Chapter Seventeen

From the age of fifteen, Honoria had never been in want of admirers. In fact, she kept a cache of polite refusals or stern

setdowns at her disposal to keep the number of devotees to a more manageable level.

Much of the time, she was able to thin the herd by explaining the paltry amount of her dowry. Pretty though she might be,

she knew a gentleman required something more tangible than mere looks.

For those who had ample funds and were more determined to possess her—as if she were little more than an objet d'art—she resorted

to explaining about her betrothal to Lord Vandemere.

Some weren't deterred by that either. Which was why she'd learned to defend herself.

But what was she supposed to do with a man who cared nothing for how she looked and, apparently, spent no time even thinking

about her?

Oh, the Fates were having a jolly laugh at her now, because for some inexplicable reason this shortsighted, unscrupulous man

was the only one who she couldn't stop thinking about.

She growled at herself the instant she realized she was gazing out the parlor window, waiting for Oscar.

It was so unfair! The moths were determined to flutter whether he was near or not. All she had to do was think about him,

dash it all!

It made her positively ill to know that he'd reduced her to this state.

Where was her feminine power? Her sense of agency? Her knowledge that she could have any man she wanted, even though she'd

never wanted any of them?

By the time she heard his carriage on the gravel drive that evening, she was flustered. And she was never flustered. And when

he appeared in the drawing room doorway, her nerves were on tenterhooks.

It vexed her to no end that he looked positively delicious in his slate-gray coat and trousers. The high points of his collar

and the slim precision of the mathematical knot on his cravat only enhanced his chiseled features.

Her lungs cinched tight beneath her crimson bodice, waiting for his gaze to fall on her.

But the cad didn't even bother to glance her way as her parents greeted him. In fact, he appeared perfectly content to linger

just inside the doorway and chat with them all evening.

The waiting continued as they introduced him to Magnus and Verity. He stopped to greet Thea. Then he even met their tenant,

Ben Lawson, who was always willing to even out their numbers for a dinner party. The men paused in unhurried conversation.

It was maddening!

In the meantime, the pulse at Honoria's throat threatened to burst through her skin. And if she died of this dreaded anticipation,

she vowed to haunt him every day for the rest of his life.

By the time it was her turn, she pretended great interest in rearranging the bric-a-brac on the side table.

"Honoria, dear, are you not going to greet our guest?" Mother asked.

Turning, she feigned surprise. Or rather, she feigned a pretense of concealing her surprise, which took far more skill. "Ah.

You have arrived. Pray forgive me for not greeting you at the door. I didn't recognize you, Vandemere. It's almost as though

you were another person altogether."

"Clearly, you were distracted by the figurines and whatnot," he said with a passing glance to the little shepherd and shepherdess on the table. "I shall endeavor to make a grander entrance next time. Perhaps wear voluminous mustachios and pinch a monocle to my eye."

Speaking of eyes, hers slitted briefly on a murderous glare. "I'm not certain your countenance could support such embellishments."

"Yes, well, it does take a certain type of face that requires so much disguise."

Then as if they weren't having an all-too-revealing tête-à-tête in front of her parents, he reached out and took her hand

to bow over it. His gaze raked over her in swift, thorough appraisal, sending a flare of heat through her. When he lingered

overlong on her lips, she felt a wash of color rise to her cheeks.

As if her unbidden response were a game he'd just won, he smirked. Smirked! The cad.

"Con, would you open the window a bit wider? It's rather warm this evening." Mother smiled as she exchanged a speaking glance

with Father, who nodded in agreement. "And I'll just fetch the claret, shall I?"

As her parents left them alone, Honoria could see clearly enough that they were reading far too much into a simple blush.

It meant nothing.

Though, when she drew her attention back to him and saw the scorching appreciation in his gaze as he took another, more leisurely

perusal over the bare expanse of her shoulders, exposed above a ruffle of lace adorning the bodice that flawlessly skirted

the line between modest and brazen, she felt rather vindicated.

At least, until he spoke.

"My darling, Signore. You look positively delectable in red. Forbidden fruit has never been so tempting," he said, his voice

low. "However, while you are exercising your feminine wiles, you do not want to play the I can reveal your secrets game. That is one you will never win. Not with me."

A frisson of warning replaced the enticing heat. And she felt like an idiot.

While she'd spent the last two days thinking about a kiss, she'd forgotten the reason he was there in the first place. Money.

He wanted her money—her future, the only security she had.

Oscar Flint was a ruthless scoundrel. And she would do well never to forget that.

***

The instant Oscar saw the change in Honoria, he regretted his callous threat. Why couldn't he have simply flirted with her

this evening?

But he knew the answer. He'd been on edge since the gunshot, and having her dangle his secret in front of her family made

him feel... exposed. Defenseless.

In fact , she made him feel defenseless. Not only because of what she knew of him but what she did to him.

She made him want. Made him feel like a boy begging on the street, willing to do anything for a farthing. Made him feel as

if he were peering through a kitchen window at a life that could never be his.

He hated it.

He especially hated that, the instant he'd delivered his threat, he'd wanted to beg her forgiveness.

But he didn't do that. Instead, he escorted her into dinner and let the tension linger between them like a splinter wedged

deep beneath the skin.

It was better that way.

He had too much at stake, having dinner with a man who'd actually been acquainted with Vandemere's father. Any hole in his

research could expose him for a fraud at a moment's notice.

The tension coiling inside him didn't lessen after dinner either. When the men were left alone to linger over port, the buffer that the women had provided left with them.

This was his true test.

Oscar directed the conversation to a safer topic. Namely, by telling the Duke of Longhurst that he was acquainted with his

younger brother. Rowan and Oscar had contrived a carefully scripted history of how they'd become friends in the event that

the ostensible Vandemere came face-to-face with Longhurst.

It was supposed to establish Oscar with a history and solidify his claim to the viscountcy. However, Longhurst was so distracted

by the desire to return to his bride that his attention to the conversation was split between his checking the clock, a brief

conversation with Lawson regarding the construction of the birdhouses that Verity liked, and then glances to the dining room

door. So even if Oscar had erred in his locations or dates, the duke wouldn't have caught it.

When Mosely came to announce that the women were waiting in the drawing room, Longhurst nearly upended his chair from standing

with such haste.

Hartley ambled down the corridor and issued a chuckle behind Longhurst's back, who walked with a purposeful stride ahead of

them. "I remember those days, when being apart from Roxana for even an hour felt like a year in prison."

At the eerily specific comparison, Oscar shot a glance to Hartley. Could he know? Was this a trap waiting to spring shut?

But there was nothing sly or suspicious in his countenance, only a good-natured grin. So Oscar relaxed. Or tried to.

"Of course," Hartley continued, "you couldn't say that to Magnus. Lad's too proud."

"To admit such a weakness is to show your enemy where to sink the blade," Oscar said. It was a good reminder, too. Because the one time he'd allowed himself to get too close to a woman, he'd ended up in prison. After that, he'd vowed never to let his feelings for a woman cloud his judgment again.

"Uncanny," Hartley said, drawing Oscar's attention to the searching gaze. "I remember your father saying something to that

effect after I married Roxana. Titus was as cynical as a man could be. At least, until he was struck by Cupid's cunning arrow."

He clapped Oscar on the shoulder. "But Titus Fairfax was a good man, too. Kicked up a bit of dust in our day. I'll have to

tell you some of the stories." However, as they entered the drawing room, Hartley looked askance at his wife. "But another

time, perhaps."

"I'd like that, my lord."

"Ach, no need for such formality, lad. We're going to be family, after all. Call me Con, or Hartley if you prefer."

Roxana breezed over to them, pausing briefly to smile as Longhurst crossed directly to Verity and took her hand as if their

time apart had been centuries. Oscar would never be that pathetic.

"I didn't mention this before, but I wanted to say that I saw your mother perform," Roxana said to Oscar, her expression resplendent.

"She was divinity itself."

"Aye, the pair of them were a marvel to behold," Hartley added.

"Pair?" Oscar felt his brow furrow, then inwardly kicked himself for revealing his surprise.

"Her sister."

"Ah, yes. Of course. I wasn't thinking," he said and allowed his gaze to travel to Honoria, ensuring that her parents believed

him to be love-addled instead of clueless. He knew next to nothing about Vandemere's mother, other than she was an actress.

Hartley chuckled. "Though, with their father owning a theater, it was only natural that they would both take to it like ducks

to water."

"My mother rarely mentioned her time on the stage," Oscar explained quickly. "Then again, even if she'd wanted to, I was not a son who sat still long enough to listen."

When Roxana had laughed lightheartedly at this, citing her own son's inability to linger in one place, he knew he'd offered

a passable explanation.

But passable wasn't going to keep him from being discovered.

He was impersonating an aristocrat. Such a fraud could have him exported at the very least, or earn him a short drop from

a hangman's rope.

That was, unless Ladrón found him first.

Either way, his neck was on the line, and he would prefer to keep it intact.

The evening drew to a close after a rousing game of charades, which he'd never played before. It was no surprise that the

ladies trounced the gentlemen soundly. Oscar rose to bid adieu.

But before he could, his hostess prevailed upon him to take her daughter for a stroll. "It is far too lovely an evening to

squander."

Agreeing, he proffered his arm to Honoria, and only he had heard the begrudging exhale she emitted when her hand curved over

his sleeve.

She was still mad at him—a point made clear by her continued silence after they'd been walking for nearly a quarter of an

hour.

This was another game, he supposed. And the first one to break the silence would lose.

"You seem rather cross this evening," he said, willing to forfeit.

"And you seem rather distracted," she countered as if they were playing a rapid hand of Snip-Snap-Snorum and she was determined

to match card for card.

He laid another. "You're angry about what I said earlier."

She ignored the comment and made her own observation. "I thought you were going to jump out of your skin when the footman appeared at your side with the soup terrine."

Had he? Well, it was no wonder. By rule, he never sat with his back to the door. "Bisque always sends me into fits of alarm."

"If I suspected for one minute that you were telling the truth, I would follow you with soup-filled crockery day and night,"

she snapped, stopping beneath a bower of heavy-headed white roses.

"Day and night, hmm? I do admire your commitment to winning, whatever the cost."

"Oh, you have no idea what I'm capable of."

By the lethal glare she shot him, he had a fairly good impression. Like the flowers, she was beautiful and armed with a plethora

of thorns.

He preferred her this way. He would much rather fight with her than take the risk of her opening another fissure in him.

"But tell me one thing." His voice dipped low as he openly admired the way the moonlight caressed her skin. "Will you be wearing

this gown? Because that would be worth any torture."

Her manicured nails curled toward her palms. "No."

"Even better," he purred, circling her like predator to prey.

As she fumed, her breaths drew his attention to the upper angles of her scapula above the back of her gown. He couldn't resist

tracing the delicate line, watching as gooseflesh bloomed over her flawless skin beneath the lazy pass of his fingertip. Her

breath caught, he noticed, but she did not ask him to stop.

"I think I'd rather bash you over the head with it—the terrine, not my gown," she said, the venom in her tone had taken on

a breathy quality. "What are you doing?"

He wasn't entirely sure. All he knew was that he had to put his lips on the crest of her shoulder, to feel the satin of her skin. Though, he noticed something peculiar. When she kissed him, his knees turned to jelly. The other way around and his bones remained solid and steady. The knowledge opened

up a world of possibilities.

"You started a new game the other day," he said, brushing his lips over her bare skin, breathing in her scent. "I'm merely

playing my hand."

"And what makes you think I wish to play?"

"Because you always want to win. And the only way to win is to play. In that regard, we are the same." He slid his arms around

her waist and drew her back against him, and for a moment, he felt her melt. But then she shook her head and moved away.

She turned to face him, her eyes lit with blue fire. "I play because I want to live. To have control over my own life. To

have a future. Just as I told you in Paris. But that future is in jeopardy because of you."

Oscar had to force himself not to close the distance between them and haul her back. His arms felt empty.

She was making him want her again.

He closed his hands into fists. "I'm not the only one playing."

"But you are the only one playing for yourself," she said, flinging an accusatory arm at him. "You did your research, and

you know about the scandal. Because of the shadow it cast over our family, my sister arrived at Hartley Hall, after having

only been married a week, and she was crying because she feared she would never find acceptance as Longhurst's duchess. Do

you think I could live with myself if I let another scandal fall on her head? Or on my parents for that matter? Or Thea?"

This was not an act. He could see in the way her eyes shimmered with incipient moisture and in the way her voice cracked.

She loved her family. It was clear that she would do anything for them.

They were more alike than he cared to think about. Didn't they both keep secrets to protect themselves? Disguise, deceive and scheme in order to take control of their own fates?

Everything he did, every action he took, was by his choice. No one had ever forced him to pick pockets when he was a lad.

But he knew that he didn't like being hungry. Just like he knew that he couldn't stomach the consequences of being a boy on

the streets, at the mercy of the men who'd flashed their silver. So for years after, he'd made a choice to steal instead.

In fact, every decision he'd made had been of his own choosing. Because of that, he understood Honoria's bitterness toward

him.

The more time he spent with her, the more he could see that people had likely underestimated her. They saw only what was on

the surface, a shell. But he could see the struggle she faced just to be seen as a whole person. Not only that but after witnessing

the effort she put into her characters, he wondered if she sometimes wished to be someone else altogether.

And seeing this vulnerability did strange things to him. Like make him question his own judgment.

But he'd put his faith and trust in a woman before, and he still bore the scars from her betrayal.

Even so, it wasn't the cunning Josephine standing with him now. It wasn't Josephine with unshed tears in her eyes, swallowing

him up in a sea of blue.

"Devil take it." He raked a hand through his hair.

She simply stared back at him, those fathomless eyes still glistening.

"You don't have to worry about the scandal hurting your family," he said on a resigned breath.

"You... you'll keep my secret?"

He was making a choice, one that wouldn't take away hers. "Aye."

"So"—she held her breath and took a hesitant step toward him—"you're not going to tell anyone about Signor Cesario?"

"Didn't I just say that? You don't need to repeat it." Bloody hell, it was like playing a losing hand all over again. "And

lower that beaming smile of yours before you blind someone."

Her smile only widened. "I cannot control it. You have just given my life back to me. And the best part is when you leave,

no one will ever expect me to marry. They'll think you treated me abominably by abandoning me."

"I never said that I—"

"It's the perfect plan," she interrupted, lost in her false assumptions. "Oh, I'm so happy that I could kiss you."

And before he could clarify the misunderstanding, she surged up on her toes and her lips found his.

His legs gave a warning quake.

His arms closed around her, and her body fit with unerring precision against his. It was as if the heat from their previous

encounter had created a perfect mold of each other in interlocking pieces.

He felt his heart quicken in time with hers. His hands roved along her back, one splaying low in the dip just above the curve

of her bottom, the other caressing the bare silken skin above her fastenings. And when she nudged his lips apart and shyly

licked into his mouth with a hum of hunger, he wasn't certain he would ever be the same again.

She proved it by gently sucking his tongue into her mouth. He felt a corresponding tug in the vicinity of his cock, his blood

pumping thick and hot through his veins. And all he wanted to do was sip from her lips, tug down the front of her gown, taste

her breasts, feel her welcoming heat slick his fingers as she quivered beneath him...

Bending his head, he nuzzled the side of her neck, drawing in her delectably sweet scent. He wanted to devour her for hours on end. "Are you hiding a parcel of biscuits under your skirts, by chance?"

Her soft laugh vibrated against his lips. "Is that all you ever think about?"

"Yes," he said, whether or not she was referring to biscuits or to the paradise hidden beneath yards of muslin and cambric.

"You smell all sweet and buttery, like you've been freshly baked in sunlight."

"I'm sure I should be insulted. Aren't men supposed to compare women to flowers?"

"You're not insulted. I can feel by the jump of your pulse beneath my lips that you like being irresistible... and edible."

Her neck arched on a sigh, her soft hands drifting to his hair. "And will you next tell me that that I am crumbly, too?"

"No, that's the best part. You're the kind of biscuit that stays all in one piece. The kind I can keep eating and eating and

never be full." He nibbled his way along her throat to the salty perspiration gathered in the diamond-shaped hollow. "Damn,

Honoria. I've been craving you. This."

"For two whole days?"

"No. For more than twelve miserable months."

She drew back. "Cad! I knew you remembered."

He could have continued to deny it. But when her eyes met his and held, the truth came out instead. "Signore, you are quite

impossible to forget."

She kissed him again—exuberant, passionate kisses. But then she was laughing against his mouth, cradling his head in her hands,

her fingers weaving a magic spell through his hair, and he was suddenly breathless. Breathless and aching with a different

kind of wanting. A wanting that he couldn't form into words. And worse, a crevasse seemed to be splitting apart his rib cage.

"I don't know why I'm kissing you," she said with that infectious laugh, panting, her cheek pressed against his.

He swallowed, fighting the urge to press a fist against the center of his chest, but held her tighter instead. "Because you

find me irresistible?"

"Certainly not." She smiled against his temple, then proceeded to kiss his brow, his nose, his cheeks and chin. "I'm actually

quite furious with you for all you've put me through."

"Then, why are you laughing?" he asked, coasting his lips over hers, part of him wanting to silence the sound that was doing

terrible things to him, and part of him wanting to get drunk off it.

"I like winning."

"And what do you think you've won, precisely?"

"Our game. You said it yourself. You'll keep my secret. Which means that you aren't using that information to blackmail me,

and without that leverage, you'll soon be gone from my life. Ergo, I win."

Then that cunning whisp of a female tried to slip out of his embrace. But this time, he wouldn't— couldn't —let her go.

He pressed his mouth to hers once more, her lips surrendering beneath the pressure, her body supple in his arms. And in the

brief shattering moment that followed, her hands slid from his chest to his nape, her fingers tangling in his hair, nails

biting into his scalp as she stroked her tongue into his mouth.

Oscar welcomed it. Reveled in the heat and potent ardor of her hips cradling his. Drank in the delicious sound of her wanton

purr when he splayed his hand over the lush curve of her bottom. And savored her reflexive hitch against his tumid hardness

as he slowly rocked against her.

"There's only one flaw in your reasoning," he said against the purring pulse on the side of her neck. "I never said I would

leave."

He felt her conflicted response as the words sunk in, her body still pliable and supple in his arms as her hands untangled from his hair.

She swallowed and drew back marginally. "But you just told me..."

"That I wouldn't reveal your secret." He nibbled at the corner of her mouth. "But you said it yourself that day at the abbey.

With the betrothal contract, our wedding will make Vandemere's return quite official."

"You're still threatening to marry me?" She pushed out of his embrace, her flashing eyes reflecting the torchlight in the

garden.

He shrugged, ignoring the gnawing ache that filled the distance between them. "If you want me gone, you know the price. Or

else you leave me no choice." Purposely misunderstanding her incensed silence, he opened his arms. "Come, my love, and give

your future husband a kiss. You know you want to."

"Know this, Mr. Flint. I will never marry you and will never, ever kiss that unscrupulous mouth again!"

And with that, she flounced off in a fury.