought it odd for his employer to be running about London with his gentleman friend, he wisely kept silent.

There was only so much resistance one could put up against a man thrice her size. Short of stabbing or shooting him, that was. And she had no desire to find herself in the hulks over the maiming or murder of Lord Lordly. He had caused her enough trouble thus far, thank you.

"To my town house, Miss Sutton."

He was being so formal. And proper.

But she knew what those sculpted aristocratic lips felt like on hers. And on her breasts.

She swallowed, chasing the reminder. "Your town house? You cannot be serious."

The carriage came to a halt.

He inclined his head. "Deadly serious, my dear. Be warned that if you cause me any problems, I shall not hesitate to lock you in the attics."

Ah, so that had not been his original plan.

"You are bringing me to your home as a guest?" she asked.

"The hour is late. I've nowhere else to take you. I have an aching head, my brother is missing, and you vex me mightily."

A shadow passed over his handsome face. Sadness? Irritation? She could not be certain.

"If you are intending to ravish me, I must warn you I will not hesitate to bludgeon you with the nearest sharp object," she told him for good measure.

His lips twitched. "Indeed?"

She nodded. "A fire poker shall do nicely."

He shook his head. "You are the oddest creature, Miss Sutton. Come along. I must decide whether or not I will take this missive to the watch, and I haven't time to remain here, exchanging barbs with you."

"The watch ain't going to do a thing about finding Aidan," she grumbled. "Trust me. Their palms are all being greased, and not by nobs such as yourself."

"You would suggest that, would you not? You would not wish to be caught."

Naturally, he would continue to insist upon clinging to his distrust of her.

She thrust aside the sting of disappointment and brushed past him, descending from the carriage first by leaping from the step and landing on her feet. Unfortunately, her overly large boots made her ankle roll to its side, ensuing pain branding her limb as she toppled forward.

Large, capable hands caught her waist, hauling her against a broad, familiar chest.

"What the devil were you thinking, leaping from the carriage like a tiger springing from a curricle?" he growled. "Have you done yourself injury?"

"Yes." She bit her lip to stifle the pain and corresponding prick of surprised tears.

She would not indulge in a bout of the waterworks before this man. She would show him no weakness.

"Blast you, Pen."

She knew a moment of startled surprise at his use of her given name. But then he further dashed her wits by scooping her into his arms. She clutched at his shoulders for purchase. It was almost as if, for a moment, his fa?ade had slipped. He had forgotten himself. And he was Garrick again, rather than Viscount Lindsey. He was simply a man who had kissed her breathless and brought her exquisite pleasure and scooped her into his arms when she had hurt herself.

What an inconvenient thought to have, and at the worst possible moment, too.

She sniffed and surreptitiously dashed at the evidence of tears with the back of her hand, keeping her eyes on his sharp jawline as he carried her through the mews. "Do you think you ought to be carrying your gentleman friend into your fancy town house, Lord Lordly? Only imagine how the tongues would wag."

"You are weeping," he observed without looking down at her.

How did he know?

She sniffed. "Of course I am not. Do not be silly."

"I am a great many things, but I do not count silly amongst them." His tone was grim as he shouldered his way into a door and through the dimly lit halls of what was presumably his home. "You are in pain, and I have no wish to see you suffer. Even if your injury was caused by your own stupidity."

She frowned at him. "I nearly thought you a caring man, but that last sentence quite ruined the illusion."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Excellent."

He had brought them to a set of stairs which was lit with wall-hung sconces, and then began ascending.

"Put me down," she told him. "I am capable of walking."

"I trust you more when you are in my arms," he quipped. "You are less capable of causing me trouble."

Indeed. From her perspective, it was the opposite instead.

"My pain was momentary and it is gone now. Truly, think of what will happen should one of your servants come upon us," she hissed.

Although the prospect did not bother her in the slightest, she was suddenly desperate to be on her own feet and away from his warmth and delicious scent.

"This hall is private thanks to the diabolical proclivities of one of my predecessors," he intoned, reaching a landing and turning to ascend another flight. "Apparently, it pleased him greatly to bed his paramours in the privacy of his home and without the knowledge of his wife or servants."

"Ah, yes, far more civilized to bed one's paramour at a separate residence entirely," she said, and then scolded herself for the bitterness she could not seem to strip from her voice.

It should not matter to her that he had kept a mistress at the home where he had previously taken her. His past had no bearing on either her present or her future. And yet, she could not deny the burning coal of something that felt a lot like jealousy.

"Is that censure I detect in your voice, Miss Sutton?"

"I am merely pointing out the hypocrisy where I see it, milord."

She suppressed a shudder when he took them through a tight passageway that was decidedly dark and unlit. Her fingers dug into his shoulders and she pressed herself tightly against him as fear clawed up her throat.

It was irrational and she knew it, for it had been years since her father had left her locked in a tiny dirt-floored room as punishment, but that did not keep the old emotions at bay.

"You are going to leave marks, my dear."

Although his tone was easy, there was an unspoken question in his words.

One she did not want to answer. Although her oldest brother Jasper had done his best to protect Pen and her siblings from their father's wrath, he had been scarcely more than a lad himself.

A resurgence of memories better left buried along with her father sent fear shooting through Pen. She buried her face in the viscount's throat, despite her every intention to present herself as invulnerable.

"What is the matter, Pen?" he asked softly, still guiding them through the inky corridor, his footfalls steady and his breath scarcely labored.

She swallowed, trying to form an answer. "Nothing."

"Your ankle?"

"The ankle is fine," she denied.

"What, then?"

His persistence distracted her from the uncomfortable sensations buffeting her. But only for a moment as the darkness still surrounded them. She burrowed herself deeper into his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him.

"Pen," he urged. "Tell me."

As if she ought to unburden herself to a man who had repeatedly told her he distrusted her and who was currently holding her captive at his town house. It hardly mattered. She could not manage a word past the fear clogging her throat. All she could do was keep her face pressed tightly to his neck, eyes shut against the darkness. Somehow, pretending the world around her was not enrobed in blackness helped to calm her madly racing heart.

There was a click as the viscount leveraged his body against something, followed by a slight creak.

"Here we are," he said, his voice a pleasant rumble against her ear.

She could feel the vibration of his baritone in his throat. But she was not prepared to look. "Where?"

"My chamber."

He had brought her to his chamber? The revelation left her so shocked that she tipped her head back, eyes opening, to find a room thankfully bathed in light. It was smaller than she would have expected for a viscount, but she could only suppose the chambers in the ducal apartments where the duke and duchess resided would have been suitably impressive. As it was, this room was far larger than any of the private chambers at The Sinner's Palace, and far more refined.

The furious panic that had rendered her almost helpless gradually ebbed, replaced by the rational part of her mind.

"Are you mad?" she demanded.

"Quite possibly." His response was calm, as if he had not just carried her from the mews through a secret passageway to the room where he slept, and as if she were visiting of her own volition rather than against her will. "After all that has recently come to pass, I expect so."

She shifted in his arms, more than aware of the manner in which their bodies were pressed together and terribly aware of the fact that her weight must be a leaden burden. "Put me down, Garrick."

Yes, she was using his Christian name once more. And why not? What better time to revert to familiarity with a gentleman than when she was in his bed chamber?

"You are certain your ankle is no longer paining you?" He frowned down at her, and whether it was reluctance to believe her or to let her go etched on his countenance, she could not say.

The weakest part of her most definitely knew which she would have preferred. But she had not come this far to play the fool to a viscount who would never love her or view her as his equal. She was a Sutton, curse it, and while she had been foolishly unarmed for her misadventures this evening, just as in other matters, she would make certain never to make the same mistake twice.

"It was a momentary pain, nothing more," she reassured him.

He lowered her to the sumptuous carpet. She bit her inner lip to keep from wincing as her ankle made a liar of her. She had certainly suffered worse, but it still ached with a dogged persistence that increased as she put her weight on it. Not that she would allow him to know. And why should he care, anyway?

His shrewd, ice-blue gaze was assessing. "Why were you trembling when I carried you through the corridor?"

Had she been? She refused to believe it. "I do not tremble. I'm a Sutton."

"You were shaking in my arms and clinging to me like a frightened cat."

She frowned. "What would you even know of cats, Lordly?"

He flashed her a tight smile. "Perhaps a bit, considering I keep one as a companion."

As if to punctuate his words, a small mewl interrupted their heated exchange.

Pen glanced down to find a fat chintz cat emerging from beneath a table, tail raised at an angle that suggested she was less than pleased. Green-gold feline eyes stared at her, and that easily, all the trepidation that had been daunting her throughout their sudden journey through the dark fled.

She knelt, ignoring the sharp pain in her ankle, and extended a hand for the cat. "Come, sweet kitten," she crooned. "I shan't hurt you."

The chintz cat watched her, holding still as she assessed the probability of friend or foe. Pursing her lips, Pen made the sound that never failed to attract the cats she fed behind The Sinner's Palace. None of them had a home, and they were each wary and bedraggled, but she was determined to see them get something in their little bellies.

When the feline refused to come nearer, Pen turned to Garrick. "What is her name?"

"How do you know she is a she?" he asked instead of answering.

"Her coloring," Pen answered. "There are many strays in the rookeries, and the chintz cats are always mamas."

"Next you will tell me you tend to the strays." He quirked a brow, his expression impassive.

Ducal.

She held his stare. "I do."

There was a pause before he finally responded. "Rosebud."

Her lips twitched, but she managed to suppress her mirth. This evening had taken a decidedly strange turn. "Ah."

"My mother named her. She is my mother's cat." He removed the hat from his head and raked his fingers through his hair, looking uncharacteristically ill at ease. "She has a preference for me, and thus, here she finds herself, the duchess having grown tired of Rosie's caterwauling in my absence."

Rosie. The viscount had a cat, and he had even given her a sobriquet. What an interesting discovery. The icy lord was far more complex than she had initially supposed, and Rosebud was one more example of that. He was a protective brother, a stickler for propriety, the heir to a duke who was well-known for his impeccable reputation, manners, and fashion. Yet, he was also the man who had kissed her with such fiery passion. The man who had brought her such delirious pleasure.

"Hmm," Pen said noncommittally before turning her attention back to the feline. "Come, Rosie. You are a darling, aren't you? So lovely."

Apparently, Rosebud was far easier to win over than her master. The chintz cat sidled nearer, finally rubbing herself sinuously against Pen's shins. She ran her hand along Rosie's spine, pleased to find her fur sleek and soft. Quite unlike the stray, distrustful cats she tended and on occasion managed to touch before they scampered away.

The cat arched into her ministrations, a new sound emerging from her that was not quite a growl of displeasure, but rather…

"You are purring, aren't you, Rosie my sweet?" she asked the cat with no small amount of smug satisfaction.

Rosie's response was to flop to her back, presenting Pen with her mostly white, soft belly. Pen obliged, giving her a soft rub.

"Traitor."

The grumble overhead reminded Pen that she and her newfound friend had an audience. And judging from the tone of his voice and the harsh set to his jaw, a disapproving one.

"It would seem your cat enjoys my company," she told him, sending a grin in his direction.

Something shifted in his countenance. "If you are not my brother's betrothed, then what the devil are you to him?" he demanded.

Perhaps Lord Lordly was struggling with the attraction he felt for her. It would certainly serve him right. Although he had accused her of far worse misdeeds, he was the one who had been kissing the woman he believed to be his brother's betrothed at every turn. Even now, he had spirited her away, when there was no rational reason to do so and she had told the stubborn oaf that she had no intention of wedding Aidan and bringing shame to the hallowed Weir family or the Dukes of Dryden past, present, and future.

She had a moment to consider her response. It would have been within her right to mislead him. To tell him a Banbury story of a cock and a bull. She could easily invent any number of tales that would have him shuddering in horror. But such a victory would be hollow.

"I am his friend," she said simply.

"Friend," Garrick repeated, incredulous.

"Yes, his friend." She turned her attention back to Rosie, who had begun batting at Pen's hand, her sharp claws finding purchase. "Just as I am your friend, little minx," she addressed the cat in the voice she ordinarily reserved for small children, her nieces included. "And if I am your friend, you mustn't poke me with those claws of yours. It is most impolite."

"Most impolite."

She sighed and cast a glance over her shoulder at the viscount, which proved a mistake. He was looking down at her with so much intensity that a wave of longing hit her in the chest and nearly sent her sprawling.

"That's what I said, Lordly."

He shook his head, as if clearing it of some troubling thought with physical force. "Earlier, you called me Garrick."

"That was before I remembered you have taken me captive out of some blockheaded notion I am somehow to blame for whatever ill has befallen Aidan," she pointed out, rising to her feet and facing him. "Tell me, what is your plan for this evening? You have brought me to your town house, to your chamber. I have warned you that when my family discovers me missing, they will stop at nothing to find me, and yet you have insisted upon this farce. Where am I to sleep?"

"In my bed," he said.

And she was sure she must have misheard him.

"In your bed? Apologies, yournabs, but whatever happened between us earlier ain't going to be repeated."

He huffed out the most endearing irritated sigh she had ever heard, which was proof she was every bit as addle-pated as the viscount was.

"Of course it is not," he said stiffly. "What occurred earlier was…regrettable. As a gentleman of honor, I can assure you it shall never happen again."

And what a pity that was, even if his use of the word regrettable made her long to plant her fist in his perfectly straight, patrician nose.

"Very regrettable," she agreed. "If I'm meant to stay the night until you can pluck your head out of your arse, then I have some bad tidings for you, Lord Lordly."

His nostrils flared at her deliberately coarse words. "I will thank you not to speak in such vulgar fashion, madam."

"You'll be sleeping on the floor," she said, ignoring him. "Rosebud and I will be enjoying that fine bed of yours while we pay a call to the land of nod."

His lips tightened, but he did not argue. "I was going to suggest as much myself, Miss Sutton."

"Earlier, you called me Pen," she reminded him in an intentional echo of his words.

"Earlier, I was daft," he grumbled.

She could not suppress her grin. "You still are."