George let her breath out with a rush as she crossed the terrace. The light shining behind St Audley beckoned. Offering warmth, sanity, reason. She’d thought she’d learnt to overcome the flicker of awareness Dauntry called up in her. She’d hadn’t experienced it since she’d seen him last: blood trickling down his cheek, down the blade of the sword still in his hand, eyes burning. She’d been bundled out of the garden while the ambassador had set his lackeys running…
It had been wrong then, and it felt that way still, but she couldn’t seem to damp down the flutter of attraction. Of recognition. It had been there the first time she’d met him. It was there still, a blood-stirring surge she couldn’t escape any more than driftwood could escape the tide.
There was simply something in the way Dauntry watched her. Something almost raw, and it made her feel like a wanton. Or at least, it made her feel as if she’d like to be one.
Something in her core responded. An embarrassing and alarmingly sexual response. She’d taken lovers since her husband’s death, but only infrequently, and always on her terms. One night only. That was the rule. One night. But none of the men she’d shared her bed with evoked the blaze of lust that Dauntry did. Or evoked the knowledge that here stood a man who truly saw her, saw and wanted her. Lyon had given her that. Love that saw her, that acknowledged her.
Even as she rushed towards the viscount she could feel Dauntry’s eyes on her. She shivered, a trickle of fear combined with the illicit thrill of desire working its way down her spine. She should stay away from him. She wasn’t herself when he was near, and she didn’t much like the person she became in his presence.
She stepped into the light and slid her arm through St Audley’s, giving him a practiced, flirtatious smile that invited him to laugh about the little tête-à-tête he’d just broken up. The viscount smiled back at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His lips had a white edge to them. He cast one last hard look over her shoulder and led her back into the house.
Brimstone offered uncomplicated laughter and unconditional love. Audley was another beast altogether. Quick to anger. Possessive of her even with their other friends. Far more the elder brother than her own ever had been—Lucas would have teased her, mercilessly. The viscount clamped his hand over hers and marched her rather stiffly over to where her father-in-law waited.
Just for a moment out on the terrace the night had become charged. It had been clear Dauntry was going to kiss her, and in the moment, she hadn’t had any desire to stop him. Something feral had clawed its way through her, possessing her. She certainly hadn’t been looking for rescue. She’d been almost sorry when they’d been interrupted. Almost sorry, and terribly relieved.
Saved from him. Saved from herself.
Dauntry was the last man on earth she should be considering as a paramour. He didn’t even like her. She was sure of it. He looked at her with disgust, with anger, just as often as lust. And lust was hardly all that flattering a response. But her body couldn’t seem to grasp what was so clear to her head. Her nipples hardened whenever he entered a room. The bottom dropped out of her stomach and her whole lower body throbbed.
If he were to touch her, she didn’t know what she’d do. Shatter into a thousand pieces. Melt into a puddle. Something climactic. Something that she was afraid wouldn’t be settled by one night.
She shouldn’t have joined him on the terrace, but her curiosity had gotten the better of her. What had happened to him after the duel? Where had he been since? Had he thought of her as often as she had thought of him?
Disloyal. Unworthy. Abandoned in thought if not in deed. All the things Dauntry made her feel, made her remember feeling. Not because Blanchot had touched her, but because she’d wanted Dauntry to. Not because Blanchot was dead, but because Lyon was, and Dauntry still had the power to stir her.
She stared up at him, brown-eyed like a cow and nearly as intelligent. Her mouth hung open, exposing straight teeth that were unfortunately stained and yellowed.
Philippe Lévis buttoned his breeches, choking down the bile that rose at the back of his throat. Why had he come along to her rooms? A sol seemed an exorbitant amount to pay for that slack mouth.
He ran a hand over his waistcoat, smoothing the pile of the velvet. She’d disturbed it with her sweaty peasant’s hands. Crushed it, wrinkled it into whorls.
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding. The room stank of dust, dirty linen, and sex. It overpowered him in waves.
Blissfully mute, she got up off her knees, the floorboards protesting as her weight shifted, and stepped away from him, swinging her hips like the whore she was. He stood, smoothed his waistcoat again. There was no fixing it. Heat flashed though him, far more rewarding than the sham of a release she’d just coaxed out of him.
His waistcoat would have to be steamed and brushed, which meant he’d have to go home and change before going out.
Damn her. The sloppy pig.
She stepped closer, ran one of her grubby hands up his chest, further abusing the velvet. The stench of cheap perfume swamped him, nearly making him gag.
He reached out, cupping her face between his hands. Her skin was clammy, sheened with sweat. She smiled, that soft, seductive smile all women used when they thought they had the upper hand, then frowned, confusion written all over her stupid face as he locked his hands around her throat and squeezed.
He was doing the gentlemen of London a favour.
If only this was the bitch responsible for his father’s death, or his whore of a mother…but
